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New Eden 28

1001 Inventions That Changed the World

Various

Chapter 1

To invent is to create something new—something that did not exist before. An invention can be an idea, a principle (such as democracy), a poem, a dance, or a piece of music, but in this book we have restricted ourselves to technological inventions. Technology is the practical application of our understanding of the world to achieve the things we need or want to do. Technology goes beyond "things"such as computers or bicycles: it includes techniques and processes, such as the alphabet, numerical systems, and the extraction of metals from their ores.

1001 Inventions That Changed the World

Various

The Ancient World

The invention of the first stone tools more than 2 million years ago was the moment when humankind started to distinguish itself from all other species on the planet. It took our forebears another 1.2 million years before they found other ingenious ways to use their natural resources—by learning to control fire, build shelter, and make items of clothing. But having gained momentum, the ideas kept coming, and the inventions that followed resulted in full-blown civilizations. ---- Stone Tools Invented: c. 2,600,000 B.C.E. Summary: Early humankind ushers in the age of inventions.  "The best moteriols... include obsidian (a form of natural glass), chert, flint, and chalcedony." —Floyd Largent, writer The very first human invention consisted of sharp flints, found and used in their natural state by primitive peoples, who then went on to purposely sharpen stones. The practice reaches back to the very dawn of humankind; stone tools found in 1969 in Kenya are estimated to be 2,600,000 years old. The principal types of tools, which appeared in the Paleolithic period, and varied in size and appearance, are known as core, flake, and blade tools. The core tools are the largest and most primitive, and were made by working on a fist-sized piece of rock or stone (core) with a similar rock (hammerstone) and knocking large flakes off one side to produce a sharp crest. This was a general-purpose implement used for hacking, pounding, or cutting. Eventually, thinner and sharper core tools were developed, which were more useful. Much later, especially during the last 10,000 years of the Stone Age, other techniques of producing stone artifacts—including pecking, grinding, sawing, and boring—came into play. The evolution of tool making enabled early humankind to complete many tasks previously impossible or accomplished only very crudely. Animals could be skinned, defleshed, and the meat divided up with stone cutters, cleavers, and choppers. Clothing was made from animal hides cleaned with rough stone scrapers and later punctured with awls. Hunting became more efficient with spearheads fashioned from stone flakes. And with the aid of stone adzes (axes), early humankind could create shelter and begin to shape the physical world to its liking. Notes: - Stone Age humans became adept at chipping flakes of hard, volcanic rocks to make tools and weapons. ---- Controlled Fire Invented: c. 1,420,000 B.C.E. Summary: Homo erectus harnesses lightning.  "Seek wood already touched by fire. It Is not then so very hard to set alight." —African proverb Fire is an essentia! tool, control of which helped to start the human race on its path to civilization. The original source of fire was probably lightning, and for generation' blazes ignited in this manner remained the only source of fire. Initially Peking Man, who lived around 500,000 B.C.E., was believed to be the earliest user of fire, but evidence uncovered in Kenya in 1981, and in South Africa in 1988, suggests that the earliest controlled use of fire by hominids dates from about 1,420,000 years ago. Fires were kept alive permanently because of the difficulty of reigniting them, being allowed to burn by day and damped down at night. Flint struck against pyrites or friction methods were the most widespread methods of producing fire among primitive people. The first human beings to control fire used it to keep warm, cook their food, and ward off predators. It also enabled them to survive in regions previously too cold for human habitation. They also used it in "fire drives" to force animals or enemies out of hiding. Controlled fire was important in clearing forest for roadways, grasslands for grazing, and agricultural lands—uncontrolled, the fire destroyed the potential of the soil. Mastering fire also opened up the possibilities of smelting metals, enabling humankind to escape the limitations of the Stone Age. ---- Built Shelter Invented: c. 400,000 B.C.E. Summary: Homo heidelbergensis builds the first hut.  "...next to agriculture, shelter is the most necessary to man. One must eat, one must have shelter." —Philip Johnson, architect The earliest evidence for built shelter appears to have been constructed by Homo heidelbergensis, who lived in Europe between around 800,000 B.C.E. and 200,000 B.C.E. Anthropologists are uncertain whether these were ancestors of Homo sapiens (humans) or Homo neanderthalensis (Neanderthals) or both. At the French site of Terra Amata, which dates back around 400,000 years, archeologists have found what they believe to be the foundations of large oval huts. One of these shows evidence of fire in a hearth, although other archeologists postulate that natural processes could be responsible. Archeology on sites from hundreds of thousands of years ago is complicated. Claims of the discovery of built shelters in Japan from more than 500,000 years ago were discredited in 2000. In fact, all evidence for humans in Japan before 35,000 years ago is currently questionable. We do know that our ancestors spent time in caves for hundreds of thousands of years. But caves are only found in certain areas. Whether they started building 100,000 or 400,000 years ago, their ability to create shelters close to food, water, and other resources provided our ancestors with protection against the elements and dangerous animals. Living close to work also gave them more time to experiment with different ways of doing things; in other words, time to invent. ---- Clothing Invented: c. 400,000 B.C.E. Summary: Early humans covertheir nakedness.  "Clothes make the man. Naked people have little or no Influence in society." —Mark Twain, More Maxims of Mark (1927) Around 400,000 years ago, Homo sapiens devised a solution to protect the vulnerable naked human body from the environment—clothes. Anthropologists believe the earliest clothing was made from the fur of hunted animals or leaves creatively wrapped around the body to keep out the cold, wind, and rain. Determining the date of this invention is difficult, although sewing needles made from animal bone dating from about 30,000 B.C.E. have been found by archeologists. However, genetic analysis of human body lice reveals that they evolved at the same time as clothing. Scientists originally thought the lice evolved 107,000 years ago, but further investigations placed their evolution a few hundred thousand years earlier. Clothing has changed dramatically over the centuries, although its ancient role as an outward indication of the status, wealth, and beliefs of the wearer is as important as ever. During the Industrial Revolution the textile industry was the first to be mechanized, enabling increasingly elaborate designs to be made at a faster rate. In the twenty-first century, mechanization has allowed sophisticated practical clothing to be devised to protect us from dangers such as extreme weather, chemicals, insects, and outer space. Without clothes we would not have been able to explore and exploit our world and the surrounding universe to the extent that we have. ---- Spear Invented: c. 400,000 B.C.E. Summary: Humans learn to kill with sharpened poles. The earliest example of a sharpened wooden pole, or spear, comes from Schoningen in Germany. There, eight spears were dated to 400,000 B.C.E. The ancient hominid hunters who sharpened each pole used a flint shaver to cut away the tip to form a point and then singed the tip in the fire to harden the wood, making it a more effective weapon. A similar technique was used by hunters in Lehringen near Bremen in Germany, where a complete spear was found embedded inside a mammoth skeleton, suggesting such spears were used mainly for hunting rather than warfare or self-defense. The need for food was so great that a mammoth would be attacked with only a flimsy spear, although its use would have been more to scare the mammoth in the direction of a trap or pit dug previously than to attack it directly. Around 60,000 B.C.E., Neanderthals living in rock shelters and temporary hunting camps in France sharpened small pieces of flint and slotted them into the tips of their spears. Hunters in the Sahara used sharpened stones in the same way, while Central Americans used obsidian, a natural volcanic glass. Around the world, Stone Age people gradually learned how to work small stones or flints into tiny, sharpened blades known as microliths for use as spear points. The greatest advance, however, came with the development of metalworking, notably copper, in southeast Europe after 5000 B.C.E., followed by bronze, an alloy of copper and tin, around 2300 B.C.E., and then iron a millennium later. These new technologies allowed hunters and warriors to make hard, sharp, effective spear points. ---- Fishhook Invented: c. 35,000 B.C.E. Summary: Early humans discover how to retain their caught fish.  "Opportunities are... everywhere and so you must always let your hook be hanging." —Augustine "Og" Mandino, writer The major problem with dating inventions earlier than the written word is that there are no first-hand accounts documenting their conception or use. Paleoarcheologists have the difficult task of piecing together the prehistory of man based on scraps of physical evidence left behind by our ancient ancestors. The fishhook is one such ingenious conception of early man and is probably more important to the success of humans than most of us would suspect. The earliest examples of fishhooks so far found by archeologists date from around 35,000 B.C.E. Appearing well before the advent of metalworking, early fishhooks were fashioned from durable materials of organic origin such as bone, shells, animal horn, and wood. With the addition of a variety of baits on the hook, prehistoric man gained access, previously largely denied, to an easy source of energy loaded with protein and fat. Adding fish to his diet also ensured a healthy intake of essential fatty acids. Over thousands of years the technology of fishhooks has evolved to optimize prey attraction, retention, and retrieval. The very earliest fishhooks of all are thought to have been made from wood, although, being more perishable than those of bone or shell, very few examples of these primitive hooks have survived. Wood might seem much too buoyant a material to be ideal for catching fish, but actually wooden hooks were used until the 1960s for catching species such as burbot. Gaining easy access to adequate food supplies is thought to have been an essential factor in the success of early man. To fish in fecund waters requires very little energy and time, and this enabled our ancestors to pursue other activities, meaning that they were able, not just to survive, but to prosper. Notes: - Prehistoric ivory barbed harpoon hooks show evidence of meticulous carving. ---- Tally Stick Invented: c. 35,000 B.C.E. Summary: Counting makes its debut in Swaziland.  "...with worn-out, worm-eaten rotten bits of wood... a savage mode of keeping accounts." —Charles Dickens, novelist Tally sticks, or tallies, are batons of bone, ivory, wood, or stone into which notches are made as a means of recording numbers or even messages. The archeological and historical records are rich in tallies, with the Lebombo bone as the earliest example. Found in a cave in the Lebombo Mountains in Swaziland and made from a baboon's fibula, it dates back to 35,000 B.C.E. Its markings suggest that it is a lunar phase counter, indicating an appreciation of math far beyond simple counting. Tally sticks became the primary accounting tool of medieval Europe, which was largely illiterate. During the 1100s King Henry I of England established the Exchequer to be responsible for the collection and management of revenues. To keep track of taxes owed and paid, split tally sticks were employed. Usually made of squared hazel wood, notches were made the thickness of the palm of the hand to represent £1000, the thickness of a thumb for £100, a little finger for £10, a swollen barley grain for £1, and a thin score mark for a shilling. The notches would span the stick's width, which subsequently would be split so that both halves had the same markings, to avoid forgeries. The halves differed in length; the longer half, or stock, was for the person making the payment, hence "stockholder," and the shorter half, or foif for the recipient of the money orgoods. ---- Drill Invented: c. 35,000 B.C.E. Summary: Early humans learn howto bore small holes. It is thought that early man used a primitive drill— perhaps a modified spear—to pierce wood and animal skins. Much later, the woodworkers of ancient Egypt refined this technique by making any necessary holes with a bow drill. Adapted from the fire-stick, it had a cord wrapped round it and was held taut with a bow. Holding the drill vertically, the operator moved the bow backward and forward, pressing downward on alternate turns, with an idle return stroke. (There is also evidence of dental drilling from as long ago as 9000 B.C.E., accomplished by the same means.) The Romans replaced the bow drill with the auger, but the bit froze between turns. It was not until the Middle Ages that use of the carpenter's brace made continuous rotation of the drill possible. The term "drill" may either refer to the machine supplying the rotational energy needed for penetration, or to the "drill bit," which is the part that rotates and actually cuts into the material. Various kinds of drills have evolved to meet specific needs. Any drill has the capacity to make small holes in wood or brick, but more powerful machines are required to create pipe-sized holes in masonry or metal. Modern drills include a chuck to grip the drill bits or simple attachments. Some drills have chucks that can be unscrewed in order to receive larger attachments, such as sanding tools, wire brushes, grinding stones, and circular saws. The tip of a drill bit is conical in shape with cutting edges. The fluted part, or body, of a drill is now usually made of hardened, high-carbon steel. The angle formed by the tapering sides of the point determines how large a chip is taken off with each rotation. The bit also has helical flutes, which affect the drill's cutting and chip-removal properties. ---- Sharp Stone Blade Invented: c. 30,000 B.C.E. Summary: Stone Age humans progress to sharpening their tools and weapons.  "Regardless of our ancestral heritage, we're all descended from fllntknappers." —Bert Mathews, sharp stone maker The use of stone instruments more than two million years ago heralded what we call the Stone Age and the very origins of humankind. While it is impossible to date when distinctly worked (rather than simply found) stone blades first appeared in the world, it seems to have occurred circa 30,000 B.C.E. The technique that evolved to create sharp stones is now called lithic reduction. This involves the use of an implement (made of stone itself or of wood or bone) to strike a stone block in order to break off flakes. Such flakes will be naturally sharp and can be turned into a range of useful tools and weapons such as scrapers, scythes, knives, arrow heads, or spear points. Some early toolmakers may also have used what was left of the stone block to make axe heads. Various kinds of stone were used to make blades, although one of the most popular was flint—leading to the term "flintknapper" to describe anyone making stone blades by lithic reduction. As the techniques of flintknapping developed, particularly the use of repetitive blows at particular angles, the craftsmen were able to gain much greater control over the size, sharpness, and type of blade. The period after the end of the last Ice Age, 10,000 years ago, was characterized by increasingly sophisticated stone tools with multiple uses. Other tools were produced using blades made by knapped flint or obsidian, a type of naturally occurring glass. Small, sharp blades, known as microliths, became part of wooden cutting implements for use in farming, as well as barbs on arrows and spears, making them particularly effective as hunting weapons. ---- Sewing Invented: c. 25,000 B.C.E. Summary: Clothing is fitted using needle and thread. The history of sewing is closely allied to the history of tools. The earliest needles ever discovered date from the Paleolithic era (the early Stone Age), around 25,000 B.C.E. Key finds from that period include needles in southwest France and near Moscow in Russia. These were made of ivory or bone, with an eyelet gouged out. Some have been found alongside the remains of foxes and hares that were used for their fur. Sewing gave our early ancestors the opportunity to make clothing more closely tailored to the human body, improving its insulation and comfort, as well as inviting decoration. Early scraps of cloth found in France and Switzerland have included decorative seeds or animal teeth sewn on by thread, applied perhaps with the aid of fishbones or thorns. Native Americans sewed with the tips of agave leaves. Metal needles were developed in the Bronze Age (2000-800 B.C.E.) and initially were made of several strands of wire melted together. Needles from this era have been found in North Africa and China, where steel was introduced. The first known stitched buttonhole dates from 4200 B.C.E. Embroidery—complex, decorative needlework— appeared in Bronze Age Egypt and India. In China silk was being sewn and embroidered in the same era. Protective thimbles have been used since Roman times. The famous Bayeux Tapestry, depicting the Norman invasion of England, is an example of crewelwork, a form of embroidery with loosely twisted yarn. At least four types of stitch have been identified in the tapestry. Later, the mechanization of textile production began in the sixteenth century with the stocking frame, which led to automated looms. Elandstitching was transformed from the 1830s onward by the arrival of the sewing machine. ---- Atlatl Invented: c. 23,000 B.C.E. Summary: Early humans extend spear-throwing range.  "The atlatl is the tool ancient peoples used to 'bring home the bacon.'" —Robert "Atlatl Bob" Perkins, primitive technologist When Spaniards first met the Aztecs in around 1500, the explorers were horrified when their armor was easily penetrated by the Aztec throwing darts. The Aztecs achieved this feat with the atlatl, a simple device used by many ancient peoples for long-range hunting. It probably dates from around 23,000 B.C.E. The atlatl consists of a throwing board and a dart about 6 feet (180 cm) long. The board, typically about 2 feet (60 cm) long, has a spur at its end. The dart's rear is cut down the middle so that it fits onto the spur like two fingers around a card. Gripping a handle at the front end of the throwing board, the atlatl thrower can hurl the dart with considerably more force than he could by hand. During the thrower's tennis swing-like motion, the flexible dart flexes and energy builds up. The dart is weighted with a stone tip and often another counterweightto maximize the buildup of energy. When the atlatl dart is released, the spring energy in the flexible dart is added to the forward force, accelerating the dart to speeds that can exceed 100 miles per hour (160 km/h). The atlatl was so effective at bringing down prey that some scholars speculate it may have played a significant role in the extinction of the North American woolly mammoth. Now, at least 25,000 years after its invention, the atlatl is still used by enthusiastic hobbyists. ---- Bow and Arrow Invented: c. 20,000 B.C.E. Summary: Distant targets come within deadly reach for the first time.  Whose arrows are sharp, and all their bows bent, their horses' hoofs shall be counted like flint.. —Isaiah 5:28 Evidence of the early use of bows and arrows has been found in cave paintings in Western Europe and North Africa. Its development probably arose in the Upper Paleolithic (Old Stone Age) around 20,000 B.C.E., when people realized that the weapon would enable hunters to kill outside theirthrowing range. Bows and arrows were portable, easy to make, and the materials to make them were relatively easy to obtain. The bow consisted of a thin flexible shaft of wood; this was bent, and a length of sinew, deer gut, plant fiber, or rawhide was strung tightly between its ends. Sometimes the bowstring was twisted to make it stronger. Ash, mahogany, and yew were all used for bows. Sometimes the wood was backed with sinew to make the bow stronger and stop it breaking. The arrow was a thin shaft of wood, sharpened at one end, with feathers attached to the other to give it aerodynamic stability. Arrowheads were made from flint or other rocks, antler, or bone. The bow was the first machine that stored energy. Energy from the archer's muscles gradually transferred to the bow as it was drawn back; when the bow was released, it gave the projected arrow a far greater velocity than that produced by a spear-thrower. In about 1500 B.C.E. a shorter and lighter bow Was developed, the composite bow. Short and curved, it was built up from layers of materials that reacted differently under tension or compression. It was an accurate weapon to use from horseback. Modern bows are made from fiberglass, carbon, and aluminum as well as wood, while the arrows are usually made of composite materials. ---- Boomerang Invented: c. 18,000 B.C.E. Summary: The advent of an easily retrievable weapon. The oldest boomerang so far found was discovered in a cave in the Carpathian Mountains in southern Poland and is believed to be date from 18,000 B.C.E. The practice of throwing wood has also been illustrated in North African rock paintings that date from the Neolithic Age (approximately 6000 B.C.E.). The wood thrown consists variously of a "throwing club," where the effect is concentrated at one end, or a "throwing stick," a sharpened, straight rod of hard wood that rotates, or a boomerang, which developed from these into a specialized form and has a return throw. Ancient tribes in Europe are said to have used a throwing axe; in Egypt a special type of curved stick was used by the Pharaohs for hunting birds. The use of throwing woods is thought to have spread throughout North Africa from Egypt to the Atlantic. Boomerangs are most commonly associated with Australian Aborigines. They have been made in various shapes and sizes depending on their geographic origins and intended function. In the past they have been used as hunting weapons, musical instruments, battle clubs, and recreational toys. The most recognizable type is the returning boomerang. Some have "turbulators" (bumps or pits on the top surface) to make the flight more predictable. A returning boomerang is an airfoil and its rapid spin makes it fly in a curve rather than a straight line. Other types of boomerang are of the nonreturning sort, and some were not thrown at all but were used in hand-to-hand combat by Aboriginal people. The throwing wood, however, was mainly used for hunting ratherthan as a battle weapon. ---- Braided Rope Invented: c. 17,000 B.C.E. Summary: Fibers are twisted into a valuable tool.  "There are nearly as many types of rope as there are fibrous materials on Earth." —Brendan McGuigan, writer One of the oldest artifacts in the world, rope is still extensively used in many environments. It seems unlikely that it will be replaced for many years. Traditionally made from natural fibers such as hemp, jute, or coir, rope is now also made from synthetic materials such as nylon and even steel. Rope is braided fiber, twisted to form a supple, strong medium. Its strength is tensile, so its main use is to link objects, one of which acts as a stable anchor for the others to hang from or pull against. The oldest evidence of man-made rope was found in the caves of Lascaux, southwest France, and date from 17,000 B.C.E. Rope has always been used to tie and carry prey, making it an essential hunting tool. Before machinery made it possible to create long lengths of rope, essential in sailing ships, weaving fibers was done by hand—an arduous process. The ancient Egyptians developed the first tools for weaving rope, which they used to move huge stones. Machines for spinning long lengths of rope were later housed in buildings called cake-walks, or roperies, which could be up to 300 yards (275 m) long. A prime example of such a ropery exists in the former naval dockyard in Chatham, England, where rope is still produced on the premises after nearly 300 years. This ropery, 440 yards (400 m) long, was built in 1720 and at that time was the longest building in England. ---- Lunar Calendar Invented: c. 15,000 B.C.E. Summary: Early humans record the passing of time.  "Day is pushed out by day and each new moon hastens to its death.." —Horace, Odes, Book II The earliest known lunar calendar is in the caves at Lascaux, southwest France, and dates from around 15,000 B.C.E. Various series of spots represent half of the moon's near-monthly cycle, followed by a large empty square, which perhaps indicates a clear sky. A lunar calendar counts months (a period of 29.530588 days) and is based on the phases of the moon. Months have twenty-nine and thirty days alternately, and additional days are added every now and then to keep step with the actual moon phase. The lunar calendar was widely used in parts of the ancient world for religious observation. Agriculturally the lunar calendar is confusing as it takes no account of annual seasonal variations in temperature, daylight length, plant growth, animal migration, and mating. The lunar month divides into the solar year twelve times but with 10.88 days remaining. Meton of Athens (circa 440 B.C.E.) noticed that nineteen solar years were equal to 234.997 lunar months. This led to the nineteen-year Metonic cycle where years three, five, eight, eleven, thirteen, sixteen, and nineteen had thirteen lunar months each, and all the otheryears had twelve months. ---- Alcoholic Drink Invented: c. 10,000 B.C.E. Summary: A pleasurable beverage appears. The accidental fermentation of a mixture of water and fruit in sunlight is thought to have led to the first discovery of an alcoholic drink by a prehistoric people. Evidence of intentionally fermented beverages exists in the form of Stone Age beer jugs dated as early as the Neolithic period (10,000 B.C.E.). Other jugs have been excavated in Southwest Asia and North Africa. Alcoholic beverages have been an integral part of many cultures, used as a source of nutrition, in meals, for celebrations, and also in religious ceremonies. Alcohol can give a sense of wellbeing, but also acts as a depressant, lowering behavioral inhibitions. Alcohol consumption became a status symbol for the wealthy. During the Middle Ages, concoctions were distilled to produce spirits. Alcohol has also served as a thirst quencher when water was polluted. In the 1700s, home-brewing processes were replaced by commercially made beer and wine, which became important for the economies of Europe. Beer was the first known alcoholic beverage, but many others have been produced since then. The Chinese are thought to have produced yellow wine 4,000 years ago. In Europe the monasteries owned the best vineyards: French monks produced a sparkling wine, which was named after the Champagne region of France. Brandy is supposed to have been accidentally discovered when a Dutch trader tried boiling wine "to remove the water and save cargo space." (Brandewijn means "burnt wine" in Dutch.) Attitudes to alcohol consumption have varied over time and different countries have limited the hours when drinking establishments are open, or even banned the sale of alcohol altogether, as Americans did in the Prohibition, between 1920 and 1933. ---- Pottery Invented: c. 10,000 B.C.E. Summary: Japanese hunter-gatherers create the first fired clay pots.  "Vases and shards... the true alphabet of archeologists in every country." —Sir William Flinders Petrie, archeologist As applies to all early inventions, we do not know the name of the man or woman who invented pottery. No first potter carved his or her name or initials in the base of a pot to claim first prize. However, it has long been assumed that whoever the creative person was, he or she would have lived somewhere in the Near East of Asia. It was therefore something of an archeological shock when, in the 1960s, pots dating to around 10,000 B.C.E. were discovered on the Far Eastern side of Asia, thousands of miles away at Nasunahara on the island of Kyusu in Japan. These pots, found in caves, were made by nomadic hunter-gatherers, rather than settled farmers or urban dwellers. Just as important, the pots were made by firing or heating the. clay to harden it, suggesting that these people had knowledge of advanced technologies. The significance of the first Japanese pots is that they predate the first pots made in the Near East by around 1,000 years. Those pots, found in Iran, were made by drying the clay in the sun in order to harden it, a far more primitive technology than firing the clay. The Japanese pots have a round base and widen gently to a ridged top and a rounded, incised rim. They are known as Incipient Jomon, because they are the forerunners of the jomon or "cord-marked" vessels developed in Japan around 9000 B.C.E. These later pots had pointed bases and were made by building up coils of clay into the desired shape. The patterns of the cord-marked pots were often quite complex, suggesting that they were intended for ritual or funerary use rather than for such everyday uses as cooking and storage. ---- Oil Lamp Invented: c. 10,000 B.C.E. Summary: Night is banished forever by a burning lump of fat.  "I gave illuminating oil for lighting the lamps of your temple." —Inscription of Nesuhor (589-570 B.C.E.) The humble oil lamp may only be needed to provide light during the occasional power cut today, but for thousands of years versions of it allowed man to see by night, as well as provide decoration and symbolic power in ceremonies and festivals. Only with the invention of the Argand Lamp in 1780, and eventually electric lighting, were oil lamps all but extinguished. Estimates suggest that crude lamps were first used around 80,000 B.C.E. A lamp is a vessel containing flammable oil with a slow-burning wick designed to draw up the fuel from the reserve. Early man made lamps from stone or seashell crucibles filled with animal fat, with a piece of vegetation as the wick. The first real oil lamp appeared alongside settled agriculture around 10,000 B.C.E. (the Upper Paleolithic period—otherwise known as the Stone Age). With the planting of the first crops came the potential for plant oils, such as olive oil, to be used in these lamps. As well as a source of light, they were important symbols in rituals and ceremonies—the Bible and Koran both contain many references. The Romans mass-produced clay lamps (a newly made batch was discovered buried in Pompeii by the great eruption of 79 C.E.). In the Middle Ages candles became popular, but these never produced a flame as bright as an oil lamp. Elowever, in the eighteenth century the Industrial Revolution provided the pressure necessary for innovation. In 1780 the scientist Aime Argand developed a brighter lamp with a metal casing that burned oil with a steady, smokeless flame, but with the advent of electric lighting a civilization-old technology was finally laid to rest. ---- Sling Invented: c. 10,000 B.C.E. Summary: Stones are put to a lethal purpose.  "David defeated Goliath with a sling and a rock. He killed him without even using a sword." —Samuel 17:50 The sling is a prehistoric weapon probably dating back more than 10,000 years. The oldest known surviving slings were found in Tutankhamen's tomb, dating from 1325 B.C.E. And of course slings feature in the Bible, most famously in the story of David and Goliath. A sling is used to throw a missile many times farther than is possible with the human arm alone. It consists of a cradle, or pouch, in between two lengths of cord. A stone is placed in the pouch. Both cords are held in the hand, and the thrower draws back his arm and swings the sling up and forward. One of the two cords is released and the stone is projected away. As a weapon, the sling was a great success, being cheap to make, light to carry, easy to use, and relying on ammunition that was readily available. Not surprisingly, it became common all over the ancient world, except Australia where spears seem to have been preferred. A slingstone can be thrown by an expert up to 650 yards (600 m), farther than most bows could achieve, though with less accuracy. The Greeks and Romans introduced lead shot as an option for ammunition, although stones remained most popular. By the Middle Ages the sling had largely given way to more sophisticated weaponry. ---- Granary Invented: c. 9500 B.C.E. Summary: Early farmers build thefirst grain storage. The world's first purpose-built granary was unearthed by Ian Kuijt, Associate Professor of Anthropology at the University of Notre Dame, Indiana, at Dhra' on a parched plateau next to the Dead Sea in the Jordan Valley. The structure, roughly 9 feet (2.9 m) square, was found about 2 feet (0.6 m) underground. The granary is smallerthan other nearby structures that appear to have been houses, an indication of its different use. Interestingly, the structure has two levels, an architectural feature never seen before in buildings of this age. Its significance as the world's first granary is that it belongs to one of the world's first settled farming communities, built just as people began to live in one place all year round rather than wandering from place to place in search of their food. In other words, it marks the time when early people were making the historic transition from huntergatherers to settled farmers. The granary enabled people to store wheat and barley grains, nuts, and other produce harvested in the summer to see them through the winter months, or indeed through an unproductive summer. With food in storage, and thus constant supply, the population could rise, in turn spurring technological advances in agriculture and other occupations. There were, of course, downsides to this development, as the first farmers concentrated on a reduced variety of crops, unbalancing their diets in comparison to the wide range of food foraged by their ancestors. The first farmers of Dhra' probably did little more than weed and water the crops that were already there, but they were helped by the fact that, at that time, the plateau they farmed was far wetter than it is now, giving them a wider variety of crops to tend than can grow in the region today. ---- Metalworking Invented: c. 8700 B.C.E. Summary: Mesopotamiansfashion objects from metals.  "Iron weapons revolutionized warfare and iron implements did the same for farming." —Alan W. Cramb, Professor of Engineering The use of metals to make tools, weapons, or jewelry has been one of humanity's pivotal achievements. Manipulated metals are everywhere, from kitchen utensils to high-tech weapons and tools. Even items that contain no metal are likely to owe some debt to a metal tool that was used in their construction. As near as archeologists can tell, the love affair between humans and metals probably began around 8700 B.C.E., evidenced by a copper pendant found in northern Iraq. Smelting, the extraction of metal from a metal-containing rock, began around 5000 B.C.E. when copper ores were melted to get at the metal. By 4000 B.C.E. people were using gold and adding arsenic to copper to create arsenical bronze, probably the first man-made alloy, or metal mixture. Although harder than copper, arsenical bronze took a heavy toll. Metalworking gods of several cultures are described as lame, probably the result of their long exposure to the valued but unfortunately poisonous metal. Around 3500 B.C.E., tin and copper were combined to make bronze. Trade spread the hot new trend and people made bronze weapons, armor, decorations, and tools. The Bronze Age gradually came to an end as trade dwindled and tin became hard to come by. Iron and the Iron Age were the replacement. Centuries later, people mixed small amounts of carbon with their iron to make steel. ---- Dugout Canoe Invented: c. 7500 B.C.E. Summary: Hollowed-out logs become the first boats.  "The ancient Greeks used dugouts and called them monooxylon, which means 'single tree.'" —John Crandall, Dugout Canoes Sometimes there is no real need to be clever, or complex, or even particularly sophisticated when it comes to inventions. Sometimes simple wins. This is definitely the case with the dugout canoe. The people of 7500 B.C.E. needed a way to travel on water, but many of the materials used in the very earliest boatbuilding still lay a long way ahead in the future. So they came up with a simple answer using the technology that was accessible to them. The dugout canoe is, in its most basic terms, a hollowed-out log, nothing more than a tree trunk laid down on its side and its interior removed. All that was required was that the hollowed log had to be big enough for at least one person to sit inside, and the wood had to be sound, not rotten. If a log fulfilled these two criteria, it was a potential canoe. As these vessels were made before the invention of metal tools, the logs were hollowed out using a controlled fire and a sharpened rock implement (known as an adze) to scrape away the burned wood. Then, to reduce drag in the water, the front and the back of the log were fashioned into a point. Dugout canoes have been excavated in various locations in northern Europe and are the oldest form of boat ever discovered. Before their arrival there were no other forms of water travel in existence—only swimming and clinging to driftwood. ---- Chisel Invented: c. 7500 B.C.E. Summary: The chisel becomes a standard building tool.  "Ancient masons... could carve marble at more than double the speed of today's craftsmen." —Evan Hadingon, Smithsonian magazine Chisel-like tools have been dated to the Paleolithic era, which stretches across a vast expanse of evolutionary time, from before the first Homo sapiens to roughly 10,000 B.C.E. During this time humans were making and refining stone tools, which became gradually more specialized over time. Other materials were also used, and bone chisels from around 30,000 B.C.E. have been uncovered in Southern France, near the village of Aurignac. Although very difficult to date exactly, it is thought that by about 7500 B.C.E., what we would recognize today as a chisel was in fairly common use. By the time of the Bronze Age, chisels had become quite varied and included gouges—chisels with curved blades—and tanged chisels, where the blade is connected to the handle by a collar. The Greek architect Manolis Korres believes the chisels used by the ancient Greeks were actually sharper and sturdier than today's versions. While working on restoring the Parthenon, Korres made reconstructions of various ancient tools by looking at tool marks in marble. Of course, the ancient Greeks needed specialized tools to craft their iconic temple in Acropolis.. During the medieval period, carpenters employed tools known as "former" chisels. These had a broad, flared blade, which was used to carve rough wood. A mallet could be used with stouter tools, called "firmer" chisels, to shape and finish wood. There were also other chisels for detailed and speciality work. The chisel has changed little since medieval times, although you will probably find a less impressive selection of tools in a modern DIY store than you would have in a medieval carpenter's workshop. ---- Dried Brick Invented: c. 7500 B.C.E. Summary: Humankind builds with portable mud blocks. Buildings erected using preformed, shaped bricks of dried mud date back to around 7500 B.C.E. Examples have been found by archeologists in Cayonu in the upper Tigris Valley and close to Diyarbakir in southeast Anatolia, both in modern-day Turkey. More recent bricks, dating from between 7000 and 6400 B.C.E., have been found in Jericho in the Jordan Valley and in C^atalhoyuk, again in Turkey. These early bricks were made of mud molded by hand and then left out to dry and harden in the sun. The bricks were then laid into walls using a simple mud mortar. Mud is an exceptionally good material for building in dry climates: it is readily available wherever agriculture is practiced, it may be dug from riverbeds, and it has good structural and thermal qualities. Some years later, mud bricks were shaped in wooden molds, enabling a form of organized mass production to take place. This became important, as bricks were increasingly used to build not only small-scale houses, farms, granaries, and other farm structures, but whole villages and later towns and cities, including their large palaces, temples, and other state and public buildings. Wherever stone was unavailable, or in short supply, the humble mud brick took its place. Mud bricks were used throughout the Near East, as well as by the civilizations of Egypt and the Indus Valley, where the bricks were standardized in size, in the ratio of four units long to two units wide and one unit deep. This simple but effective building material was paramount until the first kiln-fired bricks were developed in Mesopotamia during the third millennium B.C.E. ---- Sledge Invented: c. 7000 B.C.E. Summary: Arctic peoples invent the ice-traveling vehicle. Long before the snowmobile, our ancestors found an environmentally friendly way to get around in the snow—the sledge. In fact, the sledge (and variations on its theme) was key in many areas of ancient life. A sled is a vehicle that moves by sliding across the ground. Sleighs are horse-drawn vehicles, with passenger seating. Sledges tend to be large vehicles consisting of a wooden base mounted on smooth runners, useful for transporting large objects. Evidence of wooden sledge usage reaches back to 7000 B.C.E., to peoples living in the Arctic regions of northern Europe. Initially sledges may have been pulled by humans, but with time dogs and oxen were commandeered to take the strain. Inuits have used dog-sleds since pre-Columbian times. Sledge use has extended to hotter climates, too, including the dry, dusty lands of Mesopotamia. Exactly where and when the sledge was developed is unknown, but it is likely that it was developed independently by different communities in the world Human-pulled sledges were key in man's early expeditions to the Arctic and Antarctic. In the twentieth century, dog teams of Huskies were used to tow sleds on expeditions. More recently, kites have been used to tow sleds. They use wind power, so fewer resources need be carried on the sledges. In today's world the sledge is used in sport and leisure. A small sled with rounded edges at the front can provide hours of fun in the form of a toboggan. Bobsledding is a sport featuring in the Winter Olympics, where teams of competitors race down tracks in a specially streamlined vehicle. ---- Fort Invented: c. 7000 B.C.E. Summary: The debut of strong, communal defenses. Defenses have been constructed for thousands of years. Bronze and Iron Age hillforts took advantage of natural hills for defense purposes, and the Romans built the Saxon Shore Forts along the southeast coast of Britain to deter invasion. The word fort is derived from the Latin forth meaning "strong" and many military installations are known as forts. The term fortification also refers to improving other defenses such as city walls. Permanent fortifications were built of enduring materials, but field fortifications needed little preparation, using earth, timber, or sandbags. The arrival of cannons in the fourteenth century made medieval fortifications obsolete. Later constructions included ditches and earth ramparts to absorb the energy of cannon fire. Explosive shells in the nineteenth century led to a further evolution; the profile of the fort became lower, surrounded by an open sloping area that eliminated cover for the enemy. The fort's entry point was a gatehouse in the inner face of the ditch, with access via a bridge that could be withdrawn. Most of the fort was built underground, with passages connecting blockhouses and firing points. Guns mounted in open emplacements were protected by heavy parapets. Offensive and defensive tactics became focused on mobility. In the twentieth century defending tanks were concentrated in mobile units behind the line. If an offensive was launched, reinforcements could be sent to that area. Reinforced concrete fortifications were common during the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, but modern warfare has made large-scale fortifications obsolete; now, only deep underground bunkers provide sufficient protection. Today, forts mostly survive as populartourist destinations. ---- Travois Invented: c. 7000 B.C.E. Summary: Native Americans invent a carrying device.  "What is life? It is a flash of a firefly in the night. It is the breath of a buffalo in the wintertime..!' —Crowfoot, chief of the Blackfoot First Nation Native Americans on the Great Plains led nomadic lives. They used buffalo for almost everything, eating their meat and making clothes and tent coverings from their skins. Living on herds of animals that were always on the move, they were constantly on the move too, which meant living in tents and owning only what could be carried to the next camp. Ideally, however, people like to carry more than can fit into one bag. On roadways and hard ground, carts are the best solution, and in the far north snow and ice lie on the ground and dragging a sled is easy because the ground is slippery. Traveling across soft soil, however, neither of these options work. The response of the Native Americans was to invent the travois. The travois was a tall wooden "A," 6.5 feet (2 m) high, where the things to be carried sit on the crossbar and the whole thing is dragged along on the splayed poles. The dragging ends move along quietly and with little friction. Before the Spanish arrived and introduced horses into the New World, dogs were used; harnessed to the travois, they could drag up to 66 pounds (30 kg). For the horse, the travois was scaled up and carried bigger loads. Occasionally Native Americans used the travois to carry their sick or elderly, either pulled by a horse or by multiple dogs. Boy Scouts continue to be taught to use the travois for dragging wounded comrades to this day. ---- Shoe Invented: c. 7000 B.C.E. Summary: Native Americans insulate human feetfrom the round.  "It is the same to him who wears a shoe, as if the whole Earth were covered with leather." —Persian proverb From their earliest use, simply as a protective covering for the feet, to the vast fashion industry producing them today, shoes have been essential items for humans. As with any invention from antiquity, it is uncertain - when shoes were first worn, and archeological evidence has continued to complicate the issue. The oldest shoes in existence are from around 7000 B.C.E. and were discovered in America. The earliest shoes appear to have been constructed variously from rope, leaves, and animal skins. As these are all highly perishable materials, archeological examples are rare, but some argue that there is other evidence pointing to shoe use from up to 40,000 years ago. Archeologists examining ancient bones have noticed a reduction in the size and strength of toe bones during this period, which they attribute to the feet being covered. However, this conclusion isfarfrom proved. The original design for most shoes is similar to that of the modern sandal, and consisted of a protective sole held onto the foot by bands or straps. While our need for shoes may seem obvious, their invention was a major development in the ability of humans to travel, work, and endure harsh conditions. An etiquette regarding shoes has developed in many parts of the world. In large parts of Asia it is customary for people to remove their shoes when entering a home; this practice has spread to North America and Europe in many homes. In Asia, indoor shoes are often provided by hosts, but this is less common elsewhere. Muslims invariably remove their shoes before entering a mosque. ---- Woven Cloth Invented: c. 6500 B.C.E. Summary: Clothes making is revolutionized by the world's first weavers. The first handmade material that humans created to make into clothing was felt, which was made by intermeshing animal fibers under heat and pressure. Felt lacked the necessary durability, however, and the real textile breakthrough came later with weaving. Weaving is accomplished with a loom, a frame that holds vertical threads taut while the weaver interlaces a horizontal thread. The thread itself is obtained through spinning, in which animal or plant fibers are twisted together by hand or machine. The earliest evidence of weaving was discovered in 1962, in the town of (^atalhoyuk, Turkey. A piece of carbonized cloth, it was found to date from 6500 B.C.E. It is unclear whether the cloth was made from flax (a wild Mediterranean plant) or from sheep's wool. A more recent piece of linen, dating from 5000 B.C.E. and woven from flax, was discovered in Egypt prior to this find, and it seemed likely that the Turkish cloth was made from the same material. Flax experts disagreed, however, stating that the plant was not found in this region of Turkey at that time. Wool experts concurred after discovering that the cloth is scaly; flax cloth is smooth, so they concluded that the Turkish cloth must have been made of wool. The issue was finally resolved after the cloth was dipped in an alkali solution. This would have destroyed wool, but instead it removed the cloth's black coloring to reveal a network of cross-striations consistent with flax. It was shortly after weaving with flax that textiles made from wool and silk became available. The breakthrough led to a variety of textile products, including warmerand more durable clothing. ---- Map Invented: c. 6500 B.C.E. Summary: Charting of the world begins with the Babylonians. Some of the earliest known examples of maps—in the form of Babylonian tablets—are Egyptian land drawings and paintings discovered in early tombs. However, in 1961 a town plan of Catalhoyuk in Turkey was unearthed, painted on a wall. Featuring houses and the peak of a volcano, it is around 8,500 years old. The sixth-century tablet known as Imago Mundi shows Babylon on the Euphrates, with cities on a circular land mass, surrounded by a river. Some maps are known as T and 0 maps. In one, illustrating the inhabited world in Roman times, T represents the Mediterranean, dividing the continents, Asia, Europe, and Africa, and 0 is the surrounding Ocean. The T and 0 Hereford Mappa Mundi of 1300, drawn on a single sheet of vellum, includes writing in black ink and water painted green, with the Red Sea colored red. Greek scholars developed a spherical Earth theory using astronomical observations, and in 350 B.C.E. Aristotle produced arguments to justify this practice. In the first century C.E., Ptolemy, an astronomer and mathematician, developed a reference-line principle. His Guide to Geography lists 8,000 locations with their approximate latitudes and longitudes. However, Ptolemy underestimated the size of the Earth. His suggestion that India could be reached by traveling westward resulted in Columbus underestimating the distance centuries later. Cartography greatly benefited from a wealth of corrective information brought to Europe by Marco Polo in the thirteenth century. The 1891 International Geographical Congress established specifications for a scale map of the world, and World Wars I and II brought more progress. ---- Wattle and Daub Invented: c. 6000 B.C.E. Summary: Building begins with wood and mud.  "...developed when on enterprising human first daubed mud upon a branch shelter..." —Joseph F. Kennedy, The Art of Natural Building The technique of wattle and daub was first pioneered by human civilizations as early as 6000 B.C.E. as a way of weatherproofing their shelters. In its essence, wattle and daub is a way of filling in the gaps between the structural elements of wooden houses. In a typical Tudor example, oak staves were placed vertically between structural beams and then thin twigs of a flexible hardwood, such as willow or hazel, were woven horizontally between the staves, creating a robust mesh, or "wattle." The wattle was then coated with daub—a mixture of clay or mud and animal dung, strengthened with straw or horsehair. This mixture was pressed onto the wattle by hand. The mud and dung helped the daub adhere to the wattle, and the fiber content prevented cracks from forming. The finished wall was sometimes burned to make it hard, like pottery, or coated with lime to make it more weatherproof. This resulted in a strong wall that kept out the wind and rain, the cold in the winter, and the heat in the summer. Wattle and daub walls did have their disadvantages, however. If they became damp, they had a tendency to rot or become beetle-infested. And the term "breaking and entering" is thought to have originated from the ease with which criminals could enter such a building, simply by breaking through the wall. ---- Irrigation Invented: c. 6000 B.C.E. Summary: Sumerians pioneer watering channels. It is unknown who first irrigated his crops with water brought specially from a nearby river, but archeological evidence suggests that, wherever farming began to take place, irrigation soon followed. There is evidence of irrigation from around 6000 B.C.E. in Sumer in Mesopotamia, and also on ancient Egyptian farms near the Nile. Some 2,000 years later, irrigation occurred in Geokysur in South Russia, and in the Zana Valley in the Andes Mountains of Peru. By 3000 B.C.E. the the same techniques were used by the Indus Valley Civilization in what is now Pakistan. When, at around 6000 B.C.E., the first farmers in Mesopotamia planted their crops of barley, wheat, and other plants near the Tigris or Euphrates rivers, they relied on rain, the occasional flood, and the ability of the soil to hold water to ensure that their crops grew from seed to harvest. Water could be carried in buckets from the river, but if the rain stopped and there was a lengthy drought, the crops would die. The problem of over-reliance on natural water supplies was solved by creating artificial means of bringing the water to the fields. The water was either diverted from a major river through canals and drainage ditches that flowed alongside the fields, or it was stored in reservoirs and ponds that were refilled in times of flood, and distributed from these. The effect of this irrigation was to extend the area of fertile land from just a narrow strip on either side of a river to a wide band that could be several miles across. Having more irrigated land resulted in more crops, and thus theabilitytosupporta rising population. ---- Axe Invented: c. 6000 B.C.E. Summary: Early humans develop the first axe to clear areas of rain forest. More than a million years ago, members of the species Homo erectus were making stone tools designed for chopping that can be described as early hand axes. They were teardrop-shaped and roughly made, flaked on either side to form a sharp cutting edge. However, not until the rise of farming during the late Stone Age did such tools come to resemble what we would now recognize as the axe. There was widespread trade in these tools around this time and stone axes have been uncovered at many Neolithic meeting places. Axes clearly designed to be mounted (hafted) on handles have been found at a site near Mount Hagen in New Guinea. By analyzing samples of pollen from around the same era—thought be around 8,000 years ago—archeologists have concluded that they were probably employed in the opening up of the rain forest, during agricultural development, to allow light to reach crops. By the Bronze Age in Britain, woodworkers had developed a range of axes for different cutting purposes. Archeologists have been able to suggest what these might have looked like by experimenting with their own reconstructed tools, to produce different cut marks. Although primarily a functional tool, the axe is also a symbol of power. It is possible to identify the remains of highly ranked members of a society by looking at their grave goods, which sometimes include axes. For example, an excavation of a Bulgarian cemetery dating back to 4000 B.C.E. uncovered a number of gold-covered axes. Their inclusion in the grave has been interpreted as signifying high levels of authority. ---- Scratch Plow Invented: c. 5500 B.C.E. Summary: Mesopotamians invent a literally groundbreaking tool. Around 9500 B.C.E., in a number of populations distant from one another, people began to select and cultivate plants for food and other purposes. These people were the first farmers. In what is now known as the Fertile Crescent in Southwest Asia, small populations engaged in small-scale farming and began to grow the eight founder crops of agriculture—emmerand einkorn wheat, hulled barley, bitter vetch, peas, chickpeas, lentils, and flax. Flowever, it took thousands of years before the farmers developed the practices and technologies necessary to enable cultivation of the land on a larger scale. In 5500 B.C.E. the first plow, a tool used to prepare the soil for planting, was developed in Mesopotamia by the Indus Valley Civilization. It was known as the scratch plow and represented one of the greatest advances in agriculture. It consisted simply of a wooden stick attached to a wooden frame, but was able to aerate the soil and scratch a furrow to allow the planting of seeds. The plow was pulled by domesticated oxen and left strips of undisturbed earth between each plowed row. To increase the productivity of their fields, farmers often cross-plowed them at right angles. The squarish fields that resulted are known to archeologists as "Celtic fields." Many different types of plow have superseded this simple device, but it is still used in many parts of the world. In certain areas, including northern Europe, the scratch plow was ineffective in dealing with sticky clay soils. However, in India farmers continue to use the primitive plow to introduce organic materials into soils that have been cultivated for up to 2,000 years. ---- Plaster Invented: c. 5500 B.C.E. Summary: Egyptians make a versatile new material.  "It Is... poured around the stone or anything else of this kind that one wishes to fasten." —Theophrastus, philosopher and scientist Plaster goes by various names—plaster of Paris, partly dehydrated gypsum, or calcium sulfate hemihydrate. Gypsum is a common mineral found in a variety of crystalline forms, from the fine grain of alabaster to the large, flat blades of selenite. Plaster was first used as a building material and for decoration in the Middle East at least 7,000 years ago. In Egypt, gypsum was burned in open fires, crushed into powder, and mixed with water to create plaster, used as a mortar between the blocks of pyramids and to provide a smooth facing for palaces. In Jericho, a cult arose where human skulls were decorated with plaster and painted to appear lifelike. The Romans brought plasterwork techniques to Europe. Gypsum is found worldwide, as far east as Thailand and as far west as New Mexico, where a huge sandy deposit is used by the construction industry. The name "plaster of Paris" comes from a large deposit mined in Montmartre from the sixteenth century. The French king ordered that the wooden houses of Paris be covered in plaster as a protection against fire. Plaster has played a key role in the fine arts as well as the building trade. The art of fresco consists of painting on a thin surface of damp plaster; and stucco is a plaster-based ornamental rendering material. In medicine, plaster was first used to support broken bones in Europe in the early nineteenth century. ---- Toothpaste Invented: c. 5000 B.C.E. Summary: Dental care is boosted by Egyptian mixtures. The development of pastes designed to clean teeth and freshen the breath began in Egypt as early as 5000 B.C.E. Myrrh, volcanic pumice, and the burned ashes of ox hooves were mixed with crushed eggshells, oyster shells, and other fine abrasives, then applied with a finger to scour teeth and help remove food and bacterial deposits. In China around 300 B.C.E. a nobleman named Huang-Ti claimed that toothaches could be cured by inserting pins into certain areas of a patient's gums. Eiuang-Ti's theories grew to become the world's first recorded and systematic approach to oral hygiene. Generally, however, the composition of what people used as toothpaste remained an intriguing mix of practicality, myth, and superstition until well into the seventeenth century. In the first century C.E., for example, it was thought that toothaches could be avoided by removing animal bones from wolves' excrement and wearing them in a band around one's neck. At the same time the Greeks and Romans were using wires to bind teeth together and began producing rudimentary instruments for tooth maintenance and extraction. Tooth powders first became available in Europe in the late eighteenth century, although ill-conceived mixtures continued to be made available. Their highly abrasive ingredients, such as brick dust and pulverized earthenware, scoured away the protective enamel of the teeth and did more harm than good, despite the addition of glycerine to make the paste more palatable. In the 1850s chalk was added to act as a whitening agent and a new product called Creme Dentifrice saw toothpaste sold in jars for the first time. In 1873 the Colgate company began the mass production of aromatic toothpaste in jars. ---- Carpentry Invented: c. 5000 B.C.E. Summary: Woodworking supplements long-established ways of working with stone.  "Many remains of... stone architecture exhibit forms that imitate constructions in wood." —John Capotosto, writer Before the discovery of metallurgy, long before plastics, the materials that Stone Age man used were those that he found around him in nature: stone, mud, bone, and of course wood. Wood is'an extremely important material, having numerous useful properties; it floats, it burns, and it can be shaped relatively easily into a variety of different objects. The craft of shaping and using wood—carpentry—has its roots in prehistoric times. Early woodwork consisted of the use of wood for basic tools, but there is also-archeological evidence that Neanderthals were shaping wood into new forms as long ago as the middle Paleolithic (Old Stone Age, 300,000 to 30,000 years ago), using tools made from flint and stone. In this way many useful things were created from wood, including fire-hardened spears and logs hollowed out to create simple boats. By the Neolithic (New Stone Age), basic woodworking had evolved into a more complex craft—carpentry. The largely nomadic cultures of the Paleolithic era were settling down into more agrarian societies, resulting in an increase in permanent dwellings, and these were often constructed of timber. Researched settlements in Japan and elsewhere include wooden houses of circa 5000 B.C.E. The word carpentry actually derives from the Latin word carpentrius, which means maker of a carriage or wagon. Even in ancient Rome, however, carpenters were producing not only wagons but a whole array of different wooden products, from weapons (bows, spears, and large rock-throwing machines) to beautifully crafted furniture. ---- Rowboat Invented: c. 4500 B.C.E. Summary: Propelling a boat with paddles begins in Mesopotamia.  "Rowing is only a magical ceremony by means of which one compels a demon to move the ship." —Friedrich Nietzsche, philosopher Although it is common knowledge that rowboats were used as far back as 3000 B.C.E. in Egypt as a means of traveling and trading along the Nile River, evidence has been uncovered recently to suggest that they were in existence much earlier. In a grave uncovered in the Mesopotamian city of Eridu, archeologists found a clay model of a boat, and the grave is thought to have been dug before 4000 B.C.E. Mesopotamia—widely cited as as "the cradle of civilization"—was the name given in the Hellenistic Period to a broad geographical area that took in what we now know as Iraq and a part ofwestern Iran. The model they found was of a wide boat with a shallow bottom, rather like a barge, which was designed to float on the shallow rivers of Mesopotamia. Both the Euphrates and the Tigris rivers were part of the region and, flowing from the north of the area to the south, they quickly became an integral part of the transport system set up by the emerging non-nomadic civilizations. Since wood was in scarce supply, most of the boats in Mesopotamia were fashioned from the hollow and buoyant reeds that grew abundantly in the marshes at the mouths of the two rivers. The reeds were molded into a boat shape and held tightly in place with ropes. Bitumen was used to cover the reeds, calk the boat, and make it watertight. Floating downstream on the current was simple enough, but going upstream was problematic. It was common practice to use animals walking alongside the water to drag the boat back but, as was discovered, often it was easier and quicker to row. ---- Canal Invented: c. 4000 B.C.E. Summary: Artificial waterways debut in the Middle East. China's Grand Canal, completed in the thirteenth century and stretching almost 1,200 miles (1,930 km) from northern Beijing to Hangzhou in the south, is the oldest still in use today. Although the most ancient part of this waterway dates as far back as 486 B.C.E., canals had been in use for irrigation and transportation for centuries prior to this. The earliest evidence suggests that artificial waterways were excavated and in use across Iraq and Syria by 4000 B.C.E. The first British canal, the Fossdyke, was built by the Romans, but it was not until the birth of the Industrial Revolution in the mid-eighteenth century that the construction of a canal network began in earnest, eventually totalling almost 4,000 miles (6,440 km). Canal systems also proliferated throughout Europe and the United States, with horse-drawn barges providing the principal means of cheap transportation for coal, cotton, and other commodities. The advent of railroads in the mid-nineteenth century spelled the beginning of a decline for British canals, many of which fell into disuse for more than a hundred years until their rediscovery for boating vacations. In mainland Europe and North America, however, the distances to be traveled were much greater. Despite the arrival of the railroads, investment was warranted in wide and deep canals to admit seagoing ships into the heart of those continents; industry has reaped the benefits of canal-borne bulk transportation to this day. Perhaps the most famous canals are those that have drastically shortened circuitous and treacherous sea voyages, including the Suez Canal of 1869, linking Europe and the East, and the Panama Canal of 1914, between the Pacific and the Atlantic, both remarkable testaments to engineering vision. ---- Glue Invented: c. 4000 B.C.E. Summary: Beeswax and saps serve as adhesives.  "Ancient Egyptians made glue by boiling animal hides and used it as a binder... for woodworking." —Joe Hurst-Wajszczuk, writer We may not make direct use of adhesives every day, but glue is an important component of many common manufactured items: Books, envelopes, supermarket packaging, and even cheap sneakers benefit from this invention. Although in recent decades chemists have provided us with super glues—substances so phenomenally strong that the user is warned to take extreme- care—naturally occurring alternatives such as beeswax and tree sap have been in use for much longer. In the burial sites of ancient tribes, archeologists have discovered pottery vessels whose cracks had been mended with plant saps. This tar-like glue was also applied to Babylonian statues that had eyeballs glued into their corresponding sockets. Egyptian carvings from more than 3,000 years ago portray the adhesion of veneer to sycamore, while in northern Europe 6,000-year-old clay pots have been discovered with repairs made with a glue deriving from birch bark tar. The ancient Egyptians also developed adhesives made from animals, a technique the Romans and Greeks refined in the first five centuries B.C.E. The Romans subsequently made various types of glue using other natural ingredients—such as vegetables, milk, cheese, and blood—and were the first to use tar and beeswax to fill the seams of their ships. ---- Log-laid Road Invented: c. 4000 B.C.E. Summary: Logs open up roads in impassable terrain.  "Look well to your seat, 'tis like taking an airlng  On a corduroy road, and that out of repairing." —James Russell Lowell, "A Fable for Critics" Nicknamed corduroy roads, log-laid roads consist of whole logs, or logs split down the middle, that are laid across the roadway, one tightly against the next, to create a resistant road surface over swampy or muddy land. Sand is used to cover the surface and reduce the discomfort of traveling over the corduroy-like surface. Despite enabling easier travel through once inaccessible places, corduroy roads could be dangerous for the user. In the best of conditions the ride was already bumpy and uncomfortable, but if rain washed away the sandy cover or logs became loose or wet, the surface became highly hazardous to horses and any vehicles that were attached to them. The first known log-laid road was constructed in 4000 B.C.E. Evidence of corduroy roads, made from oak planks covering marshy areas, has been found in Glastonbury, England, dating backto 3800 B.C.E. Over the centuries log-laid roads have mainly been replaced by plank roads, using flat boards instead of logs to give a smoother journey. However, both the Nazi and Soviet forces created them on the Eastern Front in World War II. More recently, corduroy roads have lost their original function and become the foundations for other surfaces after decaying very slowly in anaerobic soils. In the United States, roads such as the Alaska Highway that were built in the early twentieth century retain their log-laid foundations. ---- Rivet Invented: c. 4000 B.C.E. Summary: Early Egyptians start a construction trend. The humble rivet may be small, but is has a lot to answer for—including, quite possibly, the sinking of the Titanic. Rivets have been in widespread use for thousands of years but, because engineers now depend on them to secure boats, bridges, aircraft, and other more complex constructions, their reliability has become paramount. Rivet holes have been found in Egyptian spearheads dating back to the Naqada culture of between 4400 and 3000 B.C.E. Archeologists have also uncovered many Bronze Age swords and daggers with rivet holes where the handles would have been. The rivets themselves were essentially short rods of metal, which metalworkers hammered into a pre-drilled hole on one side and deformed on the other to hold them in place. Today, a wide variety of rivets exist, as do specialized tools for installing them. The extensive use of rivets in modern engineering and architecture has, inevitably, increased the likelihood of the odd one or two coming unstuck. Materials scientists have blamed rivets for RMS Titanic's infamous descent in 1912, killing over 1,500 people. Jennifer McCarty and Timothy foecke carried out an in-depth study of the sunken wreck and concluded that shoddy workmanship had sent her to the ocean floor. More specifically, a large proportion of the three million rivets driven into the ship were made with substandard iron when, McCarty and Toecke claim, they should have been made from steel. The weaker iron rivets used at the front of the Titanic, where it struck the iceberg, were unable to withstand the stress of an impact, as the steel rivets used in the body might have done. ---- Wheel and Axle Invented: c. 3500 B.C.E. Summary: The Mesopotamian potter's wheel points the way to wheeled transport.  "Using wheels to reduce friction while moving objects was one of the most important inventions..." —Odis Hayden Griffin, engineer Most inventions do not appear out of thin air or from the ingenious brain of a brilliant scientist, but evolve from something already in existence. This is certainly true of the wheel and its attached axle, which developed from two different sources. The first was the revolving potter's wheel, invented in Mesopotamia in around 3500 B.C.E. Although not a tool essential to the potter's craft, the wheel did help in the faster production of better-quality pots. The second source was the sledge, a primitive but effective means of hauling large loads on parallel sleds or bars of wood. The sledge was ideal in icy and snowy conditions, and on hot sand, but not on hard, dry terrain, where great effort was required to pull it along. Evidence that the use of the potter's wheel and the sledge came together in the invention of the wheel is found in some of the world's earliest picture-writing. Examples in Uruk, in Sumer, southern Mesopotamia, dating to around 3200 B.C.E., show various sledges, some with sleds, others with wheels. These first wheels were crude but effective: solid wooden discs made of two or three planks pegged together and then cut to form a wheel. When a pair of wheels was mounted on a fixed axle that enabled them to rotate together simultaneously, it was then but a short leap of the imagination to use the wheel-and-axle combination to carry a physical or human load in a cart, wagon, or chariot., Mesopbtamia should not, however, claim sole deeds to this invention. Wheels were found in graves in the northern Caucasus, and wheels also appear on a clay pot from Poland; this earlier evidence dates to around 3500 B.C.E. ---- Plywood Invented: c. 3500 B.C.E. Summary: Egyptians learn to layer sheets of wood. In gilding, a thin layer of gold covers an object of base material to give the appearance of a solid gold object. Plywood originated in much the same way. With fine woods in short supply in Egypt around 3500 B.C.E., it became necessary to find alternative solutions to the demands of high-quality furniture making. One such solution involved taking thin sheets of decorative woods and glueing them to thicker pieces of low-quality wood. This is believed to have been done purely for cosmetic and economic reasons, but the process also brings about improvements to the physical properties of the resulting hybrid wood. Since the days of Egyptian plywood, the material has maintained its place in popular design, as illustrated by its use in the stylish furniture of Gerrit Rietveld, Marcel Breuer, and Alvar Aalto. Unlike the designers of 5,000 years ago, however, these men were aware that the plywood items they were producing would offer greater resistance to unwanted flexing. The composite wood is rigid because the grain of each successive layer is set at an angle of ninety degrees to the layerto which itisglued. Stumbling across furniture in the middle of the night with the lights turned out can be a painful experience. Fortunately for the Egyptian carpenters, their stumbling in the dark was metaphorical and it involved stumbling across the superior strengths of plywood furniture rather than the furniture itself. In fact, the applications of plywood are by no means limited to furniture; it finds its way into building construction, the hulls of boats, shelves, and automobiles. However, it was only with the advancements in adhesives during the twentieth century that all of these uses have been practical. ---- Lubricating Grease Invented: c. 3500 B.C.E. Summary: Oils and fats speed the first wheeled vehicles.  "Men of former times used to employ lard... for greasing their axles." —Pliny, historian As long as there have been wheels, there has been the need for lubrication. Any tribologist (an expert in the science of lubrication) will tell you that it serves to reduce friction. It conserves epergy, reduces wear and tear, prevents overheating, and reduces noise. The ancient civilization of Mesopotamia, and later those of Greece and Rome, used wheels in pottery for channeling water and for transportation. Olive oil was used as an axle lubricant, and an Egyptian chariot dated to 1400 B.C.E. was found with animal fat on the axles. Fats add a crucial viscosity that water lacks. For Roman chariot racers, wheel lubrication would have been life-saving, and a mosaic has been found in Spain showing a man holding an amphora of oil beside the racetrack, much like the pit-stop mechanics of today. A first century B.C.E. bronze wheel found in Jutland had special grooves for making the axle easier to grease. More than 1,500 years later, Leonardo da Vinci invented a self-oiling axle-end, using olive oil. Olive oil and animal fat remained the primary forms of grease even as late as the nineteenth century. Sperm oil from whales and neatsfoot oil from animal hooves were used in the British Industrial Revolution to lubricate steam engines and locomotives. In the 1850s, mineral oils, particularly petroleum oil, were developed and revolutionized industry. ---- Cart Invented: c. 3500 B.C.E. Summary: Mesopotamians raise transport onto wheels.  "The customers hod a tendency to stop shopping when the baskets became too full or too heavy." —Sylvan N. Goldman, businessman The origins of the cart are inextricably linked to the invention of the wheel. In fact, one theory of how the wheel was invented suggests that the cart and the wheel were- developed simultaneously, inspired by earlier bladed sledges that were dragged across logs. The earliest sources of evidence for wheeled vehicles are Mesopotamian tablets. Although the dating methods used for these artifacts are not exact, the tablets are known to be from the middle of the fourth millennium B.C.E. Around the same time there is also evidence for wheeled vehicles in Europe, including wheel tracks at a long barrow near Kiel, Germany, and wagon pictographs found on a beaker at Bronocice, Poland. This has led archeologists to debate whether wheeled vehicles were developed in multiple places simultaneously or whether the technology quickly diffused out of Mesopotamia. Carts have been in continuous use since their inception, evolving over time to incorporate wheels with spokes and suspension springs for added comfort. However, the invention of the automobile, and to some extent the railroad, has undoubtedly led to the cart's decline as a mode of transport. Today carts take all sorts or shapes and functions, from traditional horse-drawn carts, through rickshaws and tuktuks to the electric-powered golf cart. And we must not forget the ubiquitous shopping cart (or trolley), invented in 1937 in Oklahoma, United States, by Sylvan Goldman, who wanted to make it easier for his customers to buy more groceries from his chain of Piggly-Wigglysupermarkets. ---- Sail Invented: c. 3500 B.C.E. Summary: Egyptians harness wind power on water.  "Pacific island societies used an upside-down triangular sail attached to a single vertical pole." —Thomson Gale, The World of Invention (2006) For thousands of years sails have been used to harness the wind. By 3500 B.C.E., ancient Egyptian vessels were being blown up the Nile by the prevailing wind before returning under oars, and the Phoenicians pioneered the development of hardier vessels for sea voyages. Flowever, these vessels used square-rigged sails to catch the wind and carry them along with it. In order to progress into the wind the sail must instead be used as an aerofoil to produce a lifting force perpendicular to the wind passing over it. The sail can be angled toward the wind and a component of the lift force generated gives forward thrust to the vessel, thus allowing modem craft to sail within a few degrees of the very direction from which the wind is blowing. Sails were employed in this way in the Arabian Sea in 300 C.E., but further developments were minor until the fifteenth century and the advent of the European full-rigged vessel. This bore multiple masts hung with both triangular and square sails, providing maneuverability as well as stability and power. Commercial sailing peaked in the nineteenth century with the emergence of the Americas as competition in trade. Speed and size were paramount, characterized by clippers traveling at up to 20 knots (37 km/h) from China, North America, and Australia, and by vast full-riggers powered around Cape Horn by more than an acre (0.4 ha) of sail area. ---- Oven Invented: c. 3000 B.C.E. Summary: Egyptians transform bread baking.  "Heavy pottery bread molds were set In rows on a bed of embers to bake the dough... within them." —Jane Howard, Bread in Ancient Egypt Just as the Egyptians brought the prehistoric era to an end in about 3000 B.C.E., they appearto have produced the first closed oven. It was invented as a way to satisfy the demand for better bread. Flatbread had been around for approximately 5,000 years, but Egyptian ovens enabled the bakers to produce bread with yeast; bread was no longer flat, it was rising. A traditional oven is one of the simplest inventions; it traps heat within its walls in order to cook the food placed within. However, when considering the timing of the invention of the oven it is necessary to consider the agricultural advances that resulted in the need for it. After the last ice age, around 10,000 years ago, the land began to warm up from its frostbitten slumber and gradually provide its inhabitants with grain and other foods from plant species that had been hibernating beneath the ice. Our predecessors may have been a little slow in responding to these new sources of nutrition but, as demonstrated by the Egyptian bakers, they eventually got there. Open tandoor (cylindrical'clay brick) ovens have been found in Mohenjo-daro, the Indus Valley city settlement also dating from 3000 B.C.E. However, it was the ancient Greeks who developed front-loaded and portable ovens, and used them to turn breadmaking into a profitable venture. ---- Flail Invented: c. 3000 B.C.E. Summary: Egyptians separate wheatfrom chaff with a new invention.  "The straw was removed' and the grain along with the chaff was swept up, and placed in a basket." —John Carter, How to Use a Flail The flail is one of the oldest agricultural tools known to man, having been in use for more than 5,000 years. It has served as a symbol of power and even as a weapon. Despite the introduction of motor-driven harvesting machines in the nineteenth century, it is still used to this day in some parts of the world. Its primary function is for threshing—the forced separation of grain from the parent plant. It is not clear where the flail originated, but it was certainly used in ancient Egypt. The flail is essentially a handle—called the staff—coupled at one end by a length of leather to the end of a second shorter rod. The staff is held at the free end and the rod is swung downward and from side to side. As it strikes a pile, usually spread on the ground, of harvested wheat or other grain crop, it knocks out the husks, after which the grain can be sifted out for use. In Egypt, the flail was used as a symbol for the royal dynasties, and therefore became a mark of power. Often seen alongside a shepherd's crook, the two implements together symbolized the pharaoh's ability to provide food and look after his people, in the way that a shepherd would care for his flock. The crook and flail were also the sign of the god Osiris, lord of the Underworld, and on the coffinette of Tutankhamun, which originally contained the viscera of the dead pharaoh, he holds them crossed over his chest. The use of flails for threshtng is highly labor intensive. Today the tool has been all but replaced by modern machinery. The combine harvester can—as the name suggests—both harvest the crop and separate out the grain in a single process. ---- Bell Invented: c. 3000 B.C.E. Summary: The bell tolls for the ancient Chinese. The ancient Chinese were technologically and culturally advanced. Between 3950 and 1700 B.C.E., the people of the Yang-shao culture farmed pigs, grew wheat and millet, made highly specialized tools, and produced painted pottery. They also produced pottery instruments called lings, which became the first tuned bells. One of the earliest examples of these clay bells is a small red ling uncovered at an excavation site in the Henan Province of central China. Later, during the Shang and Zhou Dynasties, the Chinese made bells from metal and decorated them with intricate designs. Bells came to play an important part in culture by the fifth century B.C.E., when sets of bronze bells were used in ritual ceremonies for musical accompaniment. Large, clapperless bells known as zhong were sometimes struck with mallets. It is said that these represented the sound of the Autumn Equinox, when all the crops had been harvested—in Chinese, the word zhong means "bell," but also "cultivated" when pronounced slightly differently. During the Qin Dynasty, in the second century B.C.E., the bell became a symbol of power and authority following the installation of six large bells at the imperial court. In modern China, the bell has a different meaning: education and worship. Today in the western world, the bell is used both functionally and symbolically. Bell chimes tell us of the time of day, but are also associated with the church and traditional celebrations such as Christmas and weddings. Hand bells are still played by members of the church community and in schools as part of music education. There are even examples of bells being used in music therapy in retirement homes and hospitals. ---- Candle Invented: c. 3000 B.C.E. Summary: Fats, waxes, and wicks light the world.  "Native Americans burned oily fish (candlefish) wedged into a forked stick." —Bob Sherman, Candle Making History It is difficult to attribute the invention of the candle to one society or country. The first "candles" may have been nothing more than melting lumps of animal fat set on fire. Later, these evolved into reeds dipped into animal fat, longer burning than their predecessors but still without a wick (a central slow-burning core to the candle, usually made from fiber or cord). Archeological evidence indicates that both the Egyptians and the Greeks were using candles with wicks (not dissimilar to those we know today) as long ago as 3000 B.C.E. Many ancient cultures appear to have developed some variation of the candle, using materials such as beeswax or tallow or even the product of berries to make the wax. This surrounded a wick madefrom fibers of plant material, rolled papyrus, or rolled rice paper. Burning with a regular flame and at a constant speed, the candle remained the preferred way of producing controlled artificial light for millennia. Candles remained a cheap, efficient way of creating light throughout the Middle Ages and right up until the mid-nineteenth century) when paraffin first became commercially available and the paraffin lamp entered most homes. Since the advent of gas and then electricity, the role of candles has largely been to create a peaceful, reflective, and nostalgic atmosphere, either in a religious setting or in the home. ---- Pliers Invented: c. 3000 B.C.E. Summary: A tool for gripping evolves from simple tongs. Pliers are hand tools used for gripping objects by using the principle of the lever. They utilize the hand's powerful closing grip of the fingers into the palm to apply force precisely to a small area. There have been many designs with different jaw configurations to grip, turn, pull, adjust, or cut a variety of items. Pliers are an ancient invention and probably developed from tools used for handling hot coals when fires were used for cooking. Sticks and wooden tongs were used at first. These were replaced by metal tongs, which were effectively early pliers, around 3000 B.C.E. when iron was being forged. A Greek Macedonian gold wreath from the fourth century B.C.E., also shows evidence of the use of pliers. Modern pliers consist of three elements: a pair of PVC-sheathed handles, the pivot, and the head section with its gripping jaws orcutting edges. The pliers'jaws always meet each other at one point. Adjustable slipjoint pliers have grooved jaws, and the pivot hole (holding the rivet connecting the two halves) is elongated so that the halves can pivot in either of two positions to accommodate objects of different sizes. Pliers may be used to grip a plumbing pipe and loosen it, repairtaps, bend (round-nose pliers), and cut wire (pliers with jaws). Diagonal cutting pliers are used for cutting wire and small pins in areas that cannot be reached by larger tools. There are also smaller versions such as the mini "side-cutting" pliers used for jewelry and those in Swiss Army knives. The basic design of pliers has changed little over the years, and they are still used in many occupations that require dexterity and precision.  "A pair of needle nose pliers used on the Apollo 16 lunar module sold for more than $33,000." —Heritage Auction Galleries, Dallas, March 2008 ---- Investment Casting Invented: c. 3000 B.C.E. Summary: Humankind learns to shape metal in molds.  "For much of history, investment casting was confined to sculpture and works of art." —European Investment Casters' Federation Investment casting is one of the oldest metalworking practices, occurring as long ago as 3000 B.C.E., and remains vital in producing very specific, one-piece metal designs. Today, the process is used to produce complex parts for nuclear power plants, but thousands of years ago essentially the same method was used to produce small metal ornaments and statues. Civilizations such as the Egyptians and the Mesopotamians used the investment casting—or "lost wax"—process to create small idols or jewelry with intricate patterns. The intended shape and design of each object was first sculpted from natural beeswax, and then coated with several layers of thick and heat-resistant plaster. This mold was then heated, the wax inside melted and drained out, and molten metal was poured into the resulting hollow space. After cooling, the plaster was removed, to reveal metal in the exact shape of the wax template. During World War II the process was adopted extensively to produce precise components for military machinery, a trend that continued after the end of the war and expanded into other commercial industries. With the expansion came more refined ways of implementation, such as more advanced waxes, but the basic ingredients of the process have remained unchanged in millennia. ---- Button Invented: c. 3000 B.C.E. Summary: Early humankind creates a sartorial accessory. Buttons have been attached to clothing for around 5,000 years, but our Bronze Age ancestors used them more for ornamentation than for their potential as a fastener. In their early incarnations, buttons were simply added to clothes for decoration, while the clothes were fastened by pins and belts. The buttons were usually hand-carved from bone, wood, or horn. It was the Greeks who first came up with the idea of using buttons to fasten clothes. The first "buttonhole" was simply a loop of thread, through which a button could be passed to create a fastening. However, buttons were not adopted in Europe until the return of the Crusaders in the thirteenth century. The introduction of this new fastening coincided with a new trend for "form-fitted" clothing and its popularity soared. By 1250, the French had established the Button Makers' Guild. In fact, the word "button" probably derives from the French bouton meaning "bud," or bouter meaning "to push." Buttons became a status symbol, and the wealthy would wear clothing adorned with hundreds of them. By the sixteenth century the finest buttons were encrusted with precious gems and diamonds, and by the eighteenth century they were being crafted from porcelain, ivory, and glass. The advent of London's Pearly Kings and Queens, whose costumes are covered by mother-of-pearl buttons, coincided with a huge cargo of the buttons thatarrived by ship from Japan in the 1860s. With the dawn of mass-produced buttons, their power as a status symbol diminished and so did their popularity. Most modern buttons are made of plastic, but even today highly priced clothing is often distinguished by unusual ornamental buttons. ---- Helmet Invented: c. 3000 B.C.E. Summary: Head protection debuts in Mesopotamia and Egypt.  "And he had a helmet of brass upon his head, and he was clad with a coat of mail." —Samuel 17:5, on Goliath In English, "helmet" is the generic term given to any device that protects the head, usually from impact-related damage. Today helmets can be found in a wide array of activities from sports to space exploration and are made from advanced composite materials, including plastics and Kevlar, combining maximum protection with minimum weight. Archeological evidence suggests that helmets have been around since the third millennium B.C.E., being used by the ancient Mesopotamian civilizations. At this time, and for many centuries afterward, the helmet was used exclusively for the purposes of war. The ancient Egyptians were also making helmets at around the same time, taking advantage of the toughness of crocodile skin as their material. Early arms and warfare reached a peak around the fifth century B.C.E. with the ancient Greeks. In addition to bronze body-fitting armor and broad shields, the Greek hoplites (foot soldiers) also sported a bronze helmet, most often in the Corinthian style—solid metal protecting the head and neck, with a narrow aperture for the eyes, nose, and mouth. This style of helmet not only protected the head but was also fearsome for enemies to behold. The helmet has seen many revisions over the centuries since. The Romans added hinged cheek flaps, and in medieval times visors were added, affording additional facial protection. In peacetime, protective helmets have since become highly specialized, so that, for example, a cycling helmet facilitates the passage of air to cool the head. ---- Ski Invented: c. 3000 B.C.E. Summary: Lapps use wooden skis to move on snow. The invention of the ski has contributed greatly to society for the past 5,000 years. Unlike today, early skis were not used for fun and leisure but for work and transportation, playing a key role in both hunting and warfare. They were made of wood and were not designed for speed: They simply served the purpose of keeping the traveler on top of the snow, with walking sticks employed to keep balance. Hunters have been using skis to chase animals in ice-covered terrain since around 3000 B.C.E., when the Lapps from Sapmi (a territory incorporating parts of present-day Norway, Sweden, Finland, and Russia) began to use skis extensively. However, it is not clear who invented skiing. The world's oldest surviving ski dates back to around 3000 B.C.E. and was discovered at Kalvträsk, northern Sweden, in 1924. It is 80 inches (204 cm) long and 6 inches (15.5 cm) wide, that is, slightly longer and twice as wide as modern skis. The earliest indirect evidence for the use of skis in ancient civilizations may date back even further, with rock carvings near the White Sea and Lake Onega in Russia thought to be more than 5,000 years old. However, the most famous ancient rock carvings depicting skiers— wearing animal masks and mounted on very long skis—are located in Rodoy, Norway. Well preserved skis have also been found under the surface of bogs in Finland and Sweden. However, predating these is the earliest ski—a Norwegian word deriving from an Old Norse term meaning "stick of wood"—which looked very different from its modern relative. It was made from the bones of big animals, and leather strips were used to attach it to the boot. Notes: - The world's oldest ski was made from pine wood. ---- Ice Skate Invented: c. 3000 B.C.E. Summary: Finns traverse the icy terrain on bone skates. The ice skate is believed to have been invented circa 3000 B.C.E. in Finland. For many years scientists were not sure where exactly the skate originated, ancient models having been found throughout Scandinavia as well as Russia. However, in 2008 news emerged that people living in what is now southern Finland would have benefited the most from skating on the crude blades. This country's nickname, "the land of the thousand lakes," is an understatement as it boasts no fewer than 187,888 of them. Finland is also a cold land and therefore each winter its thousands of frozen lakes have presented serious transportation problems for the population. With neighboring villages often separated by lakes, and rowboats locked up until spring, the options were to try to navigate around the frozen water or find a way to negotiate the slippery surfaces. The first skates consisted of the leg bones of large animals. Holes were drilled at the ends of the bones and strips of leather threaded through to tie the skates to the feet. As in skiing, skaters used tnin poles to propel themselves along, and it was only with the arrival of iron runners in fourteenth-century Holland that the poles were dispensed with. In an inadvertent homage to the skate's origins on their country's lakes, students in the Finnish city of Jyväskylä still commute to their classes by donning skates to traverse the lake that divides the city. The evolution of the skate has seen metal attached to wood and metal attached to metal, but the fundamental fact that keeping your balance enables you to glide almost effortlessly across slippery ice has ensured the skate's continued popularity. ---- Cuneiform Invented: c. 3000 B.C.E. Summary: Sumerians originate wedge-shaped writing.  "Our earth is degenerate in these latter days.... The end of the world is evidently approaching." —Inscription on an Assyrian tablet, circa 3000 B.C.E. About 5,000 years ago, the Sumerians of ancient Mesopotamia invented humankind's first writing system. Having already established the world's first true civilization by introducing agriculture and domesticating cattle, they decided that it was more efficient to record their economic transactions in writing rather than use tokens to represent the number of beasts and the amount of harvest they traded. Their initial use of simple pictograms (drawings representing actual things) quickly developed into a complex system of symbols where items were illustrated by one sign and their volume by another. The Sumerians' innovation was not only used for commercial purposes, but also extended to phonetic—rather than wholly pictographic—ideograms that expressed concepts such as deity and royalty as well as thoughts. As the symbols evolved, the notes that were recorded on clay tablets became more cuneiform (wedge-shaped), owing to the wedge-tipped reed the Sumerians used as a writing utensil. They were initially drawn in vertical columns, but the writing direction soon changed to left to right in horizontal rows. Rediscovered in the nineteenth century, the cuneiform script (whose last known inscription is an astronomical text from 75 C.E.) carries major significance as the first means of chronicling events in writing. ---- Dam Invented: c. 2800 B.C.E. Summary: Egyptians block a river for the first time. Dams are built for a number of purposes: to generate hydroelectric power; control flooding; safeguard water supplies for irrigation!, domestic, or industrial use; provide for recreation; or ease navigation. The earliest known dam was built by the Egyptians across the Garawi Valley in 2800 B.C.E. and measured 370 feet (113 m) along its crest. The masonry shell was filled with earth and rubble, but as it was not sealed against water, the center of the dam was soon washed away. This failure discouraged the Egyptians from further forays into dam construction. The Romans, armed with their knowledge of concrete, were more successful. Their constructions initially relied on sheer weight of material to resist the water, but in the first century they built the first archtype dam at Glanum in France. The apex of the arch pointed upstream, transferring the force along the dam and into the solid bedrockofthevalley sides. This design was also favored by the Mongols in fourteenthcentury Iran, but it was otherwise little used until the nineteenth century, when French engineer Francois Zola designed his eponymous arch dam, using rational stress analysis for the first time. In the latter half of the nineteenth century, concrete was used as the primary construction material for the first time in a gravity dam in New York and an arch dam in Queensland, Australia. More complex structures were now within reach, and multiple arch, cupola, and buttress dams sprang up around the United States. China is home to the world's largest dam project, the Three Gorges Dam, which is expected to be fully operational in 2009. It spans the Yangtze River and has been constructed to ease flooding on the Yangtze and provide hydroelectric power for millions. ---- Chair Invented: c. 2800 B.C.E. Summary: Egyptians give a supporting back to a stool.  "A chair is a very difficult object. A skyscraper is almost easier. That is why Chippendale is famous." —Ludwig Mies van der Rohe, architect Chairs have been invented that swing, swivel, rock, roll, recline, fold, massage, and even electrocute, Before all of those, however, came the invention of the chair in its simplest form, about 4,800 years ago. More than a thousand years before that, man had invented a way of resting in a sitting position off the floor, on the simple backless seats known as stools. Stools were raised to an art form by the ancient rgyotians. Beside creating beautiful and ornate stools, the Egyptian craftsmen also focused on function by fabricating stools that folded. Some examples have floor rails and crossing spindles with carved goose neads inlaid with ivory to resemble feathers and eyes. In the Third Dynasty (2650-2575 B.C.E.), Egyptians were also to give stools their greatest adornment, a back to support the seated person in an upright position. By steadily increasing the height of the back from a simple lumbar support, Egyptians soon arrived at high-back chairs. As they had with stools, the Egyptians turned chairs into art without sacrificing function for appearance. Chairs in the Middle Kingdom (20401640 B.C.E.) were padded for comfort with a cushion, or they had backs of full height. These chairs were curved and fashioned from timber slats and were supported on narrow legs. Sometimes, chairs were painted to give the appearance of animal skin. In the era of the New Kingdom (1540-1070 B.C.E.) a new feature was added to the chair: arms. Thousands of years later, with humankind becoming more sedentary than ever, retractable leg rests are a common option in the guest for the most comfortable chair ever invented. ---- Soap Invented: c. 2800 B.C.E. Summary: Babylonians improve human hygiene.  "Soap is... the first manufactured substance with which we come into contact in our lives.. —John A. Hunt, A Short History of Soap Soap, in the form we know it today, was first produced by the Babylonians in around 2800 B.C.E. Clay cylinders containing a soaplike material were found during excavations of Babylon. Engraved in the side of a cylinder was a recipe for boiling fats with ashes. Soap works by acting as an emulsifying agent. Each soap molecule consists of a long, fatty tail and an electrically charged "head." In water the soap molecules form small spheres, called micelles, where the charged heads are on the outside and the waterrepelling fatty chains are in the middle. As dirt and grease are not soluble in water, they are contained within the micelles. The micelles can then be washed away, leaving behind a clean surface. True soap was made by boiling oil and fat with alkaline salts to form glycerin and the salts of fatty acids. The salts are solid and are like the soap we use today. Sodium salts make hard soaps, while potassium salts produce a softer product. Calcium and magnesium salts form an insoluble residue, the scum that soap produces in hard water. The first hard white soap was produced in Spain from olive oil and the ashes of the salsola plant. However, it was only in the late nineteenth century, after processes for producing alkalis had been discovered, that there was a rapid expansion in the commercial production of soap. ---- Arched Bridge Invented: c. 2500 B.C.E. Summary: An innovation transforms architecture. The exact date and location of the initial historic transition from simpler bridges to arch-supported types is now lost to us. The development and use of the arched bridge has been attributed variously to the Indus Valley Civilization of around 2500 B.C.E.; the Mesopotamians, Egyptians, Sumerians, and Chinese; and the Etruscans and Romans, who built most of the surviving early arch-based architecture in Europe. Early arches were corbeled, not really an arch as we understand the term today. A corbel is a projecting, stone supporting piece. It is a simple example of a cantilever. Such an arch is constructed by progressively corbeling from the two sides with horizontal joints until they meet at a midpoint. At the top, where the two sides meet, a capstone is placed. The Romans, aided by their invention of a cement material to bind stone together, refined the techniques of arch construction. Arch-based Roman bridges and aqueducts may be seen today throughout many cities in Europe and the Middle East. The basic arch design proper can be likened to a beam curved to form a semicircle and prevented from straightening and spreading by strong abutments at either end. Traditionally, the shape of a stone arch is made from wedge-shaped blocks, carefully cut to fit perfectly together. Known as "voussoirs," these blocks gradually take the curve of the arch from a central, vertical keystone down to the outermost, horizontal footers. The weight of the bridge users pushes downward onto the keystone, and its wedge shape transfers that energy outward onto the voussoirs, thereby spreading the forces sideways and around the arch instead of straight downward. The development of the arch enabled longerand stronger bridges to be made. ---- Brazing and Soldering Invented: c. 2500 B.C.E. Summary: Metal items are joined together by another metal with a lower melting point.  "Zillah bore Tubal-Cain; he was the forger of all instruments of bronze and iron." —Genesis 4:22 Metallurgy is one of the most ancient fields of technology and also one of the most important. The use of metals has been so essential to humankind that long periods of history—the Bronze Age and the Iron Age—have been named after the metals that were used most predominantly in those times. Being able to join pieces of metal together has always been essential in making metal artifacts. The joining can be done in a number of different ways, including welding, brazing, and soldering. Metal items to be joined by welding must themse'ves be partly melted before the joining can take place. Brazing or soldering—which are sometimes called "hard" and "soft" soldering respectively, with brazing carried out at a higher temperature—are processes whereby pieces of metal are joined together by the introduction of a metal melted into liquid form. This "filler" metal acts like glue in joining the pieces of metal together. The temperature required to melt the filler metal is lower than that required to melt the metals to be joined. This factor allows metal items to be joined together without themselves ever having to undergo whole or partial melting. Brazing was discovered before either welding or soldering. It may have occurred as ^arly as 4000 B.C.E., and samples of work where brazing was used to integrate pieces of metal have been dated to 2500 B.C.E. The techniques of brazing and soldering have been refined over thousands of years. They continue to be important today, having applications in a variety of metallurgical fields, most notably engineering and electronics. ---- Glass Invented: c. 2500 B.C.E. Summary: Egyptians develop a transparent material. Archeological findings suggest that glass was first created during the Bronze Age in the Middle East. To the southwest, in Egypt, glass beads have been found dating back to about 2500 B.C.E. Glass is made from a mixture of silica sand, calcium oxide, soda, and magnesium, which is melted in a furnace at 2,730°F (1500°C). Most early furnaces produced insufficient heat to melt the glass properly, so glass was a luxury item that few people could afford. This situation changed in the first century B.C.E. when the blowpipe was discovered. Glass manufacturing spread throughout the Roman Empire in such quantities that glass was no longer a luxury. It flourished in Venice in the fifteenth century, where soda lime glass, known as cristallo, was developed. Venetian glass objects were said to be the most delicate and graceful in the world. Glass is normally a clear or translucent brittle material, but it may be colored, depending on the way it has been made. The three classes of ingredients used for making glass are: alkalies, earths, and metallic oxides. Crown-glass, used for windows, uses no lead but includes black manganese oxide. Cheap bottle glass uses iron oxide, alumina, and silica. In the 1950s Sir Alastair Pilkington introduced "float glass production," a revolutionary method still used to make glass. In this process a film of glass, which is highly viscous, is floated onto molten tin, which is fluid, and, as the two do not mix, the contact surface between them is perfectly flat. Other developments have included safety glass, heat-resistant glass, and fiberoptics, where light pulses are sent along thin fibers of glass. Fiberoptic devices are used in telecommunications and in medicine for viewing inaccessible parts of the human body. ---- Welding Invented: c. 2500 B.C.E. Summary: Anatolians join iron pieces by hammering.  "...embracing the fracture with a pair of hot tongs and closing so tight till the weld leans out..." —Vannoccio Biringuccio, sixteenth-century writer Welding is the process of joining pieces of metal with heat, pressure, or a combination of both, so that they completely fuse together. The first instance of welding is thought to have been in the smelting of iron ore to create wrought iron, some of the earliest evidence of which was discovered in a Hattic tomb in northern Anatolia, dated to around 2500 B.C.E. Lumps of the iron ore were heated in furnaces until the impurities melted into a slag, trapped in pores in the still solid iron. The hot piece was then hammered to expel the liquid slag and weld together the particles of surrounding iron. Similar methods of heating and hammering were used to join separate pieces of iron, and examples of this were discovered in Tutankhamun's tomb of 1350 B.C.E. This type of forge welding remained the only known technique for centuries. One of the most renowned ancient examples is the Delhi Iron Pillar from the fourth or fifth century, which is a testament to the skill of the Indian metalworkers of the day. Electricity paved the way for the development of arc welding and resistance welding, as well as the oxyacetylene torch. Welding flourished during the two world wars, and is still being developed to this day with the use of more challenging materials such as aluminum, and new technologies such as laser and electron beam welding. ---- Bellows Invented: c. 2500 B.C.E. Summary: A new invention transforms Mesopotamian metal smelting.  "He gave me a skin-bag flayed from an ox... and therein he bound... the blustering wind." —Homer, The Odyssey The ability to extract metals from their ores is one of the most significant discoveries in antiquity Until the invention of bellows, furnace fires were stoked by breath alone. Teams of men, using biowpipes, would blow on the charcoal to supply the oxygen required to increase its temperature. The teams could achieve temperatures high enough to smelt copper and tin and melt metals such as bronze, silver, and gold. Bellows improved this process not least because arm and leg power is considerably less exhaustible than lung power. They also enabled much larger furnaces to be used; one man with bellows could generate heat around seventy times faster than one with a blowpipe. A pan found in Talla, Mesopotamia, dated around 2500 B.C.E., is believed to be the earliest evidence of bellows, although they likely predate this. The pan, which held a fire, has a projection with two holes in it, thought to be where bellows were attached. Two bellows were used alternately to generate a continuous a stream of air and maintain the constant temperatures required for smelting. Another advantage of bellows is that they use ambient air, which is higher in oxygen and lower in carbon dioxide and water vapor than exhaled breath. This enabled even higher temperatures, hot enough to smelt iron, to be achieved for the first time but, a'though required for ancient iron production, the presence of bellows alone does not indicate that iron was in use. It would be another millennium before bellows reached Egypt and later Europe. One thing is clear—a world of possibilities opened up once societies could extract iron from its ore. ---- Flush Toilet Invented: c. 2500 B.C.E. Summary: Sanitation arrives in the Indus Valley. The Internet? Television? The internal combustion engine? All of these things are important, but they pale in significance next to arguably the most important invention of all time—the toilet. Archeological research indicates that toilets flushed by water have existed since about 2500 B.C.E. Inhabitants of the Indus Valley developed a sophisticated system of toilets and accompanying plumbing; each house had a toilet with a seat, the waste being borne away by water in a sewer system covered with dry-clay bricks. This system was used in India for most of the existence of the Indus Valley Civilization, which ran from about 3000 to 1700 B.C.E. Ancient Egypt also developed a similar system that removed waste through the use of running water. The ancient Romans were so fastidious that they constructed a toilet for use when they were traveling. Their sewerage systems were sophisticated, and public toilets were common. After some lamentably unsanitary times from 500 to 1500 C.E., the toilet saw some major innovations during the second half of the last millennium. John Harrington, godson of England's Queen Elizabeth I, had invented the water closet in 1596, but his invention was not widely adopted. The late 1700s saw development in toilet technology, with several inventors taking up Harrington's ideas and producing further refinements. One of these, developed in 1778 by Joseph Bramah, was installed in many ships. The first all-ceramic toilet appeared in 1885, designed by china manufacturer Thomas Twyford. It incorporated in one piece the earlier innovation of the water trap, consisting of water held within a U-shaped bend in the outflow pipe that insulated the user from malodorous air in the sewage system beiow. ---- Sewage System Invented: c. 2500 B.C.E. Summary: Indus Valley toilets are connected to sewers.  "When the plumbers and sanitary engineers had done their work... diseases began to vanish." —Lewis Thomas, medical researcher and essayist It was probably more the need to get rid of foul smells than an understanding of the health hazards of human waste that led to the first proper sewage systems. While most early settlements grew up next to natural waterways—into which waste from latrines was readily channeled—the emergence of major cities exposed the inadequacy of this approach. Early civilizations, like that of the Babylonians, dug cesspits below floor level in their houses and created crude drainage systems for removing storm water. But it was not until around 2500 B.C.E. in the Indus Valley that networks of precisely made brick-lined sewage drains were constructed along the streets to convey waste from homes. Toilets in homes on the street side were connected directly to these street sewers and were flushed manually with clean water. Centuries, later, major cities such as Rome and Constantinople built increasingly complex networked sewer systems, some of which are still in use. These days the waste is transported to industrial sewage works rather than to the sea or rivers. After its installation, the early sewage technology of many cities in Western Europe remained in place without improvement. As recently as the late, nineteenth century it was often so inadequate that fatal contagious diseases caused by foul water, such as cholera and typhoid, were still common. ---- Pesticide Invented: c. 2500 B.C.E. Summary: Sumerians use sulfurto protect their crops from rodents and insects.  "Odysseus fumigated the hall, house and court with burning sulfur to control pests." —Homer, The Odyssey Civilization was founded on agriculture. The earliest cities grew up around 9,000 years ago when nomadic hunter-gatherers settled in Mesopotamia, herding animals and growing crops for the first time. But relying on the success of an annual crop was risky. Poor weather, an infestation of insects, or crop dCeases couid ruin the harvest and starve a population. Humans are still unable to control the climate, but solutions to the other problems were proposed in the most ancient of times. Early attempts to limit damage by pests were mostly physical interventions, such as crop rotation and the manual removal of grubs. The first evidence fora chemical agent comes from Sumeria in 2500 B.C.E., where elemental sulfur was used to ward off insects. The Sumerians had developed a sophisticated agriculture, employing irrigation and mass labor to farm barley, wheat, chickpeas, and vegetables. Sprinkling sulfur on these plantations could ward off fungi, rodents, and insects such as locusts. Natural methods of eliminating pests dominated until World War II, when the chemical DDT (dichloro-diphenyl-trichloroethane) was first used to kill mosquitoes in a bid to reduce the diseases they spread, such as malaria and typhus. DDT was succeeded five years later by organophosphates when insects first showed immunity to DDT. Today, around 2.5 million tons of chemical pesticides are used around the world annually. However, alternative technologies, fears about toxic effects on humans, and a renewed interest in organic farming and natural pesticides are reducing our reliance on chemical pesticides. ---- Standard Measures Invented: c. 2500 B.C.E. Summary: The Indus Valley facilitates fair trading.  "We are concerned here with methodical digging for systematic information." —Sir Mortimer Wheeler, at Mohenjo-daro Trade between people depends on a uniform set of weights and measures that can be used by both sides of the transaction to ensure that the amount obtained or handed over is correct. The first such standard weights were developed in the Indus Valley Civilization of southern Asia. This civilization was among the most advanced of its time—equal to any in the Near East or Egypt—and boasted large cities, such as Mohenjo-daro and Harappa. The system its merchants or accountants devised consisted of cubes of chert, a crystalline form of silica. These cubes were organized in series, doubling in weight from one unit to two units to four to eight and on to sixty-four units. The next block weighed 160 units, the next 320, and then proceeded in multiples of 160. The smallest units were used by jewelers to weigh tiny amounts of gold and other precious metals and gems. The largest units were so large they were lifted with the help of a rope, and were used to weigh grain and timber. In Mesopotamia at much the same time, natural produce such as grain was used as a comparison, but grain can vary in size and weight, making it an unreliable measure. A uniform system was thus invented, using local stones carved into the shape of a sleeping goose. The multiples of sleeping geese were surprisingly effective in regulating quantity. ---- Wrought Iron Invented: c. 2500 B.C.E. Summary: The metal that gave its name to the Iron Age.  "Good iron is not hammered into nails, and good men should not be made into soldiers." —Chinese proverb When people talk about iron, they generally mean wrought iron. This is one of three major materials whose base is iron ore—a common element that has the ability to combine with other elements and therefore occurs in many forms. In order to produce its wrought, or worked, variety, charcoal and ore are heated sufficiently to reduce iron oxide to iron without melting it. The final product contains slag and other impurities that keep it from corroding. First produced in around 2500 B.C.E, wrought iron is theoldestform of Ton and gave the iron Age its name. Its availability increased when blast furnaces proliferated throughout Western Europe in the fifteenth century, before its slightly younger relative, cast iron (the malleable form of which is nowadays used in pipes as well as machine and car parts), became more popular. Today, wrought iron is most commonly used in the restoration of historic ironwork and the construction of high-quality commissions. Steel, the third type of iron, has a higher carbon content and greater hardness. The mild steel developed by Henry Bessemer in the nineteenth century was not only stronger but cheaper to make. The introduction of-steel initiated the gradual demise of what was once an indispensable material. ---- Ink Invented: c. 2500 B.C.E. Summary: The Chinese introduce permanent dyes to highlight carved lettering.  "The palest ink will always be much better than even the sharpest memory." —Chinese proverb An ink consists of a liquid base and a pigment, or dye. The pigment provides a colored residue that sticks to a surface when the liquid dries. The first inks were invented by the Chinese some 4,500 years ago, made from a mixture of soot, lamp oil, gelatin (from animal skins), and musk (to counteract the smell of the oil). The ink was used to blacken the raised surfaces of stone carvings to emphasize shapes and letters. Later, in China and elsewhere, more reliable inks were developed using powdered minerals, plant extracts, and berryjuices as pigments. With the advent of writing, and of papyrus and then paper, new types and colors of ink were required for use with writing implements designed for detailed and permanent texts. Some 2,500 years ago, the Chinese developed a solid ink to be stored as a stick; such inks are still in use today. When required, ink is simply scraped off the stickand mixed with water. Other early ink recipes included metal dyes, seed husks, and the inkof cuttlefish (yielding a deep brown ink known as sepia). One enduring recipe, invented some 1,600 years ago, consists of iron salts, tannin (from tree galls), and thickener. This ink is a blue-black color when first used but fades to brown overtime. With the arrival of the printing press in the fifteenth century a d'fferent sort of ink was required to stick to printing blocks. A thick, oily ink made from soot, turpentine, and walnut oil was developed specifically for printing. Modern inks are complex fluids, consisting of varying amounts of solvents, pigments, dyes, resins, lubricants, and other materials. ---- Enclosed Harbor Invented: c. 2500 B.C.E. Summary: The first man-made dock is built on the Indian coast. The world's first enclosed harbor, or tidal dock, is believed to have been constructed thousands of years ago during the Harappan or Indus Valley Civilization. It is located at Lothal, in the present-day Mangroul harbor, on India's Gujarat coast, bordering the Indian Ocean. The dock was discovered in 1955 and is believed to have been constructed around 2500 B.C.E. It was trapezoid in shape and its walls were constructed from burned brick. It measured 40 yards (37 m) from east to west and 24 yards (22 m) from north to south. Inlet channels allowed excess water to escape and prevented erosion of the banks. On its northern side the structure was connected with the estuary of the Sabarmati River, and lock gates on that side ensured that ships remained afloat in the dockyard. The entrance to the dock was able to accommodate two ships at a time, and the dock had facilities for loading and unloading cargo from the merchants' boats that constantly plied the harbor. Ships coming to and from the dock at Lothal probably traveled north as far as the Tigris and Euphrates river deltas. Sumerian goods transported to Lothal included cotton fabrics, beaded jewelry, and foodstuffs. A major flood occurred in 2200 B.C.E., and by 1900 B.C.E. the dock at Lothal was buried in sand and silt. These natural events initiated a period of decline in the area that lasted hundreds of years. Excavations that began in the 1950s have provided archeologists with evidence of the activities of this porttown. While some researchers question the structure's intended use, the experts are agreed that it is an excellent example of ancient maritime architecture. ---- Tunnel Invented: c. 2180 B.C.E. Summary: Babylonians excavate the first enclosed roadway. The Babylonians are said to have built a tunnel under the Euphrates River in circa 2180 B.C.E. using what is now known as the cut-and-cover method. The river was diverted, a wide trench was dug across the riverbed, and a brick tube was constructed in the trench. The riverbed was filled in over the tube and the river allowed to resume its'normal course. However, there is no firm proof of this tunnel's existence, so we need to look to the more recent past. Many tombs of the Egyptian New Kingdom pharaohs buried between 1481 and 1069 B.C.E. in the Valley of the Kings were approached bytunnelsdug in the solid rock, butthese are as much entrances as tunnels. The first real tunnel—that is, one that was dug through solid rock from both ends, to meet in the middle—was Hezekiah's Tunnel (the Siloam Tunnel) in Jerusalem. This tunnel was dug through solid rock to act as an aqueduct and bring water into the city during an imminent siege by the Assyrians. The two opposing teams of excavators made several directional errors during construction, resulting in a 1,757-foot (535 m) curving tunnel that gently slopes from the Gihon Spring down to the Pool of Siloam by the city walls; as a straight distance, it covers only 1,104 feet (309 m). More famously, and more accurately, the Greek engineer Eupalinos dug a straight tunnel through Mount Kastro on Samos to supply its capital with water. The 3,399-foot (1,036 m) tunnel, dug sometime between 550 and 530 B.C.E., was perfectly constructed: the two teams of excavators met in the middle with a vertical difference between the two tunnels ofonly 1.5 inches (3 cm). Notes: - Hezekiah's Tunnel is an underground water channel that may have incorporated an existing cave. ---- Water Filter Invented: c. 2000 B.C.E. Summary: The Indus Valley purifies drinking water. The human quest for clean, drinkable water has been going on for thousands of years, and methods of purifying water have undergone countless incarnations over this time. According to the evidence of Sanskrit writings dating to approximately 2000 B.C.E., water filtration appears to have been developed in the Indus Valley, located in current day Pakistan and western India. The Sus'ruta Samhita, ancient Sanskrit medical writings, include instructions on purifying water: "Impure water should be purified by being boiled over a fire, or being heated in the sun, or by dipping a heated iron into it, or it may be purified by filtration through sand and coarse gravel and then allowed to cool." Early purification methods were focused on the aesthetic qualities of water, such as taste and appearance, ratherthan hygiene. The ancient Egyptians were also concerned with the appearance of their drinking water. As early as 1500 B.C.E. they were using alum to settle out particles clouding their drinking water. Hundreds of years later, Hippocrates invented what is known as the "Hippocrates sleeve," a cloth sack for filtering water after it had been boiled. In the eighteenth century modern sand filtration methods were introduced, which led to water filtration in large cities. But it was not until the nineteenth century that the linkbetween health and waterquality was established. Until this point all purifying methods were still based on the notion that pure water was simply water that looked clear and tasted good. When a cholera outbreak in London in 1855 was traced to a contaminated water source, the public finally came to realize that invisible contaminants in water could cause major health problems. ---- Mechanical Lock Invented: c. 2000 B.C.E. Summary: Egyptian locksmiths learn to deter thieves.  "Later locks were so beautifully fashioned that the artist obscured the mechanical intention." —F. J. Butter, Locks and Builders' Hardware The Egyptians, and possibly other ancient peoples around the same time, invented the first mechanical locks some 4,000 years ago. The locks were a development of the simple wooden crossbeam that slides horizontally across the back of a door to bar entry. To hold the beam, or bolt, in place, a set of movable pins were located on the back of the door which dropped by gravity into recipient holes on the bolt as it moved into place. To unlock the door from the outside, a wooden key with matching pegs or prongs was inserted through a hole; the key raised the pins above the bolt, allowing it to be pulled back by a handle. Such keys could be up to 2 feet (0.6 m) long. The introduction of metal locks around a thousand years ago provided smaller, stronger, and more precise locking mechanisms. "Wards," solid obstructions within the lock to counteract tampering, were introduced by the Romans. Portable "travel" locks, or padlocks, were particularly useful to merchants on the trade routes of Europe and Asia. . In Renaissance Europe the locksmith became a master craftsman. Bespoke ornamental locks were commissioned by the rich as a symbol of taste as well as prudence. Since that time, the age-old and' continuous battle between locksmith and lock picker has led to many ingenious variations. ---- Anesthesia Invented: c. 2000 B.C.E. Summary: Egyptians find ways to limit pain under surgery.  "...and Adam slept: and God took one of his ribs, and closed up the flesh instead thereof." —Genesis 2:21 Many breakthroughs made in modern medicine, such as open heart surgery or joint replacements, would never have been possible in a world without pain control But how did anesthesia develop? As it turns out, early physicians never, to the best of our knowledge, resorted to knocking people out prior to performing surgery. Ancient Egyptian and Assyrian physicians compressed both carotid arteries at the same time, limiting blood flow to the brain and so inducing loss of consciousness in patients for the purpose of conducting a procedure. In addition, the Egyptians discovered that opium could help to ease pain, and the Assyrians used their own painkilling mixtures of belladonna, cannabis, and mandrake root. The Greeks and Romans copied and developed these techniques, and medieval Arabs even developed a form of inhalational anesthesia. The advent of modern anesthesia can be traced to the latter half of the eighteenth century, when Joseph Priestley isolated nitrous oxide. Sir Humphrey Davy realized that it had anesthetic and soporific qualities, but it was considered more of an amusing way to pass the afternoon than a medical breakthrough. All that changed when a U.S. dentist started using it to perform dental extractions painlessly. A few years later, diethyl ether became the anesthetic drug of choice, first for dental procedures, and subsequently for other operations. Chloroform, which had the benefit of being less flammable, but the caveat of being much more likely to cause complications, was used in lieu of ether in some areas. ---- Spoked-wheel Chariot Invented: c. 2000 B.C.E. Summary: Egyptians develop a fast fighting platform. "The Good God, Golden Horus, Shining in the chariot, like the rising of the Sun..." —Tablet of victory of Amenhotep III (1391-1353 B.C.E.) The development of the spoked-wheel chariot circa 2000 B.C.E. revolutionized warfare. Bronze tools allowed carpenters to discard the solid, heavy, planked wheel in favor of a lighter, spoked wheel. This was made by placing a set of same-length spokes around a central hub and then fixing them within a wooden, circular rim, itself held together by an outer bronze band. Spoked wheels were larger and lighter than their predecessors and ran better over uneven ground. Used on a two-wheeled chariot that was pulled by a single horse and driven by a charioteer, with room for a warrior alongside, the charioteer could now easily outpace the foot soldier while the warrior—with the advantage of speed and maneuverability- -attacked him with spear, lance, or bow. The use of such chariots soon spread throughout the Near East. The Hyksos people introduced them to Egypt in 1600 B.C.E. and by 1000 B.C.E. they were in use across Europe. Independently, the Chinese began to use these new chariots around 1300 B.C.E. The subsequent use of iron rather than bronze made them even more effective, increasing both the speed and strength of these fearsome war machines. ---- Fired Brick Invented: c. 2000 B.C.E. Summary: Fired bricks are developed in the Middle East.  "And they said to one another, 'Come, let us make bricks, and burn them thoroughly.'" —Genesis 11:3 In ancient times, brick houses were made first by compacting together wet mud and clay into slabs and leaving them to dry in the sun. Once solid, the bricks were piled up to fashion a basic building. However, the major problem with sun-dried bricks is that rainy weather can revert them to wet mud. It took brick makers a long time to arrive at a solution—buildings were constructed from dried mud blocks for more than 5,000 years before the fired brick appeared. Using a combination of clay, sand, and water, brick makers in the Middle East formed a pliable mass of matter called a clot. The clot was shaped in a wooden mold to create what is known as a "green" (that is, unfired) brick. This was placed in a kiln and baked at nearly 3,600°F (2,000°C), before being allowed to cool down into a permanently hard, more durable brick. The fired brick enabled the construction of the first truly permanent structures—buildings much more resilient than those of mud bricks to harsh climates, changes in temperature, and weathering. Fired bricks have been refined since they were first invented, the chemical ingredients of the clot mixture having been altered and optimized. Advances in technology have also made mass production possible. However, the premise behind the brick-making process remains exactly the same. ---- Saw Invented: c. 2000 B.C.E. Summary: Egyptians introduce the metal-toothed saw. The saw evolved from Neolithic tools. Archeologists have found metal-toothed Egyptian saws dating back to OO B.C.E., but China claims that the saw was invented by Lu Ban in the fifth century B.C.E. Early blades were of copper; the Romans then used iron and reinforced the blade at the top, holding it in a wooden frame. In the nineteenth century in Europe a rigid blade of steel with a pistol-grip handle was introduced to produce a more accurate cut. The cutting edge of a saw blade may be either serrated or abrasive. A handsaw with a stiff serrated blade can cut on both the push and pull strokes, but flexible blades allow cutting on the pull stroke only. Each tooth is bent to a precise angle, called the "set," which is determined by the saw's intended use. Some teeth are usually splayed to each side, so that the blade does not stick, or "bind," in the cut. An abrasive saw uses an abrasive disc or band for cutting. A number of different categories of hand-powered saws exist, designed either to be pushed forward or pulled backward, or both, and used by one or two people. These were followed by mechanically powered saws, using steam, water, petrol, or electricity, but they all had the same purpose of cutting large pieces of material into smaller ones. Later designs of saw include the circular saw (a rotating metal disc with saw teeth around its edge) and the chain saw (the blade is a chain carrying small cutting teeth). Samuel Miller's invention of the circular saw in 1777 only came into use when mills became steam-powered. In 1813, Tabitha Babbitt, a Massachusetts Shaker spinner, invented a circular saw as an improvement for lumber production. An early chain saw was developed in 1830 by the German orthopedist Bernard Heine for cutting bone. ---- Alphabet Invented: c. 2000 B.C.E. Summary: First phonetic alphabet originated in Egypt.  "All the teamin' my father paid for was a bit o' birch at one end and an alphabet at the other." —George Eliot, author In 1999, Yale Egyptologist John Darnell revealed to the world that the 4,000-year-old graffiti he had discovered at Wadi el Hol in Egypt's western desert represented humankind's oldest phonetic alphabet. Incorporating elements of earlier hieroglyphs and later Semitic letters, Darnell's discovery contradicted the long-held belief that alphabetic writing originated in the area of Canaan (modern-day Israel and the West Bank) midway through the second millennium B.C.E. Nevertheless, the writings—carved into soft limestone cliff—are thought to be the work of Canaanites, or rather Semitic-speaking mercenaries serving in the Egyptian army during the early Middle Kingdom (c. 2050 B.C.E.-c. 1780 B.C.E.). Presumably developed as a simplified version of Egyptian hieroglyphs, the alphabet enabled those soldiers—as well as ordinary people in general—to record their thoughts and to read those of others. Many of the words are thought to be the names of people—the desire to record them stemming from the belief that your afterlife would improve if people read out your name afteryourdeath. Today, the impact of the first phonetic writing system is still felt all over the world, since all subsequent alphabets (with the exception of the' Korean Hangul) have either directly, or indirectly, descended from it. ---- Umbrella Invented: c. 2000 B.C.E. Summary: The Chinese invent a collapsible shade.  "The American people never carry an umbrella. They prepare to walk in eternal sunshine." —Alfred E. Smith, U.S. politician it was either the Chinese or the ancient Egyptians who first invented the umbrella. Early records from both cultures indicate that umbrellas were used to screen monarchs and people of high standing from the sun. The job of hoisting an umbrella above the emperor was often reserved for the servant of highest rank. The Chinese developed the technology furthest, waxing their paper parasols to provide protection from rain. Around 4,000 years ago, the Chinese also made their umbrellas collapsible, and since then the overall design has changed very little. Making its way to Rome and Greece, the umbrella was used to shade women and even effeminate men from the sun while attending the open-air theater. These umbrellas were made from leather or skins. The umbrella reached England during the reign of Queen Anne, at the start of the eighteenth century, and were used only by women for protection from the rain. These umbrellas were made from waxed or oiled silk, which became difficult to open or close when wet. But umbrella use was discouraged by the religious, who saw it as interfering with God's intention to wet the faithful, and later on by carriage drivers, who lost business from people who could walk comfortably in inclement weather. The umbrella's association with femininity was finally shaken off in the mid-eighteenth century when a writer and hospital founder named Jonas Hanway began to carry one. He was a man of poor health, who for thirty years carried an umbrella to ward off heat and cold. Gradually the umbrella came to be accepted by both sexes equally. ---- Quernstone Invented: c. 2000 B.C.E. Summary: Stones developed for the grinding of grain.  "Be he 'live, or be he dead  I'll grind his bones to make my bread." —Jack and the Beanstalk, English Fairy Tales (1890) As humankind ceased to live as nomadic huntergatherers and began to settle down and raise crops, a different style of tool became necessary. People were now able to grow grain. However, grain had to be ground into flour in order to make bread. To accomplish this task an early form of mill, called a quernstone, eventually emerged. Approximately 4,000 years ago, humans worked out that they could place one rough stone on top of another and use the two of them to grind grain into small particles. Early versions consisted of a rough rock base, or quern, and a smaller rock that could be ground over the top of it, often referred to as a rubbing stone. A major advance occurred when the top stone was made to turn on the stationary bottom stone rather than move parallel to the long axis of the stone. These so-called "rotary querns" eventually evolved to feature a central hole in the upper stone that would allow grain to be poured in from the top and flour to work its way out from between the two stones. Later societies experimented with using different types of stone—the Romans favoring types of lava for their rough and sharp surfaces. The quernstone evolved into larger water- and wind-powered mills, but is still in use in societies where grain is ground by hand. ---- Aqueduct Invented: c. 2000 B.C.E. Summary: Water conduits invented by the Minoans.  "It is a wretched business to be digging a well just as thirst is mastering you." —Titus Maccius Plautus, playwright An aqueduct is any artificial conduit for the delivery of water, though the term is often misunderstood to refer only to the arches sometimes used to enable these channels to span low ground. Ancient civilizations on the Tigris, Euphrates, and Nile diverted water from these great rivers for irrigation, but the paucity of supply in Minoan Crete encouraged the development of complex storage and distribution systems for the first time in the second millennium B.C.E. It is the Romans who are best known for their innovative water supply systems. Between 312 B.C.E. and 226 C.E. the Romans constructed eleven major aqueducts to provide Rome with water. Aqueducts did not become commonplace again until the late nineteenth century, when rising populations in the United Kingdom outgrew local water sources, and engineers developed systems of aqueducts to provide a clean and reliable supply. The United States followed suit in the twentieth century with the construction of vast aqueducts to supply its cities, and these, including the 444-mile-long (715 kilometer) California Aqueduct remain among the largest and longest in the world. ---- Rubber Ball Invented: c. 1600 B.C.E. Summary: Ancient Mesoamericans were the first people to invent rubber balls. While other ancient civilizations were playing with balls made of stitched-up cloth or cow bladders, the people of Mesoamerica (present-day Mexico and Central America) were playing a game of life and death using balls made from a processed rubber. By adding the juice of the morning glory vine to latex (raw liquid rubber) harvested from the native rubber tree (Castilla elastica), they created balls that had great bounce. As early as 10 B.C.E., the Mesoamericans used this method to make resilient rubber balls that defied the natural brittleness of solid latex. Their amalgamation could be shaped into any conceivable form, but would harden within minutes, making it impossible to reshape the object afterward. They used this process for a variety of artifacts and produced balls of different sizes, the biggest being larger than a volleyball and weighing upto eight pounds (3.6 kg).These were then used in ritual ball games that had great political and religious significance. While modern followers of sports refer to matches as "a matter of life and death," this was actually the case for the contestants on Central America's fields and ball courts. For the Mesoamericans, the games epitomized their worldview of life as a struggle between good and evil. Winners were showered with riches, whereas the leader of the "evil" losers was sacrificed in the belief that this was the only way to keep the sun shining and the crops growing. The Mesoamericans' rubber ball was therefore, a potentially life-changing device long before Charles Goodyear's heat- and sulfur-treated gum of 1839 added a new facet to leisure activities. ---- Shadow Clock Invented: c. 1500 B.C.E. Summary: Egyptians harness the light of the sun to tell the time. The sun travels across the sky at the rate of 15 degrees per hour (reappearing ata given pointafter one day) and the shadow that it casts moves at a similar rate. In sunny climes the shadow has been used as a clock. The most ancient clock was the vertical obelisk. This tapering column, rather like Cleopatra's Needle in London, cast a shadow that varied in its length and orientation as the day progressed. The Egyptians had a small, portable shadow clock. It consisted of a T-shaped bar that lay on the ground, except that close to the shorter crossbar was a 90-degree bend that lifted the crossbar above the long horizontal stem so that its shadow would fall on the stem. The long stem was pointed directly toward the west point on the horizon in the morning. At noon, it was pointed in the reverse direction, toward the east. There were five variably spaced markers on the bar, the one directly under the "T" indicating where the shadow would be at noon and the subsequent ones for the five hours between noon and sunset (or sunrise and noon if it was being used in the morning). The Egyptians divided the period when the sun was above the horizon into ten "hours." There were two more "hours" for the twilight dawn and dusk periods, and the night was divided into twelve "hours," making the twenty-four-hour day. The use of this shadow clock required the Egyptians to have an accurate knowledge of the direction of their cardinal points. North, south, east, and west were very important to them, as is demonstrated by the sides of their pyramids, which are aligned very accurately in these directions. ---- Scissors Invented: c. 1500 B.C.E. Summary: Egyptians create the first fabric cutters.  "Scissors... evolved, step by step, with many other tools destined to cut, separate, and pierce." —Massimiliano Mandel, Scissors Spring-type scissors probably date from the Bronze Age. Consisting of blades connected by a C-shaped spring at the handle end, they were used in Egypt from 1500 B.C.E. to cut silhouettes for artwork. Pivoted scissors used in ancient Rome and parts of Asia were made of bronze and iron, as were sixteenthcentury European ones. Scissors and other implements became more widely used as their quality improved with better methods of metal forging, but cast steel was not used until 1761, when Robert Hinchliffe manufactured scissors in Sheffield. Many were hand-forged with elaborate handles, but the styles were simplified in the nineteenth century to facilitate large-scale mechanical production. The steel used in scissors contains varying amounts of carbon, depending on the quality of scissors. Drop hammers form the rough shape of the blade from blanks made from red-hot steel bars. The blades are then trimmed and hardened. The steel may contain from 0.55 to 1.03 percent carbon, with the higher carbon percentages providing a harder cutting edge for certain applications. Surgical and other specialized scissors are made of stainless steel; cheaper scissors are made with softer steel that is cold pressed. Shears used for sheet-metal work, called tin snips, have high-leverage handles but are constructed in the same way as scissors. ---- Water Clock Invented: c. 1500 B.C.E. Summary: Egyptians free timekeeping from the sun. For millennia, humankind has kept track of the progress of time by observing natural bodies, most notably the sun and the st^rs. In cloudy periods, however, these cannot be seen. The water clock, or clepsydra in Greek, is a timekeeper that works by measuring a regulated, uniform flow of water out of, or into, a vessel. With sufficient water, and a large enough vessel, this timekeeper can "run" for a day or two without needing to be refilled, or emptied. Imagine a cylindrical water container with a hole in the bottom. The rate at which water drips out of the container is a function of the pressure exerted by the water that it contains; so the more water in the vessel (that is, the greater the "head" of water) the faster is the flow rate. When the container is full, the water level goes down quickly, but the flow is slower when it is nearly empty. Around 1500 B.C.E. the Egyptians realized that if the sides of the bucket tapered parabolically, the water level would go down at a uniform rate, and this would make a reasonable basis for a clock. Others introduced multiple cistern systems that ensured that the head of water remained constant. The dripping of the clepsydra in ancient times has found an echo in the ticking of a modern clock. Later on, the Romans and Chinese constructed complicated float systems that followed the changing water level and moved an hour hand on a circular dial, or rang bells at specific times. Simple forms of the clepsydra were also used to measure specific time intervals, for the regulation of religious services or political debates, in the way that sand glasses are now used as egg timers. ---- Steel Invented: c. 1500 B.C.E. Summary: East Africans harden iron with carbon.  "The Iron Age itself came very early to Africa, probably around the sixth century B.C.E...." —Richard Hooker, historian Steel was first produced in carbon furnaces in subSaharan East Africa, around 1500 B.C.E. Steel is an alloy of iron and 0.2-2.4 percent carbon. It can also contain trace elements such as vanadium, manganese, or tungsten. The carbon acts as a hardening agent and prevents the lattices of iron crystals from sliding past each other. The more carbon present in steel, the harder it is, but this is at the expense of increased brittleness. By controlling the exact ratio of iron to carbon and other elements, the properties of the steel can be tuned to those needed fora specific function. Damascan steel (also known as Wootz steel) was famed for its strength and ability to keep an edge. It actually originated from India around 300 B.C.E. before being widely exported; it was identified by its banded appearance. Recent studies of blades made with Wootz steel have found that they contain carbon nanotubes that contributed to their legendary properties. Unfortunately, the process for making the steel died out in the eighteenth century after the necessary ores were depleted. Modern steel making took off in Europe in the late 1850s with the invention of the Bessemer process. The key element of this process was the removal of impurities via oxidation, achieved by blowing air through the molten iron. For the first time this allowed cheap production of steel onan industrial scale. ---- Sword Invented: c. 1500 B.C.E. Summary: Iron smelting brings sword-length weapons. A sword consists of a blade and a handle, which is itself made up of a hilt, or grip, and a pommel, or counterweight. A sword blade has one or two edges for striking and cutting, and a point for thrusting. The word "sword" comes from the Old English sweord, meaning to wound or hurt. Humans developed weapons from sharpened flint tools, and in the Bronze Age short-bladed weapons such as daggers were used. It was then impractical to make bronze swords more than 3 feet (90 cm) long, but with the development of smelting technology and stronger alloys, longer iron swords became possible from about 1500 B.C.E. The Chinese single-edged steel sword appeared in the third century B.C.E. By Roman times the hilt was distinct from the short, flat blade, and by the European Middle Ages the sword had acquired its main basic shape and a variety of designs were devised to fulfill different functions. Medieval swords had a doubleedged blade, a large hilt, and protective guard and were designed to be gripped in both hands. A curved blade for cutting, used in Asia, was introduced into Europe by the Turks in the sixteenth century, and in the West was modified into the cavalry saber. Hunting swords and the naval cutlass developed from the sixteenth-century "hanger," with its convex cutting edge, as did the bayonet, developed in the seventeenth century for use with firearms. During the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, the shorter "smallsword" became a fashion accessory. The smallsword and the rapier remained popular dueling swords well into the eighteenth century. ---- Rudder Invented: c. 1420 B.C.E. Summary: Egyptians learn to direct their watercraft from the stern. Egyptian tomb paintings from around 1420 B.C.E. depict a ship fitted with steering oars on either side of the stern and are thought to be the earliest evidence of the use of the rudder principle, by which water flowing past the boat's hull is redirected. The same technique was long used on Mediterranean cargo ships, but the Vikings preferred a single oar, mounted to the starboard side of the stern of their longboats. The oar could be easily lifted in shallow water but was not always effective in heavy seas, when it could be raised out of the water by the waves. A rudder is most efficient when mounted along the vessel's centerline, and in accordance with this Chinese vessels have been designed with hinged rudders on the stern since the first century B.C.E. There is no evidence of such a practice in Europe until some eleven centuries later, and centerline rudders did not become widespread until the thirteenth century C.E. It is not certain whether this change came about through independent development in northern Europe or by a transfer of knowledge from China. Either way, the rudder was a key enabler for the subsequent rise of Western fleets to naval superpowers. In the early 1900s the Wright brothers used vertical rudders behind the tailfins of their pioneering gliders to steer their first powered aircraft during its first flight of 1903. Modern aircraft use similar rudder systems to control side-to-side yawing motion. The rudder, albeit with a host of variations and. specializations, is still the means by which we steer not only our ships but a multitude of other craft both in the water and the sky. ---- Abacus Invented: c. 1000 B.C.E. Summary: Mesopotamians usher in the age of computing with the first calculator. The early calculating instrument we know as the abacus—consisting of a wooden frame supporting wires or rods on which wooden beads slide from side to side—was developed in Mesopotamia from a flat, sand-covered, stone counting board on which pebbles were moved. This aid to calculation was in use long before the adoption of the Hindu-Arabic numeral system and can be adapted to any numeral base. The abacus has a huge advantage over counting on the fingers of the hand, simply because it can be used to record very large numbers accurately. The easiest type of abacus to understand is the modern Western version that uses a base of ten. Here each wire carries ten beads and represents a decadal unit, that is one, ten, 100, 1,000 and so on. A number, say 617,483, can be represented by positioning the respective numberof beads, on each wire, against one side of the abacus. It is then a relatively easy task to add or subtract another number from the first one. After a calculation, the whole abacus can also be reset for further computing by a simple shake. Abaci were widely used throughout the ancient world and are still important as a teaching aid in preschool. The movement of the beads helps children to understand the groupings of ten that are the foundation of our present number system. Other abaci were produced with an interior d'viding bar. The Chinese suan-pad, introduced about 1200 C.E., had five beads on one side of the bar and two above. The Japanese soroban originally had afive-to-one bead distribution. The Russian schety followed the European pattern with ten beads and no bar. ---- Pontoon Bridge Invented: c. 1000 B.C.E. Summary: Chinese make a temporary water crossing. In 1000 B.C.E. it was recorded that King Wen of the Zhou Dynasty, ancient China, designed the first pontoon bridge. The invention was to be incorporated into his elaborate wedding ceremony, allowing the wedding procession to cross the Weihe River. King Wen's design was of a floating bamboo deck structure supported by boatlike pontoons to allow a water crossing. Since their invention, the floating bridges have become much more than just a decorative water crossing—they have become a military weapon. One of the earliest recorded pontoon bridges to be used in combat was built in 974 C.E. by the Song Army of ancient China, who constructed it in fewer than three days. However, such bridges take a lot less time to destroy or dismantle--a necessary practice to prevent the enemy from following. King Wen's design is still being used by the military to this day. In 2003 the U.S. Army's "Assault Float Ribbon Bridge" was used to cross the Euphrates River near Al Musayib during "Operation Iraqi Freedom." Not all pontoon bridges are temporary structures. Some are established across rivers where it is uneconomical to build a suspension bridge. These bridges include an elevated section to allow boats to pass. One of the longest of these bridges spans Lake Washington in Washington State; the Lacey V. Murrow Memorial Bridge, 6,620 feet (2,019 m) in length, was completed in 1940 and cost $10 million less than an orthodox bridge to build. Cheap though they are, pontoon bridges are not particularly safe. They are especially vulnerable to bad weather and have been known to be destroyed by strong winds. In fact, part of the Lacey V. Murrow Memorial Bridge sank in 1990 after a heavy storm and was subsequently rebuilt. ---- Battering Ram Invented: c. woo B.C.E. Summary: Assyrians build a newsiegeweapon.  "Forty-six of Hezekiah's... towns and innumerable smaller villages I besieged and conquered." —King Sennacherib of Assyria The battering ram has none of the subtleties of the Trojan horse, but the results are the same; an uninvited entry. Principally weapons of war, early battering rams were heavy wooden beams, sometimes with a metal-covered end that was on occasion shaped as a ram's head (hence the name), whose sole purpose was to breach the fortifications of towns and castles. In its simplest mode of operation, the battering ram was carried by several people who would run with the ram and thrust it at the target with as much force as they could muster. The key to success was speed, however, and later rams were wheeled. Battering rams became increasingly sophisticated. One important example was the siege engine of the Assyrians of circa 1000 B.C.E. Their ram was suspended from a covered wooden frame so that it could be continuously swung at the target, while the frame provided protection for the soldiers within. Wet hides or earth were used to defend against flaming arrows. Mounted on wheels, this ram was easily maneuvered. Despite changes in warfare, battering rams still have their place today, attached to military vehicles. One person-operated metal rams are also used by today's law enforcement agencies. ---- Sandwich Invented: c. 1000 B.C.E. Summary: Hittites serve meat between slices of bread. The invention of the sandwich is popularly credited to John Montague, Fourth Earl of Sandwich. Its origins go much further back than this, however. Another common belief comes from the Jewish tradition— that the sandwich was invented by Hillel the Elder in The first century B.C.E. During Passover, Hillel the Elder's invention is commemorated in the text: "This is what Hillel did when theTemple existed: he used to enwrap the Paschal lamb, the matzo, and the bitter herbs and eat them as one." At this point of the remembrance service, the participants do likewise. Evidence suggests that the sandwich may go back even further than this, to the days of the Hittite Empire, hundreds of years before. There are records of soldiers of the empire being issued with meat between slices of bread as their rations. Today's sandwich comes in a multitude of varieties from international cuisines. Although there has been some controversy over what constitutes a sandwich (resulting in one court ruling in the United States), it is generally understood to be a meal made from two slices of bread and a filling. The Earl of Sandwich's part in the story, apart from giving the meal its name, lay in popularizing the sandwich in England in the eighteenth century. It is believed that Montague liked the sandwich because he could eat it without getting grease on his fingers from meat, making it a suitable snack to eat while playing cards. Whether or not this is true is debatable, but certainly after this time the sandwich became the dominant lunchtime meal in England. Being easy to prepare, portable, and adaptableto limitlessvariations, the sandwich has never lost its popularity and can now be bought from thousands of dedicated outlets and chains across the world. ---- Inoculation Invented: c. 1000 B.C.E. Summary: Chinese monk pioneers smallpox protection.  "The English are fools... they give their children the smallpox to prevent their catching it." —Voltaire, Letters on the English (c. 1778) Smallpox is believed to have first appeared around 10,000 B.C.E. Ramses V died suddenly in 1157 B.C.E.; his mummy bears scars that have a striking resemblance to those left by that scourge. Smallpox killed about a third of its victims and left many survivors scarred. But it was noted that survivors never got smallpox again. After the eldest son of China's Prime Minister Wang Dan died around 1000 B.C.E. of smallpox, Wang Dan sought a cure for it. A Daoist monk introduced the technique of variolation, a type of inoculation. Scab-coated pustules taken from survivors were ground up and blown into the nose like snuff. Reports of inoculation reached Europe in the 1700s. In London, in 1721, Lady Wortley Montague and the Princess of Wales urged that four condemned prisoners be inoculated. Several months later the men were exposed to smallpox and all survived. Now that variolation was deemed safe, the royal family underwent it and the procedure became fashionable. Exposing a person to smallpox to prevent smallpox seems madness, but as the scabs were taken from survivors, the virus had been weakened. Mortality from variolation was about 1 percent; mortality from smallpox was 20 to 40 percent. In 1774 Benjamin Jesty inoculated his wife with the cowpox virus. In 1796 Edward Jenner did the same with young James Phipps and the process of vaccination was started. ---- Kite Invented: c. 1000 B.C.E. Summary: Unknown Chinese establish a long and colorful tradition.  "Tie the handkerchief corners to the extremities of the cross, so you have the body of a kite.. —Benjamin Franklin, to Peter Collinson, 1752 The kite was first invented in China about 3,000 years ago. The first recorded construction of a kite was by the Chinese philosopher Mo Zi (c. 470—391 B.C.E.) who spent three years bui'ding it from wood. Materials ideal for kite building, such as silk for the sail material and bamboo for a strong, light frame, were plentiful in China, and kites were soon used for many purposes. Stories and records from ancient China mention kites that were used to measure distances, to test the wind, and to communicate during military maneuvers. The earliest Chinese kites were often fitted with musical instruments to create sounds as they were flown; they were decorated with mythical symbols. The first kites were flat and rectangular in shape, but kites are now designed in a variety of forms, including boxes and other three-dimensional assemblies. Kites flown as a hobby are particularly popular in Asia, where kite flying is a ritual incorporated into the national festivals of many countries. The Chinese people believe that kites are lucky and they fly them to ward off evil spirits. The kite has been used in important scientific research, including Benjamin Franklin's famous experiment to prove that lightening is electricity. The Wright brothers constructed a 5-foot (1.5 m) box kite in the shape of a biplane when they were experimenting with the principles of controlling an airplane in flight. This research helped the brothers achieve their dream of making the world's first controlled, heavier-than-air, human flight in 1903. Modern kites have been used to pull sledges over snow-covered terrain in the Antarctic. Notes: - Kites constructed in butterfly designs have long been prominent in the Chinese kite-flying tradition. ---- Pulley Invented: c. 750 B.C.E. Summary: Assyrians revolutionize the lifting of weights. A pulley is one of the simplest machines, essentially a circular lever in the form of a wheel or fixed curved block, with a groove around it to accommodate a rope or belt. The earliest evidence for the existence of the pulley comes from Assyria in the eighth century B.C.E.; a painting of a battle scene shows a warrior using a simple pulley to lift a bucket over a wall. Pulleys are mainly used to move or lift a load. A single fixed pulley can be used to change the direction in which a force is applied, as it may be easier to pull on a rope than to drag or push the load. When the rope is fixed at one end and another pulley is added, the system effectively halves the required force, as each part of the rope carries an equal share of the load. This does not reduce the mechanical work required: work is the multiple of force and distance and the rope—now doubled in length—will need to be pulled twice as far. More pulleys can be added to make a "compound pulley" system, further multiplying the effectiveness of the force applied. Pulleys have been in use throughout the world for many centuries. Although the earliest hard evidence of their use dates from the eighth century B.C.E., it is highly likely that the principle was in use long before that. Early humans most likely created pulleys by throwing a rope or a fibrous vine over the branch of a tree to hoist up a heavyweight. It is highly probable that pulleys were used by the builders of early massive constructions, such as the ziggurats of Mesopotamia (built as early as the fourth millennium B.C.E.), Stonehenge (built in 2200 B.C.E.), and the pyramids of Egypt (third millennium B.C.E.). Notes: - A remnant of a simple bronze pulley without wheel was found at Gezer, in Israel. ---- Buckle Invented: c. 700 B.C.E. Summary: The ancient Greeks introduce the buckle fastener. The buckle originated in circa 700 B.C.E. Many examples survive from ancient Greece and Rome, and indeed from all over Europe into the Middle Ages. The word buckle comes from the Latin word bucca meaning "cheek." Due to its ease of use and manufacture, the buckle continues as a solution to the many fastening problems posed by clothing and equipment. Early buckles were manufactured from bone, ivory, and metal and were used on military gear, harnesses, and armor, being favored mainly because of their durability. The use of the buckle was not restricted to these areas though; they were commonly used as fasteners on boots and shoes and, prior to the invention ofthezip, on clothing. The addition of decorative ornamentation lifted the buckle out of its utilitarian realm. Buckles made of silver and bronze and inlaid with precious stones have been found in graves and tombs such as that of Childeric I, king of the Franks, who died in 481 C.E. Jeweled shoe buckles were in vogue during the reign of Louis XIV. During the nineteenth century, the British Navy was at the height of its power, but it had one intractable problem; the sailors' clothes were fastened with laces and eyelets. In cold, wet conditions the fastenings became fiddly to use, and waterlogged clothes were poorly supported by the laces. One clever seaman allegedly had the idea of fastening a buckle to a leather strap and using this to hold up his trousers; it worked and was easy to use, even with freezing fingers. Today, buckles remain a fashion accessory though lack the status of jewelry. ---- Metal Anchor Invented: c. 650 B.C.E. Summary: Greeks use metal to weigh down anchors. The need to moor ships and boats is as old as the vessels themselves. The ancient world—Mesopotamia, Egypt, Greece, and Rome—used whatever came to hand for the task, from a basketful of stones to a sackful of sand, lowered by rope. Single large stones with a rope-hole became common. Use of metal crept in gradually during classical times, as ships increased in size and varied anchor designs were developed for different situations and vessel types. In 500 B.C.E., bronze anchors were cast in Malta. Some crude wooden anchors had pieces of lead or other heavy metals added for weight, while a popular wooden hook design gradually became fashioned entirely in iron instead. Iron anchors have been recovered from Roman merchant vessels. Soon the classic form developed. This featured flukes (the pointed ends of arms at the anchor base) and a stock (a horizontal bar that upends the anchor to ensure that one fluke becomes well embedded). The invention of the anchor has been credited to the legendary King Midas (700 B.C.E.), but other tales relate how, around 650 B.C.E., Greek sailors first added hooks to a stone anchor and established the basic future design. Anchor design changed little over the centuries. By 1700, the prevalent anchor design was the kedge type made from iron, which featured a long shank. By 1901, a stockless anchor made from cast steel had been patented. In 2003, the world's oldest wooden anchor, with a metal crown, was found at the former ancient Greek colony of Klazomenai in modern Turkey. Dating back to 600 B.C.E., this may have been close to the birth of the fully metal anchor. ---- Crossbow Invented: c. 550 B.C.E. Summary: Chinese pioneer the longbow's smaller rival. The crossbow originated in ancient China circa 550 B.C.E. and is thought to have been developed from the horizontal bow trap, which was used to kill game. For use as a weapon, the Chinese developed many different designs of crossbows and drawstrings. Some had stirrups attached to them to hold the bow down when the bowmen were rearming. Later crossbowcannons had winches to pull back the strings, because people would not have been strong enough to do this unaided. The Chinese also invented grid sights in 100 C.E. and a machine-gun type of crossbow, which had a magazine of bolts fitted above the arrow groove; as one bolt was fired another dropped into its place. Poisoned crossbow bolts were also used. Knowledge of the crossbow was probably transmitted from China to Europe via the Greeks and Romans. The weapon could be used by an untrained soldier to injure or kill a knight in armor. The crossbow was adopted in Europe in the tenth century C.E. and used throughout the Middle Ages. William the Conqueror brought the medieval crossbow to England in 1066, but the Welsh longbow supplanted the crossbow during the reign of Edward I (1272-1307). Many viewed it as an inhuman weapon, requiring no skill and having no honor, and in 1139 the Pope, through the Second Lateran Council, condemned the use of crossbows against anyone except infidels. Today, crossbows are mostly used for target shooting in modern archery. In some countries crossbow hunting is still allowed, such as a few states in the United States, Asia, Australia, and Africa. ---- Crane Invented: c. 550 B.C.E. Summary: Greeks use cranes for heavy construction.  "Archimedes had stated that given the force, any given weight might be moved..." —Plutarch, Life of Marcellus The extent to which human beings extend their natural capabilities through the use of machines is something that distinguishes us from other members of the animal kingdom. Ctanes are an especially relevant example of this; the ability to raise and maneuver weights vastly greater than those that people could lift and move unaided has played a defining role in the development of human society. The crane is a system of pulleys and cords or wires attached to a framework that enables the movement of heavy weights both vertically and horizontally through the use of mechanical advantage. The earliest cranes have been dated to approximately 550 B.C.E., although there are Greek architectural constructions still in existence that predate this by several hundred years, and that undoubtedly would have required some sort of supporting pulley mechanism. Cranes were used in ancient Greece for a variety of purposes. They were integral to Greek construction and were also used for pulling heavy loads. The Claw of Archimedes was a wall-based crane used to hoist invading ships to a great height, only to drop them to their destruction. Cranes continued to be used extensively in ancient Rome, where a "treadmill crane" was used to help in building projects. In reconstructions, single blocks of stone weighing as much as 100 tons have - been lifted considerable heights above the ground using this technology. Cranes fell out of use for a while, only to reappear in the late Middle Ages. They have continued to see heavy usage through to the present day. ---- Artificial Limb Invented: c. 550 B.C.E. Summary: A Persian reportedly creates the first replacement body part.  "Demeter, goddess of agriculture, ate Pelops' shoulder, but made him a prosthetic ivory shoulder" —Ampulove, History of Prosthetics The earliest written reference to an artificial limb occurs in an epic Indian poem, the "Rig-Veda," which was compiled between 3500 and 1800 B.C.E. Written in Sanskrit, the poem includes a description of the amputation of the warrior Queen Vishpla's leg during battle. Later fitted with an iron prosthesis by the Ashvins (celestial physicians), she returned to combat. Most authorities doubt the story of Queen Vishpla, and turn to the Histories of Herodotus for the first plausible reference to a prosthetic limb. Herodotus describes how, in the mid sixth century B.C.E., Hegesistratus of Elis, a Persian soldier and seer imprisoned by the Spartans, was sentenced to death, and cut off part of his foot to escape from the stocks. Hegesistratus fashioned a wooden prosthesis to help walk the 30 miles (48 km) to Tregea, but unfortunately was captured by Zaccynthius and beheaded. In the first century B.C.E., Pliny the Elder wrote in his Natural History of Marcus Sergius, a Roman general who led his legion against Carthage in the Second Punic War (218 to 210 B.C.E.). The general sustained twenty-three injuries, necessitating the amputation of his right arm. An iron hand was fashioned to hold his shield, and he returned to battle. He fought four more battles, and had two horses killed from beneath him. The oldest known prosthesis was discovered in a tomb in Capua, Italy, in 1858. Made of copper and wood, it dates to 300 B.C.E., during the period of the Samnite Wars. Regrettably, the Capua leg did not survive another war—it was destroyed in 1941 when the Museum of the Royal College of Surgeons was seriously damaged in an air raid. ---- Winch Invented: c. 500 B.C.E. Summary: Persians use the winch in bridge building.  "They stretched the cables by twisting them taut with wooden windlasses." —Herodotus of Halicarnassus, historian The first known reference to a winch is made in the writings of Herodotus of Halicarnassus on the Persian Wars in 480 B.C.E., in which wooden winches were used to tighten cables used in a bridge that crossed the Hellespont. The idea caught on quickly and within a hundred or so years the winch had reached Greek construction sites, though evidence suggests that it was invented by the Assyrians in the fifth century B.C.E. A simple winch is used to wind rope or cable, but the tool has many more applications when fitted with a cleat to maintain tension and prevent the rope or cable from unwinding. Cleated winches have long served on boats and harborsides to keep ships and boats closely moored to docksides. They are important for lifting work on construction sites, enabling workers to complete tall projects in a fraction of the time otherwise required. In medieval times a cleated winch was an important component of the rack, a bedlike torture device designed to stretch a person by infinitely painful degrees. Cleated winches are used to raise flags on flagpoles and keep them aloft, and mini winches also feature on the reels of fishing rods, allowing anglers to maintain or release line tension when playing a fish. Winches are used by tow-trucks, and they play a vital role in helicopter rescues, safely extracting people from dangerous situations. ---- Hammock Invented: c. 425 B.C.E. Summary: Alcibiades creates a new type of bed. The precise year of the hammock's invention is impossible to tell, but estimates of 1000 B.C.E. are considered reasonable, with the Mayan Indians most often credited with the invention. However, there is no evidence for this, and the hammock's creation is often attributed to a later inventor. In Greece, Alcibiades (c. 450-404 B.C.E.) was a student of Socrates, and some sources attribute its invention to him. Western European society was first introduced to the hammock in 1492 when Christopher Columbus returned from the Bahamas where he had found the native people resting and sleeping in them. He took some hammocks back to Europe and within a century or so they were standard issue for European sailors. In the cramped ships of the time their value was obvious, as they could be stowed away or hooked up for use almost instantly. More than any other form of bed, they allowed sailors to sleep in paradoxical harmony with the rocking movement of their ship, hanging downward under the pull of gravity while the ship rolled, pitched, and yawed around them. Arriving in the wake of Columbus in 1500, the Portuguese explorer Pero Vaz de Caminha saw a Caribbean native asleep in a suspended fishing net. He called this innovation a rede de dormir, or "net for sleeping," and rede remains the Portuguese name for a hammock. At much the same time the Spanish conquistadors were also encountering hammocks used by Caribbean Indians. The term they used was homoca, itself derived from hamaca, the Indian name for the hamak, or hammok, tree whose bark supplied the fibers from which the hammocks were woven. Aside from twenty-first-century materials being adopted, the hammock's design has remained largely unchanged over the centuries. ---- Chain Mail Invented: c. 400 B.C.E. Summary: Romanians make the first known protective metal shirt.  "...Chain mail makers, slowly going mad while they clipped together chain mail rings.." —Ursula K. Le Guin, Tehanu (1990) Chain mail was originally called just mail or chain in England and maille in France (the French word maille means "meshy" or "netted"). It was not until the 1700s that chain mail became its common English name. Mail is constructed from a series of links made from wire. These are bent into circles around a forming cylinder, and the finished links are welded or riveted into the form of a shirt. The result is a sturdy piece of armor that affords very effective protection from most cutting blows while at the same time being relatively lightweight and flexible. Chain mail alone could not protect against crushing injuries, however, and warriors therefore combined it with a gambeson, which was worn underneath the mail. This was a padded jacket made from layers of wool and other materials that provided effective resistance to impact injuries. The first mail shirt on record is from a Romanian Celtic chieftain's burial chamber and dates back to the fourth century B.C.E. Chain mail saw extensive use throughout the first half of the last millennium, being employed throughout Europe and Asia, but it was not until the thirteenth century C.E.. that mail armor really came into its own. Extending over the whole of a knight's body, the basic mail shirt (or hauberk} was joined by individual mail pieces for the legs, arms, and head, providing more complete protection. Knights did not wear this type of full armor for long, however. Items of plate armor were increasingly added to the mail, and these grew increasingly more sophisticated. Foot soldiers continued to wear chain mail until late medieval times. ---- Distillation Invented: c. 400 B.C.E. Summary: Alcohol distillation precedes that of water.  "Reserve your right to think, for even to think wrongly is better than not to think at all." —Hypatia of Alexandria, distillery inventor Distillation is not a process confined to spirit production; it is a method of separating chemical substances by their volatility. Chemicals are separated from solutions by heating them until they boil and turn into gas. The gas is then collected and cooled, when it condenses into a liquid. As different chemicals boil at different temperatures, it is possible to separate them by controlling the heating temperatures. There is evidence of the distillation of alcohol dating back to the second millennium B.C.E. although recent evidence from Pakistan demonstrates that it was not until 400 B.C.E. that the process was well understood. The idea of boiling water and collecting it as steam, which separates out dirt, salts, and bacteria, seems to have come 800 years later, when Hypatia of Alexandria (c. 350-415 C.E.) invented the first apparatus for distilling water. However, it was not until the eighth century C.E. that pure chemical substances were obtained by distillation. The alembic still was invented by Persian chemist Jabir Ibn Hayyan. Later, in the ninth century, petroleum was distilled to produce kerosene by another Muslim chemist, al-Razi, and the extraction of essential oils by steam distillation was invented by Avicenna in the eleventh century. ---- Pike Invented: c. 400 B.C.E. Summary: Macedonians deploy the pike in the phalanx. A major weapon advancement in the complicated history of ancient warfare, the invention of the pike in 400 B.C.E. is credited for the Macedonian takeover of Greece, Egypt, and parts of Asia. Philip II of Macedonia (382-336 B.C.E.), father of the famous Alexander the Great, is credited with adopting the pike (also called the sarissa), as well as the Macedonian phalanx, a type of infantry formation of soldiers. The pike was around 20 feet (6 m) long, and this great length enabled soldiers to strike while they were themselves out of range of shorter weapons. The phalanx consisted of a tight formation of soldiers and pikes. The men in the front of the phalanx would hold their pikes straight out, creating an equivalent depth of about five rows of men. Before Philip's invention, the Macedonian army was considered ill-equipped and ill-trained. The combination of the pike and the phalanx formation ensured that the soldiers were well defended—the phalanx arrangement only failed if the formation was broken or outflanked, which happened rarely. The pike was an effective weapon only when used in the phalanx, and was essentially useless outside of it. Away from the phalanx formation, Philip's men used javelins. They were adept in the use of both types of weapons, an impressive military feat since the skills required to use each of them are quite different. Alexander the Great inherited Philip's military tactics with the pike and phalanx and used them to conquer Egypt, Persia, and what is now northern India. Versions of the pike were still being used in military operations up until the eighteenth century. While the phalanx may seem an unwieldy fighting unit today, it was able to act like a modern-day tank, breaking away to crash into enemy ranks with impunity. ---- Magnetic Compass Invented: c. 400 B.C.E. Summary: An invention fails to find its ideal application.  "Magnus magnes ipse est globus terrestris. (The whole Earth is a magnet.)" —William Gilbert, physician and natural philosopher The Chinese discovered the orientating effect of magnetite, a magnetic ore known as lodestone (or leading stone), as early as the fourth century B.C.E. and the earliest compasses were used for quasi-magical purposes. They consisted of a piece of lodestone floating on a stick in a bowl of water, which swung around so that it always pointed in a consistent direction. It was another thousand years before they were used for navigation. Previously navigators in the northern hemisphere had used the North Star to indicate direction, and followed earlier maps, but the compass, which aligned with the North Star, was more useful because it could be used in all conditions. Magnetic compasses work in this way because molten iron in the center of the Earth acts as a magnetic core, as if it were a giant bar magnet, and causes the needle to set parallel to the north-south axis of the globe. It was only realized later that the directions of the magnetic north and geographical north (Earth's axis) were not parallel to each other and varied by about 12 degrees. It was later discovered that iron or steel needles stroked by a lodestone became magnetized and also lined up in a north-south direction. In 1745 Gowin Knight, an English inventor, developed a method of magnetizing steel permanently. ---- Blast Furnace Invented: c. 400 B.C.E. Summary: Chinese smelting begins with bronze. The oldest known blast furnaces were built during the Han Dynasty of China in the fourth century B.C.E. Early blast furnace production of-cast iron evolved from furnaces used to melt bronze. Iron was essential to military success by the time the State of Qin had unified China (221 B.C.E.). By the eleventh century C.E., the Song Dynasty Chinese iron industry switched from using charcoal to coal for casting iron and steel, saving thousands of acres of woodland. In a blast furnace, fuel and ore are supplied through the top of the furnace, while air is blown into the bottom of the chamber. The chemical reaction takes place as the material moves downward, producing molten metal and slag at the bottom, with flue gases exiting from the top of the furnace. The oldest known blast furnaces in the West were built in Durstel in Switzerland, the Märkische Sauerland in Germany, and Lapphyttan in Sweden, where they were active between 1150 and 1350 C.E. There have also been traces of blast furnaces dated as early as 1100 found in Noraskog, also in Sweden. These furnaces were very inefficient compared to those used today. French Cistercian monks, who are known to have been skilled metallurgists, passed on their knowledge of technological advances regarding blast furnaces between the thirteenth and the seventeenth centuries. Iron ore deposits were often donated to them and the monasteries sold their surplus iron as well as the phosphate-rich slag from their furnaces, which was used as an agricultural fertilizer. In 1709 Abraham Darby, a Quaker iron founder in Shropshire, England, used coke instead of charcoal to. smelt iron ore in his improved blast furnace. He also processed cast iron into wrought iron and steel. ---- Catapult Invented: c. 400 B.C.E. Summary: Sicilians introduce one of the first great war machines.  "The first stone... fell with such weight and force upon a building that a great part... was destroyed." —Marco Polo, The Travels of Marco Polo (c. 1298) The word catapult came from two Greek words: kata, meaning "downward," and pultos, which refers to a small circular shield. Katapultos was taken to mean "shield piercer" The weapon was said to have been invented in 399 B.C.E. in the Sicilian city of Syracuse and, according to Archimedes, was derived from a composite bow, which was similar to the crossbow. Early catapults had a central lever with a counterweight at the opposite end to the projectile basket. Torsion-powered catapults entered into common use in Greece and Macedon around 330 B.C.E. Alexander the Great used them to provide cover on the battlefield as well as during sieges. The Chinese, Greeks, and Romans used various types of catapults. The ballista, built for Philip of Macedon, was similar to a giant crossbow and, using tension provided by twisted skeins of rope, it could aim heavy bolts, darts, or spears. The trebuchet consisted of a lever and a sling and could be used to hurl large stones. The mangonel, credited to the Romans, fired heavy objects from a bowl-shaped bucket at the end of its single giant arm. Catapults used as siege weapons were usually constructed on the spot because they were too cumbersome to move around. Sometimes beehives or carcasses of dead animals were catapulted over castle walls to infect those inside. The weapon reached Europe during medieval times and the French used them during their siege of Dover Castle in 1216 C.E. Cannons replaced catapults as the standard European siege weapon in the fourteenth century C.E. ---- Stirrup Invented: c. 300 B.C.E. Summary: The Chinese gain an important advantage in mounted warfare.  "The stirrup... enabled the horseman to become a better archer and swordsman." —Professor Albert Dien, historian The oldest recorded account of a single metal mounting stirrup is a depiction found on a pottery shard uncovered from a tdmb in western China belonging to the Jin Dynasty and dating to around 300 B.C.E. The stirrup was at first used primarily as a tool to assist the rider in mounting his horse. China at that time was constantly plagued by threats of mounted warfare from its northern nomadic neighbors. Considering that the Chinese developed the harness and horse collar a thousand years before theirarrival in Europe, and that they had an established expertise in metal casting, it is not surprising that stirrups appeared among China's elite mounted cavalry. Their use of a single stirrup for mounting soon evolved toward using stirrups in pairs to provide a stable foundation for riding and fighting in war. With the arrival of stirrups, the cavalry became a dominant military instrument; they fundamentally altered the approach to mounted warfare. A pottery horse dating to 322 B.C.E. excavated from a tomb near the town of Nanjing in China's eastern Jiangsu Province is the earliest known evidence of stirrups deliberately forged and used as a pair. Considering man's long dependence on the horse for transportation and communication, and its strategic importance in warfare, the invention of the stirrup came relatively late in history, although circumstantial evidence points to its appearance in the Middle East as early as 850 B.C.E. Its invention preceded a huge leap forward in the communication between and migration of cultures. ---- Saddle Invented: c. 300 B.C.E. Summary: Horsemen end the age of bareback riding.  "Every occasion will catch the senses of the vain man and with that... saddle you may ride him." —Sir Philip Sidney, politician It is unclear when humans first began to domesticate and ride horses—evidence from cave paintings in France suggests that horses might have been bridled as long ago as 15,000 B.C.E. But while early riders had the use of bits, bridles, and harnesses to control their mounts, they sat uncomfortably on little more than folded blankets or cloth, or rode bareback. Asian horsemen created a felt and wood saddle around 300 B.C.E., but it was not until around 100 C.E. that riders gained a saddle that offered genuine comfort. The first padded, framed saddles were developed in Han Chin sometime between 25 and 220 C.E. They consisted of a wooden frame covered in a stiff material such as leather, padded with cloth and shaped for comfort. To ensure a good ride, the pommel, or front, and the cantie, or rear, of the saddle were raised above the seat. What began as a simple but effective means of sitting on a horse soon became a status symbol, as riders decorated the leather of their saddles with inscribed designs and personal emblems and fashioned them with intricate ivory and other inlays. Although the saddle had a great effect on horsemanship, its full effect was not at first realized, for the rider still remained insecure perched on his seat. It was not until the invention of the stirrup shortly afterward that the saddle truly came into its own. ---- Moldboard Plow Invented: c. 300 B.C.E. Summary: The Chinese transform a farm implement.  "The moldboard plow... buries almost all the old crop stubble, straw, and residue..." —Rick Kubik, farm safety expert The simple moldboard plow was one of the most significant developments in history, but the name of its inventor is lost in time. When humans first began tilling their fields, they would simply drag a stick or a hoe through the soil. The resulting furrows were perfect for planting seeds for cultivation. Once humans had domesticated the ox, around 7000 B.C.E., they were able to harness its pulling power to increase plowing efficiency. The oxen pulled a hoe contained by a wooden frame. But the real breakthrough occurred in the third century B.C.E. when the Chinese designed the kuan, or mold board plow. This consisted of a hitch, to attach it to an animal, and an asymmetric moldboard blade, which cut through the earth horizontally, with the added benefit of slicing through the roots of weeds. Once the earth had been cut horizontally, the forward motion of the curved plowshare pushed the soil against the blade, which turned the soil upside down before depositing it back on the ground, to the side of the new furrow. This aerated the soil, but it was the inverting of the earth that brought new advantages. Any surviving weeds were buried by the inverted earth and, especially in dry soil, nutrients and moisture were brought back to the surface. Now much larger areas could be farmed more efficiently. ---- Lever Invented: c. 260 B.C.E. Summary: Archimedes explains how leverage works.  "Give me a lever long enough and a fulcrum on which to place if and I shall move the world." —Archimedes, mathematician and physician The lever was first described in 260 B.C.E. by Archimedes (c. 287-212 B.C.E.), but probably came into play in prehistoric times. A lever can be used to raise a weight or overcome resistance. It consists of a bar, pivoted at a fixed point known as the fulcrum. Extra power can be gained for the same effort if the position ofthefulcrum is changed. Levers may be divided into classes. First-class levers have the fulcrum in between the applied force and load, which are at opposite ends, such as with the seesaw. Second-class levers have the fulcrum at one end, and the applied force at the other, such as with a bottle opener. Finally, third-class levers have the effort in between the fulcrum and the load; for example, tweezers have two class three levers that are pressed together to do the work for which they are designed. The Egyptians used a lever in 5000 B.C.E. for weighing, pivoting a bar at its center to balance weights and the objects to be weighed. Ramps and levers were also used to move stones higher up a structure, adapting the principle of the shaduf, which was developed in Egypt in 1500 B.C.E. This machine had a lever pivoted near one end with a water container hanging from the short arm and counterweights attached to the long arm. Several times a person's weight could be lifted by pulling down the long arm. ---- Nail Invented: c. 250 B.C.E. Summary: Handmade nails are individually forged.  "It is a great advantage that every honest employment is deemed honorable, l am... a nail maker." —Thomas Jefferson, U.S. president, in a letter Nails were among the first metal objects made by hand. In Roman times, any sizable fortress would have a workshop where workmen fashioned the metal items required by the army? Here, workmen called "slitters" cut up iron bars for the attention of "nailers," who gave them a head and a point. Early nails were usually square in section, and the head of each was formed simply by turning over one end to make an L-shape. Such nails were expensive to produce, and they were so valued that people sometimes burned their houses when moving in order to retrieve nails from the ashes for reuse. In 1590 water-powered slitting mills were introduced into England. After rolling the hot iron into sheets, each sheet was slit into long, narrow, square-sectioned bars by rollers that cut like shears. The flat, headless, machined bars continued to be finished off as nails and spikes by hand, often by blacksmiths producing them to order. This was the procedure until the advent of the nail-making machine at the end of the eighteenth century; by the end of the nineteenth century, the handmade nail industry was extinct. Nails are made in a variety of forms. Most common, dating from the late nineteenth century, is the "wire nail," as distinct from "stamped nails," "pins," "tacks," or "brads." Nails are now available in many different sizes and shapes, with a variety of heads. ---- Archimedes Screw Invented: c. 250 B.C.E. Summary: Archimedes raises water for irrigation by an ingenious means.  "An enormous amount of water is thrown out... by means of a trifling amount of labor." —Diodorus Siculus, historian The Archimedes screw was first mentioned in the writings of Athenaeus of Naucratis in 200 B.C.E. He described the use of a screw mechanism to extract bilgewaterfrom a ship named Syracusia, and attributed its invention to Archimedes. Archimedes (c. 287-212 B.C.E.) himself lived in Syracuse, Sicily, and was devoted to the exploration of mathematics and science. The polymath is thought to have spent time studying in Egypt, and the screw named for him is used in the Nile delta to this day, more than 2,000 years later, as a means to raise water from rivers for irrigation purposes. The Archimedes screw consists of a helix within a hollow tube, the lower end of which is placed in a fluid. The screw is then rotated and the fluid is lifted up through the spiral chamber to the top of the tube. In ancient times this tool was applied throughout the Mediterranean for irrigation, it was especially used by the Romans in their water supply systems, and as a means of extracting waterfrom their mines in Spain. Technology took a backward step in the Dark Ages, but the Archimedes screw reappeared in the fourteenth century as a means of supplying public fountains with water. It was then largely superseded by reciprocating pumps, but came into its own in the 1600s for the reclamation of land from the sea, particularly in the Netherlands. Powered by windmills, they raised waterfrom low-lying land up into canals. The Archimedes screw is still used for drainage and flood control today, but also has many modern applications in oil pumping, sewage treatment, agriculture, and even cardiac medicine. ---- Compound Pulley Invented: c. 250 B.C.E. Summary: Archimedes introduces the block and tackle. The simple pulley enables the user to lift a load more easily by changing the direction from which the force is applied. When the rope is fixed at one end and another pulley is added, the system provides a mechanical advantage by multiplying the applied force, making it possible to lift heavy loads. More pulleys can be added to the system, now known as a "compound pulley" system, further multiplying the effectiveness of the force applied. As an indication of the benefit of the system, the addition of a second pulley to a one-pulley lifting mechanism halves the amount of force required to make the lift. A third pulley, properly rigged, reduces the amount of force required to a quarter. In 250 B.C.E., the Greek scientist and inventor Archimedes (c. 287-212 B.C.E.) adopted this principle by mounting several pulleys on the same axle to create a "block" that was much more convenient to use than a series of separate pulleys. A single rope—called the "tackle"—fixed at one end, can be threaded between a fixed block and around each of the pulleys ("sheaves") in a movable block so that the load on the system is shared between the ropes under tension. According to Plutarch, whose account provides us with the earliest record of the block and tackle, Archimedes used his new invention single-handedly to move a whole warship. Whether this is true we cannot know, but the block and tackle has certainly been an essential tool for lifting and moving heavy loads ever since. It can be found today in the cranes and lifting gear used in construction, engineering, freight loading, and warehousing as well as on almost every yacht and sailing boat, including small dinghies with the simplest of rigging. ---- Pipe Organ Invented: c. 240 B.C.E. Summary: Ktesibios reinvents a primitive instrument.  "All one has to do is hit the right keys at the right time and the instrument plays itself." —J. S. Bach, composer and organist (attributed) Long before the development of the pipe organ, its essential musical element—a set of pipes of different sizes that resonate at different pitches when air is passed through them—existed in the form of the syrinx. This simple instrument was used widely throughout the eastern Mediterranean region. However, in 240 B.C.E., Ktesibios (c. 285-222 B.C.E.), a Greek engineer, developed a way of supplying a steady flow of air to the pipes. He attached them to a closed box into which air was pumped using pressurized water, creating and maintaining steady air pressure in the box. The pipes were opened or closed to the air source by a simple switch system operated from a keyboard. This device was originally called hydraulis, later organum, and produced loud sounds, clearly audible outdoors and ideal for use at games and processions. The instrument appears in paintings, mosaics, and writings throughout Byzantium. The pipe organ is the oldest musical instrument still used in classical music. It was developed in the Byzantine Empire, and was adopted by the Christian church in the first century C.E. The hydraulic system was replaced by bellows in the following century. ---- Dry Dock Invented: c. 200 B.C.E. Summary: A Phoenician finds a new way to launch ships. The dry dock was invented in Egypt by a Phoenician, some years after the death of Ptolemy IV Philopator, who reigned from 221 to 204 B.C.E. His method of launching a ship consisted of digging a trench under it close to the harbor, then making a channel from the sea to fill the excavated space with water. Dry docks continued to be used throughout antiquity. In Europe the first dry dock was commissioned in 1495 by King Henry VIII at Portsmouth, England. Dry docks are mainly used for the maintenance and repair of ships, and more rarely for their construction because the time required to build a ship is so long. While early dry docks were often used for launching ships, slipways are more frequently used in modern times. There are two types of dry docks: graving docks, where "graving" is the term for scouring a ship's bottom, and floating dry docks. The graving dry dock consists of a water-filled narrow basin, usually made of concrete, with gates that can be opened and closed, into which a vessel may be floated. The water is then pumped out, leaving the vessel supported on blocks, so that the ship can be serviced. When the work is finished, water is let back into the dock and the ship refloated. Earlier dry docks were built in the same shape as the ships that were to be docked there, but more recently, graving docks have been built in a boxshape, to conform to boxier ship designs. A floating dry dock is usually built of hollow steel. The dock is first submerged, the ship is brought into its channel, and the dock is then floated by removing ballast from the hollow floor and walls. The fully drained dock supports the craft on blocks attached to the dockfloor. Floating dry docks are usually operated in sheltered harbors to avoid wave damage. ---- Windmill Invented: c. 200 B.C.E. Summary: China and Persia harness wind power.  "There are, indeed, few merrier spectacles than that of many windmills bickering together.. —Robert Louis Stevenson, writer The early history of the windmill is much contested, and it is not known for sure when or where it first appeared. Some date it as far back as Babylonia in the seventeenth century B.C.E., while others claim it was not until 200 B.C.E. that wind power was used to pump water in China and mill cereal in Persia. It is, however, reliably documented that windmills were widespread in Persia by the seventh century C.E. They ground grain between millstones rotated by wind blowing on woven reed sails mounted around a vertical axis. The earliest European windmills were built in France and England in the twelfth century and are thought by some to have been the result of a transfer of knowledge from the returning Crusaders. However, the horizontal-axis mills of northern Europe bore scant resemblance to their Persian counterparts and were probably an entirely separate development. Windmills became increasingly practical with the advent of fantails to turn them automatically into the wind, and improved sails for efficiency and control. Until the dawn of the Industrial Revolution, windmills sprang up in their thousands throughout Europe and North America for grinding foods, sawing wood, and pumping water for drainage, irrigation, or desalination. Since the late twentieth century, wind-driven technology has gained economic importance in the form of wind turbines for electricity generation. ---- Astrolabe Invented: c. 150 B.C.E. Summary: Hipparchus develops a calculator of astronomical positions.  "...when I seek out the massed wheeling circles of the stars, my feet no longer touch the Earth..." —Claudius Ptolemy, mathematician and astronomer An astrolabe is a device with which astronomers solved probiems relating to time and the position of the sun and stars in the sky. Its main element is a twodimensional circular stereographic projection of the hemispherical sky. The projection was most probably formalized by the Greek astronomer Hipparchus (190-120 B.C.E.), who worked on the island of Rhodes. The astrolabe was suspended vertically and a cross-arm was used to measure the altitude above the horizon of the sun (in the day) and bright stars (at night). The rim of the astrolabe is marked off in months, days, and hours, and most astrolabes have a series of longitude-specific circular main plates each marked off with lines of constant altitudes, azimuths, declinations, and right ascensions. Fitting over the plate is a cutaway fretwork (a "rete") that delineates that portion of the celestial sphere that can be seen above the horizon at any specific time at a specific 'atitude. The rete contains pointers that mark the positions of about twelve of the brightest stars. By noting the elevation of the sun, or these bright stars, the traveler can tell the time of day or night. By noting how well the observed star positions correspond to a specific plate, the travelers can estimate their latitude. The stellar positions a'so enable the accurate establishment of north on the horizon. Claudius Ptolemy (c. 85-165 C.E.) wrote about the stereographic projection and probably owned an astrolabe. The astrolabe was popular in the Islamic world because it enabled Muslims to ascertain prayer times and the direction of Mecca. The oldest existing instruments date from the tenth century C.E. ---- Antikythera Mechanism Invented: c. 150 B.C.E. Summary: A controversial astronomical calculator is attributed to the Greeks.  "This device is... the only thing of its kind. The design is beautiful, the astronomy is exactly right." —Professor Michael Edmunds, Cardiff University One of the most remarkable inventions of the ancient world came to light in 1900 when a Greek sponge diver discovered the wreck of an ancient Greek or Roman cargo shipthat had sunk off the Greek island of Antikythera around 80 B.C.E. Among the objects recovered from the wreck was a geared mechanism that, from the shape of its inscribed Greek letters, dated to between 150 and 100 B.C.E. The mechanism has more than thirty gearwheels and three main dials. When reassembled, it formed a scientific instrument that could be used to calculate the astronomical positions of the sun, moon, and the five planets then known. When a date was entered via a crank, now lost, the mechanism calculated the position of the sun, moon, or planet. The Antikythera mechanism, as it is known, is the first known geared device and thus the first known clockwork mechanism, and the oldest known scientific instrument. The concept of differential gearing was not rediscovered until the sixteenth century, while the complexity and miniaturization of its parts are comparable to the finest eighteenth-century clocks. Crucially, while the mechanism is based on theories of astronomy and mathematics developed by Greek scientists of the day, it has a heliocentric rather than the then current geocentric view of the solar system and presumes a theory of planetary motion and a knowledge of the laws of the gravity that were not known at the time. Recent research has revealed it also organized the calendar in the four-year cycle of ancient Greek games. Whoever built this mechanism would have been astonishingly ahead of his time. ---- Parchment Invented: c. 150 B.C.E. Summary: Animal skin becomes a writing material.  "... when... Ptolemy suppressed the export of paper, parchment was invented at Pergamum..." —Pliny the Elder, Natural History, Book 13 According to Pliny the Elder, parchment was developed in the city of Pergamum (now Bergama, Turkey) because a king of Egypt, fearing that Pergamum's great library might overshadow that of Alexandria, stopped exporting papyrus to the city. It seems more likely that parchment already existed and was refined at Pergamum. Also, this was not the first time animal skin had been written on. Leather had been used occasionally, possibly dating back to circa 2000 B.C.E. However, previous attempts involved tanning the leather and produced documents that were slightly hairy, stiff, and one-sided. Parchment, on the other hand, was made from the skins of sheep, calves, and goats that were cleaned and, crucially, scraped thoroughly. Both sides of the smooth, flexible surface were ideal for writing and ultimately allowed sheets to be sewn together into "books" that were far easier to read than papyrus scrolls. Although papyrus was cheaper than parchment, it was Europe's favored surface up until the fourteenth century's advances in paper making, especially for medieval illuminated manuscripts, such as the stunning Tres Riches Heures of the Ducde Berry of the early 1400s. The finest parchments, especially those made from the skins of very young, or even unborn, animals, were called vellum. The term is often used today for any kind of high-quality special paper. ---- Belt Drive Invented: c. 100 B.C.E. Summary: Romans connect a belt drive to a treadmill. The belt drive is a vital component of most modern machines. In it, a ring of a flexible material is wound around two or more shafts. As one shaft rotates, the belt moves, causing other shafts to rotate as well. This simple pulley device has long been a versatile and reliable means of transferring power. In 100 B.C.E., while constructing Haterii's Tomb in Rome, workers used a treadmill-powered crane to lift heavy material. This was a historic moment for mechanics. In 1203, French innovators replaced the human workers who had been powering belt-driven technology with a team of donkeys. Introducing animal power was far from the final stop for the belt drive. Water-powered mills used belt drives to harness water power, and Industrial Revolution-era factories employed belt drives, called line shafts, to transfer power throughout the factory. Belt drives are also commonly used in engine designs. Belt drives can be found in most mechanical movers, from motorcycles to helicopters. Automobile engines usually contain belt-drive systems called V-belts and serpentine belts. These systems redirect and disperse engine powerto accessories. V-belts, named for their triangular "V" profile, are generally used to power the vehicle's air-conditioning compressor, alternator, power-steering pump, and water pump. They are frequently called fan belts. A serpentine belt, an alternative to using a combination of several V-belts, has a longer life than the combined V-belts. A serpentine belt system uses a single, long belt to power the same number of accessories as numerous V-belts. Its name comes from its comp'ex, snakelike path around multiple shafts. A spring-loaded pulley is used to keep the serpentine belt under optimum tension. ---- Watermill Invented: c. 100 B.C.E. Summary: Greeks use the energy of running water to grind grain.  "Restyour mill-turning hand... the nymphs now carry out the chores your hands performed." —Antipater of Thessalonica, epigrammatist The earliest reference to watermills is found in the writings of Antipater of Thessalonica, describing their use for the grinding of grain in the first century B.C.E. These ancient Greek devices consisted of a millstone mounted on a vertical axis and rotated against a stationary stone bed by a horizontal paddle wheel spinning in a fast-flowing stream. This type of watermill has also been discovered throughout Ireland, Scandinavia, and China. The Romans were the first to devise a more efficient and versatile machine with a horizontal axis, which may have been inspired by ancient Eastern waterwheels, originally used for lifting water. The medieval Islamic nations embraced the watermill from the seventh century, building mills in bridges and on the sides of moored ships, or channeling water from dams to supply them. They were used to make pulp for paper, saw wood, grind cereal, and crush sugar cane and mineral ores. The nineteenth century brought a surge in the need for industrial power in northern Europe and North America, and new cast-iron waterwheels fed the demand. These were eventually replaced by steam engines, fueled by coal brought on the canals. In northern England, 1880, water was used for the first time to generate electricity through a new type of turbine initially conceived in 1826 by Benoit Fourneyron. More plants followed, and in the 1920s 40 percent of electricity in the United States came from hydropower. Other countries, including Norway and Brazil, now meet almost all their electricity needs by harnessing the energy of flowing water. ---- Blown Glass Invented: c. 100 B.C.E. Summary: Syrians first shape glass with the aid of a blowtube.  "Blowing allowed for previously unparalleled versatility and speed of manufacture." —Rosemarie Trentinella, Metropolitan Museum of Art It was the Syrians who first learned to blow molten glass through a hollow metal tube and shape it into intricate forms. Although the technique for producing glass had existed for about two and a half millennia, it was only in approximately 100 B.C.E. that the hazardous art of glassblowing—using glass melting at a few thousand degrees Fahrenheit—was mastered. Glassblowing is the process for forming glass into a desirable shape, and this ability to form iconic, practical, and elegant shapes out of glass has been of incalculable value and practical benefit to society. Glassblowing machines have now largely replaced the Syrian specialists, but the science behind the technique remains the same. Molten glass is first introduced to the end of a hollow tube. A bubble of air is then blown through the tube, and as the bubble passes out of the tube a covering of molten glass forms around the sphere of air. This glass-covered bubble, still attached to the tube, is either placed within a mold of the required form and enlarged through further blowing, or sculpted with tools into the desired shape. The glass is then allowed to cool slowly to complete the process. It is the fact that glass has no set melting or freezing points that makes glassblowing possible; as the temperature rises or falls, the state of the glass gradually changes. The rise of the Roman Empire at around the same time as the beginnings of glassblowing greatly facilitated the proliferation of the art. By adding manganese oxide to the mix, the Romans also discovered clear glass in around 100 C.E., which was used for architectural purposes. ---- Odometer Invented: c. 27 B.C.E. Summary: Vitruvius makes measuring distances simpler. Measuring the distance between two places is a basic task in cartography. The earliest method was to walk and count the number of times a specific foot hit the ground—a thousand right steps, for example, made a mile (from the Latin "mille," meaning one thousand). The Roman architect and engineer, Vitruvius (c. 75 B.C.E.-c. 15 B.C.E.), mechanized the process. Around 27 B.C.E. he devised a wheelbarrow-type device that dropped a pebble into a container every time its large wheel of known circumference rotated once. At first this was pushed along by hand, but it was soon incorporated into a chariot, the standard chariot wheel being 4 feet (1.2 m) in diameter. This wheel turned 400 times in a Roman mile. Needless to say, the smoothness of the road was important. The device was described by Hero of Alexander in chapter thirty-four of his book Dioptra. Around 300 C.E. the Chinese—some sources suggest Chang Heng—devised a similar, but more musical, instrument. Every time the road wheel of a special coach rotated once, a pin moved a tooth on an internal cog wheel. Every complete rotation of the cog wheel activated a stick that banged a drum. Every tenth drum beat was replaced by a sounding gong. Distances between towns could be easily measured in this way to an accuracy of a tenth of a mile. Early motor cars had odometers (or mileometers) fitted to one of the road wheels, these having separate gears that registered distances of 1,10,100,1000 miles, and so on. Measured distances were a function of the tire pressure. Since 1980, cars have had odometers that indicate the number of miles traveled up to 999,999. Simple hand-pushed odometers are still used today by city surveyors, and these are sometimes called waywisers or perambulators. ---- Ball Bearing Invented: c. 40 Summary: The Romans reduce rotational friction.  "... the balls... will touch in one point only between the load and its resistance... —Leonardo da Vinci, The Madrid Codices (c. 1490) Ball bearings are a low-cost method of allowing different parts of a mechanism to rotate past each other without much energy Joss from friction. They have many uses, including in bicycles, gyroscopes, electric motors, and turbines. They did not come into general use until the Industrial Revolution, but the concept has been around for more than 2,000 years. Roman Emperor Caligula (12-41 C.E.) had two large ships built at Lake Nemi. When the remains of these ships were recovered in the early 1930s, marine archeologists found the earliest known ball bearings. There were two types found—bronze spheres and wooden balls. The wooden ball bearings supported a rotating table, similar to a lazy Susan or dumbwaiter. Prior to this discovery, historians had believed that Leonardo da Vinci invented ball bearings. Ball bearings became so widely used in factories, vehicles, and other machinery, that during World War II, the Allies made a concerted effort to bomb German ball bearing plants in order to disrupt the German war effort. The Germans had astutely stockpiled millions of bearings and were able to continue supplying factories despite ball bearing production being halved. These days, for applications with high load, speed, and/or precision requirements, ball bearings are increasingly being replaced by fluid bearings, which usea layer of gas or liquid to support the load. ---- Claw Hammer Invented: c. 79 Summary: The Romans devise a tool used to pound in, and remove, nails.  "A worker may be the hammer's master, but the hammer still prevails..." —Milan Kundera, writer Hammers—tools for striking or pounding—have been around for millions of years in the form of specially shaped stones used to break or shape other stones, bones, or wood. They are most commonly associated with woodworking. But after the invention of the nail, someone realized it would be very useful to be able to insert and remove nails with the same tool. Nails were valuable, and a carpenter who hammered one at the wrong angle would have rescued and reused it. Thus, the claw hammerwas born. A claw hammer has a two-sided head attached to a handle and can be said to be roughly T-shaped. One side of the head is the striking surface and is usually flat. The other side is a rounded or angled wedge and is used for removing nails. Archeologists found an iron claw hammer at Pompeii that was buried in the eruption of Mount Vesuvius in 79 C.E. First-century Romans were skilled at making nails; archeologists found almost 900,000 at the Roman fortress of Inchtuthil in Scotland that the garrison had abandoned in the late 80s C.E. Various types of claw hammers were patented between 1867 and 1941. For many years, the hammer was the principal tool for carpenters and builders. However, since the invention of the nail gun in the 1950s, builders have increasingly been relying on them instead of hammers for their nai'ing needs because they are easier, faster, and more fun to use. The fact that they provide inexperienced home contractors with the capability to leave a plethora of nails in our wails is, of course, merely a side effect of the new technology. ---- Horseshoe Invented: c. 100 Summary: The Romans invent the "hipposandaL"  "Horseshoing, very likely was invented by different nations at about the same period...." —Scientific American (1891) Horses have played central roles in the histories of various powerful empires, and their employment was boosted by the invention of the horseshoe. Protecting horses' hooves from wear and tear on hard or rough surfaces allowed for longer journeys when the horse was the common mode of transport and a domestic working animal. It also made them more effective when used in the cavalry as part of a military campaign. The precise date of its invention is unknown, but the Roman poet Catullus mentions a mule losing its shoe in the first century B.C.E. Evidence from Roman regions to the north of the Alps suggests that horses from what is now Germany may have been the first to use horseshoes regularly, from around 100 C.E. Over the years horseshoe design has improved from the "hipposandal" used by the Romans—which had a solid bottom and was strapped to a horse's hoof—to the U-shaped metal plate used today. The earliest known mention of the iron horseshoe is in 910. The weight and shape of early horseshoes varies on their provenance, and the climate and terrain in which the horses had to move. Blacksmiths and farriers made and fitted horseshoes using nails, and their skills helped develop metallurgy during medieval times. Today, horseshoes are often made from steel and aluminum, but also come in copper, titanium, rubber, or plastic depending on what the horse is used for. ---- Dome Invented: c. 100 Summary: Roman engineers solve an architectural puzzle.  "...my own opinion is that the Pantheon's name is due to its round shape, like the sky." —Cassius Dio, History of Rome (c. 220) Domes, like arches, present problems for architects and engineers: They remain unstable until the final stone is put in place and have to support their own weight without collapsing. It was the Romans who in circa 100 first solved these technical problems when they managed to build a true dome, that is, an unsupported half-sphere. The greatest of these is the Pantheon in Rome, which was erected in circa 123. Roman engineers tackled the problem as if it was a series of circular barrel vaults, or arches, arranged in a circle across a central point, and used concrete as a building material, in this case a mixture of lime, pumice, pieces of rock, and volcanic ash. A template for each arch was erected on scaffolding and served as the mold for the poured concrete. The dome was built up in sections, with heavier concrete being used at the thicker base and lighter concrete toward the thinner top. The weight of the dome is concentrated on a ring at the top of the structure surrounding an opening that lets in the light, and reduces the weight at the top. The result is to push the weight of the dome toward its base and down to the floor below. Once the dome was completed and the concrete dry, the supports could be removed. ---- Suspension Bridge Invented: c. 100 Summary: The Chinese suspend a bridge with chains.  "I have no quarrel with you, good Sir Knight, but I must cross this bridge." —King Arthur, Monty Python and the Holy Grail (1975) Primitive suspension bridges, in the form of vines and fiber ropes, have been used for many thousands of years throughout Asia, Africa, and South America, such as those by the Incas. It is thought that the iron chain first replaced these frailer materials in China in c. 100. The walkways of early catenary bridges were directly fixed onto the chains that spanned a valley, but in fourth-century India the road deck was instead suspended from the main cables to create a horizontal pathway that was more easily negotiable than its sloping predecessors. Basic suspension bridges were used in military campaigns in Europe, but the first permanent example in the West was a primitive catenary bridge built over England's River Tees circa 1741. The idea caught on in the United States, and in 1801 James Finley built the first modern suspended-deck suspension bridge across Jacob's Creek in Pennsylvania. Wire cable eventually replaced chains, and the first permanent suspension bridge to use wire cable was the St. Antoine Bridge built in Geneva, Switzerland, in 1823. Steel was used in early constructions but the cost was prohibitively high until the Bessemer steelmaking process was developed in 1855. John A. Roebling made great improvements in the reliability of bridges, and his Brooklyn Bridge of 1883 remainsan iconic suspension bridge. ---- Paper Invented: 105 Summary: Ts'ai Lun initiates papermaking.  "Paper can convey a private warning, a public threat, secret temptation, open defiance..." —Eric Frank Russell, Wasp (1957) In 105 whenTs'ai Lun (50-121), a courtier in the Chinese Imperial court, invented paper, little did he realize that he was opening one of the most epoch-making chapters in history. He refined and popularized the process of mixing tree fibers and wheat stalks with the bark of a mulberry tree, then pounding them together and pouring the mixture onto a woven cloth to create a lightweight writing surface. His blended, fibrous sheets were an improvement over bamboo and wood, which were awkward and heavy, and silk, which was expensive. Successive Chinese dynasties conspired to keep his invention secret, and it was not until the start of the seventh century that papermaking techniques began to appear in Japan and Korea. With the capture of Chinese paper merchants by Arab soldiers during the Battle of Talas in 751, the knowledge of papermaking soon spread across the Arab world, and first appeared in Europe in Moorish Spain early in the twelfth century. In Europe, paper began a centuries-long battle for prominence with parchment until the invention of movable type in the fifteenth century led to a steep rise in literacy and a demand for the production of books that parchment could no longer satisfy. The eighteenth century saw paper made from linen and cotton rags that were replaced by wood and other vegetable pulps in the early nineteenth century. ---- Wheelbarrow Invented: c. 231 Summary: Zhuge Liang's invention makes light of moving heavy loads.  "To carry stones and takings of garden to places, appointed to receive 'em or, to carry earth...." —Francis Gentil, The Solitary Gardener (1706) The wheelbarrow is reputed to have been invented by a Chinese chancellor, Zhuge Liang (181-234) during the Han Dynasty, who used the device in military campaigns to transport supplies for injured soldiers. It was said to have been kept secret because of the advantages it gave the Chinese over their enemies. It was also used for early Chinese agriculture, which was said to have been thirty times more efficient than that in Europe. Designed to transport heavy loads, wheelbarrows are now used in the construction industry as well as in gardening. A wheelbarrow is a small cart, with one or two wheels, designed to be pushed by one person using two handles at the rear. Chinese wheelbarrows often had two wheels, and the Chinese sometimes attached sails to them so that the wind could take part of the load, as is recorded by European travelers of the sixteenth century. Wheelbarrows were seen in Europe in the twelfth century, as evidenced by a stained-glass window at Chartres Cathedral in France, dating around 1220. This is believed to be the earliest image of a wheelbarrow in Western Europe. A manuscript illumination of 1286 also shows the European wheelbarrow. This design differed from the Chinese one in that the wheel was moved from the center to the front of the box, and the propelling power was at the rear. Designs of wheelbarrow have been developed in recent years, such as British inventor James Dyson's Ballbarrow of 1974 that uses a spherical plastic wheel, and is easier to steer than those models based on the conventional wheel design. ---- Trebuchet Invented: c. 500 Summary: The Chinese invent a rock-hurling machine.  "The trebuchet was the dominant siege weapon... lasting 100 years after the arrival of gunpowder" —University of Arkansas website Thetrebuchet was an ancient form of artillery that first appeared in China in the fifth century B.C.E. The weapon of mass destruction of its time, it was an improvement on the catapult Unlike other catapults, such as the mangonel that uses twisted rope to provide power, the trebuchet uses a counterweight to provide its force. The trebuchet dominated long-range artillery until the sixteenth century. The main arm of a trebuchet is attached to a fulcrum in such a way that the end holding the counterweight is much closer to the fulcrum than the end that holds the projectile. As the counterweight is released, the short end of the arm drops downward rapidly. Because of the longer length on the other side of the fulcrum, the end holding the projectile is flung upward in an arc at a much faster rate, giving considerable velocity to any missile thrown from it. This effect is usually increased by adding a sling to the firing end that also swings outward while firing, effectively increasing the power of the trebuchet. Trebuchets were far more powerful and accurate than earlier catapults and, by the time they appeared in the Mediterranean region, around 1100, they had evolved into terrifying machines of war that could be easily maneuvered to lay siege to castles with strong fortifications. They were primarily used to batter down stone walls by repeatedly firing at points of weakness. Boulders weighing as much as 300 pounds (140 kg) were pounded into fortified walls. The trebuchet also served as an early form of biological warfare in that ordure, diseased animals, and rotting corpses were launched into besieged towns and forts. Not only did these spread disease, but having former comrades raining down from the sky had a powerfully negative impacton morale. ---- Horse Collar Invented: c. 500 Summary: A Chinese device increases horse power. Most inventions are remarkable because they appear to be ahead of their time, revelatory events that transform the world into which they appear. The horse collar seems to be somewhat the opposite, for it is difficult to see why it was not invented earlier. The problem to be solved is obvious: A horse wearing a simple harness can pull a load weighing about 135 pounds (60 kg), but any heavier load forces the harness on to the horse's windpipe, and restricts its ability to breathe. Therefore, while horses had been domesticated, mounted, saddled, and harnessed by around 100—and so could be ridden for pleasure, work, or warfare—their role as a beast of burden was necessarily limited, and was to remain so for another 400 years. It was not until circa 500 that a Chinese camel driver had the bright idea of devising a padded collar, which was quickly used also on horses. It took the form of a rigid construction that sat low on the horse's chest and rose round its neck to rest on its withers or shoulders. The top of the collar supported a pair of curved metal or wood hames, to which the harness was attached. The collar reduced pressure on the windpipe and allowed the horse to use its full strength, thus allowing it to push forward with its hindquarters into the collar rather than pull the weight with its shoulders. This new design of collar reached Europe circa 920, and soon revolutionized agriculture. Horses replaced oxen as the main beasts of burden, pulling plows, harrows, harvesting machines, and other agricultural implements, as well as farm carts and wagons. ---- Quill Pen Invented: c. 580 Summary: Spanish record the "pen that wrote history." The first specific reference to a quill pen is found in the writings of St. Isidore of Seville around 580, although pens made of bird feathers are likely to have been used even earlier. The quill pen was the main writing tool in the Western world until the invention of the fountain pen in the nineteenth century. The quill's development was assisted by the rise of Christianity because its fine script was suitable for the promulgation of religion, as well as lending itself to otherdocuments in increasingly dense text. Although the outer wing feathers of many birds could be used, those of the goose and crow were preferred. A slit would be made in the base of the quill to allow ink to flow to the nib, with goose quills especially adept at holding the ink. The composition and size of goose quills also allowed the nib to be sliced to a broad edge, and then sharpened to an extremely fine point Quill pens quickly became blunt, and needed to be recut frequently in order to maintain their edge. The feathers were taken only from live birds—those taken from the left wing best suited the right-handed scribe because they curved outward to the right side. Each bird could supply around ten good quills. The quill was of such importance that goose farms were prevalent across Europe. The United States Supreme Court began a tradition of using quill pens in 1801, and its Chief Justices continued to write with them until well into the 1920s. Today white quills are still placed on attorneys' tables when the court is in session. By 1850, quill pen usage was starting to decline as the quality of steel nibs improved. ---- Toilet Paper Invented: c. 589 Summary: The Chinese revolutionize personal hygiene.  "Paper on which there are... the names of sages, I dare not use for toilet purposes." —Yan Zhitui, The Family Instructions of Master Yan (589) The earliest recorded use of toilet paper comes from China in the sixth century when government official and scholar Yan Zhitui warned against using paper printed with philosophical utterances for the wiping of bottoms. By the end of the fourteenth century, when the rest of the world was using water, the Chinese were producing more than 700,000 sheets of aromatic toilet paper a year for the Imperial court. Prior to the advent of the first commercially packaged, premoistened toilet paper by Joseph Gayetty of New York City in 1857, how people used to clean themselves depended to a large degree on where and how they lived, and their standing in society. Coconut shells were used widely throughout an egalitarian Hawaii, while lace and hemp proved popular within the French aristocracy. In ancient Rome combining rosewater with wool was common among the upper classes; colonial Americans used corncobs and old almanacs; while the ends of old anchor cables proved an unpopular but not uncommon option for Spanish and Portuguese maritime sailors of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. Toilet paper was manufactured on a roll for the first time in the United States by the Scott Paper Company in 1890. In 1935 the Northern Tissue Company began to advertise "splinter-free" paper, and a softer two-ply toilet paper made its debut in 1942. ---- Spinning Wheel Invented: c. 700 Summary: Indians accelerate the spinning process. The origins of the spinning wheel remain unsure, but the machine is thought to have been invented around 700 in India, where it was used to turn fibers into thread or yarn that were then woven into cloth. Earlier hand-spinning methods were superseded by mounting the spindle horizontally and rotating it by slowly turning a large wheel with the right hand. The fiber was held at an angle in the operator's left hand to produce the necessary twist. The spinning wheel reached Europe in the Middle Ages, becoming part of a cottage industry that used simple hand-operated tools. It persisted in this context until the eighteenth century. In Britain the new cotton industry was modeled on the old woolen cloth industry. The most complicated apparatus was the loom, worked by a single weaver and normal'y kept in an upstairs room where a window provided natural light. The weavers were usually men who used yarn produced by a number of women, known as "spinsters," who did the spinning. With the advent of waterpower, this early cottage industry eventually grew into a large-scale factory operation. In 1733 John Kay invented the flying shuttle that enabled the weaving process to become faster, and the Industrial Revolution saw the process become increasingly mechanized. Modern spinning wheels use electrical and mechanical means to rotate the spindle, automatic methods to draw out fibers, and devices to work many spindles together at high speeds. Other technologies that offer faster yarn production include friction spinning and airjets. ---- Tidal Mill Invented: c. 787 Summary: Irish monks harness tidal waterpower.  "Much water goeth by the mill that the miller knoweth not of." —Proverb In a tidal mill, incoming water enters and fills the millpond through sluices and is then channeled out at low tide to turn the mill wheel, thus powering the millstones, and crushing the grain to flour. The first known tidal mill, dating around 787, was built on Strangford Lough in northern Ireland, and was used by monks to grind corn for the nearby monastery. Tidal mills were used along Europe's Atlantic coast in the Middle Ages, where the high tidal ranges ensured generous payback for the millers. The number of suitable sites was limited, and the mills could only operate for a certain period after each high tide, but their output was predictable compared to weatherdependent windmills and traditional watermills. The popularity of tidal mills waned with the arrival of the steam engine, until in 1966 French engineers harnessed the tides to generate electricity. The Rance estuary in northern France was dammed by a barrage housing twenty-four turbines capable of producing power from both the ebb and the flow of the tide. Other schemes have been developed since, but the specific site requirements and the environmental considerations around the tidal basin are limiting. Modern alternatives to the barrage approach are to construct underwater turbines, either on a riverbed or seabed, or to hang them from tethered surface buoys that rotate in the tidal stream. ---- Gunpowder Invented: c. 800 Summary: The Chinese trigger the race toward firearms.  "We owe to the Middle Ages the two worst inventions of humanity —romantic love and gunpowder." —Andre Maurois, novelist and writer Few inventions can have instigated as much misery to humankind as that of the seemingly innocuous gunpowder. Created by Chinese alchemists in the ninth century, gunpowder Consists of a mixture of ground saltpeter (potassium nitrate), charcoal, and sulfur in approximate proportions of 75, 15, and 10 by weight. Known as "black powder," its exposure to an open flame produces an explosion that can propel an object great distances when contained in a tube closed at one end. The Chinese experimented with different levels of saltpeter content to design rockets. Arab chemists acquired knowledge of gunpowder in the thirteenth century, rapidly employing it for military purposes, including the production of a gun made from a bamboo tube reinforced with iron. The spread of information arrived in Europe, where gunpowder was manufactured in larger grains of uniform size to control the speed of burning, and advances in metallurgy witnessed the rise of the cannon and handheld firearms. By the late nineteenth century, "black powder" had been replaced by nitrocellulose, resulting in a smoother, more powerful explosion from a firearm with little smoke deposit. Smokeless powder accounts for most gunpowder produced today, usually in single-base powder (nitrocellulose) or double-base powders (nitrocellulose and nitroglycerin). ---- Banknote Invented: c. 806 Summary: The Chinese Tang Dynasty persuades people to accept paper money.  "My notion of a wife at 40 is that a man should be able to change her, like a banknote, for two 20s." —Warren Beatty, actor, producer, and director When Marco Polo traveled to China in the late thirteenth century he was astonished to see the locals use paper money instead of coins. Prompted by a copper shortage, the Tang Dynasty (618-907) introduced this new monetary system in 806, more than 800 years before the first European banknotes. While commodity money (the trading of goods that have an intrinsic value, such as gold and cattle) has been around since the dawn of civilization, the first standardized coinage is thought to have appeared in Lydia (western Asia Minor) in the seventh century B.C.E. This was the first time that the nominal value of money was higher than the worth of its inherent material. Ancient Greek historian Herodotus criticized the "gross commercialism" that this system induced. Swedish bank Stockholms Banco issued the first European banknotes in 1660. Once again, a shortage of copper was to blame. Customers had loaned copper to the bank, but demanded it back when their coins' copper content was reduced, making the copper more valuable than the coins. Unable to respond to the demand, the institution came up with promissory banknotes to solve their liquidity problem. The Chinese were the first to discover the risks of using money without inherent worth. By 1020 the cost of imported goods, coupled with bribes given to potential invaders, had forced the government to issue more and more notes, thereby fueling inflation. By 1455 paper money had become so devalued that the Ming Dynasty (1368-1644) decided to get rid of it altogether, leaving the world without circulating banknotes for another 200 years. ---- Woodblock Printing Invented: c. 868 Summary: A Chinese woodblock-printed masterpiece speaks of an earlier tradition.  "...good woodblock printing rests upon the perfection of drawing and painting, of color and line." —Hiroshi Yoshida, Japanese Woodblock Printing (1939) Woodblock printing first appeared in China during the Tang Dynasty in the ninth century and was initially used in the production of textiles and Buddhist texts and amulets, A text or image'was transferred to a thin layer of paper that was then glued face down onto a wooden surface using rice paste. The lines would then be cut out by the block maker. Only those portions of a page or pattern to be inked were left untouched on the block's surface, with the remainder carved away along the grain using a fist knife known as a quan dao. Dense hardwoods such as birch, pear, or jujube were used because they withstood moisture and insects yet their regular, fine grains lent themselves to easy engraving and printing. Once a block was completed, the ink was rubbed onto the surface of the raised lines, and a skilled artisan could produce 1,000 or more sheets a day, thus ushering in the era of mass-produced booksand manuscripts. The world's oldest extant woodblock-printed book that carries the date of its production is the Diamond Sutra, an Indian Buddhist Sanskrit text originally dating to 400, and later translated into Chinese and block-printed in ink on paper by an artisan, Wang Jie, on May 11, 868. It was discovered in a sealed cave in northwestern China by the archeologist Sir Marc Aurel Stein in 1907. However, it is by no means the oldest example of block printing. The degree of technical perfection in the Diamond Sutra suggests that the practice of woodblock printing had been long established by the time of its production. Woodblock printing continued to be popular in East Asia well into the nineteenth century. ---- Rocket Invented: c. 904 Summary: Chinese "fire arrows" herald rocketry.  "At the campaign of Yuzhang, he ordered his troops to propel the 'flying fire'on the besieged city...." —Compendium of Important Military Techniques (1044) In 904 at the siege ofYuzhang, in southeastern China, attacking troops were ordered to launch "flying fire" on the city gates, burning them down and allowing their army to enter and capture the city. This is the first use of "fire arrows," a term that originally meant an arrow carrying a tub of gunpowder that would explode when the arrow impacted. The Compendium of Important Military Techniques (1044), written by Tseng Kung-Liang, gives details of how to launch fire arrows by gunpowder rather than using bows. By 1232, when the Chinese were fighting the Mongols, a much more recognizable rocket was being made using the exploding tubes to propel the arrows. The tubes were capped at the top, but open at the bottom, and tied to the top of an arrow that, when lit, would ignite the powder and produce thrust. Whether the rockets themselves did much physical damage in the war is unclear, but the psychological effect was formidable. After seeing it used against them, the Mongols quickly developed their own versions that they used throughout their empire, and this spread the technology across the Middle East and on to Europe. By the twelfth century rockets arrived in European arsenals, reaching Italy by 1500, and then Germany, and later England. The use of the Iron Rocket against the British in India in the eighteenth century led to the development of the technology. ---- Canal Lock Invented: c. 984 Inventor: Qiao Weiyo (China) Summary: Qiao Weiyo devises the pound lock.  "To see barges waiting... at a lock affords a fine lesson in how easily the world may be taken." —Robert Louis Stevenson, An Inland Voyage (1878) Locks interrupt a canal or river with stepped stretches of still water, thus reducing currents in the waterway and conserving deep water for passage. The forerunner of today's lock was the flash lock, already in use by the first century B.C.E. in China, whereby part of a dam would be temporarily opened to allow passage of a vessel. Those traveling downstream were carried on the resulting surge of water, whereas those sailing in the opposite direction hauled the vessel against the torrent. Such an arrangement was dangerous and resulted in the loss of large quantities of water downstream for every vessel passing, a circumstance not appreciated by mill owners reliant on the supply. In 984, during the construction of China's Grand Canal, engineer Qiao Weiyo noted that in placing two flash locks 750 feet (229 m) apart, he had created an intermediate stretch of water that could be held at the level of either the upper or lower reach of the waterway, and thus the pound lock, or chamber lock, was born. Following that breakthrough, a significant improvement was the development of mitered lock gates in sixteenth-century Italy, perhaps based on the designs of Leonardo da Vinci. The miter uses the pressure of the high water on the upper side of the gate to create a secure seal until the water levels have equalized. This allowed the constructions required to withstand pent-up water to be less massive. ---- Lens Invented: c. 984 Inventor: Ibn al-Haytham (Iraq) Summary: Ibn al-Haytham's treatise establishes optical science. The earliest lenses were made of circular pieces of rock crystal or semiprecious stone, such as beryl and quartz, which were ground and polished so that they produced a magnified image when looked through. The oldest known lens artifact was one made of rock crystal dating from around 640 B.C.E. and excavated in Nineveh, near the modern city of Mosul, Iraq. The most common form was circular and thicker in the middle than around the edge, and having both its front and back surfaces the same shape. The modern convex lens developed from the ancient Greek burning glass. Here a spherical vase of water would be used to concentrate the rays of the sun onto a small area, which heated up. The heat was used to ignite fires in temples or to cauterize wounds. The Iraqi mathematician and optics engineer Ibn Sahl (c. 940-1000) wrote the treatise On Burning Mirrors and Lenses (984) in which he set out his understanding of how curved mirrors and lenses bend and focus light, using what is now known as Snell's law to calculate the shape of lenses. But the Iraqi Ibn al-Haytham (965-1039), also known as Alhazen, is regarded as "the father of optics" for his treatise, the Book of Optics, (1011-1021), in which he proved that rays of light travel in straight lines, explained how the lens in. the human eye forms an image on the retina, and described experiments with a pinhole camera. In the thirteenth century convex lenses were used in spectacles to correct farsightedness. The use of concave lenses, which disperse the light as opposed to concentrating it, to correct for nearsightedness, came in the early fifteenth century. ---- Sextant Invented: c. 994 Inventor: Abu-Mahmud al-Khujandi (Iran) Summary: Abu-Mahmud al-Khujandi measures the altitude of the sun above the horizon. Iranian astronomical observer and instrument designer Abu-Mahmud al-Khujandi (circa 940-1000) constructed the first known mural sextant, with a radius of 66 feet (20 m), on an accurate north-south facing wall in Ray, near modern Tehran, Iran. The name "sextant" refers to the fact that the instrument had an angular scale that was 60 degrees in length, one sixth of a circle. (When measuring latitude, one minute is equal to one sixtieth of a degree.) The instrument was designed to measure the altitude of the sun above the horizon at noon on the days of both the summer and winter solstice, the two dates in theyear when this angle has its maximum and minimum value. From the average of these two angles, an observer could determine his or her latitude—the angular distance between the equator and the observation site. The height of the sun in the sky was measured by looking at the shadow it cast on an accurate scale. The Al-Khujandi scale was so accurate that the latitude that he obtained was correct to a tiny fraction of a degree. Other famous mural sextants followed, including the Fakhri sextant with a radius of approximately 118 feet (36 m) constructed by Iranian Ulugh Beg in Samarkand, Uzbekistan, in around 1420. More modern astronomical sextants are smaller and pivoted at the balance point. They can be moved to measure the angular separations of stars and planets. Handheld nautical sextants have become common in the last three centuries. They are fitted with adjustable mirrors and are used to measure the altitudes of celestial bodies. ---- Movable Type Invented: 1041 Inventor: Bi Sheng (China) Summary: Bi Sheng advances printing by creating characters on movable clay tablets.  "...for printing hundreds or thousands of copies, it was marvelously quick." —Shen Kuo, Dream Pool Essays (1088) In 1041, in the best traditions of China's inventive and technologically vibrant Song Dynasty (960-1280 C.E.), an alchemist named Bi Sheng shaped a series of reusable, moistened clay 'tablets, inscribed an individual Chinese character upon the surface of each one, fired them to harden and make them permanent, and in the process invented movable type. Printers then took the characters and laid them within an iron framecoated with a mix of resin, turpentine, wax, and paper ash, arranging the characters to reflect what was to become the printed page. Unlike the Western alphabet that requires the generation and arrangement of only twenty-six characters, Bi Sheng worked in a language with over 5,000 distinct characters. Many of these needed several pieces of type to complete, and all of them required the making of multiple copies. The copies were wrapped in paper and stored within wooden framed cases when not in use, ordered according to the first syllable of their pronunciation. Like Johannes Gutenberg hundreds of years later, Bi Sheng failed to receive recognition for his invention until long after his death, despite-his efforts being recorded by the great Chinese scientist Shen Kuo in his series of Dream Pool Essays. The multiplicity of Chinese characters and symbols was one reason for the failure of Bi Sheng's invention to impact significantly upon Chinese society, in contrast to Gutenberg's press in fifteenth-century Europe. Another problem was that clay tablets were manifestly unsuitable for large-scale printing and were not at all durable. The limitations of clay led eventually to the invention in Korea of metal, movable type, -which accelerated the spread of printing in Asia in the early thirteenth century. ---- Tower Clock Invented: 1094 Inventor: Su Song (China) Summary: Su Song builds a technological marvel. .. the comparison of the rotary movements... will show no discrepancy or contradiction...." Su Song, The Rotation ofanArmillary Sphere (1092) The world's first water-driven astronomical clock tower was by far the most advanced astronomical instrument of its day. Its designer was Su Song (1020— 1101), who oversaw the project with the aid of mathematician Han Gong-lian. The elaborate, 40-foot (12 m), water-powered, mechanically driven clock had bronze castings, precision gears, gear rings, and pinions. A bronze armillary sphere with a celestial globe mounted below allowed the sun, moon, and selected stars to be seen through a sighting tube. The tower was a three-level, pagoda-like structure powered by thirty-six buckets attached to a central wheel, each of which would trip a lever and tilt forward at a predetermined point to engage the clock's complex system of gears and counterweights. Song's greatest achievement, however, was an ingenious escapement mechanism that converted this energy discreetly from a pendulum to the gears in a concept vital in the construction of clocks, and a technology unknown to Europeans until late in the thirteenth century. This technology was a precursor to the mechanical escapement, which enabled the manufacture of all-mechanical clocks that could tell time with far greater precision. ---- Chain Drive Invented: 1094 Inventor: Su Song (China) Summary: Su Song's clock hides a brilliant innovation. Chinese government official Su Song (1020-1101) was also a naturalist, cartographer, astronomer, horologist, and engineer. His greatest legacy was the clock tower he built in Kaifeng. In 1086 the emperor had ordered the construction of an "armillary clock" to keep time and track celestial bodies. A finished structure was completed in 1094, and consisted of three levels. The upper level contained a rotating armillary sphere that allowed astrological observations through sighting tubes; the middle level had a bronze celestial globe; and the lower level had mechanically timed manikins that would exit doors at fixed times of the day. Perhaps most significant, however, was the clock's innovatory driving system. At the heart of the clock tower was the tian ti, or "celestial ladder." This is the oldest known endless power-transmitting chain drive. The chain transmitted the power from a water wheel to turn the armillary sphere and power the clock. Drive belts had been present in China for approximately 1,000 years before Song's chain drive. However, such belts were primitive, haphazard affairs and lacked the precision necessary todrivea clockand armillary sphere. The chain links fitted sprockets and were not subject to stretching or slippage. Chain drive is now used in a wide range of mechanical devices, especially in vehicles such as bicycles, but it was not until several centuries after Song's innovation that Europeans independently discovered the technology. The clock was captured and dismantled by invading Jurchens from Manchuria who overran Kaifeng in 1127. It is one of the great lost artifacts of the medieval age. However, Song's 1092 treatise (Essentials of a New Method for Mechanizing the Rotation of an Armillary Sphere and a Celestial Globe) survived, with illustrations and descriptions of the clock. ---- Cannon Invented: c. 1128 Summary: The Chinese develop bronze cannons from primitive bamboo forerunners.  "Shells are made of east iron... and are sent flying toward the enemy camp from an eruptor" —Jiao Yu and Liu Ji, Fire Dragon Manual (c. 1368-1398) During the Chinese Song Dynasty (circa 960-1279), artillery engineering exploded, as it were, with the development of the ancestor of the cannon: flamethrowing "fire lances" made of bamboo. When gunpowder at one end was ignited, it forced sand, lead pellets, or shards of pottery at the enemy. When metal later replaced bamboo, probably in the early 1100s, these lances became "fire tubes" or "eruptors." The oldest record of them is a painting, dated to 1128. The early Chinese cannons could throw a ball about 50 yards (45 m). A century later they had become powerful enough to breach city walls, and were made of bronze. According to the historian of Chinese technology Joseph Needham, cannon warfare took a great step forward with the development of cannonballs that fitted the tube's bore precisely, enabling more control. Later cannons were made of cast iron, and some were wheeled. Cannon technology spread and was developed in Europe; the Scots defended Stirling Castle with cannons in 1341, and three cannons were used at the battle of Crecy-en-Ponthieu in 1346 by England's King Edward III, who had more than a hundred of them, in London. Such early European cannons were small, but by the end of the Hundred Years' War (1337-1453) giant ones were available, known as "bombards." Mons Meg, a bombard built in 1457, survives at Edinburgh Castle in Scotland; with a 22-inch (56 cm) caliber barrel, it is capable of firing gunstones weighing 331 pounds (150 kg) nearly 2 miles (3.2 km). From the sixteenth century, lighter cannons capable of more accurate fire were developed, and these gradually evolved into modern artillery pieces, such as the howitzer used to great effect in the American Civil War (1861-1865). ---- Fireworks Invented: c. 1150 Summary: The Chinese invent explosive entertainment. Fireworks, familiar now in sound-and-light shows on dark evenings, to celebrate festivals and to entertain, were invented in China around 1,000 years ago, following the invention of gunpowder in the first century C.E. Bamboo tubes, filled with gunpowder, were thrown onto fires to create explosions at religious festivals, perhaps in the belief that the noise they made would scare off evil spirits. It is highly likely that some of these little bombs shot like rockets out of the fire, propelled by the gases they produced. The next step seems likely to have been to attach such charged bamboo tubes to sticks and fire them with bows. The earliest evidence of devices that could be described as firework rockets comes from a written report of the battle of Kai-Keng in 1232 during the war between China and Mongolia, in which the Chinese attacked with "arrows of flying fire." After Kai-Keng, the Mongols began to make rockets as well, and probably tookthese with them on theirtravels to Europe. There is documentary evidence for experiments involving rockets in Europe throughout the thirteenth to fifteenth centuries. English Franciscan friar and philosopher Roger Bacon (circa 1214-1294) reported on his experiments to improve gunpowder and increase the range of rockets, and, in France, Jean Froissart (circa 1337-1405) commented that rockets could be fired more accurately if launched from tubes. For the first 700 years of their existence, fireworks were available only in one color (yellow), until the French chemist Claude Berthollet discovered potassium chlorate in around 1800 and began the development of new colors for fireworks. ---- Arabic Numerals Invented: c. 1202 Inventor: Fibonacci (Algeria) Summary: Fibonacci promotes Hindu-Arabic numbers.  "The idea seems so simple that its significance and importance is no longer appreciated." —Pierre-Simon Laplace (1749-1827), mathematician In 1202 Leonardo Pisano (c.1170-c.1240), known as Fibonacci, published his seminal work Liber abaci ("Book of the Abacus") and thus popularized Hindu-Arabic numbers in Europe. Although born in Italy, Fibonacci grew up in what is modern-day Beja, Algeria. Taught by Arab teachers, Fibonacci came in contact with our modern numeral system, which was devised in ancient India yet virtually unknown in Europe. Until then the Roman numeral system had been prevalent throughout the continent. The system had been-an improvement on the first recorded numbers found in Egypt—simple representative strokes for each digit, and a special symbol for ten—as well as the Greek (Attic) method of recording the first letters of the numeral names. In the Hindu-Arabic base ten system, on the other hand, the single digits were represented by symbols whose value depended on placement (i.e., 2 in 200 being ten times greaterthan 2 in 20). The first known inscriptions of these numbers date from the third century B.C.E., although whether they were used in a place-value system isn't clear. As early as the seventh century C.E. the system had reached the Arab world, recorded by mathematicians such as Al-Khwarizmi. The advent of the printing press in the fifteenth century accelerated the proliferation of Hindu-Arabic numerals, which over the centuries has become the closest thing to a universal human language. ---- Crankshaft Invented: c. 1206 Inventor: Ismail Al-Jazari (Mesopotamia) Summary: Al-Jazari sets rotational energy to work.  "Types of machines... came to my notice offering possibilities for types of marvelous control." —Al-Jazari, Book of Knowledge (1206) Islamic scholar Al-Jazari (1150-1220) lived in what was northern Mesopotamia—today's northeastern Syria and Iraq. A brilliant inventor, he made one of the most significant contributions to human engineering in 1206 by devising the world's first crankshaft. This conceptually simple device converts rotary into reciprocating motion, and vice versa, but it is now used in a huge number of modern machines, including automobiles. Put simply, the Industrial Revolution could not have happened without it. The crankshaft is perhaps most commonly recognized today in modern motor engines, and is among Al-Jazari's more famous inventions. In today's cars it receives force from firing pistons that move in a linear fashion back and forth and, through movable bearings, rotates around its axis, thus converting the pistons' energy into rotation output for the wheels. Al-Jazari's original invention was designed to pump water from wells for irrigation, with cattle employed to provide the energy—quite a contrast from the modern interpretation of the technology. Despite the difference in complexity, the principle behind the crankshaft remains the same more than 800 years after Al-Jazari first thought of it. ---- Camshaft Invented: c. 1206 Inventor: Ismail Al-Jazari (Mesopotamia) Summary: Al-Jazari transforms rotational power. When the great Islamic scholar Al-Jazari (1150-1220), published in 1206 his Kitab ff ma'rifat al-hiyal al-handasiyya IBook of Knowledge of Ingenious Mechanical Devices), it included a description of a device that could change rotational motion into reciprocating motion: the camshaft. This invention consists of a shaft that has oval-shaped lobes attached to it, which turn with the shaft itself. Because of their noncircular shape, these "cams" appear to oscillate when the shaft spins on its axis. If a cam is positioned next to a valve, as it is in the example of the internal-combustion engine, then, as the camshaft turns, the longest end of the cam will depress, and hence open, the valve each time the shaft makes a turn. Before that, the camshaft played an important role in many medieval technologies. In windmills and waterwheels, for example, camshafts transformed rotational power into the energy and modes of action needed to mill corn, saw wood, or hammer metal. In modern times the camshaft is best known as an integral part of the internal-combustion engine. When fuel within each combustion chamber of an engine explodes, the mixture of combusting fuel and air expands and drives a piston that is connected to a crankshaft, thus translating the piston's motion into the energy needed to propel a car, lift a weight, or perform some other form of work. A camshaft—or two camshafts, depending on the engine's design— controls the valves that allow new fuel into each combustion chamber, as well as the valves that release exhaust gases from the previous fuel ignitions. In an engine the camshaft is connected to the crankshaft by a timing belt that allows precise coordination ofthefiring of the combustion chambers with the intake of fuel and output of exhaust. ---- Automaton Invented: c. 1206 Inventor: Ismail Al-Jazari (Mesopotamia) Summary: Al-Jazari creates the automaton that anticipates today's industrial robots.  "'Obedience...  Makes slaves of men, and, of the human frame  A mechanized automaton." —Percy Bysshe Shelley, "Queen Mab" (1813) Most people think of self-operating machines as twentieth-century inventions. Although Isaac Asimov coined the word "robotics" in 1942, and Grey Walter built the first electronic autonomous robots in 1948, the first automaton for which we have good evidence was a boat with four mechanical musicians. It was built more than eight hundred years ago by Islamic scholar Al-Jazari (1150-1220). Al-Jazari, considered by some to be the father of robotics, wrote his Kitab fi ma'rifatal-hiyalal-handasiyya (Book of Knowledge of Ingenious Mechanical Devices) in about 1206, while he was the palace chief engineer in Diyarbakir (located in the southeast of present-day Turkey). The book describes a boat he constructed that floated on the palace lake and entertained guests at parties with music from a flute, a harp, and two drums played by automatons. The drummers contained rotating cylinders with movable pegs. As the cylinder rotated, the pegs would strike levers that caused the drums to be played. Changing the number and location of the pegs produced different rhythms, and so the automaton was entirely programmable. Automatons created in subsequent centuries, mainly for entertainment purposes, continued to play musical instruments, along with other activities that could be recreated in a sufficiently realistic manner. Today, factories increasingly use robots— essentially automatons powered by electricity—for jobs that require speed, precision, strength, and/or endurance. Robots build cars, package goods, manufacture circuit boards, and perform many other tasks. Almost a million robots were in operation around the world in 2007, and the International Federation of Robotics expects this number to reach 1.2 million by the end of 2010. Al-Jazari created this water-pouring automaton for the amusement ofUrtugid Dynasty princes. ---- Spectacles Invented: c. 1250 Summary: Venetians create the first European glasses.  "...this invention enables good sight and is one of the most useful of arts... the world possesses." —Fra Giordano da Rivalto, sermon (1305) In the first century the Roman philosopher and dramatist Seneca used a glass sphere full of water resting on his reading material to magnify the letters, and this method was certainly used by farsighted monks a millennium later. Glass blowers in Venice produced lenses that were used as magnifying glasses, and in Europe in the late thirteenth century these were being used in pairs, one for each eye, the holding frame being made of wood or horn. Salvino D'Armate of Pisa (1258-1312) and the friar Alessandro da Spina (d. 1313) of Florence are often given the credit for the invention of spectacles, in the year 1284, but Marco Polo, in 1270, saw elderly Chinese using spectacles and, when asked, they credited the invention to Arabs in the eleventh century. The Chinese were also using smoky quartz as simple nonmagnifying sunglasses atthat time. The first spectacles used convex lenses and corrected for presbyopia (farsightedness). In 1451 the German cardinal Nicholas of Cusa introduced spectacles with concave lenses that corrected for myopia (nearsightedness). The explanation as to why the lenses worked was given by Johannes Keplerin his 1604 treatise on optics. By around 1730 a London optician, Edward Scarlett, perfected spectacle arms that hook behind the ears, although it was some time before this became the preferred design. ---- Land Mine Invented: c. 1277 Summary: The Chinese pioneera concealed weapon.  "The fuse starts from the bottom... black powder is compressed into it to form an explosive mine." —Jiao Yu and Liu Ji, Fire Dragon Manual (c. 1368-1398) Land mines—explosive weapons triggered by pressure or proximity—have been in use for many hundreds of years, and as such their exact history is somewhat clouded. There is evidence to suggest, however, that the first self-contained land mines for military purposes were used in China in 1277 against Mongol invaders. Today their use has prompted great controversy, due to the high civilian casualties that can be caused many years after conflict has ended. The name "mine" is derived from their original use in Europe in the Middle Ages as "tunnel mines." During the siege of a castle or fort, tunnels would be dug under the walls and explosives detonated just beneath them in a bid to cause them to collapse. True anti- personnel land mines were introduced in China by the Middle Ages. The mines were detonated either by the pressure of someone walking over them, or by operation from afar, and appeared in a variety of designs. However, their use in warfare was restricted by a scarcityofammunition. The mine emerged at the beginning of the sixteenth century in Europe in the form of a shallow pit of gunpowder, with a "charge" made from flint that would ignite the explosive. In later centuries mines were used to slow advancing troops, especially in the Boer War and World War I. The twentieth century saw a great proliferation of their use. ---- Scythe Invented: c. 1300 Summary: This European invention increased productivity and liberated workers from the sickle.  "The scy the was faster to use than the ancient, short handled, curved, serrated blade sickle." —The Countryside Museum website The scy the is often ranked among the world's most significant advances in agricultural implements of the past thousand years. Its appearance on the farms of Europe in the latter half of the thirteenth century was to profoundly revolutionize agricultural production. Initially used as a grass cutter to gather hay, it was later used to harvest grain. Consisting of a curved blade, sharpened on the inside of the curve, and a long wooden handle (called a snath), the scy the allowed the reaper to stand upright while cutting grass—a vast improvement over the short-bladed sickle, which required the userto stoop uncomfortably as he cut. A worker using a sickle, which was essentially unaltered in design since its emergence in around 5000 B.C.E., could harvest at best only three-quarters of an acre (0.3 ha) per day, while the use of a scy the increased the production of grain harvesting to more than an acre (0.4 ha) per day. Its ergonomic design and its way of operating as a kind of lever gave it more power than the backbreaking sickle, and by the sixteenth century the scy the had all but replaced the sickle as the preferred tool for harvesting—as well as the weapon of choice in many a peasant rebellion. By the late eighteenth century a series of wooden pegs had been added along the snath, which allowed grain to be cut and their stalks gathered in one motion for bundling into sheaves, an innovation that effectively doubled the farmer's productivity. The scy the remained the dominant tool for grain harvesting until the invention of the mechanical horsedrawn reaper in 1831, which could do as much reaping in a day as ten men with scythes. ---- Musket Invented: c. 1300) Summary: Using gunpowder, Chinese gunsmiths invent a deadly rival for the longbow.  "The impact of Chinese firearms in terms of warfare and territorial expansion was profound." —Sun Laichen, Asia Research Institute A musket is a smoothbore firearm loaded from the muzzle and fired from shoulder-level. It is larger than an arquebus and often fired from a rest on which it can be pivoted from side to side. It is difficult to pin down with certainty when the musket was invented, although according to ancient Chinese texts it was some time in the fourteenth century. Basic cannons had been fashioned by the Chinese, and Chinese weapons experts were the first to produce a device that was recognizable as a musket, but it was when this technology met the greater metallurgical prowess of the Ottoman Empire (and laterthat of the European powers) that a revolution in warfare took place. It took a long time for muskets to become established; early muskets in particular took a long time to reload, could not reliably pierce armor, and were expensive and unreliable. Crucially, a cheap and deadly accurate alternative already existed: A longbow and arrows could be constructed relatively easily from locally available materials. Yet from the sixteenth century onward, Europeans, and in particular the Portuguese, were producing muskets and cannons and exporting them to Asia. By the seventeenth century, the musket's reliability and ease of use had improved, and it enjoyed one distinct advantage over the longbow: It did not require a highly trained soldier or nobleman to use it. Despite initial resistance to this "cheapening" of "noble" warfare, the aristocracy quickly realized that enemy forces were utilizing firearms to deadly effect, and also that the vast majority of casualties were now not people of their own class, but the more expendable common man. This pattern of warfare continued and intensified through the centuries, reaching a bloody peak in World War I. ---- Production Line Invented: c. 1320 Summary: The Venetians initiate mass production.  "The Arsenal of Venice's work force continually produced new innovations for the Venetian fleet." —Gregory Sheridan, The Imperial Age of Venice (1970) The division of labor into many discrete tasks in a production line increased efficiency and output and enabled the mass production of high quality goods. Nowhere was this better exemplified than in the Venice Arsenal factory, where standardized parts and specialized tasks gave the Venetians a speed advantage in building warships, firearms, and, as a result, their empire. In 1574, King Henry III of England had the privilege of seeing this formidable first factory construct complete galley ships in less than a day. With their efficient and organized approach, the Arsenal's thousands of workers manufactured complicated war tools 600 years before the start of the Industrial Revolution. The Arsenal was expanded on several occasions throughout its lifetime but was originally built as a shipyard in 1104. By 1320, the workers carried out specialized tasks in the production of ships. At its peak, the Arsenal employed around 16,000 people, the largest workforce in Europe. After Venice was annexed by Italy in 1875—1878, the Arsenal underwent further expansion. During the late 1800s it was the site of construction for several of the Italian Navy's most powerful ships. ---- Rain Gauge Invented: 1441 Inventor: Jang Yeong-Sil (Korea) Summary: Jang Yeong-Sil measures rainfall. In the fifteenth century Korea was a drought-plagued realm, and King Sejong (1397-1450) wished to levy land taxes based on an assessment of each farmer's potential harvest. To this end a nationwide network of rain gauges was established and the local magistrates of every village were commanded to report the rainfall to the central government. In 1441 each village was provided with a standard cylindrical container, 17 inches (43 cm) high and 7 inches (17 cm) wide, that was mounted on a stone stand; a special ruler was used to measure the depth of rainwater that entered the gauge over a specific time. Its inventor was a civil-servant scientist, Jang Yeong-Sil. Needless to say, the method of rain measurement was rather labor-intensive. The Chinese, meanwhile, had used a similar technique to measure snowfall in 1247 C.E. In 1662 Sir Christopher Wren (1632-1723) invented the "pluviometer," a mechanical, self-emptying, tipping-bucket rain gauge. It consisted of two small, well-balanced buckets that collected rain sequentially. When a specific amount of water had fallen into one of the buckets—usually about 0.03 inches (0.1 cm)—it tipped over, emptied itself, and produced a mechanical signal. Also, a hole was punched into a slowly moving paper tape as the bucket tipped. The second bucket then started to collect rain, only to tip over when full. The more signals recorded, the greater the rainfall. Care had to be taken in positioning Wren's gauge. It had to be sufficiently high off the ground to avoid splashes and animals, and be well away from trees, fences, and buildings to prevent shadowing and an unrepresentatively low reading. Heated gauges are now used when hail and snow are expected. ---- Coiled Spring Invented: c. 1450 Inventor: Peter Henlein (Germany) Summary: Henlein perfects the heart ofclockwork.  "...a piece of work which excites the admiration of the most learned mathematicians." —Cosmographica Pomponii Melae (1511) Often in history one critical invention leads to another that overshadows the first. This was true of the German locksmith Peter Henlein, the inventor of the portable or pocket watch. He created this sometime between 1504and 1508, and it could operate for up to forty hours before it needed rewinding. Henlein's work was made possible by the invention, more than fifty years earlier, of a single piece of metal that, when in a certain shape, would use the metal's natural elasticity to both absorb and release a force applied to it: the humble coiled spring. History does not recall who first created this most useful invention, but a small number of examples of spring-driven clocks have survived from the early fifteenth century. The coiled spring's ability to store energy was what made it perfect to power clockwork devices. Winding up a clock, or watch, costs physical energy as the spring becomes compressed. Clockwork gears then allow that energy to be gradually released while supplying a steady, if tiny, flow of power to a clock. Henlein, and others, had to overcome various problems in their early models. A good spring is created from a single ribbon of steel of uniform thickness that can be squeezed without breaking. The delicate preheating required to temper coiled springs was difficult, and perfecting the formula was an important step in metallurgy. ---- Arquebus Invented: c. 1450 Summary: The Spanish create the handheld cannon. In the middle of the second millennium C.E. the battlefield was dominated by armored cavalry and the romantic concept of the chivalrous knight in armor. However, a technological innovation was about to take place that would completely change warfare. The invention in question was called the "hackenbushce," or arquebus, probably a derivative of the Dutch word haakbus, meaning "hook-gun." The arquebus was one of the first effective examples of a handheld firearm. By this time, using gunpowder to fire projectiles was not a new idea. Cannons had existed since the early 1300s, and smaller "hand-cannons" had developed to complement these. These early firearms were basically small cannons mounted on poles or on crossbow stocks, and were fired by touching the venthole with a match, which would ignite the powder and fire the projectile. The particular innovation of the arquebus, which cannot be attributed to one person but is probably of Spanish origin, lay in the use of a pivoting mechanism with the slow-burning match at one end that allowed the arquebusier, or shooter, to hold and aim the weapon with both hands, and then simply pull the other end of the pivoting lever to touch the match to the powder and fire the weapon. This mechanism was, of course, an early forerunner of the trigger, ubiquitous on modern guns, and by freeing both hands allowed the weapon to be fired with greater accuracy. Despite this advantage, the arquebus was still grossly inaccurate when compared to the longbow or crossbow, but it still caught on, probably due to the fact that use of the arquebus was relatively easy to learn; where the longbow took years of study and considerable physical strength to master, the gun could be fired by almost anyone. ---- Anemometer Invented: c. 1450 Inventor: Leon Battista Alberti (Italy) Summary: Alberti measures wind speed with an effective new instrument.  "None of our modem craftsmen (except Alberti) has known how to write about these subjects.. —Giorgio Vasari, Lives of the Artists (1550) Devised by Leon Battista Alberti (1404-1472), the anemometer was a simple instrument to measure wind speed. It had a rectangular metal plate attached to a horizontal axis with a hinge, so that in the wind the metal plate lifted, giving an indication of relative wind speed that could be measured crudely on a curved scale bar below the plate. In light winds, the plate would move slightly on its hinge; in stronger winds, the plate would lift further. Alberti describes and illustrates this device in his book, The Pleasure of Mathematics (1450). The well-educated son of a wealthy merchant, Alberti was an accomplished artist, athlete, horserider, musician, mathematician, cryptographer (inventing the cipher disc), classicist, writer, cleric, and architect. He was a true Renaissance polymath, created by the intellectual culture prevailing in the Italian cities at the time. As an artist and an architect, Alberti was inspired py Filipppo Brunelleschi's use of linear perspective and his great design for the dome of Florence Cathedral, where Alberti was a canon. In turn, Alberti's work, including the anemometer, inspired Leonardo da Vinci, who made drawings of it and saw its valueln his designs forflying machines. Alberti's simple design served its users for more than 200 years, until a British scientist, Robert Hooke (1635-1703), reinvented it in 1664, placing the moving plate beneath the curved scale bar to ensure more accurate measurements. Almost two centuries passed before the four-cup windmill anemometer was invented, in 1846, by the Irish astronomer John Thomas Romney Robinson (1792-1842). ---- Printing Press with Movable Metal Type Invented: c. 1450 Inventor: Johannes Gutenberg (Germany) Summary: Gutenberg's innovatory press vastly increases the dissemination of information.  "It shall scatter the darkness of ignorance, and cause a light... to shine amongst men." —Johannes Gutenberg, printer Writing was an important step in the advancement of civilization, but few books were produced and they reached a limited number of people. Such books were usually of a religious nature, handwritten in Latin, and copied by clerks for the clergy and the nobility. It was only when the printing press was developed that knowledge and ideas were spread more widely. The earliest form of press incorporated a wooden block with raised letters on one side. Such blocks were arranged in a frame and inked, so that when pressed onto paper an impression of the letters was produced. Unfortunately the blocks disintegrated with use, and so could not produce many copies; it was very timeconsuming for craftsmen to produce new blocks for letters and illustrations. In 1450 Johannes Gutenberg (circa 1400-1468), a German printer, developed a technique where letters produced from molds of metal alloy were arranged into words, then locked together using a template to produce a whole page of typeface. This was sufficiently robust to print many hundreds of identical pages and hence the production of books became widespread, enabling more people to learn to read and increasing the demand for reading material. Gutenberg's press would have had limited usefulness without appropriate inks. Before his time, simpler printing methods made use of water-based inks, and Gutenberg himself introduced more robust oil-based inks, including colored inks that were printed experimentally in some copies of his bible. Flatbed-printing methods were eventually replaced by rotary presses, and by the end of the twentieth century computerto plate (CTP) technology was used, in which material was sent directly from a computerto a printing plate. Notes: - The impact on society of Gutenberg's press was comparable to that of the Internet today. ---- Toothbrush Invented: c. 1498 Summary: The Chinese introduce a dental savior. The forerunner of the modern bristle toothbrush is generally believed to have originated in fifteenth century China. A Chinese encyclopedia dating to 1498 describes the short, coarse bristles from the neck of a Siberian wild boar being embedded in a handle made from animal bone, which was then used to clean the teeth. In the seventeenth century, Chinese traders took the brush to Europe, where its popularity flourished despite boar hairs being considered too rough for sensitive European gums. Softer horsehair bristles were seen as an alternative, although boar bristles remained the most common fiber. The toothbrush was not humankind's first attempt at dental hygiene. "Toothsticks" dating back to 3000 B.C.E. have been uncovered during excavations of Pharaonic tombs in Egypt. These are lengths of frayed twigs or fibrous wood from shrubs, used to clean between the teeth and freshen the breath. "Chewing sticks" made from aromatic shrubs for oral hygiene and to freshen the breath were also used by the Chinese in the sixteenth century. The first mass-produced toothbrush was designed and marketed by the English inventor William Addis in 1780 using boar hairs and swine bristles attached to the end of a downsized cow's thigh bone. More geometric designs began to appear in the mid-1840s when bristles first began to be aligned in rows. Natural bristles continued to be used up until the invention of nylon by Dupont de Nemours in 1938. The world's first electric toothbrush appeared in 1939. The toothbrush is one of the oldest implements still used by humanity, regularly finishing above more fancied inventions—such as the car and the personal computer—on people's lists of the things they simply could not do without. ---- Glass Mirror Invented: c. 1505 Summary: The Venetians transform glass reflectivity. "The world has become uglier since it began to look into a mirror every day." Karl Kraus, journalist, poet, and playwright Primitive peoples would have found their reflections in the surface of still ponds, while mirrors used in early Greek and Roman civilizations and in Europe during the Middle Ages were highly polished pieces of metal that reflected light off their surfaces. However, the real leap forward for vanity occurred during the early sixteenth century, when the Venetians developed a method of backing a plate of flat glass with a thin layer of reflecting metal that was an amalgam of tin and mercury, much increasing the clarity of the reflection. The earliest mirrors were hand mirrors used for personal grooming, and later as objects of household decoration with frames made of ivory, silver, or carved wood. The chemical process of coating a glass surface with metallic silver, from which modern techniques of mirror-making were developed, was discovered by Justus von Liebig in 1835. English brothers Robert and James Adam designed large and elaborate fireplaces that used mirrors to great effect. In the nineteenth century, mirrors were incorporated into pieces of furniture, such as wardrobes and sideboards. In modern times, mirrors are used in scientific apparatus such as telescopes, cameras, and lasers and in industrial applications. Mirrors designed for electromagnetic radiation with wavelengths other than that of visible light are also used in manufacturing, especially of optical instruments ---- Pocket Watch Invented: c. 1508 Inventor: Peter Henlein (Germany) Summary: Henlein makes the first pocket-sized timepiece.  "Peter Henlein... maxes from a little iron a pocket clock with a lot of wheels." —Johannes Cocleus, historian The world's first portable timepiece, which came to be known as a "pocket-clocke," was made in Nuremberg, Germany, between 1504 and 1508 by the former apprentice locksmith and clockmaker Peter Henlein (c. 1479-1542). The miniaturization of timepieces began with the invention of the coiled spring in Italy in the late 1450s along with the development of various escapement mechanisms. However, the real breakthrough proved to be Henlein's invention of the balance spring, which greatly improved the precision of a watch's spring-driven interior. Henlein's new pocket watch measured only a few inches in diameter, chimed on the hour, and could run for up to forty hours before it required rewinding. It was driven by scaled-down steel wheels and hand-forged springs that, despite representing a huge technological leap forward, were nonetheless persistently inaccurate. The coiled springs unwound at a varying speed, causing the watch to slow as the mainspring unwound. Early springs also had a maddening tendency to break when tightly wound, although later refinements such as cam springs were added to compensate for inherent irregularities. It took Henlein ten years to develop his first pocket watch (this and his subsequent timepieces would go on to become known as his "Nuremberg eggs"). The high cost of the innovation saw the pocket watch become largely a status symbol of the upper classes, yet the popularity of the pocket watch was to continue for 400 years, not least as a formal gift of readily perceived worth, until the invention of the wristwatch in the early twentieth century. ---- Etching for Print Invented: c. 1510 Inventor: Daniel Hopfer (Germany) Summary: Hopfer simplifies printmaking.  "He is praised as an innovator, yet he is also maligned as derivative and labeled a mere craftsman." —Freyda Spira, historian As a decorative technique, etching had been in use for many years before the birth of Daniel Hopfer (1470-1536), possibly since antiquity. His innovation was to apply the method to printmaking. The etching process begins by covering a metal plate with a waxy material called a ground. Lines are then scratched into the ground with a needle to expose bare metal where the artist wants lines to appear on the print. The plate is then washed with (ordipped into) acid, which cuts into the exposed metal, leaving lines etched in the plate. The longer the plate is submerged, the deeper the incision, and the darker the lines wi'l appear on the print. For a more sophisticated finished print, the process can be repeated to allow for different tones within the piece. Once ready, the plate is covered in ink that is then wiped away, leaving ink only in the incisions and rough areas. The plate is covered by a sheet of wet paper and passed through a press. The pressure of the press forces the paper into the incisions, leaving a mirror image of the plate on the paper. Hopfer's technique was influential because it was easy. Another way of making prints is to engrave, but this requires metalwork skills. The only prerequisite for etching is to be able to "draw" into the ground. ---- Sand Casting Invented: c. 1540 Inventor: Vannoccio Biringucci (Italy) Summary: Biringuccio revives ancient skills. Sand casting with molten metal ranks as one of the oldest of the manufacturing technologies. For many years it was a dark art and its mysteries were known only to a select few. A sixteenth-century Italian metallurgist and arms maker, Vannoccio Biringuccio (1480-c. 1539), would change this with his seminal work, De la pirotechnia (1540). Published in Venice a year after Biringuccio's death, the book is a veritable encyclopedia of metallurgical knowledge and constitutes some of the earliest printed information on sand casting and foundry techniques in general. Born in Siena, Biringuccio, under the patronage of an Italian merchant politician and part-time tyrant, Pandolfo Petrucci, traveled widely throughout Italy and Germany, accumulating the information and experiences that he would summarize in his book. During a typical sand-casting operation, a model or "pattern" of the item to be cast is positioned in a frame. Sand, moistened to bind it together, is then pressed closely around the pattern. This moist sand mix is a critical feature of the process and through the years various binding agents have been adopted, some of them quite unusual. Biringuccio himself recommended the use of human urine and the dregs from beer vats for the purpose. When the frame is full and the sand rammed down, it is turned over and another frame temporarily attached. The process is then repeated, the frames separated, and the model carefully removed, leaving a cavity in each of the sand boxes that represents one half of the item to be cast. Channels ("sprues" and "runners") are cut into the sand to allow molten metal to be poured into the mold, and air to escape during the pouring. The frames are now securely reassembled together and the metal is poured. ---- Condom Invented: c. 1560 Inventor: Gabriele Falloppio (Italy) Summary: Falloppio invents the prophylactic sheath.  "The condom is an armor against enjoyment and a spider web against danger" —Madame de Sevigne, writer The Italian anatomist Gabriele Falloppio (1523-1562) posthumously published the first description of the condom in De Morbo Gallico (1564), a treatise on syphilis. To help counter the spread of the sexually transmitted disease, Falloppio invented a linen sheath that, when dipped in a solution of salt, formed a protective barrier during intercourse. To attract the ladies, the condoms were secured by pink ribbons. Falloppio claimed that none of the 1,1 OO men who used the device became infected with syphilis. This is not to say Falloppio's condom was the first. Cave paintings from Combarelles in France and drawings from ancient Egypt have been found depicting men wearing condoms. Over the years condoms have been made from oiled paper, thin leather, fish bladders, and even tortoiseshell. By 1844 Charles Goodyear (of tire fame) had patented a process for the vulcanization of rubber, where intense heat transformed rubber into a strong, elastic material. The first condoms to be made of vulcanized rubber were as thick as bicycle tires with seams running down their sides. In the 1880s an updated manufacturing process led to condoms being produced by dipping glass molds into liquid latex. This process removed the seam, thus making condoms an altogether more practical prospect. ---- Jointed Artificial Limb Invented: c. 1564 Inventory: Ambroise Pare (France) Summary: Pare initiates modern prosthetics. The jointed prosthetic limb originated in the 1500s and steadily improved in the next five centuries. Credit for the invention goes to Ambroise Pare (circa 1510-1590), a French barber-surgeon better known for some of his earlier achievements. For example, during the siege of Turin (1536-37) he realized that gunshot wounds were not poisonous and did not need to be cauterized with boiling oil. In his book of 1545, La Method de traicter les playes faites par les arquebuses et aultres bastons a feu (The Method of Treating Wounds Made by Arquebuses and Other Guns), Pare recommended simple dressings and ointments. The Frenchman also promoted the tying off of blood vessels to prevent hemorrhage during surgery (ligaturation), which had been practiced for more than a thousand years but had fallen into disuse. Pare then invented a prosthetic limb for above-the-knee amputees, to be fitted to the thigh. It incorporated a kneeling peg leg with a knee joint that cou'd be released by a thong running to the hip. Pare went on to devise a hand for a French Army captain to use in battle. Called "Le Petit Lorrain," its thumb was fixed but the fingers operated by springs and catches. A similar hand had previously been devised for Gotz von Berlichingen, a knight who had garnered a romanticized reputation as the "German Robin Hood" for his kidnapping of nobles and attacking merchant convoys for booty. Later he led a section of rebels during the Peasant's War of 1525, but he quit before their ultimate defeat. In 1504 he lost his right arm when "friendly" cannon fire during the siege of Landshut struck his sword and it fell and severed his arm. He lost his hand as a result but gained another moniker: "The Knight of the Iron Hand.' ---- Graphite Pencil Invented: c. 1564 Summary: The English invent an erasable marker.  "A short pencil is more reliable than the longest memory." —Proverb The graphite pencil was invented in England in 1564 following the discovery of an extensive deposit of pure graphite at Seathwaite Fell near Borrowdale in Cumbria. The Borrowdale deposit was so pure it could be cut into sheets and subsequently into tiny squareprofile lengths. The material left a darker mark than other less pure graphite composites, possessed a greasy texture, was extremely brittle, and quickly dirtied the hands of the user, thus requiring some form of protective sheath. However, the fact that it could be erased made it a popular alternative to ink. The first known account of a graphite pencil was written in 1565 by the German scientist Konrad von Gesner. He described a rudimentary lead pencil "enclosed in a wood holder," and it was not until the 1660s that a Keswick joiner hollowed out a piece of wood to create the forerunner of today's graphite-rod pencil. Graphite was known as blacklead or plumbago (Latin for "lead ore") until the new name was coined by the Swedish chemist K. W. Scheele as a footnote to his Treatise on Fossils (1779). . The Seathwaite Fell deposit remains the purest deposit of graphite ever found. It was so valuable and easily extracted that in 1752 the British parliament passed a law making the theft of graphite punishable by imprisonment. The first commercial production of pencils began in Nuremberg, Germany, in 1761. ---- Theodolite Invented: c. 1571 Summary: Digges facilitates the triangulation process. An instrument designed for measuring horizontal and vertical angles, the theodolite is of critical importance to the surveying profession. Comprising a telescopic lens that can tilt on both horizontal and vertical axes, the theodolite is essential in "triangulation," a long-established technique for surveying tracts of land. The distance between two points is measured, to become the baseline of a triangle. The theodolite is placed at one end of the line and used to determine the angle to a predefined distant point (which makes the third corner of the triangle). The instrument is then moved to other end of the baseline, where a second angle is measured to that same point. Simple trigonometry is then employed to calculate accurately the length of the othertwo sides. The word theodolite first appears in a surveying textbook, A Geometric Practice Named Pantometria (1571) by mathematician and scientist Leonard Digges. Although tools for measuring angles had existed for centuries, it was Digges who introduced an "altazimuth" instrument—one that could be moved on two perpendicular axes. The inventor himself died penniless twelve years before the publication of his book. His historical standing can be attributed to his son, Thomas, who worked tirelessly to continue his father's work, and who would become a significant figure in his own right, popularizing the principles of modern science. There have since been many technological refinements, namely Jesse Ramsden'sGreatTheodolite of 1797, used in the Principal Triangulation of Great Britain—the original Ordnance Survey.' Notes: - Ramsden's highly accurate Great Theodolite was first commissioned for the survey of southern Britain. ---- Gregorian Calendar Invented: 1582 Inventor: Luigi Lilio (Italy) Summary: Lilio resets the Catholic clock. The Julian year (introduced by Julius Caesar in 45 B.C.E.) contained exactly 365.25 days and had a leap year every fourth year (when the year number was divisible by four). But the actual year is 365.24219879 days long and thus the Roman calendar gradually became out of step with reality. By the sixteenth century, the calendar was ten days adrift from the seasons. In 1576 Pope Gregory XIII assembled a commission of astronomers, mathematicians, and clergy, and this advisory body eventually adopted a plan suggested by the Calabrian physician Luigi Lilio, who was also known as Aloysius Lilius. On February 24, 1582, the pope declared that Thursday, October 4, 1582, was to be followed by Friday, October 15. From that date, century leap years would only be allowed if the year number was exactly divisible by 400. Thus, 2000 was a leap year, to be followed by 2400, 2800, and so on. Roman Catholic countries immediately adopted the Gregorian Calendar, but the Protestant and Greek Orthodox countries would have none of it. Norway and Denmark finally changed their minds in 1700. Great Britain and its colonies, including the United States, eventually followed, in 1752. In that year, in those territories the day after September 2 was September 14. Japan changed to the Gregorian calendar in 1873, Russia adopted it in 1918 after the Revolution, and Greece waited until 1923. There are still minor problems. By 13000 the calendar will be ten days out of step again. And the fact that the Earth's spin rate is slowly decreasing in a complicated fashion means that the system should be subtracting a day about every 2,000 years. ---- Stocking Frame Invented: 1589 Inventor: William Lee (England) Summary: Lee mechanizes knitting.  "The privilege of making stockings for everyone is too important to grant to any individual." —Queen Elizabeth I to William Lee William Lee (circa 1550-1610), a clergyman from Nottinghamshire, England, invented the stocking frame in 1589. One story suggests that he invented it to relieve his mother and sisters of the burden of knitting; another has it that a girl was showing more interest in her knitting than in him. Knitted fabrics are constructed by the interlocking of a series of loops, with each row of loops caught into the previous row. The stocking frame allowed production of a complete row of loops, held by a long bar similar to a knitting needle; a second bar opposed it, and each loop, picked up by a piece of wire, was transferred to the first bar. Lee's first machine, which produced coarse wool stockings, was refused a patent by Queen Elizabeth I. An improved machine produced silk stockings of finer texture, but again she refused, saying she was concerned for the livelihoods of hand knitters. King Henry IV of France encouraged new industries, so Lee and his brother James moved nine hand frames to Rouen. They prospered until Henry IV's assassination in 1610, after which Louis XIII imposed restrictions on foreign industries. The Lees returned to England, where James set up workshops in London. William Lee died in Paris in 1610. 'today's knitting industry, while employing machinery driven by computers, still incorporates many of his ideas. ---- Microscope Invented: c. 1590 Inventor: Hans and Zacharias Janssen (Dutch) Summary: Hans and Zacharias Janssen combine lenses in the first compound microscope.  "Nature composes some of her loveliest poems for the microscope and the telescope." —Theodore Roszak, academic and historian The earliest microscope was no more than a single small lens that magnified between six and ten times. Zacharias Jansen and his father, Hans, a lens maker, experimented with combinations of lenses and realized that greater magnification could be obtained by an inversion of the telescope. Their compound microscope combined a magnifying objective lens (the one closest to the object being investigated) with an eye lens at the opposite end of a tube. A focusing device was added by the Italian Galileo Galilei. The circulation of blood through capillaries was observed by the Italian physiologist Marcello Malpighi (1624-1694). The popularity of microscopes was greatly enhanced by the publication of Micrographic (1655) by English scientist Robert Hooke. The Dutchman Anthoni van Leeuwenhoek (1632-1723) used a microscope to count the number of threads in woven cloth, and his refined instrument could magnify 270 times. Van Leeuwenhoek's microscope only had a single lens with a radius of curvature of roughly 0.7 millimeters. He was the first to see microorganisms and blood cells. Of the 500 microscopes manufactured by van Leeuwenhoek, about ten still survive. In the eighteenth century, improved glass, coupled with multiple objective lenses with smaller focal lengths that could see much finer detail, led to much better microscopes. Stages were added so that samples under investigation could be held securely. The nineteenth century brought the familiar microscope form with its firmly mounted, vibration-free optical tube. ---- Newspaper Invented: 1605 Inventor: Johann Carolus (Germany) Summary: Carolus publishes the world's earliest printed news.  "A newspaper consists of just the same number of words, whether there be any news in it or not." —Henry Fielding, novelist In 1605 Johann Carolus (1575-1634) published the first printed issue of Relation aller Furnemmen und gedenckwurdigen Historien in Strasbourg, France, thereby giving the world its first newspaper. Similar concepts had been around for more than 1,500 years. Julius Caesar established the Acta Diurna—a newsletter carved on stone or metal—for the citizens of Rome, ana, almost 800 years later in 713, the Chinese Tang Dynasty published the Kaiyuan Za Bao, a news bulletin handwritten on silk. Initially Carolus copied his newsletters by hand and sold them to rich subscribers. But in order to make his publication affordable to more people, and thus increase his revenue, he bought a printing shop in 1604. Despite his modern approach, Relation did not survive, so today the Dutch daily Haarlems Dagblad (after merging with the Oprechte Haarlemsche Courant from 1656) is the world's oldest existing newspaper. Initially the medium was viewed skeptically by some. Benjamin Harris found out as much when he tried to establish the United States's first newspaper, Publick Occurrences, Both Forreign and Domestick, in 1690. The paper was meant to be "furnished once a moneth (or if any Glut of Occurrences happen, oftener)." But he was forced to abandon this plan after only one issue when outraged government officials decided that his publication contained "reflections of a very high order" and had been printed "Without the least Privity or Countenance of Authority." While the Internet now poses a danger to many newspapers, more than a billion people worldwide still read a daily newspaper in print every day Notes: - The 1609 edition of Relation is the oldest surviving newspaper, owned by Heidelberg University. ---- Telescope Invented: c. 1609 Inventor: Hans Lippershey (Dutch) Summary: Lippershey develops an instrument for examining the heavens.  "Reaching the dim boundary... we measure shadows, and we search among ghostly errors..." —Edwin Hubble, The Realm of the Nebulae (1936) The legend goes that, playing one day in their father's spectacle shop, two Dutch children realized that if they looked through both a concave lens close to their eye and a concave lens held at arm's length, the local church tower was greatly magnified. Their father, Hans Lippershey (circa 1570-1619), then mounted the two lenses in a tube and tried to sell the device to the Dutch Army. Whether the credit for this invention should go to Lippershey or to, for example, Zacharius Janssen or Jacob Metius, or even the Englishman Leonard Digges, has become a matter of considerable debate. At the very least, Lippershey is generally credited with popularizing the device, and creating and disseminating designs for the first practical telescope. Soon similar instruments, known as "Dutch Trunks," were appearing all over Europe. The Italian astronomer and physicist Galileo Galilei heard about the new device when he was in Venice in May 1609. Returning to his university in nearby Padua, he made a telescope that magnified by about twenty times and had a field of view of about one-tenth of a degree. Using this, he discovered that the sun had spots, Jupiter was accompanied by four satellites, Venus had phases, and the moon was mountainous. These results he published in March 1610 in his work, Siderius Nuncius (The Sidereal Messenger). Telescopic astronomy never looked back. By 1611, the German astronomer Johannes Kepler was using a telescope consisting of two convex lenses, an instrument that gave greater magnification but an inverted image. In 1668 the English genius Sir Isaac Newton invented the reflecting telescope, which uses a curved mirror rather than a large lens to collect and focus light, thus eliminating the problem of severe chromatic aberration. Notes: - The telescope with which Galileo explored the solar system is held at the Museo della Scienza, Florence. ---- Flintlock Invented: c. 1612 Summary: An unknown French gunsmith devises a mechanism for igniting gunpowder.  "Political power... grows out of the barrel of a gun... —Mao Zedong, political leader The basic mechanism from which the traditional flintlock originated is thought to have first appeared on a firearm made for King Louis XIII of France. The name of the French courtier Marin Le Bourgeoys appears on the flintlock, and it is thought to have been made in about 1612. The flintlock works as follows. First, the hammer of the gun, which holds a piece of flint, is pulled back or rotated to the half-cock position. Gunpowder is poured into the barrel, followed by ammunition— often a steel ball—and both are pressed into position with a ramrod. A small amount of finely ground gunpowder is then placed in a compartment below the hammer, known as the flashpan. The hammer is then pulled back or rotated to the full-cock position, and the gun is ready to be fired. When the trigger is pulled, the hammer springs forward and its flint hits the frizzen, a curving piece of steel. The frizzen moves aside to expose the gunpowder in the flashpan, and sparks from the flint ignite the gunpowder in the flash pan; this, in turn, explodes the main gunpowder charge, which projects the ball out of the barrel. Anyone wishing to discharge a round of ammunition successfully anytime in the seventeenth or eighteenth centuries was obliged to master the sequence of actions required by the flintlock mechanism. Even the fastest experts took about fifteen seconds to load and fire a flintlock weapon. The flintlock is responsible for a number of phrases in the English language still in use today. "Lock, stock, and barrel" and "going off half-cocked" both have their origins in flintlock operation. ---- Cigarette Invented: 1614 Summary: Beggars in Seville find a new way to smoke. When Christopher Columbus arrived in the Americas in 1492 he was struck by the locals' indulgence in an unfamiliar habit. The Mayans had been smoking dried tobacco leaves since the first century B.C.E., and by the time the Spanish sailors discovered the New World the custom had spread throughout the continent. Possibly thinking their foreign visitors divine, the indigenous Arawaks offered Columbus and his men some of the leaves—who immediately threw them away. One member of the crew, Rodrigo de Jerez, was not as skeptical, though, and very soon he also "drank" the dried tobacco leaves wrapped in palm or maize, thus becoming the first European smoker. Back home, his newly acquired habit frightened his compatriots so muchthat the Inquisition put him in jail. Over the next few centuries the practice gradually spread all over the world, but to a mixed reception. Initially European doctors praised its medicinal properties—the French ambassador to Portugal, Jean Nicot de Villemain (who gave nicotine its name) even described it as "a panacea." Soon, however, people were beginning to realize its dangers and ban it. Mexico was the first country to outlaw smoking in places of worship, in 1575, and Turkey, Russia, and China temporarily declared the habit to be a crime punishable by execution in the 1630s. A few years before that, in 1614, Seville in southern Spain had become the center of cigar making. It was here, in the same year, that beggars created the first cigarettes by taking leftover tobacco from cigars and rolling it in paper. However, snuff, cigars, and pipes remained more popular than cigarettes in the West for another 250 years, but then British soldiers fighting in the Crimean War (1853-1856) were won over by the cigarettes smoked by their Turkish allies. ---- Slide Rule Invented: c. 1622 Inventor: William Oughtred (England) Summary: Oughtred creates a ready-reckoner.  "A computer who must make many difficult calculations usually has a slide rule close at hand." —Pickett manual The slide rule is a mechanical device used to carry out complicated mathematical functions. It is based on two logarithmic scales that move parallel to each other and are aligned according to the desired calculation. To multiply two numbers, for example, the logs are added and raised to the power ten; to divide, the logs are subtracted. In 1620 Edmund Gunter (1581-1626), an English clergyman and Gresham College Professor of Astronomy, produced a logarithmic scale and used dividers to take off specific distances to do the calculations. William Oughtred (1574-1660), mathematician and rector of Albury, did away with the dividers by using two sliding Gunter rules side by side in circa 1622 and described his circular slide rule in Circles of Proportion and the Horizontal Instrument (1632). Sliding different distances multiplied and divided by different quantities. Seth Partridge (16171689) invented the modern slide rule in which the inner scale (the slide) is held by, and moves within, the outer scales, known as the stock or body of the rule. In 1775 John Robertson added a cursor (an etched line in a transparent sliding attached plate) so that settings could be noted and transferred to any of a series of parallel scales. By 1815, P. M. Roget had added log-log scales, enabling powers, exponentials, and roots to be assessed easily. ---- Mechanical Calculator Invented: c. 1623 Inventor: Wilhelm Schickard (Germany) Summary: Schickard automates the manipulation of figures.  "It computes the given numbers automatically; adds, subtracts, multiplies, and divides." —Wilhelm Schickard Early inventions to speed up calculations focused on manual solutions such as Napier's bones, which consisted of multiplication tables inscribed onto bones for calculating sums. Seeing John Napier's work, the German polymath Wilhelm Schickard (1592-1635) created a mechanical calculator that automated the process of calculation and incorporated Napier's bones. In 1623, he designed and built the "calculating clock." At around the size of a typewriter, it could handle numbers of up to six digits in length. The calculator used a direct gear drive and rotating wheels to add and subtract. When a wheel made a complete turn, the wheel adjacent rotated one-tenth of a turn. Dials on the lower part of the machine were turned one way to perform addition, and the opposite way to perform subtraction. These dials were joined by teeth-bearing internal wheels that carried one digit every time the wheel passed from nine to zero. The upper part of the machine used Napier's bones to multiply and divide. The machine was fitted with a bell that rang when a calculation produced a result of more than six digits (and was thus too long to display). Schickard began building a replica of his calculating clock for astronomer Johannes Kepler but it was never completed because a fire engulfed his workshop. He gave Kepler detailed instructions on how to build the calculator, but then Schickard and his family died of the plague in the 1630s and the prototype was lost. It was not until the 1950s that a sketch of the calculating clock was discovered among Kepler's papers in Russia, proving that Schickard was the originator of the mechanical calculator. ---- Vernier Scale Invented: 1631 Inventor: Pierre Vernier (France) Summary: Vernier refines micro measurement.  "There are... fixed boundaries, beyond and about which that which is right cannot exist." —Horace, Satires, Book 1 (35 B.C.E.) Vernier callipers are a sliding, adjustable-jaw device for measuring distances of a few centimeters to an accuracy of 0.01 centimeters. A main (ruler) scale is marked off with 0.1 centimeter divisions. Sliding parallel and alongside the main scale is a much smaller vernier scale on which ten divisions are equally spaced over 0.9 centimeters of the main scale. To subdivide the 0.1 centimeter division on the main scale into ten, the user has to select the nearest vernier division that is in line with one of the main scale divisions. The scale was invented by French scientist and engineer Pierre Vernier (1580-1637), and the details were published in his 1631 book, La Construction, I'usage, et les proprietes du quadrant nouveau de mathematiques {The Construction, Uses, and Properties of a New Mathematical Quadrant), published in Brussels. Vernier was interested in cartography and surveying, and his vernier was first used on the circular scale of a quadrant theodolite. The scale enabled angles to be measured with ease to an accuracy of one minute of arc (one-sixtieth of a degree). Unfortunately, dividing a circular scale into an equal number of uniform degrees was a matter of considerable complexity and vernier scales did not become a common adjunct to angle-measuring devices such as telescopes and theodolites until the early nineteenth century. ---- Screw Micrometer Invented: 1635 Inventor: William Gascoigne (England) Summary: Gascoigne improves precise measurements. William Gascoigne (1612-44) was an English mathematician and astronomer, renowned for making scientific instruments. He was intrigued by the vernier scale and saw its potential for measuring the angular distances between stars. In circa 1635, while working on precision optics, he noticed that a thread from a spider's web had become trapped at the exact focal point of two lenses, and that he could therefore see it sharply. This inspired him to create a thin marker that could be placed at the focal point of a lens. He added a second linear marker so that, when he looked through his telescope lens, two parallel lines could be seen within the field of view. One of the markers he linked to a very fine screw thread, which could be used to adjust the distance between the two markers—the other of which would remain fixed. As the angular size of the field of view of a telescope was known, Gascoigne's invention enabled precise measurements to be made of the positions of astronomical objects in the sky. Gascoigne's micrometer revolutionized accurate measurements in astronomy, but there were other uses to be discovered for this device, beside acting as a finely calibrated telescope sight. British engineer James Watt, best known for his invention of the steam engine, adapted Gascoigne's idea in 1776 to produce a handheld micrometer screw gauge that measured actual sizes of small objects. By replacing the markers with callipers, and by knowing the size of the threads on the screw which adjusted them, he was able to add measuring wheels to the head of the screw. This allowed minute adjustments and measurements to be made. Watts's instrument significantly advanced the ability of manufacturers to make machine parts of precise dimensions. ---- Barometer Invented: 1643 Inventor: Evangelista Torricelli (Italy) Summary: Torricelli researches atmospheric pressure. Interest in atmospheric pressure arose when miners and well-diggers realized that pumps and siphons would only raise water to a maximum distance of about 33 feet (10 m). Hearing that the Grand Duke of Tuscany had a suction pump that could not raise water as far as he wanted, the Italian physicist Evangelista Torricelli (1608-1647) investigated the problem in 1643, creating what is known as the Torricelli tube. Imagine that you have such a tube of straight glass, 40 inches (100 cm) long, sealed at one end and filled with mercury, and you carefully invert this tube, keeping the open end dipped in a reservoir of mercury. The mercury will retreat down the tube leaving a vacuum at the top. The height of mercury above the reservoir level will be about 30 inches (75 cm), and the weight of the mercury in the tube will be supported by the pressure exerted by the Earth's atmosphere as it presses down on the mercury in the reservoir. At the time, many natural philosophers were interested in the properties of the vacuum, and the Torricelli tube was a common demonstration experiment at their meetings. Blaise Pascal (16231662) fitted the tube with a graduated scale around the 1660s, and what was a one-off demonstration device developed into an important instrument for measuring the variations of atmospheric pressure. Pascal asked his brother-in-law to carry a mercury barometer up the nearby Puy-de Dome mountain and learned that atmospheric pressure decreases with height. Edmund Halley quantified the decrease as being exponential. People at the time noted how the pressure changes with the weather, and the barometer, in various forms, has been an essential tool in weather forecasting since the nineteenth century. ---- Vacuum Pump Invented: 1650 Inventor: Otto von Guericke (Germany) Summary: Guericke exploits the vacuum. "h vacuum is a hell of a lot better than some of the stuff that nature replaces it with." Tennessee Williams, Caton a Hot Tin Roof (1955) A vacuum is an empty space containing nothing, not even air. Anything containing a vacuum has a much lower pressure on its inside t|pan its outside, and this creates a tremendous force. Otto von Guericke (1602-1686), a German scientist, was the first to experiment with the power of the vacuum. In his experiments, he filled containers with water and then used a suction pump to remove the water while trying to avoid letting in any air. Wood was useless for this as it leaked air, so he used glass or metal containers. To minimize air intake, Guericke put his container in another layer of water as it was easier to stop water leakage than air leakage. The inward pressure on the containers was often so great that they would collapse. Further trials led Guericke to the conclusion that spherical containers were optimal because their smooth shape avoided weak points in the structure. To prove the power of his discovery, Guericke demonstrated to Emperor Ferdinand III that neither fifty men nor teams of horses could pull apart two copper hemispheres that contained a vacuum. . In science vacuums are most commonly used for their ability to create a truly empty space, enabling the study of particles without the confusion of air. They are essential in many machines used in industry for pumping liquids and other materials, moving objects, and powering heavy machinery. ---- Pendulum Clock Invented: 1656 Inventor: Christiaan Huygens (Dutch) Summary: Huygens uses the pendulum to improve timekeeping accuracy.  "While fancy, like the finger of a clock, runs the great circuit, and is still at home." —William Cowper, "The Winter Evening" (1785) Around 1602 Galileo Galilei noticed that the swing period of a pendulum was nearly independent of the amplitude of the oscillation, and this became the most important discovery in the history of horology. In 1656 Dutch mathematician and astronomer Christiaan Huygens (1629-1695) was the first to use a pendulum as a regulating oscil'ator in a clock. The swing period of a pendulum is only a function of :ts length and the local gravitational field, unlike the verge and balance (foliot) oscillator, which it replaced, which had an oscillation period that depended on the force exerted by the driving spring. Within years of Huygens's discovery, weight-driven pendulum clocks were appearing all over Europe. To provide a sufficient distance for the weights to fall, and to accommodate a reasonably long pendulum—a two-second tick-tock requires a pendulum 3 feet (1 m) long--these clocks were put in long floor-standing cases. These "grandfather" clocks were reliable to an impressive (in those days) twenty seconds a day. Around 1670 the invention of the anchor escapement led to improvements in timekeeping by enabling the amplitude of the pendulum oscillation to be reduced. In 1676 the more fragile dead-beat escapement was introduced to high-accuracy regulat'ng clocks. This escapement gave the pendulum a "push" only when it was near its vertical position. Coupled with a pendulum made of bars of different metals (usually brass and steel), it ensured that the length did not change as the temperature changed. The accuracy improved to about one second per day, an important aid in the work of astronomical observatories. ---- Magic Lantern Invented: c. 1659 Inventor: Christiaan Huygens (Dutch) Summary: Huygens makes the first image projector.  "...a Ianthorn, with pictures on glass, to make strange things appear on a wall, very pretty." —Samuel Pepys, diarist The "magic" lantern was used to project still images onto a wall or sheet and was an early version of the slide projector. The idea has been understood for many centuries. Light, shining through a translucent picture, will project the image onto a light-colored flat surface. The earliest reference to the use of a lantern to project images is in Liber Instrumentorum by Giovanni de Fontana, written around 1420. Optics developed rapidly in Europe during the seventeenth century. As early as 1659, Dutch scientist Christiaan Huygens (1629-1695) had made a lantern with a lens to focus the light and produce a sharp image. Danish mathematician Thomas Walgensten (1627-1681) traveled throughout Europe in the 1660s, selling the lantema magica. Numerous designs survive from this period and, in 1663, optician John Reeves of London was making and selling lanterns. The diarist Samuel Pepys (1633-1703) boughtonefrom Reeves in 1666. During the eighteenth century, improvements in lenses, light sources, and mirrors transformed the magic lantern into a powerful projector. Showmen traveled throughout Europe putting on elaborate "phantasmagoria" shows, using magic lanterns to present ghost and horror stories. ---- Hygrometer Invented: 1664 Inventor: Francesco Folli (Italy) Summary: FolIi measures air humidity. The most sticky, hot, and humid places in the world tend to be found in Southeast Asia, near coastal regions around the equator. Anyone who is not used to the heavy, damp, often motionless air can find them to be very uncomfortable places to live. Humidity, the moisture content of the air, tends to be high in these places because the heat of the sun causes the air to absorb increased moisture from the surrounding seas and oceans—the air in cold latitudes is relatively dry. But it was not until the 1600s that people were able to measure air humidity. Technically, Leonardo da Vinci designed the first crude hygrometer in the 1440s, but in 1664 the first practical hygrometer, used to measure the moisture content of air, was invented by the Italian scientist Francesco Folli (1624-1685). Folli's invention was a finely decorated device, made of brass, that contained a mounted paper ribbon acting as a hygroscopic (moisture-absorbing) indicator. When the ribbon changed in length as a result of changes in its water volume, a simple mechanical system moved a pointer on a central brass dial marked with a graduated scale. The pointer indicated variations in humidity. Some modern hygrometers still use principles very similar to those of Folli's original design. One commonly seen improvement of the original is that blond human hair, rather than paper ribbon, is the medium used to expand and contract in response to variations in atmospheric moisture. However, there are now many different types of hygrometer. The most common is the dry and wetbulb psychrometer, which compares readings of dry and water-immersed thermometers. Others use semiconductors to measure changes in electrical resistance, which is affected by humidity. ---- Pressure Cooker Invented: 1679 Inventor: Denis Papin (France) Summary: Papin's "steam digester" prefigures the modern cooking vessel.  "Papin doth not think... that any thing better can be made for such things, as must be stew'd...." —Denis Papin, Philosophical Transactions (1683-1775) There is a story that when French scientist and inventor Denis Papin (1647-1712) first demonstrated his wonderfully named "digester" to London's Royal Society in 1679, the device'exploded. So another invention swiftly came into being: Papin's safety valve, which went on to have other applications. By 1682, a refined version of the steam digester proved excellent at cooking food and making nutritious bones soft and tasty. After a demonstration dinner at the Royal Society in that year, one guest, leading horticulturalist John Evelyn, noted in his diary that food served up from the digester was among "the most delicious that I have ever seen or tasted." Papin was an interesting character of diverse scientific interests. Trained in medicine as a young man, he had long been interested in food preservation. His tightly sealed digester vessel showed how atmospheric pressure affected boiling points. Under high pressure, water in the vessel produced steam that cooked food quickly at temperatures far higher than those possible in a saucepan. The cooked food was meltingly soft, its nutrients and flavor were preserved, and the cooker used little fuel. Papin quickly saw that the impoverished were among those who would benefit greatly from his device. Papin went on to experiment with similar principles in various important early steam-engine prototypes that he developed. Meanwhile his digester also informed the history of the autoclave (whose uses include sterilizing medical instruments) and became the modern pressure cooker, which still works very much to his template. ---- Universal Joint Invented: 1676 Inventor: Robert Hooke (England) Summary: Hooke joins rotating shafts together. The name of Robert Hooke (1635-1703) pops up frequently in the late seventeenth century. This was a time when a small number of scientists led the whole world in new discoveries across various scientific fields, and of this distinguished group Hooke was one of the most accomplished. The English polymath discovered the laws of physics that govern elasticity and now bear his name. He was the first person to use the word "cell" to describe the basic building blocks that made up living things. In addition, Hooke was also a top architect— even collaborating on projects with Sir Christopher Wren. But among all of his achievements it was his often overlooked invention of the universal joint that opened up whole new possibilities to the world of applied mechanics. Like many inventions, the universal joint evolved as the solution to a problem that the inventor had encountered personally. Hooke was a serious astronomer and recognized that the best way to improve knowledge of the universe was by building Petter and more accurate equipment. But some of his projects, which involved turning sma'I screws at angles to gears with teeth, were beyond the contemporary level of manufacturing. In 1676, while working on a way to operate an adjusting arm for his helioscope, he created the first working model of a joint that allowed power to be transmitted from one rotating shaft to another. Critically, his joint allowed for the two shafts to be at angles to each other, and maintain the angle while rotating. This made it possible, for the first time, for a rotating shaft essentially to be able to go around corners, opening up a new world of possibilities for machine designs of all types. ---- Centrifugal Pump Invented: 1689 Inventor: Denis Papin (France) Summary: Papin improves mine ventilation.  "Today, centrifugal pumps and compressors have reached efficiency levels above 90 percent." —Abraham Engeda, Michigan State University The centrifugal pump works by drawing in a fluid (a liquid or gas) at the center of a cylindrical chamber that contains a rotating impeller with vanes. This forces the fluid to rotate outward toward the wall of the cylinder before flowing into an outlet pipe. The rotation of the fluid causes the liquid to leave with a higher velocity and pressure than when it entered. The centrifugal pump was invented by French scientist Denis Papin in 1689 as he attempted to solve the problem of ventilating mines. Papin's device was used to pump air through mines and was also applied to furnaces, where it was known as the Hessian bellows. The basic centrifugal pump was improved by John Appold, who carried out an exhaustive study on the effect of blade shape on pump efficiency. He found that curved vanes on the impeller drastically increased the pump's efficiency. At the Great Exhibition of 1851, Appold showed his improved design, which was nearly three times more efficient than that of its nearest rival. The new design propelled the development of the centrifugal impeller, which found applications in compressors as well as pumps. Centrifugal pumps are currently used in areas of power generation, water supply, and general industry. They are widely used in the petroleum and chemical industries because they are relatively inexpensive and can handle large volumes of fluid. ---- Metronome Invented: 1696 Inventor: Etienne Loulie (France) Summary: Loulie's device sounds out musical tempo.  "Tempoi parendum. (One should be compliant with the times.)" —Maxim of Theodosius II The tempo of a piece of music, that is, the number of beats per minute, can be established using a metronome, a type of compact, adjustable, loud clock. The most common type Is powered by simple clockwork and has a vertical metal rod that swings from side to side making a loud clicking sound at every swing. The rate of swing can be adjusted by moving a small weight up or down the swinging bar. Up decreases the tempo, and down increases it. This helps musicians not only establish the intended beat, but also maintain it throughout a musical piece. The first metronome was made in 1696 by the Parisian Etienne Loulie (1654-1702). This required a single-weighted pendulum, similar to that of a grandfather clock. It had no clock escapement to maintain the pendulum in motion, so it only gave the musician the beat for a limited time. In 1812 Dietrich Nikolaus Winkel invented a version in Amsterdam. His breakthrough was the realization that a short, 8-inch (20 cm) metal pendulum, weighted both above and below the pivot, could be made to sound out a low tempo of forty to sixty beats per minute. Johann Mälzel patented the well-known small portable metronome in 1816 using Winkel's basic design. The first composer to mark his music with the expected metronome-regulated tempo was Ludwig van Beethoven, in around 1817. Needless to say, electronic metronomes now vie with the mechanical version. These include sophistications such as additional sounds, and can sound out complicated time signatures, such as 5/4, that are beyond the range of their predecessors. ---- Steam Pump Invented: 1698 Inventor: Thomas Savery (England) Summary: Savery uses steam to drain floodwater from mine shafts.  "...such an engine may be made large enough to do the work of ten, fifteen, or twenty horses..." —Thomas Savery, The Miner's Friend (1702) Coal mining is difficult and risky work, and one of the dangers in the mine shafts is flooding. While this is something modern equipment can easily handle, the best remedy for flooding in the late seventeenth century was baling with a bucket. The problem caught the attention of English military engineer Thomas Savery (c. 1650-1715), who set out to make draining faster and easier. Savery's solution was to fight fire with fire, or in this case, fight water with steam. Steam's power had been revealed by French physicist Denis Papin and his pressure cooker in 1679. Papin had observed that bottled-up steam lifted the cooker's lid, and he envisioned steam doing the same to a piston in an engine. Papin's work inspired Savery to put steam to work in the mines. In 1698 Savery patented "The Miner's Friend," a rudimentary steam engine for pumping waterfrom mine shafts. Savery's device used pressurized steam to farce water up a drainage pipe placed with one end in the flooded shaft. Savery's pumping system had dozens of parts—drainage pipes, valves, boilers, connector pipes, steam delivery pipes, condensers, furnaces— and one big limitation: distance. Floodwater would only travel as far as it was forced by the pressure of the steam. Savery's pump had a limit of about 25 feet (7.6 m), which curtailed its use in underground mining. The distance limitation of Savery's pump was solved by Thomas Newcomen's atmospheric steam engine, but Savery's patent barred Newcomen from manufacturing his machine. The inventor went into business with Savery to avoid legal difficulties, and soon their engines were highly sought after. ---- Seed Drill Invented: 1701) Inventor: Jethro Tull (England) Summary: Tull achieves eightfold productivity by transforming how seeds are sown.  "When tillage begins, other arts follow. The farmers therefore are the founders of human civilization." —Daniel Webster, American statesman, 1840 English farmer Jethro Tull (1674-1741) despaired at the waste of seeds that resulted from sowing them by scattering. Seeds would falftoo close together, or onto stony ground, lie at differing depths, and plants would grow with no soil between them from which the crop could be weeded, tended, and harvested. Tull's horsedrawn wooden seed drill improved on this situation and resulted in crop yields of up to eight times those where the seeds had been scattered. A shaped wooden drill dug an even groove of the right depth into the soil and seeds from the hopper mounted above it trickled into the groove, evenly spaced by the forward movement of the horse. Tull mounted three drills alongside each other in the machine, and so could plant three rows of seeds at a time, leaving space between these triple rows. As a young man, Tull traveled in continental Europe in what were the early years of the Age of Enlightenment and was inspired by some of the scientific ideas he encountered. Although he is best known for inventing the seed drill, he also introduced the use of workhorses instead of cattle, invented a horsedrawn hoe, and developed the design of the plow in ways that are still in use today. Some of his ideas proved controversial at the time, and his observation that crop nutrients are released from the soil by pulverization turned out to be misguided, but much of what he achieved established the foundations of modern agriculture in Britain, Some decades before the start of the industrial and agricultural revolutions. ---- Coke-based Iron Smelting Invented: 1709 Inventor: Abraham Darby I (England) Summary: Darby revolutionizes iron making. Before the introduction of plastics, iron was one of the most multipurpose materials, used to make almost everything. However, the only pure iron on Earth fell from space as meteorites, and that is far too rare to rely on. Most iron has been pushed up to the Earth's crust by activity in the planet's core, but this has reacted with many other elements, resulting in iron ore, rather than pure elemental iron. The process of separating iron from ore is called smelting: The ore is heated to a temperature at which it becomes a liquid, and then the metal is separated from the waste. Charcoal is one of the few materials that burns hot enough to melt iron. In Britain the iron industry originally moved around the country, burning forests and then moving on, but by the seventeenth century the industry was running out of trees and wood was becoming much more expensive. Also, charcoal is soft, which means that the furnaces had to be smal, and iron could never be mass-produced. An alternative was needed. Coal was no good because elements from it get into the iron and make it weak, but in the same ways that charcoal can be made from wood, coal can produce a material ca'ied coke. Coke was cleaner than the alternatives and, in 1709, ironmaster Abraham Darby I (1678-1717) built the first coke-fired blast furnace. He was the first of three generations of Abraham Darbys to perform pioneering works in the iron industry. The purity of the iron made it stronger and the use of coke allowed bigger furnaces. Soon large quantities of iron were available cheaply in Britain, playing an important role in the Industrial Revolution and in making Britain one of the dominant world powers at that time. ---- Atmospheric Steam Engine Invented: 1712 Inventor: Thomas Newcomen (England) Summary: Newcomen improves mine drainage.  "Those who admire modern civilization usually identify it with the steam engine..." —George Bernard Shaw, playwright and writer Thomas Newcomen (1663-1729), a Devonshire blacksmith, developed the first successful steam engine in the world and used it to pump water from mines. His engine was a development of the thermic syphon built by Thomas Savery, whose surface condensation patents blocked his own designs. Newcomen's engine allowed steam to condense inside a water-cooled cylinder, the vacuum produced by this condensation being used to draw down a tightly fitting piston that was connected by chains to one end of a huge, wooden, centrally pivoted beam. The other end of the beam was attached by chains to a pump at the bottom of the mine. The whole system was run safely at near atmospheric pressure, the weight of the atmosphere being used to depress the piston into the evacuated cylinder. Newcomen's first atmospheric steam engine worked at Conygree in the West Midlands of England. Many more were built in the next seventy years, the initial brass cylinders being replaced by larger cast iron ones, some up to 6 feet (1.8 m) in diameter. The engine was relatively inefficient, and in areas where coal was not plentiful was eventually replaced by doubleacting engines designed by James Watt (1736-1819). These used both sides of the cylinders for power strokes and usually had separate condensers. ---- Mercury Thermometer Invented: 1714 Inventor: Dante Gabriel Fahrenheit (Poland) Summary: Fahrenheit initiates the standardized measurement of temperature.  "Scientists should return to the plainness... of Observations on material and obvious things." —Robert Hooke, Micrographia (1664) In a mercury thermometer, mercury in a small glass bulb expands into an evacuated, linear, uniform crosssection glass tube; the amount of expansion is used to measure the temperature of'the bulb. Dante Gabriel Fahrenheit (1686-1736) left Gdansk, Poland, and eventually became a glassblower and scientific instrument maker in the Netherlands. His first glass thermometer (1709) used alcohol as the expanding fluid, but this has a limited temperature difference between its freezing and boiling points. In 1714 Fahrenheit turned to mercury, a liquid metal that expands uniformly over normal temperature ranges. Fahrenheit insisted that thermometer results should be universally reproducible, and similar temperatures should be represented by the same number. To this end he introduced, in 1724, three "fixed" points and eight graduations on his thermometer tube. Zero degrees was the lowest temperature that he could obtain in the laboratory, the temperature of a mixture of water, water ice, and ammonium chloride. Thirty-two was the temperature of an ice/pure water mixture, and ninety-six degrees was the normal temperature of a human body. From 1717 Fahrenheit was selling thermometers from a base in Amsterdam, and these, and his temperature scale, became widely used throughout Britain, the Netherlands, and Germany. More recently the Fahrenheit scale has been defined using the freezing and boiling points of pure water, at normal atmospheric pressure, as 32 and 212 degrees (0 and 100°C). Here our typical body temperature becomes 98.6°F (37°C). ---- Padlock Invented: 1720 Inventor: Christopher Polhem (Sweden) Summary: Polhem devises a portable lock that effectively resists tampering.  "Lock-and-key n. The distinguishing device of civilization and enlightenment." —Ambrose Bierce, writer and journalist Primitive padlocks have been around since medieval times, but their design left them prone to force or picking. In 1720, Swedish inventor Christopher Polhem (1661-1751) conjured up a lock that was much more resistant to the dexterous hands of lockpickers. Polhem was one of the most gifted mechanical engineers of his day. After studying mathematics, physics, and engineering at Uppsala University, he set up as a clock repairer. His ingenuity was soon spotted by important patrons, including King Charles XI of Sweaen. Polhem went on to design many intricate devices both small (watch mechanisms) and large (industrial machinery). Perhaps his most enduring invention, however, was the padlock. His basic design comprises an elliptical cast iron body containing a series of rotating disks. When locked, the disks fit into grooves on the shackle (the U-shaped bar on top of the padlock), preventing its release from the body. Notches on the discs can be aligned with those on the shackle by rotating the correct key, thus releasing the shackle and allowing the lock to be opened. The Swedish inventor's device became known as the Polhem lock, or Scandinavian lock, and Polhem started a factory in Stjärnsund to produce it. The Scandinavian lock came to dominate the market. The design was later strengthened by the American locksmith Harry Soref, who founded the Master Lock Company in 1921. A modified version of this design is still in use today. For his many achievements, Polhem has been honored by appearing on the back of the 500 Swedish kronor note. ---- Pitot Tube Invented: 1732 Inventor: Henri Pitot (France) Summary: Pitot measures air and liquid flow rates. The Pitot (pronounced pea-tow) tube is an eighteenthcentury invention still flying high amid twenty-first-century technology. Designed by French astronomer, engineer, and mathematician Henri Pitot (1695-1771), this deceptively simple device is essentially a differential pressure gauge and can be used for a variety of flow-rate or speed-measuring purposes. Pitot's pet interest was water flow, and his personal research led him to conclude that much of the accepted wisdom of the day was incorrect. He would not accept, for example, the prevailing theory that, other things being equal, the speed of flowing water increased with depth. His tube, demonstrated at the French Academy of Sciences in 1732, would show that he was right: it does not. As well as being used in a fixed position to determine the flow rate of a liquid or gas, the L-shaped tube may be attached to a boat or airplane to measure the craft's forward speed. In all cases, the tube functions by registering the difference between the ambient pressure surrounding it and the pressure created by the flow into it (the "impact" pressure), which will increase with speed. The resulting comparative measurements can be displayed via suitable instrumentation. Various improvements to the basic design have been made over the years, although Henri Darcy's 1858 design is more or less the one still in use today. Today, variations of, and uses for, Pitot's amazing little tube continue to grow; multiport versions exist to enable the measurement of the impact and static pressures at different points. They can be seen on Formula 1 racing cars and spacecraft. They have even been configured to perform an additional role as an aircraft antenna. ---- Baby Carriage Invented: 1733 Inventor: William Kent (England) Summary: Kent creates a child's amusement.  "Nobody outside of a baby carriage... believes in an unprejudiced point of view." —Lillian Hellman, playwright The first known design for a baby carriage was produced in 1733 by William Kent (c. 1685-1748), the renowned English landscape-garden designer. Today the baby carriage is an essential tool for any family with children, but it was originally intended as an entertainment. Kent, who as a designer could turn his hand from furniture to ladies clothes as well as gardens, was commissioned by the third Duke of Devonshire to design something to amuse his children. He produced a shell-shaped vehicle in which a baby could sit, with an attached harness designed to fit a small pony, a dog, or a goat. Baby carriages quickly became popular among the wealthy as fashionable toys. Gradually changes were made to their design, with one of the most significant being the addition of handles, which allowed a person to push the vehicle. The carriages became more popular in the 1840s when Queen Victoria bought three of the new push-style versions from Hitchings Baby Store of Ludgate Hill. The next breakthrough came in 1889 with a new design created by William H. Richardson, who devised a special joint that enabled the bassinet to be turned to face the handles, as seen in many modern designs. He also improved the axles enabling the wheels to turn individually allowing for great maneuverability. Many of his design features are still used today. ---- Flying Shuttle Invented: 1733 Inventor: John Kay (England) Summary: Kay vastly speeds up the weaving process. Archeologists have found a model of a loom in an Egyptian tomb from 4,000 years ago. Yet the development of loom technology was slow until 1733, when John Kay (1704-1780) invented the flying shuttle. Looms interlace two sets of yarn or threads together to form cloth. The first set of threads is placed lengthwise along the loom and is called the warp. The second set of threads is called the weft. The weft is carried between the warp threads by a shuttle. In traditional looms, weavers passed the shuttle through the warp by hand, and it was a slow process. Kay's flying shuttle moved on wheels in a track through the warp when the weaver pulled a cord. This was much faster than hand weaving, and could also be used to create much wider fabrics than previously possible. Kay did not receive much benefit from his invention because weavers saw the flying shuttle as a threat to their livelihoods. They believed—incorrectly as it turned out—that the demand for doth was constant, so if looms were more efficient, fewer weavers would be needed. Although manufacturers were glad to use Kay's invention, they did not pay him any royalties. Kay died a poor man in 1780. The flying shuttle created a huge demand for yarn. At the time, yarn spinning was a slow process done by hand. Over the next fifty-five years, inventors worked on machines to increase the productivity of spinners. These included the spinning jenny, the water frame, and the spinning mule. All these inventions made cotton items affordable to many more people. Notes: - Eighteenth-century weavers' shuttles had rollers and were iron-tipped to reduce friction. ---- Franklin Stove Circulating Fireplace Invented: 1742 Inventor: Benjamin Franklin (US) Summary: Franklin invents a safer and more efficient way of heating wooden buildings.  "The use of these fireplaces in very many houses... is a great saving of wood to the inhabitants." —Benjamin Franklin, statesman and scientist Before inventing the lightning rod and bifocal lenses, American statesman and polymath Benjamin Franklin (1706-1790) had turned his attention to keeping peoples' homes warm and safe. In the eighteenth century many homes in the United States, built of wood and heated by open hearths, were at great risk of fire. This had concerned Franklin since at least 1735, when he organized the first volunteer fire department in his adopted home town of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. He also called for building regulations to include minimum safety standards in fireplace design—modern standards are still based on them. In 1742 he designed a new stove that he called the "Pennsylvania fireplace"; it was later called the "Franklin stove" or "circulating fireplace." The stove was a box lined with metal that stood away from the wall, improving efficiency compared to the standard fireplace where much of the heat was lost to the wall behind it. He also added flat plates or "baffles" at the stove's rear to improve the flow of air. The only flaw, later fixed by Franklin, was that smoke had to escape through the base of the stove, and it filled the room. The stove was first manufactured by Franklin's friend Robert Grace, but the inventor refused to patent the device in order to keep the technology freely available—a story that is often cited as an early example of open-source development. The freedom to tinker with Franklin's design was explored in the 1780s by David Rittenhouse, who added an L-shaped chimney. History has preferred to call it the Franklin stove nonetheless, and there are many in use to this day. ---- Leyden Jar Invented: 1745 Inventor: Pieter van Musschenbroek (Dutch) Summary: Van Musschenbroek demonstrates that electricity can be stored and then discharged.  "My whole body was shaken as though by a thunderbolt." —Pieter Van Musschenbroek, physicist In 1745 the Dutch physicist Pieter van Musschenbroek (1692-1791) took a sealed glass vial partially filled with water, passed a conducting wire through a cork at one end and attached it to a nearby Wimshurst friction machine, which generated a static charge. The glass jar, called a Leyden Jar in honor of the inventor's home town and university, absorbed the charge, demonstrating for the first time that electricity could be produced and stored successfully and then discharged through the exposed wire to any grounded object. Musschenbroek tested the device by holding the jar in one hand and touching the charged, exposed wire with the other. He received such a shock that he swore not even a promise of the entire French nation could persuade him to do so again. The Leyden jar created a sensation within the worldwide scientific community. The American inventor Benjamin Franklin called it "Musschenbroek's wonderful bottle." A year later the English physician William Watson, using a modified Leyden jar, successfully transmitted an electric spark along a wire stretched across the River Thames. The precise nature and makeup of electricity proved elusive until the discovery of the electron by J. J. Thompson in 1897. Though cumbersome and grossly inefficient by modern standards, this forerunner of the modern capacitor represented the eighteenth century's single most significant advance in the understanding and harnessing of electricity. It facilitated a greater understanding of the nature of conductivity and led to a more mathematical approach in the study of the attraction of electrified bodies. The original Leyden jar of 1745 was made of glass and had metal foil coatings inside and out. ---- Electroscope Invented: 1748 Inventor: Jean-Antoine Nollet (France) Summary: Nollet's device detects and measures electric charge.  "The electron... crystallizes out of Schrodinger's mist like a genie emerging from his bottle." —Sir Arthur Eddington, Nature of the Physical World Jean-Antoine Nollet (1700-1770) was the first professor of experimental physics at the University of Paris. At that time electrostatics was a topic of great interest. Nollet's electroscope was'designed to detect and crudely measure electric charge. An insulated charge sensor protruded into a cylindrical container, the ends of which were closed by two flat glass windows. The bottom of the sensor (the part in the cylinder) was fitted with two leaves of metal foil (usually gold). If the sensor's opposite, extruding end was brought into contact with a negatively charged body, electrons were repelled into the two leaves and they separated. The degree of separation was a function of the size of the charge. A second negatively charged body contacting the extruding end would cause the leaves to separate more, whereas a positively charged body subsequently applied to the same end wou'd cause the separation to decrease. Earlier electroscopes were mainly used to investigate the amount of charge that could be produced by hand-cranked or foot-treadled frictional electrostatic machines. Here, a globe of glass was charged by rubbing it with a soft material. Nollet was interested in the causes of electrostatic repulsion and attraction and the speed with which electric current flowed. He once estimated the latter by discharging the charge contained in a large Leyden jar through a line of 200 Carthusian monks who were connected to each other by iron wires 25 feet (7.6 m) long. As all the monks leaped with shock at the same time, he concluded that electricity traveled speedily, and could travel a long distance. ---- Water Pillar Pump Invented: 1749 Inventor: József Károly Hell (Hungary) Summary: Hell drains mines with water power. During a period spanning the sixteenth and nineteenth centuries, the Slovakian mining town of Banska Stiavnica rose to fame both as a major source of gold and silver and as a center of excellence in the technologies needed to extract those precious metals. The area became synonymous with advances in ore extraction and processing. Fundamental among the many problems that mining engineers had to overcome at that time was the removal of water from shafts several hundred yards deep. Human and animal power played its part in no small measure; by the end of the seventeenth century, close to a thousand men and hundreds of horses were toiling around the clock to keep the existing pumping systems working. Steam-powered systems were put to the test. However, it was asked that if an abundance of water was the problem, why not work with water, exploit its energy potential, and turn it into the solution? József Hell, senior mining engineer and son of the equally talented Matej Kernel Hell, would become preeminent in the successful implementation of this revolution with his "water pillar" or "water column" pump designs. Hell's first pump, constructed in 1749 at Banska Stiavnica's Leopold mine shaft, was a positive displacement "engine," utilizing a system of pistons and valves quite similar to a steam engine. Instead of steam, however, hydraulic pressure, developed by a column of water obtained from a surface reservoir, was used. It comprised a single, vertical cylinder with a control system using simple rods and hammers that directly operated two-way valves. A second pump could be installed beneath the first, so that the same primary water supply could be used to drive them both and pump water from an even lower level. ---- Lightning Rod Invented: 1752 Inventor: Benjamin Franklin (US) Summary: Franklin proves lightning is electricity.  "Electrical fire would be drawn out of a cloud silently, before it could come near enough to strike." —Benjamin Franklin, statesman and scientist American statesman and inventor Benjamin Franklin (1706-1790) was particularly interested in electricity and set up a small laboratory in his house to investigate its properties. His interest soon switched from electricity to lightning after he noticed similarities between the two. Many scientists had previously noticed a link, but none had managed to prove it. On a stormy night in 1752, he conducted a lifethreatening experiment to demonstrate that lightning is the result of an electrical buildup. He constructed a kite that carried a metal spike and flew it into the thunderstorm. The kite had a key attached near the bottom of the ribbon and Franklin noticed that it sparked as he brought his knuckles close to it. Franklin had shown that lightning was a form of electricity and he went on to use this knowledge to design a lightning rod to protect buildings. The iron rod was between 6 and 10 feet (2 and 3 m) in length, and provided a path of least resistance for the lightning, channeling it safely to the ground. He later showed that sharp rods were betterthan blunt ones for the purpose. Recently it was suggested that the kite experiment was a hoax and that Franklin would have been killed if he had actually been struck by lightning. Some suggest the experiment was real but the sparks observed were actually from an electrical field and not a lightning strike. ---- Linnaean Taxonomy Invented: 1753 Inventor: Carolus Linnaeus (Sweden) Summary: Linnaeus classifies all plant life. Linnaean taxonomy is the system of classification of living organisms that is used throughout the biological sciences. Its inventor, Carolus Linnaeus (1707-1778), spent most of his career in Uppsala, Sweden. Starting with the plant kingdom, Linnaeus created a hierarchy in which plants are grouped, according to similarities in their appearance, into twenty-five phyla, and then each phylum into classes, and these in turn into orders, families, genera, and species. The first description of this system was published by Linnaeus in 1753, in a two-volume work, Species Plantarum. He later applied the same principles to animals and minerals. The most important feature of Linnaean taxonomy is a system known as binomial (or two-name) nomenclature. The first name identifies the genus to which the organism belongs; the second name, its unique species: for example, the common daisy is Bellis perennis. If necessary, the family, order, and phylum to which a genus belongs can be looked up in a floral taxonomy reference book. Linnaeus collected, studied, and classified plants and animals, publishing his findings in successive editions of Systema Naturae. The first edition, published in 1735, was just eleven pages long; the tenth edition, published in 1758, detailed 4,400 species of animals and 7,700 plant species. Linnaean taxonomy, although developed a hundred years before Darwin's theory of evolution, proved to be robust and effective even as scientists have explored the evolutionary relationships between organisms. More recently, comparisons of the genetic codes of individual species have led to some reclassification of plants and animals, but the essential concepts of Linnaean taxonomy remain entirely valid today. ---- Bimetallic Strip Invented: 1755 Inventor: John Harrison (England) Summary: Harrison utilizes metal expansion.  "Some people change their ways when they see the light, others when they feel the heat." —Caroline Schroeder, pianist The bimetallic bar was invented by the Yorkshire clockmaker John Harrison (1693-1776), and was used in his third and fifth chronometers to cancel out thermally induced variations in the balance springs. Imagine two straight strips of metal bar—steel and brass, say—riveted, brazed, or welded together along their length. Brass expands by nineteen parts in a million for every increase in temperature of 1.8°F (1°C), and steel by thirteen parts. Heating the bar will make one metal expand more than the other and cause the bar to bend. In the above example, the brass will be on the outer side of the curve. Cooling the bar will cause it to curve the other way, with the steel on the outside. A spiral bimetallic strip unwinds or tightens as a function of temperature; a cheap, robust thermometer may be made by attaching a pointer. Strips are also used in clocks, forming the circular rim of the balance wheel, where the size of the wheel changes in a way that compensates for temperature variations in the strength of the controlling spring. But by far the most common usage is as a temperature-sensitive contact breaker in thermostatically controlled devices such as refrigerators, ovens, and irons. The fact that the metals conduct electricity means that the moving end of the strip can be used to open and close an electrical switch that is connected to a heater or cooler. ---- Marine Chronometer Invented: 1761 Inventor: John Harrison (England) Summary: Harrison's invention enables mariners to checktheir longitude at sea.  ".. every great captain... became lost at sea despite the best available charts and compasses." —Dava SobeL Longitude (1995) One way of calculating the difference between a longitude at sea and a known longitude (of Greenwich, say) was to ascertain the mean solar time on the ship, by astronomical observations, and compare it with the time at Greenwich. To this end a clock was needed that accurately kept Greenwich time despite being rocked back and forth by the ship. In 1714 the British government offered a £20,000 prize (about £1,000,000 today) to anyone who could find longitude at sea to an accuracy of 0.5 degrees. Yorkshireman John Harrison (1693-1776) decided that an accurate clock was the answer. He built his first marine chronometer in 1735. This spring-driven clock was regulated by two connected balances that oscillated in opposite directions, thus eliminating all the effects of the ship's motion. Intentional variations in the lengths of the balance springs also compensated for temperature changes. Harrison's third chronometer (1759) had a bimetallic temperature compensator and a remontoire to ensure that the escapement driving force was constant. Harrison's fourth chronometer (1761) embodied all his improvements into a large "pocket" watch, about 5 inches (13 cm) in diameter. This watch was carried to Jamaica on board HMS Deptford in 1761. The clock error over the journey was about five seconds, equivalent to a longitude error of about one sixtieth of a degree. The ship's position was thus known to an accuracy of 1.5 miles (2 km). Harrison finally got all his prize money in 1773, and soon every ship was carrying his instrument ---- Spinning Jenny Invented: 1764 Inventor: James Hargreaves (England) Summary: Hargreaves transforms cotton spinning.  "The Industrial Revolution... opened an age of... production for the needs of the masses." —Ludwig von Mises, economist Spinner and carpenter James Hargreaves (1720-1778) invented this multispool spinning wheel as a way of increasing the productivity of his cotton factory in Lancashire. The "spinning jenny" had eight spindles, all of which could be operated by a single person, who rolled a beam back and forth over the yarn until it was the correct thickness. The machine increased the production of spun yarn eightfold. One story has it that a daughter of Hargreaves knocked over a spinning wheel, and he noticed that it continued to work perfectly well. This led him to consider a machine with multiple spindles, all in an upright position. The machine was so successful that yarn prices fell, upsetting the spinning community in the area. Several spinners broke into Hargreaves's house and destroyed his machines, causing him to move to Nottingham where, in 1767, he began making spinning jennies. Three years later he applied for a patent for his invention but failed in his attempt to sue local manufacturers who were using copies of his machine. Hargreaves died in 1778, the year Samuel Crompton invented an even more efficient spinning machine that was dubbed the "spinning mule." ---- Surveyor's Perambulator Wheel Invented: 1765 Inventor: Isaac Fenn Summary: Fenn facilitates land surveying. By the time Isaac Fenn was granted a patent, in 1765, for his distance-measuring hodometer, the device had existed, in various forms and with By the time Isaac Fenn was granted a patent, in 1765, for his distance-measuring hodometer, the device had existed, in various forms and with various names, for centuries. In Roman times it was called an odometer and comprised little more than a wheel that could be pushed along, coupled to a mechanical system for counting the number of revolutions the wheel made, and thus the distance it had traveled. The eighteenth and nineteenth century saw the mapping of India and the division of vast tracts of land into farms in regions such as the United States and Australia. Reasonably accurate surveying and distance measurement became important. The surveyor's perambulator wheel (the "waywiser" or trundle wheel) was in everyday use. The accuracy of this device was good on a smooth surface such as a pavement or macadamed road. On rough terrain, such as farmland, wheel bounce and slippage became a problem and surveyors had to apply a series of corrections to the readings. For very accurate work, the surveyor had to resort to a tape or chain measure. A typical eighteenth-century waywiser would have a wheel diameter of around inches (80 cm), equating to a circumference of around feet (2.5 m). This meant that two revolutions of the wheel would equate to one pole (an old English measure of length and area). A central dial with two hands, much like a clock, was attached to the unit. The bigger hand made one sweep every 320 poles—this marking 1 mile (1.6 km). The shorter hand indicated the total number of miles traversed. Today, professional trundle wheels are extremely accurate and are likely to sport an LCD display and onboard digital storage/manipulation of data. ---- Steam Engine with Separate Condenser Invented: 1765 Inventor: James Watt (Scotland) Summary: Watt drives steam power forward with a technological breakthrough.  "I have now made an engine that shall not waste a particle of steam. It shall be boiling hot." —James Watt to his friend John Robison Scottish engineer James Watt (1736-1819) was responsible for some of the most important advances in steam-engine technology. Steam engines had been in use since the 1710s, mainly to pump water from mines. These machines depended upon steam condensing inside a large cylinder after the cylinder was cooled with cold water. As the steam condensed, it took up less space, allowing atmospheric pressure to push down on a movable piston inside the cylinder. In 1765 Watt made the first working model of his most important contribution to the development of steam power; he patented it in 1769. His innovation was an engine in which steam condensed outside the main cylinder in a separate condenser; the cylinder remained at working temperature at all times. Watt made several other technological improvements to increase the power and efficiency of his engines. For example, he realized that, within a closed cylinder, low-pressure steam could push the piston instead of atmospheric air. It took only a short mental leap for Watt to design a double-acting engine in which steam pushed the piston first one way, then the other, increasing efficiency still further. Watt's influence in the history of steam-engine technology owes as much to his business partner, Matthew Boulton (1728-1809), as it does to his own ingenuity. The two men formed a partnership in 1775, and Boulton poured huge amounts of money into Watt's innovations. From 1781, Boulton and Watt began making and selling steam engines that produced rotary motion; all previous engines had been restricted to a vertical, pumping action. Rotary steam engines were soon the most common source of power for factories, becoming a major driving force behind Britain's Industrial Revolution. Notes: - Watt's separate steam condenser allowed the main cylinder to remain hot, bringing great fuel economy. ---- Water Frame Invented: 1769 Summary: Arkwright's innovation accelerates the rate of textile mass production.  "One machine produced in an hour what had previously taken hundreds of person-hours." —Robert Clark, University of East Anglia Preston wigmaker Sir Richard Arkwright (1732-1792) patented a new cotton-spinning machine in 1769, Around that time people were racing to find a fast and inexpensive way to produce good-quality cotton for the textiles industry, James Hargreaves had created the "spinning jenny" between 1764 and 1767, but this simply mimicked the action of a hand-turned spinning wheel and could not produce high-quality cotton thread, Arkwright's "water frame" would become a major catalyst for the Industrial Revolution. While working as a wigmaker, Arkwright became interested in the spinning of cotton. He enlisted the help of clockmaker John Kay, who had worked previously with Thomas Highs on another spinning machine that had been halted by a lack of funds. Together, Arkwright and Kay built a prototype horsepowered spinning frame, which they patented in 1769, The frame drastically sped up the process of spinning cotton, producing both weft (filling yarn) and high-quality waft suitable for hosiery. Realizing the potential for large-scale production, Arkwright perfected a model powered by waterwheel, one that became known as the "water frame," Although Arkwright is heralded as the inventor of the water frame, many believe that it was actually Highs who came up with the original design. It is thought that, while working with Kay, Arkwright obtained the secret to Highs's design and went on to use it for his water frame. This model could not be operated within workers' homes, so in 1771 Arkwright built the first textiles factory in Cromford, Derbyshire, marking the beginning of textile mass-production. ---- Venetian Blind Invented: 1769 Summary: Beran patents a window covering. Precisely where or when the very first Venetian blinds appeared has long been a point of some conjecture. Slatted blinds made from various timbers were popular throughout northern Italy in the mid to late-1700s; these consisted of slats held together by strips of fabric rather than corded cloth, and the angle of the slats could be adjusted with the use of a tilting device, not unlike what is in use today. When freed Venetian slaves took Venetian blinds to France in the 1790s, the window coverings soon became known to the French as les Persiennes (the Persians). In fact, by the 1700s Italy had already enjoyed a long association with the Venetian blind. Archeologists have uncovered slatted window coverings amid the ruins of Pompeii, with the individual slats being fashioned from marble. Farther to the east, the earliest window coverings unearthed in modern Iran (previously known as Persia) have been dated to 4000 B.C.E.; these were made from clay tiles. To the south, on the Mediterranean island of Crete, shutters made from an amalgam of alabaster and marble have been found among ruins attributed to the ancient Minoan civilization (2600-1100 B.C.E.). In England, Venetian blinds were patented by Edward Beran in London on December 11, 1769. A century later they became highly popular with the Victorians as an alternative to curtains, which had become heavy, cumbersome, and unfashionable. The modern method of adjusting the angle of the slats while keeping them synchronized and parallel was invented in 1841 by John Hampson of New Orleans, Louisiana. Blinds made from wood continued to remain popular until the development by Joe Hunter and Henry Sonnenberg of the 2-inch (50 mm) aluminumslat in the mid-1940s. ---- Caterpillar Tracks Invented: 1770 Inventor: Richard Lovell Edgeworth (England) Summary: Edgeworth patents continuous tracks.  "They come and pushed me off. They come with the cats... the Caterpillar tractors." —The Grapes of Wrath, Nunally Johnson screenplay When you want to navigate areas where the terrain is uneven and muddy, what better solution than to take the road with you? This was precisely the conclusion of Englishman Richard Lovell Edgeworth (1744-1817) when he invented the "portable railway," the earliest incarnation of a ful'-track vehicle. Although his 1770 patent is open to interpretation, it could describe anything from a vehicle with shoed wheels to a system similar to that seen today where continuous tracks run between front and rear wheels. The nineteenth century saw a glut of patents filed for vehicles sporting tracks. However, they suffered from problems such as poor steering and a lack of materials capable of taking the stresses and strains exerted by the system. But perhaps the biggest stumbling block was insufficient propulsive power, a problem overcome only with the advent of the internal combustion engine. Despite this, full-track, steam-powered vehicles had their uses; the Western Alliance for example used them during the Crimean War (1853-1856). It is believed that the name "caterpillar track" was shrewdly trademarked in the early 1900s by Benjamin Holt, founder of Holt Manufacturing, later Caterpillar Inc, after hearing a British soldier quip how the tracked vehicles crawled like a caterpillar. The caterpillar track now appears in designs created for many terrains. ---- Soda Water Invented: 1771 Inventor: Joseph Pristley (England) Summary: Priestley mixes carbon dioxide and water.  "Let us have wine and women, mirth and laughter/Sermons and soda-water the day after" —Lord Byron, Don Juan Joseph Priestley (1733-1804) grew up near a brewery in Yorkshire, England, and as a teenager saw carbon dioxide gas "floating" above deposits of fermenting grain. In 1771 this clergyman, philosopher, and chemist began to inject carbon dioxide, what he called "fixed air," into small containers of water uncontaminated by the surrounding air. By agitating the mixture for thirty minutes he was able to cause the water to absorb its own volume of carbon dioxide, and so he created the world's first drinkable glass of carbonated water. In 1772 Priestley wrote a book detailing in part how he thought carbonated water could be used to retard food spoilage and reduce the incidence of scurvy on long ocean voyages. He also wrote a paper entitled Directions for Impregnating Water with Fixed Air. Priestley's considerable legacy includes writings on the nature of electricity, ethics, religious freedom, and extensive work on the nature of gases, which led to his discovery of oxygen in 1774. He never found the time, nor likely possessed the inclination, to pursue the commercial potential of his carbonated water. Artificially carbonated water mimicked the bubbles found in many natural springs. It was not until the invention of the soda fountain or carbonated drink dispenser by Samuel Fahnestock in 1819, however, that carbonated water achieved the kind of popularity it has today as the foundation of many soft drinks. ---- S-trap for Toilet Invented: 1775 Inventor: Alexander Cummings (Scotland) Summary: Cummings introduces the indoor toilet.  "And you shall have an implement and you shall dig with it and turn and cover your refuse." —Deuteronomy 23:1 on camp sanitation Without the toilet system, disease would be widespread and water undrinkable. It is an invention that is taken for granted in the modern world, but where would we be without it? Even though they began only as holes in the ground, toilets in various forms have been used since Babylonian times. A defining step in the long and complex history of the toilet was the S-trap system developed by Alexander Cummings, a watchmaker by trade. (Thomas Crapper is often given credit for the invention of the modern toilet; although he was involved in toilet production, it was Cummings who held the patent.) Cummings's design incorporated an S-shaped bend in the drainage pipe that created a water seal between flushes. This meant that foul odors were trapped below the water and could not escape into the air. Life improved immeasurably with the combined benefits of the flushing toilet and the closed sewer system. By blocking the odors of the sewer, Cummings made it possible to bring the toilet inside the house, and so he made the toilet desirable. Soon everyone who could afford one was happily flushing away. The S-trap design is still used in toilets as an effective way to deal with odor. However, toilet design has since addressed other aspects of use—in Japan, standard toilets are fitted with seat warmers, jets of cleansing water, and fully automated flushers. ---- Submersible Craft Invented: 1775 Inventor: David Dushnell (US) Summary: Bushnell builds the first underwater vessel to be used for military purposes.  "I was obliged to rise up every few minutes to see that I sailed in the right direction." —Sergeant Ezra Lee, pilot of Turtle In 1775 Britain's North American colonies rebelled against British rule, precipitating a War of Independence. An enthusiastic American patriot, David Bushnell (1742-1824) of Saybrook, Connecticut, devised a secret weapon to counter the might of Britain's Royal Navy. He designed and built a submersible vessel to attack warships in harbor. Bushnell's Turtle was an oval-shaped vessel of wood and brass, just large enough to hold one person. It had ballast water tanks that were filled to make it dive, then emptied with a hand pump to return to the surface. Two screw propellers, operated by foot pedals and a handle, allowed the operative to maneuver the vessel laterally and vertically underwater. Ingeniously, the inside of the submersible was lined with naturally luminescent wood to provide light for reading the instruments—a compass and a depth meter. Turtle's weapon was an underwater gunpowder charge with a timer, in effect the first sea mine, although Bushnell called it a "torpedo," after a stinging crampfish. A drill was provided for attaching the chargeto the hull ofa ship atanchor. Turtle was first sent into action on September 7, 1776. With an army volunteer, Sergeant Ezra Lee, at the controls, it was launched into New York harbor to attack the British flagship, HMS Eagle. Lee successfully brought Turtle up against the underside of Eagle's hull, but failed to attach the charge. Getting the drill to penetrate the ship's copper-sheathed hull while maintaining position in strong currents was beyond Lee's powers. The subsequent fate of Turtle is obscure, but it never achieved a successful attack. ---- Boring Machine Invented: 1775 Inventor: John Wilkinson (England) Summary: Wilkinson creates a vital tool for precise engineering in iron.  "One of the most hard-hearted, malevolent old scoundrels now living in Britain." —Lord Dundonald on John Wilkinson The boring machine, designed by John Wilkinson (1728-1808), was one of the foundations of the Industrial Revolution. The idea of mechanical boring was not new, but Wilkinson used it to bore better cannon with a greater degree of accuracy. More importantly, however, boring machines could be used to make precisely engineered cylinders for steam engines. Thanks to his collaboration with James Watt, inventor of the commercial steam engine, Wilkinson enjoyed a monopoly on the engine for several years, and they both became very wealthy men. As Wilkinson's wealth grew, so did his eccentricities. He was a volatile character and was often criticized by his fellow industrialists, thanks to some shady business dealings and the implication that some of his ideas may have already been suggested by others. Some of his family relationships were strained too—he was estranged from his father, and his spectacular fallout with his brother in the late 1780s caused the collapse of his steam-engine monopoly. In his later years Wilkinson become increasingly obsessed with iron. He arranged an enormous and impractical iron coffin in which to be buried, and prophesied his supernatural return to his beloved furnaces seven years after his death. However, extraordinarily for his time, he gave pensions to old workers who had served him well, and he was held in high regard by his employees. After his death in 1808 he was commemorated in folksong by his ironworkers and, after seven years had passed, thousands turned up at his furnaces to see whether "Iron Mad" Wilkinson would "live up to" his prophecy. ---- Steamboat Invented: 1776 Inventor: Marquis de Jouffroy d'Abban (France) Summary: De Jouffroy d'Abbans powers a watercraft.  "The glory belongs to the author of the experiments made on the River Saöne at Lyons in 1783." —Robert Fulton on De Jouffroy's steamboat It is not uncommon for the American Robert Fulton (1765-1815) to be heralded as the inventor of the steamboat, but in actuality the true creative force behind its invention was a young French aristocrat, Claude-Franqois-Dorothee, Marquis de Jouffroy d'Abbans (1751-1832). DeJouffroy d'Abbans, according to legend, was wild and unruly, resulting in his incarceration in a military prison on the Isle of St. Marguerite. While he was there he studied the boats passing by and developed an interest in engineering. On his release he went to Paris and studied with the Perier brothers, examining the Watt steam engine and devising methods in which it could be applied to propelling a vessel. He began workon an experimental boat, a steamship called the Palmipede, which he ran along the Doubs River in June and July 1776. The boat was not entirely successful, and he continued his experimental work, this time moving from Paris to Lyons. In 1783 his new model, the paddle steamer Pyroscaphe, was ready and ran for fifteen minutes along the Saöne against the current and to a crowd of scientists and spectators. The boat was a success and ran for sixteen months, but the French Academy of Sciences in Paris refused to acknowledge it and denied de Jouffroy d'Abbans his license. Finally, embittered and impoverished, the inventor retired to the Hotel des Invalides, where he died from cholera. ---- Circular Saw Invented: 1777 Inventor: Samuel Miller (England) Summary: Miller patents an innovatory form of saw. In 1777 Samuel Miller of Southampton, England, received the first patent for a circular saw. His wind-powered machine's usefulness was limited, however, forwantofa more powerful energy source. Thirty-six years later Tabitha Babbit, a Shaker woman from the Harvard Shaker village, invented a circular saw of her own. Her religious beliefs prevented her from seeking a patent, but the new invention became popular in her community. Babbit's saw was initially human-poweredt but waterwheels and steam were soon harnessed for added convenience and efficiency. Sawmills adopted the circular saw, and the tool was soon at the heart of the lumber industry. The circular saw is a relatively simple device that dramatically improves on the efficiency of a standard handsaw, where half of each stroke is wasted effort. Circular saws cut by spinning circular serrated blades at high speeds into the timber passed through them. The U.S. military, bolstering its technology for World War II, enlisted the saw manufacturer Skilsaw to develop a specialized saw for military use. Skilsaw's answer, the PS-12 military circular saw, could function in all conditions, including underwater, and came with a rugged camouflage paint job. The U.S. Navy put the saw into camouflaged boxes and began floating secret circular-saw units to predefined landing areas. Nowadays the circular saw is an industrial staple. Portable circular saws allow users to saw small jobs, miter saws permit all angles of cutting, and table saws provide the backbone of most woodworking shops. Numerous blades have also been created to optimize saws for particular cutting purposes. Specialized blades, with intriguing names such as "ripping," "dado," and "thin kerf," are designed to cut through materials as varied as brick, steel, and glass. ---- Tumbler Lock Invented: 1778 Inventor: Robert Barron (England) Summary: Barron patents a thief-resistant lock.  "The lever tumbler lock... could still be picked. It merely required more skill and time." —Jock Dempsey, blacksmith People depend on their locks and keys a lot more than they would like to admit. Without having to stand guard over their possessions from morning to night, they are free to pursue their lives away from their homes and businesses. Locks and keys existed before Robert Barron patented his tumbler lock in 1778, but the sheer number of people now carrying keys to tumbler locks testifies to the success of his invention. Barron's lock, which offered considerably improved security over any previous locks, was called a doubleacting tumbler and was very similar to many modern models. A tumbler, essentially a lever inside the lock, prevents the bolt of the lock from being opened unless it is raised to a certain height. Barron's lock employed two tumblers and these needed to be lifted to different heights for the bolt to be released. Most focused thieves could still pick the Barron lock if they had enough time, so in 1818 Jeremiah Chubb added a detecting feature in hopes of winning a reward of £100 offered by England's Portsmouth Dockyard. The detector consisted of either a spring or a specialized lever that would catch any tumbler that was raised too high. If an unlucky picker raised any tumbler higher than the detection point, the lock would jam shut, vanquishing the thief. The jammed lock would also alert the lock's owner, who could reset the lock simply by using the original key. ---- Speech Synthesis Invented: 1779 Inventor: Christian Kratzenstein (Russia) Summary: Kratzenstein reproduces vowel sounds. The earliest speech synthesizer was created by a Russian professor, Christian Kratzenstein (1723-1795). Between 1773 and 1779 Kratzenstein made acoustic resonators and produced vowel sounds by connecting them to organ pipes. A contemporary in Vienna, Wolfgang von Kempelen, produced a more advanced machine in 1791. His "acoustic mechanical speech machine" was able to produce single sounds and even words or short phrases. He is best known for an earlier invention, a chess-playing machine named "The Turk." This consisted of a cabinet, housing (apparently) just cogs and wheels, and a manikin with movable arms. One could not see the legless human chess player concealed inside. Once this hoax was exposed, his legitimate speech machine was discredited as well. Alexander Graham Bell became interested in speech synthesis after he saw a replica of one of Von Kempelen's speech machines. When young, Bell had taught his pet terrier to stand between his legs and growl while he manipulated the dog's vocal tract by hand. He was eventually able to produce "How are you, Grandmamma?" Joseph Farber improved on Von Kempelen's machine by adding a mechanical tongue and a pharyngeal cavity that could be manipulated as well. It was powered by bellows and controlled by a keyboard and could sing as well as produce speech. The first electrical speech synthesizer was the VODER, developed by Homer Dudley and presented at the 1939 World's Fair. It saw more utility as the VOCODER, which reduced ordinary speech into a facsimile to reduce the bandwidth necessary for the telephonic transmission. This allowed a larger number of telephone calls to be transmitted over a line. ---- Spinning Mule Invented: 1779 Inventor: Samuel Compton (England) Summary: Crompton refines further the efficiency of mass-produced spun yarn. The textile industry was one of the cornerstones of Britain's Industrial Revolution. The production process had changed little in centuries: yarn was spun skillfully on a human-powered wheel. Invariably performed by women and young children, it was hard work and provided little in the way of reward. By the middle of the eighteenth century, as the demand for textiles for export grew, labor-saving devices enabling yarn to be spun at greater speed began to emerge. The two most significant developments were the water frame and the spinning jenny. The water frame used the principles of the water wheel to power the spinning frame, thus dramatically reducing the amount of human effort required; the spinning jenny, a multispool spinning wheel, boosted output by enabling a single worker to operate up to eight spools at once. In 1779 the inventor Samuel Crompton (1753-1827) combined the main features of both, creating the spinning mule. A multispooled, waterpowered spinning wheel, the mule could create a strong, thin yarn, high both in quality and consistency, suitable for any kind of textile. And it could do so at considerable speed. The Industrial Revolution was a period of endless technical innovation, and as steam gradually became the ascendant form of power, the mule was duly converted. This gave rise to the widespread mass production of textiles, and the gradual appearance of the mighty factories that would come to dominate the Lancashire and Yorkshire landscapes. ---- Argand Lamp Invented: 1780 Inventor: Ami Argand (Geneva) Summary: Argand revolutionizes the oil lamp, starting a worldwide hunt for the sperm whale.  "In the Argand... the air and the gas were brought into contact by means of numerous small orifices." —The Mechanics' Magazine (1854) Fuel-burning lamps had been used for hundreds of years without significant improvement. Then, in 1780, Swiss scientist Aime Argand (1750-1803) invented a lamp that would revolutionize the lives of two species—Homo sapiens and Physeter macrocephalus. Argand studied chemistry under the French chemist Antoine-Laurent de Lavoisier, who discovered that oxygen was required for burning. Argand's lamp used a hollow wick to draw more air to the inside of the flame and had a glass cylinder around the wick to increase the flow of air outside the flame. Argand also provided a way to lower or raise the wick to decrease or increase the size of the flame and thus the amount of light the lamp produced. Because of the additional oxygen, the flame burned at a higher temperature, which produced much more light. It also burned most of the carbon particles that had dirtied and dimmed older oil lamps. The glass protected the flame from air currents, which kept the amount of light steady. Argand found that sperm whale oil produced the best flame, up to ten times brighter than candles. Since Argand lamps provided a reliable source of light after nightfall, the demand for whale oil rocketed. In 1794, during the French Revolution, Lavoisier was executed and Argand's patent was taken away, allowing anyone to make Argand lamps. He died in London in 1803, after having spent the rest of his life experimenting on bones, coffin wood, and graveyard plants in an attempt to find the elixir of long life. Until kerosene lamps arrived in the 1850s, the sperm whale continued to be killed in large numbers for its oil. ---- Iron Rocket Invented: 1780 Summary: The Indians extend the range of war rockets. The use of rockets in warfare began with the Chinese, who first developed the technology around the thirteenth century. Their new "fire arrows" were successfully deployed against the Mongols, and it was not long before the rest of the world began to experiment with them. During the eighteenth century, the British and the French were fighting over India, each keen to possess its riches. Unfortunately forthem, they discovered that the inhabitants were not always happy to hand over their land. Tipu Sultan of Mysore in southern India fought the British with a tactic, developed by him and his father, of using rocket brigades against the British infantry. The Mysoreans perfected the use of the rockets in the battlefield, developing the technology so that they could fire them over much greater distances than British weapons could achieve. The European rockets were wooden, so they could only survive so much thrust before breaking apart. Tipu Sultan's rockets were constructed from a tube of iron, making them much stronger than wooden rockets. This extra strength meant they could withstand more thrust and fly much farther, giving the Mysoreans a tactical advantage in the field. The sheer numbers of rockets deployed, not to mention their noise and drama, disoriented the British infantry, and the rockets aimed directly at the infantry caused significant casualties. Impressed by these rockets, the British took hundreds back to reverse engineer them. New British rockets were used at Boulogne, Copenhagen, and against the Americans at Fort Washington, with the words "rockets' red glare" eventually being included in the first verse of the American national anthem. ---- Compound Steam Engine Invented: 1781 Inventor: Jonathan Hornblower (England) Summary: Hornblower introduces compound cylinders.  "Engine control requires an intelligent man, an honest man, a sober man, a steady man..." —Isambard Kingdom Brunel, engineer Fhe steam in early steam engines was used only once; after it had pushed back the piston it was discharged into the atmosphere, a more efficient process allowed the steam to expand in two or more stages. These "compound" engines had two or more cylinders. After the steam had been expanded in the high-pressure cylinder the exhaust steam was then used to push back the piston of a following, larger-circumference, low-pressure cylinder. The two pistons were connected with cranks that enabled them to work at the required different phases. With correct size scaling, the power output per cylinder could be equalized, and the engine ran smoothly. As these systems were rather complicated, they were mainly used in industrial and marine engines. Some compound railway locomotives were bu;lt, but the tough operating conditions made them difficultto maintain. Jonathan Hornblower (1753-1815) was originally an employee of Boulton and Watt and designed the first compound steam engine in 1781. Unfortunately, the early compounds were no more economical than simple single-cylinder engines. The concept was then revised by the Cornish engineer Arthur Wolf, who obtained a patent in 1805. Problems with the high-pressure cylinder meant that few such engines were used until the mid-nineteenth century.

100 Greatest Video Games (2015)

Edge Magazine

The 100 Greatest Videogames (1995)

[ THE ULTIMATE COLLECTION OF MODERN CLASSICS ] It's been eight years since we previously compiled a list of the 100 greatest games. We don't do it very often because, well, it isn't easy. You try weighing up a game such as Tetris against, say, Half-Life 2. It's a bit like pitting bacon against apple pie - they' re both delicious, but in very different ways. After four sessions' worth of impassioned debate across several weeks, with grudges now put to one side and broken furniture quietly tipped into a skip, we have our list. When you put the very best together like this, it helps to give a perspective on the state of videogames as a whole. In terms of themes and styles of presentation, for instance, there is a terrific amount of diversity here. And there is sophistication in characterisation and storytelling among even age-old themes where progress is driven mostly by killing all the bad guys. In compiling this list, we worked to simple criteria: all formats - portable, touchscreen, console, PC, whatever - were eligible; we could include only a single entry from any series that features straight-up sequels; and each game had to stand up today rather than making the cut for reasons of nostalgia or historic significance. Which isn't to say that all of the games here are new. In fact, some of the most invigorating parts of the curation process involved pulling out and replaying a few of the dustier specimens from Edge's archives. Hopefully this collection will inspire you in the same way. At the very least, please don't have as many arguments over it as we did. ---- WarioWare, Inc: Minigame Mania Format: GBA Publisher/developer: Nintendo Release: 2003 To read ten words takes most people about three seconds. And there were exactly ten words in that opening sentence. Ten more in that next sentence, and in this one. Which means that, had you been playing Wario Ware instead of reading this, you'd already have completed three whole games Oink sequences notwithstanding). You might have ridden a motorcycle through a hail of Molotov cocktails, taken the form of a monster to terrorise an entire city, and indulged in a spot of pinball. And those two sentences would have given you time for five more games. The 99 other games in this collection may be unquestionably excellent in their own right, but only Wario Ware gives you a hundred excellent games - and then a hundred more - and lets you play them all in a lunch hour. Those 200 games form a patchwork - scraps torn from 25 years of Nintendo's history, sewn together into a kaleidoscopic whole. In the hands of another company, that's all you'd get. But in Wario Ware, they're just the beginning. You get a dose of satire, as Wario hatches his avaricious plan to corner the videogame market. You get adventure, as Mona - late for work - flees the traffic police while her bionic monkey pelts the pursuers with banana skins. You get gifts, as victories in the game unlock bonuses from the hypnotic (and aptly named) Jump Forever to the generous full reworking of Dr Mario, to twoplayer games, where each player takes control of one of the shoulder buttons. Even the box (in the original version, at least) came complete with stickers and secrets. It's a beautiful, inventive, lavish package. It's entirely disposable play, of course. Which isn't to say, as some of its detractors have, that it's all down to reactions, a lab-rat test where your input is limited to pressing A when required. Rather, it challenges your gaming instinct, your fluency at understanding underlying mechanics, principles of interface design and of control schemes. Which is not to say that less committed players can't enjoy it, too: for those who know games, Wario Ware is a test; for those who don't, it's a primer, a crash course in the history of visual styles, genres and characters. Nor is it simplistic. It's easy to assume that Wario Ware is a simple cut'n'paste compendium. Instead, you find a sophisticated exploration of what makes games intelligible and what makes them rewarding. In doing so, it shatters convention after convention -you have no fixed representative in the gameworld, which ought to be confusing but isn't. You get no closure on the microgames you play (some of which, at the game's higher speeds, you don't even get the chance to complete), but it doesn't dim your sense of success or progress. There's no consistent visual style, as games lurch from photos of dogs to 8bit heroes, and yet it never feels disjointed. The monosyllabic instructions -'Jump!' 'Brush!' 'Squash!' - recall gaming's early days, and the one-word game titles of Magnavox's Odyssey. And the elaborations - as each game moves through its three difficulty settings - are shrewd and imaginative: extra enemies, new attack patterns, visual distortions, feints and bluffs. There's barely a single game that wouldn't learn something from a look at Wario Ware's quick, easy variants. Thanks to Twisted!, Touched! and Wii instalment Smooth Moves, the series may now have become synonymous with Nintendo's interest in exploring ioput systems, but the original stands as testament to the company's real expertise in understanding how to make game experiences fun from the first second - or three - of play. But while many agree on Wario Ware's excellence, more commonly overlooked is its significance as the first of Nintendo's new breed. With its enthusiastically iconoclastic approach to one of the company's core characters - Wario's trademark mustard-and-maroon outfit was discarded without a second thought, and there are no traces of the painfully predictable Mushroom Kingdom clones among his hip new friends - it's a fresh, fearless piece of design. Its original TV adverts, too, pointed the way forward for Nintendo, choosing to abandon all game footage and instead to film only the facial reactions - grins, gums and giggles - of people, young and old, as they played. Accessible, unashamed, unpretentious fun, Wario Ware sets itself no higher ambition than putting a smile on your face, 20 times a minute. If only more games aimed so high. ---- Spec Ops: The Line Format: 360, Mac, PC, PS3 Publisher: 2K Games Developer: Yager Release: 2012 Prevailing wisdom would suggest that a generic title does Spec Ops no favours. Or does it? After all, those going in expecting a bog-standard military shooter would likely have been winded most heavily by the force of Yager's angry salvo. It's a game that thrives most when playing against type, when defying established ideas or subtly twisting conventions to its own ends. And if that ultimately means its message gets a little muddled along the way, well, those lingering ambiguities provoked fierce debate in the weeks that followed. Few of its peers could say the same. There were clues in the setting that this was no ordinary mission. Yager's Dubai is a battlefield built on shifting sands: unreliable and inherently unpredictable, even if it's generally used in fairly scripted fashion, as storms whip up to disorient and reduce visibility, and a grainy deluge pours through a window shattered by bullets. It's striking, yes, but also gaudy and grotesque, these monuments to corpulent wealth and excess juxtaposed with rows of charred and hanged bodies. As Captain Martin Walker, leading a three-man squad to search for the missing Colonel Konrad - the most overt of several nods to Heart Of Darkness - Nolan North proves to be an inspired casting choice. As one of the medium's most ubiquitous voices, North's familiarity makes him the ideal foil for Yager's desire to wrong-foot its players. As the mission starts, we hear those instantly recognisable tones - a grounding presence in an unfamiliar setting. Then, as his journey takes him into steadily darker territory and an increasingly testing series of moral choices, he steadily unravels. That it's happening to someone we instinctively recognise makes Walker's mental deterioration all the more affecting. As he hunkers down behind cover, bellowing ever-more-panicked and desperate instructions at his scared and confused teammates, for a moment it's like we're witnessing Uncharted: Drake's Breakdown. Or perhaps Post-Apocalypse Now would be a more apposite title. If its antagonist's name reveals its literary aspirations, it owes a similar debt to Francis Ford Coppola's Vietnam War epic, from the hero steadily losing his grip to the unhinged colonel surrounded by deranged followers, and even the fuzzy, trippy soundtrack. It's similarly unstinting in its depictions of the horror of war, yet it conjures powerful moments that are entirely its own. The aftermath of the infamous white phosphorus attack is difficult to watch, though the most significant image of that sequence is the shot of Walker himself, reflected by the screen. This is Yager's JG Ballard moment - confronting the protagonist's actions and by extension asking the player to consider their own culpability. It's a daring approach, and one that doesn't always work. On a moment-to-moment basis, the core mechanics are simply too refined and enjoyable for its themes to penetrate too deeply. Case in point: Yager seems particularly (and rightly) pleased with how good its shotguns are, such that almost any time you're about to enter a building, you'll find one conveniently lying around outside. It's hard to care too deeply about the story when blasting aggressors from pointblank range is so entertaining, the solid gun-feel and satisfyingly weighty feedback seemingly at odds with the overall war-is-hell mantra. In some respects, perhaps it had an impossible task on its hands: we've enjoyed years of consequence-free digital violence, and it would take more than some admittedly moving narrative beats to change the habits of a lifetime. There's the argument that all this is quite deliberate, that Yager's aim was to examine the player's own relationship with videogame conflict. The very fact that this is open to interpretation says much for how Spec Ops distances itself from its shooter contemporaries. Unlike many of its kind, its standing has only improved in the intervening years - often, ironically, by the release of other war games. True, it isn't always subtle in its use of metaphor. It might, at times, appear to be in conflict with itself. And it borrows a little too liberally from its influences. Nonetheless, this remains an uncommonly distinctive and affecting shooter, a game that dares to discomfit its players when many developers would prefer to pander to them. For that alone, it deserves to be celebrated. ---- Papers, Please Format: PC Publisher/developer: Lucas Pope Release: 2013 Only a few will be familiar with Papers, Please's specific setting, a cold and miserable border checkpoint belonging to a i98os-era Communist European country. But anyone who has travelled beyond their home nation will recognise in Lucas Pope's grimly affecting game the anxiety of queuing on the other side of the immigration inspector's glass. Who hasn't felt trepidation when approaching the authority figure on whose judgement passage between one nation and the next depends, the tiny shudder of worry as you slide your passport across the desk? We all know what it is to strain to remain calm and inconspicuous, to say only the right things. At first blush, Pope's game seems like a classic power fantasy, then. Here you have the chance to switch roles, to play as the official in uniform, stamping and denying those who come before you willy-nilly. The serpentine line weaves offscreen before you. Your task: process as many would-be immigrants as possible, checking their documentation one by one, confirming or denying their petitions like a small-time god. You are not, however, immune to the consequences of your actions. The more people you process in a day, the more money you take home to your family. And the thrill of bureaucratic power lasts only as long as it takes you to realise that, in the fictional nation of Arstotzka, you are but a lowly link in the chain of command. This realisation dawns with the arrival of each new roll of red tape. One day you might simply be checking the names and dates on passports to ensure their authenticity; the next, you must now check an additional wodge of supplementary paperwork. The rules are capricious, and yet must be carefully enforced. Erroneously let the wrong people through and your pay will be docked. When money is as tight as it is for you, this financial penalty may force a family member to go hungry that day, or a mother-in-law to go without medicine. Other, institutional problems stand in the way of personal profit. As the administrative demands increase, so the number of people you are able to process by day's end decreases. The fewer you see to, the less money you make - the effect of which is revealed in a harrowing post-work breakdown, where you are forced to choose how and on whom to spend what's left of your earnings after rent. The colour palette matches the oppressive tone of the setting, all muted greys and blues and blacks, and subtly dehumanises the parade of applicants. The wide-view shots of the checkpoint are drawn in crude, lumpy clusters of pixels: the wending queue of would-be immigrants shuffling in silhouette, the machine-gun bearing guards stand, legs threateningly apart. A rasping voice sounds loud on the tannoy, an indistinct "Next!" Your view from inside the booth is of thick metallic bars, which separate you from the public. When a candidate draws near, the grille clatters upwards. They jitter nervously in front of you, against a backdrop of rows of neat lines painted on the far wall to report each person's height, as if they're standing in a police lineup. In this way, the criminality of each refugee is implied by the set design. Your room is part confessional booth, part court stand. Everyone stands trial. Only some may pass. Pope's masterly touch is in providing fleeting glimpses of human, personal consequencesto the cold, impersonal nature of the work. Will you deny a mother from seeing her son simply because her entry document expired a few days ago? Allow her through and the newspapers will report that immigrants are beginning to take local jobs. In one scene, an elderly man approaches the window. His papers are in order. As you allow him through, he asks that you look kindly on his wife, who is next in line. Her papers are problematic. Do you choose to uphold the bureaucracy, or save the marriage? By injecting the personal into the rhythms of the administrative, Pope's game achieves what few others manage: to cause the player to question the single-minded quest for mastery of a game's systems. In Papers, Please, you must consider the human cost of triumph within the game's structure and reality. You might win the game if you obey its rules, but what is lost in the process? In this way, every player encounters a grand and pressing theme of the moment, one familiar to all who control a nation's borders: who do we let in, and why? ---- DriveClub Format: PS4 Publisher: SCE Developer: Evolution Studios Release: 2014 A committed car enthusiast can see the potential in a clunker. Upgrading, refining and trading up are all inherent in the dedicated petrolhead's life, and anyone who stuck with Evolution Studios as it tuned up its underpowered fixerupper DriveClub was rewarded with a gleaming racer. The' title's launch woes are well documented. Its much-vaunted weather system was missing along with other promised components, playing online was impossible due to server connection problems, and that led to a free PlayStation Plus version of the game being delayed. And all of this before you even take into account the rough edges in design that included overly aggressive opponent AI, a remarkably steep difficulty curve, and inconsistent penalties for going off track. It was hardly an auspicious start. Play DriveClub today, however, and it's clear just how far the game has come since then. All of those early problems were the result of a dev team rushing to hit a console launch, but in any race the fastest line requires some occasional braking. Given breathing room post-launch to polish up its initial offering, Evolution Studios has, update by update, slowly finessed its game to make it a standout title in the PS4 catalogue. The Al's still a little prescribed, but opponents are far less keen to force you into a barrier now. If you do go off track, the boundaries for triggering speed penalties have been pushed back a little. Then there's everything that Evolution got right the first time round, like the inability to spam downshifts into a corner and the fact that music is switched off by default. We've yet to hear any of the songs included in the game's score - why would we want to when the cars sound this good? DriveClub sets a new high-water mark for car audio, every roaring block captured by a generous array of internal and external microphones in a process that forced the team to spend time with each car in person (it's a tough job). And that rousing audio is accompanied by equally fieldleading graphics - the kind of leap in visual fidelity you hope for in a new generation. It looked great on release but has continued to improve since then, not least with the introduction of the game's astonishing dynamic weather system. Combined with the outrageously detailed car models (Evolution has seen fit to render even the differences in carbon' fibre weaves used by various manufacturers) and naturalistic' lighting (right down to sun in your eyes), it's a package that is capable of producing moments of eye-popping photorealism. DriveClub's handling remains divisive, sitting slightly closer to the austere simulation end of the spectrum than the kind of game in which you slide and drift between palm trees under azure skies. It remains malleable and responsive, but the realistically grippy cornering of less powerful vehicles is more likely to please Gran Turismo fans than Burnout aficionados. It serves as a striking counterpoint to the performance cars, supercars and hypercars you'll get your hands on later on, too, which must be wrestled with eyen on straights when trying to get all that power down. But DriveClub's greatest contribution to the genre is its efforts to take the sting out of online competitive multiplayer gaming. In DriveClub, taking the chequered flag isn't the only way to make your mark, thanks to the way the game's titular clubs are set up. Bound together with up to five other players, you can contribute to the group effort with lower positions and by besting similarly skilled drivers in challenges sprinkled throughout the race - fastest average speed through a section, for example, holding a driving line or drifting around a corner. With the pressure lessened and the challenges asynchronously folded into offline play, DriveClub gets players online during their first race and feels nothing like the often antagonistic online environments of other racers. It may have had a problematic gestation, but DriveClub scrubbed up well after a few months of additional polish. And the free PlayStation Plus version was eventually released, so you can dip a toe (and heel) in if you need any more convincing that DriveClub's teething troubles are far behind it. What emerges is an unfettered expression of automotive passion, an entirely fresh take on online racing, and one of the best-looking videogames ever created. ---- Braid Format: 360, PC, PS3 Publisher: Microsoft Game Studios, Number None Inc Developer: Number None Inc Release: 2008 Most games use time travel either as a narrative device or as a way to unmake a poor decision, from the familiar call of"No, no, no, that's not the way it happened" when you lose your footing in Prince Of Persia: The Sands Of Time to Grid's reversing field of cars when you misjudge a corner. Time permeates every aspect of Braid, however. And unlike games that use temporal transitions as a finite resource, Braid lets you move back and forth as much as you like, folding a litany of clever puzzles into each level in a dazzling display of sustained invention. While there are enemies to avoid along the way, your primary task is to collect the jigsaw pieces that are scattered throughout each stage which, when placed together, reveal an image that sheds light on the story. At first you can simply rewind when you need to, but then the game sets about introducing a series of twists that complicate this central formula. Some items and enemies become immune to your reversals, a development that flagrantly disregards causality but sets up some ingenious conundrums. You might need to carefully position a series of platforms close enough together to allow you to cross a large gap, for example, or figure out a way to get to a ladder at the moment it is free of an inconveniently pathed enemy. Later on, you'll get to play with recordings of your previous runs through the level. You'll gain placeable time wells that act like temporal black holes and slow the movement of everything that passes through them. And then you'll have to deal with the headache of worlds in which time moves forwards when you step to the right, but reverses whenever you move to the left. This isn't a gradually building toolset, however: each variation is introduced for a set of stages, and then replaced by something else in the next. It's this enforced limitation that ensures the game's potentially confusing puzzles retain a purity of design throughout the game, and that the strain of thinking in one dimension more than usual never becomes overwhelming. It also means that while later puzzles will have you scratching your head, there's a candid exposure of their working that means the answer feels, for the most part, like it was hidden in plain sight all along. You feel elated to have solved the problem in the same way you do when you best Portal's spatial antics, and rarely like the solution was unfairly obfuscated. This is all wrapped up in a gorgeous, painterly art style -created by David Hellman, an artist and illustrator more used to creating comic and graphic novel pages - that matches rich golds and deep purples with its appealingly stumpy character design. Small details like falling leaves provide clever visual clues as to which way time is moving at any given moment, and the atmosphere is of contemplative mystery, riffing as much on ancient architecture as it does on dark fairytales. And while it's easily forgotten today, Braid arrived at a time when 2D was largely disregarded as an option for modern, HD games - Braid predates Spelunky's Xbox 360 remake by some years. What's more, those aesthetics, mechanics and audio find common space as Number None attempts to echo narrative twists in its level design and ensures that the soundtrack rewinds when you do. The story itself is a little cloying, an issue caused by the style in which the long walls of text that you read between levels is written, but get past this and there's a satisfying and melancholy tale to enjoy. It might feel like an outmoded way to deliver the story in light of everything else Braid does, but the story at least treats gaming tropes just as subversively as the game's mechanics. For all its innumerable charms, however, Braid's greatest achievement is the sheer weight of ideas it introduces along the way. It might have little to do with Mario beyond the familiar platforming visual language it conceals its surprises behind, but it certainly feels like a Nintendo game in terms of its heartfelt generosity and liberally applied polish. There's even a little world map through which you can tackle different worlds. And while mechanics that mess with time have become increasingly common in the years since, it's a testament to Braid's near-faultless execution that the game still feels entirely fresh - unique, even - seven years after its release. ---- Super Hexagon Format: Android, iOS, Mac, PC Publisher/developer: Terry Cavanagh Release: 2012 Super Hexagon is something of a poster child, alongside Dark Souls and Spelunky, for the sadistic brutality with which some game designers gleefully approach their task. Of course, if a game were impossible it'd be no fun at all; the key to testing players' limits is positioning the challenge just far enough from impossible to remain satisfying and keep them hooked. Super Hexagon accomplishes this with unnerving, hypnotic precision. The premise couldn't be more reductive: rotate a tiny triangle around a morphing shape (occasionally a square or pentagon, but more often a hexagon) in the centre of the screen so that it fits through gaps in the encroaching walls, which move inexorably, and ever more rapidly, towards you. The game makes its intentions known from the off by labelling the easiest of its difficulty levels 'Hard: Two more, Harder and Hardest, must be bested before a further three tiers of terror are unleashed. The aesthetic is stark, pairing muted two-tone backgrounds with simple pulsing lines that change colour like particularly gaudy stage lighting. The look serves to underscore the unforgiving challenge while at the same time ensuring that the screen is as uncluttered as possible - essential given how fast everything moves. Your score for each level is simply how long you managed to survive, and it's sobering to find even five seconds dauntingly out of reach on your first few tries. It takes roughly 1.5 seconds for the first wall to reach you, and your early games won't end much farther along than that. As you begin to sync with the game's rhythm, however, it becomes clear that focusing on your avatar - as so many games have trained players to do - is a surefire route to rapid failure. There's no time to wait until after you clear one obstacle to start thinking about the next; you need to focus on the edge of the screen and plan well ahead. As you begin to eke out an additional hundredth of a second or two with each successive run, the game digs in and refuses to let go. And its one-more-go nature is bolstered by some smart design touches. The fact that each time you restart the colour changes, for example, or the sheer speed with which you can be in the action again after failiing. Then there's the brilliant decision to pick up the music exactly where you left off with each retry, a crafty psychological trick that lessens the sense of lost progress. But more important than any of this is the use of procedurally stacked predesigned segments which spark waves of recognition-driven relief and the ability to learn useful manoeuvres even as the levels come at you in a semi -random order. For a game of such modest construction, Super Hexagon's onslaught is partnered with surprisingly refined handling as your triangle luxuriously swoops left and right, gracefully arcing through spiral pathways and deftly avoiding the edges of contracting shapes. When it goes well, at least. The relentless pacing of the game is matched by an aggressive soundtrack by London-based chiptune musician Chipzel (who has no shortage of experience in videogame-related audio, having created much of her work using Game Boys). The arrival of each wave of obstacles is matched to the thumping beat, offering a faint helping hand in avoiding disaster. Super Hexagon is one of a handful of games that has come to define the potential of iOS, a format eyed'"with suspicion by core players for so many years -games to deliver experiences that rival the best twitch experiences available on console. Touchscreen controls, it turns out, needn't equal a dumbed-down or imprecise interface and, handled well, are more than capable of delivering feedback as vivid as any clicking button. It didn't start its life on iOS, however, and was adapted from a game created by Terry Cavanagh for a 12-hour game jam. It's fitting then that the game took on a life of its own as a spectator sport, attracting huge crowds at specially arranged events that threw the tranceinducing action up onto big screens and allowed rookies and the uninitiated to marvel at the seemingly impossible prescience of expert players. Watching someone skilfully threading their way through the most difficult levels is on par with witnessing the best bullet-hell runs. There are plenty of astonishing efforts on YouTube, too, and trawling through them is as moreish as playing the game for yourself. ---- Her Story Format: iOS, PC Publisher/developer: Sam Barlow Release: 2015 Making detective games is hard. Not games that merely feature crime - all those need do is recognise the repercussions of the dead bodies, wantonness and pilfered valuables that are more often simply the aftermath of the mainstay activities in your standard interactive power fantasy. No, games that seek to turn you into the investigator have to do something almost unthinkable in an industry where every prop is turned by an expensive artist, every quip and line is scrivened by a slightly less expensive writer, and every scene is made under the watchful orchestration of a very expensive director: they have to let you miss things. In fact, perversely, they have to actively hide things from you. A true detective game can't even afford itself the luxury of signposting all the wonderful bits that have been made at great expense that, sure, you're missing out on now, but you could go back to later. That defeats the whole purpose. And it's why so many have failed. To make this genre really work, the game has to let you to figure it all out for yourself. Sam Barlow's Her Story is in this list because it does precisely that. You decide exactly how much of its tale you're going to imbibe before you make up your mind about its central mystery. It even offers you an out potentially hours before you've seen all the video clips that deliver, drip by drip, the fragments of information that fill in this captivating case and the associated backstory. Even should you choose - choose to root out every second of that footage, you'll still be left questioning certain facets of the facts presented. You may play the game with a screen before your eyes, but an essential, irreducible part of the computing is going on in the synapses you carry around with you every day. That's a rare and beautiful thing. And the trick Barlow pulls to do this is simplicity itself: employ the verb set of the search engine. Here's how it works. Seven police interviews from 1994 are split up into over 200 separate chunks and then hidden behind the entry field of the LOGIC database. There's only one rule, one limit to gamify the whole process, which is that you will be served only the first five clips to match your terms. And yet that goes to show how potent a rule cap. be, for it takes what would otherwise be a rudimentary process of watching a chronologically scrambled narrative and transforms it into a procedure of investigation, seeking out the next suitably distinct string in exactly the same way you might scour a crime scene for the merest hint of a clue. Some words will lead to dead ends - little pockets of '90s miscellanea, perhaps - that seldom feel like wasted effort but terminate a promising line of enquiry. Others will take you to the seconds of footage that entirely scramble your working theories with brand-new information, upending your fragile understanding of the forces and motives at play here. That alone would be remarkable enough. However, all this is achieved with a form of videogame long thought cursed to bear the stench of failed Hollywood aspirations and a black mark in the history books: full-motion video. That it avoids such failure is down to several factors, but the most important two are the performance of-actress (and musician in another life) Viva Seifert, and exemplary framing. Being the only performer onscreen, Seifert is left to conjure not only a convincing inner life for her interviewee but also allusions and relationships enough with the invisible cast beyond the interrogation room walls to prevent the story collapsing inwards on itself. She does so capably under intense limitations. The rest is up to Barlow, who dresses the game up in period fashion - everything from the detail work in the lo-fidelity desktop icons, which arouse recollections of Windows 95's school of interface design, right up to the encompassing protrusions of a fake CRT screen. In this throwback interface and the cramped framing of the camera lens, he presents Her Story's footage not as misguided vanity, nor as a miserly alternative to CGI, but as a voyeuristic peep into a process the common man is not meant to be privy to, with all the gravitational pull of the forbidden. It's just one more reason to be attracted to an unconventional game that tugs on threads few others dare to unravel, and has already proven that while making detective games is hard, the result can amply justify the effort. ---- Super Monkey Ball Format: GC Publisher/developer: Sega Release: 2001 There was one question on everyone's lips when Super Monkey Ball was announced for Nintendo's GameCube: how much fun would it be to mess around with Sega's monkey balls without a plastic banana in your hands? Because before it appeared on the console - signalling the start of Sega's post-hardware era - Monkey Ball had existed in an arcade cabinet controlled by an almost erotically upright banana-shaped joystick. Overseen by Toshihiro Nagoshi, Super Monkey Ball was a GameCube launch title, and it encapsulated the inclusive philosophy of Nintendo's box of fun - in many ways, it anticipated the all-audience gaming ethos of its successor. In the absence of the coin-op's banana, the GameCube version is controlled with an analogue stick, and the underlying concept is simple: tilt a maze to steer a ball around it, getting from start to finish within a certain time limit. Except it has monkeys in the balls, and sheer drops into a brightly coloured abyss awaiting unwary primate pilots. Nagoshi's newly formed Amusement Vision studio took this simple concept and polished it to within an inch of its monkey life. The hundred-odd mazes in the game are depicted with an incredible solidity, matched by an amazingly precise physics engine and wrapped in one of video game history's most vibrant colour schemes (camouflaging a witty piece of in-game advertising -for Dole Food Company bananas). In terms of presentation, everything about Super Monkey Ball is flawless. There's the classic videogame 'ching!' when you roll a ball into a banana, for example (collect 100 and you get an extra life, obviously). And there is the game's family of simian stars: AiAi, MeeMee, GonGon, and Baby (the smallest, and therefore the one most widely used by experts). There is the pixel-perfect learning curve you'd expect from a game devised to part arcade-goers from their cash. From a set of ten simple mazes at the start, players graduate by the end of the game to some of the most vexing conundrums in videogaming. Initial simple layouts give way to increasingly rococo structures: wire-thin tendrils snaking around and up and over and under, across underwater environments, lush jungles and urban skies. One particularly advcanced maze even assumes the shape of a guitar. And completing those later mazes demands an almost superhuman conjunction of skill and intellect. Indeed it is only a select few who would manage to get as far as the end of the so Expert levels without breaking at least one controller. But Monkey Ball fans are an indefatigable lot. Or at least that's how it appears from the insane feats of virtuosity that continue to be posted across the Internet, years after the game's release, depicting all sorts of speed runs, stunts and exploits that have required a rare kind of dedication to hone. These are tricks that demand the utmost accuracy and expertise: freefalling onto the thinnest of platforms or bouncing across tiny moving tiles. Indeed, if Super Monkey Ball had stuck to that one thing - just tilting mazes and getting monkeys in balls from point A to point B within increasingly demanding time limits - then it would be a classic game, because it does that thing with unparalleled dexterity and charm. But it also throws in a clutch of minigames starring monkeys in balls, most of which are as entertaining as the main game, and some of which could easily have been developed into complete games in their own right. Take Monkey Race, for example, in which players race around circuits picking up powerups. Apart from the limited number of race circuits, it is every bit as good as the eventual GameCube version of Super Mario Kart. Or consider Monkey Target, which brings back fond memories of PilotWings by transforming monkeys in balls into monkeys in gliders, to be steered and finessed onto distant targets featuring dartboard-style scoring divisions. Monkey Billiards, Monkey Fight, Monkey Bowling and Monkey Golf make up the rest of the unlockable suite, and each is a minor treasure (and Monkey Target a party classic). Brilliantly, the game even turns its credits sequence into a satisfyingly serene banana-collecting challenge. Which is a pretty resounding answer: improbably, messing around with Sega's monkey balls without a plastic banana in your hands is even more entertaining. It's classic trance-inducing, flawlessly flow-state gaming. With monkeys in balls. ---- Final Fantasy XII Format: PS2 Publisher/developer: Square Enix Release: 2006 Sequels are normally dilution of the originals, and it's usually only the trashiest films that go beyond three, squeezing every last drop out oftheir franchises. Final Fantasy XII's greatest achievement is in eschewing the cumbersome history behind it. The staples of the RPG genre have been set in stone since the earliest Dragon Quest games: the litany of tum-based battles, menu commands and dark forces to use them against. FFXII casts them aside like so much bathwater while holding on to the potions, spells and fantastical characters that made the genre appealing in the first place. Battles happen without transition to a separate screen, while spiderwebs of coloured lines let you track at a glance what each individual character is doing. But the greatest innovation in the interface is the gambit system. Gambits are conditions the player sets that will trigger actions when they're fulfilled. Your character could attack the party leader's target, for example, but if an ally's health drops below 50 per cent it will stop and cast a cure spell. On the face of it, this may seem to offer little beyond the usual - after all, the speed of attacks is dictated by a time bar, as always, and you'll find yourself bringing up the menu for very specific commands. But once enough gambits have been collected (you start with only the bare minimum) you can fashion a party tailored to respond to any given situation or enemy type in a specific and appropriate manner, quickly exploiting weaknesses and dropping foes in a fraction of the time of a menu battle. The pace and flow of the entire experience is enhanced, and all of those pointless interruptions removed. The revitalisation of RPG combat is complete with the chain system, proof that simple ideas are always the best, whereby killing many of the same type of enemy in a row will gradually improve the quality of the items they drop. The natural structure of the game means that ten- or 20-chain kills crop up on occasion, but when you deliberately gain a 40 + chain it becomes a matter of urgency to keep it going and find just one or two more of that particular skeleton or cockatrice. As is true of many RPGs, the narrative of FFXII's quest may be overwrought at times, particularly in the brick-subtle delineations of interpersonal relationships, but there's no denying that it's stirring stuff, and the pacing of the game is such that the grinding of levelling up just to defeat a particular boss is rarely necessary. The game remains challenging, however, and the key lies in appreciating that its combat is tailored for teamwork, MMO-style, rather than brute force. Also MMO-like, travelling and exploration are some of the biggest joys in the adventure, and will take you from Dalmasca, a conquered kingdom and the home of the game's main character, Vaan, to the far reaches of the huge gameworld by foot, chocobo and airship. FFXII also offers you the opportunity to hunt particular enemies (and eventually join a hunters' clan), opening up bigger and better 'marks' as your own skills increase. Rarely have sidequests been so distinct from, yet utterly integral to the appeal of! a main adventure. There is the obvious appeal of exploring new locations, and occasionally revisiting old haunts, but the addiction comes from the rewards: sizeable amounts of cash (in a world where monsters themselves don't drop a!,ly) and very often rare or expensive items. Hunting a big mark is a focused way to suitably level and equip your party for a particularly arduous section, and quickly becomes as compulsive as the adventure proper. Visually, FFXII pushed at boundaries on PS2. Importantly, it's in the environments and characters that it shines, not just the spectacular cutscenes. Bosses shake the screen with roars, colours explode from spells, and each battle animation has a grace of its own. From the Mediterranean architecture to the beads in characters' hair, this is a game of beauty and depth. It has been said that FFXII cost Yatsumi Matsuno, the original director, both his mental and physical health. We'll never know. But the care that has gone into the crafting of even the incidentals is obvious. With Final Fantasy XII, Square Enix incorporated everything that ever made JRPGs great, and fixed almost everything that made them frustrating. As both an innovator and a refiner, it's the high point of a remarkable series. ---- Prince Of Persia: The Sands Of Time Format: GC, PC, PS2, Xbox Publisher/developer: Ubisoft Release: 2003 It's a thoroughly modem game, in most ways. It's slick, seamless, forgiving, possessed of a sharp cinematic eye and sly narrative sophistication. It was a game utterly of its time in 2003, maybe even slightly ahead of it. But none of this is what makes Prince Of Persia: The Sands Of Time stand out. What makes this such an unusual and spellbinding game is its sense of nostalgia." It's not necessarily nostalgia for the original Prince Of Persia. The Sands Of Time pays faithful tribute to Jordan Mechner's austere 1989 classic, presenting a romantic hero in the Arabian Nights mode and focusing on smoothly animated, acrobatic negotiation of platforms and traps. But despite featuring the original as an unlockable secret, it doesn't overtly trade on the reputation of the old game. Its nostalgia is multi-layered and emotive, and defiantly non-retro. For a start, The Sands Of Time remembers that, once upon a time, there were games about running and jumping. It deliberately harks back to a golden age of platformers - a genre that, by 2003, through interminable cross-breeding and feature-creep, had mutated almost out of existence. All-purpose action adventures, thirdperson shooters and collect 'em ups with strictly limited platforming elements stood in the place of the pure assault course; The Sands Of Time brought it back. Interrupted only by flamboyant combat (far less frequently than its sequels), here was a game whose absolute raison d'etre was to use timing, the environment and the Prince's acrobatic abilities to get from A to a seemingly impossible B. Here was a game in which you'd need to grapple with 3D spatial puzzles and turn the sinister machinations of vast devices to your advantage. Here was a game about that heartin-mouth moment of pitching yourself towards the edge of a bottomless precipice, leaping, and praying; about the deep, hypnotic thrill of stringing together move after fluid move until it seemed you were turning the world around your character, not the 0ther way around. It recalls no lesser a great than Super Mario 64. And yet, it's not a backwardlooking game; ironically, it's the Dagger of Time and its ability to rewind events that takes care of that. It wouldn't be Prince Of Persia - nor as tense as it is - if it didn't punish falls severely and present plenty of genuinely deathdefying leaps. But it would be far, far more frustrating if not for the simple, devastating genius of that limited rewind button, offering an out from the instant-death scenarios that were a large part of why platformers fell out of favour in the first place. Go back, do it again, do it right. That's what you do, and that's what Ubisoft's in -house Montreal studio did. The Sands Of Time is also a throwback in other ways. It offers a chance to play the swashbuckling lead of a 1930s film romp or boys' adventure book, a dashing, impetuous hero with a clipped accent and a lithe figure. And you get to play him in a genuine romance: there's a love interest -a love scene, even; there's a script rich with banter and pathos; and there's a setting of ridiculously dreamy beauty, dripping with sensuous architecture, lush vegetation and softly diffused, bronze light. The Sands Of Time's unabashed, old-fashioned romanticism has always been extremely rare ia games, and in these cynical times is often quite rare outside them; it's a major reason for the game being such a breath of fresh air. There's one last sense in which The Sands Of Time lives in the past: its story does. The pasttense narration by the Prince himself - cutely embellished with a "No, it didn't happen like that" when you die - reinforces the storybook feel and strikes an uncommon note in the relentlessly immediate, present-tense world of videogames. But it's also more than just an atmospheric conceit. It turns out to be a crucial element of the plot and its preoccupation with time travel. The game takes you right up to the point at which the Prince is telling the story you've just played - to whom, and exactly where and when, we won't spoil here. It ends the game on a wholly satisfying if slightly melancholy note, as wistful and theatrical as all that's gone before. Though the story itself is more cliche than classic, The Sands Of Time's cunning framing blends interactive and narrative with all the deft grace of one of the Prince's gravity-defying wall runs. It's a 'once upon a time' of a game, a self-contained time capsule of far away and long ago. And it's a tale that definitely bears retelling. ---- Katamari Damacy Format: PS2 Publisher/developer: Namco Release: 2004 You can summarise how Katamart Damacy plays in a single sentence: you roll a sticky ball around, picking up objects to make the ball bigger, which in turn allows it to pick up even larger objects. But to sum up Katamari's playfulness needs several hundred words of postscript. For a game to swell so sweetly and remain so affecting based purely on its tone and art direction - surely Katamari Damacy has done little but hypnotise a jaded audience into overlooking the shallowness that fuels it? No. It simply taps into an oft-unacknowledged strength of video games, that of sheer aesthetic joy, and its straightforward rules of play allow its other elements room to breathe deeply. If videogames are ever medicine, then Katamari Damacy will always manage to keep the doctor away. It's a game that's very much alive, a Pinocchio that dances into life the moment its strings are cut and the PS2 switched on. The game's theme tune in a cappella form accompanies the appearance of the Namco logo, and a save slot is selected not with a pointer but with a katamari ball itself. From there, you're launched into an intravenous fizzy drink of an attract sequence: ducks sing, pandas dance, volcanoes spew rainbows, and a suppositoryheaded giant plays the guitar, as the incessantly catchy "Naaaa na-na-na" of the game's signature chorus begins to hook you right to the bone. Not so much an introduction as an induction, nothing is made clear during this technicolour AV assault, apart from establishing Katamari's philosophy - it doesn't have to make sense for it be entertaining. The scattily charming King of All Cosmos has been on a careless drunken bender and knocked the stars from the sky. And it's down to you, the diminutive and hardworking Prince, to replace them, by rolling adhesive katamari balls around a series of domestic, suburban and urban locations, to form increasingly large bundles of objects that'll replace the contents of the night sky. Beginning with erasers, batteries and drawing pins, fodder for the katamari evolves ultimately to the point that the tower blocks of whole cities, dwarfed by the Prince's astral wrecking ball, are scooped up like bowling pins into the shovel of a JCB. This incredible sensation of scale is just part of the fascination behind the process. As is a lawless but inarguably ideal soundtrack composed of delightful pop tunes and cute instrumentals. Another is the audio feedback - dozens and dozens of artefacts are absorbed into the katamari with a series of pleasing pops, like stamping on damp bubble wrap; once people, vehicles and animals become victims, each adds its own stylised sound effect to the cacophony of destruction-cum-creation. Visually, it's a game full of reality, but little realism, the recognisable contents of its world rendered with minimal texture but maximum character. Returning to an area that was once filled with hazards, now plump enough to suck them all up with a cackle, is the ultimate revenge; watching a playground full of children and teachers scatter in exaggerated, pantomime terror as the katamari looms towards them is guilty amusement indeed. As with any worthwhile fairytale construction, there's a murky heart to Katamari Damacy. Like gaming's most successfully child-like creations - Chibi-Robo!, say - it contains more stress and darkness than first appears. The Prince is, effectively, a rampant destroyer of worlds, however candy-coated the destruction. And few things are as chilling as failing to meet the target size of a given stage and suffering the wrath of a pissed-off King of All Cosmos. None of that stops Katamari Damacy being fun as all hell, but it's difficult not to want to savour it as a straightforwardly colourful lesson in how little things can become very big things, in your head as much as on the screen. In terms of less tenuous impact, though, Katamari Damacy is the kind of experience that does more than encourage fringe demographics to pick up a joypad; it also engages parts of them that most other software can't reach. Many games can coax players into dressing up like a certain character and posing with a cardboard sword, change their avatar in a forum profile to show their affection, or even brand their skin with a tattoo. But very few can singularly inspire them to make tea cosies, cakes, replica katamaris, elaborate re-enactments, phone pouches, woolly hats and dolls. ---- Animal Crossing: New Leaf Format: 3DS Publisher/developer: Nintendo Release: 2012 Katsuya Eguchi designed N64 title Animal Forest as a way to cope with his loneliness in a new job away from friends and family. The result hit perhaps closer to home than he'd imagined. Ostensibly a warm, happy game about making new friends and learning their idiosyncrasies, it also captured that strange mix of nervous excitement, unease and melancholia that can accompany a big move. In any game, the unfamiliar steadily becomes routine c!-nd you find your way in this new world, but always with a certain degree of detachment. You walk among the animals, but you're never really one of them. As such, that slight distance that always made you feel one stage removed from your villagers feels all the more natural in New Leaf when, thanks to an admin error, you're quickly coerced into assuming the role of their new mayor. They'll still tell you their secrets, engage you in small talk and ask you for favours, but you're afforded a degree of respect that encourages you to earn your stripes. It gives New Leaf a greater sense of purpose and forward momentum than the more easygoing prior entries, as you're gently nudged towards more altruistic goals. One animal might request you to install a bridge, the next a bench or hammock, and while you're still free to ignore suggestions you receive, you'll feel a little more guilty about pursuing any more materialistic aims. That basement extension might just have to wait: if Puddles the pink frog wants a fountain, it's time to start saving those pennies. With the help of Isabelle, your adorably dorky assistant, you'll be able to set ordinances that allow you to tailor the game to your own needs. The series has always had a way of inveigling its way into your life - most Animal Crossing players will surely admit to having missed appointments or delayed outings to tend to their village -but these edicts allow you to better fit your virtual vocation around your actual job. An Early Bird town means animals should be up and about in time for breakfast, while those who work long hours will benefit from turning their villagers into night owls, with stores staying open for late-night shopping. Alternatively, you can have stores carry more premium items, or if you're not one for pulling weeds, issuing the Beautiful Town ordinance will prompt villagers to plant more flowers and tend to existing ones. Elsewhere, it offers a steadier drip feed of discoveries. During those early weeks, it's rare to wake up inside your New Leaf village and not stumble across something new. Many series staples -Brewster's coffee house, KK Slider's weekly concerts - aren't available until you've earned them, but it's hard to mind when you're more empowered than ever to shape the future of your village. An initially sparse main street provides the most palpable evidence of progression, as it develops over weeks and months into a lively hub. New Leaf is a more social animal, too, with more ways to connect with friends and strangers, to share decor tips via StreetPass, or slip into a dream and venture to faraway villages. The GameCube island resort makes a return, too, hosting a suite of multiplayer minigames. More of the same is rarely to be celebrated in-a sequel, but the many subtle changes have a way of shaking up the routine. And somehow it manages to makes a virtue of the mundane. You can enjoy a busman's holiday playing barista in The Roost and it's a rare thrill when you memorise the coffee order of your regulars. Similarly, there's genuine joy in outfoxing shady art dealer Redd -who now carries sculptures and statues alongside his knockoff paintings - by spotting the minor visual differences between his fakes and the real thing. More to do, of course, means more to think about: a game designed to be played a little each day can easily become an obsession. Some players will spend hours fishing in torrential rain for a chance to hook a rare coelacanth; others will book a slot to shake down and bag up exotic cherries from their orchard for a return that might just pay off Tom Nook's extortionate building fees. If at times these tasks feel a little like work, they're a more pleasant kind of chore in a much fairer world, one in which your efforts are almost always rewarded in some tangible way. As with its predecessors, the experience of playing New Leafleaves you wondering why real life can't be this magical, this generous. ---- Resogun Format: PS4 Publisher: SCE Developer: Housemarque Release: 2013 Housemarque's shooter history stretches back to the mid '90s, when members of Terramarque and Bloodhouse founded the studio. Since then the Finnish developer has prolifically turned out slick, arcade-influenced action, but it is its PS4 game Resogun that represents the pinnacle of the studio's achievements to date. It was also the saviour of PS4's undercooked launch lineup, melding a fresh spin on classic gameplay with entrancing voxel-based presentation. Stages, enemies and your ship are made up of thousands of the cuboid building blocks, every one primed to erupt into a gorgeous cascade of debris if it gets even a whiff of a nearby explosion. It looks unlike any other shooter, but the sheer volume of shrapnel sets it apart visually from most games in any other genre you can think of, too. None of this beauty comes at the cost of framerate, though, and the game whips along happily at 60fps, the action only occasionally slowing to linger on the dazzling pyrotechnics. Ship handling feels just right, your craft exhibiting a kind of truncated inertia that manages to strike an unwavering balance between butter-smooth movement and hair's-breadth twitch accuracy. Enemies pop in a satisfyingly violent way, and the upgrade path of your primary weapon takes you from floundering vulnerability to neon-spewing death-dealer in minutes. But for all its willingness to cheerfully embrace players, Resogun is also a surprisingly enigmatic game - especially given that it belongs to a genre built on instantly understood controls and short, moreish gameplay loops. Its refusal to yield its depths straight away left it rather misunderstood when it was released. It doesn't help that the game wilfully, and regularly, instructs you to "save the last humans': despite that being the least important aspect of getting a high score. And then there are the three ship types, which at first appear to be slight variants on the same core idea but actually function as a kind of secondary difficulty tier -the Nemesis and its barrage of homing missiles best suited to beginner players while, at the other end of the scale, the expertlevel Phobos sacrifices range and spread for close-quarters brute force. The game doesn't tell you, but you won't be troubling the high end of the leaderboards in anything but the latter. It all comes down to the beautifully conceived additional abilities of your ship. Each can boost, deploy bombs, toss humans a short distance (depending on how fast you're travelling at the moment of release), and go into Overdrive to fire a hugely powerful, time-limited laser beam. It's the last of these that will rack up the big numbers. A small circle appears around your ship when you squeeze the trigger, while a larger one shrinks inward: let go at any point while the shrinking halo is within the circumference of the static one - but before it reaches the ship - and you'll unleash a huge blast wave that destroys everything around you. Since the number of points you get rises with each consecutive enemy destroyed, these Overdrive outbursts are key to wiping out large groups quickly and racking up the big points. You charge your beam, slowly, by collecting glowing green particles from fallen enemies, and hits during Overdrive will slightly increase the duration of the weapon; figuring out when to deploy them and which waves of enemies will reap the greatest reward becomes an all-consuming obsession as you better understand the intricacies of the game. This gradually unfurling depth, all of it hidden in plain sight, is a large part of what makes Resogun so special. Sure, save the humans if you can (and, yes, doing so will proffer perks such as shields and a Human Saviour Bonus at the end of the stage), but absolutely nothing should come above maintaining your multiplier. Leave too large a gap between shooting one enemy and the next, and it will reset to 1.0x. Picking up and rescuing humans also keeps the combo going, helpfully, but while the death of a survivor will trigger a pang of guilt, a seasoned player will shrug it off easily compared to the crushing moment you lose your multiplier. If you're going for a high score, you might as well restart there and then, because there's no coming back from it. Resogun's continual urgency and genre-defying depth elevate it from an excellent shooter to a magnificent one. ---- Puzzle Bobble Format: Various Publisher/developer: Taito Release: 1994 By 1994, years after Tetris, Columns and Breakout first ensnared a generation of obsessive-compulsive tidy-uppers, it was unthinkable that a new line-clearing puzzle game could take the arcade scene by storm. The early '90s had been a time of gentle refinement for the genre, the only real development being in their increasingly savvy marketing. Nintendo's heavyweight branding of titles such as Dr Mario (1990) and Yoshi's Cookie (1992) had demonstrated the benefits of attaching recognisable characters to these more abstract game worlds, and other companies were digging around their back catalogues in search of suitable faces to front their ideas. But when Taito chose to cast the relative unknowns Bub and Bob, twin dinosaurs borrowed from the company's ageing Bubble Bobble series, as the cutesy heroes in its tardy stab at the genre, it seemed too little too late. Visually as well as notionally, Puzzle Bobble, often known as Bust A Move outside Japan, does little to stand out from the crowd. Candy-like blobs of garish colour set on sparse, muted backdrops frame a game that, while undeniably distinct in action, at first appears to do little more than amalgamate previous inventions. But in reality its triumph is down to this pick-and-mix approach to game design and the various skills required of the player - from planning and strategy to timing and accuracy. In synopsis, play is wonderfully straightforward, requiring just left, right, and a single fire button. At the base of the screen Bub (green) and Bob (blue) together control a vertically aligned harpoon gun, which can be pitched from side to side across a 180-degree arc. The aim of the game, literally, is to shoot sticky coloured bubbles up the screen, bouncing them off the sidewalls if required, into a frogspawn cluster of other bubbles hanging from the ceiling. Linking together three or more like-coloured bubbles makes them vanish, taking any 'hangers' (bubbles dangling otherwise unattached from the bottom of the matched cluster) with them for high scores. While you play against the clock, the ceiling of the play area adds considerable pressure by lowering after every few shots. With each drop ,the music, some of arcade gaming's most perfectly memorable, speeds up with gathering urgency. If a bubble crosses the line at the foot of the screen under which Bub and Bob operate their cannon, the game freezes and discolours to a disheartening end. In the first level a dotted guideline traces the aim of your harpoon, taking much of the difficulty out of the aiming while making tricky off-the-wall shots simple. However, from there on in you're on your own, and you quickly settle into an enjoyable but pressured rhythm of making tiny incremental taps of the joystick to line up the perfect shot, taking a prayerful intake of breath before stabbing the fire button to execute the micro-plan. By making clever arrangements at the top of the screen it's possible to set up high-scoring chains, and the visceral way in which lihes explode is as satisfying as popping bubble wrap. Every cause-and-effect cycle in play is eloquently soundtracked by exciteable effects. The sharp stab of annoyance at having missed a crucial shot by a few pixels, leaving your missile awkwardly mismatched against wrongcoloured bubbles, is accompanied by a pitying twirl of musical disappointment. In a twoplayer match, such audio cues serve as aural points of reference for your opponent's progress. The singleplayer game presents a series of puzzle-like levels, each offering a set of carefully arranged bubble patterns to take out. It's in the exquisite head-to-head setup, though, that the game comes into its own. Here, in traditional Tetris style, every time a player bursts more than three bubbles in one go, the surplus is sent to the opponent's play area. It is possible for the tide of a battle to turn with just one misfire. A hit in arcades, the game spawned numerous sequels across a variety of home platforms, ranging from Sega's Dreamcast to SNK's Neo Geo Pocket. With each new iteration the game grew more complex, but at its centre remains the hypnotic core that made the early arcade and Neo Geo iterations such durable multiplayer challenges. Rarely has a game so clearly derived from its precursors felt so fresh, or proved so timelessly engaging. ---- F-ZeroGX Format: GC Publisher: Nintendo Developer: Amusement Vision Release: 2003 Nintendo may understand gameplay, but you sometimes have to look outside of the company's R&D labs to find developers that understand Nintendo. HAL gave us Super Smash Bros's unashamedly vibrant celebration of all things Nintendo. Intelligent Systems crafted the wryly self-referental Mario & Luigi twinset. And when Amusement Vision was tasked with updating Shigeru Miyamoto's futuristic racing franchise for GameCube, the result was F-Zero GX: a game clearly made for fans, by fans. GX (and its arcade twin AX) is fiercely loyal to its older brothers. The craft, quaintly reminiscent of the low-poly pastel-hued models born of a previous generation's technology, handle as they did on Super Nintendo and N64. For beginners, it's a nightmare: taking corners too fast sees your craft dragged by its behind into a racescuppering trackside smash. But with practice it's possible to steer in graceful arcs that keep just the right side of skidding out of control, boosting out of corners, thundering past competitors with neck-tightening precision. It's Scalextric at 1,200kph. No other racing game comes close to evoking such a breathtaking feeling of barely keeping control of a vehicle that's going far too fast. Having 29 rivals all focused on smashing you off-course in anything but the beginner's Standard Mode turns F-Zero GX into a thrillingly anarchic motorway war. Your competitors cheat with magic boosts in traditional F-Zero style; of course, but that's the secret of the game's pounding relentlessness. Where every second is a potential overtaking opportunity for your enemies, every race won is a victory for eyes and fingers. And each craft has a unique balance of speed versus acceleration versus barging strength - so no single machine is ever odds-on favourite. The tracks are spectacular. N64's F-Zero X had scenery restricted to the odd 2D statue to keep the framerate up on the struggling 64bit machine, and couldn't help but look limp next to its perceived rival - the cooler-than-thou PlayStation offering, Wipeout. In GX, Amusement Vision tweaked its Super Monkey Ball engine to push GameCube harder even than Nintendo itself, and transform F-Zero's abstract tarmac ribbons into real places. Now, Mute City is a city, all blazing bridges and ghostly glowing billboards. Port Town is a port - with, apropos of nothing, much-maligned NES accessory ROB the robot looming over the ships and hotels. Craft cling treacherously to tube-like tracks looping over lava; Casino Town's psychedelic neon whips past at 1,500kph; towering ramps send the craft soaring over Aeropolis like a sychronised diving team. F-Zero GX's unforgiving difficulty is what won over the hardcore. Extreme Mode is, simply, impossible. The notorious Story Mode is a masochist's dream: a deceptively short nine-stage challenge where the very first race - a simple cliffside race against Samurai Goroh - is tuned to chew up and spit out even a 99-per-cent-perfect performance. Victory often only comes in that 'introductory' challenge by managing to barge the near-invincible Goroh off the track to his death. But, with Amusement Vision determined to exploit the gift of the F-Zezo franchise to the full, GX rewards persistence with a huge goodie bag of fan-focused extras. Pilot themes with lyrics; new ships; hundreds of craft parts for Gran Turismo-style customisation; staff ghosts. Perhaps the strangest - and yet most satisfying - reward is Toshihiro Nagoshi's curious attempt to contextualise the F-Zero universe for the first time with cutscenes and story. It's somehow irresistible - eschewing the clumsy start-line posturing of so many other 'character-based' racers for glimpses of Captain Falcon wandering neon-lit streets and drinking in seedy bars, doing for F-Zero what the cantina scene did for Star Wars. The bizarre multiple-choice interviews with pilots that come at the end of cups are preposterous, but they somehow speak the language of Nintendo and F-Zero's loyal fans. The best futuristic racing game? Well, which other example lets you time the destruction of your craft to slide over the finish line as a smoking husk? F-Zero GX represents one of those rare moments in gaming history where technical ability, visuals, game design and - yes - unashamed love for Nintendo intertwine to create something that's extremely difficult to fault. ---- The Sims 3 Format: Mac, PC Publisher/developer: EA Release: 2009 All management games have an element of fantasy to them, whether or not their players choose to indulge it. Creativity and resource management go hand in hand in SimCity, for example. When Will Wright mapped out the blueprint for The Sims, the game he had in mind was an extension of those ideas. In place of a city's municipal demands, players would deal with a modern person's hierarchy of needs. Creating a place you'd like to live in became curating a life you'd like to have. In hindsight it's perhaps obvious that this simple shift would expand the potential audience for the game far beyond what Maxis had reached before. Not only did The Sims become one of the best-selling series of all time on PC, it has done a huge amount to expand and diversify the audience for gaming. Because while these are absolutely management games, they are also architecture tools, lifestyle sandboxes, and vehicles for a very particular fantasy. The Sims 3 is representative of the series at its most comprehensive, embodying all of these different aspects of The Sims across the base game and its many, many expansions. The Sims 4 may well eventually supplant it, but that sequel is still playing catch-up with its predecessor in many regards. The Sims 3's major achievement was a sense of scale. You select a pre-made family or create your own (or simply create yourself), and use your starting cash to buy a house in one of several neighbourhoods. These·a re large spaces, with town centres and suburban areas, parks and beaches. Or perhaps you instead buy a plot of land and spend your first hours with the game building a home from scratch: one of the keys to The Sims 3's appeal is the way your creative options expand steadily from the moment you begin to play, without straying too far from a quicker or easier option. And then you live, however you see fit. Meeting basic needs comes first, and perhaps entails a job, but your Sims' ambitions - as close as The Sims 3 gets to an end goal -require you to do more than just subsist. Balancing tiredness, hunger and hygiene with social and career needs while also developing skills and a healthy bank balance is the plate-spinning act that sustains The Sims 3 as a management gamne. Later expansions added adventures, quests and collectibles too, challenging players to use the tools they were given to hone Sims for a specific task. Were this the sum of The Sims' offering as a game, it'd be rather thin -a case of growing numbers to meet requirements, forever, to be regarded in the same light as timesink mobile city-builders. The game is a toolkit first, however, and its powerful draw is always that the player is capable of setting their own objectives and working towards them instead. All games are aspirational in some sense, but The Sims 3 is actively about aspiration. It's about real aspirations, too, or at least close analogies for them: love, money, stuff, homes, fame, success. The Sims is set in a world of relatable successes and exaggerated failures: the happiness of cooking a good meal offset against the chance that you may find yourself abducted by aliens. It's a world where nobody gets really sick or really sad, where discomfort is an empty bar you're always able to fill with something else, but where success is always available. It's capitalism without the politics or danger, which arguably makes it dangerously political in its own way. For all that EA has notoriously capitalised on that power, for every expansion and high-street-brand DLC pack, the spirit of innocent creativity and aspiration that draws so many people to The Sims has persisted. The Sims as a series gets away with charging so much because for many it's less a game, more a hobby: by investing in new stuff, players expand their ability to tell the stories they want to tell. This is, after all, a game about acquiring things; it follows that it'd survive a DLC programme structured in the same manner. There's certainly an argument to be made against The Sims and the fantasy it allows you to indulge in - that it can be voyeuristic as well as vicarious. Yet there are also clear positives. The Sims 3 is a game that allows you to experiment with a life entirely about achievement, about both the value and the scarcity of your time. Its lesson to players is that you can only do so much with the time available to you, and that the worst thing you can do is nothing. Or get electrocuted fixing the microwave. ---- R-Type Final Format: PS2 Publisher: SCE Developer: lrem Release: 2003 Even Irem, practically a genre boutique in the '90s, knew that, come the new millennium, the shooter was dead. But producer Kazuma Kujo knew something else: that R-Type, the series that arrived in 1987 with a slow fade and a rising theatrical chord, had to go out in style. Developed in secret for over a year (in-house, no less), R-Type Final was a delectable compromise: a shooter of unprecedented scope, published under the express condition that it had to be the last. Just as well we're celebrating single moments of excellence rather than precedents or legacies, because Final is anything but a seminal shooter. It doesn't offer rebirth to a genre in decline, but glorious death. No sooner does it find a voice for the shooter -something more than just a visual language of bullet patterns and giant flashing 'DANGER' signs -than it speaks a sombre farewell. Its title screen: the omnipotent Force, symbol of mankind's war against the Bydo Empire, abandoned to the sea. Its soundtrack: funereal, host to downbeat reprises of the old chiptune anthems. Its weapons: overwhelming, designed for ajob that more than a dozen previous games couldn't finish. The Bydo: dying, either fighting last-ditch battles or nursed by strange machines. One of the only games to acknowledge so explicitly the state of its own genre, Final labours with every ounce of its being, reducing even the scroll of its levels to a geriatric crawl. Make no mistake, as a tonal work of art this rivals anything Team Ico may imagine. But never does it use this as an excuse to be a bad scrolling shooter. It bears repeating: 101 allied ships, 78 enemies, 84 wave cannons and 53 Forces - numbers that, when introduced to Kujo's team, are said to have had him almost laughed out of the building. It's a terrifying proposition, not just in terms of production schedule but in end result as well. Overkill, after all, is poison to many a sequel and a sure route to bankruptcy for many a franchise. Only for this game could it equal a win-win scenario. What Final gives you, essentially, is Irem's Great Glass Elevator - the means to explore every conceivable corner of the R-Type experience, passing en route an ensemble cast of its other franchise stars. Beginning with the standard repertoire of ricochet lasers, homing missiles, beams and bullets, it swells to become a document of both R.-Concept ingenuity and Irem history. Some weapons exaggerate those of previous games, some pay homage to R-Type's stablemates, some depict ancient Earth motifs and others potential mergers of human technology and Bydo flesh. There's a palpable sense of endless possibility, compounded by the fact that much of the game has been deliberately lefr untested. Much is overpowered and much is ineffectual, the inclusion of an AI battle mode encouraging you to discover and exploit these flaws and take them into battle. Had this misfired, creating a freeform disaster without balance or focus, it would have been worth it for the artistic statement alone. But of course it does work, far better than perhaps it should and differently from its predecessor, R-Type Delta. The two games sit at polar ends of a single spectrum, Delta tight and traditional, Final open and explorative - a genuine concept shooter. If you've completed it already: playing it through from beginning to end, then, you haven't nearly played it enough. What's more, anyone claiming to have seen 'how it ends' is fibbing, whether they realise it or not. Kujo's gift to fans - that one idea he simply had to see through - is a final episode that has no finale, growing unpredictably over dozens of hours of play. Final loops through umpteen different versions of its primary plot, banking into black holes and parallel dimensions, surfing conduits through time and space into levels hidden within hidden levels, leaving you ultimately without bearing on even the series' most basic truth: the evil of the Bydo Empire. As genres segue together into sandboxes and evolve into modern forms, the chances of there ever being another game like this become unpleasantly slim. Series come and go, of course, with stories fit for dramatic ends, but R-Type Final was something different. When another of gaming's most fondly remembered, formative eras passed into twilight, here, for once, was a game with the heart to say goodbye. ---- Elite: Dangerous Format: PC Publisher/developer: Frontier Developments Release: 2014 Elite has never wanted for ambition, only sufficiently advanced technology. Today's PCs are capable, finally, of delivering that vision with the kind of clarity that must surely have been in David Braben and Ian Bell's minds when they collaborated on the first game. Thirty-one years later, Braben is now alone at the helm, and Elite: Dangerous represents one of the most remarkable achievements in videogames to date. This is a game that offers up a playground 400 billion star systems strong, weaving scientific and procedural data together to form a coherent model of our own Milky Way - an inconceivably large, fully explorable sandbox in which to live out your sci-fi roleplaying fantasies. That scale comes at a small cost, but it's one that dovetails nicely with the fiction. The sheer scale of Frontier's vision means that it's going to take some time to fully realise, and so, just as with real space exploration, there will be limits on what's possible until budget and time allows. For that reason, Frontier focused on the essentials first, massaging the game's flight model into something that feels truly special. Flinging the game's ships around space is a joy as you edge the throttle forward, slingshot around planets, and boost out of the range of enemies' attacks. Ambitious pilots can disable flight assist once they've mastered the basic flight model, allowing for all manner of advanced manoeuvres. This satisfying and flexible handling model is supported by audio design that manages to blend the clanking familiarity of existing technology with something disconcertingly foreign. The roar of your ship's engines is as intoxicating as it is threatening, weapons evoke impressions of dogfighting WWII aces and Star Wars in equal measure, while a melodramatic orchestral soundtrack further bolsters an already majestic audioscape. This vivid picture is completed by a swish cockpit UI that feels believably utilitarian without sacrificing the sci-fi flair of fizzing, canopy-illuminating holograms. Engineered with VR headsets in mind (but equally as effective with a mouse-controlled viewpoint), the interface expands beyond a single screen with additional controls to either side of you. It's an array built in tiers, cleverly designed to allow players to sink deeper in as they become more familiar with the business of being a pilot. If you want to concern yourself with the frantic redistribution of your craft's limited power reserves between systems in the heat of a battle, you can, but you're just as welcome to simply point and shoot. The depth of control on hand is indicative of the fastidious nature of Dangerous - this a game that holds the minutiae of space life in the same regard as it does the grandiose. In short it's a game that wants, in part, to be a little slow. Space battles are all very well, but the time you spend between them will be on the intergalactic equivalent of motorways. You'll have to deal with landing permissions and queues to dock with space stations. Making money without breaking the law will require self-imposed commutes as you trade your way up to larger ships and better systems that will enable you to extricate yourself from the daily space grind. Dangerous can be a bit mundane, then - and it's all the more brilliant for it. After all, fully committed space fantasists are just as passionate about experiencing the assumed realities of earning a living on the wing as they are about firing laser beams at the thrusters of enemies. With the core game nailed, Frontier has expanded what it's possible to do within its starbox. The Wings update introduces the ability for players to team up and undertake missions together, or share the spoils of freeform play. Powerplay, meanwhile, adds factions that players can join and work for to shift the balance of power in the galaxy. And a recent graphics revamp lights up the dark side of inhabited planets with city lights and significantly improves gas giant textures. But even this feels diminutive against what's to come. Close Quarters Combat bolts on a whole new competitive mode to the game, and the second season of expansions, named Horizons, kicks things off with planetary landings, low orbit flight, ground installations and driveable Surface Recon Vehicles. Dangerous's universe continues to expand, then, and what's there marks out only the very beginning for one of the most ambitious game projects ever undertaken. ---- Bomberman Format: Various Publisher: Various Developer: Hudson Soft Release: 1983 Since the original game was published over 30 years ago, Hudson has produced a staggering number of Bomberman titles, across just about every popular gaming platform (and some unpopular ones, too). When a single piece of game design extends tentacles of this length, you know there's something special lurking in its DNA. Drab colours and jerky graphics might've been early criticisms levelled at the series, but not after it made the switch to Nintendo's Famicorn. The shift to more powerful hardware enabled the series to establish one of its key hallmarks: a strong, vibrant colour scheme and cute character design. In Saturn Bomberman, those characters include some drawn from Hudson's other games: Master Higgins of Adventure Island, Milon of Milon 's Secret Castle, Bonk of Bank's Adventure, as well as characters from the Tengai Makyou series, Momotarou Densetsu and Galaxy Friiulein Yuna. Indeed, while it's difficult to pick a single, series-defining game from a collection this large, Saturn Bomberman remains one of the highest points. Unsurprisingly, it features the same core design as every other game in the series: you move your character across a grid-like expanse, dropping bombs and then retreating to a safe distance before they explode. And when they blow, they eliminate any enemies in their path and clear new routes across the screen. If that sounds simple enough, a wide range of powerups throws in an extra layer of strategy. There are various different types of bomb, including Mines, Power Bombs and Remote Bombs, and there are items that enhance your abilities, such as Speed-Up and Bomb Punch, plus Power Glove, letting you lob bombs. One twist seen in Saturn Bomberman and a number of other iterations is the inclusion of different-coloured dinosaur mounts. Initially uncovered by exploding a nearby piece of wall, they start out as eggs but grow increasingly powerful as they make the transition from baby to adult. One obvious advantage of riding a dinosaur is that if you're hit by a bomb blast, your mount dies instead of you. The other is each dinosaur has its own special ability: the purple variety emit ultrasonic waves to destroy rocks and explode borpbs; blue ones can kick bombs over obstacles; pink can jump; green can run fast; and finally yellow lizards can halt opponents with a roar. In other respects, Saturn Bomberman is similar to many of the other versions of the game. It features a similar singleplayer structure, for example, in which a bolted-on story provides the pretext for pushing on through successive worlds, destroying all the enemies in your path. In this instance, that story involves recovering some crystals to restrain the horrible monster Crator, but really, who cares? More important was the survival mode, which allowed players to record their best times. And, since everyone knows that Bomberman is really a game that's all about multiplayer, more important still were the game's competitive multiplayer modes. Like many of the other core games, Saturn Bomberman included a cooperative multiplayer mode, bl!t the real meat of multiplayer was the ability to compete with your friends. Indeed, American and Japanese players could even enjoy online Bomberman well ahead of the modern era of console connectivity thanks to Sega's Saturri- modem initiatives. But Saturn Bomberman's killer feature was confined to those whose gaming setup stretched to two Saturn multitaps: the game could support a: hefty ten players at once, increasing the intensity exponentially. It's a game for which the word 'mayhem' might have been created. Playing against human opponents, deviously trapping them in dead ends or confusing them by creating chain reactions was, and still is, heady stuff, demonstrating how even static bombs can create fluid and frantic head-to-head experiences. In theory, it should be easy enough to avoid bombs that are fixed in place; in practice, in the fury of battle, the range of tactical options and the speedy pace of play can confuse all but the most experienced of players. Bomberman's brilliance walks a fine line in the delicate space between tactical deliberation and blind panic. It was no surprise that Hudson attempted to refine its formula again and again, with varying degress of success, until the company was swallowed up by Konami in 2012. ---- StarCraft II Format: Mac, PC Publisher/developer: Blizzard Release: 2010 Although its star has waned in the past few years, the real time strategy template laid out by Blizzard with StarCraft, Brood War and-subsequently StarCraft II is the founding rock of professional competitive gaming on PCs. What started as a science-fiction adaptation of Blizzard's fantasy strategy games - Warcraft and Command & Conquer colliding with Warhammer 40,000 - was adapted by its community into something much more. Although played by many as a singleplayer strategy game, StarCraft's supremely high skill ceiling lifted the possibilities for gaming as a spectator sport. In South Korea, the home of the scene, that accidental mutation created the world's first rockstar videogame players. The lengthy gestation period of StarCraft II reflects the difficulty of following up a game like that. Blizzard had to do justice not only to its competitive legacy, but the space opera it had set in motion and the culture of madding around it. To do so, the studio drew on the very quality that had catalysed the phenomenon in the first place: StarCraft's ability to adapt. Dividing the sequel into three games - the third, Legacy of the Void, is in beta - allowed Blizzard to invest heavily in creating distinctive campaigns for each of its three factions. Wings Of Liberty tells the story of Raynor's Raiders, Terran freedom fighters on the run from a corrupt Terran Emperor just as the planet-consuming Zerg make their reappearance. A light RPG progression system, handled by talking to characters on Raynor's flagship, allows players to make decisions outside of individual missions that subtly influence how those missions play out. Upgrades twist familiar units in new directions, opening up strategic possibilities while locking out others. This was possible only because of Blizzard's decision to silo off singleplayer from multiplayer. Each mission is different, like the early encounter with the Zerg that uses a day/night cycle to balance moments of placid expansion and fraught danger. Heart Of The Swarm, the Zerg campaign, takes this principle even further. Zerg leader Kerrigan becomes an RPG character in her own right, and the swarm theme is used in missions that adapt MOBA-style wave attack/defence systems into singleplayer strategy puzzles. Given that the MOBA genre began with the Aeon Of Strife mod for the original StarCraft, it's an appropriate gesture. This is to say nothing of that genre-defining multiplayer. Blizzard smoothed out the more obtuse parts of StarCraft's difficulty curve for the sequel, but was careful not to lower the skill ceiling. Competitive StarCraft is a game of mathematics and strategy combining macroscale economic planning (learned through many hours on community-run wikis) with intense second-to-second battle management. The very best players act and think with speed and clarity that substantially exceeds any other competitive videogame. StarCraft !I's recent struggles as an eSport stem in part from the fact that the standard is so extremely high: few players can cut it in a scene this demanding, and even audiences need to know a lot to be able to follow the action. Even as its player numbers dwindle, StarCraft II remains an icon of competitive game design. Excellent matchmaking brought some of that quality within reach of normal players. Blizzard's seasonal ladder system, which seamlessly matched players into graded leagues and allowed them to play each other for points, has never been bettered. Though external sites are still mandatory for improvement, each successive game has provided better tutorials and replay tools. Blizzard's respect for its madding community is shown by the StarCraft II Arcade and provision of a map editor and scripting tools. Its decision to showcase player-created custom modes within the game itself predates Valve's by years. StarCraft II would be worthy of a place on this list if it was simply an epochal multiplayer strategy game. As it is, it's an incredibly well-rounded experience, a testament to Blizzard's history of producing milestone games that feel like events. If you ever wonder why this company can draw tens of thousands of people to California for BlizzCon, or why every game it makes fills out midnight launches worldwide, StarCraft II will show you. It's a rare example of a game that tries to be for lots of different types of player and pulls it off, a case study in never compromising when it comes to following up a classic. ---- Pac-Man: championship Edition Format: Xbox 360 Publisher/developer: Bandai Namco Release: 2007 The advent of widescreen may have helped a generation of game designers to realise their cinematic ambitions, but few if any games have made quite such a case for the extra screen space as Pac-Man: Championship Edition. Freed from 4:3 and CRT, one of the medium's original heroes feels thoroughly reinvigorated, in a triumphant update that is at once respectful and inventive, a perfect fusion of old and new. Bizarre Creations might have coined the phrase 'retro evolved' with fellow Xbox Live Arcade hit Geometry Wars, but this feels like the dictionary definition of the term. Even given the involvement of Pac-Man's creator Toru Iwatani, the task of bringing a much-loved bona fide arcade classic to a new audience cannot have been an enviable one. The challenge is seemingly impossible: it must hew closely enough to the simplicity and accessibility of the original design, while changing enough to ensure it stands apart. So how do you make a 27-year-old game relevant again? On paper, Iwatani's answers seem insultingly rudimentary: adding a time limit, and splitting the maze into two distinct halves. But together these two disarmingly simple ideas are a stroke of genius, refreshing the challenge while keeping the game's core all but identical. It's still about gobbling pellets and avoiding four pursuing ghosts - and, of course, exacting revenge once you've munched a power pill. But that tasty bonus fruit appears only once you've cleared all the pellets on one side, and eating it refreshes the other side of the maze, revealing another trail of pellets to follow. And then slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, the game starts to press down on the accelerator. Continuously eating pellets without losing a life boosts your score, and you'll discover that eating a power pill before the previous one runs out allows you to break the maximum 1,600-point tally for eating all four ghosts. Soon you'll learn about sparking: pushing in the direction of a turn a split-second before it -arrives allows you to take it more sharply. Championship Edition, then, lends Pac-Man a note of urgency, one reinforced by the throbbing, insistent beat of the background music. Instead of simple survival, you'll constantly seek the most efficient route to a high score, while making Split-second choices as the ghosts get faster and more unrelenting in their chase tactics: to chance a risky dash for a fruit with a ghost approaching from the side, or to double-back and stay out of trouble. With new lives gained every 20,000 points, you're rarely at risk of running out. Rather, it's that ever-ticking clock that makes you fear dying, because each life lost means a temporary drop in tempo - and crucially a loss of flow, for this is the kind of game where anything beyond the edges of the screen fades into irrelevance. Death isn't fatal, but it might well be terminal for your chance of topping the leader board. Indeed, the allure of high scores was all the greater thanks to immaculate timing. Pac-Man CE arrived just as Xbox Live Arcade was in its pomp, and as word grew that this was something quite special it brought out the competitive streak in critics and players alike. This time, however, there was more than one table to top: in addition to the headline five-minute Championship mode were two challenge variants, one offering more power pills and the other turning out the lights, plus three extra modes that changed the maze layout dramatically. Three years later, Namco repeated the'"trick with Pac-Man Championship Edition DX. This added a host of new visual options and game types, but made minor tweaks to the game's fundamentals too. It enables players to stay in the game longer by triggering a period of slow motion when a ghost is in close proximity, as well as letting you set off a bomb to send them back to the pen -at the cost of a drop in speed. Additional sleeping enemies at junctions highlight optimal routes and introduce a moment of glorious catharsis: aggroed ghosts will pursue you in a line, allowing you to turn the tables and gobble them up for a huge score bonus. Some say all this compromises the purity of Championship Edition, but whether you prefer the more focused original or the broader and more flexible DX, the two games represent a high-water mark for contemporary remakes. Little wonder that, having successfully taken a cherished game of his own creation and improved it, Iwatani decided to retire from making games. He could hardly have chosen a better way to bow out. ---- BioShock Format: 360, PC, PS3 Publisher: 2K Games Developer: Irrational Games Release: 2007 BioShock's great strength is its ability to conjure stop-and-stare moments of symbolism and spectacle from a place beyond our imagination. It's easy to say games should do this without thinking about how boring it would be if they did, or how hard it must be to construct engaging, combat-heavy gameplay around an intellectually rigorous theme - but games really should do this. Fighting a metaphor of fallen idealism in a glass city at the bottom of the ocean feels transportive in a way that scoping the slightly big bugs of this season's apocalypse will never be again. BioShock can be accurately and more or less uselessly described as a firstperson shooter, but its real trade is in ideas. There are perhaps a dozen moments during the steady wonder of exploring Rapture that invite players to pause and enjoy audacious imagery for its own sake - the groaning sadness of the Big Daddies, the frustrated experiments in aesthetic perfection in Dr Steinman's surgery, the posed plaster victims of Sander Cohen. In other words, BioShock is a culturally erudite game that has the technical prowess to erect a sophisticated fictional environment in which to play with a collection of concepts -objectivism, rational self-interest, the attainment of the great at the expense of the unworthy. It's famous for a twist based around the notion of free will it's been toying with in plain view the entire time, a twist that intentionally rebounds on the player to trigger a reflection on the nature of play and choice. That tension between the chosen and the imposed appears as early as the opening scene, an abrupt and elementally grandstanding set-piece featuring a plane crash in the ocean. The player's only chance of survival is a lighthouse, lamps illuminating a path inside to the game's first bit of ostentatious scene-setting: a stern, imposing bust of Andrew Ryan emerging from the dark carrying a banner on which is written the rationalist slogan 'No Gods or kings, only man'. Beginning a BioShock tradition of coy musical signposting, somewhere a gramophone creaks out the tones of Beyond The Sea. It feels like an escape, but crucially to BioShock's philosophical p3:rlour games, the player has no choice - the only path ahead leads to a bathysphere and a descent beneath the waves. Inside, Ryan appears on a projected 1950s information reel - part Orson Welles, part John D Rockefeller, a showman of the impossible, a Wizard of Underwater Oz. "I chose something different," he's telling us, free will buzzing through the bathysphere. "I chose... Rapture." And with that the city is revealed. Rapture is BioShock's real achievement - the conception of it as a staging ground for violence and adventure, and the realisation of it as a beautiful art deco metropolis, a magnified midcentury Manhattan playing host to a philosophical interrogation of American individualism. The primary choice, once inside, is a binary one - whether to harvest the infant girls who roam Rapture with their clanking diving-suit protectors, or to spare them for lesser immediate reward. The choice amounts to which side of a moving train the player wishes to look out from - the ultimate destination is the same, though BioShock's self-aware commentary dazzles enough for it not to seem important. Besides, these Little Sisters and Big Daddies are triumphs - of iconography if not gameplay, of impact and atmosphere if not meaningful interaction. If there's meaningful interaction it expresses itself the only way most games know how, through violence. The scientific advancements of Rapture have led to genetic enhancements called Plasmids - powerups by another name - granting control of wind, fire and electricity, programmed super-abilities to supplement the rattle of BioShock's mechanical shooting. The route might be essentially on rails, but these abilities give flexibility to the way each encounter can be played out, variation to the unavoidable expression of violence and destruction that the game entails. Not that the action is bad, but it can't help feeling inelegant given the richness of layered imagery and design in which it takes place. BioShock feels frustrated with itself - with the medium's ability to conjure all that spectacle and symbolism and yet still, accurately but uselessly, only amount to a firstperson shooter. ---- Call Of Duty 4: Modern Warfare Format: 360, Mac, PC, PS3 Publisher: Activision Developer: Infinity Ward Release: 2007 Sneer all you want. We get it. It is all too easy to see the name Call Of Duty and think of it not as a collection of individual games but as a collective, singular whole; to pretend that the earlier games in the series are guilty of the same sins as the latter ones; to suggest that Call Of Duty is, and has always been, a creatively moribund, politically questionable rollercoaster of a singleplayer game and a brainless, repetitive, ADHD-paced multiplayer mode whose matchmaking is populated by the teabagging, invective-spitting worst of Xbox Live. But to claim that about the Call Of Duty of today is questionable. To say it about COD4: Modern Warfare is madness. Few games can claim to have had a profound effect on both their host genres and the industry as a whole, but you can see Modern Warfare's DNA in the genetic makeup of countless games released in the eight years since it hit the shelves. It is the reason for the reduced runtime of the singleplayer ·campaign, though few can match its elegant pacing, its shifts in tempo and tone, its bombastic set-pieces. It is why games of all stripes - from RPGs to puzzle games, action adventures to Roguelikes and just about everything in between -employ some kind of perk system. Modern Warfare dragged the firstperson shooter, which had spent a decade or more either dug into a WWII foxhole or dossing around with energy weapons in the distant future, into a contemporary setting, ushering in a new era of recognisable weaponry with customisable attachments. It is not Modern Warfare 's fault that Activision and everybody else picked up its success and simply ran with it, over and over. Rather, this is to its credit, a tribute to its importance. So too is the fact that, despite the wide spread of its influence, its appeal endures today. That short campaign might be the reason so many of today's singleplayer modes putter along for five hours and end with a shrug of the shoulders, but in COD4's slender runtime there is enough bombast and intrigue to fill a weekend-long action-movie marathon. There is drama here, too, from the first mission's frantic escape from a sinking container ship (steam bursting from cracked pipes, water cascading through the windows and across a floor that's pitching at a 45-degree angle) to a stealthy, Ghillie-suited stalk through a post-Chernobyl Pripyat and the conclusion when, battered, broken and half-dead on the ground, you slowly raise a pistol and send the game's antagonist to the afterlife. In between, you'll die. This genre, as obsessed as it is with the business of death, had never really asked itself the question of how it might handle the death of a protagonist, or even if it could. Yet Modern Warfare kills a hero in a nuclear explosion and has you watch it through his own eyes, makes you watch as the screen first drains of colour, then fades to black as his breath slows and stops for good. Soon after, the game asks if the experience has changed your view of murder en masse when it puts you in the gunner's seat in an AC-130 and has a CO compliment you for group kills over the radio. Call Of Duty has frequently been described as the Michael Bay film of videogames, and it's a fair point, but Modem Warfare is about so much more than simply blowing shit up for kicks. Once the shooting stops and your pulse slows down, you'll head over to the multiplayer, and likely stay there for a couple of hundred hours. Infinity Ward offered the industry another template here, this time to be followed by a generation of online-enabled games. The perks, killstreaks, guns and attachments are the stars, of course, affording the player an unprecedented level of control of their playstyle. Yet the real mark of genius is in the unlock system, doling out new toys when you level up, then offering new scopes and silencers for your favourites the more you use them. It is a smart way of ensuring players stick around: hit the level cap and you're invited to Prestige, which puts all your goodies back in the toy box, resets you to level one and asks you to repeat the process all over again. It is a very hard request to refuse, even now. Eight years after release, the servers are still surprisingly busy. That's perhaps the strongest testament to Modern Warfare's magic. Even in 2015, with so many lamenting the pervasive influence Call Of Duty has had across the industry, it remains now, as it was then, one of the finest games of its kind. ---- Puzzle & Dragons Format: Android, iOS Publisher/developer: GungHo Release: 2012 Let us tell you about our Awoken Minerva team. As a leader, she offers a 2.5 multiplier to fire-type monsters; when paired with a Minerva helper from our friends list, that bonus is squared to 6.25. In addition, she halves the damage taken from light- and dark-type enemies - with our friend's contribution, that damage reduction becomes 75 per cent. Then there's her active skill, which turns dark orbs into fire orbs and has a cooldown of just five turns. We use our Red Sonia's skill to turn the entire board red and dark, Minerva's to turn the dark to fire, Shiva's to enhance the damage each fire orb will do, and Lu Bu to give a one-turn 2.5 damage multiplier to every monster on the team. We swipe our finger across our phone's touchscreen - anywhere will do, really, since the entirety of this match-three puzzle board is now red with fire orbs - and let go. We hit the boss with over seven million points of damage, and its health bar evaporates. This is Puzzle & Dragons. It was until recently the most popular smartphone game in Japan. It features all the hooks of F2P at its worst - dual currencies, stamina timers and so on - and layers over the top of it all an infuriatingly miserly RNG loot system. It took us months to put together our Minerva team. We found the monsters, levelled and evolved them to their most powerful forms. To make Awoken Minerva, we first had to beat two of the hardest dungeons in the game, then level and evolve the bosses that dropped from them, then feed them to Minerva, along with a few other hard-to-come-by materials. It has been a quite remarkable timesink, but we don't regret a moment of it. Did you not see the bit about seven-million damage? Yet even at the outset, long before you've even thought about team synergy and are simply scraping by with the handful of monsters at your disposal, Puzzle & Dragons is a joy. This is a game of matching three orbs of the same colour, but it is like no match-three game you have played. It's not about moving a single orb a single space in a single direction: you put your finger on the screen and can drag an orb freely around the board for four seconds (t hough that can be extended). When your time's up, orb matches are converted to damage, the value of each match increasing with the length of your combo. As a core mechanic, it is smartly conceived, pleasingly fluid in practice and, as elemental effects fizz about, thoroughly satisfying to watch. It's delightfully paced, too: while there's a timer on movement, there's no limit on how long you can wait between turns, so battles are an alternating mix of pensive preparation and frantic rearranging. Given its model, power creep is inevitable. Developer GungHo needs players to keep playing and customers to keep spending, and barely a week goes by without some new carrot on the end of the RNG stick. Monsters that were considered top-tier at launch have been all but forgotten now as the number available has grown to more than 2,000. And as the tools at your potential disposal have become more powerful, so the challenge has ratcheted up: endgame dungeons come in and out of rotation and demand careful team composition, near-perfect play and often a-hefty dose of luck. The elemental system (fire beats wood beats water beats fire; light and dark beat each other) dictates that our Minerva fire team, brilliant as it is, isn't suited to every dungeon. That's OK - we have plenty of others, but they are defined by so much more than just their colour. Each requires a shift in playstyle, be that matching full horizontal rows for damage buffs, going for long combos to steadily increase your multiplier, using poison skills to circumvent an enemy's defence stat, or simply grinding out a result against the toughest bosses in the game using a damage-resist team. The possibilities seem endless, and each new monster gained asks intriguing questions about the team in which it might be best suited and the dungeons in which it would prove most useful. And if you can't find a use for it, you either store it away for the future or feed it to a monster that's useful in the here and now. Yes, Puzzle & Dragons' F2P hooks and RNG reliance can frustrate - and if you want to see it at its very best, you're almost certainly going to have to pay up -but it is one of the most thrilling, compulsive and rewarding games of its kind to be played on a smartphone, or anywhere else. ---- Tearaway Format: Vita Publisher: SCE Developer: Media Molecule Release: 2013 There remains something unfashionable - wonderfully and defiantly so - about Tearaway. It's the most unlikely of killer apps, wrapping a genteel, warmhearted story around a genre all but forgotten by everyone bar Nintendo, and daring to make a virtue of the elements of Vita's featureset usually reserved for one-off gimmicks. It's a game with a genuine affection both for the material from which its world is crafted, and for the machine in which that world is contained. And it feels contained, too - as you push against the rear touch panel and see a simulacrum of your fingers poke through the floor, while seeing your face gazing down from a hole in the sun, you'll almost be convinced that Tearway's universe somehow resides within the hardware itself. The messenger you follow through its papercraft worlds is not actually the protagonist - or, rather, is only one of two. You are the other, pushing Atoi or Iota along with the analogue stick, while intervening as their omnipotent helper from on high. It's a strange kind of partnership, but it's realised beautifully, serving to highlight the artifice of the bond while still making you feel more connected to both the character and the world. It's an opportunity you're invited to grab with both hands: one steering the messenger while the other reaches into the world or manipulates it in some other way to assist. You'll tilt your Vita to manoeuvre platforms into position, tap the back panel to bounce your partner off springy drum skins, and unfurl pieces of scenery to reveal hidden routes. Everything is constructed from paper and card, and not only does it look like the real thing, it moves and sounds like it, too. It certainly isn't the first game with a hand-crafted look, but no other has so successfully integrated its aesthetics with its mechanics. And when you're not grabbing, pulling, rolling and folding what Media Molecule has built, you'll have the chance to stamp your own mark on the world. Agree to complete an NPC's request and you'll be briefly whisked away and into an art studio, with coloured paper laid out on a craft board, which you must cut and assemble, adding assorted ready-made decorations you've unlocked on your journey. First, you'll design a face for Atoi or Iota; next you'll find yourself making a crown fit for a squirrel before prettifying a pig and wallpapering an elk. Both of Vita's cameras are pressed into regular service too, while the messenger can also take their own snaps, complete with a selection of Instagram-like filters. You sense these little mementoes of your journey will become more than just set dressing, and so it proves in a touching closing act. In a game that plays so fast and loose with convention, it's hardly surprising that there's rarely any threat. The boisterous, stubby little Scraps are the antagonists of the piece, but they're easily dealt with throughout the game. The messenger has a forward roll that can knock tall variants off their stilts, while you can assist by squishing enemies for your counterpart to lift and hurl into -the abyss, or sharply bumping Scraps from beneath to send them careering into the screen, before wiping them off with your thumb as if removing a ·bug from a windshield. Otherwise the only danger is falling - it's more easily done in the late game, though Atoi and Iota have a more reliable leap than Sackboy, and checkpoints are rarely far away. You'll tear through the game in a couple of afternoons, then, even as you're encouraged to linger by the measured pace and the sheer beauty of the setting. And yet when it's over, you might choose to bring Tearaway's world into your own: each stage hosts a series of papercraft models to collect, which you can print out and make into physical memorabilia. To some, this might all sound horribly twee - and it so easily could have been that - but Tearaway's gleeful, celebratory tone cuts through any cynicism. It's a game that's enamoured of both the physical and the digital realm, bringing the tangible and intangible together in unison by wholeheartedly embracing its host hardware. It also makes Vita's most-ignored features an integral part of its systems, rather than wasting them on novelties. On a platform that often seems to lack a discernible identity, Tearaway is a champion of everything Vi ta is and can be, and in that respect it feels like Sony's very own Super Mario 64. ---- League Of Legends Format: Mac, PC Publisher/developer: Riot Games Release: 2009 On the face of it, League Of Legends has never been all that revolutionary. In an era of VR and the graphics arms race, it can feel like a relic of a bygone age in game design: a free-to-play PC title where two teams knock heads like quarterbacks, marching through cartoon lanes while NPCs pump from one base to the other. It's a throwback, blossoming from the groundwork of DOTA, its MOBA brother-in-arms, and League Of Legends makes no real attempt to fix what isn't broken. Howeyer, League Of Legends has a quality that many games lack -a mathematical beauty, something logicians would describe as a stern beauty, austere. 'Beauty in method' is how the old maths masters would talk about an especially pleasing method of proof, a proof that's unusually succinct and elegant. At its heart, League Of Legends is elegant. The game pivots on the art of turning conflict into quantifiable solutions, of sifting through information, through thousands of variables that await you on the map. How many enemy turrets have fallen by 25 minutes of play? How many minions has your opponent killed so far? Success isn't simply a matter of downing the bad guys; it requires an understanding of the clockwork mechanism that is at work deep inside the game. Picture the scene: it's a nice day on Summoner's Rift. Three lanes extend before you, stretching across jungle and river and sleeping turrets. At just over a minute in, minions spawn. By ten minutes in, you'll measure your stats against those of your foe, weighing dead minions against dead champs to calculate the gold accrued. By 20 minutes in, your objectives expand. Now Baron spawns, a jungle-born monster whose buffs can swing the terms of the game. Plodding forward and back with the rhythm of a pendulum, the players constantly eye the clock for cues on when to switch from one lane to the next. This can be a bewildering experience for the uninitiated, requiring study and time to learn the ties of your brethren champs. Is the enemy Twisted Fate? Then he can teleport across the map and kill you even when you thought you were safe. Is the enemy Blitzcrank? Then expect him to grab you and pull you into enemy clusters - but this ability has a long cooldown that leaves him largely toothless when triggered. A good player needs to have encyclopaedic knowledge and an impossible brain that gathers all relevant variables and spits out decisive actions. Perhaps this is why the champions of eSports are celebrities in their own right, a new generation of Internet stars blurring the lines between gameplayers and athletes, hobbies and sports. League Of Legends is one of only a few games that can offer a glimpse of exactly' what competition, spectatorship, fandom and celebrity look like in the 21st century. No, the online spectator isn't a new concept, but this is unfamiliar territory for even a forward-thinking studio. Riot Games, standing on the shoulders of Blizzard-shaped giants, has created a sensational model for what eSports can become. The studio did after all play a critical ro}e nurturing streaming culture. In its first days on a then-nascent Twitch platform, the development company streamed its world championship event to an audience of over eight million. Its most recent championship series drew Y1 over 27 million viewers, with a run on ESPN's new online streaming platform - a network that, while once sceptical of the ways of eSports, has begun to seek the attention of that ever-elusive millennial gaming market. The game's pro players have graced the halls of Madison Square Garden and London's Wembley Arena. Its top teams take home millions of dollars in prize pool cash. It's a Super Bowl in its own right, if a pretty unconventional test of brawn. And its viewers, the fanbase, have finally seen their hobby lifted to those upper echelons of highest esteem. Despite early scepticism, the growing acceptance of eSports within sports culture is conclusive proof of just how influential fans are in bringing new kinds of entertainment to the mainstream. Where League Of Legends can seem like just a relic of the DOTA age, it redresses the balance by changing how we think about all games. It's a powerhouse, a machine that's helped set into motion the way we now interact with these things we play -and the ones we simply watch. ---- Super Meat Boy Format: 360, Mac, PC, PS4, Vita Publisher/developer: Team Meat Release: 2010 Super Meat Boy's inception is well documented. Edmund McMillen and Tommy Refenes' struggle with the development of the game and subsequent -in their view under-promoted -XBLA release forms a major part of 2012 documentary Indie Game: The Movie. It was a process that left them exhausted. But that gestation has done little to hurt the game's legacy, or its endurance. Its influences, though, stretch back much further than that. Team Meat riffs on Super Mario World's perfect inertia, Sonic The Hedgehog's dizzying speed, and Mega Man's stern learning curve to create something that feels, if not quite as inventive, every bit as focused and important. Super Meat Boy is a platformer that reveres the genre's classics while magnifying the aspects that make those games so special. It even recalls the 8bit and 16bit eras, albeit in a less familyfriendly manner. The titular hero is a gory slab of bleeding meat who leaves a mucky trail of claret across every surface he touches. His goal in each level is to reach Bandage Girl, who is continually being abducted by evil scientist Dr Fetus, and he does this by running, leaping and wall-jumping to her location. He accelerates fast, slides to a stop and flings himself through the air with satisfying precision, and when the breezy early levels give way to fiendish creations lined with instantly fatal spinning saw blades and piles of salt, this nuanced control scheme becomes far more than just an enjoyable feedback mechanism. Meat Boy is swift even at his standard canter, but he becomes a blur when you hit the run button. Jump at full tilt and it's possible to hurl yourself across most of the screen in one go - liberating, but dangerous. The deaths mount up quickly as first hubris, then lack of skill take their toll. But as you tune into the game, you can start to shut down your brain in favour of instinctive twitch reactions. The constant dying could become frustrating if not for the brilliantly judged instant restarts that make it near impossible to tear yourself away from even the toughest levels. This, combined with the several-hundred levels supplied, helps sweeten the handful of possibly slightly mean-spirited creations that conclude the game. Super Meat Boy turns inevitable failure to its advantage. Every time you complete a level you're treated to a replay of all your previous attempts at once; dozens of Meat Boys bounce around the screen, their numbers steadily thinning as each meets his grisly end until just one remains, triumphantly stood next to Bandage Girl for the split second before she's abducted again. It's hilarious, certainly, and the spectacle never gets old, but it also provides a tangible record of your progress as each lesson you learn refines your performance. You get similarly considered visual representations of useful information throughout the game, almost all of them also initially masquerading as eccentricity. Those 16bit-style visuals, for example, ensure that levels are immediately readable, safe and deadly surfaces clearly delineated without the need for tutorials on how to identify new traps. And the splats of blood that coat every surface or lethal object you come into contact with might elicit a morbid chuckle but also serve to mark the good and bad decisions you made in prior attempts. Super Meat Boy's strippeddown aesthetic belies a richly varied game. Levels don't build on previous designs in a traditional way and, whije grouped into broadly themed worlds, mix up their pacing and structure wildly. A run through a crystal-encrusted cave might come next to a dash up a tall, thin tower riddled with laser beams or an array of saw blades that requires delicate negotiation. The game is riddled with secrets - often accessed through portals placed in precarious locations -and there's a big cast of alternative characters to unlock including cameos from other games, such as Braid's Tim (who can rewind time) and the Spelunker from Spelunky, who can fling himself farther using explosives. But once you're threading through tightly spaced death traps like a virtuoso, Super Meat Boy's greatest pleasure reveals itself: getting through the gauntlets as fast as possible. All those hours of practice coalesce into a zen-like state of mastery as you first begin to conquer levels in a matter of seconds and then hurtle through the campaign at ridiculous speeds. As in the similarly nuanced Trials series, you'll begin planning runs in your head even when you're not playing the game. ---- Xenoblade Chronicles Format: Wii Publisher: Nintendo Developer: Monolith Soft Release 2011 It's the world that stays with you. Over the years, characters and details have faded from memory, but Chronicles' magnificent sprawl, notably the widescreen splendour of Gaur Plain (arguably the closest thing to Hyrule Field we've seen since), remains every bit as vivid. It's ironic that a setting deserving of projection on an IMAX screen was contained on - constrained by - two consoles that could never really do its vision justice. And yet how fitting for a game of this grand ambition that it had to. Not that such aspirations were without precedent. Director Tetsuya Takahashi had, of course, been responsible for the Xenosaga series: he'd envisioned an SF opus spanning six games, but publisher Bandai Namco pulled the plug after just three. Xenoblade saw him rein in his more extravagant tendencies, marrying a simple story with a broad sweep to systems which took in and built upon everything he'd learned from his work on Ys and Final Fantasy during its Square heyday. The result may not have been the revolution some suggested, but Wii owners were treated to the most accomplished Japanese roleplaying game for some years. The genre had not completely stagnated before Xenoblade, but even the best JRPGs had been met with ambivalence in mainstream quarters, with few exceptions outside recognised names like Final Fantasy and the Persona games. All this made Chronicles a pleasant surprise. It gathered in almost everything players had grown to love about JRPGs during the genre's commercial zenith, with refinements to make it more palatable to western markets. It benefited from the endorsement of Nintendo as publisher and the coverage that accompanied its unlikely PAL localisation. It was only after a sustained Internet campaign, following universally positive reviews in Europe, that NOA president Reggie Fils-Aime decided to publish the game in North America. The campaigners were right, not least because during Wii's twilight period, Chronicles was a game of uncommon quality and depth; indeed, few games released since can boast such a runtime. If it isn't averse to leaning upon entrenched conventions, then it tends to do so lightly, often subtly defying tradition. Take protagonist Shulk, for example. Yes, he's an orphan, and yes, he wields a legendary sword that carries an otherworldly power. But he's no cocksure, reckless, headstrong teenager; he's an unusually thoughtful and compassionate youngster, brave but not foolhardy, with a poise beyond his years. And while his story involves an early tragedy and a mission to bring peace to a world at war, this is no ordinary quest; more significantly, this is no ordinary world. After all, it is set upon two unfathomably huge titans, permanently frozen in eternal conflict. As you traverse their limbs and bodies, you're regularly treated to sights that inspire genuine awe and wonder. Chronicles encourages exploration by rewarding the discovery of landmarks, yet there's no real need: the naturally curious player will want to chart this world fully, if only to be surprised and delighted by yet another eye-opening vista. Or, perhaps, a rare beast to slay. Chronicles features some striking creature designs, though in the heat of battle you'll often be too focused on their positioning and yours to notice. The pseudorealtime combat is a revelation: elegant and malleable, it allows you to chain moves, combine with allies to land more forceful blows, and deliver specific attacks and convey status effects by launching an offensive from the side or rear of your foe. The Monado's ability to both stop time and show a glimpse of the imminent future, meanwhile, is at once a godsend from a tactical point of view and lends a palpable note of drama to each skirmish. The sight of an ally perishing in battle ensures that you take immediate steps to save them, and it's a rousing moment when you succeed in doing so. An exceptional, diverse score soundtracks the journey, alongside an underrated and characterful English language dub that grates only during the repetitive shouts of your allies during combat -although, as a consequence, you're more likely to switch party members regularly and discover new techniques. Even as the laundry list of objectives and side missions grows uncomfortably long and the hour count hits triple figures, this absorbing adventure casts a bewitching spell. Few games can lay as convincing a claim to the term 'epic'. ---- Titanfall Format: Xbox One, PC Publisher: EA Developer: Respawn Entertainment Release: 2014 Titanfall deserved so much better. Expectations were through the roof: it was the first game from Respawn Entertainment, the studio formed by the creative chiefs of Infinity Ward, which had redefined the console FPS with Call Of Duty 4: Modern Warfare. It was the subject of a messy lawsuit between Respawn, its publisher EA and COD parent Activision, the new game hitting headlines for all the wrong reasons before it was even out. Then, as an Xbox One exclusive, it became inextricably wedded to an unpopular console whose reputation, and sales, were in the doldrums. Even without all this, Titanfall is no COD4, but a game should not be dismissed just because it failed to change the entire industry. Yet it has clearly made its mark. Its Pilots, for example - the foot soldiers through whose eyes you see the battlefield - are highly mobile, the double jumps and wall runs that felt so novel at the time now so commonplace in multiplayer FPSes that even COD is doing it. These abilities enable Respawn to push the arenas' boundaries outwards and upwards, the architecture within them providing the tight spaces twitch FPS fans crave while the world outside gives a sense of scale. That, in turn, enables the presence of the titular Titans, the hulking mechs that drop from the sky with a satisfying thunk to either follow you around taking out threats, sit and lock down an area, or let you take the controls yourself. The Titans are the stars, sure, but Respawn's coup is in the way they are delivered rather than how they handle. They're the evolution of Call Of Duty's killstreaks -huge, spectacular power fantasies guaranteed to net you at least a few kills, turn tight matches in your favour, or put the gloss on a walkover. COD's problem was that its best toys were the sole preserve of the slayers - only the best could get enough consecutive kills without dying to unlock the toptier killstreaks. As satisfying as it is for the best player to get better, no one likes it when a heavy loss turns into an unmitigated stomping. Titanfall's greatest rewards, however, are guaranteed, since Titanfall is bound to a three-minute timer that can be reduced by getting kills and completing objectives. A match might be going terribly - one of those nights when you can't hit a barn door and keep getting matched against highly organised teams of superheroes - but you're never more than few minutes from a cathartic spell in the cockpit of a massive bloody robot. Even when you're playing at your worst, you are far from the least threatening presence on the battlefield. That honour goes to the AI -controlled grunts who roam the battlefield, a nearconstant supply of cannon fodder who politely pop out of cover and wait to be killed. They fill in the empty spaces in these large maps, but they're not just there for show - every kill chips away at your Titan's cooldown. While killing other players is naturally more rewarding, both in its effect on the timer and the warm fuzzy feeling of having spoiled someone else's day, there are few more satisfying things in Titanfall than unleashing a volley of shots from your Smart Pistol, which automatically locks on to targets in view, to dispatch a group of AI grunts. Be warned: this is a multiplayer game. There's a-campaign mode on the main menu, but it takes the form of a series of normal multiplayer matches soundtracked by seemingly urgent but largely incomprehensible radio chatter. You'll care little for what's being said on comms when you're ducking behind cover to escape the attention of a Titan while ordnance rains around you, but you'll have to sit through it anyway, since playing both sides of the story is the only way to unlock more Titan classes. It's over quickly enough, at least, but it's clear Respawn would rather not have bothered with it. Perhaps that misrepresentation was a factor in the player count dropping off quickly after launch. Titanfall's recent addition to the EA Access subscription service, however, has sparked a resurgence of interest in the game, and it's changed a great deal since launch, with three map packs, originally released as paid DLC, now available free of charge. It may not have the lasting impact of its creators' past work, but there's plenty to Titanfall that you can't get anywhere else - not least the satisfaction of knowing that the enemy player who's making your life a misery is a few minutes away from being on the wrong end of your giant robot's 40mm cannon. ---- OutRun 2006: Coast 2 Coast Format: PC, PS2, Xbox Publisher: Sega Developer: Sumo Digital Release: 2006 There are two schools of driving. rhe first would be confined to the real world if not for videogame simulations like Gran Turismo or Forza Motorsport, and it's all about gear ratios, toe-in/toe-out, flywheels, limited slips, torque, drivetrains and so on. If that's your sort of thing you'll enjoy the authenticity and difficulty of driving, occasionally fast, without crashing. The second school started life in the arcade. It's exemplified by games like Sega Rally or paytona USA, and it's all about flooring the accelerator without fear of consequences, powersliding your way around impossible bends until your car's nearly at right angles, and weaving in and out of traffic. In 1986 Yu Suzuki and Sega AM2 created a game that embodied the second school of driving, putting players at the wheel of a Ferrari Testarossa convertible. In the absence of advanced physics simulation or finicky car setup screens, the appeal of the original OutRun was down to its hedonistic, hair-down approach: the vibrant and exotic locations, the spritescaling graphics, the inspired soundtrack (including the legendary Magical Sound Shower), the multiple routes, and the amazing sit-down cabinet that was, to the untrained adolescent eye, just like the real thing. There was no worrying about pranging the car or suffering a sudden loss of power due to a dodgy drivetrain. If you crashed, you crashed, with a spectacular flip or roll, before the car was reset and you were free to race again. In later years, driving games converged towards a different point, forcing would-be racers to take driving lessons or go to the shops before they could get on the road. In order to appeal to this generation of videogame racing drivers, who were used to something a little more complex than just sticking to the racing line, Sega clearly felt it had to add something more when it decided to update the OutRun concept in 2003. One obvious solution was to give players a choice of different Ferraris. Another was to give those exotic locations a graphical makeover - maintaining visual themes from the original game, preserving the blue skies and sandy beaches (and introducing the Milky Way), but revamping them with more powerful technology. Cars were given a shiny reflective sheen, the sun blazed through foliage canopies, and yachting marinas boasting glistening water effects whipped by in a haze of burning rubber. But the really inspired addition, the touch that above all rendered the reimagined OutRun almost impossibly entertaining, was the powerslide. Whatever your tastes, there are few things more satisfying in videogames, or in life. If, at any point, you found yourself driving too fast to make it around a particularly difficult bend, you could simply jab the brakes, apply a helping of opposite lock, and then accelerate into an unlikely skid that would see you round the most improbable curves. It's not always the best strategy for achieving the fastest times, but it's certainly the most entertaining, and it made segueing through the game's succession of labyrinthine twists and bends an almost otherworldly pleasure. It invigorated an old-school structure that still saw players proceeding through a series of branching pathways hoping to make it to the end before a clock runs down (t rning left for an easy ride, right for a harder time). That's how OutRun competes with other racing games - not by offering a laboured collect-'em-all strategy or a hundred setup screens, but by providing a driving experience so euphoric, so unlike anything the real world has to offer, that you'll want to spend hours and hours playing it. Coast 2 Coast also provides hours and hours of extras. It not only includes the content from the two coin-ops, OutRun 2 and OutRun 2 SP, in their entirety (all 30 courses), it also introduces Coast 2 Coast mode. This consists of a series of missions, from just drifting or racing to dodging UFOs and steering a giant beach ball. Online connectivity enables you to compete with five other drivers, and the PSP and PS2 versions link up, meaning you can continue your progress on the move. In an era of racing simulations that feature hundreds of licensed vehicles, and almost as many real-world racetracks, plenty would argue that the arcade-styled checkpoint racer is an anomaly. It is. But if they were all as good as this, it shouldn't be. ---- Left4 Dead 2 Format: 360, Mac, PC Publisher/developer: Valve Release: 2009 Left 4 Dead 2 was released almost exactly a year after its predecessor - a gap so short that the game's announcement drew fire from a community concerned that the series was being hooked up to the industry's qualitysapping annualisation machine. This concern proved to be unfounded, but Left 4 Dead 2 is nonetheless an unusual sort of sequel. Part follow-up and part update to the original game, it's subsequently grown to become the definitive version of Left 4 Dead, to the extent that you can play every single part of the original game, from characters to missions, within this edition. If someone says they're playing L4D today, this is the version they mean. The original Left 4 Dead was a pioneer in dynamic cooperative shooter design, and this made it a natural candidate for iterative development. It's a zombie survival experience designed to change every time you play, and to adapt dynamically to the number of players and how well they're doing. The flagship feature here is the AI Director, a scripting engine that handles enemy placement and behaviour on the fly in order to create moments of tension, chaos and relief without direct human direction. For the sequel, Valve took its experience with its first game and expanded the AI Director's toolkit, introducing the ability to subtly alter level layouts and optimal routes. This dynamic element applies also to the placement of weapons and supplies, the deployment of special enemies, and even dialogue between the player characters -all systems that saw either a refresh or an overhaul for L4D2 in response to the way that players behaved in the original. For example: Valve observed that L4D rewarded teams that cleared each encounter from a static position of safety - the corner of a room, a high vantage point, and so on. L4D2 countered with new special enemies specifically designed to split up a group and force players to move, like the Charger that tackles players and runs off with them, or the Spitter that creates an area of deadly acid on the ground where a player is standing. These additions demonstrate Valve's developing interest in feedback and player-data-led game design. Left 4 Dead 2 represents a second chance at getting the first game right, powered by months of mass playtesting. At its core, however, it's the same game: a generator of zombie-apocalypse anecdotes, disguised as a multiplayer shooter. All of its ideas circle back to that goal. Those special enemies aren't simply intended to provide an additional challenge; they're there to create a story through the resolution of that challenge. "I was grabbed by a Charger but my friend saved me," or "we thought we'd managed to sneak past the Witch, but I accidentally pulled the trigger." Likewise weapons and pickups: the run made more threatening by the strange absence of health packs, the defence sequence revolving around explosive petrol canisters, the heroic last stand made more heroic by the acquisition of a katana or chainsaw. Everybody who plays Left 4 Dead has stories like this, and although they fall into a pattern after a time, the game does far more than most to prevent familiarity from setting in. -This extends to Mutations, official game modifiers released on a weekly schedule and now selectable from a menu. Some alter health regeneration, others grant every player a chainsaw, others change game objectives entirely - like introducing a competitive element by allowing only a single survivor into the rescue vehicle at the end, or by adding a garden gnome that the team has to carry through the entire mission, Final Fantasy Crystal Chronicles style. Each of these expands the game's ability to generate stories. On PC, widespread support for modding via the Steam Workshop has taken this much, much further - L4D2 has become a platform for experiments in co-op level design, total conversions, and humour. Left 4 Dead 2 also successfully spins a competitive experience out of its basic cooperative design. Teams of players swap between survivors and infected on a round-by-round basis. Introducing actual human intelligence alongside the AI Director increases the challenge dramatically - often to the extent that it feels unfair - but that is, in part, the point. This is a game that, more than any other, thrives when things descend into chaos. It's remarkable that, six years after release, it still retains that power to surprise. ---- Counter-Strike: Global Offensive Format 360, PC, PS3 Publisher: Valve Developer: In-house, Hidden Path Release 2012 When Minh Le co-developed a team shooter out of the bones of Half-Life, he established several design paradigms that would come to define the competitive FPS. A contemporary military setting and knife-edge lethality were hallmarks of the original Counter-Strike mod that would subsequently be adopted by Battlefield, Call Of Duty and so on. However many millions of people have levelled M4A1 assault rifles at one another in the decades since, it was in the hallways of cs_assault and de_dust that this industry-dominating exchange originally took hold. CounterStrike was integral to moving the focus of the FPS away from space marines, BFGs and deathmatches towards teamplay and tactics. Despite its wide-ranging influence, the parts that make Counter-Strike what it is have never been assembled in quite this way anywhere else. Global Offensive is simply the latest and most comprehensive expression of these ideas, a modern wrapper around a years-tested core. Counter-Strike's competitive design starts and ends with the notion that when you die, you're out. Other game modes are a novelty; the soul of this game is in its round structure, in the long wait mandated by an early death. The feel of the game stems from the fact that failure is unusually punitive - the need for caution is a catalyst for both strategy and skill. This is most strongly felt when you're the last person alive on your team, a scenario that forces you to up your game but promises, as a reward, the distinctive payoff of having been seen to overcome the odds. This is possible because of a ballistics model that is deadly but resolutely fair, tied to an economic system that balances round-to-round success by giving winners more to lose. Do well in a round and you can afford better armour and weapons in the next. Die early and those guns can be picked up by the enemy, and if that enemy survives then you may as well have simply handed the -cash over to them directly. This allows Counter-Strike to have weapons that meaningfully change the game as they are introduced -the legendary AWP sniper rifle being the best example - because possessing one is a risk as much as a reward. Where other military shooters strive for lateral balance in their armouries, Counter-Strike doesn't need to. Each version of the game has had its individual quirks, and the way the community adopts bugs as mechanics - such as bunny hopping, which used to allow you to move faster while shooting accurately - is part of its makeup too. This was never going to be a simulation, but that's one of the reasons it's been so successful as an eSport. By abstracting details such as which guns have access to a scope or some form of zoom, which can penetrate which kinds of cover, and how fast a player can move while wielding different weapons, finesse emerges. As with Street Fighter champions or StarCraft pros, good Counter-Strike teams are capable of weaving strategy out of the myriad systems at work in the game. Valve has always understood Counter-Strike's value - it was Valve, after all, that gave Minh Le a job on the basis of the mod's quality. But this understanding is well expressed by CounterStrike: Global Offensive, which has grown from a console adaptation to the definitive edition of the game. With it, Valve has done something that very few modern FPS developers have managed: created a competitive game where the community isn't divided by map packs or DLC, which is both viable as a spectator sport and accessible enough to be played casually. It has done this through its business model - a low base price welcoming newcomers, with profit from cosmetic items used to support free maps - and through the suite of features it has placed around the core game. Global Offensive brought competitive Counter-Strike to a larger audience by offering ranked play as an alternative to regular drop-in, drop-out matches. In ranked, players commit to a best-of-30 that can last up to 90 minutes and show off the game at its deepest. Playing the same opponents on the same map so many times amounts to a kind of competitive Groundhog Day, a series of skirmishes that form a ballistic dialogue. On the opposite end, lightweight alternative modes lower the barrier to entry for those coming in after COD's compulsive loop. In this way, the game has been able to both retain its soul and its vast popularity. ---- Civilization IV Format: Mac, PC Publisher: 2K Games Developer: Firaxis Games Release: 2005 Nothing hurts quite like a nuke. To see that mushroom cloud rising over the city, to know you're one step closer to armageddon, to realise you'll be wasting worker time on scrubbing fallout. Nuclear weapons don't do as much damage as you'd expect in Civ IV. But they're the ultimate humiliation. They may not kill effectively, but they hurt. Especially when dropped by a close friend. You could've looked at the original Civilization and thought it a near perfect game. Carry and guide a primitive people from a pre-wheel migratory existence to absolute domination, and/or landing a spaceship on Alpha Centauri. It was beyond ambitious - mapping the route from sticks and stones to ICBMs across just a few hours of game time. That such a game didn't flounder under a weight of detail was lucky. That it worked so well, driving players to a state of catatonic madness, spawning the phrase 'just one more turn' at the same time, can only be considered a gaming miracle. Why did it drive so many players to the point of obsession? Incredibly clear direction, tied to immense competition. Civ's timeline is a clearly delineated measure of your progress; one that clearly marks how well you're doing compared to your opponents. Got catapults? So have the English. Got guns? So have the Aztecs. Got nuclear weapons? So have the French. It's about demonstrating clear ownership to players. Civilizations become organisms to pet and coo over. Early towns become characters. Your first city. Your first captured city. Your first recaptured city. Each lovingly named and tweaked. This is Fartsville. It's home to the pyramids. It has a rapidly growing population, and is a centre for academic research. Your borders: to my west are the English. They are my allies. To my east, the French. They are my enemies. Your empire: these are the Mongols. They are my people. And it's about wild historical fantasy. Playing on a world map, rewriting history, is Civ's basic thrill. Germany invading Poland, and continuing west until Japan. The Aztecs wading up through Mexico and holding Canada. Quietly, though, over the years, the game's influence waned. There were too many sequels: Civilization III and Civilization: Call To Power. There were too many alternatives: the realtime strategy of Age Of Empires made Civ look sombre and slow. And there wasn't enough love: Firaxis produced Civ III, but its heart was clearly in Alpha Centauri. And then came number four. And Civilization was reborn. The Civ games had always avoided religion. Too messy. Too offensive. Choosing a faith was the most demanded feature from fans, but would always be the most controversial. How could Firaxis dare define traits and stereotypes, and convert them into straight bonuses? Could it really be as clumsy as a +3 bonus to peaceful negotiation for Buddhists? No. Firaxis's solution was inspired. Religion in Civ IV isn't about bonuses. It's about infection. Religions spread from holy cities, carried by missionaries. Sharing a state religion with your neighbours makes the AI players more likely to share resources and tech. Sharing a state religion with any city with a matching temple gives line of sight: your flock are your spies. And state religions that own a sacred building will receive income from far-flung temples. Again: religi9n isn't a series of bonuses. It's a meme. And then there was that other dream feature. Multiplayer. It had been tried in the previous iteration, but proved unstable and difficult to manage. But it showed the potential of Civilization multiplayer: long-form games that could last hours - the same chasm-deep mechanics, but with the fragile alliances, backstabbing and betrayal of Diplomacy. Nothing brings out the inner dictator, though, like nuclear diplomacy. Players are free to build nukes if they wish, transforming the end-game. Bombing a city starts the Armageddon clock -and begins raising the Earth's temperature. Previously fertile savannah becomes barren; entire cities begin to starve. But nukes can be voted out of the game - if a peaceful player builds the UN. He or she can then call a vote on a non-proliferation treaty; each Civ receiving a share of the total vote proportional to their population. In Civ, nothing quite hurts like a nuke. Nothing, that is, but having those same nukes taken away by the nice man from the UN. ---- Rez Format: 360, DC, PS2 Publisher/developer: Sega Release: 2001 If Rez is a voyage into the inner recesses of its creator's mind, imagine what it's like inside that place. Disorienting. Dizzying. Intense and fascinating, certainly. And to think that Tetsuya Mizuguchi's voyage to these vistas of spaced-out weirdness started out with a game about cars. The synaesthetic audiovisual abstraction of Rez feels about as far from Sega Rally as it's possible to go. Which may be why, when Rez was first released, the critical reception ranged from unconditionally enraptured to mildly nonplussed. Or maybe it's just because Rez is an experience quintessentially greater than the sum of its parts. The underlying game mechanics are no more than the simple components of an on-rails shooter. The barest semblance of a plot comes straight out of Tron, involving a sentient AI in the throes of a nervous breakdown. Just two buttons control your actions as your onscreen avatar is thrust inexorably deeper and deeper past successive firewalls: holding down one button allows you to lock on to up to eight targets; releasing it shoots them down; the other button unleashes a smart bomb that wipes out everything on the screen. When you boil it down, as many critics understandably did, Rez adds no more to the sum of humanity than Space Harrier, or Panzer Dragoon, or After Burner. If, however, you allow yourself to be transported by the game's unique fusion of sound, vision and energy, then those rails convey you to limitless and continually evolving abstract spaces, full of shifting soundscapes and scintillating pyrotechnics. And that makes Rez a difficult experience to quantify. Further criticisms were no doubt fuelled by its creator's rather highbrow aspirations. While it was reasonable enough to name the game after a respectably underground Underworld track, Mizuguchi went further and dedicated it to Russian abstract painter Wassily Kandinsky. It was enough to inspire acres of reflective commentary, and that was enough to inspire ambivalence on the part of some critics - too many, because, irrespective of any delusions of intellectual grandeur, Rez is undeniably brilliant. The most important thing is this: if you choose to ignore all of those (pseudo-) cerebral musings, don't care two hoots about a tenuous link with some Russian painter, are unconvinced by Mizuguchi's musings on neurology - even if you forget about all that, Rez still provides rare joy. And surely that's what the best games are all about. For a start, it's beautiful, both aurally and visually. It possesses a timeless beauty that transcends its hardware, meaning that the original iteration holds up even in the face of the HD edition released for Xbox 360 in 2008. It layers a constantly inconstant soundtrack that responds to your actions on top of exquisite wireframe landscapes, which transform from simple abstractions to densely packed spaces teeming with activity. Your protagonist morphs from an amoebic blob to a pulsating sphere of pure energy as he heads towards the game's stunning final level, which encompasses angular groves of almost fractal forestry alongside towering sci-fi set-pieces and evil-looking alien architecture. All set to a brilliantly languorous, epic composition by Adam Freeland -the culmination of a high-tempo musical journey from Keiichi Sugiyama to Joujouka via Ken Ishi. More importantly, it's fun to play, and in retrospect the on-rails structure proves equally timeless. From start to transcendental end, it's superbly balanced, and the boss battles are without exception magnificent - paving the way for the phenomenal climax, which resurrects all of them, swirling, metamorphosing tendrils and all. There's a gigantic lotus leaf, casting out kaleidoscopic deadly blooms; a colossal running man, suddenly coalescing out of swarming motes before collapsing into a crescendo of rocket fire; Eden herself, imprisoned and helpless in her Death Star style core. They are all hypnotically engaging, and the logical conclusion of the game's dazzling, polished point-and-shoot design. Perhaps the most important thing, though, is that Rez actually does merit intellectual analysis. It towers above the majority of videogames. But more than that, it's a feat of imagination that can unashamedly be compared with anything produced in any artistic medium, a resounding testament to the originality of its creator's mind and his dedication to realising a vision on the screen. ---- Battlefield.4 Format: PC, PS4, Xbox One Publisher: EA Developer: DICE Release: 2013 Battlefield 4 may be an essential component of any online FPS player's ammo box, but it didn't start with a bang so much as a storm of controversy. A launch beset with what at the time were thought to be server issues (although DICE subsequently revealed that the problems existed client-side) certainly attracted attention as EA continued its assault on Activision's Call Of Duty series, but for all the wrong reasons. Amid accusations of a rushed development schedule, players vented their frustrations at a game shot through with bugs, rendering it unplayable at times. Following refinement, though, what eventually emerged was a masterpiece of virtual warfare. Battlefield 4 is an ambitious leap from the games that preceded it. Giant, evolving maps host 64-player matches that rage across land, sea and sky in a diverse range of vehicles. Standing at the edge of one of these conflicts can be an awesome experience, one that confidently shrinks the gap between PC and console multiplayer standards. Conquest remains the strongest multiplayer offering, and here the larger number of players ups the frequency of engagements and increases the opportunities for meaningful cooperative gameplay. There's rarely a moment when you'll be on your own, and the expertly orchestrated ebb and flow of each battle, as capture points are taken and lost, encourages even the most solitary players to buddy up. Battlefield 4 is a game that takes the intimidation out of online competitive combat by ensuring that even the smallest contributions help the war effort. Don't feel you can go toe to toe with advanced infantry? Hang back and defend a secured capture point, heal teammates, or simply get up high and spot enemies to mark them for other players - it all helps, and you'll level up, too. There are, naturally, plenty of other equally well-populated multiplayer modes to try elsewhere. Rush offers a scaled-down encounter in which an attacking force with limited tickets must destroy terminals protected by an unlimited defending side. The recently introduced Defuse is even more intimate, offering a Battlefield: Hardline-like five-vs-five mode on close-quarters maps with no respawns. And then there are the more specialised modes added via the game's numerous DLC updates, such as China Rising's jet-only Air Superiority dogfighting, and Naval Strike's Carrier Assault, which sees players attacking and defending aircraft carriers. While traditional deathmatch options exist, they're by far the least popular, and stand as extremely rare examples of the game choosing not to encourage the particular flavour of team play that sets it apart. Aside from the new modes and increased scale, Battlefield 4's other key addition is its unfortunately named Levolution mechanic, a device that builds on the large-scale destruction introduced in 2002's Battlefield 1942 and refined further by the Frostbite-powered Battlefield: Bad Company. The tower collapse featured on the Siege of Shanghai map was a key part of the game's promo campaign, and no wonder: it makes a big, loud case for DICE's technology. Taking out the four support pillars of the large skyscraper at the- centre of the map brings it crashing down, reducing the area below it to a wasteland of rubble and sending a vision-obscuring dust cloud through the surrounding streets. On Paracel Storm, meanwhile, a series of islands are caught in the midst of a gradually intensifying storm that significantly reduces visibility and eventually results in the spectacular running aground of a destroyer. Taken purely as spectacle, the appeal of these events diminishes quickly, but once you've played a map enough times to be free of the desire to stop and gawp, Levolution moments transcend gimmickry and become purely strategic. In that respect, they never get old as both sides race to turn the environment to their advantage. In terms of scale and variety, Battlefield 4's multiplayer is peerless within its genre. Though its singleplayer campaign is much improved over Battlefield 3's lacklustre offering, it remains a thin distraction from the main, assuredly superior online action. Battlefield champions strategy, teamwork and communication over pure twitch reactions, and Conquest remains the crowning achievement of a military shooter that is capable of provoking exhilaration like no other. ---- Metroid Prime Format: GC, Wii Publisher: Nintendo Developer: Retro Studios Release: 2002 Ignore the cheery red-and-yellow Space Quarterback trappings: Metroid has always been a restless and difficult series, an introvert among the plumbers and pixies of the Nintendo catalogue. Serious, complex and unfriendly to newcomers, Samus Aran's adventures trade in elegant dread rather than clear-cut heroics, replacing the smiling clouds and summer skies with slimy rocks and echoing catacombs. The difference is visible on every level: Mario goes left to right, a breezy sightseer on a predictable journey. Metroid, however, has always been about heading downwards, boring deeper into increasingly remote locations. And rather than the chummy ever-expanding cast of the Mushroom Kingdom or Hyrule, Metroid's lineup is tiny and largely static. This isn't about being part of the gang, it's about quiet, lonely toil on the frontiers of space. It's odd, then, that this ageing franchise, away from screens for almost a decade, should have beaten Mario and Link to become for many the standout title on GameCube. But the reason turns out to be simple: Metroid Prime is all about atmosphere and detail. That controversial shift to firstperson, seen as a blunder from an untested developer, turns out to be a canny move. Rather than suggesting a new focus on gunplay, the change of perspective puts you not only into Aran's helmet but straight into her world. And from the orbiting Space Pirate lab to the decaying and corrupted planet interior of Tallon IV, it's the world of Metroid Prime that truly makes it a classic. Like Half-Life 2, the game would rather tell its tale in stone and moss than cutscenes, speaking most coherently through the places that ancient calamity has left behind. Prime deals in archaeology as much as narrative. The caverns you travel through, the long-dead world you explore with its crumbled buildings and forgotten purposes, its ancient security systems and dormant switches, are far more than just the setting for a wider story -they are the story. And it's a surprisingly downbeat one: a tale of consequences and failures, of decaying remains, pollution, and the terrible aching loneliness that follows disaster. What's surprising, then, is that the environments themselves at first seem oddly. generic. Why get excited about another ice level, another world of lava and fire? These have been the stock setdressings of video games since their birth. But in Prime it's the treatment, the way the game uses tiny details to create a sense of isolation, of oppressive weight above and around you, that makes such tired ideas fresh again. It's the smashed computer panels, the tumble-down walls, and the terrifying prospect of an empty specimen case. Instead of levels, Metroid Prime has locations that feel real. Instead of enemies, it has developed a believable ecosystem, the creatures you fight emerging from the same environment that powers the story. But, as ever with Metroid, that per£e ctly gloomy tale is just one of two narratives at work. The other one is told in the slow but steady accumulation of new weapons and powers, the legacy of a series that understands more about rewards than Microsoft's Achievement sy§tem ever could. In Metroid, weapon upgrades are more than just bigger, better toys: they provide an elegant solution to the problem of pacing, opening up new areas and new possibilities, turning the constant backtracking into a deliriously exciting treasure quest. Gamerpoints are one thing, but a morph ball is something else: where will you use it? And how? This is a game that needs you to pay attention, to sit up straight and take notes, a game that asks you to remember where you saw that tempting gap you may now be able to pass through. None of this was new to Metroid Prime, of course, but whereas certain iterations of Zelda and Mario may feel weighed down by their cumulative history of mechanics and traditions, Prime uses old tricks not because it has to, but because it can make them work; those it can't use, it ditches with little ceremony. On paper, drip-feeding and backtracking don't seem to make for a particularly thrilling game. But the results, when they're as well-judged and unsentimental as this, are both classically traditional and utterly revolutionary. Devastation has never been so colourful, lonely exploration has seldom been so exhilarating, and a game that rates patience and concentration above almost any other virtue has never been so endlessly gripping. ---- Hearthstone: Heroes Of Warcraft Format: iOS, PC Publisher: Activioion Blizzard Developer: Blizzard Entertainment Release: 2014 Meet Mr Suitcase. He's an archetypal character in collectible card games (and the name of an achievement in Madden NFL 25): the guy who just has everything. He's the one who you mildly suspect has remortgaged a house simply to have an answer for all your strategies in that towering stack of foils, the guy who you play once and, if you win, spends 20 minutes constructing the perfect counter deck before demanding a rematch. If you lose, he's insufferable, wearing a smirk that asserts his tactical superiority even as he flops down a gameending card so rare and powerful you could trade a Ming vase for it and still have to throw in change to make up the difference. On the face of it, after two adventures, two massive card expansions and a period of earning its creator a reported $155,000 per day in the US alone, Hearthstone seems like it would be dauntingly full of messrs Suitcase. And, in some modes, it is. The time has long since passed where you can enter Ranked matches with just a free booster pack or two to your name and expect to crack into the upper echelons. Even Casual seems more a hotbed for high-end players to deck-test than a welcoming start point. So it's not without caveat that we rank Blizzard's digital CCG among the most accessible examples of the form, nor declare it the quintessential template for converting physical game ideas to digital devices. Yet it is both. Hearthstone's underlying magic is the same as it was on launch: what it does with a processor behind all those skeuomorphic cards and with the distance imposed by an Internet connection. Presentationally, it's near flawless. Unsubtle glows inform you exactly which cards you can afford, a dazzling array of effects trace the precise ramifications of each one played, and there's a clear indication of when you have hit the limits of your turn or still have possible moves in hand. With no stats or effects triggers to track yourself, the onus is placed entirely on the way you play your deck. You are spared those knowing grins too -a simple emotes system creates a largely friendly atmosphere and denies alpha players the room to affect your turns. Then consider the modes that just wouldn't be possible outside a specialist game shop: the pay-to-enter Arena, where you pick a hero and then draw up a deck from the entire card pool one selection of three options at a time, before trying to guide this on-the-fly construction to as many wins as possible before you accrue three losses. It's a wonderful way to counter the Suitcases of this world - it may not be fair in the sense of perfect balance, but everyone who pays the paltry sum of in-game gold or real money to enter through its doors is granted a playing field where no amount of completionism or cash will carry you. Likewise, the Tavern Brawl provides a weekly remix of the rules that can undercut the dominant decks in the current meta, or set the cards with which you play. And the ability to render your cards into crafting dust to plug particularly synergistic holes in a deck takes a fair deal of the edge off the CCG's de facto blind pack purchasing model, so long as you don't expect to be buying the top-end legendaries that way. Taken together, this represents an uncommonly generous approach for a free-to-play game, and one that permits acolytes entry to a genre of high skill requirements without splurging hundreds just to find out if they like it. At the other end of the scale, once Hearthstone has tutored you via its gentle introductory suite of AI matches, optional singleplayer adventures and countless online battles, there's a cerebral thrill in delving into the depths of its expanding card pool to pull together ludicrous chains of effect, from the one-turn KO deck to denial builds and all sorts of delicious tactical tricks. It's a rip current that, if you submit to it, can consume many a happy hour of daydreaming and deck tinkering, though it says much that Blizzard is even happy to help out with AI deck suggestions to facilitate dip-in/dip-out players. The result is that Hearthstone is a CCG that's as deep, as costly and as time consuming as you allow it to be - good for short bus rides and evenings of streamed play alike. In unburdening an inherently gripping mode of play from the constraints of physicality, Blizzard has done something ingenious and captivating that absolutely trumps Hearthstone's paper-bound predecessors. ---- Castlevania: Symphony Of The Night Format: 360, PS 1 Publisher/developer: Konami Release: 1997 Younger players who took their first steps into Symphony Of The Night's hallowed, half-lit gothic corridors via the Xbox Live Arcade port of the game would be forgiven for thinking it's a typical representation of videogames in 1997. But the truth is that, even upon its debut release nearly 20 years ago, Castlevania's dark 2D envirronments, horror-shop cast of ghoul and zombie sprites, and orthodox side-scrolling action looked unfashionably dated. The fact it showcased some of the most exquisite and inventively designed sprites yet seen was of little consequence to a generation more interested in counting polygons and measuring draw distance. But some players had the open-mindedness to embrace the game's nonconformist aesthetic elegance. And, once inside, it was obvious this outing ambitiously expanded Castlevania's traditional mechanics, thus revealing itself to be a fresh, mesmerising and ocean-deep experience. As a result, Symphony Of The Night went on to command walletbusting second-hand prices on Ebay as one of the most sought-after PS1 rarities. The reasons for Symphony Of The Night's sleeper-hit success are clear from the moment the imposing Romanian castle's cold gates clasp shut behind you. Continuing its forebears' premise, you're cast as a vampire hunter -in this case one Adrian Fahrenheit (nicknamed Alucard), Dracula's very own son. Locked within a labyrinthine castle, you're tasked with defeating a catalogue of freakish but creative monsters in a hunt to find and defeat the lord of the castle. To help achieve this you're initially graced with the series' standard and sparse set of moves: a jump, two attacks (one for the left arm and one for the right), and a retreating backslide. However, over the course of the game these tight and familiar boundaries are expanded and a fistful of Super Metroid's popular inventions dropped into the mix. Now weapons, armour and items must be managed; defeating enemies yields RPG-style experience points to level up Alucard and increase his health and magic bars. Special moves, triggered with Street Fighter II-style inputs, invite previously untouched arcade mechanics into the fold. Logic-based puzzles present a new kind of obstacle for the player to overcome, and a huge emphasis is placed on obsessive exploration, a continually updating percentage score spurring the player on to fill in every single blank in the castle's sprawling map. Upon this framework Konami overlays a simple but effective narrative, a staccato rhythm of ever-more-exciting boss encounters and, crucially, a brilliant and precise play arc controlled by a drip-feed of new obstacle-defeating upgrades to the player's abilities. The mastery of this game design lies in how you're led to feel as though you have free roam in the castle, forging your own bespoke story by going off in any direction that takes your fancy. While this is, to a certain extent, true, the game is more linear than it leads you to believe. By holding back key abilities the designers are able ·to limit the areas you can reach until you've defeated the appropriate boss - an age-old game design mechanic but one rarely successfully writ so large and with such apparent freedom. The designers' foresight and planning is only fully revealed at the supposed finale. Upon securing the game's best ending the screen bianches out and Alucard appears, standing alone in an upturned room. Venturing off into new screens, it transpires that you're in an upside-down version of the original castle. With astonishing generosity and vision, the world has been designed to work in both directions. Staircases become sloping ceilings, mantelpieces low ledges, and bell towers the deepest of basements. The castle must now be explored again up to the infamous and mathematically impossible target of 200.6 per cent. But even discounting this magnanimous extra, what makes this the best of the Castlevania games? In part it's thanks to artist Ayami Kojima's mature and stylised character designs (removed from the subsequent DS games), which lend the game a certain dark charm, and an extraordinary soundtrack that matches the game's grand musical title. But more that that, the sheer excitement of not knowing what the game will throw at you next is yet to be matched by its sequels -or indeed few other games at all. ---- Limbo Format: 360, Mac, PC, PS3, PS4, Vita, Xbox One Publisher/developer: Playdead Release: 2010 Limbo is the go-to gateway game for luring non-gaming friends into the habit. It's easy to label as 'art': abstractly beautiful, mournful, eerie and possessed of deeper themes, even if it's not obvious what they are. It's something you'd be confident showing off to your grandmother without fear of a hail of gunfire or half-naked woman turning up to reinforce age-old stereotypes. And yet it's an entirely unpretentious game, a puzzlebased platformer that resonates even if you don't mean to engage with its implied narrative. Limbo's title screen - a dilapidated treehouse and rotted rope ladder, grainy and indistinct in monochrome twilight - tells you nothing about what's coming. Pressing Start is not much more illuminating, as points of white light blink into life in a small silhouette's eye sockets, and he stands, bleary, in a grey and unfocused forest glade. Silence echoes; a sucking, gasping, empty noise, punctuated only by your rustling footsteps. You shuffle forwards, hesitant to disturb the stillness ... and nothing happens. This is the drawn-out tension of a horror game, not the blaze of colour and collectibles typically associated with platforming. Limbo still hasn't told you what's happening, which means you're apprehensive - scared without an object of fear, indicating the game's true mastery of horror. So you begin to overthink. A tiny sailboat on a steel-grey pond? Who left it there? Could they be tailing you? Wordless, Limbo has ensnared you in its story out of fear for your own survival. Fear, as it happens, that is very well placed. A boulder careers down a log, splattering you with surprising brutality considering that you're a small child. Later you're speared by the legs of a giant spider, and hunted by feral children who've hanged other travellers. Yet you reappear within seconds some metres back from the point of disaster. So it is with all of Limbo's harrowing puzzles, mechanisms and assailants. A successful first attempt on anything more dangerous than a rope swing is improbable, and Limbo takes sick satisfaction in scattering your limbs through the undergrowth. Its humour is black, your bark of laughter at the comprehensiveness of your death cut short by the realisation that you're watching a kid's head get popped off. But it's this same repulsive, relentless funeral march that makes Limbo so friendly. Limbo is eminently accessible, without ever skimping on complexity. Death strikes hard and often, but it's also instructive, another effortless narrative tie to your running and jumping. You respawn without pause to draw breath, armed with the knowledge of what not to do next time. An aficionado may get it on a second attempt; a bemused relative, drawn to Limbo's pregnant opening in a way they can't fully explain, might take 30. It makes no difference - Limbo punishes often but teaches always. It has a mere three controls (including movement) - run, jump and grab - and from that intuitive toolset and the physics of mass and gravity it constructs puzzles along a flawless difficulty curve. It's almost a pity to step out from the forest, malicious and twisted though it was, because the ensuing cityscape is cold and uncaring, a shift from carefully set traps and ravenous wildlife to collapsing steelwork and electricity. Indifferent, it makes no concessions for your survival', its rotating industrial hardware demanding that you remain in motion. Death becomes a valuable respite in which to process how on Earth you got mangled that time. Then, after instilling in you the reflexes to conquer pacier puzzles, Limbo introduces its crowning gravity mechanics - switches that must be manipulated mid-flight to change lethal falls into graceful orbits around evil circular saws. If you're good, this much might take you an hour or so to navigate, every moment of which Playdead handles with utmost economy. Nothing is extraneous, no empty stretch insignificant; each puzzle is one notch tougher than before, and every step attempts to tell you something. Because Limbo still hasn't explained what this bleak place is. For 60 brooding minutes it's pulled you along, its scenery, traps and even - especially - its gravity mechanics suggesting that something deeper is on display than a walk in a dangerous forest. The opening seconds snare your curiosity, but it's after the credits have rolled and the title screen's treehouse reappears that Limbo will begin to haunt you. ---- Towerfall: Ascension Format: PC, PS4 Publisher/developer: Matt Makes Games, Inc Release: 2014 Towerfall: Ascension presents a serious problem: you cannot afford to blink. Not when that split second could mean a tiny pixel arrow ripping through the air and pinning you to the wall. Not when it could blind you to an opponent dropping through a hole in the floor, then warping around to one in the ceiling so they can bop you on the head, eliminating you as dispassionately as Mario dispatches a Goomba. Not when staying stationary is to invite a quick dispatch, either directly by your foes or by the hazards built into these singlescreen levels. Staying alive long enough to claim the crown in one of Ascension's raucous, anarchic multiplayer matches is going to require all your attention, a little luck, and every last ounce of your skill. Thank goodness individual rounds tend to last in the order of seconds, not minutes. Except of course you will still blink. And you will still die. That's inevitable. But while the game's pace is unforgiving and there's so much to keep track of onscreen, Ascension is not pure carnage. Rather, it is a game of imposing yourself on carnage, and provides a subtle, supple toolset with which to do so, as well as some sensible limitations. Take the dash, just a trigger squeeze away: it operates in the same eight directions as aiming, so it can be a double jump of sorts or grant you a little hang time, but it can also push you downwards, so a skilled player can use it to confound easy sight lines. You'll last even longer once you master the arrow snatch, where you dash at an incoming projectile and automatically pluck it from the air, adding it to your limited quiver. It's a vital addition: while you start with a maximum of only three opponents, you also begin with just three arrows. Every other shot you fire, powerups aside, will rely on you first snatching up the leftovers from previous shots, whether or not they successfully find their targets. It's a golden rule, one that sees combatants clash and then rush to retreat and scoop up projectiles, a cycle of tension and release broken only by being the last one standing. Developer Matt Thorson made Towerfall in an environment where local multiplayer testing was on tap - the Indie House in Vancouver - and it shows in this mechanical encouragement to scramble, which sees power forever shifting between the arrow haves and arrow have-nots. It's also displayed in the measured balance and overall leanness of the multiplayer game. Fall too far behind and you'll be granted a bubble shield that can soak up exactly one hit, redressing the playing field, while every zone has its own hazards and powerup arrows to get a feel for. Skill will out, or at least makes a significant difference to the final standings, but Ascension is tuned just so to ensure that novices are always learning and it's rarely too late for a dramatic comeback. Since multiplayer matches are short, however, you'll feel the three-arrow limitation most in Quest mode, whether you play solo or invite your friends to help you take on its waves of tricky enemies. It's a stern test of spatial awareness, keeping track of all the portals spawning in new foes, but . your meagre ration of projectiles also makes high demands on your ability to plan and then improvise when it all goes wrong. What's most delightful is how few of the enemies act like player bots, but rather encourage fresh tactical approaches to cleanse your palette between deathmatches. Winged harpies can fling tornadoes at you, and defend themselves from an arrow by scrambling the airspace before them, requiring you to draw out the attack before closing quickly for the kill. Reapers, meanwhile, will simply bat away incoming missiles with their scythe, unless you can nail them with a shot to their undefended backs. None of the behaviours are especially complex, but having to learn the enemy types and plan a master strategy that allows you to loop around the arena to refill your quiver ensures that this is far more fraught than just determining target priority and expressing aiming skill. However you play it, then, Towerfall: Ascension is rarely less than frantic, but it is also never short of engrossing. It may look like another indie game that taps into the nostalgia of pixels and Mario's headstomp, but these are not crutches. Rather they form a framework upon which Thorson can add his own brand of twisted invention, a set of rules and ideas honed in the fires of local multiplayer but only fractionally less essential as a solo pursuit. ---- EarthBourtd Format: SNES Publisher: Nintendo Developer: Ape, HAL Laboratory Release: 1994 It must have seemed like a good idea at the time. When Nintendo Of America came to localise Shigesato Itoi's Mother 2, it set aside substantial funds for an extensive promotional campaign. But the decision to mirror the game's subversive tone in its sarcastic slogan -"This game stinks" - was a mistake. In the US, the game sold fewer than half the number of copies that had been shifted in Japan, ensuring both its cult status and astronomical resale value in the years that followed. Its legend grew through enthusiastic word of mouth from the comparative few who'd played and loved it, until it finally earned a critical reappraisal two decades on, courtesy of a belated Virtual Console release. Yet that was nothing compared to the troubles it had endured getting made in the first place. Itoi, asked by Nintendo to write a promotional slogan, took the opportunity to pitch a game idea to Nintendo, which Shigeru Miyamoto rejected. After an intervention from then president Hiroshi Yamauchi, who saw creative value in the fresh approach of an outsider, a sheepish Miyamoto was asked to call Itoi and accept his game idea, simply titled Mother. It was a success in Ja pan and a sequel was quickly greenlit. But four years into development, EarthBound still wasn't working. The graphics, sound and game scenario were all but complete, but the individual pieces couldn't be connected. Enter Satoru Iwata, then president of HAL Laboratory, who told Itoi and his team that on its current path it would take another two years to finish. Iwata, however, had another plan: to start afresh, and complete the job within six months. No prizes for guessing which option Itoi took. Still, without those hardships, you wonder whether the finished EarthBound would be quite the same. It's a game, after all, that is defined by its differences; through the ways in which it bucks, subverts or slyly pokes fun at genre tropes, and through its unlikely contrasts of the mundane and the otherworldly. It's a sideways, satirical look at smalltown Americana with a wonderful absurdist streak, presenting you with baseball bats, cookies and picnic lunches one moment before inviting you to face off against giant roaches, extraterrestrials and zombie dogs the next. Not all of its ideas seem as unorthodox as they once did, though for a JRPG to eschew random encounters was unthinkable at the time. The brisk turn-based combat remains its most conventional element, but even this has its unique wrinkles. Recognising that combat against low-level opponents was essentially meaningless in other RPGs, Itoi introduced the idea of weak enemies running away from you; catch them and you'll automatically gain the xp you'd normally earn from fighting them. And though players still had to endure the common frustration of moves failing to connect, Itoi wanted to avoid parties being wiped out at a single stroke. Rather than killing you outright, potentially fatal blows see your HP gauge deplete slowly; defeat your attacker before it hits zero, or use an item or Psi power to heal, and you'll survive. Like many of its kind, EarthBound is a coming-of-age tale, a story of a-young adventurer leaving the comfort of his village to save the world. And yet it cou!d not be more different from its peers in the telling. This is a heartfelt ancl deeply human story about a boy on the cusp of growing up, keen to demonstrate his independence while still reliant upon the comforts of family and old friends. Ness will get homesick if he doesn't call his mother often enough, and though his father is more distant, he's equally caring, concerned enough about his son's welfare that he'll suggest taking a break - before conceding that saving the world might just have to take priority. Itoi said he wanted EarthBound to break players' hearts, but it's clear he's equally keen to make them laugh. The humour ranges from observational to surrealist, and it's this strange blend of the familiar and the bizarre that makes the game's world so alive. Masterfully blending humour and pathos, EarthBound has a timeless appeal - a good job, too, given that some people had to wait nearly 20 years to play it. Still, if that delay was hard to excuse, we should offer thanks to those two late Nintendo presidents to whom it owes its existence. It may not be quite as fresh as it was in 1994, but the game certainly doesn't stink. ---- Batman: Arkham Knight Format: PC, PS4, Xbox One Publisher: Warner Bros Developer: Rocksteady Release: 2015 Rocksteady's Batman has done a lot for videogames. Until the Caped Crusader first touched finger to cowl, sight overlay modes were used for tame things like granting Sam Fisher grainy night vision. Until Bats laid cuffed glove on stubbled chin, perhaps the closest thing to this series' punchy freeflow combat was Ezio's polite, one-at-a-time swordplay in Assassin's Creed. And until he appeared, stealth in games was more often about avoiding detection than using the night as a cloak to dismantle a room full of guards layer by patient layer. With all this appropriated by countless other action adventures, you may not even thank the Dark Knight or his Highgate handlers for it. But just as Ubisoft's much-overused territory-claiming waypoints are still enjoyable in Far Cry 4 and still have purpose in Assassin's Creed, so it makes sense to come home to the series that developed these ideas to the point of mainstream adoption. Every Rocksteady Arkham game has its own appeal. Asylum is the tightest and most focused; City has its excellent challenge rooms and some standout moments with the rogues gallery. But if we're seeking these influential systems at their ultimate, then Knight is the most complete expression of Batman's martial prowess and utility belt ever committed to code, and it takes place in the most expansive and complete videogame Gotham yet crafted. That city is a marvel - acres of densely packed buildings and distinguishable districts forming a rain-slick playground for the Dark Knight to dominate at his leisure. While the Batmobile will tear you through these streets to the next objective marker in short order, it's Batman's glide that allows you to best take in this sea of rooftops, Riddler challenges, landmarks and sidequests. Flight allows the world design to shine and lets the studio do away with minimaps full of icons and popups, as if the point of open-world distractions was merely to fragment your attention. Rocksteady invites you to read the city like the Batman, a point reinforced by not having every batsignal waypoint take you straight to the destination but to the general vicinity to work out the rest yourself. Demanding a little extra brainpower does much to create the feel of being Batman. All that extra. space also allows those stealth sections to breathe in a way they couldn't within the confines of Asylum, outdoor objectives granting freedom of approach to a barely constrained predator. In return, Rocksteady ups its guards' own tricks, with heavies who won't go down quietly, Detective Mode blockers, and medics who can undo your good work, requiring greater forethought and improvisation than any Arkham past. The latter quality is enabled more smoothly than ever by the Fear Takedown, a new trick that allows Bats to fell a string of nearby guards in quick succession, providing he's recently taken out a thug silently. It is both opener and finishing move, and a grand equaliser for the greater forces ahead. Still, perhaps it's the enjoyment of messing with environmental toys - dropping a chandelier at the right moment, or sending goons tumbling down an escalator - that best delivers the satisfaction of being the m9st powerful man in the room, despite your painful mortality. Melee combat, meanwhile, remains as bone-shatteringly brutal as ever, a rhythmic dance . played to the percussive snaps of femurs and splintering glass jaws, although thi§ time with top notes of spectacular environmental finishers. Again, new enemy types demand you play tactician, but freeflow combat was always the most accomplished arm of Rocksteady's power fantasy, and it still holds up brilliantly in 2015. All these fundamentals are even counterpointed by certain spokes of sidequest. You join forces with Selina Kyle to tagteam Riddler's colour-coded bots. You engage in two memorable brawls that require you to stretch your understanding of freeflow to its absolute limits. The blaring sirens of Two Face bank robbery missions remove the de facto penalty for making noise in Predator rooms, but introduce a tight time limit. Not every part of the game is as smart - you may very well be sick of the Batmobile combat by the end of the main story's drone wars, for instance. Still, as the biggest and most open enclosure for the series' most diverse cast of scum and villainy, Arkham Knight is a peerless setting in which to enact the systems that not only made the Batman fantasy work, but have also helped shape gaming since 2009. ---- Transistor Format PC, PS4 Publisher/Developer: Supergiant Games Release: 2014 There's a fundamental flaw in the traditional RPG levelling system. When you peruse the talent tree and ponder what to spend your newly acquired skill point on, you're not really making that much of a decision. You're not choosing what you want to be, so much as what you want to be right now - you might go for more health this time, but in another hour or two you'll be back at the skill screen, buffing up the stat you chose to ignore earlier. Transistor's a little different. This is no 60-hour epic, where another skill can be earned by spending a few hours crossing entries off your quest log. This tight, focused, story-driven RPG bombards you with options when you level up. There is simply no time to pick them all, at least not in a single playthrough. As you level up, you can pick one of a choice of two different moves, or you can unlock an extra Passive slot (providing a permanent buff to protagonist Red), or an Upgrade sub function (w hich changes the effect of one of your existing moveset). Alternatively, you can increase your Memory, which governs how much you can equip. That may suggest Transistor is a turn-based game, but that's only half the truth. You can play it entirely in realtime if you want, zipping in and out of cover and managing cooldowns on the attacks mapped to the four face buttons. Just don't expect a smooth ride. Instead, we advise a squeeze of the right trigger, which activates Turn mode. The battle freezes, the music filters out into the distance, and you're free to cue up a string of moves unhindered; press R2 again and Red enacts the plan before the enemy knows what's hit them. Early on, the balance of power seems to be tipped firmly in your favour, but the enemy threat ramps up quickly and significantly, and mistakes are heavily punished. When your health bar's depleted, you don't die straight away but lose access to one of your moves. Battles are tense, despite the ability to pause time and plan out a combo that ends with a dash to safe ground; the gentle pace of Turn mode is punctuated by a fraught few seconds of hunkering down behind destructible cover, waiting in realtime for your cooldowns to recharge. The setting is Cloudbank, a retro-futurist city that fuses the art of Gustav Klimt and Syd Mead, and the fashion of the 1920s with the technology of the future. One minute you're watching as Red, a singer by trade, sings a sultry torch number; the next you're voting on tomorrow's weather conditions at a streetside computer terminal. It's all run by the Camerata, a shady Illuminati-style group that recruits the great and the good - athletes, business leaders, celebrities, and so on -to put a presentable face on its clearly dubious intentions. Cloudbank is a world of stark contrasts that remains coherent throughout, as you piece together the mystery behind Red waking up alone in what was once a throbbing metropolis but is now a ghost town. Well, almost alone. When she comes to, there's a talking sword by her side. While Transistor shares many similarities with developer Supergiant's debut game Bastion - both are isometric action CRPGs full of artistic flair - what really unites the two is voice actor Logan Cunningham. In Bastion he was the narrator but here he's an integral part of the world, and the game. As in Bastion, he's there to tell the story and comment on events, speaking equally on behalf of Supergiant's writers and you the player. But he is also speaking for Red, who wakes up having lost the ability to talk. He's a character in his own right, too, the soul of a dead man trapped in the hilt of the sword that killed him, understandably keen to find out what the hell is going on. He won't tell you the whole story by himself, however: to tease that out you'll need to burrow deep into the game's interface, poring over terminal screens and item descriptions, even maxing out the upgrades on your attacks - a sprawling job that will require multiple playthroughs to complete. Cunningham may be the most recognisable piece of connective tissue between Supergiant's games, but the real stars are the men and women behind the scenes. In the space of just two releases they have marked their studio out as one of the very best in the business, indie or otherwise, making polished, deep, stylish games that belie their meagre headcount. ---- Puyo Puyo Format: Various Publisher/developer: Various Release: 1991 Puyo Puyo was created in 1991 but wasn't released outside its native Japan until it was repackaged a few years later as Mega Drive game Dr Robotnik's Mea Bean Machine and then SNES title Kirby's Ghost Trap. Even then, it took a while to impress European and American audiences due to the slow-burning charm of its subtle complexities, and it still struggles to achieve the acclaim it merits, often considered by critics to be little more than a poor man's Tetris clone. That's partly because those critics can't see through the superficial resemblance to games like Tetris and various other vertical puzzlers such as Dr Mario or Columns. Like those games, Puyo Puyo is played out on a grid, which gradually fills up with coloured blocks that descend from the top of the screen, and it's the player's job to keep clearing the screen by assembling the coloured blocks into groups. In this case the coloured blocks, or puyos, are actually coloured blobs, which drop down the screen in pairs, with a jaunty wobble and staring eyes that straddle the chasm between unsettling and charming. The basic object of the game is to rotate and steer them so as to assemble groups of four or more blobs of the same colour, which then disappear, allowing any blobs above them to drop down. This provides the basis of one slight difference from Tetris, but the main twist is that the game takes the form of a twoplayer head-to-head competition (indeed, part of the game's appeal in singleplayer is that different AI opponents play with different styles and strategies). The essence of the head-to-head structure is that it's possible to send over colourless puyos to fill up your opponent's screen (called, depending on who's calling them, nuisance puyos, or garbage puyos, or ojyama). You do that by arranging your puyos into blocks of more than four, or by setting up combos by arranging them into blocks that disappear to allow the puyos above them to form another group. Those are the cold, hard, facts. But, as ever, they fail to do justice to the infectious zeal with which Puyo Puyo will take over your mind. It's the sort of game that leaves an imprint on your eyes -and on your consciousness - long after you've played it. Just when you think you're beginning to escape its clutches, you'll find it demanding that you try just once more to trigger another deeply satisfying cascading combination to wreck your opponent's carefully constructed plans. At first you'll play it like any other vertical puzzle game, taking tentative steps, trying to make sense of the chaotic collection of coloured blobs. You'll patiently try to clear your screen piecemeal until, gradually, your brain will start to register the vertical scope of the playfield and its capacity to conceal successive combinations. And finally you'll have that moment of realisation when your brain at last makes sense of the game's dizzying scope and you start filling up your screen with potentially lethal shapes and arrangements that, with the right timing and the right pair of puyos, will rain down a screenful of grief on to your unwitting opponent. The game offers the ultimate in high-risk reward: to play well you need to throw off the shackles of conservatism, and toss caution to the wind, with confidence in your brain's ability to quickly make sense of the rapidly filling play . area. You'll need to let your puyos pile up, with carefully controlled precision, until your screen is nearly full. At this point, to anyone who thinks the game is just another Tetris clone, your screen will appear on the verge of collapse. But actually, you'll be waiting for the right moment, and the right pair of puyos, to unlock the whole thing - to drag deadly order out of the chaos, to set in motion a cascade of combos, and to clear your screen while filling your opponent's. It's a perfect formula that has, essentially, remained intact across countless sequels and spinoffs that have graced just about every major (and minor) hardware platform. Indeed, it's difficult to alight upon a single definitive version of the game, but Puyo Pop Fever (Puyo Puyo Fever in Japan) is a good place to start for the uninitiated. While its carefully polished visuals lack the pixelly charms of early versions of the game, it contains more modes than you'll ever need, including the masterful addition of the fever mode (which introduces a beat-'em-up-style special attack) and a clutch of even cuter characters. A poor man's Tetris clone? Hardly. ---- FTL: Faster Than Light - Advanced Edition Format: iOS, PC Publisher/developer: Subset Games Release: 2014 FTL never wanted for excitement. With its teetering stack of interdependent ship systems - interwoven by a common power resource - ready to topple over into your lap at a moment's notice, its core ship-to-ship combat has always captured the precipitous thrill of surfing on a wave of potential disaster, trying to move quickly enough to avoid being caught by the fury of the roiling ocean behind. But while when we reviewed this charming 2D Roguelike-like back in E247, we found the most engrossing Star Trek captain's chair simulator yet made, we yearned for more to do outside of trading crackling laser fusillades. "Make it so, Subset Games," we requested. Then it did. The expanded FTL of today -sometimes badged up as Advanced Edition, though it is now the default - is a cornucopia of possibilities, and has become almost endlessly replayable (just ask the Edge staffer who slotted it into his nightly routine on the iPad version's release and has yet to remove it). The game's text events have always been randomly drawn, but Advanced Edition dips into a far larger pool, alleviating the strains of repetition. Knowing that some outcomes are also randomised ensures that you can never be totally sure what fate awaits you for picking up a drifter from a moon, or pitching in to help with an infestation of giant alien spiders - retaining the frisson of charting the unknown long after you've burned through the entire deck. Quests add unpredictability in a different way, throwing up tantalising threads to resume in later sectors, which can be brutally severed by ill fate, their resolutions dangling to rediscover and resolve in a later playthrough. As ever, new paths open up with the right crew members or ship upgrades, too, providing tangible benefits to pursue outside of raw combat ability, though again a larger array of parts makes for more surprises. The result is a procedural universe that retains the capacity to surprise even after days spent sounding its depths. In short, FTL's fiction has become an even more imaginative and richly realised web to navigate -at least when you drop out of hyperdrive into a sector that doesn't contain a vessel bent on your immediate destruction. Should that eventuality come to pass, Advanced Edition has stitched plenty into combat too, providing even more devious playstyles to complement its broad array of weapon and drone types. At a basic level, for instance, hacking allows you to disrupt enemy systems (each codified into a discrete room), freeing fire control to either double down on the beleaguered function or to hammer away at other prime targets. Brilliantly, it can even cause those rooms to turn on their masters, giving opposing crew members a reason to fear a trip to the med bay, or pulling a boarding party back to their vessel. Mind control, meanwhile, plays out a thousand 'aliens made me do it' sci-fi plots, allowing you to wreak havoc on a hostile vessel without ever submitting a crew member to harm. Combined with a greater number of starting ship layouts and the paths these set you down, there is a staggering nuance to the process of persevering your limited hull strength as you race to the game's fearsome boss. But all of Advanced Edition's many indispensable additions also serve to highlight what FTL got so right from the beginning: the atmosphere, the chaos, and the countless frantic balancing acts. With only a limited quantity of precious scrap for upgrades, and an army of rebels nipping at your heels, how much time and fuel can you afford to waste stockpiling riches for the next passing shop? Can you really get away with selling off crew members to fit those breach missiles, heightening the risk of leaving another empty hulk to spin through the stars just to even the odds in combat? And while battles can be paused at will, the juggling of limited bars of power across multiple systems to optimise tactical effect becomes a frantic loop in and of itself. There's a space race on in games right now, as No Man's Sky, Star Citizen and Elite: Dangerous's evolving universe aim to bring us the horizon in spectacular fashion. But you needn't wait to encounter strange new alien lifeforms or the infinite potential of uncharted stars: with a little imagination and a robust constitution, FTL's perilous, fractious universe already offers a hundred varied hours of tactical management and the allure of forging out into the unknown. What will you find among its pixel stars? ---- Persona 4 Golden Format: Vita Publisher/developer: Atlus Release: 2012 The problem with PS Vita, like PSP before it, is that players and developers alike looked at its processing capacity and traditional controls and decided it was the perfect home for console games, instead of handheld ones. Only when it was too late would it become apparent that Vita was not quite capable of the graphical excesses players expect from big-budget, big-screen games. Its fiddly little sticks lack the fine control of a DualShock, and its rear touch panels are no substitute for a proper set of triggers. Some of Vita's worst games are console ports; some are Vita exclusives that try, and fail, to replicate the scale and feel of a console release. Persona 4 Golden is the exception to the rule, a console port that's perfectly suited to portable play, and one of the best games available for Sony's handheld. Indeed, Vita is in many ways a more natural fit for this colossal Japanese roleplaying game than its original home of PS2. While it certainly can be devoured in long sittings, it's ideal for bite-sized play, too. Set in the sleepy Japanese town of Inaba, Persona 4 Golden takes place across a full academic year at the local high school. Days are broken up into brief, discrete chunks - perhaps a conversation with a pal on the walk in, a pop quiz in the classroom, lunch with a love interest on the roof, and then off to some after-school clubs before spending the evening studying or tending the garden. The reason the game is equally suited to five minutes at the bus stop and a long-haul flight is that everything you do, however brief, has a purpose. Hard work improves your stats, while time spent with other people strengthens the bond - or Social Link, as the game has it - between the two of you. It's classic JRPG narrative design, a gentle cultural brainwashing about the benefits of working hard and being nice to those around you. Yet here, set to the backdrop of a high-school comedy, it's tremendously effective. You're not just studying for a Knowledge boost; you've got mid-terms coming up. You're not only being a good person because of the game's mechanics, but also because high school is no place for the friendless, and good Inaba girls don't go for bad guys. This peaceful little town is in the grip of a murder mystery. It rains for a few days, fog settles over the town, and someone goes missing and will turn up dead unless you do something about it. And by something, we mean enter a shadow world by jumping through a TV screen at the local department store. This, as you might have guessed, is where Persona 4 Golden gets weird. It's here you'll meet Teddy, a spirit taking the form of a man -sized cartoon bear who lusts awkwardly after girls and does a fine line in ursine wordplay. It's also the point at which the game takes a sharp left turn in its mechanics, going from knockabout teen flick to turn -based dungeon crawler. Which is not to say that your actions in the real world lack meaning down here, or that the tone changes very much. Knock all enemies onto the floor, for instance, and your party can join forces for a devastating team attack that sees you all charge in for a pile-on, the odd fist and foot stu:king out of the cartoon cloud of dust that kicks up around the fray. One of your number, meanwhile, fights with a fold-up chair. And it's here that those Social Links you've been working on during the day come into their own, because they enable you to form, or 'fuse: more powerful Personas, the god-like beings that you summon for damaging magical attacks; As if high school wasn't complicated enough, right? By day your expanding group of friends wrestle with the realities of teenage life - coming to terms with their sexuality, fretting about their miserable love lives, and dealing with the death of a close relative. One minute you're consoling a pal about their reluctance to take over the family business when they graduate, the next you're smacking a demon in the face with a desk. Fifty hours or so later the credits will roll, but you won't be done; perhaps you'll revert to an earlier save to get a better one of the game's multiple endings, or start all over again on a min-maxing Persona fusion mission. It's an odd place, certainly, but one that's always worth a visit, regardless of whether you're there for a short trip or a long stay. This is Persona 4 Golden, and there's nothing quite like it. ---- Mass Effect 2 Format: 360, PC, PS3 Publisher: EA Developer: BioWare Release: 2010 Disregard what came before. Forget what came after. Somewhere between the high-concept opening and the high-profile ending lies an almost-perfect slice of the reasons why the Mass Effect series is still one of the biggest names in sci-fi roleplaying. It spectacularly avoids mid-trilogy sag by jettisoning into space - quite literally - a great deal of what didn't work from the first game, and acting like a third part was in no way a given, allowing for a standalone second act of uncommon coherence and character. The game's Whedon-esque touch with an ensemble cast is primarily responsible for the latter, a likeable bunch of fractured misfits once again drawn together to save the world. It is also your expanded crew from which the game draws most of its structure, becoming a sort of intergalactic Blues Brothers as you hop from planet to space station putting the band back together on a mission from a man who's playing God. It's a glorious excuse to freewheel across the galaxy, but - more importantly for an RPG - it also puts the emphasis squarely on the people loosely gathered under your take on Shepard's command. And what a group Bio Ware can conjure when it's on form. The best of Mass Effect 1 carry over - plus Kaiden, if you saved him - which means more quality time with Garrus, Tali, Wrex and Joker. But it's the new additions who make for such a beguilingly unstable mix of personalities. The engineered-to-be-perfection Miranda and engineered-upon wild child Jack share just enough overlap to thoroughly get on each other's nerves. Bringing on board a self-contained Geth hive mind was never going to be popular with Tali, whose people have been hounded across the stars by their creations. You'll have to stabilise this volatile mixture if you are to harness its explosive power to defeat a new threat: the colonistabducting Collectors. How you do that is just as important as why. Mass Effect 2's loyalty missions are an antidote to reams of weightless fetchquests, providing chunky optional side stories that dig deep into your crew members' sordid pasts or current problems. Not only do they round out the characters and provide wonderful space for their development, they make you central to it. It's ideal sustenance for the roleplayer, but it also allows BioWare to introduce more shades of morality to underpin its binary Paragon or Renegade paths. How you navigate these difficult choices matters, and it matters not because it affects some distant apocalypse, but because it will impact the lives of a group of people you've grown to care about. The perilous final mission, meanwhile, makes drama of these handspun threads of attachment by threatening to snap them, with death a very real possibility for your crew, and loyalty only a measure of protection. Of course, you're told the stakes are high, too - this is a videogame ending, after all - but that rings a little less hollow when you know that everything you've worked for will only endure with the right calls. Then there's the shooting leading up to that desperate last stand. Inevitably, Shepard won't be able to talk the Normandy SR-2's expanding ship's manifest of volatile personalities out of every situation, or even most of them, but it's hard to care, since Bio Ware made warmongering so viable and entertaining. While it builds on the thirdperson cover shooter template of Gears Of War, Mass Effect 2 augments it with a host of powerful biotic abilities that blow up the possibility space. Enemy cowering in cover? No problem: summon a black hole to dislodge them. Want to get in shotgun range without dying? Pick a foe and dash across No Man's Land wreathed in blue fire, slamming your target backwards and leaving them vulnerable to a buckshot follow-up. And while Shepard cannot carry every power into battle, your pick of squad mates and as much control over them as you'd like means you'll rarely be short a tactical option. While that combat has aged a little in five years, it has lost none of its vicious punch, and the enduring core of human nature being explored through distorted mirrors with tentacle hair and reptilian faces is timeless. Disregard what came before. Forget what came after. You don't need either to enter the fires of Hell with a ship full of nuanced crewmates, or to emerge having formed some of the most powerful attachments to be forged in videogames - online or off. ---- Okami Format: PS2, PS3, Wii Publisher: Capcom Developer: Clover Studio Release: 2006 Okami owes its unique existence to Capcom's decision, in 2004, ·to stir up a climate of innovation within the company. It did this by forming Clover Studio from some of its most proven talents, including Atsushi Inaba (Devil May Cry, Steel Battalion), Shinji Mikami (Resident Evil) and Hideki Kamiya (Devil May Cry). Its defining production would be an action adventure based on traditional Japanese watercolour painting and aspects of Shinto, the ancient Japanese religion. Okami's central character is a silent Wolf goddess, Ameratsu, inspired by the Shinto god of the same name. She is guided through the mythic settings by an inch-tall artist dressed as a bug. The tiny artist is both comic relief and the narrator of the tale, while their quest to free Japan from evil spirits is the motor for some unique and challenging game design concepts. Okami's most notable innovation is 'The Celestial Brush: allowing you to freeze a scene into a sepia-tinted parchment, which can then be painted upon with the calligraphic tool. The symbol drawn (such as a line, a circle, or a series of dots) will dictate the power used. Players mend collapsed ridges, chop down trees, bring dead valleys to life, and cage enemies with plumes of bamboo - all with a twist of the brush. This system creates some lavish visual effects and exhilarating puzzles, but Okami's ease of play makes it both massively imaginative and easily grasped. Few games pull off this kind of balancing act and still manage to be funny, challenging and beautiful almost beyond belief. The graphical achievements of some games are easy to eulogise, and Okami is one such title, but in this instance visual excellence is much more of a stylistic than technical accomplishment. Themed by traditional Japanese watercolours, cel-shaded and flowing, and filtered through a parchment, it is as if the entire game is drawn on a canvas or printed with carved wood blocks. It is the kind of vision, perhaps, that Sony may have been hoping for when it optimistically named its PlayStation 2's CPU 'Emotion Engine: The sheer range Okami is capable of suggests a palette that other games only dream of, and Clover refuses to concede on visual wealth at any point. The terrifying organic immensity of the Spider Queen includes an incidental special effect that is as stunning as it is fleeting, and the game is happy to produce such touches on a routine basis. Tidal waves of magically ignited fauna and exploding blossom; communes with forest animals; the grim spookiness of the cursed zones, whose enemies stalk the lands as haunted scrolls or tapestries (bad spirits, banjowielding demons waiting to be tripped) - Okami is pumped up with invention and charm, ready to burst open as you play. What excited many Okami enthusiasts is the way the game reinterprets traditional Japanese themes and ideas, with both its pastoral art and its demoninfested polytheistic folklore. Presenting all these ideas as a paintbrush-plus-Zelda-mixed-with-wolf-god tale provides encouragement for games to draw on far wider ranges of influence than they have in the past. But the charm of this pernliar recipe isn't simply in its processing of esoteric influences, it's also in the ease and flow, the slow but steady pace that keeps its ideas arriving. There's always another sword-wielding mouse (appearing as a mousewielding sword) descending from the heavens, and there's always another battle inside a storm of calligraphic ideograms. Okami makes all this seem natural and, more importantly, enjoyable. There are complaints about Okami, too - that there is too much text, that the game is too easy, that the camera is clunky, that the freeze-frame-and-paint powers are too difficult to manipulate. But the privilege of playing a game that is so persuasive in so many other ways is enough to render such issues redundant, or at the very least digestible. Okami is too special to be cast aside that way. The subsequent dissolution of Clover Studio led some commentators to argue that Okami represents a prime example of how unusual game design cannot make money in today's climate. But perhaps we should be less concerned about how Okami represents the failure of innovation, and instead be thankful that such an artful and elegant game came to exist at all. ---- The Stanley Parable Format: PC Publisher/developer: Galactic Cafe Release: 2013 You begin in a cubicle in an abandoned office, ostensibly playing the role of a man called Stanley. Yet you're not, really, are you? You're you, playing a game. Stanley is a conceit. This is the key idea explored in The Stanley Parable, a game fundamentally about the relationship between the players and designers of games. As you explore, a narrator explains Stanley's actions -your actions, sort of - in a way that acknowledges the many philosophical issues raised by that distinction. Which route you opt to take, whether you play along with the story or disobey, how adventurous you are in attempting to break the game or how stubborn you are in calling its bluff - all of these things lead to different areas, different endings, and wildly different experiences. It's a game that can feel short and sparse the first time you play it but evokes this feeling purposefully. The moment you realise just how much you can do and discover takes the form of a kind of magic trick. You are encouraged to push at the boundaries of what other scripted games would allow you to do, and the rewards for doing so are immense. Despite its lofty ideas and adept execution, however, The Stanley Parable could well have been a disaster if it wasn't for its expert negotiation of tone. A game about games is about as pseudish a concept as it gets, carrying an inherent danger that it might only play to people who are already versed enough in game design debate to reflexively roll their eyes at the concept of ludonarrative dissonance. The Stanley Parable dodges this issue, however, by being very, very funny. The writing is sharp and the comic timing peerless, with a central performance that takes the best of what Valve achieved with Portal's GLaDOS and matches it. It's not one type of comedy, either. There are visual gags and one-liners, an extended blackcomedy dig at typical videogame morality ('press the button unless you want the baby to go in the fire'), and moments of giddy escalation and silliness. One of the finest moments arrives when you are asked to follow the critical path, with a frustrated narrator actually painting the critical path onto the floor ahead of you as a yellow line. You're asked to follow it faster, and faster, until its looping - over obstacles, up walls, in and out of doorways - becomes impossible to match exactly. Then the music kicks in, a manic carnival soundtrack that exposes the fact that you've been led into performing a French farce. At that point, it's up to you whether you embrace it or resist - and despite returning to that idea many times, The Stanley Parable consistently finds new ways to spin it. There are also moments of sadness, beauty and horror -the game can play the serious notes too, even as it acknowledges that po-faced videogame sentimentality often becomes unintentionally funny anyway. It's the sense that The Stanley Parable knows exactly what it is that makes it so charming: it's among a handful of scripted games that really embrace what the medium is, that accepts its limitations and uses them to power its effect. The Stanley Parable doesn't secretly aspire to be a film, as so many games do - it's about games, certainly, but it's also a game to its core. While the writing and design of The Stanley Parable are its standout features, many of these same ideas were present in its initial form a.§ a mod for HalfLife. The standalone version deserves praise for being not just bigger, but far more technically impressive. A vast number of perspective tricks, subtle transitions, and feats of level design sleight-of-hand are used to ferry you from one set piece to another, one choice to another. Then there are the subtle ways in which The Stanley Parable evolves as you play and replay it, a gradual escalation in mystery, playfulness and complexity that resembles a well-designed ARG. Then there's the metagame of the metagame, the Steam 'achievements' that reward you for tasks like not playing The Stanley Parable for several years. This is a game whose demo version is, in fact, an entirely separate game about the impossibility of making a demo for The Stanley Parable. If there's a problem with any of this, it's that you may suspect at times that The Stanley Parable knows exactly how clever it is, and that it may be too clever for its own good. This doesn't make it any less clever, however, or any less excellent. ---- Xcom: Enemy Unknown Format: 360, Mac, PC, PS3 Publisher: 2K Developer: Firaxis Release: 2012 Do you have attachment issues? Would you like some? The answer may be less simple than your rational mind suggests: to play the unmissable Firaxis reboot of Julian Gollop's extraterrestrial invasion management game is to experience one of the greatest loss simulators that the world has ever seen, and some thoroughly decent squad-based strategy missions to boot. It's just that, well, it comes with a few side effects. Enemy Unknown is, of course, not alone in using an abrasive type of design to stir up emotions. A certain cadre of games has arisen in the past half-decade that trades heavily on the delicate balance between harsh penalties for failure and the euphoria of succeeding in the face of them. Xcom's little trick, however, is that it can sting you with loss even while you're ostensibly winning, because to taste victory at all requires you to invest in people. Easily killed, and far from replaceable, people. It starts with a psychological trick: if you're asked to name something, you'll form a slight emotional attachment to it. In this case, it'll likely be a greenhorn, drafted in to join your beleaguered and underfunded spec ops team. That weak tie won't necessarily last for long, perhaps severed by disuse or an errant bolt of plasma, but some will stick, and the bond will grow stronger as you adopt members into active rotation. With each Sectoid, Muton and Cyberdisc they fell, they'll grow in power, steadily climbing a tech tree in their chosen class that will grant crucial upgrades to survive contact with an alien menace of fearsome, spiralling power. A Sniper may gain Squadsight, allowing them to find a vantage point and pick off targets the rest of their team locate from afar. A Support may gain Revive, allowing them to stabilise critically wounded teammates enough to get them fighting again. As they improve in flexibility, you'll invest in them further, buying better (and later specialist) armour or class-specific guns. Then disaster will strike. The Chryssalid that bursts from the fog of war and implants its young into a valued Assault, rendering all that effort and expense little more than a walking incubator. The Sectopod that levels your best Psionic from halfway across the map. Even an unlucky critical strike or panic reaction can spell curtains for a treasured troop. Every one is a punch to the solar plexus. Every one a war story. Outside of combat, meanwhile, you have an overwhelming number of plates to spin with your meagre stipend. Satellites to prevent the aliens gaining control over your airspace are key if you do not wish to lose too many valuable allies from the council (one perilous fail condition, given that multiple attack sites means you inherently cannot protect everyone), but that's vying with credits spent on the fleet of aircraft to protect them, all-important research, manufacturing the supplies your on-the-ground troops need, and base expansions to power your growing subterranean empire. Again, whatever you accomplish is tinged with a lingering awareness of what you've left undone. It runs entirely counter to the design 'wisdom' that says games must frequently and spectacularly empower players to retain the fickle attentions of a post-MTV audience. Upgrades in Xcom - to your squaddies ·or your outfit as a whole - most often mean just that success is still possible against an ever more prepared, ever more dangerous extraterrestrial threat, not that you)e somehow pulling ahead of the opposition. And even when you finally begin to surmount this arms race, the most tooled-up super soldier is still just a few unlucky hits or one cocky placement away from being a memorial star, and your best-covered continent is a thin slice of bad luck from abject terror. It's a disaster management game, in other words, but what a rush awaits those who face the storm head-on and subdue it. What triumph you'll feel when you quash foes that once left your teams in tatters and wield a squad of battle-hardened pros. What a sense of pride when you navigate all the metagame management dilemmas well enough to pull through. Cool-headed tactics and warm rushes of emotion are uncommon bedfellows - it's far easier to elicit an emotional response with a swell of music and a beautifully rendered sunset -but Firaxis creates a more lasting satisfaction by leaving scars as well as fuzzy feelings, by engaging your neurons as well as your heartstrings. It's impossible not to get attached to a game like this. ---- Monster Hunter 4 Ultimate Format: 3DS Publisher: Nintendo Developer: Capcom Release: 2015 Slaying beasts, cooking meat on a spit, adventure in the open wilds: Monster Hunter taps into something atavistic. The Monster Hunter player must be an explorer, a botanist and an animal behaviourist as well as a warrior with a big sword (or bow, or glaive, or bagpipe). When facing down some aggressive black-winged dragon-creature 100 times their own size, they must also be brave. For most of its history, Monster Hunter has been beloved by few and baffling to everyone else. Most players are left scratching at the surface, discouraged by the many obstacles between them and the game's rewards. The most obvious of these obstacles for the PSP instalments was the control scheme, which necessitated the adoption of a hand-contorting posture known affectionately as the Monster Hunter Claw. Mainly, though, for non-Japanese players, the problem has always been finding people to play with. Monster Hunter 4 is both the best of the Monster Hunter games and the easiest to get into, thanks to a rather gentler learning curve and a readiness to send you out to hunt weird, impressive creatures from the off rather than forcing newbies to pick mushrooms for seven hours before lifting the veil on the good stuff. It also makes it easy to play online, and the addition of other people is what makes Monster Hunter complete. On your own, Monster Hunter can sometimes feel impenetrable and unforgiving. In the company of friends, it is a riot. Past a certain point, Monster Hunter is not so much a game as a lifestyle: after 500 hours or more, there are still new things to do, for as long as there are people to do them with. It's the majesty and personality of its various beasts that makes Monster Hunter 4 so thrilling, its animation and creature design among the best in videogames. Ungainly bird-like dinosaurs screech and peck and run at you with wings outstretched, irritated by your presence. Ape-like forest dwellers assert their dominance with chest-beating and flatulence. The more old-fashioned, dragonlike Rathian, Rathalos and Tigrex are impressive and intimidating, even on a little 3DS screen. There are enormous 'event' monsters that swim through the desert and must be attacked with a harpoon-armed boat, and elder dragons that await you on mountaintops. Most Monster Hunter monsters are surprising, too: ten minutes into a fight with a glacier-dwelling land shark, it suddenly inflates itself, ballooning into a comical, bouncing airbag with a gluttonous grin. Fantastical though they are, Monster Hunter's beasts are also weirdly plausible. They fit their environments, and to know a monster properly you must study where it lives. There is an ecosystem at work: enormous carnivores show up only where there is large prey - herbivorous beasts that graze calmly in a predator's absence and stampede away when it approaches. The core game design has also benefited from a decade of refinement. Monster Hunter is now a supremely balanced action game. Its combat feels exciting, physical and consequential, each of its weapon classes inviting a different mindset to go with its unique move-set. No one weapon outperforms any other (though don't try telling that to the Hammer fanatics), and when used in combination in multiplayer even the most conservative gunner feels part of the hunt. An under-appreciated facet of the appeal of Monster Hunter 4 Ultimate is its charmingly bizarre sense of humour. You're accompanied on hunts by hilarious little cat companions that can be adorably outfitted (actually, there is an entire island entirely populated by cats). The excellently translated patter from townspeople, merchants, blacksmiths and other NPCs adds a note of warmth and humour to your adventures. It's not a game often lauded for world-building, but after you've spent hundreds of hours there, Monster Hunter's world starts to feel like home. Monster Hunter has an element of extreme nerdiness, in all the stat tables and skill activations and the endless pursuit of an immense collection of ostentatious weapons and armour to show off at the gathering hall, and also in the taxonomy of the creatures (ask a Monster Hunter obsessive about the difference between a Tigrex, a Brute Tigrex and a Molten Tigrex sometime). But despite that, the core appeal of Monster Hunter is universal. It's a game about conquering the wilderness, companionship, and self-betterment. ---- The Witcher Ill: Wild Hunt Format: PC, PS4, Xbox One Publisher/developer: CD Projekt Release: 2015 Every boxed copy of The Witcher III contains a thank-you note from CD Projekt, the Polish studio behind this series of games based on Andzrej Sapkowski's novels. It's a simple expression of gratitude for you having spent your hard-earned money on its work. Before you have so much as put the disc in the tray, CD Projekt has made one thing clear: that it respects its players. It's a recurring theme throughout this enormous open-world adventure. The studio has crafted a vast world, packed it full of things to do, and simply drops you in one of its corners and lets you get on with it. Yes, there's a critical path - the finely written, well-voiced, if perhaps over long story of the titular hero, Geralt Of Rivia, on a hunt for his adopted daughter -that takes you from the windswept starting area of White Orchard to the towns and cities of Velen and Novigrad, then finally the starkly beautiful Skellige islands. But if you choose, you can ignore all this, heading off in any direction and picking up quests as you please, levelling up and unlocking new tools and toys along the way. You needn't speak to some arbitrary quest-giver to kick off a mission: the story sets up Geralt as a fine detective, so if you stumble upon a lead while out exploring, the case begins and is automatically added to your quest log. The Northern Kingdoms are packed full of people that need saving, others that need help, and countless beasts, demons, soldiers and scoundrels that need duffing up, but they're all carefully and credibly placed. CD Projekt used a dedicated location team to fill its world, mining medieval history to ensure its hamlets and settlements were appropriately located and spread out. Then a second team filled the environment with things to do. Many studios use metrics for this - ensuring, for instance, that you are never more than a few minutes from an encounter or event of some kind. CD Projekt has designed, populated and filled this vast world entirely by hand, then left most of it for you to discover, and it is all the better for it. There are few icons on the map to lead you by the hand to some vital sight or destination; there are quest markers, sure, but rare is the modern game that asks that you learn the location of a town-centre blacksmith by heart, or buries a brilliant questline on a hilltop in a distant corner of the map. It is a commendably hands-off design philosophy built, like so much of this game, on respecting players - giving them plenty to do, then letting them decide how, when and how far they engage with it all. This extends to the combat, which encompasses graceful, patient swordplay, ranged weapons and magic spells; alchemical oils and potions apply temporary buffs to swords and Geralt respectively. A sword is essential - steel for man, silver for beast - but the rest of it can be either employed or largely ignored. A smartly designed skill tree, meanwhile, limits the number of abilities that can be active at once, letting you define a playstyle and focus on making it as effective as possible. Those decisions can be agonising, but they're nothing compared to the choices you'll face out in the world. The Northern Kingdoms are a rough old place, infested with monsters and in the grip of a civil war. You are constantly faced with choices, but few are clear-cut, none will result in everyone living happily ever after, and many decisions bring consequences you didn't see coming. Many will have lasting imp4ct on the world itself, a dangling corpse or scorched hamlet serving as a permanent reminder of those you cut loose or cut down. The world is yours, to save or to ruin as you see fit, and it will bear your mark forever. CD Projekt's appreciation of its players extends beyond the thank-you note in the box, and even beyond what's on the disc: 16 pieces of free DLC have been released since the game's launch, and the studio has been quick with fixes, improving performance issues while fixing bugs and balance quirks, even adding a New Game+ mode. It's not been entirely hands-off towards players, admittedly - one patch introduced the Bovine Defence Force, a demonic bull-like creature that would appear to thwart anyone trying to break the game's economy by killing an infinitely respawning herd of cows. Clearly respect has its limits. But on the whole The Witcher III represents a leap forward in open-world game design - in scope and sprawl, in layout and pacing, and in ensuring that across it all it's the player, not the developer, who is king. ---- FarCry4 Format: PC, PS3, PS4, 360, Xbox One Publisher/developer: Ubisoft Release: 2014 Far Cry 4 brings out the worst in you. It has you scouring the map for ·information on where a certain species of passive local wildlife is most likely to roam, so you can kill every single one you locate. You'll find yourself lobbing bait over a wall to lure a tiger into a village, then sitting back and watching as it tears everyone inside limb from limb. You'll set a fire in woodland, stand back and let it spread, just to watch the world burn. It's the kind of game where you jump on the back of an elephant, make it smash through a heavy set of doors, steer it through an intense gunfight, and then with barely a shrug watch it die under helicopter fire. They say videogames desensitise you to violence. Piffle. You're well aware of what you're doing. It's just such tremendous fun. There is, at least, justification for all this bloodlust. Wildlife, for instance, powers Far Cry 4's crafting system: ludicrous though it may be that you need four rhino hides to make a bigger bag for your explosives, if that's what the menu screen's telling you to do, you're not about to argue. The tiger you suckered into slaughter with some morsels from your bait bag helps you clear out an outpost, pushing back the local militia and returning it to its rightful owners. The fire? Taking out a drug operation, though we'll admit to doing it on our downtime more than once because Far Cry 4 's fire tech is excellent. And the elephant ... well, you do feel bad about that for a bit, but it'll respawn back up the hill before long, and such is the nature of this cruel land that it probably wouldn't have lasted anyway. At least it went out fighting. The setting is Kyrat, a fictional Himalayan nation under the control of the despotic Pagan Min, whose distaste for the quiet life is made abundantly clear by his peroxide shock of hair, his sparkly pink suit, his rampaging, bloodthirsty army, and the 50-foot golden statue of him that looms large over the land from his hilltop fortress. He's bonkers, then, and a nasty piece of work - and he's got it in for protagonist Ajay Ghale, a Kyrati raised in the United States who returns to the place of his birth to scatter his mother's ashes but quickly finds himself wingsuiting away from a burning village with a smoking RPG on his back. Min used to have a bit of a thing for Ghale's mother, who shunned his advances, took up with his dad and founded a resistance army to rise up against him. You suspect Min's not taken it terribly well, but he's a friendly enough sort, all things considered, popping up on your radio to congratulate you on your latest killing spree against the militia. After Far Cry 3 's exploration of the darker side of insanity, Min is a much better fit for a series that enables such a cheery brand of widespread wanton destruction. Far Cry 4 is a Ubisoft game, which means it is bound by certain conventions. You scale rickety towers to re-establish radio comms, and fill the regional map with icons. Distractions are everywhere: collectibles to find, local hostages to rescue, quadbike races to win, and so on. There's even a Horde-style mode with challenges for every weapon in the game, which plays out in front of a baying crowd. There are quest-givers aplenty, too, and they're a rum bunch - a tribal warlord turned born-again arms dealer, an haute-couture fashion designer, and Yogi and Reggie, a pair of stoner backpackers who pump you full of hallucinogens and send you out hunting tigers. The game's main draw, however, are its outposts, the little settlements and factories under Min's control that can be approached from any direction and in any number of ways, from silent to loud and anywhere in between. They're playable in co-op, too -and if you thought Far Cry 4 was crazy enough on your own, you should see the state of the place when two like-minded headcases are running about the place. On PS3 and PS4, your partner needn't even own the game, since each copy comes with ten invites for two-hour co-op sessions. It's a strange sort of game in a series that, two instalments earlier, riddled you with malaria and gave you guns that jammed and broke in the harsh African desert. But Far Cry 4 is the work of a studio that understands the way players approach open worlds. Given the tools, sooner or later we will all cause chaos. You might as well let us do so in a world that not only enables it, but justifies, rewards, and even celebrates it. You blew up a rhino? Good for you. Here, have a bigger backpack. ---- LittleBigPlanet 3 Format: PS3, PS4 Publisher: SCE Developer: Sumo Digital Release: 2014 Sackboy is a divisive figure. He inspired some to celebrate the appearance of a cute mascot for Sony's consoles, others to scoff at the idea that Media Molecule's hessian hero could ever rival the likes of Mario and Sonic. But regardless of your susceptibility to Sackboy's inimitable charms, the importance of Media Molecule's first two games is irrefutable. In an age of widespread, very powerful and often user-friendly level editors, it's easy to forget how revolutionary LittleBigPlanet's tools were for console games back in 2008. Offering the same selection of widgets, shapes and materials used by the studio's level designers, they put the power in the hands of players, livened up the process of creation with some brilliant design touches and the inclusion of Stephen Fry's voice, and the results were spectacular. But for LittleBigPlanet's third excursion, Sumo Digital took up the reins while Media Molecule focused its efforts on Tearaway. Despite fears to the contrary, the passing of this idiosyncratic baton to new hands had no neutering effect on its brilliance. Sumo retained all of the most important ingredients, including those powerful editing tools, the cooperative multiplayer, and Fry's liquid-toffee tones. But the studio also took it upon itself to address many of the problems present in the first two games. More contentious even than Sackboy's design, LittleBigPlanet's floaty platforming was held up by detractors as further evidence of the series' inferiority to the output of Nintendo and (early) Sega. Sumo tightens things up considerably, without sacrificing the series' distinctive sense of control, and then throws in three new playable characters for good measure, each introducing a new way to play. Oddsock is a dog/ frog hybrid quadruped that bounds along and darts up walls. Toggle can switch from being rather big to very small, sinking like a stone or walking on water. And Swoop, a bird, does just as the name says. Then there's the issue of LittleBigPlanet's notorious auto 'lane' selection when negotiating the three gameplay planes of the first two games. It was designed to ease any confusion, but many players perceived Sackboy to be making decisions on their behalf in opposition to their intentions. Sumo tackles the problem and then hammers home the fact by more than quadrupling the game's layers to 16. Industrious creators had already taken advantage of glitches in the first two games to create the illusion of deeper levels, but Sumo's sizeable tweak creates all manner of new possibilities for creators. Leaping between foreground and background layers through portals, sliding out of the screen and careening along BioShock Infinite-esque rails ensures that stages feel much more intricate and dynamic. That dynamism is reflected in the world design, which groups levels around themed hubs, each with an amusing host to guide you through their particular levels. It reinforces LittleBigPlanet's core ethos of explorative play above all else and dovetails neatly with the story of lightbulb-bonced Newton (voiced, brilliantly, by longtime Fry collaborator Hugh Laurie), who unleashes three nefarious titans intent on stealing all the creativity from the denizens of a world called Bunkum. In his fight against this scourge (and perhaps also as compensation for the introduction of characters with more exotic movesets), Sackboy gets new toys to play with, too, including the Gravity-Gun-inspired Vacuum Gun and a helmet that lets you ride those aforementioned rails. If these changes are certainly important, Sumo's most profound contribution to the series is its intertwining of level-creation tools and campaign. Sprinkled among these are challenges that require you to build a vehicle with which to compete, cleverly introducing the fairly abstract notion of design with an on-ramp of a gentler slope than even Fry's patiently delivered tutorials. These are still available, but any players daunted by the prospect of whipping something up from scratch are offered a taste of the game's vast suite of tools in a simplified and very forgiving environment. After the challenges, you can graduate to the Poppet Puzzles that make you solve a few simple problems using more tools and items. Before long, with any luck you'll be whipping up your own masterpieces to share with LittleBigPlanet's vast community. Sensibly, all the creations made by players of the previous two games can be played in LBP3, too, so there's no shortage of inspiration to get your imagination firing. ---- Trials Fusion Format: 360, PC, PS4, Xbox One Publisher: Ubisoft Developer: Redlynx Release: 2014 You could pick any Trials game and have a great time. But if we were marooned on a desert island with nothing but a console, a power supply, and a broadband connection that was for some reason restricted to side-scrolling motorbike games, we'd choose Trials Fusion. The latest in the long-running series is the best yet, despite adding a few ideas that don't quite chime with the brilliance of the core platforming. For that's what Trials is. You may negotiate each level astride a motorbike (or occasionally a quad bike, and more recently a unicorn), but Trials shares more of its DNA with Mario than with Excitebike. The way the bike moves across the ground, the meaty bounce of its suspension and the way you can shift your rider's weight give the game a wonderfully unfettered tactility that makes you forget you're holding a controller. Of course, that great handling would only go so far without some undulating terrain to hop across, and Trials Fusion delivers the most coherent and satisfying selection of Trials tracks yet. It may not have the thematic and aesthetic variation of its predecessor, Trials Evolution (though the first season of DLC has added a large range of more fantastical creations since), but it offers a difficulty curve as well balanced as any good rider, and some of the most enjoyable obstacles Trials has to offer. The smooth difficulty curve is in part thanks to Fusion's in-depth tutorials. Make no mistake, the Trials series is a brutally difficult set of games, and high-level play requires mastery of all manner of advanced techniques including bunny hopping, fine control on extremely steep surfaces, and tricky landings. Fusion explains these physics-based manoeuvres in more detail than before (to bunny hop, shift your weight back, then forward while accelerating; land jumps with the back wheel and stab the accelerator gently to stabilise yourself), making the game considerably less daunting for newcomers. Don't expect to ace the Extreme tracks first time, however - Trials' signature creations are more fiendishly difficult than ever, and will keep you going for a long while. Fusion also introduces a couple of new features. The quad bikes switch up the standard two-wheel acrobatics with something more torquey, offering a more forgiving ride ideal for less experienced players. It's a bit odd that they're introduced halfway through the singleplayer campaign, but they do add variety. The new FMX tracks, meanwhile, require you to pull off gravity-defying tricks on special undulating courses. Control here isn't as tight as in the game proper, but there's silly fun to be had tossing your rider around. Fusion wouldn't be a proper Trials game without secrets and a macabre, odd sense of humour. As well as the expected shortcuts and hidden squirrels, RedLynx has included three bonus challenges on each track. You might have to make it through a course with your controls reversed or with a giant ball and chain attached to the back of your bike, or perhaps just get through a course without touching any yellow objects. Challenges ensure there's always something else to do when you've had enough of banging your head against the Extreme tracks wall, and cleverly change the character of tracks you already know well. Once you've run out of courses, there's the track editor and online community to dip into. The editor is vastly upgraded from Evolution's, offering thousands more objects, a suite of tools for animation, logic and other ingredients to make anything you want - a tricky course to negotiate, or a fleshed-out firstperson shooter. Player creations - which now number in the millions - are curated through a number of feeds in Track Central, Fusion's online portal. Fusion features several online and local multiplayer modes, but competing asymmetrically remains Trials' most thrilling aspect. Seeing a ghost of friends' best runs just ahead of you on the track is powerful motivation to shave a few more hundredths of a second off your own best time, and Fusion's built-in notification system ensures that competition remains fierce. As in Evolution, you can also watch replays of your friends' runs (or the world's best players, if they're not one and the same) to gather tips on how to improve your own performance. Fusion's mix of perfectly tuned handling, skill -based learning curve, and constant compulsion to chase medals and bragging rights makes it the kind of game you're thinking about playing even when you're busy doing something else. ---- Nidhogg Format: PC Publisher/developer: Messhof Release: 2014 The two swordsmen stand motionless upon the field of battle, a ·field soaked with the pixellated blood of their conflict. They are blocky, eye-wateringly neon figures, two unblemished white swords levelled in readiness for the coming clash. The beat pulses, and as if by unspoken accord both break into a charge. Beat. A sword is flung. Beat. The orange fighter rolls beneath it. Beat. The air fills with raining yellow pixels. Beat. The orange fighter retrieves his still-pristine blade from the stricken foe's guts. Beat. He is running, hurtling with heart in mouth to the screen's edge, where victory, and the Nidhogg, awaits. This is Nidhogg, Messhof 's stubbornly, almost offensively, lo-fi game of fencing and mind games. That moment might have ended differently - a divekick, a leg sweep, or a protracted sparring match all possible with the simple contextual moveset - but each match lives in the seconds-long flashes of duelling, of instinctual, reflexive action against a human foe. It can be played against bots and online, but to really get the most from it, it has to be played in the same room as your opponent. You want to see the look on their face when you've beaten them, of course, or vice versa when you're the one demanding a rematch, but it's more than that: reading the sharp intakes of breath when your sparring partner makes a move, exulting in the howls and grunts when you slip from their grasp, the opportunity to crow when you read them perfectly and sweep the sword from their hands. Nidhogg is not a solo pursuit. The game's simple brilliance is that it also isn't about fighting. Not really. It's about reading your opponent, learning their plays, and surprising them by becoming unpredictable yourself. It's sport more than violence, just a rather abstractly bloody one. Die and you'll respawn in seconds. There's no limit to your lives. But what you've given away with each loss, or snatch away with each clever evasion, is time. Precious seconds can move the winner just a little closer to their end zone, where a phallic pink worm lurks, waiting only to gobble them up in victory. To move across screens, however, you need the priority of being the last person to score a kill. So you'll have to learn how to fight. The mechanics of swordplay are simple enough, key presses or stick pushes moving your blade between four quantum states of position: low, medium, high and overhead. One key thrusts the weapon, and your body, forward, and any touch of a sword is instantly deadly. If you match the position of an incoming lunge, you'll rebuff the attack, giving you a short window to respond. But there's an even riskier move: bring your rapier into position as the attack is in progress and you'll flick the weapon from your aggressor's hand in a true Errol Flynn flourish. Even an unarmed opponent can dodge and cartwheel and evade, however, and can also scoop up a sword on the ground by rolling over it, so you might disarm and cross swords several times before the next priority is decided. Halo designer Jaime Griesemer once spoke of 30 seconds of fun that morphs with context to stretch out into a game. Nidhogg, despite having only a handful of maps, sees that 30 and condenses it down to sweaty-palmed five-second mie poses that, thanks to the context of an ever-shifting human opponent, rarely feel the same twice. The only easy matches are against dull foes; to play Nidhogg is to exist, for a few minutes, in a highly strung cycle of tension and release. And that, perhaps, is what also makes it riotous, hilarious, to play, every shock move carrying just the same impact as a brilliant return in tennis or fancy footwork that leads to a goal. It's just capable of regularly generating those moments across matches that stretch anywhere from 30 seconds to five minutes. It's a targeted sort of game, then, resolutely multiplayer and unfashionably local in nature. But with an excellent dynamic soundtrack and triple-distilled moveset of such restraint and intelligence, there are few games today that can rival it for evenings lost to duking it out on the couch with a group of friends in tournament mode, or for lunchtime matchups with your favourite foil. If it existed in another age, Nidhogg might now be revered in the same breath as the other classics of couch multiplayer gaming. Today, it is simply one of the best possible uses for that second pad. ---- Fez Format: 360, PC, PS3, PS4, Vita, Xbox One Publisher: Trapdoor Developer: Polytron Corporation Release: 2012 Fez's central appeal is that it harks back to the adventures of your childhood. It's not just in the overt references in its soundtrack and the chunky visuals, but also in the deep feeling of wanderlust evoked by its enchanting world and dizzying collection of gameplay hooks. Like a Mario game, it's so generous in its distribution of new ideas that you settle into a kind of warm complacency, confident that the next screen is going to offer another twist on the delightful mechanic that lies at its core. Fez's central conceit is of a 2D platform draped over a 3D world. It's conceptually complicated (essentially each screen is made up of four different but interlocking locations that can be cycled through by squeezing the triggers to rotate the world 90 degrees at a time), but mechanically intuitive. This duality of space requires a lateral approach to puzzle solving as the spatial normalcy you associate with 3D spaces is neatly folded flat. A platform floating out of reach might suddenly be right next to the tower you're standing on if rotated just so; or a precarious-looking series of spinning blocks could become a solid, pulsing bridge; while standing in front of a fireplace and spinning the world 180 degrees will reposition you in the secret room behind the surround. Once your own thinking aligns with the game, navigating its spaces becomes uniquely enjoyable. The puzzles might be mathematically exacting, but Fez never lets this encroach on its sweetly playful personality. Characterful wildlife and villagers instill locations with life, and dialogue exudes the kind of harmlessly barmy earnestness that defined the surreal, unchecked games that made the 'Bos and '90s so memorable. It feels very much like a creation that could sit naturally among the games of that era, albeit one that makes spectacular use of more recent hardware capabilities. And for all the tricksy processing going on behind the scenes, the game's pixellated visuals and pastel palette feel at once stylishly modern and authentically retro. The setup itself cleverly suggests that you have somehow crashed and corrupted the game's code in order to access the new dimensions, which, in a nod to Edwin A Abbott's 1884 novel Flatland: A Romance Of Many Dimensions, only you can see. Fez's idiosyncrasies are as much a result of the project's enforced isolation as they are its creators' singular talents. The game took more than five years to develop, but this allowed Polytron to cram Fez full of deeply concealed secrets, in-jokes and references to other games, and to refine an oddly appealing atmosphere that's by turns melancholic and saccharine. The chaotically assembled components can appear disparate at first, but it has an internal logic to ensure that it all hangs together convincingly. That doesn't mean it won't drive you mad, though. Despite being a fairly sizeable game (to complete Fez's story, you must seek out 32 cubes, each made of eight smaller pieces which, on collection, are held aloft and trigger a Zelda-esque rising motif), it will require multiple playthroughs before everything begins to come into focus. Puzzles can be tricky, especially in the second half of the game when an optional code-breaking aspect is introduced, and the branching world can quickly become disorienting, despite being built from locations that are modestly sized individually. But in these situations the game almost always steps in to offer guidance, whether through a craftily placed cube segment that leads the eye to a useful location, an initially cryptic message from the floating cube that accompanies you, or simply the appearance of a door that's only visible after sundown. In most instances you simply need to step back and look at things slightly differently. Even when you're not sure what to do next, tumbling through Fez's cascading, multidimensional world is a pleasure thanks to protagonist Gomez's weighty yet precise movement, and failure only leads to instant replacement on the nearest platform, encouraging the kind of reckless experimentation needed to prevail. Gomez is also blissfully free of clutter - there's no upgrade path to work through, no pickups to gather beyond those cube pieces, nor any kind of attack move. Fez instead revels in unfettered exploration, both of its world and of memories of the long-gone games to which it so masterfully pays respect. ---- Fire Emblem: Awakening Format 3DS Publisher: Nintendo Developer: lntelligent Systems Release: 2013 The most powerful war machine in fire Emblem: Awakening isn't the lance, the axe or the sword, but the human heart. We're not being mushy: it would still be inadvisable in the extreme to attempt to battle your way across two continents and a time frame of years without raising masters in those more conventional arms. Doubly so, since permadeath is again the standard punishment for a weak defence in this turn -based strategy series (unless you save-scum or turn it off). It's just that you'll need to hone more than the blade to succeed here. Ever since its Famicom origins, Fire Emblem has distinctively melded roleplaying with the role of tactician. That's fed into a reputation for epic plots and memorable casts, but has also over decades of iteration come to affect the nature of grid-based battle. The mechanics have varied, but the principle is that nearby units can convey a bevy of statistical increases to adjacent friends. Awakening takes this to its logical limit, allowing you to not only build ranks in a stat-buffing relationship between fighters on adjacent squares, but to merge two of your characters into a single pair that battle together, one dominant, the other supporting. This comes at the cost of half the grid square coverage and asks for more mindfulness in accruing experience (only active fighters earn XP), but introduces new tactical flexibilities to an already deep combat system. Pair up a powerful but brittle Myrmidon with a pegasus rider and you can fly next to targets before switching the active member of the pair to the blademaster to deliver a precision strike. If one unit takes too much punishment, you can flip them to the support slot to protect them against further blows while you position a healer to restore their vitality. The real magic comes, however, when a partner leaps in to deflect an attack that might otherwise cleave a life bar in two, or joins in an attack to take out a particularly tough opponent with a ·decisive blow. Systemically, these moments are just another dice roll, triggered by the same formulae that handle hits and criticals. But Awakening's coup is that they don't feel like cold, abstract maths. After all, you've worked to forge these bonds, carefully positioning your forces to encourage friendships, even romances, to grow. You've juggled your pairs to keep each member evolving in power and usefulness. So it feels only natural that by the time Prince Chrom picks a bride, he'll regularly step in to defend her from harm. He's invested, and so are you. But you would be anyway -Awakening's cast shows Nintendo's translators at their best, delivering a host of memorable personalities across many playable characters. Virion, a cocksure archer with vanity enough to rival Narcissus but a romantic nature, regularly threatens to steal the show. Pan-wearing hick Donnel's Aptitude skill gradually morphs him from cack-handed deadweight to a towering presence in your roster. Lagomorph Panne is the last of her species, and carries herself with nobility despite a lack of understanding of human customs. These personalities are expressed partially through dialogue but also through fighting style, class and skill selection, and stat makeup, ensuring that each squad selection plays differently. On-battlefield attachments serve a secondary purpose, too, unlocking more conversations that give you deeper insights into the personalities of the troops wider your command. Awakening does unconventional things within its host genre, then, but it's still a fundamentally great strategy game. Even on Normal difficulty and with permadeath off, it ramps up to become a stern test of skill, the AI more than competently finding flaws in your battle lines. By Hard, you have to protect your less armoured classes with great care and move in tight packs to avoid haemorrhaging characters long before you leave your homeland, Archanea. It's sumptuous too: colourful maps packed with environmental features are the norm - one fight plays out on the roots of a giant tree, azure waters splitting them into discrete lanes - and you see plenty of them across 25 chapters. It's a perfect match: characters that will steal your heart, and combat that will keep it captive long after your first playthrough is done. When it arrives in the west, Fire Emblem Fates may build on its ideas with branching paths and enemy pair-ups, but none of that will make this spellbinding game of tactics that's bursting with personality any less essential. ---- Dead Space Format: 360, PC, PS3 Publisher: EA Developer: Visceral Games Release: 2008 The best thing about Dead Space is all of Dead Space. The "Please let us make this" project of a talented internal team who patched together a prototype while working on EA's James Bond licence, the Cronenbergian sci-fi horror is above all intensely focused, with a functional-future aesthetic flowing into frill-less shoot-and-stomp gameplay. It doesn't just look great -grotesque, rusted, beautiful -and play wonderfully, but it has something to say - something about resourcefulness and capability, about heroes creating as well as destroying, and about how, if you're going to battle an army of undead aliens, being handy with a spanner is a huge bonus. Dead Space, in other words, is blue-collar space. Instead of a jetpack our faceless hero Isaac Clarke gets a tram, and even then if he wants it to actually go anywhere he has to fix it first. His weapons are tools - laser cutters and bolt guns - and everything he interacts with makes a beeping sound tuned to the frequency of analogue 1970s retro-futurism. On board the USG Ishimura, the mining ship Clarke trams his way around, frantically fixing and fleeing, there are coils and vents and plodding metal-grilled corridors, the fixtures of Ridley Scott's own horror-thick mining vessel, the USCSS Nostromo. Unlike the Nostromo, Dead Space doesn't have an alien. Instead it has an even darker horror from the abyss - ourselves. People are the enemy in Dead Space - and the treacherous notion of biology itself, which has somehow transformed us into reanimated, inside-out versions of ourselves with extremely sharp elbows. The Necromorphs are get-the-hell-away-from-me good, clawing and distended mirror images that flit and flurry under the Ishimura's strobing lights. Best of all, the design of the Necromorphs slots like an efficiently engineered socket into the game's functional aesthetic. These monsters, all stretched-limbed and gangling, must be pruned rather than obliterated. Clarke is a precision craftsman — the Necromorphs go down faster if he laser-slices scythe-like arms and legs rather than aiming for genre-typical head and body shots. This feels both refreshing and fitting - God, it's nice to be shooting slightly differently for a change, and for a reason that plugs right into Clarke's brown metal engineer's RIG. It also makes for leaner, nastier horror, demanding accuracy under pressure and a steady, practiced hand, and making survival a permanent entry on Clarke's ongoing job list. This is where Clarke's improvised armoury really comes into its own. His three-pronged laser cutter features a revolving head that rotates on a 90-degree axis with the most perfect whir of effort. Once the jump scares are out of the way, combat settles into bursts of concentrated workmanship - a leg clipped from the hip here, then a quick rotation to the vertical position before the arms are sliced from the shoulders. Dead Space's combat is methodical and complex, with different tools selected for different tasks - a flamethrower to scatter swarms of fleshy parasites, a disc saw for dissecting crowds - and supplementary abilities - object-slowing stasis and object-shifting telekinesis -switched depending on the situation at hand. Late in the game taking on a crowd of Necromorphs has the dextrous feel of a well - managed physical job, completed with a reliable set of tools that the workman knows inside and out. Whether through intention or necessity, Dead Space's core minimalism is strengthened by a tight-lipped approach to story. Logs and files are scattered through the Ishimura, a blunt but well-deployed narrative device, and otherwise we're left with suggestion and conspiracy - of a religious sect whose subterfuge might have unleashed the Necromorphs, and, even more subtly, of a, dystopian future society that's reached the deeper reaches of space through rigid organisation backed up by the kind of forced-grin propaganda seen throughout the ship. This background is all the more effective for being out of focus in a game that's otherwise all about focus - about lean design, about a stripped-down hero whose face we don't see until the credits are rolling, and about combating chaos in the form of messy biological mutation using literal laser accuracy. Dead Space is a classic of tight design, of form meeting functionality, and of heroes who fix things. ---- Dota 2 Format: PC Publisher/developer: Valve Release: 2013 Dota 2 could never have been designed by a traditional game developer. What is now a free-to-play game run by Valve - the most popular title on Steam by a large margin - started off as the germ of an idea in a StarCraft mod. What if, the question went, you could build an RTS without base or army management? What if each player controlled a single character, and manipulated the flow of battle by disrupting AI -controlled armies that clash with or without them? That idea became the Defence Of The Ancients series of custom maps for WarCraft III, in their many versions and with their many competing creators. This was a new type of multiplayer game, developed in forums and on IRC channels, that eventually coalesced into DOTA All-Stars. A competitive scene developed. Heroes Of Newerth spun away from DOTA in one direction, League Of Legends in another. Finally, Valve did as Valve does - hiring DOTA's most prominent curator, bringing him in -house, and recreating the entire game with new art but exactly the same systems. This is what separates Data 2 from other games in the genre: at no point has anybody attempted to streamline or popularise it. It remains that mod, organically grown and messy in many ways, now with bottomless resources behind it and annual competitive prize pools pushing past $20m. There's nothing like it from either a design or a business perspective. At the microscale, Data 2 is about developing a single RPG hero in a competitive environment and learning the complex interactions between hundreds of spells, items, stats, and so on in order to prevail in battle. You do this in coordination with four other people with a view to slowly demolishing the towers between you and the enemy ancient. On the macroscale, this is an RTS where your team starts with all the buildings and fortifications you will ever have, and then just gather resources out on the battlefield - gold and experience from kills, AI-controlled creeps, and neutral monsters - in order to transform your characters into your new line of defence. Towers will fall eventually. What matters, what makes the game so exciting, is the economic and strategic dance that occurs as both teams attempt to account for the loss. Combine these things and you have a complex game, yes, but also a very personality-driven one. Data 2 owes its success as an eSport in large part to the fact that it's a team game. Whatever level the game is played at, there is only so much a single player can do to tip a match in his team's favour. Victory is reliably arrived at only through cooperation within an asymmetric system that requires different players to be good at different things. Data 2 is a game of tactical masterminds, virtuoso assassins, solid frontline fighters, and strategic support players. It is, therefore, substantially about people. How somebody plays Data 2 tells you something about them, and this is true whether you are playing with your friends or watching the best in the world compete for millions of dollars. That massive character roster only works because of Valve's generous business model. Every player needs to have access to every hero, spell and item because the game itself is about the complex interaction between all of these things; introduce a paywall and the game itself is wounded. That's why Valve's decision to sell only cosmetic items and tournament tickets is so vital. It changes the- type of game this is - not a game-as-service to be subscribed to, but a pastime available to anybody who wants to try it, whose depth reveals itself naturally over time as the player's understanding grows. Victory in Data 2 feels amazing because it's the natural expression of all that developing expertise, the effort expended to learn something complicated, the personal pressures of working with others - strangers or not -towards a collective goal. It's powerful because it feels like an encounter with chaos. The game's origin as something collectively designed over many years manifests as a system that is uniquely adept at testing its players. Traditional game developers simply wouldn't design something like this; they'd stop at some point. They would decide that enough complexity was enough. They'd consider more maps, more modes, more points of entry. Data 2 isn't like that. Data 2 is three lanes, a hundred or so characters, ten people, and whatever happens next. ---- Vanquish Format: 360, PS3 Publisher: Sega Developer: PlatinumGames Release: 2010 The official strategy guide for Vanquish is one of the best we've ever seen. Substantial and meticulous, it talks you through the game in the kind of confident detail you'd expect from those who've mastered its nuances. It doesn't simply guide you down the path of least resistance, but encourages truly efficient play, explaining not only how to make it through an encounter in one piece, but how to do so with style. Read it before you play, and you might consider yourself fully prepared for Shinji Mikami's action masterpiece. But nothing can prepare you for playing Vanquish. Inspired by the cult anime Casshern, Vanquish was the right game at the wrong time: a thirdperson shooter arriving just as the genre was beginning to reach saturation point. This was partly Mikami's own doing, of course, with Resident Evil 4 having inspired a slew of imitators, and the mechanical refinements of Epic's popular Gears Of War in turn informing several copycat cover shooters of debatable value. Many saw Vanquish's chest-high walls and approached it in the same manner as its stop-and-pop brethren, little realising that this was a very different kind of game. The key point of difference is its sheer speed. Consider Gears Of War's roadie run, a typically western design in that it focuses more on heightening our physical connection with the game world than conveying any meaningful mechanical benefit. Vanquish's Augmented Reality Suit (or ARS), by contrast, is distinctly Japanese in its approach: it's at once stylish and functional, allowing you to execute swift dodge-rolls and trigger rocket boosts that allow you to get around much quicker, and escape any incoming barrages. If Gears is a gridiron match against a near-impenetrable defence, each play seeing you grind out a few more yards, then Vanquish is more like a series of Hail Marys. It's a sprint, not a crawl. Except when you choose to slow things down. It's easy to forget that Vanquish doesn't actually have a bespoke slow-motion button; rather, it's automatically triggered during certain situations. Aim your weapon while sliding, dodging and vaulting over cover and suddenly those incoming missiles can be shot out of the sky, that enemy's weak point is exposed for longer, and that grenade you just threw toward a cluster of opponents can be sniped in mid-air. Such command over the tempo of battle naturally comes at a cost. Your suit's energy gauge is at once your health and your stamina bar. As soon as it overheats, you're in serious trouble, and the meter drains when you opt to speed things up and slow them down. The same also applies when you launch your powerful melee attack. And yet at your most vulnerable, you're always given a small window of opportunity to retreat, since the ARS triggers one final use of slow motion. Even good Vanquish players will experience dozens of these death-or-glory moments in a single playthrough; experts walk a constant tightrope, permanently on the verge of overheating. With mastery comes the ability to showboat: you'll buzzsaw off robotic limbs, deliver drop-kicks to metallic breastplates, and glide between the legs of a giant mech, snotgun pointed upwards as you pass underneath. You'll briefly pause for a cig break mid-battle, flicking the stub out to the left to draw enemy fire before rolling out to the right and flanking them while they're distracted. Vanquish might be too chaotic to be called graceful, but there are moments of beauty amid the mayhem, where you're the only one in control in a world that's permanently out of it. As with all the best anime, there's a demented energy to each of Vanquish's set-pieces, some of which are almost parodically ludicrous. It presents moments of staggering spectacle, folding in elements of danmaku and even quick-time events with consummate skill. These stick-twir ling, button -bashing interludes aren't ever allowed to dominate the action, instead commonly reserved for delivering a coup de grace that your prior actions have set up. And they're so smartly directed that grabbing hold of a torpedo and returning it to sender with interest feels every bit as gratifying as it sounds. Bewilderingly, in the five years since its release, Vanquish has had no meaningful influence on the genre. And yet in some respects that's no bad thing - after half a decade, it remains unique, a Platinum-grade action game that stands without peer. ---- Super Mario Maker Format: Wii U Publisher/developer: Nintendo Release: 2015 There's no tutorial in Super Mario Maker. In any other gamemaking toolkit, that wouldn't be daring so much as foolhardy, but Nintendo knows what it's doing. It's confident it's built a level designer that can be understood instantly from its user interface -and it has. And it knows that we know what we're doing, too: why bother with detailed guidelines on course building when you've already provided 30 years' worth of reference material? More to the point, the lack of direct instruction invites players to get inventive. In the early years, Nintendo's creative leads had little to no experience of making games, drawing ideas from their own experiments in other fields. Before he joined Nintendo, Shigeru Miyamoto was a toy maker; Eiji Aonuma a puppeteer. The secret of Nintendo's success has always been its ability to approach themes from unlikely angles, which is how it's remained so nimble and so capable of surprising us over the years. Sample courses are there for those who need a prod in the right direction; otherwise Super Mario Maker simply presents a canvas upon which anyone can start drawing. Crucially, it's never an entirely empty one: even if you actively delete the existing screen furniture, there's a familiar background to welcome you, and a flagpole means you don't have to think too hard about the ending, just the start and the middle. For some, putting stylus to touchscreen will feel a little like an act of vandalism. These are, after all, building blocks that have been previously reserved for Nintendo's finest level designers, schooled in the methods of Miyamoto and Takashi Tezuka, who had to make do with graph paper to build the courses of the first Super Mario Eros, and tracing paper to augment and append them. Not only does using an interface this immediate feel a bit like cheating, then, but as budding creators we're acutely aware of the great responsibility that accompanies this great power. Even so, attempting to build something worthwhile on your first attempt - or even your 15th - isn't easy. Placing blocks and enemies is a doddle. Placing them well is another matter entirely, even with the visual assistance of a trail of Marios that follows the arc of every leap. It's a sobering moment, and one that gives you arguably a greater insight into the creative process than any other level-building tool. The piecemeal delivery of the tools is an understandably divisive choice, though a sensible one in many respects. By restricting us to the basics on day one, we're encouraged to start small but think big; to embrace the kind of restrictions imposed upon Miyamoto, Tezuka and company before World 1-1 came to be. It's in keeping with Gunpei Yokoi's philosophy of lateral thinking with withered technology, too; inviting players to consider how to use simple ingredients in fresh ways. And suddenly it dawns: this is Super Mario Maker's tutorial. Each day brings a new course to play, containing a handful of additions which are subsequently loaded up on your palette to experiment with. It makes perfect sense when you consider it as a teaching method. No one tries to fit an entire term's curriculum into a single lesson, after all. Otherwise, you learn through play. The 100 Mario Challenge asks you to complete a series of user-created courses, providing what might be a disparate collection with a sense of structure and purpose. More significantly, it offers a constantly moving conveyor belt of ideas. They mightn't all generate a creative spark, but at some stage you're bound to come across a concept that's worth developing further. This is both Super Mario Maker's most significant caveat and its greatest strength. The majority of its stages have been built not by Nintendo but by newcomers, thus making it the most uneven Mario game to date. And yet in highlighting user creations ahead of its own, Nintendo has, in theory, created an endlessly evolving creative resource. Players can acknowledge the best stages by awarding stars, while dismissing weaker ones with a swipe of the stylus during play. Over time, the Wii U community will pool its knowledge and the overall quality of course design will improve. It may take a little while, though that's hardly surprising: Nintendo has had 30 years' head start, after all. That may seem like a daunting lead, but in Super Mario Maker we finally have all the tools at our disposal to start catching up. ---- Shadow Of The Colossus Format: PS2, PS3 Publisher/developer: SCE Release: 2005 If you were tasked with convincing someone that playing videogames is time well spent, that these things are possessed of a potential for artistic expression equivalent to that of older forms of entertainment, then Shadow Of The Colossus might well be the game you'd use as evidence. Its central conceit is simple enough: you must defeat a series of gigantic enemies and in return your dead love will be resurrected. It also eases the player into the experience through cinematic sequences that very competently adapt the qualities lauded in film. But then you find yourself in a fiction of unquestionable thematic richness, of riveting emotional power, whose fundamental artistic qualities are completely fused with its interactivity. The stature of Shadow Of The Colossus as something worth discussing is entirely dependent on it being a game, and not a book or a film. The rendering of its world and play mechanics coalesce to give you a sense of immense struggle without making the game too gruelling to complete. Though the ending is bittersweet, Shadow Of The Colossus convinces you of the vast hardships you have endured. It does this through many means, foremost with its most obvious innovation: rethinking the concept of boss battles to provide a string of 16 gargantuan enemies each of which more or less constitutes a level in itself, in the approximate language of other, more conventional games. That each level poses effectively the same basic mission creates repetition that compounds the immensity of this task. At the end of each battle, the protagonist is returned to where he began, increasingly bedraggled, only to have to pick himself up and press on, seeking out the next foe. The landscape through which you travel, a startlingly beautiful but desolate peninsula cut off from civilisation by a range of mountains, its arcane ruins populated only by the occasional lizard, evokes a sense of total isolation. As you travel, often without incident for minutes on end, there is no musical accompaniment - just the sound of horse's hooves and the distant call of an eagle. How small and alone you feel here, and how phenomenally large your task. It's a feeling that is obviously exacerbated by Your opponents, the colossi, which are not monsters but vast structures come to life . Scaling them to find their weakspots is facilitated by elegantly simple controls but presented with a powerful evocation of physical effort. The animations of the protagonist as he heaves himself through a patch of moss on the spine of a colossus, or dangles precariously with one arm, provide such visceral feedback to your actions as a player that you find yourself holding your breath until the character has gained purchase. Yet, despite the exertion involved, the defeat of a colossus is only partly a matter for triumph; you're reminded in their piteous death throes that you are murdering unique and majestic creatures, many of which don't respond to your presence with enmity. It is not the only emotional sting you feel during the game. When your horse, Agro, plunges into a ravine, selflessly tossing its master to safety, the sense of despair at this further sacrifice to your mission is palpable. It's traumatic - Agro is much more than a superbly animated vehicle; given personality through cutscenes, it's lent vitality by the fact that it doesn't always obey. Momentarily frustrating as this may be, the sense of Agro resisting your control makes it your one source of companionship. Although the girl you wish to resurrect cannot initially be drawn as a character, your emotional tie to her, and to the mission, is defined by circular logic: you struggle for her, so she is worth struggling for. When your joint fate is jeopardised at the last moment the feelings you experience are, brilliantly, given voice through the game's interactivity - first by allowing you to satisfy a need for revenge, and then instilling desperation when you are given control yet can still do nothing to avoid your fate. At all points, Shadow Of The Colossus delivers its artistic vision through your agency as a player, your active involvement enacting its main themes - isolation, struggle and loss - all facilitated by an aesthetic of great depth and unity. The result is something that is highly persuasive of the videogame's unique artistic value, while never sacrificing the pleasure of the experience. ---- Halo 3 Format: 360, Xbox One Publisher: Microsoft Developer: Bungie Release: 2007 It may have diminished a little in stature under the custodianship of 343, but Halo has long been an industry giant, originally carrying the torch for console-based firstperson shooters and going a long way towards shaping the culture and colour scheme of Microsoft's home consoles for three generations. Halo 3 is the sweet spot, a combination of a generation-defining multiplayer template (before Call Of Duty swept all before it) and a campaign that righted itself after the over-ambitious of Halo 2. There is a functional feel to the story itself - repairing the cliffhanger disappointment of Halo 2, and tending to the crucial trilogy-capping business of how Master Chief ends the Covenant War. But even workaday levels are given a surge of vitality thanks to Halo's particular and persistent feel, its solid and elegant system of movement and aiming. Clearly an extraordinary number of hours have been spent ensuring the turning, weight and orientation of existing inside Halo has an expensive feel of reassuring heft and purpose. Whatever happens in Halo 3's campaign, in other words, feels luxurious and somehow premium. It also recaptures enough of Combat Evolved's directness to pull off a handful of thumping set-pieces. Halo 3's giant Scarab tank attacks give a sense of scale and moving parts that alerts you to ongoing technical achievement even as you're bullseyeing weakspots and dodging canon fire. And The Covenant, the game's eighth mission, is the logical conclusion of the series' use of three-way battleground dynamics, another race against time on another Forerunner installation but this time with human, Covenant and Flood forces fighting by your side. The campaign, though, is the short film before the main feature, which is a multiplayer game of lasting and extraordinary quality. This is partly because of that luxurious gamefeel, but also because it was the last game in the series to be confident that feeling good to play was enough. There is a minimalist assurance to the simplicity of Halo 3 's multip layer, which arrived before Call Of Duty made XP-gathering and loadouts ubiquitous, before chaotic perks and killstreaks became obligatory. Even with custqmised rules or modes, Halo 3 is balanced and level in a way that encourages skill and strategy. Starting arms are standardised, and more powerful alternatives are prizes to be fought over on the map - this is a game of territory and tactics. There are no geography-defeating powerups of flight or speed, making fleet-footed navigation around the maps crucial. And what maps they are. Halo 3's geometry is so wonderfully designed that a playlist of the best five levels - Guardian, Epitaph, Blackout, Cold Storage, The Pit, some new and some old favourites recast - could conceivably be played endlessly. There is a pleasure in working the routes of these constructs and architectural formulations, a joy in tracing the shortcuts, finding the sightlines and feeling out the kill spots and defensible corners. There's meaning and intention to these crafted blocks of space, so that playing a good, tight game of four-on-four Slayer, flowing in and out of three-exited rooms and from tight corridors to open platforms, feels almost like reading, like passing fingertips over braille to interpret shape into thought. Crucially, they're also great places to shoot each other. Halo 3 is at its best when hosting simple, stripped-down games of Slayer on small- to medium-sized maps. At this scale, the intention of those maps is easier to read: Guardian, with its opposing zones and asymmetrical flanking routes, making for skilful battles of cat and mouse; Epitaph, with its walkways and grav lifts, perfect for scope-shooters but full of shotguns turning corners; and Blackout, in its layered platforms and vertical shortcuts, good for anything and everything. This isn't intended as nostalgic reverie. Halo 3 is still worth the tangled wires of a 360 LAN party, or alternatively it's currently the best reason to play Halo: The Master Chief Collection, where there's a big, active population of players (but also playlists that will try to tease you away from playing a tight, obsessive circuit of Halo 3's greatest hits). It is the last great stand of a kind of shooter that isn't fashionable any more, of balance instead of overload, of trusted systems rather than continual rewards, and of skill rather than slick repetition. ---- The Legend Of Zelda: Majora's Mask Format: 3DS, GC, N64 Publisher/developer: Nintendo Release: 2000 If there's a common thread that ties the Zelda games together, it is the childlike joy of discovery. Inspired by Shigeru Miyamoto's youthful expeditions into the forests and caves of the Kyoto countryside, Zelda games are infused with a sense of wonder. Whether you're sailing the Great Sea in Wind Waker, nudging the edges of the screen in the original game, or probing the walls with your sword for hidden caverns in A Link To The Past, you can never be sure what might come next, but there's joy in finding out. Well, with one exception. Majora's Mask is the most unusual of Zelda games, because there is a notable absence of that joy. From its fatalist premise - the grotesquely grinning moon is falling into the earth in 72 hours, and there is nothing that anybody but you can do about it - to its troubled cast and eerie, subtly nightmarish world, Majora's Mask carries an air of melancholy that is rare among Nintendo games, let alone in this series. It remains structurally unique, too, despite the many years that other developers have had to copy its ideas. Repeating the same 72 hours on a loop might sound tedious, but although there is some frustration to having the same conversations and solving the same environmental puzzles with each new three-day cycle, there's also something oddly soothing about knowing how events are going to pan out, and often, but not always, being able to change them. It also adds a sense of urgency to the dungeons, which might otherwise have felt too familiar to players coming fresh from Ocarina Of Time. Instead of retreading the ground broken by its predecessor, Majora 's Mask is arrestingly different. The four main masks, which distort Link bodily into new forms, primarily allow us to experience the world as the non -human peoples of a mirror Hyrule - the Deku, Zora and Gorons -and reveals that they all have their own, very human, problems. It is also often forgotten that Link obtains these masks by being cursed and from the dead or the dying, another facet of the game's preoccupation with the macabre. But it's the personalities of Termina that stick in the mind. As time goes on, the inhabitants of Clock Town emerge from their state of breezy denial and descend into full-on panic as it becomes clear that the sky really is falling. The end of the world invites all sorts of different reactions from them, inspiring dejected introspection, stiff-upper-lip endurance and even fatalistic hedonism. The Anju and Kafei quest, in which Link must follow a demanding and precisely timed sequence of events to reunite two doomed lovers, is perhaps the most memorable Zelda side-quest that there's ever been - despite, like so much of Majora's Mask, being tinged with deep sadness. Even the game's villain, Skull Kid, is revealed to be a tragic figure whose isolation and self-loathing made him susceptible to the influence of the titular evil mask. He is gaming's own Gollum. Not least among these troubled characters is the boy Link himself, a child carrying the weight of experience of a grown man upon his shoulders, and the saviour of a world that few remember ever needed saving. At the beginning of the game, not long after he triumphed against Ganon at the end of Ocarina Of Time and found himself back in his childhood body, he appears slumped, dejected, on the back of his horse, wandering aimlessly through a forest in search of an old friend, a fairy called Navi. He never finds her. Instead, his horse is stolen (and, as is worryingly implied by the game's dialogue, destroyed), and he is transformed into a twisted Deku Scrub by the prankster antagonist. The pain of this transformation must be doubly acute for Link, a boy who at this point has already had his identity taken from him once. He has gone from the powerful Hero Of Time to lonely child and then stunted monstrosity. Majora 's Mask can be read as a game about identity. In experimenting with the masks he finds around Termina, ones that transform his body or change the way people perceive him, perhaps Link is searching for a new face that fits. There is debate among the Zelda faithful over whether Termina is a real place, or if, like Koholint in Link's Awakening, it is a product of the imagination. But to those who have swilled around the same three days in it, unpicking its relationships and mysteries, Termina is the most real of any of Nintendo's worlds. ---- Spelunky HD Format: 360, PC. PS3, PS4, Vita Publisher/developer: Mossmouth Release: 2012 Spelunky's premise is familiar, and not just thanks to the medium's historical obsession with plunging into the Earth in search of peril and treasure. There's something elemental about its central quest, in which you explore an arcane warren of underground caves, skirting threats and collecting trinkets. We all share, at some level, the desire to explore an unknown world, a longing surely quickened by the promise of wealth that lurks, unguarded, beneath our feet. But while Spelunky's dangers and rewards are just as plain as those found in Mr Driller, Cave Story, Dig Dug and all the subterranean others, the recipe and aftertaste is complex and unique. For one, Derek Yu's game is randomly generated - as if every expedition into the Earth's crust was taking place in a slightly different location. Caves and items rearrange with each playthrough so, if you wish to triumph, you must learn not layouts, but principles. Death is permanent here. There is no accumulation of abilities or levels to ease future attempts, save for the occasional, well-spaced shortcut, a design that raises the stakes of every trip to a feverish degree. Then there's the combination of your small fistful of tools and abilities: a couple of bombs, a harpoon rope and, if you make it to one of the underground shops with enough gold in your back pocket, maybe a pair of spectacles, spiked shoes and a parachute. The way in which these items push against the world's dangers - the bats that swoop, the bees that sting, the mummies that lumber, the spikes that wait, the spiders that dangle - is where Spelunky's beautiful friction is found, creating sparks that light up the world. Each threat behaves with clockwork predictability (not only in its swoops and bites, but also, in the case of the ghost that appears when you linger for too long, in their moment of arrival), and can be defeated or evaded with timing and good technique. As you quest deeper and meet the full cast of terrors, a complicated rhythm is established as the game sends a fresh situation your way and you must find the appropriate responses to overcome it. In contrast to many other videogames, victory down here in the perilous subterranean playpen is anything but assured. Failure isn't binary, however - it comes on a sliding scale. The game doesn't end when you're out of ropes and bombs, standing thick metres of rock away from the nearest exit point, screen pulsing on a slither of health. Conversely, this is when it comes most alive, offering you a chance to forget all of those poor choices in your immediate past and swing for the greater glory. Spelunky's lessons aren't limited to inspirational ones to do with never giving up, or trying to snatch victory from the jaws of defeat and all of the well-worn others. There's moral instruction here too. You soon learn that, in Spelunky as in life, defeat is almost always rooted in greed - just ask the adventurer blown away by the improbably nimble shopkeeper and his vicious shotgun, all for an act of petty, desperate theft. Then again, it's important to take the odd calculated risk, so long as you strike quickly. Those who dilly-dally never prosper (just ask the ghost). Then there's the one about luck, how your chances of a good run rest, almost without exception, on the throw of the dice that fortuitously places a jetpack or pair of spiked boots early in your quest. It's possible to execute a fine and long run on skill and patience alone, but that's going to take serious character. No two runs are ever identical, then, and much of the game's joy comes from learning how to adapt in a novel yet familiar set of circumstances. This, along with the game's numerous arcane mysteries, which reveal themselves slowly, keeps Spelunky vibrant and engaging long after most other games would have grown rote and boring. The game's daily challenge, meanwhile, which randomly generates a cave system that is shared between all of the world's players every 24 hours to create a competitive version of the game, neatly folds into your daily routine and lodges there. Spelunky can, at first glance, appear somewhat chaotic, but spend any amount of time with the game, and its rigour and precision becomes transparent. This game's walls and structures are not flimsy, just as its rules never bend. It is, rather, as refined a videogame as you could imagine, and despite that rigour, one from which incredible variety emerges. ---- Destiny Format: 360, PS3, PS4, Xbox One Publisher: Activision Developer: Bungie Release: 2014 Seat a group of Destiny players around a pub table and, like a troupe of battle-scarred veterans, the conversation will soon turn to war stories. Everyone remembers the time Gjallarhorn - the prized rocket launcher with heat-seeking follow-up missiles that puts a hefty dent in the health bar of even the toughest bosses and obliterates almost everything else - dropped for them. They will take to their deathbeds the memories of the first time they stood, shoulder to shoulder with five allies, on a platform deep below the surface of Venus and killed Atheon, the boss of the masterful Vault Of Glass raid. Not all memories of Destiny are so grand, of course, and not all are positive. Once the tales of glory have run dry, the complaints will surely come out. The drunken scrapping of a beloved legendary weapon. The day the Cryptarch decoded a legendary engram into a common shotgun. The perfect run against the boss of Crota's End cut short when a bugged-out Ogre tore free of its designer's intended path, wandered into a safe room and stomped you. What all this tells us is that Destiny fulfils, with gusto, the basic requirement of a sandbox game: it allows players to tell their own stories, or at least the same stories in different ways. Which is just as well, really, since Bungie's space opera does such a miserable job of telling its own. One costly bit of voice talent after another is squandered as Destiny's story campaign limps along, never really explaining itself, seemingly content to just have everything sound important instead of making it so. Many of those who came expecting a successor to Halo's campaign drifted away dissatisfied the second the credits rolled. Those who stuck around found something by turns baffling, ill-advised and quite brilliant. Destiny's gear game (or gear grind, as the deserters would have it) as it stands after the House Of Wolves expansion is a masterclass in power-curve design. Finding better armour is essential - once you hit the 'traditional' level cap of 20, the only way to increase your power is by equipping more resilient gear. Its weapons, howeyer, are merely desirable, albeit highly so. From reasonably early on in Destiny's endgame, you'll find yourself with a suite of weapons that are more than good enough to see you through all but the toughest challenges: solid options for up close and from range, with enough weapons of the three elemental damage types to take down shielded enemies. Yet there is always something better just around the corner, and not simply in terms of damage output. The genius of Destiny's weaponry is in its perks, applied not to the character but the gun in their hand. An auto-rifle might become more stable the longer it is fired; body shots with a pulse rifle could increase the damage of subsequent headshots; a hand cannon kill could reduce the cooldown on your grenades. Combined with the more basic perks on armour (increased reload speed or ammo capacity for the most part) and a sprawling tree of talents for each of the three classes and their two sub-types, there is scope here for enormous build variety, and it is that scope that has had players repeatedly running through Destiny's slender collection of content since its launch in September 2014. That content offering has grown significantly since release through two DLC expansions, and over time Bungie has pared back the more onerous aspects of the game's construction. Loot drops are now more plentiful, the process of upgrading weapons and armour much speedier, the game less defined by its grind and reliance on RNG. These changes have helped, but they alone do not explain why Destiny has got its hooks into so many, or what makes it essential. That comes from the one thing Bungie does better than almost any studio out there. Destiny is, simply put, a fantastic shooter, its gunfeel immaculate, its three classes' abilities distinct, varied in their potential and tremendously satisfying in the hands. It is also that rarest of beasts: a multiplayer FPS with a friendly community, its steepest challenges requiring constant tactical communication between a group of players who, over time, will turn from co-op partners into brothers in arms and, eventually, friends. The war stories told by that pub full of Destiny players might not all be positive, but at least they can share the same space without the evening devolving into racist slurs, momma jokes, and teabagging. ---- The Legend Of Zelda Ill: A Link To The Past Format: GBA, SNES Publisher/developer: Nintendo Release: 1991 There's something about viewing a Zelda game from above. Shigeru Miyamoto has famously said that Ocarina Of Time - which appeared seven long years after this, its home console precursor -was how Zelda had always looked in his head. And yet top-down Zelda has refused to die, still outnumbering the 3D games two-to-one. A Link To The Past was followed by the Game Boy classic Link's Awakening, possibly the most beautifully designed game of the entire series, an epic adventure distilled to just 160x144 pixels. Capcom subsidiary Flagship was drafted in to help create the Oracles companion games and the cute Minish Cap for GBC and GBA respectively. Zelda, Phantom Hourglass forced a 3D world into the old overhead view on the DS, and it won considerable acclaim. Even the GameCube invited 2D Zelda back to the TV for riotous multiplayer reinterpretation Four Swords Adventures. Of course, the main reason for the survival of this format is its suitability for handhelds, but it's not the only one. Something it's easy to forget about 2D Zeldas is just how fast they are. For all A Link To The Past's grand scale - it was the first SNES game to stretch itself out across a whole, luxurious megabyte - it's a rapid, taut little action game to boot, bustling with enemies and pacy, button-mashing combat. Link can race from one side of the map to the other in a couple of minutes. These days, the rule is that the more complex, detailed and large an adventure game world is, the more languid and involved the style of play. In that context, A Link To The Past's blend of arcade immediacy and fathomless depth is an utter delight, a miracle of a bygone age. It's the flipside of Miyamoto's comment: A Link To The Past is the epic condensed, rendered with maximum efficiency in a bewitching tangle of sprites and icons that teem with life. It's Zelda concentrate, a heady dose of something videogames once excelled at but have almost forgotten how to do: magically shrink whole worlds with the sheer power of imagination. And what worlds. Play A Link To The Past immediately after Ocarina and you'll be stunned at how incredibly close in conception the two games are. Every side of Hyrule is here: the pastoral bliss, the rugged wilderness, the pathos and comedy and humanity, the spellbinding mystery. A Link To The Past, it turns out, didn't just nail the formula for 2D Zeldas that would keep them going for years more. It defined the entire series, 3D games too. It painstakingly mapped out the rules and legends of videogaming's most intricate and enduring creation, for all of us to look down upon and marvel at. The single most important practical innovation it brought over the first Legend Of Zelda was probably the multi-level dungeon. It doesn't sound much, but it was effectively the series' move into 3D before the fact. The designers instantly began to explore complex spatial relationships and exploit the potential to turn dungeons into huge layered puzzles. But they had an even grander meta-puzzle in mind, one that would become a cornerstone of the series. Link's unexpected transportation to the Dark World halfway through A Link To The Past introduced to Zelda the concept of two parallel realms, and the series would never look back. Ocarina and Twilight Princess copied it almost verbatim with their desolate future and shadow realms. Minish Cap put a twist on it with the ability to shrink Link to microscopic size. And so on. The Dark World has a huge impact on A Link To The Past on two distinct levels, appropriately enough. It's an emotional suckerpunch, a one-two combination of wonder and fear at being transported to its grimy, sinister, mocking world where everything is the same and yet opposite. It stalks you with a vision of what should happen to Hyrule if you fail, and indulges a taste for the bleak and malicious and misanthropic that so rarely gets an outlet in Nintendo's games. But the Dark World adds hugely to the design of the game's overworld, too. The relationship between light and dark worlds becomes a fascination, a source of countless mind-bending puzzles that literally tear the fabric of the game apart and put it back together again. It's the ultimate expression of what makes Zelda games so endlessly absorbing and satisfying to play. If A Link To The Past is 'just' the best Zelda in two dimensions, then that's nothing to be ashamed of: it's one more than most games have. ---- Kerbal space Program Format: PC Publisher/developer: Squad Release: 2015 Kerbal Space Program is all about applying your creativity and understanding to one of the most romantic and ambitious fields of human endeavour: space travel. It is a lightly abstracted simulation of the process of managing a space agency, from policy and personnel to the nuts-and-bolts construction of vehicles. It's about thresholds - between terrestrial flight and the upper atmosphere, the upper atmosphere and space, space and your first moon ('Mun'), the other moon, equivalents to Mars, Venus, and so on. Set in a cartoon analogy for our own solar system, Kerbal Space Program uses these natural barriers to construct a challenge that feels remarkably organic. You succeed at crossing each threshold thanks to your ingenuity and nothing else. As in the best creative games, you completely own your designs. As in the best puzzle games, applying those designs to the problem at hand reveals new possibilities every time. Every attempt starts on the planet Kerbin, the Earth-analogue homeworld of the Kerbals - little green people whose exaggerated responses to the terror and splendour of spaceflight form the basis of the game's charm. While you might choose to pick up contracts in return for resources, you are free to set your own goals. Either way, you'll then use one of two construction facilities - one for planes, the other for rockets -and try to build something that solves the problem. This means assembling boosters, secondary rockets, wingles, on-ship labs, communications equipment, command capsules, power supplies, and much more. You are free to place these to a fine degree of precision, and the detailed physics model means that your precision - or lack of it - matters. You configure your vehicle's sequence - which rockets fire and when, which parts detach, when parachutes are deployed - and then pilot the mission manually. Each one teaches you something, from initial forays into the upper atmosphere, which help you work out the right time to angle into a burn, to ambitious transorbital ventures. Failure can result in outright disaster - a destroyed rocket, a dead crew - or another possibility. A Kerbal stranded in space around her homeworld might be lost forever unless you can pull off a daring rescue using a new, purpose-built craft. There are two parts to KSP's magic. The first is its liveliness and sense of humour. The happy gums of your Kerbals take the edge off the often-stiff difficulty curve and soften failure, ensuring that the game always feels like a game despite its serious subject matter. If the rigour of real rocket design gets tiresome, you can go away and build a rocket-powered plane or a giant explosive catapult and feel you're participating in a different part of the experience rather than breaking it. The second part is almost the opposite. The degree to which KSP resembles real spaceflight -even if it doesn't quite match it -provides a heightened sense of import to what would otherwise be a top-tier construction game. As you get better at the game you really learn what it takes to get a vehicle into orbit or land somebody on the moon. No game presents the challenge of spaceflight as resolutely realistically as this, and it is impossible to come away without being more amazed than ever that missions like this actually occurred. What's more, this makes your own achievements feel extraordinary. Not only have you cracked the puzzle, but you've imitated in some microscopic way one of the most incredible feats of human thought and engineering. KSP was also a pioneer of Early Access game development, and remains an exemplar of how to get it right. Already brilliant when it was released to the public in alpha form, it then went through many years of development and iteration before being deemed finished. Over this time, Squad allowed the KSP community to guide it. Many features in the game that is sold today began life as mods, and there is still an active community producing new stuff every day. The popularity of the game attracted the attention of NASA itself, which collaborated with Squad on a mission pack in 2014. After years on PC, it has also now been announced for Xbox One, expanding the audience for what was already a hugely popular game. Kerbal Space Program's growing profile is a testament to how brilliantly it straddles the divide between education and entertainment, sandbox fun and serious engineering. ---- Dishonored Format 360, PC, PS3 Publisher: Bethesda Softworks Developer: Arkane Studios Release 2012 Thiefs Garrett and Dishonored's Corvo Attano may be poles apart when it comes to personality, in that Garrett has a defined one, but both share a deep spiritual connection. Looking Glass and Ion Storm are long gone, but the disgraced Lord Protector can trace his lineage back through co-director Harvey Smith to the home of gaming's greatest burglar. No wonder, then, that a masked man on a mission of mercy and revenge spends half his time pilfering every coin, book and foodstuff that isn't nailed down, and slipping the key rings from guards' belts. It's in the blood. But Smith's own legacy is Deus Ex and sequel Invisible War, and it's this - for all the threads between Dunwall and City 17 -that seemingly most influences the world Corvo sneaks through. In other words, the would-be toppler of a corrupt regime is presented with a powerful array of choice. The main one is whether he will kill and maim his way back to the top, or simply depose and ruin the conspirators, giving those in his way little more than a woozy head and aching windpipe. Choice filters down from that lofty morality into Dishonored's moment-to-morrient gameplay, primarily in your selection from a gleeful arsenal of weapons and tricks that can transform the voiceless protagonist into a spectre of death or simply a poltergeist that rearranges society and then fades back into the shadows. Perhaps you will expend your gifts from the supernatural Outsider on the ability to possess one of the plague-spreading rodents that echo the corruption of the city, letting you travel to spaces no mortal man could enter. Maybe instead you'll simply direct the swarm onto the nearest warm bodies, allowing thousands of tiny teeth to tear apart what you can't be bothered to draw your spring blade to dice yourself. Possibly you'd prefer the ability to see through walls and judge patrol routes, but you could just stop time so you can saunter in and slit every throat before your foes can · see you, let alone mount a defence. The fixed point in all of this is Blink, a transformative ability that makes Dishonored unlike any other stealth game. You'll still need to watch patrol routes and expertly judge the intricate clockwork on which the local constabulary or hooligans run, but now you can dodge suspicion by disapparating and reappearing anywhere within a short distance that you can see. This, along with a generous jump and mantle, allows you to use every part of the environment, while a strict ration of mana prevents the ability to choose your ingress point becoming a crutch that removes all need to treat your enemies with respect and careful dedication. Randomised targets and locations, meanwhile, ensure that return playthroughs aren't simply exercises in remembering a path through these exquisitely crafted, albeit often decrepit and insalubrious, locations. It's a setting with more than enough character to make up for the deficiencies of the blank slate through whose eyes you view it, a world where superstition is fighting back against the march of progress. Your thirst for vengeance will take you to prisons and brothels, costumed soirees and tumbledown art dealerships. It will bring you into contact with art deco, Renaissance paintings and the hard, cold lines of the Third Reich. The fiction is no less layered or beautiful. On the surface, city officials maintain an iron grip on a terrified populace, whipped into a frenzy by the anonymous menace toppling the regime, not to mention the rat plague that is turning ordinary folk into walking contagion vectors. But underneath seethe tales about how misappropriation of technology can crush its optimistic pioneers, how unfeeling cruelty corrupts innocent spirits and drives them to Pyrrhic revenge, even touching on Lovecraftian themes of the Other. All these are slaved to your own narrative, one of close scrapes and raw power, and your ability to resist corruption yourself. If Dishonored has a problem, it's that it is too tempting to simply give in and allow it to become the assassination simulator it seems in its heart to want to be. But while its sequel could address that issue, this is no lesser game, and its choices are only fractionally less rich for beguiling many onto the path of violence. The Outsider may find that boring, the blood-soaked trail to the final cutscene, but one of the stealth genre's most refined toolsets and conglomerations of mechanics defies you to find it so yourself. ---- Splatoon Format: Wii U Publisher/developer: Nintendo Release: 201 5 There's a moment in Splatoon! about two hours in, where your brain rewires itself around the least conventional, most accessible contemporary multiplayer shooter on the market, and it just flows. You won't have acquired all the weapons. You won't have dressed your cartoony squid-human Inkling in the freshest '90s skater threads. But what you've learned will be with you from this point until your tenth, 100th or 1,000th hour of playfully splattering glossy droplets over combat arenas and your opponents alike: it's all about the ink. That simple fact alone turns the genre on its head, and welcomes a different cadre of players into a subset of games that are so often about a very particular set of skills. But Splatoon doesn't need you to pre-empt opponents, aim down sights or even score kills to score well: you win here through ink coverage. In an inspired piece of holistic design, you can also assume squid form by holding down the left trigger, allowing you to surge at great speed through your own ink or climb up even sheer walls, plus you'll slow down and pin your enemies by covering the ground around them in your colour. It's not so much spray and pray as spray and play. What makes Splatoon uniquely suited to experienced shooter fans and total newcomers alike is how this levels the playing field. Kills pop your enemies into puddles of your ink and keep you in the game, so it never feels as if skill is irrelevant, but in its weaponset and sparkling singleplayer campaign there are ample means for even the least competent aimers to transform into a valuable teammate. Tactical thinking is more important than claiming heads, and the player who knows how to stay alive and keep squirting ink is a better helper than the gung-ho death merchant. And since in most modes the teams are shuffled after each match and there's no voice chat to poison the·pool -or give alpha players the ability to take over and ruin the fun -all you really have to focus on is being the best teammate you can be. It's glorious freedom from the tyranny of the kill/death ratio, a return to exuberance, colour and playfulness for a genre that too often is deadly serious. Perhaps Splatoon's greatest trick, though, is how it slowly coaches the newcomer to the point where you'll be splatting the opposition left and right. Take the roller weapon, which is just what it sounds: hold the fire button down and you push it in front of you, covering swathes of the map without even having to aim. Run into an opponent, meanwhile, usually by surprising them, and you'll roll them flat. You're not much at a distance but, as you improve, you'll learn to use the powerful short-range flick to defend yourself, or learn when to stay submerged to pop out and squish an unsuspecting victim. Once you master that playstyle, you could try your hand at a long-range squiffer sniper rifle, or the explosive ink bubbles of a blaster, or a rapid-fire waterpistol. And there's never been a better time to dip a toe in than today. · While newbies have missed out on the brief window where everyone was feeling their way in a radically different breed of game, the difference between top-level gear and the starting kit is slight enough that no one is locked out. In return, Splatoon's steady unfurling of maps, modes and new arms has expanded what was a slight but compulsively moreish game at launch into a much more varied offering, with still more to come at the time of writing. All of that has grown this quirky competitive team game a passionate fanbase, with matchmaking still primarily a matter of seconds, and a neverending stream of Miiverse artists showing off their skills in the bustling plaza hub from which you begin the game. The Splatfest special events have seen that community come together for intense weekends of battling, and it's wonderful how little animosity surrounds the schism of fans into two camps for an intense day of raucous battling. Maybe that's down to Splatoon's character, which bears every Nintendo hallmark: memorable design, catchy music, unlimited enthusiasm, and offbeat charm. Spending time in Splatoon's universe is a pleasure, win or lose, which might be why, after a combined playtime in the order of days, we keep coming back for another splash around in Splatoon's glorious ink. ---- The Legend Of Zelda: The Wind Waker Format: GC, Wii U Publisher/developer: Nintendo Release: 2002 Over 12 years on, it's still one of the prettiest games we've played. The Wind Waker's cel-shaded style prompted wails of disapproval on its first reveal, but it is now recognised that this is among the most attractive and distinctive of all Zeldas. It's not simply how it looks, though, but how it moves. From the swaying, slobbering jowls of an approaching Moblin to the swirling curlicues of smoke as they're defeated, and the rolling, spume-topped waves, it's a world in constant motion - richly rendered, full of energy and life. That's fitting, given the youthful, wide-eyed exuberance of our hero. The Wind Waker has an even younger-looking Link than was usual don the green garb of the Hero Of Time - a decision that contributed to the 'kiddie' accusations, along with a gentler difficulty curve - and it's an especially touching farewell as he sets out from his grandma's home to embark upon his grand adventure, looking far too young to shoulder the burden of saving the world. The same applies to those he meets along the way: Tetra is an ebullient partner, but Medli and Makar are both unwitting pawns in fate's design, asked to fulfil roles for which they seem wholly unready. The whole coming-of-age arc is hardly new to Zelda, but it's more movingly expressed here. The dungeons might not be the series' most elaborate - they're still very good, but we've been rather spoiled before and since in that regard -but they're perhaps better woven into the fabric of the narrative. Though broadly speaking Link's tookit is familiar - hookshot, boomerang, hammer, bombs and bow - this is a more radical Zelda than many gave it credit for. Its successors have seen us revisit well-trodden territory, yet here we get only a fleeting glimpse of those lush Hylian fields. Zelda's most famous setting is reserved for a spine-tingling cameo, Link's quest eventually taking him beneath the waves to a world in monochromatic stasis. The setpiece that ensues when you flood· it once more with colour, and an invading army springs back to life, is one of the series' greatest moments, not least as the perfect showcase for The Wind Waker's simple but effortlessly thrilling combat. It's a showboater's dream, with its musical hit-pauses and last-second dodges. As Link rolls behind a Darknut, an upwards slash cuts the ties holding its armour in place, leaving it exposed and vulnerable. Even better, fire an arrow at a Moblin while its back is turned and it'll scuttle off in tears, clutching its backside. Indeed, with its frequent pratfalls and slapstick gags, it's comfortably the funniest Zelda to date. Witness, for example, Link's exaggerated eye movements and facial contortions - highlighted beautifully in the HD remake's selfie mode - and the comically thuggish aggression of a gaggle of squinting, jut-jawed Bokoblins. Among its human cast of misfits and weirdos, store owner Salvatore is the standout, overcome by ennui until you agree to engage him in a game of battleships, whereupon he transforms into a hyperactive crackpot. You'll want to lose simply because it's funnier when a shot misses, and Salvatore lets out an accented "sploosh!" Of course, away from the towns and dungeons, you've got that Great Sea to explore and to chart. Treasure maps; pirate ships, squalls and giant octopi await, but arguably greater pleasure can be found in the moments when you simply let the wind fill your sails and carry you to who-knows-where. As the main theme swells, the sun slowly climbs above the horizon and a cluster of gulls glides alongside you, you'll feel strangely at peace, even as you experience that bewitching mix of excitement and nervousness the series has always expertly evoked. It's freeing, too: though there are some restrictions on where you can sail, the gear-gating of Zeldas past is refreshingly absent. For the most part, you can set off for new horizons without hindrance. Miyamoto's oft-cited quote about delayed games might have been ignored in the rush to get this to shelves: two unfinished dungeons were removed, leaving this as the slightest of 3D Zeldas. It's a feeling exacerbated by the Wii U remake, which trims the much-criticised Triforce quest and speeds up sailing. Yet whether in original or remastered form, it remains a warm, good-natured adventure. Like its hero, The Wind Waker might be small in stature, but it's big in heart, its few flaws easy to overlook in the face of such an ample sprinkling of Nintendo magic. ---- RockBand 3 Format: 360, PS3 Publisher: MTV Games Developer: Harmonix Release: 2010 The concept of Rock Band, rebel offspring of a Guitar Hero sold out to Activision, begins when its art director watches a live performance by The Who recorded during the '70s. Having inflicted prolonged silence upon an electrified crowd, Daltrey and co explode into a reprise of Won't Get Fooled Again, backed by a fusillade of smoke and lasers. This moment of absolute rock'n'roll decides at once the look and feel of what is to be the anti-Guitar Hero, the Whisky A Go Go to its Hollywood Bowl. Cut to 2010, and the entire music game business is staring down the barrel of a gun. In fact, if you remember the investor panic surrounding the previous year's The Beatles: Rock Band, the bullet's already in the chamber, leaving barely enough time for famous last words. Activision goes first with Guitar Hero: Warriors Of Rock, a painfully selfconscious refresh with that most telltale of gimmicks, a story mode. The intro depicts a cartoon fight between a guitarist and a big robot wreathed in flames. The reviews are tepid, and the series dutifully slips into a coma. Rock Band 3 opens with The Doors, with words literally shouted from the rooftops. Perhaps it's that you have to be there at the start to know how it should end - or perhaps that only the creator has the right to self-destruct. But if this is to be the closing chord of the music game's encore - and make no mistake, that was the mood five years ago - then Harmonix, being Harmonix, knows just where to swing its axe: not at the floor, the kick drum or an innocent speaker, but at the ceiling. "Tried to run! Tried to hide! Break on through to the other side!" The instrument in question is the Fender Mustang Pro, a 102-button training dummy for tomorrow's real musicians - at least, the ones too busy playing Rock Band to learn a real instrument. Too toy? Then empty your wallet for the Squire Stratocaster, which actually is a real instrument with a positionsensing maple neck for gameplay and MIDI support for recording. Because that last one, fun though it is to ride the new Pro Keyboard through Hip To Be Square, is the breakthrough. It's not just that when you're flicking through the manual for this Eno-esque contraption, you're transported to a place where 'gameplay' and 'amp' can be written in the same sentence, and where a laptop, headstock tuners and a D-pad can appear on the · same page. It's nothing so obvious as Harmonix just wanting you to stop pretending. It's about harmony and poise: a bunch of real musicians from Boston who are just as proud to make videogames. It's not technological convergence that makes both the Squire and Mustang work as learning aids, but the design excellence behind Pro mode itself, mastered as it is to teach via play. On the one hand, it's just a hell of a lot of fun to fail at, like all the best game modes. But you only have to strike a few correct notes in sequence to feel its power. That very real bridge between game and musicianship, a plugging of one learning curve · into another across the gulf between games and everything else, crackles like a jack against a socket. Envy those who can say they were there. This wouldn't work if Rock Band wasn't already so great a . music game, its glam punk vibe so infectious, its songs so carefully picked and annotated, its difficulty settings so tuned. Neversoft's had its moments, sure, from the apocalyptic trilogy of Tool in World Tour to the just plain mighty Guitar Hero: Metallica, but Harmonix has had control, and its path has always felt true. From any other studio, not forgetting the bona-fide toolchain and distribution channel of the game's Rock Band Network, Rock Band 3 would have collapsed under its own weight. So, no: there will never be, despite Ubisoft's Rocksmith, a music game like it. Pro mode will not be returning in 2015's Rock Band 4, making this year's back-on contest between it and Guitar Hero Live feel more like a cash-strapped reunion gig than a comeback. FreQuency, The Beatles: Rock Band and Rock Band 3 ... Is it really a coincidence that Harmonix's grandest, most visionary games are the ones that lose the most money? Or is it just that some musicians - the greats - are never so legendary as when, to quote a messianic Jim Morrison, "this whole shithouse goes up in flames"? ---- The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim Format: 360, PC, PS3 Publisher: Bethesda Softworks Developer: Bethesda Game Studios Release: 2011 Big open-world games are often exercises in forgiveness. You overlook the buggy and the broken because of the ambition and sheer scale of the thing, understanding that a rigorous QA pass would take tens of thousands of manhours and still probably wouldn't catch every little thing. Across the Elder Scrolls series, Bethesda has pushed this goodwill to the limit, and Skyrim is probably the worst of the lot. There are scripting bugs, clipping issues, AI freakouts and hard crashes. One Edge staffer had to abandon a PS3 playthrough for a month while Bethesda fixed a memory leak that caused the framerate to tank into single digits when save files reached a certain size. You'd think that would have put them off, but they were in deep once again the minute the patch had installed. Which is to say that there's just something about Skyrim, something that holds true today, even if it has been surpassed in so many areas as time has passed. Even away from the bugs, Skyrim's problems are legion. Assets, facial models and voice actors are frequently reused across the world, the same voice often heard from all four corners of a single pub snug. Combat is clunky and imprecise, and can boil down to a battle of two health bars, with you and your opponent standing still and whaling on each other until one of you falls over. And despite all the prophecies written to proclaim you the saviour of the land, nothing you do has any lasting impact on it. The NPC who, in the early hours, advises those with an interest in magic to visit the College Of Winterhold will tell you the same every time you cross his path in future -even so hours later when you've been there, joined the guild, completed its questline, got the metaphorical T-shirt and been crowned its arch-mage. Despite all that, Skyrim feels like a real place. While it seems bigger than Bethesda's previous games, it is actually the same size, set across the 41-square-kilometre expanse Bethesda discovered years ago was the right area for its games (Skyrim's predecessor, Oblivion, and the forthcoming Fallout 4 are the same). Oblivion's was a land of variety, each little area having its own architecture and colour palette. Skyrim's is a land of ice and snow, its regions defined by their variations on that singular theme - bleak tundra, busy forest and rugged peaks. Ah, yes. The mountains. At first, they're a source of some frustration, a relic of the time before minimap GPS was a commonplace design choice. Head to a quest marker as the crow flies and you're in for a few minutes of trying to hop up a mountainside before giving up and taking the long way round. But over time you come to appreciate the way they break up the world and frame it: the journey around one might take a little longer, but there'll be plenty to see along the way. Bethesda knows you'll take those roads at some point, and ensures some of the game's most striking vistas are shown from the per£e ct angle as you pass by. It takes time, too, to appreciate the combat system, unrefined though it surely is. Later on you'll be flinging magic with your left hand arid swinging a melee weapon with your right, your strength that much higher now you've levelled up a bit, the tools in your hand so much more powerful after a couple of dozen hours of looting. Your abilities improve the more you use them (t here are few greater rewards than a skill -up notification after you've stealthily pinged an arrow into a distant deer's head), while levelling up grants skill points to be spent on perks in one of 18 different categories. Play for a few hundred hours - a real possibility once Skyrim's sunk its hooks into your flesh - and you'll inevitably end up as a master of all trades, but early on you are free to specialise in the things that interest you, and you'll get better at those skills through practice. And practise you will, because there is an absurd amount to do in Skyrim. Each new town or settlement greets you with a volley of new tasks. Others are found through exploration, and some even come to find you, Bethesda's 'radiant' quest system bringing some of the game's most memorable missions to your doorstep to ensure you don't miss them. The result is a world that is packed with so many enticing possibilities - in who you want to be, where you want to go, and what you want to do when you get there - that even those scripting bugs and hard crashes become impossible not to forgive. ---- Drop7 Format: Android, iOS Publisher/developer: Area/code, Zynga Release: 2009 The most successful falling-block puzzle games tend to trade· on simplicity. Timeless classics such as Tetris and Puyo Puyo are instantly readable and, although concealing fiendishly difficult endgames, offer a friction-free on-ramp to new players. Drop7 appears to use the same visual language as its forebears, but closer inspection reveals a little more complexity -enough to ensure that the game's charms are obfuscated for many of those trying it for the first time. It's quite a gamble from Area/Code, but if you stick with Drop7 it reveals a structure as uncluttered and pure as the best of the genre. The game revolves around a seven-by-seven grid into which discs numbered one to seven fall. Any disc whose facia numeral matches the total discs in its corresponding row or column will disappear, clearing space for more. Complicating this are grey discs that must be cracked open by twice removing an adjacent disc, at which point they become a numbered piece in play. It's hardly slotting shapes together or matching up coloured blobs, but once the basic concept clicks, the board proves to be just as readable - and, for that matter, equally free of the complex maths you feared you'd need to wrangle with on first watching someone else play. Part of this readability comes from the perfectly proportioned grid, and the exacting number of components - there are also seven tetrominoes in Tetris, after all. It's just the right amount of information to hold in your brain comfortably even during semifocused sessions in a queue, on a train, or lying in bed wantonly damaging the quality of the night's sleep ahead of you. Then there's the simple colour coding, which helps to reinforce each number with its own character. You'll come to dread yellow/green clumps of ones and twos just as you'll breath a sigh of relief when a navy seven - Drop7's equivalent of Tetris's mighty straight block - comes into play. Unlike many other examples of the genre, Drop7 doesn't pile on the pressure by bombarding players with a torrent of pieces. Each new disc waits patiently at the top of the screen while you decide on your next move. Even placing your finger on the screen doesn't commit you to a binding decision, instead allowing you to sweep the disc left and right as you weigh up the potential outcomes of your plans. It's the efficiency of your strategy that's under pressure here as a row of grey discs is regularly introduced after a continually shrinking number of turns, insidiously inching your conglomerate of numbers towards the top of the screen and game over. Drop7's preference for methodical play is epitomised by Sequence, one of its three game modes. In it, you're fed numbers and obscured discs in exactly the same order each time, allowing the fastidious to plan their route to the high-score table and trigger colossal multipliers - in all modes, the first block or blocks to disintegrate in sequence are worth seven points each, the second wave 39, then 109 and so on up into the tens of thousands. But for most, the game's heart lies in the Normal and Hardcore modes (since renamed Classic and Blitz). The former provides plenty of time prior to the introduction of each new row to focus on housekeeping and setting up chain multipliers, and mixes numbered and grey discs in its drops. The · latter is a purer, distilled version of the game that only drops numbers but drastically reduces the amount of turns you have before another row is added. In each, luck plays as big a part as skill - a fact often cited by the game's critics - but a skilful player can consistently postpone the inevitable end for longer. And the fact that a random carpet of ones and twos could scupper a game early does little to dampen the desire to keep pushing for that elusive one-million-point game. Zynga's update (introduced four years after the company bought Area/Code) proved divisive. There are some poor choices - the original's hypnotic music is thrown out in favour of something that wouldn't feel out of place in Peggle, for example -but there are great additions, too, like the replacement of that black-and-grey background with a shifting translucence, which echoes the colour of the next disc. Best of all, though, is punchier game feel, introducing faster-moving discs that expand and pop in a particularly satisfying way, adding a little extra to one of the greatest puzzle games ever made. ---- Uncharted 2: Among Thieves Format: PS3 Publisher: SCE Developer: Naughty Dog Release: 2009 Like all the best blockbusters, Uncharted 2 has a big opening. It's everything Naughty Dog's ambitious sequel sets out to do packed into an attention-grabbing few minutes: there's star-quality charisma from leading man Nathan Drake, who finds himself physically tattered and teetering on the edge of a Himalayan cliff; there's top-of-the-line technical execution with a still-impressive pull back to reveal the vast scope of his train wreck predicament; and there's an assured storytelling hand behind it all, breaking open the story in the middle, hooking us hard, before zipping to the start and laying out how it all began. If the wreck and all that comes with it show off Naughty Dog's formal confidence, the game itself is a particular sort of confidence trick. Designed to echo cinematic spectacle, Uncharted 2 is a game of wowing set-piece and warming one-liners - acts, almost, of technical misdirection, which keep the audience's eyes away from the clumsy end of the illusion, from the corridor linearity and lead-heavy gunplay. In other words, Uncharted 2 isn't a game that revolutionises, solves or even particularly furthers videogames. It's not a gamechanger, just a really good game. And sometimes, it's barely that. The shooting, while it captures a certain scrambling and frantic waywardness in its teetering animations and fidgety use of cover, is a duty rather than a joy. A little hefty and a little imprecise, it's leavened by Drake's comic interjections (that misdirection again) and best mixed with his thumping Hollywood melee finishers. And there are no turns or tough decisions here, no significant interaction beyond choosing the manner of your enemies' deaths. Uncharted 2, just like so many of the games that dominated the 360/ PS3 era, is a tightly focused ten-hour tour, a strapped-in ride rather than an open ramble, an explosive dash of prescribed action and emotional beats. So consider how good it must be at everything else for all that to be true and for Uncharted 2 to still be a dazzling, barely dimmed masterwork. The casual ease of the narrative craft is just for starters - there's natural dialogue, and characters who seem not only like people, but people we enjoy spending time with. The quality of the writing and performances is exemplary too, full of winning asides and convincing little interactions. They build into a near-invisible net of emotional investment, ensnaring us and holding us, and raising everything around them up a notch. This gives those moments of spectacle, when they arrive, an extraordinary swagger. At the game's midpoint, Drake survives a mountain-side jeep chase, a sequence charged by a piled-up feeling of tottering implausibility - moving things on moving things on this really big thing - and leaps onto a fleeing train. There's a woozy creep of momentum as the game catches up with itself (we know this train), which combines with the weight of our investment in this remarkably human hero, and a sense of what the game is achieving while we're feeling all this: clattering trucks speeding dangerously through a vivid environment, where falling always seems so close at hand and the mountains never seem to stop. It's a moment- that was both outdone in Uncharted 3 and yet somehow never matched. Technically the series has become bigger and better, but there is some balance in Uncharted 2 that is struck just right, between the emotional and the impressive. Post-wreck and post-clifftop escape, Drake takes refuge in a quiet, vulnerable Himalayan village, which provides a moment of unusual reflection and calm. Here, a weaponless Drake's attack buttons have him shaking hands and waving, a gimmick that might only offer a temporary reprieve from the violence that defines our hero and his genre, but offers it nevertheless. Later, in a sequence that laid down the emotional groundwork for Naughty Dog's The Last Of Us, Drake becomes firm, if not easily conversant, friends with a Sherpa called Tenzin, the game drawing us in with bonds of cooperation rather than the usual battery of gunfire. This is the flourish that seals the trick of Uncharted 2, that tucks away the standard gunplay and dismisses the loss of alternative paths to travel. Drake and his friends as well as his enemies appear to us with all the pull and preciousness of people, which makes Uncharted 2 a classic of humanity rather than noise. ---- lco Format: PS2, PS3 Publisher: SCE Developer: Team lco Release: 2001 When did you first fall in love with Ico? Was it with that initial, misty giimpse of the castle that would become your prison? Or was it later, when the clip-clop of shoes on stone had settled into your mind, and you discovered, at the top of the tower, the ghostly and innocent Yorda, suspended in her cage over a terrifying drop? Was it when you first protected her, clumsily knocking away sootblack spirits with an over-sized stick, or when you first took her hand and half-urged, half-dragged her onwards, into the next room, and then all the rooms beyond? Ico may be built from the same actions as other games - the same running, jumping, climbing and swinging - but its real focus is far more personal: people and places, the nouns rather than the verbs. It's these that linger in memory long after the last wall has been scaled and the final block pushed. This is a game about relationships, a piece of alchemy wrought from just three simple elements: Ico, Yorda, and the castle itself. And those elements are in perfect balance throughout, each a point of the triangle supporting all the others. Just try taking Yorda out of the equation. For a minute, try imagining things without her. The result would still, probably, be a memorable and challenging title: the platforming is pure and unforced; the sparseness of the setting is elegant and almost self-consciously Japanese. Ico's mechanics are certainly sound enough to work without any kind of gimmicks. But without Yorda, this would be just another game about escape - a narrative designers fall back on again and again, and for a simple reason: it works. Put Yorda back into the equation, both friend and burden, and the game suddenly ignites. Ico instantly becomes something far deeper than a mere obstacle course - it becomes a tale of responsibility and protection, a story of growing friendship between two lost children. And that friendship, built on beckoning and disagreeing, united by a plight but separated by just about everything else, is one of gaming's greats. Never have children seemed so much like children, and never has trust slowly blossomed so elegantly. It's there in the way Yorda's tentative footsteps and desperate leaps complement Ico's youthful and often ill-ju1ged movements, a language built of wobbles and lunges, of puffing, panting, and forever seeming inches away from an awkward sprawl on the floor. It's there in that lopsided run as Ico drags Yorda behind him (aided by an addled, unbalanced rumbling in the controller - perhaps the most per£e ct use of hap tic feedback ever conceived). And most of all, it's there in the way Yorda only serves to complicate things, impeding progress and cutting off easy solutions. And all of this plays out within the third and final element, the castle itself, whose puzzles, though ingenious, never feel contrived or tacked on. This is a place of effortless contrasts, from the gloom and rot of the cavernous interiors to the fading, sunworn terraces and battlements. It's built not just of polygons but of textures: iron and brick, rotting wood and dirty glass. Surrounded by billowing winds, empty of all but echoes and shadows, Ico's castle is a place you'll never forget. There are plenty of other things the game gets right, of course: from the inky, unformed devils that emerge from the ground, taking a thousand shapes, eager · to drag Yorda away, to the sparse narrative, which never clutters you with options or erodes your enthusiasm with gameshow variety the way other titles do. At all times, there's the universal language of simplicity at work in Ico, ensuring that, no matter how complex the locations become, you'll never be lost for very long. And while Ico lacks the meters and hit points of traditional videogames, it absolutely makes use of your own deep familiarity with the form: climbing, running and jumping are all intensely natural, and the controls often seem invisible. But when Ico ends, short yet gruelling, lightly told but deeply involving, it's hard to recall the story, the journeys, or the fights. It's hard to remember the tricks used to guide you through the game, or the clever level design that brought you to that final, lonely beach. The plot fades away and all that's left is a sense of loss, loneliness, and desolation - along with static images that blend like watercolours. And they're nouns, not verbs: chains swinging in the wind, high windows, sun on brick, and those two clasped hands. ---- Super Metroid Format: SNES Publisher/developer: Nintendo Release: 1994 It's incredible that a game from 1994 can still be considered one of the most atmospheric ever made. Great design is ageless, true, but the audiovisual tools today's developers have at their disposal for immersing players, for evoking place and time and tone, are light years beyond what was possible then. Yet Super Metroid remains a masterpiece of mood, a game that can stop hearts and raise hairs. It's not exactly working with the most promising of materials, either. For all the Metroid saga's reputation, its foundations are the stuff of cliche: power-suited cosmic adventurer battles space pirates and hunts energy-sucking, jelly-like aliens in mazes of caves. With the NES original hailing from 1986, that's easy to excuse. It's not quite so easy to explain how the Metroid games attained the rarefied power they did. They do deviate from cliche in one crucial respect: the revelation at the end of the first game that Samus Aran, the protagonist in that suit, was female shocked the gaming world of 1986. At the time it was a show-stopping reversal of damsel-in-distress archetypes. Super Metroid exploits the contrast between the normal woman and the outlandish, bulbous spacesuit better than any other game in the series, revealing a flash of Aran's true form when the screen fades to white at every death. It makes her vulnerable as well as mighty, and serves as an effective reminder of the extreme hostility of the environment. That environment is Aran's chief opponent. The tortuous design, riddled with more secrets, puzzles and mysteries than a Zelda dungeon, is the most significant part of that. Caverns and ancient hallways are just as meticulously drawn up as mazes in other games, but then disguised with a crust of vegetation and dilapidation that makes them feel much more organic and twice as inscrutable. Despite the map that fills in as you go, it's possible to feel utterly, desperately lost, so thorough is the misdirection, so carefully hidden the clues. Seldom has any game had the courage to doubleback on itself so often, and this makes exploration feel natural and open-ended without sacrificing the PE:rvading claustrophobia. This is key to the game's emotional hold: there's ultimately only one way to go, and that's down. No game has ever exploited the fear and pressure of descent so well, not even the other Metroids, nor Descent itself. The prologue and the earliest sections of the game proper are characterised by impossibly long, implausibly quiet drops down empty shafts. The airlessness and rising temperature are almost palpable. Although the game clambers back to the surface for much-needed gulps of air, you know you're always going to have to go back, until the final boss encounter - with that Freudian nightmare, the Mother Brain -inevitably takes place at the very bottom of the very deepest pit. And it's a journey you have to make alone. Enemies abound, but aside from the occasional skirmish with the space pirates and the monumental boss battles, they mostly take the form of strange, barely sentient alien wildlife. Plant life undulates, statues eyes' glint, tiny insects scatter, electronic arrays scan Aran, mutely. Lonely as you are, it seems like something is there and watching you, and it feels like it's the maze itself. Accompanying the lush, subtle gloom of the graphics is one of the finest soundtracks of the 16bit era. There's an unnerving abstract quality to the toneless squawks of the wildlife, the chirrups and clicks of the machinery. Beneath it all are the dark choral intonations of a series of unsettling, echoing, cyclical tunes that never resolve. They just rack up the tension. It all sounds rather oppressive, and it certainly can be; for a fairly slow-paced, exploratory actionadventure, Super Metroid is quite the pressure-cooker. But its rich atmosphere beguiles as well as scares, draws you deeper into one of gaming's most head-scratching and intricate mysteries. And any time you feel the weight of all that alien rock is getting too much, the game, with exquisite timing, doles out one of its genuinely thrilling suit upgrades. You start out strong and confident in the suit, then enjoy a prolonged power rush with each upgrade, eventually running at rocket speed, piledriving through walls and slicing through enemies. The upgrades' ingenuity and potency are a perfectly paced match - and reward - for the demands and frustrations of the most bewitching maze in gaming history. No wonder that, all these years on, you can lose yourself in it just as easily as you can get lost. ---- Demon's Souls Format: PS3 Publisher: SCE Developer: FromSoftware Release: 2009 Demon's Souls is not only one of the very best games of the PlayStation 3 era, it's also one of the best stories. Originally released only in Ja pan and Asia by a nervous Sony with little faith in its prospects, Demon's Souls was discovered in the west by adventurous importers, and word of its extraordinary blend of near-sadistic difficulty, dark-medieval fantasy and impenetrable mystery spread online, prompting a huge uplift in import sales. As a direct result, it was picked up for US and (eventually) European release, and became a cult hit; its sequel Dark Souls grew into a successful and beloved series. Demon's Souls was an obscure Asia-only release propelled to worldwide fame and success by nothing but the passionate advocacy of its players. It is the kind of story that simply does not happen in videogames any more. It is easy to see why players of Demon's Souls were quickly converted into evangelists. It is quite unlike anything that anyone had ever encountered before (except, perhaps, the few who had braved the King's Field series, FromSoftware's earlier miserablist fantasy). You play a dead thing in an entire world of dead things, all of which are trying to destroy you in creative and unexpected ways. Its multitude of awful creatures -manta rays that swim across the sky, sending iron javelins down to skewer you; skeletal warriors; awful octopus-headed mages that ring sinister bells; giant arachno-centipedes with a multitude of human faces - are frightening, vicious, and eminently capable of ending you within a minute. Dropped into a temple with no guidance and faced with five Archstones, each the gateway to a different flavour of horrific nightmare, Demon's Souls players had to fend for themselves from the first seconds. You fought with whatever you could scavenge, be it halberd, spear, casting wand, greatsword or bow. You learned to survive or you died, over and over and over again, each time reappearing at the very beginning of the area that you'd perished in, with your hard-earned Souls gone and every enemy right back where they were and ready to destroy you again. Demon's Souls appeared at the height of the trend for 'cinematic' games that led you by the hand, which made it all the more extraordinary that there was no help. Going from a more typical 2008 game to Demon's Souls was like plunging into an ice-cold pool after a half-hour in a comfortably warm sauna: a shock to the system, yes, but so invigorating: Except, of course, there was help, in the form of the Blue Phantoms that you could summon to help guide you through Demon's Souls' deadly labyrinths - other players, scarred by their own experience, who've faced exactly the same challenges. There was always a reasonable chance when summoning a helper in Demon's Souls that they'd be exactly as hapless as you, but now and then you'd get a valiant protector who knew exactly what you were in for and was ready to guide you through it. There is nothing like the gratitude that a struggling Demon's Souls player feels for the Phantom that helps them past a boss that had them on the brink of tears for hours previously. It is a quasi-religious feeling. Demon's Souls' most innovative and memorable boss is an inversion of this- spirit of camaraderie. Waiting at the top of the Tower of Latria, the most arrestingly horrendous of all Demon's Souls' locales, was the Old Monk - a boss animated by the summoned soul of another player. Having faced all manner of awful things from the developer's imagination, you would now find yourself facing another person, a fell ow traveller through the horrors of Demon's Souls. Other players in the form of Black Phantoms could invade at any time, of course, providing you were in human form, but for the Old Monk fight the game would pluck someone from another world regardless of whether they were intending to help or hinder you. It forced players to turn on one another, and it was the greatest of Demon's Souls' many moments of genius. The community around Demon's Souls proved to be every bit as extraordinary as the game itself. Outside of the game world, players congregated on wikis and forums to piece together its secrets, develop strategies, offer advice, excavate its lore. Playing it becomes an obsession that persists outside of decaying Boletaria and in endless real-world conversations and anecdotes. It is a game that no player ever forgets. ---- Advance Wars Format: GBA Publisher: Nintendo Developer: Intelligent Systems Release: 2001 It's hard to say how much of the regard in which we hold Advance· Wars is down to it being the first Nintendo Wars game to be released in the west. The 2001 GBA title came out of the blue - a turn-based military strategy game from Nintendo, of all companies -yet arrived with a full 13 years' development behind it. Intelligent Systems had been making these games, virtually unknown outside Japan, since Famicom Wars in 1988, and no less than two home console versions and three Game Boy iterations had already been produced. Advance Wars and its sequels even cherry-picked some of the best maps from their predecessors. No wonder it seemed so perfect. Advance Wars 2 and Dual Strike could add nothing to its formula, although heaven knows they tried. They couldn't break it either, and are excellent and only very slightly over-egged games. But the first Advance Wars remains the peak of the series, and one of very few games on this list or anywhere that it is impossible to imagine being able to improve. Part of that is down to a rare synergy between hardware and software - all too rare in handheld gaming. If turn-based strategy was on the point of death at the turn of the century, it's because few developers outside Intelligent Systems had realised how perfect a fit it was for gaming on the move. Totally devoid of time pressure, interruptible at any point, easy to support multiple players on a single handset, and so flexible that it could fill a spare five minutes or fully absorb your attention for an eight-hour flight. It was a revelation. Intelligent Systems complemented it with a superb, streamlined and ultrafast interface, the GBA hardware brought a large screen that could be packed with map information, and the deal was done. Well, not quite. If one thing sets Advance Wars apart, it's presentation. Intelligent Systems' stroke of genius with this series rebirth - the one thing, above all others, that carried it to international success - was to do the utterly implausible, and make war cute and strategy cool. Every aspect of the art is perfectly judged: the clean-cut sex appeal of the manga characters; the vehicle designs, irresistibly chunky retro-futuristic toys, showed off in a brisk illustrative cutscene at every confrontation; the on-map unit icons that pack immense charm and character into a handful of pixels; the excitingly brash dynamism of the frontend. It's everything strategy games aren't - immediate, youthful, energetic. Of the balance of air, sea and land units, their ranges and effects and strengths and weaknesses, it's hard to say anything other than 'perfect'. Advance Wars takes scissors-paper-stone and explodes it into a complex, cascading web of units that somehow always comes full circle - fighter-copter-mech-tank-rocket -cruiser-fighter, for one. The positional interplay of direct and indirect units is exquisite, and the extremely strict grid format renders this supremely intelligent system with total clarity. Advance Wars recognises its immense debt to that greatest of military strategy games, chess, and it's not about to discard its most basic building block. What's perhaps more of a surprise is the depth of tactical advantage to be squeezed out of the very simple-terrain rules. This becomes particularly apparent when under the fog of war, Advance Wars having one of the most sophisticated yet easy-to-grasp applications of this concept in the entire strategy genre. The use of high-ground spotters and forest cover can lead to a single turn in a complex match meriting endless contemplation. Extremely rarely among strategy games, Advance Wars' design adapts perfectly to both carefully crafted, objective-based scenarios with pre-deployed units, and a more traditional capture, build and fight mode. The latter arguably has longer legs, both in multiplayer and in the standalone War Room maps (the pursuit of S-ranks in which has become the obsessive goal of many a player). That said, however, it's Advance Wars' ability to deliver concise, intriguing, dramatic, sometimes even funny pre-scripted scenarios that makes it so accessible to the strategy novice. The complexity and subtlety of ideas Intelligent Systems can pack into a single 10x15 grid is a lesson in game design economy. And, on a Game Boy Micro, Advance Wars is a true best-in-genre and a lifeconsuming, long-haul game you can fit in the palm of your hand. Sometimes less really is more. ---- Mario Kart 8 Format: Wii U Publisher/developer: Nintendo Release: 2014 Mario Kart 8 feels magical in the way that you remember Nintendo games from your childhood being. Its wanton disregard for oddly fashionable superficial polish is backed up by a luxurious treatment of the series that distills almost everything that made the previous entries special into a kind of greatest hits package. It's a Wii U calling card to stand shoulder to shoulder with anything that PS4 or Xbox One can muster. As ever, the track selection mixes fresh tarmac with updated classics, but you won't encounter a single layout that doesn't deserve to be in the list. Even divisive creations such as Mario Kart 64's Toad's Turnpike are massaged into something that should please all comers thanks to this game's carefully balanced box of tricks. Foremost among these are the new anti-gravity sections, in which karts' wheels fold underneath the chassis like a DeLorean time machine. Having the option to drive onto walls and zip past Toad's Turnpike's bustling traffic at a 90-degree angle changes the character of the track considerably. Freed from the constraints of gravity, Nintendo's course designers set about doing for kart racers what Super Mario Galaxy did for the 3D platformer, rejecting tradition to create Mario Kart's most exciting tracks yet. Now you get to tear straight up towering waterfalls, corkscrew through the sky above the finish line, or power along the face of an imposing dam. These new ideas channel the spirit of F-Zero in a way that often makes you feel like you've played two games by the end of a track, both elements somehow bonding together seamlessly. And the inclusion of these slippery, futuristic bumper car sections has emboldened Nintendo to tinker with the handling of karts when their wheels are on the ground. Everything feels meatier, with a greater sense of inertia, and even series stalwarts will likely overshoot their first corner by some margin if they come to the game expecting to map previously learned skills directly into a new setting. After a few laps, however, Mario Kart B's even greater focus on sliding becomes apparent, and you'll begin timing your drifts earlier into each corner. It's far from inaccessible, but it makes for a game that rewards skilful driving more than any other in the series before it. All the skill in the world still won't save you in the face of the inexorable approach of a spiny shell, of course, but Nintendo's surprisingly thorough overhaul even takes this bane of any race leader's life into account. The handful of new weapons includes the Super Horn, which emits a shock wave that thumps into competitors' karts and has the incredibly useful side effect of deflecting any tailing projectiles. That Nintendo was prepared to add a defence - even if it is a rarely obtained one - against a weapon that has always been unstoppable says much about just how gutsy an update this is. And that daring extends to a softening of Nintendo's - at the time - infamously reclusive design tenets. Splatoon has seen the company reach further into the world of modern online games since, but MKTV's embracement of You Tube uploads and Mario Kart B's expanded 12-player online multiplayer grid both remain transformative additions. That this unwavering brilliance doesn't saturate Mario Kart B's Coin Battle mode to the same extent is a pity - rather than battle arenas, here you must duel on a selection of standard circuits - but it's hardly calamitous given the rest of the package. And since its release, that package has been expanded by a further 16 tracks, eight vehicles and six characters thanks to DLC packs themed around Animal Crossing and The Legend Of Zelda. Precious few pretenders have come anywhere near to matching Mario Kart's genre-defining brilliance over the years since the series' debut, and with Mario Kart 8 Nintendo significantly raised the bar yet again. Bright, bold 60fps visuals; a satisfying, rejigged handling model; track design that mixes progressive drama and nostalgia in equal parts; a host of cleverly implemented new weapons and mechanics; and the flawless soundtrack, made up of classic tunes performed by a live orchestra. The appearance of a new entry in the series has always been something of an event, but Mario Kart 8 feels more like an unrestrained festival. ---- Ultra Street Fighter IV Format: 360, Arcade, PC, PS3, PS4 Publisher: Capcom Developer: In-house, Dimps Release: 2008 The secret to longevity in sports, as any athlete in the twilight years of their career will tell you, is consistency. The secret to the Street Fighter IV series' success is that, if you look past the decades of technological advancement that power its visuals, at its core it is the same game as Street Fighter II. It has many of the same characters; their movesets have expanded, certainly, but the basics are there, those fireballs, dragon punches and flash kicks performed in the same way they were in the '90s. SFII was always a complex game, but it was always accessible, always readable - two combatants with yellow health bars turning red, a timer counting down, and animations clearly showing whether an attack has hit home or been blocked. When SFIV arrived, it was familiar enough to lure in those who hadn't thrown a fireball in anger for a decade and a half, while the classic clarity of its presentation, and a new lick of HD paint, did likewise for a new generation of players. And in seven years of patches and revisions, Capcom has rewarded both camps by turning it into the best fighting game of all time. Indeed, it is Capcom's desire to cater to those two very different groups of players that defines SFIV. For the newcomer there is the Ultra Combo, a canned, spectacular animation preceded by a flashy cinematic that knocks off half your opponent's life bar. In that effect, it is far from the first of its kind, but what separates the Ultra from the crowd is that its use is governed by a meter that fills not as you land hits, but as you take them. It's designed not to reward good play, but to spark comebacks when things haven't gone to plan - it's a chance of levelling the playing field when faced with a far superior foe. While it may seem more immediately useful to the novice than the expert, the Ultra Combo is a vital part of the high-level player's arsenal. Its use in these hands is rather different, however, typically tagged onto the end of combos to maximise damage output when they find an opening. It's not easy - not always, anyway - and often requires the use of SFIV's other headline mechanic, the one more obviously aimed at the experienced player. The Focus Attack, a move that's available to Ultra's entire 44-strong roster, is activated by pressing both medium punch and medium kick simultaneously, the simplicity of its input command belying its inherent complexity and broad potential. Keep the · buttons held down until it is fully charged and you will automatically perform an unblockable attack that makes your opponent crumple to the floor if it lands. You can release the buttons earlier for a less powerful strike, or cancel the move with a dash. While it's charging, you can also absorb a single hit from your opponent. It can even be used to cancel the animation of a move of your own, whether it's hit its mark or just been blocked. Simply put, the Focus Attack does everything. Struggling to deal with an opponent's fireballs? Absorb the projectile and then dash forwards to close space. Under heavy pressure? Soak up a hit and dash back to safety. If your dragon punch has been blocked, Focus cancel it and dash out of there; if it has hit, Focus cancel and dash forward to prolong the assault. Fighting games are often decried for their complexity, but the most important tool in the SFIV games requires no stick motions and just two buttons. Rarely has so little been used for so much, and so well, in this genre or any other. In seven years of iteration, SFIV has become a bigger game, of course, with new characters and stages added with each major new release. More importantly, it has become a better game too, with Capcom paying close heed to competition at all skill levels -from beginner-level ranked matches right through to elite tournaments - in the course of its rebalancing work. The result is that Ultra Street Fighter IV is the most balanced game in the series to date. When you lose, it is almost always your own fault, rather than some errant design decision infecting the game's code. Take it from us: we've lost a lot. Yet still we persevere, and we suspect that we'll continue to do so even after Street Fighter V's release. There will always be another character to learn, a combo to optimise and practise, and another parade of online opponents lining up for a shoeing in this, the greatest fighting game that there's ever been. ---- Metal Gear Solid V: The Phantom Pain Format: 360, PS3, PS4, PC, Xbox One Publisher: Korami Developer: Kojima Productions Release: 2015 As Hideo Kojima's heroes of old dashed between military installat1ons, oil rigs and occupied jungles, you got little sense of the wider world they were striving so desperately to save. Radioed conversations hinted at happier times - of favourite films and foods - but even this was channelled into practical battlefield advice. Not so in The Phantom Pain, which places the series' Tactical Espionage Action into an open-world sandbox that helps fill in those gaps. 1984 Afghanistan is a warzone, yes, but the war's played out in recognisable farms and villages, as likely to be patrolled by goats and sheep as Soviet soldiers. That those guards relax to pop classics of the day leads to the startling realisation that Hall & Oates are now part of Metal Gear Solid canon. Any plot to wipe out civilisation is certainly more potent when you know A-Ha will be among the digital dead. But this world offers much more than Now That's What I Call Infiltration Music, Volume One. The life it suggests beyond its boundaries is nothing compared to the organic happenings within. The way passing time causes patrol shifts that turn once-favoured routes into deadly gauntlets. The way sandstorms and monsoons blind and deafen soldiers, opening unexpected windows of opportunity for otherwise-impossible dashes to victory. The way the region's military operates as a whole, calling for reinforcements from nearby outposts, perhaps finding their plea unanswered if you neutralised them earlier. The centrepiece of this unpredictable universe is a nervy enemy AI that allows a vague glimpse of Big Boss to blossom into curiosity and escalate into sweeping manhunts. Where so many stealth games can be learned by rote, no two Phantom Pain runs are ever quite the same. Of course, in the figure of Big Boss the enemy face an antagonist every bit as unpredictable. How you tackle the action depends on which Big Boss enters the field. Is it the iconic lurker with a silenced tranquilliser in one hand and a cardboard box stuffed in his back pocket? Or is it a one-man army, armed, to the teeth with weapons researched back at his HQ, Mother Base, and driving a tank he airlifted during an earlier mission? Does he gallop past guard posts on horseback, gun them down in his mech, or set his knife-wielding dog on them? Ironically for the entry in the series intended to reveal how Big Boss came to be the villain of the original Metal Gear, the man that emerges is different for every player. It isn't that this scope of approach didn't exist in previous entries, more that you were never granted the space to experiment with Kojima's playful systems. It combines into a sandbox unlike any other, one that rejects the overblown power fantasies associated with the genre - gods needn't lurk in the shadows - for a rabbit hole of systems to learn and exploit. A relatively simple airport assassination, for example, can be played as a sniping exercise or a full-blown runway assault, or can be taken on guerrilla style as you interrogate guards for the target's movements and lace the route with C4, or trace the car to its parking spot and booby trap that. The target needn't be assassinated at all, if you wish, but whisked off instead by balloon to be conscripted into your burgeoning army. Where the current open-world trend is to clog the map with time-wasting trinkets, every living thing in The Phantom Pain can be collected and put to work developing kit and support abilities, each one branching out the tactical possibilities ever further. Transplanting Metal Gear Solid's eye for detail into a space usually associated with baggier thrills is no mean feat, and some series trademarks are sacrificed along the way. Without Kojima's guiding hand ushering us to the next cutscene the story feels sparser and less intrusive - a strength, many would argue, but hardly the grand farewell expected by his acolytes. But if it delivers fewer scripted moments of fourthwall-breaking' madness, it does so in the name of creating a space ripe for your own stories. Like the time we were pinned down under fire and extracted a scientist through a skylight using a balloon. Or when we fought off two rampaging brown bears with a rocket-propelled prosthetic arm. Or the moment we escaped capture by luging down a hill on a cardboard box. All to an A-Ha soundtrack, of course. Truly, this is a world worth saving. ---- Super Mario World Format: GBA, SNES Publisher/developer: Nintendo Release: 1990 The first game in a beloved series on a new platform is bound to be littered with paradigm shifts, breathtaking new technology, and courageous reversals of accepted thinking, right? Rewriting the rule book is what Nintendo does, and a debut Mario game at the launch of a new console is when it does so. Isn't it? Not this time. The surprising truth is that Super Mario World is, by the admittedly insane standards of the Mushroom Kingdom, quite conservative. Few of its ideas are not refined or expanded versions of things that appeared in the truly visionary Super Mario Eros 3. The liberal, nonlinear structure, the world map, the item granting the power of flight, and eight-way scrolling all made their debut in the preceding NES game. The only major addition in World is Yoshi, Marie's cute dinosaur steed and later star of his own SNES classic, Yoshi's Island (an apposite bookend for the machine's library when it was released towards the end of its life, five years later). Nor was World a technical showboat for Nintendo's new platform. It looked slow and plain by comparison to the huge, vivid sprites and bold settings in Sony's bravura rival Sonic The Hedgehog. With World coming hot on the heels of Mario Eros 3, Shigeru Miyamoto and Takashi Tezuka simply hadn't had time to make it the brash system-seller Nintendo needed, especially in the west. It wasn't a mistake they'd make again. Six years later, on much-delayed but powerful hardware, there weren't many things about videogames that Super Mario 64 didn't address. And yet Super Mario World rivals it in the eyes of many fans. So what went right? In a word: everything. World is an astonishing, unending torrent of ideas from start to finish, each so clearly defined in those simple graphics that it can be appreciated in a fraction of a second as you barrel through the game, drunk on the joy of Marie's momentum. The designers revelled in detail. They set up gratuitous gags with immaculate slapstick timing. They constructed ever more devilish puzzles, and went to new lengths to conceal and misdirect around them. They went higher, deeper and farther than before, and built levels within levels within levels, missing no chance to elaborate the physical structure of Marie's world or seed it with secrets. They enriched the cause-and-effect complexity of the chain reactions of blocks and items and enemies. They constructed terrifying, vertiginous sequences of unstable and moving platforms, making. solid ground a luxurious rarity, urging you to never stop, never think too hard, just keep that dash button held down and lurch from one heart-stopping leap to the next. They placed enemies with pixel-perfect precision. They bent space and time, creating delightful, mind-twisting conceptual traps in the spookily lit Ghost Houses. They created clockwork death machines in the castles that need almost supernatural foresight and timing to get past. And they intensified the joyous surrealism of the Mushroom Kingdom in locations like the Vanilla Dome and Cheese Bridge Area. Another standout is the world map. Linking together the surfeit of levels, shortcuts and secret exits becomes an overriding quest, far more important than rescuing Peach from Bowser; the infuriating Forest of Illusion, where every standard exit leads to a dead end, is a highlight. It even has a superstructure - Star Road, a set of · dreamlike levels that can teleport you around the map - and an epilogue, in the almost comically tricky Special levels. World was one of the first mainstream action games that really wasn't over when it was over. What Yoshi added shouldn't be underestimated, either. More than a mere powerup, the dinosaur (or flock of them) was a tremendously charming addition whose huge leaps and bottomless appetite rewrote Marie's playing style. Along with the cape feather that allowed you to circumvent entire levels by flying through them, Yoshi was a theoretical get-out-of-jail-free card, an overpowered item that ought to have rendered the game's hardest levels - some of the hardest ever conceived in a 2D platformer - laughably easy. But they never did. Balance is one thing, but in Super Mario World there is simply too much going on for it to even be an issue. Even its lesser levels constantly distract you into stupid mistakes with the sheer density of their brilliance. It may not have changed the world but, simply put, it is more game, more of the time, than any other 2D platformer. ---- Red Dead Redemption Format: 360, PS3 Publisher/developer: Rockstar Games Release: 2010 When Microsoft dreamed up the Achievement system it probably had bigger hopes for it than what it has become. Achievements - whether on Xbox, Steam, or PlayStation's Trophies - tend to fall into one of two camps: those doled out simply for progressing through the game, or long, post-game grinds. Every so often, though, a game sets you a task that changes the way you play, look at and remember a game, asking you to do something you would never have thought to do yourself. There's Geometry Wars' Pacifism, for instance, a twin-stick shooter asking you not to fire a bullet for 60 seconds. There's Half-Life 2: Episode One's Little Rocket Man, which requires you to ferry a garden gnome from the game's first area to the last before depositing it in a rocket. Red Dead Redemption has Hit The Trail, which tasks you with travelling from the pier at Blackwater, in the northeast corner of the map, to Escalera in the far southwest, before sunset. Since Blackwater is the final location you visit in the game, the journey serves up a fond retrospective of adventures past, taking you from the snowy north to the sun-parched desert of New Austin, then across the water into Mexico, its burnt-red clay reddening further as the sun dips over the horizon. Along the way you'll pass the gang hideout you cleared out with Molotovs in the game's opening hours. The graveyard where, a little later on, you helped a necrophiliac dig up a corpse. The riverbank where you fired the final bullet before the credits rolled. Along the way, you'll get into a heap of trouble. Hit The Trail's true mark of genius is that it has to be completed in an online Free Roam session. Player-controlled bandits are seemingly everywhere, and while death is punished only by a respawn 100 yards from the action, firefights can drag out, and you're on a deadline spelt out by the relentless burning sun. So you partner up with a posse, the hunt for the achievement nudging you · towards co-operative play at the tail end of a game in which you have spent dozens of hours working largely alone. Not that you'll have wanted it any other way. John Marston might just be Rockstar's finest creation, a conflicted old killer who can switch between cold- and warm-hearted as the situation requires. With his wife and son taken captive and held to ransom, there is narrative justification here for the contradiction between a character and his actions that . hamstrings so many open-world games, and especially Rockstar's. Marston is joined by a fine supporting cast. Yes, there's the usual revolving door of crazies and ne'er-do-wells with bizarre, murderous to-do lists, but there is nuance to the ensemble too. The elegant tutorial of the opening hours has Marston convalescing at a ranch run almost singlehandedly by its owner's daughter, Bonnie MacFarlane. She is a woman in a man's world and she knows it, and her sharp banter with Marston as she gets him back on his feet and earning his keep serves not only as a gentle introduction to the mechanics that stand Red Dead apart from its peers - horse-riding, cattlesteering, lassoing and so on -but also rams home that this was a time of change. The game's opening cinematic puts Marston on a train eavesdropping on two ageing southern ladies lamenting the slow end of the Old West. You see a car, and realise Marston and everyone else are slowly coming to terms with the fact that the meaning of the word 'horsepower' is soon to change forever. It is, of course, an open-world game, so it's perhaps inevitable that it isn't perfect. The middle third sags a little, as Marston unquestioningly takes both sides in a civil war that sees rivers of innocent blood being shed and jars with the spirit of the thing elsewhere. For a while here it feels like just another open-world game - you're a bad guy doing bad things for bad people, just wearing a poncho instead of a suit, riding a horse instead of a sports car -rather than the unique genre piece of the first and third acts. With the masterful, zombie-themed Undead Nightmare addon offering as savvy an approach to DLC as Hit The Trail does to Achievement design, this is a rich, sprawling game that offers something unique to its crowded host genre. The ways of the Old West may eventually have been wiped out by the pace of technological change, but even now, a generation later, Red Dead Redemption's aim holds true. ---- Super Mario 64 Format: N64 Publisher/developer: Nintendo Release: 1996 To get one of the 'secret' castle stars in Super Mario 64, you need to catch· a yellow rabbit. It's there, unexpectedly, when Mario unlocks a door in the basement of Peach's castle, hopping to and fro. There's no hint that you'll be rewarded for capturing it; you just try because in this warped, consistently inconsistent, logically illogical, so-surreal-it's-real universe, it seems like the thing to do. And because it's fun. It's a throwaway moment, but it also says a lot about this era-defining game. Super Mario 64 was a voyage of discovery for everyone: Shigeru Miyamoto, his design team, EAD's coders, and us. It's been said that its achievement was transposing Maria's world into 3D but, with the exception of the vertiginous Bowser stages, it did nothing of the sort. It made an entirely new world for him and around him. If Ocarina Of Time was a translation, Mario 64 is a whole new language. And it didn't stop at defining the exploration of 3D space: it broke every conceivable boundary. Who says a level needs to have a start and an end? Who says it needs to be the same every time you go in it? Why should levels be connected in a string - can't they grow organically out of a hub? Does everything in the levels really need to have a point, anyway? And let's face it, does a level even need to be a space at all? Couldn't it be - say - a rabbit? That slippery rabbit - named MIPS, after the Silicon Graphics subsidiary that worked on the N64's architecture - was, in fact, the first part of Mario 64 to exist, after Mario himself. Miyamoto insisted that it had to be fun simply to manipulate Mario with no rhyme or reason. This resulted in a game in which moving around in 3D wasn't just easy, it was intoxicating and hilarious. It takes a while to get to grips with moving Mario relative to the uncommonly free camera; it could never be as instinctive as it had been in 2D. To compensate, Mario got a set of moves so complex, so extravagant, so focused on pure entertainment value, that it included an entirely pointless breakdance routine. To this day, it's virtually impossible to fire up the game without taking a moment to do handstands on treetops and triple-jump dives into the water. Mario occasionally attains such giddy, uncontrollable momentum that he seems to have a mind of his own. It's logical enough that, as the first test of Maria's motion, the developers gave him something to chase after. It's more surprising that MIPS the rabbit made it into the final game. He did so because Miyamoto's visionary team built a place that could accommodate him - or pretty much anything. Mario 64's structure of entrances to selfcontained levels around a hub became the de facto standard for 3D platform games and action -adventures, at least until GTAIII showed what could be done with a single, contiguous space: But even more radical and long-lasting than the way it structured space was the way it structured goals. There's the use of the stars as a system of progression, opening up the castle and the levels at a pace that always outstrips yours, so you always have multiple things to do and are free to pick what to tackle and when. It's so commonplace now that it's easy to forget how alarmingly freeform this was. Then there are the two endings - you can beat Bowser barely more than halfway to attaining all 120 stars, offering satisfying goals for both everyman and Mario fanatic. But mostly there's the fact that this abstract currency of stars meant anything could count — even, yes, catching a rabbit. All of this is what makes Super Mario 64 such a visionary and profoundly influential game. All of this is also what ultimately ate away at the pure platforming genre: although Super Mario 64 never lost sight of the running, jumping and falling, it offered a blueprint for a scattershot, activity-centred style of game design. But none of this is quite what makes it a work of genius. That lies in its expression of beautiful, funny and wicked ideas that could only exist in a 3D game space. It's the infinite staircase you're always at the bottom of. It's the secret entrance you glimpse in a mirror. It's the mind-messing reversals of Tiny-Huge Island, the spooky underground town-in-a-box, the microcosmic Igloo ice maze, the ship rising from the sea bed with you inside it. It's the unfettered wonder of one of videogames' finest minds seeing that the world has three dimensions, devising something you'd never have thought of, and - with typically gleeful generosity - allowing you to discover it as if you had. ---- Portal Format: 360, PC, PS3 Publisher/developer: Valve Release: 2007 Type 'idclip' while playing Doom and you can walk through walls. It's just a cheat code, but dematerialising the linedefs and vertices that define each level's perimeter offers fresh perspective on their construction. Fourteen years after Doom's release, Valve made Portal, a game that's wholly focused on disrespecting the boundaries set out for you. Based on a project called Narbacular Drop, created by students from DigiPen Institute Of Technology, Portal is a mindbending firstperson puzzle game that chronicles the rebellion of lab-rat protagonist Chell. Awaking to find herself in an Aperture Science Enrichment Center cell, she is funnelled through a series of increasingly complicated tasks under the watchful observation of GLaDOS (Genetic Lifeform and Disk Operating System), an AI taskmaster shot through with a streak of petty sadism. Making your way through each chamber would be impossible without Portal's contribution to firstperson tools: the Aperture Science Handheld Portal Device. As weapons go, it's as imaginative and versatile as Half-Life 2's Gravity Gun and even more fun to wield (its ancestry is betrayed by the tool's secondary ability to pick up and toss objects). Once up to full functionality, the gun is capable of creating two portals, one orange and one blue, with anything that passes through one emerging from the other. As such, you can set up fascinating feedback loops: perpetually falling from a portal above into the one below as you accelerate up to terminal velocity, or staring at your own back repeated infinitely into the distance by the portals placed in front of and behind you. More usefully, you can appear on the other side of an otherwise insurmountable gap or, thanks to conservation of momentum, fling yourself to great heights. Quickthinking players can avoid fatal impacts, and later on in the game you can use portals to break dangerous lab equipment, such as the game's chatty sentry turrets, by conjuring up a warrantyvoiding fall right underneath their adorable, murderous feet. For all the gun's brilliance, however, the real star of Portal is GLaDOS. Voiced by Ellen McLain, the derisory AI spends the duration of the game patronising and belittling you. And yet GLaDOS's sustained assault on your self-confidence lends the game a strangely charming atmosphere, and the impulse to hear the next brilliantly conceived put-down is no less powerful than the drive to solve the game's puzzles. Don't let the simplistic memes that emerged from the game put you off: Portal's is a videogame script of uncommon inventiveness and hilarity. Having already subverted so many firstperson traditions, Portal goes further by slowly unravelling its own fiction. It starts with a loose panel here and there, an abandoned office left open or a segment of the compound's shifting walls that's been prevented from sitting flush with the rest. Peek beyond, and you find the dirty, over-engineered scaffolding on which the predominantly gleaming white chambers of Aperture Science are built. Look closer and you'll discover evidence of former test subjects - cubbyholes, hideaways and unofficial pathways smeared with graffiti, all beyond GLaDOS's surveillance network. Despite the power of your Portal Gun, you can never outmanoeuvre Valve's level designers, of course, but Portal makes you feel as if you have, each fresh discovery seemingly entirely your own as you begin to break out of the claustrophobic confines of Aperture's network of test chambers and gain the upper hand. In threading everything together, the game sets a standard for environmental storytelling that has yet to be bettered. Portal's mix of elements is so expertly constructed that its impact isn't greatly diminished on a second playthrough, despite the fact that you're now armed with the foreknowledge of all the puzzle solutions. And, as added incentive, Valve throws in Challenge Maps and Advanced Chambers, the latter complicating matters with new hazards, the former keeping everything the same but requiring you to complete each puzzle in the shortest possible time or with the fewest steps or portals possible. It's telling that, even under such scrutiny, the game never threatens to reveal any weaknesses along the way. Eight years on and in the company of a brilliant sequel, Portal feels no less wondrous today than it did in 2007. ---- Bayonetta 2 Format: Wii U Publisher: Nintendo Developer: PlatinumGames Release: 2014 Bayonetta 2 very nearly didn't exist. After one poor fiscal quarter too many, the original game's publisher, Sega, was told by parent company Sammy to narrow its focus onto proven hits. That meant recognisable IP such as Sonic and Aliens, and reliable performers such as Football Manager and Total War. There was certainly no room on the newly risk-averse publisher's release slate for a complex Japanese brawler starring a sexy, sassy witch who makes lascivious quips while kicking angels and demons in the face. While 2010's Bayonetta was a critical darling and a cult hit, a sequel was never going to do the numbers Sega now needed. We'll never know quite how far along it was when the axe dropped - though it was far enough for Sega's PR team to talk to us about a possible cover story - and for a while it seemed as though the sequel to one of the great melee brawlers was set to lie forever on an Osaka cutting-room floor. Then Nintendo unexpectedly saved it. Bayonetta 2's subject matter and target audience may seem an even less suitable fit for a largely family-oriented company, but the Umbran Witch is more at home on Wii U than you might think. With its bold colour palette, blue skies and playful humour, Bayonetta 2 is a more appropriate stablemate for Mario and Yoshi than Master Chief or Lara Croft. Platinum Games' commitment to flow and feel mean that, in Wii U, its game found its most appropriate home - if not for potential sales, then in spirit. While aimed squarely at genre connoisseurs, with its extended air combos, cancels, parries and all manner of advanced techniques, the key to Bayonetta's magic is its accessibility. Squeeze the right trigger and our hero cartwheels away from incoming attacks; time it right - which you almost certainly will, because the input window is generous in the extreme - and time slows down, giving you a few seconds to dole out damage without fear of reprisal. Melee combat games are · defined not just by the means they give you to kill things, but how they enable you to keep yourself alive, and it is a rare game indeed that manages to blend the two without making something so frighteningly hardcore that most players will never see it through. Devil May Cry 3's Royalguard style is a beautiful thing to watch being used skilfully, but put a pad in inexperienced hands and you're only going to see someone embarrass themselves. Bayonetta 2 retains the sky-high skill ceiling that the purists crave, but down on terra firma is perhaps the friendliest on-ramp that this genre has ever known. Witch Time, as the dodge 's effect is termed, also gives Platinum the means to ramp up the odds against you, so within minutes of loading up the game you're being chased up the side of a skyscraper by the snapping jaws of a dragon from Hell. Things just get bigger and sillier from there, and by game's end you're bopping gods on the nose without batting an eyelid. Your moveset will have expanded, and your health bar will have grown, but your core skillset - watch, wait, dodge and then steam in - is the same from the first minute to the last. Well, almost. It might have Nintendo's name on the box, but Sega's legacy lives on in an After Burner pastiche that has Bayonetta and pal each stand on the back of a jet fighter and fire magical bullets at waves of enemies. If some hard-worn 16bit-era platform loyalty means that doesn't sit right with you, it can quickly be transformed into a Star Fox homage by donning a Fox McCloud costume that not only changes the look of our protagonist, but also turns the plane into an Arwing, the dodge into a barrel roll, and shows three allied ships behind you in a cutscene. Elsewhere, Bayonetta borrows duds from the likes of Link and Princess Peach, and uses Nintendo-themed weapons, including one modelled on a Chain Chomp. All these are also available in the original game that comes bundled with Bayonetta 2's special edition, a sales-minded decision by Nintendo aimed at luring in those who never played the first one that also helped solve a potentially lengthy office argument about whether the original or its sequel was the more deserving of a spot in these pages. The truth is that both games are essential, but Bayonetta 2 wins the day, if only for the way it cartwheeled away from the axe and slapped the suits in the face, escaping development limbo to become the best game on Wii U. ---- Minecraff Format: Various Publisher: Various Developer: Mojang Release: 2009 Minecraft stands monumental. Its value ($2.5 billion, according to Microsoft) is one thing, but quite another is its stature in the industry and beyond. Notch, now with 2.5 million followers on Twitter, is a developer icon, having created the game largely in public and crafted it in response to player reaction. Minecraft's current-day developers - Jeb, Dinnerbone, Grum et al - attract mobs at any event they attend, and are revered as gods at their game's official convention, Minecon. Their uncommon familiarity to fans has melted barriers between players and makers. Minecraft was the catalyst for the explosive growth of a new genre, the sandbox survival game, and its naive-seeming pixelated blocks popularised a new aesthetic that's become for a generation of players as natural a signifier of 'games' as Mario's smiley faced Mushroom Kingdom. Perhaps more so. It's YouTube's most popular game, having made genuine stars of many You Tubers. Minecraft's gently melancholic music, punctuated by TNT blasts, is the soundtrack to legions of parents' lives. It's on everything, after all, from smartphones to PS4, as well as in classrooms. It's sold over 70 million copies. And it's a platform for many more experiences besides, like Survival Games and Build Battle, products of a vast, often self-taught community of mod makers, server owners and creative teams who have formed a professional industry around the game. So Minecraft is big. You knew that. But the sheer variety and scale of its achievements are still important to note. And they aren't why you should play it. The real secret to Minecraft is that despite all of that hugeness, it remains personal. You could say that it's huge because it's personal. For a start, that success has been down to players, not multimillion-dollar marketing campaigns. It was as if it was built for, dare we say it, virality. With no tutorial and facing a-world in which without preparation they would be killed by monsters on their first night, early players needed to learn how to make a pickaxe and a torch, and build a shelter. Very quickly, the act of playing meant joining other players, if only by watching their videos or reading their tips on forums, to develop a knowledge of how things work, ready to be passed on to the next newcomer. What made players persevere were the still -brilliant interplays between an exciting scenario (survive, explore and build in a wild world where monsters come out at night!), an intricate crafting system, and the many little complexities that arise from the simple rules that govern blocks, creative freedom, and getting to play it all with other people. Minecraft's crafting system unfurls as you progress: from chopping wood to finding iron, discovering diamond ore deep underground and building a Nether portal. Each stage opens new possibilities and feels organic and rewarding on its own terms, and every advance has you learning new insights into the way the world works. Many of the postMinecraft games that use crafting mechanics employ them as ways of slowing player progression, making them grind along defined lines of progression, metering their achievement. Minecraft's approach is far more humanistic. To get to the Nether dimension you'll need obsidian, but it's up to you how you get it. Or maybe you just start a farm instead. What makes it all seem accessible is down to the fact it's all made of blocks. They're big, hard to miss, tempting you to understand their properties. And when you place them, it's hard to make things that look truly terrible, and they're easy to wipe away and rebuild. Minecraft requires none of the sculptural facility that most 3D building tools demand, and yet still offers great flexibility in terms of both scale and detail. Make a world! Make a house. It's up to you. Minecraft's redstone, which enables machines to be built, and command blocks, which give finer control over the way the game behaves, allow players to create worlds with new rulesets that can tell stories or allow specialised functionality. If you want more, there's always modding. These tools aren't easy. Minecraft as a whole isn't easy. And yet it's only as hard as you want it to be. That's a value that permeates the game and why it's captured so many imaginations in the six years since it emerged, and is still capturing more. ---- Resident Evil 4 Format: 360, GC, PC, PS2, PS3, Wii Publisher/developer: Capcom Release: 2005 The phrase 'a new kind of evil' has been devalued over the years, but not by Resident Evil 4, where clucking chickens scamper at the feet, cows lazily chew cud in their stalls, men tend the crops, and women stoke a communal pyre on which trespassers are burned alive. In the parochial mob, Shinji Mikami and Production Studio 4 found something scarier than the common gang driven by money or delinquency: pure, unbridled hate. For the first time one of the series' games lives up more to its western title than its Japanese original, Biohazard. Despite familiar themes of infection and possession, there really is a new kind of evil at work in its obscure parish setting: an indigenous, human kind. How easy it was when it was just zombies, so simple to predict and dodge. There's a reason why your first encounter with Los Ganados mirrors the controversial 'head-turning' sequence of the very first Resident Evil. Just as the bar was being set back in 19 9 6, here it was being reset for a new generation. When that villager's head snapped towards you, focusing a glare full of feral rage, it was the first time in nine years you'd emptied a clip out of fear. If earlier sequels tirelessly rung the changes in search of the right combination, this game sounds a klaxon. It has less forgiveness, more action, less backtracking and a whole lot more gristle. Fear? Try the feel of your heart pounding as you're smoked out of a bell tower, into the murderous crowd. Horror? Try the sight of a Regenerator, immune to all but the most accurate shot, slowly filling your rifle scope. Laxatives? Try the sound of a chainsaw. Subversion is Resident Evil 4 's secret weapon, the very best of its scares powered by reversals of expectations. Never before has the series cast you as 'un forastero' -an outsider. Having seen Leon S. Kennedy through his role of defending his hometown against the T-virus outbreak in Resident Evil 2, now you join him as a heretic in a world that's dropped off the knife-edge between rural · tranquillity and abject barbarism. Everything from the man-traps to the pervasive fog suggests a place that, from mortar to flesh, has mobilised against you. No matter the tools you acquire (rocket launcher aside), it will always outmanoeuvre you. If the series drilled the same rules of engagement deep into your head over several games, this one switches them with malicious glee: headshots trigger dangerous mutations, enemies hide their weak spots, paces quicken and · slow to disrupt your tactics. Still a quintessentially Japanese production, Resident Evil 4 is self-aware, happy to bring down the fourth wall and packed with all the usual otaku fetishes: a Lolita girl sidekick, a lipstick mercenary, heavy weapons and pantomime villains. And it's still a Resident Evil game, pulling off the.near-impossible by retaining almost all of the mechanics of its ancestors yet somehow working them to its advantage. With its enemies employing all kinds of strafes and subterfuge, shifting gears and making moves with devilish cunning, it validates perhaps the series' biggest gamble of all: the retention of its archaic tank controls. In the absence of circlestrafing, it's the same old game of trepid steps, urgent retreats and panic-inducing turns. Now, though; there are brand-new players. Ganados and Los Illuminados footsoldiers won't merely amble into your sights, they'll run outside of them, duck as you take him, sidestep, run, or sneak up behind you and laugh. Groups will slowly advance while those at the back take aim and fire arrows, throw knives, sickles and makeshift spears. For once, you have all the high-tech weaponry in the world while your enemies are medieval throwbacks. And it helps you not one jot. The decision to ditch the series' ubiquitous storage chests but not its personal inventory system, that obstructive block puzzle of objects and slots, seemed absurd until Capcom willed it to succeed. The carnival-style shooting stages are as incongruous to Ramon Salazar's castle as a pub quiz machine, but nobody would see them removed. And the merchant is the most traditional device the series has ever used, his repeat appearances following no logic known to man. Would a more po-faced game have included The Mercenaries as an extra, for perhaps the greatest bonus mode ever? Doubtful. If it's the details that make a game special and the dynamic that makes it great, this hit both marks square between the eyes. A momentous, bloodcurdling epic. ---- The Legend Of Zelda: Ocarina Of Time Format: 3DS, GC, N64 Publisher/developer: Nintendo Release: 1998 Shigeru Miyamoto once said "a delayed game is eventually good; a bad game is bad forever". It's unclear what game he had in mind, but the sentiment certainly fits Ocarina Of Time, the game that didn't make the Nintendo 64 launch date by over two years. No wonder it too so long, given what it delivered: a fully 3D world to explore, combined with an inspired directorial flair, and some of the greatest dungeons, characters and gadgets of any adventure. The game begins in Kokiri Village, a training level that is also a masterstroke of simplicity. Rather than a list of instructions and commands, or dropping you in at the deep end, Ocarina begins in an eminently explorable village and tells you to explore it. There are chests to find, people to talk to, a training dungeon - it's several hours before you even feel a need to look farther. When you do and the world opens its horizons, it is one of gaming's great moments. Zelda games were always epic, but it was with Ocarina that they achieved Homeric scale: the central field seems to go for leagues, opening on to a sea, a castle, a fortress, mountains, woods, a ranch. Even the best games hadn't presented an adventure like this before. Adventure, of course, requires adversity. In Ocarina the real enemies are not the skeletons, wolves, ghosts and octoroks that attack Link, but the Rubik's Cube of the dungeons. The interlocking rooms, switches, moveable blocks, hidden items, crystals, manholes, torches, targets, spikes, statues and locked doors are the building blocks for puzzles with solutions so elegantly simple they take the most grizzled gamer by surprise, allowing you to make it through one door at a time, get that little bit closer to the boss, and then get stumped all over again. Few entire games can compete with the single moment in each Ocarina dungeon when finding a new item suddenly opens up new areas and previously insurmountable challenges are suddenly all too possible. The Water Temple still arguably stands as the greatest challenge of spatial awareness in a 3D adventure game, and even when the challenges have been met, all the switches pressed and all the keys collected, there is always one final challenge - usually huge, with teeth. The bosses are screen-filling behemoths that can toss Link around like a ragdoll, manipulate reality to their will or even mimic his form and moves -how can you defeat yourself? The light and dark worlds of A Link To The Past had made the dual-world mechanic a central . part of Zelda's mythos; Ocarina upped the ante by making the division between the two worlds nothing more complex than chronology: there were no portals or what-might-bes, just a gap of seven years. You were either young Link, struggling against the brawny adult figure of Ganondorf, or you were adult Link, in the adult world Ganondorf ruled. The brilliance of this touch, quite apart from the change in focus it allows the later challenges, is in giving an inevitability to Ganondorf's victory, creating a fear that spurs the player ever onwards. Is there any other game set in a world that you've already failed to save? The darkness of the adult time infuses the whole world. Nintendo being Nintendo, the gorier sides of growing up are hidden beneath a covering of wit and sly obscurity, but they're there all the same. The world resonates against its earlier self, and unless you'd been paying attention to Link as a child, you · may not understand why he stares blankly at a stump in the sacred meadow as an adult. It's one of the many riddles that exist in every corner of the game; from visiting the ghosts of people you knew as a child to selling masks to spread a little happiness, the dungeons and both worlds of Ocarina are crammed with possibilities. Ocarina is also a model of how to design for specific hardware: the N64 C-buttons allowed wide access to your inventory and the titular ocarina, while Z-targeting allowed an easy switch between movement and combat that has become a standard. Automatic jumps removed the distraction of lining up movement: Link jumped when he reached edges because ... well, he would, wouldn't he? Ocarina Of Time instantly rewrote Zelda history such that its precursors, barring perhaps the exceptional A Link To The Past, seemed mere blueprints; it was an astonishing achievement and still a landmark for 3D adventures in general. In a series composed of awfully big adventure games, Ocarina may no longer be the prettiest or even the biggest, but it's still the best of them all. ---- Super Mario Galaxy 2 Format: Wii Publisher/developer: Nintendo Release: 2010 Yes, it's essentially a level pack. Though it's not Nintendo's first, and these are very different circumstances to The Lost Levels. The sequel to Super Mario Bras was an attempt to capitalise on the success of its genre-defining forebear, a game geared towards an audience that, having vanquished Bowser, craved a steeper challenge. Super Mario Galaxy 2 may be a hint more difficult than its predecessor - certainly its early stages aren't quite so straightforward - but challenge was not its aim. Rather, here were the concepts EAD Tokyo simply had no room to stuff into the first Galaxy. These levels weren't lost; they'd always been there in the collective imagination of one of the industry's most inventive developers, ideas biding their time until the studio had the resources to fully realise them. At first, it doesn't quite feel as special as the original, though that's no surprise - few remember the second man in space, after all. The absence of Yoshiaki Koizumi's wonderfully melancholic storybook is also keenly felt. The spaceship hub is more utilitarian than Rosalina's comet observatory, and its accompanying theme isn't a patch on the best Disney waltz that never was. Then, via a rudimentary level map, you launch into the first galaxy - and, as a brass fanfare sounds upon landing, you realise Nintendo reserved the magic for the stages themselves. The designers trust that players will be familiar with the original's gravitational twists, which allows them to experiment even further, conjuring levels of bewildering ingenuity that resemble no other platformer you've ever seen. As early as World 2's Puzzle Plank Galaxy, its buzzing sawblades offset against the soundtrack's cheerful fiddles, Galaxy 2's levels are dismantling themselves as Mario leaps and yahoos through them. Later stages take the conceit to ever more abstract realms. If this interstellar journey sometimes leaves you pleasantly baffled, you're never discomfited: Mario has always been a joy to control, but this time he's brought along a set of power-ups that might just be his best ever toolkit. Alongside the first game's Bee and Boo forms, there's the satisfyingly sturdy Goomba-flattening Rock Mario, while a burrowing drill pickup is used judiciously but expertly each time it shows up. Cloud Mario aliows you to conjure three fluffy platforms of your own - which naturally means secrets can be hidden higher and farther. And the return of Yoshi is simply a delight. His prehensile tongue gives the Wiimote pointer a more interesting role than to vacuum up star bits, while a trio of powerups temporarily transform him into a lightbulb, a blimp and, best of all, a runaway train, legs circling 19-to-the-dozen as he dashes up vertical inclines. Several galaxies showcase some of Nintendo's finest ever level designs, and yet many of them are only visited once. Ideas are always discarded before they can be exhausted, often leaving you wanting more. But as you're hurried towards the next World, it's hard to mind - you know there's another great one around the corner. There are so many standout sequences: Shiverburn Galaxy's irresistible combination of ice and fire, as a skating Mario pirouettes across lava; the Spielbergian thrill as you weave through the ancient rumbling mechanisms of Clockwork Ruins Galaxy; the nostalgic sigh of Throwback Galaxy; or the moment in Slimy Spring Galaxy where you emerge from a refreshing swim to sunrise at the end of the universe. As dazzling as it is from a conceptual standpoint, it would be easy to overlook the brilliance of the game's fundamentals. Take, for example, the camera, which consistently frames the action immaculately. With no right analogue stick to manually guide it, it has to cope with some astonishingly demanding level geometry, but it never falters. Gravity might flip, platforms might slip, or climb, or blink into or out of existence. Mario might find himself above, beneath, or even inside a planetoid. No matter what's happening, you always know exactly where you are. If it's a level pack, then, it's the greatest level pack of all time, a sequel that embarrasses other sequels with its constant, giddy invention and its wide-eyed sense of wonder. The plumber's pioneering journey beyond the stars will always hold a special place in the heart of many players, but moment to moment, his second trip into the Super Mario Galaxy is his brightest and best adventure to date. ---- Tetris Format: Various Publisher/developer: Various Release: 1984 Some say Tetris is so pure and simple that it barely qualifies as a videogame at all. To others it's the videogame reduced to its essence. Tetris did, however, come from outside the then-young videogame industry: a computer research lab in Soviet Russia, and the interest of a puzzle-loving mathematician, Alexey Pajitnov, in the nascent field of AI. To him, a puzzle was something that functioned on levels both logical and psychological, mathematical and emotional. Certainly, the design Pajitnov arrived at via this unusual route is a work of psychological genius that manipulates its human test subjects like lab rats. Simplifying the Pentomino geometric puzzles (whose pieces are made from five squares) into tetrominoes made of four squares, Tetris adds the time pressure, random sequencing and limitless scope that running on a computer allows. Four squares can be combined into seven possible shapes, matching the seven things, give or take, that the human brain is supposedly able to recognise at once. Here is a game that operates on a subconscious level, slotting into the brain like one of its pieces into the gap awaiting it. In fact, Tetris is probably best played subconsciously, in a zen state where matching blocks and clearing lines is a near-automatic response. But several aspects of the game constantly pull you out of that state. The scoring system dares you to build higher and more complex structures so you can eliminate four lines at once in the big-scoring 'Tetris' move. But even before you consider score, Tetris lures you into worry about where exactly that next block should go. It's said that the best-designed games leave players only ever blaming themselves for failure. In Tetris there literally is nothing else you could blame (except perhaps the vicissitudes of random block selection), since you design the levels as well as play them: it begins with just an empty screen, and it's your own placement of the falling blocks that dictates the difficulty. It's a strategy game in redux, where planning is all: it's not just pieces piling up at the foot of the screen, but dozens of micro-decisions, be they careful, panicked or impulsive. You watch as an accumulation of your own failure - not the work of some cruel designer, but your own actions - climbs up the screen. And there's nothing you want more than to make it go away. Tetris's abstract, peaceful nature - its supposed avoidance of the destruction, consumption and competition that have always dominated the videogame form -is often cited as the reason it has reached a far wider audience than other games. It might be fairer to credit Pajitnov's clear vision of the fundamental emotions and thought processes contained in all games: discovery, recognition, completion. The context may differ, but the player's most basic motivations in Tetris are shared with the vast majority of other games: the adrenaline kick of fast reaction, plus the urge to impose order on chaos, to take a slate -of blocks, of enemy spacecraft, of quests in a log - and wipe it clean. Tetris's stroke of genius isn't to take destruction out of the equation, but to unite creation and destruction in a single, simple, endlessly compulsive act. Although Tetris spread on word of mouth and on its undeniable merits, there were external factors in its success too. One was timing. The Cold War was thawing and the game became symbolic, the · first great entertainment export of a new Russia. This was cleverly exploited in-graphics and music added by the western and Japanese companies marketing the game. Beyond that, Tetris can be coded to run on just about anything, and it has been: computers, just as PCs with basic graphical capabilities started appearing on every desk in the world, then Nintendo's Game Boy, where it was instrumental in turning both game and device into phenomenal successes, and on to everything from mobile phones to iPods to calculators. Pajitnov created Tetris while working for a Communist state, so it was claimed for the people (ie, the government) of Soviet Russia. All this initially meant was that it was only western licensees which really profited from it. But the unruly tangle of its bungled rights sales, and the difficulty of clamping down on clones of a game almost any programmer can remake, has spread Tetris farther and wider, in more versions, than any videogame before or since. In a beautiful irony - and not in a way the Politburo would have meant - Tetris is still the people's game, and always will be. ---- Half-Life 2 Format: 360, Mac, PC, PS3 Publisher/developer: Valve Release: 2004 Had it slipped even further from its intended 2003 release date, sending expectations not just through the roof but into outer space, Half-Life 2 would still have scored an Edge 10. Like Xen, the border world in which life for Gordon Freeman went from bad to catastrophic in the blink of an eye, it exists in a universe of its own. Many are the imitators who have borrowed chapters whole from its playbook, and yet 11 years on, its integrity is undiminished by being nibbled at by the crowds - a testament not only to its robust constitution, but how impossibly inimitable the whole has become. Still it overwhelms. Simply classifying it can be a game in itself, leaving you with something like 'big, dumb, ingenious fun' and the knowledge that you've been bested. Really, nothing explains it better than Freeman himself, a muddle of scientist and soldier who, through exemplary use of anecdotes and narrative technique, has ascended into myth. Never seen but reflected in the words of others, he's a perfect catalyst for the game's historic events. His flight through the streets and suburbs of City 17 is ominous, bewildering and oppressive. This is a world being wrung out over a drain, and Valve pokes a camera into its darkest corners at every chance it gets. Or, to be precise, you do. The 'directed action' of Half-Life has evolved into something not just more dramatic, but also transparent. Unlike Gears Of War and its 'objects of interest' lock-on camera, Half-Life 2 knows the value of truly ambient events. Worse than the discovery of Overwatch soldiers burning bodies on Highway 17 is the ease with which it's overlooked, suggesting a background of atrocity that shakes the imagination. Likewise, most of the peeling walls and alcoves have some kind of window into Combine-occupied Earth, similar in effect to decking a claustrophobic restaurant in ceiling-high mirrors. Antiestablishment slogans wrestle with Dr Breen's propaganda, newspaper clippings chronicle the fall of Man, and a world is created far bigger than the game that leads you through it. The remnants of human infrastructure, meanwhile, ship survivors into City 17 but never take them out. Given sign upon sign of global peril, you really are the last free man. Half-Life 2 refuses to sit within the highbrow genres invented -or indeed reinvented - to describe it. You could call it a work of interactive cinema, a triumph of environmental narrative or a milestone in virtual mise-en-scene, but you'd only embarrass it, and yourself. This is a shooter - a game of guns and gore. It's not enough to say that Valve's happy to yank a buzzsaw blade from a wall and fire it through a zombie's guts; it delights in doing these things. It cheers the barrel that pitches multiple Combine high into the air and leaves them burning on the ground. The thought of Dog leaping buildings to take down aircraft gives it goosebumps. Talk of narrative ambitions all you like, but the evidence is there in the places where it matters most: Nova Prospekt, Highway 17, and Ravenholm. Often cited as the weakest link, its combat is nothing of the sort. Were it just a question of AI tactics and ballistics modelling, the critics would be on to something, but killing a man can mean so much more given the right context and a modicum of effort. Every set-piece in Half-Life 2 is logically staged; every trigger pull has meaning. As for the G-Man, his meaning remains safely locked inside a briefcase. He might just be the most infuriating device a drama could ever have; a placeholder for truths that even Valve has yet to fully imagine. Is he the puppeteer behind this epic state of affairs? A transdimensional anomaly? A face from the shadows of Black Mesa? Gordon Freeman himself? Ashton Kutcher? It doesn't matter. In fact, it's best we never know. G-Man works best as the only thing we do know him as: a simple agent of fate, struggling to keep tabs on Freeman's wild endeavours. Despite the cruel indignities of time upon its texture work, and the trampling boots of quick-marching technological progress over its physics model, rendering each faintly ridiculous, what endures as strong as ever is that fantastic sense of otherness. Half-Life 2 wordlessly embraces its appetite for gunplay and ludic contortions, then makes them vanish with a wave of the hand, leaving in view only the most enduring and self-accepting of videogame worlds. ---- Bloodborne Format: PS4 Publisher: SCE Developer: FromSoftware Release: 2015 It sounds like a gimmick. So recognisable and established has Hidetaka Miyazaki's template become that any minor deviation from its ruleset feels like change for change's sake. If you'll forgive us for briefly transplanting you from Edge to a publicly traded publisher's investor call, it is tempting to dismiss Bloodborne as the result of a platform holder exploiting the success of one of the most beloved franchises in the world, making just enough little changes to justify the creation of a new IP, then making it exclusive to its new console. It was as easy to be cynical about Bloodborne's announcement as it was to be excited by it. A gun instead of a shield? A flighty sidestep instead of a dodge roll? Victorian England instead of medieval Lordran? Pshh. The reality is, of course, very different. The pistol, blunderbuss or repeater in your left hand isn't Miyazaki giving out guns, but eradicating the shield; your Hunter's movement speed isn't a gimmick, but a necessity, your only reliable way of escaping trouble now that the game director has robbed you of a way to block incoming blows. Gunfire, when properly timed, can trigger the equivalent of the Souls games' shield parry, deflecting an enemy attack and staggering them. But blocking? Forget it. The result is that even Souls veterans struggle at first with the adjustment from a game that encourages, arguably even rewards, a defensive approach to one that punishes it - brutally. At least at first. Bloodborne, to an experienced hand, gets weirdly easier even as the odds against you ratchet up and up. It is not without its spikes, admittedly -countless playthroughs later, we still sprint past the trio of rival Hunters in Yahar'gul Chapel, still back off and catch our breath when faced with those ghastly grabby things in Upper Cathedral Ward - but Bloodborne asks so much of you from so early on that mastery quickly feels like your only option. The game's opening, set across the cobbled streets of Old Yharnam and centred on a town -square bonfire surrounded by ghoulish pedestrians, is a punishing gauntlet of encounters that are subtly, yet significantly, different each time you face them. There are fixed spawns - the gunman behind the stagecoach, the axe-wielder behind the staircase - but many of these denizens are on the move, shuffling loosely to and fro around the fire. The group of three that cornered you might be just one on your next spawn, but there's no respite in putting him to the. sword, or axe, or whip. The other two are still out there somewhere. Where the Souls games are readable, repeatable, Bloodborne keeps you on your toes. The remarkable boss fights are set over several phases - just as you think you've got your head around an enemy's moveset, they change and become more deadly still: Tension comes not only from the fear of dying and leaving your hard-won stock of Blood Echoes on the ground; it also comes, simply, from the fear of what lies in wait ahead of you. Gone is the Souls games' low fantasy; in its place is a Lovecraftian horror that uses jump scares, and the threat of them, to have even the stoutest old guards exploring these places in terror. Until the fighting starts, at which point things move at lightning speed. As hard as it is to adjust to the lack of a shield, the change of mindset is the greater challenge. When an enemy backs off, you must follow; when you've been hit, you're often better off continuing the assault than retreating to heal, since landing a few quick hits will regain your lost health. The pace of the thing means that it feels more like an action game than FromSoftware's previous output. It's hardly Bayonetta - there are no complex combos here - but there's a frantic pace, and balletic grace, to the action that is unlike anything else Miyazaki has made. Yet the game's greatest achievement is in its world. We have come to expect masterful level design from a Miyazaki game, but this is something else. Yharnam and its surrounds are dense, yet sprawling; every area feels different, but the whole thing locks together with remarkable coherence. Whether it is the creator's greatest achievement is moot - all his games are essential - but what stands Bloodborne apart are the things that make it so different. The pace of its action, the emphasis on attack over defence, the shock of its horror -and all because you lost your shield, gained a dash, and leapt forward in time a few hundred years. Gimmicks? Not a bit of it. ---- The Last Of Us Format: PS3, PS4 Publisher: SCE Developer: Naughty Dog Release: 2013 As Number Nine Dream author David Mitchell once said, "the trick to writing a compelling narrative is so simple it's often overlooked: invent a character the reader likes and make nasty or dangerous things happen to them': The post-Uncharted Naughty Dog may more obviously look to the silver screen for its inspirations, but The Last Of Us shows it takes Mitchell's meaning all the same. This is the zombie apocalypse not as a vehicle for consequence-free violence, but as a conveyor belt to heap terrible events on a Texan called Joel and his ward, Ellie. Those events deserve to be experienced for themselves, but are delivered with a violence of emotion that will strip you raw -a double surprise given the happy-go-lucky adventures of Nathan Drake in particular and the genre at large. Far from content to just keep you shooting chunks out of humanoids, The Last Of Us tugs at similar levers as Romero's Dawn Of The Dead. It would rather use the crumbling of society to examine what happens to the few who remain physically unaltered, and chooses to do so amid the thunderous claps of headshots and splattering viscera to unsettle, rather than to glorify those acts. Neil Druckmann's script is brutal and uncompromising in its depiction of a world ravaged by a strain of cordyceps fungus that forcibly strips its victims of their humanity, and the dehumanising effects of the desperation that plague causes in the healthy. Joel begins the game proper as a dispassionate misanthrope, though a savage prologue affords you a measure of empathy with his position. Even the savvy Tess, his respected smuggling partner, recognises they have become terrible people. Ellie is Joel's salvation from self-interest, and a reason to reconnect with a more caring past life. Druckmann also toys with what care can drive a man to, though again the theme's manifestations are best left unlisted. Suffice it to say that Joel and Ellie's evolving relationship is the balm for all the very human ugliness exposed elsewhere. What really distinguishes The Last Of Us, however, is what it does with the silences between jury-rigged nail bombs and flying buckshot. It revels in them. Some are given over to Naughty Dog's artists, who conjure the verdant, beautiful side of a world being reclaimed by nature as often as the ugly, distressing tragedy of civilisation slowly peeling away. They paint with foliage and fauna, decay and bloom. Other pauses go to Druckmann, who finds in Ellie a wonderful mirror to reflect on the trappings of modernity and normalcy that we take for granted. Saturating all the storytelling is Gustavo Santaolalla's restrained, sparse soundtrack. He is able to conjure wistful melancholy with just a few haunting strings and trills, and shores up emotional beats with just as quietly powerful use of plucked bass and feathered drum skin. The Last Of Us's music doesn't need to shout - in fact, it's all the more threatening for often lurking in the same region as the ear expects to find NPC tells, and all the more elating for mingling with distant bird song. That combined artistry would mean little if these themes were not also communicated through play. But the desperation of the survivors is brilliantly backed up bit he act of tensely creeping past echolocating Clickers in the dark, a single homemade shiv your only cushion between these nightmares and your life ebbing away in a sickening shower of arterial spray. The new strains on resources and relationships are shown when you cower behind cover with Joel's ear to the ground, an old rifle you'd rather not have to rely on clutched desperately in your palms as you try to avoid a costly all-out gun battle with roving gangs, but hit home the hardest when you see this predatory world through Ellie's eyes. And there's something primal and satisfying in clutching a virtual half-brick in a fist, even without its heft - a comforting sense of preparedness that speaks to the ancient survival instincts this game can play like a fiddle. We rarely talk of ludonarrative assonance, given how problematic game storytelling is, but The Last Of Us is remarkable for how often it ties together plot and play. It not only has something to say, it has also found a confident voice with which to say it. Hearing its message requires taking a Brillo pad to your soul - to be raw, vulnerable and largely alone in a hostile place. It demands you to feel like the last of us. That it can sustain that across 15 hours is testament to its deft touch with nasty and dangerous things. ---- Grand Theft Auto V Format: 360, PC, PS3, PS4, Xbox One Publisher/developer: Rockstar Games Release: 2013 OK, on the face of it, it seems like a bit of a gimmick. Three protagonists? Surely just change for change's sake, a feature to put on the back of the box, an excuse to pilfer from three genres of TV and film at once instead of the traditional one. To a degree, all this is true of Grand Theft Auto V. In fact, its three co-leads are on the front of the box. Rockstar uses the setup to riff on modern gangster stories such as The Sopranos, The Wire and Sons Of Anarchy. Yet the trio powers Rockstar's greatest work to date, a varied, smartly designed game whose best moments simply wouldn't be possible without the player being able to switch between the three at will. You can do so whether on- or off-mission, and while there's a thrill in hopping from one man's shootout to another's tennis match or living-room hotbox -or saving yourself the schlep back into town after a long drive out into the sticks - it's during the game's signature heists that the switching mechanic comes into its own. You'll smash open a jeweller's display cases with one, jump on a motorbike with another and escape through a sewer network, then switch again to the driver's seat of a van you'll use to knock pursuing police off course. One blocks off a road, another disables an oncoming military truck, and a third counter-snipes a SWAT team across the street as the others pillage the vehicle for booty. Rockstar, always enamoured of cinema, used to use cinematics, not mechanics, to hit its narrative beats. Its back catalogue hardly wants for great games, but never before has it created this level of drama through pure play. Admittedly, the three co-leads don't drift too far from Rockstar's protagonist archetype. They are, to a man, deeply flawed, sociopathic monsters. Michael De Santo, however, is pitch-perfect: a conflicted, damaged, retired mobster mired in a mid-life crisis and wrestling with the realities of a failing marriage, uncontrollable millennial offspring, and the boredom of the straight and narrow. Franklin Clinton, meanwhile, gives Rockstar the traditional GTA story arc of the street thug who works his way up the ranks to a big score. There's a symbiotic relationship between the two: Rockstar couldn't write a character like Michael without a Franklin to provide the more traditional thrills, and Franklin couldn't make it to the big leagues without a Michael for a coach. Then there's Trevor Philips. If Franklin is the character every GTA story needs, Trevor is the protagonist the game itself has always lacked, the psychopath who finds a grenade launcher and a busy road and needs no narrative justification for what inevitably comes next. He is Rockstar's acknowledgement that a good proportion of its playerbase couldn't give a jot about the story and are buying GTAV solely for the pleasure of mowing down a few dozen innocent citizens on Sunset Boulevard before leading the police on a merry dance through the Hollywood Hills. The host city, Los Santos, is Los Angeles in all but name, its landmarks borrowed and renamed, its sprawl reduced because no one wants a videogame recreation of the rush-hour freeway crawl from downtown out to Santa Monica Pier. Beyond the city limits lie the deserts and mountains of rural San Fierro County, the colossal landmass walled in by some of the most hypnotically realistic · water ever seen in a game. And across it all is a caustic skewering of modern-day America: from libertarianism to spiritualism, weed clinics to celebrity obsession, the banking crisis and the banality of social media. All of it is, as ever, set to a soundtrack that caters equally to the achingly contemporary and the connoisseurs of the past. Crucially, it's also a huge mechanical leap forward for the series. Its gunplay is weighty, responsive and hugely satisfying, as is its driving model; systems for flight and sea travel are equally finely tuned. All this is put to good use in GTA Online, which despite running into significant problems at launch has grown from forgettable multiplayer mode into a game all its own, one teeming with content and customisation options designed to last a decade and more than capable of managing it. If there's a concern, it's where on Earth Rockstar goes from here. Fortunately, there's more than enough to see and do in Los Santos until one of the world's most secretive game companies reveals what happens next. ---- Dark Souls Format: 360, PC. PS3 Publisher: Bandai Namco Developer: FromSoftware Release: 2011 The Crestfallen Warrior sits by the bonfire at Firelink Shrine, Dark Souls' central hub and about as close as this most intimidating of videogame worlds gets to a sanctuary. He exists, and exists alone, as a storyteller, and a pretty depressing one at that. While there are plenty of others dotted around Lordran's corkscrewing sprawl who help to flesh out the game's mysterious, unforthcoming narrative, they serve a secondary purpose: they are merchants and blacksmiths, fire keepers and covenant recruiters, as well as raconteurs. That's too much effort for the Crestfallen Warrior, who realised long ago that the jig was up and now sits by the fire, ready to drag every passing adventurer down with him into the emotional abyss. Instead, he has the opposite effect. You resolve that, no matter how bad it gets, you'll never be like him. You will never simply take your seat by the fire and wait for the world to end. Just a short way into this remarkable adventure, the Crestfallen Warrior gets right to the core of what makes Dark Souls, and Hidetaka Miyazaki's games in general, so special. "How do these martyrs keep chugging along?" he asks. "I'd peter out in an instant." If Dark Souls hasn't clicked with you by now, this is the point at which it does, your synapses fizzing as the realisation dawns that the only thing standing between you and victory is persistence. The reason Dark Souls gives you so little help is because it is built on a single foundational principle: that players are capable of anything. It does not patronise you, never offers to lower the difficulty, does not dare suggest a different tactic during a postdeath loading screen. By telling you nothing, it also tells you everything. Keep going. You can do it. And when you do, the sense of reward will be staggering. Many are put off by the game's supposed difficulty, but while you will die countless times on your first trek through Dark Souls -and many times more on your inevitable repeat playthroughs - it is a mechanically straightforward game. It is not a game of long flowing combos comprised of precisely timed inputs. It is a game of controlling space, creating openings and making the most of them. Or a game of donning the heaviest armour you can find and tanking through many hits. Or a game of dancing away at range and flinging magical projectiles. Or of stripping to your pants, opting out of the levelling system entirely and finishing the entire game using a wooden club. There's tremendous flexibility in the class and gear systems, and you'll drift off in meetings or conversations daydreaming about potential builds and boss strategies. There's by no means an infinite number of ways to make your way through this world, but there are times when it sure feels like there are. And what a world it is. While it's perhaps been outclassed since by Miyazaki's PS4 exclusive Bloodborne, Dark Souls' Lordran is still a remarkable achievement. It is an entire world constructed with the intricacy of a single level, and some of the game's most memorable moments coming not from a downed boss or set-piece but simply kicking down a ladder or opening a door that takes you back to an area you left a dozen hours ago. Despite the (mostly) coherent way it ·links together, it is a land of tremendous variety, from the dilapidated dwellings of the Undead Burg to the spider-infested poisonous swamp of Blighttown, the grimy, curse-filled horrors of the Depths to the majestic splendour of Anor Londo. There will be times when you feel like the Crestfallen Warrior might have a point, though. After a swinging axe in the trap-filled Sen's Fortress has knocked you off a bridge the width of your instep for the 20th time, you'll contemplate just giving up. After little-and-large boss duo Ornstein and Smough have sent you to your doom after a protracted fight for the fifth time that evening, you might switch the console off for the night and ask yourself if it's really worth going back. But it is, and you will, because once Dark Souls gets its hooks into you, they are into you for good. It is a rare game indeed that has you starting a second playthrough the instant you finish the first, but what else are you going to do? Give up? After Dark Souls, other games, with their handholding and their hint systems, just don't quite scratch the itch any more. So you jump straight back in, time and time again, on yet another mission to show the Crestfallen Warrior how terribly wrong he is.

10.37

Jacqueline Druga

Chapter 1

"Don't chew on your eraser, Dawson." That was the last thing Dawson Montgomery heard, or something like that. It was a bit more, his third grade teacher never gave just a warning, she didn't stop there, and it wasn't that simple. It was always a warning, followed by the why and then the consequences. "Don't chew on your eraser, Dawson, you'll swallow it and choke. Then what? The whole class will have to stop just because you have a fidget problem." He never liked when she did that, and it always seemed as if she did that to him a lot. Singled him out, drawing attention to him, and embarrassing him. Dawson embarrassed easily, especially in school, he didn't know why. Maybe because he had a hard time with things. Math was a breeze, but reading and answering questions about what he read didn't come fast, or easy. He had to think. That meant hand to his forehead causing his dark blonde hair to stick straight up, all while biting on his pencil. That was what he did that morning while doing his seat work. He read the story, it was dumb. However, Dawson wasn't dumb, he just didn't answer correctly when it came to things he didn't like. He was convinced had the story been about wrestling or monsters, he'd get every answer right. Not when it came to a story about a boy named Sam who had to help his farmer friend carry a pail of water. Dawson didn't care much for the story when he read it and answering the questions was even harder when the teacher yelled at him every fifteen seconds. What Dawson wanted to do was tell her to stop, but that meant sitting out recess. Recess. He wasn't really great at telling time, but he knew once that big hand swung up to the twelve, the bell would ring and it was lunch. He couldn't wait. Dawson looked up to the clock. It was half way there, little hand on the eleven, big hand just passed the six. "Dawson, don't bite that..." She scared him. He was concentrating, and when she did that, he bit the erased clean off into his mouth. Instinct caused him to immediately spit it out, but he wondered if he actually did. All of the sudden, Dawson couldn't breathe. His throat closed up as if something was in there, his skin felt on fire, and everything went blurry around him. Every inhale was impossible. No air could get into his lungs. There was no noise, Dawson couldn't move. He couldn't scream for help. It was the one time he wanted his teacher's attention. She didn't seem to notice. Heart racing out of control, Dawson didn't have time to panic, everything went black and his head dropped to the desk.

10.37

Jacqueline Druga

Chapter 2

At first, Morgan Welsh tried to be calm and rational, but as soon as she heard Craig's voice on the speaker phone, she lost it… again. "Fuck you. I mean it, fuck you, you're such a fucking asshole," she verbally hit him. "Yeah, that's nice, Morg. Real nice. You done?" Craig asked. "No hello first, before you bitch me out?' "No." "Then why call?" "What am I going to do, text it to you?" she asked. "That's what most people do." "I fucking hate you. " "Jesus, Morgan." Morgan hated that Craig remained calm, unrattled. She was angry, beyond that actually. Morgan was an ever changing wheel of emotions. Happy, sad, angry, bitter… it wasn't anything medical, it was all marriage related. It was out of her control, and she hated when anything was out of her control. Her job and entire life was under her thumb. From what she did in the workplace to how she paid the bills… Morgan had it intact, until the day she grabbed Craig's phone by mistake and learned her marriage was the one thing she didn't have a realistic grasp on. How it slipped from her, she didn't know. Married life was done, suddenly Morgan was thrust into a different way of living and she, like many others, strongly disliked change. "What do you want today, Morgan? Aren't you supposed to be at work? Oh, wait, are you late again? The every punctual, never make a mistake Morgan, is screwing up her job?' "It's your fault," she argued. "Okay, I'm game. How is your being late my fault?" "I went to check the bank account. You're spending our money…" "My money." "Our money!" she blasted. "While it is a joint account, while we are still married, it is our money and you're spending it on her." "I'm not spending it on her." "You're lying again." "I'm not lying. I'm spending it on me so I can enjoy spending time with her. Does it make you feel better?" Morgan hated the way she felt, enraged. Why couldn't Craig just be happy with her, why did he have to find someone else? While she lived under a fantasy that all was well in the Welsh marriage, Craig had been seeing a woman in the next county. "The only thing that will make me feel better," Morgan said. "Is if you drop dead." The moment she said that and did the power house 'end call' she felt her chest collapse and all air escape her. Suddenly every pumping ounce of her blood burned as it ran rapidly through her veins. Was it a panic attack, heart attack? It couldn't be. Morgan had never had one, yet she was choking. She couldn't take air in, or let it out. Her eyes widened, and with the instant thought to hit the brakes or pull over, she instinctively grabbed for her own throat. Her hands were off the wheel a split second when she felt the hard jolt and bang as a car slammed into the passenger door. It spun her vehicle into the next lane facing the opposite direction. Even in her duress she was still semi aware enough to see she was on a one way collision course with a truck speeding her way. Losing consciousness, Morgan gripped the wheel and turned it. She traded one impact for another. She was like a billiard ball bouncing from one car to another. Morgan never felt it though, her head dropped to the steering wheel just as she entered the vehicular game of pool.

10.37

Jacqueline Druga

Chapter 3

It didn't even make sense, Judd Bryant thought. He understood his producer wanted an awesome looking music video, however he was still scratching his head over what the heck a construction site had to do with his newest song. Not to mention he was afraid of heights and now they wanted him on the ninth floor of a shell of a building, strumming his guitar and singing, "You dropped me like a bad habit." It was dumb. He just didn't get it. No one really watched music videos anymore unless they had some sort of hook. They didn't do a music video the year before and his song "Craving Carrot Cake and Karen' stayed at number one in the country charts for eight weeks "You'll take the crew elevator up," his manager, Ben said. "Stand on the ledge and just strum and sing" "No, absolutely not," Judd told him. "Get a stunt double." "Judd, chicks love a guy who does his own stunts." "Which is why they call them doubles, so no one knows" "'Man you're sad. What happened to the fearless country boy?" Ben asked. "Fearless?" Judd laughed. "I may be country, but I have never been fearless. Ever. I don't even swim. Seriously Ben, this is insane. Even the camera guy has a stunt double." "That's called a camera drone." "Yeah, he's not up there filming, even he can see it's insane." "It's perfectly safe. If you want, I'll come up there with you and stay out of the shot." "You'll balance on the beam with me?" Judd asked. "There's not any balancing, the entire floor is finished up there." Judd placed his hands on his hips and looked up to the structure. It wasn't his thing, it really wasn't. He didn't like getting in front of a camera. An audience was different, he was confident playing guitar. When it came to heights he wasn't. Despite his celebrity status, Judd was a man of simple means. He didn't like conflict and he hated letting people down. After a few minutes of staring up and some debating, he figured what would it hurt. "Okay, fine, but if I fall..." "You'll sell a million records." "Asshole!" "Grab your guitar big guy, these workers don't have all day to wait for us to get done." Ben gave a hand signal to the director that all was good. "I'm pretty sure they're fine with just standing around," Judd lifted his guitar, paused for a second, then called for Ben. "Wait. "What?" Ben asked. "Here." Judd handed Ben a bottle of water. "I'm not thirsty." "No, I need you to spill it behind me." "What?" Ben laughed the word. "Spill it behind me. It's good luck." "Spilling water behind you is good luck?" "It's an age old Serbian custom." "You're not Serbian." "I'm pretty sure with the way the world is a melting pot, we all have a little Serbian in us." "I doubt that." "I do," said Judd. "Two percent. I did one of those DNA things. So, please." Ben grunted and took the water. "You know it's not spilling, it's pouring." "It's okay," Judd said. Disgruntled, Ben walked behind Judd and poured some water. 'There." He handed him the bottle. "Feel better?' "Much. Want me to put some behind you?" "No. I'm fine. I don't believe in superstitions." Ben walked away. A construction worker waited to take them up using the temporary elevator on the outside of the structure. Judd kept thinking about how if he fell, there was no surviving it. Once up the floor, Judd didn't feel so bad, even after the elevator lowered. The building was only missing walls. He placed his guitar on, and out of habit, strummed it a few times. "Okay," the director yelled through the megaphone. "Wait for my call. You should be able to hear the music, strum along, I only need a few good shots." Judd gave a thumbs up. Then noticed Ben walking near the edge. "Get back." "I'm fine. It's not as high as I thought." "It's high enough. Now get back. You're in the shot anyhow." "I'm..." Ben grew silent. With his back to Judd, Ben didn't move, then his hands shot up and Judd watched his elbows flap. "You trying to be a bird." Ben didn't answer. "Ben? You Okay?" He turned slightly to face Judd. Ben's face was blue and his hands clasped his throat. He made eye contact with Judd, then tipped to his left and fell over the edge. "Ben!" Judd charged forth, stopping just at the edge. "Someone call 911!" For a split second, Judd believed he had seen the worst thing in his life. In a panic, he peered over the edge, not only did he see Ben, but the director and then the body of a construction worker fell from above him. It fell straight down, fast and lifeless, then another fell. Was he having a nightmare? What was happening? Sounds of metal against metal, car crashes, bang and booms rang out all around him. Judd's heart raced out of control and he opened his mouth to scream, nothing came out. He couldn't breathe and it wasn't from lack of air. It was like in a second the world ended, and he was the only one still standing.

10.37

Jacqueline Druga

WAKE

Gasp! The air entered Dawson's lungs and, head still on the desk, he opened his eyes with the large breath that revived him. He was confused, didn't know what was happening. He remembered choking or not being able to breathe and that was it. Things were blurry. He expected to be scolded by the teacher for falling asleep. He was afraid to lift his head. Would she believe he fell to the desk and it wasn't in his control? Even if she did believe he choked, she'd then yell at him. Dawson had to face the music. He sat up. The only sound in the room was the ticking of the second hand on the clock. Slowly he looked around. What was going on? His classmates all had their heads laying on their desks, he didn't even see his teacher. Slowly he stood up. It was a prank, he thought. They were pranking him because he fell asleep. "Guys," he said. "Guys it's not funny. You can stop." No one moved. The class room was silent. "It's not funny!" He shouted. His stomach twitched and his hands shook, he was scared. Extending a hand he reached out to Melinda. Her head was down, eyes open and she had a blue look to her. How did she do that? How did she look like that? Dawson was young, he never claimed to be smart, but he knew the second he touched Melinda that she wasn't joking. Her skin was cold and she didn't move. In a panic, he kept pushing her. "Wake up," he said. "Wake up." He moved her harder, yet she didn't respond. Dawson didn't stop, he shook and shook her until a frightening reality hit him. Melinda wouldn't wake up and neither would anyone else in his classroom. He spun around to race from the classroom and he saw the blood on the floor. A huge puddle seeped out from the side of the teacher's desk. When he stepped closer, that was when he saw her. His teacher. She lay on the floor, her color was like Melinda's and a pool of blood not only encircled her head but flowed out like a river. Knowing he had to get someone, Billy fled the room screaming, "Help." He raced out of the class room screaming, then a thought hit him. What if someone did it? He heard the news, he knew people did bad things like that at school. With that thought, Dawson quit screaming. He stopped running and moved quietly. When he did, he passed another class. His head slowly turned to his right and he saw the same thing. Everyone in that classroom was the same way. He picked up his pace trying not to slam his feet on the floor. It didn't matter, the halls were so quiet, every move he made echoed. The office wasn't far, at the end of the hall actually. He had to let the principal know. She would help. When he was near enough, he peeked to make sure he didn't see any bad guys and he shot full speed around the bend into the office. Dawson didn't even cry for help. He saw Miss Molly the secretary with her head on her desk and the principal's legs extended out of a doorway behind her. His little heart beat so fast and his entire being was consumed with a fear that no adult could ever experience. Tears formed in his eyes and then fell rapidly down his cheeks. Scared, but knowing he had to try, Dawson reached for the phone and dialed 911. It rang and rang, no one answered. He thought about hiding, waiting for help to get there, but he was afraid the bad person was still inside. After peeking out of the office, he raced as fast as his legs would carry him, down the hall and out the double front doors. As soon as he blasted outside, he knew. In front of the school, two cars were crashed and the sound of their still running motors were the only noise. A man and his dog lay on the sidewalk, not moving. It wasn't just his class or his school, it was everywhere and in his confused and frightened state, Dawson did what any child would do at that moment. Emotions took over and he sat down on the curb and sobbed.

10.37

Jacqueline Druga

Chapter 5

Morgan floated. At least she felt as if she did. Flashes of light came at her as if she were sailing through space. She moved quickly and was even conscious about it. After feeling the last impact, she was lucid and aware. "This is peace," she thought. "I am at peace. Thank God." She figured her anxiety attack or even coronary, was the reason for the car crash. She hoped no one else was hurt or killed. As she floated she didn't even know why she was angry in the first place, why she was upset? It didn't matter. She felt free and at ease. "If this is death, then I am good with it." She didn't feel pain, none at all. Before the accident, something caused her to ache all over, something emotional, but that was gone. Morgan was flying. The lights grew brighter and she believed, any second, she would see her mother, her father and her sister. All waiting on the other side. Waiting to greet her. She moved even faster, then suddenly something changed, something was different. A pressure filled her ears and in an instant the bright lights left, it all turned dark and a sharp pain hit her chest. With that pain, her eyes opened and she sat back quickly with a wheezing breath that was deep and loud. Morgan would have sworn someone hit her with a defibrillator had she not been alone, her face inches from a bloody and deflated air bag. A car horn blasted continuously, but it wasn't hers. It was in the distance. She tried to move, but even moving an inch, caused sharp pains everywhere. Her head especially throbbed and there was something heavy and wet on her eyes, causing her vision to be blurry. Slowly she brought up her right hand. Her entire arm shook as she brought her fingers across her eyes. Blood. It was blood in her eyes. It had to be from her head. Morgan tired breathing, when she did, she felt it in her ribs. They ached horribly. Something was broken, but what. There were no sirens, nothing. With her other hand she reached for the door, but couldn't even grip the handle. She was too weak. Another inhale, and Morgan drew in enough breath to squeak out a barely audible. "Help." That wasn't going to work, no one would hear her. She tried again, this time louder. "Help." Her shoulders bounced with emotions and after one more attempt to scream out, Morgan gave up. The pain was too much and she started to cry. Just as she lowered her head back down to the steering wheel, her driver's door flung open. "You're alive," he said. Morgan whimpered and only had enough strength to turn her head. "Yes," she peeped out. "I got you," he said. "Hold on. It might hurt when I get you out. You're alive. Thank God." He leaned into her. She didn't see much of this man, only a brief glimpse of his darker skin and the blue of his shirt as he reached his arms to her. When he lifted her, it hurt, but she was grateful. A brief glimpse of the police badge on his chest, and Morgan collapsed against his chest. She was saved. Everything would be all right.

10.37

Jacqueline Druga

Chapter 6

It wasn't Judd's first disaster rodeo, that was the reason he was able to keep his calm. He blamed himself. Ever since he was a kid it was like he was a magnet for trouble, but it was worse as he grew older. There was the one and only earthquake to cause massive damage in Kansas City, he was supposed to play that night. He stumbled out of the rubble of his hotel to massive casualties everywhere. He rolled up his sleeves and helped. The F-5 that struck outside of Oklahoma City… he was playing. He was whisked from the stage moments before the stage… was whisked away. There were many others. Judd just happened to be there. For a while the press had a field day with his reputation and people created memes. 'Tsunami warning? If Judd Bryant is in town, you should leave.' He had seen a lot, been through a lot, but never anything like what he was now experiencing. Everyone was dead. The electricity was still going yet he opted not to take the service elevator. His very first thought was a terror attack, some sort of mega chemical weapon was unleashed on Akron, Ohio. Although he couldn't figure out who would want to hurt Akron. It was the only thing that made sense though. An attack. Smoke rose to the sky and there were fires everywhere. Judd knew he had to find a way to get out of the city. A place he didn't know, he was there for a concert. The music video was a last minute thing, decided on when they were in Lexington just one week earlier. He didn't have any knowledge of Akron, just that he was in a construction site not far from a suburb. He took the stairs from the ninth floor, paused by Ben's body to pay respects, then lifted his phone. He expected choppers or planes to fly over, but they didn't. Obviously the area was quarantined, especially if it was a weapon. He had a signal and instinctively called 911. There was no answer and he went on the internet. The news site didn't mention anything and he immediately logged onto social media. Again, nothing there. There was no way, in his mind, that the attack went further than Akron. So he began to walk the neighborhood. Not far from the site, was a main roadway. It was a mess, cars were smashed into each other, people slumped over the steering wheels, others had collapsed on the sidewalk. "Keep it together," he told himself. Judd had a freak out moment when he watched Ben fall, then the others. He lost it. Then reality hit him that there was nothing he could do, but be what he was… a survivor. He called out as he walked, asking for anyone to answer, no one did. Two blocks into his journey, the main road crossed through a residential area. He walked through the parking lot of a convenience store gas station. Cars were at the pumps, people lay by their vehicles, some held the nozzles, as if they grabbed them in their final moments of life, pulling on the handles, toppling. Another car was pressed against a pump, the driver against the wheel, the vehicle hit the pump with enough force to spring a leak. A stream of gasoline flowed into the street. Seeing the button for the emergency shutoff, Judd ran over and pushed it. He couldn't do anything about the gas already spilled but he felt like he had done something. There was a bar next to the gas station and a lone pick-up truck was parked there. He knew it was early, but the bar was his best chance for a television. He approached the single oak door with the lunch special notice and opened it. "Hello!" He hollered as he stepped in. "Anyone here?" There wasn't anyone that he could see, at least at the tables, the bar, or on the floor. The lights were low, but a case of beer was on top of the bar and next to that, the register drawer. Someone was getting ready to open it. The television was in the corner up high and Judd walked behind the bar to look for a remote. Behind the bar was a body. Judd deducted that was probably the bartender. Trying not to look, Judd searched around the register and found the remote in a basket with pens. He lifted it and aimed it at the television, turning it on. Some old movie played and Judd switched the channels until he hit a news station. At that instant, he froze. There was no ticker tape rolling across the bottom telling of breaking news. It was a single image. The camera angle was skewed some and everything was off center. Clearly it was a newsroom, the backdrop wall of televisions played static, while the anchorman slumped lifeless over the desk. Right there and then, Judd knew. He was ready to learn about the attack, ready to know how bad it was, at least he thought he was until he saw that. It wasn't just Akron, it was everywhere. For that revelation, Judd was not prepared.

10.37

Jacqueline Druga

POOR THING

Dawson was so overcome with emotions, both fear and sadness that he passed out on the sidewalk in front of the school. Before he did, he kept thinking that his parents were at work and would hear about the school and come get him. He didn't want to leave or go running off somewhere, then they wouldn't find him. Like many boys his age, he had an imagination, but Dawson always took his imagination one step further. He was controlled by it at times, his extensive day dreams and trips to his fantasy imaginations were often the cause of many parent teacher conferences. "Save it for after school," his teacher would tell him. Dawson couldn't control it. If he saw a bird, suddenly his mind went elsewhere. He had day dreams about being a hero, fighting Professor Fry, the evil bad guy who tried to destroy the world. In his mind, Professor Fry was always the one and only man cafeteria worker. He was scary, the perfect bad guy to defeat. Even in all his wildest fantasy scenarios never did Dawson envision one like he just witnessed. He wished this time was one of those times he was told that he 'lived in a made up world', then he could shake his head, focus and make it go away. It wasn't. All his friends and teachers were dead. Professor Fry didn't do it. Someone did. He didn't dream when he fell asleep, but he woke up to a loud whistle. A whirling sound that grew louder and louder. Dawson jumped, grabbing his ears. The sound was so loud it hurt. He looked up to see a plane shooting like a missile above his head. It flew low and on its side, so close Dawson swore he could touch it. It wasn't the engines that made a noise, it was the plane cutting through the air. A few seconds later, not only was it gone, it crashed somewhere. The ground shook violently and a huge fireball erupted in the sky. He screamed and turned to run back into the school, when he saw smoke billowing up from the far end by the gym. He didn't see any flames, but he knew there had to be a fire. Knowing he couldn't stay there, Dawson had one option, which was to go home. He had never walked to school. His father always drove him and his mother picked him up. He knew where he lived, he just had to remember how to get there. That would probably be the second place his parents would go. He wanted to go back in and get his book bag, but he was smart enough not to run into a building that was on fire. After looking both ways, Dawson crossed the street and headed in the direction of his home. It was a blessing and a curse that Dawson loved horror films, more so that his parents let him watch scary things. Scary things within reason. Then again, they didn't know half the stuff he watched because he would use his tablet and watch videos on line. After his father yelled at him once for watching 'inappropriate' videos, he just used his mother's account. No one checked that. The videos made him brave and smart and also caused his imagination to take off. He walked fast, looking for landmarks, and when he passed by and saw the tobacco store, the one his father said didn't really sell tobacco, he knew he had taken the long way home, but he also knew where to go. Dawson hadn't seen a person at all, nor did he hear a dog or bird. He tried not to look at anything, the car crashes, or bodies on the street. He focused ahead, watching the black smoke from the plane crash as it darkened the sky. He stayed low and out of sight, keeping a keen eye out. He remembered the videos and movies and wasn't ruling out that all those bodies on the sidewalk would stand up, walk and want to eat him. Aim for the head. That would be easy if Dawson was taller, but he wasn't. He was pretty short for his age, the smallest kid in his class. His best defense against the walking dead was to run and hide. He hoped it was just a bad man or bad people that made it happen. Finally, Dawson made it to his street and he ran all the way home. Neither parent's car was in the driveway. He didn't expect that. They were working. He knew to go to the basement door near the garage, a key was there. It took him awhile fumbling and he figured out which way to turn it. It was when he opened the door that he finally noticed it. The sound of a lawn mower. Hearing a mower was such a common thing it didn't register, until he thought about it. Someone was mowing the lawn. Someone was alive. He pulled the door closed and stepped out into the driveway, listening. It came from his left and his eyes widened. Mr. Westerman, a grandfatherly man who didn't work anymore. He was always mowing his lawn. Pushing the old mower back and forth, up the small hill, even if the yard didn't need cut. He lived two doors away and Dawson took off in that direction. "Mr. Westerman!" Dawson shouted as he ran. "Mr. Westerman." The lawn mower kept going. A steady buzz. Sure enough, it was coming from behind Mr. Westerman's house and Dawson sprinted back to his house. Once inside, he locked the door. In fact, he locked all the doors. He had to remember to be quiet. Just in case. If the dead got up, they'd hear him cry and scream, and then find him. They didn't have a house phone and Dawson wasn't old enough for a cell, so he couldn't call his mom or dad, or even call for help. He thought about going to the neighbors, but didn't want to see if they were dead. On the way through the basement family room, he paused and looked at the family picture above the fireplace. The one where they tried fishing, when none of them knew how to fish. His mom loved that picture and she looked pretty in it. Her hair was the same color as his, everyone always said that. Lighter when the sun hit it, but he looked like his dad, built like him, too. Not real tall, pretty thin everywhere but in the middle. They used to jiggle their bellies at the same time to music. It was fun. When he saw that picture, Dawson got sad again. He hoped his mom and dad were safe. He needed his parents to be alright. Something inside of him feared they weren't. He couldn't think that way. He rushed up the stairs and called out, just in case they walked home like him. There was no answer and Dawson was afraid to look around. In fact, he was scared of his own home and he knew what he had to do. He opened the fridge, grabbed drink boxes, the bag of string cheese, two of those lunch things, and chips. Arms loaded, he retreated to his room and locked the door and window. He moved the toy box in front of the door, grabbed his tablet, plugged it in and laid on his bed. There he would stay until his parents got him. He'd watch videos, all day and all night if he had to. It would keep him busy, take his mind away and keep him from crying and getting too scared. Dawson did that, losing track of time, far into the night until he fell fast asleep.

10.37

Jacqueline Druga

WHO ARE YOU

The woman was hurt, pretty badly too. Ross Howard wasn't at a loss on how to help the woman he pulled from the car, he just didn't know where to start. Although he never thought about leaving her hair stuck to her face. It acted like a coagulant and the moment he pulled it aside to clean her wounds, the gash on her head bled profusely. It didn't want to stop. He didn't think anything was broken, though he couldn't be sure. He had to wait until she regained consciousness, if she ever did, to find out where it hurt. Until then, he did what he could. He had to, he needed her to survive. She was alive and he intended to keep her that way. Ross was pretty sure there weren't any doctors or medical personnel, at least not close by. He was a realist. Something happened, something big happened and his mind spun with trying to figure out exactly what it was. In his sixteen years on the police force, Ross swore he had seen it all. Obviously, he hadn't. It was a pretty uneventful day up until ten minutes before everything just died. An unusual occurrence for the Pittsburgh area. Ross was happy about that, he had issued three traffic citations and a warning, he planned to go out to dinner with his wife for their anniversary, even though it was still three days away. He stopped by Station Square to make a reservation and was on his way down the Boulevard when he and his partner received the call about a robbery in progress at a news shop. There wasn't any money to be gained there, everyone knew that. Small time, it had to be some kids trying to get drug money. They pulled over with sirens blaring and hadn't even had time to draw their weapons when the first shot sailed through the glass door, killing his partner instantly. "Officer down," Ross called out. "Need…" Both gunman came from the store, one used an older woman as a human shield. His arm around her neck and a gun to her head. "Back up or I'll shoot her," the young man said. "I mean it." Ross knew he did, but he didn't have time to react. It happened. Ross saw it first. For a second everything rippled before his eyes. Like when heat rises off a barbecue, distorting everything with a wavy effect. Ross thought it was his blood pressure, after all his heart was racing out of control. Then his throat and nose burned out of control, which happened a moment before he lost his ability to take in air. He tried, nothing would enter his lungs. It wasn't just him. The two assailants, the older woman were worse off. They turned blue before his eyes, dropping their guns, grabbing their throats before finally taking a lifeless nose dive to the pavement. Was it because he was bigger? Ross didn't know, but he fought through it, and was grateful he did, had he lost consciousness he would have been killed when a car, full speed ahead, jumped the curb, ran over the two assailants then crashed through the window of the news shop. He gasped as he was finally able to breathe, he did so in enough time to dive out of the way of another car. Ross realized those on the street weren't the only ones keeling over, people in their cars were, too. The Boulevard was a busy street and those who dropped on the sidewalk looked like roadkill when cars from the road just smashed over them. He was, from what he could tell, the only person standing and he raced into the bank, nearly tripping over the bodies on the floor as he made his way to the far back wall near the vault. He felt safe there from any wayward vehicles. At least he would see them coming. It only took a minute for it all to stop. When it did, Ross waited a few more minutes before heading outside. Continuous car horns rang out along with hissing sounds from smashed cars. Vehicles were toppled over each other. So much was a mangled mess. He walked to the street, placed his hands to his head and turned around. The wreckage was everywhere. It was a chemical attack. It had to be. Something new, something he hadn't heard of. That's why he saw the ripple and felt the burn, that was the only thing that made sense. How did he survive it? He looked at the bodies on the ground, those in the cars, they were all blue. Asphyxiated blue. Ross grabbed the radio and pressed the button. He made his call to the station, waited, hearing nothing. "Come on," Ross beckoned, then tried again. Still nothing. "Anyone!" he shouted out. "Can anyone hear me?" He heard the squeak of a car door and he looked up. Across the street, he watched a young man of maybe twenty stumble from a car. "Thank God." Ross rushed over to him. "Son, hold on. You may be injured." The young man turned around, a metal object protruded from his chest. His eyes met with Ross. "Help me." He pleaded. Ross reached for him, but the young man fell to the ground. Immediately he lowered himself to the man and felt for a pulse, but the young man had died. It was something different for Ross to think about though as he didn't die from whatever happened. If the young man had lived through it and if Ross beat it, then somebody else could, too. More than anything his first instinct was to get home to check his wife then go to the school and look for his girls. In the interim, he would listen and look for anyone else alive. His best bet were the car accidents. They were severe, limbs scattered about the road, bodies ejected. On top of that, there was the frustration of the car horns. Not all that many, but enough to make hearing anything difficult. He found one caused by a driver and by lifting the driver from the wheel silenced it. Then he discovered another. Just as he cut that, he heard what he thought was a voice. He dismissed it as his imagination, until he heard it again. Ross moved frantically looking in each car until he saw her. He feared, she too, like the young man, died when her head fell to the steering wheel. But she opened her eyes when he opened the door. Ross pulled her out and lifted her into his arms. Looking left then right, Ross sought a safe place to take her to, place her down and help her until he could figure a way out of the city, or at least find a route not blocked with cars. He spotted a law office on the corner, right across from the news shop. It wasn't far and he carried her there. The door was unlocked and he brought her inside. He didn't see anyone and he laid her down on the couch in the reception area. Calling out was futile, he knew that when he saw the receptionist on the floor behind the huge desk. He would deal with her body later, right then he wanted to make sure the woman from the car accident did not die. "I'll be right back," he told her. She groaned, that was a good sign and he ran back outside. His police car was sandwiched between the news shop and a truck. The truck of the squad car was open from the collision. Perfect for Ross. He reached in, grabbed the first aid kit and a blanket. He took the time to clean and bandage her wounds, hoping she had nothing internal. He covered her and tried to give her water, but she was unconscious. "What am I doing?" he asked himself out loud. "I need to get home. I have to find my family." He wanted to, even felt compelled to, but he also knew that leaving the woman to die, without trying to help, would be a huge mistake in the long run. He watched everyone just drop over. Since then, there were no sirens, no helicopters, and no military. Whatever hit was spread out pretty far. Help wasn't on the way. After about an hour of staring at the sleeping woman, not knowing anything about her, Ross sought out her car again, keeping an eye and ear out for anyone. The car horns had long since stopped blaring and the streets were finally silent. Her phone was on the floor along with her purse, he grabbed them both and took them with him to the law office. Once back, he rummaged through her purse and pulled out her wallet. He opened it, exposing her license. "Now I have a name," he said and leaned close to her. "Wake up, Morgan. I need you to stay alive. Because right now, it looks like you and I are the only ones who are."

10.37

Jacqueline Druga

BAD CHOICES

Judd didn't handle the apocalypse as well as he thought. In his mind he was taking it like a champ, but in reality he handled it more like a man on a suicidal mission, a man losing his mind. It started in that bar, one drink turned into two, then he just grabbed a bottle and ate potato chips while staring at the dead news anchorman on the television set. It never changed, never went off the air. It was hard to comprehend and hard to grieve an entire country. He was taking it in though, trying to process it. The person closest to him dropped off the side of an unfinished building right before his eyes. Beyond Ben, he had friends, no one that close. The life of a country music star always kept him from settling down with one person for very long. He had been dancing with fame since he was a skinny, scrawny teenager, performing on a reality show. Drumming up votes because his 'ma' had just died and it was just him, his father and brother living in a trailer. He skyrocketed after that, sort of the country music equivalent to a pop star. Although he never really went the fame and fortune route of the greats before him, work was steady, fans bought his records and he lived the dream. He would have given it all up to have someone. He was grateful at that moment though, that he didn't have family or else Judd would have reacted differently. His big brother had been in the Army and died serving his country. Judd's father, his biggest fan and best friend passed away just as, 'Craving Carrot Cake and Karen' hit number one. Judd wandered around the neighborhood, looking for answers and for people. He stopped at a church, it was empty and there were no bodies in there. He debated just hanging there, but when he heard the plane fall from the sky, he left. If a plane fell, then someone was alive to fly, at least for a while. Then when he realized it was probably on autopilot until it ran out of fuel, hence why it only made a whistling sound. That caused him to look on his phone to see how many planes would be in the sky at one time. If one fell, another one could do the same. It took him to a site that actually showed the planes in the air. He watched them disappear every few seconds. By late afternoon, Judd was drunk. He found his way back to the construction site and sat in the rental car, his phone plugged into the charger. He posted on social media. 'I'm alive and stuck in Akron, anyone else?' "Did you know at any given time there are over two thousand planes in the sky?' Random thoughts. He even made a video, a drunken rambling message about being the last man on earth, stranded in Akron. Calling himself Charlton Heston in reference to the cult classic Omega Man. Then singing a song he wrote off the cuff called, "Call me Mr. Heston." He was in a pathetic state and ready to leave Akron. By that time, it was late, he was hammered. Guided by bourbon balls, he made his way back up to the ninth floor of the building where he went to the air traffic website and watched until the final plane disappeared from that radar. After that, he passed out. A pounding headache caused him to open his eyes and he was instantly awake when he realized how close to the edge he had rolled. How he didn't fall over and die, he didn't know. The reality of what happened hit him when he saw Ben's body still on the ground below. "Ah, man, Ben." Judd lowered his head. Bing. His eyes widened. The tone rang out and it was from his phone. He looked around to where he put it and found it several feet from the edge. It wasn't a text message. It was an alert. How many times had Ben told him to shut off his alerts on his video account. "Nah," Judd told him. "The bing makes me know I'm still relevant. And I turn them off when I think it will go viral." Judd had the alerts on, and he was glad he did. He looked down to this phone. He had one new comment on his video. He opened up the comment. One comment, posted three minutes earlier from a woman named Rita Simms. "I'm alive in Akron. I'm scared. Can you help me?" "Oh, wow, yeah. Yeah." Judd said out loud. "Please be watching." He typed quickly. "Yes. Where are you?" "I'm at my house." "I can come there," Judd replied, his headache was secondary, the comment was like an immediate pain killer. He was thrilled, someone else was out there. There was hope. "What is the address. I think GPS still works." A few seconds later, Rita replied with an address. Judd touched it and it brought up the 'maps'. The internet was still running, and he prayed it stayed up for just a bit more, at least until he found Rita. After zoning in on his location, Judd was even more excited. "You are only two miles from me." Judd typed. "Here is my number if you need to call me. I'm on my way." "I don't have a phone," was the reply. Judd grunted then stared again at the map. He made a mental picture in case it got lost. "Be there shortly. Don't go anywhere." "I won't. I'm scared." Judd hurried to the stairs, he moved fast, filled with exuberance. Half way down the steps his message went off again. "Watch out for the zombies. They may be out there." Judd stopped. "Holy shit. I knew it. I knew it," he said to himself and simply told Rita to stay inside. It made sense. Everyone dropped dead, of course they would rise. Ben hadn't yet, Judd didn't see any walking corpses but that didn't mean they weren't out there. Rita was probably barricaded in her home. Judd envisioned a group banging on her door, trying to get in. He grabbed the first thing he could find as a weapon, a hammer, then got into the rental car and followed the directions. He made it only about a mile when mangled cars on the main road blocked him from going any further. Hammer in hand, he ran the rest of the way on foot. He kept an eye out for any creatures, but he didn't see any. The directions took him to a house on a modest residential street. There were no cars in the driveway, no 'zombies' that he could see, and he was glad. Judd didn't want to pound on the door or scream out, just in case. He sent a message as he walked to the front door. "I'm here," he wrote as he stood on the porch. A few seconds later, the front door flung open and Judd was pummeled with welcoming arms that latched tight around his waist. At that moment, the zombie warning made sense, considering who it came from. Judd was so grateful he got drunk and made that stupid video, or else he never would have gone to that house. Because Rita wasn't a woman after all. Rita was a child. A young boy who trembled and held on to Judd for dear life. Judd wrapped his arms around the child, holding him. "It's okay. It's okay. What's your name?" "Dawson," the boy replied muffled. His face buried in Judd's gut. "You're not alone, Dawson. I'm here," Judd said. "It's gonna be all right." Judd didn't need to know what the child had been through, he himself bore witness to the events. However, he couldn't imagine the fear Dawson experienced. It was gut wrenching to think about the kid being alone. They stood on the porch and Judd held him while he cried while he kept telling Dawson everything was going to be fine. Even though they both knew that was the furthest thing from the truth.

10.37

Jacqueline Druga

PAIRING

That firm rule of 'Don't talk to strangers' went out the window, and Dawson was sure his mother would not be mad. After all, if the guy was all that bad, his mother wouldn't have subscribed to his videos. Dawson was glad she did or else he wouldn't have seen the notification of a new video. When it popped up, Dawson knew someone out there was still alive. Lucky for the guy, Dawson was watching videos or he would have missed it. Yes, he was glad the man found him, really glad, but Dawson sensed the man needed him, too. Just because he was a grown up, didn't mean he wasn't scared. In fact, Dawson felt bad for him. He was stuck far from home, when Dawson himself was in his own bed. It was dark and the man was so scared, he was talking funny, his eyes were as red as Dawson's probably from crying. But he sang good and wrote a fun song. Dawson watched the video three times before leaving a comment. It made Dawson calm. He needed calm, he cried a lot the night before. So much that his eyes were puffy and his eyeballs were dry. He thought he used up all his tears. That was until the man arrived and Dawson cried again. Dawson was a hugger, so when the man showed up at his house he just grabbed on to him. He was tall guy, not real thin like his dad, nor did he have the pillow gut. Dawson felt like he was a friend, especially after the video. After he showed up, Dawson didn't know what was next. The guy stepped in, shut the door and Dawson was a little scared. "You aren't gonna kill me, are you?" Dawson asked. "Nah," the man crouched down to be at his height. "Why? You ain't planning on killing me, are you?" "Not if I don't have to." He smiled and rubbed Dawson's hair. "Look, I'm not real good with kids, I don't have a lot experience. You know how it goes. But I like them. I think you're pretty damn brave to be standing here in front of me after yesterday." "It was scary." "Yeah, it was." Judd agreed. "I liked your song." "Thanks, it was a last minute thing." "What now?" Dawson asked. "Well, we'll figure that out. Did you eat?" "Only some string cheese." "Not a meal. Bet you have food." "We do. My mom likes to shop," Dawson said. "Don't all women?" Dawson shrugged. "Tell you what. Lights are still on, bet the water is still warm. Looks like you're still in your school uniform. Why don't you get a change of clothes, take a shower or bath, whatever kids take these days, and I'll make us some food. Sound good?" Dawson nodded. "How hungry are you? Little hungry? Regular hungry, or big?" "Very big." "Then big breakfast it is. Go shower." "Okay." Dawson took a few steps back, then stopped. "I'm glad you're here, Mr. Heston." Then Dawson ran to his room to get his clothes. He meant his words. There was a feeling of scared that Dawson had since school. Sometimes it was less, sometimes it was so strong his whole body shook, but whatever the level, it never went away. Until Mr. Heston showed up and Dawson didn't feel as scared anymore.

10.37

Jacqueline Druga

Chapter 11

There was a phone charger on the counter and it fit Judd's phone. He plugged it in. He needed the informational resource it was. In fact one of the first things Judd searched on the internet was how long the internet would last. Most experts agreed only a couple hour because it would be overloaded with people posting. Since everyone was basically dead, Judd figured he'd have the internet as long as the power held up. Which, according to the websites, was about a week. He searched lots of things, including a quick tip search on handling kids. His best reference was his father so he placed himself in his father's mindset. Cooking was something he didn't need to search. Judd had been cooking since he was thirteen. He fried up the eggs and bacon and pulled out the frozen waffles. After setting the table nice for him and Dawson, he started snooping around the kitchen for information about his parents. He knew that subject would come up. It would have to, unless Dawson knew the fate of his parents. "What are you looking for?" Dawson asked when he returned. "Honestly?" Judd asked. "Just looking for stuff about your parents." "What kind of stuff?" Dawson sat down. Judd poured a cup of coffee and joined him. "Do you know where they are, Dawson?" Dawson nodded and grabbed a piece of toast. "They both were working. Probably stuck there." The last thing Judd was going to do was give the kid a reality check. "Do you know where they work?" "My mom teaches at a school and my dad works at a bank helping people buy houses. I was waiting here for them." "That's always good." "They didn't come back. You got here. You think... you think the same thing happened to them?" Judd swallowed the lump in his throat. "I don't know. If you want, I can find their work and go look." "And leave me?" "It would be for the best." Rapidly, Dawson shook his head. "I wanna go." "Dawson, if they're… if something is wrong, it won't be good. You don't need to see it." "I didn't need to see the lawnmower eat Mr. Westerman, but I did." "You have a…" Judd tilted his head as he looked at Dawson. "The lawnmower ate Mr. Westerman?" He asked shocked. "He fell under it." Judd cringed. "Oh, man. Sorry you had to see that." "Me, too. I saw a plane fall from the sky." "Yeah, me, too." "You talked on the video about how many planes were in the sky. How many are left?" "None," Judd said. "The last one, DAL4531 dropped from the sky right before midnight." "How did you know about that stuff?" "I looked it up. I looked up a lot of stuff. " "Did you look up how to survive? Like hacks on surviving." "Hacks?" Judd asked. "Never heard a kid use that term. Yep, I did. I might have to write things down." "You can use my mom's computer and print them out." "Little man, that's a great idea." "Any zombie survival stuff?" Dawson asked. "I was watching the videos about it." "Dawson, I didn't see any zombies." "Something caused everyone to die, right. It makes sense they'll get right back up." "Wow, we think alike. I thought the same thing." "Have to be ready," Dawson said. "They wouldn't make movies about it if it wasn't going to happen. What other stuff did you look up?" "Everything." "Did you look up what happened?" Dawson asked. "No." "That's not everything." "I think everyone died before they knew what happened," Judd said. "Maybe someone didn't, you didn't, I didn't. Maybe someone posted somewhere. You have a lot of followers, you should check." "Yeah, yeah, I do. That's a great idea, Dawson." "Or at least check the internet for people surviving after everyone dropped over." Dawson suggested. "I'll do that now." Judd stood and walked for the phone. "Breakfast is good, Mr. Heston." "Thanks, I've been…" Judd paused. "Why are you calling me, Mr. Heston?" "You wrote the song, said that's your name. I was calling you mister cause it's polite." "Oh. Well, you don't need to call me Mr. Heston." "Isn't that your name? Why would you tell the world a wrong name?" Judd didn't have a plausible answer. He could tell the boy he was drunk and being an idiot, but he didn't. "No, I mean, just call me Judd. Everyone does." "So I don't need to call you Mr. Heston. You said on the song to call you Mr. Heston." "Only when it matters. For now, call me Judd." "When does it matter?" "Um…" Judd stumbled for an answer and blurted out. "Let me think on that one." "Where's your guitar?" "It's in the car. I left it there. It's not far, I just wanted to get here." He took his phone from the charger and sat back down at the table. The boy had a point. Judd needed to search for answers. What happened, what could cause it, was it only America, or was it all over the world? Plausible explanations could be found in the news or some science article. However, to discover the scope of the event, he had to rely on witnesses. There had to be others... The world revolved around the internet. It was still up for the time being. If he himself posted, someone else may have, too. He just had to look. Judd did just that while he sat with Dawson eating their breakfast.

10.37

Jacqueline Druga

RELUCTANT

The sound of nothing and smell of coffee caused Morgan to open her eyes. At first she thought she was late for work. She probably slept through the alarm clock and the auto brew on her coffee pot had long since made its pot. 'Shit', she thought. "I can't be late again. I'll get fired." As soon as she jumped to a sitting position, a pain like she never felt cut through her side and she gasped hard, trying to catch her breath. Her head throbbed and her forehead burned and felt tight, as did her cheeks and nose. She reached up to her head and felt a bandage. She pulled away her fingers and stared at her hand. It was bruised and brush burned. Then she remembered, the car accident. It all came back to her. The crash, the near death experience. She was injured, from the feel of her body, she took quite a jolt. But where was the noise of the hospital? The beeping, the occasional paging of a doctor. She checked out both arms, where was the IV? Then she took in her surroundings. She wasn't in a bed, she was on a leather couch, a hard-brown blanket covered her. Forcing beyond the pain, she sat up more. There were chairs, a coffee table and a huge reception desk. Something wasn't right. She remembered being rescued, pulled from the car. Why wasn't she in a hospital? Who would do this to her? Had some sick, psycho kidnapped her? Through the corner of her eye she spotted her purse on the coffee table. It hurt her ribs when she moved her legs, surely at least one rib was broken. The pain was horrendous. She managed to place her feet on the floor, then while securing her ribs, she reached for her purse. It hurt to reach, she inched her rear to the edge of the couch, grasping the strap. The weight of the purse pulled at her and she cringed hard in pain. She lifted it to the couch and reached inside, feeling around until she felt her phone. The screen was cracked, yet she was able to wake it from sleep mode. She looked around, no one was there that she could see. Morgan could run, make an escape, the front door with a closed blind, was ten feet away, but she couldn't move. At least not fast enough, not in her condition. She selected the call pad and dialed 911. What would she tell them? 'Hello, I was in a car accident. I think it was a couple hours ago and I have been kidnapped. I don't know where I am.' It sounded insane but it was the truth. She hit the 'send' button to call 911. It rang. It kept on ringing and finally after twenty rings a recording answered informing her to hold. "What?" she asked, breathless and in disbelief. She ended that call and immediately called Craig. That was the first person she could think to call. His phone went directly to voice mail. "Craig," she gushed emotionally. "It's me. I need your help. This is not a ploy. I was in an accident. Someone…" she looked up when the front door opened. The man was a mere shadow with the sun behind him, then he stepped inside. "Hey, you're up," he said. "That's a good sign. I'm glad." He removed a cloth from his face, and with him was some sort of odor she could smell as he came closer. She didn't recognize it though. Then she got a look at him and the police uniform. He was still wearing it, but had the shirt unbuttoned, exposing a white tee shirt. "I made coffee. Electricity is still on. Did you want a cup? Are you up for drinking it, or would you prefer water?" he asked. Morgan didn't answer, she scooted back on the couch and brought her hand to her mouth. "What is that smell?" "Something that can't be avoided. Let me get you coffee." He walked by her and into the back of the building. Morgan immediately dialed the phone again, she'd go through her contacts if she had to. "I was trying to find a boat, but that was out. Trying to find some way out of the city," he said from the back. "I think I found a clear path. We may have to switch cars every…" he stopped talking when he returned. He handed her the coffee cup, which Morgan didn't take. "That isn't going to work." He took the phone. "No one is there." "I'm calling for help." "Won't work." "Take the coffee." He set it on the table. "How are you feeling? How is your head?" he reached for her. She jumped back. "Please. Let me go. Don't hurt me and I won't tell a soul." He laughed at her, a soft chuckle. "Morgan, I am not…" "How do you know my name?" "Your license." "Why am I here?" Morgan asked. Her heart raced out of control. "Why am I not in a hospital or home?" "Yesterday when…" "Yesterday?" Morgan asked in shock. "Oh wow," he said softly. "Shit, I figured you knew, or remembered." Morgan shook her head. "Morgan, what's the last thing you remember before you crashed the car." Morgan closed her eyes to think, it took a while. "I was fighting with my husband. I …. had an anxiety attack or something and I crashed. I crashed because I had an anxiety attack." "Anxiety attack. Describe it," he said. "My throat closed up. I don't know… I couldn't breathe, that's all I remember, then the crash." "So like me, it affected you. I just can't figure out why we pulled through." "What are you talking about?" Morgan asked. "What does all this have to do with me being here with you, Officer…?" "Ross. Call me Ross." He reached out his hand. "Don't touch me." Morgan panicked. "Morgan, I swear to almighty God I am not here to hurt you. I may be the only person right now you have. Can you walk?" Suddenly, Morgan got an eerie feeling. "What's going on?" "You didn't cause your crash, Morgan. I can tell you… but I think you need to see." He still extended his hand. "Please." Reluctantly, Morgan took it and he helped her to stand. "What hurts?" he asked. "Everything." "You'll have that when you get smashed by several cars." Holding on to her arm, Ross helped her to the door. "Listen." He paused before pulling open the door. "You need to hold your breath, or cover your nose, okay? It's bad and it has just started." "What are you talking about?" "Hold your breath," he instructed and opened the door. She didn't. She should have. A horrible stench pummeled her, like rotting fish in the fridge mixed with a burning scent, it made her eyes water and she covered her nose and mouth when she started to gag. "It'll get worse." Once she got a hold of her senses, Morgan looked around. Every single car had crashed in one way or another, some into each other, some into buildings. There was a thick haze in the air that looked like smoke. Her eyes widened and watered. "Oh my God. Were we attacked?" Ross shook his head. "No. It's bigger than that. Much bigger." "What happened?" "I don't know exactly. Still trying to figure it out. But I have a feeling, all this…" he said, moving his hand about, pointing to the death. "Is just the beginning."

10.37

Jacqueline Druga

CONNECT

The website was informative, and after downloading 'How to Survive the Apocalypse, by Frank Slagel' Judd began the task of printing up the book. Dawson grabbed him a three ring binder from his father's office, then went off to find his shoes. Judd remembered the days of being a kid and losing his shoes, but as an adult, he never understood how that was possible. How does a person lose their shoes in their own house? Dawson's search gave Judd time to explore his mother's computer. It was easier to search on a desktop than his phone. But no new news had posted on social media, there hadn't been a new post in over twenty-four hours, and even his 'Call Me Mr. Heston' video only had three views. The search for others out there was difficult, Judd knew they had to be there. Him and Dawson weren't, and couldn't be, the only ones. Aside from printing up that book, he was productive in other ways. A simple snoop job through his mother's desk led him to his father's business card. If the information was up to date, Bill Dawson Montgomery worked as an assistant branch manager at a bank not far from Dawson's house. His mother Rita, Judd learned was a visual arts teacher at the local high school. She also had an email in her draft folder writing to some child psychologist about how special Dawson was. She never finished and Judd guessed he'd eventually figure out what that 'special' thing meant, since Dawson and him were now survival partners. Judd mapped the route out to find Dawson's folks. In fact, he abandoned the car not far from the bank. That was as far as he planned, he and Dawson hadn't talked much about what was beyond searching out his parents. He supposed they had time to talk about it later. Judd also needed time to study the survival guide. He tried again on social media, this time trying keywords and selecting all posts. He went to the Bird site and searched chirps and tried there. Judd tackled every combination of words he could think of from 'Everyone is dead' to 'Is anyone alive'. Nothing. "Hey, Dawson, you find your shoes yet?" Judd called out. Not that he was in a hurry to take the child to find his parents. While there was a chance his parents lived, Judd doubted it and hoped that he could get Dawson to change his mind before he was face to face, literally, with the truth. "Found them. Be right down." He yelled from upstairs. "Take your time," Judd replied. He turned to check the printer, and grabbed some of the pages. "I'm ready." Dawson announced as he entered his mother's office. "Just getting these together." "We're coming back, right?" Dawson asked. "I'm sure my mom just needs someone to help her get home. You said cars were all over the place." "They are and we will. We'll come back." Judd set the papers aside. 'Dawson, are you sure this is something you want to do?" "I need to find my mom and dad. I have to." Judd nodded. More than anything he wanted to tell the child, 'you know it may not end well, you know chances are….' He couldn't bring himself to say it. He'd cross the bridge when he got there. "Wouldn't you want to find your parents?" Dawson asked. He had a point. Didn't matter if a person was eight or thirty-eight, if Judd's parents were out there, he too would need to see for himself what became of them. "You're right," Judd said. "Okay, let's…" he stopped and looked at the screen. "What?" Dawson asked. "What is it?" "Oh my God." "What?" The search result page of the Bird site was up, but now when Judd looked an orange banner stated, 'One new chirp'. "Shit, someone just chirped. It matched my query." "It matched your what?" Dawson asked. "I put in search words, some posted something just now that matched it." "What does it say?" Judd moved the mouse to click on it, but stopped. "Shoot. What if it's a scheduled chirp? I do those all the time. We can't get our hopes up." "We can't know until you look. What's it say?" Judd clicked on it. It was timestamped one minute earlier. Posted by a user name Ray of Sunshine. It simply said, "Is anyone else alive out there?" When they read it, both of them cheered with excitement. Judd didn't know where Ray of Sunshine was and he didn't even bother to look. He simply, without hesitation, replied 'Yes', and sat back with Dawson right at his side and waited to hear back.

10.37

Jacqueline Druga

ANSWERS ARE NIL

"And that's it," Ross explained. "Since I brought you in here, I spent the last twenty-four hours searching for survivors, calling out, trying to find a way out of the city. We need to get out of here. You think it smells bad now, wait until later." "I don't know how well I'll be able to walk." "Unfortunately, you're gonna have to. At least until after the bridge. This thing hit in the middle of the day." "This is unreal. I'm in shock, and that…" Morgan cringed. "That came out really emotionless." "It's hard to feel anything. I know, I'm just not wanting to think too much about it. However, I'm one of those people who can't let sleeping dogs lie. I got to figure out what's going on. Do you have family? I'm taking it you don't have children?" "No." Morgan shook her head. "No kids. I had my husband, but he left me." "Don't have that to worry about anymore." "Seems very small now in light of this all. How about you?" Morgan asked. "Family?" "A whole slew. Parents, siblings, a beautiful wife and…" Ross paused, he swallowed. "Two girls. I need to get to my house. I live about four miles from here. At Greenfield." "Ross, why didn't you go?" she asked. "You should have gone. You could have walked." "Yeah, I could have." He lowered his head. "I've seen what's out there. If my family is alive, then they're fine and they're staying put. But if God forbid they aren't, and I left you here, I left the one person I knew for sure was alive. I didn't know if you were well enough to leave. I couldn't let you die when you were lucky enough to be alive." "Thank you." "Don't thank me, yet. I'm thinking by tomorrow, you should be strong enough to start walking." "I can try now if you want." "No, let's give you a little more time to get better. Besides, a part of me is scared to go to my house and see." He stood up. "I know we can't wait. Fires are out of control out there. My guess is people were cooking, stoves were on, and no one was there to shut them off. This place will keep burning." "The electricity still works. Did you check the internet?" "Oh, yeah, been off and on it all night. I found an interesting article. Small news piece, seems contact was lost with the Marshall Islands almost a full day before everything happened here." "What do you mean contact was lost?" Morgan asked. "Didn't say much, just that had no response from air traffic, or phone lines. All planes were cancelled. I guess it hit everywhere before Marshall Islands could become big news." "So do you think this hit there first?" "It's a guess. Just a guess. If this is a natural event and not manmade, then it very easily could have followed the earth's rotation. Marshall Islands is in the first time zone. Again…" he walked over to the receptionist's desk. "I'm guessing. Everything is theory." "Well, then give me your theory on what's happening. You said earlier it was just the beginning." "I think it is. I want to research more before we lose everything on line. It could be anything, Morgan," Ross said. "An atmospheric blip, something from space, who knows. More or less I'm gonna call it the Swifter event." Morgan's mouth formed an 'O' as she started to speak, but paused to catch her wording. "I'm sorry. Maybe it's the head injury. You said 'Swifter', I think the cleaning mop." "Yeah, that's what I mean. Ever see the commercials?" Ross asked. "Pretty anal person about their house broom sweeps the floor, ding dong, here's a box with a new mop with a white cloth, gets everything you missed?" Morgan nodded. "Think of natural disasters, disease, war, that's fate broom sweeping. Ding dong, a box was just dropped off and Mother Nature is pulling out the Swifter. The choke and drop thing was the first swoosh." Even though it physically hurt her, Morgan chuckled. "You know they work, but they still miss particles and push them to the sides." "Yep. That's part of my theory, we're the pushed aside particles. However, eventually with another swoop, she'll get it all." "If every dropping was the first swoosh, I hate to think what the next will be. I appreciate your theories, but I really hope your wrong." "Yeah," he said. "Me too."

10.37

Jacqueline Druga

FLAT TIRE

Ray of Sunshine never responded, despite how quickly after his post Judd had made a comment. They waited and nothing happened, finally, Judd sent one more message stating that they'd be away for an hour or so and left his phone number. He and Dawson ventured out, aiming for the car which was not far from the bank. The entire walk, Judd just wanted to keep an eye out for a clear route back to Dawson's street, because his road was off of Broad Avenue, a main road which was pretty blocked. The temperature was oddly high for April, pushing what Judd thought was about eighty. Much warmer than the day before. The heat caused an incredible stench to the air. Dawson had to run back into the house not ten seconds after the first time out the door. Judd grabbed a cloth, doused it with air freshener, put the can in his back pocket and they left again. "Did you want to see Mr. Westerman?" Dawson asked, as they walked. "No, I'll pass." "It's pretty sick." "I'll take your word for it." "Why is it so hot?" "I don't know," Judd replied. "Maybe because there are so many fires in town. Lots of smoke you know." "You gonna grab your guitar?" "I'd like to." "Why do you think that Ray guy didn't get back to us? You think he's dead?" "I don't know." "I had a dream everyone dropped dead." Judd stopped walking. "That's a pretty intense dream for an eight year old. Bet you were scared." "Not as scared as I was when it happened. I kept thinking it was a dream, a joke, the kids were pranking me. They weren't. Why is the sky so weird?" "What?" Judd's head spun. "What are you talking about?" "The sky looks weird." "It's probably the smoke." "Doesn't look like smoke." "It's smoke," Judd looked up quickly, took a step, stopped and looked up again. Dawson was right. The sky was so bright, the clouds were orange and the blue portion looked almost pink behind them. Judd's eyes burned after only a few seconds of peering up. "Okay, I don't know what's causing it, just don't look anymore." "Why?" Judd grew tired of replying with, "I don't know." so he shrugged. They made it to where they left the car. Again, Judd looked around seeing how he could move the car closer to Dawson's house, he believed he could get it nearer by taking a side street. The car was so hot inside it was suffocating. Judd wound down all the windows, plugged the phone into the charger and pulled up the address of Rita's work. The bank, however was only a few blocks away and they made it there in a few seconds. Outside, Dawson sat in the car and stared at the First National Bank. "Do you know if this is the place your dad works?" Dawson nodded, opened the car door and stepped out. Judd looked at his face, he looked so brave, heaving in a deep breath into his small body. "You okay?" Judd asked. "I think… I think we don't need to go in there," Dawson said. "Look around. He's gonna be like everyone else. If he wasn't, he would have been home." Judd placed his hand on Dawson's shoulder and gave a firm squeeze. "I'm going to go in and check, okay? Just so we know. You all right with staying out here?" Dawson nodded and Judd went into the branch. He preferred to wait outside, Dawson was sure of his father's fate. Not far from the big glass window, Dawson stood staring at the bank. His eyes teetered between focusing on seeing inside and looking at his own reflection. It was weird. He could see himself and all the crashed cars around him. Just as focused on trying to see Judd, he saw something move behind him. Dawson gasped in shock and spun around. Nothing was there. His heart started to beat and he faced the window again, only to hear something drop. It caused him to jump and Dawson screamed out. "Judd! Judd!" He wasn't going to wait and ran straight to the door, grabbing for it at the same time Judd stepped out. "What's wrong?" Judd asked. "I heard and saw something." Dawson grabbed on to him. "Where? What did you see?" "Something. I don't know. I was looking at the window. It was back there." Dawson pointed across the street. "I don't see anything. Maybe you saw a bit of me inside." "Maybe." Pause. Dawson looked up to Judd. "Did you see him? Did you find my dad?" Judd bit his bottom lip and placed his hand on Dawson's head. "Yeah, buddy, I did. I'm sorry." Dawson nodded, sadly. "I thought so. Let's go." He wasn't giving up hope. There was still his mother. He walked to the car, but not without looking back one more time to see if anything, or anyone was there. The lady's voice on the phone gave them directions that took them close to his mother's school. They left the car about a block away and walked the rest of the way there. "This is it. This is the school," Dawson said. "I've been here with my mom. I know her class. She brought me here on take your kid to work day." "That's pretty cool. Your mom seems like a nice lady. I mean she does like my videos." Dawson was optimistic. In his mind he kept thinking his mother just stayed to protect the kids, she didn't want to leave them alone. Judd had to break the glass on the front doors, they were locked. Dawson took that as a sign they were protecting themselves from the undead. He didn't once let it enter his mind that she wasn't fine and sitting in her classroom. Not once. Until they walked through the main doors, caught the overwhelming rotten smell and saw the teenage girl hanging by a belt from the railing of the upper stairwell. She had clearly taken her own life. Before he could react, Judd grabbed onto him, trying to shield him, but something inside of Dawson fought it. He broke free of Judd's hold and ran. "Mom!" he called out as he raced up the stairs. "Mom!" his mother's classroom was on the second floor and Dawson didn't stop. "Dawson! Wait," Judd yelled. Dawson didn't. He got to the second floor, ran down the hall to the last room on the left. "Mom!" His shoes squeaked on the linoleum as he came to an abrupt halt. There were no students in the room. He caught his breath, felt a little better, believed the room to be empty until he saw his mother laying in the back of the room. "Dawson." Judd said out of breath. "Mom?" Dawson ran to her and slid to the floor. His mother was on her side. "Mom?" He shook her. "Mom, wake up." He knew by looking at her that she was dead, but he couldn't accept it. Maybe she was in some deep sleep. Judd reached for him. 'Dawson, I'm sorry." Dawson swiped away his hand. "Mom? Mommy? Mom!" Judd sat down next to him. "Come on, Buddy." It started with a simple rebellious, "No." Then he repeated it over and over, louder each time until every emotion raged out of control and Dawson screamed continuously. He didn't want it to be happening. He didn't want it to be true. But it was. His mother was gone and there was nothing he could do about it.

10.37

Jacqueline Druga

Chapter 16

Judd was at a loss. There was absolutely nothing he could do for Dawson, except let him go. It was painful to watch and brought back memories of when Judd found his own mother when she died of an aneurism. He stayed on the floor with Dawson, until the boy said he was ready. "We can't leave her like that," Dawson said. "We can't." "Do you want me to bury her?" Judd asked. "I can get a shovel…" "No. Can you move her from the floor. Maybe put her at her desk." "Sure. I can do that." Judd had Dawson step aside and he lifted Rita. She had already been decomposing and her body was swollen and heavy. He carried her to the front of the room and placed her in her chair. Dawson walked up to her and whispered. "Bye, Mom." He leaned forward and kissed her cheek. "She's so cold." "I can bury her, Dawson." Dawson shook his head and ran out of the room. In fact he kept on running. Judd listened to his feet as they pounded the floor, fast and furious. He waited outside for Judd. "I'm not going to ask if you're all right," Judd said. "I know you're not. Let's go." He placed his hand on Dawson's back. "When we get back I think I'm just gonna go to my room, if that's okay?" "Sure, Buddy, that's fine." They didn't speak on the walk to the car, and Dawson stayed quiet with his head against the car door as they drove. He said only one sentence, "Don't forget your guitar." Judd managed to get closer to Dawson's road than he did the previous day. On the other side of Broad Avenue and one street down, Judd parked the car, stuck his phone in his pocket, grabbed his guitar, strapped it to his back and walked slowly with Dawson. As they approached the end of the street, just near Broad, Dawson's head lifted, then Judd saw. A man stood there on the corner. With a smile, Judd looked at Dawson. "Another survivor." He tugged his arm and both of them, excitedly ran toward the man facing the other side of the street, as if waiting to cross. "Hey!" Judd called out. "Hey!" A few feet from him, the man turned around. He was a bigger guy, heavy, his face was sweaty and red from the heat. His thinning hair was a mess and he wore a dirty and dampened mechanic's uniform from a tire shop, the name 'Chuck' was embroidered on his chest. "Oh, man," Judd said. "Are we glad to see you. We thought we were the only ones alive." The man just stared at him, he didn't respond. Judd thought at first, he was in shock. "Judd…" Judd extended his hand. "This is…" he withdrew his hand. The man had a flat expression, staring at Judd, not blinking, not saying a word, showing no emotions, or even comprehension. There was something about him that sent a chill through Judd. Maybe he was in shock, but Judd wasn't waiting around. He swept Dawson into his arms. "Let's go." And, after side stepping, Judd kept an eye on Tire Man, as he crossed the street with Dawson and picked up the pace. Tire Man slowly rotated his body and watched them. "Where we going?" Dawson asked. "What about that man?" Judd didn't answer, he just kept going. "Wait. You missed my street. Where are we going?" Judd only told Dawson to be quiet until he made it far enough away. Then he cut through the back yards of houses to get to Dawson's street. He didn't want Tire Man to follow. "Why did we leave him?" "Shh." Judd set him down and whispered. "Why'd we leave him? He was like us." "No." Judd shook his head. "Didn't you notice? Something was wrong with him." "Maybe he was scared. Maybe he was hurt." "Maybe." Judd kept moving toward the house, but he never stopped looking behind them. No sooner did they step into the house, Dawson slipped back into his sad state. The rush of seeing Tire Man then running from him, had faded and Dawson grabbed the family pictures and went to his room. Dawson may have forgotten about Tire Man quickly, but Judd didn't. In fact, Judd had what he thought was an irrational reaction. He locked every door and window in the house, pulled the blinds, and cranked up the air conditioning. He checked on Dawson frequently and made him something to eat. He could hear the boy crying, but every time Judd knocked, Dawson pretended he was alright. Before eight PM, Dawson had fallen asleep. Judd wasn't tired. He nursed a beer and sat in front of the computer staring at Ray of Sunshine's Bird account. He wondered about the man who made the chirp, but his mind was never far from Tire Man. Who was he? What was wrong with him? Maybe the man was so shocked by the events that he didn't know how to react, or what if he were deaf and Judd just ran from him? He rocked back and forth, staring at the screen, most of the lights in the house were out. It was quiet for the longest time, until the wind started picking up outside causing a steady rattling on the window next to the desk. It was hypnotic, and Judd was obsessed with refreshing the Bird site. "Reply, chirp, something." Judd stared. Buzz. Ring. Judd jumped a foot in the air, tipping back the chair and nearly toppling his beer when his phone rang and spun from the vibration on the desk. With a sweep of his hand, Judd snatched up the phone, not even looking at the number. He answered the phone, just as a loud 'crack' of thunder caused him to jolt again. "Hello." "Judd?" the male voice asked. "Oh my God. Yes, is this Ray of Sunshine?" "Don't feel much like sunshine at this moment, you?" Judd sat down. Unless Ray was visiting from abroad, his clear Australian accent told Judd he wasn't anywhere close. "No." Judd rubbed his eyes. "No sunshine here. Where are you?" "Osborne Park, Perth? You? Obviously American." "Ohio." Judd exhaled, calming his nerves. Lightning flashed, four times, and a few seconds later, the thunder blasted. "I can't tell you how glad I am someone else is alive. Are you alone?" "Not anymore. I found a few. You?" "Just me and a little boy." "Bet it was bad there, when it happened. Middle of the day." "Yeah, it was, people fell off of buildings and cars crashed, I don't know how many people died that way." "We were lucky, it happened here at 10:37 at night. We weren't the first though. Did you hear?" "Man, I haven't heard anything. I can't find out anything." "A shift started east of here. New Zealand, Marshall Islands, good day before it hit here. We were told about it." "A shift? What do you mean?" Judd pulled the phone away from his ear, when the storm grew louder outside, causing a hiss of static. "Hello?" Judd called out. "Ray?" "Here. Connection is getting bad. I'll try to stay in touch. Have you got the storms there yet, Mate?" Judd glanced toward the window. "Yeah. How did you know?" "They're everywhere," Ray said, the sound of his voice dancing in and out of static. "They're bad. Stay clear of the windows. Check the satellite feeds. Keep on top." "Listen…" "I have to go. Have to get secure now. Watch out for the…" A rush of line noise and the call went dead. "What out for the what?" Judd asked. "Ray? Ray?" Nothing. Judd looked at the phone, the call had dropped. At least he had Ray's number to try and reach him again. He set down the phone and moved his chair closer to the computer. He didn't have any idea what Ray meant about checking the satellite feeds, and he deduced the warning was about storms. He opened the internet, pulled up a search bar and searched for live satellite feeds. Surprisingly, the government had a live satellite map. He learned something new. When the image appeared, Judd didn't know what he was looking at. In fact, he thought something was wrong, because the image looked like one big swipe mark of purple and red. It flickered, then went black. "Swell." The room lit up with the flash of lightening again, and suddenly it sounded like someone was running a garden hose against the window. "You aren't shitting me, the storm is bad." Judd stood and parted the blind. He couldn't see anything because of the bush that blocked the window. He finished off the beer and went to the kitchen for another. While there, he checked the kitchen drawers and found a flashlight on the counter. The storm was loud and picked up in severity. The last time he heard wind like that, the stage was swept away. With that thought, he set down his beer and flashlight on top of the railing post and went upstairs to Dawson's room. "Hey," he called out softly. "You awake?" Dawson didn't answer. He walked to the bed and listened for the sounds of his breathing, then blanket and all, he lifted Dawson and carried him downstairs just to be safe. He placed the boy on the couch, then walked over to retrieve his beer. The second the beer touched his lips, the lights went out. Judd turned on the flashlight. It didn't give off that much light, but then again, Judd didn't need it. The lightning was intense and the sound of water against the windows went from a garden hose to buckets. "This is insane," Judd said. "How bad is this storm?" Even though Ray warned him Judd walked over to the big living room window. He had to see what was going on out there. He separated the blinds wide enough to peek out. As soon as he did, lightning flashed four times, long and strong. It not only brightened the entire street like daylight, but it illuminated the frightening sight of Tire Man standing in the torrential downpour in the front yard, not moving and staring straight at Judd.

10.37

Jacqueline Druga

TROMP

There was no healing time, none at all, and Morgan's pain was worse. She was fine during the night when she shifted and moved in the computer chair, but once she was still for that brief sleep period, the pain was atrocious. Her head was better, every other appendage as well. It was her ribs. It looked like two of them on the right side were broken or cracked. Each breath hurt. She would have never imagined the pain. She balked at all of Ross' suggestions, she'd ride it out with ibuprofen and follow the advice she got on line. Everything he suggested, with the exception of deep breathing practice, was old world and proven by medical experts to be incorrect methods of treating broken ribs. When they had to move and do so quickly, she relinquished the fight and raised her arms, as best as she could… literally. Ross had been there, he himself broke a rib when he was younger playing baseball. He knew the pain and the treatment. He also knew what worked, and he told her so. He had told her he suspected right away her ribs were broken and with that, had the foresight when he got supplies, he picked up bandages, pain pills and antibiotics. Morgan hadn't taken anything more than an ibuprofen. "I don't want to get pneumonia," she told him. "Binding causes that." "It won't if you deep breathe and take the antibiotics. I'm not a doctor, but I know what works and what will make you feel better." After he wrapped them Morgan realized he was right. They did feel better bound and stabilized, plus it didn't take long for that pill to kick in. It didn't make her drowsy either, it took away her fear of going outside. Of that, she was terrified. She spent most of the evening and night on the computer while Ross slept. She looked up everything and anything that she could think of related to what occurred. In fact, Morgan was certain she had figured it out. Or at least she was in the ball park. Her job before everyone dropped was a risk analysist. Ever since she was a child, she planned and thought everything through, to the point it was unnerving to people. She was always that person that said, "If we do this, then this and that could happen." Spontaneity wasn't in her vocabulary… ever. She even planned their best route to get to Greenfield if they had to walk, and where they could possibly get a car and which back streets they could take that might not be blocked by crashed cars. She wrote everything down, in case her phone died, and would have furthered her research had the power not gone out with the storm. She had expected the storm, although not as severe, and unfortunately more was going to happen. Ross was right on that, just his reasoning why was skewed. She planned to talk to him about it, after they made it to Greenfield. She figured he needed to be in the right frame of mind for his family search. All that went out the window when he woke her up with urgency. "We need to move. We need to move now." She looked at her watch, it was barely daylight. It hurt to lift her arm. "What's going on?" "As soon as it's light enough to safely walk, we have to go. Hopefully, it'll hold. Let's get you ready." She didn't know what ready meant, and she shook her head when he pulled out the bandage to bind her, then she felt the pain. "I can't have that," Ross said. "You have to be strong and you're gonna have to move fast, this is the best way." The pain was unbearable to even sit, but she'd managed. "Stand up." "What is going on?" Morgan asked as she staggered to a stand. When she did, her feet squished on the damp carpet and she lifted her head. Ross stepped aside, walked to the door and lifted the blind. "Oh my God." Morgan nearly fell backwards. They were so close to the river, that had to be the reason. The storm was worse than she imagined. Water had come up to the door at least three feet. The seal was holding it, allowing only a bit of water to seep through, but a crack was forming on the glass. "I went to the top floor," Ross said. "It looks about this deep for a while. I couldn't see too far. The back is the only way out. This gives us the street." "How in the hell are we going to do this." "Carefully," Ross replied. That was when he wrapped her. They didn't have much as far as belongings, just her purse. She placed her pills and notes in a plastic garbage bag and shoved it in her purse. In the employee break room there was a drawer full of those plastic grocery store bags. Using tape, they both wrapped their feet in them. "I figured the water is at least three feet deep. When I open this door, that pressure is going to be bad," Ross explained. "you're not in any shape to fight that current." "Okay …. So what choice do I have?" Ross pointed to the receptionist desk. "You'll get up there, hold tight to the ledge, Just in case." The desk had a lip that was a foot or so above the surface. It was a difficult climb and her feet slid from the plastic. Ross aided her up there and sat on top, holding the ledge. He walked to the door. "Ready?" he asked. Morgan nodded. He appeared to be bracing his footing. One hand on the door handle, the other reached for the deadbolt. The moment he turned the lock, the need to open the door was lost and Ross wasn't ready. The pressure of the water blasted the door open, sending him flying back. He bounced off the desk and the current rushed under his feet, sweeping him across the reception area into a wall. "Ross!" He managed to grab the archway and hold on. His legs moved with the water as his fingers barely gripped. Morgan felt helpless. Bodies sailed in with the water at a high speed. One hit into Ross, he lost his grip and he washed away with the water. "Ross!" Morgan screamed. Within a minute, the water calmed when it reached the height of the water outside. "Ross!" she screamed again. After she lowered to her hands and knee, Morgan began to climb down. Her first thought was to find him and hope he hadn't drown. "I'm okay!" he yelled in the distance. "I'll be right there." She lowered her head in gratefulness. She listened to the splashing of the water and knew that was Ross making his way to her. "Are you all right?" She asked when she saw him. "Yeah, knocked the wind out of me." He coughed. "You ready to do this?" Morgan nodded and Ross helped her from the desk. The water felt strange, almost slimy. Morgan adjusted the strap to her bag to lift it higher. The water came to her mid-thigh and it was hard to walk. Once outside, it was water as far as she could see. It appeared as if a city was in a shallow lake. Bodies floated everywhere. Most of them face down. It was like walking through a pond filled with lily pads, only the green leaves of nature were replaced with earth's most precious commodity… people. Morgan tried not to look, it wasn't their bodies that disturbed her, it was the fact they lost their lives. People like her, who went to work, had families, loved… now everything about them, every memory they held was gone. She couldn't move without bumping into one, despite Ross leading the way, moving them aside. Even though he announced when she needed to watch her footing. Bodies were still trapped in cars, and she grew squeamish when she would nudge against a limb. Pushing through the water was slow and trudging. The pace would be a hindrance, but they had to keep going. The smell was a stew of many rotten things. The water wasn't cold, and the weather was still stifling hot. There was a heavy overcast to the day filled with dark gray clouds that looked violent. It was humid, very humid and sticky. They had to keep moving. They needed to get deeper into the city and away from the river, at the very least get to a higher ground or overpass. It wouldn't be long before another storm arrived.

10.37

Jacqueline Druga

STUDY

The last thing Dawson recalled was holding on to his family picture, clutching it tight to his chest while watching the video of his family at Cedar Point the year before. He watched that video over and over. He heard his mother's voice and he needed that. It was hard for him to believe that he would never see them again. They were gone. He fell asleep covered by his favorite gray blanket, his iPad by his head propped on his pillow. When he woke up, he was still covered, still holding that picture, and sweaty, only he was on the couch. He had been dreaming about fishing with some man he didn't know, and when he woke up calling out, "Branson!" he tumbled to the floor. It wasn't bright in the living room, and he wondered if he slept the day away. "You all right?" Judd stepped into the living room. "Yes. Why am I down here?" Dawson asked. "Bad storm last night, I just didn't want you upstairs, in case the house got struck by lightning or something. I can't believe you slept through it." "Why is it so dark?" Dawson asked. "The power went out." "Will it come back on?" "I doubt it, Bud. It takes someone to flip the switch. I don't think anyone is going to do that. Are you hungry?" he asked. "You didn't eat last night." "A little." "Come to the kitchen. We need to also talk about what we're going to do." Judd walked away. Dawson didn't know what he was talking about. He looked at the picture still clutched in his arms, placed it on the coffee table and went to the kitchen. He could feel the fresh air breeze when he stepped inside. It wasn't that cool though. But it was air that had a smell to it. "It stinks." Dawson covered his nose. "You kind of get used to it." Judd sat at the kitchen table, there was a ton of food spread out. Most from the fridge and freezer. "What's going on?" "Gonna have to cook this all up today. This is what we're gonna eat. The other stuff, the cans, boxes, that can wait. This is stuff that didn't go bad." "How you going to cook it if there's no electricity?" Dawson sat at the table. "I can get the stove working with a match." Dawson lifted the flat box of pizza bagels. "How you gonna make these?" Judd took the box. "I'll figure it out." "Hey, Judd, you said we have to talk about what we're gonna do. What did you mean?" "It means." Judd stopped sorting out food and folded his hands on the table. "We need to figure out our next move. We can't stay here." "Why not?" "Power is out. It's only gonna get hotter. We're in for some crazy weather and it looks like it's not gonna stop for a spell." "So why we leaving in bad weather?" "We'll wait. Tomorrow, later today. Hopefully it breaks enough. I wanna take the car far enough to get another. But we need to leave. We need water. We have enough bottle water…" "We can go to the store. There's one right up the street." Judd shook his head. "That's immediate, pal. We need to think long term survival. Chapter two of that book, water, food and shelter." "We have them all. Isn't this food." Dawson pointed to the array on the table. Judd smiled at him. "We have to look beyond all this. You and I… we're alive. We need to stay that way. Do you have any family other than your mom and dad?" "I have an aunt somewhere. Not around here. You want to take me there?" "No, I thought maybe that could be a goal. We need a goal. Something to follow, to focus on. That way we can look for a place on the way. I'm thinking where we can live off the land." "Isn't there enough food out there? People have food in their houses, we can take that." Judd inhaled and stared. "I suppose we can." He stood up. "You want the pizza bagels?" "Whatever you want to make." "How about the frozen pancakes, they're almost thawed anyhow." Judd lifted them and walked to the stove. He grabbed a pan. "I don't want to leave, Judd. I don't want to leave my house." "I know. I really do and we can pack a bag of stuff you want to take. I think your mom and dad would want you to go where it's safe." "How do you know this isn't safe?" Dawson asked. Judd put the pan on the stove and turned around. "I don't. But Ray of Sunshine said…" "You talked to Ray?" "He called last night. I been trying all day to call him, but I want to conserve my phone. Can't charge it until I get in my car." "What did he say?" "We were gonna get bad storms, to look up the satellite maps. I did. The whole county is covered with this thick cloud and they weren't moving. Earth looked like it was covered in cotton candy. Last thing he said was he had to get to safety or something." "What did that mean?" "I don't know. We lost connection and that storm last night was bad. Trees fell down and there's about six inches of water on the street. If it rains any worse the water might get too high to drive. Chapter four, flooding, he said not to drive if the water is moving. It seems to be moving. I think it's moving, but am not totally sure." Dawson jumped from the table. "Whoa, hey, wait, where are you going?" Judd grabbed his arm. "I wanna see." "You don't need to see." "Sure I do." Dawson pulled away. "Dawson, don't…" Before he could finish, a slight rumble vibrated the kitchen. It lasted about twenty seconds. "What was that?" Dawson asked. "I don't know." Judd answered softly. "Maybe it's a rescue truck." "It's not a rescue truck." "I'm gonna go see. I also want to see the flood." "Dawson," Judd said strong. "You don't need to…" Dawson didn't listen. Judd said the street had water, and a tree fell down. He had never seen anything like that. He ran to the living room and pulled on the door. It was locked. After undoing the bolt, he grabbed the handle and pulled. "Dawson, don't open that door." Too late. Dawson opened it. He was rendered breathless for a moment and near ready to scream. Judd slammed the door and locked it, placing his body against it. "Judd, why is that mechanic man standing in the yard?" "I don't know. That's why I didn't want you to open the door. I didn't want you to get scared." "Are you?" "Heck yeah," Judd said. "How long has he been out there?" Dawson asked. "All night." "All night!" Judd facially cringed. "I know. I know. I'll handle him." He walked over and peeked out the blind. "Just got to figure out how and why."

10.37

Jacqueline Druga

BOURBON, TEARS AND GUESTS

Having lived in the Pittsburgh area most of her life, Morgan had never been to Greenfield. She heard of it, and for some reason she attached a bad rap section of town to it. She supposed it was like any other area, it had its shares of trouble, but there was a certain charm to the suburb. She just wished she was seeing it under better circumstances. From where they were in downtown Pittsburgh, it was nearly five miles to Greenfield. She had set a route that was dismissed pretty quickly by Ross. Seeing how he was a police officer, she left it to his expertise. His route added a mile or so. Morgan didn't fret it, she walked further when she had gone to Vegas. She believed at first they were looking for a car. It didn't matter, though. It was Pittsburgh, there were very little stretches of road where cars didn't block the way, at least a normal size car wouldn't get through. The water remained high well out of downtown, beyond Duquesne University. It eventually stayed steady at ankle length, occasionally turning into a damp surface. Pittsburgh was a city of hills and slopes, if by chance the town was submerged in water, than they were in trouble. They walked a main road that was blocked by overturned buses and cars, it was a mess. The streets were empty and devoid of life. They passed the main hospital, and smoke rose from the roof. Fire had ravaged the entire building. Every step she took, every painful step, Morgan hoped to see someone. She didn't. Sadly, seeing bodies was fast becoming common place. They didn't speak much and they didn't discuss what was next after Ross' house. Morgan actually had nowhere to go, no one she wanted to look for. She supposed she could look for Craig, but they had been together long enough she felt his fate. He was gone. She realized as they walked she didn't know Ross. Only that he had a wife, kids, a big family and was a cop. Other than that, he was a mystery. He didn't ask any questions of her other than was she hurt and did she have kids. He was a stranger to her and she had no choice but to place her trust in him. Either that or go off on her own which didn't make sense. A little over half way on their journey, Ross veered off toward a squad car. The vehicle had crashed into a bus stop, the front end was like an accordion. "Are you wanting to take the car?" she asked. "No." Ross opened the door. "Ah, man." "Do you know him?" Morgan asked of the dead police man slumped over toward the passenger seat. "Yeah, yeah, I did." Ross reached inside and grabbed the radio microphone. He depressed the button. Nothing. He reached inside again and tried the ignition. "It's still in the on position. It ran out of gas." "Like a lot of cars. It goes to figure," Morgan said. "They crashed and never shut off the car, they ran out of gas and the battery died. " "That makes sense. Ross replied. I have a radio at home. We'll try that." He moved away. She wanted to ask, "Radio who?" She didn't. Morgan walked slowly, never once did Ross complain about her speed, or to tell her to "Keep up." He kept it steady, and Morgan did her best to stay close. When she drifted too far behind, he'd stop, wait, then move again. Once they neared Greenfield, they hit the flooded area again, with water rising to her knees. A light drizzle started to fall. Morgan held out her hand and looked to the sky. A faint sound of thunder rumbled in the distance. Ross' house was on a hill and had a safe and dry road. The river had spilled over at the bottom of his street forming a large pond. His home was near the top of the street. He paused as he stood on the sidewalk before the small front yard staring at the two story, gray siding home. "You alright?" Morgan asked. "Just getting up the courage before I go in." "I understand." "This is going to go two ways. I'm going to go in there and my family will be fine, or they won't. If they're fine, we all figure out the next step. If they're not, you and I need a direction because I won't want to stay here. I just can't." She hated sounding like a broken record, but "I understand," was the best response she could come up with. Ross' house had a great huge front porch. There was no furniture on it, they probably hadn't put it out yet. She took a seat on the steps, catching her breath, wiping the sweat from her brow. She'd wait there while Ross went inside his house. It was his to face and his to face alone.

10.37

Jacqueline Druga

Chapter 20

There were three things that could be found in nearly every Pittsburgher's home. Chipped Ham, Heinz Ketchup and something Steeler related. Ross had those and he also had something else… a bottle of bourbon. He never ran dry, there was never less than half a bottle. That was just his thing. He swore he could have drank the entire bottle when he saw the body of his three year old daughter on the living room floor. At first he thought she was alive, that somehow she survived. Her back was facing him, her blanket over her and she lay on her pillow in front of the television. She wasn't. That's where she was and what she was doing when it happened. His wife was at the kitchen table and his five year old daughter was still in bed. A part of him knew and he felt they wouldn't be alive, but he was hopeful, and prayed a lot during the walk there. Once he found them, he cried. Silently and into his fist, biting his hand trying to take away the pain of his loss. It would never go away, like his badge, he'd wear it on his soul forever. There would be plenty of time to cry and grieve, but it was hard being in the house. He grabbed the bourbon, took a big drink, sought out the radio from the basement, grabbed his wife's car keys from the table in the living room and went to the front porch. "I have a battery for this in the house. I'm gonna pack somethings and then we'll leave." He set down the radio and handed Morgan the keys. "Can you put this in the car? It's that blue smart car up there." He pointed two doors up. "Oh, Ross, I am so sorry." Ross nodded. "You're about my wife's size, I'll grab you some clothes. You need fresh clothes, too." "Thank you." Ross went back inside. He drank some more bourbon, grabbed a duffle bag and packed some clothes. Not much, he could get more on their journeys, wherever that would be. He grabbed food, water, and his extra gun. Before he did all that, he carried his youngest daughter and placed her in bed. He did the same for his wife and covered his family. After he finished packing, he sat on the bed. He had been in the house a while, probably longer than he should have. He needed it. But it was a curse. The longer he stayed in his house, the more he thought about his purpose. What purpose did he have? His wife was gone, his children, more than likely the rest of his family. He thought about his revolver and if he really wanted to make a journey, or was he already at the end of his journey? In a moment of weakness he racked the chamber and lifted the weapon near his chin. It was possible he would have pulled the trigger, he would never know. Morgan called his name. "Ross." The entire time he was in that house she never called out to him, bothered him or came inside. She gave him his time. So why call him now? She said his name once and there was something about the way she said it. He stood from the bed, grabbed the two bags and headed down the stairs. "Ross, you need to come out here." He shouldered the bags and pushed open the screen porch door. He barely stepped out, about to ask her what was wrong, when he saw. About a dozen people stood in the street. They just stood there watching, arms at their sides all spaced apart a foot or so from each other. "Something is wrong with them." Morgan looked over her shoulder, standing at the top step. At first, Ross entertained the ridiculous notion that they were dead and had risen. They looked very much alive. "You got the keys?" Ross asked. "Yes." "Let's get to the car." "Where are we going?" "Just move," Ross instructed. He had his revolver still in hand and they walked down the steps. When he reached his yard, Ross recognized one. Tanner Stewart. Tanner lived a block over and his daughter was in preschool with Ross' five year old. He also knew him from being on the force, he had arrested Tanner twice for bar fighting. But that was only one. He knew everyone on their street, so why did he only know one person. Who were the others? They were dirty and sweaty, but they looked almost hypnotized. "Why are they staring?" Morgan asked. "I don't know. Did you try talking to them?" "Look at them. Would you?" Ross ushered her quickly to the car, when they arrived the group of people all turned and faced them. He tossed the bags in the car. "Get in." he instructed, then opened the driver's door and reached in with the keys, starting the car. "Get in!" Morgan walked around to the passenger's side, continuously looking back at the group. She opened the door. Ross took a step away from the car. "What are you doing?" she asked. "Get in. I'll be back." "Ross!" He took a few steps back toward the group of people, looking over his shoulder once to make sure Morgan was inside the car, then he walked directly to Tanner. Tanner stared outward, not even looking at Ross. "Tanner." Ross called his name. "Tanner." He snapped his finger in his face. Tanner's eyes shifted and locked with Ross. "Tanner, are you okay? Can you hear me? Can I help you with…?" Before Ross could finish, Tanner expression unchanged, snapped out his arm and he gripped on to Ross' mouth. His thumb pressed against one cheek, while his fingers dug into the other. He squeezed so tight, Ross swore his teeth were going to pop out of their sockets. He couldn't even say a word, his hand was cutting off his air. He reached up, trying to pull the hand away. He saw the rest of the group approaching. Ross was a big guy, strong too, and he couldn't free himself. In a final attempt to pull away, Ross struggled out the word, "Stop. Please." Then lifted his revolver, placed it to Tanner's chest and fired. The grip didn't release and Ross fired two more times until he was finally free. Tanner dropped to the ground and Ross fumbled to find his footing while aiming outward. He expected the others to immediately come for him, but they didn't. Lowering his weapon, Ross turned and ran to the car. He didn't say anything to Morgan. He slammed the car door, put it in gear, and looked once more in the rearview mirror, before he sped off.

10.37

Jacqueline Druga

DAZED

"My phone is one bar," Ray said. "Sorry, I can't talk anymore. I'm buried in eight feet of water, and we're trying to get out. It's getting higher. Storms haven't stopped." "Have you had any earthquakes?" Judd asked. "Some. Minor. Nothing compared to the water. It's the storms. That much water dumping in the ocean can shift plates. Don't they teach you that in school?" "Oceans, I'm in Ohio. There are no oceans close. There's a lake." "I have to go." "Wait!" Judd yelled. "One more question. Have you seen… have you seen any strange people just lurking around." Silence. "Hello?" Judd called out. "The quiet ones." "That would be a good name for them." "Yes. More and more are showing up. They didn't die, they just took a while to get up. Like they were in a coma. I think. Yeah." "What's wrong with them?" "I don't know. I just avoid them. They aren't good." "So it's a virus." "I don't know that either. I deliver pizzas for a living, I'm not a …." That was it. The end of the call. Probably the last he would speak to Ray of Sunshine. Judd was rattled and he wanted to take away something from the call, but he couldn't remember what all Ray had said. "He's in a big flood," Judd told Dawson as he kept looking out the window at Tire Man. "Did he say anything about him?" Dawson asked. "Not much." Judd hadn't bitten his nails since he was ten, yet there he was chomping away as he looked out the window. "They aren't good. Could be a virus." "So he's a zombie. He doesn't move fast like World War Z. He's slow." "I don't think he's a zombie. He was sweating yesterday. He's alive. Like that movie Twenty-Eight Days later." "They ran in that movie. Super strong, too." "You're eight. Why were you watching that movie?" "I was allowed." Judd bit a nail and peeked out. "This isn't good. I have to do something." "You wanna kill him?" "Yes. I mean no. I mean…" Judd looked at Tire Man. He just stood there, staring back. He stood in the same spot all night. He hadn't moved, in fact, his feet were sinking in the mud. "He's scary." "Think you can take him?" "Probably not." "Why don't you see what he wants," Dawson suggested. "We tried talking to him yesterday, remember. He didn't say a word. He just… stared. He's scaring the hell out of me and I don't like being scared. There's nothing in that survival book about catatonic lunatics." "What's catatonic?" "Don't worry about it." Judd bit his lip. He couldn't leave him standing there, he was unpredictable and dangerous. Judd was supposed to be protecting Dawson and he was more scared than the child. How was he going to leave with Dawson if Tire Man was there, out there waiting? "Okay that's it." Judd backed away from the window. "What are you doing?" "Do you have a baseball bat around here?" "In the closet." Dawson pointed to the one next to the front door. "Are you gonna beat him with a baseball bat? Make sure you hit him in the head." "He's not a zombie. I'm gonna scare him away. I don't want to beat him." Judd opened the closet. A wooden bat was on the floor perched against the wall. "It would probably break on him." As he clutched the bat he felt the nervousness creep up and he jumped when thunder blasted. He could hear the instantaneous downpour hit against the house. Judd looked up. "Swell." "It's raining again." "I know." He shut the closet door and reached for the front door. "If something happens to me. Just… just… good luck. I don't know what to tell you." He opened the front door. "Jesus." He took a breath of courage and stepped out. Tire Man stared at him. Judd jumped a little when the door slammed. Another breath and he stepped from the porch. "I can do this. I can do this. Think big. Think angry. Be intimidating." He raised the bat that raised his voice. "What do you want!" Judd blasted. He stepped off the porch into the pouring rain. His feet melted into the soft mud and water on the lawn. He charged toward Tire Man. "Go away!" He moved closer. Tire Man didn't change expression. "Didn't you hear me!" Judd blasted in his loudest voice. "You got three seconds to go or I swear to God I am gonna bash you. You hear me?!" Nothing from Tire Man. "One." Judd stepped closer, it rained so hard, the water pooled in his eyes blurring his vision. "Two." He swiped the water from his eyes and moved within three feet of him. He had played baseball all of his life, softball when he was older. He was good, he was a slugger and Chuck the Tire Man was a threat. Something was wrong with him, and as much as Judd wasn't violent, as much as he hated to hurt anyone, he couldn't take the chance with Dawson in the house. Tire Man was a big guy and Judd knew, he had one shot. It had to be good, or else he could be in trouble. "Three!" Full force he lifted the bat and like stepping into the plate, he moved his leg forward and with all his might brought forth the bat. A split second before connection, inches from his target, Tire Man lifted his left hand, tilted his head and closed his eyes while making a noise. A groaning noise that sounded like a cat, as if he had no vocal chords, ability to talk or hear anything. Judd stopped. His eyes widened. Tire Man lifted his hand again and flinched. "What the hell?" Judd said, and lowered the bat in shock.

10.37

Jacqueline Druga

DIRECTION

The blinking yellow stop light told Ross and Morgan that the town twenty-five miles north of Pittsburgh still had power. Once they made it out of the city and to the expressway, it was easy to maneuver around the cars. Rush hour was over when everyone dropped, and HOV lanes were clear and empty because they were closed at that time. It was smooth sailing until the expressway met the interstate, then it was quite a bit of weaving. The tiny smart car worked well, but performed poorly when they ran into wet areas. For that reason alone, they needed a bigger vehicle. Although, Morgan had no idea where they were going. "We'll figure it out when we stop," Ross told her. Morgan wasn't a go with the flow person, it made her antsy. She didn't bring it up to Ross because she knew he was dealing with a lot. His hands shook a lot when he drove and she really wished he'd stop sipping from the bourbon bottle as if it were a bottle of water clutched between his legs. She wanted to blame the booze for the shakes. Like Ross was some alcoholic who needed a fix, but she was with him the entire previous day and unless he was hiding his adult beverage, that wasn't the reason. The tremors were brought on by emotions. He assumed that his family was gone and then he had the confrontation with the crazy people. It was a lot to handle. She was happy when she saw that flashing traffic light, it signified to Morgan they were going to stop. It started to rain again, not quite as hard as the night before, but it was steady. It was already mid-day, and without a plan, Morgan had no idea where they would stop for the night. They needed direction. She also needed Ross to talk to her. That was something he hadn't done until they stopped the car at a convenience store and gas station named Sheetz. It was a common store to see in the area, the 'It' place for gas and decent late night food. An SUV was parked by a pump, the nozzle wasn't connected and that meant they either pumped the gas already or were just about to. Ross stepped out of the car. "We should be good here from any flooding. The elevation is good." He moved to the SUV and opened the driver's door. "The keys are here." He said as he started it. "Full tank, too. I think they have gas cans inside. I wanna fill some. I'll unload the car…" He rested his arm on the door. "I saw a sign for a motel up the road. We should stop there, even though it's early. You look pretty pale and should rest. How are you feeling?" "I'm not feeling too bad. The pain pill is still working. I'd like to unwrap my ribs and redo them. Plus, you know, change into dry clothes." "I bet. Me, too." He went back to our car and opened the back, grabbing one of the bags. He pulled out a tee shirt and a pair of those stretch and comfortable pants that fit tighter. "I didn't know what size you wore in shoes. She wears an eight." He handed her sneakers. "They will work, thank you." "Meet you inside." She took the clothing and her purse and headed toward the store. "Morgan," Ross called her. "Want me to go check it first?" "No, I'll be fine." "Be careful." Morgan nodded. She probably would have thought the 'careful' was unnecessary had they not ran into the group of people outside Ross' house. She kept her eyes peered and when she got to the store, she looked around. The air conditioning was on and it felt good, the odor wasn't as bad as it was outside either. Once in the store, she saw the toppled ribbon that marked off the waiting line for the register, two customers were on the floor. She didn't see any employees, they probably were behind the counters. By the soda machine was the body of a construction worker, he still wore his reflective vest. She stepped over him, grabbed a cup and filled it just a little with soda. It was cold and tasted good. After spotting the rest room sign, she made her way there. The tiny health and beauty aids section was near there and she grabbed a comb that was ridiculously priced, a bar of soap and a roll of paper towels. An employee mopping the floor had dropped not far from the rest room, Morgan had to step over him. Once in the bathroom, she double checked the stalls, then she opened the towels, laying a bunch on the floor to have a clean spot to stand on. She was a mess, her face was dirty and injured, her hair looked tangled and muddy. If she could bend over the sink to wash it she would have, but she would wait until the hotel. A shower would be best. She undressed and threw away her clothes. Undoing the binding felt so good, almost the same free feeling of taking off her bra at the end of the day. She took deep breaths while she washed up. Paper towels and a bar of soap did a great job. She needed to clean up so her injuries didn't get infected, she had no idea what was floating in that water. Ross hollered in to check on her, then said he was filling gas cans, he'd be back and for her to get supplies. She acknowledged his request and continued on. She combed her hair and pulled it as best as she could into a ponytail. It hurt to raise her arms, then she did an adequate job of rewrapping her ribs. Morgan took a while, but she felt so much better, and when she stepped out of the bathroom and looked to the right, she smiled. She remembered when Sheetz got their state permit to sell single serving beer and malt beverages and one of those Margaritas in a can sounded good while she sought out something to eat. She was hungry. She visually scanned the cooler, finding one of those margaritas on the shelf to the right. She opened the glass and reached in. Just as she touched the can, she gasped and stepped back, when a woman in an employee smock stood in the cooler directly behind the shelf. She was one of them. Her eyes were dead and she stared blankly at Morgan. For some odd reason, Morgan wasn't scared. The woman must have been in there for days, she had a blue and hypothermia look to her, her lips were white and she huffed shallow breaths. Keeping an eye on her, Morgan quickly grabbed the can and shut the cooler. She retrieved the mop and stuck the end of it through the handles to brace the doors. She popped open the can and sipped while watching the woman in the cooler for a few seconds. Ross was still outside and while there were a bunch of snacks in the store, Morgan needed something with substance. Figuring since the electricity was on, chances were there were items in the fridge that were still good. It was only two days since the event happened. The grease in the fryers was cold, and they were off. Probably an automatic shut off to prevent fires. She grabbed a clean cloth, wiped off the counters and then after pulling a pack of buns, she opened them and laid them all out. She would make some sandwiches for them both. She pulled out the luncheon meats, sipped her margarita, then through the corner of her eyes, spotted one of those blenders for frozen coffee drinks. "Oh, wow." she paused in the sandwich making to follow the directions on the wall and make herself a coffee shake. It actually went well with the margarita, sipping through the straw was tough, it hurt her ribs. She had both beverages going when she began her sandwich making stint. "That's quite a contrast of drinks," Ross said. Morgan wasn't expecting his voice and jolted a little. "I was thirsty." "I see that." Ross stood on the other side of the counter. "Then I saw these." She held up the coffee. "It's refreshing." "You look better." "I washed my face. The pain pill is starting to wear off. Hence this…" She held up the margarita. "Did you grab supplies?" "No, I'm making sandwiches right now." "Good thinking." "Ross," Morgan paused in her sandwich making. "You aren't going to go off on your own or kill yourself, are you?" She listened, his footsteps stopped. "Why would you ask that?" "A feeling. You don't talk to me. You shut down." "There's nothing to talk about." "I don't believe that. We're it, well with the exception of those people that are strange and the lady in the cooler." "There's a woman in the cooler?" Ross asked. "One of those Starers," she said. "We're it. I want to know who I'm traveling with and you should, too." "Did you examine everything when you were married." "I did. This situation makes me think you're planning to kill yourself. It makes sense. You lost everything. I mean, it's your choice. I will ask you not to, I hope that you wouldn't, but it's your choice. I just ask if you do, please let me know so I can be prepared and maybe get a chance to talk you out of it." "You won't have to. I won't leave you or kill myself." he said. "I faced that… I almost did." The bread dropped from her hand and she turned around. "When I found my family, my gun, I just… had a moment of weakness. Then you called my name. I put the gun down." "If you have a moment of weakness will you let me know? I'll try to help you." "I will," he replied. "What about you? Are thinking about it?" "Not right now," Morgan replied. "I did months ago. When my husband left me for some woman with three kids. That was fleeting, though. No, I didn't really lose anything. I didn't have friends, my family had already passed. I had no children. The way I see it, my ex-husband is dead so I don't have to think about him with another woman, I have no deadlines on my job, I don't have to worry about my high insurance payment and I'm out of debt." Ross chuckled. "You smiled. That's impressive considering everything." "Well, I thought what you said was funny. I mean..." Ross' hands went to the counter. Morgan braced as well when the ground shook. Things clattered and the ground swayed. "Are you kidding me?" Ross asked. "Was that an earthquake? An earthquake in Pennsylvania?" "Probably. It's not the first. There's been many. You just don't feel them." Morgan answered almost nonchalantly, wrapping the sandwiches, placing them in a bag. "You're not phased?" "Not at all. I was expecting it. You've shared your theories." She handed him the bag. "When we settle for the night, I'll share mine." "Share now." "It's a little more difficult than that. My job was to be pretty anal," she said. "I have visual aids."

10.37

Jacqueline Druga

VISION

The prior evening, before the lights went out, before he heard from Ray of Sunshine, Judd read Dawson's mother's email. He was curious after finding the Dawson is 'special' email what it all meant. To him Dawson was a normal boy, not much different than Judd remembered being at that age. An email from Dawson's teacher expressed concern about Dawson's lack of being in touch with reality. How he would easily escape to a different mental world when things weren't how he wanted them. Dawson's mother insisted that her child had an odd and keen sense about him. He often said things, or told made up stories, that somehow would happen or come true. His teacher dismissed that. Judd guessed that was the reason she was writing the psychologist. Dawson was unique. Sometimes he seemed to childlike, maybe even younger than eight. Other times he seemed different and reasonable. Like after Judd went for Tire Man with a baseball bat. The second the Tire Man flinched, Judd couldn't hit him. He was afraid of Judd and couldn't communicate. Yet, Judd wasn't completely trusting, After all, Chuck the Tire Man still stood in the yard staring with that dead pan look. Judd simply carried the bat back into the house and locked the doors. "Is he deaf?" Dawson asked. "What do you mean?" "I mean maybe that's why he didn't respond. He's deaf." "I don't think so." "Good thing you didn't kill him," Dawson said. "I can't believe you wanted to kill a deaf guy." "Dawson, I don't think he's deaf. Look at him. Something is not right." "Yeah," Dawson said. "He's standing in the middle of the yard. It's raining out and he doesn't notice or know anything." "That's exactly it," Judd said. "Brilliant. He doesn't know anything." "Think maybe his mind got erased?" Dawson asked. "One time my tablet fell in the toilet." Judd looked at him oddly. "It wouldn't start, but after my mom put it in rice, it did. However, it wasn't the same and we had to redo the whole thing. She kept saying we restored it. You think maybe he fell like everyone else, but when he woke up he was restored, so he's like a new tablet." "Holy crap," Judd scratched his head. "That's pretty freaking brilliant dude." "To make him the way he was you just have to download things. Teach him." "Maybe. But I am not… teaching him anything." Judd walked away. "Why not? Don't you feel bad for wanting to kill him?" Dawson followed him into the kitchen. "No, absolutely not. Hopefully by tomorrow he'll be gone. Even if he's not, we have to go." "Go where?" Dawson asked. "I don't know. I wouldn't even know where to begin." Judd sat at the table. "Does the survival book say anything?" "Just to keep moving, look for others but avoid dangerous groups," Judd said. "That doesn't sound very helpful." Judd shook his head. "It's not. We do need to go. The weather is bad, it's getting worse and I think we need to get away from the city. With all the bodies out there, it's not good. So…" Judd folded his hands on the table. "Any suggestions?" Dawson darted away into the other room and returned with a brochure. "Here. Can we go here? We were supposed to go there in three weeks. We were even getting a couple of days off school. My dad was gonna have a con... something." "Conference?" Judd asked. "Yeah, that's it. He was gonna do that and my mom was taking me to do the fun things. So can we?" Judd looked down at the brochure. On the cover was a family on an amusement park ride and another picture was of a small storybook town. "Branson, Missouri. Wait …wait… you woke up this morning shouting Branson." Dawson nodded. 'I was dreaming about it. I dreamt some man on a hill was waving his arm saying come to Branson." Judd looked at Dawson then down to the pamphlet. More than likely, Dawson's dream was because he was thinking of his parents. However, just on the outside chance that Rita was right and this was one of Dawson's special moments, Judd wasn't going to dismiss it. Branson was a distance away, but it looked nice. Judd knew when they finally left, they had to have a place to aim for. The affordable and fun family vacation spot of Branson, Missouri was a path to follow. Besides, a destination and direction was far better than wondering around aimlessly hoping to find a suitable end game.

10.37

Jacqueline Druga

PLAUSIBLE

Ross gave a lot of thought to what Morgan asked. Did he want to kill himself? He was glad he was honest and told her that it had crossed his mind. Even though he didn't want to die, he still had no idea why he wanted to live. The rain was steady. Oddly heavy and steady and there didn't seem to be an end in sight. When he commented on it, Morgan kept saying, "It makes sense." Almost like a verbal trailer to her big theory. "Morgan, this isn't a company presentation," Ross told her. "What do you think happened?" "Wait." He groaned about her response as they made their way, convenience store bags packed, to the Motel 6. It was difficult to figure out what rooms were empty and what rooms weren't. The last thing he needed to do was find a room with bodies. The computer system was rocket science to him. They figured it out but ended up just staying in the lobby. It had the small table area where the hotel served continental breakfast and the lobby had two couches. Ross cleared the three bodies from the lobby and Morgan found an empty room and used that to shower. After Ross had gotten the lobby in order he set up his radio he brought from home and then found some blankets. Then he too took a shower and changed into clean clothes. He felt better after cleaning up and changing clothes and was surprised when he returned to the lobby and found Morgan had set one of the tables for a meal. "That's odd," he said. "You don't have to sit here with me. I just thought it would be nice to stop and eat. As much as you say I need to heal, you do as well." "Thank you." He pulled out a chair and his eyes drifted to the lobby window. "I can't believe how bad it's raining. Please don't tell me it makes sense." "It does though." Morgan said a bit frustrated he kept dismissing her idea before he heard it. Ross sat down. "Are you gonna tell me your theory?" "Yes." Morgan lifted her purse, reached in and then placed a stack of folded papers on the table. "What's this?" "Visual aids." "You printed up things to support your theory?" Morgan nodded. "So why don't you just tell me?" Ross asked. "Last night, before the lights went out, I went on line. I started thinking about what happened, people just dropping like that. I felt like I was suffocating which tells me something in the air changed. Even just a smidgeon, it could cause asphyxiation. You called it an atmospheric blip." "Yes, I remember," Ross said. "Anyhow I thought what if it was a chemical weapon or virus, how would it get across the globe, I started looking at prevailing winds, global winds, and jet streams." She lifted out a sheet of paper and unfolded it. "Westerlies and trade winds I assume." "Yes, now bear with me." Morgan said with irritation. "Oh, I have nowhere else to go. Go on." Ross replied sarcastically. "A weapon would dissipate becoming less deadly. How do you get everyone on earth to drop dead at the same time? I kept thinking atmosphere." "Everyone didn't drop at the same time. I think it started in the Marshall Islands." "Or that area, so I started searching. Atmosphere, oxygen, that sort of stuff. Then bam! I found it." "Okay, I'm game. What?" "Geoengineering and cloud seeding." Ross sat back. "Geo what?" "Geoengineering is when you deliberately manipulate the climate and weather to fight the effects of global warming." "Weather manipulation, like the HAARP. Morgan said. So you think this geo thing caused people to drop dead?" Ross asked shaking his head. "It's two things. Cloud seeding being the start. It's been going on since the nineteen fifties," she said. "United States did it all the time. They fly a plane, drop chemicals into a cloud, which produces rain. That's the simple method... however…" She pulled another sheet of paper forward. "China does it on a grander scale. The night of the 2008 Olympics they launched eleven hundred rockets into the sky to prevent rain. They don't drop down on the clouds they shoot rockets up. They've been doing this for decades. Fire a thousand rockets for rain, fire a thousand rockets for dry. China really took an extreme route to manipulate their climate. I'd say look it up, but the internet is now down." "That was fast." "Yeah," Morgan said. "Think about it. Rockets, Ross. Every major holiday, every national day, they do this. Here's where it gets good and makes total sense. Three days ago, they launched fifteen hundred rockets in an attempt to create snow, and New Zealand, with help from the UN, on the same day did the same thing only they wanted it for drought. All you need is for them to miss the mark and punch into the mesosphere. Even as far-fetched as it sounds, what if it was just done one time too many?" Ross took in what she said, listening intently, rubbing his face. He looked at her perplexed. "Now you have a breach of atmosphere, the weather goes haywire, and we get crazy storms. All that water dumping into the ocean at once causes the plates to shift, and now we have earthquakes and volcanic eruptions. Things will get messy fast and worse than anything we've seen." "So in a nut shell, rockets fired to the sky one too many times, punch a hole into the mesosphere, the oxygen balance goes off a smidgeon, people choke and die, then the weather goes haywire. Explain us and how we're alive" "I can't explain you, but I know me, my heart was racing out of control, what if that had something to do with it. When you're anxious, you're breathing is off, it becomes faster. What were you doing?" "Trying to stay calm." "See?" Morgan nodded. "This is it." "What about the, what did you call, them Starers?" "They suffered lack of oxygen to the brain." Morgan said matter of fact. "When they woke, they were able to function just not the way they remember so they act on instinct." Ross mumbled his thoughts. "Instinct. Tanner was violent… no." He stood up. "No. This is science fiction. While I appreciate this theory, I really do, but please forgive me when I say this is crazy." "It's plausible." Morgan stated emphatically. "You did all this work, all this research, why?" Ross asked curiously. "I need to know what happened." "But you'll never know," Ross said. "Ever! Not for certain." "This feels right," Morgan said quietly. "Did you ever stop to think it was just an act of God, that maybe God said enough is enough." Morgan laughed. "That's funny?" "Yeah, it is. I can't just accept and say," She deepened her voice. "Oh God did this. I can't. Besides, didn't the bible say he would never destroy the earth again?" "No," Ross answered. "He would never flood the earth again." "There you have it. We're probably gonna get a flood. A big one, too. All this rain, earthquakes, shifting… flood. If that happens it's not God or else he broke His promise. This…" She tapped on the table. "Is something. If we, or at least I… follow this theory, I can at least rationalize what is happening." "All this…" he sat back down and shuffled through the papers. "Why did you print a picture of the globe." "Trade winds and Westerlies? I was trying to see if maybe there was a pattern that this atmospheric blip followed. Maybe areas that weren't hit by the oxygen depletion." "And you think there might be some area?" "Yeah, at least not hit as bad." "Like where?" Ross asked. "Um… middle America, Kansas, Colorado and a little west." Ross laughed. "Oh, so now you're laughing at me?" "The whole world dropped dead except middle America." Ross couldn't help laughing again. "I'm not saying that as fact, I was just…" Morgan stopped her thought. A hiss of static rang out on the radio and Ross jumped up so fast his chair fell backwards. "This is NP67, QST all locations. Do you copy? Anyone there?" Ross rushed over. Static. "This is NP67, QST all locations, Do you copy? This NP76 QTH, Branson, Missouri." Upon hearing the location of the radio operator, Ross looked at Morgan and she just smiled back at him, feeling vindicated.

10.37

Jacqueline Druga

DIVIDE

By the next morning the tremors were frequent. They were similar to labor, each one getting longer with shorter intervals in-between. Judd was extremely worried, he didn't know what they were building to, but it was something big. By morning it was time to go. They had packed a lot of supplies to take with them, he wrapped his guitar in a garbage bag and duct taped it. He just wished they had a car at the house because looking at a map, he believed he found a series of backroads that would get them to a highway. They had to walk to the car, and in the hard falling rain it wasn't going to be easy. "Maybe we should just stay and wait until it stops," Dawson suggested. "No," Judd told him. "It's not stopping and it doesn't look like it's stopping anytime soon." "How we gonna carry all this stuff?" "We'll try." "Can't we just stop at places on the way?" Dawson asked. "We can. But chapter six says never assume there are supplies out there. I mean, what if there are gangs that claimed them. Then we go tromping out without food and starve. No, we need to leave now and with supplies. We wait any longer we're gonna need a boat." Dawson smiled. "What?" Dawson gabbed Judd's hand and led him to the back kitchen window. "What?" "Why don't we take that?" Judd peered out the window. Two doors down, in a neighbor's back driveway was a boat, it was about twenty feet long and covered, already on a trailer attached to the truck. "I was joking about the boat." "We should take it just in case." "Dawson, I really don't think…" Judd looked up when the thunder clapped loudly and the ground vibrated. "Yeah, maybe that's not such a bad idea. You know, just in case." "What about gas?" "I don't know. We'll figure it out. Hopefully he'll have gassed it up." "Enough to get to Branson?" "Probably not. Wait... that's not Mr. Westerman's yard is it?" "Yeah, it is..." "Shoot. Well, he probably washed away by now. Let's go see if we can find the keys." "Should we bring the stuff with us?" "We'll wait until we pull it in front of the house. But we have to go out there now." "Want me to stay here?" "No, you'll come with me. Do you have a coat?" Dawson hurried to the living room closet, he pulled out a rain coat and his rain boats. To Judd he just looked so cute all dressed in the blue plastic wear. He took a hooded jacket and placed it on. It wasn't going to matter, he was going to get drenched. At least Dawson would stay semi dry. Judd had avoided one thing though, looking out or opening the door. When he did, sure enough, Tire Man was still there. "Why is he here? Maybe he's hungry," Dawson said. "Like a stray cat." Judd took Dawson's hand and never taking his eyes off of Tire Man he stepped off the porch. The water covered his shoes, along with ankles, and came to Dawson's lower shin. He took a few steps and stopped. Something was wrong. He looked left and right. "What is it?" Dawson shouted over the downpour noise. "The water is moving. The book says not to go out with moving water." He looked all around. It moved like a stream but it was a flat area, no slopes. It didn't make sense. Clutching Dawson's hand they moved faster, they had to make it across the lawn, avoiding Tire Man who didn't move. As they made it from Dawson's yard, he then noticed the street. The water wasn't running one direction. It was going back and forth, unnatural looking. A few more steps, the ground vibrated and the water moved faster. Then Judd felt a strong jolt, it nearly knocked him from his feet. He stopped walking when the water began to disappear. "What the heck?" Another tremendous jolt hit as if someone dropped a heavy object beneath his feet, and before he could register what was happening, not only did the ground crack, it split, separated wide and a huge chunk dropped, taking Dawson with it. "Judd!" Judd was still holding his hand and had to lower to the ground to keep his grip on the child. Dawson balanced on a slab of concrete, his one hand joined with Judd's. "Hang on!" Judd hollered. He couldn't see anything below Dawson, he didn't know how far down it went. Judd panicked, he begged in his mind to not lose Dawson. However the rain made it impossible and slippery. He struggled to pull him, losing his footing. Dawson tried to climb, but slipped back. "No!" Judd pulled. "Please." The rain fell against his face and the grip he had on Dawson was slipping. "Don't let me fall! Don't let me fall!" "Try to climb." Judd grunted pulling harder. He had Dawson's wrist, then his hands, then fingers… until finally, a sickening feeling hit his gut when Judd realized he was going to lose him. His little fingers slipped from his and Judd cried out, ready to dive in, but before Dawson could fall into the hole, he was hoisted upward, gripped by his little rain coat and set on the ground next to Judd by Tire Man. Shaking and on the verge of tears from fear and horror of what could have happened, Judd grabbed on to Dawson, grunting outward in desperation and wrapped him tightly in his arms. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry." He wasn't letting go. Not for a second, even with the rain coming down. Judd had to calm down, he couldn't move. His whole body spasmed out of control. On the ground he took a moment, squeezed Dawson tighter and looked up to Tire Man with gratitude.

10.37

Jacqueline Druga

FULL HOUSE

The couch was comfortable. Morgan had propped pillows behind her back and was able to sleep without too much pain. In fact, after she had fallen asleep, she didn't wake up like she had the previous night. Then again, her injuries were still fresh. Ross was a good man, a family man. He had been with his wife his entire adult life and they waited awhile before having children. His job as a police officer and his wife not wanting to put her public relations job on hold to have a family caused problems early on in their marriage. They worked it out with the help, he claimed, from God, family and their church. Morgan wasn't real big on the 'God" thing. Ross picked up on that and shook his head when she was dismissive. She was quickly learning a lot about Ross, one thing she realized was they were going to butt heads, and often. They were both hard headed people and their journey ahead was going to be interesting. The difference between them was she was more heated and he seemed a lot more even keeled. They actually got into her life, too. How her husband left her for a woman with children, when he was the one that didn't want them. He started doing some counselor, long term married man bullshit to her and she cut him off. "I wanted him to stay, he didn't want to." Morgan blasted. "Marriage is not fifty-fifty, it's a hundred percent on both parts." Ross stated with passion. "Really?" she snapped. "So his cheating was my fault too." Seriously? "No 'one' person is completely innocent." Ross insisted. "Oh, that's so not true. That is such male shit." Morgan stated dismissively. "No," he said, shaking his head. "This is coming from someone who was cheated on." "Okay, so why is this important now?" Morgan asked. "He's dead." "That's cold." Ross said shaking his head. "It's true." "You don't feel loss over a man you shared your life with?" "No! I felt loss when he left me for her," Morgan said irritated. "I grieved. Now I'm relieved, so it's not important. The problem is now over and finished." "You still need to forgive him." Morgan laughed. "What for?" "You'll carry this the rest of your life. Plus, I am sure his soul could use it." "I don't care about his soul. Not now and I don't want to forgive. Come on, you've been there. How long did it take you to forgive?" "Not long." "Then you're a better person than me. If I need to forgive I will, but not now. It's a moot point." "Are you in pain?" he asked, changing the subject, or so she thought. "No. Why?" "You're being very snippy, or is this just because of the radio call?" The radio call? Morgan thought about it for a bit. Actually, it did set her off, or rather Ross' take on it. They both were overwhelmed when they heard it and despondent when they were unable to reply. The man on the radio simply called out. His call number, his location and asked if anyone was there. Three times he repeated his call and then he added a, "I received a message and have information I need to share about an extinction event," then he gave a specific date that a pilgrimage to life would leave Branson. It was in one week. It was urgent, the man said, that all come to Branson. That was it. Yet something so basic was a source of contention between them. Morgan saw it as a man who had information too in depth to give over the airways, so he simplified it with urgency. Pretty simple, Morgan believed, it was a join me message. Ross on the other had delved deeper into the simplistic message. He believed the message was somehow more spiritual. Again, Morgan laughed. "I hate to think of what the extinction event is. I mean, what does he call most people dropping dead? Think maybe he's in touch with a scientist or something?" "I don't know," Ross said. "I think you were right in believing there may be pockets of places with people." "So you don't think it's a God thing." "Oh, I think it's a God thing." Ross nodded emphatically. "Ross, you are a cop. I can't believe you are thinking this way. Blaming God is a cop out. You are going to feel awfully silly when you're wrong." Morgan said dramatically. "Won't you feel silly when you are," Ross said a bit irritated. "Um, it will take the skies opening up or Jesus himself making an appearance for me to believe this was something other than one that has a scientific explanation." They agreed to disagree on that aspect, but did find themselves in agreement on leaving. They would head towards Branson and give it their best shot at getting there. A man called out on the radio, it was one more survivor in the world, and they wanted to find people. Survival in the aftermath would be better if they joined, or formed a community. They planned to leave in the morning. Morgan knew life on the road wasn't going to be easy and she self medicated and slept. Ross must have spotted her open eyes. She smelled the coffee. "Made you a cup and filled a thermos," he said. "Thank you." "You might want to fill your belly." "What time is it?" "Almost noon." Morgan started to sit up and then groaned. "Why did you let me sleep that long?" "You needed to rest. Are you still in pain?" "I'll know more after my body works out the kinks," she said. "I'm nowhere near the pain I was in yesterday." "Good, Good. You need your strength and wits about you. In fact, we need to figure out some things out. We have a problem." After telling her that, Morgan grabbed the coffee and took a big drink. Then another. The coffee helped her 'wits' and she stood from the couch and followed him across the lobby. "What's going on?" she asked. Ross walked to the automatic doors. "I shut them down. Take a look." She didn't really see anything through the slightly tinted glass, and the SUV along with canopy over the driveway blocked her view some. As soon as she joined him at the door, she saw the problem and gasped. Outside of the motel, in the parking lot and not far from the door were people. Like the ones back at Ross' house, they just stood there staring, only difference was, this time instead of a dozen, there were hundreds.

10.37

Jacqueline Druga

ONWARD

It took a while for Judd to get it together. He felt like an utter failure. He nearly lost Dawson. Granted there was no way for him to know the street would break, but then again, had he paid any attention to the warning signs in the book, he wouldn't have gone further. Moving water means danger. Still, Dawson fell down that hole and had it not been for the heroism of the mute Tire Man, Dawson would have died. Judd wasn't sure Tire Man understood what he did exactly. After setting down Dawson, the big guy stepped back. Judd didn't know how to react. He still didn't trust Tire Man, hero or not. Something was missing in his eyes. A soul, a conscious, something. No matter how good the dead, Judd wouldn't allow himself to trust him. He nodded a thank you, but then after embracing Dawson, he hurried through the rain to get to Mr. Westerman's house to get the truck and boat. Dawson didn't say much, just 'thanks and wow you're cool'. Judd didn't tell him that it was Tire Man that pulled him out. He would, just not now. Judd felt a little silly getting the boat. After all, it was just rain, and really, where would they be going that it would get so flooded that they'd need to float their way to Branson? However, something inside of Judd told him they needed the boat, it wouldn't hurt. If they didn't need it and were wasting gas, then he'd simply ditch it. If they did end up needing it, at least Judd knew how to man it. He was right. The rain had washed away the gross remnants of Mr. Westerman and his lawnmower incident. All that remained was his lower torso and left arm. Apparently, Mr. Westerman was going on a fishing trip. The twenty foot, aluminum motor boat was secure on its trailer and hitched to the Chevy four by four. A cooler was in the back of the truck, but it wasn't full. The fishing gear was in there, but the keys were not. They had to find them. "You okay buddy?" Judd asked. "Wanna just stay near the garage and I'll check the house?" "You should check Mr. Westerman." "I am not checking Mr. Westerman. Besides, there's nothing left." "You have his legs." Dawson corrected him. "Just stay put," Judd told him and walked into the basement door. Dawson didn't listen, he followed. "Does he have a wife?" Judd asked. "Just wanting to be prepared. You know, for another body." "No. He lived alone." "Good." "Except when his son came over, then he wasn't alone. But I don't see his son's car." "Just help me look for the keys." "I still say…" Dawson stopped speaking. "What? What's wrong?" "Listen. It stopped raining." Judd lifted his head, peering up to the ceiling. He didn't hear the rain. The faint sound of rolling thunder was still present, but for the time being, it had stopped pouring down. As if he weren't in debate enough about the boat, the lack of rain made Judd really wonder if they should take such a gas hog as the truck. He pushed forward on the search, they checked everywhere. Every place in the house. They did find the boat key. All by itself on a ring with a keychain from Bruce's boats. No truck key. "Try Mr. Westerman," Dawson kept saying. Finally, Judd relented and said, "Fine. I'll try Mr. Westerman." "Want me to?" Dawson offered. "No!" Judd snapped. "Why aren't you traumatized, you fell in a sink hole?" "Because you saved me. I feel really safe with you." Judd groaned out a swell, and was at least grateful it wasn't raining. He headed back outside to check Mr. Westerman, or what was left of him. They exited the house back out the basement door. Judd was a little surprised that their shadow, Tire Man wasn't anywhere around. He looked up to the sky, it was still overcast with dark gray storm clouds. He walked toward the back yard and stopped at the edge of the grass staring out to Mr. Westerman's remains. "Go on. Go check," Dawson said. "Shush," Judd told him. 'Have some respect." "Should we pray for him?" "No, I don't think that's gonna help." The yard wasn't huge and the back portion of it was at a slight slope. That was where Mr. Westerman's remains were. There was about six inches of water that flooded the yard. Not enough to cover the body. First step into the yard, the ground vibrated. Judd without hesitation, grabbed hold of Dawson's hand. "I'm fine." "I'm not taking a chance." "Are you going to make me come with you?" "Just stay close. Don't look. It's pretty bad," Judd said. "You should have seen it when the mower was running." Cautiously, holding Dawson's hand super tight, he walked across the yard. He knew immediately why Dawson squealed out an 'ew'. A part of Mr. Westerman's hand was all by itself a good ten feet from the other remains. Probably tossed aside when he was getting chopped up. The closer he got he could see a bit of shredded shirt, a few bones, and what remained of Mr. Westerman's torso. It was mowed clean. "Hopefully, he didn't have the key in his shirt pocket," Dawson said. "Should we check the grass." "If it's in the grass we won't see it with all the water." Judd cringed both facially and internally. He hated, really hated that he actually was going to check the lower remains of Mr. Westerman. Was it worth it? Did they really need to take that boat? What it they just found that Bruce's Boat place? He was there, right there by the pair of legs, buttocks up, covered in what probably was green pants. The pants were soaked from the water, and the waste was semi blood stained. Mr. Westerman still wore a belt. "Okay, here it goes," Judd said, crouching down. He wanted to gag, throw up, in fact his stomach churned. From above the waist of Mr. Westerman's pants extended a shredded part of his abdomen and spine. "Oh my God," Judd groaned out. "What?" "This is horrible." "Does he smell." "Yeah, he smells." "I can't smell him." "Trust me, he smells." "What's he smell like?" "Dawson," Judd said with a correcting tone. "All right, here I go." Holding his breathe, Judd reached out and aimed for the back pocket. He stopped when Dawson screamed. "What?" he asked the boy. "You're touching him." "I have to touch him if I want to look for the keys. Okay, I won't go in his back pocket. I'll feel." He patted the back pocket area, then looked over his shoulder when he heard Dawson snicker. "What now?" "You're touching his butt." "Stop. Frist screaming and now laughing." He exhaled in frustration. "Okay no keys there. I'll check the front packet." He slid his hand under the torso. "No comments, please." He reached into the front pocket, paused when Dawson giggled and then Judd smiled. He lifted the keys. "See. See?" Dawson said with glee. "I told you. Didn't I?" "You were right." Judd stood up. "Now what?" Dawson asked. "We leaving?" Judd looked up at the sky. If the rain held off, they could wait around to leave. But was it a chance he wanted to take? "Yeah, let's head back to the house. Finish getting what we need and we'll head out." Dawson nodded. "Should I get in the truck?" "Yes, we'll drive it to your house. That will make it easier to pack." Dawson walked toward the truck. "Wait," Judd said. "How old was Mr. Westerman?" "Can't you tell?" "No." Judd snapped. "I can't judge someone's age by their legs. Unless you know, they're a woman. Even then, there are some older women with legs that…" he cleared his throat. "No I can't tell." "Why do you need to know?" "I just do." "Old." "Like how old? My age old, your dad's age old…" "You and my dad are the same age. He was grandpa old." Judd winked. "Then I think we need to see what all Mr. Westerman has before we leave. If he's grandfather old, then he didn't rely on technology as much. Bet he has maps and all sorts of stuff we can use." He didn't want to get into it with Dawson, what all he wanted to search for, because Judd himself, didn't quite know. He just knew that when he searched Dawson's house, there was nothing useful. Not a power tool or even a map. Not that Judd was a survivalist, but that book had quite the list and before they left, he wanted to check Mr. Westerman's house for some of those items Dawson's parents didn't have.

10.37

Jacqueline Druga

CONCERT OF ARMS

Following the letter of the law, Ross went outside to have a smoke, that was when he saw the crowd. He didn't notice them at first. It was early, he was half asleep and in his own world. He looked down only at the ground and didn't peer beyond the truck until he wanted to see the rain. There was something about the crowd of people that struck him as scary. They all looked the same, stared the same way as if operating on one brain. They could get out, get in the truck and drive right through them, but was that the right thing to do? He wanted Morgan's opinion. He made her coffee, woke her up and broke the news. Figuring if she were like his wife, she was easier to deal with and more clear headed after a few sips of coffee. She looked out the front door for a while. "How long have they been out there?" "They've been there since I got up," Ross replied. "Have they moved?" "Not once." "Okay, we get in the truck and drive through them." "Morgan, they're people. Living breathing people." "If I'm not mistaken, didn't one of those people try to kill you?" she asked. "Not them, Tanner did. He was a violent person before. We don't know anything about the people standing there. They may feel pain, know what's going on and not be able to do anything about it." "Not our problem. If we want out of here and they don't move, just run over them." "Jesus, you're cold." "What do you want me to say?" she asked. "If you don't want to do that, then we stay put. We stay until we go. We can walk, I don't want to walk. We have a perfectly good vehicle out here with gas. So we can stay and they will eventually leave or make their way in." It would be a different story if every end of the world book and movie were right. If those people out there looked like creatures or were undead. They weren't. They looked normal, like people in the morning waiting on the subway. Ross decided to check the back of the motel. If it was a free and clear escape, then they could find another car. The back was surrounded as well. One big circle of the staring people encompassed the motel. The rain came down steady and hard and not one of them moved an inch. Morgan made the decision for them both to wait. Wait until they left. Even if it delayed them a day, Branson was a thousand miles west. They could do that easily. They had gas to get half way. After the decision to wait was made, not an hour later, the crowd moved forward. They pressed against the window, hands and finger tips squeaking as they ran down the glass. None of the people out there showed violence. They hadn't tried to break through, but that didn't mean they wouldn't. It was Ross' turn to make the executive decision. Most of their items were already in the truck. They merely had to shoulder the bags they brought in. They would try to go. Morgan was agreeable. The front double doors were blocked and their best option was the exit at the far end of the first-floor hallway. Go out that door and make their way through the people to the SUV. Then he thought about Morgan. While she presented tough, she still wasn't well. She cringed in pain quite a bit and knowing broken ribs, she wasn't in shape to make it through a mob of people. What if they turned at any second and became violent? There was no way Morgan could fight them off. By the elevator was an emergency fire case with an extinguisher and ax, Ross broke the glass on the case and took the ax. He placed only one bag over his shoulder and left the other two, along with the radio, in the lobby with Morgan. "Just wait here. I'll bring the truck in." "You're going to crash through the window?" "That's the only way." "I can go out there with you," She said. "No. I can't take that chance." "They're not moving out of your way. If you intend on driving through the front window, you'll have to plow through them." "I don't have a choice. At this rate, they'll be in the building and we'll be barricaded in a room. No, this is the only way. Stay here and wait." It was good in theory. Walk out, squeeze through the people, get in the truck and drive into the lobby. That was until Ross went outside. His last encounter with the seemingly zoned out people ended with one of them having a death grip on his jaw. Ross had a small ax and nearly a fully clip in his revolver to make his way through hundreds of people. He didn't know what their reaction would be. Would he even make it through them? He would use any of his weapons if he needed to. As prepared as he could be, ax in one hand, gun in the other, Ross opened the emergency exit door, at the end of the west wing, of the first floor. Mentally, he envisioned himself pushing through the people and to the truck. He didn't expect so many blocking his way. In his mind if he didn't speak to them, or try to communicate, it would be fine. He figured that was the reason Tanner snapped, Ross had talked to him and made eye contact. The second he stepped outside, he lowered his head and moved onward. At first it was like a rock concert full of people, pushing his way through annoying individuals who didn't budge. How many times had he done that in his life and career. Moving through hordes of people focused only on themselves. Only instead of booze, these one smelled really bad. The odor of urine and feces filled the air blending with a moldy water smell, it was so rank, his glands swelled and mouth salivated from the gag reflex. While they seemed to be standing still, they weren't. They moved forward toward the building and the instant Ross opened that exit door, one of them grabbed for it, trying to keep it open. "Oh, no you don't," Ross said and shoved the man aside, blocking the door until it closed again. He didn't need them rushing in. Mistake. It wasn't just eye contact or talking, Ross quickly learned physical contact made them 'awaken' and the man who reached for the door suddenly focused on Ross. His arm shot up and he grabbed on to Ross' shirt. 'Okay I can do this,' Ross told himself and forged forward. His shirt was held tight and the collar of it pressed against his throat with every step, choking him. He twisted and jarred his body to get free, only to have another move into him, then another. If he were claustrophobic, Ross would have been in a panic. Suddenly he was mobbed. One man holding his shirt, while the others moved into him, squeezing against him. He could feel their hands on his body, fingers grabbing and scratching. They were still people, they were still human. Don't hurt them, he kept repeating in his mind. It was useless. Each step was blocked and Ross found himself buried in the crowd. It was hard to breathe, hard to move. Hands grabbed for him, bodies pressed against him, each step he took was harder than the last. Within a minute his face was pressed against other faces and he found himself in nothing less than a human vice. Ross couldn't breathe. As much as he didn't want to desecrate life, it became a fight to live. The human walls were closing in. He was literally being squeezed to death. It was time to fight back. Just slipping through was no longer an option. He hated to do it, but the moment someone's fingers dug deep into his flesh, along with the burning pain, Ross screamed out and swung the ax. He didn't want to use his ammunition, so he kept swinging. It seemed futile. His hacking didn't make a dent. Those squeezing the life out of him didn't even notice. Ross had to amp it up a notch. The SUV wasn't that far, yet the weight of the people were holding him back. Not only did they compress him, they struck him. He felt the blows of pain to his legs, mid-section, head and chest. With war cries flowing from him, he swung back and forth, in and out. He pushed his way around to the front of the building. He could barely see the SUV. So many people surrounded him blocking Ross from getting to the SUV. He moved against the grain, feeling not only the lack of air, but the burning as his flesh took the brunt of their kicks and scratches. He envisioned himself as a football player, plowing through them all. The one man still held onto his shirt. As he neared the front of the building, Ross not only swung the ax, he flung his body, fighting his way through until he reached the SUV. He opened the driver's door and Ross finally pulled his weapon. He shot the man that grasped his shirt, then Ross slipped inside and turned over the engine. He was injured. He knew he was bleeding, yet couldn't let it stop him. He put the SUV in reverse and backed up. He shuddered when he heard the thuds against the vehicle. After a quick turn of the wheel, he shifted the car in drive and slammed on the gas. Driving through people wasn't as easy as it seemed. They rolled from the front end of his car and got caught under his wheel. The SUV bounced as it ran over the people and Ross not only heard the crunch of bones, he could feel it too. He felt it physically and he felt it in his soul. Every person he killed, he absorbed emotionally. Eventually, he broke free and rammed right in and through the front lobby window. Morgan was waiting with the bags and as soon as the truck was clear enough, she jumped in. "I was worried," she said. "I'm fine." "You're hurt." "I'm fine," he repeated. "I'll worry about it when we're clear." "What's going on with all these people, Ross?" "I don't know. I wish I did, but I just don't know." Quickly, he shifted the SUV in reverse and prepared for the bounced, thump and thud of human lives falling beneath the wheels off his vehicle. He never wanted to run them over, or kill them. Ross had no choice. It was what he had to do to get him and Morgan away and safe. Ross knew, even making it out of the motel parking lot wasn't the end of it all. More obstacles would lie ahead. If getting out of the hotel was that difficult, he didn't want to think about how hard it was going to be to get to Branson, Missouri.

10.37

Jacqueline Druga

CHASING RAINBOWS

When Dawson was seven, to celebrate his First Holy Communion, he went to Idlewild Park in Pennsylvania with his best friend Sawyer and his family. They left on a Friday and they got to miss school. Dawson's mom and dad didn't go and it was the first time ever, Dawson had been away from them. His parents were at work when they left for the park, they had said their goodbyes and gave kisses when they left for the office. Mr. Westerman came to the house to see Dawson off. Dawson likened that day to his leaving with Judd. His parents weren't there, he looked back to the house several times as they drove down the street. Mr. Westerman was the last person he saw… sort of. There were a couple differences. There was no best friend, just Judd, he rode front seat in a pickup, and Mr. Westerman didn't give a long list of instructions. Mr. Westerman, did however, give a lot of other things. Judd had taken a tool box and two of those orange gas cans. Mr. Westerman had fishing gear, a bunch of maps, and some old looking thing Judd called a CB. Judd kept in on the floor of the pickup right under where the change holder was. Dawson played with it a lot that first half hour of the trip, and even though Judd had it plugged in, it wasn't working. "Maybe it's old," Dawson suggested. "There's just no one chattering," Judd said. "Does it need the internet?" "No, buddy." "It's strange." "I wrote a song about one of these things," Judd said. "Was it any good?" "Not really, I liked it. No one really made a fuss about it. It was a cut on one of my albums." "How did it go?" Dawson asked. "Let me think." Judd tapped the steering wheel a few times, hummed, then snapped his finger. "It was a while ago. The chorus went something like this…" he sang the word. "Been around the world, never looking back, now I can't go forward a single step. You rocked my heart, you rocked my world. I see you, you see me, when I'm away, there's always the CB." "You sing good." "Thanks." "I can see why people didn't like it." Dawson looked out the window. He was glad it stopped raining. The sun wasn't out and it was going to be awhile before the water dried up. That was if it didn't rain again. 'Objects in the mirror are closer than they appear' was written in the bottom of the passenger's mirror. Dawson didn't get it, why put a mirror on a car that wasn't accurate. Through that mirror he also saw Tire Man sitting in the bed of the truck. "Why'd you bring him?" Dawson asked. "I thought you were scared of him." "I am." "Then why'd you bring him?' "You saw him, Buddy. He was trying to get in." Judd shrugged. "I figured maybe we can train him like you suggested." "If he don't die from the cold and rain. My mom always said, I'd catch my death of cold playing in the rain." "All mothers say that." "So it's not true? Did my mom tell a fib?" Dawson asked. "No. It's sort of true. You catch a cold and you can die." "So, Chuck the Tire Man is gonna get rained on and catch his death of cold. That's a mean thing to do to him. If you wanna train him you have to keep him alive." "Aside from being scared of him, he doesn't smell all that good. Maybe the rain will wash the smell away." "If he doesn't die from it." "I got news for you. Our Tire Man… he hasn't drank water or eaten anything from what I've seen. Pretty much, that's what's gonna kill him." "That just seems wrong." Dawson glanced out to the mirror again. Tire Man sat against the side of the truck, his head was turned to the back watching the road go by. "Wanna play a road game?" Judd asked. "What's that?" "Different games you play to make the miles go faster. Some we can't play because there aren't any cars on the road. Well there are, just not enough." "Sure." Dawson said. He was surprised they were driving as well as they were. At first he thought they'd never get out of the city, but Judd zig zigged through back streets and was smart about it. "Go," Judd said. "What?" "Go first." "And do what?" "You weren't listening were you?" Judd asked. Dawson shook his head. "Sorry. I'm sorry. You're probably finally upset about everything. I mean you were pretty cool back home with Mr. Westerman and that hole. I was the mess there. You were brave about falling." "That's because you had me. I don't know how you did it," Dawson said. "You were fast, too. I felt your hand let go and next thing I know you are swopping me out of that hole like Superman." Dawson saw it. Judd looked away and stopped smiling. "Dawson, I have to tell you something." "What is it?" "I dropped you. Not on purpose. My fingers slipped, they were wet." "But you got me." Judd shook his head. 'No, he did." He pointed back. "What?" "Soon as I lost grip, Tire Man was there and plucked you out of the hole so fast I didn't have time to register it." "Wait. Why would you lie to me?" Dawson asked. "About what?" "You let me think it was you." "I never said it was me. I just …. I just figured I'd tell you when we had time. I'm sorry. Don't be mad." "Did you at least say thank you to Tire Man?" "Yeah, I guess," Judd said. "Is that why you brought him? So he can save me again?" "No." Judd shook his head. "I brought him because he wanted to come and after what he did, it was only right." "Stop the truck." "Why? Do you have to pee?" "Stop the truck, please, Mr. Heston." "Mr. Heston? This is serious." "You said call you that when it counts. I want this request to count. Can you stop?" "Sure thing." Judd slowed down and then after stopping put the truck in park. Dawson reached down to the small gym bag on the floor and unzipped it. "What are you doing?" Judd asked. After setting a bottle of water and one of those premade peanut butter sandwiches on the seat, Dawson opened the door. 'I'll be right back." "Dawson?' Judd opened his door. It was a tough climb down. Dawson had to stand on that little ledge by the door and slide to the ground, he reached up and grabbed the sandwich and water. By the time he was on the ground, Judd was there. "What's going on?" Judd asked. "He may smell too bad to be in the truck and he may not even be safe, but he saved my life Judd. The least I can do is try to save his." "Humbled," Judd said. "Good idea." Dawson walked to the back of the tuck. Tire Man was much higher so Judd lifted him up. "Here you go. I know you're hungry. Try to eat." Dawson said to Tire Man. Tire Man didn't take the water, it dropped into the truck, but he did manage to take the wrapped peanut butter sandwich. Expressionless he looked at the sandwich. Judd set Dawson down. Tire Man put the sandwich to his mouth, wrapper and all. "No. No" Judd reached out. "Let me open that for you." The second his hand was near the sandwich, Tire Man released this soft but scary growl and his eyes darted at Judd. Judd quickly pulled back his hand and stared. "Let's go, Dawson." "Boy he must be hungry." "Yeah." Judd said inching Dawson along. "He must be." Instead of waiting for Dawson to walk and get back into his side, Judd lifted him and placed him in the truck and shut the door. He watched in the side mirror as Judd walked around the back of the truck only pausing to look at Tire Man. It wasn't long and they were back on the road driving.

10.37

Jacqueline Druga

ROLL BY

It bothered Ross and Morgan knew it. His face was bruised, his arms had gashes, he looked as if he had been beaten by a mob. When in fact, in a sense, he had been. They didn't reach out and hit him, bite or scratch him, instead they acted like a boa constrictor and tried to squeeze him in. It was the fight to get through that caused the injuries. Those would heal, his mind would take longer. The tough officer of the law was affected when he dealt with the people that moved outside the motel. So much so, that not five miles down the road and free and clear of the mob, Ross pulled over, stepped from the SUV and walked to the side of the road to vomit. "Are you all right?" Morgan asked. With his back to her, Ross lifted a hand but stayed at a distance. Morgan took the time to review the map and compare it to her weather charts. She opened up the back hatch and spread them out, taking cover from the rain under the lifted back end. They were still in Pennsylvania, but not far from the Ohio turnpike. Even with accidents and cars off the road during the drop, they should still be able to make it free and clear through the highway, provided weather didn't hinder them. It had rained steadily, but slowed down to a constant drizzle when they were leaving the hotel. Basically, they fled the motel and just jumped the nearest highway going west. Fortunately, it was the right direction. She was chilled and looked at the map for a possible stopping point to get clothes and a jacket. It was spring and the temperature didn't surprise her. It worried her, rain could turn into snow. Considering one inch of rain was about a foot of snow, they were in trouble if the temperature dropped any more. Sipping a bottle of water, Ross approached. "Figure out anything?" he asked. "Yeah, we could take this route pretty much to Akron then catch another highway. I'm worried about the weather." "How so?" "When I looked up the weather maps back in the city, this is what I printed." She pulled out two sheets of paper and lay them side by side. "This one is the jet stream. Weather moves from west to east and typically follows jet streams. As of that day, the jet streams were coming from Chicago, down into Ohio and east. The national weather operates on a color coded system. For storms. Light blue to red and harshest can be white or black. This light color here west of Akron," She pointed. "Pale blue. This is what we are getting right now. Light rain. That darker color, red, we're running right into. That hit Akron last night, this morning, it's not as bad as what just hit Pittsburgh. I'm guessing." She pointed to a weather system just before Akron. "So we missed it." "That one. This one here is the one I am worried about. It's big and blackened out. Not a printing error. This should be about a hundred miles west of Akron, and it's bad. We'll hit it late tonight if we keep going. Then again, I'm making predictions on this. Everything is one big storm system, just pockets of intensity." "How did you learn to predict weather." "I watched it constantly," Morgan said. "I was obsessed especially when they called for snow. I got so tired of them being wrong, I started learning it." "Did it help?" Morgan nodded. "Yes, when I was wrong, I could only blame myself." "So, Miss Weather Gal, what do you suggest?" "Hit Youngstown and head south instead of heading due west. Try to miss it like the one we missed in Pittsburgh. It's one o'clock now, we can go a few more hours and then find a safe place to hunker down." "Then that's what we'll do." Morgan folded the papers. "We also need to figure out a way to get gas, we have some just not enough to get to Branson." "We'll figure it out." Ross reached up for the hatch. "Are you better now?" "Somewhat." "Was it because you ran over those people?" Ross facially winced. "Yes, Morgan. I ran over those people and got sick about it. It bothered me. Didn't it bother you?" "I don't see them as people." "How can you say that? They're living, they're breathing…" "They're dangerous. Maybe one or two aren't, but they operate like animals in a pack mentality. What one does the others do. At least from what I saw at the motel. If we don't figure out a way to get through them, we're in trouble if we run into too many of them. They won't give a shit if we feel bad." "Were you always like this?" Ross asked, shutting the hatch. "Like what?" "Mean. Hard." Morgan stared at him for a moment, then headed back to the passenger's door. "No. Not always." "Just wondering. One more thing…" Morgan stopped. "This storm you're talking about. You used the term hunker down. How bad is it?" "I don't know. I never experienced it ever. Red usually is tornado weather. Hopefully we'll avoid it, be under it, but we still need to hunker down," she said. "Put it this way, I believe if there are survivors in that area west, God help them. Because if they aren't ready, there probably won't be survivors when this storm is done."

10.37

Jacqueline Druga

DASHING MEMORIES

Dawson gave the queerest of looks to Judd when he they passed a road sign that read 'Lodi' and Judd chuckled out with fond remembrance. "Oh man, Lodi. Bet you love Lodi." "I don't think so," Dawson said after staring at Judd for a moment or two. What's Lodi?" "Wait. You don't know Lodi, Ohio. Little dude, that's only like forty miles from you. You never were in Lodi?" Dawson shook his head. "Man, how have you not been to Lodi. Even I was in Lodi and it's not so small they call it a village." "Like with huts?" Judd laughed. "No. There's a whole string of small towns west of Akron, all following the same route." "You're not from around here. How do you know?" "Back in the day, we moved around quite a bit on a tour bus. About ten years ago, we were headed from a concert in Erie to Columbus. Passed through the small towns and the bus broke down right outside of Lodi. In fact, we pulled off the exit hoping to find a car repair place and we just busted down. Squad car came by to help out. Just so happened we couldn't get a mechanic if we tried. It was the Sweet Corn festival they have. Just…" Judd noticed Dawson was staring out the window. "I'm boring you, aren't I?" "No." He paused. "Yeah, a little." "Lodi is a cool town." "Hey, maybe the small towns are saved. Maybe they're so small they didn't get hit." "Maybe," Judd said. "Like Branson. It isn't big. I dreamt of it you know." "You told me." "Some guy named Bill was waving his arm at me saying, 'Come to Branson'." "You didn't tell me that." "What do you suppose it means?" "It means we should go to Branson." "Think we should stop at these small towns and look for people?" Judd took a moment to think about it. While they were supposed to head south west before Lodi, they could continue west, even for a little bit, to check the towns. It wouldn't take them too far from the route and it would be worth it to look. All around them was desolation, chances were small town or not, it would be the same way there, too. Besides, what would it hurt to look?

10.37

Jacqueline Druga

SPOT

The planned route outside of Youngstown, Ohio came to an unexpected end when the road entered what looked like a lake just west of the town of Canfield. It went across too far and wide to see. "Did we just hit the end of the country?" Ross asked. "Is everything flooded from here on in? This is insane." "That's ridiculous." "Seriously?" Ross snapped. "Are you calling me ridiculous? "No, just your idea. It has to be the small lake a mile north of here." Morgan looked at the map. "We'll back track and just head further south." Ross didn't think that was going to work. He swore that somehow the three lakes north of them spilled over from all the rain, if that was even possible. But his fears were unfounded and they remained on dry land. The name of the town, Salem, sent chills through Ross. He even suggested they go around it. However, the Super Center at the edge of town was calling even him. The parking lot was full of cars, only a few had crashed. Decomposing bodies scattered about the blacktop. They had a bloated look to them, even more so than other bodies Ross had seen. He attributed it to the rain. It was dark when they entered the store, no power, the further back in the store Ross went the darker it was. He was able to find flashlights and lanterns. His main search was for those things. Batteries, a Coleman stove, survival items. Perhaps even some food items. He was shocked when he saw that Morgan had grabbed a heavy winter coat from the clearance rack. "It's April," he told her. "I'm being prepared for snow." Ross laughed. "Go on, laugh. It's not even fifty out there. Any colder all that rain is going to be snow. Then we're in trouble." Ross paused. "Did you see any men's coats?" They remained in the Super Center probably longer than they should have. Ross had gotten them enough supplies to 'hunker' down as Morgan put it for the night somewhere. They decided that after Salem, they go about a hundred miles or so southwest and start looking for a stopping place. The weather was holding up, the rain tapered, and Ross held high hopes that Morgan was wrong about the weather front. They loaded the truck and took the main road toward town. Riding shot gun, Morgan checked the map for alternate roads to get through, figuring, even though smaller, they'd run into the same. Cars blocking the roads, making things impassible. There wasn't much conversation in the SUV. In fact Ross found himself increasingly annoyed with Morgan. He once had a partner that annoyed the hell out of him and he used to joke to him, "Man, I swear you're my purgatory. The world ends I'm gonna be stuck with someone like you." He was kidding. Morgan was worse than that partner and here Ross was, traveling with the only other person that was alive and lucid and he didn't like her. How did that happen? What did he do in his life to have that? Bad weather, earthquakes, Ross started feeling silly for wanting to stop, find a quiet corner and get 'me' time. Who does that at the end of the world. Ross was patient and tolerant and all that was going out the window. His fleeting daydreams of ditching her came to a halt when he stopped the SUV. Ross smiled. "What is it?" Morgan asked, her nose buried in a map. "Do we need to back up?" "No. Life." "What?" Morgan lifted her head. "Oh my God." She, too finally smiled. Not far ahead, a few blocks perhaps, when the quaint town square of Salem began, they saw people. They moved across the street, on the sidewalks, pushing strollers and even saw what appeared to be a man walking a dog. Ross drove faster. "Careful, they probably aren't expecting a car to come down." "Yeah, you're right." Ross slowed down. Maybe it was the east side of the country. Maybe it wasn't a dead world after all. The ecstatic grin on Ross' face took a nosedive when he saw the man walking a dog. He held a lease, but the dog wasn't walking. He dragged the decaying carcass of the animal along the sidewalk. He looked quickly to Morgan when he heard the 'click' of the automatic locks. The moment the SUV came to a stop, so did everyone in town. As if all automated, every single person halted and slowly turned at the same time to face the SUV. "Back up?" Morgan suggested. "Yeah, backing up." Ross put the SUV in gear and turned his body to peer out the window. When he did he saw more behind them. "Shit." Every second they waited more came, hundreds of them and they slowly made their way to the SUV. There were far too many, too close, that plowing through was going to be impossible.

10.37

Jacqueline Druga

NUN OF THAT

Judd supposed he should have known, Wadsworth and Seville were both a repeat of what they had seen only on a smaller scale. The biggest difference was the ability to make it through main roads. There were vehicles that collided and some had gone off road. They even saw a car that had hit the steps of the Seville Methodist church and flipped over against the doors. Nothing was hopeful. At one point, Judd actually thought, "Wow, if we keep going further, I'll need to use the boat.' Water started to rise around Seville, coming mid rims of the tires. It subsided after a mile. When they approached the interchange to get on Interstate 71, Judd contemplated forgoing Lodi. What was the use. However the optimist in him, the one who wanted to find life, along with Dawson's insistence, Judd stayed on the route road and drove to Lodi. He remembered that road well, the same one he took into Lodi years ago. The same one his bus broke down on. He recalled the story to Dawson hoping he could catch his attention on it. It was a good story, he broke down, the corn festival and the band that cancelled. "We ended up playing for them." Judd said. "Were they happy?" Dawson asked. "Wish I could say they were. It was like a round of gulf claps when we were done. Some old guy walked up to me and told me to keep trying. Funny." He shook his head and then eased on the breaks. There was a line, four wide of stopped cars. Some smashed into fender benders, some not. Not far beyond that, on the small crest of the road right before the village of Lodi, lay an overturned tractor trailer. "How odd is this?" Judd asked. "This is where the bus broke down." "How do you know?" "The funeral home. I remember sending Pat our stage manager over there to see if he could get help." Judd opened the truck door and stepped out. He walked around to Dawson's door and opened it. "Wanna walk in town and check?" he asked. "It's not too much further." "I don't know. I don't like seeing bodies. If it's like that last place they're all water logged from the rain." "Yeah, but it's a nice day, kind of chilly though. Why don't you step out, take a leak and stretch your legs." He helped him out of the cab of the truck. When he sat his feet on the road, Judd saw his guitar in the back and pulled it out. "You playing now?" Dawson asked. "Feeling nostalgic." "Not sure what that means," Dawson said walking slightly away to do his business. "Stay where I can see you," Judd said. "Nostalgic means sentimental, looking back at the past and it makes you happy and want to relive it." "So if I went to Cedar Point I would be nostalgic." "Yep." Judd strummed the strings, tuning his guitar. "Honestly, Judd, I don't get why playing your guitar on a road full of abandoned cars would bring back good memories." "Oh!" Judd blasted out. "Oh my God, you saw that old movie, too." "What?" Dawson came out from behind a car. "What was it?" Judd waved his hand, trying to jar his own memory and snapped his fingers. "Guitar, highway… Stand." "I am." "No, the movie, The Stand." "Never heard of it." "It was a while ago, way before your time, actually my time. But it's classic. Super cool show based on a book by Stephen King." "Who?" Judd waved out his hand. "Anyhow, the book is about a sickness that kills everyone." He climbed up the front fender and sat on the hood of the truck. "Like now." "Sort of. Anyhow… Oh man, it's like prophetic…" he paused. "That means he predicted this. Like Stephen King was psychic or something. Plague, sickness, everyone drops dead. So this rock and roll guy, Larry has a guitar." "Like you," Dawson said. "Sort of. I'm country and better looking." Judd winked. "Anyhow, Larry is like all alone, going nuts, he stops on a highway full of abandoned cars…" "Like this." "Exactly. He gets up on a hood of car like this and started playing a song on his guitar. Middle of a song, a boy comes along…" "Like me!" Dawson said. "And a woman." "Was the song like magic?" Dawson asked. "Nah, but it was a freaking iconic scene." "Why don't you play it and see if a woman comes?" Judd laughed. "Okay." He fumbled the chords at first, trying to remember the pattern, then he had it. He played with intensity, graveling his voice in a mimic of the made for television movie he remembered so fondly. He swore he was doing well, too. It felt right and the words were sadistically meaningful at the moment. He was going strong until he noticed he didn't have Dawson's attention anymore. "Man, you are a tough crowd." Judd slowed down his playing. "What are you doing?" "Where are the people?" Judd sang. "It happened on a sunny day… the wind blew and took all life away… you may not hear a breath or single sound, that's because no one else is around…" He shook his head with a chuckle. "Man that was good for off the cuff, wasn't it." "For serious, Mr. Heston. Where are they?" "What do you mean?" "If they all dropped dead and crashed their cars… where are the bodies?" "Huh?" "They're all gone," Dawson said. "Don't stop!" A female voice called out in the distance. "Please don't stop playing." Dawson, wide eyes hurriedly looked at Judd. "The magic song brought a woman." He then pointed. Judd slid from the hood of the truck, putting his guitar over to his back and stepped forward. "You heard the lady, play," Dawson said. It was an odd request but Judd brought his guitar around and strummed the chords to the song. He did for just a minute and stopped in shock when he saw the woman. She made her way around the overturned semi and moved between a walk and a run their way. It wasn't a survivor in blue jeans and a half buttoned down blouse in a state of shock. She was happy to see them. He couldn't tell her age at a distance, but she didn't look old. Actually, she looked too young to be wearing the uniform. The simple white colored shirt underneath the navy jumper style, plain dress and the cross she wore, threw Judd off. She wore one of those headdresses, too. A short one rested more to the back of her head. Judd saw that when she approached. Judd was the one in shock. She smiled. She had a naturally beautiful face. Out of breath she approached and immediately crouched down to Dawson and embraced him. "A healthy child." During her embrace she glowed with a grin and extended her hand to Judd. "I can't tell you how happy I am to see you two. I'm Sister Helena." Nervously, Judd touched and then shook her hand. He was speechless. He didn't expect to see anyone alive, let alone a nun. Her story would be interesting.

10.37

Jacqueline Druga

CONSCIENCE

"Go." Morgan slammed her hand on the dashboard. "Go. Go, Go. Now." Hand gripping the gear shift, Ross looked forward. There were many, too many at the hood of his SUV. He peered in the rearview mirror, they were at the back gate, too. What there was of the daylight was fast blocked out by the people that mobbed the car. "What the hell, go." Morgan yelled. Beads of sweat formed on his top lip. He didn't see monsters when he looked out. There were no sores, no decaying flesh. In fact the only marks on them were injuries probably from falling or from a car accident. These people had a soul, they were alive. They were just suffering and confused. The last place they went Ross plowed through about four and it filled his gut with guilt. Now, not only were there more of them to go through, he could see their eyes. "Ross, what are you waiting for?" Morgan demanded. Suddenly Ross saw him. He stood barely making it over the hood. A child about ten years old. He stood next to a woman wearing a fast food uniform, the left side of her face was burned. "I don't think they'll hurt us," Ross said. "Let's wait. See if they leave." "They aren't leaving. Go through them." He shifted his eyes to Morgan. "I can't. I can't do it. I'm gonna make a run for it." "No!" she screamed. "Why would you do that? Hit the fucking gas and go." Ross shook his head. "No. I don't have it in me to kill them. I know it sounds weak…" "Sounds weak? It is weak!" Morgan reached over. "What are you doing? "I'll drive." "Stop it." He pushed her hands form the wheel. "I honestly don't think they'll hurt us. Just open the door and make a run for it." "We have supplies." "We'll get more." "You're insane. This is what will cause our death. They are out there. They aren't human like we know." "No, Morgan, they aren't. But that doesn't give us the right to kill them." "Yeah, it does," Morgan said. "It's us or them. Choose us." Ross was prepared to argue. He truly believed that if they waited, they would go away. He was wrong. Just as he opened his mouth to speak, he saw the man with a baseball bat aiming for Morgan's window. "Morgan! Watch out…" Crash! The baseball bat smashed the passenger's window and slipped from his hand, through the broken window into her lap. Morgan screamed. Arms reached in, grabbing for her blindly, while she fought their grip. "Ross! Get them off!" Ross reached over and grabbed the bat, trying to get them from her, but his swing was limited in the vehicle. "Run them… over," she ordered. He put the SUV in gear, but too many blocked the vehicle, he couldn't move it. "It won't go." "You did this!" she blasted, they grunted as they pulled her hair and she turned left to right in her seat. Ross' insides shook, overwhelmed with a wave of feeling like a failure, Morgan screaming out, Ross reached for his door. Bat in hand he pushed it open and when it did he noticed everyone had moved to the right front side. No one was on his side, they all crowded the front and passenger side. He would have to clobber his way through to get to her and free her. He was just about to do that and he stopped. Not a single one of them was in his way or even near him. They went after Morgan. He had his escape, his way out, his diversion. With those thoughts, Ross didn't run to help Morgan, he ran the other way. However, a mere fifty feet away, he stopped again. What the hell was he doing? As much as he didn't like her, she was in that position because he didn't want to take a life. Yet, he was willing to sacrifice hers. It had nothing to do with fear. At that moment, when he chose to run, it was them, him or her and he chose himself. A decision, he knew, if he continued on, he wouldn't be able to live with himself. It might have been to late or futile, but still holding the bat, Ross raced back to the SUV.

10.37

Jacqueline Druga

HOLY INFORMATION

She looked uninjured and in great shape and to Judd she was pleasant enough, unlike the stories he had heard about nuns. But in the five minutes he had met her, he was really close to telling her, "Step back a little, Sister." Because instantly she grabbed on to Dawson's hand and wouldn't let go. Keeping him close as they walked. Maybe Judd was making too much out of it but it seemed to him that through her actions she was almost saying, she was better qualified to watch out for Dawson. Sister Helena wasn't fazed by Tire Man in the back of the truck, she did eye up the boat without scoffing, then asked Judd to follow her. Judd grabbed his main back pack and went with her. Tire Man never moved. "You're a God send," she told him. "I wouldn't say that," Judd replied as they walked toward the town of Lodi. "I would. I was praying for help and then I heard you singing." "You need help?" Judd asked. She nodded. "Well, not me, personally. Father Basko." "Wow, I have been to this town. I didn't know it had a big Catholic employee population." She smiled. "You're funny." Then she looked down to Dawson. "He's funny." "Mr. Heston is nice," Dawson said. "He's been taking care of me." "Heston?" She tilted her head. "What a wonderful name. I'll take that as a sign as well." "What's wrong with Father Basko?" Judd asked. "We stopped here for the night, to rest up for our journey. Get supplies and he was injured." "I'm not real good with medical stuff," Judd said. "I'm not sure how I can help." "You're bigger and stronger than me. You can help," she said. "Where are you traveling from?" "Erie," she answered. "We have been hitting towns along the way. Looking for survivors. Especially when we got the message." Judd stopped walking. "From God?" "No. No." She smiled. "A man on the radio back in Erie. We've been fortunate enough to dodge the deadly weather, but any more delays we won't be." Judd looked around, he was near center town of Lodi, and it hadn't changed at all. His eyes were locked on the gazebo in the town square. "Mr. Heston?" she called him. Judd snapped out of his day dream. "This way." She pointed to the building with the sign, 'Lodi Village Office' across the street. "Please." As they cross the street, Judd noticed a short yellow school bus parked outside, he didn't think much of why it was there, he followed Sister Helena. "We were staying here. It was easy." "There's a drug store," Judd said, giving a nod of his head to the large chain drug store a block away. "Were you able to get supplies there to help?" "That's not the type of help I need." She opened the door. "This way." They walked through a small reception area, and that was when she finally released Dawson's hand. Dawson stopped in the middle of the room. He looked around. "How many people are with you?" Judd found it curious that the child would ask that, then he noticed the sleeping bags, the leftover food on the table. "Please," she beckoned and disappeared into the back office. "Father, I found help." Judd looked at Dawson then stepped forward. "Judd," Dawson whispered. "What?" "Don't make me hold her hand anymore." Judd winked and mussed his hair, then walked into the office. He expected to see the priest, maybe on a couch or something. He didn't expect to see him lying on the floor, pinned underneath a huge shelf. His face was black and blue and his eyes were puffy. To Judd he looked like he had taken a hell of a beating. "Oh my God," Judd rushed to him. "How long has he been like this?" "Since late last night," she answered. "I couldn't move it." "Can you help him, Judd?" Dawson asked. "Gonna try." Judd crouched down to the older priest. "Father, can you hear me?" Father Basko coughed and nodded. "Yes, thank you. Thank you for coming." "I'm going to try to lift this," Judd said. "Then we'll get you off the floor. Does anything hurt?" "My chest. I can't breathe well." Judd examined the shelf, it was about six feet tall, thick and cherry oak. The contents of the shelf were on the floor around Father Basko. They were probably the reason for his bruised face. They more than likely fell on him. It was going to be tricky. If Judd could get it high enough, he could use his back to push it up against the wall. He knew it would be heavy, Judd didn't think it would weigh as much as it did. On his first attempt, he lifted it a few inches causing Father Basko to cry out when he levered it up, and then again when he lowered it back down. "Sister, I am going to move this up. You are gonna have to slide him out. Father?" Judd asked. "Can you move your legs?" With a pained expression, Father Basko nodded. "Yes." "She's gonna grab you under your arms and pull, if you can shift your body scoot her way. Okay?" "Yes." He nodded. "Ready, Sister?" Sister Helena scurried around to Father's head and placed her hands under his back. "Wait," Dawson called out. "You're doing it wrong!" Judd paused. He was at the top of the shelf. "What do you mean?" "You're trying to lift it upright. Just lift it from the side and flip it. There's room. Flip it." "Dawson, that's a great idea, buddy." Judd moved his position to the side. He nodded to Sister Helena and while it wasn't any easier or lighter to lift, he was able to use the weight of the shelf to tip and tilt. He held it there until Helena freed Father Basko. Once the priest was clear, unable to flip it entirely, Judd let it fall back to the floor. Father Basko cried out in pain. "Did you get medication from the drug store?" Judd asked. "Pain stuff?" Sister Helena shook her head no. "Let's get him to the couch, you stay with him and I'll see what I can get." "We don't have time," she said. "We have to keep moving." "There is no medical attention around here. We're it." Judd said. "We can't move him. Not yet." "We don't have time." "All we have is time." Judd said. "Dawson, give me a hand with the Father." "What do you need me to do?" Dawson asked. "Clear the couch." He looked down to the priest. "Can you handle it if I help you up? It's only a few feet to the couch." "I'll manage." Judd braced under Father's Basko's arms and lifted him. He knew it hurt the priest, he could tell by the way his body tensed and Father Basko fought back grunting in pain. Sister Helena helped get him to the couch. Once he was settled, Judd leaned down. "Father, I am not a doctor. I have a book in my bag that tells me how to do basic First Aid and stuff, but I need your help. When I was nine, my father took me to this fishing spot. Man, it was a long hike. I fell. I felt really bad. It was a long way back and my dad asked me to know my body. What was wrong. That way he could gauge. So I am asking you to tell me what I need to focus on. What is happening with you that needs fixed." "My sternum," he answered with labored breath. "My ankle." "Okay, I'll see if I can find stuff over at the drug store. I'll be back. I'll get you pain medicine, too. You allergic to anything?" He shook his head no. Judd stood up. "Come on Dawson, come with me." He paused and looked at the shelf. "How does something like this happen?" Judd asked. "It's too big to fall on its own." "It was a terrible accident," Sister Helena answered. "It was no accident," Father Basko said. "It was an accident." She reiterated. "No, it wasn't!" Father Basko insisted. Judd whistled. "Okay, Sister did you do this to him?" "What?" she said in shock. "No." "Dawson said it looked like others were here. Were others with you?" Judd asked. "You said you were looking for survivors." "We were," she replied. "You found no one?" "Oh, there are many out there. They just are heading west and wouldn't travel with us." "Neither should you," Father Basko said. "You and the boy go. Don't let our burden be yours." "What's going on?" Judd asked. "You and I. We think alike." Sister Helena said. "Father Basko disagrees." "Sister, I don't want to be rude, but I don't know what you're talking about," Judd said. "This way." After touching Father Basko's arm, telling him she'd be back, she walked from the office. Judd and Dawson followed her. She continued outside and pointed to the bus. "You have a man in the back of your truck. Why?" Judd looked to Dawson first. "He wanted to come. He saved Dawson's life." "You see a human being in him, right?" she asked. "To you he's not dangerous." "Right now. Yeah." "Yes, well, I can't see danger either. I can't leave them. They'd die without me." Judd was about to ask her to clarify, but she kept looking at the bus. Instead of asking, he walked to the open door. "Judd, don't," Dawson said. "I got a bad feeling." "It'll be fine. Stay here." Judd walked up the first step and into the bus. When she brought up Tire Man, Judd pretty much expected to see a couple people like Tire Man in the bus, what he didn't expect to see were children. About a dozen of them sat on the bus, all different ages. They sat there staring forward, until they noticed him and all of them, at the same time, looked his way. They stared at him, just watching, not moving. Judd stood there a moment, which was as long as he could stand to. Looking at them all, a chill shot through his spine. To him it was freaky. They were children, yet something about them scared the hell out of him. Judd left the bus immediately.

10.37

Jacqueline Druga

REGRET

What was Ross thinking? He wasn't a coward. He never ran from problems. In fact, he was the guy on the force they said never thought of himself when running into dangerous situations. Yet, there he was, beating the pavement racing, it was a good two blocks before he stopped, turned around and ran back. The distance was short, however the guilt he carried weighed him down. All he could see was the SUV and the mob that completely engulfed it. They weren't flesh eating creatures, but they were dangerous in a way Ross didn't understand. Morgan had likened them to a boa constrictor, pressing and squeezing their victims. Ross didn't figure out the why of it. Maybe they just wanted to eliminate what they thought was a threat. At the moment it was Morgan. Was his distain towards her so bad that he chose to let her die rather than deal with her? Instantly he became the bad guy, no matter what he did in the past, or would do in the future, leaving her forever defined him. He raged toward the mob, wielding the bat, swinging it to get through. None of them paid attention. A few fell from the hits, but he didn't make a dent. He powerhouse blow was delivered with emotion and guilt. Like the regrets the mobbing people weren't going away. Finally he realized he couldn't do it. He was down. Defeated. He alone was responsible for the death of the only other living person. Arms and back aching, chest heavy with emotions and breathing labored, Ross dropped the bat and walked backwards. He turned when he was far enough away from the SUV, placed his hand on his knees, bent over slightly and caught his breath. There was a tap on his back. He stood straight, and turned around. Morgan stood there. "Oh my God," he gushed out. "You son of a bitch," she said with words deep and gutsy. Ross wasn't expecting it, and barely saw it coming. The moment she spoke she swung out the bat and connected it to him. It was lights out.

10.37

Jacqueline Druga

Chapter 37

Morgan didn't hesitate. There were no regrets or guilt. Not a single smidgeon of her conscience was bothered by it. After nailing Ross, she left him. On the street, not far from the SUV and the mob of depraved people. She didn't give him a second thought. Morgan was enraged. How dare he? There she was, fighting for her life, those… things grabbing for her, pulling her hair. She was injured, her ribs still hurt badly. Yet, Ross took a couple pitiful swings in the truck, then opened his door. She thought he was coming to help her and in her mind that was dumb, because the second he flew out, she was released enough to scurry to his door and get out. Once she made it outside of the vehicle, she knew he wasn't coming to save her, he was running and leaving her to die. She stood for a moment in shock. He left her? He just ran and left her. In that few seconds she really justified what he did. Maybe he was scared, thought she was dead. Then it hit her that he was a coward and he just left her all alone and Morgan became livid. How dare he abandon her! She moved toward the closest building. She thought about running after him, then he turned around to run back. Even those actions didn't stifle her anger, it fueled her emotions. He came back after the fact, when guilt hit him. She charged his way to verbally attack him, blast him for what he did, and then she saw him drop the bat. That bastard. She grabbed it and as he faced her, she hit him hard. Not knowing if he was dead or alive, or even caring, Morgan left him. Unlike Ross, she left him in the road, without a second thought and didn't care if those things to get him. He deserved it.

10.37

Jacqueline Druga

FOUND

"Can we just go, please," Dawson asked as he stayed close to Judd, walking to the drug store, not far from where they left the sister and priest. He moved fast, probably faster than he should have. "I don't want to be here. I want to leave." "I know, Buddy." "How did that shelf fall on him?" "I don't know." "You heard him, he was scared. Never knew a priest to be scared like that." Judd stopped when they entered. "It's a new world, none of this ever happened. Of course, he's scared. We're all a little scared." "Yeah, but he doesn't look like he watched a scary movie scared, he looks like he's living scared." "That's perceptive. Pharmacy is back there." Judd pointed. "Why don't you look around for things." "No. No way. I'm staying right by you." "That's fine, too." Judd led the way. "I want to go. Let's go back to the truck and just leave. Please." "Dawson, we have to help the priest. Come on, I saw that Catholic school uniform. I would think you'd want to help the priest." "No, I didn't like the priest at our school. Besides…we can get him his pills and whatever else you want, then can we go. Please, can we just leave?" "You just want to leave them?" "You heard her," Dawson said. "She wants to leave now. Get her the stuff and she'll leave." "Well maybe we help her and all leave together. We still have a lot of daylight left and we…" "No!" Dawson snapped. "No, you seen them Trancer kids, right? They're bad. I need to get away from the Trancer kids." "Trancer?" Judd asked. "My name for them. Because they look like they're in a trance." Closed mouth, Judd bobbed his head from side to side. "That's a good name for them. Easier to say, 'look out there's a Trancer'." "Yes, and we need to look out," Dawson said. "I got a bad feeling. Made my stomach flop. More than Tire Man. I think we should leave him, too." "Whoa, Whoa. Wait," Judd held up his hand. "Not an hour ago you were feeding him a peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Now you want to ditch him?" "That's because an hour ago, he was by himself. What if they work like dumb animals? Like they do whatever the others do." Judd walked behind the pharmacy counter. He grabbed a flashlight and looked at bottles. "I didn't think of that." 'Ever see the movie Village of the Damned?" Judd laughed. "Yeah, and I can't believe you did." "I didn't want to, yet I did. O was torn. All those kids had like a bug in them and when they were together they worked like one brain." "I assure you this is not the case," Judd said. "How do you know?" "Because this isn't sci-fi shit, or aliens, this is… nature." His hand moved about as he talked. "Something that caused people to drop dead, it didn't kill everyone, the ones it partially affected are your… Trancers. Probably brain damage. We haven't seen anything to make us think they're dangerous." "Liar." "What the hell, Dawson." Judd shook his head and then smiled when he found a bottle of pain pills. "This will work." He faced Dawson. "Why'd you call me a liar?" "Cause you saw something in Tire Man. I saw your face." "He just acted weird when I reached for his food." "Like an animal," Dawson said. "Please." "Tell you what. I feel bad leaving that nun alone with all those kids and the priest, but you are my priority. If you look me in the eyes and tell me to leave and do so after we give them the pills and bandages, we will." "Which eye?" Dawson asked. "What?" "I can only look in one eyes at a time." "Wow that is so cool you asked that. They say when you look in a person's left eye your lying. So the right please." Dawson focused on Judd's right eye. "I won't feel bad, it's the right thing to do, let's leave after you give them the stuff." "Then we will." Judd rubbed Dawson's head. "Let's finish up and go." Dawson exhaled a breath of relief that moved his entire body. He felt better, but that didn't stop him from continuously looking behind him.

10.37

Jacqueline Druga

Chapter 39

The trip to the drug store was a good thing and not just for medication. It was food for the soul. Dawson took a bag and loaded it with candy. Judd thought smarter, granola, crackers, juice, stuff like that. Not Dawson, he didn't even get normal candy. He picked the stuff that old people usually ate. Butterscotch and chewy gummy candies. He moved a lot more lighter and upbeat as if the weight of the world was off his shoulders. The more Judd thought about it, the more he liked the idea of just him and Dawson on the road. "Thinking about it," Judd said as they walked. "We got about seven hundred and some miles to Branson. If we hit a decent amount today, like a couple hundred, stop for the night, we'll hit Branson by tomorrow." "You think anyone is in Branson?" Dawson asked. "I don't know. But it looks cool, right?" Judd asked. "It does." Dawson agreed. "And it's a goal. Something like this, we need a goal." "What happens if no one is there?" Judd shrugged. "Then we pick another goal. Sadly, the world is ours. We can do what we want, right." "We don't know that. There might be people on the other side of the country." "True. There might be. We just…" Judd noticed Dawson stopped cold at the school bus. "Hey, pal," Judd put his hand on Dawson's back. He looked up quickly saw the kids all staring out the windows, hands against the glass, then he looked away. "Don't worry about them, okay? We won't be with them." Slowly, without saying a word Dawson lifted his arm and pointed. "What? What's wrong?" Then Judd saw. He didn't at first. In the middle of the short bus, staring out the window, was Tire Man. "He joined them," Dawson said. "See?" "I see we just got a guilt free way of leaving Tire Man behind. Let's go," While Judd projected confidence, he wasn't. The sight of Tire Man on the bus with the kids… scared the hell out of him.

10.37

Jacqueline Druga

Chapter 40

"No!" Dawson screamed out. It was the first time that he acted in a temper tantrum manner. Judd pulled him aside. "Little man, come on." "You promised. You promised." "We are still leaving," Judd then dropped his voice to a whisper. "We're not traveling with the kids. I promise you that." Dawson shifted his eyes to Sister Helena. She held on to Father Basko, supporting him around the waist. They returned from the store and handed over the medicine, then Judd helped clean up and bandage Father Basko. Dawson was alright with that, until Sister Helena said. "I'll drive the bus. Can he ride in the back of your truck? He can't sit up. He has to lay flat." He saw the look on Judd's face. He was caving in. Judd was a 'yes' man who couldn't say 'no'. So Dawson did. At first, he was calm and even tried to be mature. "No, Sister we're leaving." Sister Helena smiled politely. "We all are." "No," Dawson said. "We're leaving alone." "Mr. Heston?" She looked at Judd. Judd cleared his throat. "Sister, we have a destination and we kind of want to get going." Sister Helena chuckled in disbelief. "You made me wait. I wanted to leave, get him help at another stop, but you asked me to wait until you got the medication." "Now he is fit to travel," Judd said. "He wasn't before." "Please." She stepped to him and grabbed his hands. "Please don't leave me to do this alone. I will if I have to. We are all survivors in this. We should be together." Judd relented and Dawson freaked out. "Let them go," Father Dawson said kindly. "Sister, let them leave. I'll be fine here." "No you won't," she looked at him. "You know what's coming." "Not for certain. The child is frightened and rightfully so. I'm frightened. I'll stay. Take those… children and do what you need to do." Judd held up his hand. "Father, you aren't well enough to be alone. Let me talk to Dawson, I'm sure he just doesn't understand…" "Oh, he understands," Father Basko said. "Probably better than you. Probably better than us all. Whether you believe it is fate or God, either way, there is a reason those of us who survived, did, and are together the way we are. You and he are partners." In his mind, Dawson whined an "Aw" then huffed a little. "Fine. Fine." He quickly tried to change his brash behavior. "It's okay. He can ride with us in the back. It ain't him anyhow." Suddenly, Sister Helena looked hurt. Her expression dropped. Dawson held up his hand. "It's not you Sister Helena. It's not. You seem nice. It's the kids in the bus. Ever been bullied? I have. You see a bully and you know it's coming. I see those kids and know it's coming." He grabbed Judd's hand. "Let's go get the truck." Father Basko lay his hand on Dawson's head. "Thank you." "Just don't tell me to confess. I hate confession. I didn't like having to go. Since we don't have school anymore I wanted to say that." Judd smiled as he looked down at him, told Father Basko and the Sister they'd be back and they left the main street of Lodi to get the truck. They had to drive around the Semi to get into town, it took about fifteen minutes. When they returned, they took cushions from the couches in the administration building, placed Father Basko in the back, and then using the tarp from the boat they created a tent over the back in case it rained. And it did. Not hard, but a steady drizzle. The last thing Dawson remembered was Judd telling him as long as they moved slowly, they could keep going on the highway until dark. The steady rain coupled with the rhythm of the moving truck, and with the fact he hadn't slept much, made him tired. He started dozing off and on while Judd talked, then Dawson propped his head against the truck passenger door and fell asleep. Until the truck slowing down and stopping was like an alarm clock. He was dreaming again about that guy named Bill in Branson, waving his arm, yelling "Come to Branson." He wanted to look at the brochure to see if Bill was on it, maybe that was why he was dreaming of the strange man. He thought that too, in his dream until he woke and sat up with a start. "Why are we stopping? What's wrong?" Dawson asked. Judd pointed. Dawson couldn't see over the dashboard, but Judd opened his door. "Judd!" Once Judd stepped out, Dawson did the same. He climbed down and by the time he walked around the truck he saw why Judd stopped. A woman walked towards them. She held her side, her brown hair was pulled into a pony tail, she looked beat up like Father Basko, but she smiled as she looked at Judd. Dawson hurried and ran around and caught up to Judd just as he approached her. "Thank God," she said. "I ran out of gas. There's nothing around. I didn't think I'd see another person" She looked at Dawson and smiled. "Hey there." "Hey." Dawson lifted his hand. She looked harmless. "Can I ride with you?" she asked. "I have my own supplies." Her eyes shifted. "Is that a nun driving that bus?" "Yep. Sure is," Judd said. "And…" he looked at Dawson. "Is it okay she come with us? Or do you want her to ride on the bus? Or perhaps you want to leave her behind?" "Can't leave her behind. Jeez, you make me sound bad," Dawson said. "She can ride with us. Besides the bus is too crowded anyhow." Her eyes widened. "That many people?" Dawson grumbled. "If you wanna call them that." "What?" she asked, confused. Judd waved out his hand. "I'm sure he'll tell you all about it in the truck. Come on. Do you need help with your stuff?" "No, I'll get it. It's just a backpack." She moved quickly, even with a limp, to her car. She grabbed a backpack and returned. "You been alone?" Judd asked. "Seen anyone else?" She paused. "No. No one. I've been alone." "I'm Judd and this is Dawson." "Nice to meet you. Thank you again. I won't be a bother." She held out her hand. "Morgan. My name is Morgan."

10.37

Jacqueline Druga

COPE

The pain was intense from his cheekbone to his temple. That was where Ross took the hit. He saw it coming and couldn't react. Morgan nailed him so hard, he literally saw stars and then nothing. He deserved it. It didn't matter what kind of person she was, leaving her behind to die was not the kind of person Ross was. He was still on the street, trying to make it through the pain. He lay on the ground in a semi-curled position. He moved his head slightly to press his aching cheek to the damp and cold ground. It felt good. His face was swollen, he could feel the pressure against his eye. Ross moved his hand to feel his face and in doing so, his hand hit something. He widened his fingers to feel. It was a foot. Ross opened his eyes. He was surrounded, all he could see were legs. They encompassed him, dozens of feet were almost pressing on his body. In a panic he sat up and took a foot to the chest. He wheezed out and struggled to stand. He believed if he stood he wasn't at their mercy, he was wrong. The second he stood upright, they moved closer. He could feel the weight of bodies against him, inching his way, closing in the circle. The air was thick and a feeling of claustrophobia hit him. Ross couldn't move. Not forward, nor back. There was no way out. This was it for him, the end. A serving of Karma for what he had done. Ross tried to be brave and figure a way out. He pushed and shoved, but they sprung back with more force. How many were surrounding him? He could barely see over their heads and even then, it was only a sea of people. Where did they all come from? Every moment that passed, he found it harder to breathe. They were literally squeezing the life out of him. He was in a human coffin. However, this was his life, not theirs to take. If Ross was going to die, he wanted to control when he passed. It took everything he had to reach his shoulder harness and pull out his pistol. His range of motion to his arms was short. Keeping the pistol close to his chest, he engaged the weapon while looking at those around him. There was a young man in his twenties, an older woman wearing a waitress uniform, a police officer, none of them really looked at him. They stared blankly and through him. It wouldn't be long, Ross knew, before they crushed him completely. With a struggling grunt, he put the gun under his chin. Painfully he closed his eyes and thought of his wife, his daughters. How badly he missed and loved them and how he would see them soon. His finger trembled as he put pressure on the trigger. Waitress woman moved against him, and Ross proved once again to himself that he was a coward. He couldn't do it. He couldn't take his own life. Quickly he moved the gun, put it under Waitress woman's chin and fired. Her head flung back from the force of the shot, but she was held up by the mob and didn't fall. She was a standing corpse, balancing on the weight of those around her. Ross' adrenaline pumped, his heart beat out of control. He moved his body so he could aim and fire again. Crying out with frustration and the will to live, Ross kept firing until the clip was empty. By then he had created a small opening and he shoved his way through. His arms swung, legs kicked and he forged ahead with the momentum of his body until he broke free. He tripped over someone's legs and fell to the ground hard. Peering over his shoulder, Ross saw them turn, visually targeting him and moved his way. He would not be trapped again. He stumbled to a stand, looking back only once. The SUV was there, abandoned by the horde and Ross rushed that way. The driver's door was open and he jumped inside. The keys were in the ignition, in fact the engine was still running. He had never shut it off, only put it in gear. He peered in the rearview mirror and only then was he able to see the magnitude of the amount of those who pursued him. It wasn't a dozens, it was hundreds. Ross placed the SUV in drive and peeled out. Once he was free of the mob, he slowed down enough to look around town. He didn't see any sign of Morgan. After circling around a few blocks, he headed out of town and back to the main road. Ross was a plethora of emotions. He was guilt ridden over what he had done to Morgan, ashamed of his actions and angry at his weakness. Two times in two days he had the gun under his chin ready to take his own life. Truth was, even with his overwhelming loss, he wasn't ready to die. He didn't want to die. The world had perished around him and he was spared. There had to be meaning to having life when do many others perished. He was a fool for not seeing it, and he needed to honor it going forward. Life was a gift. He fought physically to keep his and vowed he would never take being alive for granted again. There was a plan in motion before they even pulled into the town. A plan to go west. Alone or not, Ross was going to stick to that plan and head to Branson, Missouri.

10.37

Jacqueline Druga

FIGURE

The new woman, Morgan didn't say much. She sat in the back, sleeping most of the time. The main highway, while not free and clear was easy to maneuver for about eighty miles, then the weather took a turn. Almost instantly the sky darkened and the temperature dropped. The rain increased in intensity until it began to hail. They had to stop and bring Father Basko into the truck. It was far more dangerous in the back than it was for his body to sit up. That was when Morgan woke up. She helped Judd with Father Basko, then Dawson sat in the back with her. Before they pulled back on the road, Judd noticed Sister Helena had stepped from the bus. Before he got back in the truck, he went back to see what was going on. "How much further?" she asked. "We are going to need sturdy shelter before nightfall. The weather is only going to get worse." "All weather comes from the west, so we're gonna run into it. Maybe head south after Dayton and pull over?" Judd suggested. She nodded, wiping the water from her face. "I'm good on gas until then, you?" "Good. I'll lead the way, stay close, the roads will be slick." "I will, thanks." Arms folded to her body, she hurried back to the bus and Judd went to the truck. "Okay," he said as they got inside. "We're gonna keep going until right after Dayton and pull over." He grabbed the map from the floor and tossed it to Dawson. "Take a look and see where we can stop." "Want me to look?" Morgan asked. "Nah, he's good." Judd looked in the rearview mirror, then pulled out. "Is everything alright with Sister Helena?" Father Basko asked. "Yeah, she just wanted to know when we were stopping. The weather is getting bad." Father Basko shifted in his seat. "I worry. She is not seeing clearly. She's following her faith and not her heart. Sometimes… you have to draw a line." "It's hard to do in this situation," Judd said. "I mean, people are people and it's hard to see beyond the fact that they are alive." "I disagree," Morgan said. "Out there, I don't know if you ran into them, but there are people out there that are not alive. They're shells and soulless, and I can see the distinction." "Wait until you see what's on the bus," Dawson said. "She has a whole busload. At least twelve." "Oh my God," Morgan looked out the window. "In the bus she's driving?" Judd nodded. Father Basko slumped in the seat toward the door, he reached over and touched Judd's hand. "Promise me you won't let them in the shelter with us. Don't let them in under any circumstances." "I'll make that promise," Morgan interjected. "I know what the Starers are like." "Starers?" Judd asked. "That's what I call them." "I call them Trancers," Dawson said. "Trancers, Starers," Judd shook his head once. "Man, you people have really cool names for them. Why haven't I thought of one. How about you Father? You have a name for them?" "Yes, I do." Father Basko raised his eyes to Judd. "The Abominated."

10.37

Jacqueline Druga

Chapter 43

Columbus, Ohio was gone. Not geographically displaced, but rather it was destroyed. What caused its demise was anybody's guess. The skyline was dark, the buildings that had not been reduced to rubble were mere support beam skeletons of their former shapes. Debris of wood, concrete and glass scattered everywhere, and sections of town had been burnt black. There were no fires smoldering, the weather battled the flames and won. There had been a lot of rain, so much that it caused the river to overflow and spill across the area, covering the land and hiding the roadways. The beltway around the city was nearly as dangerous. Trees and branches strewed across the expressway and several inches of water glazed the surface. So much so, they took a longer route. It was in Columbus that Morgan began adamantly suggesting that they lose the boat. "We're not losing the boat," Judd said. "It's weighing us down, making travel difficult, plus eating a lot of gas." "We're not losing the boat," Judd repeated. "We need the boat," Dawson said. Morgan laughed. "You need the boat? Why? Are you gonna go fishing?" "Hey, now," Judd said. "Don't make fun. He says he needs it, so we take the boat." Groggily, Father Basko joined the conversation. "We're going to need the boat." A slight jolt went through Judd when he heard the father say that. "Why do you think we need the boat?" Judd asked Father Basko. "When we were in Cleveland, just before the earthquake hit, we were communicating on the radio. There was a man with us, Steven, he was killed in the quake. Anyhow, there are two more storm fronts coming. They were described to us as looking like huge land hurricanes. Two of them joined together. They're gonna dump a lot of rain. We're driving right into them. We can go north, south, doesn't matter, they're that big." "How is that possible?" Judd asked. "How is any of this linked? I mean, the weather, the people…" Father Basko shook his head with a groan. "I don't know. The information we got was relayed, this person said that, and so forth. We didn't get all the details. We hoped we would, but everything shut down communication wise. Sister Helena and Steve got the last message. I was sleeping. She knows a bit more. They were kind of theorizing it was a manmade thing. Weather, atmosphere manipulation gone bad." "Oh, balls," Judd scoffed. "That isn't possible." "I agree," Father Basko said. "I'm still banking on the big guy." "The God idea is not possible either," Morgan said. "The man made thing is, I guessed it from researching. I was looking into it before the power went out. Cloud seeding and geoengineering. All that was happening, had happened and something went wrong. I kept saying it." "To who?" Judd asked. "The Staring people? You said you were alone." "You know what I mean," she said. "Do you think Branson will be flooded?" Dawson asked. Morgan leaned forward. "Is that where you guys are going? Branson?" Judd nodded. Father Basko quickly looked at him. "Branson. We were headed there as well when you happened upon us. We heard it on the radio." "Us... me, too," Morgan said. "Branson was mentioned on a radio call. Something about a pilgrimage to life." "No kidding?" Judd said then whistled. "Wow, I didn't know that. We didn't have a radio. We had Ray in Australia, but he disappeared." Father Basko looked at him curiously. "If you didn't have a radio, how did you choose Branson?" Judd pointed back to Dawson. "His dream and a brochure." "Yeah," Dawson said. "I keep dreaming of a guy named Bill. He's waving his arm saying for us to come to Branson." Morgan laughed. "Oh my God, you were following the dream of a little boy?" "He was right," Judd said. "And who is Bill?" Morgan asked. "Some sort of Mother Abagail." "Actually," Father Basko said. "Bill is the name of the radio man in Branson." "No kidding." Judd gushed in shock, then looked back at Dawson. "Little dude, you are like a psychic. Next time you dream of Bill pay attention to the surroundings." "Okay." "Wow, that is cool. I got chills," Judd held his arm out to Father Basko. "Look goosebumps. Chills." "Probably the weather," Morgan grumbled. After giving a scolding look to her via the rearview mirror, Judd focused forward and continued to drive. They had set a goal of two hundred miles for the day and surpassed that. They had momentum and would had made it father if the weather cooperated and they didn't have to go so far around Columbus. Taking it slow added over an hour to their time. The temperature dropped and the rain was a mixture of water and snow. The cold temperatures caused a deep slush on the road and they pulled over at a small road stop town just across the Indiana border. Stopping was a must. They pulled over into the lot of Patty's Bar and Grill. A two story log cabin looking building with a great looking covered patio and fifty yards from a Calico Gas and Go. "This place looks good." Judd peered close to the windshield. "The chimney is big. Maybe they have a fireplace. Don't see any of those people around either. I'll go check it out. I mean we really have no choice but to stop, Last couple miles were pretty scary on the road." "I lived in Maine, this is nothing." Father Basko said with a tired voice. "I'm ready to stop though, and the roads… there will be no street crews to clean this up." "I know." Judd replied. "Maybe it will warm up. I'll start thinking of something. If it doesn't warm up, roads are gonna be tricky to maneuver." "I have an idea," Morgan leaned forward. "Why don't we…" "Chick," Judd cut her off. "If you suggest one more time that we lose the boat, next leg of the journey you ride in the bus with the creepy kids and Tire Man! Got it?" She sat back chastised. Judd grabbed the flashlight and opened the door. "I'll be right back." The moment he put his foot to the ground he was grateful he was wearing boots. The slushy water hit above his ankles and he could feel how cold it was even through the leather. He signed with his hand to Sister Helena to wait and he pointed to the building. Judd trudged through the flooded parking lot, up the four steps to the building and opened the door. It didn't smell like bodies which was a good sign. It was cold and dark, the only light came through the large windows and that wasn't much. It was a big open place with picnic looking tables in the main area. A huge bar was on the far wall, and in the center of the room was a fireplace opened on both sides. Judd would break the tables if need be for heat. He heard a splashing sound, and thought maybe it was a leak. Then he realized it was improbable with a second floor above them. A few steps into his walk he learned the source behind the splashing. It was concealed by the fireplace until Judd moved another few feet. Against the wall was a huge fish tank, standing before it, back to Judd, was a very large man in a cook's outfit. His hands were in the tank. "Shit," Judd said out loud. The man turned around. He had the larger tropical fish dangling from his mouth. "Sushi on the menu tonight?" Judd joked. The man chomped and sucked the fish into his mouth, staring at Judd. "Something tells me, you don't find that funny." What was taking so long? Dawson wondered. It wasn't like Judd was in the building forever, but sure felt like it. He asked to get out of the car, but that woman kept telling him to stay put. Finally, Father Basko opened the door and Dawson heard it. A cross between a scream and a sung note, a long drawn out 'Ah' rang out. It grew louder and louder until the front door of Patty's burst open. Some large man wearing white carried Judd face to face by the jacket, feet off the ground as he raged out the door and tossed Judd to the ground. He landed with a splash. Dawson screamed. The woman in the truck, jumped over the seat and opened the driver's door. Dawson did the same. Before he even cleared the truck the man in white picked up Judd and tossed him down to the ground again. "No!" Dawson screamed, his feet sank in the water and he tried to run. The man in white lowered down to grab Judd once more, but this time, he didn't get too far. A single gunshot rang out, the Man in White's head jerked up and back and then he fell over. Dawson didn't think about who shot the Man in White until he ran to Judd. When he wrapped his arms around him was when Dawson saw the new guy. He stood a little bit away, holding a gun with both hands, like a professional. He lowered it and placed it in a harness he wore over his shoulder and walked to Judd. His eye and cheek were swollen as if he had been in an accident or something. "You okay?" He offered his hand to Judd. "Yeah. A little shaken. I'll be fine." Judd took his hand, while still embracing Dawson. He took a moment to peer down to Dawson, reassure him he was fine, then faced the new man again. "Thank you very much." "You're welcome. It wasn't the way I wanted to make my introduction." "Doesn't matter. I don't know how you got here, but I sure as hell am glad you arrived," Judd said. "Good. You may be, but I'm not quite sure how pleased…" the stranger pointed to Morgan, "She will be."

10.37

Jacqueline Druga

PLAN

The extra person was going to come in handy. Even though he looked pretty injured, Judd knew Ross was a strong guy and he told them he was a police officer. He told Judd that he saw them somewhere after Columbus and followed them. There was still a bit of daylight left and a lot to do before settling in for the night. Judd wanted to build a fire for warmth and light. They had to feed everyone, and even though they had food, Judd put Dawson in charge of checking out the kitchen of the restaurant, while he scouted the area. He went out alone, it was better that way. He left in the middle of a one sided bickering session between Morgan and the new guy, Ross. Morgan was doing most of the talking. When he returned, Father Basko, even in his delicate state had gotten a small fire started in the fireplace using what had remained. Ross was moving tables, while Morgan tailed him like a scolding mother. Dawson darted into the dining area, set down a large can of something, then darted out and Sister Helena was wiping down a table while she sipped from a big old glass of what looked like whiskey, "Indulge much, Sister," Judd said then set the bags of items down on the bar. "Always enjoyed a sip or two, today calls for more than that." She nodded her head at Morgan. "Ah," Judd winked. "I get you. Hey Ross, I found batteries for your radio. There are a lot of supplies out there. It's still doing that rain and snow thing but no power, getting gas at the station is gonna be impossible." "Excellent about the batteries," Ross said. "You know a lot of restaurants have small generators in case the power goes out. Did you look for one here? Maybe we can find one and shut down everything but the pumps. We could run an extension to the station next door so there would be enough power to get some gas." "Worth a shot," Judd replied. "Good idea." "Fucking asshole," Morgan quipped. "Whoa. Whoa," Judd held out his hand to her. "Hey, now. Think you dropped enough F bombs around here to flatten a small city." "Aren't you cute." Morgan shook her head. "With your witty hick comments." "What is up your fanny, lady?" Judd asked. "We're all in this together. Okay? Whatever differences you two have you need to put aside." "Fuck you." Nervously, Sister Helena approached Morgan. "I don't know why you're so angry, but can you be angry without the swearing, there are children around." "Really?" Morgan scoffed. "You think swearing is going to affect Dawson? I'm pretty sure he's heard worse on a video game and those… things in the bus can't hear me. Even if they could, they aren't children." "They're still children," Sister Helena snapped. "That reminds me, Judd, they've been out there long enough. We can't leave them in the cold." Morgan shook her head in disbelief. "Maybe it's for the better," Farther Basko suggested. "I mean for safeties sake." "They are still children," Sister Helena argued. "What about bringing them in," Ross said. "Put them in one room. Watch them like a hawk." "How do you think my injuries happened?" Father Basko asked Ross. "I had them in the back room of a building. They did this to me while I slept." "Jesus," Ross gasped out in shock. "Sorry Sister. Father." "See." Morgan pointed. "Come on Judd. You have this protective thing about Dawson, you really want to take a chance with those kids around him?" "I know Dawson doesn't," Judd replied. "They are technically still children. I can't bring myself to do anything to harm them." "Me either," Ross said. Morgan huffed. "No shock there. I'm surprised you killed the one today." "You can say I had a rude awakening," Ross said. "Look." Morgan peered around to everyone. "I wouldn't bring them in here and I certainly wouldn't let Ross be in charge. For all I know, he'd let them loose on us, steal everything and take off." "Why would you say that?" Judd asked. "Because he left me to die. Those things had me and he left me to die. I didn't. My only regret is when he came back for me, they didn't get him." "Okay. Okay." Judd held up his hand. "Obviously there are issues here. We need to deal with priority things first. Get it warm in here, get gas in our vehicles and get to Branson. From my calculations we are one gas tank away from getting there." "If you cut lose the boat," Morgan said. "And we don't know if Branson is still viable." "It's our best hope of something to shoot for," Judd said. "You got a better idea?" "South," Morgan said. "Go south. This weather is bad. We all know it's going to get worse. South is our best option." "Branson is south. Not as south as you are talking," Judd said. "If Branson doesn't work out, then I see no reason why we can't go south." Sister Helena interjected. "We need Branson to get south. I don't know why. It's what Bill said. He's the only gateway. His pilgrimage. That's why he needs to leave in a couple of days. The reason for the hurried evacuation. The two storm systems that are coming are not only causing a mini ice age but dumping enough water to break dams and flood low lying areas so deep…" she looked at Dawson. "We may need a boat and that's only before it freezes. They've already hit out west, it's only a matter of time and they'll be where we are." Morgan lowered her head. Ross pointed at Morgan. "That shut her up. She knows it to be true. She was all over the weather maps." "How do you know this, Sister?" Morgan asked. "Bill. I spoke to Bill before the quake," Sister Helena answered. "He received the message and information and was sharing it with everyone who replied." "Message, like prophetic?" Morgan questioned. "No." Sister Helena shook her head. "From a weather observation station in Leadville, Colorado. There's life there. One of the areas not hit at all by whatever caused people to drop dead." Judd's eyes widened and he spun to Sister Helena. "Don't you think you could have shared this info?" "I thought you knew," she said. "Why else would you be headed west?" "We didn't get that information either," Ross said. "We couldn't communicate back." "Life out there is all the more reason not to bring the bus of kids," Morgan said. "No," Sister Helena shook her head. "They may be able to help the children. Maybe they have a way to bring them back." "They are brain damaged homicidal time bombs waiting to explode," Morgan said. "They aren't coming back." Judd whistled. "That's deep. You wanna just leave them behind. Let them freeze and starve?" "Yes," Father Basko said. "Hating to agree, we can't bring them. We look around this town for another means of transportation and leave them behind. Sister, they're dangerous. We have a healthy child, right here. We can't chance his life. We leave them." "End it now," Morgan said. "Run a hose from the exhaust into the window of the bus, start the engine, seal the gap and door with duct tape and let them go." "Holy crap," Judd explained. "Did you just whip that off the top of your head or have you been mentally plotting ways to knock off a bus of kids?" "You can't kill them," Dawson spoke up emotionally. "Yeah, I think they're bad, but you can't kill them. Judd, tell me you aren't gonna do that?" "Buddy…" Judd turned to him. "Do I seem the type?" Dawson shook his head. Ross stood and spoke abruptly. "Okay! I'm gonna look for a generator. Dawson, you want to help me?" Dawson nodded. Ross placed his hand on Dawson's back and headed toward the kitchen. "Wait until we're out of earshot before you continue the slaughter of the innocent conversation." Once they were gone from the room, Judd faced Morgan. "I know this is a worry for you and Father. However, we don't have to make this decision right now. Do we? We have other thigs to do." Father Basko nodded. "We can discuss it later or tomorrow. But tonight, they can't be in the same room with us." "I'll scout the upstairs. We'll lock them in a room. No one needs to be near them." Sister Helena laid her hand on Judd's arm. "I appreciate your kindness, Judd. I cannot look at them and see evil. I see children who need help. I also can't, with a good conscience, leave them behind. If we do, I'll stay with them." Morgan moved closer. "You would give your life for them? You'd stay behind and die?" "No one says I would die," Sister Helena replied. "I'll put my fate in God's hands." "I supposed you have put your fate in God's hands thus far?" Morgan asked. "I have." "How's that working out for you?" Morgan snapped. "World's falling apart, freezing over, flooding, people dropped dead, everything is a wasteland. Those things when they turn on you are strong. Big bodies, small bodies, doesn't matter, they are strong. Look what they did to Father Basko. What would they do to Dawson? You for that matter. You're small. Don't take the chance. They'll turn on you. You'll put your life on the line and they will turn on you." "If it's God's will." Morgan chuckled. "God's will. Then you're a fucking fool and deserve the fate you get." Before Judd could comment in shock, Sister Helena was fast. She didn't just slap Morgan, she backhanded her across the face. Judd immediately intercepted anything that could further happen between the two women. There was a tense moment of silence in the room, then Morgan turned and walked away. Sister Helena backed up and lifted her drink. Once Judd knew it was safe he went back to getting things ready for the night, and the next day. Everything was heavy on his mind, the journey, the weather and those children on the bus. As crass as she was, as hard as Morgan came across, a part of Judd knew she was right. Those kids on the bus were a time bomb and he really hoped Dawson wasn't anywhere near them when the human time bomb went off.

10.37

Jacqueline Druga

FREEZER

Judd watched Morgan sitting off alone, peeling potatoes with more conviction than he had ever seen. Legs slightly parted, elbows on her knees she worked that peeler with a vengeance, she was fast, too. Nothing had been said to her all evening, she grabbed her dinner and walked off by herself. Things had quieted down. Both Father Basko and Dawson were asleep in the camp they made around the fireplace. Sister Helena was dozing on and off. Judd believed she was three sheets to the wind. She hit the bottle pretty hard, especially since it had been difficult to corral the twelve kids and Tire Man from the bus to an upstairs room. Twelve kids no younger than Dawson, but no older than about eleven. They wouldn't budge from the bus at first, but when Judd pulled out the prepackaged peanut butter and jelly sandwich, they all followed. That one sandwich was used to lure them up to the steps and into the room. It was funny and scary the way they all dove for it when he threw it inside. He and Ross put them in a small room, the only one they could lock and Judd could hear the footsteps on the ceiling. They were contained, that was good. Ross made a joke that it sounded like a, "Party in the upstairs apartment." It was a great analogy. Judd knew before long, the "party sounds" would be buried beneath the storm that was brewing. The thunder that roared in the distance during dinner, increasingly grew louder and stronger. Judd was hyper. He had accomplished a lot with Ross, getting gas and supplies for the next day. He wanted to play his guitar, it always calmed him, but he didn't want to wake Father Basko. He knew it wouldn't wake Dawson, he was a heavy sleeper. After watching Morgan work those potatoes, he finally walked over to her. It was time to break the ice, to maybe try to smooth things out. Judd cleared his throat. "That's some impressive peeling. You working out frustration." "No." She looked up. "I'm peeling potatoes." "What for?" "I don't plan on sleeping tonight. Not with Village of the Damned above our heads. So I'm gonna put these in the pot on the fire and we'll have them for breakfast before we hit the road. The hot dogs were good. We just need substance." With a closed mouth, Judd nodded and sat down. Morgan paused in her peeling and looked at him intensely. "What? I can't join you?" She huffed and shook her head. "Suit yourself." "You know… When I was…" "Stop," she said. "You are gonna try to tell me some stupid story." "You don't want to hear it?" "No." She shook her head and peeled. "Spare me." "So says the girl who got beat up by a nun." She glared at him. "Don't let it get you down. You're in good company. Many of Catholic school kids back in the day had a run in or two with a wayward ruler and a wicked sister." "You aren't funny." "Yeah, I am." Judd nudged her. "Really? You just touched me." "Oh, stop. What is up with you? Why are you so nasty?" "You really want to know?" she asked. "I do." "I'm angry. I am really angry and I can't shake it." "About the kids?" "No, that worries me. It really does. I saw how they can be. They attacked once, they'll attack again. That's not why I'm angry. I'm not a bad person, I'm not. I was always the unselfish one. A lot of good that did me. I'm mad because I didn't resolve my life. The world dropped dead when I was screaming at the only man I ever loved. Despite the fact…" she tossed a potato and grabbed another. "That he cheated on me and left me, I still loved him. I'm pissed it never got resolved. I'm mad because the last words I said to him I'm pretty sure weren't very nice." "Yeah, I'm pretty sure of that, too." She shook her head. "Ross tells me to forgive him. I want to forgive him, but I am so mad because he died and I didn't." She paused. "It sounds stupid but I can't shake it, and it comes out in everything I do and say. Eventually I'll stop, if you know… someone else doesn't leave me to die." "Well, I'm sure he had his reasons." Morgan chuckled in disbelief. "Did you really just say that?" "I did. And I can promise I won't leave you to die." "I believe that." "If it makes you feel better you're not alone with those feelings. When this thing happened, I was at a construction site, standing on the ninth floor of an unfinished building with my best friend. He was joking about falling over, I was too and then he did." "I'm sorry." "Me, too." "Is that what you did?" she asked. "Construction?" "Actually, no, I was a country music star." Morgan laughed. "I never heard of Judd Heston, but hey, thanks for the laugh." "On that note, you're no longer as nasty, I've accomplished something this evening. I'll let you get back to your potatoes." "Thanks." Judd stood. "And Judd, really, thanks." Judd tipped his head and made his way over to the only other person awake. Ross. Ross was on the floor with a toolbox next to him. He was unscrewing legs from chairs and tables for the fire. Judd sat down a few feet from Dawson and joined Ross. "So," Judd asked. "Did you really leave her to die?" Ross stared at him for a moment. "Yeah, I did. That's not me. She was bitching at me when they attacked and I just bolted." Judd looked over his shoulder at Morgan. "Yeah, I can see where that can happen." Ross laughed. "I changed my mind. She let me have it." He pointed to his face. "I deserved it." "It works for you." "Can I ask you something? This is gonna sound off. Maybe it's just a coincidence that you have that guitar and you look like him, but are you Judd Bryant?" Judd smiled. "I am." "Oh, man, me and my kids loved 'Carrot Cake and Karen'. We'd dance to it all the time. Man… I am a huge fan." "Thank you. That means a lot." "So is Heston your real name?" Ross asked. "I know Dawson called you Mr. Heston one or two times." "Now that…" Judd waved his finger. "Is a long story for another time." Both of them looked up when a loud 'crack' of lightening shook the ground and lit up the room. "Holy shit!" Judd exclaimed. Within seconds, the rain blasted at the window and the wind was so strong, the flame on the fire flickered. "Do you hear that?" Morgan asked, standing. It's the storm." Judd said. "No." she shook her head. THUMP. "That." "I'm sure it's nothing," Judd replied. "Probably a tree or something hitting against us." Thump. Ross pointed. "It woke the boy." Dawson rubbed his eyes and walked over to Judd. "What's the matter, buddy?" Judd asked. "You can't sleep? The storm wake you?" "Bill did," Dawson said groggy. "What do you mean? A dream?" Thump. "Judd," Morgan called him. "Something is up." Again, a loud crack and clap shook the building. "It's the storm." Judd looked down to Dawson. "So you dreamt of Bill?" "Yes." Dawson nodded. Thump. Thump. Ross slowly stood and peered to the ceiling. "She's right. It's not the storm." "I'm scared," Dawson held on to Judd. "It's okay." Judd embraced. "It was just a dream. What did Bill say?" The thumping grew louder and faster. Judd stood up, releasing his hold on Dawson. "He said… run." Judd's eyes widened. Ross pointed. "The staircase." "Stay here," Judd ordered and walked to the corner of the restaurant with Ross and Morgan. "Judd, no!" Dawson cried. "Stay over there." Judd held out his hand. Dawson listened. He stayed by the fire while Judd, Ross and Morgan stared at the door. "It's quiet," Ross said. "I thought they were in the stairwell." "Me, too," Judd said. Morgan shook her head. "They are. You can't hear them with the storm." Judd whispered and pointed to the door. "Did we lock this?" Ross shook his head. "I don't think we did." "Shit," Judd said. "It locks from the other side." He slowly reached for the knob. Morgan stopped him. 'What are you doing?" "If they aren't in the stairwell, I'm locking it." Again, his hand reached and again he was stopped. Ross moved him aside. "Let me. Okay?" He pulled his weapon. "Stay back." Judd and Morgan stepped back. Ross extended his hand. "This is silly," Judd said. "There's nothing…" With a thunderous 'crash' the door flew entirely from the hinges, slamming into Ross and sending his gun sliding across the linoleum as he hit the floor. Tire Man charged out and behind him raced the twelve kids. Judd's first thought was Dawson, and as he turned, Tire Man face palmed him so hard it sent him back crashing into a table. Morgan ran. She made it only a few feet, when one of the Bus kids dove on her back. She tried to shuck the child, but his arm gripped around her neck, strangling her. Her only defense was the potato peeler and she jammed it in the child's arm. He released her and she flew over by Dawson. She arrived in time to intercept another bus kid who came for him. Lifting Dawson into her arms, she pushed the child away with her foot and ran toward the door. "Judd!" Dawson screamed. "Judd." Get Dawson to safety. Get him out. Was all she could think of. The truck was the best option. She opened the front door and quickly realized that wasn't the answer. A gust of wind acted like a wall she was unable to push through, it sent her back a foot just as a huge piece of debris flew at the door and bounced off. Then in a split second, the wind pulled back, sucking her through. One arm holding Dawson, reaching for the door, Morgan struggled with her footing. Finally her fingers touched the door. She turned her body to close it when a bus kid leapt at her. She was fast, darting out of the way, the bus kid sailed through the archway and she slammed the door. She was far from being safe inside the restaurant. It was mayhem and Morgan was so focused on getting Dawson to safety, she tried not to see all that was going on. Dawson was heavy, and it took a lot to hold on to him, especially when he fought and screamed for Judd. In her mad dash across the dining room floor of the restaurant, she spotted Sister Helena. One bus kid was on her back, while another flailed her fists relentlessly at her. In her run by Sister Helena, Morgan grabbed hold of the hair of the fist-throwing little brat, yanked her back to the floor and grabbed Sister Helena's hand, pulling her with her. In the kitchen, she raced to the walk in freezer, opened it and put Dawson in side. "Stay here. You'll be safe." She pushed the door closed and turned to help Sister Helena. The nun was on the floor with the boy on her back. Morgan grabbed the first thing she could, a small pot, and she hit the child with it. When he paused, she used her foot to kick him from Sister Helena, grabbed her hand, dragged her to her feet and pushed her into the freezer. "Stay with Dawson!" Morgan yelled. "The door opens from inside. Do not open until you hear silence." She didn't stay long, the last vision of them was Dawson running to the door and Sister Helena reaching for him. She slammed the door shut. They were safe. Of that she was sure. No sooner did she turn around, then bus kid ran at her. Morgan charged back, grabbing him in her momentum and carrying him through the swinging kitchen door. Father Basko. Ross didn't understand, maybe it was an advantage, but when he stood from being knocked down, the rabid children never attacked him. They were too busy pursuing Sister Helena and even more so, Father Basko. Seven of them pounced the priest. While Judd engaged in a cat and mouse game with Tire Man. Only Judd was the mouse. Ross didn't know where to go first, who to help. He picked his battle and aimed for Father Basko. The attacking bus kids were like pit bulls. They pounced, grabbed, pulled and kicked, and each one he tossed off, merely jumped back and returned. He was so focused on getting the kids off Father Basko, he didn't realize it was too late. His feet slipped and he slid in a pool of blood that came from the priest. Ross didn't want to look, he didn't want to see what they had done. In the midst of his battle, he saw it. The fire extinguisher hanging by the stairwell. He ran to it, grabbed it and raced back over to those kids attacking Father Basko. He blasted it and the white substance stunned them. They paused in their attack, rubbed their faces and moved in confused circles. After dropping the extinguisher, Ross grabbed two of them. He was strong enough to carry them both and he took them to the stairwell, tossed them hard inside, and ran back for two more before the ones in the stairwell could catch their bearings. He put them in and reached down for the door. Just as he grabbed it, he saw Morgan. "Here. In here." Ross yelled. She raced over with the kid, and using the weight of her body, along with her arms, she flung the boy inside with the others. Ross slammed the door against the jam. It didn't take long for the door to move from the weight of the kids trying to get out. "Think you can hold this?" Ross asked. "I will," Morgan replied. She pressed her back against the door and locked her legs. Ross stepped away. He looked for Judd. He was behind the bar, sailing bottles at Tire Man. It distracted Ross enough that he didn't see the little girl coming, she jumped up at him, fingers digging into his neck. Holding her to him, bracing her by the scruff of her neck, Ross raged for the front door of the bar, grabbing another child in his run. The door opened easily with the force of the wind and Ross hoisted one child out, then grabbed the girl, yanking her from him tossing her out as well. He shut and locked the door. It was less chaotic and Ross lost count of how many kids from the bus there were. It was under control, at least with the kids. There were three standing calmly in the middle of the restaurant, staring out. One of them had a potato peeler in his arm. After catching his breath, Ross grabbed a chair, carried it over to the bar. "Enough of this shit." He lifted it high and smashed Tire Man over the head. He toppled to the ground. Ross hit him again just to be sure he was down. Judd stood up. "You okay?" Ross asked. "I couldn't get by him," Judd said. "He was kicking my ass." "Join the club." "Dawson?" Judd asked in a panic. "He's fine," Morgan answered. "He's in the freezer with Sister Helena. Can you guys…" her body bounced. "Help?" Ross walked over to the fireplace and grabbed the tool box. He lifted a couple chair legs and carried them to the stairwell. "Sorry." He said to Morgan. "Just hold it another minute." He grabbed a hammer and nails, placed the nails in his mouth, then lifted a leg to the arch and began securing the door. "How many are in there?" Judd asked. "Five," Ross answered as he hammered. "I tossed two out." "Three," Morgan corrected. "I threw one out as well." She stepped away from the door, turned and held it with her hands for Ross. "One is missing" Judd said. "We'll find it." Morgan secured the next leg to the door. He only needed a couple nails, enough for a temporary fix. "Oh my God, Father Basko," Judd said. "I know." Ross paused in his hammering, looking over his shoulder. Judd was standing by Father Basko's body, or rather what remained of it. He paused then finished the final nail. "We'll take care of…" he turned around and caught his breath. "take care of…" His eyes widened. "What?" Morgan asked, then turned around. Tire Man was standing, dead eye stare locked on Judd and he held Ross' gun haphazardly in his hand. "Judd!" Morgan screamed, "Watch out." Judd spun around. Ross saw Judd dart out of the way, and Ross ran, hammer in hand, toward Tire Man. The gun went off, a split second before Ross, two hands on the handle of the hammer, like a baseball player, swung upwards with everything he had, landing the hammer claw end first in the base of Tire Man's skull. Tire Man teetered and the gun dropped from his hand. Quickly, Ross swept up the gun, shifted his body and fired once at Tire Man, hitting him in the side of the neck and taking him down once and for all. Ross' heart raced out of control. He bent over, hands to his legs to catch his breath. It was close. Especially when he saw Tire Man with the gun. He was confident, especially with the way Tire Man held the gun, that everything was okay. He knew he was wrong when he heard the sound of Morgan's voice like he never heard it before. Soft, sad and whimpering, "Ross." He held his eyes closed tight for a moment and slowly lifted his head and looked. Morgan knelt on the floor. Blood flowed over her fingers as she tried with diligence to stop the bleeding with her bare hands. Judd had been shot.

10.37

Jacqueline Druga

RATTLED

"Get me this, get me that, find me this, find me that." Ross was a plethora of orders and Morgan followed them as fast and best as she could. Each item, he asked for, she found. Either he had it, or Sister Helena did in her bag. He was on the floor working diligently on Judd. There wasn't time to worry about the remaining kids, they could only hope they remained calm while he tried to stabilize Judd. "Just make sure you keep the Sister and Dawson away. At least until I'm done," Ross said. "We don't need either of them seeing this." "Should I tell them something?" Ross looked at her, his eyes cased her bloody shirt. "Not until you change." Morgan understood. "Hey," Judd said groggily. "What's all the fuss about?" "He's awake," Ross said. "Hand me the whiskey." "It's a good sign, right?" Morgan asked. Ross didn't reply to her, he took the bottle and lifted Judd's head. "I need you to take a big drink. I mean huge, okay." "Why?" "You've been shot, Pal." It was long and dragged out as Judd said the word in surprise. "What? No way." "Yeah, way." "It can't be bad." Ross tilted his head. "It's bad." "But you're a cop and if you're fixing me then I'm good. It can't be that bad." "You don't have a choice," Ross said. "Plus, you're in luck. I was a medic in the reserves." "Sweet. So how bad is bad?" "Bad. You lost a shit load of blood." "Eh, I'll get it back." Ross exhaled in frustration. "I need you to be quiet and still. Morgan, keep the light close." "Ah, you two are talking again," Judd said. "Judd, please. Morgan, the vodka." "I just had whiskey." "It's not for drinking." Ross took the uncapped bottle from Morgan. "This is going to hurt." He poured it over the wound left of his naval. "Ow." Ross smiled. "That was simple. I think I see it. You need to hold still, I think I can get it. Hold the light closer Morgan." Judd grunted an "Uh!" loudly. Ross looked at him. "I didn't touch you." "You're gonna reach in me with your fingers?" Judd asked, "That's how President Harrison died." "What?" "They reached in with their fingers and he got an infection and died." "Well, there was a bag with rubber gloves and antibiotics," Ross said. "Hey, that was me. I got them." Judd replied. "Good for you and by the way, it was Garfield, not Harrison." "You sure?" "Positive. Now hold still," Ross instructed and reached into the wound. The screams carried to them, even through the insulated metal door of the freezer. A long cry out, then another, and then silence. Dawson scurried to the door and Sister Helena held him back. "That was Judd," Dawson cried out. "I know it was. He's hurt. Judd doesn't scream." "You can't leave here." "Let me go help Judd." "Dawson!" Sister Helena scolded. "No. More than anything Judd wants you safe. Honor him, stay put." Dawson nodded sadly, then placed his arms around Sister Helena's waist. When he did he saw the blood and stepped back. "You're hurt." He looked at her arms, deep gashes ran up and down them. "I'll be fine." She brought him back into the fold of her embrace. "So will Judd." Judd had passed out. He cried out in pain a few times and then his head dropped to the side and he was out. Even though Ross was happy that he was talking, he needed him still and silent. He was able to pull the shell from his gut but Ross hadn't a clue how much damage was done. He did his best to seal the wound using everything from a needle and thread to duct tape. After he had finished, they carried him to a sleeping bag near the fire. "What do you think?" Morgan asked. Ross shook his head. 'Your guess is as good as mine. He lost a lot of blood." "He said we're close to Branson. Can we go?" "You mean like now?" Ross asked. Morgan nodded. "Yeah, what if we go right now? We'll be there by morning." "You hear that out there?" Ross shook his head. "I don't know." "We have to try. They may have a doctor there." "I know. Let's hit the radio again. He has extra batteries. We can keep trying. Once the storm breaks, we'll head out even if it's not light." "It's not going to break, Ross. You know that." Ross closed his eyes. "What about them?" Morgan nodded her head at the three children. "We can't trust them around him." "Once we get Dawson and Sister Helena from the freezer, we'll put them in there." Ross then groaned. "Oh man, Dawson. He is not going to handle this well. We're going to…" Slowly, Ross lifted his eyes upward. "Oh. No." He stood. "What's wrong?" Morgan asked. Ross heard it, didn't she? "What's wrong?" Morgan asked. "Do you hear that?" "I don't hear anything." "Exactly." Ross raced to the door. "It's over, we can go. It stopped." Ross knew better, he opened the door. The air was still and not a single rain drop fell. "Let's get everybody," Morgan joined him. "We'll carry him out." "No." Focused Ross stepped out and on to the porch. "Where are the kids we threw out?" Ross didn't answer that question. The night was suddenly quiet. It was filled with an eerie silence and a greenish hue as if the moon was shining through a color gel. He stepped down the stairs and to the lot, the moment he did he felt the first 'pat' to this head, then suddenly it fell around him. He held out his hand to catch the hail that was the size of peanuts. He shifted his eyes around when the pressure filled his ears, then heard the roar. Almost like a freight train in the distance. He spun back to Morgan. "Get inside." "What's going on." Where was it? He looked around. Where? The sky was dark until it lit up with six or seven bolts of lightning that speared through the sky continuously, brightening it. That was when he saw the first funnel in the distance straight ahead of him, it was huge, as he turned to run back in the house, he saw the second one, it filled the entire sky. "Oh my God," Morgan gasped out in shock. "The basement?" "There is no basement." Ross moved toward Morgan to get her inside. "What are we going to do?" Morgan ran inside, then stopped. "The Freezer." "Grab Judd." Quickly, each of them grabbed an end of the sleeping bag, using it like a stretcher to carry Judd. "How long?" Morgan asked. "I don't know. A minute." "That one is headed straight toward us." "They don't move in a straight line. It may veer off, we're still getting caught in the wind." When they arrived in the kitchen, the one bus kid lay on the floor by the freezer door. His forehead was bloody and there were bloody handprints on the freezer. It was obvious he ran over and over to into the door until he knocked himself unconscious. "Sister!" Ross yelled. "Open the door." "She can't hear us." Ross tried again. "Open the door!" The freezer door opened and Sister Helena gasped. "Oh my Sweet Lord." "Judd!" Dawson screamed. Hurriedly they carried him inside and set him down. Ross ran back to the door. "Where are you going?" Morgan asked. "We can't lose everything. Stay here." Ross closed the door and ran as fast as he could back to the dining room. The windows rattled and the noise of the impending tornados was deafening. He grabbed two backpacks in his run, tossing them over his shoulder, then the case with the radio. His heart pounded and he couldn't think straight. Where were the batteries? The room had been thrown into disarray from the chaotic run in. Finally he saw the bag by the fireplace, he lifted that and a duffle bag that was on the floor. The funnel was close, he could feel the ground vibrating. He headed back to the kitchen, arms full but stopped, there was one more thing. Even though he didn't have time to spare, Ross ran back to the dining area and grabbed it… Judd's guitar. He balanced everything in his arms as he rushed back to the kitchen. His call for them to open the door was buried in the wind noise. He dropped the bags and opened the freezer. He shoved the items in with his foot then ran in just as a loud crack and boom rang out. He dropped the items, slammed the door, and held it closed while catching his breath. There was a certain amount of sound proofing in the freezer, but he could still hear things clamoring and banging outside. Inside though was a solo sobbing sound. Dawson. He didn't want to let go of the door, so Ross looked over his shoulder. Dawson was seated on his knees. He held on to Judd's hand and lifted his tear filled eyes to Ross. "Please tell me he's going to be okay. Please. Don't let him die. Please." Ross didn't know what to say. More than anything he wanted to tell the child it was going to be alright, but he couldn't. All Ross could do was turn away, face the silver of the door and hold on as best as he could.

10.37

Jacqueline Druga

FORTUNE AND FAME

"Branson, anyone, anyone out there? Do you read?" Morgan called out. "Anyone? Over." She switched the channel. Ross reached over and stopped her. "Give it a few minutes before switching." Morgan nodded. Sister Helena called from the backseat. "Can we go any faster?" "No, Sister," Ross answered. "Water on the road is deep. I don't want to stall." He turned the defrosters on to clear the windshield, but it wasn't helping. A steady thin rain mixed with snow fell and Ross prayed the water didn't freeze. They were headed south, it had to get warmer. Go faster, Ross thought. They were so lucky they were even on the road at all. He thought back to the moment they opened the freezer door. Things had quieted down and they had been in there safely for over an hour. Judd regained consciousness pretty fast and was a great patient. He took the pain pills and the antibiotics and even joked about how bad his luck was. His demeanor was a good sign. It didn't help the horrified feeling Ross had before he looked beyond the confines of the walk in freezer. He had no idea what waited beyond the door. It was time to find out. A simple creak of the door brought in a blast of cooler air and a fine mist of water. He could hear the dripping and expected the worst. Tornados were peculiar things. Ross remembered the time as a kid when he lived in Kentucky, His grandmother's house was spared during a tornado and the next door neighbor's home was flattened. It was dark when he stepped inside the kitchen, but he could see enough with the help of a flashlight that things had been toppled. He had the others stay behind while he checked it out. He looked up, part of the ceiling was missing. It was a two story building, he was pretty sure the top floor was gone. A light rain carried in as he walked into the main dining area. His primary goal was to go outside, canvas a way to get out of town, if there was indeed a way. They needed to get to Branson, it was their only hope for help. The restaurant for the most part was intact. Windows were busted and the door was off the hinges. The area above the bar had collapsed and most of the upper floor was in the dining area. The place where Father Basko had died was buried. Ross made his way outside. It was black, he could barely see anything outside his flashlight beam. He moved it left to right. The school bus was on its side and against the buildings across the road. The convenience store was flattened, however before him was nothing short of a miracle. Even though it was covered with debris, Judd's truck, complete with the boat, was essentially unharmed and still parked right where they had left it. Ross had seen instances like it before, though rare, it wasn't impossible. He was forever grateful. He would see better once the sun emerged, but until then, Ross worked on clearing the debris from the truck. It started, had gas, and just before five in the morning, they carried Judd to the truck and were on the road. Slowly, but moving. Daylight brought the clarity that the entire area had been devastated. Chunks of woods, papers and even bodies floated in the shallow flooding that covered the area, causing Ross to drive with caution. Morgan sat up front attacking the radio. Judd lay on the back seat, his head on Sister Helena's lap, while Dawson sat on the floor behind Morgan's seat, his hand continuously on Judd. Judd waned between being awake and asleep, he even tried to talk and joke. Ross knew he wasn't well. His color was horrible, a pasty white, but Ross wasn't giving up hope. Judd was a strong man, fighting with everything he had both physically and emotionally. Ross was determined to get Judd the help he needed. It was out there, and Ross pressed forward at a safe speed. That was all he could do. A 'thud' against the bottom of the truck stirred Judd from his sleep. When he opened his eyes it was daylight, the last time he woke up it was still dark. "What the heck are you hitting?" he asked. "Lots of things in the road," Ross answered. "How are you feeling?" "Sore." That wasn't completely the truth, his entire body felt aflame with pain and he had the bed spins when he closed his eyes. "I keep dreaming of Morgan calling out 'anyone'." Morgan looked over her shoulder. "I'm going to get someone on this damn thing." "Well how dee damn, you are in a good mood and no fighting. Guess my accident isn't a bad thing after all." "Rest," Sister Helena swiped her hand across his brow. "Please." "Nah, I'm good Sister. But you can keep touching my forehead. It reminds me of my mom." Judd could feel Dawson, but he couldn't see him. He tried, but he was at his feet and Judd couldn't lift his head enough to see him. "Hey little buddy, how you doing?" "Sad," Dawson said. "I'm scared, Judd. Scared for you. You look like a zombie." "Dawson," Sister Helena scolded calmly. "No, kidding? Really?" Judd asked. "How cool. I was never very vain. I feel good." "You look bad," Dawson said, "You gotta get better Judd. You found me, you have to stay with me." "Buddy, I am going to give it my all." Judd cringed in pain. It hurt to talk, to breathe. "I could use one of those pain pills right about now, and that bottle I watched you pick up from the rubble." "Judd," Sister Helena said softly. "You shouldn't mix pills and alcohol." "He can have them," Ross said. "I think it will be fine." Morgan handed back the bottle and pills as Sister Helena lifted his head so he could take them. Judd coughed when the pill lodged for a second in his throat. He washed it down with more booze. "You know what's funny?" Judd asked. "If I was shot before all this happened, man my music would outlive me." "Not that you're going anywhere," Ross said. "Your music is gonna outlive you anyhow." "He saved your guitar." Dawson said. "No kidding?" Judd said, "That's really swell. Hopefully I'll play it again. I want Dawson to know my music." "I know your music." Ross said. "Every word." He then began to sing, "Walking in the rain, feeling no more pain, Jack and Jim my best friend again. I can stumble, I can fall, I can take it all, but the addictions in my blood …keeps me heart a flarin'…" At that instant, everyone but Judd sang, "Craven Carrot Cake and Karen." Judd laughed and coughed. "You all know it." Morgan looked to the back seat with a bright smile. "That was you? Oh my God, I love that song. You're famous." "Was." "Is," Dawson corrected, "Everyone knows who Mr. Heston is." Before anything else was said, a hiss of static captured everyone's attention. "This is Branson, responding to unknown caller. Anyone there?" As if they won some sort of championship, everyone in the truck cheered. Morgan grabbed the radio. "We're here. We hear you." She looked behind her to Judd. "We need help."

10.37

Jacqueline Druga

LAST CHORD

They were filled with hope. Even though the slow moving trip was taking longer than it should have, they were in contact with Branson. "Radio when you're within fifty miles. You may run into trouble. We'll look for you," Bill from Branson told them. Ross didn't know what that meant, maybe they had trucks out on the roads. As instructed they checked in every fifty miles. Sometimes with a longer reply, most with a "Roger that." They put the last of the gas in the tank, with a little over a hundred miles to go. Only in a few places did the water ever recede. Two hundred miles before Branson, Judd started to cough. He talked less, and slept more. Sister Helena said he was burning up. Fifty miles before Branson, they placed their final radio call and they didn't think too much of the lack of response, until only three miles later, the journey ended. The road just ended and nothing but a huge lake of water blocked their way. The water washed back and forth in a wave like manner against the concrete, almost as if it was always there, a natural lake. Tips of trees poked through the dark water, but there was nothing more as far as the eye could see. Ross stepped from the truck. He knew the temperature had dropped, but he didn't realize how cold it was. Too cold to rain, that was for sure, even though the sky was clouded over. Ross spread the map out on the hood of the truck. "Branson is by that mountain range." He exhaled in frustration. "What now?" "You know, from the moment Judd picked me up, I bitched about cutting the boat loose." She tilted her head in a nod to the boat. "I've never been so happy to be wrong." "Do you know anything about boats?" "Nope. Do you?" "Not enough. Should we stay here?" "No, we have to try. We'll layer up clothing, we have to try." "He's sick, Morgan. If it rains, the cold…" "We have to try. Those aren't rain clouds. They're too high. This…" She pointed up. "Is snow. We need to move." He was hesitant, but eventually he agreed. It was the trickiest thing he had ever done in his life and it reiterated to Ross how much he didn't know. It was all guess work. Judd helped. He woke enough to explain how to unhitch the boat and coughed his way through explaining how to get the motor going and how to steer, explaining it was like a lawn mower. He loaded Judd, Dawson and the supplies in the boat first. Once he had the boat near the water's edge, Sister Helena got in, and Ross and Morgan pushed the boat out, climbing in once they cleared the road. It was so cold it hurt and the muscles in his legs cramped. A chill set into his bones and he knew it wasn't going away anytime soon. The cold wind that continuously blew didn't help either. He hated starting the motor and the speed of the boat made it even colder. So many bodies floated in water, they looked like logs. Morgan kept trying the radio. Nothing. It was a mistake, a huge mistake getting in the boat. Ross felt it, he knew for certain when the water thickened with sludge and ice and the motor fluttered and finally stalled. The boat stopped moving. Ross tried and tried again to start it, however it was useless. They were going nowhere. Surrounded by gray chunks of concrete and ice that floated by. Unfortunately, they were at a standstill. In the quiet of nature's newest Missouri lake, Ross resolved they had reached the end of their journey. He felt horrible for Dawson. The little boy was covered in a blanket, never leaving Judd's side. Every time Judd's body shook with a cough, Dawson hugged him. "I'm sorry," Morgan said. "We should have stayed." "No." Ross shook his head. "What's meant to be was meant to be. I just... I just can't figure out why we made it this far. What was the point?" "Maybe it's bigger than us," Sister Helena said. "Perhaps there was a reason beyond our knowledge that we were meant to be. Maybe being something to each other before we leave this earth was enough." Immediately, Ross looked at Morgan. "What?" she asked. "Usually, you make an anti-God statement at this time." "Nah, not this time." She glanced at Dawson. "There are no atheists in this foxhole right now." "Oh my God, people," Judd spoke weakly. "You all are so morbid. I'm the one that's dying here." "Judd no," Dawson whimpered. "Please don't say that." "Sorry, Buddy." Judd tried to sit up. "You guys are moping." Whispering, Ross leaned to him. "We're stalled. We're stuck. It's cold. We aren't going anywhere. We're at the end of the line." "For now. There's a reason," Judd said. "What would that be?" Ross asked. "My legacy. My song. I have to make sure it lives on." "I know it." Ross laughed. "Yeah, but do you know the chords?" Judd asked, then coughed. "Sister, I know you have a journal. Was it saved?' "I… I think." She grabbed her backpack. "Yes. Yes it was." "Grab a pen, write down these chords. Ross needs them. Morgan, can you hand me my guitar?" "Sure." Morgan grabbed it. Judd tried to inch his way to a sitting position. He grunted and Ross helped him up. He then placed the strap over Judd's head. Weakly, he placed his hand on the guitar. He eyes rolled slightly and his head jerked as he caught himself dozing off. He muttered the simple three chord progression of the verse, then the chorus to Sister Helena, then struck an off tune chord. "You gonna play, Judd?" Dawson asked. "I am. Not very good. Not very fast, but I need to play. Join in if you know it." The beat wasn't as fast as the recording, and in the stand still boat, Judd struggled to play. Steam emerging from their mouths, they slowly sang with Judd. Their voices echoing across the water filled land. "Walking in the rain, feeling no more pain, Jack and Jim my best friends again. I can stumble, I can fall, I can take it all, but the addictions in my blood …keeps me heart a flarin'…" "Craving…" Judd sang, then stopped. His head tilted back. "Judd? Judd!" Dawson screamed out panicked. "Look." Judd peered up to the sky. "An angel." Ross felt heartbroken when Judd said that, until he heard the distant flutter of a helicopter. "Judd. That's not an angel. It's a chopper. We're saved. We're saved." Silence. Ross' eyes met Dawson's as the little boy clutched Judd's hand and his head fell to Judd's chest. The glory and excitement of the hovering rescue was shrouded in a gloom, far darker than the clouds. Judd… was gone.

10.37

Jacqueline Druga

BRANSON

Branson, Missouri was gone. Technically it was still there, but under water. Those who survived the drop of humanity, heard about the storms and retreated to the Branson Airport twelve hundred feet above sea level. Bill Thomas ran the airport and greeted them when they arrived. He was just like Dawson dreamt. A little older, a little thicker, but he looked and sounded the same as he had in his dreams. "Out west there's not much, but there's life and civilization," Bill said. "We have enough fuel for one more flight out." Dawson didn't hear much about where they were going. Somewhere in Colorado. He heard Bill explain to Ross that it was some sort of manmade incident gone bad. That's what they were thinking, and nature took over. They believed the water was going to keep on rising for a while so they were headed to high elevation areas. "It will end up becoming a whole new geographical world," Bill told them. Dawson didn't know what that meant. He half listened. He was more concerned about Judd. He didn't want to leave him, he couldn't leave him. "I'm sorry, little man, I really am." Ross said. "We're going to get cleaned up and get some new clothes. You wanna come, or stay here?" "I want to stay with Judd for a little bit." "Okay you do that. Listen," Ross crouched down. "You're not alone. You have us, alright. We're here for you." Dawson nodded. "Will he be okay?" Morgan asked. "I'm here," Sister Helena said. "I'll stay. Go get fresh clothes." Dawson sat on the floor by Judd's covered body. At least they didn't leave him behind. The chopper could have left Judd, but the pilot didn't. They airlifted them all, one by one, including Judd into the chopper. Because of the radio calls, they knew there was an injured man, and a paramedic was on board. He tried with diligence to revive Judd the entire short flight to Branson, but it was futile. Dawson wanted to cry, he just couldn't believe his friend was gone. He was in shock. He kept waiting for Judd to open his eyes. He never did. He died with the guitar in his hands. The adults around him talked about a reason for this and a reason for that. Dawson wanted and needed a reason why Judd left him. However, nobody could give him one. Judd made a promise and kept it. He kept Dawson safe all the way to Branson. That meant something to Dawson. He knew his parents would be happy about that. All those people Dawson knew were now gone, those he loved… gone. It was now his job, his responsibility to keep them alive, to honor them. His parents… and Judd. Even at his young age, he knew the best way to do that was to live and survive. It would be a different way of life, but he would give it his best shot. He didn't really have a choice. His parents and Judd would have wanted that.

10.37

Jacqueline Druga

SEVEN YEARS LATER

His knuckles made a popping noise when he clenched his cramping fingers into a fist. "Damn it," Dawson shook his hand. "Language." Came the voice in another room. "He heard that?" Dawson shook his head. "Man." He lay on his single bed in a bedroom he shared in the three room apartment in Leadville Nine. It was small, but it was home. Everything was neat and tidy, always, except his corner of the room. Note book sprawled out next to him, Dawson lifted a pencil, wrote a sentence, bobbed his head, hummed a little, then stuck the pencil in his mouth before working out the chord progression on the guitar. He had it. He almost had it when there was a knock on his door. "Aw, man." It opened and Ross stepped in. "Hey, now, let's go. You know Joe only comes to do hair once a month. You miss this appointment I'm cutting your hair myself." Dawson groaned. The last time Ross cut his hair it was horrible. He was twelve and Ross made so many mistakes Dawson ended up nearly bald. Dawson used to say he got stuck with Ross. When they arrived in Leadville after the events, it was supposed to be temporary, but they never left. Ross immediately 'claimed' him, telling Dawson, "I had children, I can do this. Okay?" "Yeah okay." Dawson was eight. He figured that was what he had to do. Ross wasn't a bad guy, he was tough and strict yet Dawson was really glad he had him. Ross immediately was given a job in security enforcement and was one of the main men that built the small living complexes. "We'll go somewhere else one day," Ross would say. Dawson was still waiting. He figured by now it wasn't going to happen, because with each passing year, Ross had even more responsibility. Every civilization, at least the functioning ones, were so far apart and separated by the new lakes, the only way there was by boat. It took a lot of bartering to even get passage. North of the Rockies, there was a lot of area not flooded, but the land was overrun with Trancers, there were more of them than people who were normal. Everyone kept saying they'd die out, but they never did. Dawson fully believed they were the new evolution of man. Ross told him it was nonsense. Life was simple. He got up, went to school and then work. At fifteen he had a job, everyone over the age of thirteen did. He worked in pickling and hated it. Leadville Nine was the smallest of the twelve complexes. A hundred and thirteen people lived there. They farmed their own section and bartered with neighboring villages. When he was younger he used to think that Ross and Morgan would end up together. They never got along, they always fought. Dawson remembered how she used to be. She ended up being pretty nice. She married a guy in Leadville Seven and had two kids. He visited her every week. Sister Helena was the one only one who left the mountain and was teaching in California somewhere. She took a boat and only came back three times in the past seven years. He missed her, he thought of her, but rarely saw her. That was life now. "Hey." Ross snapped his finger. "Are you listening?" "I almost have this," Dawson said. "I really do." "I know, but your hair is too long. It needs to be cut. I want to spend time with you. Hang out. Can you please put down the guitar? I know it's hard to do, it's like an extension of your body." Dawson laughed. "Alright He grabbed a cloth, wiped off the neck of the guitar to free it from smudges, then gently set it on his bed. The guitar meant a lot to Dawson. It hadn't left his side since it left Judd's hands. "Can you clean up this mess later?" Ross asked. "Aw, man, you kill me." Dawson groaned. "No, you… kill me." Ross mussed his shaggy hair. "Let's go. We won't be long." Dawson nodded as he reached down and closed his notebook. "You writing a new song?" Ross asked. "Yeah, I am. Trying to anyways." "Can I hear it?" "When we get back." Dawson followed him through the door. "What's it called?" "It's called …. Call me Mr. Heston." Closed mouth, Ross nodded. "Good title." "Yeah. Yeah it is." The title was good and had more meaning than Ross probably would understand. Life wasn't all that exciting for Dawson, however it was good in its own way. He had his music, he had Ross, and he had his memories. In a world that was tossed upside down, Dawson had landed on his feet. Before leaving with Ross, Dawson looked back once at the guitar on his bed and pulled the door closed with a smile.

10 Holiday Stories

Dara Girard

The Special Guest

"She's daft, she is," Mary Marshall said as she set the dining room table for four. "Mum, keep your voice down," her daughter Eva replied as she placed an elegantly designed napkin on the table. "Why? She can't hear me, with her banging on in the kitchen like that. Acting as if she were expecting the bleeding queen," Mary said with a careless shrug, her words thick with a northern English accent she hadn't been able to drop after living nearly thirty years in the United States. Although, not much else about her had changed from the twenty-two year old new bride who'd settled with her husband in Hamsford, Maryland. Her figure had thickened after three children and only her hairdresser knew she was now completely grey. She dyed her shoulder-length hair a light brown to complement her soft cocoa colored skin. "Mum, shh," Eva said with warning. She only called her mother 'mum' when she was annoyed with her. At twenty-five, she was slender and lovely, with skin that matched her mother's, and flashing brown eyes. "You know we're no better egging her on this way." "We're her friends." "Aren't friends 'pose to tell each other the truth? We know that no good nephew of hers won't show up no matter how much she wants him to. Your father had the sense to stay away, and we're likely as daft as she is." "John said he would come," Eva said, straightening a fork. Her mother sniffed. "And you believe that?" It was more likely that Father Christmas would come to visit than John, but Eva didn't want to admit it for her friend's sake. "It's not what we believe, it's what she does." "Maybe the no good bastard might do us a favor and do the decent thing. That'd be a miracle, wouldn't it? Poor woman could use one." Fortunately, Miranda Simmonds, the topic of their conversation, couldn't hear what the two women were saying. Her heart was too full of joy. Her dear nephew, John Washer, said he'd come and spend time with her over the holidays. He was the only family she had left who bothered to take any notice of her. Her sister had married for a fourth time, and lived in Trinidad, her nieces had little use for her, but John was different. For five years she'd cared for him, while her older sister got her life together after a cancer diagnosis and an addiction to pain pills. Miranda had provided John with a stable home that his parents hadn't been able to provide. With the help of her father, she'd helped care for John from the ages of six to eleven. She'd worked with her father at the hardware store he'd started. More often than not, she'd had to get between grandfather and grandson because they were both strong-willed men, but she hadn't minded. Family was important to her. But after her sister improved, and John went back to live with her, they'd lost touch. He'd been a rambunctious boy, but she'd found him more inquisitive than annoying. No one had expected much from him, but he'd surprised them. He was a soldier and achieved the rank of staff sergeant. She felt that his desire to serve may have had a little to do with the years she'd raised him. She'd instilled in him the importance of a life of giving to others. She'd taken him with her to volunteer at the local homeless shelter, to deliver a turkey every Thanksgiving, or donate clothing or toys he no longer needed. She'd not wanted him to be like his parents, who'd barely looked past themselves to even recognize that they had a son, and later, two daughters. And now he was coming to see her after so many years. It wouldn't be another empty holiday. She'd had a series of them since her father's passing three years ago. Her sister was always too busy to schedule a time to visit, but that didn't matter now. This year she wouldn't be a charity guest, although she knew her friends meant well. She wanted to return the favor and host a family dinner for them, and now she could. John was one of the lucky ones to come home from the war unscathed, though she didn't know how his mind might be. She wouldn't ask too many questions. She was just glad she had family to share the holiday with again. It was kind of her neighbors to agree to come. It was a week before Christmas and she'd wanted to make it special. In several days they'd be leaving for New York to be with their family. Miranda cast an anxious glance at the clock. He'd be there any minute, she thought, as she cast a look over the food. Spices scented the bright, airy kitchen, which hosted toasted hardo bread, limeade, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, a turkey that was browning in the oven, fried plantain and an assortment of cookies and a cake. She could imagine the look of delight on John's face as he piled his plate high with food. "Oh, pumpkin pie, my favorite. I can't believe you remembered," he'd say. And she'd grin and not let him know that she hadn't forgotten anything he enjoyed. Her phone alerted her to a text, waking her from her daydream. She glanced down and her heart stopped. Won't be able to make it. Sorry, Auntie. Miranda read the text four times. No…five, then six times. It had to be a mistake. Or maybe a joke. As a boy, John was known for his silly jokes. He'd knock on the front door any minute and laugh. And she'd playfully hit him in the shoulder and scold him for scaring her. She waited. But the knock at the door didn't come. Why couldn't he make it? Why would he cancel a few minutes before he was supposed to arrive? The message had to be wrong. She texted him back. If you're running late, I can keep the food warm. Sorry, Auntie. Another time. Sorry, Auntie. She could almost hear the casual, dismissive way he'd say it. He'd said it so many times before. 'Sorry Auntie, I couldn't help myself,' he'd say when she found he'd eaten a pie she'd meant for a guest, 'Sorry Auntie,' he'd say when he'd broken a new vase she'd brought, or when she'd told him not to play with his ball in the house, or when he'd leave jelly stains all over her father's woodworking magazine. Sorry, sorry, sorry. Always sorry. But she was sorrier still. Sorry that she'd told her neighbors he was coming, even boasting to her employees at work. She usually didn't have any news. She'd devoted most of her life to her father—a man who'd been her best friend—and their store. That dedication hadn't bothered her until his passing, leaving an emptiness in her life. But her nephew's upcoming visit had given her something interesting to share—and some attention—at least for a little while. Attention usually passed her by. She knew many residents of Hamsford felt sorry for her. She was an example of what not to do with one's life. A cautionary tale for young women. "If you don't find a man now, you'll end up a spinster like Miranda." "Don't work so hard or you'll end up like Miranda." "Be careful not to give so much or you'll end up an old maid like Miranda." She couldn't blame them and usually didn't mind the chatter. Nobody had expected much from her, even when she was young. She'd never been a beauty—more handsome than pretty, with chestnut brown skin and dark brown eyes. And now, pushing forty, she knew her options were limited, but she didn't regret her life. Except when the holidays came, shining a light on her loneliness, but not this time. This holiday was going to be different because her nephew—a soldier—was coming home for the holidays. And her colleagues had been pleased for her, they'd even given her a card and money to give to him. Thanking him for his service. What would she tell them now? Mary came into the kitchen. "It's getting late. Take off your apron and fix your hair," she said, glancing at the untidy bun at the top of Miranda's head. "I forgot something," Miranda said, feeling the need to escape. To think. To plan. She couldn't tell them yet. She didn't want them to feel sorry for her. Not again. "I have to go to the store and—" "But there's no time." Miranda hung up her apron. "I'll only be a minute." "I'll go. Eva brought that scarf you wanted to borrow and—" "No, no, you stay here," Miranda said turning away, tears building. Their kindness hurt her. They were so good to her. Couldn't John have come at least for them? He and Eva had played together when they were younger. Couldn't he have made an appearance for her? She'd even entertained a vague hope that they'd get on since they were both still single. Miranda left the kitchen and raced past Eva. She grabbed her coat. "Won't be a minute," she said again before grabbing her car keys and leaving.

10 Holiday Stories

Dara Girard

Chapter 2

She drove, not knowing where, or for how long. She didn't have much time. She couldn't leave Mary and Eva waiting forever. But how could she face them? "I told you so," Mary would say. "Didn't I say that nephew of yours was no good?" Eva would just look at her with pity. It was all so humiliating! But she knew she had to go back; running away wouldn't solve anything. Oh Dad, I wish you could help me. I miss you so much, she thought, holding back tears. She had no other choice. She'd wrap up all the food and send Mary and Eva home. She'd lost her appetite anyway. Miranda slowed her car and stopped at the empty four-way intersection then quickly turned to head back home just as a young man in uniform stepped off the curb into the crosswalk. She braked quickly, but not soon enough. She felt the thud, saw him fall and her heart dropped. She jumped out of the car and raced over to him, grateful not to see any blood. The man sat up, looking dazed. "I'm so sorry," she said, kneeling beside him. "Serves me right," he said, standing. "I wasn't looking where I was going." That was true, but that didn't make her feel any better. She stood too, but he was nearly a foot taller than she was so she had to look up at him. He was young, though there was a cool cynicism to his features that belonged on a man much older. "Do you need to go to a hospital?" she asked. "No, I'm fine really." He dusted off his pants, although the action did nothing to make them look less worn. "What? You've never seen a man fall on his pride before?" Miranda looked him over to make sure he was really okay. He had skin the color of rye bread and his face didn't appear kind. Perhaps, if he'd had more pleasant features she would have left him alone, but his biting brown eyes and sharp arrogant jaw made her think of her father when he was in one of his gruff moods or when a customer was ready to voice a complaint. She'd spent years soothing over such moments. A handsome, pleasant stranger would have made her flustered, but this irritated stranger with his sarcastic tone made her feel more relaxed. "At least let me take you where you were going," she said. "I can drop you there." He looked over her head at something in the distance, making it clear he wanted to be somewhere else. "I'm not going anywhere really." "Where are you staying?" He shrugged. "Haven't figured that out yet either." Miranda folded her arms. "You're not from around here." He met her gaze and for a moment a glint of humor lit his dark gaze, shedding the anger and cynicism and the years, making him appear younger than he had looked before. "What gave me away?" The uniform for one. It was ill-fitted. Most of the Hamsford men who'd chosen to fight wore their uniform with an arrogance, as if to compensate for a sense of divided loyalties. Hamsford was a community filled with immigrants, some not sure if their sacrifice meant much to their new home country. There were still those in their adopted homeland who saw them as outsiders no matter how much blood they shed on battlefields abroad. But this young man looked dejected. Defeated. Haunted. "Are you sure you're all right?" "I'm fine, really," he said, then his stomach grumbled. Miranda couldn't help a smile. "You're hungry." He folded his arms, his frown increasing. "Well, I'm fine aside from that." She bit her lip, looking him up and down. He was just the right age, height and look. And if she did him a favor… "I've got a hot meal waiting," she said, "if you'd just do one thing for me." "What?" he asked with caution. "Pretend to be my nephew just for one evening." His hands fell to his side. "But I'm—" She clasped her hands together. "Please, just for an hour maybe two. All you'd have to do is stuff your mouth with oven roasted turkey, browned to a crisp succulent sheen, but if you're vegetarian," she quickly added when he started to speak, "I also have mashed potatoes with chives, a bean salad medley, fried plantain and—" His stomach growled louder. She grinned. "Is that a yes?" He frowned. "You're a cruel woman." "No, just a desperate one. This isn't a time for pride. I owe you anyway. I nearly ran you down." "No, I walked into the street without looking." "Yes, exactly," she said snapping her fingers. She ran her hand over an invisible dent on the hood. "See that damage? That's your fault. What are you going to do about it?" A slight smile touched the corner of his hard mouth. "Fine, I'll be your nephew." Miranda opened the passenger side door. "Good, thank you. Your name is John." He sat inside and pulled on his seatbelt with a groan. "Please don't tell me you call me Johnny." "No, but Ms. Mary sometimes calls you Jay." He froze. "How many other people will be there?" "Just two," Miranda said starting the car. She glanced at the clock. She'd met this stranger just in time. He tapped a beat on his knee. "I'm not much of an actor." "You don't have to remember much. I'll cover for you. It was so long ago that you were here I doubt they'll expect much from you. Just keep your mouth full and nod and you should be fine. And you can talk about your time abroad if you want, but there's no pressure." "And what do I call you?" "Just call me Auntie."

10 Holiday Stories

Dara Girard

Chapter 3

Brett Greenwood stared at his reflection in the pristine bathroom mirror, wondering how he'd gotten into this mess. He looked terrible. His uniform was worn and big. Why would she want to present someone like him? But he was hungry and if this was the price of a good meal, he'd do it with a smile, even though he hadn't felt like smiling for a long time. At twenty-eight, he felt decades older. Only a couple of hours ago he'd been on a bus leaving New Jersey heading south, not caring where he ended up. Twice, strangers had thanked him for his service and sacrifice. One little boy called him a hero. But he knew he wasn't. He barely felt like a man. He didn't want to feel at all. After losing his savings in a business deal that had gone bad, he'd paid back his best friend, Leonard, who'd loaned him some money, only to discover he'd lost more than that. He'd gone to Leonard's office to repay him and was told he was out of the office. And he'd believed the receptionist before he caught Leonard coming out of a utility closet with Sarah—Brett's girlfriend—both of them adjusting their attire. If it had been someone else, he would have found it funny. Sarah didn't even use the ladies' room and never took public transport, and yet this was where they'd decided to be intimate. He just stared at them, hardly hearing their excuses as they tumbled out of their mouths like rice spilling out the bottom of a bag. "We were going to tell you." "It's not what you think." "It hurt us too." "Look, we didn't mean it to happen." He couldn't even remember who said what; he was just afraid he was going to be sick. Since grade school, Leonard had been like a brother to him. He looked chagrined, but nothing more. Sarah had tears shining in her eyes, her dusty skin red from embarrassment, guilt or exertion. Considering what they'd been up to, he wasn't sure. What hurt most was that she'd made it clear he hadn't been worth waiting for. She couldn't even wait two years for him. The woman he'd planned to marry, to spend his life with, had traded him in for his best friend and his six-figure salary. "We got involved around the time when…when we feared you were dead," Sarah said. "I turned to him for comfort." "And after you found out I was okay?" Brett managed to say, his tongue feeling like a lead weight in his mouth. "It was too late," Leonard said. "We couldn't tell you," Sarah added. He felt like such a fool. All those online talks, texts, emails. They'd been lies. He'd stayed true, when lots of his other pals hadn't, and this had been his reward. After paying Leonard what he owed, Brett had two hundred dollars left and decided to catch a bus. "Where are you heading?" an older man with an island accent asked him in the bus depot while they both stood in line. The man's voice was soft, like a whisper, but Brett could hear it despite the sound of a baby crying, wheels of luggage carts dragging along the ground, and discordant conversations. "Doesn't matter, I just want to be away." "Then you should go to Hamsford." Brett met the man's eyes, a little surprised by their intensity. He was a large, dark-skinned man with a trim white beard. "Is that where you're going?" "No, but you just look like a man who needs some peace." How right he was, Brett thought, but he still hesitated. The man nudged him with his elbow. "Go nuh. What you haffi lose?" Brett took a deep breath, then impulsively bought a ticket. He left without any luggage or even an overcoat. He just needed to get out of the city, to get away from the memories, from his failed plans. Hours later he got off in Hamsford, a place he'd only known vaguely about because of a store his father used to talk about here. Brett walked around in the cool air, listening to the different accents, many reminding him of the stranger and his own Jamaican parents who'd left him too soon. He briefly thought about his father, who was a foot shorter than him, and who'd liked to pat him on the back and affectionately say, "How's my little boy?" It was a silly joke that had always made him smile; his mother would just shake her head. She was as small as his father. Whenever they stood on either side of him, they looked like the perfect bookends. And before their passing, he'd wanted to scoop them up and carry them around with him. With them he'd never felt alone, he'd always felt loved. Now he had no one to keep his loneliness at bay. He missed them. He missed them so much it ached. He felt the sting of tears. He'd hope to come home to Sarah, but now knew he'd spend the holidays alone. Alone with the bitter crumbs of dashed hopes. He walked around the streets of Hamsford as a cool evening sun painted the sky in pastel hues. He passed a food market, the scent of vegetable patties and cumin wafting towards him, reminding him that he'd left without eating anything. He shuffled by a row of small stores, children riding their bicycles, and a man chasing after a rooster that had no business being there. He made his way onto a residential street, the sights of the neatly lined homes twisting a knife into his heart. He'd hoped to have a home like this with Sarah. He decided to keep his head down and block out the sights around him. He didn't want to see the well-manicured lawns, or the holiday decorations. That's when he'd stepped into the road. After being struck, his first instinct was to be angry. He wanted to be mad, he wanted to get into a fight and had a man gotten out of the car, he probably would have. He'd felt like smashing his fist into someone's face. A violent, primitive rage seized him, but it quickly disappeared when he saw her. A woman who stared down at him as if she'd run over a family of ducklings. For a moment that annoyed him because she cared and he didn't want her to. He wanted her to go away and leave him alone. Instead, he found himself drawn in by her warm brown eyes. People didn't usually look at him like that. They usually saw a threat, but not her. No matter how cutting or surly he seemed, she wouldn't leave, forcing him—to his annoyance—to notice how pretty she was. And then she'd asked for a crazy favor and he'd said yes. With a shake of his head, Brett wiped his dirty face and large, cold hands with the fragrant scented soap and warm water. Minutes later he sat at the head of a table, which seemed to groan under the weight of many dishes, while three women stared at the man he was supposed to be—Staff Sergeant John Washer. He'd run away from one woman and ended up in the presence of three. Fate had a funny sense of humor.

10 Holiday Stories

Dara Girard

Chapter 4

She wouldn't have recognized him, Eva thought as she stared at John. He didn't look anything like the boy she'd used to run from. And where had his vanity gone? Her mother used to call him Mr. O'Jay referring to a polished singing group the O'Jays from the past. 'Look it up,' she liked to tell him. John would never have worn a uniform that didn't fit him before. But perhaps the years overseas had changed him. That was possible. Although she doubted it. There was something she didn't trust about him. "Remember when we used to play that video game and every time you scored you'd punch me in the arm?" she asked him. "What's past is past," Miranda said. "I remember it clearly," Eva said, helping herself to another roll. "Just wondered if he did." "I guess I wasn't the nicest kid," he said without apology. Eva frowned. Even his voice didn't seem to match what she remembered. Although she didn't know how John sounded now, she'd never imagined his dark, sarcastic edge. John was always about charm. That's why he got into trouble with little consequence. However, this large, grim man looked as if he'd spent half his life facing the corner. "Think you're better now, soldier?" "I hope so." "We weren't even sure you'd make an appearance," Mary said, giving Eva a stern look. "So that's an improvement." Eva stared at her mother, surprised. She usually was more suspicious of people than Eva was, but she'd smiled with pleasure when John gruffly complimented her spicy rice. However, Eva wouldn't be as easily swayed no matter how handsome he was. She sensed something off—something wrong. Ms. Miranda was too dear to her for her to ignore her instincts. She hoped John wouldn't stay long. That he'd spend one night in the little guest room Ms. Miranda so lovingly put together—newly painted, aired, scented with a fresh bouquet of flowers—and then disappear out of her life.

10 Holiday Stories

Dara Girard

Chapter 5

"You're doing great," Miranda said when Brett offered to help her in the kitchen 'Like you used to,' she'd added so that Eva and Mary wouldn't offer. Although they all knew that John rarely helped her and only did so reluctantly. "Eva doesn't like me," he said. "No," Miranda agreed with a laugh. "So you must be doing something right, she didn't get on well with John either. Unless…" Brett raised a brow at the sudden worried look on her face. "Unless what?" "Unless you wanted her to like you. I'm sorry, I never saw this from your point of view. Eva is a very attractive young woman and she's single. I had thought maybe she and John, but with you here maybe—" Brett shook his head. "Nope, I'm not interested. I'm off women for now." "You're too young to be off women." "I'm not interested." He took a bowl and placed it on a high shelf. Miranda pointed at it. "That doesn't go there." "I know. Promise you won't try to set me up with Eva." "Why would I—" "Promise." A sly grin touched her mouth. "I could just get a stool." "I'm warning you, Auntie." She laughed. "I know. Stop looking so fierce." Brett blinked surprised. Usually his tough expression put people on edge, but Miranda looked amused. He couldn't understand why he didn't frighten her, but her response helped his tension ebb. She felt comfortable with him and he was starting to feel the same with her. "Did John ever have an uncle?" he asked, briefly wondering why there was no sign of a man around. "What?" "Nothing," he said feeling stupid. Just because there was no man in the house, didn't mean she was single. She could be dating. He silently swore. He had no business thinking about whether she was in a relationship or not. He wasn't interested in Eva and he wasn't interest in her. "You haven't promised me yet." Her eyes twinkled. "I promise." He frowned, feeling his heart pick up pace and not knowing why. "How come I don't trust you?" Her smile widened. "I don't know." He didn't believe her, but Miranda got him wondering about something he didn't want to. Eva was attractive, smart, and clearly cared about her friend. But she rubbed him wrong. Reminded him too much of Sarah. Plus, he didn't like how she looked at him, no—studied him—assessed him. He didn't want to ruin Miranda's evening and hated Eva's questions trying to trip him up. He wouldn't fail for Miranda's sake, although he wanted to give Eva a piece of his mind. He also wished he had a chance to meet the nephew who didn't deserve the aunt he had. "What do you find so amusing?" he asked instead. "You're cute when you're shy." He took another bowl and put it on the high shelf to annoy her, feeling his face burn. "I'm not shy." "Okay. I promise I won't say a word." And to his relief, Miranda kept her promise and let him endure Eva's biting tongue and wary glances without trying to match them up. Then the evening was over and the two women were gone, leaving him alone with Miranda in her living room with coffee and cake. They sat in front of an unlit fire, the lights from her Christmas tree and garlands lit with an assortment of colors. "What brought you to Hamsford?" she asked. He didn't want to tell her about something that was still too painful to admit. "My father liked to order stuff from a hardware store around here." Miranda sat up. "Simmonds Hardware?" "Yes, that's it." "That's my store," she said, tapping her chest in excitement. "It was started by my father. He always loved fixing things. Your father was a client?" "For years," Brett said, then told her his name. "That's wonderful! I'll have to look him up in my father's notes. Your father liked building things too?" "Yes," Brett said with a groan. "Badly." She laughed. "How is he?" He sighed. "Gone." She refilled his cup. "Mine too." She stood. "Wait here." She left the room, then came back with an oversized, green journal. "These are my father's notes," she said, taking a seat beside Brett so she could show him. "He liked to write down things about clients so that he would remember them because each one was important to him. I think I remember him mentioning your father's name." She flipped through the journal's yellowed pages then stopped. "Your father was a tool addict." Brett couldn't help a laugh. "Yes, anything new and he'd buy it." "Good man," Miranda said, reading her father's notes. "Loves his wife and son, a boy named Brett. Remember birthday." Brett nodded. "Yep, it's your father's fault that I'd get a gift card every year to buy something that my father would use to make a horrible mess." "I'm sorry." "Don't be, it made him happy and I learned early on how to make repairs. If you have anything broken," he tapped his chest, "I'm your man." "I'll remember that," Miranda said, suddenly wanting to remember everything about him. She soon became aware of how close they were, felt the heat of his leg as it touched hers. Before she hadn't noticed the size of his hands, the breadth of his shoulders, the dark brown of his eyes that reminded her of rum cake. Miranda hastily shifted her gaze and looked at the clock. "It's late. Do you have somewhere to stay tonight?" "No," Brett said, looking at another note her father had written. "Just drop me back at the bus depot." Miranda licked her lips, wishing she wasn't so aware of how his body pressed against her side as he bent to look at the journal. "I don't think the buses are still running." He shrugged, his gaze still focused on the journal. "That's fine. I'll stay there until morning and then I'll—" She briefly closed her eyes, gathering her courage. "I have a room already made for John, but you can use it instead." Brett's head shot up. "You don't even know me." Miranda tapped the journal. "My father did. You're practically family," she continued when he hesitated. "And I owe you for hitting you with my car." He stared at her for a long moment, until Miranda grew uncomfortable. Did he think she was crazy? Maybe she was, but for some reason she didn't want to say goodbye yet. "What?" "You're too trusting." He held out his hand. "Give me your cell phone." Miranda handed him her phone, confused. "Why?" "I'm giving you my full name, phone number and address," he said, putting the information in her address book. "If anything happened to you, they'd know the last person you were with." "Nothing's going to happen to me," Miranda said, surprised by his serious tone. "You don't know with strangers." He handed the cell phone back to her. "I am trustworthy, but not everyone is, so promise me you won't make an offer like this to someone else." Miranda folded her arms amused. "You're really big into promises, aren't you?" "Especially when they're kept." She affectionately patted him on the shoulder. "You can relax. You're the first and last strange man I've asked to stay in my guest room." "Good." "Does that mean you're staying?" He sighed. "I shouldn't." Miranda grinned. "I'll take that as a yes."

10 Holiday Stories

Dara Girard

Chapter 6

What am I doing? Brett wondered as he paced the small guest room. Why did he keep saying yes to her? This wasn't like him. He should be waiting at the bus depot or staying in some motel somewhere, not in a cozy little room with freshly laundered sheets. He heard a light tap on the door. "Is everything okay?" "I'm fine," he said, glancing down at the pajamas she'd given him to wear. It was a pair of her father's that fit surprisingly well. He'd never been able to borrow anything from his father. "Let me know if you need anything." "I just need to sleep," he said, climbing into bed, hoping he'd be able to. He slept better than expected and woke up the next morning so rejuvenated that he offered to chop vegetables for the omelet Miranda planned to make for breakfast. For some reason he felt a slight anticipation of something, but he didn't know what. He focused on his task, thinking of what ingredients Miranda would add, then his mind drifted to Sarah. She'd been a master in the kitchen, chopping fast and efficiently. She'd once made him a dish he couldn't pronounce. Some French dish. Or was it Spanish? She spoke both languages fluently. He'd learned Portuguese from his maternal grandfather. Sarah used to tease him about why he had such a dull English name when he had such a rich ethnic heritage. He'd never told her his mother had named him after a hero she'd read in a novel. Hero. Sarah would laugh at the word. He wasn't her hero and there'd be no happily ever after ending. He'd stopped believing in those. He was so lost in thought that when he sliced through his finger, right down to the bone, he didn't feel the pain at first. He just saw the blood and felt anger at his own stupidity. Some soldier. He couldn't even handle a damn knife in a kitchen. Brett quickly grabbed a towel to stop the bleeding. As he held the towel he saw a red stain slowly come through and spread and he thought about his friend Jin Lee and his dirty jokes and acne-scarred face. His Burmese parents wouldn't be having him over this holiday, and Brett briefly thought of the son Jin would never see. Brett quietly raged against the injustice. Jin had people who wanted him home, who cared about him. Brett had no one. He'd fooled himself into believing he had someone who cared. Someone to come home to. He'd fought to survive for nothing. He watched a blood droplet fall and land on the cream tile floor and his mind turned to Roger Beal, who'd been found swinging in his girlfriend's basement. And for a moment he understood the quest for peace. The desire to escape oneself, one's mind. To escape the twin demons of anger and sorrow with no in between. Pain, pain, pain. Pain of loss, pain of betrayal, pain of guilt. Would the pain end? Should it? "What did you do?" Miranda said when she saw him. "It's nothing." "You're bleeding all over my kitchen floor and you say it's nothing? Sit down." He did so, his face burning from humiliation, but he kept his head high. She looked at the wound. "You'll need stitches." "I can handle it." "What? You think you can stitch it up yourself with one hand?" "Yes." He'd stitched up lots of wounds before, and he watched her, daring her to ask him to explain, but instead she shrugged and said, "Well, you're not going to. Come on." He returned from having his hand stitched up at a nearby medical clinic, but quickly developed a fever. By the next day he was delirious. It had gotten infected and Miranda felt awful. She didn't know who she should call. If anything were to happen to him, it would be her fault, because of her silly lie. And in his delirium he spoke about his hates and fears and someone named Sarah. Was that someone to call? Unfortunately, he didn't have a cell phone on him, which she found unusual for someone so young. Fortunately, by the third day, the fever broke, but he was still weak. "How long have I been like this?" Brett asked, his gaze drifting to the window where the moon shone bright outside. "Two days." He swore, then looked at her and apologized. "That's okay, I'm your aunt, remember, not your mother." He slowly sat up, making sure not to put any pressure on his wounded hand. "You're not even that." "I'm just glad you're better. This is payback for letting me use you." "No, I really—" "That was a joke. Let's get you something to eat." Moments later, Brett sat in the kitchen wearing an expensive maroon sweater Miranda had meant to give to John, feeling full after a meal she'd prepared. He looked around the kitchen at the frosted glass fronted cabinets and tea kettle in the shape of a hen. Miranda caught his look. "That was my father's favorite. Said it reminded him of my mother." Brett wrapped his hand around the warm mug of spiced cider she'd prepared. "My mother was like this drink—soothing and sweet. You would have liked her." "Wish I could have met her." He took a sip of the cider then set it down. "Me too." "What if…" Miranda stopped and bit her lip. "What if what?" he urged her. "It's a crazy idea, but just think about it. What if I were to meet them? What would breakfast have been like?" Brett leaned back in his chair and shook his head. "It would have been crazy. Likely with my dad making obscure references about his favorite game of cricket and my mother asking me if I've had enough to eat while piling my plate with more food." "Let me have them over for breakfast." Miranda held up a hand before he could speak. "I know it sounds crazy, but you pretended for me. Let me pretend for you. It's Christmas tomorrow and I'd really like to do this for you. What would you have liked to serve them?" She pulled out her cell phone to start a list. "Are you serious?" "Very. Come on. While you think of what you'd like to serve them let me go get my good dishes." She jumped up with the energy of a little girl getting ready to set up a tea party. "But this is—" "Never mind." She put her phone away. "I'll decide for you."

10 Holiday Stories

Dara Girard

Chapter 7

She'd done it again. Why couldn't he say no to her? Brett stared at the four place settings in wonder. Miranda almost made him really believe they were expecting guests. She'd given him one of her father's shirts and a pair of trousers to wear, but what amazed him more was that he was glad to have a reason to stay longer. The cool morning rays of December splashed across the white plates and over the pan-fried jack, mackerel, scrambled eggs and papaya salad. Moments later, as she introduced herself and talked to the empty chairs in such a way that made it all seem real, he could see his parents. He could see the naughty twinkle in his father's eyes, the shy smile on his mother's face. Soon he was talking to them too and could imagine their laughter and feel their love. And for the first time in a long while, he felt at home, safe, wanted. And he could imagine having a home of his own and a family. He turned towards the hallway. "Uh oh I hear the baby crying," he said. Miranda's eyes widened. "Baby?" The look of surprise on her face made him eager to continue the pretence. "Should I go check on her or—" "Oh, no," she said, quickly catching on. "I'm sure your wife will have her quieted down soon and will join us." His good humor fell. "No, I thought—" "What?" He stared at her, embarrassment seizing his heart. He thought what he shouldn't have. For a moment he'd imagined that they were…that she was…but that was wrong. She saw him as a substitute for her nephew, nothing more. And he felt ashamed of his feelings. He had so little he had to offer her. Plus, he knew she only saw the difference in their ages. Miranda rested her hand on his arm and said, "I've been telling your parents what a good father you are." He nearly lost it then. It was as if she'd uncovered a secret desire. He'd wanted to be the man his father had been to him. But not only had she said the words that hit him at his core, she'd touched him. He hadn't been touched like this in so long, too long and it sent a course of agonizing pleasure through him. He didn't want to pretend any more. He didn't want to pretend to be her nephew, to pretend that his parents were alive, to pretend that he had a place to come home too. He had to end this. He pulled his arm away. "I can't do this anymore." Miranda blinked with concern. "I'm sorry I didn't mean—" "It's all right. I'm just…I should go." "What's the rush? I'd like to show you the store." "No." He gathered up a plate and went into the kitchen. "You're angry with me," she said, following him. He set the plate down on the counter. "I'm not angry. I just…it's time for me to go." "On Christmas Day?" "Yes." She rested her hands on her hips, staring at him for a long moment, then shrugged. "Okay." She left the kitchen. He paused. Somehow he'd expected her to argue, to fight him. Or maybe he just wanted her to so she'd give him a reason to stay. He went back into the dining room where he found her cleaning up the table. "Miranda?" "Yes?" He stood in front of her. "I'm older than I look." She grinned. "No, you're not." He sighed. She was right. "Besides, when you're in your twenties, it doesn't matter if you're twenty-four and she's twenty-five." "I'm twenty-eight." "Oh." She winked at him. "Then you are older than I thought. Anyway, there's no trouble if—" "I'm not interested in Eva, I told you that before. I don't want to pretend anymore. I want to play the uncle." She stared up at him, wide eyed. "You want to play my uncle?" "No, that's not what I meant. I mean, I want you to play the aunt and I play the uncle." Miranda shook her head then gathered up more plates and headed for the kitchen. "Perhaps we should stop playing altogether." He blocked her path. "Only if we can start being real?" "Real?" He bit his lip then took a deep breath, holding her gaze even though it scared him. "Please tell me you feel it too." Miranda took a hasty step back then set the plates on the table with a clatter. "Of course I feel it," she admitted, sounding breathless. "But it's just the season and we're both sad and lonely and happen to find—" "Love?" "Each other." "Isn't that the same thing?" "No." With his good hand, he reached out and clasped her hand in his. "Yes, it is. We both know this feels right." "Who's Sarah?" He stiffened. "What?" "You said her name over and over again when—" "She's my past. She's…not part of my life right now. You don't have to worry about anybody else." Brett clasped her hand tighter, feeling her hesitation and fear. "I know it seems fast and I know it's sudden and I don't understand it all myself. But I do know that I want you to be a part of my life and I'll do whatever it takes to make that happen. I don't mind moving here and working in your store. Just until I get settled and—" Miranda looked down at their joined hands. "This is crazy." "No crazier than hosting my dead parents for breakfast." "Well, when you say it like that," she began to say, but he stopped her words with a kiss. And soon no words were needed. When they finally drew apart, Miranda stared up at him in wonder. Was this really happening? She searched his face, seeing that the cynicism had gone from his eyes and voice, but there was still something a little sad in his expression. Something she couldn't understand. "What do I have to do to get you to smile?" she asked. He blinked, confused. "Why do I need to smile?" "I don't know. So that I can know you're truly happy." His brows shot up. "I don't look happy?" "No." "But I am," he said with feeling, gathering her close. "More than I can say," he said then kissed her again, determined to make her believe him. They spent Christmas Day in a hazy, all-consuming joy. They went to the movies to watch the latest action film, Brett holding Miranda's hand every time she jumped in fright, or stroking her hair when she buried her face in his chest. Later, she showed him around the town and took him to her greatest pride—Simmonds Hardware. There, as she showed him around the building, where he saw a picture of her father as a young man, and they talked about the people they missed. The ones who never seemed far from their thoughts, but whose memory no longer caused them pain. That evening they shared their hopes and dreams for the future, falling asleep on the couch amidst the glow of fading firelight. Miranda woke up before Brett and snuck into the kitchen, hoping to surprise him with breakfast. She had his tray made when someone knocked on the door. She rested the tray in the foyer and answered. "We just got back," Eva said. "I wanted to see if you were okay and wanted to come over for—" She paused when her gaze fell on the tray. "What is that?" She didn't give Miranda a chance to respond. She pushed her way inside. "Is he still here? And he's making you wait on him hand and foot?" "He's not making me do anything. We—" Eva grabbed the tray. "He's already making himself king of the castle." She headed to the stairs. "He's not there, he's in the living room, but—" "But nothing. I might as well say 'hi' to him. You look as if you haven't slept." Fortunately, Brett was awake when Eva stormed into the room; he'd heard her voice and then her pounding footsteps. He silently swore. She certainly wasn't the first face he wanted to see in the morning. He stood up and reached out to grab the tray, hoping he could balance it with one hand. She set the tray down. "What did you do to your hand?" "The moment it becomes any of your business I'll let you know." Her lip became a straight line. "Now listen here—" "It's Boxing Day, but not the type that you think," Miranda said, trying for humor. "Let's not—" "I didn't expect you to still be here," Eva said, ignoring her. "But I'm glad you are. Because you don't fool me." Brett sat down. "Fine, but first let me tell you—" Eva sat cross from him, leaning forward as if she were in the middle of a tough negotiation. "I don't care what you have to say. Find someone else to live off of. Find some poor girl with a place of her own where you can move into. You may not remember, but I won't forget all the pain you've caused your aunt over the years. But if you do the right thing, I'll salute you on the way out." "Eva, that's enough," Miranda said. "He doesn't deserve that." "You're just blind because he's family." "I'm not blind. I know that John is all that you've said. Unfortunately," she looked at Brett and offered him a wink. "Or perhaps fortunately, he's not him." "What?" "He was helping me save face. His name is Brett Greenwood." Eva's eyes widened and she leaped to her feet. "What!" "We both know—" "That this is insane?" Eva finished, her voice near a shriek. "Ms. Miranda, you don't know what you're doing. You asked a perfect stranger into your home just so you could fool us?" "He's not really a stranger. My father knew his father." "So what?" Eva folded her arms and looked at Brett. "So what are your plans?" "We plan to build a future together," Miranda said. But Eva kept her gaze on Brett as if Miranda hadn't spoken. "Are you planning on moving into this lovely house and then working for her? That would be real cozy for you, wouldn't it? You wouldn't have to work hard at all." "Eva, what we decide is none of your business." Eva continued to keep her gaze on Brett. "I know it's a new age, but shouldn't a man provide something besides a dic—" "Eva, I won't ask you again. He's a guest in my home and that's enough." Eva spun towards her. "You're selling yourself short. You let John treat you like dirt and you'll let this man do it too. Aren't you tired of people feeling sorry for you?" "Yes, but only because people feel sorry for me for the wrong reasons. They're sorry I'm not married or don't have kids. But I loved the life I made with my father and the adventures we had together. I don't regret helping my sister and nephew when they needed me. And I don't regret letting myself fall in love, even though I don't know the future." "You're always taking care of others. When are you going to find a man who will take care of you?" "She's met him," Brett said, standing and moving to Miranda's side. "I may not have much now, but I will." "'Will' is a mighty long ways off from 'now,'" Eva said with a sneer. "Men like you are all talk. I met you in school, I see you in clubs, I see you at work. Opportunists who find lonely women—" "Just go," Miranda said, surprised by the ugliness in Eva's tone. Eyes she'd once seen as so caring now frightened her, and the pity she'd feared to see had turned to disgust. "Before you say something that will end our friendship for good." Eva spun around and walked away.

10 Holiday Stories

Dara Girard

Chapter 8

"We have to get rid of him," Eva said, after she'd told her mother about her conversation with Miranda. They both sat in their living room while her mother put aside the gift items they knew they'd never use. "Why don't you leave the poor woman alone?" "She doesn't know what she's doing." "She's older than you are and has managed her life just fine," Mary said. "You're the one who thought she was daft." "I did, but maybe she knows something we don't." "What could that be?" "What love at first sight is." Eva rolled her eyes. "That's ridiculous. She's being naïve and so are you. I know more about men my age than she does. She doesn't know what men can be like." "You sound jealous." "Me?" Eva rested a hand on her chest, wounded. "Jealous of her?" "No, of him. Do you feel as if he's taking your place?" "That's outrageous. I—" Mary sent her daughter a level look. "Then leave her alone and stop worrying about things that have nothing to do with you." "I know what men like him can be like. They see a woman with a fine house and good job and lonely bed and think they can fill it." "And if she wants him to, is that your business?" "She deserves better." Eva shook her head. "I can't believe—" "If you'd stop talking, you'd open your eyes, pet." "What?" "Can't you recognize when you're in the presence of true love?" She smiled at her daughter's shocked expression. "I know that sounds odd coming from me, but it's true. I knew the first moment I saw him that he wasn't John." "Yes, I felt it too because he's a fraud." "No, because I saw a young man falling in love when he didn't expect to. Not even Miranda noticed how his gaze followed her. I'm glad they found each other." She stood. "So you leave them be," she said, then went upstairs. True love? Eva looked out the window and stared at Miranda's house across the street, her mouth a straight line. "Sorry Mum, I can't."

10 Holiday Stories

Dara Girard

Chapter 9

Somehow she knew he'd disappear from her life. She'd remembered their last conversation before he'd gone to take a shower. "She's right," Brett said, taking a seat on the couch, staring at the breakfast that had gone cold. "I don't have anything to offer you right now and—" Miranda sat beside him, taking his hand. "That's okay." He shook his head. "No, it's not okay. What would your father think of a man like me? Moving in, having you pay my wages. It doesn't look right. I should at least be making my own way." "I need some help at the store and I could charge you room and board. How does that sound?" He sighed. "Do you mind if I take a shower?" "No, but a bath may be better. You don't want to get your hand wet." "I'll wrap it tight," he said, then disappeared upstairs. She didn't follow him, giving him the space he needed. She didn't know when he left. She'd been in the kitchen and hadn't heard his footsteps or the front door open and close, but when she'd gone upstairs, she found the door to his room open and the place empty. Her heart cracked and bled. She'd lost him. A wonderful dream had ended. She knew one day he would leave, but she hadn't expected it to be without a goodbye. She blinked back tears, then quickly brushed them away when she heard the doorbell. She opened the door and saw Eva with a plate of cookies. "It's a peace offering." She cleared her throat. "To both of you." "He's gone," Miranda said with a sigh. "Did he…?" "He didn't say anything. He just left." She flashed a sad smile. "And there's no reason to pretend you aren't glad." "That's not true. I was just worried about you. I didn't expect, I mean…I'm sorry." "Don't be. I'll make some tea," Miranda said, heading towards the kitchen. "I'll meet you in the sitting room." Eva slowly walked into the sitting room, stunned. Her wish had come true. He'd shown his true colors early. She'd gotten rid of him. She'd known he was no good, and now Miranda would see it. She hoped never to be as silly and romantic as her mother when she got older. True love? What crap. She sat down then saw a note on the coffee table. She picked it up. "Darling Miranda, goodbyes are hard for me to say. I don't want to put pressure on you. I want to give you space to think about this…about us. I do love you, but if you don't feel the same, I understand. I'm taking the four o'clock bus back to New Jersey. If you love me at all, and want to be my bride, just wave to me and I'll know your answer. Brett" He'd left a letter. Eva jumped to her feet, thinking of Miranda's sad smile. Her friend needed to see this. To see how he felt about her. Eva took a step in the direction of the kitchen, then stopped. But what if it was just all words? How much of it was true? That grim, arrogant bastard had no right to live off of Miranda. Eva glanced at her watch. It was two o'clock. She heard Miranda's footsteps and crumpled the note in her fist before shoving it in her coat pocket. She was doing it for Miranda's own good. "So I guess he's gone for good?" Eva asked, knowing the answer but wanting to hear it confirmed. "Yes. He's moving on with his life." "And so can you," Eva said, fighting hard to stop a smile.

10 Holiday Stories

Dara Girard

Chapter 10

Leaving had been hard, but he had no choice. Miranda was his weakness and she'd make him stay. But he had to do more. He had to make good, he had to be in a position to help provide. Eva's words sounded so much like something Sarah would say. That's why she'd chosen another man. Because he had nothing to offer. Could he blame her? He couldn't imagine facing Miranda's father or even his own with no prospects. How could he provide or protect her? Brett paced inside the bus depot. He'd pack up his life in New Jersey then find a place and work in Hamsford. Now he had a mission. A purpose. And it felt good. He had a place to come back to and he hoped a woman waiting. He'd hoped she'd have come early to see him with her answer. He'd promised not to bother her, but the tension was killing him. Maybe she didn't really feel the way he did. Maybe it had all been just a dream. A holiday dream. Maybe he couldn't extend it. He bit his lip. He'd been wrong about Sarah. Was he wrong about Miranda too? No, he couldn't believe that. He glanced at his watch. She'd come. Just one more hour and he'd be gone for good, Eva thought as she flipped through the mail, Brett's note still crumpled up in her jean's pocket. She'd thought of throwing it away, but she couldn't risk anyone finding it. Their shredder was broken and if her mother saw her burning something she'd get suspicious. She'd get rid of it later, when that man was completely out of town. "Why do you keep looking at the clock?" Mary asked, sitting down in front of Eva at the kitchen table. "No reason…it's just…uh the mail carrier was late today." Mary only nodded, sensing something was wrong, but not knowing what. Miranda sat in her living room and turned on her laptop to work on some accounts when she noticed a file was already opened. Darling Miranda… Brett had written her a note? When? Her heart raced as she read it. Why hadn't he left it out for her to see? Had he changed his mind? Had he meant to delete it? Should she pretend she hadn't seen it? She closed the laptop and stood up. No, she couldn't. She'd find out the answer from him. She glanced at the clock. It was three-forty. She had twenty minutes to get to the bus depot. She sped to the bus depot and jumped out of her car just as the bus was pulling away. She ran and waved her arms hoping he'd notice her, although she couldn't see him. She shouted his name, hoping he could hear her over the noise of the bus engine. She was about to give up when his face appeared in the window. At first she wasn't sure it was him. His smile was so big it transformed his face. Tears of joy touched her eyes as she soaked in the sight of his happiness. She blew him a kiss. He pretended to grab it then hold it to his heart and then he was gone, leaving her with an image she'd keep in her mind until she saw him again.

10 Holiday Stories

Dara Girard

Epilogue

[ A year later ] With the fire crackling, they decorated their freshly picked Christmas tree, Afro-Brazilian music, the kind his father loved to listen to, playing in the background. There was still gossip in Hamsford about their small, hasty wedding and Miranda's 'young man.' "You know what he really married her for," some busybodies liked to say when they spotted the pair in the marketplace. But neither cared. Brett had already proven his worth with the employees of Simmonds Hardware and had doubled the profits within months. And as they celebrated their first Christmas together as a married couple, they felt as if they'd never been strangers. "You're lucky I found the note on my laptop," Miranda said, placing a star ornament on the tree. Brett adjusted a light and frowned. "I didn't leave a note on your laptop." "Yes, you did. I read it and that's how I was able to see you before you left." He shook his head. "But I didn't type anything. I handwrote it and left it on the coffee table." "I never saw a written note." She grabbed her laptop, which had been on the coffee table, and opened the file she'd never delete. "You didn't write this?" she asked, showing the screen. "Those are my words, but I didn't type it." "That's strange," Miranda said, taking a seat. He sat beside her. "Could you see me typing with one hand?" "No, but that's so odd. I—." She stopped when the file suddenly disappeared and the image of a cocoa colored man with a white beard appeared on the screen. Brett pointed to the picture, amazed. "That's him! That's the man who told me to come to Hamsford." Miranda's mouth fell open. "What?" "I should thank him for changing my life. I met him at the bus depot in New Jersey last year." "You couldn't have," Miranda said, stumbling over the words. "Are you sure it was him?" "Positive. Why do you doubt me?" "Because that's my father." Brett met her eyes, remembering the man's soft voice and warm presence. And then he thought about the day when they pretended that his parents had come to visit and how real it had all felt. Because it had been. Their spirits had joined them, and he'd never truly been alone. "He brought me to you." "Well," Miranda said with a smile. "I told you my father always liked fixing things." And then her husband kissed her smile away, and they were two broken hearts fully mended. ⁂ [ A Cup of Cheer ] "No, no, no! I won't do it even for you." "It's the holidays, Alyson. The least we can do as neighbors is spread good cheer." "So you want me to give my delicious spiced cider to Scrooge next door?" Of course his real name isn't Scrooge. It's Gareth LeBlanc owner of the second hand bookstore (creatively called Second Hand Books). Although the way he fussed over the books you'd think they were antiques instead of smelly old paperbacks and well worn hardbacks. I've only spoken to him a few times (when I wave 'hello', he just nods) and I can honestly say that I've only heard five sentences come out of his mouth. The only thing me or anyone else knows, was posted in a small write up in the weekly Community News: He was born in Dominica, the son of an English father and Dominican mother, and has travelled extensively. When he first moved in, I sent him a box of cookies to welcome him to the neighborhood. I knew that he lived in the apartment above his shop, as I did, and I'd hoped to be as friendly with him as I had been with the previous residents—two elderly sisters from Trinidad who said my coconut cookies were divine. He didn't say they were divine, he didn't even say they were nice. He just returned an empty tin with a sticky note that said 'Thanks'. That's it, nothing more…just 'Thanks'. It took me weeks before I could stomach the thought of stopping by his shop. I finally decided to visit in order to see the type of cookbooks he had. I have to give him credit, he had a pretty good selection. So every few weeks I'd stop by and buy a few. I was buying two when I noticed this beautifully bound book from the early twentieth century called Amelia Armand's Complete Book of Spices. It was encased in the curio behind his head. I was certain it would be expensive, but I was willing to pay the price. I am a culinary historian and when I'm not in my store selling traditional and rustic crafts and recipe books, I recreate authentic dishes for functions at the Historical Society. A book like that would have been perfect for my collection. "How much is that book behind you?" I asked after purchasing several items. He adjusted the rim of his baseball cap. He always wore a baseball cap (perhaps he was going bald) and a tie that never matched his shirt (and color blind?)-- orange against a tan shirt. He didn't even turn around to see what I was referring to. "It's not for sale," he said in a cutting deep voice that could cause one to have goose bumps, if one liked the resonant sound of low baritones. I haven't stepped foot in that bookstore since. I'd rather drop my money in a sewer than fatten his bank account again. "Since you're so desperate to spread holiday cheer why don't you do it?" I asked Cora. "Because I didn't make the cider and it is better coming from you. You have that cheery, friendly aura about you." "You mean jolly, don't you?" She made a face, but wisely didn't reply. I'm not fat, but I'm not slim either. Not like Cora who has a nice slender build which she further accentuated by wearing tight suede trousers, a pink cashmere blouse and black boots with heels that could cause the sidewalk to crack. But I didn't envy her, I had inherited my stout full-figure like all the women in my family and was curvy in all the right places. My mother who had been born in Venezuela, of Trinidadian parents and Barbadian grandparents had made sure, while I was growing up, that I would be proud of my figure. I preferred my loose fitting cotton tops and trousers and comfortable walking shoes. Customers said I made them feel at home and that feeling was always good for business. "Besides, it's slick and icy outside," she complained. "You wouldn't want me to trip, would you?" She wiggled her high heeled boot. "It would serve you right." "But what would you do without me?" I scowled. She was right; her business acumen had helped turn my small shop into an international destination. I was getting mail orders from as far away as Dubai. "He's not married, you know." I rolled my eyes. "Yes, I heard Dracula is single too." She sent me a look; I ignored her. Ever since I hired her as my assistant five years ago she's been trying to match me up. It's not that I don't like men. I do. Just not modern men. You know: the modern man who won't hold the door open for you, but instead will let it slam in your face; the modern man who expects you to pay for dinner while he pays for dessert; the modern man who thinks the question "Would you like to come inside?" means you. I wanted something more. I wanted romance. Grand gestures like a carriage ride on a snowy day, or holding out my chair and remembering to walk on the outside of the pavement so that passing cars wouldn't splash me. Or even calling me by my name instead of 'honey' or babe' or confusing me for another woman (a long story). But I'd given up on romance years ago. Modern men didn't do grand gestures. They didn't even do small ones. "Look, it's starting to snow," Cora said, glancing out the shop window. "How can you not be friendly at a time like this when everything looks white and fresh?" She shoved the thermos filled with hot cinnamon-nutmeg cider into my chest. "Go on and spread some holiday cheer." "He'll probably bite my head off again," I mumbled slipping into my coat and hat. "He's just a man, Alyson. Not the big bad wolf." I made a face and wrapped a scarf around my neck. The wind nearly knocked me back into the shop. A freezing blast stung my cheeks while a stream of cold tears fell from my eyes. He's not worth this. I turned around ready to go back in my store. Cora blocked the doorway and mouthed 'Go.' I briefly wondered how many homicides occurred during the holiday season then spun around and hurried next door. The bell chimed above my head as I entered the shop. It was quiet with only a few customers rummaging through books on the shelves. I stomped my snow-covered boots on the rug and glanced towards the counter, which was conveniently empty. Perhaps he was out back somewhere polishing one of his beloved books. I could leave the cider on his desk with the added benefit of not having to see him. Great! I smiled in triumph, took one of his business cards and scribbled 'Happy Holidays' on the back. Once finished I looked up and saw it: The book. I glanced side to side to make sure no one was watching then I lifted myself on the counter, leaned closer and squinted, hoping I could tell whether the book was really old or just an imitation. By looking at the paper texture and type it looked like the real thing. My mind raced with all the possible recipes hidden inside. "It's not for sale." I fell back and stumbled before regaining my footing. I stared at him. Or rather at his chest, since that was the first thing I saw. Today he wore a red shirt and green tie--at least he looked festive. Although I doubt that was his intention, he didn't seem the festive sort. I finally raised my gaze to his face. As usual he wore his baseball cap low, shading his eyes. I was glad since I didn't care to read their expression. "You know I could offer you a lot of money…" "It's still not for sale," he repeated in that same deep baritone. "Then why do you have it there?" "Because I like it there." He abruptly turned and went behind the counter. "But you're right, I should make things clear." He quickly wrote a sign that said 'Display Only' then taped it up. He then turned to me. "Better?" I frowned, trying my best to look confused. "Does that mean it's not for sale?" He blinked looking bored. "Did you want something?" I didn't think he would have appreciated hot spiced cider over his head so I shoved the thermos into his chest, which was surprisingly harder than I thought it would be. Weren't dusty bookworms supposed to be a little soft around the middle? "This is for you." He frowned and looked down at the thermos. "What is it?" "It's poison." He glanced up quickly. His surprise gave me a chance to look at his eyes, which were big, brown and oddly innocent. No one with eyes like those could be all bad. "I was hoping to kill you off so I could steal the book." The corner of his mouth kicked up as he twisted the lid and took a sniff. "Smells like hot cider." "Spiced cinnamon-nutmeg cider if you want to be specific." He poured himself a cup then took a sip, nodded as though in approval then looked at me with a playful glare that said a lot more. "It's still not for sale." I shrugged, feigning defeat. "I know." I took a step back, suddenly feeling both restless and giddy at the same time. I knew it was time to leave. "Well, Happy Holidays." I turned and left before he could say anything more. He returned the thermos the next day, or rather had it delivered. I had been working on our website when Cora came into the office. She held the thermos against her and said in a loud stage whisper. "It's from him." "Him who?" "Scrooge." I pretended not to care, though I felt my face grow warm. "So? Set it in the kitchen." She waved a piece of paper. "He sent you a note." I took the envelope (Cora said I snatched it, but she tends to be dramatic). It was real parchment paper with my name scribbled across in his broad handwriting. For a moment I pictured him sitting at an old oak desk under a low hanging lamp, while a stripped cat sat on his shoulder, lazily waving its tail (Gareth didn't have a cat, but I liked the image). I could hear the smooth movement as his pen glided across the paper. Once he was finished, he carefully folded the note and placed it inside the envelope then slowly licked and sealed it closed. I brought the envelope to my nose. Did his scent cling to it or was it just my imagination? Cora's voice cut into my daydream. "Aren't you going to open it?" I blinked, shocked out of my fantasy, then ripped open the letter.  Dear Ms. Haywood:  There are few things in life that can be described as perfect: A starry sky, a new dawn and your spiced cinnamon-nutmeg cider. May I request another? Bring it by tomorrow. I will pay accordingly.  Sincerely,  Gareth LeBlanc "What does it say?" Cora asked trying to peer over my shoulder. I handed her the note. She read it and frowned. "Well it certainly isn't poetry. Dear Ms. Haywood? It sounds so cold and formal. So what are you going to do?" I wasn't sure, but I planned to think of something. The following day brought sunshine, the sound of birds chirping, the distant ring of a Salvation Army Santa, and the steady drip of snow melting on the rooftop. I took my basket and headed next door. The sign on the door said 'Closed' and I was about to ring the bell when I looked through the store's glass front door and saw Gareth wearing a faded brown corduroy jacket and baseball cap talking to a woman in a long white cashmere coat. It didn't look like a happy conversation. I started to turn when the woman raced out the door in tears. Gareth followed, but didn't call out her name or tell her to stop. He just watched her go. It was obviously a lover's quarrel and not something I wanted to be a part of. I took two quick steps back hoping I could escape before he saw me. "I hate the holidays," he mumbled then turned before I was a safe distance away. He stared at me surprised. "What do you want?" I took another quick step back towards the freedom and safety of my store. "Nothing. I just--" He held open the door. "Come on in." I swallowed, wondering if I should refuse him, but decided to take the risk and go inside suddenly aware that it was the first time I'd ever been alone with him. "I could come back another time." He shook his head. "Doesn't matter. I shouldn't even be here." He gestured to the books around him. "All of this was my brother's idea. I was going to help him. He was the one with the pleasing personality and charm. He was going to be the one upfront dealing with the customers and I'd be in the back handling the accounting and other mundane business. He was so happy when he found this building and we signed the lease." Gareth angrily adjusted his cap. "After he died I should have just let everything go, but I couldn't. I wanted to fulfill this dream for him, but I'm all wrong. I'm not good with people--I prefer eReaders and computers and computer games. But the strange thing is that business is booming but Jani wants me to leave." "Jani?" "My ex-girlfriend, she's the one who just left. She wants me to give it up and return to my old job, but I can't." He stared at me and shook his head amazed. "I don't know why I'm telling you all this." I smiled. "I'm easy to talk to." He didn't return my smile, but his face softened. "You would have liked Rupert." "His brother's not too bad either." Gareth's gaze fell and I winced, knowing that's probably not something he wanted to hear. Now was not the time to flirt. "The holidays can be hard for anyone," I said hoping to cover my gaffe and find a way to comfort him. "Especially when you've lost someone you care about, but I'm sure he'd want you to be happy." Gareth let out a tired sigh. "He would and I'm letting him down. I mean what right do I have to be happy living his dream?" "People don't own dreams and from what you've told me, it was a dream you had together. I bet you his spirit is here with you cheering you on." Gareth sent me a long look I couldn't read. I licked my lip wondering if he was going to tell me to leave or mind my own business. Instead he spun around, said "Give me a minute" then disappeared upstairs. I didn't move. I thought about leaving, but I was too curious to do so. I thought about his brother. I thought about how lonely it must be for Gareth to be here in this empty shop. "Okay, come up," he called from above. I hesitated then walked up the stairs to the main landing then into a nice living area. The heat of a crackling fire met me first, followed by the sounds of carols drifting from the radio. A tiny Christmas tree sat on the windowsill with a crooked star on top. I straightened it, crooked things annoy me. "I thought you hated Christmas," I called out to him. "I changed my mind," he said from another room. "Take a seat." "No, I have something to show you first." "More cider?" "No. I'm going to show you how to make your own." He came out of the other room and stared at me surprised. I stared back equally stunned. He wasn't wearing his hat. Although everything else was the same—he wore a dreadful checkered maroon tie with a striped shirt—I felt as though I'd met him half dressed, exposed. I'd uncovered his secret. He wasn't going bald, he had cropped black hair, and the most expressive deep brown eyes I'd ever seen. Every emotion he felt flashed in them; I could see they were his most vulnerable feature. And something in their expression seemed to ignite something inside me. Something I'd ignored for a long time. I'd buried myself in history and the past so that I wouldn't be vulnerable in the present, but at that moment Gareth had shown me that people hadn't changed that much. Their hopes, fears and dreams remained the same. His eyes changed from surprised to weariness. "You're going to teach me?" "Yes." He flashed one of his odd little half smiles then disappeared into the room again, he reappeared with his baseball cap. I took it off. "You look better without it." He put it back on. "It brings me luck." "You don't need luck." He grabbed my hand before I could take it off. "How about courage then? It's a crutch, but it works for me. Superman has his cape, Wolverine has his claws and I have my cap, okay?" "Fine," I said, though I wondered how I could convince him otherwise. He really did have very nice eyes. Gareth showed me the kitchen and we both went inside. Making cinnamon-nutmeg cider only takes ten minutes. Somehow I made it last an hour; neither of us noticed the time. As the cider simmered on the stove the smell of cloves, nutmeg, apples, cinnamon, and sweet brown sugar permeated the air. When the cider was done we sat in his alcove that looked down into the quiet bookshop and drank in peaceful silence. "Books make sorry companions after awhile," he finally said. Both pain and resignation seeped behind his simple words. "History can lose its appeal too," I said. We slipped into silence again then he abruptly stood, picked up a book from off the shelf and handed it to me. I stared at him stunned. "Amelia Armand's Complete Book of Spices? You can't give this to me." He took a sip of his cider and sent me a full grin. "I'm not. It's still not for sale." He tipped his hat back a bit. "But you can come by and use it anytime." I set the book down--at that moment I didn't care what was inside—instead I took his cap off and placed it on my head. It was a bold move to make, but I was a modern woman and decided to take the risk. And he being a modern man…well let's just say I didn't open Amelia Armand's Complete Book of Spices until late New Years and I didn't mind a bit. ⁂ [ New Year's Surprise ] Divorce. Millions of people did it, but that didn't stop Pam Rubin from feeling alone. The man she'd thought she'd spend the rest of her life with would no longer be part of it. She knew it was the right decision. They'd been separated six months now, but they'd been emotionally apart longer than that. Living in the same house but living separate lives. She still didn't know where things had gone wrong. When had they stopped loving each other? When had simple disagreements become a war? But she didn't want to think about that now. She had come to her sister's New Year's Eve party, instead of staying home with her dog and watching the ball drop on TV, to cast aside the loneliness that seemed to stick to her skin like masking tape. No, tonight was a promise of new things and a new future. Pam stood with a glass in her hand, a fake look of joy on her face, feeling out of step with all the happy couples that surrounded her. It was strange how, as her marriage crumbled, that's all she started to see: happy newlyweds, happy parents with their children, happy older couples celebrating decades together. She and Jerrod had only made five years and there had been no children, but not for lack of trying. Pam leaned against the balcony railing. The stars shone bright above her. She preferred looking at them instead of all the ruby earrings and emerald necklaces that graced the ladies inside the house. The dazzling gold wedding bands and diamond engagement rings seemed to sparkle under the lights, catching her eye where ever she turned. She glanced down at her now bare hand, her loneliness making her feel invisible. "There you are!" her sister, Darlene, said coming up to her, wearing a slinky sequence dress her own wedding ring twinkling under the Japanese lanterns that decorated the balcony. She was four years older with bouncing black curls and light brown eyes. She was usually considered the prettier of the two sisters because of her vivacious personality and engaging smile that some said was as sweet as grata cake. "I was looking all over for you! What are you doing standing out here by yourself? You're a single woman now, you should be living it up." Pam shook her head, a strand of hair falling from her French twist. She narrowed her dark brown eyes. "I'm not single yet." "You will be. You might as well start the New Year with a new man. Out with the old and in with the new." Pam knew her sister didn't understand how raw she still felt. She didn't want a new man when she still couldn't understand how she'd lost the old one. "I'm not ready yet." "It's been six months. Admit that it's over between you. You told me how happy you've been with him away. It may feel awkward, but it's time to get into the dating pool again." "I don't know how to swim," Pam said in a dry attempt at humor. "Just stay in the shallow end. Lucky for you your big sister is here to help. I have someone who is perfect for you." Pam inwardly groaned. "I've given up on men." Darlene opened her mouth then closed it then opened it again and said in a low, cautious tone. "So you're into women now?" Pam laughed. "I'm not into anyone now. I am just through with relationships. I'm happier by myself." Darlene visibly relaxed and rested a hand on her sister's shoulder, her voice eager. "You're going to like him. He—" "I don't care." "You will care when you meet him. His parents are from Barbados and he has a doctorate in..." She frowned. "I forgot," she said with a careless wave of her hand. "But he's smart and I know that you like that in a man." Pam sent her sister a look. He sounded just like her soon-to-be-ex. "I didn't come here to meet anybody." Her sister clasped her hands together as if ready to beg. "If you'll just meet him, I will leave you alone. I promise. I really want you to meet him." Pam set her wine glass down. It wasn't like her sister to be so insistent. Since she'd agreed to come to the party she might as well try to be sociable. "Okay. Let me go freshen up." "Yes," Darlene said as Pam turned to leave. "Don't forget to add more lipstick, take the shine off your nose and for goodness sake consider letting your hair down." Pam stared at her reflection in the bathroom mirror, feeling as though she was staring at a stranger. Who was that woman with hollow eyes and pinched lips? When was the last time she'd smiled? She shouldn't have come. She didn't want to meet anyone. She wasn't ready to. She knew her sister meant well but that didn't make her feel better. She had to leave. She would grab her coat and go. Satisfied with her plan, Pam left the bathroom and headed for the room where all the coats were piled up on a bed. She was halfway down the hall ready to go upstairs when she saw her sister standing next to a man. He looked very genial and attractive, but she didn't want to meet him. She prayed her sister didn't turn and see her. She wanted to escape. Pam frantically glanced around then darted into the first door she saw: The closet. She knew it was cowardly but she didn't care. The closet had a familiar pleasant smell of lemon and spice, relaxing her a bit. She leaned against the wall, letting out a startled screech when it moved. "Shh, you'll give us away," a deep voice said. "What are you doing in here?" she demanded in a loud whisper. "I wanted to be alone." "Then why did you come to a party?" "I was invited," he said. "But now I'm not sure that was a good idea." "Then why don't you go home?" Pam asked annoyed by the tremor in her voice. She was used to being calm in any situation but this man had unnerved her. "Because I just got here." "You're being ridiculous." "I could say the same about you," he said with laughter in his voice. He was right. His reasons for hiding were eerily similar to hers. She should follow her own advice and just leave. "I'm sorry," she said then became quiet when she heard people passing by. "You just scared the living daylights out of me. I'm hiding from my sister." Pam folded her arms then looked up at the figure next to her. She was unable to see his face clearly except for some light that seeped through the slits in the closet door. It highlighted a forehead, nose and mouth. She took several deep breaths and soon her heartbeat returned to normal. She should be panicked and waited for anxiety to seize her, but oddly it didn't. After the initial shock of surprise she felt strangely resigned by the situation. At least she knew where the lemon and spice scent came from. Every time he moved the scent seemed to embrace her and reminded her of happier times. "So why are you hiding from your sister?" he asked. Pam briefly shut her eyes. She hadn't expected the question. She didn't want him to care. Wasn't sure she could trust him. But somehow the darkness was a comfort. What was it about the dark that made sharing seem safe? That made two people feel intimate? She didn't think too much about it. She was relieved to have the chance to speak to a man she'd never speak to again. "She wants to fix me up with a man." "Don't you like men?" "I'm not very lucky with them." "I don't believe that." She sniffed. He would say that and eight years ago she would have believed him. She'd met her soon-to-be-ex at a party like this. But she'd been a different woman then. A woman with a promising future and bright ideas. She'd worn a blue velvet dress and spinning gold earrings. She'd just escaped the attention of two graduate students who'd bored her with their pretentiousness when a tall man stepped into her path and said, "A professor or a teacher?" She looked at him startled. "What?" He held out his arms to the side. "Do I look like a professor or a teacher?" Pam surveyed his clothes and shook her head puzzled. He didn't look like either. He looked like a corporate raider. He wore all black, which only emphasized a large intimidating build. He had a carefully trimmed goatee, his black hair shone low, skin like molasses, featherlike long lashes and piercing brown eyes. "Does it matter?" she asked. He let out a sigh. "Yes, I've got a job interview in a week and I really need to make the right impression. I've already had ten others with no results." "Well, first you're too on the point?" He frowned. "On the point?" "Yes," she said with a light laugh. "I don't even know your name." He held out his hand Jerrod Fuller." "I'm Pam Rubin and I don't think you look like a teacher or professor. Anyone looking at you would see an ambitious young man who would take over their job one day." He raised a dark eyebrow. "I'm ambitious." "You don't have to wear it like a banner. You can go for business casual. Also, focus on the needs of the school. How you'll be a value to them." Jerrod nodded. "I can do that. Are you free tomorrow?" Pam paused. "For what?" "For dinner. I'd like to get more of your advice." "But I don't have much to say," Pam stuttered feeling her face grow warm. A sly grin touched the corner of his mouth. "I'm sure you do and I'm prepared to listen to every word." And he did. He just let her talk and his dark eyes watched her as if she were the most fascinating and beautiful woman in the world. And she in turn helped him soften his look so that he didn't appear so intimidating. Although he looked like the kind of man who'd likely have gotten into college on a sports scholarship he'd actually gotten a scholarship in science, played tennis and had a passion for abstract art. A week later he aced his interview. A week after that he was hired and a month later they were inseparable. Their first New Year's Eve together had been simple and beautiful. A quiet time at home with a bottle of champagne and a ring. He'd told her he wanted to spend every New Year with her and asked her to marry him. And she'd said yes. It had all seemed so perfect but she hadn't known that something would destroy that peace. That it had a name. Fear. How come no one ever talked about how fear can enter a marriage? How it can erode trust and communication? How it can slowly eat away at what one has struggled to build? Pam still remembered her mother's sneer on the day of the rehearsal dinner. "He's just a teacher. He's got no money. There's no need to marry the bastard." Pam gritted her teeth. "He's not a bastard." "One day you'll think so." "No, I won't. I love him." "That will change." Had it? Had it changed? The butterflies had gone and familiarity had taken away the rush of romantic surprise and the high of falling in love. But the sun was also familiar, however she never grew tired of its dancing rays. It had been the same with Jerrod except, unlike the sun, she'd started to worry that he wouldn't always be there. And one day she'd been right. She hadn't wanted to be her mother, but she'd taken her mother's bitterness and fear into the marriage. Their six months apart had taught her a lot about herself. She used to watch Jerrod at a party with admiration so glad that he was hers. She didn't even know when her casual glances turned to suspicion. When she'd watch him with a woman with careful surveillance as though a police officer on the trail of a suspect. She would watch how he tilted his head, his eyes, his smile. She'd watch the woman too. Notice how she touched him, if it was a hand to his shoulder or his sleeve and she'd wondered what the gesture meant. She never confronted him because she knew what he would say. Her father had said the same. She just let her suspicions grow and her fears mingled with them until there was a wall around her heart. She knew he felt it too, but they never talked about it. Soon they never talked about anything not pay cuts, tight schedules or family illnesses and after their last attempt at having a child she knew there was nothing else to keep them together. Pam sighed feeling the weight of her loss. She'd loved him. She'd thought he'd loved her. Where had it gone wrong? She angrily brushed away a clothes hanger, wishing she'd brought a glass of wine in the closet with her. "I'm sure he has no problems with the ladies," Pam said sourly, wanting to take the focus off of her. "He never did." "You never know." She nodded. "You're right. I don't. I stopped knowing very much about him after awhile. Somehow we just stopped talking." "Did you ever try to talk?" "Yes, but it soon became too painful, especially when we couldn't have kids. I know how much he wants to be a father." She heard him rub his hands together. "I doubt that's the only reason he married you." "Well it seemed that's where everything fell apart." "I bet there were other things. I mean my wife only cared about starting a family, but for me it was too stressful." "You don't want kids?" she asked more sharply than she wanted to. "I mean it's okay if you don't," she added more softly not wanting him to stop talking. "I did--do, but at the time my father was dying and I couldn't focus on anything else." His words made her heart constrict with sorrow. "I'm sorry about your father." He sighed. "He loved my wife. I'm glad he didn't see my marriage end." "Did you love your wife?" "Still do." Her voice cracked with surprise and suspicion. "Really?" "Yes, everyone keeps telling me to move on and I know I should, but something is holding me back and I think that's it." "Sometimes our hearts mislead us." He shook his head. "Not often, especially not mine." Pam fell silent unable to believe his words. They sounded genuine, but if he really loved his wife why hadn't he fought to keep his marriage? She rubbed her forehead, wishing she could gather her warring thoughts, then let her hand fall. "If you could do it all again, what would you do?" He was silent a long moment then said, "Apologize for not admitting how unhappy I was. I would have been more honest. You?" "Same. I would have given him more space. I wanted him to talk to me and I think that just pushed him further away. I wanted him to turn to me. But he turned to someone else instead." "Are you sure about that?" "Positive." "How?" Pam shrugged feeling the wall around her heart starting to rebuild. "The usual," she said trying to sound casual although the memory of his deception pierced her. "Secret phone calls. Cryptic notes. Strange perfume on his clothes." She'd been taught by her twice divorced mother that if you didn't have a man's attention someone else did. Her father hadn't been true to any of his five wives. Now that he was older he was slowing down so wife number six may be lucky. Women found Jerrod attractive and he never had trouble getting noticed. She was attractive too, but she knew that wasn't enough to keep a man. Her mother had been beautiful and kept the house running while also working and that still hadn't made her father faithful. Without kids Pam couldn't think of anything to get Jerrod to stay. "Did you tell him?" "No," Pam said quickly. "I didn't want to know the details. I failed him. I didn't want to know about the woman who hadn't. I'd once been the most important woman in his life and then it ended. When a man cheats it's over." "So if he'd told you why he cheated you wouldn't have forgiven him?" "Sure I'd forgive him, but I couldn't trust him. If he's unhappy he deserves to leave. It's just a symptom. I'm sure he's happy with whoever he's with now." "Trust is important." "Yes." "My wife never trusted me." Pam paused surprised by his statement. She drummed her fingers against her thigh. "Did you give her a reason not to?" "No. I could never do or say enough to make her believe in me. At first she did. She made me feel like the greatest man on the planet and then, after we married, that changed. I gave her gifts. I told her how much I loved her, but if I came home late or she saw me with a female colleague she'd assume the worse." Pam released a tired sigh feeling suddenly worn. "I guess that's unfair." "Yes. You can't have a relationship without trust." "Hmm." "But I lied. I did give my wife a reason not to trust me." "I knew it," Pam said satisfied that he was just as she'd suspected him to be: A typical male. "What was it?" "I kept a secret from her." She bit her lip her heart picking up pace. "What?" "After my father died I started thinking about my own morality. It can hit a man hard sometimes. I went to get checked and discovered I was genetically disposed to have the same condition that killed my father. I started to do lots of tests and even started therapy to deal with my fear." "Why didn't you tell m--her? Why keep that a secret?" "Because by that time she was so focused on having a family and not succeeding and I didn't want to feel as if I'd failed her on something else." "But she would have been there for you. I know she didn't marry you just so you could be a father." "It's broken up marriages before." "But if you'd talked..." Pam let her words trail off. Obviously he hadn't trusted her. He shifted, the sleeve of his shirt brushing hers, the lemon and spice sense embracing her again. "Too bad you never talked about it." "Yes." "I guess we both failed," he said. Pam hugged herself, feeling the wall around her heart crumbling but terrified of being vulnerable again as she let hope seep in. "Think there's any way to fix it?" "Maybe by remembering the good times. Where there any?" Pam smiled. "Yes." "Tell me." "I used to love when he'd sing off key in the shower. He has a really good voice and knew his singing would always make me laugh and it did. He also used to have this strange way of knowing who was calling without looking at the caller ID. He'd be in the living room reading and the phone would ring and he'd say "Pick up it's your mother" or "Forget it, it's my sister." And more often than not he was right. I used to tease him that he was psychic. We loved going to concerts. Indoor, outdoor, bands, symphonies. Anything. He could always make the outing an adventure because he knew how to move in a crowd. In the early days I loved to listen to him talk about his students and he supported me while I got my Masters. Even when I felt like giving up he always believed in me." "Sounds like good times." Pam felt her heart lift. "They were." She hesitated then asked, "How about you?" "My wife used to put lollipops in my briefcase with a note that said 'Have a sweet day.' She'd also coordinate the closet by color, matching shirts with ties, belts with pants, socks with shoes." Pam groaned. "She sounds controlling." He shook his head and laughed. "I liked it. I didn't have to think hard. If I grabbed a shirt I could see what tie could go with it. It made my morning easier and made me feel that she cared about me." "She still doesn't sound like much fun." "Maybe to some. I know with you having a husband who likes to go out and mingle and have different adventures you wouldn't understand how important it can be to have a place that's organized. Someone who is settled and grounded. I grew up around a lot of chaos and my wife helped me learn to live a different way. Just being with her was fun. We'd sit together and just talk or watch TV or play a video game, or tell corny jokes. I miss that. I miss her." Pam blinked back tears. "I miss him too, but are memories really enough? I was so afraid of losing him that I pushed him away. I don't think I can fix that." It was too much. The man, the memories. Suddenly instead of feeling like a confessional the closet felt like a tomb. She couldn't breathe. She grabbed the door and opened it desperate to escape. He grabbed her arm. "Pam wait." She shook her head. "When I first heard your voice I nearly ran out." "I'm glad you didn't," he said in a velvet whisper, tenderly turning her to face him. She squeezed her eyes shut. She couldn't look at him. It had been so intimate in the closet and had felt safe, but now she felt exposed. She didn't want to look at him, but she knew she had to. She gathered her courage and faced him: The tall good looking man with skin like molasses and featherlike lashes who'd helped her sort through her mixed feelings. The man who had once asked her if he looked like a teacher or professor. The man who'd asked her to marry him on New Year's Eve. "I want you back," Jerrod said. "Why?" Pam said in a broken voice. "I'm sorry I pulled away from you and kept secrets. I know it was wrong, but I want a second chance." "Why?" "I told. I love you." "But I pushed you away with my suspicions and--" "You made a mistake and I did too. That makes us human. And one thing I've learned about being human is that we can break, but we can also heal." His gaze fell. "When your sister invited me I wasn't going to come. I was angry, but somehow she convinced me." His gaze met and held hers. "I'm glad I did." "But you ended up in the closet." A sheepish grin touched his lips. "I know. When I saw you I couldn't face you so I hid. And the next thing I knew you were in here too." "Hiding from my sister." Pam took his large hand and cradled it in hers. "I guess it's time we both stopped hiding." "Yes." She lightly brushed her thumb over the back of his hand. "My sister thought I should start the upcoming year with a new man." Jerrod pulled her into the circle of his arms and he looked down at her as if she were the most fascinating and beautiful woman he knew. "I am a new man and I'm all yours, if you want me." Pam cupped his face in her hands and kissed him. "I love you," she whispered against his lips, wanting him to know that she still thought he was the greatest man in the world. She gave her heart to him with complete trust, casting all fear away. His lips met hers with a tender silent vow and at that moment their wounds began to heal. Neither noticed when the clock struck twelve. Darlene saw them and raised a glass relieved that her plan had worked. "Happy New Year you two. May it be filled with many more wonderful surprises." ⁂ [ Something New ] All Lewa Olunlade wanted for Thanksgiving was a turkey and her sister's husband. At thirty-four she dreaded going home for the traditional family gathering where people would laud her sister's excellent 'catch' and bemoan Lewa's single state. She could already imagine what "the Aunts" would say. Although not related by blood, Lewa called them her Aunts out of respect and cultural norm which acknowledged both their ages and that they were close family friends. "You must stop being so picky," Aunty Elizabeth would say. "I had two children by your age," Aunty Femi would add with a note of pride. "The further you're past thirty, your chances of a good husband dwindle to nearly nothing." "Unless you want a divorced man." "And he'll probably have children." "And who wants to raise someone else's children?" Aunty Elizabeth would say with a ring of superiority and distaste, having made herself an expert on men, marriage and childrearing. Although she'd twice had her face rearranged by her husband's fists, no one ever spoke about it because at least she was married and had two wonderful children. At sixty, she'd left her husband in Nigeria, who was now using his fists to beat his mistress and his four children by her, and she was finally free to use the power of being a married woman without having to deal with all the realities. Aunty Femi had three children who basically tried to ignore her existence so she spent every holiday with the Olunlade family instead. None of her children felt it necessary to include her in their holiday gatherings since she was on the southern East Coast and they had all decided to settle in the northern region. They sent her money to assuage their guilt for their shoddy treatment of her and occasionally an email or a brief phone call, but little else. Lewa could guess that her children were likely embarrassed by their mother's loud coarse ways--her English was poor and her table manners worse. However, Lewa knew Aunty Femi had a good heart and could understand her parents' affection for her. Aunty Femi's marriage had been fine, she'd been a widow for ten years, but Lewa gave up trying to decipher what 'fine' meant although she had on a number of occasions asked Aunty Femi if she'd been happy. Aunty Femi would only reply that she'd been married and leave it at that. Lewa understood the underlining truth behind every word and glance of the Aunts and her mother: It was better to have a husband--no matter how wretched-- than no husband at all. It was a woman's fate. And she was arrogant and naive to expect any better. "Caring for another man's children isn't so bad, if the woman isn't around," Aunty Femi would say to continue the conversation. She liked to talk and the topic of marriage and children made her feel smart. "But then again, a woman isn't meant to be alone, so a divorced man is better than no man," Aunty Elizabeth would add and the Aunts would nod and continue to talk about her as if she wasn't there, because in a way she wasn't. A single woman in her family amounted to only half a woman. Not even a woman, half a person. Lewa could only hope that soon the talk would shift back to her sister, who'd been married three years but still hadn't had a child. It had surprised everyone that by the end of the first year of marriage she hadn't introduced a new family member, preferably a boy, of course, but a girl would suit as well. After the first childless year, Lewa's sister, Arielle, had just laughed at the teasing, but Lewa could see the strain in her sister's eyes and plastered grin with each passing year. Maybe this year she'd announce the news her family expected to hear. Lewa could imagine her sister and her husband, Stillman, making good parents. Stillman hit the marriage tri-fecta--family from the upper echelon of Nigerian society, Oxford educated with another degree from Yale and a respectable career as a biomedical scientist. He was solid, respectful and smart. A son-in-law any family would be proud of with skin the color of roasted chestnuts, and a smile as bright as Broadway lights. He was very charming and, on more than one occasion, Lewa wished he was hers. As a beverage scientist, she had a career she was proud of and a number of friends, but Stillman was one of the few individuals she felt easy with. But Lewa knew that her sister's marriage was solid and kept her fantasies to herself and briefly wished she didn't have to see the happily married pair this year. Besides, she didn't want another year of jollof rice, curried trout, plantain moi moi and pepper soup. She wanted a turkey like millions of other US families--even vegetarians celebrated with tofu that at least tasted like turkey. Two weeks before Thanksgiving, Lewa listened with awe as her friend, Valerie, a fresh faced blonde from Wisconsin, described her upcoming feast while they sat in the cafeteria of their office building. "Mashed potatoes, turkey, and cranberry sauce." "What's the cranberry sauce for?" Lewa asked. "It goes with the turkey." Lewa didn't understand but nodded anyway. "Okay go on." "Just the usual," Valerie shrugged, not understanding her friend's interest. "Cornbread, stuffing, ham, green beans." Lewa sat back in her seat and sighed. "That sounds heavenly. I wish I could just be a fly on the wall." "Would you like to come over?" She sat up with interest. "Really?" "Sure, we'll have plenty of food and I know my family won't mind." "Perhaps you should ask your husband first." Valerie laughed. "As long as he gets food, he doesn't care who shows up. I'm hosting his parents and trust me we'll have leftover for days." She grinned warming to the idea. "Yes, you should come. It will be fun." Lewa sat back her hope slowly dwindling. "I'll think about it." But she didn't have to think about it. Lewa knew she would have to ask her mother and she already had a good idea of how she would respond. "No." Mrs. Olunlade said as she checked over the shopping list for the upcoming feast. They sat in the kitchen while their housegirl, Biti, carefully cleaned the special holiday dishes. Her mother was a small woman with delicate features that belied the mind of a sharp woman who had a successful nursing career and been married thirty-six years to a man who treated her well. "But Mom. I've been invited." Mrs. Olunlade did not look up from her list. She scribbled a note down. "And you can go another time. Thanksgiving is for family." "But--" She lifted her gaze and pointed her pen at Lewa. "And this time your grandmother will be able to join us. Would you want her to come all the way from Nigeria and not see you here?" "She could see me on another day." "She will see you on Thanksgiving." Mrs. Olunlade returned to her list, making it clear the discussion was finished. Lewa sighed exasperated. Her mother could be as unmovable as a stone castle. "Then can we do something different this year?" Mrs. Olunlade looked at her daughter suspicious. "Different?" "Yes." "Such as what?" Lewa took a deep breath, then said in a rush. "Can we have a turkey?" "For what?" "To eat." Lewa tapped the table hoping to make her mother understand. "Mom, that's what people usually eat during Thanksgiving. A big delicious turkey. You've been here long enough to know that." "But we always have curried trout and I thought you liked my seasonings." "I do." "And Aunty Elizabeth makes jollof rice." "Yes." "And Aunty Femi makes moi moi--" "Mom, I know." Lewa sat forward and clasped her hands together, trying to show a piousness she didn't feel. "It's just that...just this once I'd like to have something different." Mrs. Olunlade frowned. "I don't know how to cook a turkey." "We could follow a recipe," Lewa said with a note of hope. Mrs. Olunlade set her pen down and folded her arms. "Why are you worrying about food when you don't even have a husband to show your grandmother when she comes?" Lewa fell back like a lead balloon. "You're changing the subject." Mrs. Olunlade lifted her daughter's chin, her gaze softening. "You're so pretty and bright. What am I supposed to tell her?" "You don't have to tell her anything." "Mrs. Adeniyi has a son." "No." "You can't leave everything up to fate. The problem with you is that you haven't made it a priority and before you know it, it will be too late." "I'm only thirty--" Mrs. Olunlade quickly covered her daughter's mouth as if she'd said something foul. "Quiet. You don't look it and there's no reason to keep saying it. Do you think being over thirty and unmarried is a virtue?" Lewa removed her mother's hand and kissed the back of her palm. "I'm sorry. I'll be more careful next time. Now, what about a turkey?" Mrs. Olunlade's mouth quirked up in a quick grin, sensing her daughter's strategy to appease her. "I'll think it over. Go ask your father and see what he says." "Dad, can we have a turkey for Thanksgiving this year?" She'd found him in the family room watching a NOVA special. She sat in the chair opposite him. Mr. Olunlade was a large man with a soft spoken voice and his voice was even softer now. "What did your mother say?" he said with a note of caution. "She told me to ask you." He nodded then said, "How's work?" "It's fine, now about the turkey--" "Are you seeing anyone?" Lewa blinked looking bored. "Dad." "Does that mean no?" Lewa shook her head. "No, I'm not seeing anyone, but I--" "Why not? Why haven't you found someone to settle down with yet? You're a pretty woman and--" He pointed at her. "You must be doing something to scare them off. Do you tell them how much you make?" Lewa affectionately squeeze her father's knee. "Dad, stop changing the subject. Can we have a turkey or not?" He rubbed his chin, hesitant. "What did your mother say again?" Lewa sighed, praying for patience. "She wanted to know your opinion." A slow grin spread on his face. "That's rare. That means she's not sure. I say no. Let's stick with tradition." "But that's my point. Jollof rice, moi moi and curried trout isn't traditional for Thanksgiving. Other people at least have a turkey." "I don't care." He held up his hand like a feudal king making a decree. "It's the tradition for this house and it means a lot to our family. Do you know why we have jollof rice with curried trout?" "No." "Because trout was the first expensive meal I could afford. When I first came to this country I worked in a gas station. I hadn't met your mother yet and I stayed with Big Mummy's family. Finally I was able to get a promotion and the first thing I did was go to the local international store and purchase trout. So every Thanksgiving I buy that to remind me of how thankful I am." "What did your father say?" Mrs. Olunlade said catching Lewa trying to sneak out of the house without saying goodbye. "He told me a story about why we have jollof rice and trout." "So his answer is no turkey?" "Yes, he wants to keep our tradition." Her mother beamed. "Good, but I've decided you're right. We should add something extra and I spoke to Femi and she's going to cook something you'll love." "Really?" Lewa said clasping her hands together. "Yes, she'll make samosas." Lewa's hands fell to her sides. "But Mom that's Indian." "Yes, exactly," her mother said pleased with her cleverness. "Didn't the English eat with the Indians?" Lewa stood for a moment wondering if she should laugh or cry. "Yes...no...not East Indians. They ate with American Indians. Native Americans." But her mother had stopped listening. She adjusted the collar of Lewa's coat. "She's excited because she knows it's one of your favorites. See, I do listen and can be flexible." Lewa sighed. "Thanks Mom." Mrs. Olunlade called the housegirl, Biti, and handed her the list. "I want only the best." She bowed appropriately submissive. "Yes, ma'am." Although only nineteen, she looked ten years older and had stooped shoulders. Lewa kissed her mother on the cheek then left. Once she and Biti were both outside, Lewa gently slapped the younger woman in the back. "How many times do I have to tell you to stand up straight?" "Sorry Aunty." She rubbed her hands together, and wrapped her scarf tighter. "I still have to get used to the cold." Lewa glanced up at the red and yellow leaves clinging to the trees, feeling the crisp November air against her skin. "You weren't cold in the house, so stop lying." "Sorry Aunty." "Always stand tall." Lewa walked to her car. "Aunty?" She turned. "Yes?" "Why do you want a turkey?" Biti asked making a face. "Isn't that just bland English food?" Lewa laughed at the girl's expression, knowing she wouldn't understand. "Goodbye, Biti," she said then jumped in her car. "Just forget about the damn turkey and eat what you're given," Lewa's friend Hannah Lee said as she, Lewa and Valerie changed in the gym locker after swimming. She'd known Hannah since they met at the university and could always depend on her for straight talk. "The holidays aren't meant to be enjoyed. If you're having fun, you're not doing it right. It's about family, fights and feasting. You just grin and bear it." "I don't mind spending time with my family, and I don't mind them bothering me about a husband," Lewa said. "I've gotten used to it." "You're braver than I am," Hannah said. "If I hadn't met my boyfriend in time I would have made him up." "Yes, being single on the holidays is the worse," Valerie said. Lewa rolled her eyes. "Thanks for your support." "No, I don't mean you. I mean in general. It makes you an easy target." "I can take being a target, if I could just get something different to eat. Is having a turkey so wrong?" "It's not what they're used to," Hannah said. "We don't have mashed potatoes we have sticky rice." Lewa rested her chin in her hand. "At least you have a turkey." So it was clear. Thanksgiving meant many different things to different people. To Hannah it was sticky rice and family fights. To Valerie, a warm family gathering and traditional American food. To her father, jollof rice and trout reminded him of all he was grateful for. Thanksgiving was a symbolic day of family and blessings. Her parents had no connection to the story of turkey and mashed potatoes, and maybe she was grasping at a story that wasn't hers either. She needed her own special dish. A week before Thanksgiving she bought a turkey. "So what are you going to do with it?" her younger sister Arielle asked while the two woman stared at the frozen bird on Lewa's kitchen counter. "It's huge." "I know." Lewa poked it. "And I'm not sure what I'm going to do yet." "Why do you want a turkey so bad anyway? You can have turkey any other day." "It's not the same." "And why are you making it so complicated? If you wanted turkey why not just buy a cooked one?" "Because I want to do it myself." "You could get burned." Lewa looked at her sister curious. "How could I get burned?" "It happens every year. People get burned trying to cook their turkeys." "That's only if they're deep frying them," Lewa said playfully hitting her. "Stop being so negative. If you don't want to help, why did you come over?" "I'm curious." Lewa lifted the turkey and put it back in the freezer. "I'm curious about something too." She closed the freezer door and looked at her sister. "Are you ever going to tell Mom and Dad about the miscarriage?" Arielle sat down at the kitchen table and tugged on one of her braids with nervous fingers. "Why would I?" "Then they won't bother you about starting a family." Lewa sat in front of her. "I know it must get on your nerves." "I don't want them to blame me," she said in a choked voice. "Why would they blame you?" Lewa said surprised by her sister's worry. "At least they'll know you're trying and they may be more sensitive." "The Aunts won't be." Lewa sighed recognizing the truth of her sister's words. The Aunts would be harder to convince. "You will have your own family soon." "Aunty Elizabeth will blame me for not eating the right foods, Mom will say it's because I'm too old and should have started sooner." Tears filled her eyes. Lewa covered her sister's hand. "But we know that none of that is true," she said in a soft voice. "You haven't done anything wrong. And you and Stillman will be fine." Arielle brushed away her tears and lowered her eyes. "It's caused a strain between us." "Of course," Lewa said giving her sister's hand a reassuring squeeze. "It's a stressful time for many couples." "No, I mean...he's not handling it well. He's getting pressure from his family too and I'm afraid he'll start blaming me as well." Lewa stiffened and sat back. "He's supposed to be your support not your judge. Do you want me to talk to him?" Arielle lifted her gaze, suddenly wary. "What would you say?" "Treat my little sister right or I'll punch you in the face." Arielle smiled then laughed. "You're so silly." Lewa returned her smile glad she could lighten the mood. "You're good together. You're a great couple. I don't want this to pull you apart." "You can't stop it, if it does." "It won't." "But what if I can never carry a baby? Sheba is already on her third," she said referring to a cousin of theirs. Lewa brushed the idea aside with a quick flick of her wrist. "It's too soon to think like that." Arielle shook her head. "No, it's not. I asked him and he said that if I couldn't have a child then we wouldn't have a marriage." "He didn't mean that." "He did." "What about adoption or surrogacy?" "He doesn't want to adopt and we can't afford surrogacy. Unless..." "Unless what?" "We could find someone to help us," she said looking at her sister with a hopeful expression. Lewa shook her head, resisting the urge to jump up and run out of the room. "No way. Don't look at me. I'm not ready for that." "This may be your only chance," Arielle said suddenly eager. "You're older than me and we both know your prospects are slim." "Thank you Mom," Lewa said in a sour tone. "I just want you to consider it. If you could do this we'd both appreciate it." Lewa let her sister's words hang in her mind. Having a baby was something Arielle really wanted and if it could help her marriage it would be worth it, right? But then part of Lewa was angry that her sister had to find another alternative. Couldn't Stillman be more patient? Couldn't they come up with something together? Would he really leave Arielle if she couldn't bare his children? Would a child really change all that? Did he love her sister or was she just an appendage to him? A status symbol? Lewa had to find out for herself so she met her brother-in-law at his office and treated him to lunch. Once they'd placed their orders she said, "Do you love my sister?" Stillman looked at her surprised and baffled. "You know I do." "Then why are you threatening to leave her?" He paused then said, "I didn't say that." "Then what did you say? I know about the problem between you two." He glanced around as if afraid someone might overhear them. "Do we have to discuss this here?" "No, we can go to your place and I can talk to you with Arielle there. Or I can wait until Thanksgiving and let the whole family give their opinions." Stillman held up his hands in surrender. "All I said was that having my own children means a lot to me." He let his hands fall. "It's something I've always wanted and it's expected." "Dreams can change." "Not this one. Being a father to my own flesh and blood is what I want." "She really wants to have children with you. But can you love her enough if she can't?" "We are thinking about surrogacy." "Yes, she told me. And that hasn't answered my question." "I don't mind doing that," he said expertly avoiding a question he didn't want to answer. "If she can't do it herself." His gaze trailed the length of Lewa. Lewa took a sip of her drink. "Take the thought out of your mind and bury it." He shrugged. "It's been done before and it would really help us a lot." "I'm older than her." "But you're better built to carry children," he said making a curving motion with his hands. Lewa held up her hand and pointed at him, unable to stop a smile. "Watch it." He grinned. "It's a compliment. If I hadn't met your sister first, maybe--" Lewa laughed. "I used to think that too, but now I know it wouldn't have worked." He frowned. "What do you mean?" She shook her head, knowing she wouldn't be able to explain it to him. She was only starting to understand it herself. "I'll see what I can do." "Arielle told me you bought a turkey for Thanksgiving." "I'm not sure what I'll do with it yet." "You'll come up with something." He winked. "You always do." That evening, Lewa sat in her kitchen and pondered her conversations with Stillman and Arielle. And as she thought, she discovered a truth about herself too. That she didn't really want her sister's husband, just the status he brought her. She didn't want to get married--at least not yet. She was enjoying her life and truly never thought about being a wife and mother the way other women did. Her former desire for a husband had been a way for her to fit in. A way to stop being so different. It was the same with the turkey. She wanted their home to have the same sights and smells as other homes, but for what purpose? Was it wrong to be different? Lewa loved Stillman. He was a wonderful, generous man, but she now realized he was more traditional than she'd thought--than she'd allowed herself to see. His values matched her sister's perfectly. Despite their easy conversation and ambitions, he would be a terrible match for her. She could only hope that the right man was out there. If not...her family would continue to feel sorry for her. She'd be a failure, a half person, but she didn't mind anymore because she had a private joy no one could take from her. A joy of being authentically herself. She didn't want her sister's private fears that she wasn't a complete woman if she couldn't bear children or Stillman's fears of how he'd be perceived. Even if they did have a child, Lewa knew it wouldn't be enough. They'd be expected to have at least two. To live others expectations could be exhausting and Lewa was ready to remove herself from that race. Lewa called her sister. "Try for another year. If you're still having trouble, I'll pay for a surrogate." "Thank you," Arielle said with tears in her voice. "Just be prepared for the Aunts this year." "I am. What are you going to do about the turkey? I think you should donate it." "I could, but I'm not going to. We're having turkey this year one way or another. I'll see you Thursday." Lewa hung up then opened her freezer and stared at her frozen turkey with renewed determination. Authenticity, that would be her contribution to this year's holiday dinner. Lewa went online and looked at different recipes and spent many hours looking at cooking clips. But she still didn't find anything that would suit her family. She decided to go to the store and stood in the baking section staring at the deep fryers, beakers and thermometers. She knew cooking was a science, but she felt like a novice in the lab of a genius. Even if she got the turkey right she didn't know anything about stuffing or glazing. She wanted to create something her family would eat, something familiar yet a little different. Unfortunately, she didn't know what. "Can I help you?" a sales associate said. He looked like a college student and had shaggy red hair he kept having to push back from his eyes. "No, I'm just looking." "Okay," he said then started to turn. "Wait," Lewa said before he left. "What do you do for Thanksgiving?" He shrugged. "Watch football and eat turkey." "Right," Lewa said. Just like millions. "But that's not my favorite part," he said with a shy grin as if hesitant to share. "What is?" she urged him. "It's the leftovers. My mom always buys two huge turkeys 'cause we have a lot of guests, but we still end up with a lot of leftover turkey. The real fun is all the things she does with it." Lewa stepped closer intrigued. "Like what?" He brushed his hair back and thought for a moment. "Turkey sandwiches, turkey pie, turkey enchiladas. You can do a lot." He was right. She could do a lot. She was thinking of the turkey as something whole that couldn't be altered, but who said she had to bake it like everyone else? She could treat it like the basis of 'anything,' making her options limitless. "Thank you," she said grabbing a big baking pan then pushing her cart into the main aisle. "Have a great Thanksgiving." "You too." Before going home, Lewa stopped at the international market and grabbed a packet of melon seeds and chili pepper then went home and baked the turkey--following a recipe she'd found--while she chopped a bowl full of miniature tomatoes and onions. She couldn't wait to show her family her new tradition. That Thanksgiving, Lewa boldly set her turkey dish on the table among the red jollof rice and yellow curried trout. "What is this?" her mother asked as Lewa took the foil off. Lewa looked at her mother with love, seeing the unease in her eyes. It would be another year before her sister gave birth to a boy and three years after that before Lewa walked down the aisle to an American man her family accepted with some hesitation, but none of those things--her sister's childless state or her unmarried one--mattered to her that day. She finally knew who she was and what Thanksgiving meant to her. She was thankful for the freedom to be a her own person--to be unique and different without shame. Now she had her own special dish that would add to the season of traditions. "It's meat pies," Aunty Elizabeth said recognizing a familiar staple. "It's turkey pies," Lewa corrected. "Spiced with chili peppers and I added some other ingredients." "They look good," her father said. "I bet they'll be delicious," Stillman added. "You'll make a good wife," her grandmother said. But this time Lewa didn't mind the mention of her single state. She looked at her sister and Stillman, with no envy. The man for her was out there, somewhere. And if he wasn't, she was okay with that too. She'd gotten her turkey for Thanksgiving and hopefully started a new tradition. One that suited her just fine. ⁂ [ The Other Woman ] The size 42DDD wasn't hers. Andrea Hartnett looked at the bright pink bra she'd found in her top lingerie drawer wondering if she should feel perplexed or enraged. If her husband was cheating, why would this bra end up in her drawer? Wasn't it something a wife would find underneath the bed, in the backseat of a car, or in her husband's jacket pocket? If there was another explanation, what could it be? They'd had two kids—ages five and seven—within ten years of marriage and the thrill was definitely gone. Andrea glanced out the bedroom window as the descending darkness of night slowly devoured a bleak winter sun. Boredom settled on them some days more than others, but was that anyone's fault? Wasn't that normal? Robert was a good man, good husband and father. But had he gotten tired of it all? Had he met someone at the play dates he went to with the kids? Was this his way of rebelling against his role as a househusband? The arrangement worked for them, but at times she wondered if he missed an outside work life. If he missed being an electrical engineer and the chance to discuss the newest changes in his field, instead of the latest action figure. She knew he'd finished his holiday shopping—he was always orderly and regimented—she hadn't even started hers. Should she confront him or be subtle? Andrea turned the object over in her hand, seeing the lacy white trim, feeling the satin finish, a flash of something crossing her thoughts—a familiar sensation or memory—before it was quickly gone. How could one be subtle about something like this? Did she approach him in the kitchen and calmly say, "Darling, I found someone else's bra in my drawer? Do you know how that happened?" Did she really want to know? Did she just want to pretend? Andrea hurriedly shoved the bra back in the drawer when she heard footsteps approaching. Moments later, Robert, came into the room carrying a laundry basket stacked with freshly washed clothes that reminded her of the scent of tulips and roses in the sunshine. He set the basket on the bed then lifted up her cream blouse and held it up with a flourish. "Tada!" he said with a big grin, his teeth white against his cocoa skin. She frowned. "What?" "I got the wine stain out." Yes, she remembered being upset that she'd ruined the blouse after only one wear. She'd been at a holiday office party where her colleague, Mona Shan, had gotten tipsy and splashed Andrea's blouse. Mona had apologized profusely, but Andrea silently wondered if she was really apologizing for getting the promotion Andrea had worked two years for. But Andrea had laughed and made a joke, pretending that nothing bothered her and the tense moment was quickly forgotten. But she hadn't forgotten it. The wine stain and Mona's sloppy apology burned in her chest like acid. That evening, Robert had found her sitting on the side of their bed in tears. She told him about the stain, not the lost promotion, not the catty remarks her boss sometimes made about her performance or even how tired she felt sometimes, and he'd squeezed her shoulder and said, "Don't worry, I can get the stain out." And now he had and she wondered if it mattered. She stared at the clean, crisp blouse amazed that he'd managed to make it look as if it were brand new. Was size 42DDD someone who knew the best way to get stains out? Did she know the healthiest 'green' cleaning solution for countertops? Was she younger? Did she make him feel more like a man? "Thanks," she said, plastering on a smile. But the smile didn't fool him. "What's wrong?" "Why?" "You look tired." I'm not tired, she wanted to say. I'm sad. Sad that we're keeping secrets. She went to the drawer to pull out the bra then stopped. She couldn't confront him now. She didn't want to be angry. She knew talks never worked when emotion came first. "I just had a long day." "Dinner's almost ready." The scent of curried rice and the sweetness of mango chutney floated up the stairs. "Smells great." He winked. "Tastes good too," he said then turned. Andrea watched him leave wondering if 42DDD had also tried his cooking. She thought about leaving the bra on his pillow. Since she left for work after dropping the kids off at school it wouldn't be hard to do. But he might not see it or—worse—make anything of it. She thought of leaving it between the couch cushions where he watched TV, but then the kids might find it. She thought about taking a picture and sending it to his cell phone with a message: Who does this belong to? She thought of checking his phone for private texts. She thought of calling in sick and following him around all day. But she didn't do any of those things. Instead, she pretended like nothing had changed. On the weekend she watched him—building a snowman in the front yard, hanging holiday lights along the house trim, wiping Kendall's tears when he slipped on the ice and hit his head, and vacuuming the car. He was a man in constant motion while she felt as if she were standing still. At times they passed each other like strangers. And she let two more days pass without mentioning the pink bra, wondering when she'd smell the whiff of someone else's perfume on his shirt (would it be spicy, musky or sweet?), see a lipstick stain on his collar (bright pink, deep red or purple?), but he'd be too smart for that. He did the laundry and knew how to take stains out. She wondered when she would catch him quickly hanging up the phone when she entered the room. When would she catch him in a lie? They'd never lied to each before. Even when they'd first met as interns at her first job out of college, they'd been honest with each other about their ambitions and hopes for the future. She remembered when she'd gotten the dream job she'd applied for and how proud he'd been to support her and her career. All things seemed possible back then. Had she made him feel devalued? She remembered the time he'd gone on a weekend fishing trip with his brother and she realized how much she depended on him. She didn't know what to do with the kids or what to feed them. She had breakfast, lunch and dinner delivered the entire weekend. When she told him about her harrowing time, he'd just laughed and the next time he was gone for the weekend, he prepared the meals in advance and left instructions. But had that bothered him? Did he think she was useless? Was 42DDD a domestic goddess? Did she have children? Was she married too? Divorced? She'd seen some of the other mothers and the teachers at their children's school. None looked like a 42DDD, but there were plenty who were fresh faced and pretty and young. The questions continued to loom and grow until she couldn't ignore them anymore. She confronted him one evening after he'd put the kids to bed and was relaxing on the couch watching a science special about galaxies. In the background, the Christmas tree glowed with colored lights, its branches heavy under the weight of ornaments both store bought and handmade. The scent of peppermint from the candy canes their kids had devoured earlier still lingered in the air. "I found this in my drawer," she said, holding out the bra. He looked at her—not the bra—for a long minute then said, "I wondered when you'd say something." "Who…wait what?" "I didn't think you cared." "You put this there?" He nodded. "Why?" He shrugged. "Just wanted to see what you'd do." She waved the bra in his face, fighting back tears of hurt and anger. "Is this how you wanted to tell me you're having an affair?" His brows shot up. "An affair?" "Yes, with this woman." He sat up, confused. "What woman?" She flung the bra at him. "The woman who wears this!" He caught it and briefly hung his head, rubbing his forehead. "There's no..." He let his hand fall to his lap then looked up at her. "I love the woman who owns this, but she doesn't wear it anymore." He loved this other woman? What did he mean she didn't wear it anymore? Had she left him? And why had he put it in her drawer? Again a flash of something—an emotion or memory she wasn't sure—coursed through her thoughts before disappearing. "I don't understand." He took a deep breath. "So you don't recognize it?" "Why would I recognize someone else's bra?" "Because it's not someone else's. It's yours. Was yours." He paused. "From before." She froze, a slow dawning casting aside the cobwebs of her mind and the flashing thoughts began to connect and take shape. She didn't need to ask 'Before what?' because she knew: Before she had her breast reduction surgery. Before she was left with scars that made her feel ugly. Before she realized that the surgery had relieved her back pain, but not the other pains in her life. She felt tears build, tightening her throat, wetting her eyes, as she realized she had been the one with secrets, not him. They'd agreed to keep the bra as a reminder of all they'd come through together. To remind her of the past she'd left behind. She'd bought the bra years ago as a new bride and had never worn it—or had she worn it once?—before tucking it away. She'd forgotten it. The woman who'd bought it felt like a stranger to her. "You know I love you no matter what," he said. "I supported your decision." "I know." But she'd pushed him away anyway. She'd let words of warning from others shove aside his words of comfort. "Don't do it," she remembered one woman say in a support group. "My husband left me after I did it. Men have a harder time with the change than we do." "It was the best decision I made," another countered. "But you're single," the first woman argued. "Men started looking at me different and I'm still getting used to it," a third said. She'd later developed a drinking problem and was now in therapy for that. And the closer Andrea got to the date of her surgery, the more unsolicited comments she heard, or had they just gotten louder? She wasn't sure; she just remembered that each syllable felt like darts. "I don't know why she'd get rid of what lots of women pay to have," she overheard a family friend say. "I'm not surprised she's the one wearing the pants in that house now. She cut off her breasts and he cut off his balls," she'd overheard a great-aunt say at a family dinner. "I'd never let my wife do it," a second cousin said. But she went through with her decision gaining strength from her husband's support. Not knowing that his support wouldn't be enough. That a new pain would replace the old one. She'd changed her entire wardrobe to accommodate the new woman she'd become, but inside she still felt as invisible as she once had been. In the past, she had to deal with people who didn't think women with big breasts had a brain. She'd had to endure snickers all through high school and college from both teachers and students. She'd had to tolerate guys who'd ask her out expecting only one thing and shouted angry slurs at her when they didn't get it. Robert had been different. He'd called her beautiful. He looked at her face and not just her chest. He thought she was smart. But she no longer felt beautiful and now she didn't feel smart. She wondered if he'd noticed that too? She sat down beside him no longer able to hold his gaze. "I didn't get the promotion," she said in a soft voice. He blinked. "What?" She bit her lip then looked at him. "The night I got the wine stain on my blouse, that's when I found out." Anger lit his brown eyes. "But you'd worked your ass off for that new client and you've brought in millions of dollars to that company." "I know," she said, glad he sounded as outraged as she'd felt. "It wasn't enough." "If they won't value you, then you need to start looking for another position that will." "What if it pays less?" "And I can't stay home?" he said, finishing her real question. She nodded, holding her breath. "What if it pays more?" She hadn't thought of that, but she held her breath because he still hadn't given her an answer. He covered her hand with his. "All that matters to me is your happiness and our family, you know that." She'd let herself forget. She glanced at the 42DDD she'd placed beside her, remembering the woman she used to be. The woman he'd fallen in love with and who had fallen in love with him. For all her pain, that woman had laughed more and lived more. Andrea turned to her husband and hugged him, inhaling his scent. He used to smell like aftershave and leather; now he smelled like crayons and fresh coffee. She felt the strength of his embrace when his arms encircled her waist and she wondered how long it had been since she'd let him hold her this close. She closed her eyes. There hadn't been another woman. Or rather she had to face the other woman she used to be and not fear or hate her… "Thank you," she said, but what she really meant was 'I love you'. Fortunately, Robert knew that and said 'I love you too' without words, pressing his lips against hers, letting his body say what words couldn't. And the other woman faded away, in the hushed, warm silence of the evening, as they renewed their vows and discovered each other in an exciting new way. Andrea realized she still had many questions. She still had to get her holiday shopping done and they had a lot of decisions to make for the future. But one thing she did know for certain, which suddenly made everything seem bright and beautiful, was that she didn't have to fear losing him…or herself…again. ⁂ [ The Perfect Christmas ] [ A Clifton Sister Short Story ] He didn't like the sight of the stones. Although they looked innocent as they lay on the front doorstep, glittering under the cold rays of a winter sun, they reminded him of something, but he couldn't remember what, that left him with a feeling of dread. "What are those?" Kenneth Preston turned to his wife, Jessie, as she came up behind him carrying two bags in each hand, her red winter hat tipped at an angle. They'd been holiday shopping for their adopted daughter, Syrah. It was to be their first Christmas together as a family and they were both eager to make it special. He didn't want anything to ruin it. Somehow he felt the stones would do that. "Probably nothing," he said, bending down to remove the stones. She grabbed his arm. "Wait. Don't touch them." "Jasmine, don't—" he said calling her by her given name. Only he was allowed to call her that. She stepped closer, putting her two bags in one hand, and gazed down at the stones. "Just give me a minute." He didn't want to. He didn't like the look of interest in her gaze. The stones were bad news, he could feel it. Kenneth put the keys in the lock and opened the front door. "Come on, it's cold." "I wonder who left them here. The arrangement is very peculiar." She bent closer to examine them. His wife had a special gift and affinity with stones. He respected that, but not now. He wanted her for Syrah and himself. He didn't want to share her attention with anyone. Especially someone who'd left a strange puzzle on their doorstep. A puzzle that reminded him of something, but he didn't know what. "Jasmine, we need to put the bags away before Ace gets home," he said, using Syrah's nickname. She scooped up the stones in her gloved hand and offered him a bright smile. "Coming, coming." She brushed past him into the welcoming warmth of their house, the scent of sugar and ginger greeting them. But as he closed the door behind her, he felt as if the cold chill of winter had followed them inside. "What are you going to do with the stones?" Kenneth asked Jessie later that evening as they prepared for bed. He didn't really want to know, but couldn't help his curiosity. She slipped under the bed sheets and rested against the headboard. "Nothing. I don't know who they're from or why they were left." He swallowed, hoping she was telling him the truth. Was it a warning? Had the scandal about his past created still more consequences for them to face? He felt a fissure of unease, like a tiny, hair-thin crack in a piece of glass. A crack of a memory wanting to emerge from the corner of his mind where he'd safely kept his past sealed. But he fought it; he wanted to stay in the present. They'd come through so much. He didn't want anything to separate them again. "Are you sure?" "Am I sure of what?" "That you don't know anything?" Jessie held his gaze, a quick flash of fire lighting them. "You think I'm lying?" Kenneth lowered his gaze and swallowed. He didn't want to argue. He didn't want to upset her because he was afraid. Afraid of… He inwardly groaned. He didn't know what. But something ugly gripped him, something frightening and troubling. He didn't want anything to destroy the perfect Christmas he planned for them. Nothing could go wrong. He wouldn't let it. The memory teetering on the edge of his mind would stay there. He smiled, bent forward and kissed her. "No, I wouldn't dare. I—I just don't like the look of them." "They're nothing to worry about." He nodded and slipped in beside her, taking deep breaths. He had to believe her. Although he didn't like the stones, he had to trust her. He couldn't think she knew something and wasn't telling him. He couldn't think that maybe she was protecting him. He had to believe that there weren't secrets between them. That was the past. They were now joined together for life. He'd need two thousand lifetimes to show her how much he loved her. This Christmas would be the start of many—nothing could go wrong. Unless… "What's the matter?" Jessie said in sharp tone. "What?" "You stopped breathing." Kenneth froze. "I did?" "Yes. Why? You always do that when you're upset." He avoided her gaze. "I was just thinking about something." "What?" He shook his head. "Nothing." He gripped his hand into a fist. He was already lying to her and he didn't want to, but felt that he must. Trust meant not asking questions, and he couldn't doubt her. "I won't do anything without telling you first," she said as if reading his mind. He took a deep breath. "I know." He kissed her again, assuring her as much as himself. "Promise me anyway," he whispered against her lips. She smiled. "Promise." He felt some of his tension ease, then turned off the lamp light, but the darkness that settled around them seemed to find its way inside him too. And that darkness still followed him a week later. He didn't know why the stones bothered him or why he felt suddenly restless. He stared at his reflection in the full-length closet mirror, straightening his tie one morning as he prepared for work, almost not recognizing the man staring back at him. Only a couple of weeks earlier he'd been so happy about the upcoming holiday and now he was filled with dread. He left the large closet and walked into the bedroom, then felt someone grab his arm and pin it behind him. "Tell me what's bothering you," a female voice whispered in his ear. Kenneth couldn't help a smile as his pulse quickened; he could overpower his wife in one swift move, but he'd let her believe she was in control, for now. "Should something be bothering me?" She tightened her hold. "You tell me. You haven't been yourself the last few days." "Nothing's wrong." "Want to arm wrestle?" He slipped out of her grasp, swung her over his shoulder and pinned her to the ground. He gazed down at her with a smug grin. "Want to lose?" He waited to see her temper flare. Watched to see her beautiful brown gaze turn hot. She'd probably make him late for work and he'd enjoy every minute of it. But instead of her typical heated look, he saw worry tinge her eyes. "I feel you pulling away from me," she said. He didn't move, the truth of her words holding him still. She was right. He could feel it himself and didn't know why. They were now married, she was his new wife and he loved their life together and yet something gnawed at him and seemed to grow the closer Christmas came. His fears seemed foolish and there was still so much yet to know about each other, but there were still things he didn't want her to know. Because he had no words, he kissed her, lingering over the sweet taste of her mouth, hoping it would be enough to remove the worry from her eyes. He wanted her to think about the tall pine they'd decorated that stood in their living room, the colored lights that covered the house, and the apple cider they'd had by the fire. The holidays were supposed to be happy, especially this one. He'd keep whatever darkness that hovered, within him. He drew away from her and smiled. "How can I be pulling away, when I'm right here?" Her gaze searched his, the worry deepened. "Kenneth, what's wrong?" His pulse quickened again, this time from fear instead of desire. Why did she have to know him so well? "I can't stop thinking about the stones," he said, releasing her. Jessie sat up. "I think I may know who the stones belong to. One of the clients at the store may have left them because he heard about me and—" "I don't want you to have anything to do with him." He didn't mean to sound harsh, but something told him it was important that she stay away. He waited for her to argue. Waited for her to tell him that he was her husband and not her jailor and that she'd do what she wanted to do. Instead, she nodded. "Okay." "What?" "I said okay. If it bothers you that much, I'll leave them, but..." "But what?" "I sense that whoever left the stones seems to want protection and help. They're not dangerous and—" Kenneth shook his head. "I don't care. Stay away." "Fine. I will." Jessie lightly touched his cheek, her fingers warm and soft against his skin. "Is that all that's bothering you?" God, he hoped so. He took a deep breath and stood. "I'd better get going." He lifted her to her feet, resisting the urge to hold her close in case he wouldn't let her go. There was too much snow. It wouldn't stop. It was two days to Christmas and it seemed people would get the white Christmas they hoped for. But to Kenneth, the continuous snowfall chilled him. It didn't fall with a soft light touch, but seemed to pound the earth, suffocating everything around him in white. "Dad, are you okay?" The sound of his daughter's voice caused him both pleasure and pain, reminding him of what they'd both gained and lost. But he couldn't think about his brother, Eddie, right now. Nothing else mattered except making Syrah happy and helping her forget her brutal past. He turned from the window and looked at her as she stood there, wearing an oversized sweater he'd wanted to donate but she'd decided to keep. Their dog, Dion, stood by her side. Kenneth forced a smile. "Of course I am." She bit her lip. "I'm not." He forced his smile not to waver. "Why not?" She sent a nervous glance towards the window. "They were supposed to work, but I'm not sure they will." "What are you talking about?" She shook her head. "Nothing." "What's wrong?" She looked at him. "Mom's not home yet." He checked his watch. He'd assumed she was upstairs. Jessie was usually home before him. "I'm sure she'll be here soon." He couldn't let Syrah sense his unease. He knew she was looking forward to their first Christmas as a family, and was used to being disappointed. Did she have the same fear he did? That happiness may be out of reach for them? They both loved Jessie, but they also both knew that the ones they loved could hurt them the most. He knelt in front of Syrah, keeping his smile in place and his tone light as he pressed down his own concerns. "I bet she had to finish up her holiday shopping and lost track of time." Syrah nodded. "Yes, it's going to be all right, right?" He tweaked her chin. "Right." But an hour later, Kenneth wasn't so sure. "I'm sure it's nothing," Jessie's eldest sister, Michelle, said when he called her. Her tone was practical and no-nonsense, reflecting the businesswoman she was. "She's a walking accident. If you worry about her, you'll grow old fast—trust me. Just wait for her to come home. If anything's happened, you'll know." When he called Jessie's other sister, Teresa, the advice was the same but said in a lighter more soothing way. She was a woman who believed in visions and herbs and that reflected in her words. "Your years together have only just begun, your paths are intertwined and you're bound together unless you break them." He gripped the phone. That didn't make any sense. "Just let me know if you hear from her." "I will, but you have to trust her." "Of course I trust her." "With everything?" He briefly shut his eyes. Teresa was sweet, but strange and he hadn't called for marriage advice. "Yes." "Good, then she'll be fine. You both will." But when another hour passed, he didn't feel fine. And his worry grew. He called her cousins and then anyone else he could think of, but no one could reach her. He had to believe that nothing was wrong. That she hadn't defied him and seen the man she'd mentioned about the stones against his wishes. He had to believe that she was okay, even when another hour passed and he saw a story on the news about a woman's body being found near the bay. "Poor woman," Freda, his housekeeper said, passing by the family room to head to the kitchen. It couldn't be Jessie. She was just somewhere where her phone didn't work and the snow… Kenneth looked out the window, his hard gaze sweeping over the snow blanketing the ground and weighing the trees with its oppressive white hand. It looked harmless, but it could be so many things. Why did he hate snow so much? He felt an answer to that question as the hair-thin crack of memory tried to expand in his mind, but he violently silenced it with his will. In two days they'd have their first Christmas as a family. A Christmas to help him forget the pain of his past. He had the right to be happy, to fight for his joy and his place in the world. As a child, he remembered one winter clearing the driveway for Jessie's family, the Cliftons. Eddie had promised to do it—and taken the advanced payment Mr. Clifton had given him—but did only half the job. Kenneth had finished it up, hoping nobody would notice. He made sure there was not a flake left. "You mustn't try so hard," Mr. Clifton had told him with a glint in his eye. He didn't understand him at first and felt a little hurt and defensive. He was embarrassed that he'd gotten caught and angered by the criticism. "You'll wear yourself out for no reason." He now knew what Jessie's father had meant. That he didn't have to try so hard to please, to be accepted, but it was still a lesson he was learning. He wanted this Christmas to be one of the best Jessie and Syrah had ever had. Three hours later, he paced. He couldn't report Jessie missing. Not yet. Not ever, he corrected. Because she would be home soon. She had to be. Another hour passed. He felt himself falling apart. He grabbed his keys, determined to find her, then stopped when he heard the front door open. He met her at the door. "Where have you been? We've been waiting for hours. Do you know how worried Ace was?" he said. "I had to lie to her to get her to eat dinner then lie to her again to get her to go to sleep. Do you know how many people I called? You couldn't let anyone know where you've been, what you were up to? What happened?" Jessie blinked, then sighed with regret. "I hardly understood a word you said. But I know you're upset and I'm sorry. Now take a deep breath and speak slowly and in English." It took Kenneth a moment to realize he'd spoken in French. The language of his youth, the language of his heart. He could feel himself shaking as his anger and fear mingled within his veins. He hadn't shouted at her like that before and always tried to be careful to control his temper. He knew the danger of losing control. He took her advice and took a deep breath. As he exhaled, he felt his shield of anger slip away, as if a filter had been removed from his eyes, and he finally saw his wife clearly. He saw the cut on her lip and the bruise on her cheek and his heart twisted. He rushed towards her, then stopped himself from touching her. "What happened?" Jessie pressed her hands together as if in prayer. "Don't be angry." Kenneth folded his arms. "I'm already angry, what did you do?" "This older woman was getting mugged—" His arms fell to his sides. "You went after a mugger?" "She said her life was in that purse and I couldn't just stand around and do nothing." Jessie held up her hand before he spoke. "I know he could have had a knife or a gun, but he didn't. Unfortunately, he got away and she was so shaken that she asked me to go with her to the police and I did. I'm sorry, I didn't even think to call you. And then on my way home, a car swerved and hit me. Not too bad, so don't worry, and then my phone died and it was just chaos. But I left the hospital because I wanted to come home." His voice cracked in surprise. "You were at the hospital?" "The woman who hit me was insistent I get checked by a doctor, so I just did it to calm her. I'm so sorry I didn't get in touch with you somehow. It was just a crazy day and—" Kenneth spun away and headed upstairs. Jessie followed him. "You're not going to forgive me?" He headed for their bedroom. "I'm glad you're home." "But you're still angry," she said, staying close behind. He kept walking. "Kenneth." "Keep your voice down." "Why? Syrah's probably already awake after your shouting rampage. At least she knows I'm home." "It wasn't a rampage." "It came close and I don't know why—" "A woman was found dead today," he cut in, his voice raw with emotion, "and I thought it was you." "Why would you think that?" "I don't know!" And he truly didn't. He didn't understand his lingering anger. She was safe, but his heart still hammered in his ears. "Why are you shouting at me again?" "I'm not shouting." "It's my fault!" another voice said. They both turned and saw Syrah standing at the end of the hallway. Her voice broke. "It's all my fault." Jessie shook her head and walked towards her. "Honey, no it's not. We're just—" She took a step back before Jessie could reach her. "I had Freda leave the stones on the doorstep, but they didn't work." "What are you talking about?" Jessie asked. "I know I don't have your gift with stones, but when Aunt Teresa told me that they were special stones that could bring good luck and protection to a house, I thought…" Her words fell away. "I was wrong." "That's why they had that feeling," Jessie mumbled to herself. "I'd wondered about that." She knelt in front of Syrah. "You weren't wrong. And you didn't do anything bad. But why would you think we'd need that? What are you frightened of?" Kenneth came up behind Jessie and cupped Syrah's chin before she could reply. "You're safe now." Jessie hugged her. "You don't need to be afraid. We're a family now and we're happy." Jessie turned and looked up at Kenneth. "Right?" He looked at Jessie then shifted his gaze to Syrah, a chill coursing through him. He knew what he had to say, even though he didn't mean it. "Yes." He kissed her on the forehead. "Now go back to bed or I'll take one of your presents away." Syrah wrapped her arms around Jessie's neck and hugged her. "I'm so glad you're home." Jessie hugged her back. "Me too." "Kenneth, I said I'm sorry," Jessie said, closing the door behind them once they were alone in their bedroom. "I know." He sat on the side of the bed and faced the window. "It's fine." "It's not fine if you won't even look at me." He rested his head in his hands suddenly feeling tired and not knowing why. "I don't understand…" Her voice died away and he heard her footsteps retreat. "Okay, I'll leave you alone. I'll sleep with Syrah tonight then and—" He reached her before she could get to the door. He swung her into the circle of his arms and held her tenderly. "I'm sorry," he whispered into her hair. "I didn't mean to shout and I'm glad you're home safe." "Your heart's pounding." "Hmm." She looked up at him. "Kenneth?" He heard a world of questions in her voice, but he wasn't ready for them yet. He held her tighter and said in a teasing tone, "Why won't you leave your husband and be with me? Your husband's an idiot sometimes." Jessie tapped his chest with her forefinger. "I won't leave my husband because I love him too much. And he needs me." Kenneth lifted a brow in surprise. "He needs you?" "Yes, so he can stop pretending." She drew away from him. "What's wrong? And don't act like you don't know what I'm saying. You're free now, you don't have to pretend anymore, remember?" "I want Christmas to be perfect." "Christmas will be wonderful, okay? What's with you and Syrah recently?" she asked. "You don't have to be Mr. Perfect anymore. We've got our schedule planned from Christmas to New Years' with family and friends. Even if things go wrong it won't matter because it will be one of many memories we'll get to share. I don't know why she thought we needed the protection of those stones." On Christmas Eve, they sat in front of the fireplace, the tree lit and the remnants of the sugar cookies and eggnog they'd enjoyed set to the side. Jessie told him and Syrah tales of when she and her sisters would wait up for Father Christmas. She made Syrah laugh and Kenneth watched them, wondering why he still felt so tired instead of happy. It was Christmas Eve. Stop pretending, Jessie had told him. You must trust her with everything, Teresa had said. And she was right. Jessie was the one person he could be real with. He needed to be honest. He hadn't really been afraid of her ignoring him regarding the stones, or getting killed. Those fears gave him a shield against what truly scared him, that the Christmas he was hoping for would be out of reach. He worried that he wouldn't feel as he was supposed to. He'd never found Christmas a magical season. He'd never had a chance to believe in Father Christmas. All his life, he'd smiled his way through the season to please others, but he always felt like a fraud because the presents and the lights never warmed his heart. And he knew the truth would disappoint her. But pretending had become too much of a burden. He kissed Syrah goodnight before she went off to bed, then Kenneth sat alone with Jessie on the couch. He realized that he hoped by making Syrah and Jessie happy, and that their joy would somehow stir something in him. That he'd feel what the season was about. He didn't want to tell her that every song left him feeling numb and he felt exhausted under the weight of a cheer he didn't feel. "I've never liked Christmas. I always lie and say I do, but…" She looped her fingers through his and he gained strength in her touch. "Go on." "When I first saw those stones, I didn't know why they bothered me so much, but then I remembered one Christmas when my father got drunk and smashed the ornaments on our tree. I don't know how old I was but I remember how they sparkled even as they shattered and scattered on the ground." He briefly shut his eyes. "I can't feel Christmas. The importance of it…. I can't…I can't feel it. I know I'm supposed to be ecstatic." "You don't have to be." "And there's this memory that keeps trying to come back." "Why won't you let it?" He rested his head back. "Because I don't want to." "Maybe you need to." He turned to her, his eyes clinging to hers. "Most of my memories hurt." "I know." She patted her lap. "And you don't have to fight them alone anymore, you have me." A smile softened his mouth. "Are you inviting me to sit on your lap like a good little boy?" She frowned. "No, I was offering you a place to rest your head." She began to stand. "But if you're not interested—" He pulled her down. "You know I am," he said in a deep voice. Kenneth took a deep breath and laid his head down, letting himself surrender to the memory that had been haunting him, trying to become fully formed in his mind. He drifted to sleep, remembering another Christmas blanketed in white. White was everywhere. White like snow, except he saw the white of a doctor's lab coat, the nurse's shoes, the hospital walls and floors. There were paintings of cartoon characters in the halls, but he didn't recognize most of them because he didn't get to watch TV much. He remembered a white pillow and a metal bed and the sound of holiday music floating from somewhere. And he remembered making a wish… A wish he'd forgotten about. He opened his eyes and although it was still dark, the darkness that had seized his soul was gone. He felt his numbness fade and it hurt, but he welcomed the pain because at least he could feel, and the anger and restlessness had gone. He sat up and looked around the room in renewed wonder. He saw the brilliant lights on the tree, the red flashing flames of the fire, but most of all, he saw a home. His home. The one he shared with his daughter who was safe in her room. The one he shared with his wife who'd fight his battles with him. For the first time in years, he let himself remember the wish of a little boy, spending the holidays in the hospital after a beating, and his wish for a new family that loved him no matter what. Stop pretending. He didn't have to pretend anymore. "Kenneth, are you okay?" Jessie asked him. He turned to her, the fire glow caressing her brown skin. "Yes," he said, the truth of his words filling him with joy. "Yes," he said again, then stood pulling her up with him. He walked to the window and looked outside at the white snow as it lay under the gaze of the moonlight. He no longer hated the sight. Instead, he saw a whole new beginning. As they stood by the window, he told her about his memory. His voice was soft as he spoke, his arms wrapped around her waist. She didn't speak, just listened as she rested her back against his chest. When he was through, he took a deep breath. "You're right," he said. "It will be a wonderful Christmas." Every Christmas before had been a disappointment to him, but not this one. This one would be like no other. One he'd remember for the rest of his life. Not because it was perfect, but because his long ago wish had finally come true. If you enjoyed The Perfect Christmas don't miss Kenneth and Jessie's romance in The Sapphire Pendant. ⁂ [ A Song to Remember ] Bitterness didn't have a taste. It had a smell and it smelled like cigarette ashes and vintage wine. To her, bitterness wasn't roads not taken, it was too many options and not enough time. It was facing mortality with grim surrender. Sharon Burnell sat alone in her dressing room, the soft patter of snow tapping against the window. The sight was a rare treat for Washington DC. It had been a rather warm December and few expected to see snow until January and certainly not in time for Christmas. She knew she shouldn't have been there. She should be at home, resting in the quiet solitude of her apartment. But she'd returned to the theater for something—a scarf or an earring, she didn't remember what. Now it didn't matter. All that mattered was the silence. A silence filled with bitterness. Only hours before she'd been bedecked in jewels and silk, but that was now gone as was the audience and the unknown faces behind the scenes. The theater lay empty and silent, except for the guards and the cleaning crew. As she sat in her dressing room, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and sighed. The stage makeup she'd worn had been wiped clean from her face, leaving it bare. She had an ordinary face. A face that seemed, with each day, to grow more familiar to her, though she didn't know why. There was no one in her family who had a nose that was quite like hers or a mouth that was a little crooked. Her walnut skin was still smooth though she saw some sagging around the edges of a jaw that used to be more angular, a neck that had been more regal. She was at that lonely, unremarkable age when she was too old to live and too young to die. Tonight, as she'd performed, she felt like a fraud. An imposter. What once had filled her with joy, left her empty. The applause no longer fed her spirit as it once had. The accolades meant nothing. They said she was one of the greatest, but she didn't think so. Her voice wasn't what it had once been. She hadn't reached the notes with the same power and verve. When had her life become worn floorboards and petulant conductors? When had a stage ceased to delight her? Tonight, when she'd looked at the stage, instead of seeing the lush Riviera she only saw broad paint strokes that were supposed to be waves. Where had the magic gone? The mystery and the majesty of music had escaped her, but she didn't know when or how she'd allowed it to slip from her grasp. But it had left her desolate like a lover whose heart had grown cold. She was no longer a young darling, but far from being a legend. Again, too young for that, but too old to be one of the fresh young things now flooding stages and concert halls around the globe. Oh how she wished to see the magic again. But once you know how magic is done, can you ever see it again? She closed her eyes against tears. When she opened them, she saw a young girl of about fourteen wearing outdated clothes from the 60s, standing on the other side of the room. A young girl who looked familiar. Sharon jumped to her feet. "What are you doing here?" she demanded. But the young girl didn't hear her. Instead, she walked around the room, her face filled with wonder. "It's so beautiful. Oh, how I'd love to have my own dressing room and sing in a theater like this one day," she said. Sharon's heart raced. Why didn't the young girl see her and why did her face and voice seem so familiar? "Come on, you don't recognize yourself?" an amused female voice said. Sharon screamed and glanced around the room not knowing where the voice had come from. The young girl walked past Sharon, still not seeing her or hearing anything. Goose bumps scattered up and down Sharon's arms as a familiar scent lingered. "What's going on?" She held the side of her head. "Am I having a stroke?" "You're not having a stroke, Sharon," the voice said. "Must you always be so dramatic?" She hurried over to a corner and her gaze darted around the room, searching for the source of the voice, but she didn't see anything. "Who are you?" "No," the voice said. "That's not the question you need answered. The real question is, Who is she?" Sharon looked again at the young girl who now sat in her chair and pretended to put on makeup. She then understood why she looked so familiar. She was looking at herself. The girl she'd been many years ago. Soon the dressing room fell away and she saw her old bedroom—a stack of vinyl records she'd bought, although they didn't own a record player, a black and white photo of her friend from Liverpool; she smelled the scent of eggs and chips wafting from the kitchen. Outside, a drizzly grey rain soaked the city of Manchester, England, and the young girl stood by the window staring down at one of the records she couldn't listen to. Sharon felt tears touch her eyes remembering that moment and noticing the welt on her arm where her grandfather had struck her with a switch because he thought she was trying to poison him. Her parents didn't want him to go into a nursing home, although caring for him had become more difficult. Her parents had taken her out of school so they could work and she had to look after him. Music helped her endure the confinement. At least they had a radio and at night she'd hold the dial just right so she could get to listen to her favorite station. Having a piano helped too. Through the music she created on the black and white keys, she was transported to the hot streets of New York City and to the classical dance halls of Vienna. Music transported her grandfather too, because when she sang with him, he was like his old self. He would smile and dance and when she sang his favorite tunes it was as if years were erased from his face and his mind became clear. If only she could sing forever. The young girl looked straight at Sharon, as if she could see her. And Sharon's heart began to race. Would she scream? Call the police? But the young girl didn't look surprised. "I didn't think you'd come back," she said, setting the record down on her bed. "You mean I've been here before?" The young girl frowned. "Yea, you don't remember?" No, but now she started to understand why the mature face she'd seen in the mirror had felt so familiar to her. She'd seen it before as her younger self. "Hmm." "Did you really mean what you said before?" Oh no. What had she said? Sharon thought in a panic then the words came to her. If you keep the magic alive, it will never leave you, but if you forget you will wither and die. Why had she said that? But even as she asked herself the question, she knew the answer. It was a warning. She'd allowed herself to forget the magic. What music had once meant to her. Like the memories stolen from her grandfather, she'd quietly lost what had made her whole. She couldn't let herself do it again, this was her second chance. "Yes," she said with a desperate fervor looking at the young face before her and seeing it wasn't the smooth skin or the lack of years that would later catapult her into her long career, it would be her passion. A passion that would send her around the world, to marvel at the five languages she'd learn to speak, gasp at the sight of tears rolling down her parents' faces when she sang in Carnegie Hall. A passion she must continue to let burn. She hadn't tended to it. She'd taken it for granted, until slowly it had burned out. "Sharon!" her grandfather called and she remembered that her name was one of the few he still remembered. Her younger self went to where he sat in the living room. He didn't see the older version. "Ask him to play something," Sharon told her younger self. And the young girl did. The older man shuffled to the piano, but once he sat down, his back straightened, his arms and fingers flexed and as he played all the years fell away. Sharon remembered the tune and sang along and her younger self joined her. And as the magic rained down around them, tears of shame touched her eyes. She felt ashamed by how easily she'd allowed herself to forget how fortunate she was, how far she'd come, how much she'd let herself forget, and how much she needed to remember. Soon the pair fazed away and she sat in the audience and saw herself on stage in one of her performances ten years ago and although she didn't see a legend or an ingénue, she saw someone more radiant. She saw a woman in love. In love with the magic that surrounded her as the music soared through the room, flowing through her and touching the hearts of those around her. And behind her, she saw the waves instead of the brushstrokes; she saw the horizon and could hear the seagulls. The scenery came alive. Her breath caught when the woman performing, looked at her—and she felt the connection. She could hear her urgent plea 'Never forget me'. She understood that request. She would never forget why she sang. She sang for the girl growing up in a small flat in Manchester who dreamed of a different life. She sang for the woman who couldn't believe where her life had taken her. She sang for her grandfather who first showed her the magic, by playing the piano and teaching her show tunes. Sharon nodded, making a promise not to get caught up in the criticisms, the trinkets of fame and fortune or her own ego. She was there to serve the music. The woman seemed to smile and finished her song to thunderous applause. Silence soon descended and Sharon found herself standing in the corner of her dressing room again, but the scent of bitterness was gone. And she knew she'd never smell it again. The magic had returned. No, she realized as she gathered her things to face the snowy weather outside, a new sense of joy bubbling inside, it had never left. ⁂ [ A Mother's Day Wish ] "We don't need you. We have a lawn service to take care of things," Beth Armstrong said looking at the lanky fifteen year old who'd asked to mow her lawn. She was surprised he'd even offered. He was a Bailey after all and everyone knew the Baileys were a lazy bunch. The only effort his father extended was to find a woman and get his pants down or open a bottle and fill his belly with liquor. People knew better than to hire him because he'd never show up, but would always come up with an excuse as to why. Just like his father before him. Even his great-grandfather had a notorious reputation back in Trinidad. He'd been a man not to be trusted. Beth didn't expect young Cole Bailey to be much different. He was a good looking young man with dark lashes and brows, but the Bailey men always were. She hardened her heart against the look of disappointment that dimmed Cole's light brown eyes and turned the corners of his mouth down. She couldn't bend. She wouldn't. People had been trying to help the Baileys for years and nothing ever worked. She gripped the door handle, stiffened her spine and let a slight, polite smile touch her lips. "I'm sorry. Goodbye and good day." "Good day," Cole said not meaning a word. He forced a smile then turned. It didn't feel like a good day but that was all he'd been forced to hear. The Armstrong house had been his last stop. Nobody would hire him. He'd offered lawn care, window washing, spider web cleaning and painting, but he always got a polite 'good day' and a door in his face. He knew the people of Hamsford didn't want a Bailey inside their homes, but he'd hoped they'd at least let him help outside with the grunt work. Wasn't he good enough for that? None of the local shop owners would give him work, his father and grandfather's reputations always proceeded him. But he wasn't his father or grandfather. Unfortunately, no one would give him the chance to prove it. And he needed a break. He needed to make money to help his family, especially his younger sisters who deserved more than what they were getting--a fridge that was usually empty and a cramped, dank apartment. His parents were already two months late on the rent. Cole knew the rent was really six months overdue, but his father had managed to bargain it down to two months since he was sleeping with the landlord's wife and she'd somehow persuaded her husband to lower what was owed. Cole didn't know how long the arrangement would last, since his father never stuck with anyone or anything long. He wanted to make sure he had enough money to take care of the family in case something went wrong, which it usually did. Yes, his sisters deserved better. Just thinking of them made him smile. They were the only people in town who loved and looked up to him. They were so sweet and smart. He remembered when he'd gone to the church charity looking for clothes he'd picked up an old stain glass kit for his thirteen year old sister, Angela. She made amazing art with it, which he put up near the windows giving their gloomy place some beauty as it cast rainbows on the walls and floor. He wanted to get her some more tools and pay for a school trip to an art gallery in two months. Then there was his shy little sister, Grace, who needed braces. She was ten and her teeth were growing in crooked. Kids were already making fun of her and she had no friends. Not that his parents noticed. His mother was always in a foul mood, angry that she'd ended up marrying a 'good for nothing Bailey' and getting 'good for nothing children.' His father was hardly around but nobody missed him anyway. Cole slowly walked down the path that cut through the Armstrong's manicured lawn trying to think of another way to make money when he saw an older woman coming towards him carrying heavy bags. He rushed up to her. "Let me help you," he said half expecting her to refuse. People didn't let Baileys help them. "Oh thank you," she said offering him a bright smile of relief. "I bought more than I should have." Cole stopped and stared at her for a moment in amazement. She'd smiled at him. Not a fake distant smile, but a real genuine one. He'd never had that before. He took her bags even more eager to please her just to get her to smile at him again. She had a nice round face, sparkling eyes, warm brown skin and grey hair. If he had a grandmother he'd want one to be just like her. He helped her carry her bags to the door, wishing he could help her with something else. "Thank you young man," she said taking her keys out of her handbag. "My pleasure," he said liking the soft island lilt of her words. "What's your name?" Suddenly, the door swung open, cutting off his reply. "Mother," Beth said in an urgent rush. "Are you okay?" "I'm perfectly fine," she said startled. "This young man--" Beth snatched the bags from Cole and anxiously peered inside. "You'd better check to make sure everything is here. Baileys have sticky fingers." The woman shot her daughter a glance of annoyance. "Of course everything is there. I didn't raise you to be facety like this." Beth sent Cole a look of suspicion. "Why are you back here? I told you we can't use you." "He was helping me." Beth set the bags aside and pulled money from her purse. She held out a five dollar bill and waved it at him with impatience. "Fine you can go now." Cole took a step back, trying to take rein on his temper. He wanted to take the five dollars and ram it in her mouth. He could show her how much of a sticky fingered no good Bailey he could be. Instead he gripped his hands into fists. "I'm gone." "Wait," the older woman said grabbing his sleeve. "What did you come for?" "To mow the lawn," Beth said. Her mother stared at her, raising her eyebrows. "Is this a puppet show? I ask him a question and you answer?" "No, mother but--" "Then keep your mouth shut 'til I ask you to open it again." She turned her attention to Cole. "Come inside. I want to talk to you." Before her daughter could protest the woman stepped past her and said, "Put the kettle on. I'm thirsty." She ignored the stunned silence that followed her request and headed for the kitchen. Cole hesitated then followed. He'd never been inside such a fine house before. He gaped at the rose colored wallpaper and polished wooden floors. There wasn't a cockroach in sight. When he passed the family room he quickly peeked inside and saw Mr. Armstrong standing near the fireplace and his son, Grant, reading a book. He knew Grant from school, not personally, but from a distance and by reputation. Grant always had a crowd of admirers around him since he was a track star and talented musician. Cole was too in awe to notice the frown on Grant's face when he saw him. He hurried to the kitchen then halted at the sight of how large it was. His entire apartment could fit inside it. "Sit down," the woman said getting some Jamaican bun and cheese out of the refrigerator. She set them on the table. He sat, rubbing his hands together under the table. "Yes, Mother Armstrong." "No," she said with a laugh. "I'm not an Armstrong. That's my daughter's married name. Just call me Ms. Hetty." "Hey Bailey," a voice said behind him. He turned and saw Grant standing in the doorway, a look of annoyance on his face. "What are you doing here?" Cole opened his mouth to reply, but Hetty beat him to it. "We're having a private conservation. You can talk to him later." Grant scowled then stormed away. "So you do lawn care?" Hetty asked. "Yes ma'am," he said. He'd tried to join a landscaping crew but no one would hire him. However, he'd watched them work and picked up skills. He didn't have the equipment, but knew how they worked. "What else can you do?" Beth came into the kitchen and filled the kettle at the sink. "Polish silver," he said. She set the kettle on the stove and mumbled, "And steal it too." Cole shifted in his seat, wanting to defend himself but knowing he couldn't. "Go on," Hetty urged. "I can clean spider webs." Beth rested a hand on her hip. "You think I'd allow spiders to build webs in my house? My house is spotless." "I didn't mean to offend." "You might as well say you'd kill mice too." "I can if you need me too." Beth gasped. "You cheeky little--" "Quiet, Beth," her mother interrupted. She pointed at Cole. "Did you just hear what he said? He sits in my home and implies that we have mice!" "Be quiet." "But--" Hetty turned to her daughter. "Have you forgotten that I'm still your mother? I said keep your mouth shut and I mean it. I can still box your ears and I'll make it your mouth if I have to." She turned back to Cole. "Go on." He cleared his throat. "I'm good at fixing things." "Anything in particular?" "Anything you ask me to." Hetty nodded. "Good I have a task for you. I have a lawn swing that needs to be fixed. Can you do that?" "Yes." "How much?" Cole gave her a price and she shook her head. "Too high." Cole rubbed his hands and swallowed. He didn't want to lose her business, but he also didn't want to admit that he didn't even own a hammer or screwdriver. He needed money to buy tools. "I'll also paint the trim if you like." "The price is still too high." He lowered his gaze. Think Bailey. You need this job. He knew what his father would do. He'd try to sweet talk her, but he was no good at that. He liked to be honest. He sighed he hoped that wouldn't be a mistake. "I can lower the price if you'd allow me to use your tools." Beth opened her mouth then quickly closed it, remembering her mother's threat. "How much?" Hetty asked. He gave her another price. Hetty smiled and held out her hand. "Agreed. Come back tomorrow after ten." Cole shook her hand, careful not to pump it too hard. He really wanted to give her a big hug. He'd made her smile and now had a job. He grinned back. "I will. Good day," he said, meaning every word. At dinner Beth bristled with outrage. "You won't believe what Mother did today. She hired a Bailey." Arthur Armstrong looked at his mother-in-law, who was calmly eating her dinner, then at the pinched face of his wife. His three sons waited to see how he would handle the situation. He chose to proceed with caution. "To do what?" "Does it matter?" "I'm curious." "Fix the lawn swing." "Why didn't you say so, Mother? I could have gotten it fixed for you." Hetty did not raise her gaze from the curried trout and creamy scalloped potatoes on her plate. "On three occasions I asked but no one listened. I was tired of waiting." "Mother," he said in a soft patronizing tone. "You're new to this place so you don't know the people. Some of them you just can't trust." "Exactly," Beth said. "The Bailey men are lazy, worthless men. What will people think? You don't know what you've done." "I know exactly what I've done. I gave a young man a chance," Hetty said. "But he's a--" "He's not his father. Let him prove himself." Grant touched her shoulder. "I'll fix it for you, Gran." Hetty repressed a shudder. It wasn't good to not like one's own flesh and blood but she didn't take to her grandson. She found him to be as slick as palm oil. After her husband's death she'd looked forward to moving in with her daughter's family, but the move hadn't been as peaceful as she'd hoped. Her daughter was constantly correcting her, her son-in-law ignored her and her grandchildren barely noticed her. She'd carried heavy shopping bags before without anyone caring. To everyone she was just an invisible old woman. That young Bailey boy had been the first to take any notice. To really make her feel as if she mattered, not to feel as if she were just a burden or obligation. She had plenty of money, because she and her husband had been savvy with their finances, and could go to a residential facility, but she didn't want to be around just old people. But being around the younger generations wasn't much fun either. At times she considered moving to the cottage she and her husband still owned in New York and had used as a holiday house, but it would be lonely there. "I've already hired Cole," Hetty said. "And I plan to keep my word." "But--" "I'm a grown woman and I've made up my mind. This has nothing to do with any of you." That evening Hetty took out an old photograph and sat on her bed staring at the faded image. It was a picture of her cousin Lenny, a fine looking young man who'd been shot and killed in an armed robbery bust when the police mistook him for one of the assailants. She remembered returning to Trinidad to attend his funeral. She let her finger trail over his smiling happy face. No one had given him a chance. No one had taken the time to look past his poor grades and background to see what a hardworking young man he was. She remembered how he could make you smile when you wanted to cry and how he never felt sorry for himself. Cole somehow reminded her of him. Unlike Lenny, she would make sure he was given an opportunity to prove himself. But she knew helping Cole wasn't just for him, it was for her. She glanced around her crowded bedroom filled with stuff she could afford, but didn't need. It offered her no comfort. She was restless. She had done her childrearing and had worked most of her life. She'd waited all her life for these days of leisure, but she was bored. She wanted to do something. She wanted a reason to live. Cole had not only noticed her, he'd made her feel useful. He'd made her feel viable again. Cole arrived the next day at ten on the dot. Hetty sat in a lawn chair and watched him work. He was a good worker. Skinnier than he should be but strong. He told her about his sisters. They laughed together that Saturday like two kids getting to know each other and shared a lunch of spicy chicken patties and talked about their frustrations. "No one will give me a chance," Cole said as they finished their meal. "I did and I know others will too." "I really want to thank you." Hetty waved his thanks aside. "It's not a big issue. I'm glad you could help me and respect me." She sighed. "Sometimes my family treats me as if I were two years old." "I wish I could take you home with me," Cole said. "I'd let you do whatever you wanted." "Where do you live?" Cole shook his head. "It's not good enough for you." He wondered if he'd ever have a place good enough for her to visit. Baileys had never owned anything. But he pushed the thought away and finished fixing her swing. Hetty giggled with delight when it was finished and immediately tried it out. She then gave him another task and soon he was a regular at the Armstrong house. To his surprise, word quickly spread and he was able to get other small jobs around town. But no job compared to working for Ms. Hetty, Cole thought as he dug up a patch of dirt she wanted to use as a herb garden. She was one of the most wonderful women he'd ever met: Smart and pretty and sweet and he loved her. He'd given her a card for Mother's Day wishing he could spend every Mother's Day with her and treat her and his sisters to brunch like other families did. His mother hated Mother's Day and didn't like cards. She said they were just expensive pieces of paper unless there was money inside. But not Ms. Hetty. When Cole had given her his card--he'd wanted to get her perfume or flowers but a card was all he could afford--she'd given him one of her beaming smiles and held the card close as if he'd given her a treasure. Even though her family had treated her to buffet and gifts of scarves and jewelry she made him feel that his gift was just as important. And that night he wished he could always make her smile and imagined spending every holiday with her from New Year's Day to Christmas. He wished he could rescue her somehow. He hated to know she was unhappy living with her family. He knew how she felt, but he didn't know what he could do. He was close to raising enough money for Angela's school trip and with more jobs he could raise enough for Grace, but helping Ms. Hetty would take a miracle. At least he was glad that luck was finally on his side. Grant watched Cole from his bedroom window with seething anger. Why was his grandmother paying attention to that dirty old Bailey? His friends were already ribbing him about it. Bailey was making him a laughing stock. He was the one who was supposed to shine. He was the track star and musician, but his grandmother barely took notice of him. What was so important about a stupid swing anyway? And why did she keep having to have him come back? Bailey almost acted like he belonged there, but he didn't. Hell, he could even sense his parents starting to like him and his two brothers had once asked Bailey to join them for a soccer game. He hated Cole Bailey. He should know his place. That night Grant went into the garden and unscrewed a major hinge on the swing. He smiled as he imagined the havoc he'd just created. Now Bailey would get what he deserved. Hetty loved to sit outside on late spring evenings. She was so happy that she now had a beautiful swing to sit in. Outside she felt close to Lenny and her husband and no longer thought of them with pain. Her heart had a new resident. Cole had filled her life with laughter and joy. She hoped to one day meet Cole's sisters since he talked so fondly about them. She sat on her swing and swayed back and forth then she heard a snap and the swing came crashing down. Shooting pain followed. She cried out as hot tears filled her eyes. Beth rushed to her. "Mother!" She turned to her husband who'd followed close behind and said, "Call an ambulance." Minutes later Hetty was taken to the hospital where they discovered she'd broken her hip. Infection quickly set in and for days Hetty was gravely ill, but to the relief of her family she pulled through. Cole, however, soon found his world shattered. Word quickly spread about his poor workmanship and soon he was being called a 'no good Bailey' again and what little work he'd been able to get dried up. "So typical," his mother said as he cleared up the fast food dinner he'd bought with money he'd saved. She sniffed in disgust. "You Bailey men always screw up a good thing." "I know I fixed it right," Cole said, wishing there had been leftovers for tomorrow night's dinner. The greasy chicken meal was nothing like the baked plantain and jerk chicken Ms. Hetty had once treated him to, but it was still food. His mother rested back in her chair, putting her feet on the table. Her boots added to the many scratches that were already there. "Then why did it break nearly killing the old woman?" Cole swallowed feeling a little ill. "I don't know, but I didn't make a mistake. I tested it myself and I'm heavier than Ms. Hetty. I would never do anything to hurt her." "Just take responsibility," Angela said. "Go to the hospital and ask for forgiveness." He shook his head. "I can't face her." "I thought she was your friend," his youngest sister, Grace, said. Cole blinked back tears. She was and that was why he couldn't face her. He didn't care what anyone else thought of him, but if she thought he was a 'good for nothing' Bailey he couldn't handle it. "You have to visit her," Angela insisted. He hung his head. He knew he was disappointing them. He'd disappointed everyone. "Leave me alone." He turned wishing there was somewhere to hide. Unfortunately, there was nowhere to go to get away, so he went into the stairwell. He collapsed onto one of the steps, covered his face and cried. He loved Ms. Hetty and wished he was in the hospital instead of her. He wished he could take all her pain away, especially since he was the cause. He was a 'no good Bailey' who deserved to die. His mother was right. He was a screw up. He was no different than the rest of the Baileys. Cole quickly wiped his eyes, when he heard footsteps, and turned his face to the wall. Angela sat beside him and lightly rested a hand on his shoulder. "You have to go see her." He kept his face turned and shook his head. "I want you to give her something." Cole let his shoulders droop then slowly looked at his sister and saw that she held a small stain glass project in her hand. "It can't be fun being stuck in a hospital, this will brighten it up for her." Cole sighed, taking the stain glass. It was a picture of a garden. He was so close to making their lives better and he'd failed. There would be no school trip or braces, but he'd at least do this for her. The next day, he dressed in his best suit. When his mother saw him she laughed. "You're going to a damn hospital not a funeral." "I want to look my best." "If you were your father, I'd wonder if you wanted to sweet talk a nurse." Cole arranged his tie. "No." "I'm surprised you haven't knocked up a girl yet, but you're still young so there's still time." "I'm not Dad." "You better not do that or you're out." He nodded. He'd heard that since he was five. It wasn't that he wasn't interested in girls, but he had to take care of his family first. And now he had to help Ms. Hetty. She helped straighten his tie. "Not that it will matter. No matter how fine you look you'll never be one of them." "I'm not trying to be." "Then why are you acting as if you're meeting the damn queen or something?" He knew his mother wouldn't understand, but he wanted to look his best for Ms. Hetty. He wanted to let her know how sorry he was and tell her he would find a way to make things up to her. He took Angela's wrapped gift and left the apartment. Grant met him outside the door to Hetty's hospital room. His gaze swept Cole's worn suit and his mouth quirked in a sneer. "What are you? The undertaker?" "I came to see Ms. Hetty." "Sorry. It's family only," he said. "I just have to give her something." Grant held out his hand. "I'll give it to her." "No." Grant lowered his voice and narrowed his eyes. "Listen Bailey, I can make your life even more miserable than it is now so you'd better just take my advice and leave." "I'm not afraid of you." "That's your mistake. I can--" "I don't care. I want to see Ms. Hetty." "Is that Cole?" Hetty called out. "Is that you, my dear?" "Yes, ma'am," he said boldly meeting Grant's glare. "It's me." "Are you waiting for an invitation? Come on in." Cole shoved past Grant. "There's a hole in your suit," Grant said. Cole ignored him and walked into the room. Hetty had her own private room. It was filled with flowers. He thought of Angela's gift and knew that it couldn't compete with the grander surrounding him. "I'm so sorry," he said in a rush. "I was sure everything was secure." "What no hug?" Hetty said lifting her arms out to him. He gently hugged her. She smelled like lilacs and felt as warm as a summer morning. "Be careful," Beth snapped, coming into the room. "You've done enough damage. I'm surprised you can show your face." "I'm sorry, Mrs. Armstrong. I was sure--" "What have you brought for me?" Hetty said eyeing the package under his arm. "It's from my sister Angela. She thought you might like it." "Next time tell her to come." Hetty opened the package then gasped at the item inside. "It's beautiful." Beth walked over to take a look. "Your sister made this herself?" Cole nodded with pride. "Yes ma'am." "We have to put it up." Hetty pointed to the window. "Rest it there so the sunlight can filter through." Cole did just that and then they all stared at it. "Hetty," a voice called from the doorway then an elegantly dressed woman walked into the room. "You're always causing trouble little sister." The woman stopped and stared at the stain glass. "Oh, where did you get this?" "It's a gift," Hetty said. She gestured to Cole. "His sister makes them." "How much?" the woman asked, picking it up to take a closer look. Hetty gave a reply that left Cole speechless. "Very well. I'd like to order one. You know that Todd is looking for a student to mentor. Do you think your sister would be interested?" she asked Cole. "Yes ma'am." She pulled out her card. "Have her call me." Cole stared at the card. No one had ever given him their card before. "Yes ma'am." Grant stood near the door and watched the scene wanting to punch something. This wasn't how it was supposed to be. They were supposed to hate him. "Why are you helping his sister?" he said. "He's the reason you're in here." "And I forgive him," Hetty said. "You could have died." "But I didn't and I think it was meant to be." Grant widened his eyes incredulous. "Meant to be?" "Yes, " she said with a bright smile. "All because of the great man above. If I hadn't broken my hip, I wouldn't be here and then Cole's sister wouldn't have given me this picture and my sister wouldn't have seen it and then consider recommending her to Todd. Yes. It's all meant to be. God at work." "But it wasn't God. I was--" Grant stopped before he implicated himself. Hetty met his eyes with a keen intelligence that sent a shiver through him. "You were what?" Grant shook his head, as a trickle of sweat slid down his back. "Nothing. I just think--" Hetty clapped her hands. "I just had an idea." She turned to Cole. "If my sister has anything to do with it, Angela will be accepted into Todd's program. He's my sister's ex-husband and has an art studio in New York where he mentors aspiring young artists. Angela is very talented and I know he'd enjoy working with her. She would be able to learn and grow her skills while also earning money. " Hetty continued when she saw Cole's hesitation. "I have a house there that I'd love to use again. My husband and I used to go there for vacations. Your sister could live there and she'll need someone to be there with her. I've always wanted to live there but not by myself. I could lookout for her. But we'd need someone to help around the house. Would you like to go too?" "Oh yes, but..." His words fell away. "But what?" "I have another sister." "There are good schools there. She can come too." "Mother," Beth said stunned. "What are you saying?" "'I've got a lot of life left in me and I'm not ready to be put out to pasture. I'm moving." "I thought you were happy with us. And we can take care of you." "That's the problem. I don't need you to." "But these three Bailey kids will--" "Be the greatest gift to me," she finished. "Their parents--" Hetty brushed her concerns aside with a wave of her hand. "I'll make it worth their while." And she did. Mrs. Bailey was relieved to see her children go so she could have another life. Mr. Bailey wasn't around to argue. Angela was accepted into Todd's exclusive mentorship program, Grace got her braces and enrolled in a private school nearby and Cole felt glad he'd managed to get the life his sisters deserved, leaving the Bailey reputation far behind. And as they sat in their little house one fall afternoon, Cole thought back to the night he'd imagined spending every holiday with Ms. Hetty and he grinned knowing his Mother's Day wish had come true. ⁂ [ A Fortunate Mistake ] The phone call shattered a beautiful crying fit at 3 a.m. on Christmas Eve. Marina Durosomo had gone through an entire box of tissues and blown her nose until it hurt and her red rimmed eyes were dry when the piercing of the phone invaded her quiet apartment. She wanted to ignore it, to continue to drown in her misery and the stinging critique of her now closed bakery that continued to torment her, but the insistent ringing wouldn't stop. Who could be calling her now? She didn't want to hear more bad news. She reluctantly reached for the phone, slow enough to hope that by the time she picked up, the person on the other end would hang up. "Hello?" she said. "Did I wake you?" Marina wiped her eyes, recognizing her mother's voice. She was good at asking questions that didn't need an answer. If she said 'yes', her mother would apologize but not really mean it. If she said 'no', her mother would ask what was wrong and she didn't want to tell her. "I'm fine." "You sound like you're coming down with a cold." "I'm fine," she repeated, tossing her empty box of tissues into the recycling bin. "You don't sound--" "Mom, what's wrong?" "I need you to pick up Aunty Helen." "Aunty who?" "That's her English name. You won't remember her real one. Besides, you don't know her. She's the mother of a good friend of ours." Because her mother had about twenty 'good friends' Marina didn't even try to make the connection. It wasn't unusual to have unexpected visitors arrive from Nigeria. They treated their family like a taxi and hotel service, but her mother and father were steeped in the tradition of hospitality and didn't want anything negative said about them back home, even though an ocean separated them. "Okay when will she be here?" "She's arriving at four-thirty." "This morning?" "Yes, why else would I be calling you now? You have an hour and a half to get ready and be over there." Her mother made it sound so sensible. "Why me?" "She's coming in at BWI. You're closer to the airport and I have to go to work." "I work too." Her mother's responding silence was eloquent. She used to work. She used to have a business she was proud of, but that was all over now. All because of a major recession and a business partner who'd embezzled her funds and disappeared. But no, the truth was her business hadn't failed. She had. There were other bakeries that were flourishing, but the critique had shown a light on all her fears. She just wasn't good enough. Her mother had told her the bakery was a foolish dream, that she should have tried for something more sensible. Her mother would never say 'I told you so', but she didn't have to. Now she would be chauffer to some stranger. This was her punishment. She hated the holidays. Every year they seemed to show her how far she was from the life she wanted. It highlighted another year of grasping for something out of reach. "What's her flight number?" Marina asked to fill the silence and resigned to her fate. Her mother told her. "Can't Wale go?" "I can't reach him. Hurry, I don't want her waiting there alone. And this will be good for you." "Good?" "Yes, to get out of your apartment." "Mom, I don't need to hear this right now. I just want to sleep." "You can sleep all you want after you pick her up and settle her in your place." "My place?" "Yes, we'll come and get her in the evening." Marina looked around her messy apartment--the carpet needed a good vacuum, she could spell her name in the dust. After her career imploded she hadn't cared about her surroundings. She didn't want a guest, she didn't want to pretend to celebrate the holidays, she wanted to disappear, but she didn't have a choice. "What does she look like?" Marina asked opening her closet. "She's tiny." Marina waited. When her mother didn't elaborate she rolled her eyes and sighed. "That's all? A tiny black woman?" "You'll find her," her mother said with impatience. "She'll be looking for you and you will find each other. You're smart." She hung up. Marina scowled at the phone then disconnected. At times she hated being a diligent daughter. She wanted to say "Let her wait." Why did this Aunty, what-was-her-name--Helga? Hettie?--have to wait until now to let them know she was arriving? So inconsiderate. She could have called them when she changed flights in Amsterdam. But Marina had learned to keep her thoughts to herself. She had no husband or children to hide behind and now she couldn't even say she had a business to run. She had no life, so she had to do as she was told.

10 Holiday Stories

Dara Girard

Chapter 12

Marina stood in the baggage claim area of Baltimore Washington International feeling like a farmer trying to find a particular blade of grass in a field. Although it wasn't as crowded as a midmorning or late afternoon flight, there were still enough people to get lost in. Marina shoved her hands in her gray wool coat and rocked on her heels. She still couldn't remember the blasted woman's name--Herma? Hilda? Helen? Yes, that was it Helen! But recalling her name was just a small victory. She had no idea how she was supposed to find this woman. Aunty Helen a woman she'd never heard of who was the grandmother of some friend's mother. Marina was about to give up hope and call her mother when she saw a small woman standing near the wall with a large bag. She wore a brightly colored headwrap in a pattern she'd never seen before and a well tailored dress that matched. The woman looked composed, as if standing for a portrait--her eighty some years had been kind to her. She had a certain glow that drew Marina to her. She seemed out of place. That had to be her. Marina made her way over to the woman, confident she'd found the elusive Aunty Helen. Although she wasn't the only one in regional clothes, she was the only one not properly dressed for the cold December weather. At least others sported long coats or gloves, but she only wore her dress, as if she expected to step out into a nice ninety degree sun. Marina stopped in front of her and smiled. "Aunty Helen?" The woman smiled and her face seemed to glow. Marina glanced down at her one bag surprised. She'd never picked up someone with so little luggage. "Is that all that you have? Do you need me to help you get the rest?" She continued to smile. Marina inwardly groaned. "Please tell me you speak English." Her smile grew wider. She softly swore. Why hadn't her mother told her she didn't speak English? That was rare, but the woman looked past eighty so maybe she hadn't had a chance to learn. Unfortunately, her Yoruba wasn't good. She understood it better than speaking it. In broken Yoruba she attempted to talk to her. "I'm sorry. I'm not good at this. One?" She held up one finger. "Bag?" She pointed to the bag. The woman blinked and continued to smile. Marina glanced in the direction of the baggage area and saw that it was empty. "I'm just going to take that as a yes." She turned back to the woman. Things were starting to become a little eerie. She had the bright, trusting nature of a child. "Do you have anything warm in there?" She pointed to the bag again. The woman blinked, but her smile faltered. Marina pointed outside then hugged herself and shivered. "Cold. You'll be cold. You need something warm." She pointed to the bag again then took the strap. "Can I see?" The woman released her grip confused. Marina kneeled and opened the bag. "Please tell me someone had the sense to pack a sweater for you." But she didn't see anything that would be warm enough. Unfortunately, the airport stores were closed. She took off her coat. She had a knit sweater underneath. "You'll have to wear this," she said wrapping it around the woman. Her bright smile returned and she patted Marina on the cheek. Her hand was remarkably soft and gentle. The kind gesture made Marina feel like crying all over again. At least someone felt that she was doing something right. Even if it was as simple as keeping them warm. "You're welcome," she said in a brusque tone. She stood. "Come on."

10 Holiday Stories

Dara Girard

Chapter 13

Aunty Helen didn't say anything on the drive to Marina's apartment. She stared out at the dark, chilly morning, looking at the bright lights of the highway and the large buildings looming on both sides of the highway. Close to her apartment, Marina stopped at an all-night grocery store and bought another box of tissues and a pair of wool gloves. When she got back into the car, she rubbed her hands together. "Warm enough?" Aunty Helen just blinked. Marina put the gloves in her lap. "You'll need these." She put them on her. "Better?" she said, not expecting a reply and not getting one. Instead Aunty Helen held up her hands, flexed her fingers and smiled. At home, Marina put Aunty Helen's bag in the hall. She wasn't tired and her guest didn't look so either. Marina mimed holding a bowl and spoon and pretended to eat. "Hungry?" she asked. Aunty Helen blinked. She mimed drinking. "Or thirsty?" The woman blinked again. Marina sighed. "I'll just give you something okay? And then you can rest on the couch until my mother picks you up and I don't know why I keep talking to you when you don't know what I'm saying." She put on the kettle for tea then quickly put together a meal of peanut soup she'd recently gotten from her mother. The woman delve into the meal and again patted her on the cheek, but this time Marina didn't feel like crying. She felt glad she'd been able to make the woman happy. She was clearing up her living room couch to give her a place to nap when her phone rang. She checked the number and sighed when she saw her brother, Wale's, number. "What do you want?" "To warn you. Mom's upset. You're in big trouble," he said in Yoruba. "I'm always in trouble," she said in kind. He laughed then said in English. "Your Yoruba still sucks." "Shut up, it's not too late for me to give you a lump of coal," she said then hung up the phone, wondering why her brother felt like teasing her. And what could her mother be upset about now? A moment later, her phone rang again. She was about to say something rude when she recognized the number. "Hi Mom." "Why didn't you pick up Aunty Helen?" she demanded. "What do you mean? I did." She looked at the woman sitting in her kitchen. "She's right here. You could have told me that she didn't speak English." "What are you going on about? She speaks perfect English. She has a degree from Oxford." Marina rolled her eyes, not caring where the woman received her degree, though her mother did. She was about to ask why that mattered when her mother continued. "She just called. Your brother had to go get her." Marina felt her stomach drop. "That doesn't make any sense. I have Aunty Helen right here. She's eating in my kitchen." "Oh my god. What have you done?" Marina's heart started to race and her breathing became shallow. Had she failed again? How could that be? "I did what you told me to. I picked up a woman matching Aunty Helen's vague description. I even asked her her name." Marina paused remembering the incident. She hadn't really asked her name. She'd just said "Aunty Helen?' and the woman smiled and she assumed it was her. "Wait a moment." She ran into the kitchen where the woman was cleaning up her soup with a warm slice of bread. Aunty Helen?" The woman looked up and smiled. "You are Aunty Helen?" Marina repeated to make sure. She continued to smile. Could she have the same name as the other woman? "Mom, she seems fine." "Describe her to me." "She's small and about eighty something. She didn't have the proper clothes for the weather and had only one bag." "Aunty Helen isn't over sixty." "Why didn't you tell me that before? You said she was the grandmother of one of your friends." "Not all of my friends are my age. You know that. You should have been more careful. Why are you getting irritated with me? You're the one who picked up the wrong woman. If she were an old woman I would have said Big Mummy not Aunty. Why don't you pay attention to these things? And you should have known I wouldn't send you to pick up someone who doesn't speak English." Marina rubbed her forehead. Listening to her mother's criticism but only hearing 'you're a failure, you're a failure, you can't do anything right.' "I don't believe this." "Give her the phone." Marina held out the phone to her. "Aunty--uh Big Mummy--my mother wants to talk." The woman nodded and took the phone. She responded with quick fast replies. Her voice was soft and deep, oddly soothing, but Marina couldn't decipher the meaning. The old woman then handed the phone back. "Why didn't you give her the phone?" her mother demanded when Marina returned to the phone. Marina squeezed her eyes shut. "What are you talking about? I just did." "Is she deaf?" "No. She spoke to you. I heard her. She didn't answer much, but she did speak. I didn't understand her though. It didn't sound like Yoruba. She spoke, but I didn't understand her." Her mother paused. "You see her? Is she still there?" "Yes. Where else would she be?" "Oh no," her mother said in a frightened tone. "I've heard of this but..." "What?" "My dear are you sure you're feeling okay? Have you been eating and sleeping properly?" "Yes, I'm not crazy." "Lack of sleep can cause hallucinations." "I'm not hallucinating." "Or it could be something worse." "Like what?" "You picked up a or bloody hell what's the English name for it? I'm not sure they have one exactly. Oh yes...witch." Don't be daft, she wanted to say, but bit her lip. Her parents believed in both traditional and native religions. "She's not a--I just made a mistake." "Maybe you should just go back to sleep. If she's still there then get rid of her as fast as you can. Take her to the police and be careful."

10 Holiday Stories

Dara Girard

Chapter 14

Marina took her new arrival to the police station. "I could really use your help," she said to the clerk at the front desk, a woman with finely shaped brows and fading lipstick. "I have an older woman here who's lost. She doesn't seem to speak English and I don't know where to put her." "Okay. Where is she?" Marina turned and nodded at the woman, whose feet barely reached the ground. "She's sitting right there." The clerk looked in the direction Marina gestured to and frowned. "Where?" "Right there," she pointed, not understanding the other woman's confusion since there was no one else there. "The woman right there." "What woman?" the clerk said suddenly cautious, licking the rest of her faded lipstick from her mouth. Marina turned and saw the older woman flash a strange smile. "You don't see her?" "Do you need somewhere to stay?" "No, I'm fine." "Have you been drinking?" "No." "Taking anything?" "I'm perfectly lucid." At least I think so. Her mother's suggestion was playing with her thoughts. It couldn't be. How could she have picked up a witch? They didn't exist. Not like this. They weren't invisible. Then why couldn't anyone else see or hear her? She turned to the woman. "Why are you doing this to me? At least say something." Her smile remained. "What have I done wrong to deserve this?" The clerk cleared her throat. "Why don't you just take a seat? I'll get someone to help you." Marina spun around and glared at her. "I'm not crazy." "Of course you're not," the clerk said in an indulgent tone. Marina was about to take umbrage with her tone when a man came from around the corner. He looked as if he'd had a worse night than she'd had. He hadn't shaved in a while and his tie had the crooked look of a man who just didn't care. If Marina had been in the mood she would have noticed that he was good looking, in a rugged way, but she just didn't care. She wanted to get rid of the old woman and go back to sleep. Or wake up from this nightmare, whichever was faster. "Idris what's the name of the local shelter?" the clerk asked. "It's going to be pretty full," he said. "What's that other lady here for?" The clerk stared at him stunned. Marina jumped with joy, wanting to grab his sleeve but refraining. She wasn't imagining things. "You see her too?" He sent her an odd look. "Of course I see her. She's sitting right there. How could I miss her?" The clerk shook her head. "Idris you've had a long night." "I know." "There's no one there." "Maybe you need a rest. It's two to one." "There's one way to decide this." The clerk took out her phone and took a picture. Then she grinned with triumph. "I'm right." She turned the image to them. They saw the wall and an empty chair. Marina turned to the woman then the image on the tiny screen. "I don't believe this." "There's something wrong with your camera," Idris said. The clerk took the phone and tucked it away. "It's Christmas Eve and it's a crazy night, weird things happen. I think you two should just go home." The older woman leaped to her feet. "Yes, it's time," she said in perfect English. Then she grabbed Marina's hand and Idris's. "What are you doing?" Idris said. "You speak English?" Marina said at the same time. They both looked at the woman then each other with a mixture of fear and awe then their world went black.

10 Holiday Stories

Dara Girard

Chapter 15

When Idris Helmond came to, he didn't know how to feel. One moment he was thinking about closing a case on the brutal beating of a gas station attendant and finding the right gift to make his girlfriend, Deena, happy. She was pissed about something, but that wasn't new. She was always pissed about something and she wouldn't tell him why, she'd only let him know he was the cause. Then he'd seen the pretty young woman trying to find shelter for an older woman who looked strangely cunning. He didn't know where he was or what to think. He looked around him and saw the neat road and manicured lawns of a neighborhood. The place felt familiar. He looked around and spotted a house--It was his sister's house. Beautifully decorated for the holidays. But he knew it wasn't like that now. That house was no longer hers. The scene was from three years ago. He shook his head in rising dread and took a hasty step back. "No, no. What are we doing here?" "You have to be here," the older woman said. "No, I don't. I know what happens. I don't need to be here. Let's go." "Idris." He threw up his hand, his voice in a near panic. "I said I don't want to be here." "What is this place?" Marina asked. "It doesn't matter, let's go." But the woman wouldn't release her hold and she had the strength to keep him there. "Get us out of here whoever--or whatever you are," he said in his best 'or you'll regret this' tone. But the older woman didn't release him. He turned and saw a woman march up to the front door as if on a mission. She flipped through the many keys on her keychain before she got the right one. She placed the key in the lock then turned the handle with an angry twist. "No. Don't go in there. Please." He turned to the older woman, feeling as if he could no longer breathe. "Make her stop." "I can't." "Then why did you bring me here?" "Haven't you been playing this scene over in your mind for three years? Haven't you already remembered and replayed every detail? Isn't this the reason you won't see your nephews? Why you make excuses not to visit your parents every holiday season? You're here because this is where you're stuck. This is where you stopped your life too. Your sister got twenty-five to life, but you're living a life sentence by staying in a job you hate because it makes your parents proud. Staying in a relationship that is soulless. You chose this. When are you going to get past this moment? A moment that will never change?" "She shouldn't have had keys to his place. Why did it have to happen? She was my baby sister and I couldn't stop her." "No. She was a woman who'd made a choice." "I gave her the gun to protect herself." "She used it for something else. Your sister couldn't except that her ex had remarried, that he'd created a new life for himself. Just like you, she couldn't move on. She was convicted because she hadn't snapped. She decided to pick up the kids early. She decided to catch her ex with his new love and she decided to shoot them both dead." They heard a scream and then three pops. "You couldn't have stopped it," the older woman said. Idris fell to his knees, losing all strength, as if he'd been shot too. The awful part was the guilt. Her husband had been his best friend. He'd felt the loss from the divorce too. His sister had been married to Nathanial for ten years and he'd been a good father to their two sons. He'd been someone Idris had admired. He'd expected Nathanial to be his best man one day. He'd seen them as the perfect couple until the cracks began to show. He remembered his brother-in-law complaining about his sister's drinking and shopping sprees. He remembered Nathanial getting full custody of the children. Idris understood the judge's ruling, his sister had become unstable, but he still had divided loyalties, even though it was best for the boys. His parents had remained blind wanting to see their precious little girl as the victim and Nathanial as the villain. But he knew it wasn't as black and white as that. Just like his nephews, his world had been shattered that day. He'd buried someone who'd been like a brother and lost his sister too. She was still bitter, even in prison. She still blamed the system for not understanding her rage. His parents blamed him for not seeing the signs sooner. For somehow not stopping it. "The season had nothing to do with her choice," the older woman said. "Really?" he said with a sneer. "You know the rates of murders go up around the holidays?" "Was it the holidays that put the liquor down her throat or the gun in her hand?" "She snapped because she felt so alone," Idris said trying to rationalize something he knew he couldn't. "She felt disconnected. It's a season that feeds discontentment. Domestic violence cases practically sky rocket. A time of good cheer my ass. People find even more reasons to hate each other." "Remember when you and Nathanial took your nephews sledding? Remember the time when you both laughed at the instructions for putting together a racecar track? You had joy. That joy was real. It's okay to love your sister and hate what she did. Your friend wouldn't want you to throw away all the good times just for this moment. You have to get past this." "I don't know how," he said his voice raw. He glanced at the younger woman, who stood motionless beside the other woman, wondering why he'd chosen to share this nightmare with her. "You can do it by looking at this place one last time. And saying goodbye." "My parents blame me and his parents won't talk to me." "You shut Nathanial's parents out of your life as much as you have your nephews. And they miss you. Don't let the memory of their father die. You don't have to replace him. But make his life mean more than his death. Don't let your sister's bitterness rob you too." A purple fog quickly swept over the scene and soon they stood in front of Nathanial's grave. A light dusting of snow fell from the blanket of white clouds, but Idris didn't feel cold. He didn't feel anything. He brushed the snow from the headstone then gathered some and let it melt between his fingers. He remembered introducing Nathanial to his sister and the instant attraction between them. He remembered his sister telling him about their first date. He remembered their wedding day and visiting the hospital when Nathanial held their first son and the pride and joy on his face. Tears filled and stung his eyes as he recalled the fights, the tense phone calls, the divorce proceeding and then his sister's conviction. Both he and Nathanial had been detectives, determined to help and serve others, but hadn't been able to fix their own lives. Idris tasted the tears though he didn't feel them streaming down his face. "I'm so sorry," he said, then he felt the cold against his skin, the wetness on his cheeks. He felt his loss, his rage and his despair. "He's forgiven you," the old woman said. "He wants you to know that. Now you have to forgive yourself." Idris wiped his tears then fell to his knees feeling like a broken man. "I can't." "Because you're afraid. You're afraid that if it couldn't go right for him, it won't for you. So you won't even try. But you're wrong. You can have the life you want. You know Nathanial knew there were signs early on that the relationship wouldn't work. He told you some of them but he chose to ignore them. I'm not saying he's responsible, but there are gray areas that none of you could see. Some you didn't want to see." Idris nodded. "I know." "Now say the name of his favorite holiday song." "No." "Say it, then say goodbye." He shook his head. "It's stupid." "Say it anyway." He sighed. "I Want a Hippopotamus for Christmas." Marina giggled then covered her mouth embarrassed, but Idris heard it anyway and couldn't help a smile. He'd forgotten she was there and he felt awkward that she'd seen him at such a fragile time. He was used to keeping his emotions bottled up, but when he looked at her, he didn't feel that she was judging him and that made his awkwardness disappear. Made him glad he wasn't alone. "The idiot," he said with fondness. "He loved that song and knew all the words. He'd hum it just to annoy me." "Sounds like a fun guy." "He was. He loved the holidays. Everything about it." Marina kneeled beside him and tentatively took his hand, half expecting him to pull away. "I'm sorry." He squeezed her hand and released a deep shuddering breathe, as if he'd been holding it a long time. "Thanks." "Do you really hate your job?" she asked. "Yes, every single day I feel like I'm dying." "Then why don't you change it?" He sent her a look of surprise. "You think it's that easy?" "No, but it's better than feeling like this." "Tell her what you want," the old woman said. He stood and dusted snow from his trousers although he didn't need to. Although the ground was powered with snow, his trousers remained dry. "No." "Are you afraid to?" "Yes." "Tell her later then." The old woman turned to Marina. "Now it's your turn." "I guess I don't have a choice," she said with a grimace before their world went black.

10 Holiday Stories

Dara Girard

Chapter 16

After seeing Idris's past, Marina prepared herself for a painful holiday memory. So when she saw the sight of her old bakery kitchen she couldn't help her surprise. She stared at the sight of the woman she'd been four years ago. The kitchen was small, all her new equipment that Eli would encourage her to purchase hadn't filled the room yet. She saw herself stirring something in a bowl and humming. She then scooped the contents into a tube and decorated cookies with a flair of fun. Her efforts weren't perfect, but she didn't seem to mind. Marina gaped at her younger self with wonder. She didn't remember even being that happy. "What are we doing here?" Marina asked. "I already know I'm going to fail. I already know this isn't what I'm meant to do." The old woman held up one finger. "Just wait." Marina folded her arms, feeling impatient. She didn't want to wait. She wanted to leave. She wanted to go back to sleep and forget this day ever happened. She was about to comment to the fact when Eli walked into the room. Eli the man she'd thought she'd loved and who she'd thought loved her and her dreams. The man who'd told her he'd support her through thick and thin. The one who'd later embezzle her funds and leave her heart broken. "What are you doing?" "Working on a new icing." He frowned "You're still trying that?" "I want to make it work." "You're wasting your time. Why don't you just focus on what will make money?" For the first time Marina noticed how he hadn't greeted her and how much he didn't look pleased. Why hadn't she seen that before? He was only about making money. He didn't care what she did. He didn't care about her passion. She loved baking, she'd forgotten about that. She'd let him douse her hopes and leave an empty shell. But the younger version of herself didn't know this. She gave him a taste of the icing. He made a face and shook his head. "It's still not up to standard. You know you're no good at this. I told you to stick with simple things. Why won't you listen?" "I wanted to give customers a new experience." "This isn't a culinary institute. You're not making art. Just bake cookies and cakes and you'll be in the black instead of the red. Now let's go." Marina saw the light in her eyes dim. "Who is this jerk?" Idris said. "The man I thought I'd marry," Marina said. "Oh, sorry." "Me too." She saw her younger self watch Eli leave the kitchen and then she took all her experiments and dumped them into the trash. "That was the moment you let him steal your dream," the old woman said. Marina let her hands fall to her sides. "My dream failed. I failed. The business flopped. Even if he hadn't taken the money he was right, I was no good." "But you were getting better. You stopped trying. You listened to him when you should have ignored him. He didn't support you. He lied to you and you believed his lies. What if you'd kept experimenting and one of them worked? You started to make your business just about money and not about joy. That was when you gave up on your dream. Your dream never gave up on you." The old woman pointed to the trash bin. "This is the moment you failed." Marina twisted her lips and shrugged. "It's too late now." The old woman took Marina's hand and patted it. "You're too young to start speaking like an old woman. Even if you were my age it wouldn't be too late to live with joy. To try. To dream." The old woman looked at Idris. "Are you ready to tell her what you've always wanted to do?" "No." She sighed. "Why won't you tell me?" Marina asked. "We'll never see each other again. Are you afraid because you'll fail like I did?" He shoved his hands in his pockets and looked away. Marina looked at the old woman. "I don't understand any of this." She glanced around the kitchen that was no longer hers. A past that still caused her pain. "Why are you showing us things we can't change?" "Because that's the point. You can't change the past, but the future is yours. You don't have to be stuck here. The holidays are full of presents. Not just the gifts given to each other, but the moments you inhabit every day. They matter. The choices you make matter. Make your presents matter, then the future will belong to you. You just have to believe it." Marina bit her lip then squinted at her. "What are you?" "Does it matter?" "Why couldn't I understand you before?" "Because you weren't ready to." "Why us?" The old woman kissed her teeth with annoyance. "You ask such silly questions. Why not you? If I am a spirit or a ghost or your imagination does it matter? Those questions aren't important. The important question is: What will you do next?" "Will we remember any of this?" She just smiled. Idris rested his hands on his hips. "What should we do next?" Her smile just widened. "I think that's all she'll tell us," Marina said. "This is what she did to me when we first met." "I guess it's a sign that our journey is coming to an end." "Yes." Marina glanced at his tie and had a strange urge to straighten it, but resisted. She lifted her gaze to his face. He had a nice face and she wished she could know him better. After Eli's betrayal, she hadn't wanted to know another man. "Whatever happens, good luck to you. I hope that you'll see your nephews this year." "And you should keep baking, if it makes you happy." "It does." She tilted her head to the side. "And what did you always want to do?" This time he only smiled but for the first time she saw a twinkle in his eye. "Fine, don't tell me. Good luck with that too." "Thanks." The old woman took both their hands and they shared a look--this time with hope and anticipation--then the world went black.

10 Holiday Stories

Dara Girard

Chapter 17

The phone call shattered a beautiful dream at 3a.m. on Christmas Eve. Marina groggily reached for the phone hoping that it would stop ringing by the time she picked up. It didn't. "Hello?" "I'm sorry to wake you," her mother said. "But I need you to pick up Uncle Sola." "Who?" "Uncle Sola. He'll be arriving at BWI and--" "Mom I can't keep doing this." "I know and I feel bad but I know you're off all week." "Off?" Was she trying to be funny? She wasn't off. She didn't have a job. "Yes, you and the boys are going to Delaware. Just this quick favor and I won't do it again." She gave the flight number and description then hung up. Delaware? Boys? Her words vaguely made sense but then they didn't make sense at all. Her mind felt as though it was between a dream and a wake state. "What was that about?" a deep voice said beside her. Marina froze. She knew that voice, but yet she didn't know it. And what was he doing in her bed? She slowly turned to him. Idris. Not the sad, tired Idris from the police station. He looked sleepy, but happy. She pushed her sheets away. "I have to go pick someone up from the airport." He frowned and put the sheets back. "No, you're not." "My mother." "Give me the phone." "But--" He reached across her, grabbed the phone and dialed. "Hi Mom. Sorry she can't make it. Tell him to take a taxi and I'll pay for the tab. Yes, I know. I don't care. Then get Wale to do it. Yes. Okay, bye." He disconnected and handed her the phone. Marina gripped the phone in two hands. "What did she say?" "Relax. You don't have to go." He'd called her mother 'Mom'. Yes, because he was her husband. That felt right. Yes, they were married. Why had she ever imagined him sad? And she'd never been in a police station. Where had that thought come from? The dream state faded and everything became clear. They'd been married a year. He used to be a detective and now he was a real estate developer, raising his two nephews. She did catering: Sweet desserts. She wasn't making lots of money but she was happy and he always let her practice her experiments on him and the boys loved to be in the kitchen with her. She suddenly remembered snow ball fights and searching for a tree. But most of all she remembered meeting him one Christmas day. He'd taken his nephews to a birthday party a friend had invited her to cater and their eyes met over a row of cupcakes and for her it felt like she'd known him from somewhere. Like they'd known each other forever. She still felt that way. Marina settled back under the warm sheets. There was a question that niggled her mind. She didn't know why, but for some reason she wanted to know the answer. She had to. "What have you always wanted to do?" Idris was slow to answer and at first she thought he may have fallen back asleep. He hadn't. He felt as if someone had asked him that question before and he'd had a hard time answering. But now he wanted to. He looked around the cozy bedroom knowing his nephews were safe and asleep in their beds, the presents were under the tree ready to be opened. He could already taste the maple syrup covered waffles Marina would make for breakfast. He looked at his wife, his friend, unsure he could put into words all they'd asked for. He'd wanted to follow his heart and take care of his nephews, build a business that would support his family and find a woman he wasn't afraid to love. One he could trust. A woman who'd love him just as he was. Idris drew her close, amazed that he'd gotten all that he'd ever dreamed. "This," he said then tenderly placed his lips against hers. And the next morning on top of the Christmas tree, Marina saw an angel that wasn't the same one she'd put there several weeks ago. It didn't have wings, instead it wore a brightly colored headwrap, matching dress and a big smile. ⁂ [ The Gift Box ] "So what do you think?" Tamara Cole stared at the box and didn't exactly know what to think of the present her husband, Ross, had given her. She'd torn through the brightly colored green and gold wrapping paper that Christmas Eve and lifted the lid, giddy with expectation. The size of the box had been too large to be jewelry, certainly too small to be a TV, but still large enough to get her imagination spinning. Even before she'd lifted the box, she'd come up with a series of guesses. The soccer ball sized square box could have been the stack of new plush towels she'd wanted, a silk robe and pajama set she'd been eyeing, perhaps something for the baby they planned to welcome in four months. Maybe it was a set of lavender bath lotions, she really wanted to pamper herself with during the times when she felt a little dumpy. Although she was excited about becoming a mother, she was also a little nervous too. There was so much she didn't know. This Christmas would be their last as a couple and Ross had helped her make it special. They'd gotten a tall, fresh evergreen tree, which stood boldly near the window. A lovely sight every time they arrived home. She'd bought extra garlands for the hallway, a wreath so large it covered half of the front door and a welcome mat showing a picture of a holly bush that lit up when people stepped on it. She looked forward to the Christmas dinner tomorrow evening, when her parents, and her sister and her family, would arrive, but this Christmas Eve belonged to them. They sat together on the carpet in front of the tree, in the hushed silence of the evening, the ticking clock the only other sound in the room. It was supposed to be a night she'd remember forever, a gift that would bring tears of joy to her face. Instead...instead…he'd given her this? Tamara stared inside the box speechless. "Honey, what do you think?" he asked again. Honey? He dared to call her that? "I don't know what to think," she said, stumbling over the words, not sure if she should laugh or cry. Anger mingled with annoyance and disbelief. "I know," he said with a proud grin. "Isn't it amazing? I didn't think I'd get one. You can image how hard it was, but I was determined." Tamara set the box on the ground, stunned her husband could mock her with such a goofy expression on his handsome brown face. Why was he smiling? "I don't think it's funny." His smile wavered. "It wasn't meant to be funny." "Then what's an empty box supposed to be?" His smile disappeared. "Empty?" She nodded. "Yes, empty." "How could it be empty?" He reached for the box and looked inside then stared at her, his brown eyes stunned. "It's right there. Don't you see it?" Tamara looked inside again. Was he playing some sort of cruel joke? She didn't see anything. Just the white interior of a square cube. "No." He frowned. "Maybe we should get your eyes checked." "Maybe we should get your head checked," she shot back. She lifted the box. "This is completely empty," she said and began to turn it upside down to prove her point. He reached out and stopped her. "Don't do that!" He took the box from her and gently set it down beside him. "You'll damage it. You have to be very careful. It wasn't easy to get you know." She surged to her feet. "I'm not playing this silly game anymore." He stared up at her. "It's not a game." She pointed at the box. "There's nothing in there." She took a deep breath then rested her hands on her hips. "Ross, don't do this. You know how important this evening is to me. She smoothed down her blue and silver blouse, which she'd worn especially for the evening, and rested her hands at her sides. She would be calm. "Now where's my real present?" Ross looked at her for a long moment, resting his arm on his extended leg. "This gift is what I got you." He gestured to the box. "It's all that I got you. I thought you'd…" He furrowed his brows. "You really don't see it?" She didn't understand why he wouldn't back down, but she didn't care. "No, and when my family doesn't see it too, you'd better make sure my real present is spectacular." As she set the table for dinner the following evening, a part of Tamara regretted making the suggestion. She didn't want to expose her husband's silly prank to her family. She'd hoped that after she'd challenged him, he would have said, "No, there's no need to do that," and then give her her real gift. But instead, he'd nodded grimly and said, "Fine," before clearing the wrapping paper away. Ross showed everyone the box after dessert. Tamara had been left to watch a holiday cartoon with her niece and nephew, aged three and five, when Ross had taken her parents, sister Carrie and her husband into another room and showed them the gift. He'd told her that the gift wasn't appropriate for children their age. She heard their collective gasp from the other room. Her mother then spoke in a tone filled with awe, although Tamara couldn't make out the words, her father's low grumble sounded equally amazed. When they all returned to the family room, Ross sent her a look saying, "See? I told you," before her mother told her how lucky she was. Tamara couldn't believe it. They'd all seen it? How could that be? Why was she the only one who couldn't see it? Were they all just pretending? These questions swirled in her mind as she cleared up the kitchen. Then her sister Carrie came in and offered to help. Her older sister Carrie had done everything right. Carrie, with her six figure salary, vacation house, master's degree and svelte physique—smooth mocha skin and dark twists which fell to her shoulders. Carrie, with her two great kids and husband. Carrie, who succeeded even when she wasn't trying. Tamara watched her sister enter her tiny kitchen wearing jeans and a satin red top, looking like a woman who hired someone else to handle her stress. Even with two kids and a high powered job she looked calm and confident. Tamara both admired and envied her. As much as she tried to follow the same path as her sister, she always fell short. She'd married later than her sister—early thirties instead of late twenties. She'd started a family later than planned—three years instead of two, she hadn't graduated from university with honors. She hadn't graduated at all, dropping out in her third year. She worked as a bookkeeper for her husband's furniture restoration business. Not a glamorous role nor as lucrative as being the vice president of a bank. She didn't have a housekeeper to keep her place spotless, her dinner parties weren't talked about months later and now…now her sister (and her parents) saw a gift Ross had given her, a gift that she still couldn't see. And when she glanced down at the red blouse she'd chosen for the evening—why did it have to be red?—she felt as round and ridiculous as a Christmas ornament. "What was the first thing you did when you saw it?" Carrie asked Tamara as she helped her load dishes stained yellow and red from curried chicken and jollof rice into the dishwasher. Tamara scratched the back of her ear. "I was so…happy I just hugged him." Carrie looked at her for a long moment then rested her hip against the counter and folded her arms. "You don't see it, do you?" Tamara's chest tightened. She felt caught, exposed. Her throat tightened. She struggled to swallow. She couldn't let her sister know the truth. Anybody else, her parents, her friends, people in other countries, but not her. "Yes, I do." Carrie sent her a look that made it clear she knew Tamara was lying, but she shrugged her shoulder before continuing loading the dishes. "I wish my husband got me a gift like that. What do you plan to do?" "I don't know." She hesitated. "What would you do?" A self-satisfied smile touched Carrie's lips. "Doesn't matter, it's not my gift." Tamara rubbed her hands knowing that look, that smile, her innocent question had exposed the truth, but she didn't care. She'd had to take a risk. She truly wanted to know what was in the box and what her sister would do with it. But her sister wouldn't help her. She'd keep the knowledge a secret. Her sister, who always knew everything. Tamara made a face at her sister when Carrie looked down to turn on the dishwasher. Did she have to sound so smug? Couldn't she give her a hint? The dishwasher hummed to life. "But there is one thing you should do," Carrie said, looking at her. "What?" Tamara asked, hoping her expression did not betray her. Her gaze turned serious, her words heartfelt. "Cherish him. A man like Ross doesn't come along every day." Did the gift have something to do with Ross? Was that what she was missing? Tamara sat up in bed, drumming her fingers on her rounded belly, ruminating over her sister's words instead of looking at the wood crafter's magazine on her lap. She stole a glance at Ross while he sat beside her with his eyes closed while he listened to an audiobook. She didn't know how he could do that. She'd tried it once and had fallen asleep, but it was his favorite nightly ritual. She studied his profile and sighed. Why had her sister mentioned her husband instead of the gift? Were they one in the same? She clasped her hands together as a thought came to her. She tapped him on the shoulder. He took off his headset and looked at her questioning. "Okay, I get it now," she said. "It's symbolic. It's a box of your love or your affection. It's something that's there but I haven't been paying attention to because I've been preparing for the baby so I haven't seen it, right? Is that what you're telling me?" He set his headset aside and sighed. "It's not invisible, honey. It's not something I made up. It's real and tangible." Her buoyant mood faded, she'd hoped she'd solved the mystery. Instead she'd failed. She stared down at an ad in the magazine for wood polish, hating the look of disappointment in his gaze. She hated disappointing him. She didn't even know what she'd done wrong. Why couldn't she see his gift? "Maybe you can't see it because of the baby," he said. "Maybe that's interfering with it." He patted her hand. "Don't worry about it and go to sleep." He put his headset back on. She didn't want to admit defeat. She didn't want to admit that the problem wasn't his gift, but her. It made her question too much. Was this why her life hadn't followed the timeline she'd planned? Was this why they were still living in a little green apple colored colonial instead of the grand Georgian she'd thought she'd be living in by now? Would she be a good mother? Did he think she was a good wife. A good worker? Did he know how hard she tried to make it all work? Tangible. He'd said it was real and tangible. She'd never tried to touch it before. Tamara left the bedroom and returned to the gift box she'd left under the tree. The box felt so light, how could anything possibly be inside it? She lifted the lid, reached her hand inside and felt nothing. Then something, soft like a feather or the wings of a butterfly, brushed against her fingers. Or was that just a breeze? She tried again and felt it again. She yanked her hand out. There was something inside, but why couldn't she see it? What was it? She pretended to sleep that night, but cried instead. She cried quietly so that Ross wouldn't notice. She let the tears fall and bit her lip hard so she wouldn't make a sound. It was supposed to be a happy day—a happy season—but her heart felt shattered. "I didn't mean to make you cry," Ross said the next morning at breakfast as he set a plate of seasoned eggs, spinach and baked plantain in front of her. "I don't know what you mean," Tamara said, lifting her fork. "Don't lie to me." She set her fork down ashamed. She'd tried to hide her red puffy eyes with makeup. Clearly her attempt at camouflage had failed. "One lie is enough," he said before she could apologize. She blinked shocked. "What lie? When?" "When you told me you believed in them." Tamara felt her blood grow cold as she met his steady, penetrating gaze. Suddenly she knew what she should have seen: A sula. A fairy that only appears to believers. They never show themselves to those who pretend. They reveal a person's true heart. And she'd been exposed as a fraud. She'd heard the stories about them as a child, learned that their presence had first been noticed centuries ago in a village located off the tip of West Africa. No one was quite sure which country—it shifted depending on the storyteller. Most Westerners disregarded them because they were quiet, shy and didn't travel in groups as other known fairies tended to. She opened her mouth desperately wanting to say, "I saw it a little bit," but closed her mouth knowing that would be a lie. And she didn't want to lie to him again. A shot of anger coursed through her. How could this be happening? Why had he tested her? Why had he used such a big box for something so small? How could she have guessed? But just as quickly her anger disappeared, the fact that she couldn't see it wasn't his fault. He'd tried to surprise her. Just as he had when he'd proposed to her on her birthday, presenting her with a big box with a tiny engagement ring inside, tied to a red rose. Her sister was right—it was an amazing gift. Sulas only appeared around the holidays to special people. But it hadn't revealed itself to her. What did this mean? How would Ross look at her now? Would he trust her again? She hadn't exactly lied when he'd first asked her whether she believed in them. She was so in love, everything seemed rosy and possible then. She'd loved him and didn't think that it mattered. But would he trust her again after this? "I used to believe once," she said, desperate to fill the silence. "When I was a child then...I let it go." His gaze fell to his plate but not fast enough to hide the glimmer of sadness hidden there. "They only stay three days and then disappear. I had hoped you'd get a wish, but I guess..." "I will. I'll get a wish. Please give me a chance." He reached over and patted her hand in the same reassuring way he had last night, but instead of feeling comfort, it stung. "Never mind. I'll get you something else tomorrow." She didn't want another gift. She wanted this one. This mattered more than anything he could buy at a store. Later that day, Tamara knelt in front of the box. "Please show yourself to me, I do believe. I have to believe." After a moment she added, "If not for me then for Ross. He means so much to me and it would make him so happy." But no matter how much she begged nothing appeared. She felt a light touch on her shoulder. "Darling, come to bed, you've been here nearly all day." She hadn't noticed. It didn't matter. Nothing else mattered. "I'll be there in a minute." "Tamara." "If Carrie can see it, I must see it too." "This is not a competition." Yes it is, she wanted to say, but he wouldn't understand. She couldn't have her sister achieve something else she couldn't. She had to prove that she was a good wife; didn't he know how much his disappointment hurt her? She shrugged his hand away. "Please, just leave me alone." I have to do this! She only had one day left. She felt a feather-light kiss on her forehead then heard his footsteps fade away upstairs. She wanted to believe again. She wanted to feel the magic again and trust in it. She closed her eyes and willed her heart to see what was there, but when she opened her eyes the box was still empty. She clasped her hands together in a plea and squeezed her eyes shut as night swallowed up day until only the glow of the tree dotted the room with tiny lights. "I need just one look. One glance. I wish I could see you if only for a moment." She heard nothing move, she felt nothing happen. She opened her eyes, her heart sinking at the sight of the still empty box. "I'm not in there anymore you know," a tiny voice said. Tamara glanced up and saw a tiny brown fairy sitting crossed-legged on a branch, her wings a shimmering green gold, her skin the color of chestnut, her dark hair coiled into an elaborate braid. Tamara stared wide-eyed, her heart racing. "You're real." "Of course I'm real." "And beautiful." "Naturally, and I don't have much time either." "Yes, I know. I get to make my wish," Tamara said with eagerness. What should she wish for first? Something for her baby or for humankind or…? The sula swung her foot. "You already made your wish." Tamara frowned. "No, I didn't." "You wished with all your heart that you would be able to see me." She opened her arms wide. "And now you can." "But—" She wagged her finger, a little gold bracelet swaying on her arm. "Those are the rules. I made your wish come true." She folded her arms and shrugged her tiny shoulders. "It's not my fault you wasted your wish on something so simple." Tamara waited for a feeling of anger to hit her—yes she'd wasted time, so much time—but instead she didn't feel anything, but relief. The sula was right, it was her fault that she'd lost the ability to see what was there. It was her fault she'd stopped believing. But that evening, she'd been given new eyes. Eyes to see all the gifts that surrounded her in brilliant glory: Her husband. The new life that would soon join them. Her family. Instead of a house that was too small, she saw a beautiful home--with its dark shutters and snow dusted driveway--that was just right for them. Soon her gaze sharpened to extend beyond her and she now saw that'd she'd been running a race of her own making, that life wasn't a competition; that being amazed by her sister's accomplishments didn't make hers—a thriving business and growing customer base—any less wonderful. And beyond herself and her town she heard it speak—Peace. Peace in its silence—free from the sound of bomb blasts, gun shots, screams, cries, roaring tanks, police and ambulance sirens—filled her being. Peace amid life's horrors restored her. Her eyes filled with tears of joy mingled with shame. She'd been blind to so many things. She'd been blind to true happiness. "Thank you. Thank you for everything." The sula smiled then stood and bowed before disappearing. Lights suddenly flooded the room. Tamara looked around as if waking from a dream. "Are you talking to yourself again?" Ross asked behind her. She jumped to her feet and hugged him. "I saw her! I saw her and she's wonderful." He held her close. "Really?" "She had a tiny little voice, gold bracelets on both wrists, white slippered shoes and soft fairy wings." Ross didn't reply, but she felt the tension in him—between them—relax. "I'm glad you saw her." She drew back and looked at him. "Now I see so many things." She cupped his face. "I see how lucky I am to have you. To have this," she said motioning to the room and everything that it meant. "And so much more. Your gift is something I will never forget." And four months later when her baby girl was born, Tamara saw a special sparkle in her daughter's brown gaze and knew she'd never be blind to life's magic again.

(13th Paladin 1) Ahren

Torsten Weitze

764 years earlier

The figures slowly peeled away from the soaring column of smoke, which was becoming denser. They were different shapes and races but they all exhibited the same facial expressions which fluctuated between exhaustion, satisfaction and confusion. They clambered up the last few paces of the newly formed crater and turned around. They looked up for a while in silence at the pall of smoke, a good thousand paces in diameter, which rose smooth and dense, like a black wall in front of them. It hid the being within from the eyes of creation. One of the figures asked in a tired voice, without looking away, 'will it suffice?' 'It must suffice', another answered. 'We cannot do more, so long as one of us is missing'. There was a short pause before the voice continued, 'if everything goes according to plan, it will only be for a short time'. One by one, the bedraggled forms turned away, leaving the pillar of smoke in their wake. It pointed towards the heavens like a warning black finger, defying the wind and the time.

(13th Paladin 1) Ahren

Torsten Weitze

Chapter 2

It was the sudden croaking of an ogre frog that woke Ahren up from his slumber. Startled, he looked down at the creature, a good forearm in length, which had woken him so rudely. With a frown and a wave of his hand he shooed the troublemaker away, and with an almighty leap the frog found the safety of the river some distance from the drowsy youngster. 'Stupid frog', Ahren muttered to himself, as he reached for his fishing rod. It was only now he noticed the waning intensity of colour in his surroundings, which could only have been caused by the encroaching dusk. 'The three be with me!' blurted the youngster, now fully awake, as he suddenly realised he'd slept the afternoon away. A closer look at the rod revealed that a fine big creature must have taken the bait because the line had been snapped. With a sigh he imagined the splendid specimen and wondered how he had slept through the tugging of the fishing line. A look around him answered his question. Here, in the bend of the river, he was protected from the wind, far away from all the other villagers and their activities. The river was four paces in width and the willows, hanging low over it, afforded shade from the sun without covering him to the point that it would be cool. The sluggish stream lapped gently around stones that stuck out of the water and lulled anyone who was a good listener to sleep. The soft, grassy bank had done the rest, and so the idyllic surroundings had carried him away to the land of nod. Ahren stood up slowly. But now he was in for a rude awakening. As he stood there and looked around, he noticed that his bait box with its rare and coveted Godsday flies was lying knocked over, on the ground. These flies were used to catch the equally coveted and delicious blueshoal fish, which always fetched a handsome price at the market. Master Cossith always took one off him whenever Ahren managed to catch some and paid him with a large chunk of the delicious cheese he made so well. Ahren bent down to look for the flies and was startled to see tooth and claw marks on the wooden box. Martens had feasted on his bait! Unfortunately, these pests had just as much a weakness for the Godsday flies as the blueshoal fish. They were called Godsday flies because they only hatched on the Day of the Gods and died the same night. But if you caught them on the day and locked them away so they couldn't see moonlight, then they would survive until the next Godsday. Unless of course, they served as bait for blueshoal fish. Ahren realised with exasperation that his full supply of flies was gone, which would have provided him with another three days' fishing. Snorting with anger he flung the useless box into the river and put his rod on his shoulder. As he reached for his bucket with the day's catch, a despondency, such as he hadn't felt in a long time, came over him. His catch had been stolen too! He thought of what his father would say once he arrived home with no fish and no flies, not to mention a snapped fishing line, and felt a lump in his stomach. His backside was already sore at the mere thought of it. With slumped shoulders he made his way homewards, a journey that suddenly felt terribly long. He beat his way through thick bush and came out onto a small path which led from his home village of Deepstone and ran through the Eastern Forest. This was a small, dense forest which snaked alongside the river like a green ribbon. While it took hardly any effort to reach the west side of the wood from the river bank in less than an hour, it took two or three days march to get through it by sticking to the river – that's what Falk, the Forest Guardian, said anyway. A feeling of imminent disaster, caused by his father's scorn, hung over him, and it seemed to the thirteen-year old that the wood was stretching itself out. An hour became a small eternity as he walked between the trees towards the sound hiding that was waiting for him. The sun set slowly in high summer and accompanied him on his return journey. It still wasn't dark when he stepped out from the trees and paused on the edge of the village. Deepstone clung to the edge of the forest and mirrored the Eastern Forest in its form. It was more than ten times longer than it was wide. Each house was no more than a bowshot from the wood, for it hadn't taken long for the inhabitants to realise that the trees offered protection from the cold wind that swept over the hills of Eastland. A few had tried to build their wooden houses further away – with little success. In the best-case scenario this meant that twice the amount of wood was needed for heating in winter, and in the worst case, a family member would succumb to the Blue Death. Old Vera, the village Healer, said the winter wind would then no longer want to leave the afflicted person's lungs. And indeed, the howling of the winter wind could be heard again with every wheezing breath that passed between the blue lips of the victim. Ahren's mother had died in this way, shortly after his birth. Too weak, her body could offer no resistance to nor defy the Blue Death. Not one of the Wailing Houses, as they were called by the other inhabitants, was in use for more than one winter. Each and every family abandoned the house the following spring and build a new one in the shelter of the wood instead. And so, the little village resembled a small version of the protecting wood. The houses stood in a row, like a wooden pearl necklace along the edge of the forest in groups of no more than four or five houses together. The village population of Deepstone would never have amounted to its current two hundred inhabitants were it not for the fact that the land here was fertile and yielded a good harvest every year. Everything seemed still. It was high time for supper, and of course it would have been blueshoal fish on the table at home today, if Mother Nature hadn't kindly lulled Ahren to sleep with her peace and quiet, only to make him then pay such a high price. The boy trod with a sigh to his father's hut and stood still. The house his father had built that time had a compact structure that reminded him of a gnarled, dead tree stump, and gave a general appearance of ugliness and depression. The windows were small and the wood almost black. The hut had been coated with such a heavy layer of tar that in the dusk it resembled more a withered root that had pushed its way up through the earth than a place you could call home. The villagers used to say that after his wife had died, Edrik, Ahren's father, had poured all his pain and sorrow into building this house. But later it became clear to Ahren, that his father's only aim had been to build a house that was completely wind-proof. He had succeeded in this and Ahren was sure that his house was the warmest in the whole village. Secretly though, he had to admit that the other villagers had a point. Ahren was young but he already knew that there was more than one kind of coldness that could trouble a person. This brownish-black wooden fortress provided no refuge. Shivering inside Ahren stopped studying the house and opened the door. It was no surprise that Ahren was still in bad form the following day. His father had reacted as expected and used his belt. Sitting was not an option now and Ahren stole away from the house before his father thought of a more severe punishment than the woodcutting he had been ordered to do. At least that could be done standing up. He walked smartly into the wood to cut branches off one of the marked trees. Falk, the Forest Guardian, hunted the woodland animals, but he also knew which trees could be felled without damaging the forest. Unlike the practice in other villages, the Deepstone villagers could not cut wood willy-nilly. The protection offered by the forest was too important, and so the woodcutters often went deep into the forest to fell the trees that Falk had specially marked. He had singled out a small group of trees the previous week and Ahren made his way there. Even before he reached the clump of trees, he recognised the loud voices of Holken and his friends. Holken was the son of the local blacksmith and the strongest boy in the village. Ahren realised with a sigh that today was threatening to turn out even worse than yesterday. Although he wasn't particularly slight for his age, he certainly couldn't compete with that muscular bully. And for some reason, Holken always seemed to want to prove this. Naturally this led the other boys in Holken's gang to see Ahren as nothing more than fair game. He avoided the blacksmith's son as much as possible, but this was probably not going to be possible today. The next nearest group of marked trees he knew of was half an hour's march away. And he would also have to carry the chopped wood back to the hut. So he would have to make the journey four or five times, laden down with wood. If he didn't want to double his workload, he would simply have to make use of the clump of trees in front of him. Just as he was about to move to within sight of the young gang, he heard a familiar voice in the undergrowth. 'Psst, Ahren, over here'. 'Likis!' Ahren nearly screamed with relief but stopped himself at the last minute with a low-voiced exhalation. He gave a start, afraid that the gang had heard him, and with two quick steps to the left he was behind the bushes where his best and indeed only friend was waiting. Likis looked the same as ever. A half smile in his narrow face, and a cheeky sparkle in the blue eyes that flashed from under his black hair. Added to that, there was the dirty clothing, which had doubtless been new and pristine a few days earlier, but which was now torn in several places. No jerkin in the world could survive Likis' propensity to crawl through the undergrowth and hide. Ahren himself was of a somewhat lean build and a typical Midlander with his nut-brown hair and green eyes. But compared to Likis, he was stocky. And slow. Because if Likis was nothing else, he was certainly fast. 'I was hoping you'd come here today. I've been sitting in this bush for half an hour already, wondering how I can get my hands on firewood without having such backache tomorrow that I won't be able to stand', said Likis in a low voice. 'How did you know I'd be coming here?' asked Ahren, surprised. Likis smiled mischievously and Ahren's face turned bright red. Of course, his father hadn't exactly been quiet the night before as he vented his feelings regarding his son's failings. Likis' family were immediate neighbours and must have heard everything. 'Don't worry about it. Everyone can have a bad day. But you really do have to tell me later how it's possible to lose the fish, the flies, and the rod, all in the one day, without having been set upon by robbers', said Likis with a chuckle. 'Only the line, not the whole rod!' said Ahren defensively, which only provoked the usual half-smile from his partner. Sometimes Ahren hated him for that grin. It seemed as if his wiry friend would meet every situation with this crooked smile, no matter how serious or awkward things became. One time, Likis had gone so far with his pranks that the bailiff had seriously considered dragging him before the village council. This was one of the most humiliating things that could befall a person in a community as small as Deepstone. Likis had simply adopted this half smile and begun to talk the bailiff out of his plan. Half an hour later he was let go. Old Mara, who had seen the whole thing, had said to Ahren: 'that young boy has a gift, no doubt about it. In ten years, he'll either be sitting on the village council himself, or he'll have been banished'. She had shaken her head kind-heartedly as she watched Likis scampering away. 'I see, I see, just the fishing line. Then it's not so bad. That could happen to anyone', said the wiry boy, referring teasingly to Ahren's misfortune. 'Just leave it, will you? I'll tell you everything later', Ahren responded, giving in. He knew his friend would give him no peace anyway if he didn't. The word 'curiosity' took on a whole new meaning when you were in Likis' company. Maybe, thought Ahren, that was why he combined stealth and chattering so well. What the merchant's son couldn't find out through cajoling, he did through stealth. Yet he never used this acquired knowledge to his own advantage. Yes, he got up to tricks, but he never harmed anyone unless he was forced into a corner. Maybe that's why he got away with so much, thought Ahren to himself. He said to Likis, 'but first I need firewood, and preferably without being nabbed by Holken. Two beatings in two days are just too much' and with a grimace he rubbed his backside. 'That's exactly what I thought too, when I saw Hammerhead here', said Likis. Hammerhead was a nickname he had invented for the budding apprentice blacksmith because he was firmly of the opinion that the big bully wouldn't need a hammer for his handiwork, his head would do just as good a job – it was of no use for anything else anyway. The fact that Holken really did possess a somewhat angular head just added insult to injury. Likis relished picking the right words and thereby really infuriating the target of his scorn. Not that he was ever brought to book in this regard. Likis was small and slight, but beside his ability to be stealthy, he was also the best sprinter in the village and used his surroundings artfully to his benefit. Any time he was in imminent danger of being eventually hunted down and caught, he would find refuge among several sympathetic villagers. He would have plausibly convinced them that it was certainly not his fault that at that moment he was being chased by a gang of ruffians. That was just as well, Ahren thought to himself, for Holken would certainly tear the younger boy apart if he ever caught him. Ahren valued his friend for these very reasons. His sharp humour, his quick-wittedness, and of course his fleet-footedness (which saved him from the consequences of the other two qualities) were a combination of all the things lacking in Ahren. For some reason his hands and feet were always getting in the way, and even if he never considered himself to be stupid, he never had the courage or the presence of mind to find the right words at the right time. Now Likis was grinning at him and formulating his plan on how they could get to the firewood as quickly as possible without having to do the heavy work themselves or without falling into the hands of the other youngsters. 'It's really very simple', he whispered. 'I'll lure them away from the clearing and you grab the firewood. Hammerhead is so hell-bent on getting his hands on me that he'll give chase as soon as he sees me. The other idiots will follow him for fear of getting a tongue-lashing if they don't help and then I'll give him the slip.' 'Yes, that sounds great. Let's go!' agreed Ahren enthusiastically. The thought of not having to spend hours on end cutting wood, but of snatching the fruit of the others' hard-earned labour, appealed to Ahren so much that he agreed without giving it a second thought. Yesterday's misfortune had wounded him deeply and the thought of outwitting the world in general and the village boys in particular, seemed to him in his present state of mind to be poetic justice. 'Good, get into position over there and grab the wood as soon as they're all gone. Best bring it to Safehold, it's not so far and you can easily hide there'. Safehold was a treehouse the two boys had built the previous summer. Falk was the only other person who knew about it – the pair had asked him about a suitable tree because they wanted to be sure that their treehouse wouldn't be chopped down one fine day. 'Sure, I'll do it. Just be careful nobody catches you'. 'They haven't managed it yet', chuckled Likis, and disappeared among the trees. 'That's exactly what worries me', muttered Ahren and stared at the place where he had just seen his friend. The day would come when fortune wouldn't smile on the crafty boy and then it could end in tears. Already Likis' plan didn't seem like such a good idea to him. But his nimble friend was already gone and Ahren crept into the undergrowth with an uneasy feeling in his stomach. He pushed himself into the designated position and had to admire Likis' trained eye in such matters. From here he had a good view of the cluster of trees in question and of the four youths toiling away, without being seen himself. As long as he didn't draw attention to himself with sudden movements, he'd be able to lie here unnoticed for a good while. He contemplated the scene before him. Holken dominated the picture of course, with his bulging muscles rippling under his sweaty skin as he worked on the thickest branches with forceful swings of the axe. With a derogatory snort Ahren observed that the show-off had taken off his shirt so that he could be admired more. He did this for the benefit of the four other youngsters. Besides, Holken was the eldest in the clearing so the others looked up to him anyway. Ahren was almost sick with envy as he watched them joking around. He'd have given anything to be part of their group, instead of having been chosen to be a whipping boy by a stupid twist of fate. Maybe that's why he couldn't stand Holken. Before he could give this any further thought, Likis darted into the clearing, grabbed a few thin branches from the impressive pile that the five had already cut and crowed a merry 'thanks, you snails!' to the stunned onlookers, only to disappear again into the undergrowth. Ahren suppressed a laugh with difficulty and pressed himself hard into the ground to avoid being spotted. 'Right, he's done for, grab him!' screamed Holken, his face red, and he and the others gave chase to the timber snatcher. That was almost too easy, thought Ahren, as he slipped towards the clearing, after giving the mob a few seconds to head off. With his heart pounding and with sweaty hands, but also with a wonderful feeling of exhilaration in his stomach he strode quickly into the clearing and grabbed a big bundle of firewood. He quickly piled as much wood into his arms as possible until he almost collapsed under the weight and stumbled into the undergrowth, fearful that he would hear a scornful cry or feel a hard fist in his back. With relief he realised that neither had happened and after a short trot he reached Safehold. Panting, he hid the wood in nearby shrubbery and looked up at the one place in which he had really felt comfortable in his young years. As always, he was filled with pride when he looked at the wooden construction, well hidden and studded with twigs, five paces high, concealed in the tree's thick foliage. In reality, Safehold was a wooden box, three paces by three, nestled in the crown of the tree and only visible through keen observation. The tree itself was ten paces high with expansive branches and carried the additional weight effortlessly, even in stormy weather. Falk had helped them with the complicated knots and lent them the hoist with which the youngsters had lifted the wood into the crown of the tree, but generally they had built it completely by themselves. Ahren would never have thought that the Forest Guardian would have been so supportive, but it seemed he understood their yearning for a hiding place and with a lot of patience and good advice he had given them regular feedback on their progress. Frowning, Ahren thought back to the knots Falk had made to tie the main beams together. Although both Ahren and Likis had watched carefully, neither could say with any certainty how exactly these knots were tied and a thorough examination of them, after Falk was finished, hadn't shed any light on the matter. It almost seemed as though the knots had only one end, but that was surely only because of the clever binding. When Ahren asked him once about it, a thin but warm smile appeared on the Guardian's leathery face and he only said, 'every craft has its secrets, and this one is mine'. The youngster wanted to climb the tree now – they had deliberately done without a ladder, so as not to endanger the secret location of their refuge – when a daring thought came into his head. Why not make another trip to the clearing? There was a good chance he would be able to take the same amount of wood again. Then the two friends would have a considerable amount of wood to boast of and the others would end up completely empty-handed. If he was going to risk it, he'd have to be quick! Without hesitating, he started heading back. It wasn't long before the pile of wood was in sight again. A quick look confirmed that no-one was there. Ahren picked up the rest of the wood with a triumphant grin when suddenly Holken leapt into the clearing, roaring furiously. 'You! I should have known that you and that little weasel were in cahoots. I'm going to give you such a belt in the face, you'll remember it every time you look in the mirror!' Ahren was frozen to the spot but his mind was racing. Holken must have lain in wait for Likis, hoping to pounce on the nimble youngster if he came back, which was a surprisingly subtle tactic for a muscleman like him. But Likis had been far too clever to fall for something like that. Unlike me, thought Ahren drily, as he flung the wood at his opponent and spun round on his heels. There were maybe three paces between them and Ahren's heart was in his mouth. He started running towards Safehold as fast as his legs could carry him; behind him both left and right, he could hear scornful shouting as well as the crashing of branches and twigs. The others must be right on his heels! It would end in disaster! Terrified, Ahren sprinted on through the wood. He could barely breathe. The roots of the trees were treacherous. One false move could be his undoing – and then he'd really be in for it! He ran on aimlessly through the wood for some minutes, trying to escape from the blood hounds' field of vision. He may not have had Likis' natural talents, but he had certainly learnt from his friend. Lowlying branches whipped his forearms as he protected his face and he could feel his breath beginning to burn in his chest. The cries of his chasers were still close behind and the young boy knew he'd better not slow down, even though he was beginning to see black spots before his eyes. Hurriedly he searched for a hiding place or some indication of his present location. He could see a fallen oak tree in front of him. Its bare crown was being held up by two healthy trees forming a sort of knotty ramp. With a joyful yelp he began half-climbing, half-running up the oak's rough bark until he arrived among the leaves of the other trees, and then fought his way through the crown of the tree towards the right. The others were also clambering up and shouting threats, thinking they had trapped him. But Ahren remembered the spot, having been there often enough with Likis. If you weren't being chased by an angry mob, you could have great fun climbing around the treetops! The additional branches of the fallen oak offered countless opportunities for holding on. To put it simply: it was a wonderful playground. Ahren climbed higher and higher into the crown of the tree and moved to the other side of it, and in his hurry, as well as because of his increasing tiredness, he grazed himself in several places – on his hands, his elbows and his knees. He prayed that none of them knew this spot, because it had one peculiarity: there was a little pond within reaching distance of the tree on the right as long as you sprang from one particular branch. Actually, it was perfectly safe – the distance wasn't great. But Ahren was tired, his knees were shaking and he could hardly breathe. He pulled himself onto the wide branch that always served as his jumping-off point, paused for a second in order to look down at the dark, murky pond-water at least ten paces below him. A quick glance over his shoulder confirmed that the others were slowly clambering up the oak, turning their heads in search of him with their faces grimacing and full of scorn. It looked as if they'd lost sight of him among the leaves. This was his chance. Ahren took one more deep breath, filling his lungs with as much air as possible, and threw himself off. His tired legs protested and his jump was far from perfect. He flew through the air at an angle so that he landed in the water on his side. The left side of his body burned like fire, the abrasions and little cuts he had picked up as he had fled stung unmercifully, and he was also winded. He thrashed about rather than swam until he finally reached the surface. Breathing heavily, he looked back at the tree, then at the opposite bank which was edged with low reeds. Clearly, the others hadn't noticed him disappear. With a little luck he could vanish among the trees before anyone spotted him. He swam quietly to the bank and had just pulled himself onto dry land when he heard a chorus of surprise behind him. Ahren stumbled away – he was simply too tired to run any faster – but still managed to build up a sufficient lead, so that his chasers couldn't see him anymore. It seemed as though none of the blood hounds were willing to take the shortcut through the pond, which meant they had to clamber back down again. Feeling himself to be safe now, he made his way towards Safehold and prayed that the village boys would soon tire of the chase. He realized with relief that they too had run out of energy – their angry calls some distance away indicated that he had maintained his lead. After a short jog, Ahren, gasping for breath, touched the tree trunk, his place of safety. If the tree house had been only a hundred paces further on, he would probably never have reached it in time. With one last effort he heaved himself up into the safety of the den, lay flat on the floor and tried to bring his breathing under control. His legs felt like rubber and he was sure he couldn't take another step. As the noise of his chasers came closer, he turned on his tummy with a suppressed groan and peeked through a gap in the branches. One after another, three of the angry boys ran under his hiding place. After a few seconds he could hear confused and angry cries – they realized that their prey had given them the slip. 'He must be here somewhere!' shouted Holken and stopped, barely six paces away from Safehold. 'He must have hidden himself, look for him!' Cursing silently, Ahren watched how the boys began searching through undergrowth and in the trees for him. What had he got himself into? Now they'd find the treehouse too! Ahren closed his eyes and held his breath, hoping that the camouflage would fool the boys. 'Look! There's the firewood! He must be very near!' shouted one of them. A feeling of hopelessness overcame Ahren. He saw Holken staring over at the pile of wood before beginning to search everything meticulously. The others followed his example and Ahren scolded himself silently. He should have put down the bundle of wood further away, or at least hidden it better. Terrified, he watched the commotion below him. Even if the boys were to give up, he thought it would be wise to stay put until the gang had calmed down. He hadn't forgotten the threat Holken had uttered in the clearing and he was in no mood to lose a few teeth by running into him on his way home. After a while Sven went over to Holken and whispered something into his ear. The miller's son was no danger on his own and even rather quiet and shy. But he had the habit of pitching in if his victim was incapable of offering any more resistance. Holken never got carried away like that, but the unwritten rules of the village boys meant nothing to chubby Sven. It was rumoured that even the village elders had discussed the miller's son's bad behaviour. Ahren saw the coldness in the eyes of the miller's son from the treehouse and a shiver ran down his spine. Meanwhile a smirk appeared on Holken's coarse face as he listened to his companion's suggestion. 'Come here boys, we'll head back. Sven thinks he knows where we'll find Ahren's sneaky little friend. Then we'll give him his due'. They gathered together the stolen firewood again and disappeared into the forest as they headed for the clearing. Ahren was terrified of what the boys had planned. What should he do? On the one hand, he didn't want to leave his friend in the lurch, but on the other hand, he just didn't have the courage to climb down and to surrender to the village boys. The adults were too far away and he had angered Holken too much. And anyway, there was Sven and his cold eyes. He always had the most vicious ideas. Not to mention excellent powers of observation. If anyone could root out Likis' hiding places, then it was him. Ahren sat there for a while, as if spellbound, and feverishly considered his options. He was torn between self-preservation and loyalty. The scene kept flashing in front of his eyes: Likis, discovered in one of his hiding places by the angry mob. Horrified, he imagined what Sven would do with Likis, once he had a chance to act out his darker impulses with nobody stopping him. Suddenly he was more afraid of the miller's son than of all the other boys put together. 'You can come down now, they're gone'. The deep, growling voice sounded from below. Ahren couldn't believe his ears. Falk! Relief came over him like a wave. Peeking down over the edge of the treehouse he recognized the weather-beaten face of the Forest Guardian. He was casually leaning against the tree-trunk and looking up at him. The boy hadn't been aware of his approach. Nobody in the village could hear Falk, if Falk didn't want them to. He made an impressive appearance, dressed as always in buckskin garments, with the long bow over his shoulder and the hunting knife on his belt – weapons of any sort being something of a rarity in the little village. The tall, broad-shouldered frame of the Forest Guardian with his closely-cropped grey hair and full beard completed the picture. A few heartbeats passed by with Ahren not daring to move. He simply stared at Falk until the latter finally boomed from below: 'now, come on down. Some of us here still need to earn a living!' Groaning and red-faced, Ahren clambered down the tree and looked up at the Forest Guardian with a mixture of gratitude and anxiety. How much had he witnessed? Falk eyed him with a serious face and a questioning look. 'And? Everything alright with you?' Ahren nodded but his opposite number's face darkened noticeably. 'What did they want from you? That didn't look like the usual teasing. Holken might be a ruffian, but today they were really angry'. 'Well, actually it was really quite harmless. Likis and I just stole a bit of firewood from them, that's all'. Ahren was trying to defend himself. 'Firewood? You stole it? I must be hearing things! You were too lazy to cut some for yourselves, and you robbed them of the fruits of their labour? No wonder they want to give you a hiding!' Shaking his head, Falk looked down at him with a serious look. 'Even if they often cause trouble, at least they've done their work and been diligent, two things that can't be said about you, if you ask me'. During his short sermon, Falk's voice was growing louder and Ahren's face redder. His voice shaking with remorse, he could only utter a simple 'I'm sorry'. Falk had always been friendly towards him, and the fact that he was furious about something Ahren had done, weighed heavily on the boy. The Forest Guardian's summary of the events was right, of course, which only made it worse. 'What? Do you mean, you're only sorry when you're caught letting others do your work while you skive off. The Apprenticeship Tests are next week. Which master craftsman or woman will pick you as an apprentice now?' Ahren winced and the old man continued. 'And by the way, those boys you were stealing from are the sons of the miller, the blacksmith, the fisherwoman, the seamstress and the dyer. Five bosses who will on no account take you on. Likis will start as an apprentice with his father. He doesn't need to give it a second thought, but you…' Falk didn't finish the sentence, but Ahren could imagine the rest. His father had played his last sympathy card within the village a long time ago due to his constant drunkenness. And as he was only a labourer on Trell's farm, he couldn't train Ahren. Not that the young boy would have wanted it. The gaunt farmer Trell, who had more cows on his large farm than any of the other villagers, didn't employ apprentices either and paid all his workers an equally miserly wage. And, with the best will in the world, Likis' father, the only merchant in the village, really didn't need two apprentices. So, if Ahren was to learn a trade, he was dependent on one of the village master craftsmen and women. If news got out of what he'd done, even if it was only seen as a prank, he might be turned down by all of them. 'Master Falk, I…' he began, but the big man cut him off with a terse gesture. 'Alright. I won't say anything. The others will spread the story around anyway, but they're only young boys. If you're lucky, you might just get a few disapproving looks. I know your father. I know it isn't easy for you, but if it happens again, I will personally mark this tree here and then fell it. Is that clear?' Falk's piercing grey eyes now resembled two freezing mountain lakes and Ahren's heart became even heavier. 'Yes', Ahren swallowed, 'thank you for your understanding'. 'Oh, I don't understand your behaviour. But if I were to report you to the council, you wouldn't learn any more from your mistake, would you?' the Forest Guardian growled. 'And bear this in mind', he said, 'for the sake of two armfuls of firewood, you're now covered in grazes and cuts and probably aching muscles as well. Also, your clothing is ripped, that'll probably take you two hours to mend. Not to mention the load of trouble you're going to have with those other boys. If you'd just stuck to cutting your own wood, you'd only have the aching muscles.' Taken aback, Ahren stared at the older man. This sober analysis made him realise how stupid and pointless his prank had been. 'I'd be better off going and cutting my own firewood' said Ahren, trying to get out of the conversation. Any more of Falk's unvarnished truths and he'd burst into tears. The last time that happened was years ago. His father had taught him one thing at least. Tears never helped. And anyway, thankful as he was that the Forest Guardian had protected him, he had a tiring day of wood-chopping ahead of him and had to hurry if he wanted to be finished by evening. I don't want to renew my acquaintance with father's belt, he thought to himself. 'That's the right attitude', Falk nodded, pacified once more. 'Don't forget today's lesson. I've lost the track of a magnificent buck, and I don't want that to have happened for nothing'. The Forest Guardian turned and prepared to disappear into the undergrowth but then he hesitated and turned around again to face the cowed youngster. 'It's strange that the boys chased you so deep into the forest and are looking for your friend now. It seems a little…drastic. Especially as they have their wood again', he continued. Ahren knew what the Forest Guardian meant. Even if the blacksmith's son was the undisputed king of the village boys and a complete ruffian, trouble with him would only ever amount to a few scuffles. A song and dance like this wasn't his way of operating. 'It was Sven. He goaded Holken on', Ahren replied, remembering when the situation had escalated. 'Well, that would explain it. Much as I don't want to get involved, I'm going to have to talk to his father', grumbled Falk. And without another word, he turned again and disappeared into the thicket. Thanks to his camouflaged clothing, he was invisible after a few steps. A silence descended on the clearing, leaving a thoughtful, crestfallen young boy who had a mountain of work ahead of him. Ahren spent the rest of the day chopping wood and lugging it to his father's hut. His whole body ached, his cuts burnt like fire every time sweat ran down them, and he was so tired he could hardly walk straight. While he worked, he pondered over the morning's happenings and the Forest Guardian. This distracted him from the physical pain and helped him to keep going. Falk was not known for involving himself in village matters. He'd been living in the Eastern Forest for as long as Ahren could remember. But nobody knew much about him, except that he was a blow-in. Which, in a village like Deepstone, meant anyone who wasn't at least third generation there. The Forest Guardian lived off the beaten track in the woods, liked to keep himself to himself, and lived by the motto: 'live and let live'. Hardly anyone in the village took any notice of him. Except for four years earlier, when for once he was the talk of the village. One of the five seats on the council had become vacant and he was offered the position. He had recently killed a particularly large Fog Cat called Grey Fang, who had been a danger to the village. There was great consternation when the Forest Guardian turned down the offer as no-one remembered anyone rejecting this honour before. Since that time this silent man was left to go about his work unhindered and they respected his solitary way of life. The villagers considered him austere and serious, so Ahren was doubly grateful for what he had done for him today. Panting, Ahren dropped a heavy branch on the woodpile behind the house and went into the wood once more. He had picked a tree far away from this morning's clearing and so the journey was twice as long. The sun was low now, but he still had to bring back two more branches. He could cut them up into smaller pieces tomorrow. His mind wandered to the Apprenticeship Tests that would be taking place the following week. His prospects really weren't good and he had tried not to think about it for as long as possible. These tests were held every year among the thirteen-year-olds of the village. This made it possible to determine who would be suitable for one of the available trades. The master craftsmen and women might be looking for an apprentice or might wish to promote a particular talent. Being an apprentice had many advantages. You got a little apprenticeship money, you were allowed to drink alcohol, could go to dances, and of course you learned the basics with which you could make a name for yourself later. After some time you could work as a journeyman or even become a master craftsman. Plus, you belonged to the apprentices, no longer to the everyday village boys. Then Ahren would be free of his adversaries. Nobody messed with an apprentice – out of respect for the master. No-one knew yet which masters had registered their need for an apprentice with Keeper Jegral, the village priest. Likis was thirteen too, so he would go to the test with Ahren, but it went without saying that his own father, Merchant Velem, would take him on. Holken too would be standing in the village square next week, but it was equally certain that his father wouldn't officially apply and simply claim him as an apprentice during the ritual. Making a claim in this way was frowned upon, as it meant circumventing the suitability test. There would be no risk of another candidate endangering the chances of your child getting the apprenticeship. Likis' father, on the other hand, believed his son had to earn the position. As he was a traditionalist, he made an official search, which didn't stop him from preparing Likis as thoroughly as possible beforehand. That left only Rufus and Ahren as genuine candidates, as no girls were applying this year. Ahren could only hope that at least two more master craftsmen or women would officially register a search. Of course, it wasn't certain that a master who registered would necessarily pick one of the apprentices, but there was a very good chance – as long as you didn't reveal yourself to be hopelessly inadequate in the relevant trade. If you came away empty-handed, you'd be hired by one of the farms or businesses, from where it was almost impossible to get one of the desired apprenticeships. Deepstone was simply too small. Some of the disappointed candidates moved away in order to find work for themselves in a strange place, but most of them moved back within a short time. It was no better in the other villages. A few went off to the big towns, for example Three Rivers, and were never heard of again. A last resort was the army, but the recruiters were notorious for paying a miserable wage. Hjalgar didn't have a traditional standing army – the country was simply too small, and surrounded by powerful kingdoms. No-one wanted to end up a soldier. One look at the dilapidated border stations and the bored faces of the few soldiers with their dull eyes and you understood exactly how the proverb 'useless as a Hjalgar soldier' came about. The fact that the small country in the Eastern Midlands had never been seized was down to its peculiar location. It was a buffer zone between the three kingdoms of the Midlands and none of its neighbours dared to invade as that would immediately start a war with Hjalgar's two other neighbouring states. No-one wanted this area to fall into the hands of the other and so Hjalgar had remained one of the safest places on the whole continent for the previous three hundred years. Also, because it had no army and so proved no threat. Lost in thought, Ahren brought the last heavy branch to the hut and admired the sizeable pile of firewood. Then he went in to prepare supper so his father's mood wouldn't worsen. The next few days flew by. Likis burst into laughter when his friend told him about his little adventure with Holken and his gang. And he dismissed Ahren's worries about him. Of course, the wiry boy had had all the time in the world to safely bring his share of the wood from the clearing to the merchant's hut, and he had spent the rest of the day in one of his secluded hideaways on the river, hoping that Ahren would turn up again. Sven couldn't frighten the feisty young boy. In fact, he wasn't fit to hold a candle to him. The two friends enjoyed themselves with all sorts of silliness, knowing full well that the carefree days of their childhood would be over forever once they had completed the Apprenticeship Test. The children of the village only had to do a few jobs and usually had the full day to do them. If they completed whatever they'd been given to do quickly, then they had a lot of time to play. This would all change the following week. Likis was excited and his eyes shone when he talked about his forthcoming apprenticeship in the merchant's shop, while Ahren pondered his uncertain future. One afternoon the two friends were walking along, deep in conversation, on the main street towards the village square, when Likis tapped Ahren on the shoulder. With a wink and a little nod, he indicated to his friend that he should look around discreetly. Casually turning his head in the direction his wiry friend had suggested, he quickly understood what his friend had noticed. A familiar muscular back could clearly be seen protruding over the rough picket fence of one of the many vegetable patches found beside almost every house in Deepstone. Holken, it seemed, was trying to stalk them. 'Well, hiding isn't one of his strong points', Likis whispered quietly. Then he added loudly, 'am I glad I'm not in Holken's shoes. His father's been looking for him for ages. Called him a lazybones and is really furious. If Hammerhead doesn't make an appearance soon, he'll be in for a real hiding'. Suppressing giggles, he pair leaned against the wall of a hut, clearly visible but at a safe distance from Holken's hiding place, and pretended to be engaged in a quiet conversation. In reality, however, they were watching the ruffian with glee as he became increasingly nervous in his hiding place. Finally, the big boy jumped up and ran towards the blacksmith's, his face a picture of fear, while the two friends doubled over with laughter before running from the scene. They wanted to be gone before Holken realized he had fallen for one of Likis' tricks again. The blacksmith's son never stalked them again. Two days before the test Ahren and Likis were lying on the riverbank, their fishing rods in the water. The weather reflected Ahren's mood. Dark clouds moved across the skies, the sun occasionally breaking through for a moment. 'Likis?' 'Yes?' 'Is it known at this stage which master craftsmen and women have registered a search?' asked Ahren, his voice a mixture of hope and fear. 'Father proclaimed his quest to the Keeper today. And he also asked who else had visited the priest. At my request'. Likis looked mischievously at his friend and continued, 'Master Pragur and Mistress Dohlmen were there. I don't think anyone else will turn up'. Mistress Dohlmen was the village shoemaker. It was true that Ahren had nothing in particular against shoes and the mistress had a good reputation. But he was also aware that Rufus was very poor at sewing so the selection wouldn't favour him. But Ahren too was clumsy with his fingers. Anyway, Ahren knew which Master he wanted to impress. Pragur was namely the village bailiff. A bailiff, yes, being a bailiff was something Ahren could easily live with. Everyone respected you, and your armour was made from cured leather. You also had a short sword and a truncheon. You trained with those weapons, and only the village council could set aside your rulings. Bailiffs enforced law and order and chased away bandits and other riff-raff. A bailiff was a hero in Hjalgar – or at least what was the nearest thing to a hero in Hjalgar. As he lay on the riverbank, Ahren imagined himself outdoing Rufus in the Apprenticeship Test and eventually being picked by Pragur. That man was one of the few people in Deepstone who had time for Ahren. He was often called upon to lay down the law whenever Ahren's father became too loud. The peace keeper was always friendly and compassionate to the young boy on these occasions. If he were to become a Bailiff aspirant, he himself could perhaps make a stand against his father. This thought put Ahren into the best of moods. Likis prodded him in the side. 'And? What do you think, shoemaker or bailiff?' 'Hmm, bailiff would be great', said Ahren. 'All I have to do is beat Rufus in Pragur's test. He isn't particularly strong or fast, so I should be able to manage it'. 'Oh yes, you as a bailiff, then you could always keep an eye on our shop. And your father would have to be nicer to you'. The two friends began building castles in the air and by the time the midday sun had won its battle with the clouds, they were imagining themselves as town council members leading Deepstone towards a glorious future. It was the evening before the summer solstice, the day when the Apprenticeship Tests were traditionally held, and Ahren was so excited that he could hardly sit still at the supper table. Again and again he imagined his triumphal election to bailiff, persuaded himself that he alone was the correct choice, that Pragur had taken to him kindly, that… His father, dark rings around his eyes and no longer quite sober, growled, 'stop fidgeting, boy. Tomorrow you'll be able to do your bit for our livelihood at last. I've had a word with Trell. You can work on his farm for half a crown a week and give me a hand. Good news, isn't it?' Ahren froze. All his images of the following day vanished in front of his eyes. 'Bu…but the test tomorrow' he began. 'Yes? What about it?' his father interrupted. 'Do you think anyone will take you on with all the mistakes you keep making? You're useless as a fisherman, your shoulders aren't broad enough for heavy labour, and you're always in a world of your own. Just be thankful that I'm able to get you on to Trell's farm without fuss. So at least you'll be spared the humiliation of not being selected by anyone'. The matter-of-fact way in which Ahren's father shattered his dreams filled him with a feeling of hopelessness. Not only was he condemned to working beside his father, but he'd be working for a pittance as well. The thought of having to spend days and years in his father's company horrified him but this made him bolder than usual. 'And what about the position of bailiff?' he ventured. 'I suppose you think you're better than I am? I get a job for you and this is my thanks?! If the work is good enough for me, then it's good enough for you. You're coming to the farm with me tomorrow and beginning your new job, understood?' The threatening undertone in his father's voice made it clear that any objection would result in a beating. But Ahren didn't care, not this time, not with these terrible pictures in his head of himself, broken, sitting beside his father with a pitcher in front of him, both waiting in cold silence with bitter looks on their faces, waiting for another day of endless, monotonous work. Ahren was nearly in a state of panic. 'I'm going to be in the fairground tomorrow, and I'm going to take part in the test and become a bailiff and then you can look for someone else you can let off steam at'. No sooner were the words out of his mouth when Ahren recoiled. One look at his father and he knew he'd gone too far, much too far. 'Let off steam?' he roared. 'I'll show you what letting off steam is!' He threw over the table with a crash and grabbed his belt. If he catches me now, the boy thought horrified, I won't be able to go tomorrow, never mind pass the test and I'll spend the rest of my life here. His eyes bulging with fear, he rushed to the door and pushed the heavy latch to the side. His father locked the door with it every evening and normally Ahren found it very difficult to push the heavy latch aside, but now he was possessed by a hot wild panic and with his first attempt it slipped open. Feverishly he tried to evade his father's drunken fingers while simultaneously opening the door. The whole hut suddenly seemed even darker and more threatening than before. The tar that filled in the joints seemed to be stretching out in an attempt to pen him into the house. He had just managed to open the door widely enough to slip out, when his father's hand grasped his arm and yanked him back inside. With a triumphant yell, the drunken man pulled his own arm backwards, holding the belt ready to chastise his son. He's not even looking at where he's going to lash me, Ahren realized in shock. It was clear to him that the leather belt would hit his face. In a flash he raised his arm and with a loud slap, the leather strap hit his left hand. Ahren heard a crunching noise as a fiery red pain shot through his wrist. His father raised his arm again only to slip on a plate that had fallen to the ground with the table, and tumbled to the floor. 'The Three be thanked!' Ahren thanked his lucky stars, gathered himself up and quick as a flash disappeared into the forest. The coarse insults of his father rang in his ears as he pushed his way through the undergrowth, scratching his skin all over, and ran to the only safe place he could think of, his treehouse, his Safehold. The cries of his progenitor grew ever fainter. But the final, babbling, tortured cry would remain with him forever. 'It's your fault. You're the reason she's dead!' This cry echoed long through the night in Ahren's ears as he lay in a ball in his treehouse, his injured hand pressed against his chest, sobbing uncontrollably for a mother he had never known but whose death he had caused, however unwittingly.

(13th Paladin 1) Ahren

Torsten Weitze

Chapter 3

Midsummer's day begin in glorious sunshine which provided a ceremonious invitation to the festivities. Every self-respecting person was there, spending the day mingling on the village square with the other villagers. The village innkeeper served beer and the miller's wife offered her famous little cakes, which were so tasty that it was rumoured the miller had only married her on account of these little delicacies. A look at the miller's portly figure and the plain features of his wife only added credibility to the rumour. The centre of the village community was dominated on one side by an enormous oak tree, whose heavy branches offered protection and shade. Deepstone's vast warehouse dominated the other side. The communal village supplies were stored there and it also served as temporary accommodation for festivities such as this. The two other sides of the village square were lined by the most important buildings in the community. Here you could find the tavern, the forge, the grocer's, the Village Hall, and of course the village chapel. It was the only building made of white stone, and it dominated the area. All the houses surrounding the square had been festooned with cloth garlands that morning and these were fluttering colourfully in the breeze. The Village Hall was the only two storied building on the north side of the square and with its hard-packed clay walls it lent the scene a certain grandeur. Apprenticeship Day was always filled with laughter. Stories of past Apprenticeship Tests were told and the merits of the new candidates compared. One or two even placed bets on the possible outcomes of the day ahead, although this was officially prohibited by the village council. Everyone was finely dressed, in clothes they would otherwise only wear on the Days of the Gods, when they would stream into the chapel to listen to Keeper Jegral's prayer service. And indeed here he stood now, in full regalia on the festively decorated square, chatting with the council members before striding to the centre. Three tall poles were rammed into the earth, on top of which were three wooden flags, the symbols of the respective guilds. On the first pole was a wheel with twelve spokes, a symbol of the twelve trading towns that were scattered around the whole continent and that made up the merchants' council. The second flag displayed a leather hunting boot with spurs, in front of a stylized coat of arms. These shoes were only worn by the nobility and only a guild shoemaker had permission to make them. And, last but not least, a short sword in front of the locked town gate, the bailiff's sign, which stood for protection and order. The priest turned around and recited the opening formula. 'May HE WHO MOULDS hold his guiding hand over this Apprenticeship Test and show to all, what sort of people he has created out of the young members of this village. May the inner form he has given them enrich our community, and may it bring to light today, which calling they each should follow'. His tunic, woven from shimmersilk, glittered in all the colours of the rainbow and lent the thin, bald man with the friendly eyes the impression of constant movement. Every time Keeper Jegral moved and the colours were rolling like waves over his regalia, changing ever so slightly. Spellbound by the interplay of form and colour within the robe, even the smallest children remained still when they saw the traditional clothing of the priest. 'May the young men now step forward to give the future of this village a new shape.' The three boys stepped forward, all in their best clothes. As if underlining the priest's words, they were quite different from each other in appearance and demeanour, as though the god of forms was showing the gathering how varied mankind could be. But Ahren was nowhere to be seen. Likis was cloaked in feast day clothing, which displayed the colours of the merchants' guild – yellow on blue. He stood there, small and slight, and glanced around with a worried look. His friend not turning up couldn't be good, and of course he'd heard the uproar the previous night and was now greatly worried. Holken was standing beside him, his big, brawny frame forced into a robe much too small for him and which he was wearing with obvious discomfort. And finally Rufus, with his nondescript face, stood shyly in simple but clean clothing. The clergyman looked at the three youths with surprise. 'Well now, where is Ahren? There should be four boys here, ready to show the world their form'. A snort could be heard from the beer stand. Edrik, who was celebrating in his own way and was already quite tipsy, shouted 'the young boy won't be coming. He'll be starting tomorrow as a labourer on Trell's farm'. With these words a murmur rippled through the crowd while Likis gasped in shock. An embarrassed Trell meanwhile, stepped from one foot to the other. The gaunt landowner wasn't very popular anyway and he really didn't want to play an unwitting part in this little scandal. 'Oh, well then, if he's already made his decision, I don't want to stand in the way of the Moulder's decision'. Piqued that his ceremony had been thrown into disorder, Jegral was just about to continue when unrest broke out on the fringes of the crowd. It was Ahren, who pushed his way through the crowd, until quite out of breath, he positioned himself beside Likis. He was filthy, full of badly healed scratches, and his left hand was terribly swollen. He had woken up late from an exhausted sleep, and with a pounding pain in his hand he had dragged himself to the village square. His friend looked at him anxiously. 'Did a carter's wagon roll over you?' Likis followed Ahren's eyes as he looked meaningfully at his father, who had made himself comfortable at the beer stand. Edrik examined his son with a suspicious look and Likis murmured, 'I understand'. The villagers had recovered from their initial shock and were now whispering intently among themselves. Annoyance at the boy's unseemly conduct was mixed with pity. A feeling of cold contempt began to spread, for a man who hated his son so much that he would shame him in public. 'HE WHO MOULDS will now accompany these young men to achieving manhood. May out of them be moulded men of whom we may be proud', intoned Keeper Jegral, trying to keep the ceremony on the right track. 'Which master today seeks the advice of the MOULDER?' Likis' father stepped forward. 'Master Velem seeks a boy who can be moulded into a merchant', at which point he looked steadfastly at his son and gave him a wink. Then it was the shoemaker's turn. 'Mistress Dohlmen seeks a boy who can be moulded into a shoemaker'. And finally, the bailiff stepped forward. 'Master Pragur seeks a boy who can be moulded into a bailiff'. Jegral made the sign of the THREE in front of each of them and continued. 'The masters and the mistress may step forward and present their tests'. With measured steps the two masters and the mistress stepped forward and positioned themselves behind their respective guild signs. In unison they uttered the ritual, 'May HE WHO MOULDS guide our process'. At this point Likis' father stepped forward. 'As merchants you must master the art of counting, so I shall give each of you three problems you must solve'. With a few short words he gave each of the boys three sums to solve. It quickly became clear that Likis was the mathematical genius in the group, as he answered all his questions quickly and correctly. Ahren needed a little longer, but he was surprised to see that he too could answer all the questions. Likis had helped him, of course, when they'd practised together. Every answer was a struggle for Holken, while Rufus could only answer one question. Yet he didn't seem too bothered. Likis' father turned to Keeper Jegral. 'The boys Ahren and Likis can be moulded into merchants'. The priest responded. 'Which should be your apprentice, so that he may be finally moulded into a merchant?' The merchant gave Ahren an apologetic look and said, 'the boy Likis should be a merchant, by the mercy of the MOULDER'. A cheer rose up from the crowd of villagers, even if the outcome of the choice had never been in doubt. Everyone had assumed Likis would be next in line, and today's ceremony was simply a formality that needed to be observed. 'Then, apprentice, take your place by the side of your master,' Jergal intoned and Likis, brimming with joy, went over to stand beside his father, who looked at him proudly as he positioned himself under the merchants' symbol. When Ahren saw this, his heart sank and he almost broke down. He stole a glance at the beer stand and saw his father staring listlessly into space. A pity that the innkeeper wasn't recruiting this year, thought Ahren. After years of experience, the boy could tell by looking at anyone, how much beer they would tolerate before falling asleep. This black humour helped to cheer him up. He smiled sincerely at his best friend who beamed at him with joy. Then Mistress Dohlmen stepped forward. 'As a shoemaker you have to be skilled with your hands and know how to handle the leather correctly. Each of you will now, to the best of your ability, put soles on the boots we have ready for you here'. Three footstools were put before the boys, with needle, thread, boots and soles on them. Ahren struggled to clamp the boot between his legs and to feed the thread through the needle, and soon realized he couldn't hammer well with his bruised hand. Clenching his teeth and ignoring the pain, he did as well as his talent and injury would allow. He took even longer than Holken, and his boots were no great shakes. Mistress Dohlmen examined the boot with a frown and then shook her head. Holken's boot provoked the same reaction. Rufus' sample, on the other hand, showed even, clean stitching. Indeed, while the boy was working, he had been humming quietly to himself, moving the needle in a steady rhythm and everyone could see clearly that the shy young boy must have been secretly practising for weeks. After a few seconds the shoemaker gave a smile of surprise and said with scarcely concealed joy, 'young Rufus may be moulded into the trade of shoemaker'. Great! Good for her and good for me, thought Ahren. If Holken's father steps forward and calls him to his side as apprentice, then I'll get the bailiff's job. Then I just have to pass the test, and there won't even be any competition. Full of expectation he glanced over at the blacksmith, but he only looked over to his son and gave him an encouraging smile. Crucial seconds passed by with nothing happening and a cold shiver ran down Ahren's spine as the realization suddenly struck him. Holken didn't want to become a blacksmith, but a bailiff! The terrible thought flashed through his head. Suddenly, the bailiff stepped forward and spoke: 'he who wishes to protect this place and keep the peace must have the necessary skills in combat and be in the appropriate physical condition. As there are only two candidates left, they must take each other on, with wooden sword and shield, and put their abilities to the test'. Gloomily Ahren observed how Holken nonchalantly took up the sword and shield and held both of them easily, although the shield alone must have weighed at least eight stone. Now Ahren received his weaponry. Awkwardly he strapped the shield to his injured left hand, and with his right, he clumsily grasped the rough, wooden sword handle. Holken's sword, held with a firm grip, pointed steadily towards the skies while his own continually fell towards the earth. It took all his energy to raise it upwards. He was in a cold sweat already. He thought of all the tales where weak but nimble warriors defeated mighty but cumbersome monsters. Now, standing opposite the blacksmith's son with the midday sun beating down and the whole village looking on, he didn't believe any of these stories anymore. 'Are you prepared?' asked Pragur. Holken thundered a powerful 'yes!' Ahren, however, only managed a timid nod, which was greeted with a snigger from one of the village boys. Ahren glanced around once more, looked in the faces of the onlookers and saw pity in almost all their eyes. They had already written him off. And then Ahren became angry. They had given up on him, just as his father had given up on him. Just as he had almost given up on himself! He gripped his weapons more firmly, felt a painful stabbing in his left hand, and looked resolutely at Holken. His opponent was taken aback by his change of demeanour and gave him a respectful nod. 'He who first drops his sword or surrenders, either through defeat or agreement, is the loser', called Pragur. 'The victor shall be my new apprentice. And now, begin!' The bailiff had hardly finished speaking when Holken sprang forward and swung his sword down on Ahren. He just managed to raise his wooden sword and parried the blow after a fashion towards the right. His right arm began to hurt with the force of the impact. The shield, Ahren thought, use your shield! The next blow was already coming towards him. Because his left hand was already in pain from just holding the shield, and his right was still slightly numb, Ahren instinctively ducked, and Holken's blade whizzed over him. For his own part, and quite instinctively, Ahren swung his sword towards Holken, just as the latter was preparing to begin a powerful swing of his own. With a loud clash, Ahren's blunt sword landed on his opponent's shield. A murmur rose from the crowd. Nobody had thought that the delicate boy would last for more than a few seconds, never mind go on the attack. Even Holken seemed surprised and hesitated, giving Ahren the opportunity to hit him a couple more times. These blows were rather ineffective however, as they were repeatedly repelled by the other's shield. Nevertheless, a feeling of triumph grew in Ahren and he fired himself up by thinking: I can do it. I can beat him. I'm going to be a bailiff. I… Holken brushed Ahren's last sword thrust to the side and rained down a series of punishing blows on the young boy's shield. Ahren could see stars in front of his eyes. Something went out of place in his hand and suddenly the feeling of a thousand hot needles exploded in his arm, but strangely, his hand now felt totally numb. When he looked down, he could see that his shield was hanging loosely from his arm and his hand was dangling uselessly. The villagers around him were gasping. Another second passed and despite the shock, the feeling in his hand gradually returned. Panting he sunk down on one knee. Holken took a step backwards. 'Do you yield?' he asked loudly. An eternity at my father's side, echoed in Ahren's head, and he painfully stood up again. 'Never!' Ahren gasped. The pain was getting worse. 'I can stand. So I can fight!' The first cries to abandon the fight could be heard from the crowd and Pragur was just moving into position, but Holken had heard Ahren's answer and shrugged his shoulders. He took two steps towards the injured youth and clipped him with his sword, a movement which Ahren wearily parried. But this was only a ploy. For at the same instant Holken smashed the edge of his own shield with full force down on the injured hand of the stunned youth. Ahren fell to the ground as if struck by lightning, while an overpowering darkness came over him and washed all sensation away. He was in the pond again. In the forest and under water. Water which surrounded him and comforted him. It took away all his pain, all his feelings, leaving him comfortably numb. Time was unimportant in this wonderful, cool place. Then he noticed a movement in the pond. Something from below was coming towards him. Something that was bigger than him. The spectre became clearer as it approached inexorably. With horror he recognized the figure of his father, felt how he was being grasped and pulled into the depths. Ahren fought back. Fought with all the strength he could muster, floundered and raged and kicked and somehow tore himself away. But the figure of his father grasped him firmly by his left wrist and pulled him into the depths again. A fiery pain began to rage under his skin, in his hand, where his father was grasping him. Ahren paddled and floundered, but his father's grip was too powerful, the saving light of the surface too far away. The more he pulled, the greater the pain, but Ahren did not want to give up, did not want to go into the darkness his father had prepared for him. Pragur's face loomed on the surface and Ahren thrashed upwards with all his strength, fought his way up from the depths, his left arm in excruciating pain. Then he broke through the surface and opened his eyes. 'He's awake again', said Pragur and disappeared from Ahren's view. Ahren looked around him, totally disorientated. He was surrounded by faces. Holken, Dohlmen, Rufus, Pragur and several more. Dust tickled his nose and the sun stung his eyes. The one constant was the unbearable pain in his left arm. Ahren was afraid to look. To see what had become of his arm. Nightmarish pictures raced through his brain, of him as a cripple, fighting his way through life. Keeper Jegral's voice intoned, 'Make room, make room I tell you, all of you!' He carved out a passage through the crowd with untypical aggression, and knelt down beside Ahren. 'You'll be alright, young man, you'll see', he said in a friendly voice and took Ahren's mangled hand in his own. 'This day is under the protection of HIM WHO MOULDS, and no-one shall come to grief, if it be not HIS WILL'. Closing his eyes, the gaunt man started to recite in a singsong voice as he manipulated Ahren's injured hand and pushed the damaged bones back into their correct position. Ahren watched all this as through a veil. The priestly song seemed to vibrate in his head and no pain seemed able to penetrate the movements. The young boy watched with grim fascination how Jegral, with eyes closed, put all the bones under his skin to rights, as if playing with one of those wooden puzzles, where you always had to push the correct piece so that the next one would slot into place. The priest finished his song and a profound silence hung over the village square, broken only by Ahren's heavy breathing. But that too began to ease off as the boy realised that the pain wasn't returning, although the Keeper had finished. Slowly, he tried to move his hand. To his amazement, it felt as if the injuries of the last two days had never occured. While the boy was staring fixedly at his hand, Keeper Jegral stood up and spoke in a firm voice. 'HE WHO MOULDS has determined the hand of this youth be healed. Let us pray'. The whole village intoned the litany of the THREE, and Ahren had a little time to recover. Of course, he had heard of the healing powers of the Keeper before, but he had never seen such a miracle healing, never mind experienced it on his own body. Following the death of his mother, his father had broken off all contact with the Keeper. He was bitter that the priest had not been able to heal her. Jegral had tried to explain that the Keepers could only put things into shape. Mend broken bones or re-attach limbs, for instance. The curing of diseases was beyond their competencies, however. An infected lung or a gangrene-infected leg was damaged in its substance, not in its form. But Edrik didn't want to hear of it. And for this reason Ahren had only spoken to Keeper Jegral about half a dozen times in his life, each time more or less by chance, and only briefly. There would be a beating if his father saw him with the charlatan, as he called him. Can charlatans cure limbs? he asked himself. His hand was answer enough. He knew why his father hadn't stopped the healing. A quick glance to the beer stand confirmed that Edrik had fallen asleep long ago. The villagers had finished their prayer in the meantime and Jegral began to speak again. 'Now, Master Pragur, what say you?' The strong man with the steel-grey hair pushed himself forward and said, 'young Ahren and Holken can be moulded to the position of bailiff'. Ahren's heart jumped for joy. 'As, however, I need only one apprentice, and as I determined the rules beforehand, I select Holken', said the bailiff and turning towards Ahren he continued more quietly, 'you're a brave boy with an impressive will to fight. I would have taken you on as an apprentice too if I could have. But Deepstone is too small for so many bailiffs, and my apprentices would have to get on'. With a last apologetic look to Ahren, he grasped the law enforcer Holken by the arm and placed him by his side in the place of ritual beneath the bailiff's guild symbol. Ahren slumped down as Jegral began to utter his closing words. Words that would seal his fate. 'HE WHO MOULDS has shown us today how the youths assembled here shall become members of our society…' 'Forgive the interruption, but we're not quite finished', a deep, full-bodied voice intoned from the edge of the square. Jegral looked angrily in the direction of the troublemaker but could see nothing, other than an unusual wooden shape that looked like a crooked sign. The construction started to move and then Falk stepped from behind it and into the middle of the square. He wore the cloak he had made from Grey Fang the Fog Cat. Ahren remembered the beast's reign of terror only as a succession of tedious days. He, like all the other village children, had not been allowed to leave the house until the Forest Guardian had killed the Dark One. He had only seen the Guardian wear this cloak on one other occasion – when Telem, a farm labourer had been sent into exile for robbery. The Guardian had worn the same clothing that time as he led the banished man a day's march to the east and left him there. For weeks after he didn't make an appearance in the village. There were rumours that Telem had tried to win him over and this had really bothered Falk. Yet this somehow didn't fit into Ahren's picture of Falk – the man was simply too stern. A frightening thought struck him. What, if he wants to lead me into exile. Maybe the village council had judged our prank to be robbery, and as I was the only one to be caught…have I really made so many enemies? He looked around furtively while fear ran through his youthful veins. But he saw only curiosity in the faces of the others – with the exception perhaps of Jegral. His attitude veered between surprise and annoyance. 'What does this mean?' he asked firmly. 'Why are you disturbing this sacred ceremony?' 'Disturbing? Surely not. I'm lengthening it, in fact'. With that, Falk spun the wooden construction around. It was clear that he had taken his spear, attached Ahren's practice shield (which looked quite the worse for wear) to it, and painted a bow and arrow onto the shield. Ahren saw it in a flash. The Forest Guardian's symbol! Falk walked briskly until he was beside the bailiff, rammed the spear into the ground and stood in front of it. 'Master Falk seeks a boy who can be moulded into a Forest Guardian', he said in a festive voice before continuing in his normal grumpy tone. 'Apologies for the delay but I had to improvise a guild stake first'. Jegral gathered himself together after this unexpected entrance while a wild hope sparked within Ahren. The priest began to speak. 'You didn't register your search beforehand. Technically this may not be absolutely necessary. However, it's quite…unusual. What has made you change your mind?' Falk snorted. 'You can't pick a Forest Guardian over one afternoon, I've said that many a time. We are the one line of defence if a Dark One wanders our way'. As he said this, he stroked his cloak and the villagers shivered. 'With all due respect to the bailiffs who look after security within the village', Falk shot Pragur a look, 'chasing a Grief Wind or a Swarm Claw alone in the wilderness is quite different from throwing a drunkard out of the tavern'. The Keeper interrupted him brusquely. 'All well and good, but you still have not answered my question. So far you have only repeated the reasons you give every year to justify your refusal to take part in the ceremony'. Jegral sounded annoyed and Ahren hoped that Falk wouldn't goad him any further or his chance would be gone and he'd have to work the fields with his father. 'This year I have found a suitable candidate', Falk continued calmly. 'He has proven to me that he can climb, move swiftly through the wood, and that he is a very competent swimmer. He understands how to camouflage a shelter, and he has shown great stamina and tenacity here today. He has also exhibited valour in taking on a larger and stronger opponent, even while injured'. He turned and looked directly at Ahren. 'There is only one thing missing. The supreme Forest Guardian discipline is archery. And I thought this would be a fitting test for this ceremony'. He bowed slightly towards the Keeper. Jegral looked like the cat that got the cream. With a delighted look and a friendly voice he said, 'Well, that being the case…set the test!' Falk approached Ahren and gave him a hunting bow and a quiver with three arrows. Then he called out, 'archery is a difficult art and so I will give the boy three chances to hit the target. It is the alarm bell sounded by a Forest Guardian if the village is in danger. Hopefully, after today, we will not hear it for a long time'. With that, he pointed to the large bell, positioned three paces high in front of the Village Hall. Only the bailiff, the Forest Guardian and the town council could sound this bell. No others were allowed, on pain of severe punishment. A young boy had sounded it a few years previously as part of a prank. His punishment had been to sweep the village square at the first cock crow in wind, hail or snow. Everyone had steered clear of it since then. Even walking under it meant bad luck. All this went through Ahren's head as he took the bow in his left hand. He placed the arrow on the bow string with his right. An eerie silence descended on the village square. But there was an almighty racket in Ahren's head, so great was his fear. His young spirit had gone through so much already today. He raised the bow awkwardly as if in a trance. Trying to keep his trembling hand still, he aimed at the bell, twenty paces away. As soon as the arrow left the bow string, Ahren knew it wouldn't hit the target. The arrow bored into the ground three paces short of the Village Hall. A disappointed groan went up from the crowd. Ahren stood there in a cold sweat and Falk looked thoughtfully at him. Then he turned towards the Keeper. 'The young boy is terrified and exhausted. May I have a word with him?' 'Certainly', said Keeper Jegral, giving an understanding nod. Falk placed his hands on the young boy's shoulders and fixed his eyes on him. 'I know you're afraid, you're tired, and to top it all everyone is looking at you, but you must concentrate. You already shot with a bow, don't you remember?' Falk asked quietly so no-one else could hear. 'Only during the Autumn Festival', Ahren answered shyly. The Autumn Festival took place once the harvest had been brought in and the village prepared for the winter. The adults and apprentices would dance while the children would take part in all sorts of games of skill such as sack races, running competitions, climbing, apple-bobbing or wrestling. During the last three Autumn Festivals, Falk had set up a target range on the edge of the fair. He would let the children shoot with a short bow and practice arrows with cloth balls attached. Ahren had spent a lot of time there, far from the beer stand where his father would make himself comfortable. And far from Holken and his gang. That was how he had first met Falk. But it seemed so terribly long ago now. The Forest Guardian shook him and whispered, 'it's perfectly natural to be afraid. Everyone is afraid of something. When I encountered Grey Fang, I was afraid too'. 'You were afraid?' Ahren was stunned. 'I'll show you a trick now. Where do you feel safest?' 'Why?' asked the young boy, confused. 'Trust me and do as I tell you. You'll have to get used to obedience anyway, as soon as this is behind you, so you may as well start now'. Ahren tried to concentrate on the Forest Guardian's question. Where do I feel safest? He immediately thought of the tree house. It was quiet and peaceful there at night and his father couldn't find him there, as he knew nothing of its existence. 'Safehold. The tree house I mean', responded Ahren. 'Good. Now try and imagine how you feel when you're there. What it smells like there, what it feels like. What you hear and see whenever you're there and how safe it is there'. Ahren closed his eyes. His thoughts were whirling around. The hurtful words of his father, the danger of a future on the farm, his injured and now marvellously healed hand. All these thoughts swirled around his mind and he found it impossible to concentrate. He tried thinking of the tree house, looked at it with his inner eye, but the memory of Holken's raging face kept pushing through. No, no! It's safe there, thought Ahren. He clung to the thought. Imagined how it felt when he was there at night. He thought of the late summer breeze wafting from the east, how soft it felt on his skin. Felt it as it passed through the exposed walls. He heard the nightly concert of the forest creatures, as they moved around in the dark. Felt the silence that only a place empty of people brought forth. 'Right, boy, now you have it!' said Falk. 'Now breathe in, hold your breath, draw the bow and shoot'. The crowd was silent and concentrated completely on the young boy, but he hardly noticed them. Ahren raised the bow, this time more calmly, though still clumsily, but now not shaking. He drew the bow. He shot. The arrow ricocheted with a dull clack off the door of the Village Hall, barely a pace from the bell. Ahren's veins ran cold with panic once again. Not even Falk himself could flout the ceremonial rules. Were Ahren to fail again, it would all be over. Falk would not be able to take him on as his apprentice. The images and fears were tormenting the young boy again. Falk carefully took the bow from his hand and asked him something. But Ahren was in such a state of panic and there was such a roaring in his ears he couldn't understand him. The tree house, think of the tree house, he kept repeating to himself, as if it speaking to another person. Slowly the image of Safehold, which had only now been smashed and scattered, formed itself again in his mind. With clenched fists he forced his fears away until they existed only on the outskirts of his consciousness. He could feel his legs shaking. Even if he were allowed to take a fourth shot, he sensed he only had reserves for this one last attempt. He was on the point of bursting into tears and knew he wouldn't be able to calm down and hold it together for another attempt. Falk continued to speak quietly to him and this time the words sank in. 'You did everything correctly, in fact. The shot ought to have hit the target'. Falk rubbed his chin thoughtfully. He was like somebody trying to solve a complicated puzzle. 'Which hand do you use for buttering your bread, boy?' At first Ahren thought he'd misheard. The question was absurd. So pointless. His mind must be playing tricks on him. He was hearing things. But no. His mind was calm. The picture of the tree house was still intact. Peace and quiet. A grasshopper chirping. 'Which hand do I cut my bread with? My right, of course. My good hand'. 'Your good hand?' Falk's voice had an edge. 'Have you always cut with that hand?' Ahren was confused again and then he remembered something. Normally it would have embarrassed him. But he was way beyond embarrassment now. After all, this would be his last attempt. 'No. When I was very small, I always used the dull hand', and he raised his left hand. 'But I haven't done that for years', he added quickly. He may have had to make this admission in front of everyone but he could at least reassure Falk that he had been brought up properly. His father had driven out his tendency to use the dull hand through much scorn and endless beatings. As was only right. But Falk was angry and let out a curse. I shouldn't have said that. Now he'll think badly of me and won't want me anymore. This thought flashed through his mind. Quickly he concentrated on the inner peace that the picture of the tree house brought about in him. But the picture was beginning to fray and wear away. He could already hear the sound of the other thoughts that wanted to carry him away. 'Damn superstition!' cursed Falk and grabbed Ahren by the shoulders. 'Ahren, this is very important. Now listen to me very carefully. Hold the bow with your right hand and place the arrow on it with your left'. Falk was smiling now. 'Trust me. Everything will be fine'. Ahren was beyond all emotion now. Nothing made sense anymore. Mechanically, he took the bow that Falk handed to him with his right hand and placed the arrow on it with his left. It felt strange but somehow more fluid. He gathered together all his strength once more and conjured up the tree house in his head. He suppressed all other thoughts. A peaceful calm descended on his spirit. He inhaled and held his breath. Not even his breathing disturbed the inner silence. Everything seemed far away somehow, and unreal. He raised the bow, tautened it, aimed and let the arrow fly. All within two heartbeats. Then he closed his eyes and breathed out. The ensuing silence was broken only by the clear sound of a solitary bell toll.

(13th Paladin 1) Ahren

Torsten Weitze

Chapter 4

The ruptured eyes of the two-headed calf foetus looked accusingly up at him as he withdrew his bloodied hands. His efforts were once again in vain. The unhappy animal had been stillborn two days previously and now, to stop the stench, he raised a silk cloth to his nose. A servant scurried by, taking away the ritual bowl along with its gruesome contents. The magic had failed. The circumstances that had led to this bad omen no longer recognizable. The death of the poor creature too long ago. This was the tenth creature in as many months that had come into the world beyond the Border Lands. And none of them could deliver him an answer. The Dream Mirror remained silent and the elves too were baffled, no matter how much he pressed them. A bad feeling had been nagging him for years, like a stone in a shoe. At first, he had put it down to the increasingly fierce power games of the others. But now the cause seemed to have far darker roots. With a sigh he cleaned his blood-soaked hands in rose water and took a piece of black chalk from one of his servants. He would cast a large magic net and hope for the best. The events that followed were a blur for Ahren. The villagers congratulated him heartily before Keeper Jegral eventually managed to regain control of his ceremony. For the next hour Ahren's ears were ringing and he found it impossible to concentrate on anything for more than three seconds. Every so often Falk would look at him and mumble something to himself. It took a good hour, with the priest's devotions coming to an end, for his head to clear a little. Falk noticed the change in the young boy's expression and whispered to him, 'you'll feel better soon'. Ahren could only nod. He was still too tired to answer and what answer could he give? A thousand questions whirled around his head, all important and pressing. But when he tried to concentrate on an individual one, it would vanish. There was nothing for it but to stand there and listen to the priest. 'And so we call for the blessing of HIM WHO MOULDS for the young men tested today, may they always find their place in our community, may they absorb the knowledge of their masters May they mould it afresh in new forms of knowledge'. With that Keeper Jegral cupped his hands before his chest as a potter moulds his clay. It was the ritual greeting and farewell of the priests. The devotions ended and the villagers burst into life once more. There was a lot of shouting and laughing, many ran into the Village Hall to bring out tables, long benches, food and drinks. The part of the day the villagers had been looking forward to most was about to begin – the feast. The festive square was ready in no time at all. The villagers settled at their tables, in family groups, surrounded by friends. Ahren felt somewhat uneasy, as he always did on such occasions, and looked for Likis' face in the crowd, hoping he could sit down near him. If his father found him beforehand, he would drag him to a place near the bar. He would then have to spend the rest of the evening sitting there quietly, ready to fetch his father a beer every time he had finished his tankard. Ahren was hopping from foot to foot, keeping an eye out for Likis, when he heard Falk beside him: 'Come with me and let's sit down'. He marched determinedly through the crowd to a long table where Likis' father was standing with other revellers. Taken by surprise, Ahren followed the Forest Guardian. He had forgotten completely that as an apprentice he could now sit with his master. Falk came to a halt, and immediately Ahren felt two wiry arms embracing him and heard Likis' voice. 'Wow, Ahren, what a surprise! You and the Guardian!' Ahren turned around to his friend and looked into his beaming face. He himself must have started smiling too and to his surprise he couldn't stop. I'm going to be a Forest Guardian, thought Ahren. This thought was only now beginning to sink in. 'It's going to take a long while to get used to it', he answered his friend, 'I'm only glad I've escaped the farm'. Likis grimaced. 'Where is your father by the way? What has he to say about it?' Ahren shuddered. His father knew nothing of what had happened but the fledgling apprentice didn't want to imagine how he would react. 'He fell asleep during the trials. He probably knows nothing about it'. 'Well, being a Forest Guardian is an honourable profession. I'm sure he'll be delighted for you', answered Likis comfortingly. Ahren wasn't so sure but kept this thought to himself. He needed more time to come to terms with all the changes that were going to happen in his life. Yet he had no more time for at that moment Likis' father leaned over to congratulate him. 'You really gave us a fright there, young man, in your fight with our newest bailiff. Congratulations on your new master - there are few people from whom you can learn more'. Then he turned back to Falk and began conversing with him. The two boys exchanged surprised looks for they had never known that the merchant held the Forest Guardian in such high esteem. Next, Likis' mother pushed her way through the revellers and held Ahren firmly in her arms. 'I knew everything would work out in the end. Rania would have been so proud of you'. His late mother's name brought tears to his eyes. The thought that she'd be proud of him warmed a place in his heart, a place that had been cold for too long. 'Thank you', he mumbled and could say no more. He had pulled himself together somewhat when she released him from her embrace but the warmth within remained and gave him strength. He sat down beside his master and suddenly realized how hungry he was. Everyone had already started eating so Ahren didn't need to hold back and took everything that he could lay hold on. Mature cheese of a golden-yellow hue, sweetened bread with honey, boar stuffed with wild berries, and plenty of the dark sauce Likis' mother made so skilfully and that she always served when he stayed to dinner. 'It seems expensive times lie ahead for you, Master Guardian', one of the villagers called out, looking at the enormous portion of food Ahren had piled on his plate. Falk looked at his apprentice with raised eyebrows. 'Well, if we fail to bag the next Dark One, I can always ask Ahren to eat it up. And if that doesn't work, then I'm stumped'. While the table companions were laughing uproariously, Falk added quietly, 'Your body is trying to compensate for all the energy you expended during the healing, the combat and the Void. Try not to eat too quickly or you'll get sick and throw it all up. Your body needs strength but your stomach must keep pace. So eat as much as you want, only slowly'. Ahren didn't quite understand what Falk meant by 'Void' but followed his advice. It wouldn't be a good idea anyway to disregard his master's orders at the first time of asking. To the amusement of the others and to the young boy's own surprise, he took two more helpings – and the portions were no smaller. Once Falk was convinced his protégé had adopted a slower eating pace for the day, he left him in peace with a satisfied contented mumble. Likis, on the other hand, jumped at the opportunity to tease his friend. 'If you keep eating like that, you'll only amount to a bog trotter', he said grinning broadly. 'Falk says it's because of the healing', said Ahren with his mouth full. 'That's true, now you say it. I was starving for a week after Keeper Jegral patched me up that time'. Likis had broken his leg four years previously during one of his climbing escapades. He had fallen three paces from a tree. Vera, the village Healer, told Likis' parents that his bone was shattered and he would probably be limping for the rest of his life. However, Keeper Jegral intervened and summoned the strength of the MOULDER. Ahren had heard horror stories from other villages where the priests would only undertake healings if they received donations or sometimes wouldn't perform them at all. But this was shrugged off as only a rumour in Deepstone. The few disabled villagers were the unlucky ones who even Jegral's powers couldn't fully heal. And yet there was no ill-feeling among them towards the priest – for he had indeed saved most of them from certain death. Like old Tohl with his missing arm. He had been the one and only victim of the Fog Cat that Falk had killed. The monster had ripped the farmer's arm off and disappeared into the forest with it. Jegral had prayed for many hours and managed to close up the gaping wound and thereby save the farmer's life. Ever since then old Tohl never failed to assist the priest in his ceremonial duties. In fact, Ahren could think of only one person who showed animosity towards Jegral - his father. Ahren was brought right down to earth when he thought of Edrik. He looked cautiously around for his father but he was nowhere to be seen. He was probably sleeping off his drunkenness or he had made himself at home at the beer barrel without his son. That was fine by Ahren. With a sigh of satisfaction he pushed the empty plate away from him and looked around the table. Everyone was deep in conversation. Likis' mother had taken on board her son's attentiveness towards Ahren, who was now feeling quite calm and at ease. The meal had strengthened his body but his friend's friendly words and those of his family had strengthened his soul. He listened to the laughing and joking of the others with delight, saw the genuine closeness among the villagers and watched the torches being put into position. He had lost all sense of time, and only when he looked up at the sky did he realise, how much time had passed by. Darkness was slowly drawing in and soon the torches would light up the festive square. The celebration normally went on late into the night and this one would be no exception. On an impulse, Ahrens spoke to Keeper Jegral as he was passing the table. The Keeper wasn't averse to good food and the occasional tankard but he was a stickler for observing his religious obligations. It was getting dark and so he was returning to his chapel to hold evening prayers as he did every day. It didn't seem to bother him that he sometimes held them without any attendees and he always had a friendly word for the villagers. 'Keeper Jegral?' Ahren asked the priest shyly. The priest stopped in surprise and paused. Then he spoke. 'Ahren, my congratulations to you on your formation into Forest Guardian. What can I do for you?' Ahren blushed slightly. He wasn't used to addressing the priest. 'I just want to thank you, Keeper Jegral. Without you my hand would…' He couldn't say the words. He would never have become Falk's apprentice without a healthy hand and would have remained a cripple by his father's side. The priest had saved far more than a boy's limb today. Jegral nodded patiently and came to Ahren's rescue as he struggled to find the right words. 'It wasn't me that healed you, it was HE THAT MOULDS. You must thank him. You could do this by attending prayers on Godsdays'. Before Ahren could apologise the Keeper continued, 'I know it wasn't your fault in the past but perhaps I shall see you more often in future?' Ahren was still too embarrassed to answer and could only muster a nod. The Keeper game him an encouraging smile and continued on to the chapel. The young apprentice turned to the table again and Falk, who had been involved in a lively discussion with the others asked curiously, 'what happened there?' 'I just said thanks', he answered. The Forest Guardian's face softened for a moment and he said, 'that's good. I wouldn't be happy if I took an ungrateful apprentice under my wing. How did the priest answer?' 'I should go to Godsday prayers'. 'Well, that's only right. Remind me in good time'. Likis' father, Velem, looked over at the two of them and said, 'there's one other thing you two should do to finish the formalities'. Likis' father drew his knife from his belt and passed it to Falk. 'Sit down over there', he said and pointed Ahren to the seat opposite his master's. The boy changed his place obediently. 'You seem to have recovered sufficiently, so now it's time to make the bond'. As the apprentice sat down, he asked, 'the bond? I've never heard of that'. The conversations around the table had now come to a halt and everyone was looking at the pair. Likis' father answered, 'It's an old custom that we rarely perform here in Deepstone. In days of yore the pact between master and apprentice was sealed in this way. It was a promise never to leave the other in the lurch even in the most difficult of times and to make the training the strongest bond until it was deemed completed. In those days it was necessary in order to overcome feuds between families or class distinctions between master and apprentice. It's an important tradition and one worth retaining'. Falk looked at the knife in his hand and replied, 'But nowadays the position of the master is generally seen as untouchable and he doesn't need to slash his apprentice as part of an old ritual'. He looked at the merchant reproachfully, who, however remained unimpressed and replied instead, 'my master completed the bond with me and I won't treat his memory with contempt by ignoring his teachings. Likis and I will likewise complete the bond even though we are father and son. You should heed my advice in this matter'. Once Ahren had heard the word 'slash' he had stopped listening and could only now look at the knife in horror. Falk gave the merchant a searching look, rubbed his chin as he thought and then said determinedly, 'right then. Let's do it'. He turned to his frightened apprentice and sighed. 'Look at the young boy, we're frightening him to death'. He shook his head and spoke reassuringly to Ahren. 'You have no need to fear. Look', and with a quick cut Falk scratched his palm until a little blood appeared. 'And now you. Put your arm out'. Ahren obeyed reluctantly. 'You must trust your master', said Falk. Then the fledgling apprentice felt a slight pain as the blade cut his skin. 'Now, put it there!' said Falk and stretched out his hand. Ahren gave his master his hand, who gripped it firmly and then said, Now we are master and apprentice'. 'Now you are master and apprentice', intoned Master Velem. Turning to Falk he murmured, 'even if you think this form of ritual is outdated, it's important to do it properly'. He turned to the surrounding tables, all of whom were looking at this point, stood up, and called loudly, 'I as a neutral master witness the bond between Master Falk and Apprentice Ahren. Do any other masters bear witness?' Many of the assembled seemed baffled at first. This form of ritual was indeed older than Velem had indicated. After a few moments however half a dozen mistresses and masters had raised their hands. Velem sat down again contentedly and turned to the two Forest Guardians. Falk looked Likis' father in the eyes and nodded once. Whatever was going on between the two of them, Ahren couldn't figure it out. All he knew was, if Falk didn't loosen his grip soon, he would definitely lose his right hand. At this point it had stopped tingling. Falk finally released his grip and fished two clean towels from his cloak. 'Here, press that on the cut. It will stop bleeding in a few minutes'. Likis got involved now. 'You say it was a spontaneous decision to seek an apprentice, yet you still brought suitable bandages for the bonding with you. We see through you, good Master Forest Guardian!' He beamed at everyone and many nodded in agreement. 'Admit it. You planned it all along'. 'Likis, as a Forest Guardian you always need to have bandages with you. You never know when you need them', Falk responded unmoved. The others laughed and clapped Falk on the back, and Likis and Ahren exchanged looks. 'Am I glad I'm becoming a merchant', the wiry boy whispered to his friend. Ahren looked at his bloody hand and the bandage and at this moment could only agree. Two hours later and Ahren had really joined in the merriment the table. There was much laughter. Falk had passed around a bottle of wine and Ahren was allowed to drink too – after all he was now an apprentice – and several songs had been song. Ahren had only been an observer at these feasts up until now. He had never been a part of them. This feeling of security was remarkably pleasant and he felt a warm glow inside. Suddenly he felt a calloused hand on his shoulder and an overpowering smell of beer and stale sweat filled his nostrils. 'So this is where you've been hiding yourself'. His father's speech was slurred. 'Come on, we're going'. The grip on Ahren's shoulder became even more painful, as was always the case when Edrik's movements had been numbed by alcohol. This hand seemed to be sucking out all the warmth and affection, and the sense of belonging Ahren had experienced over the last few hours. He hardly had time to react when his father turned around and started to leave without loosening the grip. Before the boy had pulled his second leg back from the table he lost his balance and fell to the ground. His father lost his balance too and crashed against one of the tables. Cursing and swaying, he planted himself over Ahren, when he heard Falk's voice. 'That's my apprentice you've thrown to the ground. You'd do well to help him up'. The drunkard squinted owlishly as he prepared his words. 'Apprentice? Him?' Edric laughed disdainfully. 'That's my son, and I'm taking him with me now'. With an almighty yank he pulled Ahren to his feet by the hair. Ahren gave a pleading look to everyone around him and saw Velem whispering something to the Forest Guardian. At which point Falk slowly rose and said in a quiet voice, 'you will leave my apprentice alone or I will defend him according to the old law'. His arms tensed up and Ahren saw muscles like cables bulging under his leathery skin. The older man's posture had completely changed and his whole appearance radiated enormous danger – like a predator sizing up its prey. The question didn't seem to be if he would attack his opponent but when. A fire blazed in the eyes of the Forest Guardian such as Ahren had never seen before and judging by the shocked looks of the other villagers, he was not the only one. Only Master Velem gave Falk a satisfied look. Ahren's father, meanwhile, strengthened his grip. He was too drunk to notice the danger he was in, and began hauling his son away from the light of the torches into the darkness. 'I'm this boy's father, and I decide what's to be done with him until he comes of age. The village will never allow the father's rights to be questioned'. In the meantime, the bailiff had stood up with his apprentice and quickly approached them. With a slick hand movement borne of years of experience dealing with tavern brawls, Master Pragur freed the young boy from the drunkard's grip and gestured to Holken to step between the adversaries. Falk calmed down visibly once Ahren was free and resumed his normal, relaxed attitude. Ahren was just as surprised by this transformation as he had been by the first. His master turned and with a quiet voice addressed the bailiff. 'I hereby declare a feud with Edrik the farmworker. As his son is my apprentice, I will take him according to the rights of my bond until his apprenticeship is complete or the feud ended'. Pragur stroked his moustache and stared at Falk with narrowed eyes. 'The bonding. Yes, I saw the ritual earlier. As did half the village. So, it looks like I can't do anything about it'. He gave Ahren a quick smile before turning to his father. 'The master will take the young boy with him as is the custom. And you, my friend, will sleep off your drunkenness and let the good people here carry on with their festivities'. Pragur and Holken grabbed Edrik and brought him, despite his loud, drunken protestations, to the bailiff's barrack room. It had a room where troublemakers could sleep off their intoxication. It wouldn't be the first night Ahren's father had spent there. 'That young boy is going to be a first rate bailiff' mumbled Falk as he watched Holken go off. 'Did everything correctly and reacted well, even if he doesn't particularly like you. You'll really have to match up to that, after all the trouble you've caused'. The twinkle in his eyes softened the blow of what he had said and he laid an arm on Ahren's shoulders, 'we'd better bring you home. That's enough excitement for one day'. The villagers had begun having quiet conversations among themselves again and occasionally looked over at the master and his apprentice. Most of them gave Ahren smiles of encouragement. Falk went to the table with the young boy to pick up the rest of his belongings. Master Velen, with his arms clasped in front of his chest, looked up at the Forest Guardian and grinned broadly. He nodded to the merchant once and said, 'I should listen to your advice more often. That was a clever way out you gave me. That wouldn't have worked without the bonding, and Ahren's father would have been in the right. Thank you'. Likis looked up at his father in awe, who shrugged his shoulders and said, 'it stood to reason that Edrik wouldn't let his son go. I was only too happy to help. For years I've had to listen to how that awful man treats his own son. Sometimes it only takes a few well-placed words to emerge the winner in a particular situation. Look on it as your first lesson, Likis'. At that point Velem began to explain to his son and apprentice the finer points of trade negotiations. Falk nodded goodbye to the revellers and led the exhausted boy to his new home.

(13th Paladin 1) Ahren

Torsten Weitze

Chapter 5

The sun was already a hand's span over the horizon when Ahren woke up. There was no sign of Falk and so the young boy looked around the hut which would be his home from now on. He had been worn out the night before and the Forest Guardian had led him to a corner of the room with a mattress and a blanket. The boy had fallen asleep straight away. He could see by the light of day that the hut was quite big enough for one person. It was completely finished in wood. At first glance there didn't appear to be any joints in the wood but when Ahren went closer to the wall and looked more closely, he saw that each beam was cut perfectly into the next. He had never seen such accurate craftsmanship. The furnishings in the hut, on the other hand, were very plain. A simple stool adorned a round table. There was a shelf on the wall, with a few wooden bowls and cooking utensils. The massive chest in the corner of the room was padlocked, so it probably contained all the Forest Guardian's worldly belongings. The cooking area consisted of a pot on a tripod, over which a hole in the ceiling was visible. No fireplace. No oven. Ahren pulled the blanket back and stood up. The bed on which he had spent the night seemed to be made out of some kind of fibrous material which he didn't recognize. The mattress was only two fingers thick and yet the young boy had slept better on it than on the usual straw mattress two hand spans thick. He was still puzzling over the material and design of the mattress when the room darkened. He turned his head and saw Falk standing in the door. 'Good morning, Ahren. Good that you're awake. I wouldn't have let you sleep much longer'. 'Good morning, Falk…I mean, Master Falk', Ahren caught himself. 'We actually get up much earlier, but because you had to go through rather a lot yesterday, I've decided on a more leisurely start to the day so I went to get a few things. As you can see, I'm not set up for guests, never mind an apprentice'. Ahren was taken aback and had another look around. There really were no more mattresses. 'Where did you sleep?' Falk pointed with his thumb over his shoulder. 'Outside. If it's warm and dry enough, I feel better in the open air'. Ahren glanced through the window in the direction indicated. Five paces from the house there was a broad fir tree and at its feet there was a blanket. His master didn't seem to place much value on comfort. 'First we eat', Falk decided and brought over a newly constructed stool which he placed opposite the other one. Then he took a bundle wrapped in an oilcloth from his back and slowly laid it on the ground. 'I can imagine you have a few questions. If you have too many questions in your head, there comes a point when you can't hear the answers anymore'. With practised movements Falk quickly lit a small fire under the pot. 'Unpack your things while the stew is warming'. Falk stirred the spoon in the pot with one hand and pointed with other at the bundle he had put down on the floor. Ahren went over to it with curiosity and opened out the oilcloth. He gasped in surprise. He saw a pair of boots, a jerkin and leggings, all made from buckskin. There was also a hunting knife in a buckskin scabbard. Wide-eyed he stared at the treasures in front of him. The boots alone looked better made than anything he had ever worn. His father had never brought much money home and had drunk most of it, leaving Ahren very often dependent on the charity of the other villagers. And so he often wore the cast-offs of the other village boys, and these were continually patched up until he had grown out of them. He had never seen clothes like those lying in front of him. He looked up at his master with gratitude, but he had turned his back and was fully occupied with the stew. 'You're lucky that I placed an order for a new set of clothes with Mistress Dohlmen. I collected them earlier. The woman is up almost as early as I am. Her new apprentice Rufus doesn't seem too happy about that.' Falk laughed heartily before continuing, 'what you're wearing at the moment would have been in tatters by the afternoon. Not that they'd be much loss. But you'd have lost half your skin as well'. He could have given me his old clothing and held onto the new for himself, thought Ahren. 'Thank you', he said. 'But I'm afraid I'll have to remain in your debt'. He wanted to keep things clear between them before he even touched the clothing. The Forest Guardian turned around and looked at him with raised eyebrows. 'Don't worry about that, you'll be earning those clothes. I meant what I said on the village square yesterday. You have what it takes to become a Forest Guardian. I don't take on apprentices lightly. In fact, you're the first. It will be a learning experience for the two of us', said the Forest Guardian with a twinkle in his eyes and turned again towards the fire. 'You should put on the things and see if they fit. Mistress Dohlmen did make a few alterations early this morning. That woman really has a good eye, but we want to be sure, don't we? What's important is that you can move well in them but that they're not too big. Oh, and behind the house is a stream if you want to wash yourself first'. Ahren nodded and disappeared behind the hut with his things. A small stream, perhaps two paces in width, gurgled along behind the house. The current was gentle and Ahren stomped, snorting, into the water until it reached his hips. The clear, cold water banished all tiredness from his bones, and after he had dried himself with his old clothing, he slipped into his new. The leather was supple and had already been oiled, and everything fitted well, apart from the shoulders and the leggings. The boots were a little big but Ahren had experience in making clothes fit. He stuffed the front of the boots with strips of cloth he had cut from his old shirt, he rolled up the leggings and cushioned the shoulders. Within a few minutes he was finished and went back into the house. Falk was already waiting for him with two steaming bowls of stew. The Forest Guardian offered him a bowl and eyed him critically. 'It'll do for now. You'll have grown into them soon. Now eat and ask what you have to ask'. Ahren took a spoonful of the stew which consisted of rabbit, vegetables and several herbs he couldn't identify. In an effort to win time he tasted the food, chewed it slowly while he tried to think of what he wanted to know first. The food tasted amazing and Ahren noticed that the same hunger came over him that he had felt the previous day at the feast. His body still needed to compensate for the healing process of the previous night. In order to eat his food in peace he threw the first question he could think of into the room. 'Why did you decide to take part in the apprentice search in the end? Why are you going to so much trouble on my account?' 'As I already said, you have what it takes to be a Forest Guardian. There's a girl in Two Rocks who would also be suitable but her Apprenticeship Trial isn't until next year. I saw how you fought your way through the tests. You did your best without complaint or excuses in spite of your injury and you didn't give up. But it was something else that tipped the balance'. Ahren froze, his spoon half way towards his mouth, 'and what was that?' Falk studied the boy for a moment before he spoke. 'Bad people are not born that way, they are created. By us. By all of us. What we experience, shapes us. And in a permanent way. Throw enough weeds into a well and it becomes poisoned. Clean it regularly and fish out the weeds, you always have clear water. Sven, the miller's son? He was always a timid boy, but that doesn't make him into a bad person. But if his parents don't take the fear away from him but stoke it up so that they can keep him under control, then he'll continue to hide behind every strong back he can find and use every bit of power he can lay hands on'. Ahren shuddered as he remembered the look Sven had given him at the tree house. Could fear really create so much anger? 'I've seen and heard how your father treated you and so far you've put up a great fight in order not to be influenced by it, or at least not much. But the thought of what would happen to you if no-one intervened was unbearable. Sometimes we create the biggest monsters by doing nothing'. Ahren was both confused and annoyed. The thought that Falk could see a future monster in him was far from flattering. His reaction could be seen in his face because Falk continued, 'that wasn't what you wanted to hear, was it? But it's important that you understand it. If I hadn't intervened, you'd probably become a bitter, sad man. Unfortunately, bitter, sad men have the habit of spreading more sadness and bitterness. And some of these people are particularly successful…I know what I'm talking about'. Falk gazed into the distance as he spoke. There was a sadness in his face before his features softened and he turned to Ahren again. 'Our work as Forest Guardians will repeatedly lead to confrontations with the Dark Ones. How will you fight a Grief Wind if you haven't learned to subdue your bad experiences?' Falk didn't wait for an answer but continued. 'You're a good person and you can become a good Guardian. If I hadn't stepped in, you'd be at the very least a sad person and certainly no Forest Guardian. Wasn't that a good enough reason?' Ahren nodded shyly. He was grateful to his master. But the thought that he had been selected in order to prevent a greater evil remained. Falk could see that his apprentice was not completely persuaded, but decided not to press further. The young boy had little reason to trust people, and his little speech had undermined the boy's self-confidence even more. He decided to change the subject. 'Have you ever actually held a real bow in your hand? I don't mean that old thing with the practice arrows from the Harvest Festival. Your last shot yesterday was really very good. The bow tautened, raised, aimed and released in a single flowing movement. I had a look at the bell this morning. It wasn't just a glancing shot, it was a bull's eye'. The Guardian's words had their effect. Ahren's face lit up and youthful vivacity came flooding back into him. Of course, the fact that he'd just finished his fourth bowl of stew might have helped too. 'No, I've never shot with a real bow and arrow. But it was all so easy somehow, once it was calm in my head and I'd swopped hands'. And he looked down at his right hand which held the soupspoon. 'We'll have to work on that, boy. There's nothing wrong with using the left hand, that's just superstition. Does your father come from the Low Marshes?' Ahren nodded, carefully took the spoon in his left hand and answered deep in thought. 'He grew up at the edge of the Border Lands. He wanted to get away from there like so many others and move further in to the Midlands. And there is no more peaceful kingdom in the Midlands than Hjalgar so this is where he settled'. 'Yes, the people there have strange ideas. Their proximity to the Pall Pillar has made them too cautious and superstitious if you ask me'. Falk pointed at Ahren's hand, which was holding the spoon rather clumsily. 'It'll take you a while to get used to it. Then everything will be much easier, believe me'. Ahren looked up with curiosity. 'And what was that, the...Void, I think you called it yesterday'. The Guardian nodded. 'Ah yes, the Void. That's the trick I showed you. That's where you concentrate on emptying your mind. I'm surprised it worked so well. On the other hand, I've heard that some people in extreme situations were able to do it in no time at all. But don't expect it to work so quickly the next time'. 'Oh', said Ahren, disappointed. 'I'm not saying you won't be able to learn it, but it takes time. Anyway I had to improvise yesterday. The tree house probably won't last as a focus point for too much longer, unless you're more attached to it that I thought'. He smiled at the youngster. 'A focus point? What do you mean?' 'The picture you concentrate on when you're trying to reach the Void. But we'll deal with that later. Do you have any other questions?' Ahren looked down at the knife that was sheathed in his scabbard in front of his chest. Before he could ask his question Falk said quickly, 'oh no. That will stay where it is for the moment. The knife is only to be used in absolute emergencies unless I say otherwise. In our line of work you've made a terrible mistake if you get so close to an animal that you must use it to defend yourself. Firstly, you have to get to know the forest, and really take in everything that I teach you about it. And we can train your left hand at the same time. Then we'll see how it's going'. Falk stood up and opened the lock of the chest, using a small key which hung on a leather strap around his neck. 'Why don't you make yourself useful and do the washing-up while I assemble the things we need for the day'. Ahren stood up obediently and carried the bowls out to the stream. When he returned to the hut a few minutes later, Falk had a bow in his hand and a big rucksack on his bag. 'Today I'll carry everything while you try to keep pace. Let's go'. As he spoke, Falk walked quickly towards the forest and Ahren hurried alongside him. The first day was promising to be really easy. He'd been in the forest so often before and would have no problems keeping up with a heavily laden older man. An hour later and Ahren was flat on his back again, gasping for air. Falk was squatting beside him with an amused look. It had taken only a few minutes after the start of their march for the penny to drop with Ahren. Falk was going to keep up the fast pace he was using. That in itself wouldn't have been a problem. Yet neither the trees, nor the uneven ground, nor the undergrowth nor even the little streams would slow Falk down. The same couldn't be said for his young companion. He had never been clumsy in the forest before but the speedy pace ensured that he couldn't avoid the branches in time and he also stumbled over roots and got caught up in the brambles. Now he understood what Falk had said earlier when he had spoken about Ahren's old clothes and how they would be in tatters. The buckskin protected him from thorns and the whipping branches. His old clothes would have been torn and useless within minutes. And as for his skin, Ahren shuddered to think what state it would have been in by now. He stumbled behind Falk, keeping pace after a fashion, gasping for air and cursing to himself whenever he managed to get enough air into his lungs. As soon as the Guardian stopped, Ahren collapsed on the spot. It was a mystery to him that Falk hadn't sent him back to the village there and then. 'That will do for the moment. Once you've got yourself together we can have a look at the plants that are growing here'. Ahren nodded gratefully and listened intently as Falk showed him the various plants in the clearing. After a quarter of an hour he said, 'right then, up you get! We've a long way ahead of us'. Groaning, Ahren struggled to his feet and followed his master into the forest. And so the day went on in this fashion. An hour's march. Then a quarter hour break, during which time he learned to recognize the different plants. Falk always seemed to seek out the places where very many different varieties of plants could be found. By the time they were returning to the cabin in the late evening, Ahren could hardly place one foot in front of the other. Falk took off his rucksack and said, 'so my boy, let's see what you've remembered'. He produced many bundles of green plants and laid them out on the grass. 'Tell me which ones you recognize and what they're called'. Ahren could hardly believe his ears. His legs were no longer his own and he had an overpowering desire to curl up into a ball and fall asleep. As he looked at the plants lying in front of him, he realized he couldn't identify a single one. Falk was silent and let the boy think. Ahren considered them for a long time as he really wanted to name at least one of them. His eyes wandered again and again over the various branches, grasses, berries and mushrooms. Finally his eyes settled on a reddish plant. He pointed at it and said uncertainly, 'Wolf Herb?' Even to his own ears it sounded more like a question than a statement. 'Do you know another one?' asked Falk. The young boy shook his head. His ears were red. First I spend the day trudging and panting my way through the wood as if I had never been in the open air before, and now I can only identify one measly plant, thought Ahren forlornly. He was downcast. Of course Falk would send him back. Would explain that he'd made a mistake. That Ahren would never evolve into a good Forest Guardian. But his master merely nodded, gathered everything up and placed it into the chest. 'That was very good. It took me three days before I could even recognize one. My master was at his wits' end'. The young boy looked up in amazement. It seemed absurd to him that his master could ever have struggled with the same problems. Surely Falk was only softening the blow. His disbelief must have been written all over his face because once Falk had stored all the plants, he looked up and chuckled. 'It's only natural that you don't believe me. You should just keep in mind that I've had a much longer time to practise than you have. One plant is a good result for your first day'. Falk fell silent and Ahren thought that his master must be finished. But then he continued and fixed Ahren with a steely look and spoke with an intense urgency. 'You must think in small steps. One plant after the other. One step after the other. There are so many things to learn, so many things you don't know about yet. Things that are second nature to me now. I'm sure it seems like an impossible task to you. But there's only one rule that's essential for your training: never give up. You can make mistakes, you can learn incredibly slowly or be clumsy as you like. But you cannot give up. If you don't, you'll learn everything from me that I know. And in all honesty, that's not quite a lot'. The grin reappeared on Falk's face and he slapped his apprentice on the shoulder. The young boy could only stare at his master in silence as he thought about everything he had heard. Never give up. His master had reduced all his fears doubts into this simple rule and this had an incredibly soothing effect on Ahren. Because a promise resonated through Falk's words, one which deeply moved the youngster: As long as he didn't give up, then Falk would not give up on him either. After they had polished off the rest of the stew from the morning, the youngster lay down on the mattress and fell asleep immediately. His quiet, deep breathing filled the hut and Falk noticed that his apprentice was smiling in his sleep. The old man couldn't possibly know this. But it was the first time in years that Ahren was at peace in his sleep.

(13th Paladin 1) Ahren

Torsten Weitze

Chapter 6

Whatever about Ahren smiling in his sleep, the next morning was hell. He was woken up by his master's low humming, as he warmed up a herbal soup. The delicious aromas permeated the little cabin and the boy's stomach started to rumble. He moved to get up, groaned hoarsely and clenched his legs. The least movement and he felt as if he were being pricked with needles. Falk turned around when he heard the groans of this apprentice, 'good morning, Ahren', he said with a chuckle. 'Are you hungry?' 'The soup smells good master but it would taste even better if you had a new pair of legs for me'. Ahren sat up clumsily and pulled his legs slowly under him so that he could stand. It took all his willpower not to groan again but he gave a clenched smile to his mentor. Falk nodded knowingly. 'That's good. You're fighting your way through. Don't give up. Come here, the soup will help you. Some of the herbs will ease the pain and others will help your muscles to get through the day'. The boy walked unsteadily to his stool and looked at his companion in horror. 'We're running again today?' 'No, we're not', said Falk with an impassive look. 'Great'. A wave of relief came over Ahren and he flopped down on the stool. 'We'll go at the same pace today as we did yesterday. I think that we'll wait with the running for a bit'. The old man's demeanour remained the same but Ahren truly believed that his master was enjoying every second of this. Resigned to his fate Ahren grasped his spoon and tried the food. The soup was strong and thick, the taste was intense and spicy, and Ahren had swallowed three bowlfuls within minutes. As he reached for the bowl again, Falk shook his head. 'That's not a good idea, boy. Any more and you'll get sick as soon as we leave the house. Your body needs to regain the energy you lost through the healing but it has to be done slowly. Why don't you wash yourself and get dressed while I prepare everything for today's march'. Ahren recognized an order, even if it was formulated politely, and stood up obediently. To his surprise he realized that the stiffness in his legs and the pains had become distinctly more bearable. Whatever was in the soup had had an immediate effect. He clamped his leather clothing under his arm and left the hut while his master began tidying up. When he came back a few minutes later, Falk was already dressed and was equipped with the same rucksack as the previous day, although it looked distinctly heavier today. 'Ready. Then let's go'. Falk tossed something to Ahren, which bounced off the surprised boy's chest and rolled across the floor. He bent down to pick it up and saw that it was a leather ball, not quite the size of a fist. He looked over questioningly at the Guardian, who gestured to him to throw the ball back. 'With your left', he said firmly. Ahren threw the ball somewhat clumsily to his master, who then left the hut and strode quickly into the undergrowth. His apprentice followed him into the warm summer's day with a sigh and resigned himself to his fate. He trotted a while to catch up with Falk when suddenly the ball flew at him from the greenery. He just managed to pull his hand up – otherwise the thing would have hit him in the face. As it was it just bounced painfully off his hand – his right one. Falk's voice echoed through the forest. 'With the left, boy. And don't just stand there. The way is long today. And I'd like the ball again!' Ahren rubbed his hand with a curse, picked up the ball and ran wearily into the forest. The hours passed as they had done the previous day. Except that Falk would throw him the ball again and again, and Ahren would have to catch it with his left hand and throw it back again. This meant that the apprentice not only had to keep up the pace, avoid the branches, and look out for the roots, but also keep sight of Falk, as he never knew where the cursed ball would fly from next. Ahren was spurred on by the realization that the leather ball really hurt when it hit his face, which happened regularly at the start. Any time he dropped the ball he would have to follow it and then catch up with his master, who didn't wait of course. Ahren never thought he would hate anything so much in such a short time as this small piece of sewn leather. It was almost noon. Falk had just placed the plants in front of him, which he brought with him in the rucksack instead of plucking them again. He looked at the position of the sun in the sky and said, 'now we should be there soon, so be on your best behaviour'. 'Be where soon?' asked Ahren in surprise. 'At Vera's of course. Don't you know where we are?' Falk sounded genuinely surprised. Ahren looked around and recognized that they were in an offshoot of the forest that was known by the villagers simply as Herbal Grove. Vera, the village Healer lived here, and Deepstone itself was only a few hundred paces away. They must have been running in a wide curve. Ahren hadn't been paying any attention to his surroundings on account of his exhaustion and perpetual concentration. 'But what do we have to do at hers, master. Are you ill?' 'Don't be silly. Who do you think she gets her herbs from if they grow in inaccessible places and can't be raised in her garden?' Now that his master had mentioned it, he remembered hearing that Vera had been helped by the Guardian. The woman was over 80 summers old and couldn't walk so well any more. But there wasn't a family in the village she hadn't assisted, healing an ill family member or saving domestic livestock. For this reason she always had a steady stream of visitors who supplied her with everything she needed. She also loved chatting and listening, which made her the best port of call, along with the tavern and the village well, if you wanted to hear the latest news – which only increased the willingness of the villagers to give her a helping hand. Falk looked at the boy sternly. 'This will be your first appearance as my apprentice. Be polite, speak as little as possible and don't get in the way'. 'Yes, Master…' Ahren stammered. He knew Vera. The old woman was always friendly to him and Falk's harsh instructions seemed over the top. Unless he's ashamed of me, he thought quickly. Falk seemed to realize what Ahren was thinking and he said in a milder tone, 'the Healer's house is a hot bed of rumours, I don't want you to say anything that could be taken the wrong way. The beginning of your training was dramatic enough, and the bonding ritual I performed with you was unusual too. We don't want to add grist to the mill'. And with that the Guardian threw the leather ball at Ahren, who had been staring at his master but instinctively raised his left hand and plucked the ball out of the air. He tossed the ball back to his master in triumph. 'That's a start', said Falk and nodded. They went a little further and came to a small clearing that lay directly at the forest's edge. Only a few trees separated the small, thatched log cabin with its large tidily cultivated herb garden from the first houses of the village. A well worn narrow brick path snaked its way between them. Everything was neat and tidy. The herb garden was surrounded by a thick wooden fence and there was even a luxurious flower bed just before the front door, wafting beautiful smells in the late afternoon sun. Ahren had only been here twice before and that was in autumn and winter. It looked so different now and it took him a few seconds to recognize the place. Falk gave him another stern look as they reached the front door. They could hear voices from the inside conversing cheerfully. Obviously the latest morsels of gossip were being exchanged and Ahren understood now why his master had insisted on a note of caution. Falk knocked on the door, the voices fell silent within and they entered the house. A friendly woman with a smile on her deeply wrinkled face was sitting in her rocking chair. Although it was warm, her legs were wrapped in a woollen blanket. A young woman had just risen from the stool and was picking up a basket. It was Senja. Her mother was the village weaver and she was the eldest daughter. 'I'd better be going now, I've wasted too much time already', she said. She nodded to the herbalist, smiled uncertainly towards Falk and Ahren and darted out before hurrying away quickly. The boy looked after her thoughtfully. Was he mistaken, or had she been afraid of them? 'Now, now, don't be brooding', said the old woman instead of a greeting, and smiled at Ahren. She seemed to see right into him with her clever eyes. 'You two with your leather gear and your knives are well capable of giving a right fright to a pretty young thing'. Falk snorted and bent down to give Vera a kiss on the cheek. 'The boy worries too much about what other people think of him, but I'll drive that out of him'. She smiled up at him and patted him on the cheek. 'Don't be too hard on him or he'll run away from you yet'. Ahren was totally taken aback by his master's friendly, even affectionate behaviour. 'That would be pointless', said Falk. I'm a Forest Guardian, I'll find him. Anywhere'. At least that sounds like the Falk I know, thought Ahren. He positioned himself in a corner of the room and tried to be as unobtrusive as possible, while looking around with curiosity. The house was one-roomed just like the Guardian's lodgings, and the beams in the roof were festooned with bundles of herbs. They were hanging from them at differing stages of the drying process. There were shelves on two walls, with pots, jugs and little jars, all labelled in tidy handwriting. A cooking area and a narrow bed filled the other walls. A table with two stools, as well as the large rocking chair Vera was sitting on, stood in the middle of the room. Falk began to empty his rucksack and to spread out the herbs he'd gathered the previous day on the table. Vera looked at him as he worked with a contented smile on her lips. 'They'll do for a while. You've brought an unusually large amount of plants today, even some I have here in the garden, although I have only a few of each sort'. Falk pointed with his thumb towards Ahren. 'Basic training'. Vera nodded. 'Typical Falk. Why give one task when you can do two or three at the same time'. The Healer waved Ahren towards her and pointed at the plants on the table. 'And? Do you recognize any of them yet?' As Ahren approached the table he felt Falk's penetrating look and immediately began to sweat. He took up the red plant that he had identified the previous day and said 'Wolf Herb'. 'Good. Keep going'. The old woman's gentle eyes seemed to radiate total confidence in his abilities so that he felt unable to explain that he'd only heard of medicinal plants the day before. Instead he looked down at the table and tried to remember. Low Herb and Blue Head. And this one had to be Sharp Thistle. Ahren was pointing at the individual herbs which had individual characteristics or striking colours. He had tried to concentrate on the plants that had stood out during the break earlier in the day, and this was now helping him. But there were another thirty bundles in various shades of green on the table that said nothing to him. His two older companions looked at him fixedly. Vera patiently and Falk sternly. A gust of wind carried the sumptuous aromas from the flowerbed at the front door into the house and this gave Ahren an idea. He bent down over the table and immediately two intensive scents filled his nostrils. 'Stink Weed, and Sneeze Root'. He had identified two further plants. Falk snorted contentedly and Vera gave a smile of encouragement. 'You've found yourself a clever apprentice, you old fox', she chuckled. Ahren beamed with pride and looked up at this master – only to be surprised by the leather ball, which hit his nose. He shot his left hand up far too late and only managed to give himself a blow under the chin. 'A start', said Falk drily while his apprentice angrily chased the leather ball and cursed silently to himself, using every bad word he had ever learnt. When he stood up again and turned around, he saw the old woman had a very serious look on her face. 'Be careful out there, and take care of the boy. One of the woodcutters saw a deer last week that had literally been torn to shreds. As if by a Blood Wolf'. Ahren held his breath. Had he heard correctly? Falk snorted. 'You know what the woodcutters are like, superstitious to the last. They're always seeing things that aren't there'. 'It won't do any harm to take a little care, though', Vera added. Falk responded in a calm voice. 'Blood Wolves rarely come so far to the east. The last one I saw was over twenty years ago. And anyway they're unbelievably territorial. If there were one here, then there would be dead wolves and bears lying all over the forest'. Ahren gave a strangled gasp and Falk turned to look at his apprentice. The boy had gone pale with fright and was staring wide-eyed at Falk. 'Look what you've started with your idle chatter. The boy is totally shocked', grumbled Falk. He went up to the terrified boy and put a hand on his shoulder. Ahren looked up at him and stammered. 'Can a Blood Wolf really kill a bear?' Falk led him to the table where the old woman was sitting and looking at the boy keenly. He gently pushed him down onto one of the stools and sat beside him. 'This was really only supposed to be discussed much later on in your training but as the subject has now been broached we might as well get it over with'. Falk shot the herbalist an angry look, but she looked back at him serenely. 'What do you know about the Dark Ones? Falk asked in a quiet voice. Ahren's mind was racing. His head was full of the old stories that were told around the camp fires or late at night during the Winter Festival. 'They…they can turn themselves into smoke, they eat the souls of their victims, and before you die, they make you go mad. They're full of hate and teeth and claws and they're the servants of HIM WHO FORCES'. He could only whisper the last few words. His master gave an amused look before becoming serious again. 'That's all true but not all Dark Ones possess all those powers. Otherwise the Adversary would certainly have won that time. There are more than twenty different Dark Ones that we know of. Each individual one has his own unique powers and they all serve HIM'. Vera slowly got up from her rocking chair and shuffled heavily to one of the shelves. From there she fetched a bottle and three beakers and placed them on the table. She filled the beakers with an amber liquid while Falk continued. 'About a dozen of these Dark Ones are really relevant to us Forest Guardians. And only very rarely does one of them come into this neck of the woods'. Vera passed them their beakers and sat back on the rocking chair with her own. She closed her eyes and took a sip. Ahren carefully smelled at his beaker and his nostrils filled with the sweet pungent smell of honey mead. He looked at the beaker in awe. Only the wealthy villagers could afford this drink and then it was normally served in thimble-sized cups. Ahren had never been near a full beaker before. For a moment he even forgot his fear as he admired the priceless treasure. Falk absently raised the beaker to his lips and continued. 'Blood Wolves were once normal ice-wolves, the largest wolves that exist in nature. The Adversary forced them under his control. He made them larger and stronger. The more blood they drink, the mightier and angrier they become. In the Dark Days, the first rule of thumb was to kill the opposing army's Blood Wolves, before they had torn apart too many of their enemies and their frenzy had become almost unconquerable'. Ahren listened in fear and gripped his beaker of mead. Without thinking, he took a drink and felt a warm burning sensation spreading down his throat and into his stomach. 'An adult Blood Wolf can easily defeat a bear, and that's why I'm certain none has entered the forest. I would have heard it long ago and seen its path of destruction'. The mead was slowly having its effect and Ahren's head began to feel light. His fear of the Blood Wolf disappeared in a gentle fog that seemed to envelop his thoughts. He had relaxed considerably. Vera gave a grunt of satisfaction as she saw the change in the apprentice's appearance. Falk gave him another encouraging tap on the shoulder as he glanced darkly at the Healer. 'It was completely unnecessary to upset my apprentice like that. A lecture on the Dark Ones is definitely not for the second day of training'. Ahren emptied his beaker. The deliciously sweet yet spicy taste of the mead, and the feeling of drowsiness and fearlessness that it gave him, gave rise to a leaden heaviness in his arms and legs, and he could feel his eyes closing. Suddenly there was an almighty bang that startled him, his eyes shot open and he saw the stern, weather-beaten face of the old Forest Guardian a mere hand span away looking at him. For a moment Ahren was back in his father's dark hut, and as he screamed and shot his arms up in an effort to protect himself, he threw his body backward, his stool tipped over and he fell back in a tangle of arms and legs. He stared up at his master in a fog. Falk's hand still lay flat on the table where he had let it fall in order to wake the boy. Vera clicked her tongue disapprovingly and Falk scratched his beard with an embarrassed look on his face. 'I think we're going to have to get to know each other a little more. I'm really sorry, boy. That's how my master used to wake me up, whenever I dozed off doing my exercises. I still forget that you've grown up differently to me'. Ahren picked himself up off the floor, his heart was pounding and he could only nod, because he didn't trust himself to be able to speak. Neither of them could utter a word and so the two Forest Guardians only looked at each other in embarrassment. Suddenly a high squeaky sound could be heard that broke the awkward silence and both of them turned around to Vera in surprise. She was giggling into her shawl. 'You almost managed a summersault and your feet rubbed off the herbs hanging off the ceiling', Vera spluttered, overcome by a fit of giggling and pointed upwards. Falk and Ahren looked up in surprise at the slowly swinging bundles of herbs and burst out laughing themselves. Their mutual embarrassment was punctured by the hilarity of it all. Falk shook his head, finished his mead and stood up. 'That didn't exactly go according to plan. You were supposed to learn something about herbs. Instead we frighten the life out of you with stories of the Dark Ones, pour alcohol down your throat, and you almost break your neck by falling off the chair'. Vera giggled again and also stood up. 'Before we leave, I just want to ask if Ahren can drop by now and then and learn how to make the most important creams and compresses. That will give me the chance to do parts of my job which he can't participate in yet and then he'll also have the odd day when his body can recover'. He smiled in Ahren's direction. Vera nodded. 'Of course. The boy is a bright spark and I'm always happy to share my knowledge. It will only be enough to learn the basics, though. If he wants to learn more, I'll have to keep him for one or two winters'. The three of them stepped out into the late afternoon sun and Vera and Falk gave each other a quick hug. Ahren gave an awkward nod of farewell and noticed the Healer whisper something to his master before breaking away from him. Falk nodded and strode quickly away with his apprentice in tow. The old woman stood in the doorway and, lost in thought, watched them leave. The return journey to Falk's cabin was surprisingly short. Ahren's master reminded him to remember the direct route so that he would be able to find his own way to Vera's hut the next time. Again and again he pointed out way markings to the boy. These would help him to orientate himself. He also showed him how the position of the sun in the sky could also help determine the correct direction. He didn't use the ball at all on the return journey, much to Ahren's relief. They arrived at the cabin just as dusk was falling and Falk ordered him to go in and light the fire in the hearth. The night was drawing in and they were sitting at their evening meal when Ahren asked a question that had occupied his mind before he had become Falk's apprentice. 'Master, where do you actually come from?' Falk looked up from his bowl quizzically and grunted, 'What do you mean?' 'Well, everybody knows that you arrived in Deepstone a long time ago, but there are lots of different opinions about where you came from'. 'Is that so?' His older companion's face seemed to darken. 'What opinions have you heard?' 'Most people believe you come from the Knight Marshes. That you spoke their local dialect in those days. Others think you picked up your knowledge of the Dark Ones in the Border Lands. Still others are of the opinion that you lived among the elves of Evergreen', said Ahren as he divulged the most popular theories. His master didn't seem to take too kindly to his question but Ahren felt he ought to know as much as possible about the man in whose house he was now living. Falk was just about to rebuke him sharply but then thought better of it. 'All those theories have a grain of truth in them but none of them hits the nail on the head. I received my training in Eathinian as part of a punishment. That's what we call the territory of the forest elves and you should remember that. Evergreen is a very crude translation. The same as if an elf called Deepstone 'a heavy thing that makes a clunking sound and falls a long way down'. It's not only inexact but it's not in the least aesthetic, it makes you sound like a complete idiot to them'. Although this little insight into the language of the elves was fascinating, Ahren was interested in something completely different. 'Your training was a punishment?' That would certainly explain his training methods, thought Ahren drily. 'Not what you're thinking. I was a drifter when I arrived in Eathinian. I lit a fire in the forest where it was prohibited, I slaughtered an animal that was protected and I relieved myself in a river that provided drinking water to an elf village two miles further along. Even one of these misdemeanours could cost your head among the elves, or, if they were feeling charitable, result in banishment. Quite a few of them wanted to see me dead, but when I was brought before the priestess of HER THAT FEELS to receive my sentence, it turned out she had a finely tuned, if very dark, sense of humour. I had to bear my guilt in the forest until I had undone the damage I had caused. My fire had destroyed an old tree that had stood there for many decades. The animal I had slaughtered had been vital for the maintenance of the balance between predator and prey. The elves take such things very seriously. And so I spent many years learning everything about the forest to make good for this one tree, and to bring the wildlife back into balance, which is much harder than I had thought, certainly if you go by elf standards. Any time I thought I had done the right thing my mistress would point out to me what the consequences of my actions were. In the end and with her help I had made good for the tree and restored the balance and in the meantime I had become a Forest Guardian. I didn't want then and have never wanted since to be anything else'. Ahren stared at his master in silence. He tried to reconcile what he had heard with the man who was sitting in front of him. Falk nodded contentedly when it became clear that his apprentice wasn't going to ask any more questions. 'Now you know a little bit more. You're going to have to earn the next personal question'. He stood up abruptly, almost as though he regretted having been so open. 'I'm going to sleep. Clear up, quench the fire and go to bed too. Tomorrow's going to be a demanding day for you'. And with those words, Falk went out into the darkness leaving a very thoughtful apprentice sitting at the table asking himself what Falk meant by demanding. How, he wondered, would his master describe the last two days?

(13th Paladin 1) Ahren

Torsten Weitze

Chapter 7

Ahren lay on his mat the following evening wishing he were dead. Or that the forest would flee. Or that the bailiff would come and take away his master for unnecessary cruelty to apprentices in general and to Ahren in particular. And then lock him up in a particularly dark and damp dungeon. This thought almost made him smile – but even that was sore. With a groan and all the energy he could muster Ahren managed to turn on his side and slurp a little more soup from the bowl beside his bed. It was supposed to calm his maltreated muscles. It was his fourth portion in the last two hours but his body still felt as if a millstone had rolled over it. A particularly large millstone. With prongs. They had headed off early in the morning and within a few hundred paces after entering the forest Falk had led him to an imposing king oak tree that stretched about thirty paces into the air and had enormous sweeping branches. It really was a magnificent tree and Ahren had looked up at it in amazement until his master said, 'up there in the tree top is a red towel knotted to it. Can you bring it down for me please?' Ahren had been delighted. This probably meant there was no running around on the agenda today and he could give his legs a bit of a rest. He had always liked climbing and he had a knack for it. But his master knew that already so why was he testing him again? With a shrug of his shoulders and an 'of course, master' he set to work. He scampered up the first few paces in no time at all. There were many places to hold on too, the branches were wide and secure and there was plenty of room to turn easily. It was the perfect tree for climbing. It wasn't long before Ahren was up in the top quarter of the tree. But the further he climbed, the harder it became to get a good grip and a secure standing position. Ahren stretched his neck to see where the cloth was tied. Yes, there it was, a red ribbon, fluttering in the breeze about four paces above him. With considerable effort Ahren pulled himself up the final few paces and at last he reached the piece of cloth, knotted to a branch. Ahren had to clasp this branch with his right arm while balancing on a thin branch. He carefully raised his right hand towards the cloth and started loosening it. It took him a minute to finally untangle the knot and stuff the material down his leather jerkin. He had an unimpeded view of the tree top and saw that under the cloth was a rope tied around the branch. It wound its way in several dozen loops towards the top. Attached to the rope at regular intervals were very small, thin strips of material of various colours. The rope finished a hand span away from the tip of the tree. Confused, Ahren studied the construction for several heartbeats before making his way back down. His master, after all, had only mentioned the red cloth. Getting down the tree proved to be very easy and it wasn't long before Ahren was standing in front of his master with a self-satisfied grin. The master took Ahren's trophy with an indifferent look. 'The cloth was only for orientation so that you could find your task. I want you to loosen as many strips of cloth as you can during the day and tie them down here around the branch. And only one strip per climb, do you hear me?' That wiped the grin off Ahren's face in no time at all. The climbing was fun and hadn't been particularly strenuous but there were at least fifty strips of cloth up there, if not more. That would be some slog! 'I'm glad we understand each other', grinned Falk. 'There's a water skin over there and a piece of cheese, you'd better ration it. In the meantime I'll go hunting so we have food for the table again. We're in dire need of some because of the rate you gobble it down. I'll check up on you every now and then, and if you're not climbing, I'll bring all the strips you've brought down back up again!' And having issued his threat he left the boy alone and disappeared into the undergrowth. Ahren stood there for a moment and considered this mammoth task until a loud 'now, Ahren!' echoed from the forest and he scurried up the tree. He only had a cloudy recollection of the rest of the day. The first few rounds weren't all that difficult but the continual repetition extracted a high price. And he realized soon enough that the higher the strips were hanging, the more complicated the knots were. This meant longer stretches of the body, and longer periods of keeping his balance, not to mention increasingly complicated movements with his left hand while his muscles became more and more tired. Ahren had never suffered from a fear of heights, but he became acutely aware, with every new scaling of the tree, that there was a real danger he would fall and break his neck. Around noon he started taking little breaks in the tree so that he wouldn't be surprised by Falk on the ground. Once he'd caught his breath, he would groan or curse and reach for the next branch. He thought of taking more than one piece of cloth at a time. But it wasn't only Ahren who had a wonderful view of the surrounding forest, there were also many treetops from which he could easily be spied upon. Ahren had no doubt at all that Falk threw an eye on him from time to time, even if he was out hunting. Ahren was close to tears when his master finally stepped out of the undergrowth. He'd been clinging to the lowest branch of the tree for about an hour, but no matter how hard he'd tried, his arms didn't have enough strength to pull him up to the next branch. He slid clumsily down the tree and collapsed beside the strips of cloth he had collected that day. Falk silently counted the strips and hunkered down opposite Ahren. 'You got as far as the blue ones, no?' his voice was warm and friendly and he looked proudly at Ahren. The boy closed his eyes and nodded tiredly before answering in a quiet, shaky voice. 'The blue ones were hanging so high and the knot seemed to have only one end, just like the ones you made for our tree house, and I still haven't got used to my left hand. I went up three times and tried as hard as I could. Then I climbed down to the lowest branch to have a rest, but in the end I couldn't pull myself up again'. The last few words were little more than a whisper. 'So you've climbed up and down this tree more than thirty times today? No wonder you're tired. I thought you'd only manage to get as far as the green ones, but you've brought them all down'. Falk's voice was still warm and friendly, and his obvious compassion as well as Ahren's exhaustion were all too much for the boy. He fell into the arms of his stunned master and began to sob uncontrollably. Falk patted him awkwardly on the back and mumbled, 'it's alright, calm yourself. The first time is always the hardest'. The apprentice reacted with a jolt and gasped, 'the first time?' 'Of course. This was no test at all. Here we're training all the muscles in your body. Coordination, endurance, dexterity and will power. The ribbon tree was a staple of my basic training too'. Falk released himself gently but firmly from Ahren's embrace and saw in front of him a youthful and angry face. His tears had left light streaks on the boy's face which was smudged with earth and tree bark. But as Ahren was rarely angry, his unpractised grimace looked comical rather than threatening. The old Guardian decided to ignore the silent rebellion and with slow deliberation packed away the empty water skin, the ribbons and the waxed cheese-cloth. Then he turned around to face the boy, who was still looking at him darkly. 'That's enough now. If you continue to look daggers at me, I'll send you up the tree in double quick time and you'll have to tie up all the ribbons again'. The boy looked quickly up at the tree top, then at the ribbons in Falk's hand before turning on his heels and trudging uncertainly away. Falk smiled, turned away from the tree too and followed Ahren into the forest. The boy had been so angry that he hadn't noticed that he'd headed the correct way to the cabin without having asked the way. The old man looked down at his hands, still with the three dozen unknotted ribbons, nodded to himself and whispered, 'a start'. Ahrend groaned and turned on his back again. The soup bowl was empty. He had made his way back to the cabin in brooding silence, had tortuously taken off his leathers and curled up under the blanket. Falk too had remained silent, prepared the meal, and patiently placed one bowl after another beside the mat. But now his master was outside. The glow from the dying fire gradually faded and the inside of the cabin was bathed in a soft red shimmer, making the contours of the room appear softer and somehow more fluid. Ahren mulled over the injustice of the world and how he had to end up with the worst possible slave driver of a master, before his exhaustion overwhelmed him like a black wave and between one breath and the next he was in a deep slumber. The low snoring coming from inside the cabin told Falk that the youngster had fallen asleep and with a sigh of relief he leaned against the tree where he had set up his place for the night. He massaged his forehead and was glad he had weathered the day. What had he been thinking of, taking on an apprentice? The reasons he had listed out to the young boy were all true of course, but he of all people training someone? He had spoken more in the last four days than he had in the whole three months previously. And he would have to be a little more careful. The boy would only have finished his thirteenth summer by autumn and in Falk's case, he had completed his training as a well-drilled adult. And there were other advantages he had enjoyed that he didn't want to think about now. That was all such a long time ago and really belonged to the past. Damn it, the boy was even disturbing his peace of mind. He stood up and walked a few steps into the forest. And following a custom going back decades he whispered as every evening, 'Selsena, is that you?' He waited a few heartbeats, then turned with a sorrowful look. He had only taken one tired step when there was a rustling behind him. Falk froze in mid movement, didn't stir an inch. Nothing more than a whisper escaped his lips, a quietly whispered word, permeated with a wild, frustrated hopefulness. 'Selsena?' The leaves behind him rustled again. Falk didn't turn around but collapsed into himself where he stood, like a puppet whose cords had been cut. Nobody could see the tears rolling down his weather beaten skin. 'The years without you were very long', he said, his voice breaking. The leaves were no longer moving, but they didn't need to. Falk tilted his head low as he always did when she spoke with him before answering, 'Yes, I know. It was my fault. What has changed?' A few seconds passed. 'The boy? Really?' Falk still didn't turn, his eyes were closed and he felt a large body coming closer behind and towering over him. 'I'm speaking out loud because I'm out of practice. After all it's been many years'. He reached up and stroked the soft fur. 'Are you staying?' Falk hated himself for the frustration evident in his voice, but she could read his thoughts anyway so it really made no difference. The answer wasn't the one he had hoped for but at least it was so comforting that he gave a quick laugh. She had always had a sharp sense of humour. 'Good, so nearby, until the boy has made himself at home. Otherwise, he'll end up running away from us screaming'. Us. The word echoed within Falk and suddenly all the dams burst. The irony wasn't lost on Falk that he was now behaving like his thirteen year old apprentice this afternoon who had thrown himself at him and sobbed uncontrollably. It didn't bother him. The night concealed him, the forest embraced him, and Selsena was back. All was well.

(13th Paladin 1) Ahren

Torsten Weitze

Chapter 8

The weeks flew by. Falk went with Ahren two or three days in a row through the forest, carefully increasing the tempo over the period. It was still more of a quick walk than a slow trot but the would-be Forest Guardian hardly stumbled anymore and he was certainly able to keep pace. And it was a while since he'd dropped the ball. Ahren was now using the left hand quite instinctively for a wide range of activities and so Falk had begun to incorporate both hands in the training. He thought if the boy had trained his secondary hand for all this time, it should be possible now to attain a limited ambidexterity. Following the forest run there would always be a day at the ribbon tree and then one with Vera where Ahren could recover from his physical exertions. Instead he would learn about compresses and creams for scratches, cuts, burns and inflammations. The old woman was always very kind and whenever Ahren spent a day there, at least a dozen visitors would arrive, either bringing or picking up something, and there would always be an exchange of stories and gossip. They always had a friendly word for Ahren and he began, quite unconsciously, to think of himself as Ahren the apprentice Forest Guardian, and not Ahren, the drunkard's son, whenever he was speaking to the others. After his day with Vera, the cycle would begin again and by the end of the summer Ahren had got used to his constantly aching muscles. Falk had no mirror and Ahren was far too busy to notice what the others could see – that his shoulders were slowly becoming broader, his arms and legs more sinewy. The strong soup prepared by Falk, laced with healing herbs and full of the vital substances which helped Ahren's growth spurt, was so completely different from the watery broths that he had subsisted on when he was in his father's care. And so the first days of autumn arrived with their bad weather and the cool winds that had long ago driven Deepstone into the shelter of the forest. The forest marches were less fun than ever, the ground was slippery because of the rain and when Ahren arrived in the cabin at night he had to spend an hour cleaning his gear so that the leather would keep smooth and supple and the dagger protected from rust. Falk also began to leave the smaller household chores in his hands and soon he was getting up as early as his master so everything would be in order before the old man gave the order to set off for the day. And the ribbon tree was much harder to climb now, when the branches were wet and slippery. After the first autumn storm Falk had silently given him a pair of leather gloves with the fingertips free. Ahren was puzzled by them until he tried scaling the wet higher branches with his bare hands. It wasn't long before the gloves were like another hand and he began to imitate Falk's stoical attitude to the weather. Sometime in the middle of autumn, it was the evening of a surprisingly mild day, there was a knock on the door of the Guardian's little cabin. The two occupants looked up from their leather work in surprise and Ahren gave his master a questioning look. 'Don't ask me, I'm just as clueless as you', grumbled Falk and stood up. Falk opened the door and as soon as Ahren realized who had granted them a visit, he leapt to his feet and the leather jerkin he had been fixing flew to the ground along with the awl and string. Likis was standing in the doorway with a broad grin on his face. He was wearing the classical merchant's tunic, and two parchment scrolls were sticking out of his breast pockets. A little slate was hanging on a thin chain from his belt. 'Likis, it's wonderful to see you'. With arms outstretched, Ahren ran to greet the merchant's son, almost knocking over his master in the process, who was too slow to get out of the way. Falk was about to give out to them but on seeing the boys hugging each other in joyful reunion he simply shrugged his shoulders, sat down and continued with his repair work. Likis held Ahren firmly by the shoulders and looked at him critically. 'Boy, but you've grown – and filled out! What's he feeding you with?' Ahren shifted from one foot to the other in embarrassment. He had spent his whole life comparing his size with Likis and now he was suddenly aware that he was taller than his friend by a head, and it had only been half a head four months ago. He answered without thinking. 'A lot of soup and stews with game and herbs. Wolf Herb for the muscles, Life Farm for regenerating stamina and Red Leaf as a protection against illness'. Even as he was speaking he realized that he sounded like old Vera rattling off a prescription for a healing ointment. His friend looked at him in bafflement until the two burst into laughter. 'A start', commented Falk stoically in the background, and Ahren laughed even harder. The pair squatted down on Ahren's mat and spent the evening telling each other what had happened over the previous months. Likis rhapsodized about his work in the shop and the merchants from Two Waters who delivered merchandize to them and also brought the latest news from all over Hjalgar. Apparently a band of robbers had settled in the slopes of Greyjags and were holding up travellers. Quite a few mutilated wolf and bear carcasses had been found. When Ahren heard this, he looked up to his master and was about to speak. But Falk gave him a warning look and shook his head and so the boy said nothing. The night was drawing in and there was no sign of the boys finishing their conversation so Falk cleared his throat noisily and said, 'Likis, it's not that we're not delighted about your visit, but you really need to be making your way home now'. The wiry boy leapt to his feet and clapped his hand against his forehead. 'Of course, I nearly forgot. I'm here in the name of my parents to invite you to a meal on the eve of the Autumn Festival'. Ahren was a little surprised. 'Is it that time again?' As he no longer took part in the daily life of the village, he had no idea what date the village council had set for the Autumn Festival. 'Yes, two weeks from today. Vera has forecast an early and hard winter'. The Healer had a sixth sense for the pulse of nature. In one of her lessons she had explained to Ahren that there were many clues for the upcoming weather in the behaviour of plants and the clouds. Falk said the same was true for the animals, but when he had looked for more information, Falk had stalled him with a shake of his head. 'You're not even six months with me out here. Ask me in five years again', was his sobering reply. 'That's why I came here today, to invite you', said Likis cheerfully. 'And, are you coming?' he looked expectantly from one to the other. Ahren looked pleadingly at his master. It was traditional on the eve of the three-day Autumn Festival to invite friends and family to take part in a relaxing, peaceful meal before the hurly-burly and excitement of the Autumn Festival. It was considered rude to turn down such an invitation. But Falk was neither particularly diplomatic nor sociable, so you never knew. Ahren need not have feared. Falk nodded and grunted, 'tell your parents thanks and we will come. And now get out of here or my apprentice will be unbearable tomorrow for want of sleep'. The two boys grinned at each other in anticipation of another evening full of each other's stories, not to mention the good food. Now that his friend was going, Ahren realized how cut off he was out here, and how much he missed his chirpy companion. 'Take care of yourself', he said sadly. 'It's only two weeks', said Likis in a comforting tone and gave him a quick hug. Then he gave Falk a wave and disappeared out the door. Ahren went to the window and watched his sprightly friend until he was soon swallowed up by the night. Falk's cabin was on the outer edge of Deepstone but tonight the apprentice felt that the entire wood separated it from the village community. With a sigh he went to his sleeping area and curled up under the covers. Falk worked on at the leathers for another few minutes, then tilted his head as if listening to someone and after a few heartbeats nodded. 'You're right'. He put down his tools and clothing, looked again at the outline of the sleeping boy and went out into the forest.

(13th Paladin 1) Ahren

Torsten Weitze

Chapter 9

The next two weeks couldn't go quickly enough for Ahren. Falk noticed Ahren's impatience and upped the practice tempo considerably in order to distract his apprentice. The practice ball was constantly flying here and there between them. His master would deliberately throw it off course forcing Ahren to hop, duck, dive, or throw himself around abruptly so that he could catch the wretched thing in mid-flight. And he was picking out more difficult terrain. They had to creep through undergrowth, clamber over fallen trees and climb up and down steep slopes. Ahren was shattered every evening, such as he hadn't been since the early days of his training. But with his new found knowledge in the herbal arts he was able to help himself and his body prepare for the following day. Soothing compresses, healing teas and strengthening condiments did the trick. Falk never commented on this but Selsena could sense the master's pride, bright as a beacon in the dead of night. She often stood there in the darkness and kept watch over them both. Something old and dark had come into the forest again and soon blood would flow. She was determined to buy them as much time as she could. At last the eve of the Autumn Festival was upon them and even the Forest Guardians were caught up in the village preparations for the coming festivities. Falk had gone hunting and, unusually, left Ahren alone in the cabin so that he could learn from the old book of herbs Vera had given him. It was true that the boy couldn't read but with the help of the pictures he could go over what he had learned. But Ahren had other plans today. His master was hardly out of sight, when he raced off towards Vera's cabin. The old woman would be far too busy for him but that didn't matter. It was what was waiting for him behind her house that was important. He carefully made his way through the undergrowth to the back wall of the cabin. Yes, lying neatly there for him were a dozen boards and two thick ropes. During his last lesson with the herbalist he had made sure that a message requesting these things had been delivered to Master Velem. The Autumn Festival was also the time when all villagers became a year older officially and so everyone gave each other presents and wished each other another a healthy winter so that they could experience the next summer. Ahren was determined to make his master a present. The old man was a slave driver, a curmudgeon and sometimes a man-made thunderstorm, but in spite of all that he had saved him from a bleak future and was investing a lot of time and effort in Ahren's education. The problem was giving him a present that he would like. His master lived very frugally. The present would have to be practical and of everyday use. Ahren gathered together the items and could hear lively chatter and laughter coming from within and in front of the cabin. Half the village seemed to have gathered here in order to honour the old woman and to collect herbs and spices for the feast dishes or to get tips on how to prepare them. Suddenly the remoteness in which he and his master lived didn't seem so bad and with a grin and a shake of his head he started heading back to their cabin. The trees had started shedding their leaves in the previous few days and a cold wind was spinning a red and gold kaleidoscope among the trunks. A few birds were stubbornly holding on to their memories of summer and whistling their defiance to the world at large. The boards were heavy and the ropes cumbersome but Ahren was now in top condition and it didn't take long before the cabin was in sight. He checked quickly that Falk was still out, carried the paraphernalia into the house and began putting it together. He had worked everything out already in his head so the construction wouldn't take long if he could manage the Elfish knots. The same sort he had tackled with his teeth for two months on the ribbon tree. It had transpired that the blue ribbons that had comprehensively got the better of him on that first day had been knotted in the Elfish manner and were extraordinarily difficult to unknot, especially with one hand. The one positive from his months of frustration was that he had now mastered these knots perfectly. It took him less than an hour to tie the beams and planks together into two platforms, one above the other and supported by struts. Then he placed the sleeping mats, his own and his master's on the two platforms and his simple bunk beds were finished. There really wasn't enough room for two sleeping areas in the cabin and so he thought this was a really practical present made with the simplest of materials. The only flaw was that he had to ask Vera for the materials. But she simply smiled and said, 'this is my autumn present to yourself and Falk'. Ahren spent the rest of the day sprucing up the cabin, polishing his leather gear and looking forward to the evening. Every now and again he ran to the window so he could catch his master at the door. When Falk appeared at last coming from the trees with an enormous stag on his shoulders Ahren ran towards him to help him with his load. 'Thanks, son', gasped the Guardian. 'He's a big morsel, and I had to drag him further than I would have liked. Something was frightening the animals and hunting was a lot harder than usual'. They put the booty down in front of the window and Ahren stood so his master couldn't see inside. His hands were sweaty with anticipation and he was surprised at how much he wanted to cheer up this grumpy old man. He must have become fonder of his master than he cared to admit. Falk entered the room and Ahren called out, 'a healthy winter and a merry new summer', the traditional greeting when you handed over an autumn present. His mentor stood there and stared critically at the wooden construction for a few heartbeats. Then he walked up to it and examined the knots carefully, tilting his head all the while as if listening to something. Then he turned around and said, 'that's a very good present and I'm very proud of you'. He sounded a little stilted as if somebody had fed him the lines. But Ahren knew that this wasn't his strong point and anyway he was far too happy to take any notice. Falk turned to the wooden bed and said, 'you sleep on top because your young bones could do with a bit of climbing'. After a few seconds he continued with a grumble, 'If I'm lying there and the thing collapses, you're going to spend the next two weeks climbing the ribbon tree…and you'll sleep on it'. Well, that didn't last long, thought Ahren but answered with a smile, 'yes, master'. The wooden bed had held together, much to Ahren's relief, and so now he sat with a full stomach beside Likis in his parents' sitting room and enjoyed the happy, unforced conversation with his friend. Two dozen candles were situated around the room, filling the space with a warm glow, and the candle scents intermingled with the aromas from the opulent feast that they had all had just finished eating. The adults were talking about some feudal lord in the Knight Marshes who had been trying to claim a small border area of Hjalgar for himself. They were so deep in conversation that the two boys were completely undisturbed. They glanced at the large sand timer on the mantelpiece from time to time. The autumn presents were traditionally handed over during the night before the Autumn Festival, and that's why there were these enormous sand glasses which were turned over just before dusk. Once the sand had run through a few hours later it was time to thank the THREE for another year lived, and it was also time for the presents. At one point in their conversation, Likis became very serious and whispered to Ahren, 'are you happy out there, alone with that curmudgeon. I sometimes ask myself if you've just jumped from the frying pan into the fire. We heard nothing from you for ages but Vera assured us you were fine so we didn't interfere'. Likis gave Ahren a questioning look but his friend gave him a reassuring smile. 'There's nowhere else on earth I'd rather be'. And he added in a whisper, 'I've even mastered a few tricks of the Elfish trade'. His master had expressly forbidden him from mentioning this as he didn't want the rumour-mill to go into overdrive, but he really had to tell his best friend. He squeaked in surprise, 'elves?' And the look Falk shot his apprentice suggested an awkward conversation later. Ahren quickly steered the conversation into safer waters and asked what Holken, Sven and the others were up to. He'd probably run across them during the Autumn Festival and he wanted to be forewarned if there was anything in the air concerning the village boys. And so he discovered that Holken had transformed himself and was now a model youth under the bailiff and was getting lots of praise heaped on him. Sven, on the other hand, had somehow managed to take over control of the boys and their pranks were getting meaner and more dangerous. 'There was even a fire in the old barn last week but no-one could tell who caused it. A horse was killed and the matter hasn't been closed. I think Sven and the other good for nothings were behind it but I've no proof so I'm going to stay mum', said Likis, finishing the conversation. The two boys were silent for a while until they noticed the adults stirring. One look at the sand clock and then everyone was on their feet. The sand had run through and Velem and Falk stepped through the door into the antechamber only to return shortly afterwards with a heavy bundle each. Ahren felt a thrill of anticipation as he watched Likis unpack a blue velvet cap with yellow braiding and then joyfully thank his parents. This status symbol showed that he could now make small transactions on his own in the name of his merchant's house, something which made him burst with pride. He put the present on his head and turned to face Ahren, who had to control himself in order not to guffaw. The thing looked completely ridiculous. You'd be spotted two miles away in the forest. Ahren realized that Falk's personality was beginning to rub off on him. He beamed for a second at his friend to show how much he was there for him today, then hurriedly stood up straight and faced his master. Without saying a word Falk presented him with a long bundle wrapped in oilcloth. Ahren pushed the heavy material aside with trembling fingers and a slender curved bow appeared along with a buckskin quiver containing a half dozen arrows. The boy whooped for joy and would have thrown himself at Falk were it not for the stern look and the warning furrowed eyebrows of his master. 'You've made excellent progress until now so it's time for us to teach you the basic skills in shooting with arrows, hunting and stalking'. At which point he brought down one of his calloused hands on Ahren's shoulder so heavily that the boy balked. 'The bow will only be used in my presence and with my express permission. Or it will be turned into firewood'. Ahren nodded and stroked the smooth wood with his fingers. It was shining in the candlelight and you could see how carefully the surface had been polished. A faint, undulating pattern ran the length of the bow, disappearing behind the handguard, only to reappear on the other side. 'That's the Elfish sign for the apprentice bow', whispered Falk before placing a conspiratorial finger on his lips. The boys spent the rest of the evening mostly just looking in silence at their presents until the lateness of the hour brought proceedings to a close. They promised to meet each other at one of the tables on the festival square and Ahren and Falk stepped out into the night air. The wind had calmed down and it was cold but clear. The waxing moon was in the sky and a few wisps of cloud were visible, drifting by. The forest was bathed in pale moonlight, giving a hint of the varied colours playing off each other in the fabulous autumn landscape. Ahren glanced quickly at the squat house of his father but there was no light to be seen. Then with a shiver he followed his master, who was taking the direct route through the forest to their cabin. When they reached half way, Falk stopped, stared into the darkness of the forest and said in a loud voice, 'a healthy winter and a merry summer'. Then he tilted his head sideways for a moment, smiled and went on. Ahren asked himself if this was perhaps an Elfish tradition or if Falk wanted to pay his respects to the forest. He had also heard that old men could become strange in their ways. He shrugged his shoulders and trotted behind, hoping he would learn all the important things from Falk before he became too strange. The following morning Falk was awakened by the clattering of wooden bowls and the smells of a herbal stew. He opened his eyes a tiny bit and smiled under his blanket as he secretly watched his apprentice preparing everything for breakfast. The rucksack had already been packed, Ahren was fully dressed, his bow and quiver standing by the door. He'd intended stringing the boy along for another while, after all it was another hour until sunrise, but Selsena gave him a mental nudge and so he opened his eyes and swung his legs out of the bed. 'Good morning, Ahren. You can hardly wait, as I can see'. The young boy glanced guiltily at the bow beside the door but then he pulled back his shoulders and said, 'if we're going to the Autumn Festival this afternoon, we just have a couple of hours to practise. I wanted to get everything ready here so we could head off as soon as possible'. Falk was afraid that Ahren would choke on his breakfast, he was gulping it down so quickly. In the end the old man gave up, pushed his half eaten bowl to the side and said, 'alright then. Tidy up here, I'll get ready quickly and then we'll be off'. Soon they were trudging in the early morning light and Falk picked out a clearing that was far enough from the village so there would be no fear of accidents. Then he began teaching his protégé how to handle a bow and arrow and the ground rules of archery. Ahren devoted himself to the job in hand with full concentration and what Falk had suspected that time on the village square was now becoming crystal clear. The boy really had a natural talent with the bow. First Falk pointed out the most common beginner's mistakes but within an hour he was hitting a tree trunk four out of five times from twenty paces' distance. It was thirty paces by noon, and by the time the old man suggested stopping, Ahren was in sparkling form. His arms and chest had strengthened considerably due to the climbing of the previous months, so tensioning the bow was effortless. His muscles were aching now but he felt he could go on for hours. He asked cockily, 'master, may I give your bow a try?' Falk thought for a moment. 'Why not, nothing would surprise me today'. He handed Ahren his bow, which was considerably higher than the boy's head, and one of his long arrows. His apprentice struggled mightily until eventually, with trembling arms, he managed to extend the bow about half way. But his arms were too short and when he was finally forced to let the arrow fly from the bow string, it flew uncontrolled and awry off into the trees. 'Well, we won't find that one again'. Falk scratched his beard and took back the bow. 'You should really only try a long bow again once you've grown a head, both taller and broader'. Ahren nodded hesitantly and picked up his own bow again. 'I think we should go back now. I'll let the others know this evening that this is now to be called the practice zone, and tomorrow I'll bring a few targets that will be more difficult to hit. Then you can come here whenever you like and practise on your own. You're very good with the bow but you still need practice. I'll give you the hard lessons once you're able to hit all the targets without thinking about it. Tell me when you think you're ready and then I'll have a look'. The happy boy followed his master with a spring in his step as they left the clearing, and he looked around him so that he would remember where his practice area was. He was imagining where Falk might put the targets, when something attracted his attention. There was something large and silver-grey on the other side of the clearing and between the trees. But when he looked more closely, the phenomenon had vanished. His master cleared his throat and turned around, and Ahren ran to catch up with him. He kept looking back over his shoulder but the forest lay still and deserted. The being had disappeared. That afternoon the whole village was gathered on and around the festival ground and the tavern was filled to overflowing. Tables and benches were placed around the oak tree and a large fire was blazing to the left. Groups of revellers were sitting together and there was much to-ing and fro-ing between the bar, the attractions and the benches. It all resembled a complicated dance. Ahren watched the confectioner spinning candy floss with the help of a bellows, and the blacksmith with his anvil had hammered some horseshoes out of shape. Some of the revellers were testing their strength by trying to get the horseshoes back into shape with as few hammer blows as possible. Two competitors would take up the challenge each time, egged on or mocked by the excited spectators. Or you could take part in arm-wrestling, apple bobbing (for the small ones), ring tossing, and of course drinking competitions. Ahren steered well clear of the tavern, where his father probably was, and wandered past the stands, exchanging pleasantries with the villagers and keeping an eye out for Likis. At the ring tossing he squeezed past two revellers who were unsteady on their feet and promptly crashed into a delicate creature who was just composing herself before her throw. The wooden ring clattered to the ground without having touched one of the stakes around which it should have landed. Ahren quickly mumbled an apology and to his surprise found himself looking at the daintily featured face of Lina, the miller's daughter, and sister of Sven. She put her hands on her hips and looked at him with a mixture of indignation and curiosity. Ahren found himself drawn to Lina's finely worked festival dress, and as he gazed at it, it dawned on him that the person standing opposite him had also gone through some physical changes over the previous months – and somehow this made him more nervous than he already was. He wanted to disappear into the crowd when he was stopped in his tracks by the sound of a laughing voice. 'Not so fast, my little friend!' 'You owe me a throw'. Lina looked him up and down unashamedly. Ahren felt as if his head was as big as a watermelon and his face went a deep red. 'You're Ahren, isn't that right? I didn't recognize you at first in your leather outfit. You used to be smaller and a lot weaker'. Her statement may indeed have contained a compliment but her merciless description of his earlier self was hardly flattering. He mustered a heroic 'ehm...' and stared at her. 'I wanted to win this cute little stuffed monkey, and now you've spoilt everything', Lina complained with a twinkle in her eye. 'So, what are you going to do about it?' Ahren was far too inexperienced to understand the rules of this particular game but he could certainly handle the ring tossing. Relieved to be on familiar territory, he turned to the carpenter who was in charge of the stand that day. He'd been following their conversation as cool as you please and a grin spread across his face with its bushy whiskers. 'The first try is free, any ones after that are a penny'. Suddenly Ahren remembered that he hadn't had any money in his hands for months, nor needed any. Falk looked after the shopping and almost always paid with game or plants. He'd have to be lucky, first time out. 'Which stake do I aim for to win the monkey?' he asked, all the while feeling the rings. He was looking for the smoothest and best balanced one. The carpenter winked at him. 'That one over there, second from the right'. Ahren was relieved. It was hardly two paces away and the stake was a little bigger than the ring. According to the rules, the wooden ring had to come to rest sitting on the stake. The hardest part would be ignoring Lina's presence. She was standing right beside him with an expectant look and a mischievous smile on her face. Ahren took aim and the ring landed effortlessly on the stake. Pleased with himself, he handed the stuffed monkey to Lina, who smiled back at him. She linked arms with him and asked him questions about his education and about Falk as she strolled with him across the square. Ahren was so taken by her that he forgot to be sensible and started to prattle non-stop. About his training, about the elves and the Dark Ones, anything that came into his head and that would make him look good. The effect on Lina was enormous. There were plenty of juicy anecdotes in what he said. The rational side of his brain, meanwhile, tried unsuccessfully to make him focus on the fact that Sven had been watching them for some time and was looking daggers at Ahren. Ahren's master didn't seem happy about his indiscretions either and Likis could only shake his head sadly as he saw his friend parading around without a care in the world. The bell for the devotions finally ended the young man's boasting. Lina parted from him with a light kiss on the cheek and ran back to her family while Ahren floated in seventh heaven to his master. Suddenly Likis was beside him, intoning in a loud voice and with sweeping gestures, 'and then I slew three dragons with one blow of my sword, while strangling a manticore with my foot…' Ahren heard no more of his friend's teasing for he suddenly felt a rap of his master's knuckles on his head. His pride severely dented, Ahren looked from one to the other and was asking himself what he had done to deserve this treatment when the bell stopped ringing and Keeper Jegral stepped in front of the fire where all the villagers had gathered. The priest held his autumn devotions but Ahren heard only the half of it because he was too busy trying to see Lina in the gathering. He knew where she was standing but every time he caught a glimpse of her, Sven would push himself in front of her and stare darkly at Ahren. When the prayers were over and everyone had drifted away to continue their festivities, the Keeper approached the two Guardians. 'Ahren, Master Falk, may the THREE be with you'. Falk nodded and gave him his hand, and Ahren gave a small bow. He was still in awe of the priest. After all, it was his miracle cure that had changed everything, including the direction of his life. The Keeper looked at him kindly at first before raising an eyebrow thoughtfully. 'I could always rely on your presence in the past. You did promise me, don't you remember?' Ahren cowered and gave his master a guilty and pleading look. He too looked contrite and answered on Ahren's behalf. 'That's partly my fault. He did tell me about that, but I forgot. Although he should have reminded me'. Once again Ahren had drawn the short straw. Why did it always end up the same way? The boy was just apologizing with a sigh when Falk interjected. 'Now that we're on the subject, my apprentice is unable to read and he's missing a bit of education. Could he attend the Godsday School? Then he could go to morning prayers and take part in lessons afterwards'. Jegral beamed and said, 'what a wonderful idea. He would be welcome of course'. The two shook hands on it, the Keeper smiled warmly at Ahren and continued on his way, to remind other young lambs of their spiritual responsibilities. Ahren thought about this new development with mixed feelings. One day's training less per week meant, in all probability, the other days would be an even harder slog, and that would mean less time for archery. But when he saw the stony reaction of his master all thoughts of protesting evaporated. 'From what I saw earlier, you urgently need to mix with your peers. If every tomboy makes you lose your head, then a Wind Whip or even a Grief Wind will kill you in a second'. The mention of Dark Ones deflated Ahren completely. Falk had explained to him in one of his brief lectures that these beings manipulated the feelings of the Adversary against them. Ahren couldn't figure out how this worked exactly. But now that he thought about it, he had to admit that his flirting with Lina earlier wasn't a shining example of steadfast behaviour. And so he nodded, resigned to his fate. 'Good. Go off and amuse yourself now', said Falk cheerily. 'Although I'd advise you against any further amorous adventures today or that scoundrel over there might attack you with a knife'. He pointed over at Sven, who was standing barely ten paces away with two of his cronies, watching Ahren's every move. The apprentice agreed, 'good idea'. He turned quickly around to look for Likis when he spotted Holken. Ahren may have grown but Holken must have been stretched on the rack! His muscles were more impressive than ever, and now he was approaching. The would-be Forest Guardian looked for an escape route in panic, but the big boy was already in front of him. He wore the bailiff's uniform and he had a dangerous looking truncheon on his belt. 'Hello Ahren, I was hoping to see you here today', he began, and Ahren instinctively flinched half a pace backwards. His blond counterpart stuck out a hand and took Ahren's in a vice-like grip. 'I couldn't apologise that time for the blow I gave your injured hand, and I wanted to do that now. You just didn't want to give up and the rules were clear'. He shrugged his shoulders in embarrassment. Ahren studied his face to see if this was just a mean trick but he only saw genuine regret. Surprised, he shook hands, partly because he hoped Holken would let go again. And he answered, 'Forgive and forget. To tell you the truth, that blow opened doors for me. I don't think Jegral would have just healed a sprained hand in front of everybody. And then I would have failed Master Falk's challenge. Holken did let go of Ahren's hand, only to lay an arm across his shoulder and pull him along. Ahren might as well have been fighting with an ox, so he gave in. 'Come on, let's look for your wiry friend and have a drink. I was paid today, the drinks are on me'. The idea of a drink was tempting and Holken's presence would guarantee protection from Sven and his cronies. 'Sounds good, let's go', said Ahren with a bit more enthusiasm than he actually felt, and the two made their way between the tables. Later that evening, Ahren rose from the table at which he, Likis, Holken and three other boys from the village had been celebrating and made his way unsteadily to the toilet. He had over indulged on the wine and now he was feeling the effects. His master had left an hour earlier but given him permission to stay on. And so he had carried on celebrating and come to realize that Holken was much friendlier now than in the past, even if he was still a bit slow on the uptake. Ahren stepped out of the light and between the trees in the forest. Falk had taught him the best place in the forest to pass water without leaving any traces, and Ahren was making use of this lesson now. He giggled over this creative use of his education, swayed and buttoned up his trousers when suddenly a sharp pain exploded in the region of his kidneys. As if struck by lightning he collapsed with a scream to the ground and felt several feet landing kicks on him. He rolled up into a ball and protected his face with his hands but his attackers kept finding places he couldn't protect. It seemed like an eternity before Ahren heard worried calls and hasty footsteps approaching. Some of the revellers must have heard the commotion and his tormentors finally stopped kicking. Someone spat in his face, and the battered boy could just make out a silhouette looming over him in the darkness of the forest. Then the attackers were gone and within a few seconds the first villagers arrived. Ahren's whole body ached and he could only stand with the help of others. And so Holken and Likis held him under his arms and hauled him home. As soon as they'd entered the cabin, Falk was up and questioning Ahren's friends but they had seen nothing. So he thanked them and sent them home. Falk helped Ahren get undressed and carefully examined his wounds. Then he clicked his tongue and said, 'A blessing in disguise. You have so much flesh and muscle on your ribs that there's nothing broken. You'll be right as rain soon enough'. He spent the next hour putting on bandages with herbal essences, always asking Ahren which herb he should use and why. His protégé was shocked that he should be asked these questions in the condition he was in but he understood that he would not forget these herbs and their medicinal effects for the rest of his life. The rest of the Autumn Festival was very boring for Ahren. He had to stay in bed and rest his ribs while Likis and Holken would drop by from time to time and bring some of the Feast Day roast or treats from the baker's. Witness statements proved fruitless and of course Sven claimed not to have anything to do with it. The boys were convinced that he was behind the cowardly attack but for the moment their hands were tied. And if that wasn't boring enough, Falk became even more reticent than before and hardly came into the cabin. When Ahren complained to his friends about this, Likis answered, 'I think he's blaming himself for not having been there to protect you'. That seemed plausible somehow, seemed to fit with his behaviour and that reassured the young boy a little. Ahren was allowed to take up his training again to a limited degree. The weeks passed with their normal rhythm except that Falk, with dogged determination, had moved on to training him in the art of close combat. The economical feinting movements and flowing attacks looked simple but were so difficult that Ahren wondered if he would ever master them. The second change to their daily routine was of course Godsday which Ahren, with newly starched shirt and linen trousers given to him by Keeper Jegral, now spent in the priest's charge. The Keeper taught him about the entity of the THREE and especially about the love of the MOULDER. He also taught him reading, writing and simple arithmetic. Ahren could always relax at this point, for through Likis' friendship he had already learnt everything the priest knew about numbers. Reading was another matter. Ahren just didn't understand why anybody would go to the trouble of writing things down when he could speak the story so much more quickly. He asked the Keeper about this and he responded, 'you are right there, it does go more quickly. But think about it: the other must listen and understand everything correctly – or some of the knowledge will be lost. He cannot alter what he has heard for his own benefit – or the knowledge will be falsified. And the student must pass on what he has learnt – or it will be forgotten about. There is knowledge in these books that has survived for centuries, unfalsified and unforgotten. That's a miracle in itself'. From then on Ahren looked at the texts from a fresh perspective and developed a thirst for knowledge that filled the Keeper with happiness. He rewarded Ahren in the best way he knew how – by willingly answering every question as well as he could. Time passed and winter set in over Hjalgar. The days were shorter and Falk began to introduce Ahren, in the early morning and the long evenings, to the arts of the Forest Guardian that didn't need daylight or much room. He learnt how to pack a rucksack without water, dirt or little animals getting in, which food you could bring with you and for how long, and a dozen other practical things. But most of the dark hours of the day were taken up with the study of 'the Void'. During the autumn Ahren had learnt how to hit fourteen of the twenty targets Falk had positioned in the clearing. His master had rammed a stake into the ground at one end of the clearing. This marked Ahren's shooting position and he had drawn small white circles of varying sizes and at different heights on the trees opposite. Most of the targets were no problem but some of them were the size of an apple and more than thirty paces away. When it became clear that he would make no further progress without instruction, Falk lit a candle and told Ahren to sit with legs crossed in front of it. 'I want you to breathe in and out for as long and as slowly as you can and just concentrate on the flame. Think of nothing else, place all your concentration on this one spot of light'. The wick of the candle had been pared back and the flame was small and weak so he couldn't blind himself. Strange as it seemed to Ahren, these exercises proved the most difficult of any he had done in his apprenticeship. He always thought of something else: of the following day, the lessons just completed, or how pointless it was to stare at a candle. Sometimes he managed to persevere for a few minutes but then horrible pictures would push their way towards his inner eye. His father and the way he had beaten him, the battering he had experienced at the Autumn Festival. When he told Falk this, he responded, 'that's normal. When our reason is at rest, it loosens the bonds with which we control the conflicts that badger us the most. The elves call this phenomenon 'the Spirits of the Void', that's a rough translation. Everyone has to come to terms with the Spirits in their own way. Some learn to ignore them as one would the rustling of the leaves. Others confront their conflicts and try to get rid of them. The third way is to let go and make peace with them'. 'Which variation have you picked, master?' 'You don't have to decide on one. Some conflicts cannot be resolved, some cannot be ignored, and inner peace is by no means my speciality area'. He tilted his head and smiled weakly. 'I have confronted each vision individually and overcome them in whatever was the most suitable way. In the end you are fighting with yourself, so you have to decide the best way on your own'. Then he left Ahren alone again with the flame and his thoughts. The shirt collar pinched his neck horribly, the plain wooden bench was too small for his legs, as was the wooden desk he was squatting in front of, with the leather-bound book on top. Ahren was in a sweat, bent over his book of exercises in the overheated priest's study. He looked around furtively. The heavy bull-glass panes were free of ice although icy cold was lurking on the other side of the wall. Deepstone hadn't experienced such a cold winter in years. Sweat was running down Ahren's face. The others didn't seem to share his problem. Likis obviously felt as fit as a fiddle and Holken used his spiritual inertia to his own advantage. Lina sat beside him at every lesson in order to help him with his reading and to make eyes at him. Ahren turned to his book again but there was the Keeper, standing in front of him, looking at him with friendly yet reprimanding eyes, something he was particularly skilled at. 'Now, it seems Ahren wants to read something out to us, isn't that right?' This was the priest's preferred punishment for lack of concentration. Ahren sighed inwardly. The only good thing about this was Ahren could always pick out a text he had questions about. He leafed to the front of the book and began hesitatingly, to read aloud. 'At the beginning of time there were three gods: HE WHO IS, SHE WHO FEELS, AND HE WHO MOULDS. They argued with each other about who could create the most splendid things. Their pride prevented them from working together and so each of them began bringing their own creations to life. But each of them was incomplete without the other and in no position to create something harmonic. HE WHO IS created the Golems: beings without feelings, coarse in form and lacking intuition. SHE WHO FEELS crated the Wind Whips. Beings consisting of thoughts and emotions, without substance or constancy. HE WHO MOULDS created the Transformers: beings without a core, many-shaped and fickle in spirit'. Ahren stopped at this point and asked his first question. 'Keeper, if these beings were so incomplete, why did the gods let them continue to exist?' A murmur of agreement filled the air and Ahren realized he was not alone in wanting an answer. The priest nodded and smiled as he always did when one of his students asked a good question. He answered with a counter question. 'Ahren, do you consider yourself perfect?' As always, his gentle mocking hit the spot and even Likis nodded his head silently. Jegral could, with few words, awaken humility in anyone. Ahren wished he knew how he managed that. The bald-headed man continued. 'So, you are not perfect. Or one could also say, incomplete. Would you like the gods to put an end to your existence?' All the students shook their heads energetically in answer. 'That's what I thought. Those first beings may not have been complete but they existed now. They weren't to blame for their nature. And the gods knew this. If you create something, you are also responsible for it. You should make note of that'. He turned to Ahren and said, 'carry on'. The boy cleared his throat and continued. 'The gods saw that their attempts were not whole and complete and none of their creations reflected their dreams. They saw that they would have to help each other and so they laid their disagreements aside. The union of the THREE was born. A coming together of the gods, three wills with one goal. Each awakened a people according to their plans, supported through the powers of the other gods. For it was only together they could give their creations a harmony through essence and stability. HE WHO IS created the dwarves: a people of unbelievable strength, stamina and stubbornness. Hardly flexible but firm and clear in form and with deeply rooted feelings. And HE WHO IS was pleased and thanked his brother and his sister. SHE WHO FEELS created the elves: spiritually adept creatures of fragile form, adaptable and instinctively seeking harmony with their surroundings. Alone of the peoples, they tried, of their own free will, to make friends with the first incomplete beings. And SHE WHO FEELS was pleased and thanked her brothers. HE WHO MOULDS created the people: creations of adaptability and creative spirit which far surpassed their substance and ability to feel. And so they did not live long and were volatile in their actions but were capable of great beauty. And HE WHO MOULDS was pleased and thanked his brother and his sister. Inspired by their success, the gods now wanted to create a world in which their creations could grow and flourish. Their joy and desire were so big that they created a world of enormous size, far larger than planned. They constantly had new ideas and could not stop themselves. HE WHO IS placed himself in its core and gave it the foundations, from which a part of himself and his substance would flow into every living being. SHE WHO FEELS became at one with the wind and whispered to every living being their task and their place in the world so all would be in a harmonious whole. HE WHO MOULDS laid himself in the water, formed through his strength mountains and rivers, made the land fertile and gave to all creatures of the world the desire to change. They determined to call the world JORATH, which means perfect in the language of the gods, for that is what it was in their eyes. But the creation had exhausted them. They wanted rest to replenish their strength. And so they created the Custodian, who would guard their creation as long as they were resting. The Creation was complete and the long sleep of the gods began'. 'That's enough for now', said Keeper Jegral firmly. 'Some parts of this story shouldn't be told in the dark part of the year. We shall continue at the Spring Ceremony'. A heavy silence had descended on the room and Ahren was disappointed. The important part was yet to come and he had so many questions. 'Off home with you now and think about what I have told you'. All the children said goodbye to each other outside the chapel and quickly went their various ways. Nobody wanted to stay out in the cold any longer than necessary, partly because the Sunday wear under the heavy winter coats offered little protection from the cold. But Ahren was in a ruminative mood. He looked at the chapel in its stillness with its covering of snow which covered the shingles that adorned the building. The wooden walls were painted white, the precious windows were warmly lit by the bright fire that burned within. The large engraved symbol of the THREE over the double doors seemed to look down on the boy who realized much to his own surprise that he really looked forward to the Godsday visits in spite of the lessons and the uncomfortable clothing. The sense of community was particularly strong at these times and the other boys were at last treating him as one of their own. It had begun to snow again. A fine, light veil of crystals, which lent an air of peacefulness to the fading light of the winter afternoon. Thick heavy blue-grey clouds hung low in the sky and promised a heavy snowfall in the coming night. Ahren pulled himself out of his reverie and stamped with crunching steps through the blanket of white which almost reached to the top of his boots. If he went carefully he could avoid getting his impractical linen trousers wet. He went through the silent village cautiously, his classmates having long since disappeared. Nothing spoiled the dreamy picture. Smoke was rising from the chimneys of the wooden houses, and Ahren could see light flickering through their closed windows. In the past these images had made him melancholy but now he was happy to be going home. Home. When had he started seeing the Guardian's cabin as home? Lost in thought, Ahren walked past the back of the tavern to take the short cut through the forest when he saw a black bundle on the ground, about as big as a man. It was lying motionless a few paces from the back door at the foot of a tree. Ahren looked around carefully and approached it cautiously. He'd learnt his lesson about treacherous ambushes and wasn't going to fall into that trap again. As he approached it, he realized the bundle was a man, who had curled up and fallen asleep. He was already covered in a fine layer of snow and it wouldn't take long before he was completely covered. No-one would have noticed him – until it was too late. Ahren bent down to help the poor unfortunate up but recoiled when he saw his father's sleeping face. He almost hadn't recognized him. The nose was laced with red veins, the pouches under his eyes hung heavily, his face was gaunt and he was covered in a stubbly beard which had been roughly cut into shape with a knife. Ahren plucked up courage and bent over him to pull him up, only to be met by an unholy stench. Apparently, he hadn't had a bath in quite some time. He wrinkled up his nose and pulled the sleeping man up into a sitting position. He was so drunk that he barely woke. After a lot of effort Ahren finally succeeded in pulling him up the trunk of the tree until he was more or less in a standing position. He blinked but didn't seem to recognize his son. Ahren threw his father's arm over his shoulders and stumbled with him painfully slowly towards his family house. His linen trousers were now soaked from the snow, his shoulders were aching from the weight of the drunkard, and Ahren had to breathe through his mouth because of the stench. After what seemed like an endless battle they finally arrived at the low cabin that had been his home for so long. Ahren shoved open the door and dragged his father to his bed. The house was extremely warm as always, so there was no fear of his father catching the Blue Death. He took off his father's wet coat and laid Edrik down under his blanket. He stoked the embers, put some timbers on it to re-start the fire, which would last a few hours. Then he went to the door, turned around again to look at the room and the sleeping person. He had saved his father's life today. The onset of darkness and the falling snow would have sealed his fate. A life for a life, Ahren remembered, quoting to himself the old saying about earthly judgement. He turned on his heels, closed the door and didn't look back. Once he'd arrived back at the guardian's cabin he told his master what had happened. Falk looked at him earnestly. 'You did the right thing', he said, 'and I think what happened is partly my fault'. 'How do you mean?' Ahren was confused. 'I hadn't planned on telling you, but your father accosted me on the second day of the Autumn Festival. Said, if I was using the old customs against him, then I should really follow all of them. He demanded compensation. Apprentices used to be bought from their parents. He wanted a guinea'. Ahren gasped in surprise. Guineas were made out of gold and were extremely valuable. A good horse would cost at least five guineas! Falk continued calmly. 'I gave him three, divesting him of his pledge so he would never bother us again'. Three golden guineas! Where did Falk get so much money? His father could live off that for two years without lifting a finger. No wonder he had drunk himself into oblivion. He had more than enough money for the tavern now. Falk sighed. 'Well. Sometimes the quickest way to destroying a man is by giving him what he thinks he wants'. Ahren thought about this for the rest of the evening and decided to be more careful with his wishes in future. Bright sunshine and a crystal clear if bitingly cold sky had lured Ahren into the stillness of the clearing and away from the house. There was no breeze on this winter morning. The conditions were ideal and he could work on the targets that were still getting the better of him. He hung his quiver on the stake that marked his shooting position and looked at the strips of material he had hung on one of the branches. The red strip hung limply. No wind and a clear view. Quickly and confidently he shot the arrows at the first targets. These had been as easy as pie for him for a long time but Falk's instructions had been clear. An arrow would have to hit every target before he would teach him the next lesson. 'Carelessness and hubris have killed more Forest Guardians than lack of skill. Nature rarely forgives arrogance', he added. Ahren had learnt how to cut his own arrows in the meantime so he used these for the easy targets and kept the ones that Falk had given him for the more difficult exercises. He still hadn't quite mastered the fletching so he used the six perfectly balanced projectiles very sparingly and always retrieved them if he missed the target. A few minutes later and everything was ready. Fifteen arrows had reached their targets. Five had yet to be hit. Ahren took one of the good arrows confidently and breathed in deeply. The spirits of the Void had become a lot fainter since his last encounter with his father, and he found it easier to briefly inhabit the trancelike state before his subconscious would distract him and he'd have to start again. But two seconds were an eternity in archery and he wanted to use them well today for his purposes. He concentrated on the image of the faint candlelight with his inner eye and emptied his thoughts while breathing slowly and regularly. He looked at the small, head-sized circle that Falk had painted on the trunk between two stems. From where he was standing, he calculated he would need to shoot the arrow perfectly through the gap between the two branches or the arrow would ricochet off one of them. As he felt his body relaxing and his eyes focusing exclusively on this small white target, he extended the bow, aimed and shot. The Void vanished immediately. Tension, the thrill of anticipation and fear all combined within him as he watched the arrow nearing its target. He let out a cry of joy as the tip bored into the upper third of the circle. Not perfect, but good enough. Satisfied he reached for the next arrow and took aim at the next target. This one he liked least. The chalk outline was big, almost as big as a pig, proudly revealing itself way up at the top of a conifer – like a white eye looking at him mockingly. This shot was treacherous because Ahren knew that if he missed the target, the arrow would fly one or two hundred paces beyond the tree and land in a dell that he would have to search. So far, the pressure not to fail had led each time to him doing just that. Quietly cursing his dastardly master, Ahren tried to conjure up the Void. After three futile attempts he was finally ready. The arrow left the bowstring, went in a perfect arc, missed the target by a mere handspan only to sink into the valley beyond. Now Ahren cursed aloud and briefly considered the option of leaving the arrow to itself. But then he imagined how Falk would look if he noticed one of his presents had been lost and so he set off. Half an hour later he found the projectile, which had become trapped in a thorn bush. He collected it and was closing up his quiver when he noticed a red spot in the dirty white drabness of the forest floor. Ahren was curious and went closer. It was blood, fresh blood. The trail led to another thorn bush, which looked quite battered, as if something big had run through it. Perhaps an injured stag, Ahren thought excitedly. Falk would certainly be proud of him if he were to come home with some wild game. And an injured animal would have hardly any chance of surviving in winter and that way they could spare a healthy one. Ahren stood stock still and listened. He could hear faint breathing sounds from behind the bush. He moved forward very slowly and carefully, just as he had learnt, and tried pushing his way noiselessly through the thorny branches. There was a light wind blowing down here and he was convinced that it was coming from the right direction, he was downwind. So far so good. The stag wouldn't be able to smell him. Ahren lay down on his stomach and the cold snow sucked the warmth out of his body in an instant as he slowly elbowed his way forward. Finally, through the branches he saw a stag lying at the foot of an enormous boulder. There was blood everywhere and the entrails of the poor animal were hanging in shreds from the surrounding bushes and shrubbery. Ahren looked in shock at the scene and tried to comprehend which animal had attacked. Then a thought struck him. The deer was clearly dead, but he'd heard breathing coming from this direction. He listened intently but the blood was pounding in his ears with excitement and he could no longer hear it. His heart was beating wildly as he stood there stock still, not moving an inch. Feverishly he wondered what animal could have done this damage and he could only think it must have been a rabid bear. This thought put the apprentice into a state of panic. He forced himself to take deep, regular breaths as he tried to reach the Void. He didn't quite get there but at least he was thinking clearly again. He was slowly crawling backwards when the black rock, where the stag was lying, began to move! A huge paw became visible and the enormous black wolf, which had been curled up beside its prey, stood up in one flowing motion. The animal was at least one head taller than Falk and as long as a horse. Its fur was so black that it seemed to swallow all light. The monster stood up on its hind legs and stretched its nose into the wind. As it was sniffing loudly, Ahren noticed that its right front leg was damaged and the creature was holding it close to its chest. The boy could see a furry pattern running between the fore-paws, a strangely convoluted spiral of dark red fur. It stood out like a brand on the rest of the jet-black body. The creature's eyes burned a fiery red, no pupils, nothing. Only two half-moons that stared at him as the Blood Wolf slowly turned its head – and looked him directly in the eyes. Ahren spun around, ignoring the thorns that were scratching his face and injuring him, and broke through the undergrowth. Behind him he could hear a blood-curdling howl, deeper and more ferocious than any wolf he had heard before. He redoubled his efforts. He had managed about ten paces when he heard the Dark One crashing into the thorn bush. Another eight paces, a quick look behind, and he could see that the monster would break free any second and have a clear run. For a split second he thought of using the bow, but if he wanted to stop it, he would have to shoot the beast through the throat or through one of its eyes as it was charging on him. That may have sounded exciting and heroic in the old stories but Ahren really didn't feel like betting his life on it. The surrounding trees were too small to offer protection, so he wouldn't be able to climb to safety. The clearing! If he could manage to get there, there were enough trees that were high enough. The prospect of an escape gave him the courage to run on. The distance between himself and the murderous beast was at least forty paces once it had freed itself from the thorn bush and it began to run. It had a limp! It obviously couldn't move its crippled foreleg, and that gave Ahren hope. At least until he risked another look over his shoulder after a few more paces. His hunter was gaining three or four paces with every one of its bounds and would catch him within a few heartbeats! Ahren raced as fast as he could, straining every sinew in his body. He leapt over bushes and ducked with agile movements under low hanging branches. His arms worked like pumps to keep his forward momentum going at full pelt. He practically flew through the forest and a small part of him now understood how his master's varied lessons were coming together to work as a whole. But most of his thoughts were concerned with the fact that he could only enjoy this realization for a few brief seconds until the Blood Wolf tore him limb from limb like a little rag doll. His nerves were completely frayed by now. He tried to make use of his smaller size by constantly feinting in order to ensure there were as many tree trunks as possible between himself and the Blood Wolf. This tactic only slowed him down and the distance between them was shrinking mercilessly. A hundred more paces to the incline, and on top of that was the clearing with the practice targets. Ahren calculated that he would manage about half the distance before he felt the fangs of the wolf on his body. Still he ran on. With sweeping strides he leapt up the hill but he could already feel the beast breathing down his neck. With a yell he stormed onwards, at the same time drawing his knife. Were the creature to grasp him, he wasn't going to give up his life easily. It was only a few strides to the top of the hill and the familiar edge of the clearing appeared before him. Any second and he'd feel the hard claws boring into his skin and the long teeth would finish him off. Ahren grasped his knife harder and was about to spin around to see his killer in the eye. But suddenly an enormous silver-white spectre appeared over the crest of the embankment and came hurtling towards him. He flung himself to the side and caught a glimpse of horns, white fur and swirling hooves. With his nose in the earth he heard a deafening crash as the Blood Wolf and Ahren's mysterious saviour smashed into each other. He picked himself up quickly and saw a furious ball of black and silver-grey fur rolling down the embankment. He could hardly believe his eyes and not wanting to push his luck he ran on as fast as he could until he finally reached the safety of the cabin. Falk leaped up when his apprentice stormed in, closing the door behind him with a crash. Ahren doubted that this door made of flimsy wood could really stop the Blood Wolf but for the moment he was happy with the illusion of safety. He collapsed into a heap and for the next few minutes couldn't stop shivering. He wanted to warn his master but his teeth were chattering uncontrollably. He tried uttering 'wolf' a few times before eventually giving up. Falk knew a case of shock when he saw it and poured a beaker of calming tea out for him. But his apprentice still needed help in drinking it and managed to spill half of it. Once the brew had performed its task, Falk let his apprentice relate the story right from the start. At first he thought the apprentice had encountered his first wolf alone in the wild and hysteria had done the rest. But when Ahren began describing the animal, he became very tense. He had often experienced how victims of an animal attack would exaggerate their attacker's size and danger. But the boy had certainly not imagined the red eyes. 'Alright then, that must have been a Blood Wolf. Now we have to find out how strong the beast is' Falk began to put on his gear and took up the bow. 'Was the fur dark red or reddish-black?' 'Neither. The fur was jet black. It didn't even reflect the light', the young boy blurted. 'That's not good. The wolf isn't just fully grown but also very old. The more they kill, the redder the fur. Then the red becomes darker and darker and at some point it's black'. By now he was fully equipped and opening the chest. This, Ahren knew, contained his master's most prized possessions. 'Then at least it's not so mighty', said Ahren relieved. 'It had a red area between the fore-paws'. At this Falk spun around and grabbed the startled boy by the shoulders. 'What a strange place. Describe it'. 'An elaborate spiral, thin and…bright red', blurted the boy. Falk let his apprentice go and started cursing loudly. Ahren stared wide-eyed at his master, who was letting forth a torrent of abusive language. Once he had calmed down, he sat down on a stool, hung his head and said, 'I'm sorry, but that was necessary. If the monster is this size it must be at least four hundred years old. The patterns develop only over time and after countless victims have died. Don't get me wrong, but actually you should be dead' He looked at Ahren doubtfully. 'It only had three good legs. One foreleg is crippled', argued the apprentice. Falk only grunted. 'But it would definitely have caught me if it weren't for the grey thing', Ahren added. His master sat bolt upright. 'What kind of grey thing?' Ahren shrugged his shoulders. 'It suddenly appeared and jumped on top of the wolf, something with horns and silver-grey fur. I couldn't tell exactly what it was'. Falk leapt up so quickly that he knocked over the stool. All colour had drained from his face and he gasped, 'Selsena!' Before Ahren could figure out if this was an Elfish curse or a name, the old man had stormed out of the door without saying another word. The young boy was torn between fear and awareness of his responsibilities, and sat frozen on his stool. After a few moments he jumped up with a 'damn!' and ran after his mentor and directly towards where the Blood Wolf might be lying in wait for them. Branches were once again whipping his face and his chest was rising and falling like a bellows, but this time, the gods be cursed, he was running in the wrong direction! His master was a silhouette in the afternoon light and no matter how fast Ahren tried to catch up with him, he simply couldn't. Branches, roots of trees, bushes and twigs just seemed to slide off him, his every movement was efficient and precise, just sufficient to avoid obstacles without ever slowing his tempo. Ahren would have admired this sight under normal circumstances but at the moment he had neither the time nor the nerve. Every so often Falk would cry out, 'Selsena!', and Ahren was sure now it must be a name. It seemed that he must know the creature that had saved him and was more concerned for its safety than for his own. Or for my safety, thought Ahren for a moment. Then he realized how selfish this thought was. This creature, whatever it was, had saved his life. The practice clearing appeared in front of them and Ahren began to grow seriously afraid again. His steps became slower and more hesitant and he dropped further back. His master had reached the middle of the clearing and stood there, rooted to the spot. He was murmuring something so quietly that Ahren couldn't understand it. The Forest Guardian tilted his head sideways as his apprentice had seen him do so often in the previous few months. Then he nodded and said something again. Ahren trotted over to his master and caught his breath by putting his hands on his knees. Luckily, Falk seemed to have calmed down, he didn't seem to want to run any further, but was looking intently at the far side of the clearing. There, only a few paces further, where the two creatures had clashed. For a few moments nothing happened. Then, an animal came slowly out of the undergrowth, and approached the two of them with its head hanging. A bloodied head and flanks and even Falk drew his breath in sharply. He took a step forward, tilted his head again and nodded. His shoulders relaxed. Ahren saw his rescuer approaching, and now he could make out details. At first he had thought the animal was a large horse but now he saw the massive bone plate that covered its head and the three horns protruding from it. The top one was long and spiral with a tapered tip. The middle and lower ones were identical. Small and curved with a serrated edge. The creature had a broader chest than any horse he had ever seen and its fur shone a soft grey, emitting a mysterious silver shimmer wherever it hadn't been soaked with blood. A thick mane and mighty hooves rounded off the picture. It came to a halt about a pace away and raised its head so that its silver eyes seemed to stare directly at Falk. He reciprocated the look, cleared his throat and said, 'Ahren, may I introduce Selsena to you?' This information came as no surprise to Ahren at this point. He was sure this must have been the name of his rescuer. But one thing wasn't clear. What was it doing here? He had a suspicion, but that was absurd. 'Is that a unicorn?' he asked in the silence. Falk winced and the animal snorted scornfully as if it wanted to answer. 'Please don't say that', his master rebuked him. 'You sound like an idiot to her. The correct title would be Titejunanwa, which roughly translated means 'One horn, two daggers, three hearts, four hooves protect the forest' People made that into the word "unicorn'''. As he was speaking he began to carefully examine the creature's head and flanks. 'I could just call you 'A' from now on because the rest is too complicated for me, and that wouldn't be half as insulting as 'unicorn''. And another disparaging snort from the enormous nostrils. 'Just call her Selsena', said Falk as he finished his explanation while he gently stroked the bloodied areas with the flat of his hand. The blood simply flowed to the ground and not a drop was left on the hide! The animal was completely clean again within two dozen heartbeats. Apart from three long bruises on the flank where the Blood Wolf had injured it with a paw swipe. Ahren looked in amazement at the pool of blood in the snow. 'Nothing sticks to her hide', explained Falk. 'And so, for example, she cannot be poisoned by the spittle of a Grave Frog'. He bent down, examined the cuts and continued, 'which probably explains the fairy tales about purity, maidenhood and all that nonsense'. Ahren had slowly taken a step forward and looked Selsena directly in the eyes. A happy feeling came over him, just as if he were seeing Likis again, and he smiled, in spite of himself. Falk stood up straight and said, 'they are empaths, and can sense feelings and transmit them. And let me make one thing clear: if a Titejunanwa gores you, then you're dead, virgin or not, whatever any of the stories might claim'. Ahren pulled back instinctively but a merriment immediately spread within him as the Elven-horse snorted. 'Is she laughing at me?' asked Ahren taken aback. 'But of course she is. She's more clever than you are', said Falk with a smile. He tilted his head and added, 'more clever than both of us'. He patted the animal's neck and another feeling of joy passed through Ahren. It was strange but fascinating at the same time. The old man understood his look and said, 'you'll learn quickly how to ignore them, unless she wants you to know something. By the way, we can head back to the cabin now, she says. The Blood Wolf has fled'. His master turned around and went back beside Selsena and with a spring in his step, started walking towards the cabin. This news was music to Ahren's ears and with a last, anxious look over his shoulder, he followed the pair. He stayed in the background on the way home and watched the unlikely couple. Falk stayed close by Selsena's side and from time to time whispered things into her ear. Sometimes he would tilt his head to the side before answering. Ahren could feel joy, excitement and sometimes annoyance coming from the animal. 'She can talk to you, can't she?' he asked. They both stopped abruptly and Ahren realized that he had asked the question out aloud. He blushed but his master only nodded. 'Yes, that's right. A certain…situation…has made it possible for us to talk to each other. She can hear what I think and vice versa. Except that I'm a bit out of practice and I have to ask my questions out loud to muster the necessary concentration'. 'So, if you tilt your head, then she's talking to you?' Ahren was very proud that he had figured this out for himself. 'Do I do that? I never noticed', answered his master thoughtfully. 'Another crutch I can hopefully get rid of soon'. 'Why are you out of practice', Ahren wanted to know. Falk scowled and said, 'we had different opinions…about something very important. We didn't talk to each other for a long time. I was in the wrong. That's all I'm going to say'. Selsena snorted. The rest of the journey passed in silence although Ahren was dying to ask dozens more questions. But Falk kept his head tilted the whole time and judging by his face he was on the receiving end of a long and detailed lecture from Selsena. Ahren was comforted by the irony that his master was getting a dressing down for a change, and he smiled to himself. All thoughts of the Blood Wolf, which was lurking somewhere out there in the forest, were forgotten for a few precious minutes.

(13th Paladin 1) Ahren

Torsten Weitze

Chapter 10

'I don't understand why I didn't notice the monster earlier. There were practically none of the typical tell-tale signs in the forest. No massacres of wolves and bears, no swathes of destruction in the undergrowth, no woodcutters ripped apart'. Falk threw his arms in the air and looked questioningly out the window to where Selsena was standing. Ahren listened and shivered but didn't say a word. Talking about the Dark Ones wasn't half so terrifying anymore since he had faced the monster the previous day. Nothing could compare with the raw presence of the massive body with its black hide and muscles, which meant certain death. Ahren got up and began to clear up the breakfast which had ended once his master had finished his exclamation. Speaking had been kept to a minimum the evening before. Selsena had settled down comfortably outside the cabin and Falk had assured Ahren that she would keep watch. It had been obvious to Ahren that he wasn't going to get any more answers that night and it seemed that they were safe for the time being, so he lay down and promptly fell asleep. To his surprise he had slept well and deeply and without dreams. He had woken up refreshed and rested and not, as he had expected, bathed in sweat in a rumpled bed. He had then gone to the window and seen Selsena looking at him with her soft silvery eyes. A deep feeling of peace had spread inside him and he understood that the animal had guarded not only the cabin, but also his sleep. Yet all three were restless now. The time had come for his questions so he ploughed on. 'Why didn't Selsena just kill the Blood Wolf? They did fight and she seems to have won'. All the scratches on her flanks were almost completely healed and only recognizable as thin red welts on her hide. Falk looked at his apprentice in disbelief and snorted. Then he thought better and explained the situation. 'Selsena caught him off-guard. An attack from close range with the main horn. Her speciality, if you like. She struck him on the shoulder and the two of them hurtled down the incline while the wolf tried to bite her on the throat'. Ahren looked over at the mythical creature anxiously. He vividly remembered the long fangs of the wolf and had no doubt at all that they could have torn apart the neck of the magical horse with one bite. 'She got free of him and got away from him. Had she engaged in combat for even one more second, then she'd probably have been killed'. The Elven horse gave a quick snort and Falk tilted his head, then said, 'No false pride now, you know that's the truth'. Selsena looked away. 'The beast ran into the undergrowth, where it has an advantage over her, and for that reason she didn't give chase. We have to look for it', said Falk into the silent room. Ahren nodded wearily. He had seen that one coming. After all, this was the main function of the Forest Guardian. Otherwise he would simply be a common hunter. Falk proudly observed the stoic response of the boy and his look softened. 'The Blood Wolf is wounded and crippled. It is alone and there are three of us. Selsena can sense its anger if it's nearby. These advantages should even up the hunt a little'. 'Do you still think it's four hundred years old?' asked Ahren doubtfully. This was an unbelievable length of time that a young brain simply couldn't comprehend. 'I said at least four hundred yesterday. Based on Selsena's description and its quick reaction to her attack, I would guess that he had fought already in the Dark Days'. Ahren was flabbergasted at this news. This creature had fought in wars that he had read about in the legends during his Godsday lessons! Falk looked at his apprentice earnestly. 'It's important you understand we're dealing with an old and experienced brain here. Without Selsena's equally long experience in battle I'd have to drum up half the village, there'd be some massacre, and even then, victory would be far from certain. Think about it, the more blood it spills, the stronger it becomes'. Ahren looked at the creature outside the window. She was just talking to Falk and the apprentice watched her thoughtfully. These eyes had seen things for more than seven hundred years. What wonders and sorrows must she have experienced? Falk laughed out loud and the thought was gone. 'She says it's not polite to talk about a woman's age. Better that we change the subject. The first thing we need are battle arrows. Our hunting arrows won't even penetrate the Blood Wolf's fur. I'll take care of that. You run over to Vera and get the Earth Paste'. Ahren nodded. This was a logical step. Earth Paste could camouflage individual human scents and made hunting easier. It was very difficult to make, expensive and was only used when hunting dangerous game. Perfect for hunting Blood Wolves, thought Ahren grimly. The old man continued. 'Selsena, you comb the forest and see if you can find its whereabouts. But in the name of the THREE be careful'. She answered them both and a feeling of comfort filled the boy. Then she spun around on her hind hooves and disappeared into the forest in the space of two heartbeats. Falk looked after her with concern, then looked over at his apprentice. 'What are you still doing here? She says the coast is clear but once she's gone from us we won't know where the wolf is hiding. So stop dawdling and get back here in double quick time'. Ahren didn't need to be told twice. He threw on his woollen coat and quickly went out the door and into the silence of the drifting snow, which had fallen during the night and was now sticking. Within two hours he had two sealed jars of Earth Paste and was on the way home. Vera had asked him why he needed this expensive cream, but as Ahren wasn't sure what he was allowed to say, he didn't say anything but suggested she talk to Falk. The old woman could be very indignant if you kept information from her, so Ahren left quickly before she could grill him. He would have to spill the beans sooner or later. Falk had already returned when he got back to the cabin. It turned out that Ahren could have told Vera about the Blood Wolf. His master had not only ordered three dozen battle arrows from the blacksmith but he had also informed the village council that entering the forest was forbidden and he had even sounded the bell in front of the Village Hall to lend his words more weight. The village would now be in a state of emergency until Falk rang the bell again. For the moment no-one could leave their house without good reason, and all activities in the forest were suspended. 'The blacksmith said the arrows would be ready this afternoon. I have something else to take care of and will bring them with me when I return. You look after your equipment and especially your bow. I want you to string it with as much tension as possible. It's not going to help us if you hit the target, but the arrow simply gets stuck in the thick hide'. Before Falk could give an answer, Falk had disappeared again in a cloud of tumbling snowflakes. He did as he was told and looked after his things. His master still hadn't returned by the evening, and the boy was becoming nervous. Selena wasn't back either and he began imagining the worst. What if the wolf had caught the magical horse? Or Falk? Or both? Once darkness set in, Ahren was in the grip of his own fantasies. With his inner eye he saw the whole village, lifeless and still. Doors had been torn off with brute force, the villagers slaughtered on the spot. Ahren was the only one left and a pair of red eyes were focused on his cabin, while in the darkness the Blood Wolf circled ever closer as he crept towards his prey. Ahren was beginning to flinch at every noise and caught himself holding on to his bow and arrow for dear life. He put both aside, lit the candle and tried to find the Void. His master found him in the same position when he arrived back in the late evening. The candle had almost burned down, which meant that Ahren must have been there for several hours. The boy's head had sunk down to his chest and he was snoring. The old man closed the door with a frown, then carefully wakened the boy by placing his hand on the boy's shoulder and gently shaking him. The apprentice looked up at him sleepily and said in a daze, 'you're back late'. 'The blacksmith took longer because he had never made battle arrows before. I decided to wait so that we're ready whenever we need them'. Ahren noticed two bundles on his master's back. One was a fresh oilskin, slim in shape and undoubtedly held the arrows; the other was an enormous, filthy leather bag, lumpy in shape which made a clattering sound whenever Falk moved. He placed both on the table and sat down. 'Did it work?' he asked, indicating the candle. Ahren nodded first, but then shook his head. 'Not really. I did calm down but I didn't achieve the Void. The spirits are strong now that the wolf is among them'. Falk gave an understanding nod. The boy's subconscious would be full of images of the beast they would soon be hunting. This was down to what he'd just experienced. It was quite an achievement that he had been able to calm himself to the extent of falling asleep on his own. 'A start, said Falk and began unpacking the bundles. One of them contained the reinforced arrows, as Ahren had predicted. He picked one up to look at it more closely. The shaft was stronger and broader than the usual hunting arrow and the tip was a dangerous looking triangle with its tip ending in a barb. The weapon was at least four times as heavy as the arrows Ahren was used to. He shuddered at the thought of being struck by one of these monsters. The idea that somewhere people would be shooting these at each other in a war was unbearable and unimaginable. He quickly put the murderous instrument aside and looked with interest at his master, who was now emptying the second bag. Armoured neck collars, underarm protectors and leg guards appeared, everything made from a strange whitish material, and elaborately adorned. He reached forward to touch one of the pieces but Falk silently tapped him on the fingers and gave him a stern look. The master began to smear the pieces of armour with ash from the fireplace until they looked grey and dirty, almost like neglected iron that was just becoming rusty. Then he placed them carefully on a shelf and took the last piece out of the bag. Ahren gasped in surprise. It was a broadsword and scabbard. Broadswords were a rarity in Hjalgar, and as far as Ahren knew there were none in Deepstone. He never would have thought that his master possessed one. 'Left over from a war I'd rather not think about'. That was all his master had to say about the matter. The rest of the evening passed by in silence. The snow fell more heavily that night. Selsena returned in the morning and informed Falk that she hadn't been successful in her search. He stood at the window and looked out at the white landscape with a frown. 'The snow is already knee deep. A hunt is out of the question for the next few days. The villagers won't be happy that work will be impossible during this time', complained Falk. 'But Selsena will keep on looking. The good news is that the Blood Wolf doesn't seem to have made its lair in the vicinity. That's certainly lessened the probability of immediate danger'. He turned around to his apprentice. 'We'll spend the whole day practising with the battle arrows and when your arms are exhausted we'll practise stalking. I want you to be as prepared as possible'. The whole of the next week was taken up with this routine. Now and again Selsena sensed the rage of the monster and began to encircle its hiding place. Meanwhile Ahren grew used to the new weaponry and his master taught him more about the art of stalking. The villagers waited patiently but on the fifth evening one of the most senior of the village elders came to their door and asked how long the danger was likely to continue. Falk knew that this situation could not continue indefinitely and when Selsena reported on the evening of the ninth day that she had found the creature's lair, Falk announced, 'right, whatever about the snow, tomorrow we hunt the Blood Wolf'.

(13th Paladin 1) Ahren

Torsten Weitze

Chapter 11

The weather at least was reasonably kind and so the three headed off under clear skies to confront the Dark One who was threatening their village community. One thing was bothering Ahren. 'Why is Selsena helping us? Couldn't she just gallop away? Or can you control her with your thoughts?' Falk rubbed his beard and answered. 'Firstly, she's been my companion for more years than I care to remember. We'd go through hell and high water for each other and have done that many times. Secondly, SHE WHO FEELS created the Titejunanwa to protect the forest and all its inhabitants from the Dark Ones. It's her vocation to help us'. Ahren had to digest this information first. In the humans' stories, unicorns only appeared as protectors of maidens, or proved the purity of a heart by boring into the subject with their horn. If it remained whole, then the person was without malice. And there were rainbows. In every story with unicorns you had rainbows. The creature standing before Ahren and that Falk had told him about didn't fit into the legends that he had heard. When you looked at Selsena carefully, she appeared almost stocky. This was down to her broad chest which contained the three hearts. The breast cage under her hide seemed to be made of a continuous breastplate although Ahren couldn't be sure. The one on her head could be clearly seen and gave the animal a much more martial air than what was described in the legends. They walked further northwards, far further north than Ahren had ever marched with Falk. 'That's why I hadn't noticed the wolf', Falk realized. 'Since you've been with me, I've rarely come to this part of the forest. The wolf's lair is still further north. It's too far to get there and back in one day. We're going to have to sleep in the open after the hunt'. And he pointed at the heavy rucksack on Ahren's back. The apprentice was heavily weighed down today because they had taken far more equipment than usual, including many healing creams and bandages. Ahren swallowed and tried to think of something else. He was carrying the lion's share today partly because his master was wearing the pieces of armour that he had produced from the dirty bundle. Ahren's theory was that he had hidden the bag somewhere in the forest but the old man had refused to confirm this. The neck piece protected the lower part of Falk's head, and the metal pieces enclosed his underarms and lower legs. He'd tied the sword to the middle of his back so that his movement would be as free as possible. The snow was up to the middle of Ahren's thighs and he followed in his master's wake on a path that had been ploughed in the snow by Selsena's quiet steps. Selsena stopped around midday and Falk listened to her. He nodded and said, 'this is it. Somewhere within a thousand paces is the lair, and the Blood Wolf is there. Let's put on the Earth Paste'. Ahren fished out the two little jars as silently as possible and they began applying the brown paste, which oozed the smells of the forest. Meanwhile Falk ran through their strategy one more time. 'Selsena will draw the beast out into the open. I'll try and land one or two arrows. Ahren, you stay in the background. Only shoot if one of us gets into distress, you just have to hit it so that it's distracted, then we can regroup. If we're lucky my first arrow will do the trick and it'll all be over in ten heartbeats. Then we can head back home'. He tried to smile encouragingly but he could only manage a grimace. 'Understood?' Ahred nodded and Selsena snorted. 'Right, then. Let's get this over with'. They moved forward slowly. Step by step, then stopping and listening. The Elven horse corrected course a few times, whenever she located the wolf more precisely. After what seemed like an eternity she stopped and bowed her head so that her horn was pointing towards an enormous, fallen tree. The roots of the colossus had ripped a huge clump of earth out of the ground, which now stuck up into the sky like a little mountain, laced with its pattern of roots. Below this was a dark cool hollow shaded from the sun and prying eyes. Something dark rose and fell at regular intervals and Ahren knew that his was the wolf's chest. Slowly they separated. Falk moved to the left, Selsena to the right and Ahren stayed where he was until they had formed a semi-circle above the hollow, each ten paces from the next. With shaking fingers Ahren took an arrow and lightly tensed the bowstring so that he would be quick off the mark when the time was right. It was biting cold and yet his hands were damp with sweat and he could hear the blood roaring in his ears. He felt at the mercy of the murderous creature – something he had never felt before. If Falk and Selsena were to fail, then he too would be killed by the Blood Wolf. He felt he was handing over control of his life, which was almost more frightening than the death machine they were about to attack. If he hadn't trusted his master quite so much, he would have fled by now. Instead, he looked one last time into the calm grey eyes of the old Forest Guardian, who looked back at him before deliberately selecting an arrow and setting it in position. A short nod of his grey head and it began. Selsena stood on her hind legs and let forth a loud neigh which contained within it a wave of defiance which she communicated through empathy to her partners. Ahren felt the strong impulse within him and ground his teeth in agitation. The wolf reacted immediately. In one flowing movement it was up, throwing its head back and answering the challenge with a loud, nerve-wracking howl. Snow fluttered from the trees and Ahren's teeth hurt. So far, so good, he thought and held his breath. The creature had reacted as they had expected and already Falk let an arrow fly, which headed straight for the wolf's invitingly upstretched neck. The arrow landed with a horrible crunch and Ahren was on the point of cheering when the wolf spun around and tried to bite the arrow, which hadn't seemed to have done it any harm. Falk shot again, this time straight at the eyes, which the wolf had fixed on him. Again, there was another horrible noise as the arrow hit one of the burning red half-moons, extinguishing it forever. But the angle was wrong and the arrow lodged downward behind the cheek instead of boring into the brain. The next part of the plan involved an assault by Selsena, who was to land on the wolf's back and distract it. She was already racing for the Dark One but the wolf turned around and plunged with incredible speed towards Falk. Falk fired another arrow, which hit the Blood Wolf in the breast and a second later the monster took an almighty leap while letting forth a furious howl of pain. The black body of fangs and claws was on top of Falk in a fury of blood lust before he had the chance to shoot off another arrow. With a furious growl the fangs sank in and it began to bite. Seeing the situation, Ahren screamed with all his might as he prepared an arrow, but he was afraid to shoot in case he hit Falk. Selsena was still at least five paces away when the Blood Wolf raised its head, the left arm of the old man between its powerful jaws, and it tossed its head from side to side so that Falk was thrown about like a rag doll. Branches were smashed and his master's body, which was being tossed wildly around the place, was rammed at least once into the trunk of a tree. Then Selsena, who was less hesitant than Ahren, attacked. With a neigh of fury she rammed her horn all the way into the wolf's flank and threw it down. Falk was thrown, screaming upwards in an arc before landing with a thud on the forest floor. Before the beast could catch Selsena, she had jumped away to prepare herself for another assault. Now Ahren understood what his master had tried to explain to him. The Blood Wolf was much faster and stronger in close combat. No matter how terrifying the ramming attacks of the Titejunanwa might be, she would have practically no chance of defending herself once the wolf had her in its grip. An evil intelligence flashed forth from the Dark One's remaining eye. It made no move to follow the magical horse but turned to the injured Falk instead. In frustration Selsena emitted another challenge, but this time it seemed to have no effect on the black animal. Without hesitating, it fell upon Falk again, who had turned on his back and was laboriously trying to draw his broadsword, as his arrow had been snapped by the wolf in the first attack. Ahren saw in horror that the wolf would be faster, much faster. Without thinking, he tensed the bow as far as he could and let the heavy arrow fly. The missile struck the wolf on the right shoulder, just as it was looming over Falk. More surprised than injured, the monster turned its head. The Blood Wolf hesitated, unsure as to whether it should finish off the prey that was lying there invitingly or if it should make for the second archer. Ahren shot a second arrow, which landed harmlessly in the beast's hide while he screamed incoherently, less as a challenge and more as a way of counteracting his rising panic. The wolf made a decision and prepared to spring forward, which would have brought it effortlessly onto the defenceless apprentice, but Falk finally pulled the broadsword out of its scabbard. 'Paladinim theos duralas', he called and the Dark One threw itself in a rage at him. Falk plunged the sword into the beast's chest but because he was half under the animal it didn't penetrate far. He couldn't release his hands from the grip without losing his final weapon and didn't have enough strength to push the blade in deeper. The wolf lowered its head past the steel which was sticking into it and was about to rip Falk's head off. Sobbing, Ahren set another arrow in order somehow to help his master, when Selsena came galloping up. A flash of light from the low setting sun shone through the branches and caught the horns of the silver animal before the armoured head smashed into flesh and bones and with an almighty crash, the wolf was thrown forward and down into the old Forest Guardian's broadsword blade. Smoothly the sword slipped as far as the hilt into the wolf's breast. With a final howl, and as if struck by lightning, the wolf collapsed in a heap, pulling Selsena with it, as her horn was stuck in the creature's spine. An unnatural silence filled the air for a moment, broken only by the irregular panting of the terrified apprentice, who was rooted to the spot, afraid of what he might find in the hollow. It was only when the body of the wolf gave a sudden jerk and he heard a muffled, 'boy, a little help would be great', that he came out of his paralysis and hurried to help his trapped master. Selsena, who must have been stunned for a moment, rose unsteadily and loosened her horn with a disgusting, squelching sound from the flesh of her enemy. Her bony head was spattered with blood and bits of the wolf, and Ahren looked away with a shudder. Whoever made up these stories about unicorns had never seen a Titejunanwa in action. He got down to work with a groan and started pulling Falk out from under the wolf's corpse. Sometime later and with a combined effort they succeeded in freeing the old Forest Guardian. Once he was up on his feet again, he pulled the blade out of the cadaver, wiped it dry on the hide and murmured to the sword, 'you haven't let me down yet', before slipping it back into its scabbard. 'Master, what was that you called out earlier?' asked Ahren curiously. The wolf had reacted to the call immediately and violently. 'We've just slain a Dark One that has been wreaking murderous havoc around the world for half a millennium and you want a lesson in Elfish?' his master replied humorously. Ahren realized that he wasn't going to get a sensible answer today. Instead, Falk gripped his hand and said, 'yes, thank you, Ahren. Things would have turned out very differently without you'. The boy was bursting with pride, at least until his master tousled his hair as if he were a child. The old codger could really spoil things at a moment's notice. A feeling of happiness surged through his thoughts when Selsena started laughing at them both, and one heartbeat later they were all laughing their heads off, glad to be still alive. He awoke with a start, wide-eyed and his face bathed in sweat. An old oath had been renewed, spoken by a voice he had thought lost forever. He looked over at the complicated network of lines, spirals and convoluted signs, which almost covered the marble floor completely. He could still hear the singing reverberating in the air. Quickly he spoke a simple spell while with a gruff movement of the hand he shooed away the servant, who had rushed to him when he had awoken. With full concentration he stared at the barely visible lines that led towards the west. He smiled and began adding a new sign to his magic web. Now he knew where he must look. A short time later they had lit a fire but Ahren was still shaking like a leaf. Falk watched him sympathetically and said, 'Your body has to become used to the excitement. You'll feel better soon'. Ahren wasn't sure if he ever wanted to get used to the feeling of being in mortal danger but kept the thought to himself. Falk rubbed his left shoulder absentmindedly. His movements were still stiff. After all, the wolf's attack had almost ripped his arm off. Only the old man's athletic constitution and the underarm armour that the wolf had bitten into had prevented him from being torn apart - literally. 'Have you decided yet which part you want?' the old man asked abruptly. Falk responded to Ahren's questioning look by pointing with his knife at the spread-eagled shape of the Blood Wolf. 'That is a Dark One. Tradition grants you the right to a trophy and you've certainly earned one'. The boy's thoughts turned to the grey Fog Cat cloak that Falk wore at any traditional occasions. Falk could never be considered a pompous person and so he had wondered a few times over the preceding months why he owned such a cloak at all. But the great satisfaction that came with conquering such a strong opponent explained the desire to have tangible proof of such an achievement. Ahren walked slowly around the cadaver, half afraid the Blood Wolf could come back to life. If this encounter had taught him anything, then it was respect for the opponent. He circled the mountain of fur and was considering whether he could use one of the fangs as a dagger when he heard a curious little whimpering sound. He turned around and went gingerly towards the source of the sound. It seemed to come from a part of the pit where the wolf had been lying. Although he watched out where he was walking he kept stepping on dry bones which cracked and snapped under his boots. The skeletons of older prey lay all over the place and there was a strong smell of old blood emanating from the back of the lair. Ahren was about to turn back when he heard the sound again, which he now identified as a weak whimpering. A little puppy was lying among the bones, curled up in a protective hollow, with its snow white fur. It looked up at the boy with its golden yellow eyes while it weakly called for its mother. Ahren was overcome by a feeling of guilt mixed with an instinct to protect and he sank to his knees, unaware of the blood from the remains of the slaughtered animals which soaked through his leggings. He gingerly stretched forward a finger, ready to pull it back at the least sign of aggression. But the little thing just sniffed at him, whimpered timidly again and looked past Ahren towards the entrance. Before he had a chance to regret the decision he pulled off his cloak, wrapped the whelp in it and took the bundle in his arms. The little thing didn't protest, just snuggled into the boy's chest and closed its eyes. Selsena had sensed the turmoil within the apprentice and warned Falk that something wasn't quite right. The pair had stood up and were waiting at the edge of the hollow for him. The old man looked down at the boy with a stony expression. 'Ahren, what do you have there?' The tone in his voice could have cut through rock. 'A whelp, master', said Ahren carefully and pulled back the cloak a little so that the little head became visible and blinked its eyes at the bright world. Ahren turned so that the animal couldn't see the body of its mother, and climbed out of the depression. Selsena pranced nervously on the spot, threw her head back, and the wave of emotions that she let forth, a mixture of hatred and pity, were as disturbing as those he felt himself. She gave a neigh of protest and galloped off, disappearing into the undergrowth. Falk looked angrily down at Ahren, reached a calloused hand out towards the whelp and pulled out his dagger with the other. Did he really want to kill the whelp? The boy retreated several paces, Falk in pursuit. 'Give me that!' The order was like the crack of a whip. The little thing whimpered and Ahren shouted defiantly, 'no!' Falk rolled his eyes and checked himself with difficulty. Holding the dagger in his hand, he said calmly and slowly, 'that is a Dark One. We kill Dark Ones'. Ahren turned away so that his body was between the blade and the little ball of fur that was snuggling into him for protection. He couldn't, he wouldn't give up the whelp. His head and his heart told him that there couldn't be any relationship between the horrifying beast that had only a few short hours previously tried to slaughter them, and this needy little creature. He looked at the little face with the pointy ears and pink tongue which was now licking his chin. 'But he doesn't have red eyes', he argued stubbornly. All Dark Ones had, like the Adversary, who imposed his will on them. 'Not yet', responded Falk heatedly. 'But his master will call him at the first new moon, and if he falls into a rage and tastes blood, then they'll turn red. And then he'll be ten times as difficult to kill. He might even tear apart one of your friends. What do you think now?' Ahren was filled with a deep-seated rage. This whelp had to pay for the sins of its mother, without having the chance to live its own life, free from the sins of the past. He saw himself, locked in his father's hut, with no hope of rescue. Until Falk came. He had saved him. And now he of all people was adamant that this living creature couldn't be saved. To Ahren it seemed like a betrayal. He stood up straight and said in a firm voice. 'I claim this whelp as my trophy. I shall save him and he shall live'. Falk was about to say something but then shrugged his shoulders and put his knife away. A deep sadness was etched on his face. 'Good, then I won't keep you back. Sometimes the younger generation has to learn the hard way'. Then he sat down by the fire and stared into the flames. Ahren sat down warily on the other side of the fire and held the whelp close to his chest. For the rest of the evening the master and his apprentice sat in an uneasy silence. This silence continued as they made their way home the following day. When they arrived at the cabin that afternoon, Ahren was in a dilemma. He could hardly take the wolf with him into the village as long as everyone was in a panic and waiting behind their locked doors for the whelp's mother to attack. But he had to get food or the little thing would starve. That meant he would have to leave the whelp alone with Falk. The apprentice chewed on his lip before finally saying, 'I want you to swear that you will do no harm to the little one'. Falk grumbled, as though he had expected that and said, 'Alright then. I swear by the THREE that I will not harm this animal either directly or indirectly until its eyes are red. Then I will kill it'. That was more than Ahren had expected and he had to admit it was a fair condition. So he simply said, 'thank you' and put the whelp down on the floor of the cabin. Falk raised his eyebrows and nodded silently. The whelp ran over to him as if to sniff his hand and the boy could have sworn that the old man was on the point of stroking it before deciding to wave it away. But he didn't want to push his luck and said nothing more but set off for the butcher. As the door closed behind him he could hear his master complain, 'if the little boy pisses in the cabin, then you're going to clean it up with your Godsday suit, do you hear me?' Ahren smiled all the way to the village. Falk had regained his gruff nature and that was a good sign. The following days were a tough struggle as Ahren tried to improve the whelp's health. He had to work out the correct mixture of water and cooked meat pulp so that the little thing could keep his food down. He used all his knowledge of healing herbs so he could add the correct plants that would help the young animal to survive the adaptation. By the sixth day it was clear that the wolf would make it and that lifted a load off Ahren's mind. His master kept his promise but did not help the boy. The old man spent a lot of time outside with Selsena, who refused to come nearer than twenty paces from the cabin. Ahren felt her attitude didn't help the situation but it didn't throw him off continuing to raise the whelp. Falk had been paying him the apprentice wage since the Autumn Festival. Ahren hadn't touched it up until this point but now he bought everything he needed that would help provide for his little, furry friend. The new moon was ten days away and then his master would realize that Ahren had been proven right. The boy wouldn't even consider the possibility of failure and its consequences. The two Forest Guardians were acclaimed as heroes among the villagers, as they had driven away the shadow of the evil one from Deepstone. There were a few doubters who claimed that the wolf had never existed and this had just been a trick to curry favour among the community. Falk nicked this rumour in the bud by unceremoniously dumping the head of the beast in the village square. Ahren could imagine who had been spreading these malevolent rumours but he was too preoccupied with looking after the whelp and anyway he didn't really care. Ahren played as much as possible with the young wolf, held him close every night and fed him with such earnestness that it nearly brought tears to Falk's eyes. The tragic end was fast approaching and he could only hope that the boy would get over it. The animal became ever more restless as the new moon approached. It snarled for no reason and snapped at Ahren a few times when they were playing. The boy reacted with stoic equanimity, cut a few strips off an old cloak, wrapped these around his arms, and continued playing. Falk respected his apprentice's determination and remembered the previous year's Apprenticeship Trials when a timid young boy with a broken arm stubbornly defied a far stronger opponent. And so the day they had both been fearing arrived. The young wolf was irritable and tried to leave the cabin at every opportunity. Ahren became more and more frustrated. Falk finally took pity on him and decided to give the young boy's plan a chance. 'What do you intend to do?' he asked. Ahren jutted out his chin and said, 'I'll chain him up if necessary'. 'That won't work', said Falk. 'That's already been tried. The frenzy ensures that he'll snap the rope, or the animal will strangle himself on it'. 'It's been tried already?' Ahren was stunned. 'Not just once. A hundred times. Without success. I'll admit, most of the animals were older when they were found. You've had an unusual amount of time for him to get used to you. But no, it has never worked. Either the animals escaped, or killed themselves in the process, or ripped apart their minders. First there's the frenzy, and if they then drink a drop of blood, it's too late. The eyes change colour and a new Dark One has been created. Herbs are useless during the frenzy too, so you can't drug them'. A heavy silence hung over the room. Ahren could think of only one way out. 'Then I'll hold on to him for the whole night'. Falk looked doubtfully at the young animal, which was pacing the room and growling. The wolf had grown to the length of his arm over the previous ten days. 'You want to hold on to a wolf in frenzy for the whole night and stop him from getting one drop of your blood into his mouth?' 'Of course'. Ahren was warming even more to the idea. 'I'll stuff my arms with material, hold his head in an arm grip and I'll hold his tummy in a grip with my other arm. I'll always stay at his back, so he can't bite me. He won't be able to strangle himself in my arms, the stuff is too soft and I can adjust the strength of my grip. And he won't be able to escape either'. The boy beamed at his master. Falk rubbed his eyes wearily. 'Ahren, that might work for an hour, then you'll get tired and make a mistake'. But his apprentice was already gathering together the strips of cloth he had worn when playing during the previous few days. He tied them tightly to his arms with strips of leather and lay down beside the young wolf, who tried to jump to the side. He quickly had him in the grip he had described to his master and now he was lying on his side, the animal pressed closely to him. The whelp was growling quietly but not moving. The young boy's face filled with a triumphant grin and he called out, 'it's working!' Falk stared at him, too tired and sad to discuss the matter anymore. 'Alright. We'll do it like this. You hold on tightly, I'll sit over there on the stool with my dagger. As soon as your insane plan fails, I'll do everything I can to save your life'. The finality with which Falk described the failure of his plan was like a slap in the face. He avoided making eye contact with his master for the rest of the day and concentrated on perfecting his arm protectors while the night slowly approached. 'Ahren, it's time', said Falk in an unusually soft voice. Dusk had settled over the forest and the sparkling landscape of snow outside had transformed into a collection of faint, grey shapes. Soon there would be the total darkness common to new moons. The whelp had been standing in the corner for some time shaking and growling at the two of them. Ahren gave a tentative nod and then strapped the padding to his arms. The old man watched him for a while and finally started giving him advice. The construction of cloth and leather straps had to be snug to the arms without cutting off the blood supply but not so loose that the wolf could use the wriggle room to twist around in the apprentice's arms and rip out his throat. Ahren moved slowly towards the young wolf, speaking reassuringly to him. Meanwhile, Falk was tensely chewing on his lips. There were two major weaknesses in Ahren's plan: there was the danger that his strength would not last, and the wolf might succeed in turning. The frenzy would last until sunrise and this was a night in the middle of winter. For Falk the result was not in doubt. The padding and the leather jerkin would, in the eyes of the master, only protect the boy until he intervened. And that would be at the moment the animal was lost to the great Betrayer. He had tried to persuade Ahren to wear a neck guard to protect against a throat bite but the stubborn boy would hear nothing of it because if his neck were stiff he wouldn't be able to keep a constant eye on the animal. At last the apprentice picked the whelp up quickly and carried him to his bed. He lay down with his back to the wall so he could use the stability of the wood and crossed his arms over the front of the wolf, one arm bent around the animal's neck, the other around the stomach, just above the hind legs. The wolf began to defend himself and snarled dangerously but Ahren continued to speak soothingly to him. Falk was close to tears as he saw the heart-breaking inevitable conclusion that was drawing nearer. He took the stool and sat two paces away and in full view of Ahren. He had pulled out his dagger, but held it hidden. 'I'm here boy', he said in a hoarse voice, 'as long as it takes'. Ahren looked up in gratitude to his mentor. The wolf wasn't as strong as he had feared and he had no problem preventing his attempts to escape. This gave him courage. The light faded noticeably and Falk placed a big log on the fire, which would burn for many hours. He could see from his stool with the flickering light of the fire how the young animal was struggling harder to escape from Ahren's grip. The growling was becoming deeper and more threatening and the young boy's body was swaying from side to side with the animal's movements. Beads of sweat appeared on Ahren's face as he noticed that the wolf was producing more strength then he could have imagined. His arms were beginning to hurt and he had to keep reminding himself not to injure the whelp by squeezing too hard. The evening moved on inexorably and it was now completely black outside the cabin. The animal was struggling incessantly in his arms, snapping the air, trying to twist and turn, scratching with his paws. Ahren tried to keep pressed against the wall so he could preserve his strength. The padding on his arms was holding, as were the leather leggings but the kicks were painful nonetheless. Any time he thought he had adjusted to the wolf's resistance, the whelp would increase his efforts. The burning in his arms had now spread to his shoulders and back. He was panting and much to his consternation the little body in his arms didn't seem to be tiring, but rather gaining in strength. Falk stood up and came towards him slowly with the drawn dagger. 'No!' the boy screamed at the top of his voice and gripped harder. Then he saw that his mentor was holding a goblet in his other hand. He approached Ahren from above and poured some water laced with herbs down his throat, being careful not to come too close to the wolf's fangs. At first Ahren hadn't wanted to drink anything for fear it was a sleeping potion but then he smelled the Life Fern and Wolf Herb. He drank down the herbal tea greedily, knowing it would give him strength and ease the pain. He tried to reach the Void although all the muscles in his body were tense. Soon the herbs did their job and he fell into a sort of trance. The whelp struggled in his arms but the boy was steadfast. After some hours, with the night already half over, the wolf suddenly became limp and gave up all resistance. Bathed in sweat Ahren smiled at Falk and said, 'that wasn't so…', when the little body nearly exploded. Falk could see from his stool that the animal's eyes had rolled completely to the back of the head. His mouth was foaming, and it was obvious that the wolf wasn't just content with escaping anymore. Its claws were seeking out the body of the boy, every movement was aimed at injuring him and sinking his fangs into the Ahren's flesh. Falk sat as taut as a bowstring on the edge of his chair, ready to intervene as soon as this drama was over. He only hoped he would be able to save the boy. Ahren was now sobbing uncontrollably and using every sinew in his body to resist the attacks. The wolf's claws were tearing deep channels in the material protecting his arms, and the leather on his legs was beginning to wear away under the onslaught. The Void seemed to have blown away and Ahren couldn't find the necessary concentration again. His whole body was in pain and a wave of exhaustion overwhelmed him. He caught sight of his master's face, which reflected what he already knew. He was going to lose. His strength would give way and at some point, he would make a mistake. And then Falk will kill the little fellow to save me…this thought reignited Ahren's resistance. Sobbing uncontrollably he held on to the whelp, who relentlessly carried on with his work of destruction in Ahren's arms. Countless heartbeats passed by, but the paroxysms continued. Paw swipes left their first bloody gashes on his legs where the leathers had worn through and soon his arms would suffer the same fate. Falk looked on sadly as his protégé's resistance weakened and he quietly prepared to bring the whole thing to an end. He stood up, but instead of moving to the distraught boy, he walked to the window. He tilted his head and opened the heavy wooden shutters that kept out the winter. The world beyond the cabin was pitch black, a thick carpet of cloud hid the stars. An impenetrable wall of darkness was before him, as if nothing else existed except for the cabin and the hopeless battle raging behind his back. A cold blast of air came into the room and then an outline appeared from the dark night. The light from the fire in the cabin shimmered on Selsena's hide as the Titejunawna approached and looked through the window at the scene playing out in the room. Falk stepped aside to take up his watch again. Ahren kept control of the wriggling body with whatever strength he had left. There were tears in his eyes and blood on his arms and legs. Now he had to keep his eyes on the wolf's head with even more concentration. One lick of his lifeblood and all would be lost. Ahren's determination was beginning to crumble and the morning was still so far away. Then Selsena was standing at the window and her inscrutable, grey eyes were locked on to his. Peace arose within Ahren like the mist rising in a forest clearing on a warm spring morning. Serenity and an unshakeable quietness flowed through him and gave his limbs renewed strength. The whelp on the other hand seemed to be quietening down. The animal's efforts were still hurting Ahren but he seemed to have lost the determined ferocity which had marked his earlier behaviour. Falk looked dumbstruck from one to the other, the dagger still in his hand, and for the first time was uncertain about what the next few hours would bring.

(13th Paladin 1) Ahren

Torsten Weitze

Chapter 12

Falk awoke with a start the following morning. He was still sitting on the stool and had a stabbing pain in his back. He must have dropped off at some point. The last few hours of the previous night had crawled painfully slowly. The struggle between the exhausted boy and the similarly spent wolf had lessened to no more than brief twitching of the muscles. The closer it had come to morning, the quieter it had become in the cabin, and at some point the effort must have taken its toll on Falk. Selsena was still standing at the window, looking at the boy. Up until now, Falk had avoided viewing the scene, fearful of what he might see, but when he turned around he was met with an astonishing sight. The two bodies were lying entwined on the blood-soaked mat. The apprentice's arms and legs were covered in cuts and scratches, his clothing and padding hung in shreds, or lay scattered across the bed. The boy's face was pale and drawn with dark rings under his eyes. His chest was gently rising and falling, much to Falk's relief. The whelp was breathing too so there was only one more thing Falk had to do. With his knife drawn, he glanced at Selsena, then crept closer and bent over the young wolf. With the tip of his knife a finger's width away from the animal's heart, he carefully lifted an eyelid of the sleeping creature. The whelp's pupil was golden-yellow! Falk recoiled as if he had been hit. Ahren stirred in his sleep and snuggled up closer to the soft fur of the whelp, who grunted contentedly. Falk stood up and stared down at the sleepers. Then he turned to the window and said to Selsena, 'sometimes it's the older ones who need to learn new things'. He patted her on the neck and the laughter and the joy of the one echoed in the soul of the other. Ahren slept the whole day through and the following night, as did the little wolf. Early the next morning he was woken up by a rough tongue and an animal smell as his new companion licked his face devotedly. He sat up with a giggle and waved his hands around wildly. For a few heartbeats he was quite woozy. Then he began to remember what had happened and his aching body did the rest to remind him of the events that had just taken place. The whelp jumped up at him, let out a high whimper and looked at him with loyal golden-yellow eyes. Ahren picked up the little thing and noticed that his arms had been bandaged. He pulled back his blanket and his thighs too had been expertly covered in white linen. He smelt at the bandages and recognized the scent of Red Leaf, which promoted the healing of cuts and scratches. The whelp sniffed the dressing curiously, gave a big sneeze, then jumped from the bed and glanced back over his shoulder at the boy with an offended look. Falk wasn't in the room so Ahren stood up to mix together the meat stock for the wolf. Ahren's stomach was grumbling with hunger. He poured the rest of the stock into the bowl, added a few herbs that he had cut up and put it down in front of the little nipper's paws. The whelp sniffed at the bowl and within an instant had devoured it all. Then he looked up at Ahren and began whimpering again. The boy scratched his head and said, 'we have a problem'. The food was all gone and now there were only vegetables in the house. The snow storm and the hunt for the Blood Wolf had put paid to food hunting so he couldn't make any more of the meat stock. Ahren made a practical decision and heated the stew that was still hanging over the fire. It filled his own stomach and he tried to make a few carrots as tasty as possible for the hungry rascal. That was only partially successful. He finished his own food as quickly as possible so he could rustle something up for the hungry whelp. He was getting dressed when the door opened, and Falk came in weighed down by a large bundle. 'Good, you're awake', he said in a deep voice, then dropped his bundle on the table. The wolf circled him and started jumping up at him, whimpering. Then Ahren realized, he wasn't jumping up at Falk, but up at the table. The master quickly took out a packet with waxed paper and threw a large chunk of meat at the wildly wriggling wolf, who immediately got stuck into it. Falk nodded and said, 'just as I thought. I didn't think he'd be happy with the stock since the Frenzy. This meat has been well cured – we don't want to provoke anything – but I think the danger has been averted'. It was only now that Ahren noticed that his mentor had a firm grip on the dagger so he could draw it quickly. Ahren was about to speak angrily but his master interrupted him. 'Boy, this is absolutely uncharted territory. Never before has a Blood Wolf survived the Frenzy in the company of people', he said severely. 'And never before have the people who kept guard over him survived', he added drily. Ahren closed his mouth, hesitated, and then asked cautiously, 'what does that mean?' He was afraid of the answer, but Falk smiled. 'Selsena says the aura of the Adversary is gone and also the latent rage. After she had calmed down, it was this anger that had kept her away from us over the past few days, but when she saw the danger you were in, she wanted to help'. Ahren strained his neck to look out but there was no sign of the Elven horse. He really wanted to thank her because without her at least one of the three who were in the cabin at the moment would no longer be alive. Falk indicated with a look and said, 'she's wandering around the forest and recovering. Projecting such strong feelings over such a long period demands a lot of energy'. The whelp had eaten everything up and was jumping up at the table again. Falk groaned and produced another piece of meat, which quickly found its way into the creature's mouth. 'Now I've got two gluttons in my cabin', he complained. 'From what I can see, you've got a common Ice Wolf here, except that this one will probably grow bigger than most others'. 'Does that mean he'll grow as big as his mother sometime?' asked Ahren in amazement. Falk laughed. 'Probably not. Don't forget, she was five hundred years old and her longevity was a side effect of the rule of HIM, WHO FORCES'. A shiver ran down Ahren's spine. In the Midlands the name of the Adversary was rarely mentioned and only on formal occasions. Even if HE had been conquered, his name was considered a bad omen which attracted Dark Ones, and the Border Lands with the Pall Pillar in their centre were too close to be taking that risk. He caught Falk's searching look, which was trained on the wolf, and he realized that this had been another test to see if the animal would react to hearing the name of the being that had put a curse on him. But the only reaction was a contented grumble coming from the bundle of fur. The two sat there in contented silence, watching the second piece of meat disappear like the first one, into the whelp's stomach. The animal turned to the table again with pleading eyes and Falk produced the last piece, which was fresh and bloody. The Forest Guardian looked at Ahren intently. 'No point in putting it off. This is another test. After this one, the little thing is welcome. Agreed?' He stretched out his hand over the fur-ball, who was still jumping. Ahren's heart was in his mouth. Dumbstruck, he could only nod as he gripped his master's calloused hand. Falk firmly grasped his hand and dropped the piece of meat. Ahren held his breath as the young animal attacked the tasty morsel - only to chew at it half-heartedly and with little enthusiasm. He threw them an offended look with his sad, soulful dog eyes. Falk loosened his grip on Ahren's hand and burst into a hearty laugh. 'It seems we have a gourmet among us. He doesn't seem to enjoy the taste of blood. I take everything back', he stuttered and snorted and laughed. 'This is no normal wolf but a shrinking violet and that's fine by me'. Ahren got down on his knees and embraced the whelp. 'Master, what's the Elfish for 'saved'?' 'Culhen' came the answer. Ahren placed the whelp's head between his hands and the pup looked back at him with loyal eyes. 'Welcome, Culhen', said Ahren ceremoniously. And he was answered by a wet tongue licking him across the face.

(13th Paladin 1) Ahren

Torsten Weitze

Chapter 13

Thankfully, the rest of the winter passed without incident and normality returned to the daily lives of the Forest Guardians. Culhen displayed such a joyful trustfulness that even nervous villagers were persuaded that he wasn't dangerous and once Keeper Jegral had intoned the blessing of the THREE over him, all doubt was vanquished. The only snag was Sven. If cowards can sense anything, then it's the weak point of their enemy, and so it came to pass that he made several attempts to trap the whelp or to entice him away. Ahren knew what Sven was up to and he raged when he imagined how Sven might torture the whelp. Falk approached the issue in his usual practical manner. 'The little thing will soon be able to take care of himself and then the problem is solved. And anyway, he has to learn that he must always stay by your side. Otherwise he'll be good for nothing when you're working and from the spring on he'll have to stay in the cabin'. And so Ahren began to train the dog hard under Falk's watchful eye. 'He's extremely intelligent for a wolf. Of course he's inherited that from his ancestry', said Falk. 'This is your one opportunity. His brain is like a sponge that soaks everything up because he's so young. He can learn things now in a week that in the future will take you months or even years, and with a lot of effort, to teach him'. The boy needed no motivation to spend as much time as possible with his new companion, and so they would practise from dawn to dusk. Stalking, hiding, reading tracks. His master even turned archery into lessons for boy and whelp. He would paint the tip of the practice arrow with a discreet scent and whenever Ahren's shot went astray, the little wolf would have to find the arrow and bring it back. It went without saying that Ahren was over the moon about this and by the time spring arrived, both apprentices, boy and wolf, were a very good team. Vera doted on Culhen and with her help Ahren gave him various herbs to eat with his food, just as he had done with the meat stock that time. The young wolf had become familiar with the flavours when he was a whelp and so he could tolerate the aftertaste, although he only ate the prepared meat if he got a piece of cured beef as a reward. This was his absolute favourite food, the first food he had been allowed to eat that morning. And so Ahren always made sure he purchased some from the butcher, even if cost all of his apprentice's wage. Ahren was intent on making Culhen big and strong as quickly as possible so that Sven would pose no danger for the animal. The combination of fortifying and stimulating herbs along with a big portion of feed was a resounding success, and the miller's son efforts eased off considerably, the bigger and heavier the wolf became. Spring returned to Deepstone at last, and with it the Spring Festival which marked the end of winter and the beginning of new life. It only lasted for an afternoon and was characterized by religious ceremonies. It was the smaller counterpart to the Autumn Festival. Keeper Jegral was the focus of the community at this time and knew how to use his position to improve the community spirit within the village. The villagers cleaned up the chapel, they spruced up the square, and did little favours for the needier citizens. A friendly but firm word from the priest and a table might be repaired for free, or a hole in a roof filled in with no money changing hands. On the day of the festival itself there was a long ceremony of prayer and the names of those who had not survived the winter would be read out. Then the new arrivals, who had been born during the long winter and would experience their first summer, were named. It was always considered a good omen in the community if the second list were longer than the first. The final part of the ceremony was dedicated to all those entering their sixteenth summer. They would place their hands on the triangular rock that jutted out from the chapel altar and swear to protect the community and to respect the THREE. And with that they would become fully-fledged members of the village, capable of making their own decisions. The previous year Ahren had yearned for this moment with every sinew in his body but now he was indifferent to it. He stretched secretly on the wooden bench to look down at Culhen, who yawned as if in response. The boy smiled affectionately at the wolf and then began daydreaming. Next year he would be standing up there swearing the oath but nothing would change and that was good. He was contented for the first time in his life and he was grateful for that. He tickled Culhen between the ears, and the wolf laid his snout on Ahren's thigh. Everyone streamed out once the prayers were over except for the Godsday scholars. Unfortunately, the Spring Festival fell on a Godsday this year and so they had to attend lessons while the others celebrated outside. Likis strolled over to Ahren and ruffled Cuhlen's head. Ahren was relieved that his best friend and the wolf were getting on famously. The merchant's son secretly slipped out a bundle from under his jerkin and within a heartbeat the chunk of meat, which the slender boy had smuggled into the chapel, had been gulped down. 'I thought he might be hungry', he murmured with a crooked grin, 'this is going to take another while yet'. Culhen was now giving Ahren a begging look and looked every inch the loyal if starving wolf but Ahren only grumbled, 'greedy guts!' The wolf had already grown up to his knee and had the corresponding appetite. Falk had now been roped into helping to get food – the wolf easily devoured every portion placed in front of him. 'Students, gather together', called Keeper Jegral and the seven young people and the wolf obediently marched forward. Luckily Jegral liked the reformed Blood Wolf too and so the animal was allowed to stay by Ahren's side during the lesson. The priest indicated to them to sit – today's lesson would take place in the chapel. The sound of festive laughter could be heard from outside and occasionally the unenthusiastic pupils looked wistfully over their shoulders to catch a glimpse of the world outside. The Keeper cleared his throat and waited until he had the undivided attention of the group. The spring sunshine lit up the inside of the Godshouse and the play of colour reflecting from the Keeper's silk gown scattered dancing flecks of light around the space, which was painted a simple white. The pupils sat in the first row of the pews, which occupied the whole room. Jegral stood in front of them, and behind him was the simple block of white rock that served as the altar, and the triangle made from ordinary grey material, which represented the rock of the gods. Every community possessed such a rock. 'As I promised you before, we will now delve more deeply into the story of the long sleep of the gods', said the Keeper in a serious voice. 'This part of the story is rarely addressed but you should at least get the chance to ask questions about it'. He grasped his book that had been lying on the altar and began to read aloud from it. 'The gods created the Custodian and then fell into a deep sleep. The Custodian began to perform his task loyally. He kept watch over the creation, just as his rulers had ordered. But after eons and eons of watching, the Custodian began to feel jealous. He became jealous of the peoples he had been guarding, for he had never received a word of thanks. Jealous of the gods who had realized their plans and were now lying in a deep slumber. Jealous of the fact that he too wanted to create a people and beings with his own will but knowing he did not possess the power for such a creative act. And so, he fell into a rage and turned against his creators. He took to himself some animals and FORCED them into a new form. He put them under his power by substituting their free will with his own will. But the peoples of the gods rose up against these abominations which had no place in the harmony of creation, and began to hunt the false creatures, which they now named the Dark Ones. And so the Custodian's rage grew greater and he began a war against the peoples of the creation. The Dark Days had started. He forced ever more creatures into a new form and altered their purpose. Even among the thinking peoples he did not desist and controlled the weak-willed amongst them within his power. The peoples looked with horror upon their enslaved brothers and sisters and named them the Low Fangs. He raised powerful armies of Dark Ones to destroy everything that resisted his will. And he was named HE THAT FORCES'. There was a deathly silence in the room. The laughter and music from outside seemed out of place, almost surreal. The students looked at each other nervously. No one wanted to ask a question about the terrible events the priest had just described. Ahren would have had a question last year, but since then he had found the answer. After his fight to free Culhen from the curse of the Adversary he had been so exhausted he couldn't think any more. The gods had created a whole world. Was it surprising that they had ended up making one mistake? Once it became obvious that nobody was going to ask a question, the priest sighed and said, 'then let us continue'. He raised his voice and carried on. 'The peoples fought against HIS army of Dark Ones but the Custodian's power was too great, the enforced shapes of the enemy too ruthless. And so, the peoples pleaded to the gods for support. For it was clear they would be defeated. The gods heard their cries of pain in their sleep but they were unable to awaken. And so they dreamed and gave to the priests the gift of magic. The priests selected those who had a gift for magic and taught them too how to bend creation. And so, the magicians were born. With the assistance of the magicians, the Betrayer's army was held back but the victory was only short. HE WHO FORCES touched the spirit of some of those who knew magic, he brought them under his control and so had magicians fighting in his ranks. And so, the triumphal march began again. Again, the peoples pleaded for support but the gods were exhausted and their sleep became deeper, so deep that the priests could hardly make contact and many prayers went astray until finally the gods heard. HE WHO MOULDS selected those people with a special gift, and granted them the ability to protect their innermost from the force of the Betrayer. He gave them immortality so that neither age nor hunger nor thirst nor sickness could harm them, only the vulnerability of the body remained. SHE WHO FEELS gave each of them a soul-animal to accompany them, as companion and custodian, as protection against the conflict of the coming days. She combined the disposition of Paladin and animal into one spirit so that their love for the creation would never be torn asunder. HE, WHO IS gave them weapons and armour, forged from the depths of his flesh so that they could defend themselves and protect their vulnerable bodies from death. Thirteen were chosen, and their power was as great as the Custodian's, and it was divided equally amongst them, so they would not succumb to the same temptations as HE WHO FORCES had done. And the peoples called them the Paladins. The strength of the gods weakened further, and their sleep became deeper and deeper'. The youngsters became restless, each of them had heard stories and legends concerning the heroic deeds of the Paladins, who had fought in huge battles and dark caves, many hundreds of years earlier when the Dark Days had been at their worst. These men and women had turned the tide in their favour and thwarted the certain destruction of the Creation. The youngsters were now calling for Keeper Jegral to relate some of these tales but he only smiled gently. 'I'm sure the elders will be only too happy to tell you the stories later this evening around the bonfire'. In order to calm the chatter, he read on. 'The years passed and slowly the peoples of the gods gained the upper hand. But the way was long, for a large part of the world lay in the darkness of HIS dominion. The centuries of strife exhausted the souls and minds of the Paladins, and the gods again showed their mercy. With all their remaining strength they dreamed up the soul-mates until their sleep became a dreamless blackness and the people were left on their own. Whenever the spirit of a Paladin was at breaking point, they selected a soul-mate with whom they entered into an eternal bond. And as soon as a child was born, then the Paladin began to age so they could pass on their task to their daughter or their son and find peace after centuries of battle and sacrifice. Generation upon generation fought for victory against HIM, WHO FORCES and the war was successful. Paladin followed Paladin and each one carried their burden with pride. After three hundred years HE, WHO FORCES was surrounded, his troops defeated. But on the eve of victory, HE sent forth his mightiest servant and put all his strength into a mental attack on the spirit of a soul-mate. He sent her images of slaughtered children and promised to protect her son if she surrendered to his power'. Sobbing could be heard from among the pupils but the Keeper continued relentlessly. 'Her spirit broke, torn between her love for her partner and her fear for her son, and so she took a dagger and stabbed her partner to death in his sleep. And so, the thirteenth Paladin was dead and with him each succeeding child of each Paladin. His companion disappeared into the night and was never seen again. When the new morning broke, the will of the Paladins was broken. Only as thirteen could they destroy the power of HIM WHO FORCES and so the mightiest magicians of the peoples with the help of the twelve Paladins cast a spell on the weakened Adversary, he having used up all his strength in the night of blood. The creation was saved and the enemy spellbound. And so, the Paladins have kept guard until the present day. They left their companions, for their vulnerability through their soul-mates had been revealed, and remained behind alone and ageless in the world'. Keeper Jegral closed the book and now spoke without notes. 'These great men and women have made an enormous sacrifice to protect those they love, and all of us. After all these centuries they are still out there, guarding us. Their names have been forgotten, just as they had wished. We only know of a few today, and they have made their own way'. Ahren had already heard of the War Emperor from the South, who, according to rumour, was a Paladin. But from what had been reported, he didn't exactly sound like one of the gods' defenders, and so he had put it down to mindless gossip. The priest looked around the group and saw he could not expect a discussion after such a heavy lesson. 'The THREE be with you', he intoned and dismissed them with a wave of the hand. The darkened mood was instantly forgotten and with a cry of joy, the boys and girls tumbled outside and into the festivities. Ahren set off home to the cabin that night in high spirits. The food had been delicious and he had joked around with Likis and Holken and exchanged glances with some of the girls. Falk and he had achieved hero status and the white wolf at this side attracted looks. He danced around Culhen playfully and the wolf, for his own part, ran barking and jumping between his legs. The light from the village shone from behind them, as the celebrations were still in full swing. Suddenly the wolf pricked up his ears and stared into the darkness. Three shapes appeared out of the darkness in front of them. Sven and his cronies, armed with wooden planks, spiked with nails. The three moved menacingly forwards and Sven snarled, 'it's payback time'. Ahren almost burst into laughter. He'd been expecting something like this and his master had always drummed into him, 'know the methods and goals of your opponents, and you have a big advantage over them'. Ahren had only drunk a little. This wasn't like the Autumn Festival. He wasn't going to make the same mistake again. He strode fearlessly up to the three boys, Culhen by this right leg. After the events of last winter he wasn't afraid of the three. The attackers looked at each other uncertainly. They hadn't expected such a reaction. The first one raised his arm somewhat hesitantly to prepare to strike but Ahren kicked him in the standing leg and the bully landed in the dirt, his cudgel clattering harmlessly on the path. The attackers froze for a moment, then Sven and his other crony tried to attack him simultaneously, but Culhen was snarling and baring his teeth threateningly. In this way he kept the second attacker in check, so that the trainee Forest Guardian could concentrate on Sven. The coward dropped back a step and prepared to strike but Ahren was already too close. He grabbed the hand holding the cudgel and twisted the miller's son's arm swiftly behind his back. He could only form a strange looking o-shape in his mouth as he was forced into a summersault and landed with a crash on the trampled earth. Ahren calmly picked up the two cudgels and turned to his last opponent, who was staring scared-stiff at Culhen. 'Well?' asked Ahren and threatened him with a weapon in each hand. The rascal gave a quick scream, dropped his cugel and took to his heels. Ahren flung the piece of wood into the undergrowth and walked calmly onwards without looking back at the groaning boys. He had hardly gone twenty paces further when he heard a voice among the leaves. 'Good work, boy'. Ahren looked quizzically at the edge of the forest and Falk stepped out of it. 'Master, you're not still celebrating?' The apprentice had headed off earlier and had left Falk, deep in conversation with Mistress Dohlmen. 'I'd been keeping an eye on those three and it was obvious they were up to something. Just wanted to see if you needed help'. Falk shrugged his shoulders. He walked beside Ahren with an arm on his shoulder and so they continued towards the cabin.

(13th Paladin 1) Ahren

Torsten Weitze

Chapter 14

He found it difficult to maintain the necessary concentration as he awaited with suspense the return of the magician he had sent forth some weeks previously. He hated having to wait so long but caution made more sense now than unbecoming haste. Better a slow and certain result upon which he could build. At last the air above the magic net vibrated and the trance within which he found himself enabled him to draw immediate conclusions regarding its source. In Hjalgar then. The chalk drawing was becoming ever more crowded and complex as he added new lines. The net was closing in. Ahren's training continued and the boy and his wolf grew in body and spirit. Falk had now moved on to training his apprentice in using bow and arrow while in motion and they were now camping more often in the wilderness as their trips often involved more than a day's march. The summer was wet and often very cloudy but Ahren only noticed this in passing. He was now catching his own game and was able to exchange this for Culhen's favourite meat. The lessons in bare hand-to-hand combat were now expanded as he learned fighting techniques with the dagger, which up to now Ahren had been carrying with him unused. The time for picking new apprentices had passed by and not a single craftsman or woman had registered. The boy was doubly delighted that he had been chosen the previous year and threw himself even more into his training. This didn't go unnoticed and so Falk made the lessons even more challenging. Falk didn't beat around the bush but now set him tasks that he would have demanded of himself. Every evening Ahren fell into bed exhausted but happy, while Falk lay in front of the cabin under a tree and had hushed conversations with Selsena. What are you thinking about? she asked silently one dreary summer's evening. About the Blood Wolf, answered the Forest Guardian tersely. Why? The animal is dead and the young one is developing splendidly, was the impatient answer. Falk wasn't sure if she meant the wolf or his apprentice. His reward for this thought was an uncomfortable head butt from the horse. It makes no sense, said Falk in his thoughts. She was crippled and pregnant, that's why we noticed her so late. She was old enough to be careful and have regard for her weaknesses. The Elven horse rolled her eyes. We've gone over this ten times already. It wasn't your fault, her behaviour was completely untypical. Falk responded, that's not what I mean. There were at least a dozen better hiding places between the Pall Pillar and this forest. Why here of all places? You think too much, Selsena calmly replied. Falk stared out into the forest and hoped she was right. The year went by and soon autumn was coming to an end. The Autumn Festival came and went. At the end of his fifteenth summer Ahren got new leather gear because he had outgrown the old set, and he gave his master a carving of the Blood Wolf they had killed. 'You never took a trophy with you that time. Now you have one, master', Ahren said proudly. 'Should I be running around the place with one of his mother's fangs?' said Falk with a knowing look, pointing at Culhen, who had pricked up his ears immediately and tilted his head to the side. Then he ruffled Ahren's hair and said, 'thank you, that's good work'. The Autumn Festival had been a pleasant distraction but was soon a distant memory. Ahren had laughed a lot and drunk a little with his friends. He and Sven avoided each other. He had seen nothing of his father, but he had heard that he was continuing to exchange his unexpected fortune for alcohol, with grim determination. Perhaps that was the only form of peace that the troubled man could achieve. The winter was mild and stormy, a somewhat colder version of the previous summer, and Falk now let the boy spend the occasional night in the forest so that he could put what he had learnt into practice. When the spring returned, Falk grunted contentedly, 'keep going like this and the year after next you can do your Long Week'. Ahren was happy to hear this. The Long Week was the final test to become a Forest Guardian. The subject was taken into the wilderness where he had to survive for a week with only his dagger, bow and a quiver with five arrows. If the apprentice returned, he was a Guardian. And he would receive a distinction if he brought a trophy back with him. But two years was a long time and Ahren wanted to learn as much as he could. Who knew, perhaps his master would send him away then. The winter finally came to an end and the weather improved considerably. The Spring Ceremony began with great joy, for the villagers were thankful for the unusually mild winter. There had been no deaths this year. Ahren sat in the front row of the chapel along with Rufus, Likis and Holken. They were beginning their sixteenth summer and now it was time for them to swear on the Gods' Rock. Likis wore a garment in the colours of the merchants' guild, while Rufus had simply chosen his Godsday costume and had attached a pin cushion to his sleeve. Holken and Ahren both sat in the leather gear of their professions, for the oath, according to tradition, had to show the villagers who they were accepting among them and how seriously the person taking the oath was taking his or her responsibilities. Falk grumbled from the second row. 'These festivities aren't really my thing, but this way they'll get used to the fact that someday it'll be you guarding the forest. I'm not going to be there forever'. Before Ahren could react to this morbid thought, the Keeper indicated to them to stand up. The four youths obediently climbed up to the altar. Keeper Jegral intoned, 'do you swear to protect the community of the peoples and to respect the THREE?' 'We do swear it', they responded. 'Do you swear allegiance to the THREE against all false images of life?' 'We do swear it' was the ritualistic response. 'And do you swear to take on the tasks which the THREE have prepared for you, and to fulfil them however long they take?' Ahren found this last question very pompous. Tradition demanded that each of them came forward individually and placed their hand on the bare triangular rock which symbolized the rock of the gods. Holken thundered in a resounding voice, 'I do swear it'. And he reverently laid his right hand on the rock. Rufus followed his example with a more hesitant exclamation. The poor boy's voice hadn't completely broken yet and he didn't want to show any weakness. Then Ahren stepped forward and raised his right hand. It floated over the rock but then he shrugged his shoulders and changed his mind. He placed his left hand on it. Falk smiled approvingly before his face suddenly grew serious. For an almost imperceptible glow came from the rock as Ahren called out, 'I do swear it'. A blinding flash of light filled the inside of the chapel and everyone shielded their eyes with their hands. A heartbeat later and the Godshouse was back to its peaceful self as if nothing had ever happened. There was confusion among the congregation. People looked at each other in bewilderment, looking for an explanation for what had just occurred. Keeper Jegral raised his arms reassuringly, his silk gown was still sparkling and seemed to have trapped the lightning flash. It looked as if the robe was glowing in silent celebration. The priest's movements scattered a dozen little rainbows throughout the room. 'Surely just a stray shaft of light from the window', he announced with a firm authority in his voice that nobody dared to contradict. He indicated to Likis to continue, who banged his hand on the rock and spoke hurriedly, 'I do swear it', and then pulled his hand back as quickly as possible as if he had touched a poisonous rather than a lifeless object. Meanwhile Ahren was looking down at his hand, which tingled a little but was completely uninjured. He looked over at the Keeper in the hope of getting some help but Jegral simply ignored him. He spoke the closing words and the ritual came to an end. The four young men left their places in the front row, went back to sit down among the congregation and heard murmuring around them. Ahren looked at Falk, who alone among the people was motionless and seemed to be looking through his apprentice as if he didn't exist. His face was pale and lifeless, and he looked as if he had been shaken to the core. His cursed bed had caught fire again! Of course it was partly his own fault, for he had woven the bed itself into the magic net but he hadn't reckoned on this. He looked at the charred mass that had once been the delicate carvings that had covered the four-poster bed. He had not wanted to miss the slightest movement of the netting and for that reason had slept within the catchment area. No goblin in Hjalgar could sneeze without him getting wind of it. His sleep had of course been somewhat disturbed, but this here? Snorting with rage he ripped off the burnt satin robe from his body and studied the ebony coloured skin that appeared beneath. No burns. That was lucky. His personal protective magic was still working. He climbed out of the smoking ruins and went out onto the terrace, while behind him the servants, eyes wide in shock and open-mouthed, began clearing the chaos. He had found the old man and his loyal mare with the help of the last net but could not make head nor tail of how he was connected with the omen. He was clearly no threat. And so he had held up the net and listened to everything going on within the Forest Guardian's orbit. With a flick of the hand all the magic threads, which were once his place of sleep and had almost turned him to ashes, became visible again. Green flames danced around black tendrils until a lurid flash of light destroyed the whole construct. That was unequivocal. He let forth a long sigh and raised himself up into the wind with some words of power. He began floating to his destination and felt a cold blast of air tugging at him. He would have to get hold of some clothing on the way. Ahren stared into Selsena's slivery eyes. 'Now let me get past', he cried out annoyed, and tried to squeeze past the heavy body of the horse. But she pranced a step in his direction and knocked him to the ground. The young man got up with a groan and eyeballed her again. Falk had left the chapel the day before hot foot and stamped into the cabin, slamming the door behind him. The Titejunanwa had been standing guard at the entrance since then, preventing Ahren from reaching his master. The apprentice was worried about his master's strange behaviour and didn't want to leave Falk out of his sight. He had slept outside, snuggled up to his wolf, and even missed the festive meal in honour of the new community members. His stomach was rumbling, and as he had slept on the bare ground, his back ached. It was late afternoon and his patience was at an end. He turned around and with a few deft movements of his fingers he lit a fire. Then he took the smouldering branches and began throwing them in a wide arc through the cabin chimney. Nothing happened for a few seconds, but then he heard a loud cursing coming from within and two heartbeats later the door was flung open, hitting Selsena in the rump. She moved aside with a disgusted snort and an angry Falk came into view. The veins in his head were bulging and his face was a deep red. A smoking branch was still hanging on his collar as he roared, 'WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING?!' 'Welcome back, master', said Ahren in a friendly tone, determined not to be brow-beaten. Falk threw his arms in the air and furiously stamped back into the cabin. Ahren slipped in quickly too, before the door crashed shut again. The bed was untouched, apparently Falk hadn't slept. Ahren furtively glanced at the old man. The angry red colour had vanished but now he was staring listlessly out the window. Whatever had been eating him, it was still there. Ahren warmed up the stew and placed two full bowls on the table. Falk didn't react so he gobbled down both bowls himself. Then he swept the cabin, added firewood to the fire and began to groom Culhen, who stretched out and grumbled contentedly. When it finally became dark, he lay down and watched the figure of his master, still standing there, before he finally fell asleep. Sometime during the night Falk had left the house and was now lying asleep under a tree and snug against Selsena. She had her legs folded under her as she always did when she wanted to rest. Ahren stood at the door early the next morning and looked at the two of them. Whatever was bothering Falk, Selsena was obviously helping him deal with it. The young man decided to seek out Keeper Jegral. Perhaps he could help Falk or at least explain to Ahren what the story with the light was. He ambled into the village and had a friendly greeting for everyone he met. Most reacted as they always had done but there were a few who seemed nervous and hurried away. There seemed to be more than one person brooding over what had happened. He found the Keeper in his reading room, hidden behind a pile of books. 'Good morning, Keeper', he said loudly to attract his attention. The priest looked up and blinked owlishly when he recognized the apprentice. 'May the THREE protect you, Ahren'. There was an audible creak as the figure stretched unceremoniously. 'I take it this is not a courtesy visit?' Without waiting for an answer, he continued, 'I'm looking for answers myself, you know. But I can't find any. This Spring Festival ritual just came out of nowhere a few hundred years ago. It was never mentioned in the yearly chronicles, and then, from one year to the next it was suddenly a part of the Spring Consecration. No explanation, no nothing. That's very unusual'. Ahren could almost physically feel the priest's frustration. He wasn't going to get any answers here today. He said his goodbyes and wandered aimlessly through the village. He kept seeing uneasy eyes staring at him, and so, clenching his teeth, he made his way home again. Much to his surprise and delight, Falk was up and cheerful when he arrived. His master had packed an enormous rucksack and indicated to Ahren to put it on. The young man groaned under the weight and Falk strode silently into the forest. His apprentice followed him, swaying under the weight, and hoping that his master hadn't decided to take out all his frustrations on him. Falk led him up to the most northern end of the forest, then down to the western border and then further down to the southern edge of the trees. He would frequently point out milestones to Ahren and give tips of what he should keep a particular eye on in various parts of the forest. The first few days were certainly hard going but the longer they were underway, the lighter the rucksack became. Falk clearly didn't want to delay the hunt and soon he hardly felt the bundle on his back. He constantly sensed Selsena as a silver-grey shadow flitting between the trees, yet she kept her distance. It was as if Falk wanted to get as much information as possible into Ahren's head before they finished their tour around the forest. They were on the way back at last when Ahren summoned all his courage and asked, 'master, what sort of a light was that in the chapel?' He held his breath, anxiously awaiting the reaction, for he had no idea what would happen now. Falk stopped, paused and then turned to face the young man, who unconsciously took up a defensive stance. You've certainly thrown him there. Selsena's voice rang out uninvited in his thoughts. Falk ignored her and tried to think of a suitable answer for his apprentice. 'I saw something like this once before, many years ago. It means that I must leave Deepstone for a while', he said finally. Ahren suddenly had an uneasy feeling in his stomach and could only stammer, 'what do you mean?' Culhen pressed up against his leg and he held firmly on to his soft fur. The wolf was now as tall as the middle of his thigh. 'I have to seek out a very dangerous place now and the way there is long. I can't take you with me', he continued in a tone that brooked no dissent. The young man recognized this tone and knew he wouldn't get anywhere. And so he decided to play along for the moment, which would give him a chance to think out what tack to take. He nodded, knowing that his voice would in all probability have betrayed him. 'Good boy', grunted Falk and trudged onwards, lost in thought again. The following day they arrived at their cabin again, which looked forlorn in the afternoon sunshine. As they entered, Ahren noticed a carefully folded sheet of papyrus that somebody had pushed under the door. He recognized Likis' neat handwriting and wondered what was so important that his friend would leave something so valuable. Neither vellum nor papyrus were cheap and were mostly only used for official reasons or for profitable business dealings. Only the truly wealthy wrote letters to each other. Ahren was able to read by now, and so he scanned the writing. Then he crumpled up the letter and threw it onto the fire that Falk had just lit. The old man raised his eyebrows and looked at the youth. Ahren clenched his fist and said quietly, 'Sven is stirring it up again. He's spreading rumours that the thing with the rock is a sign from the THREE that they are angry because we are bringing up a Dark One. We're clearly not honouring the gods and other nonsense. The fact that we've been missing for a few days isn't helping things either'. He shook his head and looked out the window. Falk grunted and sat down on a stool. He hadn't seen that coming. 'Good, I'll talk to everyone tomorrow. Then I'll decamp'. Ahren spun around. 'You're seriously going to leave me on my own to face this mess?' Reproach and disbelief were written all over his face. His master answered in a pained voice. 'I'm leaving you alone with the whole forest, boy. The village intrigues should present no problem'. Falk had dismissed the latest attacks by the miller's son so casually that it was clear his own problems had to be considerable. Ahren was far from sure he could persuade his master to stay. He decided he would ask Selsena for help early the next morning when Falk was in the village. His master would surely listen to her. He hoped. An uneasy silence hung in the air that evening and Ahren went to bed early. The thought that this would be the last night together for a long time dampened his mood and followed him into his dreams. A shadowy black figure seemed to be following him in the wood and it kept coming nearer. He kept looking anxiously over his shoulder at it and pointed it out to Falk, who didn't seem to notice it. When the thing was very close, he said, 'I must go now', and disappeared with a boom. Black-boned fingers grasped at Ahren and pressed on his throat… Then he woke up. The booming sound was still there and after several heartbeats he realized that somebody was hammering on the door in the middle of the night. As he was sitting up, still in a daze, Falk jumped out of the bed cursing, lit a candle and stomped to the door calling out loudly, 'may the THREE have mercy on you if this isn't important!' He pulled aside the latch and swung the door open. A small pitch-black figure stood in the doorway and said, 'they do and it is!' Ahren thought for a moment that the monster in his dreams had come to collect him but then he saw that it was a small boy with ebony coloured skin, wearing a black robe. He held a smoothly polished dark crystal ball in his right hand which glittered in the candle light. Before he recognized what it was, Falk had already slammed the door shut with a cry of anger, not giving their unusual visitor a chance to step in. 'Very adult' intoned a sarcastic voice through the thick wood. The dry, sober tone didn't match the voice of a young boy and this made Ahren uneasy, as did his master's violent reaction. Falk roared through the closed door. 'Get lost, I want to have no more to do with you'. 'I would rather come through an open door but come through I shall. What say you now, Falkenstein?' Falk opened the door wordlessly and stood aside. 'Good decision', said the boy in a praising, almost fatherly voice, and he stepped inside. Ahren quietly pinched himself in the arm to make sure that he wasn't dreaming. They obviously knew each other, but why did his master allow this smart-aleck to treat him like that? 'It's been a while, hasn't it?' the boy remarked. 'Where's Selsena hiding then?' Falk snarled, 'if she's any sense and noticed your presence, she'll have galloped away as quickly as possible'. 'No need to be so rude, Falkenstein. If memory serves me correctly, you were the one who was much better at running away. Isn't that so?' was the calm response. Culhen had hardly reacted to the boy, strangely enough, and was even allowing him to stroke him. The boy looked at the wolf curiously. Ahren took the opportunity to observe the intruder in more detail. He looked like a boy of perhaps nine summers from either the deep lands of the south or the jungles of the east where the people had dark brown skin. His head was completely shaven and his eyebrows had been plucked and trimmed to form two thin lines. His expression was majestic, a sharp, straight nose above a severe mouth. His bearing was that of an adult although he had the appearance of a child. He was wearing a simple, black robe, which lent his ambiguous appearance an air of something disturbing and ominous. The material shimmered and Ahren recognized it must be made from satin. Whoever he was, he was certainly wealthy. Falk had collapsed on a stool. The boy's last remark had obviously hit him where it hurt. 'You have no right to say something like that. Not you', Falk said in little more than a whisper. The visitor now became animated for the first time. 'Oh yes I do. I've earned that right through all the years we spent doing your work while you all were in hiding or chasing your gossamer dreams. Do you know what Qin-Wa is up to at the moment?' 'I heard', said Falk darkly. 'Really? Here in the back of beyond? You don't know the half of it, Falkenstein'. 'They call me Falk here', muttered Falk and stole a glance at Ahren. The apprentice looked bemusedly from one to the other and didn't understand the world anymore. Falkenstein was one of those flowery names used in the Knight Marshes. But if Falk was really called Falkenstein, why was he using the short form? Had his mentor done something wrong and was he now in hiding here? When he had spoken about his past, the word 'drifter' had come up. Apparently, he had concealed more from his apprentice than the young man had imagined. The intruder looked directly at Ahren for the first time, deep blue eyes that bore into his own. 'Falk, hmm? Well, alright. It makes no odds at the moment'. He snapped his fingers and the wood in the fireplace lit up and blazed for a moment with a powerful flame. Blinking in the sudden light, Ahren tried to take in what had just happened when the boy bowed to him and introduced himself in a formal tone. 'May I introduce myself? Uldini Getobo, adviser to the emperor of the Sunplains, chief commander to the Ancients and beloved of the gods'. And he gave an extremely winning smile which revealed his teeth. He was the very paragon of charm and politeness. 'Ahren, delighted to meet you', mumbled the apprentice instinctively, and stared at the figure in front of him. So this was the immortal magician who had once weaved the Bane Spell against the Adversary and created the Pall Pillar? Ahren decided that this would be the opportune moment to wake up. He closed his eyes firmly and pinched himself in the arm. Unfortunately, this didn't change the scenario and the young boy was still there. 'Did you expect us to recognize you?' Falk's interjection was thrown into the room with more than a hint of gratification and malice. 'Any bard trying to earn a crust by telling stories about you, makes you into a benevolent old man with a big bushy beard. Nobody wants to hear about a shit-arse who can flatten whole cities in a pique of anger'. Uldini looked over Ahren's shoulder at Falk mischievously and said, 'there you are at last, my old friend. I did miss you'. Ahren couldn't tell if this was sarcasm or the truth and before he could decipher Falk's facial reaction, his master asked, 'well, what do you want here?' 'Don't feign ignorance, you know very well'. The magician stuck out his hand and the crystal ball that he had been holding floated upwards and remained hanging in the air between the boy and Ahren. The apprentice pulled further back into his bed but the ball simply adapted its position. 'Just stay still, it will only take a second and probably won't hurt', grumbled the dark-skinned boy and mumbled a few mysterious words. Green sparks danced in the air between the ball and Ahren before transforming into a bright flash of light that resembled the light in the chapel during the Spring Festival. Falk slumped into himself and whispered, 'it's true then'. The magician spun around to face him. 'Of course it's true. Anyone who wants to see it can see it. Do you think I came here just to perform this little trick? I just wanted to play it safe and make sure I was rescuing the right one of the four'. Falk was really paying attention now and the Uldini nodded. 'Exactly. A large pack of Fog Cats are on their way here and are going to destroy the whole village. We have to get out of here as quickly as possible'. Falk leaped up and ran to his trunk. 'How many?' 'How do I know, two dozen or thereabouts. I didn't stay to count them', the wizard spat out. 'I let myself be carried here by the Wild Wind so I wouldn't be noticed'. Ahren was completely confused now. Nothing made any sense and so he clung on to the information he could make sense of. The village was being attacked by Dark Ones and the villagers were in danger! He jumped out of bed and began to get dressed. Falk did the same without saying a word. Within moments they were ready. The old man had put on the armour he had worn when they had chased the Blood Wolf and attached the broadsword. Uldini looked at him with his head tilted and asked, 'and where is the rest of the armour?' 'Later', said Falk tersely and walked towards the door followed by the others. Selsena was standing in front of the house and neighed quietly in greeting. There was neither animosity nor rejection in her attitude. Whatever row the Forest Guardian had with the magician, the Elven horse wasn't involved in it. Ahren turned in the direction of the village and trotted off. Culhen trotted beside him with his nose in the wind, when the young man heard Uldini's voice behind him. 'Where do you think you're going?' Ahren stopped, confused, and turned around. While Falk was looking uncertainly and Selsena was prancing on the spot, the little figure of the magician stood there, his clenched fists on his hips before pointing to the north of the forest. 'We're disappearing as fast as we can'. 'But the village needs our help!' Ahren was perplexed. Then Falk spoke. 'Boy, I had my work cut out for me dealing with one Fog Cat, but combating more than twenty? That's suicide'. 'I think he's such a great magician, he can help us, or am I wrong?' answered Ahren fiercely. He wasn't going to let his friends die! 'You don't know the first thing about magic. If I intervene, it will be like a magnet. There are far worse things than a few Fog Cats out there that can find us', warned Uldini. Ahren looked to Falk for support, and it was clear from his master's face that he wanted to help. The Forest Guardian hesitated for a moment, then nodded to his student and ran towards the village. Selsena neighed triumphantly and joined the group. Ahren and Cuhlen ran with wild determination beside the Forest Guardian and the four of them disappeared into the undergrowth leaving a flabbergasted master magician standing in their wake. 'Hell-fire and damnation, of all the…!' thundered the now strangely old sounding voice of the boy into the night. He broke off his tirade of curses and shook his head. It had never been easy with Falk, and the youngster seemed to have made these tendencies even stronger. This was going to be some amount of work. He raised his hands out from his body with a sigh until they were at a shallow angle to the ground, rose a hand's width up from the ground and floated after the others. It wasn't long before Ahren and Falk had reached the edge of the village and all seemed quiet. 'Perhaps there's still time. We should sound the alarm bell. If we get everyone into the Village hall or the chapel and light as many fires as possible, we can sit out the night. The battle would be much easier in daylight', whispered his master. Ahren nodded. Falk had taught him much about combat with Fog Cats. They had originally been lynxes from the Fog Forests before they were employed by the Adversary as trackers and assassins. They had matt grey fur and could melt into the shadows and jump in among them within a heartbeat as long as they had a clear field of vision. Fighting them in an environment of no light was almost impossible. Because of course they could see in the dark and they also had superior hearing. Falk had defeated Grey Fang that time by smoking him out of his lair with a smouldering fire at midday. As soon as the furious beast was forced to spring out into the sunshine, Falk had shot an arrow through him before he had a chance of reaching the shade. Ahren looked around him and shivered. Yes, it was a starry night and the moon was shining brightly, but here on the edge of the forest were many places the light didn't reach. And no fires were burning in the villagers' houses at this time. Every residence was deathly black. The two Guardians crept slowly forwards, Culhen stalked in the undergrowth and Selsena stood stock still and listened with her thoughts. They had just arrived on the village square when Selsena neighed shrilly. 'They're there', whispered Falk and looked searchingly around. Ahren did the same and saw spots of moving darkness, that were appearing everywhere between the huts. They were leaping from shadow to shadow and he saw in horror how some of them were jumping onto the roofs of the huts and staring down the chimneys. A heartbeat later and they were gone and terrorized screams could be heard from within the buildings. Ahren felt sick. He raced over to the alarm bell in the middle of the square and banged it as hard as he could so all of the citizens of Deepstone became aware of the imminent danger. At the same time Falk pulled out his flint stone and ran with Culhen by his side. Selsena in the meantime had spotted one of the Dark Ones, hiding between two houses and charged at it. The shrill sound of the bell resounded through the night and the heads of all the Fog Cats that were out in the open turned around. Ahren saw little red eyes narrowed to a slit, looking him up and down. Falk had quickly lit one of the large torches that were attached to the iron holders at the entrance to the Village Hall and was already lighting the second one. Ahren yanked an arrow out of his quiver and shot at one of the shapes that was coming towards them slowly and furtively. The weapon would have hit its target but the animal leaped at the last moment into the shadow of a hut, where it vanished, only to re-appear two huts further on. 'Save your arrows until they're nearer and the light lessens their possibility of escape', shouted Falk. Both torches were now brightly lighting Ahren and his fighting companions within a circle with a radius of five paces, which dissipated the darkness. But now Ahren could only make out the eyes of the creatures, which were jumping hither and thither and circling ever closer around the two Guardians and Culhen, who was running around growling but remaining within the light. From the darkness they heard a wrathful spitting sound that suddenly broke off, followed by a loud whinnying. 'Selsena's got one', said Falk grimly and set a bow on his arrow too, taking aim into the darkness. Torches began to flare up behind the huts. The inhabitants had been abruptly torn from their sleep by the ringing of the alarm bell and the screams of the dying. Falk roared with all his might, 'Fog Cats! Stay in your houses, stoke the fire! Don't open your doors or windows!' Ahren screamed the same but for some the warning was too late. They heard more screams coming from the darkness as windows and doors were torn open, allowing the night attackers a way in. With tears in his eyes Ahren shot another arrow and could only hear helplessly, how the unequal duels came to their bloody ends. 'We have to do something', he said, turning in frustration to his master. Falk glanced at him before aiming once again into the darkness beyond the torch light. 'Count them all. We're holding at least half of them at bay for the moment and Selsena has already killed three'. Every time the Titejunanwa was victorious, Falk was filled with a wave of joyful euphoria. 'If everyone stays in their homes, we should be able to prevent further victims. As long as we survive', he added. Meanwhile the Fog cats had slunk up almost as far as the blazing light and could now be made out as grey spectres. Falk let fly with an arrow and one of the shapes was spun around spitting furiously before it collapsed and was totally still. Ahren followed his master's actions and both began to fire off arrows as quickly as possible. They had already hit five or six Fog Cats when the rest of them began moving together towards them, emitting a most terrifying caterwauling sound. 'They're calling on others for back up', said Falk between shots and pulled out his broadsword. 'Make a bit of room. You keep to the right and let Culhen cover your left side'. Ahren moved to the side and pulled out his dagger and gave the wolf a firm hand signal to follow the order given. Seven of the animals now stormed into the circle of light and finally Ahren could see details. Time seemed to slow down as the wiry, slim, matt grey bodies jumped towards them. Their grey fur was patterned with thin black stripes and the broad heads of the feline predators had long pointed furry hairs at the tips of their ears, almost like lynxes that had been bereft of their colour, so that they looked like the embodiment of the night. All this went through Ahren's mind within a heartbeat and then the attackers were directly in front of him. With a roar Falk started swinging his broadsword in a complicated pattern and caught two of the cats in one go while Culhen jumped on another cat. Ahren saw as if through a tunnel a grey face with bared fangs jumping towards him. He dropped his arrow, yanked his dagger upwards, went into a defensive position before the body of the creature crashed against him and pulled the ground from under him. As if in a frenzy, Ahren started stabbing in every direction, the priceless lessons of his master quite forgotten, while the claws of the Fog Cat tried to find a way through his leather clothing and the head lunged forward attempting to bite Ahren in the face. The Dark One seemed twice as big now as it had a heartbeat earlier. Its fangs were snapping shut close to his throat, the muscly body was clasping at him and into him with its claws, and with wild movements it threw him to the ground. The Fog Cat was now standing over him and had the upper hand. All would soon be up with Ahren. Strangely enough, this thought helped the young man to overcome his panic. He remembered one of his master's lessons and reacted with lightning speed. Instead of pushing his opponent away and thereby giving him room to manoeuvre, he wrapped himself around the Fog Cat's neck and pulled it with all his strength towards him, so that its mouth bit harmlessly into his shoulder armour. At the same time, he drove his dagger through the ribs and into the heart of the beast, which crumpled together and became limp. Ahren looked around frantically and saw that Falk had killed another cat and Culhen had his opponent in his mouth. The wolf shook the Dark One until it was completely still. The other two Fog Cats had retreated to the darkness again and were pacing around them in a semi circle without starting another attack. Ahren shoved the body aside and pulled himself up. He had just regained his breath when another ten pair of eyes appeared. Falk said in a serious voice, 'the good news is that the villagers are safe for the moment. Selsena says all of them are here. They want to overrun us as a pack'. Ahren swallowed hard, his mouth was bone dry and his hands, wet with the blood of the Fog Cat, were shaking. The circle of grey bodies was moving inexorably closer and emitting a low purring sound that bored right into Ahren's very bones. 'Killing gives them pleasure. The Adversary has corrupted them through and through', said Falk disgustedly. Ahren tried desperately to calm himself. His bow was too far away from him on the ground, and Falk didn't have time to change weapons, to shoot another arrow and get his heavy sword into position again. Culhen stood attentively at Ahren's left leg and so the three waited for the remaining Dark Ones to attack. They were seconds away from being destroyed. Then Selsena rammed through the darkness into a straggler, who died with a shrill spitting. This sound worked like a signal on the mob, which now stormed forward and were ready to pounce in a wave of claws and fangs and wipe the three fighters off the face of the earth. But then the torches suddenly went out. At least that's what it seemed to Ahren because the flame from the torches became so small that they emitted almost no light. A heartbeat later the stolen fire resurfaced again but this time behind the surprised Fog Cats, who hesitated for a moment. This short delay saved the Guardians and the wolf for in the next moment the round creation of swirling fire exploded into a fan that spread in a semi-circle, catching everything that lay in its path. The Dark Ones caught fire in an instant and were blazing fiercely while Ahren threw himself, his arms clasped protectively over his head, on top of Culhen as the wave of fire raced towards them. But just like a real wave, this one broke too and pulled back to its source, until it was once again a circular fireball in the night. Ahren lifted his head and saw the little outline of Uldini. He was standing with the crystal ball in his raised right hand and chanting some words while the swirling fireball dispersed into sparks. The flames of the torches immediately grew back to their original size and blazed contentedly as if nothing had ever happened. Falk had watched the magic unmoved and without batting an eyelid. He sheathed his broadsword once it was clear that the burning heaps, which only a few seconds earlier had almost spelt their doom, were not going to rise up again. 'What took you so long?' he growled at the magician. Uldini approached the torch light and Ahren was amazed to see that the boyish figure was floating over the ground and moving as quickly as a running adult. 'I had to catch up with you and could only use a little magic or they would have sensed where I was and intercepted me. So I had the whole pack in one place and I only needed one conjuration to nab them all'. The magician's voice constantly changed between a furious hissing and a reproachful grumbling. 'However I have made all Dark Ones within two hundred miles aware of us so we need to get out of here as quickly as possible'. Their rescuer's voice was so full of suppressed rage by this point that Ahren retreated until he felt the wooden wall of the Village Hall at his back. Uldini made a dismissive hand gesture in his direction and snarled, 'explain it to him. I'll go and heal a few wounded people and then we'd better go, before this place is wiped off the map'. Then he floated off to the cabins where the cries of pain were coming from. Falk made a conciliatory gesture and nodded, then turned towards his apprentice, who was just checking Culhen for injuries. The blood that was glistening on him seemed to be all from the monster that the wolf had conquered. Ahren let out a sigh of relief and embraced his true friend. He himself was covered in blood so it made no odds. He was just happy to be alive. Falk squatted down beside them. 'We don't have much time, but you need to know one of the ground rules of magic. The intentions with which a magic spell is cast always have an influence on the spirit of the magic maker. If you conjure in a rage, then this rage recoils on you. This effect is all the greater, the stronger and more quickly the spell is cast. If you destroy or kill with your magic, then the whole thing is much worse'. He gave Ahren a firm look. 'Whenever he's the way he is now, then don't provoke him. It's hard enough for him to pull himself together. Many war magicians have fallen into a frenzy and have had to be killed by their own people'. 'Is he going to recover?' whispered Ahren. He didn't know how good a furious magician's ears were and he didn't want to take any chances. 'Of course the feelings fade away in time. And constructive magic, which is created from pity or love, has the opposite effect. He's helping those who can be saved, and so he'll almost be back to his old self'. His master slapped him on the back. 'Now go and bid farewell to everyone. He's right in one respect, even if I don't want to admit it. The sooner we're gone, the safer Deepstone is'. Ahren was excited and sad at the same time. Falk would be bringing him along instead of leaving him here. There was something uncannily reassuring about this thought. But it was hard to accept that he would have to leave everything he knew behind him. His thoughts came thick and fast as he remembered his friends and it became clear to him that he didn't know if they survived the attack unscathed. Ice seemed to flow through his veins when he imagined Likis might have been slaughtered by one of these grey monsters, and so he jumped to his feet and ran off. Falk looked after him with an understanding look and let him do as he pleased. The wolf would make sure he was safe, and he asked Selsena to keep Ahren's feelings in sight. He stood up slowly with a sigh and sounded the bell three times so the villagers were alerted that the danger had been banished. Ahren heard the bell echoing behind him and as he ran between the cabins, doors and windows were carefully opened and frightened villagers peered out into the darkness. Ahren kept calling out as he passed them by, 'the danger is past. Go to the square and see who you can help'. It wasn't far, a few hundred paces, but he felt as if the village path was stretching out to eternity. As he trotted forward, he wiped the blood awkwardly from his clothing until a wet sheen on the dark leather was the only tell-tale sign of his encounter with the Fog Cats. Culhen was stalking alongside Selsena in the trees – the inhabitants were nervous enough without seeing an Elven horse and a bloodstained wolf. Ahren reached the northern end of the village at last and saw the merchant's house. Light came from under the door and there were no cries of pain. In fact, it had been a while since he'd passed any houses that were dark, which revealed the disaster that must have befallen their inhabitants. It was clear that the attackers had attacked the village from the south and the northern part had remained untouched. A quick sidelong glance at his father's house revealed nothing of his fate. Light could rarely be seen inside and Ahren was fairly certain that Edrik had slept through the attack in an alcoholic stupor. He hammered on his friend's door and shouted, 'Likis, are you there? Are you all alright?' 'Ahren?' came his friend's voice from inside. Then he heard the scratching sound of the latch being drawn back and the curious face of his friend appeared. The merchants' colours were even on his night cap and Ahren couldn't help sniggering when he saw his friend, in spite of the situation. Likis pulled the cap from his head and muttered, 'what's been going on?' Beside him were his parents with concerned faces. They were both holding daggers and spied over Ahren's shoulders into the night outside. 'We heard the alarm bell and wanted to go to the village square but then everyone started shouting we should stay at home. We heard the all-clear bell earlier but nobody stirred around here and we thought better safe than sorry, so stayed put inside'. 'Fog Cats, a whole pack of them', Ahren explained quickly. 'We've killed them all'. He thought he'd just leave it at that for the moment. The task he still had to perform was difficult enough, and he didn't want to frighten his friend to death. 'Listen to me. Master Falk has to leave Deepstone for a while and I'm supposed to go with him. So, it's farewell for now…' His voice had been cracking with emotion until it finally trailed off. Likis stared at him in amazement and said, 'now, in the middle of the night?',while his mother added, 'after an attack like that?' Ahren decided to tell a white lie to prevent an avalanche of questions. 'We want to be sure that we got them all and find out where they came from'. He really was befuddled about the wizard's and his master's motives but that sounded plausible enough and the attack had somehow been connected with their imminent journey. At least that's how he understood it. He hugged his astonished friend and said over Likis' shoulder to his parents, 'thank you for everything'. He couldn't say another word but it seemed to have been enough. They gave a nod, full of understanding and warmth. Once again Ahren asked himself what his life would have been like if he had had parents like that. Strangely, the question had lost its force, for the path of his life had led to Falk, and that had made up for a lot that had happened to him before, in spite of all the dangers. He let go of Likis and said, 'I'm sure we'll see each other again soon. Look after yourself and your parents and stay well clear of Sven. He'll be looking for a new target when I'm gone'. 'I'll take care of him, don't you worry about that', said his friend in a husky voice. 'And don't you go falling into the clutches of some Dark One'. They both gave quick nods, then Ahren turned on his heels and disappeared quickly between the cabins so his friend wouldn't see the tears streaming down his cheeks.

(13th Paladin 1) Ahren

Torsten Weitze

Chapter 15

It was a sorry sight that greeted Ahren when he reached the village square again. Villagers were standing all around in various states of dress. Most had woollen coats thrown over their nightgowns. Here and there blood-stained bandages glistened in the torchlight and the sound of distraught voices was punctuated by sobs and quiet sobbing. At the other end of the square he could see a row of motionless figures, lying on the ground and covered by woollen blankets. Falk pulled him away before he could go over. There was no sign of Uldini. He grasped his apprentice by the shoulder and said, 'you don't want to see that, believe me'. 'Who?' asked Ahren, flatly. Falk listed off a few names but none of them were people he had been close to. He felt a mixture of relief and guilt, but then Falk continued, 'Rufus is lying there among them'. Ahren felt a stabbing pain in his chest. Even though the unremarkable boy hadn't been a friend really, he had always been nice to him. Ahren had learned to value his calm, steady manner in the Godsday school. Now he recognised three of the names. Rufus' parents and his ten-year old sister were also among the dead. He could see the faces of the three in his mind's eye and he felt sick. He doubled over and supported his hands on his knees and breathed deeply while Falk whispered to him, 'I know it's hard but every second counts now. A horde of Dark Ones are coming in our direction right now, and the quicker we get away from there, the safer these people will be'. 'Uldini said the Fog Cats were after four people. He means us, doesn't he? Likis, Holken, Rufus and me. It's all connected somehow with the light at the Spring Ceremony, isn't it?' Ahren spoke in a hushed voice but Falk motioned to him to be quiet. 'I'll explain it all to you later but our friend says the others are safe. The attention is focused on you, him and me'. 'Why?' asked Ahren insistently. 'Later. Now let's scram'. Falk grabbed his upper arm and led him through the crowd. 'I've already told the village council and Keeper Jegral and explained our future absence. Uldini is waiting with our four-legged friends so as to avoid questions being asked that we can't answer'. They arrived at the edge of village square and melted into the thicket of trees before Ahren had a chance to look for any familiar faces among the villagers. Falk began to march as quickly as possible off through the forest. Within a few paces Culhen was by Ahren's side and the young man gratefully stroked the animal's coat, which was now dripping wet. Culhen must have used the free time to have a bath in a stream. Ahren smiled mischievously. He suspected, and not for the first time, that his four-legged friend was rather vain. Selsena was waiting for them further back in the forest, standing motionless under an enormous oak tree. Her silver skin was lacerated with countless red welts, where the claws of the Fog Cats had scratched through her hide. Ahren stopped in shock but a wave of calmness came to him from Selsena. 'It's fine. Everything will be healed by the day after tomorrow'. The dark shape of the wizard came forth from behind the tree and looked at her with a critical eye. 'Is everything sorted or do you still have to hold hands with someone or other', he asked in a biting tone. His voice was beginning to come back to normal but he still seemed to be suffering under the emotional recoil of the death bringing fire magic. 'How many were you able to save?' asked Ahren, partly out of curiosity but also in an effort to distract the magician. If healing magic could help to restore his balance, then perhaps the memory of it could too. 'Five villagers will live to see another day although it was a close call for two of them. And I had to put them all under a sleeping spell, so there wouldn't be a new village legend about a healing black dwarf'. The biting tone could still be heard in the magician's voice, although a little fainter. 'Make yourself useful and heal Selsena', growled Falk and glared at the little being. He nodded in reply and said, 'another bit of magic won't make any difference, all the Dark Ones in the area got a whiff of us long ago'. He murmured a few words that Ahren couldn't understand and green sparks appeared around the ball, which Uldini was still holding in his right hand. More and more sparks appeared over the course of perhaps ten heartbeats before they soared up and then dived like a swarm of glow-worms down onto Selsena, who stood stock still. The sparks landed on the welts where they went out, leaving a faint green glimmer, which gradually faded and disappeared. A perfect hide remained where the lights had been extinguished, leaving no sign whatever of injury. 'Are we ready then?' The wizard's voice sounded tired rather than irritated. Ahren decided this had to be an improvement. 'Where exactly are we going?' asked Falk hesitantly. 'To look for the Einhan of course. First the elves, then the dwarves. And, of course we need our Finder of the Path.' The wizard stood there hopping from one foot to the other and for the first time he really looked like a little boy. The young Forest Guardian had to keep reminding himself that the boy beside him was one of the Ancients, one of the wizards and wizardesses who had unlocked the secret of eternal youth for themselves. And he wasn't just anyone, he was the highest and mightiest of the Ancients. Everyone knew the story of the gods' darling, the Ancient who knew how to do magic like no other being in Jorath. But the legends had never said anything about a delicate nine-year-old. Ahren brooded and turned to Culhen who was standing on his hind legs with his tongue hanging out and looking from one to the other. Then it slowly dawned on him what the ancient boy had just said. Elves and dwarves? Ahren felt a thrill of anticipation in spite of all the horrors of this night. This journey promised to be exciting! Falk said, 'then we're going to have to stop here in the forest temporarily. Otherwise Selsena will attract too much attention to herself'. Uldini looked critically at the Titejunanwa's horns and nodded. 'It's a detour of only a few miles, and we're definitely going to need the rest of my armour', continued the Guardian. Uldini raised no objections and so Falk tapped Selsena on her hide and started off. Ahren felt ignored and the events of the last few hours made him combative. 'I'm going nowhere until someone explains to me by the love of the THREE, what is actually going on here!' And he jutted his chin out, ready for a fight. All turned around to the apprentice in surprise and Uldini asked, 'what did you tell him?' Falk didn't answer, at which point the boy laughed angrily, making a most peculiar sound and said, 'he's your protégé. Good luck!' Then he pointedly walked on. Falk glowered at Ahren, a piercing look that he reserved for occasions when his apprentice had behaved particularly stupidly. Then he waved the young man over to him and said, 'let's march on and I'll tell you what you need to know'. Contented with his partial victory, Ahren set off and the disparate group went on their way. They went through the forest speedily, Uldini floated along again above the ground so he could keep up with the experienced Guardians in the darkness of the night. Falk rubbed his beard as he always did when he was contemplating something, and finally said, 'it's best if I start at the very beginning. You know about the Paladins?' Ahren answered mistrustfully, 'I know what was taught in the Godsday school and I know the stories that have been told around the bonfire and in the tavern'. 'Then you know that there used to be thirteen Paladins, who fought during the Dark Days until the Night of Blood when one of them was killed?' Falk's voice was cracking and Ahren nodded. 'There are some things that the peoples today would rather not talk about. When it became clear that HE, WHO FORCES, could not be killed on account of the missing Paladin,' Falk continued, 'a magic spell was woven as an alternative, which was supposed to prevent him from ever waking up again. But the Ancients were no gods, nor even demi-gods. They had to combine the magic formula with a condition which could dissolve it. Otherwise their power would not have been strong enough to cast the spell. Only HE WHO FORCES has been able to cast permanent magic spells – and it's through those spells that the Dark Ones were created'. Ahren nodded and couldn't resist a quick glance over his shoulder. Tramping through the forest in the middle of the night so soon after a fight with a horde of Fog Cats wasn't good for his nerves. The uncontrolled shivering, which he had also experienced after his encounter with the Blood Wolf, had stopped in the meantime, which meant he was gradually getting used to the sensation of danger. Falk had been right in that respect. 'Thirteen Paladins are needed to defeat the Adversary. For the THREE had invested exactly that amount of power into the awakening of the Paladins, which was the same amount of power that had gone into the creation of the Custodian. Not too much, not too little. They were the means needed to recreate the harmony of the creation'. Falk was staring off into the middle distance. He sounded as if we were retelling something from his childhood. 'So some of them thought it would be clever to connect the condition for ending the excommunication to the one thing that could kill the Betrayer. As soon as the thirteenth Paladin was chosen, then the magic spell that held the enemy in the Pall Pillar would break. The election was powerful enough as a ritual to guarantee that none of his servants could evade the trigger'. 'But that sounds like a great plan', said Ahren, hoping the old man would continue. 'That's what everyone thought at the time. But a Paladin had never been killed before. No-one knew what would happen next. It was hoped that the thirteenth Paladin would be born again within a few years, the Pall Pillar would dissipate, and then the three could unleash their powers simultaneously and kill the Adversary before he had a chance to recover from the effects of the enchanted sleep and before he had the chance to form a new army. But they had underestimated one thing'. They ducked under a low hanging branch as they travelled on and he continued to speak. 'The THREE were in a dreamless deep sleep and it was impossible to wake them or to plead to them in their dreams, as they had been able to do before. So for the moment there was no possibility that they could create a new Paladin until they had recovered somewhat, and no one knew how long this would take. The world was caught up in a deceptive peace. The centuries passed and many came to terms with the Pall Pillar and declared the enemy to have been defeated. This is why the religious texts nowadays are no longer very accurate. Nobody wants to hear that the Dark Days could come again'. Falk looked quickly over at Uldini who nodded back at him. 'To provide certainty that the arrival of a chosen one would be noticed by us, a ritual was created that found its way into the Spring Ceremony. Centuries passed and nothing happened, the peoples of the creation began to feel safe, and the importance of the ritual faded from memory, as did the threat that the sleeping spell of the enemy would not last forever. Nobody thought at that time that the gods would need more than seven hundred years to gather the strength to dream up a new Paladin'. Ahren listened intently. Much of what he had heard was new, exactly as Falk had said. Keeper Jegral's official version of the events had revealed little of this. Falk looked at him expectantly. He had stopped marching, as had the others. Even Culhen seemed to be looking up at him. Had he missed something? When Ahren didn't react, Falk continued. 'The ritual allowed for the stone of the gods to show a sign if the Paladin-to-be touched it during the Spring Festival'. A nervous silence descended on the group while everybody waited for Ahren to draw the necessary conclusions. Several heartbeats passed during which his reason simply refused to function or to follow the logical chain of events to its inevitable conclusion. 'You all think that I…' he finally managed to utter weakly at before trailing off. The idea was too absurd and the consequences were too enormous. Falk pressed Ahren to him, something he had only done once or twice before since he had known him. 'I'm sorry, boy', he whispered. Uldini looked fixedly over Falk's shoulder at Ahren during this embrace and said, 'you are going to be the future thirteenth Paladin and save the world as we know it, or die trying. Maybe even before your Naming if we stand around here cuddling each other in a dark forest'. Ahren shook his head. His thoughts were spinning around in a circle. He, a Paladin? Those two had to be crazy. 'What do you mean 'Naming'?' Uldini took over the talking. He obviously wanted to get the thing over with so they could move on. 'The awakening of a Paladin involves three steps. Firstly, the birth. Secondly, the selection, in order to see if the successor is worthy. This used to be a formality, as the descendants of the previous Paladins were the chosen ones. Once the selection was made, the power of the outgoing Paladin would begin to pass over to the chosen child. And that was our dilemma. HE had killed the father and the son, so the power of the thirteenth was lost'. He cleared his throat. 'Thirdly, the Naming, once adulthood was reached. The Einhan requested the blessing of the gods for the aspirant and he or she received the gifts of the THREE: immortality, soul-animal and godly armour – and then we had a new Paladin. All were happy and the predecessor could die at last'. He looked at the apprentice with a twinkle in his eye. 'You've already passed two of the three steps. Unfortunately the last step is somewhat more complicated, not least because you cannot receive your power from your predecessor. The selection released the power. It will be anchored in you when you are named'. 'What do I have to do?' asked Ahren curiously, although he feared the answer. 'You don't have to do anything apart from accompany us. We'll find the Einhan and take it from there', said Falk in a comforting voice. There was that word again: Einhan. 'What are the Einhan?' asked Ahren. Every answer seemed to throw up a new question, something Uldini recognized too. There was scorn in his voice again when he answered. 'Each is a specific representative of people, elves and the dwarves, and they intercede for you before their god. Which, by the way, will never happen if we're caught by a pack of Low Fangs here in the forest'. Falk nodded to the wizard and they all went on, the old man leading a dazed Ahren by the arm. Lost in thought he stumbled through the darkness and kept thinking over what he had just heard. Hours passed before they finally stopped. In front of them was a dense thicket of blackthorn, a particularly hardy plant, named after the dark hooks that could be found all over its resilient tendrils. Animals avoided these plants as they were practically inedible and difficult to penetrate. However, they usually stood alone and Ahren had never seen so many together. 'Wait here', grunted Falk and drew his sword. Ahren looked at his mentor in amazement as he began to hack down the thicket with fluid movements. Falk had always drummed into his apprentice a respect for nature and pointed out to Ahren how he should behave towards plants and animals. Now the old man was standing in front of him and slashing all before him. Once he had hacked the plants to pieces, he pulled out an enormous, heavy oilskin sack with a groan, and carefully began to undo it. He responded to Ahren's look of shock with a shrug of his shoulders and the explanation, 'I planted them to protect my things. The plants were in the wrong place here anyway and were beginning to choke the forest'. 'The elves have made you soft, old man' said Uldini. Falk shrugged his shoulders and carried on. 'Why don't you throw out a magic net and see how near the danger is. This here is going to take a while but we'll be all the faster afterwards'. The wizard paused, then nodded, and began murmuring quietly and staring into his ball, which started to emit warm yellow rays of light. Ahren sank down at the foot of a tree and gazed into the distance, thinking again of all the things he had heard and experienced. Culhen came to him, rested his muzzle on his knees and began to whimper until the young man started tickling him in the neck absent-mindedly. The familiar contact with his furry friend had a soothing effect on his nerves and he gradually nodded off. How much time had passed before he woke up, he couldn't tell, but he knew what had woken him. Falk and Uldini were just finishing a heated debate, the wizard's ball was still emitting light. A strange picture presented itself to Ahren. Falk had not only put on the familiar armour for legs, arms and neck, but also a light breastplate and a knight's helmet made from the same whitish material as the rest of the armour. The way the pieces all fitted showed that they belonged together and made up one piece. The armour looked very old-fashioned and the helmet was engraved in the form of a stylized falcon's head. Falk was in the process of rubbing ash onto the new pieces so that they would look worn and worthless too. But Selsena had made the most dramatic transformation. A broad, white, leather saddle with matching saddle-bags adorned her back. The upper part of her body was covered with metal panels made from the same material as Falk's armour, and her head was in a metal helmet that enclosed her forehead and horns, so it looked as if these were features of martial equine body armour. The Titejunanwa looked like a strong but standard war horse in an exotic suit of armour. Falk was finished with disfiguring his own armour and now approached the Elven horse. The chorus of disapproval she emitted grew louder and louder and was now physically palpable, as if a thousand ants were scurrying over Ahren's body. Culhen gave a low yelp and Falk shouted at the magical horse, 'you wanted to go back into the story. You've been sulking since time immemorial and now you've found your will. So, stay still'. The feelings ebbed away and Falk, undeterred, began to transform Selsena's proud war horse into an impoverished nag and relic from a bygone heroic era. Uldini was giving orders on how to improve things further and seemed to be enjoying the whole experience. Ahren pulled himself up and walked over. 'What does all this mean?' he asked. 'We want to journey through Three Rivers and head up north from there, past the Red Posts as far as Evergreen. Falk is going to be a wandering knight escorting yours truly, an alumnus of the lesser nobility, while you and your 'dog' are our guides in this region'. Mention of the places that Ahren only knew from the stories was like a slap in the face and the serenity with which he had woken up disappeared in a puff of smoke. The impossibility of the situation felt like a millstone around his neck and he heard himself asking, 'and what if I don't want to go with you?' Forest Guardian and Wizard gave him a searching look and his master was about to issue him with a sharp rebuke when the little man raised his hand. 'No, old man, I'll take care of this. Firstly, no-one can force you. A Naming can never be made against the will of the chosen one. That would presuppose force and goes against the nature of the THREE'. Ahren nodded. That was only logical. In all the stories where great victories were won against the Betrayer, free will had played a decisive part. Rule and force were the tools of HIM WHO FORCES. The wizard continued, 'but it is nonetheless important that you understand one thing. The magic spell that is holding him captive is fading. That's a fact. It has been getting weaker since the day you were born, and this process has quickened since your selection. HE can only work through his servants and his orders are diffuse and poorly focused. But the more he awakens, the clearer they become. You can hide away or spend your short life on the run but eventually the Dark Ones will find you and kill you, and the world will have no chance against HIM WHO FORCES'. Uldini didn't need to explain the rest. Ahren understood that he had no other option but to accept the role. And anyway, something inside him harmonized with the words of the master wizard, washing away all doubts regarding his mission. Ahren knew that he had to fight, whether he wanted to or not. They spent the rest of the night in the protection of the trees. The wizard's magic had shown that they were in no immediate danger and it wouldn't be long until daybreak anyway. Ahren hadn't believed that he would be able to fall asleep again that night but his decision not to run away from the future events had a strangely calming effect on him and he dropped off within a few heartbeats. The two adults looked at the brown-haired young man whose face was free from all worry as he slept. 'You have a fine young boy there under your wing, old man', said Uldini softly. Falk grunted under his breath, 'I know, but don't let him hear it. He has a very long and dangerous way to go yet and it would be better if he kept his two feet firmly on the ground'. 'If we know anything, we know about long ways, isn't that right?' 'Yes, you're right there. What are the other Ancients up to? There's been hardly any news from you for centuries'. Falk looked at the magus with interest. 'I gave out a new doctrine in the third century after the Betrayer's fall when it became clear that the matter would take a while longer. The peoples were beginning to forget so we pulled back and didn't engage as much as in earlier times. In this way old wounds could heal more quickly and we could move more freely. The others still like practising their little power games but I find things like that boring', answered Uldini. Falk nodded knowingly. Of course his counterpart wouldn't enjoy that. Who wanted to play a game that he'd already won centuries previously. The others had been tussling over second place since forever. 'You know you're going to have to come clean with him soon, don't you?' asked the wizard. 'He'll find out at the Naming by the latest, and that wouldn't be the best way'. Falk nodded. 'I'll talk to him before that. But he needs to digest this first. We need to sleep for a bit too. Selsena will stand guard'. The little boy figure nodded and the light in the crystal ball went out. The forest lay in darkness and soon all were asleep. Ahren woke up to the sounds of an argument. The little boy and the old man were shouting at each other, their faces red. The newly awakened apprentice watched the two in amusement. They looked like a grandfather and a cheeky and disobedient grandson. When he felt the soft and amused waves coming from Selsena, he knew he wasn't the only one who found the scene amusing. 'It's a massive detour and you know that! If we follow your route, we'll have to go right across the Knight Marshes twice. That will cost us weeks', shouted Falk and waved his arms. Uldini responded forcefully. 'You're just trying to delay the meeting with Jelninolan but that makes even less sense. If we go to the Silver Cliff first, then we also have to go to Kelkor to trap the Finder of the Path. Do you really want to go into Evergreen with a dwarf and one of the Wild Folk?' Ahren sighed. He had hoped that after the previous day's revelations the conversations between them would make more sense, but he was obviously mistaken. Culhen yawned and stretched out beside him and then he began to sniff the rucksacks. Uldini had brought their few belongings when they had left the village but there was nothing edible among them. The two were still squabbling with each other and so Ahren decided to make himself useful by going hunting. He slapped his knee once and Culhen was immediately by his side. Ahren looked into his eyes and Culhen sat on his hind legs and looked questioningly at his master with his head tilted to the side and his ears pricked. 'Culhen, search!' said the young Forest Guardian. The white wolf spun around with a low bark and leaped into the undergrowth. Ahren followed him at a distance and watched as his companion ran zigzag through the forest, his nose sometimes in the air, sometimes to the ground. Then he found a fresh scent and began to follow it. Ahren ran after him and the hunt was on. He returned to their temporary camp an hour later with two rabbits hanging from his belt. The yield was less than he had hoped for but Culhen and he had only hunted on their own three times previously and so they had been unsuccessful several times this morning. The fact that Culhen with his white fur was more at home in the tundra and the frozen north didn't help matters either during the hunt. But at least they had enough sustenance for the day and Ahren had also collected some herbs so that they had enough ingredients for a good stew. Ahren had bled out the third animal and given it to his four-legged friend who chewed around it fussily until it became clear to him that there was nothing else to eat. Then he gulped down the rabbit in next to no time. The two squabblers had sunk into a sullen silence and hadn't noticed the young Forest Guardian at all when he returned with Culhen. Once Ahren had lit the fire and prepared the stew, they came back to life. The smells of the food drew them to the fire and Falk grunted, 'so you did learn something', as he filled himself a large bowl and began to eat. Uldini smelled at the stew simmering in the little metal pot and raised his eyebrows in surprise. 'Well, if it doesn't work out with saving the world, you can always try your hand at being a cook'. Ahren looked at the little wizard in consternation. Uldini continued in the same lighthearted tone. 'Stop staring at me so wide-eyed. When you get to my age, you've no choice but to develop this sort of sense of humour'. Then he helped himself and also enjoyed it. Once they had all had their fill, Ahren asked, 'is Deepstone safe now?' After the attack of the previous night and the wizard's bleak pronouncements on hordes of Dark Ones, he wanted to be sure that his home village would be left in peace, before he turned his back on the place. Uldini seemed to grasp what he was getting at. 'No need to worry. I hid the two other boys that took part in last year's ceremony from the traitor's eyes. That was quick and easy as they were of no importance. HIS senses are still very groggy, otherwise HE would have recognized immediately who represents the real danger, and all the Fog Cats would have chased you and you alone. After my little firework display last night we have become the sole focus of the Adversary'. This led Ahren onto his second question. 'Why are you two so quiet now. It was a completely different story last night.' He shifted position nervously. 'I think we have to thank the old Blood Wolf for that. Your master only told me about her this morning. The magic web that I wove last night detected no Dark Ones in the vicinity. Falk and I think that the old woman drove everything away that could have been dangerous to her pup'. 'And the Fog Cats, where did they come from?' Ahren wanted to understand what exactly had happened. 'They were sent out the moment you were selected. That pack was probably the greatest danger nearby, and even they took over a week to get to you. I think we're safe for the next two or three days as long as I don't do any major magic which might reveal our location'. 'So the Dark Ones can sense your magic?' Ahren pressed on. 'Only the very intelligent ones but they then pass it on to their less intelligent counterparts. But HE notices the magic too, depending on what HE might be listening to at the time. HIS attention is just as groggy and somnambulistic as HIS sight. That's our greatest advantage for the moment'. Falk cleared his throat. 'That's enough talk for the moment. We need to get cracking, or we'll never get anywhere'. 'Where exactly are we going?' asked Ahren curiously. Suddenly there was a tension in the air as the Forest Guardian and the wizard stared venomously at each other. Uldini spoke in a remarkably diplomatic voice. 'First we can head towards Three Rivers. That's the nearest big town and we can pick up provisions and weaponry there. Three Rivers is a good starting point, no matter which way we go after that'. Falk was placated and nodded in agreement as the three broke camp.

(13th Paladin 1) Ahren

Torsten Weitze

Chapter 16

Ahren brooded to himself as he walked quickly beside Selsena, trying not to fall behind. They were on a wide dirt road, typical of the travel routes in Hjalgar. They had left the Eastern Forest and were now heading northwards. They were hardly clear of the trees when Uldini abandoned his normal floating. 'We don't want to attract attention', he said. Falk then mounted Selsena's back, picked up Uldini, planted him in front of him on the saddle and then they carried on without saying a word, leaving Ahren open-mouthed in their wake. He ran in pursuit, swallowing dust, and demanded an explanation but received none. And so he ran beside them in a foul mood and with sweat running down his back. The sun shone brightly in a clear sky and intimated that summer was on the way. After a while Falk relented and explained the situation to Ahren. 'We're playing our parts. I'm the paid escort, this is my charge and you're our guide in the wilderness. Only speak if you have to, leave the talking to us'. Ahren could only nod, he was too tired to start an argument. He could understand the reasoning but it didn't make the role he had to play any easier. He was surprised how effective their disguise seemed to be when they started encountering other travellers. Hardly anyone took notice of them. There were one or two curious glances at Selsena's and Falk's exotic armour but Falk had taken care to make it appear so dilapidated that everyone passed by quickly without exchanging a word. Ahren seemed practically invisible and so he had all the time in the world to study the various figures they encountered. The travelling merchants made up the largest proportion, most of them on their own or in pairs on carts filled with all kinds of bundles and boxes or covered with canvas. They all shot suspicious looks and quite a few were armed with daggers, one even had a crossbow. The wealthier merchants had one or two guards with them who made the same impression as Falk did. None of them carried a broadsword, rather truncheons or short swords. There were several envious glances in the direction of the massive blade, now in the scabbard affixed to Selsena's flank. When a pair of scruffy figures, who were travelling the road without any merchants, examined them particularly intensely, Falk mumbled, 'I don't like this. There should only be a few peddlers around here'. Uldini answered quietly, 'you've spent too long hiding in the forest, old man. Highway robberies have become more common and there have been more forays coming from the Border Lands, be they Borderlanders or Low Fangs'. Ahren looked up, shocked. The Border Lands was the large area which surrounded the Pall Pillar. The Adversary was lying there in chains cast by the magic spell, trapped in silence and smoke. Only the daring or desperate lived there. The rate of miscarriages and stillbirths went up, the nearer one came to the crater which had been blown up when the magic spell released its power and the physical manifestation of the Betrayer, who had been fighting and slaughtering to the last moment, was forced to the ground. No-one knew exactly how deep the crater was, for from that day smoke had been rising from the place where HE WHO FORCES now existed, and as Ahren well knew, bided his time. Nobody dared to enter, and anyone who had, came out again as the Adversary's servant. There were enough tales of bold heroes who had tried it, only to be horribly transformed into Low Fangs who hunted down their nearest and dearest. Ahren was on the point of asking how true these stories really were but he'd had his fill of unpalatable truths for the day and so he stayed silent. Falk quietly answered Uldini. 'From what we know already, these ambushes are no surprise. The Border Lands will fall under HIS control sooner or later no matter what we do'. The apprentice shuddered when he heard these words. Thousands of people lived in this area that no power had claimed for its own. No kingdom wanted the cursed place within their dominion. The travelling merchants who came to Deepstone reported that it was populated by eccentric wizards, maverick farmers or those who had been up to no good and couldn't return to civilization. 'Couldn't we warn them?' asked Ahren. 'They wouldn't listen to us. Nobody would believe our story of returning villains and there's no ruler we can speak to. And we can hardly traipse from one farmyard to the next. We can only hope that common sense will lead them away from there before it's too late'. Ahren remembered that his father had originally come from the Border Lands and suddenly he was grateful that his father had had the presence of mind to choose Deepstone as his new home. He trotted on beside Selsena and looked uneasily at the wayside as they passed through a little wood, afraid that a band of highway robbers might ambush their little group. By evening Ahren was exhausted and bathed in sweat from all the running. Falk said to him, 'if you're in luck, old Giesbert's farmyard inn is still in existence. Years ago they used to have sleeping quarters and good food. Not a real hostel but more luxury than setting up camp on the side of the road'. Ahren nodded wearily and went on in silence. Even Culhen was panting loudly and his tongue was hanging out. Ahren patted him on the head in sympathy and they climbed the hill that their road passed over. From the top the little group could see a shallow valley lying sleepily in the late evening spring sunshine. There were rows of fields, and canals brought the precious water to every corner of the valley. A two-storey estate house dominated the landscape, surrounded by a variety of huts and barns. Ahren was astonished and Falk gave a whistle. 'They've certainly gone up in the world', he said approvingly and directed Selsena onwards. 'Is that all the one farm?' asked the surprised apprentice and Falk nodded. 'Absolutely. If the farm keeps growing like that, it's going to turn into a proper village. Deepstone must have started exactly the same way but without the trade road of course. The Eastern Forest provides for us instead'. They approached the big farm with a feeling of contentment and then Ahren saw two lookout platforms. Standing on each was a sentry with a crossbow. They rode directly under one of the sentries, a red-haired woman who gave them a warm greeting and then turned her attention back to the range of hills. Falk nodded, satisfied. 'We can certainly sleep here. It will do us all good'. They stopped at the Main House and Falk dismounted and then lifted Uldini off, very much the hired mercenary and servant to a noble son and heir. The wizard behaved in such a regal manner that all the workers bowed before him as they hurried by. Ahren was invisible as always. He threw his eyes up to heaven and was about to follow the others when Falk looked over his shoulder to him and barked an order. 'Boy, take care of the horse!' Then he disappeared inside. The apprentice looked after his master blankly for a heartbeat, then took Selsena by the reins and went to the stables, which could already be smelt from this distance. He cursed quietly to himself. Selsena was empathetically convulsed with laughter and this made the apprentice even angrier. He led her into her box and took off her saddle and bags as well as the body armour, which was surprisingly light. Only her headgear stayed on, to hide her true identity. Then he quickly and half-heartedly groomed the mare. Her dirt-repellant coat made this work unnecessary anyway, and thanks to her three hearts, she didn't even break into a sweat when she was galloping. She transmitted her gratitude to him nevertheless and he gently patted her neck. 'I still haven't thanked you for Culhen's salvation', he whispered quietly. 'So, thank you very much'. Warmth and joy flooded through him and Culhen came running and barking into the box, as he scampered delightedly around her legs. Ahren was enjoying this moment when he heard a voice behind him. 'Are you a new stable boy?' Ahren spun around in shock, brandishing his dagger, only to withdraw it sheepishly when he realized that the voice belonged to a girl, maybe one summer younger than he was. 'You really don't look like a groom', she continued, unfazed. 'I'm a Forest Guardian', he said before cursing silently as he remembered his cover story. 'I earn my keep as a guide in the wilderness', he added quickly as he scrutinized the girl opposite. She was small, certainly a head shorter than he was, and her clever eyes shone from her freckled face. Her simple linen dress suggested that she worked somewhere on the farm. She looked at him with equal directness and Ahren noticed a certain similarity to the sentry he had seen up on the wooden platform. Perhaps that was her mother, he thought to himself. 'But you'd be a good groom. The horse is really shiny, even though you've just come in', she saw in amazement. She smiled at him and Ahren smiled back, a little embarrassed and a lot less elegantly. 'Ah', he said and thought, what's wrong with me? She stepped closer. 'Can I stroke your horse? I've never seen a colour like that'. Ahren wanted to say, 'that's not my horse, and the owner definitely wouldn't approve'. But what came out was, 'sure, why not?' She beamed at him and put both hands around Selsena's neck, who glared at Ahren and made him very much aware of her displeasure. 'She's very soft…but, what about her eyes, they're really silver', remarked the girl. Ahren winced. 'She's terribly old already and that's why her eyes are cloudy'. Selsena was really angry now and he stepped back out of the box to be on the safe side. Luckily, the girl released her hold of the Elven horse and followed him. He closed the box hurriedly and leaving the irritated mare behind, he smiled awkwardly at the girl. 'What's your name?' he asked, in an effort to deflect attention from the so-called horse. 'Miriam. And you?' she answered gaily. Smitten by her breath-taking smile, it took him a heartbeat to answer the question. 'Ahren', he said finally. He scrambled for something innocuous to talk about, but Miriam was already asking the next question. 'Have you travelled far?' 'No, this is my first job. I've only finished my apprenticeship'. He was quite proud of himself that he had stuck as closely to the truth as was possible. 'Oh, right', sighed the girl, disappointed, and looked as if she was about to go. The temptation to show off a little so she would stay was too great. 'But we want to go to Evergreen to the elves, and then on to the Silver Cliff, where the dwarves live'. His words were incredibly effective. Her eyes lit up and her wonderful smile reappeared. 'Then we'll head on to Kelkor. We're bound to run into one or two giants', he added in a deliberately casual manner. 'Why do you have to go there? That sounds like a terribly long journey', she said, agitated. Now Ahren had to be careful. Everything he had said up to this point fitted in with their cover story. 'I'm accompanying a noble youth who wants to see the places he heard about in his favourite stories. He has a cranky bodyguard with him who's making my life hell'. That was partly true as well and he began to feel a little more self-confident. 'I know how that feels. I have to help out in the kitchen until I'm allowed to be a sentry. The cook, well, she's horribly mean to me', complained Miriam. Ahren nodded eagerly. 'My master was exactly the same. One time he made me collect knotted ribbons from a tree in the pouring rain'. And for the next hour they swapped stories of their experiences at the hands of their hard-hearted teachers and they laughed and complained in equal measure. Ahren was dimly aware that Selsena would tell Falk of the apprentice's less than flattering descriptions of his master, but the undivided attention that the charming Miriam was giving him, made it worth any future trouble. He felt happy and free from all his cares and the time just went flying by. Eventually Miriam looked at the position of the sun, threw her arms around Ahren's neck and said, 'I really have to go now. Thanks for the lovely stories'. Then she gave him a kiss and ran out giggling. Ahren stood rooted to the spot and stared after her, overwhelmed by the unexpected kiss. He left the barn and looked after the redheaded girl until she disappeared behind a house. Should he run after her? Was this a complicated game whose rules he didn't understand? While he was standing there, he caught a glimpse of something moving in the corner of his eye. The redheaded woman on the lookout platform was watching him with a murderous look. Slowly she raised her crossbow until she zeroed in on him. He raised his hands and took two steps back until her line of fire was hidden by the barn door. He decided in a moment of wisdom that it would be best to wait here for the others. Meanwhile Selsena was flooding him with waves of mirth. When it was early evening Falk marched into the barn with a surprised look. He brought with him a bowl of cheese, ham and hard boiled eggs which he handed to Ahren. 'Why did you stay outside? I only sent you away as part of our disguise. Of course you can come in to eat', he said and glanced at the wolf. 'But Culhen had better stay with Selsena'. The wolf whimpered in protest for a second before trotting over to the box where he settled himself down. 'It was so nice out here', said Ahren lamely. Falk breathed in through his nose deliberately. The air reeked of horse manure, stale sweat and leather. Then he tilted his head to the side and listened to Selsena's remarks. Falk was still laughing heartily after two dozen heartbeats and Ahren was blushing deeply. At last his master quietened down and clapped his protégé on the shoulder. 'Come on in, I'll cover for you'. He threw his arm around his apprentice and pulled him out into the open. He caught the sentry's eye and nodded at the woman. She winked in acknowledgement and stared off at the horizon. 'You still have a lot to learn. We have to thank our lucky stars that the Adversary isn't a woman or we might as well give up now'. Then he started to laugh again. Ahren ignored him as much as possible. They entered the taproom of the manor. It was furnished with rows of long benches and tables running parallel to each other. It seemed as though tree trunks had simply been halved and smoothed and then hammered into place as table legs. The room was populated by guests similar to the travellers he had seen on their journey here. The room was partially lit by two oil lamps at the back of the room and also by the evening spring sunshine which bathed the room in a warm yellow glow. The apprentice reckoned that there was enough room for half the population of Deepstone. The Forest Guardian made a beeline past the benches to the woman of the manor who greeted him with a friendly nod. Then he led Ahren up a staircase at the back of the room. Once they reached the landing at the top of the stairs Ahren could see an enormous dormitory behind an archway, but Falk opened one of the two doorways in front that led left and right away from the dormitory. He indicated to him to go in. There was a small, plain looking room with two beds, a table and two chairs in front of a window. Ahren entered. Falk closed the door behind him and said, 'it's a bit conspicuous, renting the two single rooms, but this way we can talk undisturbed. And anyway, we both still have bloodstains on our leather jerkins – and you still have some behind your right ear'. Ahren checked with his hand and felt a large crust, which fell off as soon as he touched it. Falk pulled a bottle of wine from his jerkin and put it on the table. 'Eat something first and drink. You'll get water later to wash yourself and to rinse things. Don't you dare finish the bottle!' Then the old man was gone and Ahren was alone and unobserved for the first time in ages. He enjoyed the feeling and decided to make the best of the opportunity. Night fell and at last Ahren felt himself again. Of course he had become accustomed to the hardships that adventuring with Falk brought with it, but it was a different story travelling along this dusty dirt road and becoming over tired and baked in filth. He had eaten and drunk well while Falk had tended to Culhen. Then he had washed himself and afterwards given his clothing a thorough rinse. Then he had mended the worst of the tears that the Fog Cats had made with their claws. Now he was lying on the bed and could hear the unfamiliar sounds coming from the dormitory. He had become so accustomed to the silence of the forest that he was very aware of the noise so many people in close proximity were making. He could hear snatches of conversation as he thought about his exciting conversation with Miriam. Where was she now and what was she doing? Was she thinking about him too? His thoughts swirled around in circles until he dropped off to sleep. He woke up with a start. He could hear a noise which sounded like leather straps slapping off each other. It was pitch black and after a few heartbeats Ahren realized that the sound was coming from outside and was coming through the slits in the window blinds. Falk had returned at some point in the evening and was fast asleep in the bed beside his, and so Ahren slipped quietly from the bed and crept to the window. He peeked out through the crack between the shutters. Wisps of cloud were floating across the night sky and the moon was shining weakly. Whatever this strange sound was, it was coming from above them. He tilted his head sideways so he could see upwards out the gap. The noise seemed to be travelling. Dozens of shadows seemed to be moving past over the manor and across Ahren's limited vision. He could see dozens of winged figures, which were making the sound. Ahren blinked and tried to make out the creatures' characteristics, but they were too far away, and the light was too weak. Maybe bats…, thought Ahren just as a shadow flew directly past the shutters. Ahren saw leather wings, birds' claws and burning red eyes when suddenly a calloused hand grasped his shoulder and yanked him backwards. He was just able to stifle a cry when he recognized Falk, who pushed him under the table and hid himself too as best he could. There was a scratching on the window sill outside and then the shutters started to rattle. Whatever was outside, it was trying to get in. Ahren caught sight of the small wrought-iron hook that held the shutters closed. A beak had pushed its way into the gap in the shutters and was trying to push up the hook. To his horror Ahren could see in the weak moonlight, teeth flashing in the beak. A metallic scratching sound to his left revealed to Ahren that Falk had drawn his dagger. His own, unfortunately, was on the other side of the room, lying on his carefully folded clothing. He looked back and forth between that thing that wanted to get in and his dagger, trying to decide if he should risk the movement. The noise of the heavy leather wings became louder as the attacker's attempts to get in became more frantic, and then suddenly, it was all over. The sound died away, and the shadow disappeared with an angry hiss. Falk sheathed his dagger with relief and looked at Ahren. 'Swarm Claws. That was too close for comfort'. He pulled himself up and stormed out of the room. Ahren crept out from under the table and followed him at a considerably slower pace and remembered back to his lessons. Swarm Claws were birds that the Adversary had perverted in a most horrible way. They earned their name through the oversized, razor-sharp claws on their feet and because they always attacked in swarms of more than a hundred. They didn't have plumage any more but were covered in a leathery skin. Their beaks were filled with barbed teeth. A Swarm Claw on its own was dangerous of course, but as it was only the size of a hawk, it could be easily beaten. But when they were in a swarm they became a veritable nightmare of flesh-eating beaks and claws. Ahren thought of the many black shadows he had seen in the sky. If the window had opened, they would be dead. Hopefully Miriam is safe, he thought in a flash. But he hadn't heard any screams, and the swarm had moved on. He quickly suppressed the memories that instinctively came to mind, of Deepstone and the screams of the villagers. A shudder ran through him and he hurried to catch up with Falk, who had stormed into the other room, which the wizard had to himself. Uldini was perched on the bed, his arms around his knees, and looked like a frightened little child. Until he opened his mouth. 'Close the door, old man', he hissed. Falk carried out his order as Ahren quickly slipped in. He didn't want to hear the conversation, nor did he want to be alone now. He hunkered quietly on one of the chairs and kept a nervous eye on the window. 'Damn it, Uldini, you said we were safe', scolded Falk. 'They were definitely beyond the reach of the magic net last night. They must have flown without a break tonight', said the Magus defensively. It was the first time Ahren had experienced the resolute Ancient on the back foot. 'You know how these things function. If I make the web too big, it's discovered and everything starts again. I was very careful yesterday', he continued. Falk calmed down a little and said, 'the way they were flying, they were on a search mission for the three of us, so they were focusing their attention on human dwellings. That would suggest that at least Selsena and Culhen are safe as long as they don't attract attention to themselves. But imagine if we had set up camp in the open and they had caught us?' He was met with an awkward silence. Ahren tried not to imagine being at the mercy of this wave of claws and teeth with no protection or possibility of escape. 'How do you fight against them?' he asked. Maybe it would calm him down if he knew they were beatable. 'With lots of arrows and casualties', answered Falk grimly. That wasn't of much comfort. Uldini cleared his throat. 'Magic has also shown itself to be effective. Thankfully, there are only four or five swarms that we know of in all of Jorath'. 'They generally sleep throughout the day and only wake up with difficulty, so we're safe tomorrow during daylight. But we need to stay armed during the next few nights', said the old Forest Guardian firmly. The wizard nodded, and Falk opened the door to the hall without saying another word. The private conversation was obviously over and Ahren followed him to their bedroom. They went back to their beds again but falling asleep was difficult for Ahren. When he did eventually drop off, he found himself being buffeted about by bloody claws that were were grasping at him in the darkness.

(13th Paladin 1) Ahren

Torsten Weitze

Chapter 17

They set off early the next morning. The farmyard was still and deserted. The residents were still too traumatized by the previous night's danger to go about their daily tasks unimpeded. Ahren craned his neck to try and spot Miriam and he was relieved to see her looking out the kitchen window. He waved good bye and they moved off. The next few days passed by in a refreshing routine. Ahren learned it was better to go in front of Selsena to avoid the clouds of dust her hooves created. The weather, thankfully, was dry. Fighting their way through the mud would have been far more uncomfortable than avoiding dust clouds. They encountered the normal array of travellers, and there was no sign of bandits or Dark Ones. In the afternoons they would seek out a lodging house or a farmer and pay for shelter for the night. The Swarm Claws didn't return and slowly Ahren began to feel at ease. The rapid succession of events and revelations had taken more out of Ahren than he had realised. He decided to take one step at a time, the enormity that lay before him was too great. And so he enjoyed the journeying as much as he could, teaching Culhen new commands, and practising his archery in the evenings until it got dark. His companions often huddled together and talked about things that had happened in the past and about people he had never heard of. The apprentice gradually lost the desire to put the pieces of the puzzle together. The only thing that was clear was that at some time in the past Falk had journeyed with Uldini, but he had no idea why and for how long. They wouldn't answer any of his questions directly and so he let the matter drop. He decided to concentrate on the immediate future and looked forward to Three Rivers. The trading town in the north of Hjalgar was the second largest settlement in the country and the travelling craftsmen and merchants who had visited Deepstone in the past would always sing its praises. Falk announced that they would reach their destination the following morning and during the course of the day Ahren noticed the gradual changes in the surroundings. The farms seemed a little bigger, there were hardly any more small holdings, and here and there they would see a carpenter's workshop or a smithy, buildings you would normally only see in the centre of a village. Dark clouds began to gather that evening and they quickly sought out accommodation. Firstly, they didn't want to be travelling at dusk, and secondly, the patina that Falk had put on his and Selsena's armour couldn't withstand a heavy fall of rain. The woman who put them up for the night had been a charcoal burner but had given up that exhausting work. She preferred to take in travellers who hadn't made it as far as the town. It wasn't long before the heavens opened and daylight vanished with frightening speed. Lightning flashed across the sky and Ahren went to the window. A flash of lightning lit up the sky and he thought he recognized a very strange cloud made up of a collection of leather-winged bodies. Then it was dark again. He couldn't be certain of what he had seen, but now there was a niggling doubt. He closed the shutters and bolted them, giving Falk a meaningful look as he did so. He nodded silently in response and did the same with the other windows. All the while, the woman was happily chatting away, pinching Uldini on the cheek and tousling his hair, which the wizard put up with stoically. Ahren had to suppress a grin and snuggled up to Culhen. An uncomfortable draught blew through the little house and the wolf's pelt was a welcome source of warmth. The old woman offered them a home-made pie and once Ahren had had his fill he forgot about the threatening shadow outside the hut and started imagining how Three Rivers would look. Ahren was splattered with mud. He stared down at the trading town in disappointment. This was the place he had heard so much about. He didn't know what it looked like in sunshine but now it looked stocky and functional. No banners or pennants, none of the towers or other features he had imagined. Only a grey circle of houses squeezed together behind a palisade. A river stretched through the town and the intersection of two streets in the middle of the settlement presumably constituted the market square. They themselves were standing on a hill that Falk had led them up, several hundred paces off the main road. He placed a hand on Ahren's shoulder and said in an amused voice, 'you don't look happy, boy. Expected more, am I right?' Uldini grumbled, 'why the detour? It's not exactly a stunning view and I really want to get out of my dripping things. And your armour is running'. The magus was in a particularly foul mood today and Ahren reckoned the noble youth didn't like getting wet. It had been drizzling constantly since morning and all of them were soaked to the bone. 'The boy is still being trained and I want to show him two things. Anyway, it's better if he gawks from here, so that all and sundry don't see through our disguise straight away', Falk answered calmly. Ahren gave him a look of displeasure and then tried to look disinterested. Falk pretended not to notice and then began speaking in the peculiar tone of voice he used whenever he was teaching. 'Whenever you visit a strange town, view it from the outside first if you can. Preferably from a raised position, as we're doing now. First, look at the city gate. Are there a lot of sentries? That means trouble. The same is true if there are no sentries. Then they're all busy inside the city or dead'. He pointed to the wooden arch which represented the southern city gate and where a huddled figure was standing, leaning on a halberd under a heavy oilskin awning, staring out at the depressing day. From where they were standing they couldn't identify the other three gates. 'That's the ideal position. Bored normality', said Falk in a pleased voice. Then he pointed to the only lofty building in the city, a three-storey stone building with a wooden pole above it, whose function Ahren couldn't figure out. 'That's the signal mast. Similar to our alarm bell but visible from far away. The coat of arms of the mayor or the city lord or lady would normally hang there. The emblem isn't there now so he or she isn't in the city. A black flag would signal on outbreak of the Black Death, red would mean the town was on a war footing'. Uldini cleared his throat loudly and Falk continued. 'I'll explain the rest of the signals later, but I hope you understand now why it's important to check before you enter'. Ahren nodded. His master had drummed into him how to recognize the behaviour of the different animals and the features of different areas of the forest. It was only logical that the same would apply to the city. The small group descended the hill and soon they were at the city gate. Ahren put on a particularly bored expression and tried to look as anonymous as possible. The bed stone of the palisade was roughly one pace high and the palisade rose up roughly five paces in front of them. This was the first time Ahren had seen such fortification, but it looked old and neglected. Some of the posts were askew or broken and there were cracks in the bed stone. The town watch who waved them through with a bored look completed the picture. The haggard looking man was wearing a leather jerkin, which looked as if it had been repaired many times, and a rusty chainguard. His halberd seemed slightly warped and the young man could see several nicks in its blade. Ahren's image of the heroic bailiff had been severely undermined. Then they were through and entered Three Rivers. Ahren realised that his first impression of the city was mistaken. He could see solidly built stone houses, not to mention thatched wooden houses that had a more stable look than any of the ones he had seen in Deepstone, with the exception perhaps of the chapel and the Village Hall of his home village. All the buildings were well maintained and clean. When he looked down he noticed that he was no longer walking on trampled down clay but on large stone slabs, that were dirty and greasy from the rain, but prevented you from sinking into the mud. The few townspeople he saw may have been running around in their normal work clothes, but even to his untrained eyes Ahren could see a difference between the quality and fashioning of their clothes when compared with the clothing in his own village. 'Is everybody here wealthy?' he asked Falk very quietly and tried to hide his excitement. Uldini snorted and Falk answered hesitatingly. 'They have a certain affluence. Anyone who lives behind the palisade must have enough money for the privilege. Even if they've neglected the defences to a shocking degree'. Uldini snorted again and said, 'the numbskulls have been practising trade for too long and that's why they've neglected their defences. Neither Kelkor nor the Fen Knights have done anything more than provoke a couple of inconsequential quarrels over the last century and that's made them careless. They've forgotten that the Border Lands are a mere five days hard riding away. And a single dark bear would be able to rip through the toothpicks they call a palisade in no time at all'. The wizard's disgust was palpable, but there was also great sadness in his face. He's worried about these people, thought Ahren. The magus could be even grumpier than Falk when he wasn't happy about something, but he had also seen Uldini in a happy, almost mischievous spirit – it was difficult to make out this moody person. The drizzle was setting in and Falk began to walk faster because the rain was washing the ash off the armour plating and it was become shinier with every minute. He pointed to a hostelry with stables and they quickly hurried over and sheltered with the horses. Falk looked down at himself doubtfully and took off the armour until he was down to his leather clothing. Then he took off Selsena's armour and hid it all under a woollen blanket in the Elven horse's stall. 'Take good care of it', he murmured to her and they went into the taproom. While Ahren was taking in the comfortable if simple furnishings, Falk sorted out a room with the happy, wide-eyed innkeeper. Apart from themselves there were a few workers in the room, who were sitting out the bad weather, as well as three daredevil types at one of the corner tables. Ahren wanted to take a closer look but the ferocious glare from one of the fellows, a coarse-looking man with stubble made him look away quickly. He knew this look from Sven. He'd really rather not meet a grown-up version of the miller's son, who had back up and weapons with him. The young man may only have glanced at him, but the long swords were unmissable. Uldini squinted over at them too and said quietly, 'let's have everything brought to our room. I smell trouble down here'. Falk nodded and made the necessary arrangements. They sat together in the early afternoon, having cleaned themselves, warmed up, and eaten a full meal. Falk wanted to head for the marketplace again. 'We need something more hardwearing than the leather jerkins, and a few decent travel utensils. And we need another horse as well as a pack horse. Selsena has been giving me a pain in my head, complaining about all the weight she has to carry'. 'I'm not going with you', Uldini replied. 'I'll try to make contact with some of the Ancients. Maybe they can cast a really big and heavy magic net. A few diversionary tactics would definitely help us'. He made the crystal ball float in the middle of the room and pulled out a piece of chalk. Falk nodded and gestured at Ahren to come with him. 'It means Uldini will be busy for a while, but his idea is good. I'd be a lot happier if we could walk the length of the Red Posts without having to watch out for Swarm Claws or Fog Cats. There isn't much protection out there'. 'What are the Red Posts, master?' Ahren had never heard of them before. There had been another enormous row over the route they should travel and Uldini had won out in the end. Falk had seemed strangely relaxed since then although he had lost the argument, as if he had resigned himself to his fate. 'It's a sort of trade route. You'll see it when we get there'. Ahren shrugged his shoulders. He had learned to accept these cryptic answers. The drizzle had eased off and now there was a dampness hanging in the air between the houses, which Ahren found uncomfortable. There were many more people scurrying around and the closer they got to the market place, the noisier it became. He could already see the colourful stalls and visitors weaving their way around in a complicated dance as they went about their various tasks. The whole market place was a hubbub of stallholders loudly pitching their wares and haggling with customers. Ahren couldn't help moving closer to Falk for protection. He found this crying, moving, sweaty smelling mass of people a little frightening somehow. Falk could sense his apprentice's discomfort and put an arm around his shoulders. 'You'll get used to it. You've only known village life and the wilderness. It's louder in the towns. And this is nothing here. At some stage we're going to have to go to the Sun Bazaar or the Eternal Market. You'll find clever dealers at the entrances selling wax balls for your ears, so you can bear the noise'. Ahren looked at the old man sceptically, unsure whether he was pulling his leg. Then they were in the market place and Ahren had to have his wits about him to avoid running into people as he looked around curiously. There were the usual vegetable, fruit and meat stalls of which there were many scattered around the marketplace. But he also saw stalls for wares that would at the very most only be sold individually in Deepstone by Master Velem if he had been lucky enough to get one or two. Rare cloths and priceless garments, decorative ironwork and even weapons were laid out on the display cloths for customers to admire. They were turning a corner around a stall when Ahren stopped suddenly and several people crashed into the back of him. He was too stunned to hear the muttered curses behind him as he stared in amazement at a dwarf, hardly five paces away from him. He was offering sparkling gems, rings and necklaces for sale, all of which were displayed on a black velvet cloth spread out on the stall. The small sturdy creature was surrounded by four ferocious looking guards dressed in uniformed tunics. They all had their hands placed on their short swords, which were hanging from their belts. With the help of their shields they had little trouble directing the stream of people, so that they created an island of tranquility, where two wealthy looking merchants were examining the wares. Even Falk look surprised. 'That's strange. The dwarves from the Silver Cliff don't usually sell their wares too far away from home. You have to travel the length of Kelkor to get here. He could do business in the Knight Marshes or in the Realm of the Sunplains with the same effort and earn twice as much money. Come with me'. Falk determinedly pushed his way through the crowd and got to the counter. Ahren followed him and the guards eyed them suspiciously. From the way they changed their body position it was clear to Ahren that they considered the pair of Forest Guardians to be a threat rather than customers, and the young man realized that they were possibly three heartbeats away from open conflict. The dwarf gave Falk a threatening look from under his bushy eyebrows but then the Forest Guardian said something in a strangely muffled and rumbling language, all the while crossing his arms in front of him, placing his hands on his shoulders and bowing. The merchant grunted in surprise and repeated the gesture and uttered the same words but in an incredibly deep and resonant voice, which gave his words a surprisingly natural fluidity. The guards relaxed and turned their gaze back to the two merchants who were studying the wares, and also on the people passing by. Ahren breathed a sigh of relief and studied Falk's partner with interest. He had never seen a member of the little people before and his expectations were not disappointed. The dwarf reached as high as the middle of Falk's torso, yet his shoulders were at least as broad as the old man's. His arms and legs were squat, almost squeezed together but extremely powerful. His straw-blond hair with its complicated plaits giving him an air of wildness fell as a thick mane down his back. His full bushy beard was similarly braided and grew down to his barrel-shaped chest. His clothing was indeed select and worthy of a wealthy merchant, but he also had metal arm and leg armour strapped on, and when he moved, Ahren could hear the rattle of chainmail. Some soldiers have less protection going into battle, thought Ahren. His mentor and the dwarf were engaged in a friendly conversation and when the jewellery merchant turned and pointed southwards at something, Ahren saw that he was carrying two vicious looking axes on his back, that couldn't be seen from the front. The two merchants who were still looking at the jewellery noticed them too. One of them immediately became ashen-faced and retreated into the crowd where he disappeared. The dwarf noticed this, said something to Falk and hit him on the chest with his fist, causing his master to stagger. At first Ahren thought that the merchant was angry because of his lost business, but then he gave a laugh, so deep and loud that Ahren's bones shook. He couldn't help chuckling too and it struck him that he liked dwarves. Falk finished his conversation and much to Ahren's disbelief, gave the little man a gold thaler. They both repeated the gesture they had made when they had greeted each other, and Falk indicated to his apprentice to follow him. The old man was silent and contemplative for a while. Ahren continued to look at the displays while Falk, with practised efficiency, strode through the market and bought all the things they needed, telling the stallholders to deliver them to their lodgings. He hardly haggled at all and paid horrendous prices for the purchases. They finally left the market and went towards the western gate. The palisades and the town watch didn't exactly inspire confidence here either. Ahren realised that the jewellery stall had better defences than the whole city. He pointed this out to Falk, who laughed. 'You're not wrong. But you have to remember, Ker-Korog is a guest of honour of the city, and the armed personnel were lent to him and are, in fact, the bodyguards of the city steward. Three Rivers clearly wants to improve its reputation as a trading city and for that reason sent out invitations to the merchants from the Silver Cliffs and Thousand Halls. Not a bad move if you think of what he told me earlier'. Whatever it was the dwarf had told him, he clearly didn't want to talk about it in public, and Ahren was clever enough not to ask questions about it for the moment. They went out the gate and Ahren saw a paddock on his left with more than two dozen horses in it. 'Let's see which of them suits you', said Falk. The next hour proved to be entirely painful for the apprentice. He had only been on a horse twice in his life and that was years ago at an Autumn Festival. He kept falling off or being thrown off and the horse wouldn't listen to him. Falk lowered his expectations dramatically. His apprentice may have been quick to learn and gifted as well, but his horse-riding skills were minimal. In the end they settled for the most docile horse available, a chestnut mare who still had another one or two summers in her for carrying a rider until she became too old. Ahren was depressed and could see how disappointed his master was. Today he had made two new discoveries: he liked dwarves and he hated horses! Falk quickly bought a pack horse and instructed the dealer to deliver the horses to the lodgings the following break of day. His apprentice's foul humour was written all over his face and so the old Forest Guardian pulled himself together and smiled weakly at the young man. 'You can't be brilliant at everything. That's a lesson you have to learn too. With a lot of practice and hard work we might make you into a passable rider'. Ahren heard the doubt in his voice and scowled. 'And now we'll get a sword for you, what do you think?' his master continued and immediately the young man's mood improved. Then Falk led him back into the streets of the city. It wasn't long before they reached a two-storey stone building. A heavy dark oak door prevented entry and on it was posted the emblem of the blacksmiths' guild. 'We must be right here. Ker-Korog recommended this blacksmith and when it comes to metalwork, the little people have a gift for it', said Falk. He hammered on the door and soon it was opened by the largest woman Ahren had ever seen. The women in Hjalgar were mostly considerably smaller than the men and so the apprentice could only stare rudely while Falk explained their request. The blacksmith was a finger's width taller than Falk and had the broad shoulders and strong arms typical of workers in this profession. White-blond hair peeped out from under her veil and her piercing blue eyes twinkled humorously at Ahren as she listened to the old Forest Guardian. Then she moved aside and let the two of them in while she looked the young man up and down critically. 'So you need a sword for the little one, do you?' she asked. 'What do you have in mind?' Falk hesitated. 'I'd like your advice first before I decide. My knowledge is a bit…rusty'. Then the blacksmith approached Ahren, who flinched and looked up at her uncertainly. She snorted in amusement and said, 'I'm not going to eat you. Have you never seen anybody from the Ice Islands or the Brazen City, boy?' He shook his head and his master said, 'he's fresh-faced from the village. It's all new for him'. The big woman gave an understanding nod and began to measure the length of his arms and the width of his shoulders with a thread. 'Shoulders too small and arms too thin for hammer and axe. Or do you have time to build up a bit of strength?' Her dry analysis cut through Ahren. His training had begun to reap significant rewards and he had almost beaten Holken in arm-wrestling a few weeks earlier. A wave of homesickness came over him as he remembered, and he looked dejectedly in front of him. In the meantime, Falk answered. 'No, we're heading for a dangerous area and time is not on our side'. She nodded and made Ahren hop, stand on one leg, turn in every direction, bend and stretch. He thought she might be a little strange in the head, but Falk stood there quietly, leaning against a pillar and looking on serenely. The door to the actual forge was open and it was warm in the room. Ahren was soon sweating but then she indicated to him to stand still. 'Quick, nimble and wiry. You had him climbing a lot, am I right?' His master gave a satisfied nod. 'A quick blade is best for him. We'll try him out with a rapier'. She went to a shelf which had long, very thin blades. Falk frowned but said nothing. The smith looked at the thread she had measured Ahren with, then took one of the weapons. It was a thin piece with a three-cornered blade that ended in a basket hilt. The young man took hold of it carefully and the proprietress indicated that he should follow her. The three of them went outside and into a walled inner courtyard with three straw dolls which were obviously used for target practice. There were more further back, made of wood and judging by their scores, those were used for trying out the heavier weapons. He was told to stab one of the straw dolls and the two adults stood there watching and giving him advice. The weapon felt light and fragile in his hands and bent to an alarming degree when he stabbed. He felt awkward and inept in contrast and the quick steps his watchers demanded of him kept ending up as ineffective little hops. 'That's enough', said Falk finally. The woman took the weapon from him and went into the house to get another. The apprentice whispered, 'what sort of a smith is she?' Falk chuckled, 'she comes from the Brazen City, I know that much. What she's doing here…I've no idea. It must be something serious like a blood feud or something. But let me make this clear, she's not just a smith. Anyone who works at the forge in the Brazen City is also an armourer. We were damn lucky today. No wonder that Ker-Korog recommended her. It wouldn't surprise me if the dwarves agreed to do business with the city because of her. I'll definitely have to talk to Uldini about it later'. He became silent as the woman came outside again, this time with a long, straight, two-edged sword in her hand. 'The classic one. The long sword. Timeless and versatile'. She handed the weapon over to Ahren, who now had to perform completely different actions, as he hacked at the doll and stabbed it. He felt much more comfortable with the heavier weapon and carried out most of the instructions very well. These exercises took considerably longer and gradually daylight faded. Finally Ahren heard Falk asking, 'so armourer, are you satisfied? It looks good enough to me'. The apprentice held his breath and turned around to where they had made themselves comfortable at a small table. Sometime while he had been peppering the straw doll, she had organized goblets and beer and the two were sitting there like two old warriors and were examining him critically. She answered with a frown. 'Satisfied? No. Good enough for bashing about in the hurly-burly, but in single combat…there's no doubt he's talented, but he's really using only one blade'. She thought for a moment, then stood up. 'I'll try one more weapon. Keep the long sword here, you can take that if the worst comes to worst'. She quickly disappeared inside while Ahren looked at Falk in consternation. The old man shrugged his shoulders and sipped at his beer. After a few heartbeats the armourer returned, holding an unusual blade in her hand that Ahren had never seen before. It was slim and light, like a long sword cut in two, but with only one cutting edge, the other edge was blunt. The blade was also slightly curved and ended in a little tip. Ahren was fascinated. Everything about this weapon was slim and fast, yet without the fragility of the rapier. 'Is that a Windblade? He heard Falk asking. I didn't think the Brazen City produced such weapons. Or are the Sunplains and the Eternal Kingdom no longer at war? She laughed, a surprisingly bright and friendly laugh. 'The war has gone on for so long that it's probably only the Eternal Empress who remembers the reasons for it. No, you're right, but one of the few advantages of my new home is the fact that I can now decide for myself what I want to forge. Call it professional curiosity but I wanted to know if it's possible to manufacture these things in our forges'. 'And?' asked Falk stubbornly. 'It's difficult but possible. It took me ten tries to get this one right. It's a little top-heavy and I could only fold it half the number of times I wanted to. Any merchant in the Eternal Kingdom will be able to offer you a better piece', she answered. 'Well, you're being hard on yourself', said the old man, amused. She shrugged her shoulders. 'I'm just being honest. We'll see!' Ahren took the weapon and began the exercises she was showing him. He carried out the steps and the swings almost like a dancer, with economical thrusts and semi circles, using the sword to parry and attack. His arms and back were beginning to hurt after the hours of training but all his movements felt fluid and gentle now. They stopped only after the sun had completely set. 'There you have it, Master Forest Guardian. He's holding the worst blade of the lot in his hands in terms of quality, but his movements are immeasurably better. That's the one he should take'. Falk scratched his beard and frowned. 'Then I have to ask you a favour. Can you show him the ground rules so that he can practise them on the journey. I'm only trained in the broadsword, and that breaks bones when it cuts'. She nodded and Falk continued. 'We need to head off tomorrow. I'll leave him here and you teach him as much as you can. And remember, teach him simple things that he can repeat on his own, without getting into bad habits'. Then he stood up and slapped Ahren on the shoulder. 'Have fun and grasp the opportunity!' And he was out the door before the apprentice could respond, leaving him with the practice dolls and the gigantic woman from the Ice Islands. He was a little afraid but soon he was too focused on the training to think of anything else. If he had considered Falk to be a hard taskmaster, then the following hours put paid to that. He learnt perhaps a dozen moves, not more, but the armourer made him repeat them with merciless determination until she was convinced that he would be able to perfect them on the road. 'You're only at the beginning', she said during a break, as he drank some water. 'If you learn bad habits now, they will be with you for the rest of your life, so I'm only going to show you the moves where you know immediately if you've made a mistake. Your master will notice any major blunders and correct you'. Ahren continued the torture of learning the basic moves as the armourer relentlessly hammered into his head all the things he had to be aware of. When the first cock finally crowed, she relented and he rolled together into a ball and fell asleep on the spot. Ahren woke up late in the morning. He was lying on a soft bedstead under a warm blanket. The armourer, who had introduced herself during the evening as Falagarda, must have lifted him up and put him to bed. He sat up with a groan and stretched his stiff limbs. He chewed some herbs, an antidote to aching muscles which were in a little bag that he always carried with him. Only Falk, he thought grimly, could manage to turn a simple shopping spree into gruelling torture for him. There was no sign of Falagarda and a quick glance out the window showed that half the morning was already gone. What was keeping his master? He stood up and found the smith standing in front of the chimney where she was working on an axe. She glanced over her shoulder and called over the clanging of her hammer blows, 'good morning, your master hasn't arrived yet'. Ahren stood for a moment, puzzled. What if something had happened? He opened his moneybag and took out the solitary penny Uldini had given him in case they became separated. 'What do I owe you?' he asked. Falagarda gave a dismissive wave. 'Forget about it, boy. You're a quick student and if you practise really hard, you'll be very handy with Windblade, maybe even a master. The blade's been lying around here for years gathering dust'. She thought for a moment. 'Mind you, you can do me one favour. If your travels take you to the Silver Cliff or Thousand Halls, tell the dwarves there that Falagarda Regelsten is interesting in developing a trading relationship that involves more than precious stones'. Ahren didn't quite know what she was talking about, but he nodded and said, 'that's a promise. And thanks for the training'. She nodded back. 'Then go look for your master. And good luck on your travels'. Ahren gave a farewell wave, left the forge, went through the showroom, out the heavy oak door and onto the street outside. The previous day's rainclouds had disappeared and he blinked in the bright sunshine and tried to remember where exactly their guesthouse lay. The sun offered the necessary orientation and he headed off in what he thought was roughly the right direction, always picking the street or alleyway, which he felt would bring him nearer his destination. He had just entered a narrow alleyway, about two paces in width, and he was pretty sure the guesthouse was at the other end of it, when he noticed three figures loitering with their backs turned to him. The houses were packed close together, so he would either have to turn back or squeeze between the people. He was hesitantly moving forward when one of them turned around and he recognized the coarse fellow that had intimidated him the day before in the taproom. His opposite number seemed to have recognized him too and pointed in Ahren's direction while whispering something. The other two heads spun around immediately, and the apprentice could see a hard looking man and a ferocious wild-eyed woman with pock marks. All three made themselves bigger in the alleyway so getting past them was unthinkable. Each of them had at least one hand hidden under their cloaks and Ahren remembered the weapons he had seen them with the day before. The physical threat was almost palpable and Ahren was not so naïve as to go closer. If only he had his bow with him! There must have been seven paces between them and he was sure that he could have shot two arrows successfully in the narrow street. When he didn't seem to be making any move to do their bidding, the strangers began to move towards him. Ahren quickly went through his options. The bow was a non-starter, also dagger and sword - he was in the minority and under-trained. He thought for a moment of running away but these three surely knew their way around better and could split up to cut off his escape routes. Calling out for help was useless too - it would all be over by the time anyone came. Another six paces. What was left? He thought of his training, which wasn't much use here in the city. Until he remembered the ribbon tree. A quick sidelong glance revealed that the stone facades of the houses were rough and the window ledges afforded excellent climbing opportunities. Without giving the idea a second thought, he jumped up and clung on to a projection in the façade of one of the stone walls. He heard a roar behind him as the blackguards realized what he was planning. He quickly pulled himself up, cursing the hours of sword practice he had undertaken the previous night as his muscles protested. He looked up and the next reachable grip was the narrow window ledge on the second floor, roughly one pace above his head. He tensed up his body so that every muscle, from his fingers to his toes, worked as one. Then he pulled his arms downward before pushing his body with full force upwards, just before his attackers could catch him. His months of climbing practice now stood him in good stead. He found it remarkably easy to grasp the window ledge and to pull himself up again until he was standing on the narrow wooden board that was creaking dangerously under his feet. He risked a quick downward look and saw three angry faces as they began to climb up after him. The coarse fellow had major problems getting a grip, but the other two were making progress almost as quickly as Ahren. He concentrated again on the climb, but the rest of the way was child's play. He only had to reach up and grip, and he'd reach the edge of the roof, and after two heartbeats he was lying on the shingle roof of the house. The smooth slate tiles were dangerously slippery underfoot and the steep angle of the roof ridge made it difficult to stand up. Remaining bent over so that his arms were in contact with the shingle, he clambered over to the other side of the house. The first pursuer's head was already above the roof edge, and Ahren quickly began his descent. The street was broader and busier here and one or two passers-by craned their heads to peer up at him. He ignored them and slid down as quickly as he could, tearing his hands on the bare stone. The burning pain was a small price to pay for his escape, for as he raced on towards the inn, he could hear loud cursing coming from the roof. 'Ralg, he's running to the others. Grab him!' The young Forest Guardian sprinted with all the strength he had. Windblade, which he had only casually slung on his back, banged loudly against his body as he ran, sounding like a bell around his neck. The street he was racing along now ran parallel to the street on which he had evaded the lowlifes. Both of them met up on the street the inn was on, which meant that he and his adversary had roughly the same distance to run. It was like a two-horse race in the dark, at the end of which was the safety of his accommodation where hopefully the others were waiting for him. For a second, the idea that they might not be there flashed through his head. After all, Falk hadn't come to pick him up. But he tossed aside this thought as he hurtled down the street and rounded the corner. They wouldn't have left without him. At the very least Culhen and Selsena would be waiting for him in the stable, and the idea of having an Elven horse and a half-grown wolf beside him spurred him on. But there were still a good thirty paces to the entrance of the refuge when the cutthroat, who the others had named Ralg, came around the corner and headed helter-skelter for Ahren. The young man ran on and saw something flash out of the corner of his eye. The fellow had drawn his dagger. Ahren instinctively reached for his own dagger but it wasn't there. They'd only wanted to go shopping the day before. As he began his final sprint he swore to himself that he would never go anywhere without his short sword again. Ralg had a coarse figure and was unable to climb but he was a good sprinter and it seemed as though he would catch up with Ahren before he could reach his destination. Two paces from the entrance to the taproom and he felt a calloused hand on his shoulder. Before the scoundrel could grab him and pull him around, Ahren ducked down and spun to the side. Ralg took the opportunity to position himself between Ahren and the safe haven behind the door. He squatted down into a combat position, the blade under his right forearm so as not to arouse suspicion. 'Got you!' he grumbled in a hoarse voice and Ahren tensed himself up to ready himself for the attack. Then Falk was there. With speed and determination he came out through the taproom door and was behind Ahren's attacker. Before he had time to notice the impending danger, Falk had smashed his fist against Ralg's temple, and the ruffian began to tumble to the ground with glassy eyes. Falk repeated the action, then caught the man, who had lost consciousness. The scoundrel's dagger clattered to the ground and Ahren saw some strollers scurry away from the scene. Falk leaned the limp body against the wall and began to frisk him with practised hands. He fished some parchment out of the unconscious man's jerkin and skimmed through it with a frown. 'We need to get out of here before the others turn up with reinforcements. Get Uldini and our equipment and I'll meet you in the stable'. Ahren had a hundred questions but he knew that now was not the time to ask them. He hurried to their room, but the wizard had already packed and was coming towards him, heaving the heavy bundle of equipment behind him. The young Forest Guardian wanted to say something but Uldini cut him off. 'Don't waste your breath, we've been discovered, that much is clear'. They both raced down the stairs and towards the stable, leaving open-mouthed guests in the taproom staring after them in disbelief as they thundered past with their heavy equipment. Falk was already there and saddled Selsena while Culhen kept watch at the entrance. Their new animals were waiting for them and they quickly loaded them with their equipment. Finally Ahren swung himself uncertainly onto the saddle and Falk looked at him in consternation. 'I'll take your reins, we have to get out of here quickly and I don't want to have to keep picking you up or searching for you', he said with determination. They left the stables and trotted towards the northern gate. Ahren, who felt as if he were a child again, hanging onto the saddle while Falk led him by the reins, asked the question that had been vexing him. 'What happened there exactly?' 'I found this on your friend with the knife', said his master tersely and pressed the crumpled parchment in his hand. He unfolded it clumsily as he hopped up and down in the saddle. It appeared to be some kind of official document, many lines, often with complicated words. He was somewhat skilled at the art of reading but as he was still unpractised, it took him a while to understand it completely. The top half gave physical descriptions of Uldini, Falk and himself, and underneath it stated that they were imposters who had robbed the merchant guilds of several thousand gold thalers. 'It's an arrest warrant!' gasped Ahren loudly. Falk turned to him with a scornful look and pulled the parchment out of his hand. 'Why don't you speak up a bit, the town watch didn't hear you', he said sarcastically. Luckily, they had already passed the northern gate and there were no other travellers in the vicinity. Ahren spoke in a quieter voice, 'but why is there an arrest warrant for us? And who wrote it?' '"Why" is simple', answered Uldini. 'A Transformer had it issued to make life difficult for us'. Ahren winced. Transformers were the first beings HE WHO FORMS had created – without the backing of his siblings. According to legend they were grotesque, ever-changing creatures, who couldn't hold onto any appearance for long. Appalled by their fate, they willingly aligned themselves with HIM WHO FORCES. In return for their services, he forced them into whatever physical shape suited him at the time. There were hundreds of horror stories about them. They were far and away the most powerful and fearsome weapons in the Betrayer's arsenal. Ahren was greatly disturbed by the thought that one of their number had brought unwelcome attention onto the travel party. 'The merchant guilds issued the arrest warrants', added Uldini matter-of-factly. 'A clever move if you ask me. Their arrest warrants are less powerful than regional documents but they're valid in all the kingdoms. We'll have reached the Knight Marshes in two days but that won't be much help to us'. 'And now?' asked Falk darkly. 'I suppose we can forget our plan to join up with a group of travelling merchants'. The wizard nodded. 'I'd forget about that idea. One of the Ancients should have a look among the guilds. If the Transformer is still there, which I very much doubt, that will flush him out. Until then we'd be better continue on our own'. They travelled the rest of the morning in contemplative silence. Falk handed the reins back to Ahren so that he could learn to direct the horse by himself. With the midday son beating down on them, Ahren asked, 'why does the Adversary want to stop us already? Would it not make more sense to wait until my Naming, when the magic spell is lifted?' Uldini looked at him out of the corner of his eye before continuing his catnap. Falk answered, 'if you die now, HE WHO FORCES has enough time to wake up, because it took the gods over seven hundred years to replace the last Paladin with you. But it's also true that the longer we take to appoint you, the quicker the Adversary will awaken from his long Sleeping Bane. He can feed off the powers of the thirteenth Paladin, which were released when you were selected, and gain strength from them until they are embedded within you. Your powers are connected to the Pall Pillar, which means that the two of you are bound together. This binding will only be cut when you have been named'. Now Uldini opened his eyes and looked earnestly at the young man. 'He will wake up more quickly if your power is diverted, and we must prevent this at all costs. The channels between you and the Bane Spell are at their most permeable during equinox, when day and night are equal length. He can suck out a particularly large amount at that time. If we manage to appoint you before the next Spring Festival, we will have a time-scale of two or three years before HE WHO FORCES rises up. If we manage it before this Autumn Festival, we will have perhaps even half a dozen years. If we need more than one year…' His voice trailed off and he didn't finish the sentence. Once again there was quiet as they sat on their saddles, each one lost in their own thoughts. 'Why didn't you collect me this morning?' asked Ahren finally, breaking the silence. 'We noticed the good-for-nothings, who were watching us and were waiting for the right moment to catch one of them and question him or her', answered Falk. You were in safe hands at the armourer's, so we left you there. None of us thought that you'd wander through the city on your own'. Somehow it didn't surprise Ahren that he was being blamed again. So he changed the subject. 'What did the dwarf say to you yesterday?' His master sat up straight and addressed his commentary to Uldini as well as Ahren. 'The disputes among the knights have increased and some very extreme views have been surfacing in the recent past. They don't want any elves or dwarves in the kingdom – complete nonsense really. And the trade between King's island and Silver Cliff has almost ground to a halt. It's good that we're only skirting Knight Marshes on our journey'. 'It's no coincidence', mumbled Uldini. 'This much is certain, the agents of the Adversary are trying to foment unrest. A squabbling enemy is an enemy defeated'. And with that they all fell into a brooding silence. At dusk they sought out a little wood on the side of the road where they set up camp for the night. Ahren was sore from riding and so he was delighted when Falk ordered him to practise his sword-fighting exercises while he prepared the evening meal. Uldini was staring into his crystal ball which was floating and emitting a weak light, and he seemed to be speaking to one of the Ancients. Although Falk was not familiar with Windblade, he had a good general idea of the feints and foot positions needed and he didn't tire of pointing out every tiny mistake Ahren made. By the time it was dark, every muscle in Ahren's body was aching and he was only too happy to lie down. He was asleep in no time at all and woke up the next day after a succession of nightmares in which he was chased by a ragtag of figures with knives and swords, who were constantly changing their forms. He was happy to be free from his dreams until Falk tossed a bundle of practice arrows at his feet and told him to tie them to his horse. Ahren got up with a groan at the realization that this was going to be another long day. They rode silently over the flat farming land that made up the northern border of Hjalgar. They stopped unexpectedly in the late afternoon and turned off the road to find shelter in some heavy woodland. Falk began to polish up his armour and ordered Ahren to do the same with Selsena's plating. They scrubbed off the grey coating and polished the whitish material until it was sparkling bright, and Uldini changed his clothes. His silk robe disappeared into his rucksack and he put on expensive linen clothing instead, before slipping a tabard over it. The tabard was decorated with a falcon perched on a stone. The rock glowed in the conventional black and gold of the the Knight Marshes. Falk took from the saddlebag the mysterious bundle that he had always stored in his trunk in their cabin. From it he carefully removed a similar tunic, which he now passed to Ahren. The material was thick and heavy and smelt musty. Ahren slipped the unfamiliar clothing over his head. He wriggled around and tugged at it until it was sitting properly on him. In the meantime Falk had slipped on a heavy gold signet ring on his finger. It was set with an onyx stone and displayed the same crests as on their clothing. All this was amazing to Ahren, but what happened next really took his breath away. His master actually took out a comb and began to comb his hair and beard in a most fastidious fashion. Ahren burst out laughing at the sight, and not even his master's warning looks could stop him. It was only when Uldini gave him a warning look and shook his head that the young man could contain himself again. The results of their efforts were impressive. Falk's white armour shimmered in a brightness that was mother-of-pearl, as did Selsena's, and the Elven horse conveyed her happiness in waves to her companions. Falk's broadsword was now hanging between his shoulder blades and his bow was now on Selsena's saddle. The more Falk tidied up his appearance, the more authoritative he appeared. When his master was finally finished, Ahren saw a transformation in front of him. It was still Falk, but he was now every inch the knight. Uldini resembled a liveried retainer. And then the two of them set about working on Ahren. They pulled and prodded, they polished his leathers, they even combed his hair. He felt deeply uncomfortable and embarrassed, while Culhen sat in front of him, and seemed to be laughing at him with his tongue hanging out. That was, until he was subjected to the same treatment and made to look prim and proper by the two of them. Ahren had to carry his sword open on his back too, with his bow fixed to his saddle. Finally they were ready and once they had ridden from the shadow of the trees and into the early summer sunshine they presented a breath-taking sight. Falk was riding alone on Selsena, Uldini on the the saddled-up pack horse. His master and the Titejunanwa glistened in the afternoon light and looked for all the world like the dashing figures in a heroic saga. Instead of sitting hunched and humdrum on the saddle, the old man was sitting bolt upright like a knight on his warhorse. Ahren could only stare in wonder and Uldini laughed out loud. 'That's enough, Falk. Judging by the boy's open jaw, it's effective enough to get us over the border easily. Good that you're here again!' The old Forest Guardian flared into existence again for an instant as Falk answered angrily, 'I'm not here again!' Then he rode ahead in measured steps and the others followed the would-be knight on the road. Uldini talked to Ahren all the way to the border, advising him on the role he was to play. He would be Falk's page. I'm still the apprentice, even in disguise, he thought bitterly. At last they arrived at a run-down wooden hut, which was Hjalgar's border post. Two border guards, sitting under an awning, squinted at them with tired and bored eyes and waved them through without bothering to get up. 'That was the easy part', mumbled the wizard and nodded his head in the direction they would follow. Wooden posts were stuck into the ground on either side of the road, presenting two undulating lines to a distance of several hundred paces in either direction. These had to be the border stakes. Beyond the border stood a high square stone tower, reaching at least ten paces into the sky. It was crenellated on top and there were at least three crossbowmen watching them in a relaxed yet attentive manner. There were three armoured guards on either side of the road, all equipped with heavy halberds. Swords were hanging from their belts. The crest of the Knight Marshes hung on a large banner from the tower - a golden crown on a black background surrounded by a circle of many dozens of small, golden, square shields. They were still three paces away when one of the guards – and judging by the plume of feathers on his helmet, he was probably the head guard – shouted out in a booming voice, 'halt in the name of Senius Blueground, king of the Knight Marshes, and name your purpose!' Uldini responded in a voice equally loud and in an arrogant tone, 'Dorian Falkenstein, knight and Lord of Castle Falkenstein wishes to visit his homeland'. The words had no sooner been uttered when the guards hopped to attention and their commander said, 'but of course. A thousand apologies that I didn't recognize you immediately. Have a good journey on the roads of Knight Marshes'. The border guards saluted as they rode by and as soon as they were beyond the row of ironclad men, Ahren heard animated whispering behind him. Falk maintained his lordly pose but there was a frown on his face. 'I knew it was a bad idea. They recognised the name', he hissed. 'Of course they did. We're in the Knight Marshes, they love their stories. Lots of names might have been forgotten elsewhere, but not here', answered Uldini calmly. 'We've gone through this already. The arrest warrants only have the name Falk, the Forest Guardian. This was the quickest and safest way of getting in. Your name would have surfaced sometime anyway, so at least we controlled when and how'. 'Master?' asked Ahren, who couldn't contain himself any longer. 'Are you really a knight?' Falk sighed and answered in a weary voice, 'I was a knight once. Then I didn't want to be one anymore'. At these words a wave of cold rage rolled through Ahren's inside and Selsena gave a loud and shrill neigh. It must have been Falk's decision that had angered her so much and that was why she had stayed away from him for all those years. 'Not now', said Falk firmly and the feeling of anger ebbed away, to some extent anyway. 'I went to the elves and at some point became a Forest Guardian. The best decision of my life, and even this stubborn woman here will have to admit that it did me some good over the years'. There was no response from Selsena but Falk smiled and patted her neck while Uldini said to Ahren, 'welcome to the Knight Marshes'.

(13th Paladin 1) Ahren

Torsten Weitze

Chapter 18

Ahren had expected a completely different world when they first entered the neighbouring kingdom. There were no kings, armies or heroes in Hjalgar, there were only bailiffs, village councils and city administrators. Which meant that any stories that reached Deepstone and told of the knights of this kingdom were fairy tales and adventure yarns. After half a day's travelling Ahren's expectations were wearing thin. The trade road was laid with large stone slabs, and now and again they would spot a defiant castle or a moated tower soaring into the sky, but apart from those, it was row after row of farms. There were many border poles with different coats of arms proudly displayed on them, and any farmers that they saw seemed considerably poorer than their counterparts in Deepstone. When he asked the reason for this, it was Uldini who answered, while Falk clenched his teeth and stared stubbornly straight ahead. 'It's because of all the fiefdoms and their knights and followers. In Hjalgar the farmer tills his field, he gathers the harvest and gives a few coins to the village council, and he keeps the rest for himself. Here twenty or thirty farmers are supporting at least as many liege men and women, also the knights of the fiefdom. And they also have to cough up the tithes that their feudal lord has to give to the king. There's not much left over for themselves'. Falk was scowling now and was on the point of interrupting but Uldini continued quickly, 'on the other hand, there are hardly any brigands or other riffraff and Dark Ones are extremely rare here. Apart from the skirmishes between the knights, the Knight Marshes is one of the safest places in the world – as long as you obey the laws'. The old man seemed placated and nodded. Generally speaking his master had been very distant since they had set foot in the Knight Marshes, and it wasn't just in the way he was behaving and moving. He was also less communicative than before. Ahren decided to put off asking further questions. He looked at the bundle of practice arrows he had had to take with him and wondered how the arrows fitted into the disguise. The old man saw what he was looking at and grumbled, 'they're for practising, not looking at. See if you can hit that tree trunk over there'. Ahren looked in surprise and unfastened the bow. He had to spend the rest of the afternoon shooting at different targets while his mare walked on contentedly. Shooting arrows on horseback was a completely new experience, and because Ahren lacked practice and was not a talented rider, he fell from his saddle several times and missed more often than hit the targets. Culhen, on the other hand, enjoyed the game, running playfully after each arrow. He brought most of them back and that evening Ahren calculated that there were only ten fewer arrows than there had been at noon. They rested in a hostelry and Ahren was sent to the courtyard to do his sword practice while his master looked on and corrected him. This looked like an everyday occurrence to the locals, with the knight training his page, and so they fitted in nicely with their surroundings. Their training method hadn't changed much, except for their clothing, and Falk was even more critical and stricter in his judgments and in his analysis than he had been before. And so they continued for the next ten days, the little group moving further into the country, steadily following the path towards the northwest. During the day Ahren would train in shooting with bow and arrow from the horse and in the evening he would continue with swordsmanship. There was very little talk and Uldini would often retreat with his crystal ball in the evenings so he could speak to the Ancients alone. One evening Ahren cornered the master wizard in the hallway of the hostelry in which they were spending the night and asked him sheepishly, 'why is Falk so overbearing towards me and why is he so silent? Have I done something wrong?' Uldini paused for a moment and then answered quietly. 'Your master has returned home after a very long absence and he must come to terms with parts of his past and his personality, which he has suppressed. This is what happens if you run too far from something and for too long a time. It comes back to bite you eventually'. Then he disappeared leaving the perplexed apprentice in his wake. He could never get a straight answer and his blood was beginning to boil. He stomped over to his master's room and found him there, sitting on a stool and studying a map. Falk looked up sternly. Before he had a chance to say anything, Ahren unleashed his frustration and anger at being kept in the dark. 'I spend all my time stumbling behind you, not knowing what's going on, but following every order you give me, and meanwhile you're becoming more and more of a stranger, and I'm beginning to believe less and less of what you are all telling me. Two years ago I became a Forest Guardian's apprentice and now nothing is making any sense anymore'. Ahren had been hoping to sound grown-up and determined, but he knew he sounded like a frightened, wounded boy. For a moment there was a flash of anger in Falk's eyes, but then his face softened and became friendly, as it always did when his master knew he had pushed his apprentice too far. He pointed to the other stool and closed the door. Then he sat down again and said, 'you're clearly confused and it's hardly surprising. Let's try to untangle the knots a little. First of all, I've always told you the truth, only it hasn't been all of the truth. Some of it I will tell you now, some of it will remain my secret, until I feel you are ready to hear it. Agreed?' Ahren nodded in silence. He knew when his master was asking a rhetorical question. And anyway, any morsel of information was better than hearing nothing. 'Right then', the old man began. 'I was born here in the Knight Marshes as the heir to Castle Falkenstein., a small fiefdom that now lies in the heart of the country. My mother was an important…knightess and from when I was knee-high to a grasshopper I was being trained to follow in her footsteps. So I learned how to fight with a broadsword, I learned riding and how to use a lance, everything that went with the territory. It soon became clear that I was a born knight. It finally came to the point where I took over from my mother. I got to know Selsena and we were an unbelievable team, a natural talent on a telepathic horse. Everything went swimmingly and Uldini and I performed many tasks together. We slew monsters and suchlike. We were highly successful. Until Dark Ones slaughtered my family and everyone I loved, while I was trying to perform a task that was imposible to fulfil'. Falk's voice faltered and died away and Ahren was sure he wouldn't say anymore. But then the old man continued in a quiet voice and the pain was evidently still fresh. 'I abdicated my knighthood and wandered around the world. As you already know, Selsena was not happy with my decision. I let myself go completely. Alcohol and disreputable company, gambling and other things I'm not proud of. In the end I had to flee a clan from the Green Sea on account of some ridiculous bet and found myself without money or sustenance in Evergreen again'. Ahren noted that his master had used the human name for the Elfish forest, but he said nothing, though it showed him how his companion was struggling to relate the story he was telling. 'It was only the fame of my former deeds and the fact that a Titejunanwa had been connected to me that saved me from execution. I was brought before the Elf priestess and you know the story from that point on. After my training as a Forest Guardian I went to Hjalgar to enjoy the peace I had found in the freedom of nature. Then you turned up, and with you, Selsena. She must have been keeping an eye on me the whole time and knew that you were something special. And now the circle has been completed and here I am again, in this armour. I have to bring that which I am now into harmony with that which I was. It's much more difficult than I had anticipated'. Falk looked at the young man. He had obviously come to the end of his explanation. Before Ahren could say anything, the old man muttered, 'now, get out into the courtyard. I'll be damned if you think you're going to get away with not doing your sword practice'. His apprentice turned away with a smile. Old or new Falk, there were some things about his master that would never change. After four days they arrived at a large crossroads where a cobbled trade road from deep in the middle of the Knight Marshes intersected with theirs. Here they found a two-storey guesthouse and a trading post with a warehouse. There were at least forty people bustling around noisily. Ahren saw many merchants with escort parties, at least three different knights, and some wild-looking people with leather hair bands and painted faces. These were talking loudly to the warehouse keeper. Falk made a detour around the crowd and they continued to the inn. Ahren asked quietly, 'what kind of a place is that and who are the painted people?' 'They were Clanmen from the Green Sea', answered Uldini. 'This is where the northern trade route, which we're journeying to Eathinian on, meets up with a smaller trade route, which stretches from the Red Posts to King's Island, stretching across the whole of the Knight Marshes'. Falk dismounted to purchase provisions and Uldini got them something to drink, for the day was hot and the air was still in the midday sun. Ahren stayed by the horses and watched the various people while tickling Culhen. Falk had purchased a leather collar for the wolf so that people would recognize that the animal was tame, but the wolf would always guarantee that Ahren could be on his own if he so wished. He squatted down beside him and whispered lovingly to his friend, while the wolf lifted his nose to take in all the unfamiliar smells. Then the young man heard a voice behind him. 'That's a wonderful animal you have there'. He looked up over his shoulder and blinked in the sunshine. The speaker was towering over him, a black silhouette against the light. His deep, warm voice sounded very agreeable. 'Not everyone has such a true friend. Many have to go through life alone'. Ahren straightened up and turned to get a better look at the stranger. Before him stood a thin man with a long thin beard and deep, sunken eyes ringed with shadow. They seemed to be looking sadly but wisely out into the world. He was wearing a strange red robe, shot through with long, golden stripes. His hands were folded in front of him on his stomach and he had a book under his right arm. 'What's your name, boy?' he asked. 'Ahren', answered the apprentice instinctively. 'That's a good name. Tell me, Ahren, do you sometimes feel lonely?' the man wanted to know. This was a strange question for everyone was lonely at some time, so he nodded. 'And if I were to tell you that you didn't have to suffer loneliness or fear in your life again, never again?' the thin man pressed on. The young man gave a sceptical look and his companion gave a warm and sympathetic laugh. 'I know what you're thinking: big words, easier said than done. I would very much like to tell you of the Illuminated Path'. And he tapped the book under his arm. Before Ahren could answer, Falk and Uldini came out and walked up to them. 'On the saddle with you, page, we need to get a move on', his master snarled brusquely. Falk and Uldini mounted their horses and ignored the stranger completely. The man bowed slightly and said, 'another time, perhaps', before stepping away. Ahren got up on his saddle too and they rode off. 'What did that odd fellow want?' asked Falk as soon as they were out of earshot. Ahren shrugged his shoulders. 'I think he was a priest, but I'm not sure'. 'Be careful at the trading posts. They're full of madmen and charlatans', added Uldini. That explained why his master had pulled him away from the conversation so coarsely. They left the crossroads behind them and now they were climbing a small incline. Ahead Ahren now saw a line of red painted stakes in the ground that created an undulating line as far as the horizon. He gasped in amazement for it was a stunning sight. The red stakes were greater than a man's thickness and towered a dozen paces into the sky. The distance from one stake to the next was twenty paces at most and so they created an impression of a threatening wall as you rode alongside them. This effect was even more impressive because of the contrast on either side of the stakes. To his left Ahren saw farms and fields and castles set in undulating grass. To his left, however, the grass had not been cultivated as far as the eye could see. The wind blew across the meadows and hills and the long grass billowed like the waves of a large lake. The landscape was sublime and somehow deeply moving and Ahren found himself stopping and staring at it. Uldini laughed and said, 'there's no-one who sees the Green Sea that's unmoved. There's a saying in the Eternal Kingdom, "a person has only live once they've seen the two seas, the green one and the blue". And I think that definitely true'. They rode in a gentle curve along the trade road until it turned sharply just in front of the red stakes and then ran along them in a northwards direction. From the edge of the road Ahren could stretch out his arm and touch the smooth wood with his finger. 'Better not touch it', ordered Falk severely. 'This is the border between the Knight Marshes and the Green Sea. Any crossing over without clansmen escorting you is punishable by death'. Ahren pulled his finger back quickly, as if the wood was burning hot. 'Why are they so strict?' he asked curiously. His master answered, 'the way it looks there now, it used to look the same three hundred lengths further east'. He had pointed first at the untamed wilderness and then at the cultivated countryside. 'The knight Marshes was a small coastal region which kept expanding inland. The clans protested and many agreements and promises were made only to be broken again by the knights. But when they had taken control of half the land, that was the straw that broke the camel's back. The clansmen massacred any further settlers, painting their building timbers with their victim's blood, and put up the poles as a warning to never again overstep the boundary to the Green Sea. Of course, there were some more military operations to seize more land but there were no towns that could be laid siege to. Only nomads with fast horses and first-class archers. In the end, the knights realized that they could only lose and so the border was fixed. And because nobody wants to step too close to the red stakes, the border was turned into a trade route. Both sides are always eyeing each other up and there are many armed guards patrolling the route. That's why there are so few assaults'. Falk paused and then said with force, 'keep to the path. Never go between two stakes. You don't know who's watching'. He pointed at the green hill and Ahren saw a painted head ducking out of sight in knee-high grass. The young man shuddered and guided his horse to the right side of the road to be as far away from the mysterious stakes as possible. There were small, squat hostels in this section of the trade road, which also served as border garrisons. Ahren saw many armed border guards and also some knights, so the travel party preferred to stay in their room unless Ahren was practising. Falk's ranking as a knight ensured they remained undisturbed and Ahren made steady progress in his training. They rode alongside the red stakes day in, day out, and Ahren began to grow used to their imposing size. His archery training only took place on the right side of the route now, but soon their days were following a steady routine. The days passed by and the weather was, but for a few wet days, friendly as the summer reached its highpoint. At home the master craftsmen and women would be setting their Apprenticeship Trials and for the first time Ahren felt something like homesickness. The world seemed enormous to him now, as had been travelling for weeks alongside the vast plains of the Green Sea. He realized that his Deepstone world with all its problems had been very small indeed. In an effort to distract himself from these thoughts, he threw himself into the target practice Falk set for him, and his archery skills on horseback made a marked improvement, even if his horsemanship still left something to be desired. The ever-growing Culhen revelled in playing fetch and his head was now up as far as Ahren's hips. He was now the size of a fully-grown wolf and Falk expected him to stop growing soon. One bright summer's day during their fourth week in the shadow of the stakes, Ahren saw a long strip glimmering on the horizon. At first he thought it was just a mirage, but the phenomenon remained constant. Falk saw his apprentice's questioning look and said, 'that's Eathinian, eternally green, an enormous forest that stretches the entire width of the continent. An almost straight length of untouched nature tended to by the elves – from the very beginning'. Ahren heard the yearning and joyful anticipation in his master's voice and was infected by it. At night he pondered what surprise awaited him in the land of the elves and he became increasingly curious and impatient. Their slow progress towards the forest felt like torture and Ahren reckoned it would be another good week before they reached the home of the forest elves. One morning Ahren was daydreaming about elves when Falk suddenly shook him by the shoulder. It was a dull day, the low clouds were slowly moving across the sky and the darkness suggested the travellers would soon be soaking wet. The young man sat up in his saddle and gave his master a questioning look. He didn't return his look however but whispered out of the corner of his mouth. 'Don't arouse suspicion but untie your bow from the saddle and open the quiver. We're about to be ambushed'. The apprentice was about to crane his neck to see the danger, but Falk hissed sharply without moving his head, 'leave that, or do you want us all to die?' Ahren slumped back down and looked for all the world like a daydreaming young man, while he secretly prepared bow and arrows for action. The blood was pounding in his ears and it was taking him longer than usual because his hands were shaking. Knowing they were in imminent danger was bad enough, but not being able to look for it was pure torture for the young man. Falk continued to speak quietly. 'Selsena warned me earlier that she's receiving a lot of hatred and anger. Whoever's lying in wait there must have a couple of really shady characters among them if she can sense their feelings over such a long distance'. 'I can't do much with magic', murmured Uldini. 'We've another few days of unshielded travel through open countryside and I'm glad that the Dark Ones have lost our track. The magic nets of the Ancients have done their job and caused the necessary distraction. If I cast a strong magic spell now, the enemy will be on top of us immediately'. 'Can you throw a small magic net so we know how many and where they are? asked Falk quietly. Uldini nodded. 'But that's it then. Then I'll defend us with a few little sleights of hand, but I'll only intervene in an emergency'. He closed his eyes, made a few quick hand movements under his cloak and said something in the foreign language he always used when he was weaving his magic. He opened his eyes again five heartbeats later and said, 'there are fourteen, three of them have crossbows, the rest have cudgels and swords. They're a hundred paces away behind that big rock'. He pointed his chain at a rock formation which rose up to the right of the trade route. The terrain was still undulating grassland as it had been for the previous weeks, but here and there were fragments of rock that jutted up from the ground like the teeth of an ogre. They were dark on the surface and Uldini had explained to Ahren a few days previously that they had originally been parts of one enormous mountain that had been blown up during one of the major battles. The young man was terrified at the thought that such a massive mountain could be destroyed, and he looked at them in superstitious awe. But now this feeling was replaced by real fear for his life. Fourteen opponents. Falk had taught him enough about the art of war for him to realize that this superiority in numbers was justification to flee. But instead, his master was proceeding apace and deliberately raised the bow in his hand. 'What are you doing?' asked Ahren, confused. 'They're not using the left side of the road', said the old man calmly. 'Which means they have neither experience nor courage enough to challenge the Clanmen. They've dug their whole group in behind one rock instead of dividing themselves up. That says to me that we're dealing with amateurs, and we know where they are, so the element of surprise is gone. We'll force them to leave their cover and then you and I will pepper them with arrows until they flee. We'll start with the crossbowmen'. Ahren was flabbergasted. He had shot animals when they had needed food and Dark Ones who had wanted to harm them or others. But now he had to direct his arrows at people. 'Can we not just talk to them?' he asked fearfully. Falk shook his head grimly. 'The feelings that Selsena is absorbing are pure bloodlust and greed. Those people don't want to talk, at least not with us'. 'But maybe we can persuade them?' Ahren persisted. If he was going to have to shoot at someone, then only after he had tried everything to avoid it. His master nodded haltingly. 'Alright then. We'll give it a go. But I want to tempt them out anyway. Ahren, dismount and prepare your arrow. Loosen your sword just in case and if one of them shoots then drop down on one knee and shoot at anything that's moving in our direction. Culhen will give you cover. I'll take on the crossbowmen'. His master wasn't counting on Ahren to agree to this, that much was clear to the young man. But Ahren was clinging on to the hope that the imminent bloodbath could be avoided. Ahren did as he was bidden, his loyal wolf crouched beside him and as he was organizing his arrows in the quiver to make them easier to pull out he heard the thunderous voice of Falk, who had nonchalantly placed an arrow on his bow which he had set up in position on the saddle in front of him. 'We know that you're there. Your little ambush has failed. Come out and be on your way. Then nobody will be harmed'. The sudden authority in Falk's voice even intimidated Ahren. Hopefully the bandits would cave in. First, nothing at all happened. The rock lay still in the morning light. A dozen heartbeats passed by and then a number of figures came from behind and walked to the front of the rock. Eight positioned themselves in the middle of the road, two of them had crossbows at the ready. Another five appeared from the other side of the rock, away from the road. One of them was pointing a firearm at them. The ambushers were too far away to study in detail but Ahren could see men and women in varying degrees of neglect. He couldn't see their facial expressions but their body language suggested determination and threat. A particularly burly man called from the middle of the road in a voice, raw from years of heavy drinking, 'as you see, there are more of us than you!' The mob laughed and jeered before he continued, 'put your weapons down now and maybe, just maybe, we'll spare your lives'. The last words came out as a snarl and Ahren saw, even from this distance, that their opponents were bracing themselves for action. He suddenly realised that there wouldn't be much more talking before they came to blows. Panic was threatening to overcome him and so he instinctively sought the Void in the hope he could control his emotions. Falk murmured, 'try to get the crossbowman on the right'. Then he called out loudly, 'one more thing before we begin'. Before the words had echoed across, he had already lifted his bow, drawn the string and let his arrow fly. Distracted by the sudden end to the negotiations, the bandits ducked a half a second too late and one of the crossbowmen collapsed with a scream on the road. Ahren was just as surprised as the bandits who after the split second shock were now storming forward. The remaining crossbowmen started shooting and Ahren shot at the chubby figure to the right of the rock before he had a chance to shoot. His opponent threw himself to the ground to avoid Ahren's arrow and the bolt of his crossbow went askew, flying harmlessly into the distance. Ahren heard a whizzing sound and realized that the other crossbowman had just missed them. He broke into a cold sweat and his concentration faltered. He heard Falk mutter something and then shoot, sending the second crossbowman tumbling to the ground. With shaking fingers the apprentice set another arrow and dropped to one knee as his master had ordered. His corpulent opponent was lying flat on the ground trying to reload his crossbow. The analytical part of Ahren's brain, which was firmly anchored in the Void, was telling him that the more immediate danger was the four bandits who were now charging at him. The remaining crossbowman would have to shoot through his own people once he had his weapon loaded. And so Ahren fixed his look on one of the rapidly approaching enemies and suppressed his strong feeling of repulsion. Human being or no human being, the faces of the attackers left him in no doubt of what would happen to him and his comrades if they were overpowered. He let the arrow fly and his target didn't stand a chance. Wedged in between his companions and running on uneven ground he couldn't take evasive action in time. Ahren's arrow drove into his chest with a terrible sound and he collapsed to the ground without uttering a sound. Ahren could feel the Void fading at the sight and he shot another arrow before his concentrated calm left him completely. The stocky woman he was aiming at this time threw herself to the side, but the arrow grazed her throat and a fountain of blood spurted out of the wound. She covered it with her hands and let forth a gurgling sound. The horror of the scene completely banished the Void and Ahren jumped up, stunned, and dropped the bow. He stared wide-eyed at his victim who made a few weak movements while the fountain of blood slackened until the woman finally died. He staggered backwards a few steps and frantically looked around him. Falk had been firing the whole time and another three bodies were lying lifeless on the ground. Uldini was sitting on his horse impassively, the crystal ball in his right hand and he was watching the fight with total concentration. The bandits were twenty paces closer now and having received a quiet command from Falk, Selsena charged at the rest of the bandits on the road while he pulled out his broadsword. Uldini meanwhile shouted at Ahren, 'draw your sword boy! In the name of the THREE, defend yourself!' Instinctively rather than consciously, Ahren followed the wizard's instruction. Culhen was standing at his right leg, his hackles raised and snarling angrily at the approaching enemy. Falk fell to work on the bandits with ruthless efficiency. Ahren saw for the first time the harmony between his master and Selsena as they rode into battle. Titejunanwa and rider moved in perfect harmony. What the one saw, the other knew. The effect was uncanny. The Elven horse rammed an attacker who had been too slow to jump to one side, and the poor soul was spun through the air like a rag doll with a gruesome jagged hole in his chest, splattering the surroundings with droplets of blood. Falk was warding off swords and cudgels from the flanks of his war horse with his broadsword in a combination of graceful arcs and cutting thrusts. He cut down two more attackers almost casually and they sank to the ground with a groan, unable to stand again. But all this was of no use to Ahren. The two remaining attackers who had come from the side of the path would be upon him any second. A man with ugly pockmarks and a long sword was lunging towards him while a woman with an evil grin and a serrated dagger in her hand was running towards the seemingly defenceless child, sitting dumbfounded on his pack horse. Ahren tried to push himself between Uldini and the woman but the man blocked his way. Ahren was still overwhelmed by his latest deeds and mechanically raised Windblade into the defensive position he had been practising for the previous few weeks while he kept looking over at the two motionless bodies who were on his conscience, and this action in all probability saved his life. He caught sight of the one remaining crossbowman, who had reloaded his weapon, aimed it at Ahren and shot. The apprentice instinctively leaped to the side so that Windblade was in the firing line.The bolt whizzed within a whisker past them and Ahren felt sick as the displaced air caused by the bolt cooled his skin. If he hadn't taken that evasive action he would now be just as dead as his two victims and Culhen too had barely escaped being hit. This realization roused him into action. He pointed at the chubby crossbowman and shouted, 'Culhen, attack!' The wolf catapulted forward, as if spring-loaded, howled loudly and hurtled towards the unfortunate man. Ahren concentrated on his own attacker, and as the pockmarked bandit aimed his sword at him, Ahren practised one of the few manoeuvres he was familiar with. The assailant's sword was coming towards him in a flat arc about shoulder high so that it would injure his head or chest. Ahren moved towards the strike and held his sword with the hilt upwards and the blade slanted downwards so that the cutthroat's blow slid along the curved blade with a scraping sound and was deflected. They were now standing beside each other and the parried long sword harmlessly cut the air behind Ahren. The second part of the manoeuvre was even easier. While the bandit was stopping his sword to initiate a backhand stroke Ahren only had to use his movement to good effect and take another step forward while he turned his body towards his opponent and swung Windblade in a downward motion. The impetus of his body turn gave his weapon enough strength to cause a gaping wound down his opponent's back, with blood spurting forth immediately. The pockmarked swordsman dropped his blade and collapsed into a groaning heap. Ahren looked down at his blade in surprise and saw the brigand's blood dripping from it. But before he could react to the sight, he heard a tumult behind him and spun around with his sword once again in the defensive position. The woman with the dagger was throwing herself at Uldini and they were too far away for Ahren to do anything. He screamed a warning but the wizard had already reacted. He flicked the crystal ball from the palm of his hand with his fingers and it flew with high speed towards the woman's face. But instead of shattering into pieces, it ricocheted with a dull thud and flew back into the ageless youth's hand. His attacker dropped to the ground as if struck by lightning, and on her face was an enormous crimson swelling. Ahren looked around frantically but there were no more bandits in the vicinity. Culhen was chasing down the crossbowman who had sought safety in flight and was running between the red stakes into the area of the Green Sea. Meanwhile Falk rode at a gallop towards the rock, and the brigands lay motionless on the road. Blood was dripping from Selsena's coat and also off the armour of war horse and rider. The sight was terrifying and Ahren swallowed hard. Falk rode around the back of the rock and seemed to be hunting down the puppet master of the ambush, who Ahren hadn't set eyes on. There had only been thirteen attackers although Uldini's magic had revealed fourteen. There was a short scream and Ahren was glad that the rock was hiding the action, then Falk reappeared and looked searchingly around. Culhen had been chasing the last survivor and Ahren had a sick feeling in his stomach about this. 'Culhen, come here!' he shouted and his four-legged friend turned with an unwilling growl and trotted back to him. Ahren breathed a sigh of relief as soon as the wolf had come back between the border stakes, and a few heartbeats later he understood exactly why. The chubby bandit was still running for his life away from them, he was wheezing and could still be heard from this distance. He was ploughing his way surprisingly quickly for a man of his size through the knee-high grass. Suddenly a shape seemed to grow up from the ground beside him. The clan woman had waited in the grass until the runaway was beside her. The woman rose up and in a single flowing movement she sliced her dagger across his throat and ducked down into the high grass. The man took two unsteady steps forward before he noticed what had happened at all, then he collapsed and his death rattle echoed around the field. Ahren looked at the scene of the drama in shock, but nothing could be seen apart from the gently waving grass. He stroked Culhen and swore that he would never wander into the Green Sea without permission. Meanwhile Falk had ridden up to them and was asking, 'everyone unharmed?' Ahren didn't answer. The shock of the bloody battle was eating away at him, and the terrible images of the last few minutes were spinning around in his head. Uldini answered for him and said, 'it's not all his blood. Two with the bow and one with the sword. You've raised a real warrior there. Maybe we won't all die under the spell of the Adversary'. The images in his head were all too much for Ahren and he threw up violently in the middle of the road.

(13th Paladin 1) Ahren

Torsten Weitze

Chapter 19

By the time Ahren's stomach had settled and his uncontrollable shaking had stopped, Falk had matter-of-factly wiped the bloodstains off himself and Selsena with one of the attacker's cloaks. He had also polished all the armouring so that there wasn't a speck of dirt on it, nor on Selsena's coat. Ahren surmised absently that it must have been Elfish craftsmanship and he envied his partners' spotless appearance. He himself stank of blood, vomit and the cold sweat of battle. He was on his hunkers in the middle of the road, his arms around his knees, unhappily rocking back and forth. Culhen sat down beside him, whimpered and licked his master's face. The apprentice couldn't help smiling at this, then buried his head in the wolf's pelt, took deep breaths and tried to stop himself from crying. Uldini looked down at the distraught young man and said, 'he's doing well. I've seen some run away at the first sign of battle and others frozen on the spot only to be hacked down without resistance. Once he's recovered from this, he'll have taken a terrible but vital step forward'. Falk nodded. 'But we can make it a little easier for him, can't we?' Uldini understood what the Guardian was driving at and began to prepare a little spell as unobtrusively as possibly. Selsena, meanwhile, walked over towards Ahren and began filling his spirit with the peace and confidence he had felt once before, when he had torn Culhen from the claws of the Adversary. The young Forest Guardian lifted his head from his friend's pelt and Culhen placed his head on the apprentice's knee and looked at him with loyal, loving eyes. Selsena calmed Ahren's tumultuous feelings and suddenly a fresh breeze was gently touching his face. His nose was filled with the fresh smell of grass and he saw in amazement how all the blood stains vanished from his clothing until there wasn't a speck to be seen. Tears ran down his face as he absorbed the love and affection of the two animals and he revelled in the sensation of being clean. He looked at Uldini who dissipated the breeze and gave him a friendly nod. Then Ahren pulled himself together, gave Selsena a friendly smile and tickled Culhen behind the ears. Falk came over and gave him a searching look. 'Feeling better again?' Ahren didn't trust his voice so he simply nodded weakly, glancing at the same time at the two bodies that had his arrows in them. Falk looked in the same direction. 'It's only right that you feel terrible, a different reaction and I'd be worried', said his master in a serious voice. Ahren looked up at him in puzzlement. He himself had seen his breakdown as weakness, and had been envious of the others and their hardness. 'There are people, dwarves and sometimes even elves, who see killing in a different way to you. Some snap, which is why we are all here for you'. Ahren had a lump in his throat, but really didn't want to start crying again. The thought of facing the horror he had just experienced without the support of his comrades was terrifying. He tickled Culhen again gratefully, who grumbled contentedly. His master continued. 'No matter how tragic this is, those who enjoy killing are much worse than the tortured souls that have been destroyed by the experience of war. Most succumb sooner or later to a killing frenzy. Usually they are remembered as heroes, so long as their desires serve the general good, and they almost always die young. Lured by the siren song of battle, they end up surrounded by the enemy and die in a final bloodbath of violence'. The thought of actually enjoying killing struck Ahren as grotesque and regrettable, and he suddenly felt relieved at the sadness he was experiencing. 'But the worst reaction anyone can show is the complete absence of emotion. Those who experience no feeling as they stride through the battlefield bringing death and destruction to their enemy are generally the most terrible opponents. Their coldness grows to the point where they recognize neither friend nor foe, but, driven by their own motivations they will sacrifice a hundred good men and women to kill ten enemies if it serves their purpose'. There was a hardness in the corner of Falk's mouth and his tone suggested to Ahren that a memory was prompting these words. Falk cleared his throat and forced himself back to the present situation. He then finished with the following words: 'we all feel sadness when we kill, and that's how it should be. It's only this sadness that spurs us on to avoid battle if possible, or to finish it with a minimum number of casualties on either side. Uldini and I have learned how to deal with these feelings and know when to negotiate to prevent something worse. Come with me, all of you!' The old man turned on his heels and strode towards the rock from where the ambush had been launched. Ahren had to step his way between the mutilated bodies of the brigands that Falk and Selsena had killed. He thought of the firm but friendly tone of his master and the generous spirit of the Titejunanwa and tried to reconcile them with what he was looking at, but it was beyond him. He walked more quickly and hoped that some day he would find the solution to his emotional dilemma. Falk led them around the rock to another body. Ahren was stunned. He was looking into the lifeless eyes of the wandering preacher who had spoken to him at the trading post some weeks previously. His red robe exhibited a darker spot where Falk's sword had been driven through. What was he doing here and how had he caught up with them? And why had his master killed a seemingly unarmed man? He was swamped with questions and he looked at his master uncertainly, who was now kneeling down beside the body. Uldini reached the spot too and hissed as he drew breath. Obviously Ahren had missed something that the wizard had spotted immediately. He followed the gaze of the youthful figure and saw something long and dark lying in the grass a few paces away. Full of curiosity he stepped closer and saw with horror that a thin tongue was lying in the grass. It was roughly two paces in length and ended in a moist, shiny spike. Ahren stepped back in horror and looked over at his master who pulled down the deceased priest's jaw, revealing the bloody area where his tongue had once been. 'High Fang', he said and gave Uldini a serious look. The wizard let forth a string of expletives and threw his arms in the air, at which point his crystal ball rose up and settled half a pace above his right shoulder. The wizard was so agitated that he seemed not to notice. 'You know what that means, old man. One High Fang means at least a hundred Low Fangs. The enemy wants to stop us at all costs and there's a horde of these wretches scurrying about somewhere. They're probably making the Green Sea nervous. It would take a whole clan to eliminate a horde, and you'll only find border guards here at this time of year. Which means they can strike at any time'. Yellow sparks crackled between the wizard's fingers. Falk responded quietly. 'Relax, Uldini. If his horde were near him, he would never have been so desperate as to put a bunch of badly educated highway robbers onto us. He probably noticed us when he was on a spying mission and had to improvise. If we travel on quickly, we'll get to the elves safely'. Ahren looked at the haggard face of the dead man and tried to remember what he looked like when he was alive. 'He looked so normal', he said quietly. Uldini nodded. 'that's why we call him High Fang. That's how we classify the human servants of the enemy. Let's get out of here, I'll explain it to you on the way'. Ahren looked tentatively over at the bodies but his master said, 'the feudal lord of this stretch of land will bury them. There's too much blood in the air for us three to put four bodies under the ground undisturbed. Even a normal beast of prey from the Green Sea could be dangerous for us'. [ They gathered the horses together and rode away from the gruesome scene. Uldini distracted the young man from the terrible sights by explaining to him, as he had promised, the rankings of the adversary's servants ] 'If a human, dwarf or elf comes into direct contact with the willpower of the Betrayer, whether willingly or not, there are several results. Most of them die, pure and simple. Their spirit breaks, their heart stops beating. All elves and dwarves react in this way, and also the majority of humans. The humans who survive are forced into another form that seems totally arbitrary. They are human to a large degree, but there are two-headed variations, some with several arms, legs, with claws, fangs, feathers, whatever you can imagine. They almost always produce sharp teeth, which is why we call them Low Fangs. Their spirits suffer greatly under the implanting of HIS will and their intelligence is mostly limited. They gather together into hordes of one hundred up to one thousand individuals and they travel through the country looking for prey. Those of a high intelligence and an outstanding will withstand the pressure of transformation to some extent. Even if they are still under the control of HIM WHO FORCES, they maintain a large amount of their human form and an intact spirit in so far as that is possible, even if they all eventually succumb to some form of madness or passion. Their changes are mostly subtler, a third eye in the palm of their hand, or a hidden tongue of poison, as in our friend's case back there. We call these beings High Fangs. They are the ringleaders of the hordes - philosophers, spies or assassins. You're already well acquainted with the Dark Ones. Almost all of them fulfil special roles or are compliant stooges of the High Fangs. And above them all are the Transformers. They are the generals if you like. They obey only the Adversary'. Ahren wondered at the wizard's words. 'What do you mean, 'willingly or not'?' he asked. Uldini answered, 'the unwilling variation follows three different types. Firstly, chance. A few Borderlanders came under the wandering and dreaming will of the Betrayer. That could even happen outside the Border Lands at the beginning of the spell, but it was highly improbable and is impossible now because he is still sleeping too deeply. The same applies to the second variation. Someone had aroused HIS attention during the Dark Days and to such an extent that HE WHO FORCES went to the effort of searching after the troublemaker. Luckily, such a visitation can be easily avoided if one carries a sign of the THREE, usually as a pendant. Otherwise HE would have been able to destroy all the opposition in their sleep. The closer one is, the stronger the effect. That's why we have possibility number three, the most common one nowadays. It still regularly catches border guards who are careless and wander to within a length of the Pall Pillar, and then a medallion is of no use anymore. One of the reasons that the gods created the Paladins that time was their ability to withstand HIS willpower, even in direct contact'. Uldini was now lost in his memories and stopped talking and so Falk took over the reins. 'The willing variation is very simple. You go to HIM and submit yourself to HIS will'. Ahren was shocked. 'Who would do something like that', he asked, flabbergasted. 'You want power over other people, you see no point in your life, you are tired of taking independent decisions, you are running away from their consequences or you simply reject the THREE. Some of them only wanted to be on the side of the so-called victors. The lonely, the lost, the despised – they all ran to HIM and ended up as Low or High Fangs in HIS army. That's another reason. If you go to HIM of your own free will, then the transformation won't kill you. There was even the rumour that you could become a Transformer. People can be incredibly stupid'. Falk shook his head in disdain. The three rode along for a while in silence. Then Uldini asked, 'The High Fang, what did he say to you that time at the trading post?' Ahren thought hard. It had been weeks earlier and he hadn't attached much importance to it. Finally he said, 'something about me not needing to be lonely anymore. Something like that. Something about a shimmering path or an illuminating way, I think'. Uldini and Falk were suddenly very uneasy and the magus asked carefully, 'was it the Illuminated Path, perhaps?' Ahren thought for a moment, then nodded. Falk looked grim and said, 'that was fast'. The apprentice looked questioningly from one to the other and finally his master relented and offered an explanation. 'There was a cult in the Dark Days that taught the adoration of the Adversary. Their true god was buried under a heap of lies in order to lure the unhappy and weak. 'Never be lonely again, have no fear, abandon yourself to our community, be free of all doubts, all that rubbish. This all resulted in the poor souls freely putting themselves under HIS control. The name of this cult was 'the Illuminated Path''. 'It seems our enemy is organizing himself more quickly than expected', added Uldini. 'You think too vertically', said Falk in contradiction. 'Not everything is coming from HIM. I think the Transformers are preparing the ground for the harvest. Not that this possibility is much better'. Uldini shrugged his shoulders. 'Whatever the case, I'm going to call on the Ancients to eradicate the cult in all the kingdoms before it can gain a foothold. Anyway, that will give them something meaningful to do'. 'Good idea', agreed Falk grimly. They rode on in brooding silence and after a few lengths the rain started – thick heavy drops that soaked through to the skin within seconds. Uldini looked up at the heavens and said, 'well, that figures'. Ahren awoke, his breathing was fitful and his clothing stuck to his body under the blanket. Just as every night since the ambush he only slept a few hours before he was woken up by nightmares. Culhen was beside him as always, his warm pelt a rock withstanding his master's constant and alternate surges of fear and guilt. Whenever he closed his eyes, he saw the faces of his enemies who had died at his hands. He was finding it impossible to shake off the memories no matter how hard he tried to justify his actions to himself. At the start he had tried to calm his nerves by reaching the Void. But the ghosts of the dead were the new ghosts of the Void and so this refuge remained barred to him until he could find the opportunity to come to terms with his deeds. Logic told him that he had done the right thing, that he himself would have been killed had he not defended himself. But the very same logic told him that they had taken fourteen lives in order to save five. He was going around in circles and didn't know the way out. Falk and Uldini were of no use whatsoever. His master would always say, 'the answers are already there, you just don't want to see them'. And Uldini spoke like an oracle. 'Each must find their own way to come to terms with it. Find the reason that justifies what you have done. Falk knows his and I have my own. Find yours and you shall find peace'. This really didn't help the young man, but he struggled on, forced his way through the days as the ribbon of Evergreen grew bigger and bigger until they could recognize individual trees with the naked eye. According to Falk they would be there in two days and slowly the feelings of guilt gave way to curiosity and excitement. Only at night was it impossible to escape from his conscience in the nightmares that plagued him. Culhen would sense his disquiet and so lick his face and hit him playfully with his paws and within a few heartbeats they would be tussling for fun until Ahren would collapse, unable to breathe because he was laughing so much. Then he would stroke the fur of his friend and fall into a dreamless sleep. The following days passed painfully slowly. The trees of Evergreen were growing into the skies before them but still they hadn't reached the tree border. He reckoned that most of the trees soared over fifty paces up into the heavens, and the green wall stretched unbroken from one end of the horizon to the other. He felt a sense of awe in the face of such an elemental force of nature. His master understood the expression on his apprentice's face, for he himself often wore it. He whispered to Ahren, 'wherever I go, Eathinian will always be my true home. It would take a person three years to cross it from east to west, and three months to travel from here to its northern end where the Icy Vasts await one. It would take you a whole lifetime to see all of Eathinian'. Ahren had never heard the old man gush like this, but there was always a painful undertone when he spoke of the forest of the elves. This part of their adventure was finally coming to a close and the following day they would enter at last into the safety of the Elfish forest in order to find the first of the three Einhans.

(13th Paladin 1) Ahren

Torsten Weitze

Chapter 20

The green wall of trees soared ever higher as they traversed the final lengths to the Elfish forest. Shortly before that, they had passed by the Knight Marshes border station, a strangely humble stone building with an elderly man sitting snoring on a platform. Ahren had expected an imposing castle or some other symbol of power through which the kingdom would assert its border with the elves, but he was obviously mistaken. Falk had seen his puzzled look and explained the reason to him. 'There haven't been any border conflicts for centuries. The trees are a clear divide. The elves live within, the people outside. Everything has been peaceful since nobody tries to fell the trees anymore. A strong fortification would only increase tensions. And the more harmonious relations are, the more the trade road brings in. Money has always been a powerful motivation'. The green giants were now soaring before the travellers into the sky and Ahren's first impression, that most of these trees had to be at least fifty paces tall, had proven itself to be true. Sweeping branches full of leaves created a green canopy above the forest floor. As he lowered his gaze to look ahead he saw that the trade path was snaking its way between the massive trunks of the enormous trees, and its appearance had altered markedly since they'd passed the border post. The massive stone slabs had made way to a curious green growth that made its way like velvet, smooth and shimmering. They rode closer and Falk said, 'leave the talking to me'. Ahren stretched his neck but could see nobody. There was no border post or guards, and while he was wondering what exactly Falk meant, two slim figures stepped out of the trees and onto the trade path from left and right and looked at them impassively. Ahren squinted his eyes in an effort to make out details, as these were the first elves he had ever seen in the flesh, but the distance was still too great. Falk said quietly, 'we'll dismount here and lead the horses by their reins'. Uldini grumbled but followed the others' example. They slowly walked towards the two elves, who still hadn't moved a muscle. The whole situations seemed somewhat unreal to Ahren. They were still a hundred paces from the first trees but already they were stepping into the shade of the leafy canopy. Much to Ahren's surprise it had hardly darkened at all, but everything was lit up in a greenish lustre. He looked up and had to blink straight away. The leaves of the giant trees were strongly translucent and hardly stopped the sun at all. He was filled with a sense of security and peace, almost as if the canopy of leaves was keeping everything evil at bay and only the warmth and beauty of the world was allowed to pass through. A light breeze ruffled the tree tops and the silent swoosh created a play of colours as shades of gold and green danced their way through the branches in ever changing variations as the sun found its way to the forest floor. These sensual elements hit Ahren quite unexpectedly and tears of joy ran down his cheeks He felt safe for the first time since he had left Deepstone. Selsena emitted a storm of joy and happiness, which proved to the young man that he wasn't alone with his emotions. His master was walking before him but the young man could tell from his trembling shoulders that the old man was equally overcome. He blinked away his tears and concentrated fully on the elves they were nearing. They were a dozen paces away and he could now make out all their features. Both were slim and tall with snow white hair that fell to their chests and down their backs in complicated plaits and coils. Their bodies were covered by unusual leather armour that Ahren had never come across before. The leather seemed to be made up of individually hardened leather pieces which were in a variety of curved shapes that made a complete, closed piece. Ahren could make out fine lines where the individual leather plates met up and he asked himself why anyone would dress themselves in armour like this with its dozens of weak points. The guards were unarmed and looked at the travel party as they finally arrived with eyes that were calm yet penetrating. They didn't say a word to the arrivals and still hadn't moved, but still Ahren couldn't ignore them. The guards radiated a sort of quiet authority that warned everybody not to proceed without their permission. Falk cleared his throat after a few seconds of silence and said in a trembling voice, 'we wish to enter Eathinian in order to speak to Jelninolan'. He clearly wanted to say more but it seemed that the feelings that had surfaced on his return to the Elfish forest were overwhelming him. But there was something else. His shoulders were pulled in and he had sunk his head and was looking erratically from one guard to the other. His proud and unflinching master was coming across like a nervous and vulnerable Godsday student. This sight took Ahren aback, and he was even more dismayed when one of the guards said in a quiet but clear voice, 'we know who you are, Dorian Falkenstein. Your time under the Elfish trees was declared over. Turn around and return no more'. His master flinched at these words as if they had been accompanied by blows. Selsena gave a shrill neigh as a reaction to the emotional suffering her spiritual partner was enduring, and Ahren felt an anger building up inside him at the heartless way that these two elves had chastised the old man. Falk himself seemed to want to yield, and turned away, his face a picture of inner torment. Ahren was about to utter some scornful words when suddenly a crackling sound filled the air behind him. The apprentice spun around and saw Uldini. Ahren gasped and staggered backwards until he crashed into his horse, for he hardly recognized the wizard. He was floating a good one and a half paces above the ground and he was engulfed in an aura of flashes that was dancing over the ground and among the trees with a power that was almost tangible. His eyes were lit up in a painfully bright glow and when he spoke, his voice sounded like thunder, 'I am Uldini Getobo, beloved of the gods, supreme commander of the Ancients, weaver of the Bane Spell and protector of the Sunplains. I demand admission for me and my companions and an escort to Jelninolan. Now!' The last word was accompanied by a tremendous blast that threw everyone off balance as it raced along the canopy of leaves and disappeared in the distance. The simultaneous whoosh of the leaves around them was deafening. Ahren had been in awe at the stillness of the guards, but the way the Arch Magus so easily made use of his absolute power was quite overwhelming. The elves were obviously of the same opinion for they turned without saying another word and led them into the Elfish forest. Ahren stared at the floating figure in front of him as if in a trance. The transformation of the childlike figure into this manifestation of light and willpower had stunned him so completely that he was rooted to the spot. Falk trotted in a daze behind the elves, still trapped in the painful suffering that the elves' rebuff had caused. Uldini floated forwards and whispered to Ahren as he passed him, 'now get a move on! You THREE, how I despise these sleights of hand'. This comment was typical of the dry humour and Uldini's pragmatic nature that Ahren had got to know in the previous months and it broke the spell that the wizard's present appearance had on him. He was still in awe of the Arch Wizard's power play but he was no longer crippled with fear. He took his horse by the reins and hurried after the others. Uldini's aura hurt his eyes if he had looked at it for too long, so he concentrated on his surroundings instead. The shimmering ribbon he had seen from the distance and on which he was now walking turned out to be a thick bed of moss that felt soft and feathery under his feet yet provided a secure footing. Ahren could see no kerbstone, but despite this the bed of moss was always three paces wide and led them into the wood, curving here and there around the giant trees. He looked around but neither boots nor hooves left their prints on the cultivated moss. Ahren didn't know of any plants that were so robust and his admiration for the elves increased. If the path leading them on was a minor miracle, then what wonders awaited them in the middle of the forest? He continued to study the scene around him and saw something moving in the branches high above him. A white-haired figure in leather armour and with a long bow in his hand was following them, hopping with fluid movements from branch to branch in the same way that Ahren used to jump from stone to stone as he crossed the little river at home. The grace and ease of movement almost distracted him from the danger the longbow above their heads presented. A quick look around revealed that at least six armed elves were keeping pace with them above and he was in no doubt that he hadn't spotted them all. The apprentice wanted to talk with the others about them, but Falk was caught up in his own troubles and it would be impossible to have a quiet word with Uldini without going too near the lightning flashes that he was still emitting. The discharges seemed harmless enough as they were causing no damage to their surroundings, but the young man didn't want to risk his health on this assumption. So he said nothing, tried to ignore the armed escorts above them and concentrated instead on the elves who were leading them. High cheekbones and pointed chins gave their faces a somewhat triangular appearance. Their silver eyes twinkled forth from their finely drawn features. Their movements were supple and they almost came across as animals of prey that had been dressed in a human form. Now that they were moving, Ahren could see the functionality of their armouring. The variously shaped tiles of hardened leather floated on two levels, one over another and occasionally he could see leather strips, which connected the tiles, shining in the gaps between them. As he watched the elves move, he realized that this type of armouring offered total freedom of movement and the body was always protected by at least one layer of leather as the tiles harmoniously interacted with each other. Serpentine patterns were engraved on the individual tiles and so every movement of the elves presented a new combination of swirls and spirals that dazzled the eyes. He got a headache if he watched the patterns for any length of time. Having satisfied his curiosity regarding his surroundings, Ahren glanced surreptitiously over at Falk. His master trotted, head hanging, behind the guards with Selsena close beside him. He seemed to have recovered some of his composure, but anguish could still be seen clearly on his face. The apprentice absently tickled Culhen behind the ears. The reformed Blood Wolf seemed to be in top form. Once they had entered the forest, he had been jumping with delight around the trees only to return every so often to be close to Ahren before running off again after a few heartbeats. The animal's joie de vivre was infectious and the peacefulness that Ahren had felt when they had all first entered the forest began to return. The sun was a soft disc through the canopy of leaves and as the travel party moved silently on, it continued its upward journey in the sky. It was already almost midday when the scenery changed. Broad ribbons of woven cloth were stretched tautly under the tree tops between the branches and in this way created trails on which a few dozen elves went about their business. Ahren looked on in amazement as even elf children leapt fearlessly from material to material at heights of thirty paces in order to take shortcuts or to change their altitude. He could see little dwellings on almost every tree, made completely from the same woven material, slung artfully around the available branches. Intricate knots and designs transformed fabric into cheerful peaked roofs or round houses that resembled birds' nests, depending on the number and position of the supporting branches and the knots and folding techniques used. Ahren took in the beauty of the Elfish settlement with wide-eyed astonishment. Not a single branch seemed to have been pruned, everything fitted harmoniously into the natural structures of the forest. The apprentice kept staring upwards and in the meantime more and more elves appeared, looking down on the new arrivals, mostly with curiosity, some grumpily. Only very few of the very young Elf children seemed afraid, all of the others reacted astonishingly calmly to the figure of Uldini, who was still spraying sparks around him as he floated. Magic seemed to be nothing unusual here and soon Culhen was arousing more curiosity than the Arch Wizard. The elves, all of them white-haired and silver-eyed, were pointing down at Culhen and whispering excitedly to each other as the wolf rambled around the trees. Ahren gave a quiet whistle and Culhen trotted over to him before sitting beside him. The young man tickled Culhen's furry head in a deliberately exaggerated and intensive way to forestall any misunderstanding regarding his friend's nature and Culhen began to grumble with pleasure. Then he squatted down and let the wolf lick his face with his slobbery tongue. Giggling broke out from the surrounding treetops and the children hopped and climbed down the branches at lightning speed. Within ten heartbeats Culhen was surrounded by his new playfellows who were calling, teasing, feeding and romping with him. The young Blood Wolf was overjoyed and soon he was buried under a pile of giggling and laughing Elf children. Ahren felt a calloused hand on his shoulder as he watched the fun and games, and he heard the voice of his master. 'Very good work, boy. Elves are very closely connected to nature and her creatures. You have brought a Blood Wolf into their presence, but one who is a friend and has been wrested from the influence of the Adversary. That will bring us further than all the magic Uldini can invoke'. Ahren looked at Falk, who smiled weakly. The pain was still visible in the old man's eyes, but his normal stoic composure had returned, and that was a step in the right direction. One of the elf guards disappeared while the other one indicated with a hand gesture that they should wait. The apprentice compared their attitude with that of the other elves and he could hardly believe that their ice-cold escorts were also part of this community. All hostility had vanished from the faces of the inhabitants once Culhen had been accepted. Many greeted Ahren with a friendly nod or waved at him. Some performed a strange formal gesture in front of Falk which he reciprocated, beaming with joy. The tumult gradually died away, and those whose curiosity had been satisfied went off about their business. It was striking, however, that none of the adult elves came down to them. When he mentioned this to Falk, the old man responded. 'The forest floor is not part of the settlement. It's as if we were outside the city walls. We are only inside once we have been invited up'. 'What sort of a gesture was it that the elves made to you?' asked Ahren, inquiring further. Now that his master was open to questions he wanted to make use of the opportunity while they were waiting. 'It's a welcome greeting. They're expressing their friendship in spite of the fact that I'm not supposed to be here'. Falk's voice wavered. 'Why did the guards turn you away? I thought you had already paid for your crime'. Ahren aimed for as gentle a tone as possible in order not to push his master too far. But he responded in a surprisingly calm voice. 'It's nothing personal. Elfish laws permit visitors only a limited time under the trees of Eathinian. When this time has run out, you cannot return for a year. When I was serving my sentence in the forest, I exceeded the time span a hundredfold. So, when I left, I was told that I could only return after 237 years'. Ahren looked at him in amazement but Falk merely shrugged his shoulders. 'Elves have a different concept of time to humans'. Before the apprentice could ask any more questions, the second guard was back, accompanied by an elf. The female elves Ahren had seen in the trees may have resembled those in the stories – tall, slim, white-haired with finely drawn features – but the elf he was looking at now definitely stood out from the crowd. The first thing that struck Ahren was her red hair, which framed a friendly face. Intense green eyes looked curiously up at him in a friendly manner. The elf was on the short side and rounder without being any less dainty. When she saw Falk she smiled and Ahren's heart missed a beat. The goodness and warmth of her smile overwhelmed him and within a heartbeat he knew that he would defend this elf with his life. Dazzled by her radiance, he watched Falk kneel in front of her with a serious face and murmur something in Elfish. She merely smiled in return, patted him behind the ears and pulled him to his feet. 'Speak so that all of us can understand you. Where are your manners?' Then she gave his master a hearty embrace and said, 'I was never angry with your decision, only with the way you treated Selsena. She's on your side again so I bear no grudges'. Ahren thought the little elf sounded like a mother but the tone of her voice and her self-confidence suggested that her short statement could also have been a knight's dictum. He realized that this thought may not have been so far off the mark when he saw that the two guards had relaxed at last and were now grinning at Falk. The elf let go of Falk, who quietly wiped a tear from his eye, and she turned to Uldini, kneeling before him and stretching her arms out. 'Aunt Jelninolan!' screamed Uldini and jumped at her like a little boy. Ahren looked on open-mouthed as the elf lifted up the Arch Wizard and spun him around like a little child while he giggled uncontrollably. Her radiance had just as powerful an effect on his companions as on himself. But who was this woman? Falk turned to him and gave a hearty laugh when he saw the young man's face. He said in a cheerful voice, 'Ahren, chosen to be the thirteenth Paladin, allow me to introduce you to the Arch Wizardess Jelnilolan, high priestess of HER WHO FEELS'. The elf gave a little curtsy that seemed more playful than formal and smiled at him. The full impact of her radiance overwhelmed him as her green eyes bore into his, and he felt the full extent of her goodness and friendliness. A feeling of security began to spread within him as she spoke. 'The blessings of HER WHO FEELS be upon you always. May all creatures under HER control recognize your heart and behave accordingly'. And she placed a soft hand on his cheek. Ahren closed his eyes and enjoyed the comfortable feeling, above all else of being protected, and a small part of his heart wondered if that was how it felt when you had a mother. As far as Ahren was concerned, he could have remained standing there for hours, but suddenly he felt a push between his legs and heard an excited whimper. Culhen had freed himself from the mass of elf children and now pushed Ahren roughly aside so that he could push himself forward on his stomach towards Jelninolan, whimpering and wagging his tail and looking for her hand with his head. The elf priestess looked thoughtfully for a moment at the Blood Wolf, then smiled again and repeated her words, while she placed a hand on Culhen's head, between his ears. The animal was now completely silent and at the end of the blessing he tilted his head and looked up at Jelninolan with curious eyes. Everything was still for two heartbeats. Only the gentle rustle of the trees could be heard. It was only now that Ahren noticed that all the elves were watching them spellbound, without making a sound. Then Culhen sat up on his hind legs, tilted back his head, and uttered a long howl that reverberated loudly through the forest. Ahren flinched, but he was the only one to do so. All the others smiled and ruffled his fur or patted his head. He jumped away and into a crowd of squealing elf children who welcomed him even more enthusiastically than they had the first time. It seemed his friend had passed some sort of test without even knowing about it. The high priestess turned and waved at them to follow her. Ahren trotted after the others wearily. The roller coaster of emotions he had experienced in such a short time was taking their toll. Culhen stayed behind and didn't react to his commands, but Falk simply said, 'Leave him be. It's better if the children keep him occupied than you have to control him. When animals receive the blessing of the goddess, they're full of beans for a few days'. 'It felt really lovely', whispered Ahren quietly as the latest experiences overwhelmed him again. Falk nodded and said, 'the blessing is reserved only for elves and a select few other creatures, or to be more precise, for highly valued animals and a handful of esteemed outsiders. It's only bestowed once, so treasure this in your memory'. As they were speaking they went around a massive tree trunk and began climbing one of the cloth paths which resembled a ramp and rose gently into the branches. Ahren was surprised at how securely his feet held their grip and how little give there was in the cloth under their steps. His mastered continued, 'you and Culhen are part of a community that is respected by all natural living beings. Every animal, every plant will recognize this blessing and as long as you remain in harmony with them, they will always consider themselves your allies'. It all sounded very vague and Ahren was too exhausted to think about it so he just nodded. Satisfied, Falk continued, 'one of the reasons we came here was so that you would receive this blessing. I actually thought Jelninolan would wait until the ritual itself, but elves are very spontaneous and sensitive to feelings by nature. It seems I drummed enough respect for nature into you to make them satisfied with what they saw in you'. He leaned forwards, 'and between you and me, rescuing Culhen from the claws of the Adversary has made you a lot of friends here in no time at all. I underestimated that reaction completely'. They walked on in silence and finally reached the first level, which had a few dwellings. Ahren looked at one of them curiously from up close. Intertwined lengths of cloth were artfully arranged in patterns and shapes, creating here a wall, there a window, not to mention gables. He pressed his finger against one of the cloth walls but it only gave way half a finger length. He tried to follow the direction of one of the lengths of cloth, but failed. The patterns were so complex that his head hurt if he concentrated on them too much. His eyes began to water at the effort so he shook his head and gave up. Uldini popped up beside him and laughed. 'Leave it be. The human brain isn't cut out for this art. It took me three years before I understood the basics that time'. Ahren remembered the emotional reaction when the Arch Magician greeted the elf. 'She's not really your aunt, is she?' he asked quietly. Uldini laughed again. 'No, of course not. When I discovered the secret of eternal life, I was a nine year old slave boy in the clutches of a below average magician. I didn't know what sort of a formula I had deciphered and were it not for Jelninolan, I wouldn't have survived the following day. Had I told my owner, it would have been all up with me. But luckily all Arch Wizards can sense when a new member has joined their ranks. She was outside my sleeping place when day broke the following morning and she bought me. I spent the following decades here and received a proper education in the magic arts'. The little figure sighed. 'Those were happy times'. The news that Jelninolan was older than Uldini didn't surprise Ahren. He had expected elves to be age-old and wise, and it was comforting to him that at least one of his assumptions had been proven correct. Falk and Jelninolan were whispering to each other like old friends. Ahren racked his brains trying to remember, and then asked Uldini quietly, 'wasn't Falk afraid of meeting her?' The Arch Wizard chuckled gleefully. 'Before Falk came to Eathinian that time, he had decided not to work with me again. Selsena didn't agree with his decision and was angry with him. It all became loud and horrible and finally she galloped off in a rage and Falk had to make his own way through the world. When in the end he was in a degenerate state and running riot around Eathinian, Jelninolan intervened. She wasn't happy at his behaviour and let him know that in no uncertain terms when he was doing his compulsory labour in the forest. Ever since his exile Falk has always feared another confrontation. Believe me, if he hadn't made it up to Selsena, the reunion would have been twice as loud and half as harmonious'. Uldini grimaced and placed a hand on Ahren's arm so that he stood still and looked the sorcerer in the eye. 'You've noticed this peaceful feeling when she looks at you, haven't you?' The young man nodded and found himself smiling automatically at the memory. So everyone had the same feeling in her presence, he thought. 'And now imagine her angry and shouting at you'. Ahren shrank back and looked doubtfully at the red-haired, roundish elf walking in front of them. Somehow he couldn't imagine this personification of peacefulness and goodness becoming enraged. But he wouldn't give her any reason to reprimand him, just to be on the safe side. Falk and the high priestess had stopped outside a large, angular dwelling which could almost pass for a human tree house. She turned around and said, 'this is one of our guest chambers. The first few days under the trees are always very disturbing for people. Rest yourselves and have something to eat. We'll talk again early tomorrow. In the meantime I'll speak to the forest and listen to what he has to say'. Then she turned on her heels and left without waiting for a response. Ahren looked after her and Uldini chuckled quietly. 'Like a strange mixture of motherly sternness and kingly authority, don't you think? I've learnt to contradict her only when it's absolutely necessary'. Falk mumbled something to himself and took a fresh fruit from the bowl that was standing there ready. Ahren took one too and looked around him. The dwelling consisted of a large room that, with the help of loosely hanging lengths of material was divided into three sleeping areas and one main room. Plump cushions for sitting on were scattered around the floor and naturally grown branches which never seemed to get in the way served as storage places for bowls, jugs and glasses. The three ate in silence and found themselves being enveloped by the same peaceful mood that they had experienced when they first entered the elf forest. Nobody wanted much to talk, each person dwelling on their own thoughts. Falk seemed more relaxed than he had been in weeks and Uldini less serious. Ahren enjoyed the feeling of contentment and safety that radiated from everything around him. He closed his eyes, gave a contented sigh and fell asleep on the spot.

(13th Paladin 1) Ahren

Torsten Weitze

Chapter 21

Ahren woke up, fresh as a daisy. He lay there with his eyes closed and enjoyed the peace of the moment. The greenish light of Eathinian warmed his face and the rustling of the trees soothed his spirit. The silence around him could only mean that the others had got up before him and the fact that Culhen hadn't licked his face suggested that his four-legged friend was playing with the tireless elf children. After a while his curiosity concerning the Elfish settlement won out over the peace of his sleeping space. He opened his eyes and stretched himself and noticed that somebody, in all likelihood Falk, had carried him to one of the separate sleeping areas and peeled him out of his leather clothing. Ahren smiled in gratitude, rotated his shoulders and stretched his back in order to loosen himself. He pulled the length of cloth aside and stepped into the main space. As he had suspected, none of the others were there. Fresh fruit was laid out in the bowl that they had already eaten out of the previous day, and Ahren dived right in. He almost emptied the bowl, and as he was eating he kept glancing outside curiously. It only dawned on him then that there were no doors to be seen. The entrance to their dwelling wasn't even hung with cloth and when he looked around he could see that the same was true for the other cloth constructions in the vicinity. He only saw a few elves and very few other new things. It seemed as though the guest quarters were chosen so that they were somewhat separate from the rest of the community. Ahren did have a fine view of the forest, but if he wanted to see anything else he had to crane his neck or leave the house. Unsure of where to go, he first returned a little on the path they had come in on the previous day. He peered curiously into every cloth house he passed. Most of them were empty; now and then there would be an elf sitting in one, eating, who would give a friendly nod. He wondered where everyone was, but soon he realized that the settlement stretched out over several levels and there would certainly be something like a village square somewhere. He had seen the elf children climbing up and down the cloth paths the day before and these connected the various levels. Ahren was on the lowest level, exactly at the height where the foliage on the giant trees began. He looked down into the depths and he was only too happy that he had a head for heights for there were at least two dozen paces between himself and the forest floor. He could make out above him at least two further paths among the branches that led to different heights. After wandering around for a little he came to the cloth ramp that led downwards to the forest floor. He hadn't seen anybody below him as yet so he carried on walking in search of a path that led upwards. The cloth ribbon snaked its way between the tree trunks sometimes gently inclining or declining. Ahren could see that the wide cloth path that he was walking on was artfully wound around the branches at regular intervals as it led past them. He never had the feeling that he would lose his footing, and the path always gave him a feeling of stability. Whether that was down to the qualities of the unusual material or the almost magical knotting and wrapping techniques used by the elves, he could not tell. For a while he wandered aimlessly. Here and there the ribbons would intersect and now and then Ahren would take a turning in the hope that he would see a familiar face or find the path that led upwards. He called after Culhen a few times, but the Blood Wolf was undoubtedly enjoying himself with his new playmates and Ahren didn't begrudge him that pleasure. This was the first time since Deepstone that the animal found itself in a community that accepted him without question, and the young man was determined to allow his friend to enjoy this positive experience as much as possible. He strolled on, taking in the idyllic peace and majestic beauty of the elf forest. The emotions that the enormous trees and the greenish light had stirred up in him the previous day had been tumultuous and overwhelming, but today they had a more subtle influence on him, like the steady sound of a noisy waterfall, just far enough away not to be a disturbance, but close enough to penetrate everything he was experiencing. The result was an inner calm and clarity, which lay over every thought that came to him. At last he spotted a ramp among the branches that led upwards and into the distance. He smiled contentedly and walked purposefully towards it. As he approached it, he noticed a group of trees that were even taller than the ones whose branches he was walking among. There were at least two dozen of them, leafy giants soaring at least a hundred paces into the skies. Ahren could see a large platform, seemingly floating between their mighty stems, and buzzing with elves. The ramp he was on led upwards to the platform and Ahren quickened his steps. The nearer he approached, the smaller he felt in the presence of the gigantic trees. He concentrated on the platform ahead and noticed after a time that it was not floating but was attached through a series of ropes that were variously attached upwards and downwards to the surrounding enormous trees. There were well over two hundred elves scurrying around the platform going about their business, and most of them seemed to be artisans. This had to be the centre of the elf city. Ahren rapidly ascended the ramp, and he noticed that the layer of material, out of which the platform was constructed, was the thickness of his forearm and the material was intertwined in complicated patterns. He reached the top of the ramp and stopped at the edge of the circular surface to get an overview of the scene playing out in front of him. There were elves everywhere, sitting or standing, performing the most varied of tasks, and strange sounds and smells permeated the air. There were some trades he recognized immediately: weavers, tailors, cooks and tanners. But he also saw trades that clearly involved magic. Two dozen paces away he saw a group of six elves who were working a lump of metal together. Where one human or dwarf would have used a hammer, an anvil and a roaring fire, here five of the elves sang to the lump of metal while the last she-elf formed the metal into a long blade with her hands, stroking the material again and again, warping it ever so slightly with each gentle stroke. Finally the blade was finished and the song faded to a whisper. Ahren unwittingly moved closer, still wanting to hear the sound of the elf voices. The woman blacksmith now ran her finger nail over the surface of the blade and scored patterns and signs on both sides of the metal before she paused and the whispering ceased. Ahren was sure the workers were finished when suddenly the five singers held hands and began to sing full-throatedly. The woman smith held the blade on her outstretched hands and slowly turned around in the middle of the circle, looking each singer in the eye for several heartbeats. A silver shimmer covered the blade for a moment, then the singing stopped and all six sank onto the floor and into a deep sleep, the blade still resting on the hands of the woman smith. This seemed most unusual to Ahren and he looked around to see if anyone had taken notice of this unusual scene. But with the exception of a few approving looks, nobody batted an eyelid. Ahren shook his head and walked on. He saw at least seven further elf groups lying on the floor and sleeping. Quiet song seemed to accompany all of the more difficult actions that were being performed here. Not alone did he see blacksmiths, but also potters, carpenters and bowyers, surrounded by up to a dozen elves who were giving them magical support. Now the young man understood the elf tales the other peoples had related. Magic seemed to come so naturally to them that they used it to make even the easiest tasks simpler. But Ahren was actually quite thankful that his was the case. The thought of a blacksmith's fire on a platform made from cloth which was seventy paces in the air was quite terrifying to him. He strolled on, looking at all sorts of magical handcrafting until he finally saw familiar faces. Falk and Jelninolan were sitting together in the middle of the platform and deep in conversation. They would probably send him away but he wanted to say hello at least and ask what was going to happen next. As he neared them they looked up and their serious demeanours disappeared. 'Sit down, Ahren', said the elf priestess with a warm smile and Falk grunted in approval. Ahren did as he was told, all the while watching in fascination how an elf, three paces away, was manufacturing glass. He put his hands into a bowl of sand, while the other three elves overlayed a magic spell through their song. The first elf pulled out his hands, holding a lump of soft glass which he skillfully manipulated into a goblet. On the ground beside him were over two dozen other goblets, all exactly alike. Ahren pointed over at the trades-people and said in astonishment, 'nobody will believe the wonders I have seen since stepping on to this platform'. Jelninolan chuckled and said, 'we must come across as very pretentious, showing off our magical abilities so intensely, and in public. If truth be told, there hasn't been an elf born yet that has had more than the most rudimentary skill in using a hammer'. Ahren looked over at his master in puzzlement, who laughed loudly when he saw the young man's face. 'She isn't exaggerating. All elves are very talented in magic, but they are truly awful as classical hand-workers', he explained. The priestess giggled again but then became serious. 'You have to understand we are a people guided completely by feelings. That's reflected in our magic and in all our dealings. If we feel the materials, we can create amazing things using our bare hands, but if we have to use a tool, we lose this direct connection and the results are…not very impressive. Magic is our tool. Our workers in magic always work in groups, as you can see'. Ahren nodded towards the sleeping group. 'And what about them? I saw the same with the woman smith earlier. There are a lot of people sleeping, considering it's a workshop'. There was a touch of disapproval in his voice. The elf responded calmly. 'That's presumably why the rumour exists that we elves are lazy and lie around in the sun all day. Our magic is exhausting and we invest all our feelings into the things we create. It wouldn't work otherwise. It's energy-sapping and we get tired quickly. I think our average craftsperson works about two hours a day. But we create more in that time than others do in ten hours. So we're quite satisfied with that'. Ahren looked thoughtfully over at the sleeping figures until he was brought back to the present by Falk's calloused hand as it slapped the back of his head. 'Don't think now that you can be lying around in the sun too. Make yourself useful instead and go find your wolf. Time is running out and we should head off this afternoon', grunted the old man. 'Head off? Where?' asked Ahren, disappointed. 'We came here to find an Einhan for you' replied his master, 'and to take an elf artifact with us that we will need for the ritual. Unfortunately it's not here, but deeper in the forest'. At this point Falk gave Jelninolan a poisonous look and she looked back at him scornfully. 'Don't look at me like that. It was the Voice of the forest that decided. You know full well I cannot go against the Voice'. Falk harrumphed and looked away. It looked as though trouble was brewing between the two of them so Ahren stood up in order to look for Culhen. Then he paused for a moment and asked, 'who is going to be my Einhan?' Jelninloan smiled at him and said, 'I will be your advocate of course, And now go look for your wolf before he hides himself in the forest to escape from over-boisterous elf children. Take the ramp back there, after two hundred paces there's a descent to the ground. He should be around there somewhere'. Proud that the elf priestess considered him worthy to become the thirteenth Paladin, Ahren turned around and followed the route indicated. Every so often he would stop and look in amazement at another wonder being created by the craft-elves. Now that Ahren knew the background, he found the process less mystical but all the more enterprising. The elves certainly knew how to compensate for their natural limitations through the use of magic. He was even more cheerful now he knew that Jelninolan would be accompanying them. Their task would certainly be made easier by the presence of another friendly soul to combine with Selsena's on their journey. He left the platform and soon found the ramp that led him downwards. Once he was on the forest floor he immediately looked for signs of the wolf and found them immediately. The young wolf's paw prints, which were now very big, could be seen everywhere. It seemed he had been playing with some of the children again. The challenge was to find the tracks that indicated where he was now among the prints left by the children jumping here and there, not to mention the ones that simply went around in circles. Ahren followed a track that went around a tree in an ever-increasing circle before it led into the forest. After some minutes he heard an excited whimpering and yowling. He knew the sound. His friend must have flushed out some game which had retreated to the safety of a tree. That always frustrated Culhen and then he would make this grumbly whimpering sound, as if he wanted the world to know the injustice of it all - that wolves couldn't climb trees - although the best food was to be found up there. Ahren reached the Blood Wolf within a few heartbeats. Culhen glanced briefly over his shoulder before fixing all his attention on the tree again and continuing with his grumbling and whimpering. The young Forest Guardian looked up the tree to see if he could find the cause of his friend's discomfort. Several man-lengths above him he saw something move. There was something dark perched on one of the lower branches and it seemed to be doing something to the stem. Ahren couldn't make out its shape and he whispered absently to Culhen, 'what have you flushed out there, my friend?' He squinted his eyes in an attempt to make out some details. Much to his surprise, the potential prey seemed to have heard his quiet words. It turned its long, narrow head towards him and glanced at him with its smouldering red eyes. It had a hooked, blackish-red beak which ended in a razor-sharp point. It gave a short warning chatter before turning back to its original position and Ahren again saw its amorphous, black outline, which he now identified as a dull, leathery back. He slowly went down on one knee and put his arm around Culhen in order to quieten the wolf, all the while trying to breathe calmly. It was a Swarm Claw. He would recognize them anywhere, ever since the night in the hostelry. What was a servant of the Betrayer doing in the elf forest? According to Falk, they didn't dare come here. But here was one, sitting up in that tree and ignoring him. Suddenly a terrible thought struck him. What if the bird wasn't alone? He began to check the surrounding trees for more of them, all the while instinctively holding his breath. He was terrified at the thought that he may have wandered into the middle of a swarm of them and that dozens of sharp beaks could rip into his flesh. It would be a pretty unedifying end to his brief career as a Forest Guardian. Luckily, the bird seemed to be on its own. Ahren gave a sigh of relief and slowly began to move backwards. But Culhen whimpered quietly and remained rooted to the spot. Ahren gave the wolf an agonized look and then looked back up at the black outline in the tree. Of course he should do something against the Dark One, but he had left his bow and armour at the lodgings. It had never crossed his mind that he would have to fight here in the elf forest. He only had his hunting knife. True to his word he had never left the house again without his short knife. He slept with it, ate with it, even went to the privy with it. The only problem was, if he wanted to take action he would have to tackle an enemy with his knife. An enemy who was a dozen paces up and who could fly. He needed a plan and he needed more information. He circled the tree as slowly and as quietly as possible until he was to the side of the Swarm Claw and able to make out what the animal was doing up there. There was a knothole in a massive branch of the tree, and the beak was constantly disappearing inside, hacking away at something. The Swarm Claw was on the hunt. Ahren watched for a few heartbeats and considered the situation. He was confused. According to Vera's books and Falk's lessons, Swarm Claws caught their prey by swooping on them in an ambush. They would skewer the smaller victims in their sharp claws and carry them away. They would bore through the larger prey with their beaks, mainly attacking the eyes and throat. This hunting pattern was unusual, as were the facts that the animal was here and alone. Whatever was in this tree, it was irresistible to this monstrous bird. Ahren bit his lips and considered his options. It would probably take too long for him to go and get his bow. The same applied to looking for help. Allowing the Dark One to escape was an option but the thought of appearing before his master without having done anything was unbearable to the young man. Anyway, the Swarm Claw had seen him and if he got away, then all the Dark Ones that were hunting him and his companions would know exactly where to find the travellers. The Swarm Claw had to die, preferably before it killed its prey. At the moment it was pre-occupied but once it had what it wanted it would doubtless take flight. Ahren drew his hunting knife and weighed it in his hand. Falk had practised knife-throwing with him, but only over very short distances if he couldn't use the bow, and always as a last resort. 'Throwing a knife is the same as disarming yourself', his master liked to say. It was highly unlikely that Ahren could fatally injure a Swarm Claw with a top-heavy hunting knife at a distance of twelve paces and in an upward direction. He would be more likely to hit it with a stone, but that would disturb rather than injure the Dark One. Maybe the bird would then attack him rather than flee. Both options were not particularly attractive to the young Forest Guardian. That left one other option – Ahren would have to climb up and take the animal by surprise. Not the best plan, but the only one. He couldn't climb up the trunk. The animal would see and hear him coming. It would have to be a neighbouring tree. Ahren had a quick look around and found a suitable candidate. It was an older tree, its trunk nicely gnarled with plenty of grip, and one of its branches grew high enough for Ahren to be able to attack the bird from above with a leap. He quickly imagined all the things that could possibly go wrong in this enterprise, but a weak squeak from the knothole told him that time was running out. The Swarm Claw's prey was tiring. It was now or never. A crouching run got him as far as the old tree and he climbed it quickly, always careful that the trunk would be between him and the other tree, where the Dark One was increasing its efforts to catch its prey. In little more than ten heartbeats he was at the same height as the Swarm Claw. He climbed a little further up the trunk and then began to move around it as quietly as possible. Finally he saw the branch he had selected when he was on the ground and stretched his whole body so that he could pull himself up to it in one fluid movement. Squatting and on his stomach he slowly began to push himself forwards into the leafy, younger part of the foliage that grew at the end of the branch, which would bring him to within two paces of the Dark One. The aromatic, slightly resinous smell of the leaves wafted into his nostrils and the comfortably gnarled, barky structure of the wood gave him a stable hold. The trees in this forest were perfect for climbing and Ahren understood once again the deep love his master felt for this place. These thoughts dissipated as soon as the prey squeaked again and Ahren carefully stood up on the branch, now no thicker than his thigh. He could just make out the Swarm Claw's leathery skin through the leaves, about a man's length under him and one pace away. It had now stuck its head completely into the hole as it sought to finish the hunt. Without thinking of what he was going to do next, Ahren drew his hunting knife, prepared himself, and leaped, planning to land behind the Dark One on the branch, hold on to the branch with one hand and stab with the other. But when he landed on the branch behind the Swarm Claw, he realized that he had jumped too far. He fell on his knees, slipped from the branch with hand outstretched and was in danger of falling. With the greatest of difficulty he managed to get into a squatting position on the shaking branch with the help of his free hand, and clasped the hunting knife with his other hand. The bird had meanwhile used the time to pull its head out of the hole and turned with a light hop. It seemed to be mocking the young Forest Guardian as he tried desperately to find his balance. The Swarm Claw spread its leathery wings in a threatening manner and swung its razor-sharp beak with lightning quick movements back and forth. Any normal bird would have taken flight at this point but the Dark One was having none of it. Ahren squatted lower and eventually managed to regain his balance, when the Swarm Claw's beak lunged forward, almost catching his knee. He quickly brought his dagger between himself and his opponent. He forced himself to breathe deeply and fixed the bird with his watchful eyes, swinging the blade in easy circles here and there. For his own part, Ahren was being stared at by one fixed, red eye. The Swarm Claw had tilted its head to one side and was following the movements of the weapon. And so these unequal opponents watched each other cagily, each ready to pounce on the other's mistake. The attack on his knee showed Ahren the evil intelligence of the beast. The beak didn't need to reach his face or his neck. It would be enough if he fell. Many people had fallen victim to the Dark Ones because they had only seen them as wild animals. But the will of the Betrayer, who had forced himself on them, meant they were not only larger and faster, but also cleverer and more brutal. And it was these differences that made these creatures so dangerous. Ahren had already experienced this during the fight with Culhen's mother, and also in the battle with the Fog Cats in Deepstone, but nowhere had he seen this so clearly and intensively as here, on this tree, in this duel of the eyes with a bird that would send him to his death if he made the smallest mistake. Fifty heartbeats passed by and neither of them moved, only the arm with the knife weaved its defensive dance between them. The bird sat there as if frozen until Ahren had to shift his weight to relieve his protesting muscles. The blade swung to the side for a heartbeat as he turned his foot and suddenly the Swarm Claw was transformed into an explosive hail of beak thrusts. Ahren parried the attacks instinctively but had to endure two painful cuts to his left arm. Neither of them were particularly dangerous but they bled enough to make his knife hand slippery and they would weaken him if the duel dragged on. The Swarm Claw was stock still again and looking at him with its smouldering eye, waiting for his next mistake. The young Forest Guardian feverishly considered his options, but he just couldn't think of a way out of this dilemma. The Dark One was just as fast as he was, its small size was an advantage on this narrow branch, and even its beak was slightly longer than his blade, so his longer reach wasn't an advantage. And he also had to protect his knees, which stuck out towards the bird because of the way he was squatting. The cuts in his forearm were burning, and so he was left with only one option. He would have to stab once with all his might, right into the Dark One's breast and hope that the Swarm Claw wouldn't injure him to the point where he'd fall from the tree. Ahren gathered himself together and sank his doubts and fears into the Void, then tensed every muscle in his body as he prepared for the lunge. His opponent noticed the change and slowly began to spread its wings to go into attack mode. Ahren knew now that the element of surprise was gone so he prepared for the worst and threw himself forward on to the Swarm Claw and towards its terrifying beak. The bird was about to react but suddenly there was a most terrifying, bloodcurdling howl from the foot of the tree that petrified any animal within a radius of five lengths. Ahren too would have flinched but for the fact that he was already in mid-flight, and so it was only the Swarm Claw that reacted, looking briefly to its side at the howling Culhen. It hesitated for less than half a heartbeat, but that was enough for Ahren's blade to land with a heavy thud and it bore into the monster's chest as far as the hilt. The beast swung its beak back but it was too late. Quick as a flash, Ahren let go of the grip and the bird fell from the tree, wildly hacking all around it and trying to hit out with its claws until it fell into Culhen's waiting fangs and was torn to shreds by the angry wolf. Ahren collapsed onto his stomach, his arms and legs dangling on either side of the branch as he slowly returned from the Void, breathing deeply and trying to calm his shaking body. He looked gratefully down at Culhen who was busily tearing the Swarm Claw apart. He enjoyed the coolness of the branch on his cheek and the aromatic smells of the forest in his lungs. He silently thanked the THREE for the fact that he was still alive, then slowly picked himself up. Faint sounds and a tiny movement in the knothole reminded him that the Swarm Claw had been hunting something. It seems that its victim had survived. He pushed himself forward slowly. He had had enough confrontations with animals while balancing on a branch for one day. He turned his attention to the opening in the tree and he was struck by its frayed, irregular edging. He could see nicks everywhere and it took him a moment to understand what he was looking at. The Swarm Claw had widened the opening with its beak so it could push further inside. The actions of the monster were proving to be ever more peculiar and Ahren hoped that it hadn't been infected with a disease, now that a large part of it had ended up in Culhen's stomach. He glanced down and saw that his friend was rolling around in the grass, trying to get the blood off before patiently starting to lick his fur clean. He then directed his attention back to the mistreated knothole and peeked carefully into it. Two curious eyes above a few shivering whiskers looked back at him. In front of him was a chipmunk with a nasty gash on one side of his fur. An elf chipmunk, Ahren silently corrected himself. The fur was white, the stripes and eyes, silvery. SHE WHO FEELS had a weakness for this combination of colours, thought Ahren, amused. The little animal made angry noises at him and he placed his uninjured hand, which had no specks of blood, carefully into the hole so that it could become familiar with his smell. He wasn't sure how bad the injury was and there was no way he was going to leave the animal there to die after he had just risked his own life in his fight with the Swarm Claw. He decided he would leave out the chipmunk when he reported back to Falk and concentrate instead on maintaining the secrecy of their whereabouts as his reason for killing the Dark One. That sounded much more heroic and there would be less likelihood of his master and Uldini collapsing into fits of laughter. The chipmunk sniffed around at his hand, then jumped without hesitation onto his palm and curled up. Ahren raised his eyebrows in surprise. 'Are you somebody's pet?' he whispered quietly. He slowly drew his hand back and looked down at the tiny animal. It was difficult to examine him up here and it was hard enough to climb down with an injured arm, let alone holding a chipmunk as well. With soothing sounds he placed the animal in the inside of his jerkin and began his slow descent. His injured arm was painful and the blood made the tree slippery, and he couldn't lean against the tree-trunk for fear of squashing the chipmunk. It took him ten times longer than normal to get to the forest floor and by the time he got there he was bathed in sweat. Culhen was waiting for him with his tail wagging, and began sniffing at his jerkin excitedly. Ahren couldn't help smiling and gently pushed his head away. 'Leave the tiny tot alone. He'll hardly want to see an over-enthusiastic Blood Wolf after being attacked by a Swarm Claw'. Culhen sat down on his hind paws and gave the young Forest Guardian a reproachful look. Ahren became serious, went down on one knee and pressed his head into his friend's furry shoulder. 'Thank you for your help', he murmured. 'You saved my life today'. Cuhlen turned his head and licked his master's face, then pressed his nose into Ahren's jerkin again. The young man shook his head and turned away, rolling back the torn sleeve on his injured forearm. 'Here, stop frightening our guest and make yourself useful'. Ahren held his cuts in front of the wolf, who sniffed at them for a moment before beginning to lick Ahren's forearm and hand clean. The animal's tongue burned like fire but Falk and he had made the amazing discovery in the previous few months that Culhen's saliva had a cleansing effect on cuts and abrasions. Blood Wolves had a reputation for recovering quickly from wounds but nobody had known how exactly they did it. His master was amazed to learn that there was something as profane as medicinal saliva. Culhen finished his work and began once again to sniff for the chipmunk. Now that his injured arm had been taken care of, Ahren reached carefully into his shirt and took out the shy animal, indicating to Culhen with his other arm that he should keep his distance. He held the chipmunk in front of his face and examined the cut he had noticed above in the animal's flank. There was one good thing about the Swarm Claws' razor-sharp beaks. The cuts were clean and the wound edges even. Normal claws would tear and fray the skin making treatment much more difficult and they would take longer to heal. A quick glance at his arms revealed that his wounds had already been transformed into fine, red lines, and a thin crust was beginning to grow on them. Culhen's saliva seemed to thicken the blood somehow, which enabled them to close up sooner. But that was as far as it went. Now the wounds had to continue to heal normally. Ahren turned his attention back to the little animal in his hand. It was lying on its uninjured side and seemed to be very weak. All of its left side was soaked in blood. The cut was not deep but very long, from its hind leg up to its left ear. Ahren chewed the inside of his cheek uncertainly while he considered what to do next. He then spoke in a determined and urgent voice. 'Culhen, listen to me now. You won't eat this little fellow, will you? I know he looks really tasty but it would be terrible to rescue him first only to gobble him up later, don't you agree? But you can sniff him and give him a good lick, what do you think?' The Blood Wolf had tilted his head sideways and his eyes hadn't left the chipmunk while he licked his chops. The young Forest Guardian hoped that his friend would react at the very least to his stern tone of voice. He slowly put his protective arm to the side and held the injured animal in front of Culhen's mouth, still speaking to the Blood Wolf. If Culhen's saliva didn't seal the wound, then the little animal would die anyway, so it was worth the risk. Ahren had always asserted that the Blood Wolf understood more than simple commands even though Falk was sceptical. Now he'd find out if he had been right. The wolf sniffed at his potential prey and licked his chops again. Ahren spoke in a sterner voice and finally his friend's head shot forward and sank over the helpless animal. The pink tongue, just as big as the rodent, licked the stripy body a couple of times and then Culhen sat back on his hind legs and looked up at Ahren with his head tilted. 'Good wolf!' cried Ahren and tickled his friend euphorically behind the ears, while still looking at the little patient. The animal was either sleeping or had fainted in panic, but the cut looked good and the blood was already coagulating. He would have to nurse his patient back to health for one or two days perhaps, but then he would be able to let him loose in the wild again with a good conscience. Ahren stood upright, stroked Culhen's head again and headed back along the path towards the village. The walk back was exactly as he imagined his entire stay in a protected elf forest would be. The singing of birds and the fluttering of leaves filled the air, a multitude of smells enlivened his steps and the soft forest floor turned the walk into a most enjoyable perambulation. The peace which he had felt inside him on their arrival was back again and Ahren noticed that he had taken the longer walk through the forest, which led to the ramp bringing them to the guest quarters. He wanted to get changed anyway before meeting up with Falk and his little stripy friend urgently needed something to eat in order to regain its strength. He came to their dwelling with the sun well past its zenith and he knew that Falk would be getting impatient. He quickly put on a new jerkin as well as his leather armour and also took his bow, swearing to himself never again to leave the weapon out of sight, just because he thought he was in a safe place. His encounter with the Swarm Claw would have been over in two heartbeats if he had had his bow with him. He opened his rucksack with a shake of his head and set about making a little nest out of his ripped shirt, which he put on top of his other things. He carefully laid the sleeping chipmunk inside and closed the rucksack again but without pulling the straps so that enough light and air could get in. As long as Ahren walked at a leisurely pace and didn't start to run with the rucksack, the little fellow would be warm and comfortable inside, and once he was strong enough he could dart off whenever he felt like it. Ahren went over to the fruit bowl and scrabbled around until he found some nuts that had gathered at the bottom of the bowl. He laid them beside the chipmunk's nose, carefully closed the rucksack again, put it on his shoulders and went out into the sunshine. Pleased with himself, he hummed a tune and tickled Culhen's fur absently and wondered to himself where they would be going next. The guest lodgings had been emptied of everything except for his own belongings which meant that the others had collected their things already. So Falk wasn't reckoning that they would be returning there again. Now that he knew the way it wasn't long before he was back on the central platform, where new groups of elves were now practising their trades. Ahren could see many of the morning's trade people slumbering peacefully on the floor. A vase was being created in a very impressive way beside where he was standing and he wanted to watch the whole creative process when he heard a sharp harrumph behind him. He spun around and there was Falk, his hands in fists on his hips and a face like thunder on him. There was no doubting his disapproval. 'Finished dawdling?' His master was really angry and Ahren decided to play his trump card there and then. 'Culhen flushed out a Swarm Claw and I had to kill it before it could lead the other ones to us', he answered quickly. Falk narrowed his eyes, his anger vanished and immediately he was in a state of high alert. 'We'd better discuss this in peace and quiet', he said and with a hand gesture indicated to his apprentice to follow him. The old man led Ahren silently to look for a free place. They walked through groups of craftspeople who were working at their trades without seeming to follow any recognizable technique. Finally Ahren saw the rest of his companions standing at the other end of the platform and looking at them expectantly. Ahren corrected himself, all of them except for Selsena. The Titejunanwa was visiting her herd as long as they were in the forest, and maintained constant telepathic communication with Falk. Falk indicated to the group that they should follow him and so they silently descended the ramp and went a little further into the forest, the others continually throwing questioning looks at him and Ahren. Finally it was all too much for Uldini who stopped in his tracks. 'Alright you secret-monger, what's happened?' Falk stopped too and turned around to the group. 'Perhaps Ahren should first explain calmly what he's experienced', he said thoughtfully and looked at the young man hopefully. Ahren quickly recounted his encounter with the Swarm Claw and how he had slain it with his hunting knife while balanced on a branch and how Culhen had helped him. After he had finished, Jelninolan gave him a supportive and congratulatory smile while Uldini patted Culhen's back and murmured, 'well done, my boy'. Falk stared at his apprentice for a few heartbeats and then responded. 'You have a tendency to master a situation in the riskiest manner one can possibly imagine. We'll talk about that later. However, your decision not to let the Swarm Claw escape was correct. In fact, a whole swarm of the beasts came into the elf forest last night. The elves plucked them all from the sky, or so they thought. One of them must have given them the slip. I just don't understand why a whole swarm of Swarm Claws was sacrificed in order to determine our location. An attack in the elf forest is bound to fail. We're too well protected'. 'You forget that HE is in a deep sleep. HIS orders were probably quite imprecise', interjected Uldini. Falk nodded hesitantly. Even if he wasn't quite convinced, he let it go at that. 'Be that as it may, we have to collect Tanentan, and then we need to move on'. 'Who's that?' asked Ahren curiously. At last he was going to find out more about their next step. 'Not who, but what', answered Jelninolan. 'It's an artefact of our goddess. In your language the name, roughly translated, means 'the soundless lute'. Our legends have it that SHE WHO FEELS taught the first elves with the help of Tanentan how they could live in unison with the world'. Uldini joined in. 'The lute can manipulate feelings. I have a less romantic theory that the first elves were brought under control that way, until they had learned how to master their strong emotions. But the result is the same either way'. Jelninolan gave Uldini a withering look, but the master magician rose in the young Forest Guardian's estimation, for he hadn't flinched when she had looked at him. Nevertheless, the little figure became silent and winked at Ahren instead. 'The problem is', continued Falk, 'that Tanentan was brought, by command of the Voice of the Forest, to a safe place, which happens to be the Weeping Valley'. Uldini groaned and rolled his eyes which made him look for all the world like a nine year old boy. He saw the questioning look on Ahren's face and explained, 'the Weeping Valley is the place where HE WHO FORCES first brought an animal under his control and corrupted it. Where the first Dark One was created'. 'The goddess was beside herself with rage and sorrow', continued Jelninolan. 'In spite of her deep sleep she furnished Eathinian with the protection that it has enjoyed to this day and ordered the elves to protect every animal living in the forest. The valley has lain shrouded in a light mist since that day and nobody is allowed to enter it. Unless the Voice of the Forest has given permission'. Ahren was shaken by the story. Of course it was clear to him that sometime there must have been the first Dark One, but the fact that the location was known made it somehow more real and more tangible. His encounter with the Swarm Claw and its cunning evil, which was hidden beneath its animal instincts, was still very much present. The thought that all these Dark Ones had once been normal animals that had been violently changed filled him with a cold rage and a deeper determination to fulfil his task. Falk had turned again and marched on and nobody felt up to talking for a while. The sun had travelled a considerable distance before Ahren's curiosity got the better of him. 'Who is this Voice of the Forest and why can't we simply ask for permission to enter the valley?' he asked. Jelninolan gave a quick laugh and answered him in a warm-hearted tone. 'The Voice of the Forest is the mouthpiece of the goddess. HER wishes and feelings are passed on to us that way. She is the highest judge and at the same time the spiritual leader of all the elves. No important decisions are taken without her advice. Only rarely has it been elves, mostly they are animals, once it was even an old tree. Now it's a stag. The voice comes and goes as it pleases. No-one knows where it is at the moment'. Falk added in a grumpy voice, 'you see we have a choice between wandering aimlessly through an enormous forest in search of a particular stag or trying our luck with the Warden of the Weeping Valley. Seeing as time is not on our side, we've decided on the Warden'. 'A warden?' asked Ahren nervously. He didn't like the direction this conversation was taking one little bit. 'The Weeping Valley is one of the forbidden places for the elves', answered Uldini while Falk and Jelninolan exchanged exasperated looks. 'These places are always protected by a warden, normally an animal, that's under the special protection of the goddess', he explained. Ahren was silent as he digested the information, none of which made much sense. 'Why exactly do need this lute at all?' he asked in a slightly annoyed voice. Jelninolan looked at him in astonishment. 'You don't know anything about the ritual?' There was such surprise in her voice that Ahren immediately defended himself. 'I know that we have to go to a certain place as quickly as possible and we have to have a certain somebody with us. Oh, and since this morning, I've known that we need certain things as well'. Somehow his defence had turned into a complaint but that didn't bother him. Falk's habit of keeping everything secret until the last minute was hard to put up with especially when, like Ahren, you were the centre of everything that was going on. His master was about to respond vehemently but when he saw how stunned the elf priestess really was, he held back. 'It was just for his own protection', he finally mumbled and walked ahead briskly to create some distance between himself and the group. The elf walked beside Ahren and put an arm on his shoulder. 'You poor fellow. Falk is so used to carrying so many secrets around with him, that he keeps everything to himself. I'll try to explain it to you'. She looked at him from the side. 'You know that you were chosen?' Ahren nodded. 'At the ceremony in the temple, which all the villagers considered an unimportant ritual'. Jelninolan nodded. 'We thought that ritual out ourselves in order to find the missing Paladin. Imagine the Pall Pillar is gradually dissolving and no-one knows where the thirteenth Paladin is. We would have had to comb the world looking for you and in the meantime HE would be getting mightier and mightier. The Spring Ceremony was supposed to come across as irrelevant. Otherwise the Dark Ones would have been on your tracks even more quickly'. Ahren shuddered briefly at the thought. 'In those days, the newborn of a Paladin would be touched with a godstone. It would then, through this so-called focus stone, begin to absorb the strength of the departing Paladin. The child would experience as happy a childhood as possible in order to preserve and nourish the goodness within. With the onset of adulthood came the Naming. This is the ritual that we now want to perform. The candidate had to present an advocate from the world of people, dwarves and elves. This was necessary as only humans could be formed into a Paladin. The natures of dwarves and elves don't allow for such a drastic transformation. And so a right to be heard was woven into the Naming ritual. No elf and dwarf advocate meant no Naming'. Ahren nodded. 'The Einhan. Falk told me about it. And why are the objects needed?' The priestess responded. 'In order that you couldn't just invite any old elf or dwarf to take part in the Naming ceremony, they had to present themselves with a holy artefact of their people to prove that they were worthy of being an Einhan'. 'Anyway it's much easier to channel the blessings of the gods onto the chosen one if strong magical foci of the respective deities are present', interjected Uldini with a dry smile. Jelninolan spun around. 'Do you have to rubbish the romance and splendour for everybody?' she asked angrily. Uldini raised his hands and gave a look of perfect innocence. 'Not at all, my dear auntie. I just wanted to make clear that some of the ritual comes from a certain necessity. Otherwise the next thing he would have asked would be if it were possible to leave out some of the formalities in view of the circumstances'. Ahren held himself back from laughing. That question really had gone through his head and he winked at Uldini behind the elf's back. She had calmed down in the meantime and continued with her explanation. 'Anyway, where was I? Ah yes, the Naming. Uldini and his magic wand will be responsible for the human part, Tanentan and I will represent the elves. Regarding the dwarves though, that has me stumped. Dwarves are incapable of using magic, at least not in the proper meaning of the word. So I don't know any Arch Wizard I could contact. And I can only describe the diplomatic relations between the elves and dwarves as indifferent coexistence, to put it kindly'. She looked over at Uldini with a questioning look. He shook his head. 'I'm the Supreme Head of the council of seven. You know that they like wizards even less than elves. If I could do anything, I could try perhaps as an emissary of the emperor to obtain an audience with the King of Thousand Halls. But whether he'd listen to us…' Uldini trailed off, leaving the unfinished sentence hanging in the air and the two looked at each other in bafflement. Suddenly Ahren burst out laughing. He hadn't laughed so heartily in a long time. He held his stomach and laughed until tears were streaming down his face. Culhen jumped around him excitedly with his tail wagging and seemed to be taking part in his friend's enjoyment, while the Arch Wizard and the elf priestess looked at each other dumbfounded. 'Maybe it was too much for him in one go', murmured Uldini and tapped his head knowingly, but Ahren waved dismissively. Gasping for breath and trying to control his laughing, he managed to respond. 'You are a mighty wizard and an elf high priestess, both of you are ageless and on the council of the seven. But you're still as much in the dark as I am when it comes to Falk's plans. An old Forest Guardian is dictating to you how things are going to proceed and is leading you by the nose, just like he's doing to his young apprentice'. His two companions looked so surprised and helpless when he said this that he broke into another bout of laughter. It could of course be true that all the events were too much for him and that was why he was reacting hysterically, but by the THREE, it was good to know that even these mighty figures had their limits and could be kept in check by a grumpy, uncommunicative man. Jelninolan smiled good-naturedly at Ahren and her face indicated that she understood the irony, but Uldini refused to let the matter rest. 'Falk!' he thundered in a magically enhanced voice, and with lightning speed he flew up to the Forest Guardian, who had been tramping ahead of them all this time. Ahren managed to regain some control of his laughter and watched amused as Uldini gave his master an earful. He responded calmly with a short answer and then turned and continued walking. Uldini floated for a moment and stared at the Forest Guardian's back. Then yellow sparks started flying in all directions from it, blowing up dust from the forest floor. The wizard meanwhile returned to the others, all the while cursing to himself. As soon as a curse was uttered, a particularly bright flash would discharge on the ground. By the time he reached them, the flashes had disappeared but Uldini's eyes were still smouldering like yellow fire. 'What did he say? asked the elf. 'That we'd find out soon enough', said Uldini through gritted teeth. Ahren was about to burst out laughing again when he saw Uldini's face. He knew, chosen one or not, that if he didn't pull himself together, he would spend that evening as a toad. So he bit his tongue and walked quickly ahead of them so that they would only see his shaking shoulders as he tried to suppress his laughter.

(13th Paladin 1) Ahren

Torsten Weitze

Chapter 22

They caught up with the old Forest Guardian that evening. He had set up camp beside a small pond. There were no insects on the water and the fire had already burned down to its embers. Jelninolan raised her eyebrows quizzically but Falk pre-empted her. 'Only dead branches on the ground, it just burned for a short while. But we need the heat for our supper'. He took a bundle from the fire. Various vegetables that he had wrapped in the local leaves to protect them from the fire. Soon they were sitting together and eating in silence, each caught up in their own thoughts. Ahren was ravenous and gobbled down his food, secretly glancing every so often at the others, while tickling Culhen, who was grumbling contentedly beside him. Nobody seemed to want to break the silence so Ahren decided to ask the first question that came into his head. 'How exactly are we going to get into the valley if it's forbidden? Are we going to fight with the Warden?' Falk cleared his throat and looked over at him earnestly. 'It's not that simple. If we were to attack the Warden or to enter the valley illegally, we would have the elves on our backs. Not even Jelninolan can enter the Weeping Valley without the permission of the Voice. Only animals under the protection of the goddess are allowed in'. 'So what are you planning?' Ahren persisted. 'We won't be going in, but Selsena will. She knows already and will be waiting for us there. She is under the protection of the goddess and so should be able to pass. Whether she can bring the lute back with her is another question. Hopefully this loophole in the law will be enough. Otherwise she'll have to fight the Warden and we won't be able to help her'. Jelninolan nodded, concurring. 'It would be a ritual duel between two creatures of the goddess. Nobody can intervene and everyone must respect the result'. Falk spat into the embers. 'I don't like it. Too many hitches in the plan and no way of supporting her should anything go wrong'. The three began debating the issue again and they ended up going around in circles. Finally, they all settled down to sleep without having come up with a better idea. Ahren was the first to wake after a restless night. He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and quietly went over to his rucksack to see how his patient was getting on. The chipmunk was still there and had rolled himself up into a little ball of fur. He was fast asleep. Ahren could see that the cut was healing nicely. Half of the nuts had been eaten and it wouldn't be long before the animal would be well enough to fend for himself again. He closed up the rucksack, freshened up, and began, out of pure habit, to dismantle their sleeping quarters while the others slowly woke up. Falk nodded approvingly and then they had a cold breakfast of fruit before moving on. According to Jelninolan they would reach the border of the Weeping Valley by midday. The morning's march was peaceful and quiet, each of the travellers mulling over things. The sun shone low through the leaves, there was a light mist hanging in the air like little spider-webbed flags fluttering among the trees .The air was aromatic and clear and Ahren was surprised again at how timeless this forest seemed to be. Spring, summer and autumn all seemed to combine into one season, keeping this forest in a state of perfect harmony. Culhen jumped playfully beside him, running off into the forest every now and then when he got the scent of something exciting. Sometimes he returned with spoils, mostly not. Jelninolan didn't say anything, which suggested that he was permitted to hunt, as part of the endless natural cycle of hunter and prey. They finally came to a slope which led down into a small valley. It was hardly more than a large depression, perhaps two hundred paces in diameter and didn't have many trees. Its surface was covered in a thick moss and several types of climbing plants were visible. A fine mist, hardly hindering their view, hung over the whole valley. It lay on the plants, and droplets constantly dripped to the ground from the leaves and branches. It was almost as if all the plants were in mourning. 'Before you lies the Weeping Valley', said Falk quietly. 'Selsena should be with us any minute'. The unicorn trotted up to them out of the undergrowth twenty heartbeats later and greeted them all with a friendly snort and a wave of welcoming joy. Ahren suspected that some of the tension of the previous few days had come about because Selsena hadn't been with them to exert her calming influence. Jelninolan now spoke to the Elven horse. 'The lute is hanging on a tree in the middle of the valley'. She pointed at a speck and when Ahren screwed up his eyes and looked at the spot he could make out the outlines of the lute, which was hanging just three paces high on the trunk of a massive tree. 'It has a carrying strap you can wrap around your horn', the elf continued. Then she patted the Titejunanwa's flank and stood aside. Falk looked her in the eyes. Whatever he was saying to her, he was communicating it silently. Selsena shook her head and snorted, then trotted down to the valley. Ahren instinctively held his breath and even Culhen sat on his hind legs and watched their companion with his ears pricked and his nose in the air as she went off. Everybody was stock still and after ten heartbeats Falk slowly breathed out. 'So far, so good. Her presence doesn't seem to be presenting any problems. The critical point is coming now'. The silver-white figure carried on until it arrived at the artefact. It was still quiet from within the valley. The only sound was the water drops falling from the plants to the ground. It was only now that Ahren noticed how quiet the place was. There wasn't a bird to be heard, not even in the part of the elf forest they were standing in now. Nor was there a breath of wind. As if the forest itself were holding her breath. Selsena stood on her hind legs and stretched her horn against the trunk of tree in order to slip the carrying strap onto it. Suddenly the ground around her moved. Ahren wanted to shout a warning but the unicorn had already reacted. With two prancing steps she had escaped from the centre of the movement and then Ahren saw what was moving. Moss was crumbling off shimmering green scales, where the Warden of the Valley of Weeping had been slumbering for years. Its tiny eyes on its large head were eyeing the intruder, and the enormous snake wrapped itself protectively around the tree and raised itself up. The animal was enormous. Its head alone must have been the same size as Ahren's upper body, and although more than half its body was entwined around the tree, the monster still towered four paces above Selsena and stared down at her. This monster made a terrifying impression but Ahren knew immediately that it wasn't one of the Dark Ones. Its whole presence suggested it was purely and simply a beast of prey. There was a purity and an animal vigour about this beast, unadulterated by the malevolent intelligence of a Swarm Claw or a Fog Cat. The sole point of this enormous snake was the protection of this place and the eternal circle of hunter and prey. There was a certain dignity inherent in this clarity, and Ahren was sad that Selsena was forced into taking on this creature. It wasn't her enemy, but it was just following its natural instincts. Selsena pranced towards the tree trunk and the snake's head immediately jerked down towards her and snapped. Ahren wasn't sure if the snake had missed its target or if it was just issuing a warning. He glanced at Falk and saw that his master didn't know either. Jelninolan had put a hand on his shoulder and Ahren was certain that it was only this silent reminder of the rules that prevented him from rushing in to help his companion. The Elven horse was now trotting around the snake in a circle, testing out its reactions and movements. The beast's head followed her every move while its scaly body wound easily around the tree trunk. Whenever Selsena tried to move as much as a hoof nearer, the snake's head would dart forward, warning her to keep her distance. 'Tell her she has to change her tactics', muttered Uldini quietly. Falk showed no sign whether he had heard the advice but two heartbeats later the Titejunanwa turned away and trotted back two dozen paces. Then she turned around and began to charge towards the snake. Falk loudly drew breath and whispered, 'risky, my girl, far too risky'. Soon she was within the enormous animal's reach. It had opened its mouth and revealed fangs the length of two short swords. Moss was being thrown up by the unicorn's hooves, the snake's head darted downward at lightning speed and for a moment it seemed to the onlookers that the two adversaries' forms had blended together. Ahren screamed, for it seemed to him that the Warden had caught his friend. Then Selsena spun along the armoured body of the snake, gouging a deep tear into the green skin. Some of the scales came flying off and for the first time the snake emitted a deep, dangerous hiss. Selsena galloped on in order to get beyond her opponent's reach. The snake snapped after her, but the Elven horse was too fast for it. 'Very good. She's built up enough momentum to counter the Warden's speed, and the reptile can't bite her from the front without impaling itself on Selsena's horn'. Ahren wasn't sure if Falk was trying to reassure his companions or himself, but he was thankful for his words because they gave him comfort and courage. Selsena turned again and prepared for another charge. The snake now extended itself to its maximum height and waited for her. The monster looked like an enormous swaying green tower eight paces high. Then it darted downwards towards the fragile looking unicorn. Once again there were scales flying everywhere, and once again Selsena shot out behind the massive body. Ahren could see the cuts his friend had scored on the scaly body with his naked eye. The longer of her two horns was dripping with blood and her whole bone-plate was a soaking red. 'How long can she keep up that speed?' asked Ahren quietly. Falk looked at him with wild eyes. 'She'll manage it alright. The old girl can attack like that for four hours in a row without tiring'. He couldn't fail to hear the confidence in his master's voice and he began to relax just a little. The unicorn must have found a reliable method of defeating her enemy and now it was only a matter of persevering. The snake, however, seemed to come to the same conclusion. Just as Selsena was about to launch another attack, it wound its way low between the trees and disappeared from the spectators' view. 'Damn it, where is it? A big animal like that can't just disappear into thin air', called out Uldini nervously. Jelninolan hissed at him to quieten down and responded, 'we're standing here at the very edge of its territory and the Warden is wounded and testy. Perhaps we should try not to attract any unnecessary attention to ourselves'. Falk instead answered the Arch Wizard's question. 'The animal has lived here for eons. It knows every tree, every bush, every leaf. Every natural pothole is a potential ambush and with these massive trees, every hollow tree trunk is a hiding place. Its scales are the same as the moss that grows here and if we're unlucky, it will have dug a few tunnels that we can't see from here. It knows now it has to catch Selsena by the side or from behind. Or from below. She has to get out of there as quickly as possible'. Falk had automatically fallen into the dry tone he used whenever he was analysing the behavioural habits of a wild animal or a Dark One. The experienced Forest Guardian was speaking now, not the terrified companion. Ahren frantically asked himself how he or the others could help as he watched on helplessly and saw Selsena slowly and carefully approaching the tree trunk and the lute. There was no sign of the Warden and finally Selsena pushed her horn under the leather strap. She raised her head, the strap tautened, and she began to slowly raise the lute off the short branch from which the strap had been hanging. She was stretching just a little further forward awkwardly when suddenly Falk whispered quickly, 'there it is. It was waiting for this'. Then he gave a panic-stricken shout. 'Get rid of it! Get rid of it and run as fast as you can!' The unicorn reacted immediately and lowered her head so that the instrument slid back into place. At the same time the ground around the Titejunanwa exploded and the snake broke out from a shallow tunnel. Its head missed Selsena's neck by a hand's width but Ahren could hear the heavy thud as the massive head slammed into her left shoulder. Selsena neighed shrilly as the Warden tried to wrap itself around her. Ahren looked on in horror at the terrible scene playing out in front of him. If Selsena couldn't get away from there immediately, she would be squeezed into a bloody pulp by the heavy body with its multiple tendons and muscles. The unicorn leaped from a standing start over the snake's coils before it had a chance to tighten its deadly noose, but her hind legs crashed into the monster and hung there for a moment. Selsena gave a whinny of pain and flung herself around. She dashed away but it was clear she was limping badly. The snake immediately gave chase and it was obvious to all that the unicorn had lost her speed advantage. The Warden would catch her sooner rather than later. The Elven horse tried repeatedly to leave the valley but the Warden cut her off every time and the slope slowed the limping unicorn considerably. Ahren looked pleadingly at the others but all he could see was pure frustration in their faces. His thoughts were racing as he dug his hands into Culhen's fur, so his friend could support him at this terrible moment. Then the young man froze. 'Jelninolan, only an animal blessed by the goddess can go down there?' She looked at him sadly. 'That's right, we can't help her'. Now he was really excited. Selsena didn't have much time, but he needed the right answers to know if his plan could be successful. 'And you're a high priestess of the goddess and you spoke THEIR blessing over Culhen on the first day so that the other elves would accept him, am I right?' 'Yes, of course, but he isn't big enough to last more than a few seconds against the snake', interjected Falk, his voice filled with frustration. Ahren clapped his hands. 'But he doesn't have to!' He whispered something to his friend and slapped him on the back. Like a white thunderbolt the wolf shot straight into the valley with Ahren urging him on frantically. Falk stared at him flabbergasted. 'What in the name of all THREE are you doing there? You can't sacrifice him?' Ahren didn't look away from his friend, even though, out of the corner of his eye he could see that the duel between snake and unicorn was coming towards a sad ending. Everything depended on his plan now. And on Culhen. After a few seconds it became clear to the others that the wolf wasn't racing for the snake, but for the place where the lute was still hanging. Ahren pulled himself back into the Void, took his bow from his shoulder and placed the arrow in position. He ignored the surprised protests of his companions and concentrated completely on the narrow strip of leather, that he could sense rather than see. The young Forest Guardian had only one chance and the timing had to be perfect. Culhen would need as much time as possible. Just as the wolf arrived under the tree and was preparing to jump at full speed, Ahren let the arrow fly and watched its path with bated breath. The wolf leaped up, turning his body in the air so that he could run back as soon as he landed. If the arrow missed its target, it would injure his friend and the Warden would certainly catch the shot animal. Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion until the missile slammed into the trunk above Culhen. The leather strap broke with an audible snap and the artefact fell towards the ground, right between the open fangs of the leaping wolf. He snapped the throat of the instrument between his teeth, landed on the ground and began racing back to the edge of the valley, with the lute sticking out of his mouth like a grotesque version of a hunter's quarry. 'I don't believe it', groaned Falk. Uldini and Jelninolan joined in with Ahren's encouraging cries. The Warden's reaction was lightning quick and focused. It immediately abandoned Selsena and raced, sliding along the forest floor, towards Culhen. The monster was indeed faster than the wolf with the cumbersome lute in his mouth, but on account of his manoeuvre under the tree, the wolf was already on the home stretch. The advantage that the young wolf had was enormous and he raced as quickly as he could towards his fellow travellers, who spurred him on with their cries. Selsena in the meantime had retreated to the safety of the elf forest and limped out of sight among the trees. Culhen was now twenty paces away, with the snake another twenty paces further back. Ahren stood at the edge of the valley and pulled Jelninolan beside him. The distance between apprentice, wolf and snake was vanishing and Ahren prayed to all the gods, all the while calling to Culhen and beckoning him. He stretched his arms out to the wolf and when the animal was almost on top of them, he ripped the instrument out of his mouth and rammed it into the elf priestess's waiting arms. Culhen shot by him, the snake in hot pursuit. Purposefully. On its mission. The young man threw himself between the snake and the wolf, stretched one arm out towards the Warden and pointed with the other one to the lute in Jelninolan's arms. 'STOP!' he roared at the top of his voice while the massive, scaly body swayed over him, filling up Ahren's entire field of vision. The head swung back, the body was coiled and ready to spring, a couple of hand width's from the valley's edge. 'STOP!' roared Ahren again. 'Your task is finished. The lute has left the valley and is now in elf hands!' The snake hissed at him threateningly and soared like a wave of scales over him, ready to squeeze him into a pulp within a heartbeat. Then its silvery eyes slid slowly over towards the lute and then down to the valley's edge that lay between them. Then the Warden was stock still for three heartbeats, before it turned and slid slowly back down into the valley, as if the events of the previous few minutes had never happened. Ahren turned in a daze towards the others and said, 'it wasn't a Dark One. It's nice when your opponent sticks to the rules for a change'. Then he sank to his knees, threw his arms around the wolf and buried his face in Culhen's fur as tears of relief streamed down his face. There was silence for a while, broken only by Ahren's sobs until finally he heard Uldini asking in a dry tone, 'is the boy alright?' 'It will all be fine', he heard his master saying with amusement. 'The last time he fainted. This is a considerable improvement'. Ahren couldn't help chuckling when he heard that, and he lifted his tear-stained face up from his friend's fur, the friend he had almost sent to his death. Culhen licked his face and wagged his tail. Ahren had to chuckle again, then pulled himself up and turned to the others. Falk looked both proud and serious, before giving him an appreciative nod. Uldini smiled his typical half-smile. Jelninolan was completely wrapped up in her examination of the lute, which she held in her arms like a baby. Ahren still didn't trust his voice, so he cleared his throat before asking, 'Selsena?' Falk smiled briefly, and he answered, 'a few bruises and aching bones. Nothing that won't heal quickly, especially with her herd taking care of her. She'll be right as rain in a couple of days'. Ahren breathed a sigh of relief and stroked Culhen's head again. Somehow, he just wasn't able to let go of the wolf. Once it was clear that the young Forest Guardian was in control of his emotions again, Uldini asked, 'how did you know that it would break off its attack?' Ahren shrugged his shoulders and answered. 'I figured it out. Culhen has been blessed, so he was allowed to enter the valley. He didn't attack the Warden so there wasn't any ritual duel between the two of them, which would have allowed the snake to continue its attack outside the valley. Its job was to keep the artefact from falling into unworthy hands. I was counting on Jelninolan being considered worthy, so the task was to get the lute over here quickly and within the restrictions that had been laid down. I never expected the Warden to leave Selsena alone immediately, I only hoped it would break off from the fighting once the lute was out of the valley'. Ahren began shaking again and dug his hands into Culhen's fur. 'The rest was luck', he whispered. Falk scratched his beard and looked thoughtfully at Ahren. 'A damn big risk you took there – but I'm glad you took it. Although you bent every single rule to its limit. Hopefully the other elves will see the matter the same way as the Warden'. Uldini added drily, 'we'll find out soon enough'. Three slim figures in leather armour approached them with their bows cocked and stared grimly at the lute in the priestess's hands. Jelninolan whispered quietly to her companions, 'We'll offer no resistance. Everything can be interpreted in our favour up to this point but if we attack the valley's Honour Guards, we lose all legitimacy'. Then she stepped forward and gave a little bow, before trying to reason with the three elf warriors with authority in her voice. They listened with stern looks and answered briefly, but their bows remained cocked and aimed at the group. The whole conversation was in Elfish and so Ahren didn't understand a word. He leaned over to Uldini and asked him quietly, 'I thought Jelninolan was the high priestess of the goddess. Why are they threatening her?' Uldini kept his eyes on the four talking figures. 'They don't value titles the way humans do. They would never think of giving someone an advantage on account of their position, especially not if they think a wrong has been done. I would even say that they are stricter with dignitaries. Elves are emotional creatures and community is sacred to them. If someone in a vital position damages this cohesion, it has far-reaching effects on their society'. Nerve-wracking moments passed as the elves continued their discussion. The three finally lowered their bows and divided themselves up among the travellers. Jelninolan turned to the others and explained the situation in a sad voice. 'They will accompany us back. According to them, the Voice of the Forest must decide whether we are in the right or not. I'm sorry, but we can't travel for now'. Falk frowned and Uldini let out a quiet curse. 'What does that mean?' asked Ahren. 'It means', said Falk between gritted teeth, 'that we have to sit here until a white stag gallops into town and decides whether we should live or die'. The little group spent the rest of the day trotting back to the elf settlement. It was no surprise that the mood was grim. Nobody talked. Ahren tried to ask one or two more questions but he was fobbed off with one syllable answers. On one occasion he tried to get Culhen to slip away into the undergrowth so that at least his friend would be safe, but one of their elf guards immediately pointed an arrow at the wolf. It seemed Culhen's role in the recovery of the artefact was too crucial to simply let him escape. Ahren shook his head in frustration. On the one hand, the elves were exactly as he had expected, openhearted and hospitable, with warm dispositions and full of magical skills. On the other hand, he found the passion with which they rigidly adhered to every little rule unsettling. When he thought of the way they had banished his master for centuries, he even considered these creatures to be cold and alien. He found these contradictory impressions hard to grasp and he finally concluded with a sigh that he was trying to apply human qualities to a non-human folk. If he was ever to evaluate the reactions of these emotional forest dwellers, he would have to be far more open towards their otherness. If it ever came to it. He couldn't really imagine that the Voice of the Forest would condemn them to death, but it was bad enough that the elves were withholding the artefact from them and so they couldn't complete the ritual in which he would be named Paladin. Mind you, he was basing this assumption on purely human empirical values and so his thoughts went round and round in circles until they finally set up camp for the night. Everyone was chewing on the dried fruit the guards had handed out to them, and Ahren stared out into the forest, lost in thought. Darkness fell and the sparse snippets of conversation slowly petered out. Ahren was about to snuggle down under his blanket when he noticed a change in the lighting conditions. Something luminous was approaching them through the trees. He looked uneasily across at the others, but they were just exchanging curious looks. 'A Rillan?' asked Uldini and the elf priestess nodded. 'It seems to be for me', she said. Ahren saw a luminous blue-white sphere flying directly towards Jelninolan. It didn't seem to bother anyone, not even the guards, so Ahren relaxed and looked with curiosity to see what would happen. The elf raised her hand until her palm touched the outside of the sphere at which point it dispersed leaving an iridescent pattern in the air. Ahren saw that all eyes were trained on the sign and it was being studied very carefully. It was clear to Ahren that it had to be some kind of elf hieroglyphics. It was a magic message! Then the elf dropped her arm sadly and the message was gone. 'The Voice of the Forest was found by a hunter from the village. It seems it passed on in the cycle of life some weeks ago'. It was clear to Ahren that these words were meant for him because everyone else had been able to read the message, but he didn't understand what it meant. His confusion must have been obvious because Falk cleared his throat and said, 'the Voice of the Forest is selected by the goddess in a seemingly arbitrary manner. Mostly it's an animal, sometimes an elf or even a tree. No matter who or what has been selected, the life expectancy or the living conditions of the relevant being remains as before. A tree can wither and die, an elf may cease to be, or, as in this case, a stag can be killed by a beast of prey. The Voice then passes over to another carrier. The problem is finding this carrier'. His master ruffled his hair. 'That will just delay things further'. Ahren nodded silently. The more he found out, the clearer the picture of this strange culture became. If the goddess didn't even grant her mouthpiece a special place in the cycle of nature, why should the elves do it for their high priestess? 'I can send out a Call when we get back to the community, but our chances are slim. A young Voice reacts far less often to the Call than one who is aware of its role', said Jelninolan. Uldini shook his head. 'The gods are being particularly uncooperative, deep sleep aside, when you consider that we're trying to protect the world from a new onslaught by the Adversary'. He lay down in frustration and grumpily covered himself with his blanket before staring out into the darkness. Everyone followed suit and finally the exertions of the day took their toll, and all fell asleep. Ahren had a restless night. Time and again he would wake up, bathed in sweat, his arms and legs contorted and entangled in his blanket. Rather than giving him energy, the short periods of sleep drained him. He finally gave up just before dawn and got up. He took Windblade, pointed demonstratively at it so that one of the guards would look over, then went a few steps to the side to show that he wasn't presenting a danger, and began his sword practice. His joints and muscles were sore and he realized immediately that he had been neglecting his training. He saw his weapon in a different light ever since he had killed the bandits with his sword and he found it very difficult to practise techniques that were capable of killing other living beings. He breathed in deeply and sucked the aromatic night air into his lungs, concentrated on the gentle sounds of the sleeping forest and admired the beauty of the faint moonlight shining through the leaves. Then he began again and concentrated on the simple movements the armourer had hammered into him in such a short time. In the end he was just as soaked through as he had been after his restless sleep, but this time it was because of his efforts. The feeling of being able to do anything at all was better than the helplessness that had held him in its grip the whole night through. His companions were still sleeping, and just as restlessly as he had. The sun was taking its time rising so he started from the beginning again and tortuously went through all the exercises again. When he was finished, his arms and shoulders felt like rubber and his back ached all over, but he felt better and less wound up. Wearily he went back to his sleeping place in order to catch another short sleep, but no sooner had he stretched out on the bed when the camp started coming to life. He only managed a short nap but at least he could lift his arms again and he'd be able to carry his rucksack. He was just given a little dry fruit for breakfast, and then they carried on. Two hours later and they had arrived at the edge of the settlement. Ahren had expected some uproar - angry and disgusted elves with perhaps one or two defending their actions. Instead, everything was as normal. They were led to their lodgings and then left alone, none of the residents behaving in any way different to normally. Polite and friendly looks, sometimes a little bow, other times a friendly wave before he or she continued on their way. Nothing suggested that they had committed a transgression. Once they were alone, Ahren could contain himself no longer. 'Have they changed their minds? Are we free to go?' The others shook their heads and Jelninolan answered, 'we decided a long time ago to submit ourselves in these cases to the verdict of the Voice. Controversies like this used to lead to horrible outcomes on account of our emotional natures, and we don't want this to be repeated. That's why no party tries to grab power, and why everybody behaves in as open and friendly a manner as ever. And no, we can't leave. Without an acquittal we cannot reach the borders of Eathinian. The treetop guards would detain us'. 'No, they wouldn't'. Uldini's face was a mask of scarcely contained rage. 'I can get us out of here and you know it!' Jelninolan smiled and put a hand on his cheek. 'Of course you could. And you'd destroy half the forest as well, and conjure up a war between humans and elves at a time when unity is needed'. Her gentle warning and her reference to the consequences were effective. The anger drained from his face and he sighed. 'This trip isn't doing me any good. I've become more used to commanding and ruling than I thought'. Falk gave a deep laugh in response and said, 'that's exactly why this journey is good for you. At last we have a little humility in that ageless body of yours'. Uldini was about to contradict him vehemently, which would have led to another fight full of taunts and jibes between them, but Ahren intervened by asking a question. 'So what happens next? What about the Call you wanted to put out?' Jelninolan took Ahren's bait gratefully. She didn't seem to want to experience another verbal dual between these two squabblers either. 'I'm going to have to ask about fifty other elves to give my prayer to the goddess, beseeching her for advice. That could attract the Voice. But as was mentioned already, it doesn't usually work with a young Voice'. Ahren began peeling of his leather armour and putting the individual pieces on top of each other. It seemed they wouldn't be going anywhere for a while and he might as well make himself comfortable. While he was doing that, he asked another question regarding something Jelninolan had said earlier. 'You mentioned horrible conflicts among the elves earlier. What did you mean by that?' He'd wanted to break the oppressive silence with this question but obviously he'd picked the wrong topic. The elf priestess looked as though she'd bitten into a lemon, Falk threw him a disapproving look and Uldini covered his eyes with his hands and let out a groan. The apprentice first thought he wouldn't get an answer, but then the elf priestess began to speak. 'In the Dark Days the elves fought on the front line against the hordes of Dark Ones, our losses were many and the horrors we suffered were worse than the other races, as they were less susceptible to strong emotions than we were. There were…differences of opinion as to how we should deal with the chaos and suddenly swords were being drawn, bows tautened, brother against brother, father against daughter, and that in the middle of the war against the Betrayer. Two groups developed among our folk. One group began creating rules and rituals which would ensure harmonious living together and they concentrated on supporting the war in a less aggressive manner. We began to play to our strengths as healers, scouts and path-finders and badgered our enemy with our archery regiment. But we steered clear of close combat so that we could maintain our emotional health. The Eathinian that you have come to know grew out of this movement and spiritual mentality'. Jelninolan took a deep breath and Ahren noticed that the less comfortable part of the story was about to follow. 'The other group believed that only with the full potential of all our emotions, both good and bad, could we enjoy victory over the Betrayer. They embraced the state of intoxication which our emotions could awaken in us, and they experienced euphoria and blood lust, sacrifice and atrocity as they reaped a bloody harvest in the ranks of our enemy. They began setting ambushes, then night attacks, they poisoned foodstuffs, and some of them even allowed themselves to be taken as slaves so they could sabotage the enemy armies from within. All of these deeds dramatically altered their soul and spirit until it was no longer possible to live together with them. In order to prevent a bloodbath, they agreed to move away and find their own homeland. They travelled south and settled in a forest at the front so they would be as close as possible to the fighting. When the war was over, they swore they would roam in the Border Lands and keep guard against the enemy'. Ahren was beginning to understand what the elf priestess was driving at. 'You're talking about the night elves from the Forest of Ire! They were normal elves? You're one folk?' He'd really meant to be more tactful, but every second horror story he'd heard was about the pale elves with their poisonous daggers who would move around soundlessly at dead of night, leaving corpses lying around that had been living and breathing the day previously. Jelninolan nodded in silence, then went to the entrance of their dwelling, stretched her face towards the sun, closed her eyes and stayed there. Uldini went over to Ahren, laid a hand on his shoulder and whispered, 'maybe you could come to me if you have questions like that, what do you think?' Ahren nodded, embarrassed. Then he turned to put away his leather armour, which had been lying there unnoticed while the dark story had been related. He noticed the rucksack and he felt twice as guilty. His little foster child, the chipmunk! He hadn't seen him since the previous morning. Hopefully the little chap had made himself scarce at some point. He opened the rucksack and there the little animal was, a little white ball of fur with its silvery lines gleaming in the light. The nuts had all been eaten and he seemed in good health. He took the rodent out carefully and examined the cut on its side. If he hadn't known where to look, he'd never notice the fine line in the fur. 'Culhen really did a good job on you, isn't that right?' whispered Ahren. The rodent's little head turned towards him and the animal was making an angry noise when suddenly there was a clattering noise behind the apprentice. He turned around quickly and saw his master, sprawled on the floor beside the upturned stool he'd been sitting on, staring open-mouthed at Ahren. The young man instinctively wanted to apologise but then he noticed that Falk wasn't staring at him at all. Uldini looked over curiously too before uttering a brittle laugh, creaking with dry humour. 'Auntie?' he called over his shoulder, 'come in, please, you really have to see this'. The elf came back into the lodgings, her eyebrows quizzically raised. Meanwhile Falk had picked himself up and righted the stool. The priestess was about to ask a question when she spotted Ahren with his little charge. She stood stock still, went white as a sheet and then walked over to him and stretched out her arms. 'Could I have a look at your chipmunk?' she asked with a nervous glance over her shoulder towards outside. Ahren was quite intimidated by his friends' reaction and handed over the little animal, which was now chirping cheerfully and scrabbling about the priestess's robe. 'It's not mine', explained Ahren quickly. He was sure now he had done something wrong and didn't want the others to be jumping to premature conclusions. 'I only nursed it back to health after the Swarm Claw had almost killed it'. But all eyes were on the animal, which had calmed down, clambered onto the priestess's palm and was now looking deeply into her eyes. Uldini took a deep breath and then let out a sigh. 'I think we're at fault here'. He turned to Ahren. 'Everything's been going so quickly and none of us wanted to put too much pressure on you. But…would the situation become clearer to you if we told you this: you recognize the Voice of the Forest, if it dwells in an animal, by its silvery-white fur and its silver eyes?' Ahren felt faint and sat down. 'Are you telling me that…?' He couldn't finish the sentence. It was just too difficult to acknowledge that he had carried the goddess's sacred animal around in his rucksack. Mind you, he had saved the life of the elves' most holy animal and there was a very good chance that the Voice wouldn't sentence to death the person who saved its life and his friends. 'That explains the strange behaviour of the Swarm Claws too. They weren't after us. They wanted to kill the Voice', added Falk when he noticed that his apprentice needed time to process the situation. 'Bestowing the Voice costs the goddess a lot of energy every time. If a young Voice like this one had been killed by a Dark One, the elves might have had to manage for years without leadership'. 'And we'd have been neutralized. At least with the Voice's rescue, the complaint against us should be off the table', added Uldini resolutely. Falk and Jelninolan nodded in agreement, grinning cheerfully. Uldini turned to Ahren and gave a little bow. 'Young man, you've saved our skins twice in the last two days. One thing is clear. I don't need any ritual to tell me that you're worthy. I was giving out about the lack of support from the gods yesterday, but tonight I think I'm going to pray long and hard and apologise. I'll go and spread the news before I start getting all sentimental'. As the little figure was going outside, Falk called after him in an exuberant voice, 'but leave out the bit about the rucksack. The fact that a human has saved the Voice of the Forest will be enough for them'. Jelninolan was still standing deep in silent conversation with the little creature in her hand when Ahren suddenly leaped up. The first shock was over but instead of the joy he should have been feeling, he was uncontrollably angry. All the dangers in the Weeping Valley had been completely unnecessary! Had he been told everything earlier, he would have walked into the elf village the day before yesterday, he would have presented the Voice, he would have been hailed a hero, and he would have been handed the soundless lute with a ribbon around it and been congratulated with lots of backslapping! An angry red mist had descended on Ahren. He drew himself up to full height and jabbed a finger into Falk's chest. 'From now on you won't treat me like a small child. Selsena and Culhen could have been needlessly killed yesterday because nobody bothered to tell me anything more than the bare minimum. But that's over now!' While these words were being uttered, Falk's eyes had narrowed to angry slits and his whole body-language suggested to Ahren that the old Forest Guardian was on the verge of getting into a fight with him. But he didn't care. Neither of them pulled back by even a hair's breadth and the tension in the air was palpable. 'He's right'. The elf priestess's words, spoken in a soft and gentle voice, brought the two back from the brink. Ahren's anger evaporated with the understanding that resonated in her voice, and Falk nodded hesitantly. 'Alright then. You have free rein. From now on you can ask whatever you want, and you will get all the answers. We only wanted to protect you, but that didn't work too well, so we'll try it his way. But don't think you're going to be happy with all the answers'. He held out his hand and the young man took it. Falk gripped Ahren's hand firmly and said in a voice of steel, 'and don't forget that I'm still your master. If you turn on me like that again, I'll have you running up and down trees until you think you've turned into a squirrel, is that clear?' Ahren nodded silently. Then his hand was released and he found himself in a bear hug. 'You've been brave and clever and I'm proud of you'. Falk said that so quietly into his ear, that he didn't understand him. Before Ahren could react, his master had released him and said loudly, 'and now go wash yourself, put on something clean and polish your armour. The elves are going to want to see you and the hero of the hour can hardly appear looking like a snotty nosed kid in a filthy jerkin who doesn't know how to hold his bow'. Ahren quickly grabbed his armour, went outside and marched to the nearby stream, which served all the village's daily needs. The old man stared after him and Jelninolan came up beside him. 'He's not a boy anymore but he's still not a man and has to deal with so many things. I understand why you acted the way you did'. Falk glanced at her and answered. 'Still, we did overdo it. He has earned our respect and it's time we gave him more leeway'. The priestess's voice then took on an amused undertone. 'Do you really want to answer every question he asks?' Falk grunted and said quietly, 'I just have to make sure he doesn't ask the wrong questions'. Only Uldini was present when Ahren returned to their lodgings. He was sprawled out contentedly on a large cushion. 'Good that you weren't here. It was all rather turbulent. Of course all charges against us were dropped on account of your heroic deed. I think two of the older elves almost had heart attacks when they heard the news that a little human child was their saviour in their hour of need while their treetop guards were sitting around on their bottoms, oblivious to it all'. The Arch Wizard giggled sarcastically and rubbed his hands. I'm not a child any more', protested Ahren wearily. The wizard sat up and raised a defensive hand. 'Most of the villagers here are two hundred years old and more. What do you think they see you as?' The Arch Wizard tactfully hadn't mentioned that he himself was considerably older than that, but Ahren got the message anyway. He sighed and began to get changed. It would be quite some time yet before everybody was taking him completely seriously. 'I'm responsible for you looking as impressive as possible, then we should go to the main square. The whole village is going to be there and a few representatives from the nearby settlements'. 'I thought the whole settlement was here', answered Ahren in amazement. Uldini gave a friendly laugh and said, 'Eathinian stretches across the whole continent. Do you think there are only three hundred elves living in the whole forest?' Ahren wanted to protest but Uldini raised his hands reassuringly. 'There are about fifty thousand elves living in Evergreen, in settlements like this one, and in most cases it takes many days to get from one to the next. We came to this one here because it was easy to get to by the Red Posts and Jelninolan was waiting here for us. She hasn't said anything, but rest assured she's been trying to make contact with the Voice of the Forest since she found out about you. Now we know why the old Voice never responded'. He drew his finger across his throat. Ahren felt a little uncomfortable when he heard the Arch Wizard speaking so sarcastically and dismissively about such serious matters. But then it dawned on him that this little creature must have seen so many terrible things and that this was his way of dealing with them. Ahren himself had changed considerably in the previous months and his confrontation with Falk was evidence of that. Centuries full of responsibilities and change must take their toll on a person's spirit, even someone as mighty as the Arch Wizard. Uldini's lifted his hands up to his face in feigned shock. 'Oh no! Are the green sparks there again?' he called and Ahren realized that he had been staring, lost in thought, at his companion. He turned away guiltily and hurried to finish his preparations. The wizard sniggered behind him. 'I'm familiar with your reaction. You get used to it'. Ahren wasn't sure if he was referring to his sardonic manner or to the distressing events of the last few days, and he came to the conclusion that the clever magus had probably meant both. After a time Ahren turned around and said, 'I'm ready. We can go'. Uldini tilted his head and scrutinized the apprentice with a critical eye. Ahren may have put in an effort but he was still an apprentice in tatty armour. The Arch Wizard produced his crystal ball and let it float around Ahren a few times while he quietly uttered some words. The young man looked down at himself and saw that his leather had taken on a bright sheen, as if it had been polished for hours. His clothes didn't have a speck of dirt on them. 'That's the best I can do. Almost everyone present has powers of magic, and any illusion that I create will only make you appear vain. Everything is so much easier in the Sun Court'. He stepped behind the apprentice and pushed him out into the light. 'Come on, the others are waiting. Let's get it over with, I'm hungry'. And at that he lifted off and floated quickly off, so that Ahren had to trot along quickly so as not to fall behind.

(13th Paladin 1) Ahren

Torsten Weitze

Chapter 23

They met nobody along the way and once they saw the enormous trees in the centre of the village, Ahren knew why. The whole platform was full of elves, who turned as one in his direction as soon as he came into view. No sound emanated from the gathering and you could hear a pin drop. As they walked towards the silent community, Uldini looked over his shoulder and said, 'don't worry about it, it's their way of celebrating. They're all bound together on the same emotional level at the moment and they're jumping mental somersaults for joy. If you were an elf, you'd be participating and feeling fantastic. Just trust me. They're very grateful'. Uldini's dry manner helped to calm Ahren's nerves and stepped onto the platform. All the elves were greeting him with quiet smiles and he managed to respond with a smile of his own. The crowd divided and Ahren went to the middle of the platform, trying not to think about the fact that there were five hundred people standing on a thin cloth platform high in the air. Although he was used to the cloth paths, this enormous flat surface with its knotted material still made him nervous. His companions were waiting for him in the middle. Jelninolan looked the same as ever. Her small, round figure, her red hair and green eyes were even more marked, now that she was surrounded by these many tall, slim, white haired elves. Falk was standing by her side, in full regalia with his gleaming armour and his fur cloak, and Culhen was lying on a fat cushion in front of them with a contented look on his face. He must have been thoroughly groomed because his fur shone like satin in the warm afternoon sun. He greeted Ahren with a joyful bark. Uldini floated beside the high priestess and indicated to him to stand in front of them. As Ahren stepped closer, he saw the Voice of the Forest, who had rolled himself together between Culhen's front paws and was now looking at Ahren with sleepy eyes. Jelninolan smiled at him and produced Tanentan. The artefact had been cleaned and polished but the impression it left was still that of a simple lute. The priestess began to sing in the Elf language and her fingers plucked the strings, but no sound came from the instrument. At first Ahren thought the lute was broken, but then he felt it was talking to him, as if the individual sounds were being generated directly within his spirit. The priestess wove her song out of this spectral music, and suddenly it became clear to the young man that although he didn't understand the Elf language, she was singing the story of his battle with the Swarm Claw. He saw the images with his inner eye. It was as if everything was happening again, and when it came to the point where his dagger lunged into the Swarm Claw's chest, Culhen uttered a howl which was the perfect imitation of the one he had uttered under the tree, when he had distracted the Dark One. Then the song was over. Jelninolan place her hands on the strings and the horrific episode vanished. Ahren was dazed and it took him a while to come back to the present. He blinked repeatedly to banish the memories. When he had regained his sense of orientation he noticed that everyone present was bowing towards him and Jelninolan spoke in a booming voice. 'We thank you for your deeds!' Then everyone straightened up again and a quiet murmuring could be heard. The elves were beginning to behave like individuals again and not as one large, indivisible group. The ceremony seemed to be over and the spiritually united bond had dissolved. Uldini clapped his hands. 'That was refreshing. What is there to eat?' he called in a self-satisfied voice. The magus was obviously familiar with the elf customs for a short time later there was a movement among the crowd. Cushions were artfully arranged, and baskets of food were brought from the surrounding lodgings. Soon all the participants were sitting around, scattered in little groups on the floor. Ahren and his friends ate in the middle of the platform which had filled up in no time. Soon there were elves sitting on all the edges of the cloth, their legs dangling in the air below. There was eating and drinking, the air was filled with laughter and the melodic language of the forest dwellers. There were groups of singers scattered about and Ahren was amazed at how harmoniously the songs intertwined with each other. There still seemed to be some kind of unconscious union among the elves. Ahren was starving and gobbled down everything he could lay hold on. Provisions had been pretty meagre the last couple of days and so he stuffed himself with bread and honey, not to mention mint pasties stuffed with meat, washing them both down with a sharp-smelling fruit juice, which tasted a little of apple and aniseed. Chewing with his mouth full, he asked his master quietly, 'I thought elves didn't eat meat'. Falk nodded. 'They only do it rarely. You could put it like this: they only eat what the forest has too much of. The rabbit population had to be reduced considerably this year, so that's why there are pasties'. He bit heartily into one, then continued, 'I remember one season when the river changed direction nearby and there was an explosion of blueberry bushes. For weeks afterwards all the meals had blueberries. As the gods are my witness, I avoided that fruit for years afterwards'. He laughed and slapped Ahren on the back. He had rarely seen his master so happy and Ahren was painfully aware that this place really was the Forest Guardian's home. He chewed thoughtfully on his pasty, then he put it aside and asked Jelninolan, 'can I have a quick word with you?' She gave him a quizzical smile and when he stood up, she followed suit. Ahren wound his way through the crowd until they got to a quiet spot near the edge. The elf priestess stood beside him and waited politely while he enjoyed the view and wondered how he should start. 'Everyone seems to be very happy that we saved the Voice', he began, awkwardly. The priestess smiled in amusement and raised an eyebrow quizzically. 'And you worked that out for yourself?' Ahren sighed. He was no good at these things and it wouldn't get any better unless he came to the point. 'I wanted to ask if I could make a request, now that we've helped you'. The elf hesitated and looked at him in surprise. 'You want a reward?' Jelninolan's aura had lost none of its power over Ahren and the disappointment that was revealed in her question caused him to flinch. 'Yes…no, well, not for me anyway', he said quickly. 'I'd never be here without Falk, I'd never have learned how to climb or how to hunt Dark Ones or how to treat injured animals. Without his training, I wouldn't have been able to save the Voice of the Forest. Would it be possible for his banishment to be lifted?' His voice had been getting quieter and quieter and now it petered out. His companion looked at him thoughtfully with eyes narrowed and with a maternal sternness. Then she nodded and said, 'I'll see what I can do'. She turned around and went, leaving a somewhat baffled apprentice in her wake, who didn't know what to make of her reaction. The elf priestess didn't return to the others and so Ahren went back alone. Every elf he passed gave him a broad smile, or proposed a toast in his honour, or even bowed slightly before him. When he arrived back to his friends, he saw that Culhen had an enormous bowl of rabbit meat in front of him, which he was holding between his front paws as he wolfed down the food, growling with enjoyment. Uldini watched the wolf with amusement and then turned to Ahren. 'It seems our furry hero is perfectly content. The Voice has retired back into the forest. He was probably afraid our friend would eat him by mistake'. Ahren laughed and then became serious and sat down on one of the cushions. Daylight was gradually vanishing, and a soft twilight was settling in on the forest. He took another sip of the strange drink and Uldini leaned over him. 'Be careful with that. You hardly notice it but there's some alcohol in it. If you drink too much and then go for another walk along the edge, well…' He wriggled his eyebrows in an exaggerated manner and Ahren had to laugh again. The Arch Wizard really knew how to use his childish appearance to his advantage, whether it was just to make jokes or to highlight the difference between appearance and reality. Falk was chatting to a group of elves some paces away and Uldini leaned closer towards Ahren. 'We're alone now and I'm in a talkative mood. Falk took off your muzzle today, so if you have any questions, now would be a good opportunity'. The wizard's offer took Ahren by surprise, but then he asked a question that had been troubling him for a while. 'Why did you connect the reappearance of the Paladin with the eternal spell. Would it not have been better if all the Paladins were there before the betrayer wakes?' Uldini's eyes lit up. 'A really clever question. We did discuss that at the time. We wanted to intertwine the problem and its solution. A balance of strengths if you so wish. None of the other ideas were implementable. The most popular suggestion at the time was: the Pall Pillar falls when the gods awaken. Sounds mad, doesn't it? But it wasn't. We would have had to connect the sleep of the gods to the Pall Pillar and thereby create a channel between THEM and HIM. Can you imagine how much power HE would have been able to draw from such a connection? Other alternatives presented the same problem. If HE or his servants had somehow managed to conjure up the end of the Bane Spell, then you'd have a world without a Paladin. So we decided to make things simple and fool-proof. First you appear, then HE wakes up. The Paladins were our best option. Half of us thought the thirteenth would never come back, the other half thought the new chosen one would be found within a few months. Then we would have gone with the little child to the Pall Pillar, we would have carried out the ritual of Naming and speared the swine without giving him a chance to bat an eyelid'. The Arch Wizard gave him a penetrating look. 'Nobody planned it to take this long for a new candidate to appear. We came up with the idea of the focus stones sixty years later when it became clear that there was no short-term solution in sight. But now, hundreds of years later, the situation has completely changed. We have to travel all over the place, picking up people and items for a ritual that in those days we could have done in a day, because everything was close together'. He paused for a moment to gather his thoughts. 'We enshrined the Naming of the Paladin with the eternal Bane Spell because the ritual of Naming has enormous power. No-one should have been able to remove the Bane Spell or evade it. That worked. But the powers of the thirteenth Paladin were set free with your election and now HE can tap into this power, slowly but surely – through the connection between the Bane Spell and your election. And the longer it takes us to perform the Naming, the more power HE can steal'. Ahren gave an understanding nod. 'That's why he wakes up earlier if we dawdle. He'll become stronger, I'll become weaker'. Ahren felt a shiver run down his spine at this thought. Uldini hesitated. 'Yes, more or less. I've gone through all the calculations again. Ideally, we'll execute the ritual before the winter solstice. Then we have a few years before he wakes up in order to find the others and kill him with the united powers of all thirteen Paladins. But if we need longer than next winter solstice, he'll wake up in the following winter and we'll be done for'. 'So that's the reason for the delay tactics. The Swarm Claws that are looking for us and forcing us to travel more slowly, the bandits ambushing us and the attempt to kill the Voice of the Forest', said Ahren slowly. 'Exactly. You recognise the pattern. HIS main aim is to kill you, don't believe anything else. But if HE can slow us down at the same time, that's almost as useful to HIM. Death by a thousand cuts'. Everything was much clearer to Ahren and he was grateful to the wizard for his explanations. But there was one thing he still wanted to know. 'We have two of the three Einhans but who is the third? Has Falk said anything yet?' Uldini shook his head. 'We haven't had a chance to have a private conversation yet, but he seems to have a plan. I mean he knows where to look and who to ask. That's comforting. We can ask him together later'. Ahren squirmed with excitement. He was being included at last. 'And then we can carry out the ritual of Naming! What does that mean for me?' Uldini raised his hand reassuringly. 'Almost. We sealed the place of ritual at the time with magic so that nobody could find it by accident. One of the Wild Folk will have to lead us there, but that's no problem. And no, not much will change for you, unfortunately. By rights you should get the talents of the THREE at the Naming, but because you're a special case, I'm not sure what exactly is going to happen. Only the MOULDER will definitely touch you and make you resistant to the Betrayer's influence. But I've been protecting you with my magic anyway since I've been with you.So you won't feel any difference'. Ahren looked at the childlike figure in surprise. 'Thank you', he said. Uldini nodded and smiled drily. 'One does one's best'. It was getting even darker now, and soon some of the elves were conjuring up spheres of light which were floating above them on their gentle paths and partaking in a ghostly dance. Ahren lay on his back and looked up enthralled, leaning his head against Culhen's overfull stomach. The wolf gave a disgruntled growl but was far too full to resist his friend. Ahren let the sweet night air take hold of him and followed the complicated patterns of the blue-white illuminated spheres which were moving across the sky like glow-worms. A solitary elf started to sing, then another and soon the harmonious singing was everywhere. A deep peace enveloped the young Forest Guardian and he let his fingers run through the wolf's fur. His questions were forgotten, and he surrendered to the peace of the moment. Ahren took another sip of the elf fruit drink and was soon lulled to sleep by the light, the song and the warmth of his wolf friend. [ Epilogue ] When Ahren woke up the next morning, he saw that he wasn't the only one had slept outside in the cosy warm embrace of Evergreen. At least half of the revellers were still lying around in small groups on the platform, their heads or bodies on the cushions. The sleep patterns and sleeping arrangements of the elves was as much a mystery to him as everything else about them. The missing doors in all their lodgings, the singing of the individual elves which always harmonised with the singing of the whole group, not to mention the previous day's ceremony, all showed the young Forest Guardian how closely-knit the elves were. He tried to imagine a human group living like that and he could only laugh. The bailiff would have a lot on his hands because their living together would be far from harmonious. He stood up and Culhen stretched himself in gratitude. Ahren had misused him for the whole night as a pillow. The wolf shook himself off and sniffed his friend's hand. 'You can't be hungry again', Ahren chided quietly. The large bowl that the Blood Wolf had licked clean yesterday wasn't two paces away and Ahren was convinced that half a dozen rabbits must have been in it. Culhen whimpered quietly and pushed against Ahren's hand with his nose again. He shook his head in disbelief and relented. 'Alright then, let's get you something to eat. You've certainly deserved it'. Ahren tickled the wolf between the ears and then began to pick his way slowly through the groups of sleepers. There was no sign of the others and Ahren figured that they must have returned to their lodgings during the night. He had no idea where he could find something to eat in the village and he didn't want to wake any of the elves, partly because he didn't speak Elfish, so he decided to go to the lodgings and ask Falk where he could fill up his greedy wolf. Culhen trotted contentedly beside him, sometimes panting quietly and sometimes sniffing the ground curiously. The young Forest Guardian looked at his friend thoughtfully. In nearly two years Culhen had grown into an imposing wolf. His head was now above Ahren's hips, he was muscular and a little broader than normal wolves. If he kept on growing, he would be heavier than Ahren and no-one would take him for a normal animal any more. He tried to comfort himself by remembering what he had read in Vera's books. The tome stated that Northern Wolves - and Culhen's breed was descended from them – reached their full height at two years. Hopefully his friend would take after them rather than after his mother. The truth was that Culhen was unique and would always put up with Ahren no matter what happened, so long as they could be together. He threw his arms around the animal impulsively, which resulted in his face being licked and being enveloped by the aroma of six eaten rabbits. He gave a groan of disgust and wiped his face dry with his sleeve. Then they went on towards the others. Ahren arrived at the lodgings and found Falk, Uldini and Jelninolan at breakfast. The atmosphere suggested that they'd been having a friendly conversation and they greeted him heartily. He sat down beside them and Culhen made a beeline for the corner of the communal room where a bowlful of rabbit was waiting for him. Falk looked over in amusement and said, 'your wolf will get fat if he carries on eating like that. Soon he'll only be able to howl at the Dark Ones because he'll be too heavy to budge'. Culhen glanced back, the picture of injured innocence, before continuing to eat. Jelninolan smiled and responded, 'and he's vain. There was no need for his howling yesterday, the song would have brought forth the memory anyway. But he wanted to show off'. The animal gave a quiet whimper but carried on eating. Uldini shook his head. 'I'm telling you, he's slowly beginning to understand every word we say. It seems it's not only his tummy that's growing', and he tapped his head. Ahren was glad that everyone seemed to be in a relaxed mood. Their latest victory and the harmonious feast had done everyone good, and he himself felt full of derring-do this morning. Hoping he wouldn't destroy the mood, he asked, 'so what happens next?' Falk answered calmly, 'first we have to leave Evergreen, then straight through the Knight Marshes to King's Island. That has the only harbour with a connection to the Silver Cliff. And, from what I've last heard, there we will find a dwarf, who would be suitable as an Einhan'. 'Who is he?' asked Uldini curiously but Ahren was hardly listening. He would ride through the length of the Knight Marshes, he would land on King's Island, a small island that contained a capital city of the same name! And he'd never seen the sea before! And they'd even travel by ship! He tried to hide his excitement. Falk answered Uldini's question. 'At the moment he doesn't have a name. He's staying on a lonely sentry post, or Lonely Watch, as it's called'. Uldini whistled through his teeth and Jelninolan snorted with disgust. Ahren gave a questioning look, and much to his silent delight, Falk answered immediately. 'It's common among the dwarves to give certain, usually very difficult tasks to individual dwarves, who then have to fulfil them. Until they have done this, they are left on their own and don't have a name. They first get this back once they have performed the task, with a new syllable added in recognition of their service to the community. You can recognise the oldest and most decorated of them by their terribly long names'. The elf priestess shook her head and Ahren understood why. It sounded tough enough to his own human ears, sending an individual into exile and without a name, in order to do something for the community. It had to sound like pure barbarity to elves with their understanding of harmony. Uldini followed up with a question. 'And you think he'll help us? You know what dwarves can be like'. Falk nodded. 'I know him from before. He's the only dwarf I can think of who would be worthy, and would help us without too much persuasion. And anyway, he's on the Silver Cliff at the moment. Trogadon's shield is stored there as well. That will do for our ritual and it's not important to the dwarves. It's only used for ceremonial purposes every couple of decades when a new master blacksmith is being appointed. That way we'll avoid having to go to Thousand Halls'. Ahren racked his brains, trying to remember what he knew about dwarves. There were two dwarf settlements. Thousand Halls, the actual kingdom of the dwarves, lay to the south, beneath the Eastern Sunplains. The High King had his seat there and most of the dwarves' military might was based there too. The Silver Cliff on the other hand, was a small enclave, which specialised almost exclusively in trade with Kelkor and the Knight Marshes, and lay on the banks of Kelkor. Ahren could understand why Falk would prefer to go there. The journey was half as long and the Silver Cliff dwarves were considered to be much more open-minded than their southern cousins. Uldini nodded approvingly and said, 'that sounds promising. Let's hope that your friend has finished his task by the time we get there'. Falk shrugged his shoulders. 'Even if that isn't the case, the dwarves are a pragmatic folk. As non-dwarves we can give him a hand, and usually it's only something like smoking out cave spiders or things like that. The dwarves don't possess any magic but you, Uldini, should be able to manage whatever it is he's supposed to do in a day' The Arch Wizard pulled a face. 'I hate spiders and now I feel I'm being used'. Falk responded calmly, 'it's time you made yourself useful'. The verbal combat showed to Ahren that the informative part of the discussion was now over and he began to think over what he had just heard. The Knight Marshes, a voyage on a ship and visiting the Silver Cliff. It all sounded incredibly exciting and would ease the pain of leaving the elf forest. He looked over at Jelninolan and a wave of pity came over him. She would have to leave the community of elves for a long time. Ahren was beginning to feel what this meant for an elf creature. He leaned over to her and whispered, 'maybe you could come later to some agreed meeting point after we've found the dwarf. You and Uldini could talk to each other using magic'. She smiled at him and said, 'that's very nice of you but it really is time that I moved away again so as not to lose my connection to the outside world. We have a tendency to withdraw too much. Anyway, I have no intention of letting you out of my sight until you've been named. Too many enemies are after you, and you're going to need all the help you can get'. Grateful for her support, he settled down to breakfast, all the time listening to the playful conversation between his master and the Arch Wizard. When he was finally finished eating, his master looked at him with eyebrows raised. 'We'll be leaving tomorrow morning at the crack of dawn, which means that you have the rest of the day to continue with your disrupted training', he said firmly. Ahren nodded guiltily, then took his bow and Windblade in his hand and went out to look for a quiet place to practise. The day flew by. The quiet atmosphere in the forest and the familiar activity gave Ahren time to think and mull over the events of the previous days. Falk came by from time to time and gave him new tasks or asked him a complicated question at difficult moments in the training. Jelninolan provided him with company too, and tested his knowledge of the plants and animals in the forest. Above all, he enjoyed Uldini's visit. The Arch Wizard entertained him with anecdotes about the Sun Emperor's court. Late in the afternoon his master gave him climbing exercises to complete until finally, shattered and exhausted but nonetheless content, the apprentice made his way back to the guest lodgings. A hearty stew was on the table and Ahren helped himself. Then he curled up under his blanket, relaxed his exhausted muscles and dozed off to the sound of his companions' quiet conversation. The day had almost been the same as in his earlier existence in the forest cabin, and as he drifted off, he thought of the wonders and adventures that awaited him and a smile spread across his face. The three others looked over at the sleeping youth and Jelninolan said, 'he's come a long way in a short time. How long have you been training him now, two years?' Falk nodded proudly. 'I'm glad we can give him a little breather now'. Uldini chuckled quietly. 'Breather? We're going to travel through a kingdom full of feuds, go on a voyage half the the length of the eastern coast, and then we have to help a dwarf on his lonely watch. What could possibly go wrong?'

(13th Paladin 5) The Isles of the Cutlass Sea

Torsten Weitze

Chapter 1

Ahren was happy. The realisation hit him like a thunderbolt and made him laugh out loud. It was a rainy morning in the jungle, and his loyal wolf, his soul animal Culhen, reacted to the sudden outburst of joy by giving the apprentice a tired sideways glance, before the animal's yellow eyes scanned the surrounding scenery with deliberate slowness. I understand. You are in love. No need to attract the attention of every living creature for miles around, communicated his irritated friend, using their special thought connection. Ahren said nothing. Still grinning, he imitated his friend and examined the scene around them. They had been following the little river that their companions had travelled down towards the coast, and into which Khara, the girl of his dreams, had pushed him at the behest of his master, before the others had carried on, leaving apprentice and wolf to travel the rest of the way on foot and alone. She really seems to like you, commented Culhen sarcastically, but Ahren ignored him and continued to battle his way through the thick greenery that surrounded them. Passing through the Southern Jungles was a constant torture, every step a battle with creeping vines and tendrils, not to mention wild, straggly undergrowth. As if that wasn't enough, the jungles were teeming with predatory animals, poisonous snakes, bloodsucking insects, and an array of Dark Ones that the Adversary had forced under his control. All in all, not the surroundings in which a master should have left his protégé to fend for himself. Ahren suppressed another laugh when he saw Culhen's severe stare. The reason why Falk was allowing him to walk to the coast was because Ahren had come to the end of his apprenticeship and was soon to become a fully-fledged Forest Guardian at last! He was now in the middle of his Long Week – the final exam, in which a Forest Guardian had to survive a week in the wilderness armed only with a dagger, a bow, and three arrows. The exam normally took place in a considerably less hostile environment, yet Ahren's career was anything but normal. He was a Paladin, a champion of the THREE, predestined to defend the world Jorath against HIM, WHO FORCES. This mission did come with certain advantages, which were currently standing him in good stead. One of them was the white wolf beside him, almost two paces tall, a steadfast friend who had saved his life already on more than one occasion. Another advantage was the blessing of the elf goddess. SHE, WHO FEELS, which ensured that Ahren could travel through the wilderness untouched by the plants and animals, so long as he did them no harm. Which meant that this exam was more of a laborious walk than anything else. Following Ahren's unexpected shove into the water, Falk had assured him that the elf Jelninolan had espied no Dark Ones in the area, so that the apprentice's final test was little more than a formality. And anyway, Culhen was now a skilled hunting wolf, and Ahren was well on the way to becoming a master marksman. They had caught a succulent wild boar the first day, which meant Ahren had enough food to keep them going until the coast. The river they were following provided them with drinking water, and Culhen's sensitive nose and ears ensured that nobody would creep up on them unnoticed. This explained his four-footed friend's crankiness. He had to do the hard work, concentrating fully on their surroundings, whereas Ahren's only job was to find a walkable route along the riverbank. Whenever he encountered impassable tendrils or thorny bushes, he would swim for a little downriver until the undergrowth became negotiable again. 'Thank you for looking after me so well,' said Ahren quietly, tickling Culhen between the ears. The wolf lowered his head to make it easier for the apprentice, and the young man found himself grinning once again. 'I'm really glad that you've stopped growing at last. Thankfully, we can still fit you into a stall if necessary,' murmured Ahren affectionately. The wolf had grown slowly but surely during their whole journey across Jorath, and they had been forced to disguise him as a pony so that he would remain inconspicuous. Now the disguise magic would presumably present him as a charger, considering the size he was now. Culhen snorted dismissively. Those disgusting stables are not for me, he said brusquely. The wolf had hated travelling as a pony, his vanity leading him to see an overnight stay in the hay as an affront. 'What would Selsena have to say regarding your views on stables?' said Ahren out loud, winking mischievously at his friend. Culhen flinched. He had developed a deep respect for Falk's soul animal, and a care-free friendship now existed between the wolf and the Titejunanwa. No need to say anything about that, responded the animal defensively. We don't want to upset Selsi now, do we? Ahren smiled again and tousled the wolf's fur. 'Don't worry, it will be our secret,' he said conspiratorially. Suddenly Culhen sneezed. Ahren grimaced, his face now speckled with wolf-snot. Excuse me, said his friend hastily, you have something on your hand that tickled my nose. Culhen sneezed again, and the apprentice quickly retreated a step. 'I pushed aside a shrub with sharp-smelling fruit earlier,' he said, wiping his left arm, which had become stained. 'It seems to be a southern variety of Sneeze Fern.' Seems to be, replied Culhen and sneezed so violently he shook all over. Ahren stepped to the river and began to wash his face and arm thoroughly. His eyes were attracted to a shallow part of the water, near the bank, where the surface was smooth and calm. The mirror image that looked back at him seemed to belong to a stranger. Frazzled, nut-brown hair fell over the forehead and neck of the young man looking back at him with earnest green eyes. Ahren had been cutting his own hair with a knife for many moons now, anytime it blocked his view, and without much regard for aesthetics. A short, thick reddish-brown beard reminded him that it was time for a shave, something that was becoming an ever more frequent occurrence and that he found most annoying. His broad shoulders and muscular torso were protected by Elven ribbon armour, whose eponymous leather straps he had been forced to adjust several times so that the armour would continue to fit him. Not for the first time, he marvelled at Jelninolan's foresight in giving him armour that adapted to his growth spurts. Ahren absently drew his hands through the river water, shattering his mirror image. It seems we're both fully-grown now, said Culhen feelingly. The prospective Forest Guardian nodded silently and stood up without looking at the wolf. 'Enough dawdling,' he said aloud. 'We need to keep going. After all, the others are waiting for us.' Especially a certain swordswoman, teased Culhen. Ahren immediately remembered that moment – just before she had pushed him overboard – the moment when Khara had kissed him. He sighed. Oh no, he's off again, said Culhen, retreating from the daydreaming apprentice's head. This week is proving very, very long – for me, at any rate, grumbled the animal, returning to his task of looking out for danger in the surrounding jungle. Two further days of walking and sweating passed by without incident for the unlikely duo. Ahren was increasingly using the river as a shortcut instead of searching out a way on land, for with every breath, his longing to see Khara was increasing, and so was his impatience. His arm and chest muscles ached in the evenings from the amount of swimming they did, and he kept having to grease his leather armour to prevent the material from becoming chapped and brittle, or even from beginning to rot. Culhen sniffed at the jar with the leather-grease, which Ahren was just putting away. Not much left. You should cut down on the swimming until we meet up with the others again. Ahren nodded thoughtfully. 'You're right. Even if it means we'll be slower.' You will be slower. I have been reining in my speed the whole time, said Culhen haughtily. Ahren extinguished his tiny campfire and snuggled into the wolf's soft fur instead of replying. It didn't get much cooler during the night, and he sweated out of every pore while he slept, but at least he was comfortable. The vain Culhen would wash himself during the morning anyway, so what harm was it if he woke up bathed in the apprentice's sweat? That's very considerate of you – thank you so much, grumbled Culhen in reaction. Nevertheless, he turned his head a little to the side so that Ahren could snuggle in better. The young man looked silently out into the jungle night, observing the soft moonlight, seeming to float slowly along the river while also creating playful patterns through the canopy of leaves and onto the jungle undergrowth. In the distance, monkeys were screaming, birds were squawking, and predatory animals were roaring, as if in wild competition with each other, and the apprentice couldn't remember anymore what it was like to fall asleep without the nightly cacophony of sounds. He no longer found the noisy exuberance of life surrounding him to be bothersome but drew deep contentment from it. It was his job, as Paladin, to protect this world and her creatures; listening to them living their normal lives around him was rewarding to him. Wake up, Ahren! Culhen's voice in his head had none of the playful or biting tone that his friend so often used. Ahren was awake in an instant. His pulse rate shot up dramatically and his hand automatically reached for Wind Blade – which wasn't there, of course, but was waiting for him in the safe keeping of his companions. He suppressed a curse and peered into the darkness. The moon was low, its light presenting little more than shadowy outlines. What's wrong? he mentally asked the wolf, drawing his dagger as he spoke. His bow and arrows would be useless in this darkness unless they were being attacked by something as big as a Glower Bear. There's something out there. The animals are all silent, reported Culhen tensely. The wolf's ears pricked up nervously. The animal lifted his nose up into the air. Whatever the thing is, we're still too far away to pick up its scent. That was a crumb of comfort, anyway. Culhen's nose was extremely sensitive. If he didn't catch the creature's scent yet, it couldn't be too near. The apprentice chewed his lip thoughtfully. Marching at night-time was dangerous – even in daylight it was difficult to find a way without getting tangled up in creepers or stumbling over low bushes. And night ruled out using the river too. Without light, Ahren couldn't make out if anything was swimming underwater towards him. The memory of the Pallid Crocodiles was still fresh in his mind, and the last thing he wanted to do was to meet one of those nocturnal monsters in the water. Even seeking out safety up a tree seemed pointless, if not dangerous. A Fog Panther could rip him limb from limb in the branches effortlessly. Ahren uttered another silent curse. Suggestions? he asked. Culhen had been following his line of thinking without commenting. The wolf looked intently into the night. Flight is pointless, so I suggest we wait until sunrise and stay quiet and inconspicuous. If the worst comes to the worst, I alone will initially attack whatever it is that's wandering through the jungle, and when the moment is right, you join in with your dagger, said the animal stoically. Ahren nodded hesitantly and unhappily, holding his weapon at the ready in his left hand, with the blade pointing down. He hunkered on the ground to avoid attention, and after some moments, Culhen did the same. Ahren reckoned it would be two more hourglasses before the sun rose, so he prepared for a period of nervous anticipation. As he crouched in the darkness and hoped that whatever it was wouldn't detect them, he wished even more for the presence of his friends – and not only Khara, whom he missed more than he could say. A glow charm from the Arch Wizard Uldini or calming words from his master, Falk, would be more than welcome at this moment. Not to mention Selsena's gift for sensing the emotions of other creatures, or the dwarf Trogadon's mighty hammer. With a hand on Culhen's neck, the wolf having lain down beside him, Ahren looked out into the mysteriously silent jungle and wished from the bottom of his heart that the animals would take up their nightly noises again, thereby announcing that the danger had passed. When dawn broke, Ahren's nerves were on edge. Only his experience in dealing with dangerous situations enabled him to remain relatively calm. The jungle animals were still mute, and this made the prospective Forest Guardian even more uneasy. What could be so dangerous that it silenced a whole tract of land? And why hadn't it appeared yet? Do we really have to find out the answers? asked Culhen anxiously, lifting his head demonstratively towards the rising sun, whose first rays were hitting the surface of the river. Ahren reacted to the sunlight by standing up and creeping as quietly as possible through the undergrowth along the river, every step bringing him a little closer to his friends and safety. Can you sense from which direction the danger is coming? he asked Culhen nervously for at least the eighth time since the wolf had awakened him. Ahren sensed the negative response in his head and supressed a discontented grunt. Still no scent and no further clues. They saw and heard nothing, so Ahren was left with no other choice but to move slowly along the river with an invisible enemy on his heels that held all the aces. The day seemed to stretch out unnaturally, while Ahren performed every trick that Falk had taught him to shake off Dark Ones. He covered his tracks by leaving Sneeze Fern in his wake, moving as quietly as he could, and taking no breaks as he attempted to travel the maximum distance before the sun set again. The sweat streamed down his back, and time and again he glanced longingly over at the inviting river, but he didn't dare climb into its flowing current. He would be far too visible to all sorts of creatures that might be in the vicinity of the river. Anyway, the thought had crossed his mind that the unknown creature might be hiding in the river and was only waiting for the apprentice to make the mistake of slipping into the cooling water. So, he gritted his teeth and marched onwards with Culhen by his side, who moved as silently as his human friend. Ahren advanced grimly, with a mixture of heightened concentration and barely contained fear. Part of his mind was telling him that Falk would be incredibly proud of the fact that his protégé was not being overwhelmed by his fears at this dangerous moment. The sun was already low in the sky when Ahren at last heard the first jungle sounds returning. The animals seemed confident enough now to abandon their precautionary silence, and for a moment the apprentice felt a wave of relief. But then he recognised from which direction the sounds were coming. He stood stock still and exchanged an anxious look with Culhen. The wolf answered before the apprentice had even asked the question. You're not mishearing things – the jungle behind us has come back to life. In front of us there is only silence. Whatever is hunting us has moved ahead of us, said Culhen darkly. Ahren gritted his teeth and forced himself to remain calm while he watched the sun moving inexorably down towards the horizon. We will rest here, he finally decided. If there is an attack during the night, we need to have rested, and if our enemy is awaiting us, then I would rather a confrontation at dawn. Culhen radiated his agreement, and Ahren curled up, his back against a large rock, his legs positioned so that he could launch himself forward from the stone should he need to. He closed his eyes, his dagger in his hand, and forced himself to sleep the necessary few hours while Culhen kept first watch. The night was long and full of uncertainty, but it passed without any attack from the unknown creature. Ahren stood on the riverbank, somewhat bemused, and followed the current with his eyes, as if through sheer willpower he might ascertain what it was that was lying in wait and cutting him off from his friends. Something had deliberately moved into position between him and the coast and seemed to be waiting for him. 'What do you think, big lad?' asked Ahren aloud. 'Should we try to go around the creature, or challenge it?' I don't think we have a choice, replied Culhen stoically. It must be moving faster than us considering it overtook us yesterday. Ahren frowned. 'I did creep slowly, though. We could try picking up speed and see if we prove faster than whatever is that's lying in wait for us.' Culhen growled quietly and looked Ahren straight in the eye. That might have worked yesterday. Now the enemy is in front of us, he countered. Ahren sighed and looked downstream again. 'What are the chances of there being a few friendly jungle dwellers, planning a farewell banquet for the young Paladin who saved their goddess?' The apprentice was referring to the recent events where he and his friends had awakened the sleeping Paladin, Sunju, from her magic slumber and helped her to hatch a roc egg. Needless to say, their task had been anything but easy, but in the end they had been able to help the woman from Kelkor – much to the joy of the tribe that had been praying to her as a goddess over many years. I wouldn't bet on a festive feast in your honour, answered Culhen drily to Ahren's wishful thinking. Rather, on a grisly banquet – with you as the first course. 'At least I'll be able to use my bow during daylight,' said Ahren, reassuring himself as he searched out a passable route through the jungle, towards this ominous presence that was robbing the native animals of their voices. You have only three arrows, remember, warned the wolf. 'Then they will have to do.' It was noon when Culhen lifted his nose upwind and Ahren stood stock still, even before the wolf spoke: I can smell something. It's enormous and right in front of us. Ahren was feeling queasy but he still pulled himself together. They were alone here – nobody could rush to their aid. If he didn't keep a cool head, the battle would be lost before it had even begun. He lowered himself down onto his stomach and crawled to the riverbank so that he could look downstream. How far away? asked Ahren, unable to identify anything. The air seemed to be shimmering in the bright light of the sun, which had reached its zenith directly above them, and the whole jungle seemed to be caught up in a myriad of counter-movements. Ahren recognised this phenomenon from the Nameless Desert, where the heat often created optical illusions in the distance, but he was surprised to see it here in the jungle, surrounded by thick bushes. It's very near us, said Culhen uneasily. Everywhere before us. The wolf moved his head from left to right. Ahren was aghast. They had been assuming it would be only one creature, but this sounded like a whole group – a pack. He peered downstream again, this time not looking out for only one being, but for many small ones. Could it be a horde of Low Fangs? he asked cautiously. The misshapen servants of the dark god were prevalent all over Jorath, having originally been humans who had come under the control of the Adversary's iron will. No, said Culhen decisively. I know their scent. The wolf hesitated. The smell that I'm picking up in the air seems familiar to me, but it's too intense for me to identify. Ahren shook his head indecisively. Let's creep a little bit closer. Maybe I'll recognise something as soon as the sun stops playing tricks with my sight. They carefully made their way down along the river, Ahren keeping his eyes peeled on his surroundings. Yet, even as they approached whatever it was, the sun's glimmering effect continued to create a picture of a dancing green jungle. The apprentice simply couldn't make out what it was as they manoeuvred their way another hundred paces towards the phenomenon. Then the young Paladin saw something falling from the branch of a tree into the water, before being carried downriver. He recognised the outlines of the creature immediately. 'Needle Spiders!' he gasped. 'Thousands of Needle Spiders! They're everywhere. On the trees, in the bushes, I think even the ground is covered in them.' Ahren suppressed a desire to throw up at the thought of such an army of those aggressive, palm-sized spiders with their enormous barbs on their backs, and their circular mouths in their stomachs. Their poison was lethal, Ahren having barely survived two previous confrontations with these monsters. Yet now in front of them was a veritable horde of the horror-creatures! Ahren went down on his hunkers and shook his head in disbelief. How was he going to fight his way through this? He only had three arrows, but even three dozen quivers full of arrows would have been of little use in this situation. He tried to regain control over his trembling hands and looked helplessly into the trusting eyes of his sad wolf. I'm afraid I'm of no help to you, said the wolf morosely. My Animal Blessing protects me against the poison, but I don't know whether the magic will work if I'm stung by hundreds of spiders. Ahren took a deep breath and tried to find at least a modicum of inner calm. It was at times like these that he wished he was able to achieve the Void again, that meditative state which enabled him to free his mind from all doubts and fears. But his mental connection with Culhen was too deep and strong, and the wolf would inadvertently distract him before he could achieve the desired mental equanimity. It had only been a few weeks previously that he had finally learned how to fully absorb the wolf's sensory impressions in a controlled manner. Hardly had this thought struck him when he permitted Culhen's senses to complement his own. An impregnable cloud immediately appeared before his eyes, stretching two hundred paces away from either side of the riverbank. His human understanding transformed the animal's sense of smell into pictorial form, and now he recognised the true extent of the spider army. The arachnids presented a blockade of teeming bodies, a living border, preventing Ahren from reaching the coast of the Cutlass Sea and his friends who were awaiting him at the mouth of the river. Another shiver ran down the young man's back as he considered the prospect of having to confront the Needle Spiders, with their thick, hairy legs and headless bodies. There was hardly a Dark One that made him feel more nauseous than these devious little monsters. It was as if someone had constructed a wall out of his greatest fears to prevent him from achieving his goal. Maybe somebody did that deliberately, interjected Culhen, causing Ahren to look away from the spiders and concentrate instead on the wolf's golden eyes. 'Uldini says that Needle Spiders were only minimally altered by the Adversary and that they cannot be directly controlled,' countered Ahren. 'Which was why Jelninolan didn't recognise them when she used her magic against Dark Ones. Culhen gave a quiet bark – a sort of shrugging of the shoulders. It seems as if they were directed to this place. What did Uldini call it that time in Evergreen, when you found one of the spiders in your boot, where it had positioned itself at the behest of a Doppler? 'An Insinuation,' said Ahren thoughtfully. An Insinuation was a magic, subtle impulse which encouraged a creature to reach a particular decision suggested by the insinuator. If you turned left instead of right at a road junction because the spell-bearer wanted you to, then that was an Insinuation. However, Ahren had never realised before that this sort of magic could be so powerful. It must depend on who – or rather what – utters the spell, said Culhen, and the image of a haggard figure, shrouded in tattered clothing appeared in Ahren's mind – the same figure in which HE, WHO FORCES had hunted him down at the time of his Naming. It was only the goblin Tlik's self-sacrifice that had prevented Ahren from taking his own life while in the depths of despair. The apprentice had been trying desperately to avoid falling under the control of the dark god, who then as before, was sleeping his enforced sleep in the Pall Pillar. If the Adversary had really transmitted the impulse to the spiders, insinuating them into blocking the young man's path, then thousands must have come under his magic spell. And there would surely be more. 'We have to get through – and now,' said Ahren decisively, forcing himself to look more closely at the mass of insectoid bodies. They didn't seem to be concentrating on him or Culhen at all, but were behaving perfectly naturally – that is, apart from their choice of location. 'Do you think you can run around them?' he asked Culhen doubtfully. If I don't have to be worrying about you, then of course I'm faster than these little jumping devils, said Culhen scornfully. Ahren sensed a certain nervousness behind the wolf's bragging words so he stroked his loyal friend's fur. 'Then we'll keep the plan short and simple. You run around the outside, I'll dive underwater,' said Ahren firmly. 'The current will help me get past this living blockade by swimming under the surface. If everything goes well, this horror will be over in thirty heartbeats.' It was clear to Ahren that he was trying to convince himself with his words rather than the wolf. Makes sense, said Culhen, commenting on the apprentice's suggestion before licking his friend's cheek with his slobbery tongue. Be careful. Ahren quickly wiped his face with his sleeve, and no sooner was he finished than Culhen began to move through the jungle with breath-taking speed. The wolf leaped playfully over obstacles a pace high and used every gap in the undergrowth to his advantage. Only now did Ahren realise how well his companion had adapted himself to their new environment, and not for the first time was he astounded by the speed and ease with which Culhen learned to deal with new challenges. Less admiring, more swimming, chided the animal in a humorous tone, causing Ahren to smile as he slipped into the water. The wolf's self-confidence was infectious, and the apprentice was surprised at his own lack of fear, considering he was about to dive under a swarm of highly dangerous Needle Spiders. Presumably, he was becoming more hardened when faced with life-threatening situations. Either that or he was losing his mind. Ahren floated into the middle of the river, which was eight paces across at this point, and ducked his head under the water to test it out. The view was surprisingly clear. The water flowed quickly but without too much turbulence over the flat riverbed. The powerful rays of sunlight contributed to the clarity so that Ahren could see a few paces in every direction. Ahren reckoned the water's depth at roughly one and a half paces. Not as much distance to the spiders as he would have wished, but sufficient for him to carry out his plan. He lifted his head up again, pulled up his feet and allowed himself to float two dozen paces closer to the Needle Spiders. He wanted to get as close as possible to the army of scrabbling little bodies before filling his lungs with air and diving down, not knowing how far downriver the spider-infested area stretched. The last thing he wanted was to come up for air amid the poisonous animals with their long barbs and greedy maws. He shook his head and pulled himself together to banish the horrific vision. Thanks for the detailed picture in my head, said Culhen, who was already far enough away for their connection to have weakened. Something like that is always of great benefit when one is trying to concentrate. Ahren briefly broadened his perception and saw through the wolf's eyes how the animal was hurrying around the spiders in a wide arc. He noticed subtle changes in the teeming band of arachnids. Are they trying to block off your path? asked Ahren in disbelief. Not exactly, responded Culhen. But it seems that they're more aggressive than normal and are reacting to any living creature in their vicinity. I've just passed by a pile of dead animals. Not a pleasant sight. Ahren briefly saw a snippet from Culhen's memory: bloated, twisted wild boar, tigers and monkeys, all of whom had fallen victim to the spider poison. I think we're quits now, said the apprentice nauseous at the images, quickly withdrawing from the wolf's memory as a new wave of anxiety threatened to unnerve him. Culhen transmitted an apology, and the pair silently broke off their connection to concentrate on their own individual task. Ahren floated downriver towards the Dark Ones, watching their little hairy bodies critically. As soon as he could make out a change in their behaviour, he would begin his diving manoeuvre. He breathed in slowly and deeply, preparing his body for the extended test of strength that awaited him and hoping that his swimming skills would be sufficient to last the pace. He thought of the jungle tribe they had encountered, with their excellent swimmers who cultivated the algae on their riverbed day in, day out. Now he wished that he and Khara hadn't got involved in a fight with some of them. It would have been so much better had they all sat around a friendly campfire, eating and singing and exchanging diving tips. While he was still immersed in his daydream – where everyone parted on good terms – there was a movement among the spider swarm. Although the bulbous creatures had no heads, it seemed to Ahren as though all the little monsters were turning towards him and observing him intently. When the first ones began moving closer to the riverbank, scrabbling along the low-hanging branches that extended over the water, Ahren decided it was past time to pay a nice long visit to the riverbed. He took a final deep breath and dived down, before propelling himself along the bottom with powerful strokes. He concentrated on maintaining an even, controlled rhythm so that he wouldn't run out of breath too quickly and he allowed the current to play its part, sweeping him along beneath the thousand poisonous barbs and mouths that lurked above him. Now and again he would glance up towards the surface, but apart from the blurry movements of little brown bodies, he could make little out against the blazing sunlight. He reckoned he had travelled fifty paces already and he still only felt a slight burning in his lungs. Ahren believed he could travel the same distance again before he would run out of air, and so he relaxed a little. Stroke by stroke he slid along downriver, certain that he had escaped the spiders, for there would have to have been thousands and thousands to make up a wall of Needle Spiders five furlongs across and more than one hundred paces downriver. He was just imagining how he would regale the others with his adventure when something fell into the water beside him. At first, Ahren though it was a small branch or a large leaf, but then he saw to his horror that it was a Needle Spider! The little creature was pulled away by the current, but the apprentice was certain that the spider's sting had stretched towards him for a fraction of a heartbeat. Had the animal fallen into the water by mistake or had it jumped in deliberately, willing to die in the hope of stinging him? Ahren's heart was racing now, and the oxygen in his lungs was running low. He knew he had to stay calm, but already three more of the Dark Ones were plopping into the water, one directly in front of his nose. Ahren saw the blurry image of the creature's mouth, reflexively snapping open and shut in front of him before being swept away. He paused for a moment on the riverbed, suppressing an urge to retch and shiver uncontrollably. A good dozen of the poisonous Dark Ones now fell around him into the river, so the apprentice decided to sacrifice all self-control in favour of achieving maximum speed. He swam as fast as he could, his strokes thrusting him forward violently. His head moved wildly from side to side as he desperately tried to evade the Needle Spiders jumping into the river with increasing regularity. It was true that they drowned within heartbeats, but during their last living moments they made every effort to either sting or bite him. His attackers were falling in their droves from the trees into the river, seeking out his bare flesh with rabid intensity. Ahren performed every swim-stroke with similar ferocity, trying to free himself from this madness while his breath escaped from his lungs. The blood was pounding in his head, his peripheral vision was narrowing, and it became clear to him that he was running out of time. The Needle Spiders were splashing into the water around him like a poisonous hail shower, and the river was already carrying over a hundred drowned arachnids downstream. The tension within him wanted to transform itself into a scream, but a part of Ahren's reason told him that doing that would be his end. The thought of taking a breath was like a siren's song calling him upwards, and it would not be long before the call from the surface would be irresistible. Surrounded by dying Needle Spiders, who were dedicating their final moments to the goal of sealing his fate, he reached a decision – rather than surface uncontrollably, he would do so immediately and on his own terms. Wildly and with full force he launched himself from the riverbed into the air, greedily sucking in air and quickly scanning the scene. The Needle Spiders were everywhere, a sea of scurrying bodies on every branch, hopping from tree to tree to keep up with him, only to throw themselves into the river when they saw their opportunity. Ahren could hardly believe his eyes and immediately dived back underwater although his body was aching for more air. It was clear to him that he could not remain much longer near the relative safety of the riverbed before he would need to take another breath. Confused and desperate, he tried to understand what was going on. Here was no Insinuation. This was sheer, unadulterated, murderous control of an enormous Needle Spider swarm! Ahren's thoughts were spinning chaotically in his mind like the disgusting creatures around him, who were throwing themselves, careless of their own well-being, into the powerful river as they sought to bring about his death. He pressed down close to the riverbed to create as much distance between himself and the still-living creatures that time after time plummeted into the current. In a panic, he thought of his next resurfacing and the mortal danger it entailed. His lungs were already screaming for more oxygen, and Ahren was left with no choice but to repeat his manoeuvre. He waited until there seemed to be fewer Needle Spiders above the surface and then he launched himself upwards again. As his head broke through the water, he felt something landing in his hair. Flailing wildly, he attempted to shake off the spider before it could sting or bite him. He could hear spiders raining onto his back-armour, and then the sound of teeth and stings boring into the wet leather. Both riverbanks seemed to be teeming with Needle Spiders, and so terrified was he that he almost forgot to breathe in. He quickly took in a lungful of air and immediately dived back into the life-saving river. Just before the water closed in over his head, the apprentice saw a shadowy figure breaking forth from the mass of Dark Ones – a Needle Spider the size of Ahren's forearm! He quickly sank down to the riverbed and allowed himself to be pulled downriver by the current, maximising the time he could spend underwater by reducing his physical efforts to the minimum. The Needle Spiders were washed off his back-armour, and once his initial fear had subsided, Ahren realised that he was safest down here. None of the spiders could dive down to the riverbed to hurt him – their slight weight ensured that the current carried them away as they drowned. Yet it was clear to him that sooner or later they would catch him during one of his ascents for air. Furthermore, he was also certain that he now knew what was behind their self-destructive attitude. The giant Needle Spider he had spotted had on its enormous hairy body a pair of red-glimmering eyes. Whatever the creature was, the young Paladin was convinced that it was controlling the actions of the swarm. The apprentice's new-found knowledge transformed his helplessness into a thirst for action. This was his Long Week, his final exam before being recognised as a fully-fledged Forest Guardian. And Forest Guardians killed Dark Ones. He couldn't possibly counter thousands of Needle Spiders, but this particular one he could finish off – after all, he did have three arrows. He pulled his bow from his shoulder and placed an arrow in position. This familiar manoeuvre, normally so easy for him, proved awkward underwater and cost him valuable time. He was running out of air again, but if he was going to have to resurface, he at least wanted to try and hit this creature that had set its smaller fellow-arachnids on him. He drew his legs under his body, searched out the giveaway brown mark on the bank with a look, then launched himself up with full force from the riverbed, this time intending not only to raise his head above water, but also to soar further upwards in an attempt to free himself from the current's grip so he could aim better. Ahren exploded from the flowing water in a fountain of glistening waterdrops, extended his bow and let an arrow fly towards the monstrous ringleader. The missile's wet feathers destabilised its trajectory, but the journey was short, and it landed in the middle of the beast's bulbous body. The creature hissed furiously in response and doubled up instinctively. All the other Needle Spiders froze on the trees when they heard the Dark One's cry of pain; it seemed as if the swarm had been shocked into a heartbeat of paralysis. Ahren seized the opportunity even before realising it. Instinct rather than rational thought led him to reach for another arrow as he trod water, setting it as he gasped for air, before sending it on its deadly journey into the oversized arachnid, which now rolled itself into a ball, jerking wildly. The apprentice knew death throes when he saw them, and with a wild grin on his face, he sank back underwater just as the first members of the swarm began to move again. Satisfied, Ahren sank to the riverbed and bided his time as the slow-moving current carried him downriver. The large creature was mortally wounded, and he just needed to wait until it expired, at which point the swarm would dissipate. At least that was what he hoped. He was just considering what might happen if the large spider wasn't responsible for the actions of its smaller comrades when a shadow appeared above him. Ahren turned around on his back to get a better look and couldn't help but gasp in surprise, causing him to swallow water. The enormous Needle Spider must have fought its way to the riverbank and was now replicating the actions of its fellow spiders. Already the body of the creature, half a pace in width, was fighting its way down towards him with its hairy legs flailing wildly, its sting, an arm in length, ready to stab from its back. Ahren had no time to plan his defence and so he thrashed the creature aside with the bow he still held in his hand. The spider spun away, its large mouth on its stomach still snapping in the young man's direction. Growling furiously, Ahren pulled out his last arrow and slammed it into the circular toothy orifice. Down where his dagger would have brought his arm too close to the creature's jaws, the long wooden missile with its metal tip did its work. Driven by Ahren's muscular arm deep into the creature's body, the arrow ended the unholy life of the murderous spider, which was finally taken away by the current. A glance at the surface gave Ahren grounds for hope, for it seemed the Dark Ones had ceased plunging into the water. Having supressed his breath-reflex for long enough, he shot up to the surface, coughing and gasping for air as he looked around anxiously. His surroundings were still full of scurrying spiders, but they seemed to be moving aimlessly and to have lost their aggression, their main concern being to avoid their fellows. Needle Spiders were solitary creatures, and what Ahren was now seeing, as he painfully regained his breath, confirmed his suspicions – that the King Spider had exerted control on the smaller representatives of its species. Totally exhausted, Ahren allowed himself to float on his back down the cool river, enjoying the warmth of the sun on his face. The jungle suddenly seemed more colourful and more full of life than ever before, his heart seeming to be bursting with joy as his nose enjoyed the multitude of smells that the exotic plants and animals were emitting. The apprentice knew all this was a reaction to the terror he had only just experienced, but that didn't bother him. He had faced a terrible danger all on his own and survived it. He grinned again, but this time there was no Dark One to wipe the smile from his face. He floated downriver, contented with himself and the world, and if anybody had been listening to him, they would have heard a satisfied humming coming from the Paladin's throat and nose, intermingling with the sounds of the jungle. When Culhen caught up with his friend again, the young man was still swimming downriver. Ahren's satisfaction had diminished slowly as it became clear to him that there would still be many Needle Spiders scrabbling along the riverbank, making landfall highly dangerous. It was true that with every passing furlong their number was diminishing, many of them heading off into the jungle, but for so long as Ahren could see even one of them, he was better off staying in the water. He had never thought it would be possible to get cold in the jungle but having spent most of the day in the river, he had cooled down considerably. Furthermore, his arms and legs were heavy through effort, but as the current was too slow for the progress he needed to make, he was forced to swim on, despite his exhaustion, in order to be out of the water by nightfall at the latest. He had no arrows anymore, merely a damaged bow and a dagger. Being so ill-equipped, he really didn't want to splash his way downriver through the Southern Jungles after sunset. You seem to have been in the wars, commented the wolf, seeing his friend's condition. 'Be careful, there are still spiders everywhere,' said Ahren irritably. I'll be fine. I'm being careful where I step, and I still have my Animal Blessing, said Culhen, reassuring the young Paladin. 'Hopefully, the little beasts will disappear soon,' complained Ahren impatiently. 'I really want to get out of this water.' If you've had enough of water, then I'm sorry to disappoint you, said Culhen teasingly. I can smell sea salt in the air already. The white-haired wolf lifted his nose in the air and sniffed the air demonstratively. Ahren immediately livened up at the news and tried to catch the smell himself. But it was only when he used Culhen's nose that he was able to catch the characteristic salty tang which indicated their close proximity to the coast. 'How far is it now? What do you reckon?' he asked cheerfully as he began to increase his tempo, in spite of being physically exhausted. Yet the thought of seeing Khara and the others gave him new strength. No more than a mile, I'd say. I have a very good nose, you know, came the answer. Ahren rolled his eyes and silently continued swimming. Culhen's vanity was as bad as ever and was constantly reinforced by his unshakeable self-confidence, leading Ahren to believe that this characteristic would always remain a fixed element in the wolf's personality. The animal snorted. And I thought you loved me just the way I am, he sulked teasingly. 'You, yes, but your ego I'm not so sure about,' countered Ahren, snorting too. Then he switched to communicating with the wolf mentally in order to avoid accidentally swallowing water. I'm going to concentrate on swimming now. Let me know when all the spiders have disappeared. Culhen communicated his assent, and for the first time in hours, Ahren allowed himself to forget about the riverbanks left and right. The sun was slowly setting in the west, and its rays were shining obliquely on his back now, which meant he wasn't being blinded anymore. The jungle was a symphony of living sounds, and the river seemed to be deliberately assisting him in his quest to reach his friends, the current gradually increasing in strength. Culhen ran onwards, barking all the while – the wolf too seemed to be delighted at the prospect of seeing their companions again. It's not far now, he communicated to Ahren, but the apprentice sensed that the animal was blocking off some of his mind from him. There was something that he didn't want the young Paladin to see – but what was it? Before Ahren could investigate Culhen's thoughts any further, he heard a thunderous roar approaching and realised far too late that it was the sound of a waterfall. The racing current now had the exhausted apprentice firmly within its grip, and he could see the brink ahead of him, over which the mass of water was tumbling. Culhen was sitting on the right bank, panting gleefully as he watched his friend. Take a deep breath now! said the wolf, and Ahren sensed the animal's mirth even as he was being swept over the edge of the cliff. 'CUUULHEEEEN!' screamed the apprentice as he fell through a cloud of foam and spray, twenty paces down into the depths. He could barely make out a little lake below and…were those his friends down there? Any further visual examination was pre-empted by his crashing onto the surface of the water and sinking like a rock to the lakebed, where he was spun around like a sycamore seed. He quickly used his feet and legs to push himself up from the bottom, using his last remaining strength to reach the surface, away from the mass of tumbling water. He blinked the water out of his eyes and performed a few energetic strokes, all the while mentally scolding his recalcitrant wolf, who was doubled over with laughter. The apprentice looked up the rockface beside the waterfall, and it wasn't long before he saw Culhen leaping elegantly from rock to rock as he descended beside the foaming water, arriving down at the lake in no time at all. Ahren was showering a mental tirade of curses on the wolf when he heard a voice behind him that he would have recognised anywhere. 'First you nearly fall on my head and then you ignore me?' he heard Khara say. He spun around and looked into the face of the grinning swordswoman, who was treading water not two paces away from him and looking at him teasingly. Ahren was dizzy for a moment and he was certain that he had an idiotic grin on his face, but he really didn't care. She had become even more beautiful over the last week and he began swimming quickly towards her, his eyes locked on hers. Her wet black hair seemed a shimmering shawl flowing down her neck, and her pretty, snub nose was pointing up cheekily. Her dark eyes seemed to express genuine joy as they looked mysteriously into his. There was a smile on her lips, and as he was about to take her in his arms, she placed her hands on his shoulders. He opened his lips expectantly and was leaning in to kiss her when suddenly her eyes opened wide and she pushed him under the water, shoving him away with a scream of disgust. Ahren rose to the surface, coughing and spluttering and with a look of hurt on his face. Khara pointed at his left shoulder. 'There's a dead Needle Spider hanging in your hair,' she called out in a horrified voice. Ahren was momentarily paralysed by fear. Regaining his senses, he quickly pulled his dagger from his belt, and while Khara swam to the shore, he stabbed into his wild, thick mane until he encountered resistance. He quickly cut the cadaver from his hair and started following Khara to the bank, where his friends were waiting for him with Culhen. Thanks for the warning, snarled Ahren through their connection. Both about the waterfall and the spider. Culhen smiled his panting wolf-smile. The waterfall was quicker and safer for you than climbing down the steep, rocky cliff, replied the wolf serenely. And I didn't see the dead spider. You insisted on staying in the river, remember? While he was swimming to the shore, Ahren took a closer look at his surroundings. The little lake served by the waterfall had a broad mouth which opened one hundred paces further into the sea. Now Ahren could smell the salty seawater without any difficulty, he could hear the crashing waves in the distance, and here and there he could make out flashes of golden sand. On either side of the lake, there was still jungle, however, but it was less dense and wild, and the evening sunshine generously lit up its friendly foliage. A campfire, sleeping mats and a little pile of armour suggested that these were the sleeping quarters his friends had put up. They were waiting for him expectantly as he approached. Falk, his master, stretched out his hand to help the apprentice out of the water. The broad-shouldered, grey-haired man with his short beard and serious grey eyes examined his protégé critically as the young man stepped ashore for the first time in hours. 'Did you swim the whole way here, you lazy good-for-nothing?' he growled good-naturedly. 'This was supposed to be your Long Week, not a bathing excursion.' Ahren waved him away before taking his bow, misshapen and swollen, from his shoulder. 'That is a story of some length which I will gladly relate to you all when we sit around the campfire and eat a hearty meal,' he said firmly. 'Listen to him, listen to him!' uttered a sarcastic voice behind Falk's back. 'He is still an apprentice but already he has the pretensions of a master.' The little figure of Uldini pushed past Falk and grinned at the young man challengingly. Anybody who met this slight, short, sharp-tongued person for the first time would be convinced, judging by his boyish looks, that he was no more than ten winters old, and never guess that he was in fact, Uldini Getobo, chief of the Ancients, and therefore the legendary age-old Arch Wizard. His sorcerous genius was so powerful that as a child he had discovered the secret of immortality, and so the ageless Arch Wizard was forever fixed in his boyish body. 'Leave him alone. He needs a warm fire and nourishment,' said a tall, slim elf with red hair, wearing a fascinating silvery-green robe, whose colours seemed to meld into each other. Jelninolan, priestess of HER, WHO FEELS, one of the Ancients and the first Stormweaver in centuries, gave him a friendly smile and gestured to him to follow her. Ahren was about to do so, when suddenly he felt a pair of powerful hands encircling him from behind and he was lifted in an unexpected embrace. He knew the owner of those strong arms that were shaking him through and through, and his conclusion was confirmed when he heard Trogadon's lively, sonorous laughter. 'There I am, off getting firewood, and I miss the arrival of our bold hero,' he bawled out cheerfully, all the while shaking the young man, who was a good half-pace taller than the powerful young dwarf, throwing him about as if he were nothing more than a rag doll. 'Isn't it just great to see you!' said the dwarf cheerfully. 'The feeling is mutual,' gasped Ahren, looking down over his shoulder. Trogadon released him, then spun him around before taking Ahren's forearm in the warrior greeting. 'I missed you,' said the dwarf warmly. "I can well believe that,' said Uldini bitingly. 'When our apprentice was absent, it was you who became the natural butt of our jokes.' 'In your dreams, you miniscule magician. I can still spit down on your head, so you'd better keep your trap shut,' laughed Trogadon. Uldini floated up until he was a half-pace above the ground – his favourite charm when they had to travel. Then he looked demonstratively and superciliously down at the dwarf. 'Just you try it, and you'll spend the rest of your days as a tadpole swimming in this lake here,' he responded, threatening the squat, muscular warrior. The dwarf responded with a guffaw and slapped Ahren on the back with one of his calloused hands. 'Come on, let's make our way to the campfire. I'm sure Khara wants to give you a right welcome.' The dwarf winked lewdly and wiggled his bushy, stone-grey eyebrows, which jutted outwards over his lively, sparkling eyes. The warrior's elaborately braided beard came down in bulky plaits over his barrel-shaped stomach, and together with his salacious grin, Trogadon appeared at this moment more like the filthy-minded uncle on a family holiday than the bearer of a Dwarfish Ancestry Name. Ahren followed the warrior's eyes, and then his heart almost stopped. Khara had taken advantage of the meeting and greeting to gather up her clothing, but she was still only wearing a few tightly bound bands of white Elven material which had served as her swimwear. She smiled over at him from the crackling little campfire where she was kneeling, beside which were the possessions and sleeping mats of the companions. He left the others behind him and strode over to the young swordswoman, who quickly stood up to greet him. She lovingly stroked his bearded chin and examined him keenly. 'You've certainly grown,' she said teasingly, her voice quivering slightly. Ahren's heart was in his mouth – he was even more nervous than during his encounter with the giant Needle Spider. He gently placed his left hand on Khara's neck and leaned in slowly towards her, ready to react to the smallest sign of rejection. It wasn't just that Khara was a master of unarmed close combat, he also wanted to be certain that the normally reserved young woman welcomed this intimacy. Khara looked intensely into his eyes, and it seemed to Ahren that he was being pulled into a deep, joyous vortex, from which he would never escape. 'I missed you,' whispered Khara quietly and then she kissed him urgently and passionately, with the young Paladin responding in kind. Stars exploded in his brain, and even if his life had depended on it, Ahren, completely wrapped up in the moment, could not have repeated the sarcastic jibes that his friends rained down upon them in the following heartbeats. Even Culhen's voice sounded only distant and muffled in his head, and Ahren sensed how the wolf withdrew, surprised and sulky once he had failed in establishing communication with his friend. They finally disengaged from each other, although Ahren casually kept one arm around Khara's waist, as though she were only a fleeting dream that would dissolve once he moved his hand away from her. She smiled at him shyly and blushed a deep red once she saw the smirks on Uldini's, Falk's and Trogadon's faces. She slipped gracefully away from Ahren's arm and disappeared with her armour into the undergrowth. Ahren's instinct was to follow her, but Trogadon held him back with his calloused hand, which he placed in front of Ahren's chest. 'The girl has just kissed you, but that by no means permits you to watch her changing,' the dwarf chortled. Ahren nodded in embarrassment, still reeling from the emotional maelstrom that he found himself in and sat down once he saw Jelninolan looking at him severely. 'Yes, of course,' he stammered. 'I was only…' 'We all know what you were and what you still are,' said the elf sternly. 'But one kiss does not release you from your obligation to be gentlemanly, and if you fail in that regard, I promise you that I will invoke such a storm of wind to fall upon you, that it will be whistling in your ears for weeks thereafter.' Ahren nodded his head vigorously while Falk pressed an aromatic bowl of wild boar stew into his hands. In a sudden moment of wisdom, Ahren decided to concentrate solely on his food in the hope that somehow his agitated mind would settle. Falk sat down beside him, situating himself in a manner whereby Ahren couldn't look towards where Khara had disappeared to. The Forest Guardian held up his protégé's bow in an accusatory manner, pointing at its distorted and swollen wood and asking darkly: 'Is this the way you treat a gift from your master? Is this how I've taught you to handle a bow over the last few years?' All thoughts of Khara's soft lips were banished from Ahren's mind as he looked into his master's scowling face. 'There's a really good explanation for that…' began Ahren, and with his companions looking at him attentively, he related his encounter with the swarm of spiders and the mysterious giant spider. The only thing to be heard, apart from his own voice, was the crackling of the campfire. None of the others interrupted him, nor even threw in a sarcastic jibe. The expressions on his friends' faces became ever more concerned and worried as the apprentice described in detail the enormous horde of spiders that had blocked off his route to the coast. After a while, Khara quietly joined the company, where she sat down beside Ahren and slipped her hand into his. Ahren suppressed a silly smile and continued relating in detail the dangers he had experienced on the river that day. When he came to the part concerning his battle with the monstrous Needle Spider, Jelninolan whispered, 'not possible,' to the group but without elaborating on what she meant. Ahren described his vain attempt to kill the creature with bow and arrow, how he had fought off the beast in the water with his bow, and how he had bored it to death with his final arrow. Hardly had he finished when Falk jumped up impulsively and gave the surprised apprentice a quick hug. 'That's my boy,' growled the old man quietly, before quickly releasing his protégé – almost as if Ahren had suddenly become blistering hot. 'I mean of course – you did the right thing,' he growled roughly. Ahren could see in the grinning faces surrounding him that Falk had failed in his attempt to reaffirm his role as the crotchety old master – for the moment at least. Khara squeezed the apprentice's hand encouragingly, and he smiled at her shyly as he keenly examined the young woman. She was fully dressed again – including her armour and her two blades. Her black hair was in a bun, held up with her warrior-pin, and everything about her appearance was screaming at him that he wasn't just holding anybody's hand, but the hand of a recognised swordswoman of the Eternal Empire. Her eyes were twinkling with warmth, but also with martial pride, and the young man was all too aware that the chances of his receiving another kiss from Khara today were next to zero. 'I'm so sorry that I didn't pick up on the Needle Spiders…' began Jelninolan, but Ahren stopped her with a shrug of his shoulders. 'No apology needed,' he responded, distracted by Khara's proximity. 'I know that the little monsters cannot be sensed, at least not through magic. Selsena might have noticed them a little earlier than Culhen, but I'm not even sure about that.' Ahren ignored the pulse of annoyance that washed over from the wolf and looked around curiously. 'Where is she at all?' 'All this hanging around wears her out,' said Falk, who was examining Ahren's damaged bow again. 'She spends her time galloping along the beach. The exercise makes her less grumpy.' Then he tossed the bow over to Jelninolan. 'Can you repair the damage?' he asked doubtfully. Something in the way he looked at the elf puzzled Ahren, and when the priestess answered, he became fearful. 'The wood is too badly ruptured. Not even a charm can restore this weapon. The danger that it might snap during combat would cast a shadow over any future use,' concluded Jelninolan ruminatively as she handed it back to the old man. Ahren tensed up as the implications of what the elf had just said sunk in while Khara gripped his hand harder to assuage him. 'I broke my own bow?' he asked with a lump in his throat. The feeling of loss that overcame him was much worse than he had expected, and he looked regretfully down at the weapon in his master's calloused hands. Falk had crafted this bow for him and taught him the art of archery with it. With this weapon the young man had shot the soundless lute off the tree in the Weeping Valley; with it he had fought back against the assassins at King Blueground's banquet, and defended the Brazen City against hundreds of Swarm Claws. There were so many memories associated with the curved piece of wood that Falk was weighing thoughtfully in his hand. 'I'm really sorry, lad,' said Trogadon from the other side of the campfire. 'The death of a good weapon is always hard for a fighter to bear.' Ahren was about to respond when, to his horror, Falk tossed the apprentice's bow into the fire. 'No!' he called out and was about to throw himself forward to pull the wood out of the devouring flames, but Falk raised a warning hand and fixed the young Paladin with a steely stare. 'Are you going to drag a broken piece of wood right across Jorath?' he asked demandingly. 'I created this apprentice-bow and I surrender it to the fire.' A strange ritualistic tone had crept into the old man's voice, and then Ahren noticed a look of sparkling anticipation in the eyes of the others. 'Now, get it over with, before our brave hero starts sulking again,' snarled Uldini irritably towards Falk, and then it became apparent to Ahren that his master was following some sort of ceremony that the apprentice was not familiar with. 'I'll remind you of that the next time you're performing one of your magic rituals with all that hullabaloo, which wastes so much of our time,' growled Falk, throwing the childlike figure of the Arch Wizard a cutting look. Then he turned back to Ahren and gestured to him to kneel. The apprentice glanced regretfully at his burning bow one last time and then did as he was told. Falk rose up in front of him – in the light from the campfire he looked larger than life, while in the fading evening light the outlines of the jungle began to weaken and disappear into the background. Out of the corner of his eye, Ahren could see Uldini completing a charm, which explained this curious visual effect, and he had to stop himself from grinning. Clearly, Uldini didn't want to miss the opportunity of doing his bit for the oncoming ceremony. 'Ahren, son of Edrik,' intoned Falk, and Ahren flinched when he heard the all-too-familiar name of his father, 'I hereby declare your Long Week to be over.' The grey eyes of his master seemed to bore into the deepest recesses of Ahren's mind as the old Paladin continued. 'Do you swear to protect the forests of Jorath from all Dark Ones?' he asked loudly. Ahren nodded solemnly. 'I do swear it,' he responded firmly. 'And do you swear never to reject any appeal for aid from one whose life is threatened, be it by a High or a Low Fang, by a Glower Bear or a Blood Wolf, or be it by any servant of the dark god, even if it means placing your own life in peril?' 'I do swear it,' responded Ahren again. 'And do you finally swear to follow the bidding of any Paladin of the gods and any instructions they might give you?' continued Falk. Ahren hesitated, irritated by this part of the ceremony, then nodded quickly anyway, responding, 'I do swear it.' 'Then arise, apprentice, and fulfil your final task for your master,' said Falk, gesturing to Ahren to stand up. He placed one hand on the young man's shoulder and indicated with the other towards a tall tree that was hardly visible in the twilight. 'Yonder is the Tree of Completion. Climb up to its top and return to us as Forest Guardian,' was his simple instruction. Ahren looked uncertainly up the soaring, primeval monster of a tree, one of many that adorned the jungle. It was true that this one seemed small when compared with the Aeonian Willow, inside which he had fought against a Fog Panther only a few weeks previously, but it presented an impressive view, nonetheless. Ahren squinted his eyes in an attempt to see the tell-tale colours of ribbons tied around the vine-covered branches, which his master used to place as a further challenge, but much to his relief there were none to be seen. For a moment he had feared that Falk had decided to end the Long Week by turning this colossus into a Ribbon Tree, one of those practice trees with which the old man had stretched his apprentice to the limits of physical and mental endurance during the beginning of his apprenticeship. But it seemed that reaching the top of this tree would be no more than a ritual climbing tour. Energised by the supporting looks of his friends and an endearing smile from Khara, Ahren began to scale the forest giant. He moved hand over hand along the mighty branches, leaped from one bough up to the next, and whenever that wasn't possible, he would pull himself laboriously up the trunk. The bark produced a tangy smell, and Ahren found himself smiling with satisfaction as he slowly but surely climbed upwards. He enjoyed every intake of breath, every jump, every challenge that this ascent presented, secure in the knowledge that he was experiencing his final moments as an apprentice. Slowly, the treetop came into view, and a slight feeling of melancholy began to possess the young Paladin. Soon his training would be over, along with the security that his status as apprentice had always brought with it. From now on, he would no longer be able to hide behind the excuse that he couldn't possibly know everything about Dark Ones. He started climbing more slowly, lost in thought when Culhen pushed his way into his mind. The image of a wolf whelp, whining fearfully at the mouth of a wolf's den, cowering and unwilling to go out and hunt with the pack, pressed its way before Ahren's inner eye. Hurry up and stop procrastinating, scolded his four-legged friend. We're all waiting down here for you, and anyway I can smell a feast. I'm starving. Ahren might have taken the wolf's words to be ones of anger, were it not for the fact that he could sense, through their connection, the animal's pride in the imminent completion of his friend's apprenticeship. He silently picked up speed in an effort to reach the top as quickly as possible. The sun had almost completely set behind the horizon, and only up here did it provide the summit of the sea of plants with the last of its rays. Ahren could make out above him, in the red glow of the setting sun, a chunky bundle attached to the treetop with a rope knotted in the complex Elven manner. Shaking his head, the apprentice neared the long package wrapped in oilcloth and sought out a stable position on the branches so that he could reach the rope. Falk hadn't been able to resist sweetening the final moments of his protégé's apprenticeship by applying the devilish knots that the old man understood so well. These knots were renowned for their security and for the fact that the least movement, be it through wind or other elements, would only tighten them even further. Ahren examined the complicated knotting and harrumphed irritably. He reckoned that the bundle had to have been hanging up there for two days at least, which would make his final task all the more difficult. With a sigh, he began the complex undertaking of unknotting the rope above him, using all the lightness of touch in his fingers that he could manage, while bracing his legs against a branch in order to maintain his balance. The sweat was running in streams down his back and it was taking all his ingenuity to try and force the godforsaken knot into submission. He briefly considered using his dagger, but he didn't want to risk the last heartbeat of his apprenticeship being accompanied by scolding words from his master. Thus, he forced himself to be patient and relaxed, and when the moon replaced the sun in the firmament, he finally freed the bundle from the tree. He clicked his tongue and disengaged the rope from the bundle, causing it to begin hurtling towards the depths. Quick as a flash he grabbed it as it whooshed down and was surprised at how light it felt. He curiously pulled the cloth to the side and then gasped in surprise. It was a longbow in the Elven style! The recurve wooden bow provided any arrow with increased force and range, and Ahren knew of nobody apart from Jelninolan that possessed one – not even his master. His fingers trembling in awe, he stroked the surface of the bow. Extremely fine lines stretched seemingly haphazardly across the dark material, combining with the natural grain of the wood into an endlessly complex yet harmonious pattern. It was stretched by a thick bowstring of Selsena's hair. Ahren tried to experiment by tautening the bow and was astounded. He had to muster up all his strength and when he released it, the returning string came back so forcefully with its recoil that it almost knocked Ahren off the tree. This bow positively sang with power, and Ahren was dizzy at the anticipation of mastering the weapon. He slung the bow over his shoulder and began his descent. It struck him that he would have to get used to completely new positions, now that his bow was so much longer than his old weapon. Climbing, for instance, would be more of a challenge, but Ahren now possessed the necessary strength, endurance and experience to quickly familiarise himself with the new demands and adapt accordingly. As he neared the ground, he saw his friends standing in a semi-circle at the bottom of the trunk, looking up at him expectantly. Culhen sat on his hind legs with his tongue hanging out and seemed ready to burst with pride. For the first time in a week, Ahren could see Selsena, who had joined the others. The spiral horn of the Elven charger glistened in the firelight, her silver eyes giving no indication of what she was feeling. Yet the waves of joy and friendship for all her companions that radiated from the Titejunanwa spoke volumes regarding her interior life, and none of her fellows could maintain a neutral pose, as they were overwhelmed by the storm of feelings that the unicorn was emitting – not even Uldini, who was smirking cheerfully. Ahren jumped down from the lowest branch, too impatient to climb down the remaining distance, landing in a tuck position and cushioning the impact elegantly. He straightened himself up, and Falk ceremoniously presented his arm for the warrior greeting. Ahren grasped the old man's arm, and Falk spoke in a thunderous voice: 'Welcome, Ahren, into the circle of the Jorath Forest Guardians! Your apprenticeship is hereby concluded!' Then he pulled the young man into a bear hug and whispered: 'It has been a long and rocky road that has transformed a skinny, shy apprentice into a genuine Forest Guardian, but for my part, I believe it has been worth every frustrating heartbeat. Don't you agree?' Ahren nodded, firmly determined to celebrate this moment with as much dignity as possible. 'You can let him go now,' grumbled Trogadon behind the newly fledged Forest Guardian. 'You're not the only one who wants to congratulate the young lad.' 'And Culhen is going to devour one of us if the roast doesn't get sliced soon,' added Uldini, beaming from cheek to cheek. Ahren was passed around from friend to friend, hugged and showered with kind words and congratulations until the young man became quite dizzy with it all. Then Khara embraced him and presented him with another extended kiss, which robbed him of his reason once again, leaving him completely confused. When he finally came back to his senses, he was sitting at the fire with a delicious leg of wild boar in his hand, while the jokes and friendly jibes of his companions echoed out into the jungle, introducing the newly named Forest Guardian in their midst to the world at large.

(13th Paladin 5) The Isles of the Cutlass Sea

Torsten Weitze

Chapter 2

Sven stared at the grim, mistrustful face of the militiaman, whose battered leather armour was covered in a fresh, gleaming blue tabard, boasting the symbol of the THREE. The man was unconsciously tugging at this piece of clothing, which was clearly a recent acquisition, having puffed himself up self-importantly, a common enough instinct among those, who after a life of humiliation, found themselves in a position of authority, where they could order other people around the place. 'What are you doing here?' asked the stocky man in a voice that veered between uncertainty and arrogance. 'This is a militia camp of the THREE. We are on a holy mission, and unauthorized persons are forbidden from passing the barricade.' Sven glanced left and right, having to turn his head considerably during the latter movement to compensate for his missing eye, over whose socket the skin had now knitted together – the skin which was hiding something else too, a Thing of darkness. As if reacting to his thoughts, the Thing in his eye socket moved for a heartbeat, but before it had the chance to eat its way deeper into Sven's skull, the one-eyed young man wrapped his iron will around the parasite, forcing it to go back to sleep. The miller's son had initially taken the dark gift from his lord to be a punishment or a curse, but now he recognised the wisdom in his master's actions. Sven's constant, gruelling effort to keep the Thing that was hidden in his flesh from eating its way through to his brain had inculcated a strength of will and self-control within him that he would never have thought himself capable of. Now too, he managed to suppress a scornful snigger as he observed the militia camp. Two dozen tents, a makeshift toilet dug out of the ground, and a heap of substandard armour gathered into broken wooden boxes and threadbare linen sacks, were all surrounded by a knee-high palisade of pointed pegs. Everything here screamed of deficient professionalism and a meagre reserve of gold. Sven rolled his broad, muscular shoulders and put on the winning smile that he was certain his new, striking face could deliver. He had combed his long hair over his missing eye and now made himself appear as harmless and friendly as he possibly could. 'I wish to dedicate my sword and my life to your cause,' said Sven, his voice resonating with conviction. 'This,' he continued, pushing the hair in front of his face aside, 'I have to thank the dark god for.' And that's no word of a lie, giggled the one-eyed High Fang silently to himself. The militiaman started back and looked uncertainly up into Sven's face. The miller's son was well aware of what was racing through the sentry's mind, so he maintained his friendly smile while considering how he might split the indecisive fellow's skull in two. 'Perhaps I might introduce myself to somebody who could check out my suitability?' suggested Sven with a silky smoothness when he saw that his opposite number was at a complete loss for words. The relief at not having to reach a decision himself was clear to see in the smaller man's face. He beamed and indicated to a tent at the right edge of the camp. 'Keeper Sultis will check you out and question you. If you are pure of body and mind, the militia of the THREE are certain to welcome you with open arms.' Sven suppressed a scornful snort and bowed his head politely instead. Then he headed for the temporary building, where a priest of the peoples' god was waiting for him. This promises to be interesting¸ he thought cheerily and ducked under the flap and into the tent.

(13th Paladin 5) The Isles of the Cutlass Sea

Torsten Weitze

Chapter 3

'Why the question about obedience towards the other Paladins?' asked Ahren into the silence. The night had drawn in and most of his companions were already asleep. Khara too, having snuggled in against his shoulder, so Ahren didn't dare to move while he gazed into the embers of the fire and talked quietly with Falk and Jelninolan. Falk hesitated, then nodded slowly. 'We've never talked about the origins of the Forest Guardians, have we?' Ahren shook his head. 'At that time, after the Dark Days, HE, WHO FORCES had been conquered, but thousands of Dark Ones fled, unscathed, into the wilderness,' said Falk after a pause. 'No longer under the direct control of the Adversary, they sought refuge in thick forests and remote places, where they multiplied. Instead of one organised army, the Paladins were suddenly confronted by hundreds of splinter groups that fled more often than they fought. It was clear that we needed help in the form of stoical sentries, who could survive in hostile environments and at the same time fight against Dark Ones.' 'Some of the more experienced elves joined up with Paladin Yollock and then trained volunteers, who watched over the affected areas in the surrounding countryside, intervening when necessary,' added Jelninolan. 'Whenever there was a major attack, a Paladin was called upon, and the volunteers, with their training and local knowledge, would assist them. Even if many of the Paladins rejected this initiative,' she said, looking sternly at Falk, who seemed to be examining the tips of his boots keenly, 'these support troops were incredibly useful. After twenty years they had their own name – they were called Forest Guardians.' Falk spoke next, his voice low and ruminative. 'The further back the Dark Ones retreated, the fewer Forest Guardians there were. And you're well aware by now that most of the Paladins neglected their own responsibilities and showed no interest in hunting down Dark Ones.' Ahren thought of Sunju and Bergen, but also of Falk, who had enjoyed the dubious distinction of being a mercenary before he became a Forest Guardian. 'But whichever way you look at it, the oaths have remained,' continued Falk. 'It has always been the task of the Forest Guardians to support the Paladins. Because both you and I are Paladins as well, I rarely think about this aspect of the job. The bottom line is, that by uttering the Forest Guardian oath, we are swearing fealty to ourselves.' Ahren was flabbergasted. 'Does that mean that Jelninolan forced you that time to take on the training you had initially rejected?' he probed. 'I consider it a pleasant irony,' said Jelninolan with a hint of pride in her voice. Falk laughed quietly – a dry, self-critical sound. 'I was frothing at the mouth with rage at the time. How much I would dearly love to be able to whisper to my younger self that drudgery has its own rewards.' He looked at Ahren warmly. Ahren rolled his eyes. 'What a lovely idea – but in my own case it would probably be a waste of time. In all likelihood, my older self would never recognise my new one.' They all laughed quietly, then Ahren took his new bow from his shoulder. He lovingly ran his fingers along the timber. 'I recognise the wood. That's the branch that the Aeonian Willow left you, isn't it?' he asked the priestess. Jelninolan smiled and nodded. 'Everything about the branch pleaded to be transformed into a bow. And you can hardly run around the place as a fully-fledged Forest Guardian with an apprentice-bow on your back.' 'Which you've gone and ruined,' added Falk with a grin. Ahren ignored the jibe and looked down at his bow. 'This wood has to be centuries old.' The elf agreed with him again. 'If I were to hazard a guess, I would say it began growing when the first Dark Days were over.' Ahren shivered. The first Dark Days. That formulation terrified him because it contained a cold, hard reminder. The Dark Days would come again, and soon. Ahren and his companions were living on borrowed time and were trying to find as many of the missing Paladins of the gods as they could before the Adversary made his next tactical move – or even fully awakened. Ahren extended the bow to distract himself and gasped at the effort involved. 'I have a fair bit of practice ahead of me,' he said in disbelief. With this bow in his hand, he felt like a complete beginner again. 'You merely lack strength – and familiarity with the weapon,' said Falk reassuringly. 'We will stay here for another couple of weeks, until our ship arrives from Kings Island. In the meantime, you can get to know Fisiniell. 'Is that its name?' asked Ahren curiously. Jelninolan nodded. 'That means "Dance on the Wind". Seeing as I let my storm-weaving flow into the bow, I thought the name was apt.' Ahren bowed down as respectfully as he could without waking Khara. 'I thank you,' was all he said. 'You're welcome.' Jelninolan raised an eyebrow. 'And you don't need to be quite so respectful to me anymore. After all, you are now a fully-fledged Forest Guardian.' Falk looked as if he had bitten into a lemon. While Ahren was still digesting the import of what the elf had said, the old man nodded and said ruefully: 'When she's right, she's right. From now on, you can simply call me Falk.' Suddenly, Ahren was overcome by uncertainty. As much as he had wished for this recognition, he now felt overwhelmed. 'Um, master…sorry, I mean, Falk. What about if I still have the odd question for you? You know, I mean, regarding Dark Ones and such like?' Falk gave him a dismissive wave. 'Nobody can know everything, no matter what Uldini says. So, don't worry about it. We are all still here for you and will try to answer any questions you might have. You are just responsible for making sure you ask the questions. Just as you alone are now responsible for any actions you might take.' Ahren gave a sigh of relief. Somehow, he'd had it in his head that as a fully-fledged Forest Guardian, he had to know the answer to everything. Yet, the more he thought about it, the more it became clear to him that this was only partly true. His master had merely trained him to be able to know how to find the answers to the questions. Satisfied, Ahren tore off another piece of meat from the bone, and as he chewed, he began to figure out a training plan for the coming days that would help him master his handling of Fisiniell. The sand was everywhere. Gasping, Ahren crawled along the chafing, red-hot, resplendent beach and threw a longing look at the waves of the Cutlass Sea, crashing only a few paces away from him against the shore with their promise of refreshing coolness. The water was crystal clear and of a gentle blue colour that took Ahren's breath away. If he had any breath left, that is. Now he was struggling on all fours along the beach, with Trogadon on his back, the dwarf humming cheerfully. Ahren had made the mistake of asking the squat warrior to help him with his training that morning, and when he had assented with a beaming smile on his face, the Forest Guardian's fate was sealed. The dwarf possessed, literally, an ungodly assemblage of strengthening exercises in his training repertoire, which Ahren had originally taken to be nothing more than a joke when they had been explained to him, until Trogadon had insisted on his implementing them. Like, for example, crawling along the sand, carrying the hulking dwarf, who was practising with his weights made of lead in his hands while contentedly sitting on the young man's back. 'Drop down a little closer to the sand as you crawl,' instructed Trogadon cheerfully. 'You want your pectoral muscles to benefit from the exercise too.' Ahren groaned and lowered himself, managing another ten paces before he shuddered and collapsed. 'Be a bit more careful,' scolded the dwarf, I nearly got some sand in my beard.' Ahren glared at the warrior, who was smoothing his opulent mass of hair in an exaggerated manner. 'Once you've got your breath back, remember I want to get back into the shade, alright? You don't want my head to get burnt now, do you?' he asked jovially. Ahren groaned and cursed himself for having asked the dwarf for assistance. The early morning sun was still low over the horizon, and he had already run out of energy. 'We need to have a break soon, anyway, so that I can go in search of restorative herbs,' he snorted, his head half buried in the sand. 'If I don't get a tea to counteract these aching muscles, it will be shortest training session in the history of Jorath.' 'You'd be surprised at what your young body can withstand,' said Trogadon serenely. 'And don't forget, it was you who asked me for help. I can go if you like and leave you lying here – after all, you're not an apprentice anymore. You can do, or not do, whatever you want.' 'If only,' grumbled Ahren, turning painfully onto his back. 'I'm certain the new bow has been tautened this much so that I don't rest on my laurels. A farewell gift from my master, so to speak.' 'Or,' said Trogadon, his voice suddenly bereft of its previous light-heartedness, 'Falk and Jelninolan know full well what dangers still await you, and are arming you to the best of their abilities.' An errant cloud moved in front of the sun like a faint omen and provided Ahren with a few heartbeats of welcome relief from the heat. Ahren deliberated on the dwarf's warning for a moment and then sighed. 'You're probably right.' 'Of course, I'm right,' insisted the warrior. Then he whispered conspiratorially: 'But I think there's an element of truth in what you say.' He winked, threw Ahren effortlessly back on his stomach and sat down on the young Paladin's back, causing it to creak. 'Giddy up!' he called out pompously. 'This dwarf desires the cool of the shade.' He pointed his outstretched arm towards the border of trees, like a general spurring on his charger. Ahren crawled forward laboriously, one sluggish movement after another. You should get a move on, said Culhen drily. Khara has just completed her sword training and will be going swimming in the lake in a few heartbeats. Ahren ignored the mocking laughter of his friend and bolted forward towards the trees with renewed energy, much to Trogadon's amazement. The lake water was cool and soothing on his skin as Ahren slipped into it and swam with a few powerful strokes towards Khara, trying to ignore the tiredness in his arms. She was floating on her back in the middle of the lake, allowing the gentle current to carry her. The swordswoman was wearing the strips of white Elven material around her body, and Ahren couldn't help but notice the contours the cloth revealed. Khara caught sight of the young man and turned towards him. 'You look as though you've just spotted a tasty dinner,' she said mockingly, causing Ahren to blush a deep red. 'Um, well, um, I'm just glad to see you again,' he said lamely. 'We haven't had an opportunity to talk to each other in peace since the kiss,' he improvised quickly. Khara's steely look suggested that she knew all too well that a friendly chat wasn't what the young man was looking for. She swam closer to him and placed her arm around his neck. 'What sort of a kiss are you talking about?' she asked with a grin. 'You mean, one like this?' Before he knew what was happening, her lips were on his, and time seemed to stand still again, leaving his mind in a haze until she finished. 'You always look so silly afterwards,' she giggled, splashing his face playfully. Ahren coughed and spluttered and gently pushed her hand away. 'It's like when my life is in danger,' he said. 'My reason has to come to terms with what's happening.' 'Kissing me is like swimming with a swarm of Needle Spiders, then?' Khara asked, amused. 'Very charming, Ahren.' 'I'm only trying to say…' he began, only to get another handful of water on his face as Khara splashed him again. 'I know what you wanted to say,' she interrupted him, laughing. 'I've travelled long enough with you to know of your talent for saying something silly at just the wrong moment.' 'But don't you feel the same way? That your head is all over the place, I mean?' he asked, slightly offended. Khara became serious. 'I kissed a boy once before, whom I liked very much. That time, in the catacombs of the Arena,' she said quietly. Ahren noticed the sudden change in the young woman's behaviour – like an unexpected alteration in the weather. He could sense how her thoughts were moving away from him. 'What happened that time?' he asked and held his breath. The introverted warrior rarely revealed her innermost feelings, and it was important for the young Paladin that they should share their memories. 'He was killed. By me,' she said in a brittle voice, as she pushed herself away from him. Ahren stayed where he was and looked after her sympathetically. 'That is surely not the whole story,' he said quietly. 'Tiun-Un was a dreamy boy, but he had a good fighting instinct,' said Khara after a while. 'I liked him, and during the night his presence would keep some of the ugly figures at bay that enjoyed taking what they wanted from others.' Ahren shivered. He would have liked to have taken Khara in his arms, but he didn't want to blindside her or stop her in her story. 'We kissed each other a couple of times, and perhaps more might have come of it, but one of the guards spotted us and told the cage-master.' She turned her head away, so that it was sprayed by the waterfall nearby. She doesn't want me to see her tears, thought Ahren. 'The cage-master must have been afraid that I would be unable to participate in the upcoming fights,' she said, gesturing a swollen tummy with her hand under the water. 'And so he arranged a fight to the death between Tiun-Un and myself.' The ensuing silence was almost unbearable. When Khara spoke again, Ahren wished that she hadn't. 'I won,' she said in an icy voice and looked past him, her face wet from the spray and her eyes red from crying. Ahren remained where he was. The only thing he could do was spread out his arms and express all the feelings he had for this unbelievably strong, fragile, courageous, hurt woman by looking at her openly and honestly. With a sob, she swam into his open arms and held onto him like a drowning person. Ahren embraced her and stroked her hair, all the while keeping her over the surface. After a time, she released herself from him and gave him a gentle kiss. 'Love and death have always been interwoven in my life. It will take me some time to disentangle them for once and for all.' Ahren simply nodded, ignoring the instincts within him, which were like a wild animal in a cage, growling and clawing in an attempt to get closer, much closer to this attractive young woman. He suppressed the realisation that only a thin layer of Elven material separated their two bodies, and he attempted a sincere smile. 'Even if I had imagined our swim to have gone a little bit differently…I understand you and I am here for you, whenever you are ready.' The young man hated himself for the disappointment that was so apparent in his voice, and which Khara had picked up on too. 'What did you think was going to happen?' she asked, her strength of mind clearly having re-established itself. 'You come swimming over here with your shaggy hair falling over your face that looks like the backside of a bear and expect me to simply glide out of my clothing ecstatically?' Despite the biting sarcasm in Khara's description, he couldn't help smiling at the image and was promptly rewarded with another shower of water which caused him to cough and splutter. 'Men!' she snorted mockingly. 'You surely didn't think I was just going to skip the Menug-Anan, did you?' 'The what?' asked Ahren, coughing. 'The Menug-Anan. The Year of Pleasant Anticipation. Don't tell me you don't have that in Hjalgar?' she asked, genuinely irritated. The Year of Pleasant Anticipation? That sounded ominous to Ahren. 'Can you explain that in a bit more detail?' he asked, his voice flat as he mentally prepared for some bad news. 'When two people like each other a lot, and something permanent is going to arise from it, then they enter the Menug-Anan. They promise to be true to each other and then they wait for a year until…until they get even closer to each other,' she explained in a solemn voice. 'Well, in Hjalgar things progress…um…in a much less planned manner,' said Ahren vaguely. Normally, two people entered a contract as soon as the woman's stomach began to bulge, and that was that. Considering he was little more than a barbarian in Khara's eyes he decided not to pursue the matter. Yet suddenly he had a lifesaving thought, which he tried to introduce harmlessly. 'But we've known each for two years already, so…' he began, only to be met with another spray of water, right in his face. 'The Menug-Anan begins with the first kiss,' she said firmly, and Ahren nodded glumly. But of course, he thought, trying desperately to ignore Culhen's ringing laughter. For a while there was silence between them, only broken by the roar of the waterfall and the loud voice of Trogadon, who was relating a joke he clearly found amusing. 'I could swear you kissed me the night I came back from the Firesprays…' he began. 'Ahren!' hissed Khara, indignantly. 'Leave it!' 'Well, at least the kiss last week in the canoe. Surely that has to count?' he asked weakly. Khara laughed and pulled him towards her for another kiss. 'Please yourself,' she murmured, and when their lips met, Ahren forgot about everything else. When they finally got out of the water, Ahren was shivering with the cold, his legs were heavy from treading water, and he was feeling light-headed. 'I thought the pair of you would never get out,' smirked Uldini. 'Is it possible for your tongue to get cramp?' asked Trogadon teasingly, imitating a passionate kiss which caused Ahren to utter a sound of disgust and Khara to flee with her armour into the undergrowth. Ahren's shoulders sagged, and he looked at the Arch Wizard and the dwarf wearily. 'You're not going to make it easy for me, are you?' Uldini and Trogadon grinned at each other. 'You're right, there,' they both said simultaneously and burst out laughing. The following weeks passed by in a boisterous mood. Ahren underwent a rigorous training regime under Trogadon's critical eye, the aim of which was to enable him to extend Fisiniell effortlessly, and whenever the young Paladin had to rest his weary bones, he would steal away with Khara along the beach or go swimming with her in the lake beneath the waterfall. There they would whisper stories and secrets from their past into each other's ear, Ahren countering and alleviating Khara's dark confessions concerning past fights with more harmless anecdotes from his own childhood. Strangely, the more Khara spoke of her time in the Arena cages, the less bitterness there was in her voice, and Ahren was struck by the fact that she was laughing more often now, even when they were in the company of the others. One beautiful afternoon Ahren decided to take Fisiniell and a few arrows down the beach so that he could try out a few test shots. He knew how dangerous it was to shoot with a bow one couldn't fully control and so this was the first time he was going to try to use it with arrows. His plan had been to steal away secretly, but he hadn't gone more than a few paces when he noticed all his companions following him surreptitiously. 'You're not serious?' he asked in horror, turning to the others, who were nearing him with innocent expressions. 'We just want to see what your bow is capable of,' said Trogadon defensively, and the others nodded fervently. Ahren frowned. 'Does that mean you've never tested it?' he asked in disbelief. Uldini grinned mockingly and pointed with his thumb towards Falk and Jelninolan. 'Our two archers were unable to extend it properly. And Trogadon is useless with a bow and arrow.' 'We dwarves are more used to the crossbow if we can shoot at all,' grumbled the warrior. 'I would have been able to extend Fisiniell with magic, of course, but that wouldn't have been the same,' said Jelninolan, trying to save face. 'You gave me a bow that neither of you can extend yourselves?' It was clear to Ahren that he sounded ungrateful, but what they had just related to him seemed to him too scurrilous to be true. 'When I drilled the string made from Selsena's hair into the bow, I must have overdone it somehow,' Falk admitted reluctantly. 'It needed to do Jelninolan's magical masterpiece justice, you see.' The old man scratched his beard in embarrassment. Ahren decided not to pursue the matter and picked out a tree a good twenty paces away that marked the end of the jungle. 'Hold on a bit,' growled Falk. 'Let me call Selsena over here first. She's been sulking for the last two weeks on account of having missed your first kiss. If you take this first shot without her, from this bow, for which I had been raiding her mane hairs for moons, the two of us are going to wake up some morning with hoofprints on our faces.' Ahren nodded in agreement and shuddered at the possibility of annoying the Elven charger. Selsena could be very expressive when it came to her moods, and because she was able to transmit her emotions to others, an ill-humoured Selsena always guaranteed a generally bad atmosphere within the group. He pulled experimentally at Fisiniell's bowstring a few times and was pleased to note that, although it demanded considerable strength, he could still imagine himself being able to use it for a longer period without becoming overtired. Out of the corner of his eye he spotted Trogadon's self-satisfied smile and he nodded at the warrior thankfully. Then Selsena was galloping along the beach towards them, clearly returning from one of her excursions. 'Good,' said Ahren loudly. 'Is everybody here? Can I position an arrow at last?' 'Shoot!' smirked Uldini, grinning at his own pun and causing the others to utter a collective groan. Ahren gathered himself and took an arrow out of his quiver. He placed the missile on the bowstring and pulled it back. Then he paused. 'The arrows are going to have to be half a hand longer in future,' he murmured, concentrating. 'The arrowhead is almost cutting into my hand.' Then he aimed carefully at the trunk of the selected tree and let the arrow fly. Fisiniell made a low singing noise, like a wind blowing under a draughty door, and the arrow flew off at breath-taking speed. Ahren could hardly follow the missile with his eyes, and within a heartbeat it smashed against the tree-trunk, splintering into little bits. There was silence for a moment. Uldini was the first to find his voice. 'That was disappointing,' he said drily, ignoring the dirty looks from both Falk and Jelninolan. 'Your arrows need to be longer, thicker, and harder in order to withstand the strength of the bow,' said Falk thoughtfully, before he and Jelninolan leaned their heads in together and began discussing the problem. 'I can help you harden the arrow-tips,' suggested Trogadon, and now the three of them were talking shop, discussing the various methods of manufacturing arrows. Ahren's training had merely involved cutting and fletching simple hunting arrows, and so he didn't understand half of what they were talking about. He was looking uncertainly down at Fisiniell when suddenly Selsena whinnied beside him. Falk looked up absently and gestured along the beach. 'Selsena says she noticed something interesting down there. A shipwreck or something. Why don't you all go there and have a look while we try to solve the arrow problem?' Ahren glanced over at Khara and Uldini. The young swordswoman nodded enthusiastically while Uldini shrugged his shoulders indifferently. 'I suppose we may as well ensure that it's not our ship that has been washed up. It would be annoying to have been waiting here for weeks for allies that never show themselves.' Ahren frowned anxiously. He had never thought of that possibility. 'Put on your armour and weapons,' advised the Arch Wizard. 'If the wreck is visible from out at sea, there may be despoilers there already. And if there are bodies lying around the place, that might attract the wild animals. Animal Blessing or no Animal Blessing, it might quickly get uncomfortable if you disturb them while they're feeding.' Ahren quickly ran back to his rucksack and pulled out his ribbon armour. He had avoided wearing the protective leather suit for the past few weeks because neither heat, nor sand, nor water did anything when it came to wearing the armour comfortably, and they were almost completely safe from Dark Ones down here at the sea and on the edge of the jungle, where the trees were not so densely packed together. He noticed that the leather bands with their interweaving leather plates were in urgent need of readjustment to keep pace with his ever-broadening back. As he tried to force himself into the armour, he cursed when he noticed that there was hardly any play left between the individual elements when they adjusted to his movements. He could see gaps here and there when he stretched or turned. Either he couldn't afford to become any more powerful, or he would simply need a new suit of armour. His mind turned to Thousand Halls, the enormous dwarf kingdom inside the rocks, many, many leagues north from here. Trogadon had promised him more than once that he would forge him a Paladin suit of armour as soon as they got there, so he dearly hoped that they would be back in the kingdom soon. Now he heard Uldini's impatient voice and quickly slung Wind Blade around his back, returning swiftly to the others. 'It looks as though your armour has shrunk,' said Uldini cuttingly, 'or as if you were wearing your little brother's clothes.' Khara winked at him and threw her arm around his waist. 'Don't let him annoy you,' she said cheerfully. 'We'd better get a move on or we won't reach the wreck before sundown.' Selsena immediately reacted to the swordswoman's words and placed herself at the head of the group, whinnying with self-satisfaction. 'There's somebody who's happy that she can tell us what's what at last' called out Ahren, laughing, only to abruptly become silent when Selsena glanced back scornfully at him with her silver eyes. Culhen came to his rescue by running around Selsena playfully, growling and barking and jumping about like a young whelp. The wolf now being as big as the unicorn, the scene playing out before them seemed a little unreal. Especially when Selsena joined in the wolf's game, reacting to his provocations by pushing against him with her shoulders or shoving him with the bone-plate on her head. Worried, Ahren held his breath, but the Titejunanwa took care not to do his friend any injury with the three horns on her forehead. 'Am I mistaken or have those two been practising tussling with each other?' asked Khara in surprise. The answer lay in the actions of the companion animals themselves as they began to romp along the strand, mock-attacking each other, circling one another, jostling and performing evasive manoeuvres. 'Damn it, how long have they been doing that?' asked Ahren, flabbergasted. 'Surely you can guess?' said Uldini gleefully, giving both Ahren and Khara a knowing look. 'It's obvious that Culhen has needed to do something to pass the time, ever since the two of you started billing and cooing with each other for hours on end. And seeing as they are both now more or less the same size, they have each found the perfect training partner.' Ahren walked along the beach thoughtfully, watching Culhen and Selsena in their horseplay. He was surprised and taken aback by his having completely missed out on this part of Culhen's life through his lack of attention, and he promised himself that he would keep a better eye on the wolf in future. The sun continued to sink as they followed along the beach, which was sometimes fifty paces wide, at other times little wider than a narrow strip along the waterline. 'The night monkeys are waking up,' said Ahren when he saw the first of the little animals climbing up to the tops of the jungle trees. 'It won't be long now until the light has completely disappeared.' Uldini snorted loudly. 'You're sounding like a jungle-dweller yourself now.' 'Jealousy, jealous,' teased Khara, and the Arch Wizard glared at her. 'I preferred you when you used to silently carry a torch for your rough-haired hero, who didn't take a blind bit of notice of you,' he grumbled bitterly. Ahren ignored the less than flattering description of himself and grinned over at Khara. 'You used to carry a torch for me?' he asked with delight. 'Shut your mouth, Ahren,' responded the young woman, placing a threatening finger on the young man's neck, pressing on a particularly sensitive pressure point. Ahren decided to make do with a smile before turning his attention to a careful examination of the coast. He stopped short and pointed ahead. 'I can see something over there. Could be a snapped mast and part of a ship's deck.' Selsena whinnied and tossed back her head. Selsi says that's the spot, explained Culhen. Ahren was confused. You can talk to her? he asked in a flustered tone. Of course not, responded Culhen humorously. But I am better at reading her body language than humans are. Probably because I am more intelligent than you lot. We need to have an urgent conversation about the benefits of humility, said Ahren firmly to his friend. 'Let's get a move on. I'd prefer to examine the wreck without a torch or magic light. We shouldn't draw any unnecessary attention to ourselves,' he said to the others. 'A remarkably sensible idea,' said Uldini generously. 'Let's see who can get there the quickest.' And with that he floated forward at high speed, leaving surprised humans and companion animals in his wake. The ageless Uldini had never deigned to take part in a racing competition before, and certainly never suggested one. Since his return to the jungle, from where he had been kidnapped dozens of centuries previously, an occasional flash of childish behaviour had sparked from the normally cynical Arch Wizard, something which his companions still had to get used to. 'Let's go!' shouted Ahren, and the rough and tumble race began, with Khara and Ahren forced into battling it out for second-last place. Uldini simply increased the speed of his floating charm, as was his wont, and so remained just ahead of Culhen and Selsena. At first it looked as though the wolf would come in second, but with two paces to go before the wreck, Selsena's stamina got the better of Culhen's sprinting ability. Ahren had to admit that he could do nothing to counter Khara's speed. She eased ahead of him nonchalantly over the final few paces before turning around and sticking her tongue out as he came home last. 'That's all those muscles,' she said in a deep voice and imitated a broad-shouldered, blundering gait. 'They make you so slooow.' Ahren rolled his eyes and sighed. Unfortunately, the swordswoman was right. His suppleness was more or less scuppered. He was going to have start working hard at getting it back. Ahren wondered if there would ever be a time when he wouldn't need to train so much. Trogadon, Falk and Jelninolan seemed to have got the knack of keeping themselves fit with the minimum of effort, but in his case the rules kept changing, and he constantly had to adapt to new situations. Poor little Ahren got an Elven master-bow, said Culhen in a mocking singsong, and the young Forest Guardian had to admit that the wolf was right – he had no reason to complain. Instead, he concentrated on the sight in front of him. Uldini had waited for them behind a boulder on the beach, which was roughly one hundred paces from the shipwreck and offered them a little protection if there were anyone hanging about near the wreckage. 'I can make out some faint movements, but I think they are only scavenging birds,' said Uldini in a hushed tone. Selsena gave a quiet snort and indicated towards the water. Ahren looked to where she had suggested but could not see any danger. Do you know what she means? Ahren asked Culhen, but the wolf too was at a loss. She senses something in the water, but I can smell nothing apart from the damned salt, was his response. 'I can't make out any danger on the beach,' said Khara. 'Let's take a quick look.' Ahren nodded, pointing, however, at the gentle waves of the Cutlass Sea. 'We should keep an eye on the water's edge and keep away from it. Whatever is making Selsena nervous seems to be near the coast. The others nodded, stalking quickly but quietly forwards. In the fading light, Ahren could make out the large wreck of a two-master, half covered by the water. He could see the broken mainmast, and the deck surrounding it, jutting straight upwards towards the sky. The long wooden mast had bored at an angle into the sand. Ahren looked up at the cross braces, strengthened by heavy belaying pins, which bound the mast and the deck together, and he didn't dare to think what might have happened to the vessel. Uldini, on the other hand, nodded knowingly. 'The shipbuilder had stabilised the mast to such a degree that it didn't simply buckle, but half the deck broke with it. It's the typical shipbuilding style associated with Cape Verstaad or the Eternal Empire. It definitely isn't a ship from the Knight Marshes – that much is certain. Our ship should still be on its way to us.' The Arch Wizard looked thoughtfully at the wreckage. 'Let's see if we can find out what exactly happened here. I think I can see something enormously scaly stuck into the wood.' He pointed towards the edge of the fractured vessel. 'I'll cast my eye over it, and the two of you should check out the poor devils lying over there.' Ahren's eyes followed the direction of Uldini's finger, and he saw the outlines of several people, lying on the wet sand just above the waterline. Swarms of insects were circling the bodies, and it was clear to the Forest Guardian that all help was too late. Together with Khara, he approached the corpses, and immediately they covered their mouths with their neckerchiefs. The stench was unbearable, and Ahren couldn't bring himself to look in the faces of the ill-fated mariners – or what was left of their faces. 'They all had smaller wounds inflicted on them before they died,' he said quietly. 'They were survivors from an earlier battle,' concluded Khara with a practised eye. Ahren had to agree with her. Here he could see a temporarily bandaged cut, while there he made out a wound from an arrow that had been inflicted a few days previous to the poor fellow meeting his final fate. These people had recently survived a skirmish, only to lose in their battle against the sea. He looked keenly at their loose clothing and was struck by an emblem that was situated on their shirts, just above the heart. 'Do you see this?' asked Ahren, bending down to get a closer look. Suddenly, Selsena whinnied. Ahren, watch out! came the loud mental warning from Culhen. Ahren looked up in confusion, trying to see where the danger might be lurking, and Khara, who had reacted to Selsena's reaction, scanned the scene in alarm. Get away from the water, urged the wolf, and although Ahren couldn't make out any danger, he grabbed Khara by the shoulder and gestured her to follow. They quickly ran a few paces away from the small waves, which broke against the shore harmlessly before retreating again. Suddenly, there was a veritable fountain – an explosion of sand and water as an enormous creature rose up from the swell; it must have pushed itself there, moving just under the surface of the water to get nearer the shore. An enormous pair of pincers, almost the size of a horse, whooshed in their direction, and Khara pushed Ahren aside at the last moment. They quickly rolled away from each other as a crab the size of a house scuttled sideways out of the surf, masses of wet sand scattering in every direction. The monster swung its pincers here and there, the hard, pockmarked surface of its shell shining pink in the setting sun. Even the enormous creature's spindly feelers were at least three paces long as they felt out the area around them. Ahren was unable to make out the creature's eyes from where he was, for they were situated on the enormous animal's back, and so he couldn't establish whether they were glowing red or not. Feverishly, he drew Wind Blade and looked for any sign that might help him identify the creature they were dealing with. Falk had never described such a monstrosity to him, but they were in an area of Jorath where even his master's knowledge was sketchy. In the meantime, Khara had rolled back onto her feet and was standing there with her two blades, ready to spring into action. She looked over at him questioningly. Ahren cursed silently – his first encounter with such an animal as a fully-fledged Forest Guardian and he had no idea what sort of a creature they were facing! Selsena was prancing anxiously up at the line of trees, while Culhen was crouching and growling on the sand with his hackles up, ready to join in the fray. Suddenly, the pincers facing them shot forward at a speed which Ahren would never have thought possible from an animal of that size. Gasping, he saw the gripping mechanism attempting to close around Culhen. There was a tremendous clicking sound, and the wolf's growling suddenly stopped. 'Culhen!' screamed Ahren in horror, but the wolf had already performed a leap to the left, skipping away from the pincers, which the crab then waved threateningly in the air. That thing is fast, said Culhen appreciatively. Relief flooded through Ahren, but already the monster was turning towards him. Its black feelers stared at him steadfastly, and the Forest Guardian recognised that it would take the creature only a heartbeat before its pincers were within reach of him. He quickly retreated several paces and glanced over at his friends. The others were now standing, from his point of view, behind the crab – back in the direction where their camp was situated. 'I don't think it's a Dark One,' he called over to them. 'I see neither red eyes nor any other sign.' Uldini, whose crystal ball was now floating above his head, and who seemed to be preparing a spell, nodded firmly. 'It's a perfectly normal Giant Crab. Very aggressive and territorial.' Even in their present situation, the Arch Wizard's voice had taken on the lecturing, superior tone he always used when he was explaining something. 'Sometimes they get into a feeding frenzy. I think this one here is looking forward to a fresh meal of rotting mariners too much to take any notice of our presence.' Ahren breathed a sigh of relief. He was right, then. This was no Dark One, but simply an animal so outraged that it was ignoring the blessing of the goddess that lay on Ahren and his companions. Hardly had he completed that thought when the crab's right pincers were already shooting towards him. It was clear to Ahren that it made little difference if this was a natural creature or not. If the crab succeeded in connecting with him, it would slice him in two within a heartbeat – Dark One or no! With an extended flying roll, the young Paladin threw himself sideways and heard Khara's cry of alarm. When the pincers landed behind him, Ahren realised his mistake, for the crab's second, smaller gripping mechanism was now racing downward while Ahren lay, practically helpless, in the sand. Culhen howled in despair and was throwing himself forward in a hopeless gesture when suddenly beams of light radiated from Uldini's crystal ball, lighting up the beach and seeming to rob the sun of its late evening rays. Ahren blinked, his face streaked with tears, but the effect on the crab was considerably greater, for the creature cowered with a rumble on the sand, pulling back its pincers to protect its eyes from the light. The path to his friends was free, and the Forest Guardian needed no invitation. He stormed past the confused crab towards Uldini, who had lowered his crystal ball, which still seemed to have the rays of the evening sun captured within it. The combined colours of the landscape around them seeming to shimmer behind a fine surreal veil, and when Ahren reached his friends, the Arch Wizard extinguished the light in the crystal ball with a satisfied grunt. Immediately, their surroundings returned to normal. Uldini tossed the crystal ball playfully into the air, where it turned in a spiral before landing back on his palm. 'This thing is becoming more practical by the day,' he said, stroking the artifact appreciatively. 'A tiny charm I created there, but when packed into the ball, extremely effective.' The crab began to move again. Ahren pushed Khara and Uldini along the beach towards their camp. 'Let's get out of here. I don't want to find out which will win out in our armoured friend – lust for food, or lust for revenge.' 'Good idea,' said Uldini, floating ahead and leaving the rest of the group to follow him. They kept glancing back over their shoulders to ensure that the enormous creature was staying put. Ahren was only too glad to be getting away from the animal, especially when he saw its pincers lowering and preparing to take one of the corpses into its grip. He quickly turned away and didn't look back again as the crab began its gruesome evening meal. 'That was a close shave,' said Falk, once they had returned to camp and related their story as best they could. 'A Giant Crab like that is no joke at all.' 'It's the first time I've ever seen one in the flesh,' said Uldini, a dreamy look on his face. 'I only heard of them in the stories before – and half of them I considered to be nothing more than sailors' yarns.' It took a moment for Ahren to recognise that the look on Falk's face following Uldini's words expressed nothing other than jealousy! Amazed, he shook his head and finally gestured to the smouldering firepit, which had been dug a little away from the campfire, and from where a sharply acrid smoke was slowly rising wispily towards the night sky. 'What's that, there?' asked the young Forest Guardian curiously. 'Arrow shafts,' said Trogadon, stroking his beard contentedly. 'Jelninolan charmed the wood, Falk carved it into shape, and I dipped it in a small amount of alchemical mixture, whose recipe I picked up during my time with the Hammer Clan. The dwarf was referring back to his young days when he lived among the blacksmiths of his folk, before his stubborn tenacity had required him by law to live the hard life of a dwarf warrior. It was true that Trogadon liked a good fight, but Ahren knew that the dwarf's heart lay in working with his hands and in the creation of objects. 'There are over one hundred arrows in there, gradually hardening and seasoning. Tomorrow afternoon we can watch one of them fly.' Ahren looked at the three of them, one after the other. 'Thank you,' he said sincerely. 'You're welcome,' said Trogadon, before waving him away. 'It would be pretty mean of us if we created a present for you that you couldn't use on account of faulty ammunition.' Everyone around the fire laughed, and Ahren leaned gently into Khara, who snuggled in beside him. Then he remembered something he had promised to do earlier in the day, and he gave Khara a peck on the cheek. 'I'm going to check on Culhen,' he said quietly, before standing up and disappearing into the darkness. He found his wolf by the edge of the lake, sitting on all four paws, his golden eyes staring up at the moon. 'You really gave me a fright there, when the crab nearly caught you,' said Ahren in greeting. You did too, replied Culhen flatly. Ahren was taken aback. He sensed a distance between them that he had never experienced before. Is everything alright, big lad? he asked tentatively. You tell me, replied Culhen, turning his head and looking at him with sad wolf eyes. Do you know that you didn't say a word to me the day before yesterday? Ahren frowned and then realised to his own surprise that what Culhen had said was indeed true. The young man had spent most of the day with Khara and the rest of the time doing Trogadon's exercises. After that he had lain down and fallen asleep, totally exhausted. I'm really sorry, he said, deeply affected. He placed his arm around the animal's neck and sent him all his love, using their mental connection. Culhen sulked for another few moments before giving up and forgiving his friend. And so they sat there, silently looking out at the moonlight reflecting off the lake and listening to the sound of the thunderous waterfall, which drowned out all the other sounds, giving them the impression that they were all alone in the world. The idyllic scene remained as Ahren's eyes closed and he snuggled into the wolf's fur, preparing to fall asleep. The cool of the lake and the gentle breeze, wafting out from the trees created a delightful climate, enabling the young Paladin to drift away to the land of nod. A piercing sense of Culhen's unhappiness, which felt like a knife in his head, woke Ahren up. He quickly opened his eyes and saw Khara approaching them with a questioning look. Since Ahren's completion of the Long Walk, they had always slept side by side, and now she was ordering him with her looks to go with her. Ahren felt the tension in Culhen's mind – it was like a tautened bowstring on the point of snapping. 'I think I'll spend the night here,' said Ahren hesitantly, tapping Culhen on his flank, who responded by looking over at Khara triumphantly and giving a self-satisfied growl. The young woman was taken aback, and for a moment Ahren feared she might be offended, but then she simply shrugged her shoulders and came up to them. 'Make room,' she said casually and pushed the young Forest Guardian with her foot until he moved sufficiently sideways for her to be able to lean against Culhen as well. She mumbled something into the animal's fur and laid her head in the crook of Ahren's arm by placing his arm around her. 'That's perfect,' she sighed contentedly. 'I knew there was a reason why I liked you,' she added teasingly and closed her eyes. Culhen looked down at the two of them over his shoulder, his eyes shimmering thoughtfully in the moonlight. I can live with that, he finally said contentedly and rested his head on the ground. Ahren breathed a sigh of relief and allowed the tension within him to relax. He would rather confront half a dozen Giant Crabs than be in the middle of a tug-of-love between Culhen and Khara. There could be only one loser – himself. 'Yuck, that's disgusting!' Ahren heard Khara's voice, together with a familiar wet sound directly beside his ear. He opened his eyes with a grin and saw Culhen generously licking the young woman's face clean with his enormous, slobbery tongue. 'That's part of the deal,' said Ahren as Culhen turned towards him. 'That's how Culhen says good morning.' Then he quickly closed his eyes and mouth before the wolf set to work on his face. It's tradition, announced Culhen in a formal tone, Ahren sensing the wolf's unbridled joy. Clearly, his friend had decided that a double facewash was twice the fun. When Ahren was able to open his eyes again, he saw Khara wiping off the worst of the saliva from her cheek with her sleeve. 'I really should get myself another boyfriend who has less complicated pals,' she said in a tone of disgust. My nice soft fur didn't seem to bother her at all last night, retorted Culhen, peeved. Ahren smiled and said: 'You'll get used to it, I promise. And anyway, his spittle works marvellously against scrapes and bruises.' Khara looked daggers, first at him, then at Culhen. 'I'm going to wash myself,' she said primly. 'With real water.' Women, murmured Culhen in Ahren's mind, and the Forest Guardian playfully pointed a warning finger at him. 'Don't exaggerate, big lad. Otherwise, you're going to wake up some morning after an enormous feast and find yourself clean-shaven,' he warned the animal. She'd never do that! Or would she? asked the wolf in surprise. 'I'd tread warily. You know how quick she is with her blades.' Ahren stood up with a grin, delighted at Culhen's uncertainty. Teasing the wolf was always easy on account of his vanity. He quickly washed himself and then breakfasted with his companions, who started talking about the shipwreck again. 'Who were those unfortunate mariners?' wondered Jelninolan. Falk shrugged his shoulders. 'The way Uldini described their clothing, they were probably traders or pirates.' He scratched his beard thoughtfully. Ahren remembered the symbol he had seen on the dead man's chest. 'They all had a sign stitched onto their clothing, directly over the heart.' 'Then they were pirates,' concluded Falk. 'Each one carries the captain's sign on their chest. That prevents members of the same fleet from stabbing each other to death when they're on shore-leave.' Ahren looked up in surprise. They didn't sound like a particularly friendly breed of people. When he thought of pirates, images of swash-buckling, heroic tales of derring-do came to mind. On the other hand, he had experienced enough dangerous situations by now to recognise that reality was usually quite different to tales told around the campfire. 'Could you make out the symbol?' asked Falk. Ahren tried to remember the moment just before the crab attack. 'It seemed to be of a woman with blue hair. She was remarkably thin, and her eyes were just two black dots.' Falk and Uldini exchanged looks. 'Sounds like the Cold Woman, doesn't it?' the old man suggested to the Arch Wizard. The latter wiggled his head. 'Could be. She does command the second biggest pirate fleet in the Cutlass Sea, after all. The ship probably became un-manoeuvrable after a clash with traders who were able to defend themselves. Or maybe they got involved in a skirmish with Admiral Bocasso.' Ahren remembered that Uldini had told them, during their voyage to the Silver Cliff, of two rival pirate captains who made any crossing a lottery for trading ships. You could buy protection at a high price from one of the pirate fleets, but that was no guarantee that the rival pirate ship would then grant you free passage. 'So, do you think there is a feud between the Cold Woman and Admiral Bocasso?' enquired the young man. 'Feud is putting it mildly,' responded Falk, shaking his head. 'More of a bloody rivalry for total control over the Cutlass Sea. And therefore, over the protection money collected from all traders coming from or going to the Eternal Empire.' Uldini nodded in agreement. 'We're talking about an absolute fortune, with which one can buy enormous tracts of land. The sailing route between the Eternal Empire and the Knight Marshes is the most profitable one imaginable.' 'Why is that?' asked Ahren, frowning. The two countries were incredibly far away from each other – one in the north-east of Jorath, the other one stretching across large parts of the west and south-west. 'Why, indeed – politics, of course,' grunted Trogadon. 'The Sunplains are at war with the Eternal Empire, and there is a strict trading embargo between both countries. At the same time, the people of each country desire the other country's products. Therefore, rich traders sail from King's Island down all along the coast and around Cape Verstaad so that they can reach the Eternal Empire. They return with commodities, which are then sold on in the Knights Marshes. These are distributed via the Sword Path to all the provinces of the Sunplains. Using a similar method, valuable goods from the east find their way into the western empire along the same route.' Falk snorted. 'It's quite possible that a vase made by a potter a few miles east of the border travels for two years around the world, only to end up twenty leagues west of the very same potter's wheel where it was formed, in the summer residence of a Sunplains nobleman.' 'And the pirates get their cut from every ship they can lay their hands on,' added Uldini. You can imagine to what lengths the pirates will go to achieve dominance in these waters.' 'And this is where Fisker and Aluna wanted to settle down of all places?' asked Jelninolan sceptically. 'You forget that piracy was far less lucrative before the war with the Eternal Empire and hence far less common,' interjected Uldini. 'And depending on whatever island our lovebirds landed on, they might be completely unaware of what's going on. There are dozens of remote islands far away from the normal sea routes.' 'Enough yapping,' said Trogadon, slapping his thighs with the flat of his hands. 'There are a few arrows that need our attention. Falk, will you help me with the arrowheads and the fletching?' The old Forest Guardian nodded and stood up. Ahren wanted to follow them out and see how they did their work, but Khara laid a hand on his chest. 'Where do you think you're going, darling?' she asked, fluttering her eyelashes in an exaggerated manner. 'After watching you move like a frozen fish yesterday, I think it's time we worked on the suppleness hiding behind all those muscles.' She smiled mischievously, and Ahren's heart sank. He tried desperately to think of an excuse, but secretly had to agree that the swordswoman was right. Resigned to his fate, he nodded and longed for the day when he wouldn't have a hard time keeping up with some aspect or other of his training regime. It struck him that he hadn't swung Wind Blade in a long while and he sighed inwardly. He was in no doubt that his own personal swordswoman torturer was all too aware of that fact. If you need me, I'll be over here, said Culhen from the edge of the lake, his voice dripping with self-satisfaction. I think I might take a little nap now. Ahren gritted his teeth and swore that he would get Selsena to harry the wolf at the next opportunity. Then he followed Khara along the beach as she hummed cheerfully. The midday sun was burning down on Ahren when he finally demanded a break and staggered off towards the border of trees without waiting for Khara's permission. The young woman had set up a zigzag running course on the beach, using stakes. Ahren had spent the whole morning negotiating the course. Unfortunately, Khara was constantly changing the rules. 'So that it won't become boring,' she had said, grinning. Sometimes he had to do a roll at every second stake, sometimes he had to run backwards. Or he had to run sideways. Or hop his way around the course. His world revolved around fourteen wooden stakes in the sand, and after several hours in the searing heat, he had reached the limits of his endurance. His chest was heaving like a bellows. He yanked his shirt off over his head in a desperate attempt to let the cool offshore breeze do its work and lessen the pain. His plan had been to take the direct route to the shade and flee into the lake's cool embrace, but then he saw Jelninolan, sitting all alone on the seashore, her legs tucked under her and the Storm Fiddle Mirilan in her hands. His curiosity got the better of him and he decided that he could just as easily cool off in the sea. He ran to the shore and threw himself into the surf, swimming quickly out to where it got deeper and where he could hardly touch the ground with his feet. Then he swam along the shore towards Jelninolan, putting on as innocent a face as he could muster. Everything about the priestess seemed to radiate an unearthly serenity. With her back straight and her eyes closed, the magician appeared to be listening to the song of the sea; the little bay that she had selected for herself was free of the larger waves, and the water babbled gently over the sand. The Forest Guardian could see her hands twitching from time to time, as if she were about to play a melody on Mirilan, only to pause with a mysterious smile on her lips. 'You're disturbing the waves,' she said aloud, without opening her eyes. 'That was not my intention,' said Ahren, somewhat puzzled by what the elf meant. 'I just wanted to swim a little and cool down.' 'Dear Ahren,' said Jelninolan, now looking at him severely. 'I hope the world will never have to depend on your talent for lying. You are simply too honest.' 'Well, it was good enough for the Sun Emperor,' grumbled Ahren, who had swum closer to the shore so that they could talk more easily. The previous year, he had persuaded the ruler of the Sunplains to lift the siege on the Brazen City and even to defend it against an attack from an army of Dark Ones – not least, thanks to a highly risky bluff on Ahren's part. Jelninolan raised an eyebrow. 'I, at least, know you too well for you to fool me with an untruth. Come on, spit it out!' Ahren was battling with a large wave, but then allowed it to carry him closer to the shore. 'I was curious,' he admitted. 'You were alone, and I wanted to find out what you were doing.' He shrugged his shoulders. 'I can carry on swimming if you like.' Jelninolan smiled. 'No, it's nice that you're here. I don't think there is anyone who enjoys your company more – apart from Khara, that is.' Ahren cleared his throat in embarrassment and threw some water over his face as he floated towards the shore. Jelninolan gave a high, clear laugh and gestured to him reassuringly. 'I understand the two of you, I really do. There's no more beautiful feeling than being newly in love.' She gave him a searching look. 'And I welcome the fact that you're…not overdoing things.' Ahren blushed a deep red and quickly ducked his head under the water. Then he went onto the beach, accompanied by Jelninolan's laughter, and sat down on the sand beside her. The sun seemed to be burning his head with its intensity. He decided he would collect his shirt after their chat. 'Khara insists on the Menug-Anan,' he said, trying to reassure the elf, realising too late the frustrated undertone in his voice. The elf's face was one of cold disapproval now, and Ahren slumped guiltily. Ever since the priestess had alighted from the Giltanaar and achieved her True Form, her aura could almost be tangible, whenever she wanted it to be. 'You should count yourself lucky. The Menug-Anan implies that it's very serious between you. Or would you prefer her to have her bit of fun with you, only to drop you in two moons like an overripe apple?' The very thought made Ahren unwell, and he quickly shook his head. Although his mind was full of lively images of Khara, he didn't want to sacrifice his relationship with her for the sake of a few moments of fleeting enjoyment. At least, that's what he kept telling himself. 'Back to your original question,' said Jelninolan. 'You could say that I'm listening in on the sea.' She gestured to the gentle waves and closed her eyes. 'Since I reawakened the Storm Weaving, the water has been calling out my name with every movement; every breath of wind whispers secrets into my ears.' A look of irritation passed across her face. 'I can't understand everything they are telling me, but sometimes I catch snatches of a possible charm or a spell melody, and the longer I listen in, the deeper my knowledge becomes.' 'I can understand the air speaking to you. But why the water?' asked Ahren curiously. Jelninolan opened her eyes again and looked at him. 'What is a storm made from?' she asked rhetorically. 'From wind and rain. Air and water. Storm Weaving is a combination of these two elements.' Ahren grunted in agreement. 'That could be useful at sea,' he said after a pause. Again, Jelninolan looked unhappy. 'It could indeed. If I only understood what I was hearing.' Ahren suddenly giggled, much to the displeasure of the elf. 'What's so funny about that?' she asked in a severe voice. 'The fact that we are swapping roles,' he responded cheerfully. 'I have finally become a Forest Guardian, and you are beginning to learn the art of Storm Weaving.' Then he became serious. 'I noticed that you were on the point of playing Mirilan earlier. Why don't you just do it? There isn't any teacher who can instruct you. If you hear snippets, then play them, let them become reality. Maybe the rest will come of its own accord.' Jelninolan looked at him without saying a word – then kissed him lightly on the cheek. 'Khara might not have made such a bad choice after all,' she said warmly. 'And now stop evading your training and go back to her. When I start experimenting, then the beach should be as Paladin-free as possible. I wouldn't like to transform you into a fish by mistake.' Ahren nodded and ran back along the strand with a light heart. It felt good, having given a piece of advice himself for a change, and for the first time it struck him that he really had completed his apprenticeship. Khara was already waiting for him impatiently at the blasted stakes, and it seemed she must have spent her time cooking up more fiendish training variations. Certainly, Ahren panted and gasped his way through the rest of the day, which was interrupted from time to time by rolls of thunder and little flashes of lightning emanating from the section of beach where Jelninolan was exploring the secrets of her magic. Everyone gathered together in the late afternoon on the beach where Ahren was just finishing his last exhausting round between the stakes. 'You're not afraid to make him sweat, girl,' said Trogadon, impressed. Falk laid a hand on Ahren's shoulder. 'Well, son, do you miss your old master already?' he asked with a twinkle in his eye. Too weary to answer, Ahren simply scowled, clearly indicating to his companions what he thought of their comments. Then he spotted the pile of arrows lying across Trogadon's folded arms. Their shafts were longer and thicker than normal, but the arrowheads looked extended and thin. Trogadon noticed Ahren's sceptical look and shrugged his shoulders, causing the arrows to clatter against each other. 'I had to work around the existing arrowheads. These ones here are all a little improvised, but when the ship arrives, I will make you decent ones.' 'I requested through my magic message that the king send us a ship full of armour, including a little forge,' added Uldini with a self-satisfied smirk. 'Enough chatter,' said Falk impatiently, pressing Fisiniell and one of the new arrows into Ahren's hands. 'There's a tree over there. Shoot at it.' The young Forest Guardian had to smile at his erstwhile master's enthusiasm as he stretched his bowstring to its limit. The wood was shuddering with power, and when he let the arrow fly, he gasped once again at the missile's speed. It sank with a crunch into the tree until only its fletching was visible. While Trogadon, Falk and Ahren all slapped each other on the back and growled their delight, Jelninolan shook her head disapprovingly and released the arrow from the tree with a charm. 'No more target practice on the trees with this bow,' she said firmly. 'The damage it causes is simply too great. You would have poisoned the poor thing if the arrowhead had remained in its trunk.' Ahren nodded apologetically and looked down at Fisiniell. An arrow could penetrate even a Glower Bear's skin with this bow. 'I want to know how far it will shoot!' he cried out excitedly, taking another arrow. Then he pointed towards the horizon and let the arrow fly in a low arc out over the sea. 'I'll be damned, but I couldn't see where the little fella ended up in the water,' murmured Trogadon proudly. 'That's some weapon you have there, Ahren.' The young Forest Guardian turned around and, one by one, he embraced and thanked Jelninolan, Falk, Selsena and Trogadon. Then he ran his fingers along the wood of the bow, remembering the deceased Aeonian Willow, and how, in its last moments it had given him such a generous gift before succumbing to the flames of the Death Vines. He silently vowed to honour its memory and to fight for a world where no animals or plants would be killed in the name of the dark god. Ahren set another arrow on his bow and was about to shoot it out to sea, determined to carefully follow its path with his eyes, but Falk placed a warning hand on his arm. 'These arrows were no end of work to make. It would be nice if you didn't shoot them all out to sea.' Ahren nodded in embarrassment and lowered his bow, his eyes still fixed on the horizon. 'Am I seeing things,' he said thoughtfully, 'or is that a ship sailing directly towards us?'

(13th Paladin 5) The Isles of the Cutlass Sea

Torsten Weitze

Chapter 4

They were filled with joyful anticipation as the ship headed towards their section of the coast. After looking carefully, Uldini had concluded that it was a vessel of the Knight Marshes, and all were convinced that it was indeed the means of transport that the Arch Wizard had requested by magic message some weeks earlier. It seemed that King Senius Blueground, the ruler of the Knight Marshes, whom Ahren and his friends had saved from an assassination attempt and an unwanted war against the elves of Evergreen, had spared neither expense nor effort. It didn't take long for Ahren to recognise the three-master that was approaching them. 'That's the Queen of the Waves,' he called out excitedly. The Kings Island flagship had carried them across the sea once before, and suddenly Ahren was feeling much more confident. The crew had been favourably disposed towards them, and Culhen had been adopted as a kind of ship's mascot. The wolf gave a low yelp of joy. Ahren could sense his friend's excitement at the anticipation of being admired and stroked by everyone on board. 'Well now, that is a welcome surprise,' said Falk delightedly, and even the normally critical Uldini didn't raise any objections to this discovery. Trogadon pointed towards the beacon they had built up but not yet lit. 'So, can I set this thing alight now to help them find us?' he demanded. Ahren nodded. The flames were blazing two paces high in no time at all, and soon the companions could see the warship changing course slightly and approaching them directly. 'The current is against them, and the wind is not strong, so they won't make it here until evening time,' said Falk. 'What do you say we go catch a few wild boars and prepare them a decent welcoming dinner? You know how sparse the supplies can be on board after a few weeks at sea.' Ahren nodded, and the two Forest Guardians quickly shouldered their bows and disappeared into the undergrowth with Culhen and Selsena. The time flew past. Ahren was aware that this would probably be his farewell to the Southern Jungles. He made sure to enjoy the incredible vigour that the place radiated, listening to the myriad of sounds coming from its inhabitants. By the time they were finished, they had caught four wild boars, which they carried back to their campsite. The two men and the wolf carried one specimen each on their backs, while Culhen had the fourth one in his mouth, ensuring that the return journey took longer than they had anticipated. Ahren sweated and snorted under the weight but was amazed to discover that he could easily keep pace with Falk. 'You've developed well, son,' said Falk as they approached the camp. 'I'm proud of you.' Ahren stopped in his tracks when he heard the unexpected praise, but the old man kept on walking without saying another word, leaving the young man standing there. Ahren hurried after his erstwhile master with a grin. It looked as if the old curmudgeon – never one to show his feelings – was fleeing towards the beach, not giving Ahren a chance to respond. It had probably taken the grey-haired man the whole of the hunt to overcome his inhibitions and utter those two sentences. He caught up with Falk as the old man was stepping out from the line of trees onto the beach and approaching the little group that had already collected beside Ahren's friends. The young Paladin spotted the captain of the Queen of the Waves, whose name he had never learned, neatly dressed in his uniform as always, and beside him several sailors, as well as a haggard looking woman dressed in a simple soldier's uniform. She looked strangely familiar to him. Only when he saw her short blond-streaked hair, shaved at the sides, did he realise whom he was looking at. 'The red-white Loom!' he exclaimed, quickly placing his wild boar down on the sand. The woman turned to look at him questioningly and keenly. 'It's Sergeant Yantilla, my friend,' she barked at him. 'Who might you be, and how come you know my old mercenary name?' Trogadon laughed uproariously, causing everyone else on the beach to fall silent. 'Take a closer look, for heaven's sake. Subtract a head's height, take away a bit of his broad shoulders, get rid of the wild beard, and then you might have a better idea.' The ex-mercenary waved her hand impatiently at the dwarf, before taking a closer look at Ahren. Then her eyes widened in surprise. 'Well, I'll be damned! Is it really you, Squire?' Ahren grinned and spread out his hands apologetically. 'It's been a while,' he said modestly. The soldier immediately gave a deep bow and maintained the pose. 'I apologise that I didn't recognise you, sir,' she said quickly. 'Stand up straight,' interrupted Falk, decisively. 'Tell me what you're doing here. Are you not supposed to be maintaining order in my barony?' The old man was referring back to the order that Ahren had given to the haggard woman's company of mercenaries, when the apprentice had persuaded the highway robbers to fight for him instead of carrying on with their ambushing. Ahren had commanded them to go to his erstwhile master's barony and to place themselves under the command of Captain Greycloth, the seneschal of Castle Falkenstein. Sergeant Yantilla straightened up and placed a hand on her heart as she addressed Falk. 'Baron, it is a pleasure to see you again. To answer your question – a courier brought messages and letters to Castle Falkenstein, and this prompted us to volunteer. We had learned about the ship that was being sent to support you, and so we decided to go on board as reinforcements. After all, we are the squire's soldiers. We shall work on this vessel as marines.' Ahren was speechless and moved at the same time. Of course, he had hoped that the mercenaries would help protect the barony against the oncoming Dark Days, but their personal loyalty to him was not what he had anticipated. He keenly looked the ex-mercenary up and down once again and noticed several subtle changes in the gaunt woman's appearance. The slightly harried look had disappeared from her eyes and her previous exaggerated, almost theatrical manner had been replaced by a calmer demeanour. The captain of the Queen of the Waves cleared his throat. 'Sergeant Yantilla and her people are on board ship as marines under my authority for the time being. Do you wish to assume command over them as their liege?' Ahren was totally blindsided and looked first over at Falk, then at Yantilla. The old man remained impassive, but the ex-mercenary's eyebrow twitched momentarily, then she nodded her head emphatically. The young Paladin decided to follow his instincts and saluted the captain standing before him. 'A superb idea. I hereby assume command over my soldiers.' He saw the relief on the face of the gaunt woman once he had announced his decision. 'Very well,' said the captain stiffly and then turned to Falk. 'Baron, I will oversee my crew's disembarkation. We urgently need to take fresh water and provisions on board.' He glanced over at the slain wild boar. 'The dwarf says there is a freshwater lake nearby. I take it that we will be able to set sail again tomorrow at noon.' 'The dwarf has a name, you know,' grumbled Trogadon, throwing an angry look at the departing captain. 'The military from the Knight Marshes are always the same,' said Uldini scornfully. 'The only thing that counts is the rank the king has bestowed on you. Did you hear how our two Paladins were greeted by their noble titles? A squire is worth more to him than a defender of the gods.' Trogadon snorted and walked away, shaking his head. 'What's his problem may I ask,' inquired Yantilla curiously, watching the broad-shouldered warrior as he stomped off. 'Dwarves have to prove their worth before they can even achieve their name,' said Jelninolan softly. 'Trogadon really hates it when somebody doesn't bother to use it.' 'Well, I could certainly imagine myself calling out his name,' said the ex-mercenary salaciously. Ahren cleared his throat and tried to change the subject. 'I take it you don't get on well with the captain?' he asked, referring back to her silent request for him to assume command. She nodded and lowered her voice. 'Captain Orben is a decent man but much too pedantic for my taste. My people and I are used to the soldier's life, but the captain overdoes it sometimes as far as formalities and neat clothing are concerned.' 'The Queen of the Waves is the flagship of the Knight Marshes all the same,' said Falk with a chuckle. 'Which means that his crew are always being judged with a critical eye. I'm sure he wasn't overjoyed at the prospect of having a gang of ex-mercenaries on board.' Ahren scanned the beach, which had been so idyllically peaceful until now. A dinghy was already disgorging its second load of mariners, and there were pieces of equipment scattered around the place which were needed for the necessary replenishment of food and water. 'Falk, why don't we go on one or two more hunting expeditions while the rest of the mariners are disembarking? The four wild boars still have to be cooked, and I would feel more at ease if there weren't a wave of hungry sailors marauding through the jungle. They might attract some unwanted attention.' 'I like your idea,' said the old Forest Guardian with a grin, clutching his bow. 'Come on – we'll call Culhen and Selsena and head off.' It was deep into the night when Ahren and Falk, too weary to continue hunting, returned to the camp on the beach for the fourth time with yet more booty on their backs. The four wild boars from their first foray were roasting on long spits over their individual fires, and the mood on the beach was boisterous. Jelninolan had taken out her Storm Fiddle, and Trogadon was teaching the new arrivals the words of a smutty Dwarfish drinking song, including the translation of course, which resulted in much merriment and quite a few red ears. Captain Orben was nowhere to be seen. Ahren reckoned that the earnest man preferred to remain aboard overnight while allowing his crew to let off a little steam. Falk pointed at the large wineskins that were being passed around and picked up his pace. 'I doubt we'll be able to set sail at noon tomorrow,' he said with a grin. The time from then until dawn passed remarkably quickly, Ahren enjoying himself in an irresistible cauldron of laughter, good food, and strong wine. He laughed and he sang with the ex-mercenaries, who were now under his command and had quickly lost their initial shyness before their squire, whose powerful, shaggy appearance made him look wilder and less civilised than the majority of those present. The crew of the Queen of the Waves, on the other hand, had gathered around Falk, whose calm, stoical manner represented the epitome of a Paladin to them. Adding to this atmosphere was the almost reverential attitude of Ahren's followers to Selsena, which had been decisive that time, when the mercenaries had finally come to believe that the adolescent apprentice was indeed a Paladin. While they were admiring the unicorn, Culhen was engulfed by the mariners, who were delighted to see their beloved ship's mascot again. Ahren and Falk, surrounded by their followers and in close proximity to the other's soul animal, toasted each other. Selsena and Culhen were thoroughly enjoying their special status, and Ahren could sense the wolf secretly totting up who was getting more stroke as he growled contentedly or sat in a particularly endearing pose in an effort to keep up with the Titejunanwa. Khara stayed close beside Ahren, for although she had lost some of her taciturnity, the boisterous merriment of the soldiers and mariners was just a little too much for her. Uldini was nowhere to be seen, but Ahren knew that the Arch Wizard always sought out the centre of power and he calculated that the ageless magician was enjoying a superior glass of wine with the captain in his cabin. As dawn broke, alcohol and weariness demanded their tribute from the revellers, and gradually the beach was filled with the sound of snoring. Ahren awoke when the sun was halfway along its ascent to the zenith. There was a cooling breeze, and the seabirds screeched loudly in the sky above. The left half of his body was full of sand, and his right side was covered by Khara, who had snuggled in on top of him proprietorially. Although he was feeling heavy-headed, the Forest Guardian had participated in enough revelries by now to know when enough wine was enough. He felt free and cheerful as he grinned at a soldier beside him, who was slowly getting up. 'A merry Spring Festival to you, Squire,' groaned the man, before beginning to wake up his companions. Ahren frowned and quickly calculated how many weeks had passed since they had left the Brazen City. But their toils in the Endless Desert and in the jungle, all blurred in together, as indeed did their many quiet days here on the beach by the Cutlass Sea. Ahren awoke Khara with a gentle kiss, and as she raised herself up and blinked, he stretched and asked in a sleepy voice: 'Is it really already time for the Spring Festival?' Khara shrugged her shoulders. 'That's what they were saying yesterday anyway, before the feast started. You and Falk were still hunting, I think.' Now Ahren understood why the atmosphere had been so festive the previous evening. He stood up and studied the scene around him. A surprising number of mariners and soldiers were already up and about, cleaning away the rubbish from the night's celebrations. By the time he reached Falk and Culhen, almost everyone had been woken up by their comrades. Suddenly, he no longer shared his ex-master's opinion that they wouldn't be setting sail today. It seemed that all the men and women who had come to their assistance believed in working just as diligently as they had celebrated. Grinning, he gently tapped the old man with his foot as he lay asleep with his head on Culhen's flank. 'I'm awake,' murmured Falk, opening his eyes wide. When he recognised Ahren, he relaxed, yawned, and smacked his lips. 'Now I understand why you like dozing on Culhen so much. He's much softer than the forest floor.' The wolf grunted peacefully but didn't open his eyes. Ahren sensed that the animal was being plagued by a headache and wondered how he might have got it. Falk slapped the enormous wolf on his flank and laughed loudly. 'Your vain friend couldn't resist the invitation when one of the mariners had the idea of pouring wine down his throat. I'd say he has the hangover that he deserves.' Everything alright, big lad? asked Ahren with concern. He really didn't know if wine could be damaging to a wolf. Don't. Talk. To. Me. growled the wolf, reducing their connection to a minimum. Ahren shrugged his shoulders and left it at that. Jelninolan's Animal Blessing would protect the wolf from any of the wine's serious after-effects. Ahren offered Falk his hand, which was gratefully grasped, and he pulled the old man effortlessly up onto his feet. 'I heard that we celebrated our Spring Festival,' he said in a questioning voice. Falk grunted and waved his hand in a vague gesture. 'Could be true. The village elders always determine the date in Hjalgar, so it is difficult to calculate the exact date when you're far away from home.' He frowned and thought for a moment. 'But it could be accurate. Congratulations on having survived your seventeenth winter, Ahren.' The young Forest Guardian blinked in surprise. Of course! That meant he was another year older. The number seemed surreal to him when he considered all the things that had befallen him already. There were experienced soldiers twice his age who had survived only half the number of battles he had fought in. Still, he couldn't stop himself thinking of his home village of Deepstone. Young boys and girls were finished with their training at seventeen winters and ideally would be courting someone by now. Ahren glanced over at Khara and granted himself a little smile of contentment. Really, he wasn't doing too badly after all. Falk snapped his fingers in front of Ahren's eyes, rousing him from his reverie. 'Let's give them a hand. The sooner we get off this beach, the more quickly we can go in search of Fisker and Aluna. We've had more than enough time to rest.' And so, they spent the morning working with the crew and soldiers, and by the time the sun reached its zenith, all the water barrels had been filled and the wild boars appropriately carved. As the first men and women returned to the ship with their provisions, Jelninolan pulled Ahren aside with a pair of scissors in her hand. 'If you're going to take command, then you can't go around looking like a hermit,' she said decisively. 'Freshen yourself up in the lake, then I'll take that in hand.' She indicated vaguely towards his head. Ahren knew when there was no point in debating the issue and, considering that Khara too had alluded to his appearance sarcastically on more than one occasion, he simply nodded and did as he was told. No sooner had he climbed out of the lake than the elf steered him towards a tree and pushed him onto the ground with his back against the trunk. 'So – how would you like it done?' asked Jelninolan. Ahren first thought she was asking him about his beard, but when he opened his mouth to speak, he noticed that the priestess was looking back over her shoulder. 'Hmm, let me think,' said Khara ruminatively as she stepped out from the shadows and walked towards them. 'Do I not have a say in this?' asked Ahren in consternation, but Jelninolan was already busy with the scissors in front of his eyes. 'Stay still. The poor girl has to kiss this tangle, so she has the last word.' Khara tilted her head and examined Ahren keenly. 'We'll tie back his hair behind his neck. He does have nice hair, so it would be a pity to get rid of it all.' Ahren immediately felt his chin being gripped surprisingly firmly by the elf, and with a few movements of her other hand, she tied his mane into a plait which hung down his neck. Then she started cutting merrily, and Ahren had to admit when she paused, that he could see more clearly than he had done for a long time. Only a few stray hairs hung left and right of his forehead down over his face, the rest having been bound together neatly or fallen victim to the scissors. 'Good. What do you think of that?' asked Jelninolan, pointing disdainfully at Ahren's wild beard. 'The beard remains,' said Ahren firmly. 'It's practical and it means that people take me more seriously.' Jelninolan raised an eyebrow. 'Your shoulders are broader than Falk's, and you're only a hand short of being two paces tall. You're carrying an Elven master-bow and a Dwarfish Wind Blade, and you're being followed by an enormous ice wolf. Who in all of Jorath is likely not to take you seriously, in the name of the gods?' Ahren realised, much to his own surprise, that he would need to correct his own self-image. Still, he remained obdurate. 'That doesn't change a thing. It's practical and it's going to stay. It protects the skin in summer, it warms my face in winter.' This was one of the lessons that Falk had drummed into him. Although he was uncertain regarding his bearded mentor's objectivity in this matter, Ahren was determined to retain at least a minimum of control over his appearance. 'Very well,' said Khara, nodding benevolently. 'He can keep a finger's width.' Ahren wanted to protest, but both women looked daggers at him, and he acquiesced, resigned to his fate. A short full beard would fulfil his needs, and that was the important thing. That, along with the impression that he had got his way. We all have our own little illusions, said Culhen cheerfully, clearly feeling better again. When I'm finished here, I'm going to get Jelninolan to run the scissors over you, Ahren promised the wolf. I've been groomed three times already by my admirers, said the wolf contentedly. There are some people who treat me with the respect I deserve. Ahren sensed that his friend's ego was full to overflowing and so he abandoned their mental sparring. 'Right, finished,' said Jelninolan. 'You're presentable again at last. As soon as we're back on board, I'm going to try and adjust your ribbon armour.' 'Thank you,' said Ahren politely, standing up. Khara came up to him and stroked his cheek with her hand. 'Acceptable. Not as soft and fluffy as Culhen, but bearable.' 'He can hear you, so he can,' said Ahren, tapping his temple. The girl has taste, was Culhen's comment. Khara nodded, grinned, and gave Ahren a lingering kiss. Jelninolan cleared her throat. 'Right then, I'll put away the equipment. When you've finished here, follow me. I'm quite sure the forty-odd people on the large warship will be delighted if they don't have to hang on for you.' The pair, hand in hand, followed the elf, before they finally boarded the dinghy to begin their search for the two Paladins on the isles of the Cutlass Sea. 'Wow, who do I see here?' asked Trogadon cheekily, looking down on Ahren in the dinghy. 'There was a young warrior hiding behind that shaggy hair all the time.' Ahren scowled and climbed the rope ladder onto the deck, where he was met by Uldini's warning hand. 'Are you ready for the long and dangerous journey awaiting us?' asked the Arch Wizard in a pompous voice. Ahren nodded uncertainly, and Uldini stepped aside to let him pass. When Ahren placed his boot on the carefully polished planks, the Arch Wizard threw his arms in the air. 'Arrived!' he called out, with a mocking laugh. 'It would be really nice if we could actually be in the right area at the right time, occasionally,' he added. 'The next inhabitable island is a day's journey from here. We may start our search for Fisker and Aluna post-haste.' Ahren allowed himself to be infected by the childlike figure's grin as he looked around the ship. Culhen was lying rolled up on the foredeck directly at the prow of the ship. Trogadon was descending a set of stairs, which Ahren knew led below deck, and the two women were just climbing on board behind him. 'Where is Falk?' asked the young Paladin. Uldini pointed back to the beach. 'He's just bidding farewell to Selsena. She finds it impossible to spend weeks on end in the stowage of a ship. We're going to meet her again as soon as we've found our two reclusive Paladins.' 'That's going to be difficult for him,' said Ahren ruminatively. Falk and Selsena had ruptured ties with each other for decades after a serious argument, and now his ex-master suffered greatly any time he had to spend time away from his Titejunanwa. 'They must bring me back ashore,' he said determinedly. 'The dinghy will have to pick him up anyway.' He wanted to be with the old man after the farewell. Jelninolan looked back at the shore as well and said, 'I'm going with you.' The strange undertone in her voice suggested to Ahren that she had something up her sleeve. He followed her curiously back down the rope ladder, and they were rowed back to the coast by the sailors. Falk was standing there in silent conversation with Selsena, his troubled face clearly exhibiting the old Paladin's unhappiness. 'Falk,' said Jelninolan gently, and the old man turned to look at her. 'Just give us a moment. Jorath is becoming ever more dangerous, especially for a Titejunanwa far away from her herd,' said Falk roughly, rubbing Selsena's bone-plate. 'That's why we're here,' said the priestess firmly. Ahren looked sideways at her in irritation. 'Is that why?' he murmured but received no answer. 'What would you say if I ensured that Selsena could accompany us?' asked the elf instead. 'If there were a charm that would make this possible?' Falk's ears pricked up and Selsena whinnied quietly. 'That would be really lovely, but the way you're asking the question makes me uneasy…how dangerous is this magic?' he enquired. Jelninolan raised her hands reassuringly. 'It's completely harmless, I can assure you. It will either work or nothing at all will happen.' She hesitated for a moment. 'The only thing is – I don't know how it works. It's a song that the waves are whispering to me when I see your suffering in front of me.' She laughed helplessly. 'I'm beginning to sound like a second-rate oracle. I really want to help you, but my magic is so new to me, and yet so incredibly old at the same time.' She struggled to explain herself. 'It's as if the sea is remembering the magic for me.' Falk communicated for a moment with Selsena, who then stepped forward and nuzzled her muzzle into Jelninolan's hand. 'We trust you,' said the old Forest Guardian finally. 'As long as it's not dangerous, it's certainly worth a try.' A shiver ran down Ahren's spine and his hands were sweaty when Jelninolan bade the unicorn to step into the water. Once the animal's legs had disappeared beneath the surface and the gentle waves were lapping against the Elven charger's flanks, the elf commanded Selsena to stand still. Then the magician took out Mirilan and began to play a seductive melody, which spread out over the waves like a warm blanket atop a freezing traveller. Ahren saw how the music seemed to lure the crests of the waves in the vicinity, which then gathered in spiral patterns around Selsena, causing the water around her to rise. The animal seemed to be quickly sinking under a sort of immobile wave, and as the cool water reached her head, Selsena whinnied nervously and Falk loudly cleared his throat. 'We hope you know what you're doing,' he said nervously. 'Only another couple of heartbeats,' responded Jelninolan, in rapt concentration. 'Selsena, my dear, now you must hold your breath for a moment.' The Storm Fiddle's melody increased in tempo and in an instant the water completely covered the terrified Titejunanwa. Falk let out a furious roar, but the wave had already collapsed and Selsena had vanished. 'Where is she?' asked Ahren nervously. Had the elf's magic gone wrong? Had Jelninolan miscalculated, or had the charm, strange to her, misled the priestess? 'She's still here,' said Falk in amazement, pointing to the water. 'Just there.' Ahren stared at the spot, not two paces from where the unicorn had only just been standing, and gasped. He could see a large white fish just under the surface, moving slowly. Then a round, white head appeared and Ahren corrected himself. That was no fish, but a whale. A small, slim whale with a long spiral horn on its head. 'A narwhal!' cried out Falk enthusiastically and then laughed. 'They call them the unicorns of the oceans.' Jelninolan seemed exhausted but chuffed. 'Ask her if she likes the magic. I can release her from it at any time, but it can only be performed once, or she is at risk of being transformed forever. If she changes back – then that will be it.' Falk closed his eyes, and for several heartbeats nobody spoke. Ahren could hear the roar of the waterfall in the distance, the screeching of seagulls, and the regular sound of the waves, lapping with stoical regularity against the shore. The air was filled with the salty ocean tang and a light breeze was caressing his face. Finally, Falk opened his eyes and nodded. 'She says it feels strange, but she wants to give it a try,' he announced. A few heartbeats later he added: 'She says she feels quite warm.' Jelninolan nodded apologetically. 'Narwhals actually live in very cold water. The blessing of the gods will be of benefit, but still, she should swim away from the shore and dive into the cooler waters.' Falk nodded, and a moment later the smooth white body of Selsena turned around and swam towards the Queen of the Waves. Ahren was still standing there, dumbstruck, when Falk placed a hand on Jelninolan's shoulder. 'Thank you,' he said, before walking to the dinghy. 'Now we can set sail.' The headwind on the Queen of the Waves was refreshing and deceptive at the same time, for it made Ahren forget that the sun was still burning down on them. Hardly had they raised anchor when Sergeant Yantilla pressed a white headcloth in his hand. 'Tie that nice and tight, Squire' she said. 'The wind is going to pick up.' Ahren began tying the cloth around his head, and the gaunt woman laughed. 'We're not in the desert here. The next strong wind will tear that off your head.' She indicated to her own headcloth, which was tightly bound, so Ahren imitated her knotting procedure. 'Good,' said the blond woman, satisfied. 'I really wouldn't like to have to follow a sunburnt squire into battle.' They were surrounded by the unfriendly faces of the sailors, and more than one of them looked disdainfully at the thin woman's back. She looked into Ahren's eyes and seemed to recognise what he was seeing. 'They're staring at me again, aren't they?' she asked with a sigh. When he nodded, the ex-mercenary let out a snort of frustration. 'I swear to you, squire, when those sailors entered service, they each had a pole shoved up their a…, their backsides.' Ahren grinned when he saw how the woman was trying to clean up her language, and he placed a sympathetic hand on her shoulder. 'I am a village lad, you know. I set great store on results, not on ceremony.' It sounded more pompous than he had intended, but Yantilla beamed at him and saluted snappily. Then she walked away with a spring in her step to shoo her people to the shrouds of the ship. 'A start.' Ahren heard Falk's voice behind him uttering the phrase that had dominated the early weeks of Ahren's apprenticeship. The old Forest Guardian stared keenly out to sea, as though waiting for Selsena to rise to the surface for air. She could dive for surprising lengths of time in her magical shape, but Falk seemed to be sceptical of the charm and only relaxed whenever the narwhal's white head broke through the surface and a fountain of air and spray shot towards the heavens. Ahren leaned against the bulwark beside the old man, his back towards the sea. His eyes scanned the deck and he considered what he saw. The Queen of the Waves was an impressive ship. Long and sleek, with high bulwarks that offered protection from arrow shots, and three thick masts with broad, heavy sails. Every inch of the ship was spick and span, and if he hadn't stood on this very deck two years earlier, he would never have believed that she was any longer than a fortnight in service. The crew were following their strict routine with dedication and precision. The captain and Uldini were standing at the ship's wheel on the quarterdeck, looking over the poop rail at the toing and froing on board. Ahren could hear Trogadon singing rhythmically in the belly of the ship, which suggested that the dwarf was working on something, and Jelninolan was on the other side of the deck in deep conversation with Khara, the two of the laughing from time to time. 'What did you mean when you said it was "a start"?' asked Ahren, breaking the silence between himself and his one-time master. Falk continued to stare out at the ocean, his face heavily furrowed. 'I swear to you, she's staying underwater for long periods just to annoy me,' he grumbled. Ahren cleared his throat, and the old man glanced at him before resuming his examination of the sea. 'I was speaking of your abilities as a leader, of being able to give orders and – even more important – of inspiring people. When the Dark Days come, we Paladins will have to be more than just first-class warriors. We will have to lead by example, to become beacons around which whole armies will gather, before following us into battle where we will take on creatures that have no place in the gods' creation. That will take practice.' Ahren's throat was suddenly very dry, and he swallowed several times. Falk had never spoken so concretely about the role of the Paladins before, and his words made the young man nervous. Keeping himself and his friends alive was hard enough as it was, but how could he manage to do that with a whole army? 'You look like a calf in a thunderstorm,' laughed Falk. 'Don't worry about it – it's all within you. It's just a question of practice.' Then the old man shrugged his shoulders. 'You are a Forest Guardian already, now you have to learn to be an honest-to-goodness Paladin.' Ahren looked at him suspiciously. 'You're not seriously going to take me on as an apprentice again, are you?' Falk hit the bulwark with the flat of his hand and guffawed. 'I won't subject myself to that a second time, thank you very much,' he responded in amusement. 'But you can look on me as a mentor, who has several centuries' experience in that which you yet have to learn.' Ahren thought for a moment about what Falk had said concerning leading people, and that this ability was within each Paladin. Bergen commanded his Blue Cohorts and at the same time radiated a cheeky charm that one could hardly resist; Sunju had transmitted a profound sense of security that had made him believe he was safe from the whole world when he was behind her. Even the crotchety Falk had inspired soldiers to follow them on more than one occasion when he had ridden into battle on Selsena with his sword and shield. And the nefarious Quin-Wa had battled her way up to becoming the ageless leader of the greatest empire in Jorath. Ahren found it difficult to imagine himself fitting into this squad of heroic figures and persuading others to risk their lives on his behalf. 'Maybe we will find all the Paladins before HE, WHO FORCES awakens,' said Ahren hopefully. 'Then the Thirteen will gather around HIM and raze HIM from the face of the earth without bloodshed.' 'Yes,' said Falk slowly. 'Maybe.' Ahren could sense that his mentor didn't believe in the possibility, so he changed the subject. 'Tell me about Fisker and Aluna,' he asked, but the old man shook his head. 'You'll have to talk to Uldini. Contrary to popular belief, we Paladins seldom fought alongside one another. There were many important battles all over Jorath, and we always had to divide ourselves up. I only ever encountered the pair about half a dozen times. Uldini knows them better. Yollock was a good friend of Fisker, but we still have to find him.' Falk pointed towards the south, where, according to Sunju, the Paladin had disappeared into the Eternal Fields of Ice in search of a dying dragon. Ahren pushed himself away from the bulwark and tapped Falk on the back in a friendly manner. 'I'll talk to Uldini, and in the meantime you make sure that Selsena doesn't forget to breathe.' 'Not funny,' growled Falk, his eyes fixed on the water again. Ahren asked himself in all seriousness if Jelninolan really had done the old man a favour with her transformation charm. The young man climbed the steps to the quarterdeck, where he joined Uldini and Captain Orben. 'Squire,' said the captain, greeting the young Paladin with a polite nod. Ahren returned the gesture before turning to Uldini. 'What can you tell me about the two Paladins we are looking for? Falk says you know more about them than he does.' Uldini rubbed his bald pate and gestured to the Forest Guardian to follow him. They wandered back to the stern of the ship, where Uldini finally spoke. 'Fisker was born in this region, on one of the Cutlass Sea isles. During the Dark Days, many of the refugees settled on the islands around here and led simple lives. His father was a Paladin, whose soul-mate was an island woman. Fisker grew up here and from an early age learned how to sail and fish. He was a cheerful lad, always whistling and contented with his lot. That is, until he met Aluna. She came from island stock too, but they lived further north, on the edge of what is now known as the Cutlass Sea.' Uldini looked at him gravely. 'You know the area as the Lost Islands.' Ahren gasped. They had sailed close to the islands during their first voyage. A tribe of enslaved underwater creatures lived there, whose forebears had been tricked into submission by the dark god. 'But didn't you say that the islands have been uninhabited ever since the Lost Tribe started wreaking havoc in the vicinity?' Uldini nodded. 'You really do listen when someone tells you something. Aluna is old – even for a Paladin – almost as old as the First. Her people lived in isolation, far away from the destruction of the Dark Days. HE, WHO FORCES took no notice of them – not until they produced a Paladin. At which point he concocted a ruse and subjugated the whole tribe. Aluna blamed herself for drawing the dark god's attention to her homeland. A burden that made her melancholy and vengeful.' Uldini sighed heavily. 'Fisker and Aluna fell in love at first sight, so the story goes. His optimistic outlook and her embittered determination metamorphosed into the perfect team for destroying Dark Ones, such a team as Jorath had never experienced before. Everyone was convinced that the gods had created them to be soul-mates to each other.' He leaned in conspiratorially and whispered: 'Unfortunately, the THREE had another plan.' Uldini paused and gazed sadly out over the ocean before continuing. 'The soul-mates of the two turned up when the pair were exhausted from warfare and plunged all four into a state of emotional turmoil that destroyed their lives. There was an abundance of fury, shouting, and jealousy to contend with.' Uldini closed his eyes. 'Then there was the Night of Blood, when all the Paladins mourned for the death of their beloveds.' He shrugged his shoulders. 'If what Sunju said is true, then the pair found happiness in the end. At least they sought it out in the comfort of each other's arms, and, if we're not all mistaken, they are somewhere here on the Cutlass Sea.' Ahren puffed out his cheeks. It was clear to him now why Uldini had wanted to speak to him in private. The young Paladin always had to remind himself of the fact that the other champions of the gods had already endured so much suffering and war, and that their stories had been marked by pain. No wonder so many of them were in a traumatised state the first time he met them. Ahren had an idea. 'Is there something that they both particularly liked? A place that they might have retired to?' he asked. Uldini shook his head. 'If so, then I don't know of it. They met each other during war. As far as I know, they were never on the Cutlass Sea together before the Dark Days.' Ahren frowned in annoyance. 'Is the plan to traipse around every island until we find them, then?' Uldini spread his hands apologetically. 'We'll begin our enquiries on the Crow's Nest. That's an island where there is a truce among all the pirate captains. The place is crawling with taverns. If there are rumours about a centuries-old pair of lovers living on a lonely island, then we'll hear about them there.' Ahren chewed his lip. 'Then I'd better quickly learn to handle Fisiniell and re-acquaint myself with the ship's movements,' he ruminated aloud. 'To think I imagined things might be easier for a while now that I'm no longer an apprentice.' Uldini laughed mockingly and slapped the young man's forearm in amusement. Even as Ahren walked down the steps from the quarterdeck, he could still hear the childlike figure chuckling behind him. Ahren could hardly believe his eyes when he arrived below deck to get an overview of the ship's structure. He had received intensive tactical training from Falk since the last time he had been on board, and so he looked at the narrow passageways, not to mention the nooks and crannies of the cabins and storerooms in a completely different way now. The ship was ideal for defending, but what really amazed him were the arrangements hidden below deck. Uldini must have been very specific in his instructions, for Ahren saw extra accommodation for the marines, a newly furnished room for himself and his companions, and even a little workshop, which Trogadon was cheerfully setting up as he sang. The dwarf was positioning all the bits and pieces he had picked up on their travels, inspecting diverse pots and pans, as well as the tiny forge that was built into an ironclad corner of the room. 'Isn't this heavenly?' asked the dwarf, grinning widely from behind his bushy beard. 'I can really have fun in here and try out a few ideas that have been knocking around in my head.' Ahren, however, was hardly listening to the dwarf anymore but was staring in shock at a strangely cruciform crossbow, whose double bows he hadn't seen since an assassin had used it to dry and dispatch Falk into the next world. Now, he vaguely remembered that Trogadon had picked it up that time and taken it with him, but he had always assumed that the warrior had thrown it away long ago. 'What's that doing here? Are you telling me you carried that bow around with you in your enormous bag of stuff ever since?' he asked in disbelief. Trogadon nodded vigorously. 'That might come in useful if I'm not mistaken. You'll see,' predicted the dwarf as he worked busily. 'Are you here for anything, or did you just want to criticise my plans?' Ahren flinched, genuinely taken aback. Trogadon was normally the epitome of cheerfulness, but clearly the Forest Guardian had overstepped the mark and irritated the dwarf. 'I'm just trying to get an overview of everything,' he said, quickly withdrawing. Trogadon merely waved a hand and began inspecting another receptacle on one of the shelves nailed against the wall. The young Paladin ended his tour, memorising the design of the ship before climbing back on deck. Khara approached him, and he immediately remembered what it was that he hated most about ships: you could never be truly alone. No matter where you were, somebody else was no more than two paces away from you. With the additional marines and a fully grown wolf on board, the feeling of claustrophobia was even greater. Which meant that moments alone with Khara would be few and far between. Ahren groaned. The young swordswoman planted her hands on her hips and looked at him reproachfully. 'What kind of a greeting is that, then?' she asked curtly. Ahren wiped his face with his hand. 'That wasn't meant for you,' he said apologetically. 'I find it difficult to cope with the confined nature of ships.' Khara gave an understanding nod. 'I don't like being below deck either. It reminds me of my flight from the Eternal Empire.' Ahren understood what his beloved was talking about. She had been a stowaway for the entire voyage from the Eternal Empire to King's Island, hidden away in a storeroom of a ship, constantly worrying about being apprehended. Shortly after that she had met Ahren, when he had rather impetuously tried to save her life. 'I'm going to practise with Fisiniell,' said Ahren. 'According to Uldini, we may be unfortunate enough to become the target of pirates.' Khara nodded. 'Then I'm going to see if I can find a worthy sparring partner among the marines on board.' She gave him a quick kiss and then waved a threatening finger in front of his face. 'But don't think you're going to weasel your way out of sword-training. At the moment you're moving like an overweight pig in a puddle of grease.' Khara's flowery insults would have driven him into a rage in the past, but now he laughed and said with an exaggerated bow: 'Very well, Your Highness.' Then he climbed up into the sunlight to search out a good place on deck where he could practise.

(13th Paladin 5) The Isles of the Cutlass Sea

Torsten Weitze

Chapter 5

Sven blinked as he entered the squat tent and observed the little altar for worshipping the THREE, as well as a robust wooden table covered by a white linen cloth. An unprepossessing man with thinning hair, wearing a Keeper's robe turned to him and gave him a joyless smile. 'Come inside, my son, and sit down over there,' said the priest, indicating towards the table. 'I take it that you are here to join our worthy undertaking of holding the beasts of the Borderlands in check until the rich and the powerful have decided to take the security of our borders seriously again?' Sven nodded assiduously and remained silent as he sat down. He wasn't sure if this representative of the humans' god could see through his deception, and for the first time since he had left the Borderlands, he felt uncertain. The priest sensed his unease and made a reassuring gesture with his hands. 'I assure you that it is only a formality.' Then he pulled back the flysheet of the tent and called out: 'I need some help in here. I have a potential recruit.' While Sven was wondering what the appeal meant, two burly militiamen with ferocious looks and swords drawn entered the tent. They positioned themselves right and left of the surprised miller's son and stared down at him. The man to his left couldn't look away from Sven's fused eye-socket. 'It will not take long,' said the Keeper, who was carefully closing the entrance. 'We all know the story of treacherous Brother Wultom, and how he almost brought death and destruction to the Knight Marshes. For this reason, every recruit must undergo a physical examination so that we can be sure no High Fang dwells amongst us.' By this point, the priest was right beside Sven, and was beginning to feel the arms and legs of the seated newcomer with practised hands. Everything was spinning around in Sven's head, but he forced himself to remain as still as possible. 'Did one of those abominations really manage to infiltrate your ranks?' he asked innocently. A raw laugh to his right was the answer he received. Then the militiaman spoke in a rough, unpleasant voice: 'No-one has tried it with us yet, but it has happened in two other militia camps.' The soldier drew his finger across his throat. 'They never made it down from the examination table.' Then the pair of guards laughed in a bloodthirsty manner. Sven flinched. His Master had made sure that he was now physically powerful, with bulging muscles, but the miller's son was certain that even he would have no chance against the guards, with their weapons pointing at him. 'Stop frightening him,' scolded the Keeper as he began to frisk Sven's torso. The man worked conscientiously and felt no embarrassment as he searched for possible hidden teeth or claws that might be hiding under the newcomer's clothing or skin, which would reveal him to be a disguised servant of the dark god. Suddenly, Sven understood every aspect of his transformation, for the only teeth his Dark Master had given him were pointing inwards from the soft, thin flesh that kept the Thing in his eye-socket away from his brain. The Keeper was almost finished with his examination of the would-be recruit and nodded contentedly. 'It is nearly over,' he murmured reassuringly, gesturing Sven to open his mouth. The priest peered with the aid of a candle down his throat, then ordered Sven to raise his tongue and stick it out. He lit up the young man's nostrils and ears, ran his fingers through Sven's hair, and then finally turned his attention to the fused socket. Sven's mouth was dry, and he noticed how the wormlike Thing in his head was beginning to squirm as it noticed the priest's approach – this man who had dedicated his life to the service of the Adversary's enemies. Sven could feel it wanting to turn around and bore its needle-sharp teeth out through Sven's flesh and into the holy man's finger. The High Fang held his breath and gathered up all his strength, while he mentally addressed the mass of gluttony and teeth within him. Sleep and dream. Dream and sleep. The time for your awakening has not yet come. Although a mere two finger's width separated the priest's examining hands from the Thing in Sven's head, the miller's son managed to control the curse within him. Its teeth remained pointing inward towards his brain, away from the goodly Keeper, whose close proximity ensured that Sven was in mortal danger. Finally, the man drew his hands back and straightened up. 'He is clean,' he announced, and immediately the two militiamen put their weapons away. Sven felt friendly hands on his shoulders. 'No harm intended,' said the armed man on the left. 'But better safe than sorry.' 'The first beer is on me,' added the man on the right. Sven nodded, still too convulsed by his inner conflict to respond with his voice. Slowly but surely, the Thing in his eye-socket calmed down, and Sven permitted himself to relax a little. The militiamen had left, and the Keeper turned his back and knelt in front of the altar of the THREE before beginning to pray. The fingers of the miller's son were itching to place themselves around the priest's neck and to press down – just as the priest had done around his neck – but Sven's fingers desired to apply much greater pressure. He wanted so much to squeeze the life out of this innocent man that his hands were shaking, and he had to close them into fists. Sleep and dream. Your time has not yet come, he sang to himself, reining in his dark impulses. Then he stood up so that he could leave the tent. At that point, the Keeper turned and looked at him thoughtfully. 'Where did you get that injury to your face?' Sven looked away from the priest, his hand on the flysheet. 'A memento from the Borderlands,' he said truthfully. 'I would like to repay those who have done this to me.' Then he stepped outside, a firestorm raging in his head. Sven's rage at the whole world exploded within him, filling his head with visions of destruction.

(13th Paladin 5) The Isles of the Cutlass Sea

Torsten Weitze

Chapter 6

Ahren concentrated and took aim at the little cork ball bobbing cheerfully up and down on the swell in front of him. The practice arrow he was using had a blunted head but was otherwise balanced like a genuine war arrow. 'Tell Selsena that I'm going to shoot now,' murmured the Forest Guardian to Falk, who was standing beside him. The bright red arrow flew from his bow and Ahren scowled. Even before it landed in the water a good two paces short of the target, it was clear to him that he hadn't taken the roll of the Queen of the Waves into consideration when calculating the missile's trajectory. Everything was in flux out here on the open sea, and Ahren had so many factors to think of that he had only managed to hit the target once thus far. At least they had come up with a method of practising without wasting too many arrows. Neither were they endangering the lives of the crew members by placing his targets on board. Ahren swung over the bulwark and, breathing hard, climbed down the rope ladder, which ended just above the waterline. He knew that when he stretched down his hand, it would be submerged by the waves hitting against the ship. He waited for a couple of heartbeats until Selsena brought him the practice arrow, which she had fished out of the water with her mouth. While the Forest Guardian was brushing up on his archery skills, which had become rusty over the previous few weeks, Selsena was learning to use all the senses of her new body. According to Falk, the change for her had been dramatic, and the unicorn was at a loss for words when it came to explaining how the endless ocean felt to her. 'Thank you so much,' said Ahren with a grin, pulling himself back up the ladder while behind him Selsena expelled her breath out through the hole on her head, catching him in a fountain of spray and other liquids. 'Very decent of you, thanks again,' continued Ahren, clambering over onto the deck, where Falk looked at him aghast. 'What's that terrible smell?' the old man asked, stepping backwards. 'That's a question you will have to put to Selsena,' responded the young Paladin, irritated. 'She's developing a strange sense of humour in her guise as a whale.' Falk raised his hands in a defensive gesture. 'I'm not arguing with her at the moment. She has to eat fish all day long to maintain her body strength.' He paused dramatically. 'Selsena despises fish.' That reassured Ahren, who was preparing his arrow again and aiming it at the wayward cork ball, which Selsena had steered beside the ship again. 'Tell her, I'm going to shoot now.' Evening had fallen and Ahren was lying exhausted in their communal cabin when he heard the warning cry that he had fearfully anticipated for three days now. 'Pirates on the port side afore!' sounded the voice of the female sailor, who was on watch in the crow's nest. There was the immediate sound of people's feet above and below deck, and Ahren too swung himself down from the hammock with a groan and grabbed his bow and quiver filled with war arrows. He stamped out into the narrow passage and ran up the steps, accompanied by two soldiers who grinned at him fiercely. He found his bearings on deck and then hurried over to Khara, who was already standing at the bulwark and pointing out onto the ocean. 'It's a solitary ship – a two-master,' she said tensely. 'Uldini says this kind of vessel is called a Hunting Dog. Built to move quickly and flexibly, and able to catch up with a portly merchant vessel in no time at all and attack her from any position.' Ahren squinted his eyes and peered at the silhouette of the pirate ship in front of the sinking sun. She seemed flatter than the Queen of the Waves and possessed triangular sails and a narrow prow, which cut effortlessly through the ocean waves like a knife through butter. There was no doubt that the pirates were trying to intercept their route, and Ahren remembered Uldini's warning concerning the audacity of these buccaneers. All around him the marines under Yantilla's command were preparing themselves, loading light crossbows and going into position behind the barricades, which they had erected in no time at all out of pre-hammered thick wooden planks, all along the length of the bulwarks. Captain Orben, meanwhile, was ordering the ship to be manoeuvred into position so that the marines' crossbow bolts could rip into the enemy deck. Falk positioned himself beside the commander, dressed in full Paladin armour and with the heavy Deep Steel shield in his hand which Trogadon had wrested from the Ancestry Chamber of the Silver Cliff. 'You shoot and I'll give you cover,' said Falk, slapping Ahren on the back with his free hand. 'Fisiniell has a much longer range than my bow.' Ahren was so surprised that Falk was playing the squire that he didn't contradict the old man but when he saw the first figures on the enemy ship, he gasped. 'There are only twenty pirates on deck!' he exclaimed. It seemed unfair to be fighting an enemy that was so inferior in number. Falk gave him a surprisingly hard slap across the head. 'And?' he snarled. 'It only takes a single arrow to skewer you through. If they attack, we must defend.' Ahren quickly considered what he could do. He wanted to avoid a skirmish and observed the opposing ship keenly. Then he pulled out an arrow, prepared it and shot before he had time for second thoughts. His missile flew twice as far as a normal arrow, sinking over the prow of the oncoming ship. With a scrunch that could even be heard from the deck of the Queen of the Waves, it landed in the shoulder of a muscular pirate, who was flung back half the length of the ship by the impact. The other pirates gasped in astonishment, and not three heartbeats later Ahren could see the steersman sharply turning the Hunting Dog's tiller, before the smaller ship moved away from them in a steep arc. A cheer rose up from the Queen of the Waves and more than one of the sailors congratulated Ahren enthusiastically on his masterful shot. Khara looked at him proudly, and Falk lowered his shield, giving an approving nod. 'A clean shot, which broke their fighting spirit,' said Falk. 'A little bloodthirsty for my taste, but it produced the desired effect.' Ahren blushed a deep red. 'Don't tell anybody this,' he whispered, 'but I was actually aiming at the ship's figurehead.' Ahren and his companions were holding a council of war with Sergeant Yantilla and Captain Orben in the latter's cabin. The room was frugal, but comfortably furnished, with just enough evidence to underline the authority of the captain without being overfull or expressing any pomposity. Every piece of furniture was simple, yet finely decorated, and the charts hanging on the walls contributed to giving the room the necessary gravitas. They were sitting around a narrow, elongated officer's table, on which Captain Orben had spread out a large chart of the area. His calloused finger was pointing at a spot near the western border of the square parchment. 'We are here, a few days journey from the eastern coast of Jorath.' His hand gestured towards the countless dots above and below their position. 'We are currently travelling through the smithereens of the Shattered Poniard,' he explained, and when he saw the questioning looks on some of the faces, he sighed and went into further detail regarding the area. 'The Cutlass Sea got its name from the two island groups which resemble a sword and a dagger in their outlines – with a lot of imagination, at any rate.' He pointed to the western section in which they were currently located. 'This group of about one hundred islands is known as the Shattered Poniard. Hardly anyone lives here, but the islands provide numerous hiding places for pirate ships, from where they can ambush traders voyaging past.' Ahren craned forward to look and nodded. With a little imagination he could indeed make out the dagger-like shape of a poniard from the elongated group of tiny islands. He had seen some of these little isles over the previous few days. Between five and fifty paces in length and breadth, they had seemed like green rocks jutting up from the sea, and without any sign of inhabitants. Despite this, Uldini had, with the aid of his crystal ball, spun a little charm net, which he had cast at each of the islands as they had passed. 'This means we won't have to go ashore every time,' he said, justifying his action. 'Even if Fisker and Aluna have built themselves a little hideaway on one of these barren rocks, I will spot them with my magic.' Captain Orben cleared his throat and his powerful hand moved eastwards. 'Over here we have the main island group, called the Splintered Sword. I am sure you can all see the resemblance.' The man pointed at a half-moon made up of hundreds of islands, its outline looking like a sword broken in three. The tip of the blade reached almost as far south as the Fields of Ice, and the pommel extended nearly as far north as the Silver Cliff. 'I never realised that the Cutlass Sea covered such a wide area,' said Ahren, awestruck. He pointed his finger at an empty area above the Splintered Sword. 'Shouldn't the Lost Islands be up here?' Orben flinched and then looked at the Forest Guardian sternly. 'It is bad luck to draw these islands on a chart, Squire. You remember what happened to us when the unholy storm blew us towards them two years ago?' Ahren nodded anxiously. They had been repeatedly attacked by the sea creatures forced to live in the ocean depths under the control of the dark god, far from light and sun and the laughter of other people. He couldn't help thinking of Aluna, descended from these creatures' forebears, and blaming herself for the fate of those poor souls condemned to eking out their existence in the gloomy depths. Ahren shuddered and asked himself if he could live with such feelings of guilt. Khara seemed to sense his unease and put her arm around him, which took the coldness from his vision and allowed him to breathe. Perhaps Fisker and Aluna had seized the opportunity to forget about the horrific Dark Days by being in each other's arms, and this was why they had left together. 'What's that there?' asked Trogadon, pointing at a circular area in the middle of the Cutlass Sea which showed wild and chaotic maelstroms. 'The Vortices of Creation,' replied Orben curtly. 'An enormous area of all-swallowing maelstroms, and the principal reason why piracy is easier on the Cutlass Sea than anywhere else.' He moved his finger between the maelstroms and the coast and pointed from south to north and then to south again. 'Every navigator avoids these vortices as best they can. Even a fast, unladen ship can very quickly be sucked in by them, and a heavily laden trading vessel has no chance of escape. Which is why most ships sail either along the coast, where they risk running aground in stormy weather, or they sail between the Poniard and the Sword, and then turn towards open water just before the vortices. Whichever route is preferred, every ship is vulnerable. Either the coast limits the opportunity for the endangered sailors to take evasive action in the event of a pirate attack or versatile buccaneers will be lying in wait on the isles of the Cutlass Sea. Ahren thought back to the dangers encountered on the Sword Path and in the Nameless Desert, which the inland caravans had to traverse. 'Trade over long distances is a dangerous business in Jorath,' he murmured, lost in thought. 'But a single successful voyage from King's Island to the Eternal Empire can make you rich in the blink of an eye,' said Uldini. 'Which is why so many people try it.' 'And provide rich pickings for the pirates,' added Falk darkly. 'The Crow's Nest lies quite central, nearer the eastern islands of the Splintered Sword. Once we have sailed past the Shattered Poniard, we reach a heavily patrolled stretch of open water. Do we have a plan? Especially as the Hunting Dog will report of a warship full of master archers with magic bows.' Disconcerted, Ahren looked at his one-time master. 'Aren't you exaggerating a little?' he asked in amusement. 'They are pirates,' interrupted Trogadon, coming to the old man's defence. 'They are bound to exaggerate once they start spinning their seaman's yarns. And the more dangerous they depict us, the less they lose face for having fled.' Yantilla frowned. 'If they think like mercenaries at all, then they will see us as a challenge at best, and as a danger at worst.' Orben rubbed the back of one hand over the other as he mused. 'A third of the nearby pirate ships will chase us, another third will block off the escape routes, and the last third will watch us sink without a whimper, and then boast in the taverns that they were there for the lot.' A heavy silence hung over the room. Falk looked over at Uldini and Jelninolan. 'Is there any way that you can assist us with your magic?' he asked hopefully. The Arch Wizard nodded hesitantly. 'We'll see what we can devise in case the worst comes to the worst. But it would be better if we didn't need to fight at all,' he warned earnestly. 'I shall try to use the Poniard islands as cover for as long as possible,' promised Orben, turning then to Yantilla. 'Place your marines on high alert until further notice.' The gaunt woman nodded earnestly. 'You can depend on us. We are used to sleeping in our armour for weeks on end if necessary.' 'We should keep our eyes peeled for danger from now on too,' said Falk to Ahren in a low voice. 'Why don't you do a few shifts in the crow's nest? You have good eyesight, and Fisiniell can surely do a good job from up there if necessary.' The young Paladin considered the matter; it struck him that Falk had just made a polite proposal rather than barking out an order, and now he was patiently waiting for an answer from his erstwhile student. 'I'll take over the day shift,' said Ahren after a moment. 'I'm still not confident enough to shoot at something from up there at night using Fisiniell.' Then he felt a tug in his mind. 'If we are finished here, then I'd better go out to Culhen. He's clearly feeling a little useless. I think it's only the constant cuddling from the crew that's keeping him sane.' Falk nodded and gestured vaguely towards the ocean. 'Selsena is adapting remarkably quickly. Although she keeps going on and on to me about how much she despises eating fish. And it's quite an effort for her to keep up with the Queen of the Waves. But it seems her new form is more Titejunanwa than whale, at least regarding power and endurance. She'll manage it. Maybe you should suggest to Jelninolan that she do the same to Culhen – then at least they'll keep each other company.' Ahren considered the suggestion for a heartbeat, but the wolf's decision was clear and decisive. I'm staying me, thank you very much. Bad enough that I had to run around the place disguised as a pony. I am not going through a true transformation, snarled the angry wolf. 'I don't think it's going to happen,' replied Ahren, turning towards Falk. Then he pushed open the door of the cabin and climbed up onto the main deck. Khara followed him, and he placed his arm around her shoulder. The pair wandered up the ship to comfort the sulking wolf, who was already staring at them longingly with his golden eyes, from his position on the prow of the vessel. The stars were twinkling above them, and the gentle breeze provided welcome relief to the oppressive heaviness of the warm night. Ahren and Khara lay snuggled side by side, their backs leaning against Culhen's flank, the wolf providing a protective barrier between the two lovebirds and the rest of the ship. Their feet were braced against the wooden bulwark, and they were enjoying each other's company in the stillness. So long, it had to be said, as Ahren ignored the occasional biting comment from his furry friend. 'Hopefully, we'll be able to slip by the pirates,' said the Forest Guardian in a low voice. Khara gave him a knowing sideways look. 'You still find it difficult to fight against other people, don't you?' she asked gently. He shrugged his shoulders, causing Culhen to give a little growl as the young man's broad shoulders dug into the wolf's ribs. 'Fighting against a Dark One is completely different to injuring or killing a human, no matter how devious their motives might be.' He sighed. 'Of course, I no longer hesitate, but I still like to avoid it if at all possible.' He looked up at the sparkling heavens, which seemed to be trying their best to cheer him up. 'I like this part of the sea,' he said after a while, forcing himself to change the subject. 'I can understand why Fisker and Aluna live on an island around here, far away from everything.' 'Are we really going to find out something about their location when we land at the Crow's Nest?' asked Khara uncertainly. 'There were so many islands on that chart. If we have to explore them all, it's going to take us forever.' Ahren puffed the air out of his cheeks as he considered the situation. 'Uldini is convinced we'll find something out. If the couple haven't become totally feral, then they will have to buy things from time to time, which means that someone is bound to have heard of them. Immortal couples can't exactly be common around here. And even if we get no information, our clever Arch Wizard has another plan up his sleeve. He wants to hire either the Cold Woman or this Admiral Bocasso to be our protectors and get them to help in our search. That would mean we wouldn't have to be hiding all the time, and if it came to a battle, at least half the pirate ships would be on our side.' Khara laid her head on his chest. 'That sounds comforting,' she said, wearily closing her eyes. Soon she was fast asleep, but Ahren stared up at the star-lit heavens for a long time, a look of worry on his face as he conversed silently with Culhen and told his friend of his concerns for the near future. The following two days were an exhausting cat-and-mouse game for Ahren. Whenever he announced there was a sail on the horizon from his position up in the crow's nest, Captain Orben would sail the Queen of the Waves to a bay at the rear of one of the larger islands, or he would skilfully ensure one of the smaller islets provided cover from the tall masts of the unknown ship in the distance. And on they travelled, like thieves in the night, from one place of refuge to the next, which meant, unfortunately, that their progress was painfully slow. At noon of the third day, what they had all secretly feared finally came true. The Queen of the Waves was seeking the nearby protection of a small island with tall cliffs and incredibly dense vegetation when she almost crashed right into a three-masted pirate ship hiding near the shore. Ahren couldn't say who was more surprised – himself or the look-out in the other crow's nest, for they both saw each other at exactly the same moment. The bearded figure in tattered clothing stared at him in disbelief, just as the hulls of the two ships scraped past each other, making a dreadful, scraping noise. Within a heartbeat it was clear to Ahren that fighting would be unavoidable, and so he reacted with the cold heart of a warrior. He gritted his teeth and shot an arrow into the chest of the pirate in the crow's nest before the latter had a chance to scream or lift his heavy crossbow. Fisiniell was still singing in his hand as the missile knocked the man out of the crow's nest basket, causing him to crash with a dreadful squelch onto the deck of the pirate ship. Sheer chaos was now breaking out below Ahren, as the men and women on both vessels rushed to get their weapons and attack the other side. Ahren counted at least fifty seasoned pirates, who sprang into action, leaping over onto the deck of the Queen of the Waves, eager to take on the sailors and marines in close-combat fighting. Ahren could see clearly that they were a well-drilled, coordinated pirate gang, for in spite of the initial surprise, they had immediately recognised that they were under-equipped when it came to long-range fighting, and that their salvation lay in a quick assault. They hadn't, however, reckoned with Culhen and Ahren's friends. The enormous wolf leaped onto the enemy ship in a flowing move, charging the few archers and crossbow fighters among the swashbucklers. Ahren quickly came to his ferocious friend's aid, literally nailing several of the pirates to the deck as Fisiniell's arrows flew down from above, drilling through them and deep into the wooden planks. While this was going on, Falk and Trogadon were wreaking havoc on the deck, below the one-time apprentice, and he could hear the cries of horror coming from the blindsided pirates. The dwarf swung his hammer rhythmically against the raised sabres, swords or daggers of the hopelessly parrying buccaneers, tossing more than half a dozen attackers over the bulwark and into the gap between the ships, which was growing wider as the vessels slowly drifted apart again. Falk, heavily armoured and using his broadsword, was covering the dwarf's back, his shield and sword an impenetrable wall against which the pirates were smashing their weapons as if they were fighting against hard rock. Holding his breath, Ahren scanned the scene for Khara, finding her in the thick of the action, performing a deadly dance among the pirates with both her blades and reaping a bloody harvest. He was about to shout a warning, as a squat female pirate with a dagger at the ready leaped on Khara from behind, but the Forest Guardian suddenly felt a stabbing pain in his right hip and he was flung violently sideways. Fisiniell slipped out of his hands as Ahren instinctively clung onto the edge of the wickerwork basket, which served as the crow's nest. The force of the impact had flung him out of the basket, and now he was hanging from one outstretched arm, a good twenty paces above the raging battle below. His right hip was burning like fire, and when he glanced down, disorientated and groaning, he saw that a crossbow bolt had dug into his flesh at an acute upwards angle. Ahren cursed as the pain, confirming what had happened to him, replaced his shock. One of the pirate crossbow fighters must have taken advantage of the Forest Guardian's inattention and zeroed in on him. On account of the steep angle, the bolt had slid through a gap between the leather plates of his armour, and now the young Paladin was swinging and bleeding from the outside of the crow's nest, hanging there like a piece of meat. The pain was increasing with every breath he took. Ahren could feel the tip of the bolt causing more and more damage to his insides with every movement. He tried to pull himself up into the safety of the basket using both hands, but the effort only made him see black spots before his eyes. But it was clear to him that the weakness caused by his loss of blood would eventually lead to him falling, and so he decided to repeat the effort. For a brief moment the thought struck him that the crossbow fighter might use him as a target again, but then he heard Culhen's concerned voice in his head. I've taken care of the ruffian already, transmitted the wolf hurriedly. What would you like me to do? Help the others, replied Ahren soundlessly. The sooner the fight is over, the quicker I will get support up here. He glanced around in search of Uldini and Jelninolan, but they had been in the captain's cabin when the fight had broken out and they seemed to have their hands full, if the sounds of smaller spells were to be believed, which were afflicting the buccaneers as they attempted to storm the captain's quarters. Ahren made another attempt at clambering into the basket, almost losing consciousness in the process. His hands were threatening to slip from the wickerwork. He suddenly stopped moving and grasped the basket with all his might, causing his fingers to hurt dreadfully. In vain he tried to summon up the Void, that serene condition that enabled him to attain complete concentration, but once again he was unable to achieve the trance. Culhen's wildness in battle and his concern for Ahren broke through every wall of calm that the young Paladin had been able to summon so effortlessly before his Naming. He swore to himself that he would relearn the secret of the Void were he to survive this present crisis, no matter what the cost. But first he would have to get out of this hopeless situation. With every heartbeat, Ahren's arms were becoming weaker, every breath felt like a burning pain in his right side, and he was convinced that the bolt had stuck into one of his organs – which one he couldn't tell. The world began to spin around him, and almost without noticing, he began to loosen his grip. He forced his thoughts back under his control. He was never going to get back into the basket and soon he would let go. What could he do then, to survive the fall? The sun blinded him as he searched for an answer, its rays reflecting straight back into his eyes from the mirror-like sea. The water! The thought hit him at lightning speed, his fingers already losing their grip, Ahren quickly pulled his legs in under him, insofar as this was possible with the bolt in his side. Then he braced his feet against the mast and pushed himself away from the wood with a desperate effort. He landed with a crash on the yardarm below him, causing him to gasp before clinging onto it for dear life. After a few heartbeats, he began to move painfully and slowly, hand over hand, out towards the ocean, until his arms gave up and he tumbled into the depths. Ahren's dazed eyes rolled in his head while the wind whistled past. Soon he would find out if his efforts had been sufficient. He sped downwards, past the fighting figures and the wheezing of the dying, past the bulwark – far too close for comfort – before landing with an uncontrolled smash onto the surprisingly hard surface of the sea. Whether through luck, through the mercy of the gods, or because of an unconscious turn on his part, Ahren really couldn't say, but he pierced the surface feet first and with his uninjured side lower, so that the bolt wasn't driven any deeper into his battered body. The impact winded him completely, and then the water closed above his head and seemed to pull him down into its cool embrace. He immediately began to flounder and swim weakly while Culhen howled demandingly in his head. Stay awake, Ahren. Nobody up here can pull you from the water yet, urged the wolf in his friend's disappearing thoughts. Ahren hung onto the wolf's words and tried hard to achieve some coordinated swimming strokes, which finally brought him back up to the surface. He breathed deeply into his lungs and wondered if the cold that was spreading from his hip wound to the rest of his body was a good or a bad thing. The shore was only three dozen paces away, but he didn't dare to move away from the protection of the hull, which soared up beside him. The chances of him being shot in the water were simply too great. It won't be long now, promised Culhen, and now that Ahren felt he could tread water for the time being, he slipped completely into the wolf's head in order to escape his own pain. Ahren saw with Culhen's eyes how the wolf was knocking a pirate to the ground with a casual shove of his shoulder, so that the marine who was fighting the buccaneer, could give the stumbling man the final coup-de-grâce with his sword. Bodies were strewn around the deck – they seemed to belong to the enemy – and for the moment, Ahren could not make out any that belonged to the crew of the Queen of the Waves. However, there were quite a few injured sailors and marines cowering behind their comrades and already being treated by Uldini and Jelninolan. Culhen pushed himself in beside the priestess and gently tapped her arm with his paw. Jelninolan turned and looked questioningly at the wolf, who was already running to the bulwark and yelping. When Ahren saw her following him curiously, he slipped out of the animal's head and shouted as loudly as he could: 'Down here!' Jelninolan's head appeared over the bulwark, and if her concerned look were anything to go by, Ahren's condition was considerably worse than he felt. The water was pleasantly cold, numbing his senses more and more, causing the Forest Guardian to laugh blissfully. Two sailors threw a rope down to him, and although he could only hear the sound of battle in his ears, he saw them gesturing that he should wrap the end of the rope around his wrists. Ahren did as he was told and held on tight as the two figures above began pulling him up. When his body stretched and he left the water, the pain returned with a vengeance, burning through him, and causing the young Paladin to groan as he fought to maintain consciousness. 'The fighting has to stop!' screamed Jelninolan in exasperation. 'Ahren is seriously wounded!' Ahren heard both Falk and Trogadon let out a roar in response, and then the pair appeared at the bulwark, shoving four pirates unceremoniously yet effectively towards the railing, with their weapons athwart in front of them. The terrified buccaneers leaped into the depths and the dwarf shook his weapon threateningly. 'You lads stay nice and quiet down there or I'll set my whale on you!' He pointed at Selsena, who had swum into view and was now holding the new arrivals in the water at bay with her long horn. Finally, Ahren was up at the bulwark. Helping hands pulled him over and onto the deck. Jelninolan bent over him and looked in surprise at the bolt in his side. 'How did you manage that? Did you lean over the basket instead of seeking cover?' Ahren mumbled something about bad decision-making, but the elf was no longer listening to him. 'Uldini, I will pull out the bolt, you burn the wound with your crystal ball,' she commanded authoritatively. Ahren was suddenly wide-awake as the priestess pulled the weapon out of his side with an unceremonious yank. 'Don't be sparing with the magic,' she said to Uldini, who seemed to have captured the rays of the sun within his crystal ball. 'First, we have to stop the bleeding, the rest I can deal with later.' The elf scurried off to tend to the other casualties, and Uldini gave him an almost apologetic look. 'It's going to burn a little,' he said regretfully, Ahren's world suddenly exploding in a sea of blazing light as Uldini's magic began driving into his wounded side in the form of a blinding beam of light. Ahren fled quickly into Culhen's skull, asking the wolf to look away, for the last thing he wanted to do was see his own twitching body, upon which the Arch Wizard was working brusquely. It was all over within ten heartbeats. Uldini looked into Ahren's eyes and then over at Culhen. 'Stay there for a while,' he advised the wounded Forest Guardian. 'It's going to hurt dreadfully otherwise, until Jelninolan can heal you completely.' I am no refuge for careless Forest Guardians,' thought Culhen, piqued, but Ahren could sense the relief behind the wolf's words. Khara or no Khara, next time, remember the bigger picture, understood? growled the animal. Ahren said nothing but acknowledged that his friend was right. He had been distracted from the danger so that Khara… Wait! She was being attacked from behind at the very moment Ahren had been hit by the missile! The memory overwhelmed him, as did his dreadful fear regarding her safety. He was on the point of returning to his own body in order to look around when Culhen took mercy on him and turned his head, enabling Ahren to see through the wolf's eyes how Jelninolan was closing up a shoulder wound on the swordswoman, which seemed to have come from a poniard. Khara was staring anxiously over at Ahren while the elf was speaking soothingly to the young woman. She survived without you, as you can see, growled Culhen angrily. I was just going to warn you about the bolt, but the instant you saw that Khara was in danger, you cut our connection. The accusation that the wolf was making concerning his recklessness were like enormous waves crashing over him, so he repeated his contrite apology. Instinctively, he tried to achieve the Void, causing Culhen to tremble all over. Whatever it is that you're doing, please refrain until you're back in your own skull, growled the wolf. Ahren immediately abandoned his efforts, for he had just thought of an interesting idea, which he wanted to pursue as soon as Jelninolan had patched him up. By the time Ahren was able to stand up again, the crew of the Queen of the Waves had cleared the deck of the dead pirates, handing their bodies over to the care of the few surviving buccaneers, now unarmed, who were cowering together on the deck of their own vessel. Jelninolan had poured a bucket of water over his crudely cauterised wound, on which she had previously placed a spell, new to him, by means of her Storm Fiddle. The liquid had hissed and vaporised into a bluish cloud, taking the pain away with it. Now Ahren was standing, leaning heavily against the bulwark, and feeling as unsteady as a new-born calf. 'What happened to your trusty old magic?' he asked the two Ancients, who were standing beside him and looking thoughtfully over at the other ship. 'We still possess it, just as before,' grumbled Uldini. 'But since we have grown accustomed to our charm foci, we try to use them whenever possible. It means we can conserve a lot of strength. Or would you have preferred that we were thoroughly spent after curing the sailors and marines and that we would spend the next few weeks in a deep slumber?' Ahren raised his hand in a conciliatory gesture and refrained from asking further questions. Jelninolan's magic seemed closely connected to wind and water, while Uldini apparently favoured light and fire whenever he used his crystal ball. It seemed that the two of them had decided to refrain from using their more complex general magic, which was clearly more draining, except when it was unavoidable. 'What's going to happen to them?' asked Ahren, indicating towards the defeated pirates. Captain Orben approached them, a severe look upon his face. 'The law is clear. They must hang.' Ahren closed his eyes and ran the fingers of his right hand over the freshly knitted skin on his hip. 'Is that really necessary, captain? I, for my part, have seen enough death and injuries for one day.' Orben cleared his throat before voicing his objection. 'If I may say so, these men and women have certainly taken more than one life in the course of their inglorious existences. And I don't mean in self-defence.' Ahren stared unflinchingly at him, and eventually the captain sighed heavily. 'On rare occasions the sentence has been commuted to banishment. We could leave them behind on this island with the provisions from their ship before setting fire to it. During the moons that will pass before another crew takes them on board, they might hopefully reconsider their way of life.' Ahren realised that the rule-obsessed officer didn't believe in a single word of what he was suggesting, but the young Paladin firmly nodded his assent anyway. Then he looked meaningfully over towards Falk. 'I am in favour of marooning them. What does the Baron have to say on the matter?' Falk rolled his eyes and then wagged his armoured hand. 'My Squire is too soft for this world, but by all means. Get them to unload their things and chase them onto the island.' The necessary orders were immediately issued, and although many of the sailors weren't too happy about carrying them out, Ahren noticed a few grateful glances coming from the ex-mercenaries under Yantilla's command. 'That was only one ship, even if it wasn't a Hunting Dog,' said Jelninolan ruminatively. 'What will we do if five of them suddenly attack us?' Ahren looked glumly out onto the ocean, whose endless horizon might reveal an enemy sail at any moment. He saw himself participating in sea battle after sea battle, without getting any closer to the Crow's Nest, nor to the two Paladins. There had to be a better way than this ludicrous game of cat and mouse. Shouts of joy caused him to turn around, as the pirates were informed that mercy was prevailing over law for once. The survivors, dressed in their loose-fitting, somewhat tattered clothes, fell into each other arms, then set about collecting their provisions from the hull of the ship, before Orben's crew would hole the vessel. An idea was formulating in the back of the Paladin's head, an idea that was as simple as it was elegant. 'Captain Orben – tell your people to sift through the pirates' cargo,' ordered Ahren pensively. 'It could be that the price for their staying alive might be higher than normal.' It was already evening by the time Ahren had thought through all the risks of his plan and was discussing it with his companions. The resistance had been considerably less than Ahren had expected, another sign that his time as an apprentice was over. The pirates' cargo was highly varied, and there were enough things among it to make the implementation of Ahren's idea possible. A small storm had passed over them in the afternoon, and so the captain had taken the decision to anchor in the bay for the time being. They were all sitting in his cabin, listening to the young Paladin unveil his plan of deception. 'Absolutely not!' thundered Captain Orben, the instant Ahren was finished laying out his suggestion, and the Forest Guardian was certain that the officer's cry of rage could be heard in the furthest corners of the Queen of the Waves. 'We are not going to turn the flagship of the King's Islands into a filthy, stinking pirate ship! Over my dead body!' The captain crossed his arms firmly in front of his chest, his face the picture of defiance and disgust. It would not have surprised Ahren had the man reached for his weapon at this point. The young man looked appealingly over at Falk, whose voice as a full-blooded baron would carry greater weight in this situation. His one-time master was himself no fan of Ahren's proposed charade but had already agreed to support it. 'At least listen, good Captain,' said the old man, using his diplomatic skills. 'What the Squire is suggesting makes sense and will help protect the lives of your crew. If we disguise ourselves as a pirate ship, the danger of our being attacked by other pirates will be significantly reduced.' 'The stowage of the pirate ship beside us is full of typical pirate clothing, as well as booty that we can use to decorate the Queen of the Waves,' added Jelninolan. Ahren himself had been on the pirate ship during the course of the day and had been astounded by the improvisatory yet wasteful nature of her furnishings. A wobbly table had been stabilised by placing a golden dagger under its short leg, while other splendid examples of booty hung or lay scattered around the ship. 'Pirates love to flaunt their success,' said Uldini, joining in the discussion. 'If we can deceive passing scoundrels that we captured a flagship and are capable of successfully fleecing wealthy traders, every new captain we encounter will think twice before attacking us. With a little luck we can reach the Crow's Nest unimpeded. And this disguise will certainly help me reach an agreement with the Cold Woman or Admiral Bocasso.' Captain Orben remained obdurate, at which point Khara surprisingly intervened. 'Remember your instructions, Captain,' she said severely. 'You must support the Baron and the Squire, both Paladins of the gods, in any way you can, during their search for two more Paladins.' The officer flinched when he heard her sharply spoken words. 'The Dark Days are coming closer with every passing heartbeat, and you want to sacrifice valuable time because a simple charade doesn't fit in with your scheme of things?' She placed her hand on her heart. 'I understand how important it is to maintain one's honour, but nobody is demanding that you actually become a pirate and attack traders. I would never partake in such a venture myself. You only have to pretend to for a time.' The proud swordswoman stood there as she spoke, her head held high and her back straight as a rod, every inch the warrior. The small lanterns in the cabin cast a flickering light on the shimmering combination of light chain-and plate armour that covered her, and her hair was held up by her Warrior Pin, which was clearly visible. Her face was the personification of serenity, and her eyes radiated such strength that the captain couldn't help but nod, even if hesitantly. Ahren had to stop himself from immediately kissing his beloved in front of everyone but swore silently that he would make up for it later on that evening. 'But I absolutely cannot pass myself off as a pirate captain,' said Orben after a pause. 'Somebody else will have to take over command – or appear to, at any rate.' 'I'll do it,' roared Trogadon with such enthusiasm that everybody else in the room burst out laughing. 'A lovely idea,' said Uldini. 'But a fighting ship with a dwarf captain making an appearance on the Cutlass Sea is somewhat too exotic.' Trogadon pulled a long face and the Arch Wizard grinned broadly. 'Don't be sulking now. Jelninolan and I are ruled out for exactly the same reason.' Ahren murmured something about the ferocious Captain Titch, just loudly enough for everyone to hear, at which point Uldini raised a challenging eyebrow and the young Paladin fell silent. 'Ahren and Khara are too young. The two of them can certainly pass for full-blooded buccaneers, but with either of them at the helm we would attract too much scepticism,' ruminated Jelninolan. 'Then there is only one possibility,' roared Trogadon, toasting Falk with his tankard. 'I congratulate you, Privateer Falk,' he laughed as the old man turned away in embarrassment. The Forest Guardian scratched his neck and considered the proposal. 'My time as a mercenary can help me appear reasonably genuine,' he deliberated. Then he nodded and was met with general applause – except from Orben who sighed and covered his eyes with his hands. 'Right then,' said Uldini, satisfied. 'Falk takes on the captaincy. Yet we urgently need to think of a name for him.' He turned to Ahren. 'We'll all put on our pirate clothes and place the booty so that it's highly visible, that much is clear. What else do we need to think of?' 'Everything must look as threatening as possible,' said the young Forest Guardian decisively. 'Our aim is to frighten off other ships – to inhibit them. The crew will have to alter their behaviour. I thought the red-white Loom might celebrate her return and give the good captain's men and women some lessons in boorishness.' Orben groaned and collapsed heavily on his chair. 'Now you want to destroy the discipline among my crew as well? You really are testing my patience, Squire,' sighed the man wearily. 'I'll tell them not to overdo it,' responded Ahren, offering the despondent officer a crumb of comfort. 'Then let us start,' urged Uldini. 'The more work we get done under cover of darkness, the better. The last thing we want is a pirate ship spotting us disguising ourselves and then warning the whole of the Cutlass Sea that there's a gang of charlatans on the loose.' All through the night, the Queen of the Waves was a hive of activity, sometimes threatening to descend into chaos. The non-plussed crew were suddenly confronted with taking orders from the red-white Loom, the one-time mercenary, who slipped back into the role of her rowdy old self with remarkable ease. In no time at all, Yantilla had decked herself out in red and white shreds and patches that she had retrieved from the belly of the pirate ship, and now she resembled a maritime version of what she had once been, except that she looked even wilder and more swashbuckling than she had that time in the little forest, when she had sworn fealty to Ahren. 'A daring plan, Squire,' said the woman, grinning excitedly. 'I must admit, it feels better than I'd expected.' She stretched like a cat. 'That uniform was really uncomfortable.' Ahren chuckled, then forced himself to look severely. 'I promised the captain that you would not overdo it,' he said, speaking as seriously as he could. 'Do not make a liar of me.' 'But Squire,' replied the marine captain with a mischievous grin, 'you do realise that all pirates are liars?' Then she strode away laughing, before uttering a stream of obscenities at an unfortunate marine and ordering him to take off his badges of rank immediately. 'What a festival!' thundered a voice behind Ahren, who spun around. He had to blink twice, only recognising Trogadon on account of his low stature and plaited beard, for otherwise the dwarf looked completely different. Wide bloomers of a garish yellow, a tattered green tunic, and a ridiculously pompous three-cornered hat with an ostrich plume, all contended with each other for the attention of the onlooker – and not in a positive way. In addition, the dwarf had weaved pieces of deep-blue ribbon through his beard and hair, and an enormous pipe was hanging from the corner of the grinning warrior's mouth. Only his beloved hammer had not been disguised, and when Trogadon shrugged his shoulders, Ahren heard the tell-tale clatter, which revealed to him that somehow the dwarf had managed to squeeze his armour underneath his costume. 'And?' asked Trogadon expectantly. 'What do you think?' 'Very…colourful,' responded Ahren diplomatically. 'You'd best ask Yantilla, she's the expert in such matters.' 'Good idea,' said the dwarf enthusiastically. 'She's been eyeing me for some time now. We might practise being pirates together.' He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively, and Ahren promised himself to be as far away as possible should the warrior and the ex-mercenary fall into each other's arms. There were some things he would really rather not hear, let alone see. He went below deck to try out some clothing. One of the holds contained an enormous pile of materials. Ahren selected loose garments in muted tones that had only the occasional rip. He was going to draw enough attention already with his bow and Wind Blade, and the young Paladin had no desire to turn himself into an obvious target. 'Find anything nice?' asked Khara, who had slipped in beside him unawares and was examining his selection with a critical eye. The young woman had only made minor changes to her outward appearance, nevertheless creating a more nefarious impression. Her normally well-maintained armour looked dirty, her hair was up, by virtue of her Warrior Pin, but now it consisted of wild strands that were decorated with a string of colourful pearls. A narrow leather dog-collar was around her neck, and on her arms the swordswoman had wrapped several riveted bracelets. She seemed very satisfied with herself, and Ahren smiled warmly at her. 'You're enjoying this, aren't you,' he teased. Khara nodded bashfully. 'It's fun playing a varlet without actually being one,' she said with a grin. Then she became serious. 'But I meant what I said to Captain Orben earlier. I will never sully my honour as a warrior.' Ahren gave her a peck on the check. 'I know, Your Highness. And you should know me well enough by now to understand that we are only doing this to save lives. Ours and the lives of dozens of pirates, who would be attacking us otherwise.' He chuckled. 'Or do you really think we are now going to start ambushing merchants?' 'Of course not,' said Khara hurriedly. 'I'm just a little bit uncertain about the situation. Some of your mercenaries are very…enthusiastic in their new roles.' 'Ex—mercenaries,' corrected Ahren. 'I think they are just enjoying their brief respite from the discipline of a soldier's existence.' He picked up a selection of clothes. 'Can you help me with this? Your eye for nefarious disguise is as effective as it's unexpected.' She punched him playfully on his arm. 'You're only looking for an excuse to be alone with me,' she said scoldingly. 'But…I think I like that,' she added after a pause. 'And then we'll go look for Culhen and make him into a genuine pirate wolf, by decorating him with pearls and plaits.' They walked along the passageway giggling, while Ahren imagined how the wolf would protest when they put Khara's plan into effect. The next day presented the Queen of the Waves in a completely new light. Fittings of copper and gold had been attached to every possible part of the wooden ship. Trogadon had used a pile of belaying pins to decorate the structure with blunted thorns, giving her an even more terrifying appearance. The crew now resembled a ferocious gang of pirates. Ahren stood on the foredeck, leaning contentedly against Culhen, who had been lying curled up in a sulk ever since Ahren and Khara had 'decorated' his fur. Jelninolan was the only one on board who had refrained from costuming herself, merely adding an armband, as well as a headscarf to disguise her Elven ears. 'I am the ship's magician,' she had announced firmly. 'I should think that even on a pirate ship such individuals must be allowed to maintain a modicum of dignity.' Then Falk stepped up on deck. The entire crew roared in approval when Trogadon appeared from behind the old Paladin, stretched out his arms and announced, 'All hail our new captain, Dorian Featherbeard!' Ahren instinctively joined in the general cheering, not least because if he hadn't, he would have burst out laughing and put his life in immediate danger. Trogadon had coloured Falk's armour with a special paste which could remain on Deep Steel for some time, giving the metal a pitch-black hue. The dwarf had also blackened the old man's hair and beard, making the broad-shouldered Paladin seem twenty years younger. Long, shiny, raven feathers were woven into Falk's beard and were hanging from his chin, fluttering in the cool morning breeze. After his first inclination to laugh, Ahren had to admit that his mentor's general appearance was dark and ominous, and there was no doubt that this man was a totally convincing pirate captain. 'Why are you rascals standing around and twiddling your thumbs?!' roared Falk. 'Weigh anchor! Off to the Crow's Nest!' Another roar from the crew and then they set to work, laughing, and joking and implementing the command of their 'captain'. Falk marched over towards Ahren with a self-ironic look and positioned himself with his back to the crew and the wind on his face. 'These feathers stink unmercifully,' said Falk with a scowl. 'Trogadon dipped them in some liquid or other to stop them from getting matted and to maintain their shine.' Then he looked down at the decorated wolf. 'I see you didn't even stop this charade when it came to your friend,' he said, pointing at the plaits and colourful wooden pearls on Culhen's fur. Ahren grinned. 'What pirate crew worth its salt would refrain from bejewelling its little ship's mascot? Khara wanted him to wear a big golden earring too, but when he snapped at her, we decided enough was enough.' I want to be with Selsena in the sea, complained Culhen indignantly, and Ahren burst out laughing. 'What's he saying?' asked Falk, chuckling. 'That now he would prefer to be transformed into a sea creature.' Falk guffawed and slapped his armoured thigh, which clattered in response. 'And Selsena is nagging me the whole time, saying she wants to be a pirate unicorn. Everybody wants precisely what they cannot have.' Ahren enjoyed another few moments of tranquillity, then looked with concern at the horizon as the Queen of the Waves gathered speed, leaving the security of the bay as she headed out onto the open waters and potentially into the line of vision of other pirate ships. 'Do you think it's going to work?' he asked fearfully and at the same time wearily, exhausted through lack of sleep. Falk shrugged his shoulders. 'At worst, we will all have a lot of fun, at best, we will have saved many lives through our deception. We are Paladins, after all. And that is what we do. Even if our methods have become more questionable since you started contributing your ideas.' He rubbed his feathered beard, but instead of smiling, he frowned and gazed out to sea, and the two of them fixed their eyes on the horizon.

(13th Paladin 5) The Isles of the Cutlass Sea

Torsten Weitze

Chapter 7

'Ship ahoy!' shouted the voice from the crow's nest. It was noon. Ahren stormed to the bulwark, his eyes following the lookout's outstretched arm and searching out the expanse of blue sea for the alien vessel. Half the crew followed suit, and then Falk's voice roared out. 'Return to your posts, you scurvy dogs! We are a normal pirate ship, or have you forgotten already?! Stop staring and get back to work!' Ahren had been surprised by his mentor's transformation when the old man first reappeared on deck. Trogadon had fed Falk with an endless supply of stories going back to their shared experiences as mercenaries, reminding the old man of that less than laudable period of their lives, during which the two purchasable warriors had indulged in all sorts of vices. This ensured that the crusty Forest Guardian was now blossoming in his role as pirate captain, scolding and cursing to his heart's content. Along with much laughter and crude joking, Ahren could see the first nervous looks among the sailors, who clearly believed their grim captain was quite capable of meting out the terrifying punishments he threatened them with. Ahren could hardly blame them, especially when he remembered the endless hours of climbing that he himself had endured as Falk's apprentice. 'They're coming in our direction!' shouted the lookout, and the first murmurs of trepidation could be heard as the crew began to understand that things were getting serious. 'Now we'll see how effective our disguise is,' said Trogadon, who was now standing beside Ahren. 'Let us hope that no blood will be spilled today – none of ours, anyway.' Ahren chewed his lip nervously, then turned determinedly away from the point at which the ship had appeared on the horizon. 'Let's play our parts now. Do you still have the dice?' Trogadon beamed under his expansive three-cornered hat. 'I thought you'd never ask, me hearty.' It wasn't long before they had been joined by half a dozen other marines, as well as Yantilla. They were all now sitting in a wide circle on the main deck, playing at dice without, it seemed, a care in the world. They were gambling for real money, which ensured plenty of genuine whoops of joy or outbursts of expletives. Ahren was in no doubt that their noisy gang was presenting an authentic picture. Nonetheless, his mouth went dry when Khara whispered to him as she passed by that a wide three-master full of pirates was sailing not two hundred paces away and was currently turning so that she would soon be alongside them. He swallowed hard but stopped himself from staring over at the vessel, merely glancing occasionally at their potential enemy. He saw a multitude of heavy crossbows, drawn swords and suspicious looks on the alien deck. It was clear that the mood of the pirates was veering between hawkishness and a desire to engage in friendly banter. Finally, Falk seized the initiative, forming his hands into a funnel and roaring over at the other ship: 'Well, what is to be? Talk or fight? Our voyage has been successful, but we still have a little room in the Queen's hold.' Then he cockily knocked with his armoured hand on the bulwark, turning around at the same time. 'Some assistance, men,' he murmured to the deck, and immediately the sailors in the rigging sprang to attention, waving their weapons and yelling, while the mercenaries sauntered to the bulwark, where they looked daggers across at the pirates, their arms folded. Ahren could see hardened, worldly-wise expressions coming from the other ship and eyes which had seen more in their lives than was good for any man or woman. The pirates responded by yelling back as the ship, Bloodlust by name, floated alongside them until there were no more than ten paces separating the two angry crews. Ahren, dreadfully on edge, dug into the railing with his hands as his eyes tried to anticipate the first tell-tale signs that the weapons waving wildly opposite him might turn their aim at them. A solitary flying crossbow-bolt would be enough to ignite a ferocious battle. Finally, a squat, sturdy, bald woman pushed her way forward on Bloodlust and raised a commanding hand. The pirates immediately fell silent and Falk returned the gesture so that the men and women on board the Queen of the Waves did the same. The woman with the shaven head began to speak and Ahren prayed silently to the THREE that she wasn't about to utter a secret password, known to her pirates. 'That's a fine ship you have there, me hearties' said the woman, her powerful old voice accompanied by a distinct undertone of hardness. 'A battleship from Kings Island if I'm not mistaken.' Falk nodded and caressed the railing with his fingers. 'Confiscated it from an idiotic captain of the royal marines only a week ago,' he said loudly, retelling the story they had agreed upon earlier. 'Lured him into a reef so he couldn't escape, and when darkness fell and they had to lower anchor, we rowed over between the rocks with a couple of dinghies and surprised the sons of biscuit-eaters in their sleep.' At that point Falk slowly and emphatically ran his fingers across his neck with a malicious grin. His black armour and raven feathers added to the bloodthirsty impression of his gesture, and Ahren had to suppress a shudder. It seemed for a moment as though a distorted version of his beloved mentor was standing before him. The alpha has persuaded her. Another little nudge is all that's needed, said Culhen, who stood up and growled ferociously towards the pirates, his voice so powerful that it seemed as if a wave of incipient violence was rolling audibly across the water. 'Shiver me timbers! What sort of a thing is that?' exclaimed the bald captain when she spotted Culhen. Ahren could feel the self-satisfaction on the part of the wolf as half the opposing pirates instinctively took a step back on seeing the animal. 'Our wee mascot,' said Falk casually. 'Should I send him over to play with ye?' The fearsome grin on the old Paladin's face spoke volumes, and more than one pirate on the opposing vessel shook their head. Culhen tilted his head back and uttered a howl of seeming disappointment and Falk ordered him to lie own again with a commanding gesture. 'No wonder that your hold is full of booty,' said the small woman enviously. 'With that ship and that animal, fortune is certainly on your side.' 'Fortune comes to those who know when to seize it,' snapped Falk in return. Then he stroked his beard as though he were contemplating. 'But it slips from the hands of those who grasp it too hard. Which is why I am going to be generous.' He pointed in the direction from which they had come. 'A corpulent merchant vessel is trying to slip past honourable pirates like ourselves by sailing through the Shattered Poniard. There was no room on my ship to store the booty she offered, so we didn't pursue her. But there is plenty of space on your vessel, judging by her waterline. If ye hurry, ye can confront the merchant before he has a chance to leave the Poniard and set full sail.' Falk sighed dramatically. 'Consider my advice to be my tribute to the fickleness of fortune.' He grinned maliciously again. 'And anyway, it would be a terrible waste of booty.' Ahren was astounded by the old man's cunning diversionary tactic. The pirate captain hurled over an unintelligible thanks and some muttered words of farewell while the crew rushed, as if bitten by a Needle Spider, to change course and raise every bit of sail they had on the good ship Bloodlust. As the pirate ship disappeared into the distance, the Queen of the Waves was filled with the sound of chattering and grateful voices while an embarrassed Falk suddenly became the centre of attention. 'The lot of ye are doing nothing but idling, ye layabouts!' he finally roared. 'Get ye to the rigging! Set sail! I want to get away from here as soon as possible, before we have to repeat this drama!' There was a general roar and the crew set to work. Ahren's companions gathered around Falk and slapped him on the back, congratulating the old man. 'A master-stroke,' praised Uldini. 'Presenting them with the choice between a hard battle or rich pickings – a classic manoeuvre but it works every time.' Falk shrugged his shoulders. 'I've experienced enough of your superfluous political intrigues to have picked up the odd idea here and there.' 'Superfluous?' snapped Uldini. 'If we require a favour from a senator of the Sunplains, then my cabals are far from superfluous,' scolded the Arch Wizard. The others by now recognised when an argument between Falk and Uldini was about to blow up and so they scattered to different parts of the ship and listened with a smile to the familiar refrain of the two angry voices in the distance echoing through the ship while the Queen of the Waves cut through the swell of the Cutlass Sea, unimpeded. The following days suggested that their disguise was holding. Falk played the ferocious Captain Featherbeard, sending three more inquisitive pirates ships to the islands of the Shattered Poniard in search of the mythical merchant ship. 'Do you know what would be truly ironic?' asked Trogadon, following their latest encounter with privateers. 'If there really were a merchant out there trying to use these islands as cover, and we were sending one pirate ship after another to hunt him down.' The dwarf burst out laughing, only to laugh even more when he saw Ahren's shocked face. 'We cannot control everything, Ahren,' wheezed the mirthful dwarf. 'If the gods prove to have a dark sense of humour, you cannot simply take all the blame. Just to reassure you, it's only a very slim possibility. So, why don't you just relax?' Ahren nodded hesitantly before leaving the dwarf alone. He had to admit that Trogadon's last suggestion wasn't a bad one. The constant tension was really getting to Ahren, and he needed to turn his thoughts to other things. Then he remembered an idea that had struck him when he had been wounded during their first encounter with a pirate ship and he decided to kill two birds with one stone. He took the biggest candle he could find from the hold and brought it over to Culhen, who looked bored and was eying him suspiciously. If you intend tying yet another thing to my fur, I'll eat you alive, threatened the animal moodily. The lack of exercise and the feeling of being in the way had made the wolf irritable in the extreme, but Ahren hoped to be able to help his friend and himself at the same time. 'Hello, big lad,' he said aloud. 'I want to try something out. Do you still remember the stories I told you about the Void?' Sure, said the wolf in a bored tone, before yawning and emitting a stench of half-digested salted pork that nearly made the young man retch. 'Well,' said the Forest Guardian, having gathered himself together again, and placing the candle right in front of the puzzled wolf. 'I want to try and teach you to attain the Void. I think that the reason I cannot go into the trance is because you haven't mastered it. Our thoughts are interconnected, and if one of us cannot reach the Void, then the other one fails too.' Nice theory, grumbled Culhen. But I like my feelings, thank you very much. Why would I want to suppress them? Ahren had no ready answer to that question. The trance had given him the necessary clarity when it came to quick decision making in times of great danger, especially during his early training. Since then, he had rarely felt over-challenged, and his need for this meditative state had diminished, but sometimes he could really have done with it. For example, when he was hanging on for dear life from the edge of the crow's nest with a crossbow bolt in his side. 'I think it could help us in critical situations,' said Ahren decisively. 'If you don't want to do it for yourself, then do it for me.' Culhen registered his protest with a growl, but then Khara arrived and began tickling the wolf between the ears. 'Why the candle?' she asked curiously. 'I want to initiate Culhen into attaining the Void,' said Ahren with a sigh. 'But our big, grumpy cry-baby refuses to cooperate.' Khara was immediately delighted with the idea. 'I want to learn it too!' she exclaimed. 'They call this state "Pelneng" in the Eternal Empire – that means "Innermost Calm". Only a person who learns to attain it can become a Master or Mistress of the Sword.' Ahren was overjoyed, not just at Khara's reaction, but also at the fact that he could teach her something related to the art of swordplay for a change. Something that would develop her skills even further. She squatted down excitedly and looked at the candle. Ahren grinned slyly. 'If Culhen doesn't want to participate, we can practise in the cabin. We will have to train hour after hour, day after day and week after week. We can spend a lot of time together, we two, undisturbed…' Alright, alright, said Culhen snippily in Ahren's mind. You're as subtle as a dwarf in a tavern. I'll do it as well, before I lose sight of you altogether. The Forest Guardian smiled. 'I promise you that you're not going to regret it.' It was Ahren who deeply regretted his decision. It turned out that he wasn't particularly good as a teacher. He kept forgetting to mention important details or he picked the wrong words, and Culhen was anything other than a forgiving pupil. Ahren now realised how much effort it must have taken Falk to drum the lessons on Forest Guardianship into a shy, sometimes rebellious youth. When dusk finally fell, Ahren wearily announced the lesson to be over. Culhen turned away with a snort and Khara glanced pitifully at the young man before rushing off so that she could calm down. Both his responses and her questions had grown increasingly sharp, and frazzled tempers were hardly an ideal preparation for attaining the Void. 'Your initiation as a teacher hasn't gone so well, I gather,' said Trogadon, who had wandered over to him with a wineskin. 'That's an understatement if ever there was one,' mumbled Ahren darkly, snatching the wine from the dwarf. 'Aha,' responded the warrior. 'That bad, then?' As Ahren knocked back the rest of the wine in one go, Trogadon chuckled, a sound which, when emitted by a dwarf, resembled an avalanche of falling pebbles. 'You need something stronger than that. Come with me. Maybe I can slake your thirst for forgetfulness with a little Dwarfish schnapps.' Ahren nodded grimly, following the squat figure below deck. The next day proved something of an improvement, once Ahren had decided to change his approach. Khara was a great help, thanks to her thirst for knowledge, but Culhen was still proving recalcitrant. Humans and wolves saw the world in fundamentally different ways, which ensured that all of Ahren's attempted explanations failed spectacularly. At noon, Falk came up to them dressed in his captain's costume and watched the trio for an extended period as they stared with varying degrees of concentration at the candle in their midst. 'Even if you are no longer an apprentice, you can still ask for help,' said the old Paladin in a hushed voice. It was comparatively quiet on the foredeck of the ship, where they were situated. Ahren gestured to his two students that they should continue, then he stood up and whispered to Falk. 'It's incredibly difficult to understand Culhen's thought patterns. I keep trying to bring him with me to the Void, but he seems to downright shun it,' complained Ahren quietly. Falk looked at the wolf keenly, who was staring at the candle with a decidedly bored expression. 'If only you knew someone who understood the rational and emotional world of animals…' he said with more than a hint of sarcasm. The penny dropped and Ahren groaned and slapped his hand against his forehead. 'Of course! I'd better bring in Jelninolan,' he said in an embarrassed voice. 'Good idea,' said Falk drily. 'Much better than getting inebriated with Trogadon.' 'I only had a drop of Dwarfish schnapps,' responded Ahren defensively. He didn't mention that he had no memory of what had happened after that. 'You snored the whole night through,' said Falk, shaking his head. 'Most of us fled up onto the deck. We even had a vote about whether we should throw you overboard.' He gestured to Khara. 'She was in favour of it.' 'That's weird,' said Ahren, confused. 'My head really doesn't feel as if the alcohol was too strong.' 'Dwarfish schnapps,' said Falk. 'The brew is devilishly strong, but it produces no hangover. If humans could bear large amounts of it, it would be the bestseller of Thousand Halls and no-one would care about metals or precious stones anymore.' Ahren thanked Falk for his advice, then went off in search of Jelninolan. The elf was standing on the quarterdeck at the stern of the ship with her eyes closed. She seemed to be listening to the wind. He was still five paces away from her when she turned her head towards him. 'Here on the open sea it seems as if there are twenty winds whispering things into my ears at the same time,' she said instead of a greeting, opening her eyes. 'When our great mission has ended, I think I am going to have to live on the coast of Evergreen,' she continued with a warm smile. Ahren opened his mouth to explain his problem, but Jelninolan raised her hand. 'It's not just the wind I can hear, you know,' she chuckled. 'Some of your discussions were quite loud enough.' 'Culhen is so stubborn,' complained Ahren, crossing his arms stiffly in front of his chest. 'And where does he get that from, I wonder?' asked the priestess, looking at the Forest Guardian meaningfully. Ahren laughed self-ironically and uncrossed his arms again. 'Create images that appeal to his Wolf-Ego,' she advised him curtly. 'That will surely make things easier.' Ahren raised his eyebrows and stared at Jelninolan, who had already closed her eyes again and was listening to the headwind. That was all? Somehow, he had expected more of an intervention from the good elf. 'He is your student,' she said with a smile. 'Therefore, you should teach him. Give my piece of advice a go. If it doesn't work, come back to me and we can try something else.' Doubtful, and with the feeling of being abandoned, Ahren returned to Khara and Culhen and sat down beside them. The swordswoman had become much calmer and was approaching the threshold where she would have to confront the ghosts of the Void, those subconscious conflicts that came to the surface once one's understanding had attained the necessary serenity which the attainment of the Void demanded. Ahren was certain that Khara's battles would only begin there, for his beloved had endured so much already in her short life. However, as she was staring calmly at the flame of the candle for the moment, he turned towards Culhen so that he could lead the young wolf along mentally. He tried to present his words in nature images, using impressions from memories that he transmitted to the animal. Like the night of the great Elven feast in Evergreen, when little glow-worms had danced above the platform of the Elven village, lulling its merry inhabitants to sleep. A serene moonlit night by a quietly gurgling stream after a successful hunt. Ahren spoke of the security of the pack, the equanimity of an alpha and the comfort of a deep wolf-den. He noticed Culhen's agitated spirit gradually relaxing, and by the time the sun had completely set behind the horizon, the wolf was making his first real progress. Do you know something, Ahren? he said with a yawn. Even if it doesn't work out with the Void, I'm feeling much better now than I have over the last while. His golden eyes peered at those of his friend. Thank you. You're very welcome, big lad. Ahren ruffled the wolf's fur affectionately. Now I just need to be luxuriously groomed and I'll be right as rain, said Culhen, looking pleadingly up at Ahren. The Forest Guardian laughed and capitulated. I'll get your comb, he said, and went off. The rest of the evening would be spent pampering his four-legged friend. The next morning started earlier and louder than Ahren had anticipated. He and Khara had been sleeping on deck, snuggled in closely to Culhen, who had been protecting their heads against the wind. Suddenly, they heard the hectic patter of feet, which roused them from their sleep. 'What's going on?' asked Ahren, standing up drowsily. He noticed the whole crew. Some of them were running hither and thither, while others were standing on the port and starboard bulwarks, gesticulating – sometimes out to the left, sometimes out to the right. Ahren peered out to sea and in a heartbeat he was wide-awake. When he looked over the portside, he could see over a dozen pirate ships, sailing straight for them! He spun around. It was exactly the same on the starboard side! 'Boy, are we in the soup now,' he uttered in a low voice. Khara was up on her feet in a flash, checking out the situation for herself. Culhen sat up on his hind legs and growled quietly, Ahren feeling the wolf's sense of helplessness in no uncertain terms. The animal felt imprisoned on this ship, a sensation that the Forest Guardian understood all too well. 'They've surrounded us,' murmured Ahren as he ran with Khara towards the quarterdeck, where Captain Orben was holding a council of war with the rest of Ahren's companions. The young Paladin could hear the nervous voice of the captain. 'We have no choice but to surrender. There are over twenty-five ships. There is no way we can be victorious against such a superior force.' 'How have they been able to locate and find us so quickly?' asked Trogadon, flabbergasted. 'And then there is the mobilisation of a whole fleet. We've only been sailing for a couple of days as pirates. There's something fishy going on here if you ask me.' 'We could assist you with magic,' said Uldini doubtfully. 'But if we do that, then there is no doubt that every pirate out there will be keeping their eyes peeled for the mysterious magic ship of the Cutlass Sea.' 'I have the feeling that all the pirates are here already,' growled Falk, pointing towards the oncoming fleet. Uldini shook his head firmly. 'Not quite. According to conservative estimates, there are over two hundred pirate ships on the Cutlass Sea – and rising. Nevertheless, you are right of course. There are more than enough to force us into submission.' The Arch Wizard looked up at Jelninolan. 'I think we should construct a Charm Shield and play around a little with the weather.' The elf nodded glumly. 'We have no time to come up with something using our foci. We shall have to work in the usual manner,' she explained to the group. 'Hopefully, our magic will be sufficient,' she added in a low voice. Ahren stared at the ships, which were closing in on the Queen of the Waves using a pincer movement. He could already see the first pirates in the riggings, as well as the black Jolly Rogers fluttering in the airstream. Then he squinted and looked in more detail. 'Prepare the charm but do not utter it yet,' he commanded excitedly. 'I need to check something out.' 'Have you completely lost the plot?' snarled Uldini. 'We can count ourselves lucky if we come out of this alive, even if we start negotiating with them immediately.' Ahren was already climbing the rigging, making his way up to the crow's nest. He needed to be absolutely certain before he put the lives of everyone on the ship at risk on account of a whim. 'We'll start,' he heard from below as Uldini issued his order in a commanding voice. Damn it! The two Ancients were not going to wait for him before starting their magic. Ahren gritted his teeth and pulled himself as quickly as he could up the knotted ropes towards the lookout basket. In his haste he cut his hands on the rough rope, but he ignored the pain and continued his upward scramble. At last he reached the wickerwork basket and swung himself up into it, ignoring the flabbergasted reaction on the lookout's face. He squinted to get a better view of the flags on the ships approaching from the port side. 'Seawoman, what flags are the ships on the starboard side carrying?' he asked in a commanding tone. The lookout spun around, and he had already finished his own examination as she reported her findings. 'They are all carrying the same flag to starboard. A stylised, mysterious-looking woman with dead eyes.' Ahren nodded, a wild joy surging within him. He leaned out over the basket and yelled at the top of his voice. 'Don't implement the charm! For the love of the THREE, you must on no account cast the spell!' Uldini and Jelninolan both had their eyes closed and were holding each other's hands. A weak flickering light was surrounding them, and he couldn't tell if they were deliberately ignoring him or if they simply couldn't hear him anymore. 'Falk, Khara, Trogadon! Separate the two of them – now!' Ahren screamed, almost in a panic, swinging himself out of the crow's nest in an effort to climb down as quickly as possible. He grabbed onto a rope and slid down it, swinging wildly before landing heavily on the deck beside his companions. Falk, meanwhile, was loosening the joined hands of the magicians, a doubtful look on his face. Trogadon and Khara gently pulled Uldini and Jelninolan away from each other. The two Ancients seemed disorientated and irritated by this interruption. Uldini looked around him with eyes blazing, and when he spotted Ahren, he pointed a trembling finger at the young Forest Guardian, who was just straightening up. 'How dare you…' he began, but Ahren wasn't listening to the snarling Ancient, having positioned himself at the bulwark. 'What did you see?' asked Falk urgently. Before Ahren had a chance to answer, he spotted a red-robed man getting ready on one of the nearest of the Cold Woman's ships and invocating a fireball with a dramatic gesture. 'Battle magic', spluttered Uldini, who was now standing beside Ahren. 'We need a Charm Shield, and now!' He raised his arms, and once again a glimmering light surrounded the Ancients, but Ahren threw himself on top of the magician, foiling the charm yet again. 'Have you gone completely mad?!' Uldini's eyes were the size of saucers and his little body was shaking with rage under the young man's embrace. The young Forest Guardian, however, was completely focussed on the spinning fireball that was moving towards them above the water. For a split second Ahren feared he may have miscalculated as the flames come nearer and nearer. 'Prepare for impact!' commanded Orben, sailors and marines immediately throwing themselves down on the deck. Ahren shielded the fuming Arch Wizard with his body as the fireball hurtled past, not three paces away from the stern of the Queen of the Waves, only to hit a ship from the fleet on the other side, causing its mainsail to immediately burst into flames, and her crew to hurriedly throw sand up at it as the steersman heaved to. A cheer rang out from the Cold Woman's fleet, and as if in response to a secret signal, all the pirates went into action with their bows. The air above the Queen of the Waves was filled with the whirring sound of crisscrossing arrows being shot from both directions only to hit the ships to either side. Everyone on board the pretend private ship was still cowering on deck. Ahren gestured to the unmanned tiller. 'Sail straight ahead, captain!' he shouted over the fearful cries of the crew. 'They're not shooting at us, but at each other.' Falk raised his head and followed the flightpath of the arrows. Then a second fireball came racing towards them, this time from the opposing fleet, which struck the prow of one of the Cold Woman's vessels, igniting it immediately. 'Well by all the Grief Winds, Ahren is right,' he said in amazement, before promptly grasping the tiller and maintaining the ship's direct course, which would lead them out of the combating fleets' pincers. Ahren pointed left and right. 'All the ships on the starboard side are flying under the Cold Woman's flag. Those on the port side have flags with a burning crown, presumably Admiral Bocasso's insignia. These pirates are not after us at all – they simply want to fight each other.' He laughed in relief when he saw the dumbstruck look on the others' faces. 'Clearly, we sailed innocently into a sea battle and then thought they were all after us.' 'And a powerful spell on deck would have unnecessarily drawn their attention to us,' added Jelninolan, logically following Ahren's rationale. 'That was a lucky escape,' was the only thing Falk said, while Trogadon leaned against the bulwark, puffed up his cheeks and then loudly blew out the air, shaking his head. 'All well and good,' gasped Uldini, who had been completely forgotten about as he lay squashed under Ahren. 'But it would be really nice if you could get off me now before I suffocate completely – I can't breathe.' Everyone crawled below deck – with the exception of Falk, who remained at the tiller in his Paladin armour, now with the helmet on his head, carefully manoeuvring the ship away from the hail of arrows. When he shouted the all-clear, everyone tumbled back up on deck to watch the sea-battle, which was in full swing behind the stern of the Queen of the Waves. Three ships were ablaze – clearly a result of the fire-spells both sides had cast. Culhen, who had suffered more than the others in the claustrophobic conditions below deck, shook himself demonstratively and curled up again on the foredeck. I've come to a conclusion, he said in a serious tone. I like the water if there is land nearby, but ships and the open seas can go hang themselves. Ahren looked at the tiny figures of the dead or wounded bobbing up and down on the ocean, the unfortunates whose final resting place would be the floor of the Cutlass Sea, and could only agree wholeheartedly with the ambivalent sentiments of the wolf. There was another, painful, surprise in store for Ahren that day. One which hit him particularly hard. The lookout had not survived the battle between the two fleets. Several stray arrows had bored into the crow's nest on their journey over the ship, striking the woman, who had been cowering in the basket, and bringing her young life to an end. Now the deceased sailor was wrapped in a blanket on a plank in preparation for a short ceremony, after which she would be buried at sea. A terrible feeling of guilt burned within Ahren and his mind was plagued with self-accusations. 'What was her name?' he asked Captain Orben in a flat voice as the latter was making the final funeral preparations. 'Jelina,' responded the earnest man simply. 'Two years under my command, always diligent, always friendly. Her fiancé lives on Kings Island.' Ahren's heart was sore and Khara took his hand. 'It wasn't your fault,' she said quietly. He could only shake his head. 'I should have ordered her to climb down after me, but I wasn't thinking straight,' he said bitterly. 'Without her, I would probably have only realised what was happening when it was too late.' He looked pleadingly at Orben. 'She saved the lot of us. Tell her fiancé that. Perhaps that will bring him some comfort.' The Forest Guardian experienced the funeral as if in a trance and when it was over, he hid away on the foredeck, using Culhen as a protective barrier against the rest of the world. He stared moodily out at the waves. When the first stars appeared in the sky, Uldini floated over Culhen, who yelped in surprise, and lowered himself until he was in front of Ahren's nose, looking for all the world like a figure from a dark dream as his silhouette hovered in front of the full moon, looking down on the grieving Paladin. 'What happened to the girl today was terribly bad luck and you know that yourself,' said the Arch Wizard severely. Ahren looked up, startled by the harshness in the childlike figure's voice. Uldini's eyes bored into his own until the young man nodded hesitantly. 'It was such an unnecessary death,' exclaimed the Forest Guardian. 'She should never have been hit; the arrows weren't intended for her. By the THREE, even our ship was never the intended target.' He was surprised at the anger in his own voice. 'No matter how hard it may seem, you are going to have to get used to this type of event. War is unfair and absurd. The Dark Days are coming and with them the tragedies that nobody can understand. The best that you can do – that we all can do – is to find Fisker and Aluna. The more Paladins we can find before the fun and games start, the more champions of the gods there will be to hold the cataclysm at bay while we collect the rest of them.' Uldini shrugged his shoulders helplessly. 'I don't need to give you courage, you have enough of that already. All I can say is this: you must persevere for however long it takes.' Then he reached into the folds of his cloak. 'This might help you a little. I kept it for just such a moment as now, so that you realise that every step we take brings us forward, even if sometimes it doesn't seem so.' Ahren looked in disbelief at the Arch Wizard's hand, which was holding a letter with the Forest Guardian's name on it. Excitedly, he pulled the parchment out of Uldini's fingers. He would recognise that handwriting anywhere. 'It's from Likis, isn't it?' he exclaimed. Uldini grinned and floated up. 'Your mercenaries brought it with them. The courier arrived with the letter shortly before their departure from Falkenstein. Which means it can't be more than a few weeks old. I've already checked it for important information so you can hold onto it.' Then the Arch Wizard floated away, leaving the young man, who was already lost in a reverie, eagerly devouring this welcome missive from his childhood friend. The parchment was a little musty and crumpled, but the accurate calligraphy of the merchant's son Likis was easy to read. Ahren could almost hear the cheeky voice of his friend as he read the following by the light of one of the ship's hurricane lamps:  To the honourable Squire Ahren,  Please accept the most gracious greetings and gratitude from me, Gordo Pramsbildt, Mayor of Deepstone. Your services to the good people of our town have not gone unnoticed, and it gives me the greatest of pleasure to announce to you that our town council has decreed that a statue in your honour be built.  Most respectfully yours,  Gordo Pramsbildt (by the hand of Master Likis) Ahren rubbed his eyes and read the text a second time. Master Likis? A statue in honour of Ahren? And why was Deepstone being referred to as a town? Along with the formal note and the Deepstone seal stamped on it was another one, considerably longer, which looked like a real, died-in-the-wool, letter. Hopefully, Likis would answer some of the questions that were gnawing at him in this one. He brought the second parchment closer to his eyes and could scarcely breathe with excitement as he began to read.  Hi Ahren,  How is my favourite Paladin? Have you slain a dragon yet today or rescued a damsel in distress? Ahren paused and remembered sadly the sailor whose life he had been unable to save. He quickly suppressed the thought and read on. He didn't want to spoil the enjoyment of learning Likis' news.  You have surely read the news in the official part of this letter, so I shall first answer your burning questions in that regard. The most important news is, I am a Master already! Father proposed me for the title of Master, and thanks to my work for the mayor and the fact that I run most of the daily business of Deepstone, the council granted the request for my promotion without me having to serve the normal apprenticeship period. And this leads me onto the next piece of news: Deepstone has been recognised as a town! Following the surprising delivery of Deep Steel weapons and armour from the Brazen City of all places, our sleepy little village has now become the focal point for every trader in the vicinity hoping to purchase one or two pieces. Now don't get angry – but old Pramsbildt and myself have indeed sold about a tenth of the Deep Steel. Don't worry, though, it was for a good cause! With the profit that we made from the sales, we were able to begin with the construction of the palisades that you and I talked about before your departure. That, of course, has meant more workers, transients, and day labourers in Deepstone. All the beds and stables of the village were occupied in no time at all, and so, before we knew it, many more wind-houses were built, using the reliable cement-mixture that your friend Trogadon had introduced to us. Ahren, you wouldn't believe how quickly Deepstone is growing! We have ninety armed men and women standing guard on the ramparts behind the palisades or patrolling the town! Hjalgar is growing increasingly dangerous on account of roaming Dark Ones, which means that more and more people are seeking refuge, work and accommodation in our town. The more important merchants visit us regularly, and father and I are doing so well that we have built a second floor above our merchant's shop to store all the goods. There is even talk now of improving the main street by making it cobble-stoned! You remember – the path that used to be the only way through Deepstone. It's mad how success and sorrow go hand in hand during these turbulent times. I've heard about two small settlements that had to be abandoned because they were too close to the Borderlands and they were constantly being attacked by Dark Ones at night. Anyway, we are now a proper little town with over five hundred souls and growing by the day. All the old-timers in Deepstone praise you to high heavens. Well, almost all! There are still one or two who long for the good old days when we still had to construct our houses in the shadow of the Eastern Forest so as not to freeze in winter!!  What else do I have to report?  Holken has been courting Beata and asked her if she wants to enter the bond of marriage with him. When she said she would have to think about it first, he got the fright of his life! Keeper Jegral is slowing down with age and Lina is a great help to him with his duties. She has already led two services herself. The miller's family are well-liked again, so that all worked out well in the end despite Sven's crime, didn't it? Ahren remembered back to Sven for a moment. During the apprentice Forest Guardian's explosion of rage and Jelninolan's Unleashing when they had discovered that the miller's son had deliberately poisoned Culhen, they had crippled him so much that he was probably sitting in a gutter now, begging for alms. He quickly read on before succumbing to more feelings of guilt.  Your father is doing quite well – he knows how to make hay out of your popularity and his glass is never empty. Many of the newcomers have no idea of how you suffered under him and are only too happy to buy him a drink, but I think it is keeping him fairly contented. Ahren nodded silently. It was better than his drunkard father sitting alone and impoverished in his empty hut.  What you remember as the village square has developed, especially around the forge, in front of which is a little statue with your face on it. Sometimes, when there is no-one around, I go up and talk to it as if it were you! Ahren felt a lump in his throat and wiped away a solitary tear.  The construction of the palisades is almost complete, and we even have room for additional housing. Apart from Three Rivers, Deepstone is now one of the safest places in West Hjalgar, and if it continues like this, it's going to become one of the wealthiest. I'm still continuing with our plan to persuade the mayor of the necessity of continuing to improve the town defences, but I think you would be delighted with what I've achieved so far. When I think of how it all started with two conspiring youngsters and then a few crates of weapons and armour…  Anyway, you need have no worries concerning your old pal Likis, or Deepstone. Keep saving the world and I'll make sure we're still here the next time you drop in for a visit!  Your friend forever,  Likis Time and again Ahren pored over the letter, first quietly, and then reading it aloud when Khara arrived. When he was finished, Khara threw her arms around him and kissed him passionately. Culhen, too, was delighted with the news from home. Once the young Paladin knew the letter off by heart, he folded the parchment and stored it for safe keeping in his tunic. With the cheerful words from his friend close to his heart, Khara's head on his chest, and Culhen's hide to his back, Ahren finally fell fast asleep on the foredeck, rocked by the constant waves, and slumbered the whole night through without dreaming at all. Ahren told all his friends the news from Deepstone over the following days, sometimes catching himself as he related the events with grand gestures and a loud voice brimming with enthusiasm, which caused the sailors in the vicinity to grin. When Ahren was in the middle of describing the contents to Uldini, who was listening politely, he suddenly stopped and laughed with embarrassment. 'But of course, you know all this already,' he said lamely. Uldini chuckled mockingly. 'And even if I had not read the letter beforehand, everyone on this ship has heard your sprawling account of the events in Deepstone at least four times already. Your voice is deep and carries a long way – this vessel is simply too small to escape your enthusiasm.' The broad contented grin on the face of the Arch Wizard lessened the sting in his words, but the approving laughter from the crew spoke volumes concerning the truth of the childlike figure's utterance. 'I am delighted that the letter has produced its desired effect. Your inner fire is burning strongly, but you have the tendency to smother it whenever you feel that you have failed,' added the Arch Wizard in a lower and more serious voice. 'I thought that Falk and Trogadon had spoken to you about the nature of failure and how we must accept it if we are to improve. But it seems to be a lesson that you are slow in learning.' Ahren said nothing but gave a little nod to show that he had understood. 'It's just lovely to hear that all our travelling and efforts are making a difference. And not just in reports from strange lands, but also in those from my homeland.' Uldini rubbed his bald pate, momentarily lost in thought. 'It is true that Hjalgar is still very vulnerable,' murmured the Arch Wizard. 'I think that the next time I have the opportunity for a secure Charm Ritual, I will call for a meeting of the leaders in east Jorath to be held on Kings Island. They need to come up with a defence strategy that includes Hjalgar.' Ahren embraced the little figure, then suddenly froze. 'Why a Charm Ritual? Why don't you simply speak into your crystal ball, as you've always done?' Uldini shook his head firmly. 'Too dangerous. The lighter the Adversary's sleep becomes, the greater the danger that he is listening to us. We Ancients are only exchanging information now by means of secure charms, and therefore we are communicating far less frequently than in the past. A direct communication via Charm Focus is reserved purely for urgent cases.' A gradual hubbub of noise arose from the crew and several sailors pointed towards the east. Ahren and Uldini looked to where they were indicating and noticed the first outlines of tiny islands on the horizon. 'The offshoots of the Splintered Sword,' said Uldini in a self-satisfied tone. 'Tomorrow we should reach the Crow's Nest. I have a few valuable gemstones in my bag which will ensure that either the Cold Woman or this Admiral Bocasso will support us in our quest – assuming they haven't killed each other already.'