The Mephit's Tales

For twenty nights, the forges had burned, hammers ringing on steel. The finest smith in the land put all his art into the work, shaping arms and armour such as had never been seen, the likes of which would be remembered through the age.

Finally, on the morning of the winter solstice, it was done. Each piece was a work of terrible artistry; each link in the mail was shaped just so, each plate curved exactly as it ought to be and inlaid with fine filigree. The sword was exquisitely balanced, sharp enough to cut the very wind, and a brilliant fire opal gleamed in its pommel.

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The tales had spread far and wide of the lonely keep in the mountains, guarded by a beast with claws like swords, its scales black as coal, its breath hotter than a blacksmith’s forge. Of the ancient relics that rested within, their beauty and value beyond measure. And, of course, of the beautiful woman who could be glimpsed at the window, singing lovely, lonely songs to the moon and stars.

Many warriors had come to the mountain keep to vanquish the beast. Some had come for the promises of wealth, some for the beautiful maiden’s hand; some had come for glory, some in quest of good and valiant deeds, and there could be none finer than such a rescue.

None had returned.

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It was all becoming distressingly familiar. The hunger, the wind in his fur and earth under his paws, the hunt, the taste of blood on  his tongue… still lingering when he woke, well away from the village, with only the grass against his skin. It had happened three nights around each full moon; this was the third month, now, the seventh time he’d woken in the wilds.

Except that this time, when he came to, there was a rough blanket thrown over him and a hand on his cheek.

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By day they took shelter, hiding away from the merciless sun under thin canvas, the day’s heat kept at bay by a single enchanted stone, a shard of the frozen south. It was by night that they travelled, boots scuffing over dusty stone. What course they followed, Darrin did not know, but his guide never faltered. From time to time the fennec would pause, pushing back her cowl and gazing up at the stars before drawing it back over her ears and continuing; other times, many hours and many turns would go by without a moment’s hesitation. At some of these turning points Darrin could see something that might qualify as a landmark – a distinctive peak or a kink in a ridgeline, or some such thing. At others, all around looked the same. But Shari was confident, and in four years of journeying, in the rocky wastes and elsewhere, she had never led him astray. It was no great thing to put trust in her now.

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