Wars of the Aoten

By Craig Davis

Artur's world is changing. Can he knit together the five clans, those who barely tolerate each other, to fight the marauding Aoten? And can he overcome his own culture's taboos to win the fair Andreia? A tremendous journey and mighty adventure leads to the greatest climax in the world's history.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Craig Davis
• Release date: Oct 15, 2010
• ISBN: 9780982956724

Craig Davis

After earning bachelor's and graduate degrees at the University of Missouri, Craig Davis toiled for 20 years at newspapers, and has spent a lifetime in biblical scholarship. He wrote his first story while in Kindergarten, about King Kong. An amateur musician, he was once wrestled to the ground by a set of bagpipes.

Book preview

Chapter I

Artur could see nothing but the snapping fangs and roiling tongue. Claws dug deeply into his flesh, tearing great shreds even through his tough tunic. With his left arm bearing up all the beast’s weight, he could do no more than fumble blindly with his right hand. Surely Kylie lay somewhere close by; for now, Artur could offer back only his own gnashing teeth. A flailing fury of activity and spittle buffeted his face, and none of his companions could provide any aid. Once again, Artur stood alone.

What has brought me to this? he wondered. And to what end? How much striving must I spend to simply gain a future? Mog’s goblins!

***

The damp thump of a dew drop hit his helmet. He’d slept again under the canopy of leaves.

The tribes of Medialia had lived together peaceably, within reason, for generations. And what generations! The years of the people advanced into decades, then to scores and perhaps then on into centuries as lifetimes went from birth to Earth to eternity.

The land and its animals and plants had been husbanded for years upon years by a long procession of worn and calloused hands. The peoples of Medialia built their cultures with equal attention, preserving their traditions and distinctions with meticulous care. Tens of thousands of cycles of dawn to dusk then dawn again left the ancient peoples performing lives of unquestioned ritual, not knowing why and not caring; it just was. Anything different would be a threat to the continuity of life, and untrustworthy, and sacrilege. The Rufoux, the Bedoua, each in its own land; the Melics of the trees, and the Raspars hidden away in their city; even the Koinoni — they all staked out their part in the world. To maintain the purity of the culture, each clan expected its men and women to fulfill their roles, to serve the clan as a whole, to defend it against anything unusual or unknown. If a man were to break himself away from his customs, his clan quickly disowned him, ostracized and banished to find his survival on his own. Only a few such pariahs had stained Medialia’s history, living or perhaps dying in exile; even now there was believed to be one, a lunatic camped high in the mountains, rumored to talk to animals. In isolation he toiled away, unknown to anyone but the skies. Or perhaps not; regardless, he lived as a cautionary tale: To invite the influence of another clan or strange ideas would be no better than opening the gate to the thylak, or worse yet, the deviltooth. So each clan drew its defenses, each culture folded in upon itself, in a self-assured attempt to maintain the familiar safety of tradition. Allow the others to exist, yes, but at a distance — only as they remained at a safe distance.

Even as the people threw down their vague borders, the rivers Alluvia and Gravidas embraced Medialia within a firm but tender grasp, and deep, beautiful pools of mirrored water, fed by underground springs, dotted the land. To look directly into their gentle, hypnotic folds, a man of Medialia would see first himself and the clear sky above reflected in the glassy surface, then beyond to the crystalline shallows, then the deep blue of the dense, pure solution, and finally into the blackest mystery of its very depths. Fish and eels, newts and mollusks — even a fleeting glimpse of the dreaded scaled draughgon — all found a place of sanctuary and sustenance in the rich womb of mother water. Her loving touch spread throughout the land, even to the edge of the sandy desert in the north, and life flourished within her reach.

The land rose up round about in grand rock formations and proud stands of trees, thick and distinguished, waiting like wizened men advanced in years yet always ready for brisk walk and conversation. Great giants towered over the landscape in perpetual greenery, for even what we would call the deciduous strains never lost their leaves to cold weather and dim light. Grand oaks and hickory stood tall, dogwood and birch, cottonseed and cypress, cherry and persimmon, gopherwood and maple, sittlebark and scrattum, ketchipa and peah — the black dirt gave rise to more varieties than could be named in any book. Like locks of twisting hair, mossy strands hung limply from the branches, teasing the undergrowth: Moss dripped from the trees, and dew dripped from the moss. These elegant titans relented only occasionally as the forested glades gave way first to the mossy undergrowth and then to gentle meadows of waving grasses and dancing flowers. Exotic, kaleidoscopic colors bloomed beyond dictionaries or palettes. Colors existed in Medialia that we have no English word for, and indeed some of the leaves and flowers across the land appeared to be two colors at once. A blink could reveal a whole new perspective on the beauty of a petal, as a kind of crimson/gold/jade might transform into a violet/bronze/burgundy. The soil brought forth fruits and berries, roots and vegetables in abundance, enough for all the living beings that tramped the ground or soared the air.

To this world Artur of the Rufoux opened his eyes this and every morning.

The times of the Rufoux arched backward to the dawn of tools, when mankind first learned to till the ground and fill their stomachs by the sweat of the brow. The Rufoux ancients mastered the toil most basic to civilization: bronze working, kiln-firing, blacksmithing. Anything that required heat and brute strength suited their bodies and character well.

A squat, powerful people, they took their name from the ruddy complexion that in turn gave witness to their fiery trades and temperaments. Most grew to no more than seven kronyn tall, about five and a half of our feet, but the men boasted massive shoulders and chests. Their midsections were solid and legs stout, with hands immensely large. In their idle time a man might grasp another’s head by one hand and try to lift him off the ground. A wild shock of golden or red hair topped their crowns, adding a bright accent to their dark skin and demeanor.

Born of fire and violent work, the Rufoux had become an aggressive people. In ages past they learned to go about always in armor of thick, tough leather, and so it became their customary attire. As metal workers, they had also become expert in weaponry, agile in wielding swords and pikes, maces and axes with great abandon. Indeed, it seemed the only joy they took came from their games, at which they would lay upon each other with tremendous gusto, somewhat disappointed to use only blunted weapons.

So let no surprise regale you that the legends of their god, Mog, celebrated him strong and warlike as well. Mog had been a man once, so they said, and fought great battles against monstrous, mystical creatures that directed the fates of the people of Medialia. From Mog, too, the Rufoux had come to tame fire, for use in the forge and the oven, to bake his gift of bread born of their great fields of grain. The Rufoux came to him with sacrifice whenever they went into battle, small or large, seeking to allay his wrath, to gain his blessing, that he might increase their aggression and add to them his mighty victory.

Artur could not claim to be the greatest of the Rufoux, not the tallest, nor strongest, nor smartest. But perhaps he could boast as most typical. And he was clever and an accomplished story-teller; this very talent led to his appointment as chieftain.

He was Artur, son of Geoffrey. In spite of his audacity and headstrong ways, he displayed a spirit of self-denial and duty to his people. This selflessness showed itself in the daring and reckless manner he threw himself into battle. His hair unruly — redder than most and cut as if a bowl had been placed over his head — but balding in back, betrayed his encroaching triple digits. He spoke in short blasts, his talk filled with bluster and sometimes spittle. When in conversation his arms often waved wildly about his head, sometimes as he made a point. Sometimes, notably when he wasn’t talking, he waved to fend off hummingbirds, which entertained themselves by coming at his rusty locks with extreme prejudice. He kept his beard shorter than most, close-cropped, almost to only two- or three-days’ growth. Artur handled the sword as well as any warrior among the Rufoux and always kept his short blade, which to show his devotion he called Kylie, hanging at his belt.

Not only swords, but also plowshares came from Rufoux smelting. The clan had established its village on a high bluff near the floodplains of the River Alluvia. A slight rise in the land separated the huts from the fields — a crest lined with stacks of heavy wood stored for use in building and fire-making, as well as frames for drying and tanning leather — before steeply declining toward the floodplains. The beneficent river overflowed its banks regularly, its water standing over the fields for upwards of a month, leaving rich, pungent soil to nourish their crops. In fact, the Rufoux enjoyed the most hale and hearty health of all the clans, and they guarded their farmlands vigorously. An unusually ingenious man of the clan years before invented a plow with removable handles — a quick yank, and the sharp blades of short rapiers emerged from scabbards within the frame. Thus did they become farmer-warriors.

Although small, they had become excellent riders. The sight of a stumpy Rufoux man ridiculously astride a huge hippus might put an observer into hysterics — until the rider stood upon the beast’s back at full gallop, hung from its neck, jumped from side to side and ended by deftly pulling the animal to a sudden stop, blowing great bursts of steamy breath into the awe-struck face of the scoffer.

The clanspeople pursued other activities, not only work and warfare, with equal enthusiasm. Betrothed and married at a young age, Rufoux couples tended to have great numbers of children, bustling about the house banging metal spoons against metal pans in mock battle. Rufoux women were stocky like the men and shorter still, with shapely hips given to easy childbearing. They tended homes made of wooden frames, poles bent into semicircles, with animal skins stretched over the top, leaving an opening in the center of the roof. Directly underneath a fire blazed, always at the center of Rufoux life. Pallets for sleeping lined the floor along the walls of the dwelling; as a family grew, new circles of pallets would be added until no walking room existed between the sleeping area and the fire, lost to the bustle of confined concord. In this way alone Artur divided himself from his people.

Though the leader of the clan, though a willing joiner of talk, Artur often sought out solitude. A melancholy mantle draped his thoughts at such moments. He alone of the Rufoux men remained a bachelor, a point of constant sorrow and dismay for him. Never lonely, yet he knew himself to be utterly alone, a miserable weight he felt often upon his head. In the evenings, when families lulled their children to sleep, Artur crept into the dark of the wood, separate from all activity except his swirling thoughts. The Rufoux customs betrothed couples at age six, formally engaged at twelve and married at eighteen. Artur’s parents had dutifully arranged for him a child bride, and the ceremony of their betrothal also had been the day Geoffrey gave him his first breastplate of ceremonial armor. That day’s glorious celebrations were forever etched into Artur’s memory. Then an accident, a terrible sequence of events before Artur’s eyes, took the life of his intended and threw it as far away as the wind blows. At that moment he began to take no regard for himself, but instead abandoned safe discretion in favor of thrill and the well-being of his clan. He gave up hope for wife and children of his own, and took all the Rufoux as his family.

So Artur masked his darkness with intensity and bravado. It is not so uncommon even in our own world.

Chapter II

Across the expanse of Medialia, the wooly ones roamed the forests in abundance. Monkeys, birds and flamboyant squirrels populated the trees, and the land teemed with rooting tapirs, okapi, crocodiles and grand giraphant. Even wild rumidonts and hippus still moved about in herds. Though domesticated long ago, these animals had feral cousins living off their somewhat limited wits. Rumidonts grew to only about waist high to a Rufoux, with three-toed hooves and a thick coat of wool almost as heavy as their odor. Once shorn, the coat was soft to be woven into warm clothes and blankets, and strong for ropes and nets. They also produced milk, making them the prized possession of the herding peoples, kept practically as pets, some would say, and others would say as gods. Their heads appeared to be too big for their bodies, with broad noses and foreheads, and they produced a high, frenzied cry when alarmed.

The hippus had been trained to be beasts of burden, for riding and pulling, and the average hippus could easily accommodate three men on its back. Brawny beasts, they were also fleet of hoof, and the potent combination made cause for great celebration any time a man could catch one in the wild. Their galloping speed served the hippus well when packs of thylak, hunting animals that scoured the forest shadows, might bear down upon them. Though smaller than even the rumidont, the thylak’s heavy shoulders and hindquarters could simply outmuscle larger prey; the brutal animals bore a set of oversized fangs that extended menacingly beyond their lower jaws, and had claws to match. Dogged in their pursuit, a single thylak could easily bring down a squealing rumidont or screaming man who had not kept a sharp eye out. Indeed, the wooded cover that offered protection to the rumidont and hippus also served to trap them, hiding the creeping menace that meant only to destroy. Only the giant therium could safely stroll the lands, their great bulk and six horns sufficient to give even the most arrogant thylak second thoughts about making an attack. As well, the therium’s heavy coat of wiry fur and their thick, leathery skin added yet more protection. Twice the height of a man at their shoulder and as wide as a small house, the therium spent their days lazily browsing leaves from the trees that no other ground animal could reach, often rousing into flight birds and lemurs, and other small tree-dwellers. In the evenings they made an eerily mournful wail, deep and throaty, always long and flowing, slowly diminishing into nothing more than an echo. The therium strode with complete confidence through the forest, avoiding only the steaming pits that divided the fertile central land from the great mountain range to the west.

Artur owed his fate to one of these great brutes. One day as a young man he came upon the body of a dead therium. Soon a pack of thylak, he knew, or even a deviltooth might find the corpse and begin work upon the remains; with his short sword he quickly removed the horns. Taking a leather thong and a drill made of bronze, on the spot he fashioned a necklace for himself. By the time he re-entered the Rufoux encampment, with the six horns dangling from his neck, his story had gelled: He had brought down the therium himself, with only his own brains and brawn at his disposal. I spotted the great animal in the forest and scaled a nearby tree, hand-over-hand, running up like a frightened Melic. I tied a noose and slung it about the therium’s neck, then jumped down the opposite side of a high limb. Hanging desperately onto the rope, I threw all my weight into controlling its huge, thrashing head, as he whipped me about like a clump of grass. I fought back by weaving the rope over a multitude of tree limbs and trunks, and that gave me greater power over him. But just then the therium shook off its surprise and began to overcome me. He looked dead at me and snapped his tusks. Just then, Artur paused and gazed about wide-eyed, Mog himself appeared and leant his strength to my rope. The unfortunate beast, this only one ever known to be killed by a man and a god together, strangled as I and Mog strained against the rope, even hoisting the mighty animal’s forequarters clear off the ground! Or, at least that is how Artur told it. The Rufoux men met that night, and before morning Artur had become chief of the clan.

Less common were the scaled ones, but they made a fearsome sight when encountered. Like the draughgon, which dwelt in the waters, the scaled ones usually came into sight only in the corner of one’s eye, leaving a man uncertain whether he had seen something or perhaps only imagined a nightmare. The scaled ones mostly stayed by the warmth of the steaming pits, so wise men, like the therium, avoided that territory. But brave men and foolhardy youths would sometimes venture into the area, where they could still see small groups of depila bird, flightless beings that moved as one like a flock. Much more-rare glances would reveal the deviltooth, a fearsome beast that could snap a man in half with its powerful jaws. Taller even than a therium, with long, razor-sharp teeth, these creatures feasted mostly at the expense of the depila bird, but when pickings grew thin, they had been known to hunt the forests. The light of the sun glinting off the deviltooth’s metallic-looking scales ascribed to the beast an air of royalty amongst a lesser people. Though the deviltooth certainly had no more brains than a walnut, it bore a continual frown that gave it the look of decided antipathy. Its stupid, mechanical bent toward killing made it all the more terrifying.

Though not particularly mountainous in the central areas, the ground of Medialia erupted into formidable spires of black marble and granite, streaked with tall scars of blue green and purple crystal. Great, steep columns burst forth from the land’s thick carpet, often crowned by weird formations that seemed to balance with no support, perilously looming hundreds of kronyn overhead. Their rugged and scarred sides gave witness to the painful birth that brought them forth eons ago, ribbed with great crevasses and giving resting place to small pockets of scree up and down their heights. These grand sculptures, known to the people as standancrags, scattered across the land, brought forth by some awesome force of creation, as if a divine forefinger and thumb had grasped the firmament and pulled the spires into view like gushing water. Though most measured no more than a hundred kronyn across, some stretched for a groonit (a measurement something like our kilometer) or more in breadth. Some of them towered over the forest trees, and others not, so a traveler walking through the dense foliage could easily be unexpectedly blocked by a standancrag’s sudden appearance, requiring a lengthy detour from a straight route. In the meadowlands, however, they stood unveiled in all their naked glory, mighty monuments to the underworld, the foundation of Earth herself when she unloosed the buttons of her green mantle. The proud sculptures stood in majestic silhouette against the sky, daring any observer to see past, or perhaps to scale their heights, or even to simply guess their magnitude. They stood as watchmen in the morning, reminders to all that lives begin and lives end, peoples and races and cultures come and go, but the Earth remains.

Two seasons divided the Medialian year: humid and more humid. Indeed, some days the air hung so heavy with moisture a man could have difficulty seeing through it, yet never a fog, never a mist. The sultry warmth wrapped its blanket around the flora, a loving sauna for its lushness. The dampness trapped heat from both the Earth and sun and maintained a constant temperature; tiny droplets that clung to nothing more than air acted like a perpetual shower, cooling the flesh of the land’s inhabitants. A brisk journey through a shaded glen could leave one soaking wet. A quiet breeze picked up as the sun set each evening, but the weather never grew any more violent. The coastlines never brought in a storm from over the sea’s waters, and malevolent clouds were strangers to the skies overhead. Indeed, the deep blue sky, pinkish greenish on the horizon and tinged with violet at its apex, never gave way to clouds at all. The native ecology was similar to a rain forest, and then again not, and water dripped continually from the leaves of the trees. These very droplets served as Artur’s alarm that morning. But now the day was growing late.

Paths worn by long generations of feet and hooves criss-crossed the land. None of the little roads went anywhere directly, but wandered about, giving birth to narrow offshoots that in turn would lead nowhere. No paving lined the ways except that of well-worn grass. Still, the walking was smooth and pleasant, and disagreeable rocks seldom emerged from out of the ground. Within tribal boundaries, occasional low stone walls lining the paths grew into sturdy bridges, built well before even the deepest memory, that crossed the rivulets branching off the Alluvia and Gravidas. Arbors grew overhead, carefully planted intermittently to offer shade to those taking long journeys overland. The trails often cut through gardens of exotic succulents and flowers, tended with loving care. Huge leaves and bobbing blooms lapped over the edges of the paths, brushing and patting at the legs of passersby in a friendly manner. After some time of study, one could identify what man had planted each field by the designs that shaped the gardens. No single idea of beauty, order nor asymmetry, dominated, for every man did what his own mind deemed right. So one garden might be planted in circles and coils, while the next might feature straight rows suddenly running at an angle into more straight rows.

This day one such path led to Artur, alone again in the forested land. The trees waved to him like so many friends, and as he walked along he reached out to his right and left to grasp their welcoming leaves. The saw-tooth edges played a harmless game of gotcha as he ran them across the tough skin of his hands. With his thumb and middle finger he flicked moisture off dripping leaves in a miniscule shower, then rubbed the wetness off on his pants leg. He did not tread lightly nor take any care watching his steps: His leather boots gave him ample protection from whatever slippery hazards or grasping roots or branches the undergrowth might hide. Indeed, his eyes cast their gaze upward much more frequently than toward his feet. The deep blue of the evening sky, dappled by the glinting foliage, made him to hear the peace of sleep calling, even to him. The birds above gave him little notice but sang a glad tune, which he deemed a rightful fanfare for himself anyway. This day his depression weighed not so heavy.

But nothing he could do would erase that one moment long ago.

Oh, is this where you hide? said a voice from out of the bracken, punctuated by crunching footsteps. It was Wyllem. It is true, he said. They have been seen.

The Legend of Mog

In the great grey-green mists of the murky past, a mighty, dreadful race of unearthly creatures claimed divine right over all the known world. Even the shortest among them grew to all of twenty kronyn tall, and their pallid green skin bulged with pulsating veins. Oozing from every orifice, their rippling limbs ended in fearsome, three-digit claws. Glowing eyes peered with slitted red pupils, and their faces appeared like inverted triangles, crowned with a broad forehead and coming to a pronounced snout. With both character and demeanor hateful, they sought only to ravage those beings they considered inferior. Tremendous size and strength, and their ruthless loathing, served them well in this mission. But their greatest weapon, the one thing that made them invincible, was a secret of eternal life. No matter how great a blow they received, no matter how deep an injury left, none of these beasts would ever die. These became known as the Emim, the horrible giants, and they liked nothing better than the taste of Rufoux.

In these days wood kilns burned across the land, for the Rufoux had not yet discovered the stones that burn. Every day men and women of the clan had to enter the forests to gather wood for the fires that burned wildly in their camp; and the fear of the Emim gripped them. Many a day twelve ventured out, but only eleven, or ten, or nine returned. Each family took its turn to send out a wood-seeker, and each family member took his turn, so all shared the risk. But the burden weighed heavily — so great an anxiety to bear — and fear gripped the clan throughout, as fathers and mothers and sons and daughters wept bitter tears for each missing clansman. All the Rufoux lived under a cloud of despair, except for a tiny few, a few who cared not for life nor limb but much for liberty. One of these was a man named Mog.

Mog chose not to stand around waiting to be eaten, but neither did he relish risking his life for a few sticks of wood. He and a handful of followers didn’t even live in the Rufoux camp, instead sleeping in logs and hollows out in the wilds. Fruits and berries kept them alive, but when they had a taste for something more succulent, nothing satisfied them more than raiding an Emim banquet, as long as they weren’t serving Rufoux. Mog and his men loved to sweep down upon the unsuspecting Emim as they sat at table, for though they were large and cruel, they were none too bright and easy to surprise. Before they could fall to arms, the raiders would snatch away the most pleasant dishes, bloody a few noses and be gone.

On one such raid the future of Mog and the Rufoux changed forever.

One evening as a multitude of stars blinked in disbelief, Mog and his men crept through the trees toward the grand log house of the Emim. The structure was simple, yet huge and comprised of many rooms. The long dining room spread about at the very center, making the raiders’ work all the easier: Each time they broke in, they used a different hallway to enter, always catching even the most alert giant off guard. This night, as they approached the banquet hall, they found an ancient man dressed in long robes, with a long, gray beard, light and fine like cobwebs, like the smoke of incense. Bound in chains, he hung upside down at the entry.

Who are you? You look not like Rufoux, said Mog.

I be Skratti, wizard of the standancrags. Many a day have I passed vexing the Emim with my incantations, so that they hate me above all others. Today I be captured when they caught me unawares at my morning chants.

Why have you not been eaten? asked Mog.

Not being as tasty as Rufoux, replied Skratti, they be setting me aflame when the night falls to its deepest.

More’s the pity, old man.

You be Mog, no? Your legend looms large in the wood, but little do you know. You hate the Emim as much as I?

How can I hate the one who cooks for me? I have decided to remain indifferent, as long as I stay out of their pot.

Aye, you be as good a liar as vagabond, Skratti laughed in spite of being trussed up like a chicken in a butcher shop.

Surely, you must indeed be a wizard, for you have either discovered how I loath the Emim, or you have put it in my heart.

Release me, and I will make you their master.

I would release you just to shove my blade up their noses, said Mog, and with his fine Rufoux sword he cut the shoddy Emim chain to shreds. Skratti fell heavily to the floor with a grunt but no great injury.

Let us be gone, he whispered hoarsely. Come with me to my rooms, and I will give you knowledge to defeat the Emim.

Not before dinner, said Mog, and he led his men screaming into the banquet room. Giants fell to the floor backwards in their chairs at the ruckus, half-chewed food spewing from their ghastly mouths. Mog slashed away with his blade, but it left no more than scratches on the immortal beings. The Rufoux men grabbed armfuls of wonderful breads and puddings, fruits and vegetables, and vaulted through the windows before the Emim knew what had happened. Skratti made a hasty retreat out the nearest door.

Outside, each man ran in a different direction, then circled back around to the side of the longhouse opposite the Rufoux camp. There Skratti, without explanation of how he found them, appeared out of the darkness.

Welcome to my lair, he said, and he gestured to a great standancrag directly behind him. As they walked toward the stone pillar, a dark opening appeared as if by conjuring. Skratti turned his head and gave a craggy smile over his shoulder at Mog, and led the Rufoux men inside. As the last one entered, the opening vanished, and the standancrag once again looked like solid stone.

Inside, the men could barely make out walls lined with strange, shining, clear containers that obviously had different kinds of fluids in them. Skratti rubbed his fingers together and produced a flame, with which he lit a small collection of beeswax candles set on a table. He blew out the flame and waved his fingers in the air.

There be a secret below the Emim longhouse, a secret I alone among humans know, said Skratti in a harsh whisper, his heavy, white eyebrows nearly covering his eyes. All others who have ventured so deep into the fortress have paid with their lives. I alone have seen and escaped. It be the secret of Emim immortality.

The Rufoux men sidled up to the wizard without a word, drawing like moths toward the dim light and shadowy words.

Underneath the Emim banquet table there be a great wooden door, with a single ring for a handle. That door leads below the house, into a dungeon deep and lined with stone, where lies a dragon, a beast of horrible size and great, massive teeth. This monster once roamed wild with the deviltooth and thylak, but the Emim captured it and imprisoned it under their castle. It guards their most precious treasure, the one thing they value over all else in the world.

Here Skratti paused, and the Rufoux men leaned in yet closer.

It be a gem, a single, purple stone, clear and bright as a pool of water. Nobody knows who mined it, or who cut it, or how the Emim came to own it. Neither does that matter, for only its power matters, and that power be eternal life. Yes, eternal life radiates from the stone, and simply living over those mysterious warming rays makes the Emim invincible. But they must stay in the vicinity of the gem for half the day, or its power will seep away from them.

With this the Rufoux men stood erect again, wild eyes cast upon the defiant old man. How can we know this to be true? asked Mog.

Search your memory, test your mind, said Skratti. Do you really believe the Emim to be so slow that they cannot pursue as you steal away their food? They dare not leave the longhouse after being gone at day, or they be not getting a full dose of the gem’s life-power. They know their real food, and they be guarding it well.

Sharp disappointment stabbed at Mog with these words, thinking that his raiding bravado had been revealed to be empty. Now he felt compelled to top it.

Well, then. How do we get it?

You have to go through Emim defenses. You have to slay the dragon. You have to steal away with the gem without falling into Emim hands.

I know how to get into the longhouse. That’s easy enough. But how to survive the rest? That’s the trick, said Mog in a pensive manner.

Get past the Emim, kill the dragon, then eternal life belongs to you, said Skratti.

Yes, you’ve said that. But how? Mog’s temper rose.

Skratti wheeled toward the back wall, and returned with one of the strange containers. He studied the contents carefully as he swirled it around, then poured some into a smaller container. With his left hand he reached into a round box, and produced some powder to sift into the liquid as he held it over a flame. A pungent fragrance arose in the room. In a voice so low the Rufoux men could not make out his words, he mumbled three short sentences over the elixir, then plunged the whole container hissing into a bucket of water at his feet. Again he swirled the liquid as he peered through it, and abruptly thrust the container at Mog.

Drink it! Drink it fast!

Mog looked from face to face in the room, still feeling his manhood bruised by the truth about the raids. Ready to prove himself, he slammed down the potion as hard as he could.

What did I just drink? he winced.

You be Rufoux, you be men of fire, said Skratti, his grin revealing ragged teeth. Learn it, command it. Call the power of the sun down on the hated Emim. I now give you the power of the sun’s heat. When your anger burns hot, your touch will burn hotter. You cannot kill the Emim, not as long as they have the gem, but you can sear their flesh. Now, begone!

Suddenly Mog and his men stood outside the standancrag again, and no sign of Skratti remained, nor of the entryway, nor the container that had been in Mog’s hand. They paced about there in the starlight, confused and irritated, unsure of what had happened. Only the bitter unrest in Mog’s stomach told him he hadn’t been dreaming.

Days passed, and the men lived off the stolen bounty from that night’s raid. Soon came the time to again burglarize the Emim, but to his men Mog seemed uninterested in returning. As hunger gnawed at them, they became dissatisfied with the berries and roots of the forest. Then one of them made a mistake.

You have grown afraid to return! The dragon makes you afraid! he accused Mog as they fell deep into argument.

Mog arose in a rage. Oh, you will pay a dear price for your insolence! he screamed as he hoisted a huge log over his head with one hand, preparing to strike down his clansman. The log instantly burst into flame, from Mog’s grip all the way to the end. Suddenly, the conflict ended. The men stood and stared at the unfortunate piece of wood, miraculously aflame and yet not burning Mog’s hand.

It is true, said Mog, as he watched the log quickly turn to charcoal and then ash, staring in wonder and yet fighting a smile. I have feared believing it, but now I see it’s true. Skratti has endowed me with fire. Let’s be off!

With that, the band ran like deer toward the Emim longhouse.

Outside one of the great windows, the Rufoux could see the Emim at their meal. There Mog drew up a simple plan.

We all jump in, as we always do. This will turn the Emim out in surprise, as it always does. Then I will set fire to their table. As the blaze arises upon the house itself, the confusion will be great, and I will open the door to the dungeon. If any Emim arise against me, attack if only as a diversion. We will not be able to kill them until the gem is away for a time. I will slay the dragon with fire and retrieve the eternal stone for the Rufoux.

The men all agreed, and went crashing through the windows with full throaty cries and whoops. The Emim leapt in shock as before, and Mog took hold of one end of the long table with both hands — and nothing happened. He looked at his palms in disbelief, and in his mind saw the crusty old wizard with his gnarled grin. Damn you! he screamed, and pounded the table with both fists. This time it burst into a ball of fire, and Mog understood: The power of the fire fed upon his rage. Keeping his anger at a fever pitch, he grasped a chair in each hand and threw both like fire bombs into the crowd of Emim.

The great ring that Skratti had described lay at Mog’s feet. With both hands he took hold and gave it a hard yank, getting the door open just before the handle turned to ashes. Mog threw himself head first into the opening and landed on something pliant and cold.

Darkness filled the dungeon, but Mog didn’t have to see to know that he was in trouble. The lumpy floor snorted and began to turn and twitch beneath him. A low growl began, followed by a violent jolt throwing Mog against a wall.

A burst of stars exploded inside his head, and Mog suddenly couldn’t remember where he was. As his head cleared he felt blasts of heat close to his face. His hands explored the surrounding floor with no sense of purpose, but one fell upon a piece of lumber.

Hastily he came to his feet again, with a defiant shriek, and the wood burst into flame. The sudden flash of light and heat drove the dragon back – for he had indeed landed upon the dragon – and Mog got a good look at it. It had to be fifty kronyn long, as tall as a therium, with scales of every color imaginable. Its yellow eyes bore down on Mog, and a forked tongue slinked angrily in and out as the beast sought its way past the flickering of the fire.

Mog looked about him, and by the dancing light he could see several loose pieces of wood among the rubble, as well as a massive fireplace. Circling around carefully, he threw as many pieces of timber as he could reach into the hearth, then threw in his lit kindling. The dry wood went up in a flash, lighting the dungeon brightly and glinting gaily off the gem, standing upon a small table encircled by the supple body of the dragon. It was just the size of an egg, but the light it produced, only by reflecting the fire, was as brilliant as the sun on snow. Mog rubbed his hands and approached the dragon.

Its serpentine neck twisted as the beast, still showing reptilian concern over the fire but not intimidated, followed Mog’s every move. Mog tried to think of every injustice ever done to him or to his people; his temper rose and boiled over at the thought of the hundreds of Rufoux victims of the Emim. As he weighed the incredible power the Emim had gained and abused, his rage drew him away from rationality.

Mog rushed at the dragon, deftly dodged its stamping claws and grasped both hands about its neck. Flames shot out of his fingers and singed his hair, but the dragon didn’t flinch. The creature’s thick scales easily deflected the heat of his anger. Instead, the beast deftly flicked its neck to the side and threw Mog off.

Mog again landed heavily against the wall. Could it be — could it be the dragon too had gained immortality from guarding the gem? Skratti had said none of this. He had come far too along to care about such things now, though, Mog realized. Clearly the fire did the beast no damage; perhaps his blade would.

His sword drawn, Mog approached the dragon cautiously. The dragon eyed him with welcoming disdain, its tongue scrutinizing the air. It testily made for Mog with its fangs, Mog made for it with his sword. As he circled about, he watched for an opening, but couldn’t find a way to get past those teeth.

Frustrated, Mog screeched and flailed his weapon at the dragon’s tail. The blade bounced off with a clang, having no effect against the scales. Unless Mog could get