The Poet's Dilemma

By Valentino Mori

The Kingdom of Farsia has fallen. The conqueror Eskandar is ascendant and more powerful than ever. He intends to unleash the immortal Drvaspa who will unravel the very fabric of the universe. The few who can stop Eskandar and Drvaspa are scattered and divided.

Volakles, a capable soldier with a turncoat's reputation, has gone into hiding with the heir to the Farsian throne. He has sworn to protect her from Eskandar while she develops her rare powers.

Paniz survived her duel against Eskandar, but she lost her memories and identity. Now she wanders through the kingdom, protecting innocents from the monstrous hordes while she searches for clues about her former life.

Zemfira had the chance to neutralize Drvaspa, but she chose to save her family instead. Now she has been stripped of her powers and only barely survived the ordeal. Regaining her powers might allow Drvaspa to unravel the universe faster, but if Zemfira cannot defeat her celestial foe, the end will be truly assured.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Valentino Mori
• Release date: Dec 21, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463410165

Valentino Mori

I've been writing fantasy and science fiction novels since the age of eleven and I have no intention of stopping. My weaknesses are black teas, compelling podcasts, and the smell of caramelized onions.

Book preview

 Part One

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Chapter 1 – The Storm

Nimue paused in the road, spilling water from her bucket as she looked up at the sky.  The clouds were darkening again, thickening from wispy white to dense gray.  They moved against the winds that were buffeting the village of Nebit, an unnatural force propelling these clouds into the north.  Nimue sniffed and detected a sour odor in the air.  It was happening.  Another storm was coming.

I saw it from the window, said Gozeh, as Nimue stepped through the doorway.  She was pulling leaves from sprigs of sage and rosemary, taking up her knife to chop the herbs. Come, get inside.  How many days has it been since the last one?

Nimue took a moment to recall the proper Farsian words. It has been eleven days.

Good pronunciation, said Gozeh, still chopping. Give us another year and you could be mistaken for my niece.

Nimue scoffed at that impossibility.  To the villagers, she would always be a Skythian, even though she had not seen her homeland since being enslaved.  Even though that ordeal had ended months ago, Nimue still woke in the night, covered in sweat and flinching from a taskmaster who wasn't there.  Sometimes she still thought of herself as Berenike, the name forced upon her by her oppressors.  But she had escaped, thanks to Gozeh's niece, Zemfira.

Now Zemfira was gone, leaving Nimue with the uneasy hospitality of Farsian villagers.  She didn't belong in Nebit, but she had nowhere else to go.

Nimue carried the bucket to the stone basin and began washing the rice.  She swirled the basket as Gozeh had taught her, running her fingers through the grains.  The liquid grew cloudy, mesmerizingly so.

What is the Menog? asked Nimue.

Excuse me? asked Gozeh, glancing over.

Nimue paused to find the words she needed to express her question. I heard some of the children—they were saying the Menog is leaking, and it is causing the storms.

Ah, said Gozeh. You must have a different cosmology in your culture.  The Menog is the realm where Celestial Ones and Devas battle over the fate of the universe.

I understand, said Nimue, although several words hadn't meant anything to her. And our world?  Do you also give it a name?

The Getig, said Gozeh. The physical realm, for mortals like us.

The Menog and the Getig, said Nimue, slowly.

If this storm’s anything like the last one, said Gozeh, we don’t have time to make bread. Let's cook the rice and get the children inside.

Yes, said Nimue. This is a good plan.

The winds grew fiercer, rattling the leafy branches outside.  By the time Nimue removed the bubbling rice from the hearth, the leaves outside were changing color.  The green was fading to a sickly yellow.  Within minutes, they would turn red, then brown, and then fall away from the trees: a whole year of seasons compressed into an hour.  But Nimue no longer marveled at the distortion of time.

It’s strange, said Gozeh, hands full of chopped herbs. Doing something as normal as preparing a meal, even after the world has ended.

The world has not ended, said Nimue. It is only— She struggled to string together a phrase that could express her numbness, grief, and uncertainty, then gave up.  Doing so would be impossible in any language.

Gozeh added the herbs to the rice. Okay, she said. We can use the remaining heat to cook the peaches and the dried goat meat.  We just need—

I’ll help, said a voice behind them.

Kuzro stood in the doorway.  Like his sister, his hair was going gray: the bristles of his beard glinted like metal fibers.  Yet while the kingdom's crisis had made Gozeh resolute, Kuzro looked broken by the world.

When news of Zemfira’s death had reached Nebit, none of them had believed it at first.  Only with time had the grief settled in.  Nimue had cared deeply for Zemfira, had stayed in Nebit at Zemfira's request, just for the chance to see her again.  Grief had almost made Nimue weep, but she had regained control over her emotions with the passing months.  Kuzro still looked as if tragedy was eating him from within.

Go to the temple, Kuzro, said Gozeh, pulling down strips of dried meat from the ceiling. Help prepare against the storm.

They don’t need me, said Kuzro. There are enough Sproutcasters.  They sent me to get Nimue.

Nimue’s body went stiff. Why?  Did I do something incorrect?

Of course not, said Kuzro. They just need a Temperaturecaster.  You can help diffuse the storm before it hits.

No, said Nimue. No, I cannot.  I will help Gozeh—

Nimue—

They do not like me, said Nimue. They think I am a bandit.

Don't exaggerate, said Gozeh. The Targu put a stop to the rumors.  If the temple is calling for you, it’s because they need you.

But—

And if they need help, then you have to go.  Otherwise we’ll all be—well, I don’t know what happens when the storm consumes someone.  Go, Nimue.  Please.

Nimue could see a mother’s fear in those eyes.  Beneath Gozeh's calm lay a simmering terror for her offspring.  Nimue had no choice.

I will return when it is over, she said, bowing to Gozeh, then to Kuzro.  Then she hurried, barefoot, up the road.

The wind had died down, leaving a terrible silence over the village.  Discarded firewood lay scattered between the cottages.  A smashed barrel of beer leaked foam and liquid into the grass.  The muddy road revealed a stampede of footprints, all heading up to the temple.  Nimue followed, shivering in her tunic.

More than the rumors or even the storm itself, Nimue feared her own Casting.  The last time Nimue had tried to use her Casting, when she and Zemfira had been escaping a Voidicant, Nimue had almost withered away.  Even small acts of Temperaturecasting like warming up a cup of tea made her hands shake.  If she lost control, she would die.  Inexperienced Casters with the Cost of Thirst were liable to dehydrate themselves into mummified husks.

Perhaps that was why she had yet to steal a horse and ride towards the northern border.  As long as she stayed with Kuzro’s family, she spent her days building walls, cooking, cleaning and herding.  She did not need her powers.  Others could Temperaturecast on her behalf.  At least, until today.

The monk at the temple gate was studying the turbulent sky as Nimue approached. Keep going up the mountain, Skythian, he said, his anxiety hardening into disdain. The storm is moving faster than usual.

Nimue hesitated, gazing between the temple gates at the small promise of safety.  Temples, for some reason, seemed to resist the storms more than other buildings.  Even if the temple survived the storm, the rest of the village would turn to rubble.  The storm had to be diffused.  She had to participate.

She jogged up the road, her toes splashing through the puddles.  The nearby leaves were already turning deep orange, indicating that time was running out.

Increasing her speed, Nimue reached the summit, where monks, rebels, and royal deserters stood facing north.  Nimue pushed between the leather jerkins and green robes, then clambered onto a boulder to get a better view.

Darkening clouds swirled above the distant mountains.  Lightning crackled, the cloud cluster expanded, and a blast of wind hit them, almost knocking Nimue from the rock.  The tang in the air grew sharper, and a yawning sound rippled across the valley.

The clouds twisted into a massive column, a blistering menace of wind and mist.  No natural weather behaved like this; nothing but an army of Stormcasters could manufacture such a maelstrom.  Nimue sensed the facets of the world grow looser, felt the storm tearing into reality itself.

Stormcasters! shouted the Targu, raising an amulet in his fist. Neutralize the winds.  Together, we can vanquish this tempest.

Ten Stormcasters assumed their positions.  As one, they raised their arms, extended their palms, and pushed back the overwhelming gale.  Even united, it was no easy task.  Creating a storm was one skill.  Undoing a storm was quite another.

It’s getting stronger! called Avalem, a Sproutcaster monk.  The tornado sucked up massive chunks of rock and earth, with supernatural destructive force.  It would tear the whole valley apart if the Casters could not stop it.

Keep steady and we will unravel this storm, said the Targu. Drink and eat, do not neglect your Cost.

Nimue hadn’t brought any water with her and her throat felt dry.  Her heart pounded.  What if she had to cast?  What if she dried herself out?  If the storm didn’t kill her, then she would be her own downfall.

Nimue, said the Targu, putting a hand on her arm. Here, drink this.

He passed her a waterskin, which she reluctantly accepted.

Thank you for coming, he said. My three Temperaturecasting monks have passed away.  You heard about the Delta Viper ambush yesterday, yes?  We have two from Commander Musa's ranks who have Temperaturecasting abilities, but apart from them it is just you and me.

Nimue swallowed. But surely, if the Stormcasters—

The Stormcasters and Stonecasters can only unravel the storm if the temperature remains steady, said the Targu. We must neutralize the fluctuations, otherwise all efforts will fail.

Nimue had to speak now, before it was too late. Honorable Targu, I am not a good Caster.  I am afraid I will make a mistake.  I am not sturdy.

Reliable, you mean? asked the Targu.

Yes, reliable.

You are not fighting the storm alone, Nimue, said the Targu. If we support each other, we have a chance.

Targu! shouted one of the monks, as the howling tempest started overpowering the Stormcasters. It approaches!

The groaning column of entropy tore through the valley, part grass, part stone, part cloud, part wind.  The storm left a trail of devastation behind it: broken soil, scattered fields.  It drained color from the land, making solid things shimmer like mirages.  The storm was ripping the substantiality out of the earth.

Break the storm! shouted the Targu. Stonecasters, dislodge the earth, spill the stones.  Sproutcasters, scatter the greenery within.  Temperaturecasters, tame the thermal variation.  Act as one, now!

Nimue watched, mouth bitter with the tang of chaos, as the Farsians performed their casting rituals.  At first the effort looked futile, but then clumps of debris tumbled out of the towering maelstrom.  Dirt, sand, and stone slipped away, clouds unraveling from the edges.

Do not exhaust yourselves, called the Targu, as many reached for wineskins and bowls of rice to replenish themselves. Keep constant pressure on the storm, or it will rebound.

But the diffusion slowed, and then the storm began to grow again.  The billowing structure was gathering material.  Lightning flashed in its center, the sour tang growing stronger.  Cold air rippled across the Casters, followed by a rush of heat.

The fluctuations have accelerated, said the Targu, grimly.  He assumed his stance, as did the two other Temperaturecasters. But if we fix the temperature, the storm will break.  Nimue: don't just stand there!

Nimue scrambled to assume a casting position, still wavering on what to do.  Surely a Targu and two others could deal with a storm.  They didn't need her feeble Casting—did they?

Skythian! shouted the Targu, as a rolling blast of cold hit them, coating them with frost. Use your Casting, now!

It’s never changed so rapidly! yelled an insurgent. There’s a power in this storm—we must—

The heat struck them then, but it did not blister or burn them.  The Temperaturecaster soldiers cried out, repressing the heat with blasts of icy coldness.  Their efforts succeeded, and they collapsed, unconscious.

Skythian, called the Targu, gulping another drink of water and regaining his stance. If we repress one more wave, the others will tear the storm into harmless pieces.  Brace yourself.

Nimue raised shaking hands into the proper position.  She reached towards her Casting and felt its tug.  She became aware of dryness on her lips and tongue, and in her throat.  In the distance, Nimue sensed the rapid heartbeat at the storm's core in the form of heat and cold.  The Targu was exerting his power on that center, trying to calm it.

Nimue focused on siphoning out the chill within the storm, but doing so was difficult at a distance and she was slow.  She was nervous, scared to expend herself.  If she went too far, she would not fall asleep like the other two Temperaturecasters.  She would desiccate herself and die.  She wished she had sought out the Targu sooner, had learned how to manage her Thirst.  It was too late now.

The pulses increased.  Heat and cold battered Nimue.  She felt blisters creep up her left arm, while her skin went blue along her right.  Her throat felt full of dusty glass shards.  Her head spun.  She was approaching the edge of her abilities.

A tongue of lightning lashed out, igniting a nearby tree.  Chunks of debris flew towards them, which the Stonecasters deflected with great effort.  They were almost out of time.  Nimue had to strike now, had to separate that core paradox of heat and cold, had to tame the source of the chaos.  She could do it, with the Targu’s help.  She had to do it.

Nimue hesitated.

Poised to cast, one heartbeat passed, then another, as the fluctuation increased.  She saw surprise on the Targu’s face as he realized her influence was lessening, and the burden of casting was entirely on his Cost.  The storm surged, but the Targu gritted his teeth, closed his eyes and held the storm in check.  Nimue stared, immobile, as a rift ran through the tornado, earth falling away, clouds dissolving, and lightning extinguishing itself.  The maelstrom had been beaten.  It was gone.

For a minute there was relief: sad laughter and joyous weeping among the survivors.  Nimue’s tongue felt like dirty wool.  She took a sip from the wineskin, feeling her fear recede.  She had made it.  She had survived.  Then she heard the scream.

Targu!  The Targu is down!  Someone bring water!

Dread took relief's place.  Nimue hurried forward and looked down at the Targu.  His red headband had fallen away, and his robes looked too big for his frail frame.  Then Nimue saw that all the moisture had left his body.  His skin, purple from burst blood vessels, clung to his bones.  A look of agony stretched across his hollow cheeks.  His bloodshot eyes stared, unseeing.

Beyond the clamor, the valley lay churned and broken.  The sky above was scarred by lightning, thrashed by clouds.  The sour aroma lingered in the air.

The Targu was dead, and it was Nimue’s fault.

Chapter 2 – Daughter of the Budini

I burned the apricots, admitted Kuzro, passing a bowl to Nimue, then one to Jabo. I forgot I was supposed to stir the pot.  But the meat is good.

Nimue stared vacantly into her bowl.  Jabo, Zemfira's younger brother, ate voraciously, tipping the bowl up and filling his mouth with the rice and stew.  Casting with the Cost of Aging had added years to his appearance, but he still looked very young in his rebel uniform.

Any news? asked Kuzro, with forced cheerfulness. Anything to report, Jabo?

Jabo didn't look up until his bowl was empty, grains of wet rice clinging to the facial hair he had recently developed. Apart from the recent, violent death of our Targu?  I don't think so.

Nimue's hands shook and Kuzro looked pained. It was a horrible tragedy, yes, but it's not anyone's fault.

That's not what I heard, said Jabo.

In this family, we don't blame—

She’s not part of our family, said Jabo. Nimue is not Zemfira.  Your daughter’s dead, Kuzro.

The color drained from Kuzro’s face, and he cleared his throat. I know Nimue and Zemfira are not the same, but this is Nimue's home, as long as she wants it.

She had almost left that afternoon, as survivors from the valley streamed into the village.  Every instinct told her to preserve herself, to ignore any guilt about the Targu’s death.  She had not promised to unravel the storm.  She had never claimed to be capable.  But why did the shame linger?

This is no time for misplaced charity, Kuzro, said Jabo. Conditions are getting worse every day.  While rebels and royalists fight for control of Nautaka, the Hellenics march across Baxtris, burning down temples and slaughtering villagers.  Save your compassion for our people.

The civil war and the conquering Hellenic army weren't the worst of it, Nimue knew.  Apart from the storms that were hitting all across the Satrapy of Baxtris, there were the Shadow Beasts pouring out of central Baxtris, where a lake rose from the soil and mountains were sinking into the earth.

Maybe we should leave, said Kuzro. Go south, seek refuge.  The Hegemon promised safety for those who accept his authority, so perhaps—

Jabo snorted. The Hellenics are not protecting anyone.   In the south they're either turning to banditry or butchering refugees.

But if we go south—

There's no Farsia down there, Kuzro.  The Hegemon won, and the Satrapies are fading.  Soon it’ll all be Hellenic states, with Hellenic speakers, in Hellenic clothes.  Baxtris is all that's left of our kingdom, and only as long as we fight for it.

And who are you fighting for, Jabo? asked Kuzro. For Commander Musa and the Soulgivers?  For the missing princess?

I'm fighting for Farsia, said Jabo, defiantly. That's enough for me.  I'll pay loyalty to Musa, but my oath is to protect our home.  Someone in this family has to stand up, and unlike you, I’m not afraid.

Jabo, please—don't die for a kingdom that no longer exists.

You can't protect me, snapped Jabo. Just like you couldn't protect Zemfira.  Just let me do my duty.

I want to help, said Nimue.

Father and son turned to her. What did you say? asked Jabo.

Nimue, as surprised by herself as the others were, took a deep breath. Let me fight, she said. I do not want to cook any more rice.  I want a spear in my hand.

Jabo shook his head with a smile. Go find your barbarians.  No one wants you helping them after what happened this afternoon.

Jabo, stop it.

You killed the Targu, Nimue, said Jabo, stabbing his knife into the dirt floor. You're the last person the village needs.  You should leave.

If you care about your village, said Nimue, let me fight.  Take me to your officer.  Give me a spear and a bow.  I will do my part.

No, he said. I don't owe you an introduction to my officer.  I don't owe you anything.

Then you do not really care for your village, said Nimue. You do not fight to protect—you fight to feel important.

Jabo glanced at his father, who sat with his head bent. You let her insult me?  In our family's home?  What sort of a father are you, Kuzro?

You are so much like your mother, Jabo.

Both Nimue and Jabo stared.  Kuzro finally raised his eyes, and they were full of tears as he beheld his son.

It breaks my heart that you never had the chance to know her, but you've inherited her passion.

Liar, said Jabo.

Roshni and I fought often, said Kuzro, and as now, I was always at fault.  I went out drinking instead of practicing my reading.  I fell asleep instead of tending the tea garden.  Those failings are quaint now, compared to my shortcomings as a father.  I am sorry, Jabo.  I've always tried to do my best.

Jabo took a shaky breath. I don’t want to hear this.

Jabo—

Enough, okay?  I’ll take Nimue to Sergeant Vahka tonight, before my patrol.

Thank you, said Nimue. I am sorry I said you do not care about Nebit.

Jabo grimaced, then got up to look for more food.  Nimue glanced over at Kuzro, who was dabbing at his tears.  He gave her a small, reassuring smile.

***

You’re in luck, Skythian, said Vahka, pulling a spear from the battered shed which served as an impromptu armory. Three of our soldiers fled today, so we're not being all that picky about willing volunteers.

Vahka was a widow, having buried her veteran husband just before the kingdom had fallen apart.  She had gray hair, taut muscles, and a blunt disposition.  Though she was a miller, Vahka had served as a merchant escort in her youth and called upon her experience to organize the local defenses.

We'll review combat basics tomorrow, she said, handing Nimue the weapon. Join Jabo on patrol tonight.  With half our Casters recovering from the storm, our walls are at risk.

Yes, Sergeant, said Nimue, testing out the balance of the spear. Is there any armor?

Afraid not, said Vahka. Deserters robbed the armory before heading south.  Here, take another spear, just in case.

Do you expect an attack?

No, said Vahka, but the storm has softened up our defenses, and Shadow Beasts might take advantage of that.

I am not afraid, said Nimue.

The sergeant considered her.

Who are your people? she asked.

Nimue stared.  Vahka had spoken not in Farsian, but in the Skythian common tongue.  It had been several years since anyone had addressed her in that language.

I’m of the Budini People, she said in Skythian, before switching to Farsian, for Jabo’s sake. I am a daughter of the Budini.  But I have not been home in many years.  I was a slave of the Hegemon.

Well, said Vahka, I hope you survive the night, so that we can get to know each other better tomorrow.

Jabo saluted his sergeant and led Nimue in the direction of the wall.  Nimue followed, a crude spear in each hand.  The clouds had drifted away, leaving a clear sky full of glittering stars.

I don't get why you're volunteering for this, said Jabo, pulling back a branch for Nimue to walk past. Zemfira said you're a survivor.  Why risk your life like this?

Zemfira said that about me? asked Nimue. Did she—did she say anything else?

Like what?

Nimue fell silent.  When Zemfira had gone off to destroy the Voidicant, she had begged Nimue not to come along, to stay in Nebit—to stay safe.  Had Zemfira done this out of obligation, to repay Nimue for helping Zemfira escape the Hellenics, or had it been an expression of love?  Nimue should have asked for the truth then.  Now, she would never find out if Zemfira reciprocated Nimue's feelings.

There are many ways to survive, Nimue said, finally, answering Jabo's original question, not his second one. Just as there are many ways to perish.

That doesn’t mean anything, said Jabo.

They had reached the wall.  Jabo approached the rickety ladder which led up onto the narrow walkway, and started climbing.

If I stay at the hearth tonight, I will see the dawn, yes, said Nimue, following the boy up. But if I keep staying at the hearth, soon there will be fewer guards out here.  Soon, there will be more Shadow Beast attacks.  Real survival is not about tomorrow.  Real survival is about overcoming the season.

Overcoming the season? repeated Jabo with a smirk.

It is what we say in our language, said Nimue.

She followed Jabo along the narrow pathway atop the wall.  The barrier was no great feat of engineering—it was only about twice as tall as Nimue was—but thanks to that raised walkway, guards could spot approaching Shadow Beasts and hurl projectiles down upon them.

But why stay here anyway? asked Jabo. Why bother defending a tiny town like Nebit if it isn't your home?

Nimue smiled sadly. I am asking myself the same question.

Is it because of Zemfira?

Nimue felt something tighten within her.

I promised her I would wait for her here, she said, balancing along the wooden planking. 

But she's dead now, said Jabo, straightening his jerkin. She's not coming back.

I know, said Nimue.

Jabo dropped the subject and hopped over a gap between the planks. Looks like Malek’s already here.

Nimue recognized Malek from the village meetings.  He was a little younger than her, with black curls of hair, broad shoulders and a tendency to chew his tongue while others were talking.  As they approached him, Malek rose hurriedly to his feet and adjusted his belt.

Where are Kambiz and Arezu? he asked, glancing quickly at Nimue, then back to Jabo.

They're not coming, said Jabo. Nimue's joining us instead.  Who knows, maybe the Shadow Beasts will be more afraid of her Skythian blood.

Malek looked at her again, this time a little longer. Your hair is so—red.

This is true, said Nimue.

Malek blushed. I mean—sorry, I've just never spoken to someone with red hair before.

Is it more difficult?

What?  No!  It's just different.  Sorry.

He seemed the harmless sort, thought Nimue.  Definitely not an ideal soldier.

Come, said Jabo. We should start the patrol.  Shadow Beasts can strike at any time.

Many months ago, the rebels had started building the two-wall defenses.  The outer walls stood tall and wide, connecting the large trees and massive boulders, stopping abruptly where mountain gave way to sheer cliff.  The secondary wall was closer to the village, and only served as a means of slowing an assault while villagers fled to the temple, the final refuge.

Across Baxtris, villages were building similar fortifications with the help of Stonecasters and Sproutcasters.  The countryside was depopulating, what with crop-smashing hailstones, marauding Shadow Beasts, and bloodthirsty Hellenics.  Those who did not flee south were hunkering down, securing the little they had.

We'll get more refugees soon, said Malek. Farmers will come.  Then we can chop down the trees between the outer and inner walls, and plant some crops.  Maybe lentils and yams.  With your father's goats, we could hold out for a long time!

Perhaps, said Jabo, rubbing his thumb against the polished wood of his bow. Or perhaps there will be too many refugees and we'll starve.

Jabo, don't—

How long would we be holding out?  Do you think the Hegemon will leave us alone?  Will the storms stop coming?  What exactly do you think is going to happen?

The Celestial Ones—

The Celestial Ones have abandoned us, said Jabo. We're on our own, continuing to fight even though we're doomed.

Then why do you fight? asked Nimue. Why are you not giving up?

Jabo leaned against the wooden crenellations and looked down the slope, past the trees, bushes, and boulders. If the choice is between dying with honor or living as a slave, then I'll happily choose death.

Nimue gazed up at the stars. You speak like one who has never been a slave.

I’ve been a prisoner, said Jabo, darkly. I was dragged across the kingdom by the Cleansers, then stuffed into a dungeon.  I know what it’s like to be a slave.

You do not know anything, said Nimue. It is bad to be a prisoner, but it is so much—so much ripping to be a slave.

Ripping was the wrong word, but she couldn’t think of a better way to express herself in Farsian.  Jabo remained unimpressed. You’re making my point.  Being a slave is worse than death.

No, said Nimue. Slavery is humiliation.  It is pain.  It is so much fear.  But it is still living.  The life of a slave is not worthless.

I didn’t say that.

You did not have to speak the words.

Shh, said Malek.

Both turned to him.  He stood a few steps behind them, fully tensed.  His hand rested on the hilt of his sword and he peered into the darkness between the trees.  Jabo's eyes narrowed and he strung his bow.  Nimue sank into a crouch, clutching her spears.

Did you see something?

I don’t know. Malek squinted, the wind ruffling his hair. I sensed a shift in the behavior of the animals.  The mice and owls dispersed.  I can’t tell if it was something natural, or— `

There was a rumble from the earth and all three fell silent.  Rumblings were common now that the land kept condensing and expanding.  This rumble, however, was not so deep.  There was a rattling about it.

Look at the earth, said Jabo, pointing at the soil between two saplings.

Even in the darkness Nimue could see the bulges in the ground, the scattering of little pebbles.  Something was pushing its way along under the soil.  Nimue smelled something sweet in the air, an intoxicating and flowery perfume.

What is it? asked Jabo, pulling an arrow from his quiver.

The burrowing stopped, then a clump of dirt burst out a beautiful bunch of flowers, the pink petals bobbing enticingly.

Meadow Gaunt, said Malek, grimly.

The flower bait seems large, said Jabo. Is that normal?

I don’t think so, said Malek. Maybe—

I see more flowers, said Nimue, pointing to the left. Yellow flower there.  Red flower there.  Those are not normal, I do not think.

It’s an infestation, said Jabo. They’re going to tunnel into the village.  The wall can’t help us against them.

There was another rumble, this time accompanied by a subterranean scream.  The hairs on Nimue’s neck rose.

I have never heard them scream before, said Nimue, scanning the ground from their position on the wall. That is a bad sign.

With another shriek, a shape burst from the soil.  In the rising moonlight, the trio saw the horrific creature as it lunged towards them.  The Meadow Gaunt was as massive as an ox, chunks of mud slipping from its slimy, slug-like body.  Its jaws wrenched open, revealing glistening fangs and countless pointed molars.  A tongue lashed out, flecking saliva through the night air as the creature hurtled at them.

Get away! shouted Malek, and they threw themselves to either side.

The Meadow Gaunt slammed into the crenellations, splintering wood with its deadly jaws.  The wall shook as the creature shot into the ground on the inside of the outer wall, burrowing out of sight.  Jabo teetered on the walkway, but Nimue grabbed his arm and steadied him.

We’ve got to warn Sergeant Vahka, said Malek.

He reached for the horn at his belt, meant to alert Nebit to an imminent danger, but a subterranean Meadow Gaunt crashed into the wall, and the impact knocked the horn from Malek's fingers.  More Meadow Gaunts leapt from the soil, shattering the night with their screams. They rammed the battlements with wet thuds.

The trio hurried along the wall, even as it wobbled and groaned.  Nimue’s mind raced.  Her mother had taught her about Shadow Beast varieties, so she knew that Meadow Gaunts infested many grasslands north of Farsia.  But Meadow Gaunts did not strike like