BABETH

You are in Babeth. No less. What you are about to endure is in no way the ordinary type of phantasie, which has pestered and pleased you since the dawn of mythology, and to which your soul since long is accustomed. Be wary, friend and foe. A psyche in preference of sane and predictable surroundings should not venture here. One, pleasingly submerged in the world he claims to inhabit had better turn around – close this book and never consider it again. Choose another dream. This one may turn out too devouring.



A LETTER OF INVITATION (INITIATION)

Behind the Inn named Laughter, a shed of inconsiderable size and posture shadowed a very insignificant part of the world. It was built close enough to a fairly gigantic tree, that anyone coming this way would think it part of the trunk, had it not been painted in amethyst purple. Perhaps one in fifty beings would ever imagine its cosy and in many ways surprising interiors. But since no more than seven people had ever witnessed its existence, its inner wealth remained a secret for some time yet.
The shed’s shadow unhurriedly grew in length together with its neighbour giant. At its edge three squirrels went playfully about, refusing a one-winged thrush its peaceful ending. An otherwise lovely spring afternoon was turning late, and the strikingly red sunshine made most things treacherously appealing. Inside the Laughter, beings of many different kinds had gathered as usual, to gossip about the ones not there. Brews and liquors flowed abundantly from taps and bottles, and company seemed increasingly pleasing. Words unfiltered by reason leaped through the smoky air, and landed softly in sedated brains, which cushioned their fall. Luckily no one was in a quarrelling mood just yet, and eventually songs issued fourth through the tall chimneys. Joyful melodies lightened the hearts of the guests, and once again Laughter merited its name. In short, a potentially good weekend had begun.

The door of the shed opened and its owner and occupant strode out into the early evening. Usually, on nights such as this one, he would be toiling tediously in the kitchens close by. Tonight though, he had been granted leave. He locked the door behind him and went down his own little path, deliberately avoiding the short-cut through the inn. Who knew if they would keep their promise? Better to keep out of sight, he thought. No dishes this night. No scrubbing and sweeping. His gaze was drawn momentarily to the scarlet light lingering on a chimney, swept past some early awoken stars, and then contented again with the darkness of the bumpy path which took him onwards. He excitedly hurried past the stables and went through the hole in the ancient hedge. Some drunken merchants were bragging by the well, but he had no problem avoiding them. Finally he found himself upon the Broken Brick road. By following this patchy and twisting ordeal southwards, he came by the shrine of Lady Lummibeth – patron of the sick and ill fated. It was simply a little fountain encircled by some sculptured rocks, encircled in their turn by very well trimmed bushes. Flowers lay on the gravel surrounding the pool, and a broad candle burned inside a shelter of semi-transparent glass. He took a bow and then drank some water, which was actually forbidden, looked worriedly around and then continued along the road. By keeping south and ignoring some cheering shouts from the woodcutters’ hut, he soon found himself in the village proper.
The shapes that now loomed all around were very familiar to him, but eyes less used to what the faint evening light revealed, certainly would have marvelled a while at the surrounding artwork. Houses of every unimaginable shape pressed their fortune with gravity and in joint force spoke the village Faerlingh unto the face of Babeth. Had this gathering of about a hundred houses not stood in such an excluded part of the world, it would most definitely have been famous. The village was truly head-achingly magnificent. Not two buildings even remotely resembled one another. Many bodies would not really count as houses at all, architecturally speaking. Yet houses they were. And though every detail was shaped out of very mundane materials, the whole made for a very kingly appearance indeed. No village in the world had as many wild angles, bent walls, round towers, overhanging compartments and bold spires as this one. The houses were not particularly tall, but they were thoroughly fanciful. Not a single surface was left unadorned. Every last inch was skilfully decorated.
Since as long as anyone could remember, these had been the main characteristics of Faerlingh. For generations houses had been the foremost pride of the families in this region. The shape, colours and originality of your home mattered more than anything else did, save life, and love in some cases. This may seem a vain and rather silly pursuit to any outlandish observers, but know then that not a single being born in Faerlingh, strove to increase the size or value of his home. The expression was purely aesthetic – a cultural competition still unspoiled by the entry of gold. Hard work went into your house, and to aid such an enterprise by hiring assistance, or importing materials from afar, was considered unethical by the community – a loss in dignity undreamt of. That some of these structures housed living beings was hard to realise from the outside, and even from within in many cases. Practicality had suffered major losses in the battle for artistic splendour. But such a sacrifice was looked upon with admiration by neighbours, and was jealously whispered about as ambition, in its positive meaning.

The Homp, as he called himself, was walking hurriedly along an empty street, when he suddenly froze in a corner. He simply had to look again. An oil lamp, hanging from a wall, shed a light bright enough to read in. The letter came out of his pocket and his otherwise nimble fingers unfolded it with some difficulty, revealing the nature of his errand to a little brown moth drawn close by the lamplight.

YOUR KITTEN IS FOUND
Red furry kitten with necklace saying;
Propperty of the Homp, is found alive and well.
Stays in the house of Magi - Dwillin of Raark.
Welcome to visit when moon is round.
In two days behind tomorrow.
Not before, not after.
Dusk is vital.
Your kitten has found you.


A simple letter, yet peculiar and… and something else. Strangest of all though, was how it had found its way into the recently virgin slot, which the Homp referred to as his mailbox. It was the first letter ever to have entered that way, indeed the first letter ever written to him at all. Happy? Oh yes! The Homp had danced his carpets crazy after reading his name upon the envelope. His was a lonely existence, and words spoken to him directly were a rare thing – valued and cherished in his heart. For thirteen years he had worked the kitchens and floors of the Laughter, without much notice. The kindness of the Innkeeper, who found him in the woods all those years ago, and gave him life in many ways, managed a comment or two during good days. Otherwise no one but the young maid named Anibelle noticed him. A sweet girl she was – silly but sweet. Why she insisted on calling him Hompy-Tom was far beyond his humble understanding. And why she kept lifting him off the floorboards and swinging him through the air, quite contrary to his will, he couldn’t grasp either. There was little he could do about it. She apparently wouldn’t listen. Being a mere thirty inches tall, no straining or other resisting manoeuvre from his side, would hinder her violation of his person. All the same, he sort of liked her.
He went through the letter again. Being a rather poor reader, it certainly took him a while. A wide smile decorated his protruding and almost froglike face, as he finally finished. He couldn’t help himself. He was so happy that someone had taken the time to write him, that the news of his cat being found seemed rather irrelevant in comparison. Surely, everything but a dead clear death-threat would make him merry, had it arrived in written form. Yet as he stood beneath the slightly flickering lamplight, even he could sense the ominous presence of the written words. As he went over them yet again, the letters themselves seemed concerned about the combinations forced upon them – as if they unintentionally exposed some strange tidings, never meant for the eyes of the world at all.

More thinking and pondering would not make the letter less puzzling, the Homp realised. The oddness of everything wouldn’t keep him from visiting this Dwillin-fellow, no matter how mysterious the letter made him seem. Indeed whole flocks of ill-omened rumours had been circling the village for a year, about the new proprietor of the Scarecrow. The spooky name belonged to an old house at the southernmost end of Faerlingh, which had stood unaltered for centuries, oblivious, it seemed, to the ongoing house-race in the village. Countless foreigners had come and stayed there for many years, but none of them were ever integrated thoroughly enough into Faerlinghian culture, to convert to the artistic ways of the villagers. Hence the house remained simple – an anathema at the edge of beauty.
His spidery legs, thick at the thighs, and thin as adders below the knee, wobbled once and then continued their mission. The maze of intricate turns and squares (i.e. the village) had championed many visitors during its long history, but the Homp was known here, and solved its riddles on routine. He exited the main village and went down the slope that led to the fields. A few scattered farmhouses stood there, disguised as miniature castles. Longhair yolds bleated in the fresh air, and cautious rabbits dared their little heads out, to check the moistening meadows. The Homp smiled at their inquisitive moves, and then passed on through the area called Three Brooks. Here he stopped for a second on every bridge, to gaze a while at the moon’s reflection in the running water. A perfect disc, hovering just above the treetops, was shredded into crazed white ghosts, dancing fervently upon the surface of things. It might have been beautiful, but in the stillness of the coming night, it stressed the little shed-dweller, and quickened his pace towards the Scarecrow. In a short time he reached the waterwheel mill, and was annoyed as always as he stepped on the first singing mushroom. Of course, there was no actual song to speak of, but more of a squeaking noise really. An unusual sort of mushroom had ever forced its way through the layer of bricks in this part of the road. Kids were sent here every spring to stomp the life out of these brick-molesters. Up to a certain age, or level of maturity, this work could be mistaken as play. To be sure, the youngsters bounced happily about, until the cacophony peaked and small territorial fights broke out over the remaining instruments. To the Homp it was evident that that concert was still to be held this year.
A dozen unintended notes later he saw a light shimmering in the Scarecrow’s window. A stinking smoke, rising from the only chimney, made the stars above the roof blink and tremble. Something not all that edible was cooking inside the low stone house. What on earth could vent such a horrible stench? His steps shortened and soon turned into a standstill. His bare chest and abdomen were suddenly cold, and he felt a thickness building inside his throat. Here he stood in the late evening, and witnessed his boldness evaporate by an imagined stove inside that… that unknown and dreadfully simple box of uncultured stone. The once garden surrounding it wore the likeness of an abandoned burial-ground, eagerly fingering through an iron fence, which failed to satisfy as a convincing boundary. Great knotty tree-trunks stood before the house, forcing their bony tentacles downwards to the ground, as if to refuse them all light of the heavenly bodies. No kitten in the world seemed worth a close encounter with what might lie ahead. A distressing idea concerning the letter inside the Homp’s only pocket arose in his mind. This Magi could very well have decided to take advantage of his missing cat, in some all-together sinister and scheming fashion. It suddenly seemed a much more plausible explanation, than a stranger actually writing him out of genuine kindness. Was his now the way to a cooking-pot? He stood in the moonlight for quite a while and sincerely considered heading back, when an agonised mushroom cried in the distance. Something was approaching the village from the south! The weak clatter of hooves upon bricks suggested a horse-like creature, but horses seldom travelled alone. What kind of a night was this? It had been ages since anyone entered Faerlingh by this route. The road simply vanished into an enormous, decidedly haunted, and unexplored forest. Everyone came from the north or from the west. Why would anyone come from this direction? It was almost as unlikely as coming from the east, where the Great Chasm tore the world wide open.
In the last century, hosts of dark beings had emerged from between the tall trees, to wreak havoc upon the buildings and inhabitants of Faerlingh. There had been monsters with them. All kinds of wicked entities had spread their foulness upon the lands. Screams of killing and the whispers of blood had then dominated the nights of this secluded countryside. The city of Uorlath, fifteen leagues to the north, had more than once come to the rescue. But that was a long time ago. The forest had turned silent, and only a few villagers still lived to remember those dreadful days. Their stories now filled the Homp’s mind and one fear replaced another. His legs felt like running, and the closest place of hiding was now the Scarecrow. He could make a run for the mill, but if he trampled a mushroom on his way, his presence would be revealed. A short moment’s hesitation, then he set off, taking his chances with the stove. The gate in the fence hung sadly from its hinges. The Homp came to his senses, slowed down, and scaled it silently with his soft bare feet. Then he walked as quickly as he dared, around to the back of the house, which was actually the front, and met with a multi-sourced light. A silvery candelabrum, twice as tall as he, stood on the one step to reveal a crooked door and its circular window of bluish glass. The nostrils of the Homp were filled with nauseating smoke, and his gaze was trapped by the single eye of the old door. There was something moving just inside the iris. Panic was whispering its petrifying suggestions, in many compelling ways, when the door slowly swung open.

Tired from a long journey on foot, Baerhim the human dragged his overloaded donkey through a tunnel-like passage in the great forest of Gaugon. He had been walking for weeks and was getting desperately tired. His extensive journeys had gained him many things, including gold, knowledge, arachnophobia, and a vicious face scar (inflicted by the kiss of a spiked hammer, or morningstar). But they had not given him peace. In many ways he considered his journeys over, but he had no clue of what to do next. A restless soul somewhere inside of him was still howling its unsaturated longings. Baerhim could not interpret its needs. He had heard its discontented hammering for most of his thirty year long life, but no remedy that he knew of silenced it for long. He took a small sip from a flask of brandy and dragged his donkey onwards. Memories from years past told him that the dark trees would yield soon and give way to a rolling country of green and welcoming pastures. He searched the track ahead of him for signs to validate his memories, which were driving him onwards despite the lateness of the hour. It was so dark he could barely see his boots, and he was about to give up and make camp, when his toes hit a hard and quadrangular object lying on the ground. The pulsating in his little toe mattered not. In fact it was more than welcome. New strength entered his limbs and his steps increased in length. Soon the bumpy track turned into an even bumpier and sadly neglected brick road. Its familiar hardness nevertheless gladdened him. Three miles at the most now, and he would be looking at his old home.

A kitten of extraordinary intelligence quietly made its way southwards. Its paws skilfully avoided every bump and mushroom in their path, and took its body quickly through the early night. It kept purposefully to the road with its nostrils in high alert. Once the target was within its range of smell, it sat softly down and waited, with the unwavering patience of a much older cat.

Baerhim was soon in sight meeting the kitten’s moon-reflecting stare with a warm smile. What a splendid committee of welcome, he thought. The cuteness of its little head and nose warmed the human’s heart, and home felt pleasant in a very profound sense. Then the weirdest thing happened. The cat began to walk in a small circle, not once, but many times. Round and round it went, increasing its speed to a level where such calculated movement seemed impossible. Baerhim, well versed in the mysteries of Babeth, knew at once that Magic was over him. The air was speaking plainly to the little hairs inside his ears and to the thin skin on the back of his neck. He was suddenly very aware of his face and groin. The hands warmed and seemed to swell. His feet felt like lifting from the ground and the dark line of trees blurred, melting together with the night-sky. From within the circle of the cat, a dim light arose and took the spectral shape of an old crow. Stars shone in its eyes. A deep underwater-like voice spoke, and words of power altered the texture of the night. Baerhim had no time to retrieve his well-hidden medallion. He had considered it very unlikely that it would come to any use here, and was far more concerned of being robbed than targeted by spells. Strong wizardry now held him pinned and alert to every suggestion of the deep voice.
“Your path is altered. Home is no place. Babeth sings thee labyrinths. Sword of blood, the Scarecrow is open.”

Dwillin of Raark stood about five feet tall and looked sympathetically down at the short being in his yard. He knew what had come, yet spoke out aloud to ensure his own self of what the night had brought him.
“You are Languillian – a Flicker, or Verrilinn as you call yourselves.”
Poor Homp only stared. A broad owlish shape with a likewise owlish face was before him. A long nose hid a thin mouth and a large pair of eyes gleamed black in the dark-skinned face. The lantern in Dwillin’s hand also exposed another pair of eyes, smaller and lazier than the Magi’s own. It seemed as if an old and withered crow was stuck upon the Magi’s head. Or could it have grown right out of it? There was no telling of where it actually began… or ended. No visible seams could be seen – no ridge or line distinguished. It looked all but dead and still scared the Homp more than any living thing he had yet encountered.
“Never mind old Beaknose. He is nothing of his former self. Worn and sleepy he is.”
The Magi’s eyes rolled up as he spoke and a little sore laughter left his skinny lips.
“He has served me well enough through the years, and deserves some sleep to be sure. But his moaning is making me grouchy, I tell you. Very grouchy indeed.”
Still confused and very frightened, the Homp felt a question surprisingly take shape inside his head. He was just about to give it a try when Dwillin’s expression suddenly altered. His eyes broadened widely and his body stiffened and straightened. He seemed to grow a couple of inches.
“The bird speaks!” he said in a voice much louder and clearer than before. The crow slowly turned his feathery head as if to make sure it still could. Then a slow and distorted whisper crept out from its black beak.
“Come inside. Come into the house of Raark. You are the knot. Knots easily opened will not do here. Tight we shall make you. No one must ever know.”
Dwillin returned to his more relaxed self and the corpselike head of the crow went back to its hibernating state.
“Come inside, little Flicker. The night is deepening and the woods are near. We must prepare you and I. There is much to speak of.”
The Homp swallowed three times, focused his energy on his scrawny feet and followed the Magi inside the ugly house. He simply did not dare to flee.

They had sat down on a pair of odd stools. The Homp had been given tea, and was pleased that the foul stench was very weak in here. There was indeed a cooking-pot upon a stove, but it was very small and the notion of boiling body-parts seemed unlikely. In many ways the interior of Dwillin’s home was disappointing to such a vivid imagination as the Homp’s. The fine furniture, shelves and cupboards were truly old, and would all make a splendid find for any dealer in the antiques, but they made no impression on the shed-dweller. He had envisioned living tables, hungry chairs, and a floor of slithering serpents. When none of these frightening fancies turned out to seize him, or indeed existed at all, he soon began to accept the lurid sight of the Magi and his head-nesting companion. The room in which they sat was lit up by a number of candles and four lanterns, hanging from iron hooks in the white plastered walls. The ceiling was low and painted turquoise blue. The broad uneven floorboards were tarred many times over, which made for the dominant scent of the room. Pots, bottles and boxes of all sizes filled the shelves not taken by leathery books, and a complicated clock stood tall in a corner. Many things spun and turned at various speeds upon its face, and little doors opened to let out new wheels and other participants in its ever-changing carousel.

“So, here you are.” the Magi said after some long minutes of silence. The Homp’s thick skin grew goose-like at the words, but he had calmed himself enough to reply.
“Where is my kitten?” he asked slowly, nervously fingering his teacup.
“Ah, the kitten! I had completely forgotten about it.”
Dwillin turned his body around, a little distressed it seemed.
“Well, let me begin by asking you something; Flicker… How long have you had that kitten now?”
He hesitated a moment before stammering his answer.
“One year exactly, counting these two weeks he’s been missing.”
“Correct indeed. An orderly fellow you are. Do you know…Homp is it? … How long it takes for a kitten to grow into a fully-grown cat? “
At this question the Homp discerned a strange feeling of guilt inside. He felt embarrassed, as if the Magi had found him out – exposed at last his dirty little secret. The kitten, which he called Monny, had been playing about the great tree by his shed when first he saw it. He had found it particularly pleasant to look at, and had given it some yold-milk on a platter. Whether the kitten had an owner or not, he did not know, but it returned for more milk now and then, and finally it decided to stay. (He had picked it up, taken it inside his shed, and kept it hidden there for a month until he let it out again.) Rather quickly he had become concerned for his new pet. It clearly neither grew nor seemed to age – a trait somewhat too fairylike to be completely ignored. Every time the innkeeper or one of the stable-boys came round the back, he was sure to keep the kitten well out of sight, or invent some far-fetched distraction, as if some hideous crime was to be camouflaged.
“I kind of thought it a little strange at first,” the Homp stammered. “…That the kitten didn’t age, I mean. But nothing bad came out of it. Also, it seemed convenient that it stayed small and cuddly. You see, grown cats are not that fond of me.”
At this Dwillin raised an eyebrow as if questioning the truth of what he had just heard.
“Nothing bad came out of it? We shall see about that now. I’m terribly sorry to inform you of this, but the kitten is mine. His real name is Agdazar and he’s a Familiar – a magical beast sworn to my service, and mine alone. In fact he is a thousand times more dangerous then any cat, and a lot smarter than many men. I have purposefully had him spy on you for some time, as you can see. And though, no doubt, your feelings are hurt right now, I must tell you how glad I am that he did.”
The Homp looked profoundly puzzled, but he had no doubts about the truth of this statement. The kitten had been weird in many ways, and this piece of news was a welcome explanation to many tiny mysteries. Yet the everyday world was really spinning around. A hundred questions desired his voice, but the overwhelming moment kept him quiet. The Magi watched him seriously for some time. Then he continued.
“This night will change your life forever, I fear, brave Flicker… Homp… Inn-servant or whatever nonsense they call you here. When you have listened, and listened carefully, to the story I’m about tell, you will realise that Chief of Languillior is a much more appropriate title to your person.”
There was something really dreamlike about the whole situation. His entire body quivered, yet at the same time he sensed an inner calm. The crow stared forebodingly down upon him. It seemed to search for something – seemed to gaze through his outer flesh – to hunt within the private corridors of his soul. Wait… what was that? In the reflection of the crow’s eye a memory stared back at him – a memory beautiful and yet forgotten… A lake. A series of steps in rock. A moonlit night, much like this one. A warm hug by the entrance of a cave – a sacred cave. Then… A kiss... Goodbye? No, a gesture of good fortune.
The inner calmness fled. His heartbeat became irregular and the room seemed to spin. He looked defiantly at Dwillin.
“What are you doing to me”, he shouted, shaking his head, very slowly at first, then more and more violently.
He could feel it clearly. A crack had opened – opened wide. Something dangerous was approaching quickly from within. The Magi had unlocked him – raped his soul and stolen his harmony. He was transformed. No mirror would tell him how. But inside himself he knew, knew in his heart – he had become a gateway.

The Homp breathed heavily. The air was too thin. He tried to shout again, but his voice failed him. Then Dwillin of Raark began to speak.
“This is what we know. You were found in the woodlands northeast from here, a few miles from the Great Chasm. That was some thirteen years ago, as I understand it. Noorwald, the innkeeper, says you were wandering aimlessly about, repeating; I am the Homp. The Homp I am… over and over again. Couldn’t get any sense out of you for weeks, he says. Also thirteen years ago, another strange thing occurred, but on a much grander scale. Stories of missing Flickers were coming in, from all over the world. It soon became evident that it was no coincidence. Indeed every Flicker in the whole of Babeth had mysteriously disappeared. The Marshes of Languillior were suddenly empty, and the ones living elsewhere just vanished. Apparently, this all happened overnight. No traces that I know of have been found to this day, satisfactorily explaining this great loss. And why you still remain, little Homp, is even more of a mystery. Or was actually, until last weekend, when new information dawned, and my theory gained in credibility.”
The Magi took a small break and tapped the inn-servant lightly on the head, before continuing.
“Fortunately, my dear guest, you are a sleep-talker. It doesn’t happen very often. But now and then, you do babble. But before I tell you what Agdazar learned from sharing your pillow, I had better explain a thing or two about your background. From the day of their birth, all Verrilinn hold the ability to travel, or flickering, as many call it. It is a gift unique to your race, which no one but the most powerful of magicians can replicate. It is true what the sages of the early days claimed, that the world is not a single layer of water and earth, but indeed a series of realities, all linked to each other. It is the entering into these other planes or parallel worlds that I refer to when I speak of flickering. Normally though, the Languillian never used their power to journey into the unknown realms beyond. That was a thing banned and tabooed in your lost society – considered a dreadful risk and even sinful in many of your old scriptures. No, the Verrilinn used their power mainly as a way of hiding, and were satisfied with exploring the In-betweens – that is the spaces or passages connecting the many worlds with each other. However, if my theory holds, you broke this regulation. For what cause I do not know, but I have reason to believe that you travelled far, and ventured deep into the nameless and dreadful places of the worlds – into the very bowels of reality. You see, brave and reckless one, you brought something out of there. Something that the ones inhabiting those dark regions prized dearly, and which it seems they would not forget. In fact, they must treasure it – crave it even, because they are here now, in this part of this world, in this very land. The rumours of your whereabouts have reached them. The hunt, I tell you, has begun.




THE COMING… THE DUSK

Night had come, and the interior of the Laughter was drowned in ale. Farmers, woodcutters, and fishermen from the riverbank were all there for a grand finale of a hard week’s work. Free tradesmen and members of the Merchants’ guild argued heatedly around a myriad of empty jugs. A company of jugglers blended together with a team of harlots, and a few, more respectable women, held close to their rich young husbands, seriously asking them to consider the evening done. The village smith was there, as well as the shoemaker, the butcher, and the brewer’s son. Five Larkhain travellers from way east, beyond the Chasm, were throwing the dice. A ranger and some herdsmen still sang in a corner. Many seemed to celebrate Arl’s Blessing – the great festival of sowing, two weeks in advance, and only a few heard the creaking of the door as it opened. Still it was only a matter of seconds before every eye was fixed upon the new member of the jolly get-together. When the door swung close behind him, all was already an absolute silence. A figure, seven feet tall, clad in a pitch-black robe had entered. Antlers, much like the ones on a great stag, covered the last four feet to the ceiling. They scraped the newly painted boarding as he looked around the room. The likeness of a stag could also be used to describe his head, but a vile and nightmare version in that case. His facial expression and posture held an air of importance and power, and from the marked shoulders, one could guess heavy armour beneath the midnight cloak. As if fearing to disturb the new guest, the blazing fire of the heath drew its warm light away from him. He snorted once, before opening his purple mouth.
“I seek the thief, the little rat that strayed too far from whatever puny corner he called home. No sane god would have allowed that rodent burglar his mischief. Woe to the world that hides him. Bark his whereabouts from your filthy mouths now. Let your drunkard souls speak, or this hole of shit shall be your tomb forever.”
The voice was strength. Its accustomedness to command unmistakable. Fear chewed at every heart present, and no one moved an inch. Time stood perfectly still.
“The silence of fools. The ignorance of the doomed. Give me the Flicker. His tiny skeleton shall feed the hungry mouths of your cellars. Worms of the soft soil shall awake to feast on his remains. Bring him forth! I lay claim to his destiny.”
A rise in volume in that hideous voice drew out a weeping among the women. A whispered protest from a brave soul by the fire could be distinguished, and some turned to see who this daring person was. The tall figure did not seem to care. His gaze was fixed upon a maid at the back of the inn. How she had gathered that Hompy-Tom was the one wanted, she didn’t really know. But an image of him had appeared in her head, the moment the horned one had spoken. Her fears for his well being now made her turn quickly around, and run out as fast as she could through the door to the kitchens. At least, that was the plan in mind.
“Stay…”
The word permeated space. The complex interior of every functioning ear vibrated in eager obedience, to bring forth the message. The thoughts of all beings inside that inn echoed its commandment. Anibelle froze unwillingly. As she spun around and seemed to float back to the stag-like entity, a smile was forced upon his lips. A very strong clawed hand, the end of a long arm wrapped in chain mail, emerged from his robe and embraced the neck of the young woman. Eyes flashed in black fur, a hunter’s hunger displayed upon his cruel face. Anibelle’s body hung slack, as if already succumbed to inevitable death, but her eyes were mirroring the horror of her soul – screaming silently in utter agony. It could have ended more pleasantly, had not the daring one – a gambler skilled in the throwing of knives – held such youthful fancies about heroics. There was a flicker of movement, a hiss in the air, and a knife sliced and disappeared through the robe of the horned one. He immediately released the inn-maid, then threw his head backwards and spat out laughter too ghastly to bear. He drew smoky air slowly and audibly down into his lungs and then tore his robe wide open. Between the plated chest and the waist there was nothing – or perhaps a rift of sorts in the matter of the world. Black swirling smoke and whirlwinds of oily air roamed that space, and seemed to warp all laws of natural movement. There was no sense of firmness to it, but more of a pulsating hole inside another without end. The black eye of infinity stared out of the belly of this beast, and it paralysed the minds of everyone who now beheld it. The inn shook once. Then the eels of the abyss came out of the void and devoured everything that screamed.

The Homp listened to the words of Dwillin wanting by all holy things to disbelieve each phrase spoken. But he soon found out that he couldn’t. They rang true to every chord inside his soul, and with every syllable his sorrow grew. He had inflicted harm unto his kin, and was the one guilty of their disappearance. That, he was now sure of. No precise memories came back to him as the Magi revealed his past. But he had a sense of years long forgotten, and knew at once, that he had done great evil – an act of stupidity wrought on by the boldness of his ignorance. They must have fled Babeth in fear of the coming revenge, he thought. They must have realised the consequences of his error, and gone into hiding forever. The Languillian’s eyes stared blankly into a bleak distance. Their surface, now wet with the coming of tears, glittered sadly in the soft candlelight. The Magi was about to continue his story, when the door of the Scarecrow flung open.
“Wizard, I did not wish to open this door!” The voice came with some anger from the hall. “Release me from your spell, or I swear by the sweat of my father’s back, I will have your head!”
“Relax, human. You are already free. I have great need of your sword, but I have no intention of forcing you. And I’m not a wizard, but a Magi from the north.”
“Magi, indeed! – a wizard’s doll, playing in Faerlingh?”
“Unkindly spoken, but true. My name is Dwillin of Raark, and I was made by the Arch-Mage Chalyron four hundred years ago. Will you hear me, human?”
Baerhim came into the room, his sword drawn and held out before him. Around his wrist a ruby-set amulet dangled from a silver chain. He had never faced nor seen a Magi before. Only through hearsay did he know of their existence.
“Sheath your sword, I mean you no harm.” the Magi said. “The amulet should go around your neck if it’s to do you any good. But I swear to you; you’ll have no use for it here. I only sent Agdazar to arrange our meeting.”
“Your wretched Familiar has some ugly manners, Magi. I hope the one on your head knows more of courtesy. If you want to talk, get me a stool. I wish to be home before midnight, but my feet are weary, and I need some rest.”
Then his eyes fell upon the Homp, whose gaze was still caught in a desolate place, somewhere far beyond the perimeters of the room.
“Is that what I think it is?”
“Indeed it is.” the Magi answered.
“So, they’ve returned.”
“No. Just this one, I fear. Homp, he calls himself, which means Knot in his native tongue.”
Baerhim scrutinised Dwillin and the room around him for a long time.
“Did I ask for a stool or not?” he then said, putting his sword back into his scabbard, and hanging the amulet around his neck. Don’t make me wait, weird one. Tell me why you summoned me here, and give me some of that sweet-smelling stew. An empty stomach shortens my patience. And as I said; I want to be off home.”

The three of them sat down and spoke at some length over, what turned out to be, a spicy spruce cone stew, with a few bits of rabbit tucked in. The Homp though, neither said nor ate very much. When he regained focus, he still had a hard time following the discussion. What were they saying? What did it all mean? He was close to deciphering some of their quick dialogue when Monny, the kitten, suddenly entered the room. Immediately it came up to his stool, jumped up on his lap, and made itself comfortable. This experience felt very different than it recently had. At first the Homp shuddered, but then he allowed the warm body and soft fur to soothe him, as it had so many times before. He felt himself relax and began to stroke the little kitten tenderly. Then reality stressed the facts, and he quickly pushed the beast off of him. …more dangerous than any cat and smarter than… His little feet were dangling quite a bit from the floor, yet he pulled them closer, keeping them tightly and safely to his body. As he looked around the room to keep track of the Familiar’s location, he heard Baerhim say:
“If these demons, which you speak of, are truly that dangerous, why would you keep this Homp hidden? Is his little soul really worth the risk? You tell me thousands of lives are at stake. You speak of a world gone nightmare. What great value does he hold as to make this game a worthy one?”
Dwillin of Raark hesitated for a long time, before answering:
“I do not know… But, if he has managed to provoke these dark powers, into leaving their slumber and force their way onto Babethian soil, then indeed, it must be a thing worth fighting for.”
“Fight?”
“Not in the way you conceive it, human. We would stand no chance, I think. I doubt that even the greatest of strongholds could keep such powers out. Neither walls nor moats, are likely to stop them.”
“Then what exactly is it that you want from me, or my sword, as you choose to put it. What role am I to play in this game of madness?”
“You are to look after him.” Dwillin pointed a wrinkled black finger to the Homp’s forehead. “Keep him safe, and make sure your blade remains well sharpened. You will not travel alone. I intend for another person to join your company. She ought to have found out about now, what we should do next. I fear that is all I can tell you at the moment.”
“And why…”
Dwillin interrupted him.
“I know. You were on your way home. Why on earth would you put your boot in this jawed puddle to begin with, right?”
“Exactly.”
“Well…first of all, there is nothing for you here. Your mother died last spring and your sister has gone to live in Uorlath. In fact, she married four weeks ago. Your childhood home is sold to a potter, and your uncle cursed you eternally when you first left here, if the rumours I hear are true.”
“But how…”
He was interrupted again.
“The bird speaks!” The Magi became stiff, and the chilling voice of Beaknose came out slowly.
“Night of fire. The hour runs. Beauty burns swiftly. Dusk has come at last to Faerlingh.”
As soon as the crow stilled, Dwillin and Baerhim hastened to the window. The northern night-sky was a throbbing orange, and the lower stars were gone from the heavens – lost in a thick and gloomy smoke.
“They are four days early!” Dwillin hissed. “No warning is out. They must have other ways to move about, or they could not have got here so quickly. Curse them!”
“You mean to tell me that the very darkness you described is unleashed upon Faerlingh right now?” Baerhim’s face was colourless. The tissue around his scar twitched.
“Yes… This is what death looks like from a distance – what coward kings see as their pawns meet doom upon the battlefield. Do not bother going there. No life is left in those ruins. I suspect not even scavengers need bother. The promise of flesh is what keeps their minions moving.” He turned to Baerhim. “I fear we must depart earlier than I expected. You must take the Languillian through the woods west of here. Within four days you will have reached the Qwimber Stones. Follow that line north until you come upon a deserted cottage. Take shelter there, and wait for a Heelian named Sheira…” Dwillin stepped closer to the human and set his owlish gaze firmly upon him. “Look me in the eye, Baerhim son of Hannis. Tell me you have more important things to see to – That you would rather sit here and wait for the coming darkness, or flee back that same path which brought you here. Else, let go thy questions and arguments. Take the Flicker now, and speed hastily through the night. The trees might give you shelter, or they might not. But inside this old Scarecrow, the clock will spin you another hour at most. Find the cottage. There perhaps, choices will be easier.

So the Homp found himself running through dense moonlit woods. A fierce human yanked his arm and hurried him onwards. They scraped their faces on low branches, and stumbled and fell many times in the night. A distant howling could be heard from the north, and it was not the sound of wolves or common dogs. They struggled on, slightly upwards, then the slope steepened and they had to climb over partially moss-clad rock. Once they lost their grip and slid back along a nasty surface. Fingertips, knuckles, and knees protested greatly, as they scaled back up across the raw and jagged stone. In an hour they had reached the top of the rise, and there they could see far across the surrounding countryside. Fields, rolling hills, treetops and little waterways were all reflecting the fairy light of the moon. But what drew their eyes was the pool of fire – a blistering scar in the earth. Remains, like jutting skeletons, stood scorched and blackened among the flames. Slowly they let go their bony limbs, surrendering part by part to the roaring inferno. Over night, the beauty of Faerlingh was transformed into meekly glowing ashes. In every sense of the word, the village was gone.
The pair sat down exhausted and rested there. It took a while and then, as the scene of demise fully hit them, tears came to their eyes. The Homp soon sobbed loudly, and Baerhim had a hard time keeping his own emotions at bay. This was a beautiful part of the world, he thought. Far better than most he had visited. He tried to remember why he had left all those years ago, but found no real answer. He had never sought a place, really. That much was clear to him. No, there was something else missing, which had little to do with physical surroundings. Still, the memories of the village, its little alleys, the crazy roofs and many funny windows, now put sorrow in his heart. He had longed for some time to see all the places of his youth again – to swim in the cold river and to smile towards the baker’s pretty daughter. How nasty a trick they had played her; trying to make her laugh merely to expose the giant gap between her front teeth. Poor girl, they had given her little peace. How surprising it had been, when he first realised how pretty she really was. How cute and lovely her smile, and how happy it made him. Why on earth did he never tell her? She was certainly a housewife by now, but still… No, silly thought. She was gone of course – gone, as everyone else he had hoped to greet, or nod to, in the coming morning. Loneliness crept over him as a dark wraith in the dreadful night. He wrapped his cloak tight around him, and looked down at the small being by his side. The Flicker, last of his kind, must know a thing or two of loneliness, he thought. Yet he could feel no sympathy for the little one. In some way that scrawny figure was the cause of all this. What did the Magi see, he wondered, when he decided to shield him at such a terrible price? How could he be so sure that he acted rightly? Howls echoed up the hillside, and broke his line of thoughts.
“Rise, Verrilinn” he whispered. “We must go on.”
They rose, took one last look at the fires, and then ran together down the opposite hillside. The woods smelled sweetly of eager spring.

Dwillin of Raark had climbed an old slippery ladder, and was balancing now on top of a decaying bark-roof. He stopped at the end of the ridge and carefully examined the northern skies. There were no signs of flyers – no beating of wings. He stood there for quite a while and brooded upon the Homp and the many uncertainties ahead. Bad odds, he thought. Not much to play with this time. He closed his eyes and braced himself for the coming journey. “Are you ready, old companion?” he whispered to the bird above. “Then grow, my dear fellow. Embrace me, and make us one. Let your tattered feathers carry us once more through the wind of night. Remember to stay low. No eye must witness our flight. And let not your thoughts linger upon that patch of dying embers. As you well know, dusk was vital here.”





UP AND DOWN INTO…

They had moved at great pace all through the long night, and now witnessed the top of the next rise alight with the coming of dawn. The landscape was all wavy, and apparently, theirs was the wrong direction to travel. One rise gave way to another and so forth without end it seemed. The trees stood a bit sparser now, and the hills were somewhat lower. Otherwise, every little valley looked the same. Many sounds had scared the Homp throughout the night, but Baerhim had comforted him by naming the causing species. Most of these creatures were known to the Languillian, but not all of them. He had looked carefully at Baerhim’s own reaction to the weirdest noises, and he was sure he had registered unease.
The Homp’s feet ached badly and they decided to stop at a little stream, to rest again and drink some water. A couple of fallen trees, their trunks covered in moss, lay as natural bridges across it. Many young leaves above them, displayed their dazzling green in the sunlight. But the soft ground, down by the stream, remained in a colourless drowse.
“Ah, finally some light on its way.” Baerhim said, as he sat down on a small stone. He took off his thick boots and sweaty socks, to wash his feet in the lazily moving water. Many insects moved about on its surface, and the head of a frog came up, to select its breakfast among them.
“My head really hurts.” was all the Homp said, before sinking to the ground on a bed of tussocks. He rolled over on his back and watched some quick birds shoot through the clear sky. The promise of fine weather was everywhere.
“You’re a strong runner.” Baerhim told him. “I didn’t think those short and skinny legs of yours would take us so far in one night.”
The Homp had already fallen asleep but was dragged out of it by the human’s words.
“Neither did I.” he said tiredly.
“Are you still sure you won’t accept a blanket. I can cut you a piece out of mine. It is large enough for both of us, you know.”
“No. Not necessary. My skin is thick. I never wear clothes, except for these short pants. Never owned another garment… At least not that I know of... No blanket, please. It’s not cold.”
“Well, winter seldom bothers these parts. But the Languillian marshes, way up in the north, must be frozen through for many months of the year. I’m sure you must have worn some clothes back then.”
The Verrilinn turned his head around to look at Baerhim’s broad back.
“Tell me about them, will you?” The Homp’s request had a sad tone to it.
“Tell you about what?”
“The marshes. Dwillin insisted I was once one of the twelve clan-chiefs of Languillior. Yet, I have no memory of those lands.”
“I’m sorry. I have never been there. But it is a hostile environment, or so I’ve heard. Giant trees stand in deep soggy water, and great tangles of roots rise up into the air, to make the place a hopeless labyrinth. That’s all I’ve heard. An ogre, who claimed he had once lived there, told me. We shared some pints on a chill night, and I never saw him again… Actually, he stole my saddle as he left.
The Homp tried to form a picture from the short description, but he was too tired. In seconds he was asleep again. The sound of his thin snoring accompanied light’s descent into the gentle valley.
When he awoke, Baerhim was nowhere to be seen. The sun was high in the sky and a cloud of mosquitoes had found his face and tummy. They had not yet understood the hopelessness of their aim. No insect’s bite had ever penetrated the skin of a Verrilinn, except the Ruby Hornet’s, which was feared all through the northern marshlands. The Homp got to his feet and looked around for signs of the human. He climbed up onto a trunk and walked over to the other side of the stream. There the ground was soft and boggy. Pointy tussocks stuck up here and there, and young birches grew in little clumps. Further up, tall spruces rose from the slope and two great anthills made use of their support. Some boulders stood together in the shadows, and the Homp moved towards those to seek his companion.
“Baerhim?”
No answer came.
“Are you anywhere near, Baerhim?”
The only sounds were those of birdsong and small irregular splashes from the stream. The boulders were five to seven feet tall and stood as to make a square space or room between them. As the Homp moved around to get a better look inside that space, he noticed a little figure standing among the stones, gazing right at him. It took the Languillian several jumpy heartbeats before he realised it was a statue. It was shaped like a gnome and wore a pointy hat and a small hammer. Carved out of rock and the work of a skilful craftsman, it scared the Homp, despite its inanimate nature. A gnome sculpture in the midst of the woods… That’s peculiar, he thought. Many hunters from Faerlingh must have come this way for game. Did they know about this place, he wondered? Who would craft a gnome in the middle of nowhere? As he moved closer to it he noticed that no moss or lichen grew on its head or shoulders. There was also some moist earth around its feet. Someone must have placed it there recently. Then he saw the open trapdoor among the boulders and the ladder that descended into it. Suddenly the head of Baerhim came up from the hole and another stone-gnome was with him.
“Morning! Beautiful, aren’t they?” He smiled at the Homp and determinedly heaved the gnome out of the hole, placing it next to the other.” His short beard was full of mud and his dark hair dressed in cobwebs.
“Why are you bringing gnomes out of the soil, Baerhim? I thought they preferred the underground.” The Homp couldn’t help but smiling a little. The human looked very ridiculous coming out of the ground, bringing gnomes with him.
“Well, little Homp, let me tell you. There is a door down in this deep, leading who knows where. And these little guardians stood in the way. So, I thought it better to remove them. And since I don’t want to go stumbling down there in the dark, I figured I’d put them somewhere out of my way. Are you up for an underground expedition?”
The Verrilinn was suddenly excited. But his reasoning faculties urged him to think things through. He looked at the statues and found that they held a very potent guardian’s pose. They were indeed some sort of symbolic protection, or perhaps a means of warning. How long had they stood down in the dark, he wondered? Never ever had he heard about gnomes in this area. One had once visited the inn in company of an obese woman and a pig. But he had come from the districts of Londhreim, which was very far off to the west. The Homp remembered him quite well. He was one of the handfuls of guests who had addressed him through the years. Probably because they shared the same height, he thought.
“Is it wise?” he inquired. “Do we have time? Dwillin told us to head for the cottage. And we have no idea if we’re being tracked or not. Shouldn’t we move on?”
“You were sleeping like a rock. I had nothing to do and happened to stumble upon a trapdoor. I have just spent half an hour heaving heavy gnomes out of my way. I’m very sorry Languillian, but I intend to see what’s down there. Stay if you please, but first bring me a torch from my backpack. The candle below is shedding too weak a light.”
The Homp took another look at the trapdoor. The lid was a slice of stone, not wood, and it was a few inches below the level of the ground.
“How did you find this hole, Baerhim?”
“Well…” The human seemed rather restless. ”…it began with my climbing one of these boulders here, just for the sport of it, I guess. Then, when I was about to get down I saw a big beetle making its way in between them. For some reason I felt inclined to squash it.” Baerhim raised his shoulders innocently and his thick lower lip protruded a bit. “…So I slid down, crushed it beneath my sole, and noticed that the landing didn’t sound quite right. Hence, I began to dig a little. Are you happy enough now, to go and fetch me a torch, you think?”
The Homp hurried back across the stream and returned exhausted with the entire backpack.
“I’ll go with you.” he said, breathing heavily.
“Fine, little one. Adventures get your spirits up. At least for a while.” Baerhim replied.
Down the ladder they went, and came into a narrow passage. The human had to squeeze through it, and earth loosened from the walls as he kept going. Pieces of thick roots were lying on the tiled stone-floor, and the Homp guessed it had taken Baerhim some work with the sword to clear the passage. The torch soon lit up an old mouldy door before them. It was strengthened with iron along its edges, but the wood crumbled as Baerhim put his fist to it. There was no need for keys, or attempts at lock picking.
“Do you think there are traps?” the Homp wondered worriedly.
The human looked sternly back at the Languillian.
“There always are.” he said. “We must be watchful. Stay behind me and don’t touch anything. We’re probably dealing with a crypt here, or a hidden treasure, if we’re lucky. In either case, clever means of protection are to be expected.
Behind the door the passage continued a short bit before revealing a stairway. It led straight down as far as the torch would show them.
“Ah.” Baerhim said. “Deeper still, we go.”
“I guess.” the Homp replied, trying to stay calm.
One step at a time they descended into the dark. The Languillian counted sixty steps before stopping.
“Are you sure about this?” he said. “The air is becoming rather stale. And from what I can glimpse between your legs, there is no end to this thing.”
The walls were all rock now, and drops of water clung to them. The steps were masterly hewn out, but had turned rather slippery over the years.
“As I said earlier: Stay if you please.”
Baerhim continued downwards and the Homp reluctantly followed. Another sixty steps later the stairway ended and they stood on even floor again. The passage widened a few feet, but instead of bare rock, the walls were now tiled with grey stone. Some of these tiles had runes engraved on them. Neither Baerhim nor the Verrilinn could read these, but they noticed that many engravings were identical. As they halted to examine the runes more closely, a foot-sized yellow slug suddenly appeared on the wall above them. Baerhim instantly put his torch to it. The slug lost it grip and fell to the floor, dying slowly in a series of jerks and spasms.
“Cave-leech.” the human said, shaking his head pityingly. “If you get one of those in your face you’re an ugly one afterwards. Acidic bellies, you see. Look.” Baerhim pointed to the place on the wall where the leech had crawled. “Notice the tracks? They will never disappear. I’d rather have another close encounter with a morningstar, than one of his kind ever touching me.” He shook his head again. “Make sure you check where you’re steppin’. And watch the roof as well. They usually drop down on fat worms, rodents and such. But they will not hesitate to take on larger prey. I’ve heard of bears coming out of winter’s sleep, only to find their heads missing.” Baerhim watched the Verrilinn for a long time, dead serious, before he turned around and continued along the passage.
The Homp’s head went around in wide circles after that. He also moved up to walk alongside the human, which felt safer than trailing behind.
Thirty yards or so further on, there was another door. This one was made entirely out of iron and had the face of a screaming gnome upon it. The expression was so lifelike the Homp felt like screaming himself, and actually covered his ears for a while. It was a large face. From the top of the forehead to the chin was a distance measuring five real gnome-heads. The Homp would have no problem putting his own head into its mouth, had he wanted to go through with such a crazy idea.
“This is a bit odd,” Baerhim started. “…but it might very well be a sign of good treasure. I bet many cowards would turn around at such a grimace, don’t you think?”
The Homp nodded, clearly agreeing.
“We however, will not.” Baerhim continued. “Why should we, little one?”
The truth was that Baerhim was more than surprised to find such a vivid image inside this hole. It seemed very un-gnomish to him. The face held a menacing message, which could not easily be ignored. Had it not been for the world-turning events of yesterday, he would probably have deemed it wiser to leave this place. Now, since he felt as if standing on the brink of doom anyway, he laid his hand firmly upon the iron nose. Then, he pushed the door wide open. That it did in fact open was yet another surprise to him. One look inside and out came his sword. The Homp yelled and was ready to run off, but Baerhim was suddenly laughing.
“No point in fencing around by yourself, is there now?“ he said. “I suppose I could beat my mirrored self, if I’d have to. But I’m not really up to it at the moment. Do you want a go at yours?”
The Homp was not in a laughing mood and only shook his head a little. There was something odd about the reflection. Cautiously they stepped through the door and entered a very uncanny chamber. The floor, the roof, and all the walls were made out of a strange solid material. It looked like pure black marble shot through with thin strokes of white. It was polished into a mirror, but translucent as water all the same. Their gazes were drawn into the depths of the walls searching for something firm to rest upon. Nothing was found, and when they focused instead on the surface, it mirrored the room many times over, confusing and dazzling their minds.
“Turn away from the walls! Look to the centre of the room!” Baerhim shouted warningly. “You’ll go mad if you keep staring!”
The Homp didn’t want to look away. The walls held such wonders within them. There was rest and joy hidden behind that blank and shimmering surface. Why would he look elsewhere? Surely there could be nothing remotely as interesting. Somewhere, distantly, he could hear Baerhim, pleading with him to close his eyes and turn, but his voice was like a flute in the wind, and the calling of the walls were much more appealing.
“Look away! To the middle of the room, quickly!” The Homp unwillingly tore his gaze from the sensuous depths and followed Baerhim’s advice. There, in the centre of the chamber, a solitary cylinder stood, formed out of plain rough stone. The top of this shape had another ugly gnome’s face chiselled out of it. This one had a wolfish set of teeth and seemed to snarl rather than scream. In its jaws a thing of true beauty lay resting. An axe it was, with a long slender head, balanced by a slightly curved spike. The handle had fine interwoven threads of gold wrapped around it, and at the end was a pair of silver cloves, like the ones on a mountain goat. Between the handle and the head it was delicately scrolled in runes. Overall its radiance of extreme ant