With nothing left to give, I gave myself to the will of Hurona. Let her will be my own, and let her hand guide my righteous fury.

  -Cordillian proverb

  “An apprentice obeys, a Master protects… He fosters,” the old warrior scolded his apprentice and protege, Gruen, “one day,” the master noted, using the thick Shaxian accent of his people, “one day you will come to understand her path.”

  “But why does she test us?” Asked the growing boy, who had aged a few years since the horrors of Cordillia.

  The old master paused for a moment. He knew the boy remembered little of his old home, “she knows our part in her grand plans for the universe… all of us, " he explained, placing his hand on the boy’s shoulder. When you are a mighty warrior… like me, one day… You shall come to understand her golden path.”

  Tenimus looked out towards the stars. When he was younger, under Master Giffith’s tutelage, he felt a strange calm when looking at the stars above. Now, grey hairs gathered on the edges of his wrinkled brow, and the stars gave him a growing sense of unease. The art of the universe was menacing, yet unchanged; he simply understood it better.

  His mind returned to Cordil, rebuilding after the devastating German blow. Master Kree’s voice rang in his ears, “Care for the child, for he shall deliver us to glory,” the voice echoed through time.

  “We all have our place in her eternal plans,” explained Tenimus, “some just come to understand it differently.”

  “What about you?” Asked Gruen. Tenimus soured but was proud in the reflection he saw of his work, “what happened?”

  “Ah, fine…” Scoffed Tenimus with a knowing smile, “I was in the old libraries on Shaxia, where the Justicians used to live. Back before the corpos came and started building the city up.”

  Gruen gasped, “You saw one? A Justician?” His incredulous tone sparked a smile across his master’s face.

  Tenimus nodded, “one of the blind monks pulled me aside from my studies and brought me to a chapel below the library. There they shared a wondrous truth… Hurona’s golden path.”

  Gruen stared intently with eyes wide open. He could see stars gleaming in his Master’s eyes, “indeed…” Tenimus continued, “I saw a war fought not over food, land, or even gold… I saw a war of humanity. On one side, the forces of the Shadows fight for an endless winter… on the other, I saw the Bannerman charge into battle, seeking the holy death of Hurona’s grace,” Gruen looked up to the plastiglass window above and dread in his soul, a looming feeling of war. He could hear the distant drums of battle rage, “it was at that time that I received a call from my old Master, but I was too engrossed in my studies to respond. He disappeared in these parts… maybe I can find him, bring him peace. Only I don’t quite know where.”

  His voice trailed off, and his mind boiled into a furious storm turned inward. I took the child from danger and threw him right back, he thought. Tenimus had not settled the thought before a bright light on the dashboard lit up like a beacon. Tenimus was relieved that he no longer had to think about himself. He looked over towards his apprentice, Gruen, with a half-smile.

  The grey-bearded Master Tenimus thought back to the days of the flame and fire when his home burned, and his Master ordered him to stay far away.

  “Protect the boy… He is our path to victory. He shall find the Bannerman and turn the wheels of fate…” Grandmaster Kree spoke into the ether, “he shall free us from this hell,” he whispered.

  “Can you check the reports to see what's happening with that light?” Gruen asked. The boy shrugged before reaching down to the printed log book, still being belt-fed data along a long, unbroken ream of paper. He picked up the sheet in the middle and rattled off the data he could understand.

  “Oxygen production: normal. Carbon Dioxide conversion: normal. Check Carbon Dioxide filter: 3 months set timer… something about mushrooms…” he muttered.

  Tenimus waved his hand passively, “Skip that. What about the light?” The boy detected annoyance in his voice.

  “The colony is requesting assistance. The message is unclear,” replied Gruen

  “How far away?” Tenimus inquired. The kid riffled through the ticket stream for a moment, and Gruen rolled his eyes.

  “It would take us an hour to reach the source,” Tenimus nodded, and Gruen set the ship's computer to track the source and begin a standard landing procedure once it reached the nearest starport.

  Tenimus left the cockpit to get dressed. His bunk area was unkempt. He took off his yellow jumpsuit and retrieved his handcrafted armor. His cuisse and greaves were plates covering mail.

  Finally, over his armor, he wrapped a long grey cloak, clasped at the breast with a golden brooch with a ruby inlaid. On his hip, he carefully strapped his longsword sheathed in leather next to an antique revolver.

  The computer system chimed three times, indicating that they were approaching their destination. Tenimus emerged and found his young apprentice wearing a clean white robe that covered his simple chainmail armor. He had not yet been allowed to forge his battle armor and claim the crest of the Order as his own. Those are the old ways, thought Tenimus.

  After a short while, their guidance system successfully landed the ship on a small airstrip in the middle of a valley. A cold wind blew over the blue mountains, and snow had built up on the ground. Hundreds of antique, rusting ships lay strewn about the field, long abandoned by their owners.

  No matter, Tenimus thought, the people had called for help, its our duty to help. He looked over to the boy and nodded curtly. The boy looked out onto the snow and pointed towards the nearest part of the settlement, which looked occupied. After a few minutes of trudging in the snow, they reached a haggard old bar in the middle of the encampment.

  Tenimus entered the bar, and the people turned listlessly with as much enthusiasm as the backwater town could muster. A man best described as a sheriff joined the boys at a table and brought a mug of ale for the older man.

  “Welcome to our little village, sirs… What can we do for you two?” The grizzled sheriff asked, unsure whether they were passing through or aiming to stay for a while. Tenimus’ Shining armor made him uneasy, and the colt did little to settle his stomach.

  Tenimus smiled weakly at the old man, “well, sir, we received a distress beacon from your system. We are duty-bound to help when called. It is the way of our people,” he bowed his head in deference to the sheriff, who sighed.

  “You boys are a long way from home…” Chuffed the Sheriff.

  “Indeed,” replied Tenimus briskly, “But we make do… And in these dark times, we hold onto our values.”

  “I am afraid that you should turn your ship around and leave this dark place as soon as you can. There is nothing but misery here. No sellsword will fix that, and we ain’t got the cash for no bounty hunters as such, whatever you are. If you want to buy some kerosene, we’re lousy with the stuff, so it's cheap. I suggest you buy some and move on; forget this place,” the man spoke with a heavy drawl.

  Gruen’s face flushed with embarrassment and anger, “We ain’t no sellswords!” He blustered. The Sheriff never took his eyes off Tenimus’ colt. The older man snapped.

  “Though short-tempered, he is correct,” Tenimus noted, “We’re not sellswords," he continued, “We are knights of Cordil. We help when we can,” Tenimus could feel the sheriff grow weary.

  “I know you mean well,” he sighed, “But there is little here for any man. The beacon has blared across the system for at least two hundred years, longer perhaps. Long have the woods of this little backwater planet drawn adventurers and warriors like yourself to them. They call out to the universe, and men like you always seem to answer them. They are a trap, a false god, a ghost… Praying for relief. It never tires, never dies, never fails to drag another ship down to this godforsaken rock,” the old man drank deeply from his mug of ale.

  Gruen watched him intently, anger still burning in his eyes. The boy is untempered, Tenimus thought.

  “Each year,” the sheriff continued, “men are drawn into the woods to the south. Each year, men disappear, or worse. One year, an older man came to this place… Looked much like yourself. He had heard the call to adventure and answered it like the warrior he was. Unlike most,” there was an uncomfortable pause, “He came back. Could barely understand him, spoke gibberish. He had gone mad out there; later, he withered away and died. He refused to eat or sleep. He would scream at all hours of the night, ‘argone,’ he would yell… Over and over. Madness.”

  “Argone,” Tenimus muttered aloud, “I’ve heard that word before,” the memory faded, and he could not remember. He scratched his chin in thought, “The madness will end,” Tenimus explained confidently, “We will go… and destroy the source of the signal. We will bring your people peace.”

  Tenimus felt a deep pang of unease grow within him. The older man nodded slowly and took a long drag from his hand-rolled cigarette.

  “If you don’t return…” the man replied darkly, “your ship will join the graveyard as a marker of your memory. I doubt there will be anything left for us to bury come spring. Go if you must, but bring no evil back this way,” the old man leaned forward and looked into Tenimus’ eyes; he was cold, and he stroked his white beard with his wrinkled, bony fingers, “good luck… Oh, knights of old. I hope you find the glory you’re looking for,” he chuckled to himself as the two knights stood up and departed from the bar.

  The old sheriff's long, wrinkled face watched them leave. He pitied the fools who traveled deep into the woods but knew well the luring call it sent, for he had long felt it dragging on his soul. A pale light fell upon his face. Old ghosts haunted his mind, calmed only by the burning sting of brown liquor.

  On their ship, they had two long-range speed bikes packed with food and gear. Tenimus grabbed a crate of winter supplies, and Gruen helped him load them. A large kerosene lantern dangled off the side of the crate. Tenimus glanced at Gruen, what path will he choose when there is nothing left? Perhaps, he thought, I could be the kind of master I wished I had.

  Under his bed, he pulled out a long metal case containing an antique rifle. He opened the case and gazed carefully at the long Winchester, wrapped in soft, light-brown felt. He carefully strapped the rifle to his speeder. By nightfall, they were ready to depart and left as the distant green sun bathed the world in an eerie light.

  The long drive took several hours. Long lines of rusted ships lay sparingly out in the valley around the little colonial town. A hollow wind flowed through the broken, pillaged ships, and ghosts watched them from the shadows.

  Tenimus gripped the handle of his old .44. Gruen was unaware, ignorant of the watchful eyes of the night. Around them, the valley began to rise and fall. Trees grew from the night along a long and lonely road. Tenimus kept a lock on the signal and followed the road for as long as it would travel. At first, there was a semblance of pavement, but with time and passage, it became rougher.

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  After a few more hours, it was little more than a hunting trail. The howls of wild coyotes hovered over the depths of the forest. The ghosts were few and far between, but Tenimus could still see the wisps of wild spirits roaming deep in the woods. He felt a long, deep shiver run up his spine. Around them, great mountains rose, the trail dribbled and dripped until it was no more, and the two had to continue on foot.

  “What do you reckon is out there?” Gruen asked as the cold of the night enveloped them both. His face was half covered in a long scarf. Tenimus gave him a pair of goggles to keep the cold from hurting his eyes.

  “Not sure,” Tenimus pondered, “My master went out into these woods. If the old man is to be believed, he came back with half a mind. I knew my master to be a man with an iron will, a cruel fist, and a strong sense of self. Whatever took him out must have been one tough mother fucker. That man would roll over for nothing,” Tenimus said with half a laugh. He looked over the boy, into the depths of the wood behind the boy. Something about them unsettled him; the gaps between the trees haunted him like the stars spread out across the sky. He gripped his Winchester with a heavy hand.

  From the depths of the woods, they both heard a long, low moan that felt almost human. Tenimus froze, his legs locked up. Gruen dropped onto the snow-covered ground and covered his head. Tenimus pointed the rifle into the depths of the trees and crouched. He motioned for the boy, who had begun to wimple quietly, to hush.

  “What was that?” The boy asked after a long, pregnant pause. The woods, which had been aglow with the sounds of local wildlife, had grown silent. The boy watched him and observed the night sky above. The kerosene lamp hanging off his backpack clinked with each subtle movement. Tenimus grasped it carefully and unhooked it from the bag.

  “Put this down. I don’t think we’re going to set up camp tonight,” he instructed the boy. His face was tense, and Gruen could feel his master’s growing terror. The light of the green sun descended beyond the mountains, bathing the world in an emerald hue, “keep the matches, though,” he muttered, “I might need those for my cigarettes.”

  Darkness crept through the trees, and Shadows watched with careful eyes. In the distance, Tenimus could see a soft yellow light piercing through the green haze descending over the woods, the artificial light of the settlement.

  “Look!” He whispered sharply in Gruen’s ear, pointing towards a distant structure, “we must go there,” he noted. Gruen agreed, and the two of them slowly crouched through the woods towards the home. Though an antique structure, the building was well-maintained. Falling water poured out from under the home onto jagged rocks below, as though a stream ran through the structure. It was built into the woods, a part of them.

  The compound lay unprotected; no gates or walls stood as protection against the outside world. After a few moments of consideration, Tenimus leapt to his feet, several meters from the door, and knocked on the smooth brass-handled entryway. Gruen followed quickly behind. He watched the woods behind them and thought he saw a shadow dart through the trees.

  The grand door opened with a long creak, and an older man appeared. The soft yellow light pouring out from behind his wrinkled head obscured his face.

  “Come in,” the old man beckoned with a waft of his hand. Gruen felt uneasy, but Tenimus leaped at the opportunity to escape the bitterly cold weather. You must forgive the mess,” he noted affirmatively. I rarely see visitors in these parts—no more than the odd traveler on his way to adventure,” the man said this in a stately antique drawl.

  In the light of the home, Tenimus could see that the old man’s skin was not just wrinkled, but dry and cracking. Blood crept out of the corners of his eyes and fingernails. The man looked incredibly uncomfortable. He pointed to a chaise and invited his guests to sit down. He was wearing charcoal grey slacks and an evening jacket woven of ancient madder. Swirls of rich red washed over a sea of deep blue. His tie was somewhat unkempt, and the top button of his shirt was unbuttoned for comfort. A small gold band rested on his left finger.

  “Now…” the old man said, “Whiskey, or Wine? I have Old Fitzgerald,” He said as he opened his bar.

  “Um…” Tenimus paused, “Wine for me, the boy is too young to drink,” he mustered. The old man nodded with understanding and poured a glass of wine from a crystal decanter. As he handed it over, Tenimus could see the man’s flesh pulling back at the fingernails. The old man sat down in a lounge chair on the other side of the room, by a large bay window, looking out over the woods towards the distant settlement nestled carefully in the valley below.

  “I have a suspicion,” the old man posited, “that you have come out all this way in search of the signal,” he cracked a smile, and blood crept from the corners of his mouth. The old man’s eyes darted towards Tenimus, who was staring uncomfortably at his skin.

  “You should pay no mind. In my youth, I developed a rather unfortunate skin condition… I have been unable to shake it, I’m afraid. Such is the way of things…” his mind drifted into a dreamlike state. The sounds of Vivaldi wafted over the three of them from a distant record player. Tenimus was unfamiliar with the piece.

  Tenimus sat up, embarrassed at having been chastised by the old man. He asked, “What of the signal you mentioned? You know of it?” The old man chuckled and sighed.

  “Know of it… Unfortunately, I do. I know it well,” he coyly stated. The old man took a sip of his wine and placed it down on a small table beside him. Tenimus reached into his satchel and pulled out a wrinkled pack of cigarettes.

  “May I light up?” He asked his host. The old man carefully put his hand up.

  “No!” He stammered, “Please, the smoke is ghastly for a man in my condition. Tenimus quickly stuffed the pack of cigarettes and matches back into his satchel.

  “The signal,” said the old man after a moment of thought, “I was a child when I first heard it. When it came from the stars,” he wistfully noted, “You see, I had always been a sickly child. My parents cared for me so deeply… the sickness broke my Mother’s heart.”

  Tenimus felt a pang of fear rush through his spine. He instinctively reached for his service revolver.

  “I am afraid that would be of no use, sir…” the old man chuckled, “My Mother and Father cared so profoundly for me that she prayed for a solution. She prayed for her son not to die, to give me life when it appeared that I would pass on to eternity. Unfortunately… something answered,” the old man took a long sip of wine and placed the glass down, “something from the depths of space crawled up out of the universe and answered my parents’ dark prayer. They bade my Mother go out into the woods in the middle of the night, to bring her flesh and a single blade. It instructed her to slit her wrists and let her blood flow into the ground, and let the earth soak up her essence. Father performed another ritual, begging for me to live through the night, to live. In the night, she did just that. By morning, while it appeared that I would surely be dead, I was miraculously still alive… I had survived the night, and I would survive each night thereafter,” the old man looked down at his slippered feet, “each night for a thousand years,” his voice wandered into the other room where the record player stopped playing.

  Tenimus leapt to his feet and pointed his revolver at the old man. Without hesitating, he fired two shots into the old man’s cheek. The shots echoed in the home, and blood poured out of his chest, onto the old man’s unkempt blue shirt collar. He looked up at Tenimus with a glare of frustration, “were you not listening, man? The old Gods have given me life; no bullet can take that from me,” Tenimus stood, flabbergasted and horrified at the sight before him. The old man’s cheek, which had caved in from the shots, was reconstructing itself slowly.

  “I…I… don’t know what… to say,” Tenimus watched with his mouth agape. Gruen froze in fear, still sitting on the blood-red leather chaise. From the other room, a giant creature lumbered into sight. It was not human, though composed of mortal flesh. It was without a mind, a homunculus of horrific design. It lurched towards Gruen and grabbed the boy by the arm. Tenimus fired another shot, this time into the beast, but it did no damage to the creature.

  “He, too, is cursed. Or them, I suppose I should say. You can call it a gift from the other side. They help me out around the home.”

  “You monster!” Tenimus cried out. The old man waved this statement aside as if dismissing a petulant child.

  “I am not the monster, nor are they,” the old man grimaced, motioning to the homunculus that grunted and moaned quietly, “I shall show you the monster,” he said darkly, “come with us,” he motioned for the beast to bring Gruen. In the center of his home, a stream drifted through an open space in the floor, and out over the cliff.

  They crossed a small wooden bridge, and the old man led them to an unassuming door, “after I was granted the dark gift of eternal life, my Father watched over me, and together we studied deep space signals… To pass the time. One dark winter night, we heard it emerge from the depths. It came from the distant stars, from the edge of the Universe. Word traveled from the village that they had detected it as well. A great star streaked across an emerald sky and landed deep in these woods. My father and I traveled to the site of the explosion, and we found it there, the creature from beyond the stars… they were…” The old man paused, licking his bleeding lips, “beautiful…” he smiled with crooked, rotting teeth, “my father was repulsed. He could not see beyond superstition and the flesh that bound him. They reached out to me and requested one thing: flesh to feed their own. They felt no hunger… but loved the sensation. My father was their first… And they loved him.”

  Tenimus felt his stomach crawl. He thought about bolting from the room and escaping into the woods, but he would leave Gruen to a most certain demise. He remembered his master, Tenimus, “A master protects,” the boy was his responsibility. His head dropped, and he looked at his blade.

  “It cannot be killed. It cannot tire… Nor feel pain. I do not know if it wants to live or die…” the old man muttered. I know only that it hungers for the flesh. It loves the taste of humans and would love to devour you too,” he smiled wickedly.

  “I have one request,” Tenimus meekly asserted. Let me go first, and let the boy have a moment’s respite. I will go willingly,” the old man nodded solemnly.

  “So be it, knight,” he spat. Tenimus racked his brain for any means of escape or protection for the boy. He knew his own life was forfeited.

  The old man carefully opened the door, and they were led into an old carved tunnel extending under the house, into the cliffside, “after a while,” the old man said, “they slipped into the cracks of the earth and wrought the earth with their powerful maw.

  Around them, I built this home for us to live in and took what I could from my family fortune to purchase freedom from the universe… After my father, their first, I was gifted this homunculus with what remained of my father’s flesh. Over the years, more have been added, and some have been taken away. I like to think that they are all in there somewhere; maybe they are asking for help. They know what they do, but are powerless to stop it. Just as you are,” he smiled.

  They were brought down a metal walkway, towards a central platform that stretched over a vast opening in the ground. The old man flipped a main power switch, and a single light flicked on above the middle of the chamber. While it failed to reach the edge of the chamber, Tenimus and Gruen could see one thing clearly: the mouth of the beast. It was slimy and writhed like a snake, formless and vile. The very sight pierced Gruen’s mind and began to whisper dark thoughts into his memories. His vision began to fade. Tenimus tried to resist the piercing, stabbing, throbbing psychic assault.

  The old man delicately presented the beast’s opening maw, “Behold, my oldest friend and confidant. I would give you his name, but none can speak it on this plane anymore. His language makes little sense to me, but I can feel them,” Tenimus steeled his mind as he looked into the gaping maw of the beast. Inside, the light showed pockets of flesh collected in the writhing beast’s form. Inside, the vague shapes of bones rattled and shook. He threw up onto the grate below, and it seeped down into the darkness. Tenimus rattled his brain for any hint or clue when it struck him. His master’s last words, “argone,” he had finally remembered the meaning.

  “Fire!” He exclaimed, “it means fire,” Tenimus laughed at his foolishness. The old man sputtered and glared at the knight.

  “What do you mean?” He yelled. The Beast below let out a horrifying guttural attack. Gruen fell to the ground. The homunculus let his arm go and reached for Tenimus, who was reaching for his satchel. Inside, he grabbed a match and struck it on his cloak. The match ignited, and the old man cried out.

  “Get away from them!” He screamed, blood pouring from the wounds on his face. Tenimus leaped away from the hulking flesh that struck at him and lost his footing at the edge of the beast’s, his fist smashed into the lightbulb hanging precariously over the pit. With a burst of light and spark, the bulb was dead, but the sparks had ignited the match in Tenimus’ hand.

  “A good master… protects and fosters,” Tenimus cried out.

  The room descended into darkness, and Gruen lay on the ground, trying to recover himself. Tenimus knew that he was doomed, but hope sparked within him that he could save the boy. Tenimus grabbed the old man’s tie in his last moments and pulled him down into the shadows.

  What no living party present, save for the beast that had a name no mortal being could comprehend, was that its skin secreted an odd kerosine-like residue that collected and sank deep into the earth beneath its unmoldable, unknowable form. The match, once lit, set the beast ablaze in a ball of blinding fire.

  The homunculus forgot its instructions and reached out for its master, “son!” It managed to exclaim through the folds of rotting flesh piled upon its core. The beast leaped into the blinding light of the cavern to save their child. Suddenly, the beast’s mind was directed elsewhere, and Gruen was freed from the strain placed upon him. He forced himself up and battled the waves of burning heat that threatened to overwhelm him. As he reached the exit, back into the home, he turned back and could see the edges of the ghosts who watched. Master Tenimus and another knight in gleaming gold watched from the overwhelming brightness that absorbed the cavern rock. He rushed through the crumbling ancient home. The fire had spread throughout the house and consumed its wood, turning the serene palace of clean lines into ash around Gruen.

  Far to the North, in the valley below, the people could see a strange orange light emerge from the mountainside, peering through the mist and shadow of the land. For several days, the fire burned, and the people watched each night.

  For several nights, Gruen wandered through the mountain's vast forests, seeking the light of the village below. Each night, he was plagued by visions of a boatman gathering in the dusk of the universe.

  In the light of morning on the third day, the Sheriff felt a dark cloud lift from his mind. The intense green hue of the sky began to soften, and joyful sounds could be heard in the village as the people gathered to celebrate the winter solstice. The Sheriff was patrolling the edge of the village when he saw Gruen's haggard visage stumbling out of the forest.

  “Bloody hell…” He gasped as he rushed to the boy and wrapped his heavy wool coat around the boy.

  “The signal is dead,” proclaimed young Gruen, “th-they… Are dead,” the Sheriff brought him to his station and set a warm glass of cocoa in front of him.

  “Now tell me everything you remember…” Said the Sheriff.