Twinsoul, Chapter 4

Chapter 4: Promise

Over the next few days, Varcor trained his healing magic with Reylyn, exercising his heart instead of his will. He found that healing did not require the inhibition of emotion he thought it needed, but a very specific one. Since Varcor had a great deal of control over his emotions, he could easily find the same feeling he needed for healing as the one he found in the song. In a short time, the time he needed to cure a wound was halved, and his power reached deeper, enabling to mend bones and purify toxins.

However, he wondered if that was the extent. As he always did when he learned something new, he found as many books as he could on the subject and studied further. He was surprised to find that Reylyn had a great collection of books on healing, even some theories that no one had proved yet. One of them in particular caught his attention.

After his lesson one afternoon, he asked Reylyn, “Is it possible to revive the dead?”

Reylyn looked surprised for a moment, like she had been struck in the face. The look threw Varcor off balance, and he knew immediately that he should not have asked.

“It is not,” she said, her voice soft and cracked. “No, you cannot bring the dead back to life.”

“I have read as much in your books, but there are a number of them that say . . .” He started to argue, but could see the sad look in the dragoness’ eyes, imploring him to stop. He drew his words back and cast his gaze apologetically low.

“No, Varcor,” Reylyn said, her voice still soft. “Only the gods could return the souls of the dead to their bodies, and they rarely choose to do it. Mortal creatures can sustain life, even create it, but cannot return it.” Reylyn closed her eyes and took a deep breath, as though she was trying to steady herself. “Why don’t we stop here for the day? Take a walk down to the village and get yourself something for dinner.”

She turned and walked down the slope that lead back to the cave.  Varcor hated himself for asking such a question, cursed his own curiosity. He realized then why she had those books. He started to wonder if there were any other dragons in Kayledon.

******

           

Reylyn lay on a pile of gold, her favorite place to sleep. Her gaze moved around the room, trying to concentrate on something other than Varcor’s question. She could not recall the last time she was so distraught. She knew the boy meant no harm, but her scars in this matter were deep. It was all she could do to keep herself from lashing out at him, to punish him for reading her private texts. Like any other dragon, she was horrible at organization, so there was no real way to know that those texts were off limits if he found them. She should have burned those books long ago.

But something inside her would not let her give up hope.

Movement from outside the cave brought her to her senses.  Something was outside, something that wasn’t Varcor. It was not that she did not get visitors from the village, just that this was not the aura of a villager. It felt like a demon.

“Who’s there?” She cried out hoarsely. “I am not in a good mood, so you best leave while you have a chance.”

“My, my, aren't you testy today,” a strangely familiar voice said in her mind, flooding her thoughts with memories. “What’s the matter, little one? Your pupil not dotting his i’s and crossing his t’s?”

“Only one immortal is brazen enough to call me little,” She hummed, a smirk growing on her face. “It has been too long, Lyxas.”

The nightmare stepped forward, and bowed before her. “Poerna sends his regards. I have some news, none of it you will like.”

“Then I must ask you to leave,” Reylyn said jokingly. “As I said, you’ve come to me at the end of my temper.”

“A temper too foul to hear news of the Darkplane?” Lyxas offered tantalizingly.

She paused a moment, considering his words. “Has this to do with . . .”

“In short, he is moving, but we know not why,” he said, and added narrowing his eyes, “or who through. You need to be careful.”

“Do you suspect my charges?” Reylyn growled. She began to stand, but Lyxas shook his fiery mane.

“Not yet. But,” he started, eyeing her curiously, “do you really still consider the orcs your responsibility?”

“I do,” she said tersely. “And they shall be, until I have repented.”

Lyxas looked at her sadly, an unexpected action from the demon-horse. “You still will not forgive yourself? By the unnamed shadows, child, it was over a century ago! No one can remember but you and us, and you are the only one out of six still holding out on mercy.”

She lay back down on her treasure pile, and softly scratched a crimson claw over the stone floor. Lyxas shook his head and took his leave, giving her the solitude of her self-confinement.

******

Varcor returned to the cave later that night, but he and Reylyn did not speak a word to each other. He knew his earlier words had disturbed some long past sorrow of hers, and did not wish to pry further. He felt that it was not his place to ask, not yet. He was still her student, and owed her a great deal of respect. Still, he could tell she was aching to say something, to pass this uncomfortable silence.

Varcor decided to end it himself. He had a question for her that she had left him with the day she had woken up. Up until now, he had no other reason to ask her. Breaking the torturous silence seemed reason enough.

He came up close to her, sitting on a large stone that he had designated as his spot in her chamber. She seemed to notice him, but hardly moved her head from the floor. She was looking over with a plaintive expression, as a child might look to a parent for words of advice.

“Before, after you had woken up,” he started, his voice wary and low, “you said something to me about passing one of your tests. What did you mean? In fact, why exactly did you bring me here in the first place?”

She smiled. It was a welcome sight to the half-orc, and he nearly sighed in relief.

“I have been waiting for you to ask that since I spoke of it,” she said warmly, her old friendly tone returning. “But before we talk about that, there is something else you need to know. What do you know about art, Varcor?”

“Art?” He was confused now. “What does that have to do with me?”

“Everything.” The word was final, leaving no room for debate. “What do you know about it?”

“I have read about great artists,” he started, “the first orcan artists, musicians, poets . . .”

“But what do you know of making art?” she asked, her eyes gazing questioningly on him.

“Nothing, really,” Varcor admitted. “I have had other concerns for a long time. I never really thought about it.”

“I see.” The dragoness lifted her large head. “Well, the way most people understand it, art is an expression that mere words cannot define. The creator puts forth an idea that they don’t know how to relate in another way.”

Varcor nodded. He could not possibly see what this had to do with him.

“But I . . .” She paused, thought furrowing her brow. “Dragons see art a little differently. We, above all else, know that nothing lasts forever. If there is one thing that does, it is art. Not just one piece, but all the pieces that come before and after it. It is continuous and endless as the stars in the sky.

“Artists do more than just create something from an idea. When an artist creates, they put a part of themselves into their work; something they hope will tie them to the eternity of art. They all want this, even if they don’t know it.”

“But what does this have to do with me?” Varcor asked, impatience edging his voice. This was all very mysterious to him, and he was not sure he liked where it was going.

She paused here, and looked long and hard at her student. He could tell she was either trying to say something difficult, or was trying to decide what to say. Finally, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “I was there when you were found, out in the meteor field,” she said, her voice cracking.

Varcor felt his heart quicken.

“I was the one who lifted you from the ground, and wrapped you in a blanket, handing you to your father. I wanted to help shape your world, but that chance was taken from me. That was the most I saw of you until three years ago.”

Varcor’s heart skipped a beat. “Why?” His voice came in a rasp; it was all he could do to get past the lump in his throat. “Why did my father keep you away?”

“I don’t think Toras had much to do with it,” She said softly. Varcor could tell that she had much respect for his father; just in the way she spoke his name. “He knew that I had much to offer in your upbringing, and had even told me as much. But someone did not want a dragon to interfere with your life, and I was shut off from the kingdom. I don’t think any message I sent to your father ever made it near him.”

Varcor’s heart filled with emotion. He could not believe what he was hearing. He was curious as to who would want to leave Reylyn out of his life, but was infuriated by the injustice of it all. At the same time, he wondered why she did not just take what she wanted. She was a dragon after all. He might have asked then, but she continued before he could.

“When I was finally invited to visit by your father, all I wanted was to see you. When I did, I was horrified at what you were becoming,” she nearly spat the words, and Varcor could feel the temperature in the large chamber rising. “You were a spoiled prince, with a foul temper and a short fuse, and you could not even look out for yourself. But I could still see a glimmer of hope, a spark of strength within you that your poor guardian must have tried to foster.”

Varcor knew immediately what she was talking about. Kronta Baangs had always treated Varcor like a normal being, not a heavenly gift or royal heir. The combat training he got from his unrelated uncle was the most fulfilling thing that had happened to him, before he had met Reylyn. He suddenly wondered about his uncle, and what he might have been doing.

“That’s why I brought you here, Flamesoul. I knew I had to help craft you into someone who can help your people one day, and so did Kronta. He was the one who helped convince that I tutor you. Your father looked as though the thought had never occurred to him, as though he had forgotten about me.” She hesitated, and her breathing sounded very forced. He could see her trying to calm herself.

“I carry with me a darkness that I cannot be free of,” she said evenly, when she at last spoke again. “At least, that was how I felt until I saw you. I knew that if I could teach you, and bring out your potential, I could ease part of this sorrow.”

Her voice was becoming strained again, as though these words and emotions had been shut away for a terribly long time. Varcor could not imagine anyone living with something this harrowing for very long. He felt a new sadness, a sort of pity for his teacher that made him want to share her pains.

“I have put a part of myself, part of my race, into you,” She said, looking at him, tears rimming her orange eyes. “You are a masterpiece, Flamesoul; A powerful, compassionate, intelligent existence. You have a will that would make the Firelord himself bow to you. You are a dragon’s art.”

Varcor sat quietly for a moment, not sure how to process what she was telling him. He had no idea what these three years had meant to her, but could not begin to imagine how she felt about him. What was this sadness that seemed to be there, even when she could hide it so well? If she and her father were so close, how could he not have known this?

“I am sorry,” she whispered, brushing her great red paw under her eyes to wipe away the tears. “I didn’t mean to get so caught up in that. I haven’t answered your first question.”

“It’s all right,” he said softly, feeling almost responsible for her sadness.

“The tests,” she continued, much more calmly, “were objectives I set for myself to teach you. The first you passed long ago, though I did not notice until our conversation that morning. It was to see if you could be made to fend for yourself.” She smiled, in spite of her earlier show of emotion. “I think spending two weeks without my help qualifies you for passing that one.”

Varcor smiled back. “It was not so bad.” He realized that his words were proof of how far he had come. Three years ago he could not have gotten along for two days alone.

“The second test was to see if you could learn compassion for others. Not just orcs, but all other creatures. There is no other force like the one that binds creatures together in emotion. You cannot help anyone if you don’t understand their feelings.” She gave him a gentle, motherly look. “I see the look on your face now, and I think it’s pretty obvious to both of us that you pass this one, too.”

He was happy to hear her say that. At least she knew he cared for her, even if he could not do anything more to help her.

She sighed long and hard. “The third and final test will prove to be difficult, for me and you. I haven’t yet devised a way that you could prove to me you have passed it.”

As if to answer her, a sweet and melodious humming filled the room. Varcor looked around, but could not see where it came from. Suddenly, a tiny, golden form flitted through the air into the chamber, heading for Reylyn. Varcor watched what appeared to by a golden, glowing bird perched atop a stone and bowed before the red dragoness.

“What is that?” Varcor managed to whisper.

She looked at him oddly. “You have never seen a songspirit before?” He shook his head, though he had heard of them, and seen references to them in his readings. “These are the message carriers of Kayledon, derived from the plane of air.”

“As expected of the Red Lady,” the little bird said in a singsong, heavenly voice. “Your knowledge almost surpasses your beauty.”

“Enough flattery, wind child,” Reylyn prompted. “What news do you have for me?”

“I bear tidings from the king,” it said. “He wishes that Varcor Voldur be released to him in one week’s time. Until then, you are to finish any training you may be giving him, and if you have not already done so, instruct him about the Prophecy of Unity. Colonel Kronta Baangs will be here to retrieve the prince at the appointed time. That is all.” With that, the songspirit shimmered and disappeared.

Varcor swallowed hard, unsure of how to take this news. He was excited at the prospect of going home and seeing his father and Kronta again, but on the other hand he was loath to leave Reylyn so soon. He felt there was so much more he could learn from her, and did not want to leave her side yet.

He looked to her for a clue to what she felt about the situation. She gazed thoughtfully at the ceiling, as though trying to remember something. “Colonel?” She half whispered, half thought aloud. “Last time we spoke, he was a private.”

“Reylyn,” Varcor spoke up to get her attention, “what do we do now?”

She turned to him, her eyes still thoughtful. “We have already spoken on the Prophecy, yes?” she said patiently.

“Yes,” Varcor stammered, uncertain of where she was going with this. “You taught me about the Prophecy as one of our first lessons.”

“Then I believe I have something more important that you should learn, Flamesoul,” she said determinedly. “If all goes well, you shall also pass the final test.”

******

Varcor sat at his reading table, drumming his fingers on the solid oak as he thumbed through a large tome, poring over pages of lore on the demon horde. He had long grown tired of his stool, and had dragged an overstuffed chair (Reylyn’s favorite) over to the table. Beside him on the floor were at least a dozen other books that had promising titles that he had pulled from various shelves. Strewn about on the table were several he had already looked through and had either had inconclusive information or did not cover the particular part of the Demon Horde war that he was interested in.

He was not happy when Reylyn had given him the assignment for his final test. When she had told him that he needed to find out who had started the Demon Horde attack, he thought she was out of her mind. It had very little to do with the Prophecy as he knew it, and she could not have picked a more difficult topic to research. Most of the sources he had uncovered held that it was either an unprecedented raid, or that there was no official reason for the attack, just demons being demons.

“Nothing happens without a reason,” Varcor kept telling himself angrily. “No one could be foolish enough to believe demons could be so careless.” He could scarcely believe that this was an accepted theory on demons. They might have been creatures of chaos, but that did not mean they could not plan an attack and have motives for attempting a war.

He leaned forward in his seat as he found a passage that intrigued him greatly. The book was a collection of lore on demons, specifically the demons that had invaded with the horde. He had hoped that he would find out about the leaders of the horde, but apparently the otherworldly forces were being directed from the Darkplane, the demon home plane.

According to the book, demons were not capable of entering the Prime Material plane without being summoned or otherwise given passage. They could, however, influence the actions of mortals through focuses and dreams, convincing them to release the demon into the world. However, there were few demons that could amass such a great amount of followers or influence someone powerful enough to bring them all through that it must have been a demon lord.

Excitedly, Varcor snapped the book shut and tossed it onto the pile on the table. He jumped up from his seat and began scanning the titles in the stack beside him. The book he was looking for was at the bottom of the pile, so he upended his stack to retrieve it. It was a codex, a collection of names of extra planar beings, and it included a list of the demon lords known to the sages of the Prime Material plane. He flipped around to the right page, and paused when he found a name that intrigued him. All the others he found were mentioned as being banished, sealed, forgotten, or otherwise incapable of attempting anything on the scale of the Horde, save one. This one, Varcor had read about.

Sorting through his disheveled pile, the half-orc picked up the one book he had taken from its shelf on a whim. He figured that if he could not find what Reylyn asked of him, he could at least study more on the Prophecy. The book was entirely about Unity, the band of heroes that had once saved the world from utter destruction. It was no more than a legend, but any scholar knew that fiction was at least based on reality. The prophecy itself had stemmed from the actual group known as Unity, foretold by the very sorcerer who had instituted the school of Solreth.

The danger that Unity had been reported to have thwarted was a demon lord. His full name, written in the primer that he matched it with was Jarexellion. Unless there was some unheard of demon lord that had amassed power equal to one of the oldest demon lords in existence without the Material plane noticing, there could be no other candidate.

Varcor pushed away all the discarded books away from the table, unearthing his parchment and quill. He opened his inkbottle, and smiled as he started his report. Reylyn would be pleased with his work this night.

******

“Done?” Reylyn said, surprised. “But you only just started last night!”

Varcor shrugged, his smirk confident. “What can I say? I knew where to look, and your selection had all the right information.”

Reylyn propped her chin in one upturned paw as she lay on her treasure pile. “I don’t know . . . you finished it awfully fast. Are you sure that you want to show this to me now, Flamesoul? You don’t want to look it over again to make certain your assessment?”

Varcor smiled. “I already have. I double checked all my facts and sources, and triple checked all my spelling.”

Reylyn shook her head, grinning broadly. “Are you sure you’re an orc, and not an elf in disguise?” she laughed. “You’d make a better scholar than a prince.”

The half orc laughed along with her. He could not help but feel happy that he was different from his kin. While the orcs were nice enough, most of them still had very little to do with the pursuit of knowledge. He found that while he was studying with Reylyn, he felt more fulfilled than when he was learning swordplay with Kronta or being lectured on Faarthus’s teachings by Iksol.

Reylyn transformed herself to her human state, something Varcor had never quite gotten used to. He much preferred her natural state to the falsity of her human guise, and he was not used to being taller than she was. She took the sheaf of parchments from him, and started reading. It was while she was reading that Varcor realized something that made his heart freeze.  He had gone to great lengths to find out the demon that instigated the whole conflict, but he had neglected to mention his findings about demons accessing the Prime Material plane. In further frigid terror, he realized that the demon might not have been what she was looking for, that she had intended for him to find out who had allowed Jarexellion to send his armies out from the Darkplane in the first place.

Much to his surprise, she nodded. “That is incredible. I didn’t think you would get it right on your first try.”

“What?” Varcor said, confused.

She gave him a perplexed look. “What is it? You seemed so confident about your work a moment ago.”

“I . . .” He started, pausing to think if he should mention his realization. “I was just thinking that it was incomplete.”

“How?” She said, waving the papers in front of him. “You detailed your sources, explained your thoughts clearly, and I could not find a single spelling error.”

“I mean the information. I did not give any thought to the mortal side of the conflict.”

She cocked an eyebrow, still seeming just as much a dragon in her human form. “What are you going on about, dear boy?”

“Demons need mortal aid before they can enter our world. In my fervor to find the demon responsible, I did not even think to find out the mortal responsible for . . .”

She paled as he spoke the words, which startled him. Her expression would have been enough to keep him from saying more, but he had never seen her go pale before, not even in her human form.

“How did you find that out?” She breathed, her voice barely a whisper.

“That was my basis for guessing Jarexellion. He was the only one powerful enough at the time to do it.” He scratched his chin. “To even attempt something like that, the sorcerer responsible would have to have been incredibly talented. Would it be all right if I looked it up now, and added it to my report?”

She was silent for a while, and Varcor at first interpreted it as indecision. “It would not be for my test, just for posterity’s . . .”

He stopped in mid sentence when she fixed him with a look that would have made Faarthus blanch. Her eyes almost glowed with anger, and Varcor could feel his soul shrink under the weight of her ire.

“What does it matter, Varcor?” She said sternly. “It could have been anyone with magical training, even a fledgling student like you. Demons have the ability to play on your worst fears and greatest desires. A demon as powerful as Jarexellion can enslave the minds of any but the most brilliant of creatures. No, Varcor, there was no mortal was at fault in the Coming of the Horde.”

Varcor almost choked on his own emotion, looking away from her. He could not believe that he had been so brazen as to consider that a mortal would have intentionally released hell on the world. He did not know what to say to her, no words seemed to be appropriate for apology. He looked up at her, and saw that the anger had dissolved into a frustrated sadness. He felt sickened for opening up some old wound she suffered ages ago, and so soon after he had upset her with his other questions.

After a long silence, she handed him back his report. He took it carefully, not knowing what to expect from her now. She would not look him in the eyes. He did not know whether that was a good thing.

He wanted to curse at himself. He wanted to take a dagger to the books in the library. He wanted to yell at her for giving him the assignment. But there was no one to blame for his unease, or her sadness.

He did the only thing he felt was left. He put a hand on her shoulder, and said, “I’m sorry.”

She looked up at him again, emotion welling up in her eyes. He realized that this might have been the first time in three years that he actually touched her. By the look she gave him, not many people gave her such affection.

“It isn’t your fault, Flamesoul,” she said, smiling and drawing him into a hug. Varcor sighed in relief as he held her, just happy to see her smile. She pulled back after a moment, still smiling. “You passed, you know.”

“I did?” he said, and she nodded.

“Yes. I know for a fact that no book in my library states that Jarexellion was the cause of the Horde War. You did better than most scholars, orc or otherwise. This assignment was to test if you could find the truth out for yourself, and you have done that spectacularly. Now, on the issue of the sorcerer responsible . . .”

“I don’t want to know anymore,” Varcor said. “You’re right. I should not have made that assumption. No matter what happened, no mortal could be held accountable for that disaster.”

She gave him another soft smile. “I know. But I think it would be important that you know. But I don’t want you to find out here. Take your research to Cagar-Tugan. If you don’t find out by the next time we meet, I may tell you myself.”

Varcor nodded, understanding more than he let on. He had already guessed that she knew. She had probably been attached to that person, by the reactions she had given him. If this had to do with his question about bringing the dead back, he would not be surprised.

“Oh!” She said suddenly, and hurried off toward her treasure pile. Varcor watched as she moved aside a few coins and baubles and came out with a crimson leather gauntlet for the right hand, its fingers missing, with a large, fiery garnet set into the back.

“This is your reward for passing all my tests,” she said, handing it to him reverently.

“It is beautiful,” he said. He pulled it onto his hand, and it seemed to mold itself to the contours of his hand.

“It is more than beautiful,” she said. She returned to her true form, and climbed atop her treasure bed. “It is a fire magic amplifier. It was said to be worn by a great hero in times of trouble. You will find that it makes your powers easier to command and much more effective.”

“I am honored with this gift,” he said, bowing deep. “I shall wear it with pride.”

She laughed then, a deep melodious sound that echoed throughout the cave. “You never change, Flamesoul.”

******

The next five days seemed to pass for Varcor in the space of a breath. Reylyn had him finish his healing magic training, but it seemed little more than a distraction after all he had learned. He and Reylyn conversed openly, they way the did before Varcor had asked about resurrection. When the conversations were over, he could only think of how much he would miss those discussions.

Finally, the day came when Kronta showed up on the cliffs outside Reylyn’s lair. When he arrived, both Varcor and Reylyn were reading near the entrance of the cave.  When he saw Varcor, the big orc beamed. “Why, look at ye!” he said, making his way over to the cave entrance to give Varcor a friendly hug. “Ye’ve grown like a tree, ye have! Almost as tall as meself!”

“It is good to see you, Uncle,” Varcor said, accepting the hug gratefully. “I’ve missed you and father very much.”

“It has been a long time, Kronta,” Reylyn said, closing the dragon-sized tome she was reading. “I trust you had no trouble on the cliffs?”

“Bah!” Kronta said. “No more trouble than a flight o’ stairs! How have ye been, m’lady?”

“I’m very well, Colonel,” she said, with emphasis on his new title.

“Ah, it ain’t much more than a title,” he said gruffly, embarrassed. “In charge o’ me old unit or the bloody Silver Guards, It’s all the same ta me.” He looked to Varcor. “Are ye ready, boy?”

“I . . .” Varcor said, and then hesitated. He looked up to Reylyn, unsure of how to say what he wanted. For all his study and learning, he did not know how to say goodbye.

Reylyn must have seen the unease on his face, and guessed what he was trying to say. She shook her large head when he stammered, and leaned down to whisper, “This isn’t good bye, Flamesoul. You and I will meet again, I promise.”

He nodded, and then hugged her muzzle, unable to contain his emotion. “I will see the one responsible for your sadness punished,” he whispered. “I swear it.”

She looked at him softly. She smiled again, and nudged him away towards Kronta.

“Thank ye, m’lady,” the big orc said.

“You are most welcome, Kronta. Tell the king his son was a joy to teach, more so than he was.”

“Aye, ye’ve got my word,” Kronta said. “Let’s be off, boy.”

“I am a boy no longer, Uncle,” Varcor said, his dark red eyes blazing with an inner fire. “I am now Flamesoul.”

The Best Sheep Ever

This might be the silliest story I've ever written. I had a lot of fun writing it (maybe too much fun, as this took me three damn months to finish. I hope you enjoy!

A plague of Gray Boils struck the land of Fenndwell, almost overnight. The people were struck ill, save for a lucky few. Lucky, that is, if you consider having to clean up everyone else's burst boil juices and vomit lucky. But the people were not the only ones affected by the outbreak. The herds of glimmersheep, the enchanted beasts that made Fenndwell famous, were stricken as well. The boils soiled their silvery fleece, ruining most of the magical wool.

Before falling ill, Lord Tambis IV sent out a plea for help to the governing country of Harkenal. The Harkers, a guild of adventurers and explorers, received their message but were disallowed to help by the Council of Seven. Gregory Klask, the Grandmaster of the Harkers, understanding all too well the dire situation facing the people of Fenndwell and unable to win over the hearts of the Council, sent word out to the only two people he knew could help without actually breaking his word to the Council.

They were mercenaries known on several dimensions, some of which they were legally allowed to return to. Not only were they both dangerous combatants in their own ways, they were expert investigators, famously having solved mysteries such as The Missing Emeralds of Talran, The Haunted Song of Bollanhall, and The Dread Panty-Snatcher of West-Iverland. To those who knew what to call them, they were known as ... Danger Beasts!

The first of the two was Branth. Once a man, he was now mostly wolf due to a terrible curse that was not as bad as it seemed. What was supposed to render him a savage, frothing beast only served to give him gray fur and a deep voice. Not to mention claws, which he often declined to use in favor of the ancestral sword he carried with him.

The second was Crimsalin, sorceress, genius, dragon. Definitively the brains behind Danger Beasts, she stumbled upon Branth's world when her experimental gate spell dropped her unceremoniously between him and his undead foes. A quick explaination and another spell later they were both drawn into yet another realm, unfamiliar to both.

Thus began their amazing adventures across planes, dimensions, and time. Soon, they were known for their exploits all across existence, and their foes would call them Beasts. They embraced that title, after intercepting a Nazi message that said only "Danger Beasts Are Coming" they began using it to refer to themselves.

Eventually they began to sell their services as mercenaries across the planes. Not many people knew their names, but those who did spoke of them as legend incarnate. The ones lucky enough to call upon them learned quickly that there seemed to be no problem they could not solve. Those unlucky enough to stand in their way discovered how well deserved their name was.

"So let me see if I understand you correctly," Crimsalin said to the nervous young man in front of her who spoke for the lord. "You want us to ... cure your people?"

"In a manner of speaking, ma'am," the man said.

"Cut to the heart of it, boy," Branth said, yellow eyes glaring. "You are aware we are no healers."

"Kinda the opposite, actually," Crimsalin said, flashing a sharp-toothed grin. Branth returned her knowing look with a smirk of his own. "So what does your lord think we can do for him?"

"He believes the plague is a curse, brought on by a witch." the young man said.

Branth's ears flattened and his eyes narrowed. "A witch?"

"Now, now," Crimsalin said, putting a hand on his shoulder. "Not all of 'em want your fur for a potion."

"She said aphrodisiac, thank you very much," said the wolf man, shivering. "I'll not have any of that, thank you."

"Rumor is she wants our glimmersheep, and if she can't have them, she won't let us keep them either."

"Those fancy colorful things out in the fields?" Branth said. "What does she want with those?"

"Their fur is magic, sir,"

Branth sighed. "Magic sheep. Still a better stock than Maine."

"I've not heard of that land, sir," the young man said.

Branth put a clawed hand on his shoulder, and gestured with the other to the horizon. "Picture your hills, but instead of sheep, it's potatoes. Potatoes as far as the eye can see."

"And a shoreline, stinking with oversized crayfish," Crimsalin added.

"That's horrible," the young man said. "How do their people live?"

"In cold and polite bitterness," Branth growled. "I've never seen a population so miserable."

"But we're not here to talk about backwater worlds and their unreasonable rules about vigilantism," Crimsalin said. "Where is this witch? We might as well pay her a visit, see what she has to say for herself."

"Her manor is to the east," the young man said. "You may want to start there. Now if you'll excuse me," he picked up a mop and a bucket, "the lord's vomit won't clean itself up."

"Good luck, kid," Crimsalin said, somewhat sympathetically.

"Come on, then," Branth said to his partner. "We were paid in advance, let's not waste any of Klask's time."

They found themselves at the manor in no time at all. It was a sturdy cottage atop a hill, dark and rustic but strangely alluring. All around the estate the hill was covered in a thick, overgrown garden, fenced in by a high cobblestone wall. A beautiful stone archway and wrought iron gate was the only discernible entrance.

"Could you just fly over that, right into the manor?" Branth said, gesturing to the wall.

Crimsalin smirked. "Right into a magical trap? No thanks. Rule number one when dealing with other magic users, remember?"

Branth nodded reluctantly. "Keep a low profile, I know."

"And rule number two?" Crimsalin prompted.

"Have a plan, of course." Branth said, approaching the gate. "What's the plan, then?"

"Glad you asked," Crimsalin said, taking out a pair of spectacles and placing them on her snout. She gestured to her new accoutrement, as if expecting Branth to respond to them.

"Is that a new perscription?" he asked. "Quite nice, I thought you needed new ones."

"These are enchanted, you goat-yodler. Witches are known for enchantments and illusions. This will let me see what's real and what's magical misdirection."

"...Witches are also known for transformative magics," Branth said. "What happens when she turns us into fish?"

Crimsalin scrunched up her face in thought. "Right, I knew I was forgetting something."

"We'll think of something," Branth said, pushing open the gate. "Maybe we'll surprise her."

They trudged through the garden, down a flagstone path that wove drunkenly through the collection of vibrant and aromatic buds and blossoms that filled the overgrown garden. Branth had to cover his nose for the walk, the combination of many strong aromas did not do his canine sense of smell any favors.

They came upon a hedge made entirely of an exotic flower, which Branth at first mistook for a white rose. As he grew closer, he noticed the edges of the petals turned orange in the middle, and red at the tips. Their scent was warm and dry, much like cinnamon.

... Did that flower just turn toward him?

Branth barely had time to leap back as a gout of searing flame consumed the air that once surrounded him.

"Flowers of Fire! Crim, stay back!" he shouted, warding her away. He pulled his shield from its place on his back and slid it onto his arm in one fluid motion.

"Branth ..." she started to say, but he held up his clawed hand.

"Patience, girl, let me concentrate." He strode forward again, holding the sturdy shield between him and the dangerous plants. They once again unleashed a torrent of immolating flames, but they were repelled by the magic in the shield. Dashing with inhuman speed, he was soon past the treacherous topiary. Some of the flames had singed the fur of his snout and feet.

"Crim, I'll throw you my shield, it'll keep you safe," Branth said. He removed the shield from his arm and was about to toss it to her when he noticed she was walking calmly through the fire as though nothing was wrong.

"I'm a red dragon, remember?" She said to his astonished gaze.

"Oh yes. Quite right." Branth replaced the shield on his back, frowning in embarrassment.

She pointed at his nose. "You got a little black there, buddy."

"I am aware, thank you." He brushed off his nose halfheartedly.

They continued unimpeded up the path, reaching the house. The stink of incense and rot permeated the air around the heavy wooden door. Branth nodded to Crimsalin, and she nodded back adjusting her spectacles. He pushed the door open, revealing a dark room. They stepped inside, and Crimsalin brought magical light to her hand. At once, the darkness was flushed away, revealing a dozen copies of the two mercenaries standing all around them. Branth snarled and pulled his sword and shield, watching as all the other Branths did the same.

Crimsalin held him back before he could charge into the fray. "Whoa there, furface. You wanna take another look before you leap?"

Branth slapped his forehead as he realized he had just drawn his sword on a room full of mirrors.

Crimsalin patted his shoulder. "Now, now, no need to beat yourself up over it."

Branth glared at her, growling in disapproval. "There's no need to be snide. I must be ready for anything."

"You certainly aren't ready for mirrors," she grinned. "C'mon, there's a gap here. I think it's some kind of maze."

The stepped between two mirrors, and sure enough found themselves in a tight hallway lined with dozens of mirrors. The path split in two, each way leading to its own collection of corridors and passages.

"Shall we split up?" Crimsalin asked

Branth arched an eyebrow. "What for? To break everything faster?"

"We'll find the exit faster that way, dog-noggin." She took the path to the left. "Shout out if you find the exit!" Branth sighed and started down the path to the right.

Never a fool, the experienced warrior knew a trick for navigating mazes. He kept his hand to the right wall, following it at all times. The maze seemed to be devoid of any traps or other threats, so the going was slow but easy.

Pretty soon, he found himself smelling the incense and rot of the front door. He had found his way back to the beginning of the maze. He frowned, realizing that he had picked the wrong side of the maze. He gazed down Crimsalin's chosen path thoughfully, stroking his chin. Should he follow her?

A moment later, the sorceress appeared from around the corner. Branth crinkled his snout in confusion. "Did you not find the exit?"

"You mean you didn't either?" Crimsalin said in disbelief. "Ioun's third eye, you gotta be kidding me!"

"This maze must be enchanted," Branth grumbled. "Didn't you see anything with those magical glasses?"

She paused, taking off the glasses and inspecting the frames before looking quite sheepish. "My bad, these are the new prescription."

Branth's groan sounded like a whine of frustration.

She rummaged through her belt pouch, pulling out a second, almost identical pair of spectacles. She replaced the old pair with the new and glanced around. "Which way you want to go now?"

"Your way first," the wolfman growled, "and if we find the exit, you owe me lunch for a month."

She scoffed. "Whatever. It won't be on my side, I still would have found it without the glasses. My senses are attuned to magic, I live in the aether every second of the day! I can sniff out an illusion easier than you can sniff out a cheese sandwich."

She stopped a moment later glancing to one side. She put her hand on a mirror, and it passed right through.

"That's the door, isn't it?" Branth said, smugness dripping from his tone.

"Shut up," Crimsalin grumbled.

"Looks like steak for a month for me, while it seems you've got a taste for your own words."

Her eyes narrowed and her nose scrunched up. "I hope you choke on it, flea-feast." She stomped through the mirror to the other side, shattering the illusion  as she passed through. On the other side was a short hallway leading to another old wooden door.

Branth shook his head as he chuckled to himself. As he did, he caught strange movement in the corner of his eye. One of the mirrors behind him cast the reflection of a young woman standing beside him, her sharp gaze sending a chill down the wolf's spine.

"Crim, there's ... " he turned to her but she didn't even turn to face him. He looked back to the odd reflection, but it only reflected his image once more. With furrowed brow and narrowed eyes, he followed the spiteful dragoness.

The room beyond the new door glowed with sweltering warmth. Bright green light poured into the room through big oil lamps hanging on the wall. A long table filled the center of the room, covered in alembics and retorts. down the center of the table sat a planter with various species of plant, ranging from tiny colorful flowers to masses of tangled vines.

"Some kind of lab?" Branth mused. "This would explain the monstrosities in the garden."

Crimsalin moved to the table and leaned in close to the planter. the plants stirred at her closeness, and some of them began to lean toward her. "Yep," she said, "Definitely magical. Probably the planter, that would be easiest to maintain." She turned back to Branth. "Shall we burn it?"

He scowled disdainfully. "If we were going to do that, we wouldn't have used the front door. We're mercenaries, not savages. We will give this witch a chance to explain herself, and if we don't like what she has to say, then we can burn and stab as we see fit."

"Always such a people person," Crimsalin sneered. "You did say you were an officer in that army."

"More of an Alliance, really," Branth said. "But never mind that, if this room is not dangerous, we move on to the next."

Crimsalin's tail swished as she eyed the tables, seemingly irritated. "Nope," she said suddenly, leaning forward and unleashing a wave of fire from her maw. The flames licked at the table and apparatus.

"Blood of the Ancients, woman!" Branth cursed as he leapt away from the tables. "What's possessed you?"

"Her fireflowers singed your lovely fur," she said simply. "I don't want her to make any more, and now she can't, regardless of whether or not she lives."

"Such carelessness," he growled. "If you're so concerned with my fur, why breath flame so close to me?"

Crimsalin's grin was wicked. "When I do it, it's funny."

Branth shook his head. "A real menace. I'm only lucky you like me."

Suddnely, the flames fizzled out, revealing that the tables and plants were untouched by Crimsalin's wrath. Branth arched an eyebrow at the dragoness, who stared in disbelief at the table.

"Tell me, dear," Branth said. "If you were working on magical plants that made fire, what's the first thing you would do to your other plants and your workspace?"

Crimsalin sighed, her hand rubbing the space between her eyes. "Shut up. Why didn't you finish mage school, anyway?"

Branth was about to answer when a bright flash and puff of smoke filled the room, following the pop and rush of magical energy. When the smoke cleared, a tall, gnarled wooden figure stood before them. It made a low grumble, like the creaking of an ancient tree, as it swung its heavy clublike arm into Branth's chest, winding the warrior and pushing him back. The stubborn wolf remained on his feet, but dazed.

Crimsalin tossed a ball of flame at the creature, which puffed against its bark harmlessly. She growled in disgust as the wood monster's fist clocked her in the jaw. Reeling, she tried to line up another spell, but the magical bolt whizzed past the wood man's form.

It was about to strike her again, when it suddenly stopped, its face looking somehow surprised. It and she looked down, seemingly at nothing at first, but then Crimsalin noticed its top half slowly sliding forward off its bottom. It fell to the ground in two gangly heaps.

Branth stood on the other side of the creature, his sword gleaming in the green light of the room.

The warrior wolf bowed his head toward her. "My apologies. I shouldn't have let it hit you."

"Damn right, you shouldn't have," Crimsalin grinned, stumbling back into the table for support. "Do you think you could stop the world from spinning as well?"

"It will pass," Branth reassured her. "Shall we move on?"

Crimsalin nodded, but glanced over the table once more. She spotted a glass case, filled with samples. One of them she recognized, a clump of wool that shimmered in the light with a myriad of colors.

"Come on then, here's the door," Branth called to her.

"Yeah, coming ..." she muttered. Shaking her head to clear the last of her dizziness away, she caught up the Branth by the next door. He nodded to confirm he was ready. She nodded back, and together they kicked in the door.

On the other side of the door, a young woman with blonde hair in an elegant blue robe and steepled hat sat at a crystal ball.

"Made it, did you?" She said snidely.

"Silence, witch!" Branth snarled, his sword leveled at her. "We know about your wicked plans." He narrowed his eyes as he recognized her. "So it was you I saw in the mirror."

The witch nodded, gesturing to the crystal ball. "You weren't quiet or anything. I had plenty of time to do that."

"Never mind that," Crimsalin said. "I know your tricks, dearie. You've plagued their sheep, haven't you? I saw the sample in your lab, and I can guess what you've been doing."

"Enlighten me," the witch said, raising an eyebrow.

Crimsalin straightened up, smugly. "You're channeling your cursed plague through the sheep's magical fleece."

"Wrong," the witch said. "My 'wicked' plans involve creating the most lovely plants with which to win the Fenndwell Festival's Fairest Flora competition, magical plants division."

Crimsalin scoffed."You expect me to believe that your interests go no further than flower arrangements? Why else would you need a clump of the glimmerwool for working with herbs?"

The witch chuckled. "Maybe because I created those sheep? I work with more than just plants."

"We're supposed to believe you made those foolish things?" Branth said. "Why would a witch make magical sheep?"

"I was paid quite nicely to do so." The witch said. "My father thought they would do Fenndwell some good for tourism, but it turns out they're quite useful for practitioners of magic and make lovely clothes to boot."

"Your father?" Branth asked.

"Yes, Lord Tambis. I'm his daughter, Mezzia Tambis." She cocked her head. "Furthermore, this is the first I've heard of a plague."

"But we were told you were the cause!" Branth insisted. "And if you are the Lord's daughter, why do you live so far from the town?"

"Because my fellow Fenndwellians are a dopey lot, and I don't want them trampling my garden by accident. Especially when my plants might hurt them." She gestured to Branth's nose. "Had a run in with my fireflowers?"

"But... but your ..." Crimsalin looked defeated. "You really didn't even know about the plague? Then we just barged in and ... I almost ruined an innocent witch's lab?"

"And you broke down my door," Mezzia said pointing behind them. "I hope you can fix it, if you can't pay for it."

Branth grumbled, sheathing his sword. "If you truly aren't responsible for the misdeeds at Fenndwell, we have run out of leads on this case."

"Nevermind your case, what about this plague?" Mezzia asked. "I find it hard to believe it's affecting the sheep. My babies should be immune to disease."

"They call it the plague of gray boils. It makes the afflicted break out in puss filled boils and causes plenty of other fluids, from the sounds of things," Crimsalin told her. "Sounds like a standard magical plague, if you ask me."

Mezzia stroked her chin. "Sounds more like an alchemical affliction. Lots of fluids and such. Magical diseases have fewer ... mundane symptoms."

"Right, right," Crimsalin said, shaking her head. "I always get those confused."

"Did you do no research before you came to accuse me?" Mezzia chided. "There's an incredible difference between a witches' potion-making and true alchemy. I couldn't have pulled this off if I wanted to. Who are you two anyway?"

"Well, right now I'm feeling like we're the worst heroes," Crimsalin said.

"We are the Danger Beasts, multiplanar mercenaries," Branth said. "My name is Branth, and my colleague here is Crimsalin. We were asked by Grandmaster Klask to aid Fenndwell in stopping this plague."

Mezzia's eyes lit up. "Oh, Klask is the one who convinced me to get my witching degree! I love that old buzzard!"

Branth and Crimsalin shared a look. "Then, perhaps you'd like to help us?" Branth suggested. "Lord Tambis is among the afflicted if that means anything to you."

Mezzia smiled politely. "More worried about the sheep, to be honest."

"Is your father a cruel man?" Branth asked sincerely.

"No, no, he's sweet as a box of kittens," Mezzia said. "He's just an idiot. I can't stand idiots."

Crimsalin teleported the three of them back out to the hills of Fenndwell, right near a flock of the sheep. Mezzia walked out to one of the sheep, which ambled right up to her as though the witch was her mother. She inspected the glittering animal, paying close attention to the dark blotches on its fur.

"How bad is it?" Crimsalin asked. "We didn't have a chance to take a closer look at the sheep before we left."

Mezzia frowned. "It's jam."

Crimsalin tilted her head. "What do you mean, 'jam'? I could scrape a piece of toast on the side of the sheep and have a lovely snack?"

Branth dipped his claw in one of the boils, and sniffed it. His ears perked up and he licked his finger. "Blackberry! I love blackberry!"

"So, the sheep aren't sick, just made to look ill?" Crimsalin said.

"You seriously just blundered in to this job, didn't you?" Mezzia sighed.

"Now look here, little miss criticism," Crimsalin growled, "We had no reason to suspect what we were told might have been untrue. Do you think you could do this better than us?"

"I don't know, is that a job offer?" Mezzia grinned slyly.

"What?" Crimsalin blinked.

Mezzia shrugged. "Just a thought. It seems like you need an inquisitive mind, one who can ask the right questions and do all the research."

Crimsalin shared a glance with Branth, and turned back to the witch. "We'll consider your application."

"That didn't sound like a no," Mezzia said smugly. "So are you satisfied that my sheep are not the cause?"

"Clearly, but whoever did this took great pains to convince us otherwise," Branth said, licking the rest of the jam off his claws. "Who would want to frame you?"

"I don't know, but who could resist blaming a plague on a witch?"

"Wait," Crimsalin said, her fingers on her temple. "You said that you were going to enter some kind of festival contest with your magical plants. Does that mean that the other townsfolk know about your abilities?"

"I'm the lord's eldest daughter, top of my class, and the most learned person in town," Mezzia said flatly, "I don't know if there was a way I could be more popular."

"But didn't the lord's aide insinuate her in the spread of the plague?" Branth asked Crimsalin. "Why would he do that, if everyone knows who she is?"

"He was the only one we talked to ..." Crimsalin said, slowly realizing.

"What aide are you talking about?" Mezzia asked. "Was it an old man?"

"No, a young man, perhaps mid twenties," Branth said.

Mezzia's eyes narrowed. "That's not father's servant. Harvian would never try to incriminate me."

Branth's yellow eyes flared angrily. "We've been had! Lied to this whole time!"

Crimsalin turned her gaze toward the town, then back to Mezzia, her face a deliciously sinister grimace. "Mezzia, dear, would you like to punish the fool who would dare besmirch your name?"

Mezzia's wicked grin practically mirrored the dragoness'.

Minutes later, they were at the lord's mansion in town. The opulent building neatly dwarfed the rest of the ones in town, but was still quite plain as far as mansions went. The door broke neatly open under Branth's mighty foot. The stunned guards' protests were silenced as the lord's daughter entered behind the wolf man, followed by Crimsalin, her smug glare daring them to try their luck.

Branth hoisted one of the guards up by his leather armor. "I demand to know where the lord's aide has gone."

"Kurtz? The new kid?" The guard squealed. "He's up on the top floor -- third floor! -- tending to Lord Tambis!"

"We'd best hurry," Crimsalin said to Mezzia.

"Sorry, boys, I'll see you compensated for the trouble," Mezzia said to the guards as they hurried up the stairs.

They flew up the stairs to the third floor, and Branth crashed through the door Mezzia pointed to. Within, the young man they met earlier stood over the lord in his bed. There were tubes protruding from the sickened ruler, apparently syphoning his blood into a series of alchemical beakers and distillers. The young man cast them a dour gaze, perturbed at the disturbance.

"You've seen through my little disguise, I see," he said drolly. "Not that there's anything you can do about it now."

"What the Ever Loving Fruck are you doing here?" Crimsalin blurted out.

"He's using my father as a vessel for his plague," Mezzia scowled, "incubating it in his body and removing it from his blood to purify it."

"And putting it in the same water I brew the tea in!" the young man shouted, cackling. "And all of these stupid townsfolk think that tea will make them healthier, it's so perfect!"

"Dastardly scoundrel!" Branth snarled.

"Whoa, language!" Crimsalin scolded.

"What are you hoping to accomplish?" Branth growled, ignoring his partner's tease. "Ransom? Infamy? A wealth of glittering sheep?"

"With the plague? Nothing," the young man said, spreading his hands. "Once I stop administering it, it will fade away over a couple of days, leaving no trace."

"Then what was the point?" Branth roared.

The man raised his hand again, this time, a pistol was held in it. "You were, Danger Beasts. This was all to draw you here."

"Wait, seriously?" Crimsalin said. "This was an attempt to get our attention? But we almost didn't take the job. We literally decided if we would with Rock Paper Scissors."

"And yet you're here, like the do-gooder fools I took you for!" the man shouted.

"But why do you want us?" Branth asked from behind his shield. "What did we ever do to you?"

"I forgot to introduce myself. My name is Lieutenant Hansi Kurtz!"

"Hansi ... ?" Branth said absently. "That sounds familiar."

"Branth..." Crimsalin said warily. "Look at his pistol, it's a luger!"

"Wait, I know you now!" Branth said, recognition dawning on him. "You were in that Nazi occult lab we trashed a while back!"

"The fuehrer sends his regards," Hansi said coldly. "You have a lot to answer for, Danger Beasts. We were one step away from achieving immortality, and you ruined everything!"

"So it's just revenge?" Crimsalin said, unimpressed. "You crossed dimensions and planes beyond all of Earth's knowledge, and all you do is try to punish a couple of punks that busted your amateur magic lab?"

"It's more than that," Hansi snapped. "We can finish the ritual. All I need to do is bring you back, and the fuerer might still live forever!"

"Won't happen." Crimsalin scoffed. "You're basic, bitch. We're too pro for you."

"These anti-magic silver bullets say otherwise," the Nazi snickered leveling the pistol toward her. "I don't need you alive."

Branth was in front of her before the trigger was pulled. There was a click and the two braced for the explosion of sound and burning pain of a bullet.

Nothing happened.

"Do you know what kind of place Fenndwell was before I created the glimmersheep?" Mezzia said, holding a piece of glimmerwool in her hand. "It was a dry land, always in danger of flash fires. My sheep ward and dampen flames nearby. That's some kind of blunderbuss, if I'm not mistaken, and black powder needs fire to work." She smiled slyly. "I suppose I've pulled the wool over your eyes."

"Damn fine sheep," Branth said, lowering his shield and striding forward to Hansi. The nazi tossed his gun away, sweeping up a vial from the table beside the lord. "This is the purest form of the plague, undiluted!" he shouted. "If a drop of this touches you, it would kill you instantly."

Branth sighed, rolling his eyes. Without hesitation he snatched the vial from the startled fascist, and swallowed it in a single gulp. He then glared at the Nazi, crushing the vial in his paw.

"You... You should be dead!"

"I'm a werewolf, you ponce," Branth said. "Immune to diseases of the flesh, magical or mundane. And you call yourself an occultist." The werewolf knight backhanded the man with his shield, knocking him to the floor where he lay unconscious.

"That was exciting," Mezzia said, walking over to her father to inspect his condition. "You do things like that all the time?"

"More or less," Crimsalin said. "Though we typically don't deal with nazis anymore. Churchill won't pay his tab."

Branth hoisted Hansi over his shoulder effortlessly. "We'll ask him about it again when we drop this idiot off. Would you like to visit England, Mezzia? They have smashing tea."

"I'd say Japan has better," Crimsalin said. "Oh! We should go there next, the cherry blossoms will be falling next week!"

Branth shrugged. "Sounds like a holiday to me, perfect to celebrate our new hire" he glanced knowingly at the witch, who grinned back. "If you still want the job, that is."

"I warn you, my consultation rates can be steep."

"For protection from dragonfire? I'll suffer the cost," Branth chuckled.