A TAVERN ABOVE A WOOD By C. J. Burch 
THE tavern was constructed of wood, save for its foundation, which was made of stone. It was low and long. It hugged a curve in a mountain pass, and used a huge grey cliff for its north wall.
It hung at the edge of a valley rimmed by snowy peaks. Beneath it stood a forest of pine, juniper and birch. Beyond that was another pass, and beyond that pass another valley ringed by more peaks still.
The day, which had been cool, had slipped away into darkness, and the snow shone silver beneath the light of the big moon and her daughter.
Inside, the smell of tobacco and roasting deer filled the common room. A fire crackled in a fire place on its western wall, and a motley collection of travelers, traders, warriors and hunters ringed a bar a few paces from the fire.
Beyond the bar the tavern's lone table was occupied by four men and a single woman. The men were all burly red faced sorts who had seen more of desolation than civilization. The woman was lovely, but at ease among the men all the same. Her name was Tiana Dumond.
She was a child of the warm seas to the south who had been blessed with dark hair, olive skin and gentle curves. All these things were misleading, though, for onto the body of a dancing girl she had grafted the sinew of a warrior. Over both she had pulled a chain mail shirt and a pair of leather breeches.
On her belt hung a dangerous looking dagger, and leaned against her left thigh was the handle of a nasty looking double bladed axe. In her hands she held five cards. At her elbow lay a half finished tankard of dark ale.
She studied the cards she held with the same feral gaze she had shown foes for twenty six years. The men about her studied their own cards as intently, and though their eyes occasionally dallied upon on the curve of her breast, none reached for her. It was just as well, if they had they would have been left a stump where once they possessed a limb.
Dumond's partner, Krystyn Hamerskjold sat at the bar a few paces from Dumond, carefully positioned so that her back faced the game. Not because she was a devotee of fair play, though for the most part she was, but because she did not wish her presence to lead to nasty accusations and blood shed.
Like Dumond she was lean and strong, and perhaps a few inches taller, but her shoulders were not quite so broad. Unlike Dumond she was blonde with blue eyes, and carried a broad sword instead of an axe. Her skill with the sword matched Dumond's skill with the axe. That made her a dangerous thing.
Next to Hamerskjold a hard bitten old man with a red nose and a white beard wrapped gnarled fingers around a mug. Then he nodded towards the barkeep. "The fiend will roam the night."
The barkeep, a beefy man with big hands and a red beard, shook his head almost imperceptibly.
The old man persisted. "It is true."
Had their roles been reversed and Hamerskjold been at the table clutching a hand of cards while Dumond sat at the bar only silence would have followed the old man's assertion. Soon the subject would have passed away to be forgotten.
Hamerskjold was not Tiana Dumond, though. Silence did not become her. She turned to the old man. He seemed ready to talk. She didn't suppose he needed much encouragement, "Fiend?"
The old man nodded viciously, but another on the other side of the bar stole the tale from him. "Aye, it travels with the moons searching for those it can slay. When it catches them it slits their throat and writes messages in their blood all over the forest."
Hamerskjold sipped her ale. "What sort of messages?"
The old man laughed. "'I am Gyyrkhan,' is all he has ever written, and some say all he ever shall."
Hamerskjold raised an eyebrow at the barkeep. "What does that mean?"
The barkeep shrugged. "It means my customers gossip like washer women."
The old man finished his ale. "All that find themselves out doors this night will be food for Gyyrkhan's belly by day break."
"Gyyrkhan?" again Hamerskjold contributed but a word to the conversation.
"Gyyrkhan," the man on the other side of the bar nodded. "The soul stealer, the blood writer, they say it is the product of demon and human."
"Don't scare the paying customers," the barkeep laid a meaty paw on the handle of a club that lay across the bar. "Lest you see what sort of monster I can become."
The man on the other side of the bar finished his drink. "Try to start a bit of conversation." He muttered. "You're becoming a nasty bore, Thentan."
"Better than a poverty stricken bore," the barkeep replied through clenched teeth. "Off to bed with you, Farand. You've had more than your fill."
Farand grimaced, but did not tempt the barkeep's club. He pushed himself out of his chair and staggered off towards the guest rooms. The old man put another coin on the bar and handed the barkeep his empty tankard.
The barkeep took the coin and refilled the tankard. He added a bit of venom when he served it. "And you," he said, "have not paid to stay in this house. When I tire of you I'll toss you into the snow."
The old man cackled. "Won't be the first time you turned me out in the cold you fat bastard. I'll survive. I know the places to hide. I know the paths the monster takes."
The barkeep laughed. "So you must. You always find your way back here, and with money to boot."
The old man tapped a gnarled finger against the side of his head. "I am feeble, and I am poor, but, but I am no one's fool."
"A matter of some debate," The barkeep replied.
Hamerskjold frowned. In their travels she and Dumond had stumbled across all manner of legends. Most had been laughably false. Those that had been true still made her scream in the night. "What does this fiend look like?"
"No one that sees him keeps his soul." The old man spat.
Hamerskjold turned to the barkeep. The barkeep shrugged. "There are those that disappear in the forest, but it is haunted by thieves and wolves as much as it's haunted by monsters. Whether those that vanish have been dragged away to Gyyrkhan's lair or died upon a brigand's sword no one knows." He pointed towards the old man, "Least of all this one."
The old man snorted indignantly. Then he took his ale, staggered to the fireplace, and stood before it on unsteady legs.
Hamerskjold watched him go. "You don't believe him."
The barkeep shrugged his shoulders. "I do not know. I never travel the woods by night." Then he leaned closer. "I know this, though. There are some people that cannot be helped."
Hamerskjold frowned. "Your house is full to night?"
"That it is."
"Surely you could find a place for a man grown old and tired."
The barkeep shook his head. "You do not understand."
But Hamerskjold did understand. She understood perfectly. An old and feeble man was going to be chased into the cold when the tavern closed its doors for the evening. That was a thing she could not abide. "Perhaps he could share our room."
"Others have asked. He hasn't accepted the offer." The barkeep carefully eyed Hamerskjold's form. "Though none have looked like you."
Hamerskjold did not reply, but promised herself she would ask the old man into her room before the night was through. The old man could sleep in the bed. She and Dumond would curl up on the floor in blankets. Certainly they had slept in harder places.
* * * *
ONE of the players, a dark eyed man who smoked a pipe, fancied himself a philosopher. He talked constantly. Tiana Dumond was a woman that enjoyed silence. The man displeased her.
She would have said as much but the tavern keeper had announced the last round and told them to finish their game. There was no point in saying much now. Around the table the wagers had been met and raised. Calls had been issued.
The philosopher threw a pair of coins into the pile at the table's center. "What do you suppose is man's most dangerous quality?" He smiled broadly. No doubt he liked his hand and wished to make some point before he displayed it.
Dumond examined her cards and weighed her chances. Another player replied. "I have always trusted my sword and my right arm." Then he tossed his cards upon the table. Two others groaned and folded their hand.
The dark eyed man laughed. "No, friend," He said. "The most dangerous thing a man possesses is his intellect. Any fool can find the strength to swing a sword. It takes cunning to know when to use it and when to leave it sheathed. Or for that matter," his smile turned unctuous. "When to fold," he tossed his cards upon the table, and the swordsman cursed. Then their eyes turned to Dumond.
Dumond offered the first words other than "call," and "deal" she had spoken that night. "The most dangerous thing a man has is his illusions."
The dark eyed man frowned. "No, no, some are deluded by the things they see, but most of us grasp reality well enough. All but you have noticed that I have won this hand."
Dumond cocked an eyebrow. "It is not the illusions around him that are dangerous. It is the illusions that a man holds about himself that wreck him." Dumond threw her cards upon the pile of coins. It was filled to bursting with brightly colored face cards. "You have deluded yourself into believing you are a gambler." She swept the coins towards her with one hand, "Much to your regret."
The dark haired man's brow furrowed. Losing to a woman was bad, losing to woman who had made him a fool a thousand times worse. He skipped the obligatory accusation of foul play and reached for his dagger.
Without removing her hand from the coins Dumond drove her left fist into his chin. The blow struck him flush and toppled backwards over his chair and too the floor.
Hamerskjold stepped from her place at the bar before he could recover and kicked his dagger from his grasp. She laid her hand on the pommel of her sword. "Money can be replaced."
The dark eyed man wiped a touch of crimson from his lips, "A comforting sentiment for those who are rich."
Dumond pulled a pair of coins from the pile and tossed them to him. "That will feed you until you find work." Then she slid her hand to the handle of the axe that leaned against her leg. "Be glad money is all you have lost."
The man caught the coins. Then he pushed himself to his feet. After making a show of brushing himself off he turned for the guest rooms and strode away with as much dignity as he could muster.
Dumond watched him go with a sly smile. "This should see us through the mountains and into Klynaraad."
"That it should," Hamerskjold agreed. Behind her the barkeep shooed the rest of the patrons away from the bar. The old man had turned away from the fire and shuffled towards the door. There was a forlornness about him that moved her. "Tiana," she tried to make her voice as pleasing. "There is something I wish to discuss with you."
* * * *
"NO," the old man shook his head so vehemently he nearly toppled onto his bony ass.
Tiana Dumond almost smiled. "Strange, I had the same reaction, myself. Yet here I stand. I can only hope the force of your argument is stronger than mine own."
Krystyn Hamerskjold barely resisted the urge to drive the heel of her boot onto Dumond's instep. "Listen to me, man. The night is cold. You will not survive a trip into the valley."
"I have walked into that valley since before either of you were born and will walk into it for years to come. I appreciate your kindness. You have done as the gods would wish, but I do not need charity."
Hamerskjold shook her head. "It is not charity. You are entitled. The time you have lived has earned you a bit of kindness. We would be honored if you accepted our offer."
Hamerskjold turned to Dumond. Dumond said nothing. Hamerskjold elbowed her in the ribs.
Dumond sighed. "I can honestly say I would not extend the invitation you have received to royalty, or to anyone else."
Hamerskjold elbowed Dumond again. "It is as Tiana says. You should stay in our room tonight." Dumond gave Hamerskjold a stare that would have killed a warrior less stout.
The old man looked upon his gnarled hands. When he faced them again tears had filled his eyes. "I have never been subject to such kindness." For a moment Hamerskjold thought he might relent, "but it cannot be. I am old, but still I have things I must do. I should go now."
He reached for the door and found Tiana Dumond's hand on his wrist. Her voice, which had been hard before, had turned dewy. "Old one, there is nothing to be accomplished on a night like this. Stay near the fire, be at peace."
Hamerskjold's reply hung in her throat and tears came to her eyes. She beamed upon Dumond like a sun rise after a long night. Dumond shrugged. "I have never been able to abide a man's tears."
The old man fell back a step, covered his mouth and trembled all over. "You are sent by the gods," he whispered, "Sent by the gods."
"That's enough," the barkeep's voice was as coarse as the braying of a donkey. "Either drag him to your room or leave him be. I am closed and ready for sleep. All of you will be awake with the crack of dawn demanding I fill you stomach's before you leave."
Hamerskjold's other wise even temper frayed. She stepped towards the barkeep and gave him a look he would have been wise to fear. "A moment's less sleep and a penny's less profit will not slay you."
The barkeep nodded caustically. "The two of you won enough money to eat for a week, and will be asleep when I rise to prepare your breakfasts."
Hamerskjold, despite the fairness of her form, had lived a hard existence. It had taught her to tolerate most of the ills men had visited upon the world. Still, she could not abide cruelty or those who practiced it.
"It is said that every soul's deeds are weighed good against bad when it passes into the next life." Her teeth clenched. "This will be a moment you remember through all eternity."
Tiana Dumond had known Hamerskjold many years. She understood her moods and her mind. At this moment the barkeep, without realizing it was treading up thin ice crusted over abysmal deeps.
Hamerskjold was kind to a fault, but she was not a woman without temper. Igniting it was a dangerous thing.
"Krys," Dumond stepped away from the door and hooked a hand about Hamerskjold's elbow. "The old one shall stay. That is all that matters. You have acquired what you wanted over stead fast opposition from all parties concerned. You should be happy."
Hamerskjold looked at Dumond's hand. Then she turned a dangerous stare back towards the barkeep. Dumond squeezed her arm. "The world is filled with fat men with big mouths."
Hamerskjold took a deep breath and released it. When she turned back to Dumond her face was warm. "A pity," she turned to the barkeep, "you have been paid. If you require more money for the old man you will be paid again."
The barkeep shook his head. "He's not staying."
Hamerskjold's mouth became a hard straight line. "You try my patience, man."
"Why?" Dumond struggled to place herself between Hamerskjold and the barkeep.
The barkeep pointed towards the door. "Not my choice, yours either."
Hamerskjold and Dumond wheeled about. The door was open. The old man was no where to be found.
Hamerskjold pushed past Dumond and peered into the night. All she saw before her were tracks. They led to a narrow path. Then they sunk below the shelf the inn rested upon.
Tiana Dumond stood at her shoulder. "How can one that old move so quickly?"
Hamerskjold ignored the question. Instead, she turned on the barkeep. "You," she searched for a term loathsome enough to express all she felt, "you wretched thing."
The barkeep, not a man gifted with intuition, finally understood the peril he had courted. "See here," he stammered. "I've seen this before. He never stays, no matter the inducement offered him. It is his way."
"I am not concerned with his way." Hamerskjold spat. "I am concerned with yours."
Finding no mercy in Hamerskjold's stare the barkeep turned to Dumond. "He only comes on the worst nights. Then he complains of his wretchedness and his poverty. Then he leaves. When the night is stormy or frozen he returns with money and more complaints. It is what makes him happy."
"Freezing to death does not make for happiness, oaf." Hamerskjold replied, "And I do not recall seeing him sing for joy."
Dumond wrapped her arms about Hamerskjold. Then she did something she was not accustomed too. She provided the voice of reason. "The old man is retreating into the snow. While you slit the fat man's throat he will move farther from our reach. There is no point to this."
Hamerskjold forgot about the barkeep entirely. "Oderkuul's beard, you are right, come." She wriggled away from Dumond, sprinted to the rack near the door and removed their cloaks. "We must hurry."
Dumond gave the barkeep a baleful glare of her own. "You will never fully comprehend just how much you owe me, man."
The barkeep nodded and wiped his brow with a meaty hand. "Perhaps, but I shall repay you what I can all the same."
Dumond shook her head. "You do not possess the wealth."
"Not with money, with advice."
Dumond grimaced. "I have often filled my belly with that."
"I have seen men rush into the darkness after him. Most return wondering how they could be out distanced so easily. The rest never return at all."
Hamerskjold tossed Dumond a cloak. Then she nodded towards the Tavern keeper. "His kindness, meager as it is, dwarfs his courage."
Dumond pulled the cloak about her and turned to the barkeep again. "We will return. When we do we shall knock at the door. You will open it."
The barkeep shrugged. "If you return, you will not be accompanied by that old man."
* * * *
"THIS is beyond madness. It is a folly I cannot fathom or condone, but still I follow." The charity Dumond shown the old man had long since faded in the cold and dark. It had been replaced by something that was not quite fear, but close enough to it to make the hair on the back of her neck stand up.
Before her Krystyn Hamerskjold had paused and run a hand across her face. When she turned to Dumond she was confused, "How can he move like this? We have followed him out of the mountains and into the valley. We can smell the forest's scent, but still he has not appeared. We are no nearer him than we were when we stepped out of the tavern."
Dumond stepped to Hamerskjold's side. A hundred yards before them the narrow track opened into a broad meadow filled with trees. The forest was twisted and deep, and for lack of a better word malevolent. "His home is in the valley. We can safely say he has returned to it, I think."
"I think," Hamerskjold's resolve, normally a thing of iron, had weakened. "Could we return to the tavern with clear conscience?"
Dumond wanted to nod, but she didn't. "It is possible, but you will not allow it."
"I won't?" Hamerskjold's confusion deepened.
Dumond said nothing. She crossed her arms and waited for Hamerskjold's nature to take its inevitable course.
"If he was this fast, this strong, he was never in any real danger." Hamerskjold began logically, "or fearful of his prospects in the cold." Her eyes narrowed. "He has lured us here."
Dumond had thought the same a hundred paces back. "Perhaps, though without knowing more we cannot be certain."
"What could he possibly want?"
Dumond smiled coldly. "I won a king's ransom at the table Krys. It was no secret."
"But we would have given him money if he had asked."
Dumond shook her head, "Not all of it. And there is of course that which all men seek."
Hamerskjold grimaced, "At his age?"
"An old wolf is a wolf all the same."
Hamerskjold let the reply hang in the air. Then she sighed. Her breath condensed before her and faded on the breeze. "The barkeep said there had been others that followed him."
"Some returned, some did not," Dumond agreed.
"It could be nothing more than it appears to be on the surface, Tiana. He could be a man whose countenance, exposed to harsh wind and inclement weather, is more withered than his body."
Dumond nodded. "The woods are dark. Those that followed him in became lost and perished, nothing more."
Hamerskjold read Dumond's voice the way a scholar perused a scroll. "You do not believe that."
"Do you?"
Hamerskjold laid her hand on the hilt of her sword. "Of all the men I have despised. I hated the ones who thought me a fool and simpleton the most. I want to know what this man is about, and if he thinks me a fool."
Dumond smiled. This time genuinely. "As I said..."
* * * *
HIS track was not hard to follow even in the depths of the forest, but that was not so surprising. There was snow on the ground, and no reason for him to hide his path. Still, she was uneasy.
The forest was wrapped in darkness and quiet save for the screech of the white owl and the call of wolves. Its trees were ancient and untouched by axe or saw.
Above them, where there should have been stars, knotted bows had grown together. Before them lay the spot where the old man's tracks ended. It added to her unease.
It had once been a home made of logs and topped by a thatched roof, but it had been large. The roof had long since died and slid away into nothing, but most of the walls remained. Shattered windows that had once been covered by rough shutters lit its upper and lower floors.
Tiana Dumond leaned against her axe. "It is built rough, but it is large." She sounded uneasy as well.
Hamerskjold nodded. Before she could reply a speck of moonlight freed from the canopy by the clearing about the house knifed to the ground and split asunder, separating into a brilliant rainbow. Hamerskjold leaned towards it. "What can it be?"
Dumond took a series of careful steps towards the house. "It is glass, a pane from the windows. It is stained."
"Stained glass," Hamerskjold joined Dumond. "No poor man can afford that."
"No," Dumond forced her eyes from the house and into the clearing about it. Trees had reclaimed it, but they were small, immature, nothing like the gnarled giants they had passed beneath. "The trees are smaller here."
Hamerskjold had noticed. "It was a farm." Her eyes followed the curve of the clearing where the young trees stood. "A big farm, and well tended I would wager. The people that lived here owned land quite a lot of it, cattle and pigs as well."
Dumond frowned. "Are you certain?"
"I was raised on a farm." Hamerskjold remembered times long past with a smile, "but I can show you if you like."
"Show me what? It is all a ruin."
Hamerskjold pointed off into the distance towards the smaller trees. "See how they are divided into regular plots?"
They were. The new growth was in clumps, each distinct from the next. There were dozens upon dozens of them. "Yes."
"If it were daylight you would see the remains of old fence rows between each stand of timber. Those were once fields." Hamerskjold turned towards a broken shadow on the house's other side. "That was a barn. If we searched we would find more, root cellars, smoke houses, stables, wells. This was a large and productive farm."
Dumond frowned. "Now it is a wreck. What happened?"
Hamerskjold took another step towards the ruined house. "We will not find the answer out here."
Dumond followed her, "But wouldn't it be pleasant if just this once we did? If the answer to each of our questions appeared from the darkness and laid itself bare without causing us harm or fright. Wouldn't that be a strange and wondrous thing?"
Hamerskjold smiled. "It would. Now be silent. If the old man is asleep we should not disturb him."
"And if he awaits us we should not alert him." Dumond whispered.
Hamerskjold did not reply. Instead she edged past the broken door that had stood at the big house's entrance. It was broad and thick, though worn, and still bore the imprint of elaborate carvings. Some were runes, most were animals of the field and the wood. They danced when passing clouds flicked moonlight across them.
Inside, the floor was of oak. It was stained now by wind and rain, but in the house's depths, near the big fire place were still traces of lacquer.
"There is no oak in this wood." Dumond whispered from the darkness. "The floor was brought here from the south."
She was right. Hamerskjold laid one hand against the fire place. It was polished river stone, and though moss had slithered into its cracks, was beautiful still.
Above them a breeze blew a cloud aside. A beam of pale moonlight slithered through a hole in the second floor and onto the fire place. The result startled Hamerskjold so badly she nearly gasped.
Quite involuntarily she took a step backwards and stumbled into Dumond. The two of them knotted together like rope poorly wrapped and slipped to the floor. Dumond took a sharp breath. Then she saw clearly what the light revealed. "Krys, it is a painting."
It was. Hanging above the fireplace was a huge canvas bound by a rotten frame. Three people were painted upon it. The first was a broad man with a strong, imperious and unforgiving face. He reminded them of the old man they had followed without quite capturing him.
The second was a slim, demur and attractive woman. The third was a boy no more than five seated in his mother's lap.
A huge tear in the painting had destroyed the boy's face.
Hamerskjold pulled herself off Dumond and approached the painting, "A squire and his loving family."
Dumond climbed to her feet and suppressed a shudder. There was something in the man's gaze she recognized. Something she despised. "I think so. But where is the old man. How does he fit here? Why has it all passed away into nothing?"
Hamerskjold turned about. "I do not know. Perhaps we should look up stairs."
"Up stairs," Dumond sounded dubious. "The roof has been torn away. The upper floor is exposed. How could any thing live up there?"
"I do not..." Hamerskjold never finished the sentence.
He emerged from a small, ramshackle door way hidden by shadows and charged towards Dumond's back like a frenzied demon. Hamerskjold took a step forward and screamed a warning.
Dumond paid it no mind. She had heard the commotion behind her and assumed the worst before Hamerskjold had reacted. While her partner called to her, she thrust the handle of her axe behind her and pivoted.
There was a groan and an impact that nearly sprawled her on the floor. Still, she regained her balance, finished her turn, and found the old man. He lay on the floor where he had fallen. In his right hand he clutched a rusted dagger. In his left he clutched a magician's kindle stone.
Dumond hefted her axe and stepped towards him. He hissed at her in a language she did not understand and thrust a finger towards her. The kindle stone shimmered, and power stored in the ground eons ago surged through the floor and into him. He focused it and poured it from his finger and into Dumond.
Dumond cursed. The old bastard was a thrice damned wizard. Then the bolt struck her and set every nerve in her afire. She fell to the floor groaning.
Behind her Hamerskjold drew her sword. He hissed another incantation as vile as the last and waved an arm at her. An unseen fist as sold as stone slammed into her side and tumbled her across the floor and into a ruined table.
Hamerskjold rolled onto her side groaning and tried to sit up, but she could not. Her head ached. The world spun about her. She reached up and touched the side of her face. It was wet and sticky.
Before her, Dumond lay flat of her back where she had fallen. Steam rose from her armor where the magician's charm had stuck her. The old man leaned over her and grabbed at her hair. Then he pulled her head from the floor and thrust his dagger towards her throat.
Dumond's eyes fluttered. She groaned, but still she did not move. Hamerskjold cursed and reached for her own dagger. Then she threw it towards the wizard with all her strength.
The dagger hissed through streaks of pale, freezing moonlight and slid into he old man's shoulder.
He cried out and dropped Dumond. Hamerskjold rolled onto all fours and reached for her sword, but it was not there. She had dropped it when his magic stuck her. It had slipped away into shadow.
The wizard turned to face her. "You think you have hurt me, but you have not. I cannot be harmed. I am Gyyrkhan."
Hamerskjold gathered her feet beneath her and dove for his chest but the old man hissed and another fist, just like the first, struck her and drove her to the floor.
When she rolled onto her back her back her thoughts were jumbled and incomplete. She did not know where she was...
When Tiana Dumond came to her senses the old man had moved past her. Before him lay Krystyn Hamerskjold, she did not move.
Dumond turned towards her axe. It lay ten feet from her, the old man practically straddled Hamerskjold. There was no time. Dumond threw herself from the floor and into the wizard's back.
She struck him before he realized she was there and drove him to the floor. Then she reached about him and fastened her hands upon the handle of his dagger.
The old man wriggled against her like a snake trying to free itself of a mongoose, but Dumond was strong, stronger than most men.
She clenched her teeth and pulled the dagger towards her. It slammed into the old man's chest and cleaved the through flesh and bone. The old man jerked. The he went limp.
Dumond let him fall onto his side and crawled to Hamerskjold. Behind her the old man whispered. "I am Gyyrkhan. I cannot die." Then he died.
Dumond wrapped her arms about Hamerskjold. "Krys," she whispered urgently, "Krys."
Hamerskjold's eyes were all ready open and beginning to clear. She placed a hand on Dumond's shoulder. "Is he dead?"
"He is that."
Hamerskjold sat up and dabbed at the cut on her cheek. It was not deep. "We should be ashamed, letting an old man surprise us and nearly kill us."
Dumond studied Hamerskjold's eyes. "Are you well?"
"It is nothing. I was unbalanced for a moment that is all." As if to prove her point she clambered to her feet. "He called himself Gyyrkhan."
Dumond turned towards the spot where the old man appeared. There was an open door. Inside that was a faint light, like a camp fire dying. She pushed herself to her feet. "What's this?"
Hamerskjold followed her to the door way. Dumond leaned inside. It was a closet. So small she could not straighten to her full height. In its center the floor was broken away. Below that was dirt. Atop the dirt, inside a ring of stone, was a small fire. Near the fire were tomes covered with arcane runes. Next to that was a collection of bones, scattered atop them laid human skulls.
Dumond grimaced. "We have found those who chased him I think." She whispered. Then she settled into the closet. There was an unkempt bed roll; a stash of coins lay beneath it. On the wall there were strange and rough marks. Dumond frowned. "I need light, Krys."
Hamerskjold knocked about within the house until she found a desiccated piece of wood as long as her forearm. She handed it to Dumond.
Dumond buried the wood in the old man's fire until it ignited. Then she turned to the wall once more.
Upon it there were marks, at first just lines and squiggles, then above that crude letters as if rendered by a child. Above that there were simple untidy sentences. "I am Greer." They said, over and over again, more times than either woman could count.
Hamerskjold frowned. "Why are the sentences so uneven? They are cockeyed as if written by a blind man, and who is Greer?"
"They are uneven because they were written in the dark." Dumond followed the sentences one after another towards the roof of the closet. Finally, she found the last three scrawled in huge, bloody letters. "I am evil. I am a monster. I am Gyyrkhan."
Hamerskjold shook her head. "I do not understand."
Dumond said nothing. Instead she closed her eyes and groaned as if a wound long forgotten had troubled her. So it had.
It was a memory locked away and unexamined for years, a memory of her childhood, and her father. He had been a drunk of prodigious temper who fancied himself hard but fair. In truth what he had been was vile.
When she misbehaved or they disagreed he would beat her. Then he would banish her to a small and unused closet near their front hall, and leave her there for hours. She remembered her time in the dark with nothing but her fear and her father's scorn to accompany her with a shudder.
For the sake of her own sanity she had struck out into the world as soon as she could leaving her father far behind. Somewhere along the way she had discovered that she had been only a child, certainly not always right, but never evil. Her father, on the other hand, had been wrong. Wrong in nearly everything he had done to her. In the end that had made all the difference.
She finally opened her eyes once more and allowed them to dwell upon the sentences. They made her think of the old man, the old man who had been but a boy in the painting.
Of course that was leap of intuition that most would not willingly make, but she knew it to be true as certainly as she knew her own name.
His name had been Greer, and he had been left in this closet with his own dark thoughts and his father's disapproval far too long. Unlike her, he had decided his father was right.