"Another sleet-soaked muck through the countryside," Guardsmen Ifan Beland muttered to his flanksman, Guardsman Uist Carlh. "Gods, it's falling down thick as pudding, yet! So much for being part of Lord Vaukmond's Elite Guard."

"Keep your voice down," Uist muttered back, holding his helmed head averted so that the Captain, riding just ahead of them, wouldn't think the words had come from him. "Besides, it's our horses doing all the 'mucking.'" Uist wanted to tell Ifan that he was as tired of hearing the guardsman's bitter complaining as he was of "mucking through the countryside." But he had to admit, he didn't much enjoy this mission either.

He and Ifan had just been promoted to the Duke's Elite Guard only a week before and had barely time to savor their advance in rank before their attachment was ordered into the first of many long patrols. The Captain hadn't elaborated much, only that Windemere had received reports of a beast which had managed, by itself, to raze a whole village. No further details were given, save to look for anything "unusual."

After three mornings and afternoons of patrolling, or "mucking" as Ifan termed it, they hadn't found a single "unusual" thing.

Uist breathed in the sharply cold morning air, tinged with a thread of woodsmoke: the scent of late autumn. Dark pillows of clouds moved above them now, still heavy with moisture. Uist looked up to see where the sun was hiding, a bright coin of haze behind the cover of gray clouds.

The heavy mist continued to sift down from the clouds, turning quickly into soft pellets of sleet, and settling on Uist's mailed helm and upon his mount's dressage. The droplets dangled for a moment from his helm's coif before dousing his eyelashes, so that he had to blink his eyes to clear them of the water.

Beside him Ifan sneezed loudly.

"Now I'm taking a sickness from this foul morn," Ifan muttered again, this time lowering his voice a little. He blew his nose noisily, rattling his phlegm into a sodden rag he kept stuffed beneath the cantle of his saddle. "I swear, man, that it's getting colder the longer we ride."

Now that Ifan had mentioned it, Uist had felt the air around him grow suddenly more chilled, as if a blizzard might be approaching. With the amount of sleet swirling around them, Uist guessed, a blizzard couldn't be far behind.

Looking down at the bobbing head of his mount, he saw that the horse's mane was now thickly dusted with sleet. Uist tilted his face upward at the weather-darkened sky as thin shards of ice struck his brow, causing him to lower his face quickly lest a sliver slice his eye. He began to shiver within his armor, the metal pressing the cold through his jerkin and into his flesh.

Then a flurry of heavy snow blew a wall of white before them.

Uist and Ifan were near the end of their platoon with only a few rows of men behind them. Uist watched as the snow struck the forward-most column of men as if they were being dissolved within it. He heard shouts of confusion, saw horses canter out of formation, their riders pulling frantically at the reins. The Captain's voice rose above his mens' shouts, but the words were lost to Uist.

He turned toward Ifan, but his flanksman had disappeared into the swirl of snow. Uist struggled to control his own mount as other horses, some without riders, jostled his own. As his horse reared up, Uist saw the animal's eyes bulge wildly as it loosed frightened neighs and snorts.

As he fought to keep control of his mount, Uist tried to peer through the churning snow, hoping to glimpse the cause of this chaos.

But he heard it before he saw it.

A great bellow sounded from within the thickest part of the blizzard: a roar which throbbed the earth beneath his horse's hooves, throwing him clear of his mount. As he lay upon his back, Uist watched as a tongue of flame seared through the wall of snow, turning his gelding into statue of charred meat which toppled loosely into the powder.

Then he heard the screaming: both men and their beasts, the howls keening eerily through the smoke and snow. Soon all he could hear amid the rumbling were the wet sounds of flesh being torn and consumed, the sharp snap of breaking bones and the tortured shrieking--now indistinguishable between man and horse.

The snow quickly turned red as great mists of blood spun through the air. Uist's head grew dizzy with the sickening stench of burnt flesh and the metallic smell of the blood spilling around him. Something bounced against the back of his helm and he turned round to find a severed hand flung beside him. A jeweled ring winked at him from the hand's third finger.

Uist took up his broadsword from his chained scabbard, slicing the air like a madman searching for demons. "Where are you?" he gibbered, his voice rising in hysteria, saliva shooting between his teeth. "Show yourself, craven beast!" Though he half-prayed that it wouldn't.

But it did show itself.

Out of the reddened snow stepped a creature so immense that it seemed to fill every available patch of the darkened sky behind it. The demon-creature had the appearance of a giant bear: bristling white fur, long muzzle, black gums--fang-rimmed--rippling in a fierce snarl. Thick, curved tusks jutted from both corners of its wide mouth; its eyes, the size and color of eggplants.

In its maw the beast held the body of a guardsman. Blood and entrails slid from demon-creature's mouth in a fall of gore as the creature bit cleanly into the man's belly. Uist recognized the guardsman's face as the man's head bobbed lifelessly from the beast's jaws: it was his flanksman, Ifan Beland.

Maddened by all he saw around him, Uist rushed at the beast, howling, with broadsword held aloft. Before he could swing the blade against the beast, the demon-creature dropped the remains of its grisly meal and opened its mouth wide. A spray of flame shot from the dark cavern of its maw.

Uist sprang sideways, but felt the fire blaze across his left cheek and chin, his helm offering little protection, leaving behind the nauseating odor of his own burnt skin and beard. The sudden pain caused his sword arm to jerk upwards, the blade of his weapon gashing deeply his forehead. A thick, sticky shower of blood ran into his eyes, once again turning everything around him red.

Before he could push himself to his feet, the demon-creature's paw came down hard upon his torso, crushing his armor until the metal split like a broken urn, pinning him firmly to the ground. Uist delivered a breathless grunt as the beast's talon-ringed paw pressed still harder. Uist felt the point of one talon pierce his belly through the pulverized metal and another penetrate a shoulder.

Uist was beyond pain now. He knew his own death was near, saw its reflection in the moist, pupiless eyes of the demon-creature as it moved its massive jaws nearer him. Like a curious dog, the creature drew its wide black nose down the length of Uist's body, its foul breath gusting up snow and dried blood in its wake.

The trapped guardsmen whimpered uncontrollably, tears and mucous mixing upon his face, for he'd seen how the others had died. He was a soldier and not afraid of death by the sword of another; but he did not wish to be torn apart and eaten alive by a beast.

Suddenly the demon-creature hesitated. Uist held his breath.

Uist arched his back in agony as the creature's jaws clenched his thighs, biting through fat, muscle and bone. When he dared open his eyes--eyes now widened by shock--he saw the demon-creature backing away, Uist's own legs, shorn above the knee, dangling from demon-creature's great mouth like a prize.

Through his pain-fogged haze, Uist realized the beast must have had its fill of meat. He watched as the demon-creature blurred into the white and was gone.

Uist tried to sit up, but with his legs gone, he had nothing to balance himself with. He tried to move his arms, but found that his shoulder was broken and both arms were so deeply mangled that he could not bend them.

There was nothing Uist Carlh could do for himself save to lie there in the melting snow, hoping for rescue. If he didn't bleed to death first.
 

###
 

Minnia knew she was in trouble. Serious trouble.

"Only six years old and always wandering away!" she could hear her mama exclaiming. "How many times have I warned you?" Minnia could even see her mama's stiff finger wagging back and forth before her face like a blade of grass in shifting winds. "But Mama," Minnia would have to plead, "I was only picking the last of the season's wildflowers: your favorites, even!" And she would then hold them up, a torch of many colors, so that her mother could breathe the sweet scent of them. But the little girl doubted such an explanation would allow her to escape punishment.

Minnia looked at the meager blooms she held clutched tightly in her hands, the broken stems staining her palms and fingers a sticky green. They had looked so pretty while she had been picking them, but now they only represented the promise of punishment. Was it her fault that the best and most fragrant flowers grew so far from the village? As she'd wandered farther and farther up the hill, her eyes catching on every rare spot of color, Minnia had simply lost all track of time.

Now squinting up at the waning sun, she knew that it was very late: that she had missed her lunch and was now missing supper. And that will make Mama all the angrier, Minnia thought to herself, nibbling her lip. She studied the colorful bundle closely for a moment, watching with dismay as some of the petals fluttered to the ground. They were special to her: the very last wildflowers to be found before winter came with its blanketing frosts.

Minnia had heard the elders talking with her parents only that morning about the strange new weather. Old Enhnot had shaken his head wearily as he motioned a thin fingered hand toward a frosted window. "We should be a good two months away from this chill," he had remarked. Papa had also shaken his head, answering, "This bodes ill for crop harvesting; we are not finished bringing in the rest of the winter's store. We don't have enough people to continue with the harvest--even working through the night will not bring us any closer to completion. We cannot allow so much to rot!"

Minnia, listening quietly behind the kitchen door, had decided that saving wildflowers was just as important as saving grain. She would go in search of the last blooms of the season and bring them back home.

Minnia had run to the barn, stealing a fresh baked pot from her mama's kiln, then filling it with soft earth for the planting of the flowers she would later cull. After secreting the soil-filled pot behind her bed, Minnia slipped out of the house; but her parents were so concerned with the plight of their crops, they didn't notice her departure.

Minnia had had to travel far from the village in order to find a patch of near-wilted wildflowers. She felt glad that her village was not far from the sea and so the only thing that might harm the few remaining flowers would be the encroaching frosts. Happy, she began to eagerly tug at the base of the flowers' stems, the roots dangling like thick, reddened legs as she pulled them free of the earth.

Now she stood upon the hill, looking toward the city of Quitonne and the sea, the flowers not so tightly clutched, the petals still falling to the ground. Minnia began to run toward her village; perhaps if she arrived before her mama out of breath, it might show her parents how sorry she was that she'd missed both meals.

As Minnia got nearer the village, her nostrils picked up the acrid scent of heavy smoke thickening the air around her. Could there be some festivity going on in celebration of the grain harvesting? Had they finished filling the stores in her absence? She urged her chubby legs to run faster. She couldn't miss out on the fun!

As she ran, the flowers began to slip from her fingers, now forgotten in her rush to get home. Soon, she carried only a few headless stems in her hand; glancing at them, she tossed the bent stems aside. She would find more flowers another time; perhaps her parents' anger had been soothed by the celebration and they might actually want her to pick the last remaining wildflowers.

Once she had reached the crest of the hill she stopped, her feet frozen to the ground. Minnia did not recognize the village she had left this very morning.

Dark smoke twisted into the cold air from the blackened remains of homes and buildings. Through the thick, acrid smoke Minnia smelled something else: the sickly sweet smell of burnt meat and the sour odor of boiled blood. She put her small hands to her face, still smelling the bitter scent of the stem residue upon them even through the smoke. Tears burst from her eyes as she choked on a sob. She felt her legs begin to scissor in a quick run down the hill. She didn't stop until she reached the very bottom.

When she reached the bottom of the hill, her heels slipped on a slick patch of snow. Everywhere she looked, drifts of snow covered each surface: charred hamlets, even the blackened bodies of the villagers. Minnia wore only a long woolen chemise, ill-suited for such weather. She crossed her arms tightly upon her chest, trying to stave the icy cold.

As she wandered, staggering, through what was left of her village, Minnia's frightened eyes searched for her home. It was supposed to be two houses down from her friend's Kari's house--only she couldn't recognize Kari's house at all! Minnia was so concerned with finding her home that she did not pause to wonder who could have done such a thing to her village.

Until she found her own home.

Long ago, Papa had saved a few sovereign pieces after each crop sale so he could buy a door with an ornately carved brass overlay that he coveted as it stood in Old Enhnot's shop. Mama had protested, but when Papa told her that a passing soothsayer had promised good luck if he bought such a door, a door with sprites dancing in a field of grain like the one in Old Enhnot's shop, why, harvests would be plentiful. And the prophecy did come true. For after Papa had purchased the door--Old Enhnot having reduced the price because he knew how much Papa had wanted it--and had installed it, the subsequent harvests had been abundant indeed. But Old Enhnot had laughed then and shaken his head at Papa as her father had hung the door, remarking that at least everyone would know how to find Papa's home: the one with the foolish brass covering!

But Minnia was glad that Papa had bought the door, because although it was now a pool of liquid metal, it still served as a good marker. Minnia's home had been reduced to a square of black ash. Running again, her plump legs carrying her swiftly through the smoking debris of her home, she reached what had been the common room.

She gasped sharply as her anxious gaze settled upon two charred mounds which seemed locked in an embrace. Her face jerking slightly to the side as if not wanting to fully see, to fully recognize the burnt lumps as her parents, yet her trembling legs sent her on such a mission nevertheless.

Minnia stood over the blackened statues of her parents, tears cutting through the thin layer of soot on her face. She knelt before them, her gently trembling legs folding slowly beneath her. She stretched a quaking hand forward to touch, fingers fanned as if in greeting, the charred and flaked flesh of her parents. She opened her mouth to speak, but only a gasping sob caused a thin bubble to pop from her lips. Mama! Papa! her mind screamed, tortured beyond anything experienced in her brief six years of life.

It was only now, in her anguish, that Minnia wondered what--who!--could have done such a thing? Surely it was not the Duke of Windemere's doing? She had heard from the Elders that he was a harsh man, but not one given to such cruelty.

Beyond that, Minnia had no other theories about the demise of her village. She only knew that she was alone.

Minnia sat cross-legged upon the ashen ground, pushed her tiny face against her balled fists and began to cry, the tears squeezing through the spaces between her fingers and dribbling upon her trembling legs. Perhaps when she was finished with her grief she would know what next to do.
 

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Captain Hew Dorrsn of the Duke of Windemere's Second Elite Attachment stared at the scene of carnage before him.

Never in his twelve years of service to the Duke had he ever witnessed such slaughter. He'd seen men and their horses hacked to pieces by the enemy in battle, but never torn apart as if set upon by wild animals. These men had been eaten, there was no doubting it.

There was something else: nearly half the guardsmen and horses had been completely singed by fire, as if the flames had been spread upon them in a wide pattern. Captain Dorrsn knew such a weapon was beyond the capabilities of any of the Duke's enemies.

The Captain's First Lieutenant rode up beside him. "What--" the young man said with a grim humor, "were they met with a fire-breathing dragon, of all things?"

"Do not make light of this situation," Captain Dorrsn said sternly. "These men and their beasts died very badly. They look as if they had been taken by surprise and with little opportunity to defend themselves." Then, turning to look directly at the First Lieutenant, "Send a messenger immediately to the Duke, informing His Grace that we--"

A shout rose up suddenly. A survivor had been found. The Captain and his First Lieutenant rode quickly toward the sound of the shouts.

Two guardsmen stood round a prone man while one was knelt at the man's side. The Captain slid from his mount and knelt beside the medic. The supine guardsman, he saw, was badly wounded: both legs severed at mid-thigh, cords of ragged muscle and tendon still oozing slow blood. The man had also gone mad, his eyes moving from side to side feverishly, as if searching for the thing that had attacked him.

The Captain put a hand lightly upon the wounded man's good shoulder--for the other had been snapped in two. "What is your name?" he asked simply.

The wounded man jerked at the Captain's touch, then shuddered violently. "Guardsman...Uist...Uist...Carlh..." he stammered, the eyes searching the horizon beyond his rescuers' shoulders.

"What attacked you, Guardman Carlh? Can you say?"

Uist Carlh's lips purled back in a snarl. He arched his neck and gave a maddened, cackling laugh which ended in a wailing moan. Then his gaze settled into a stare, his eyes stone. The medic pressed his cheek against the man's chest, listening for a heartbeat. Then he sat up, looking at the Captain. "He's not gone yet. But he's lost a lot of blood after lying here for several hours--possibly since this morning, Sir. We'll not get any information from him unless..." The medic swallowed.

"Unless?"

"Unless we ask for a sorcerer's help."

The Captain grunted. "The Duke will not be pleased. You know how he dislikes magic."

The medic shook his head. "But we'll get nothing more from this man without it."

The sound of hooves grinding hardened earth came behind them. Captain Dorrsn looked up to see a group of his guardsmen returned from a brief scouting expedition. The lead man held a small child--a girl of no more than five or six--in front of him, her tiny hands clutching the pommel of his saddle. "Sir, we came upon another village, this time only a few miles from Quitonne--completely destroyed in the manner of the other villages."

The Captain stood up and reached to touch the girl's cheek; she flinched, blinking, at this sudden contact. The girl was filthy, her wheat-colored hair nothing more than a collection of burrs. "And how, young lady," the Captain's voice tried to sound cheerful, "are you called?"

The little girl studied him for a moment, as if trying to decide if he could be trusted with such knowledge. After a moment more, in a delicate, cracked voice, she offered simply, "Minnia."

Try as he might, Captain Hew Dorrsn could get nothing more from the little girl. Neither soft words nor sweets could coax another word from her.

A frightened child, the Captain thought miserably to himself, and a pain-maddened guardsmen the only witnesses to such massacre. No, the Duke won't be pleased at all.

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