Rodolphus: Contest Darkly

J. Rodolphus

Contest Darkly

The Dread Cowboy

My Father: The Killer

Perhaps the World

Saying Goodbye to Papa

When Angels Perish

Rodolphus Dark Fiction

J. Rodolphus

Contest Darkly

J. Rodolphus

Contest Darkly

a novella by Rodolphus

WORDSMITH PAUSED IN THE DAPPLING shade of the sole gnarled willow, breathing too hard, for the sun seemed too bright today, the air too heavy. He leaned upon his cane, squinting his eyes, peering down the treacherous path

path which lead to Hidden Woods. He was too old for this enterprise, too crippled; nonetheless, visions, too scarce in the world, are pursued.

“Is this where we camp, old man?” said Sticksinger, moving up behind him, her voice steady despite her incredible burden. Swordsmith, heart beating loudly in throat and temples, forced a smile as Sticksinger eased the travois to the earth and checked the bundle strapped to her narrow back — the boy was sleeping yet, face grim and sweaty, bulbous eyes twitching with ill dreams.

“I am sorry I could bear no more weight than this stave, Lady, but yes, we shall remain here this night. We are near Marthania,” Swordsmith said, rubbing at the aches in his bony arms.

“Do not apologize, old man. It makes me angry.” Sticksinger worked the harness buckles. “There is a reason I am strong, and you have not heard me complain.”

“No, no, of course not, Lady.” He feared her too-predictable anger. Much angered this fey creature. “And I think after tonight your load shall be lessened.”

“I have warned you, old man,” she said, softly, lowering the boy to the nest of blankets and clothing upon the travois, “never call me Lady.”

Swordsmith bridled, but checked his anger. He did not enjoy the appellation of old man. In his day he was a man to command respect, even, yes — on rare occasion — fear. Sadly, his skin, which once was drum-tight over many muscles, now hung despairingly loose from too-prominent bones.

However, watching this fluent being of poetic motion was enough to soothe any foul temper. Sticksinger, so young, even skinny in overlarge man’s blouse rolled upon slim arms to her elbows, comical and yet majestic in fringed buckskin breeches and knee-high doeskin crusader boots, fearsomely adorned with wickedly long thigh-knife and blondewood sticks, looked more an insignificantly small man, a beatific boy, than ever a young woman — chest board-flat and lines straight; only her hair of raven deepness, long and soft to the middle of the back (coiled into a thick raver’s braid) requited the anomaly of her sex. (Even then, you could never tell, because many rogues of the day sported such leonine manes.)

“What do you know old man? Have you seen more visions?” Sticksinger inquired, crouching like some animal, head tilted to the side, not looking at him, her deep amber eyes trolling the sky as if something only she could see moved in the air.

In the two days of their fellowship he many times was reminded of a feline, small, quiet, and yet deceptively dangerous. One of her impossibly narrow hands lay gently upon the boy’s sleeping chest. Dangerous, Swordsmith knew, for he had seen her employ the singing sticks. Strong and agile, and yet Sticksinger failed, as even had Swordsmith.

“Only the one vision, for visions are few, Lady. But I feel the boy’s savior shall join us, soon, perhaps here at this place.”

Her uncanny golden eyes fastened upon him, remained unmoving, deadly within his vision. “I will tell you this, Swordsmith, do not call me Lady, even once more, for I cannot promise that my anger shall be manageable — you will not call me by name given, I know, as I will not name yours. I am Sticksinger, and thus shall you call me.”

“And I,” he returned, bending toward her, moving his cane upon the ground until it touched her boot, “am Swordsmith, not to be called old man, at least lightly.”

She nodded, her eyes moving away from his. “Justly spoken, Swordsmith.”

“Too, Sticksinger,” Swordsmith nodded.

She moved the nest from the travois to the base of the ancient willow tree. “I must compete again, Swordsmith. I was not prepared for the encounter, for I have lately taken ill blows from Lady of Fate. I must compete again, Swordsmith, this night, for I shall be ready, and I shall redeem this boy.”

He leaned upon his cane and was surprised again at how deeply he required the wood. “This is not my decision. I would compete again, myself, endlessly, though it would surely be my death.”

“I am not accustomed to failure,” she said. However, deep within herself she wondered — was it the boy, redemption, winning that she craved — or was it the Gray Man himself she required.

“Too,” he replied, nodding.

She stood and set about unpacking the travois. When he moved to aid her she motioned him back. He did not attempt the symbolic protest, but sat back near the sleeping boy, removed vice and pliers from the tool trunk, and strived against the gold-silver wires. The two-hand ironwood piece, which represented a loving year in carving, was cored and ready for steel rodding, but he did not feel up to constructing the forge, and such an enterprise would demand at the very least four days’ residence — Swordsmith felt they would be gone from this place on the morrow.

“We have the one rabbit for tonight, and saltbread, but I will need to set snares if we will eat tomorrow,” she told him, setting a flame beneath a pyramid of sticks and branches.

“Possibly,” he said, “but I think you should wait.”

“Of course,” she said, sneering, loosing her raver’s braid. “Vision magic afoot. ‘Thou shalt come, Lady, thy inner voice assures thee as much. But the choice is ever thine,’” she said, sneering, with just enough old-man quaver in her voice to make Swordsmith wince and consider just how old he truly must be. “To think I missed the Hallow’s Eve Tourney for this — this Dream.”

“If it will soothe your temper, Sticksinger, go and hunt.”

“I hate hunting,” she snarled.

He did not reply but grunted with forced gusto as he worked at the wires. She reminded him, very well, why he swore off women, very long ago.

“I much prefer a resting clock, even if it useless, to a swinging pendulum. Let us not talk,” he said, not quite containing his own hearty anger.

“What is that?” she said.

He snorted. “It is a metaphor, ninny, and I must warn you that if you continue in your surly manner you will discover my cane quite capable against your sticks!” He was horrified at losing his temper with a stranger, and yet it felt rather pleasant to have his blood go from tepid to flaming. He suddenly and vividly remembered the flavor of youth. He grinned and looked away from his labor.

Sticksinger waved her hand for silence and stood away from the fire. “Listen,” she whispered.

And he heard it, something very large, coming through the trees. More, he felt the approach in the ground. He climbed his cane and hobbled painfully to her side.

“A giant horse,” she whispered.

“A giant horse that sings,” he returned, for there was a definite melody to be heard, a voice boomingly deep, although what exactly the author of the voice could be it was impossible to tell. In close syncopation was the thundering ground strikes which must be the ploddings of some great beast of burden — an elephant, or its cousin the oiliophaunt? The old man and the young woman heard branches breaking as the booming voice drew closer.

“A singing giant,” Swordsmith said in wonder.

“You call that singing?” Sticksinger returned. “It is a harbinger of doom, a trumpeter to instill fear in our hearts.”

Then a looming hulk crashed through the opening in the foliage where the old man and young woman had passed unobtrusively. Even at a distance of two hundred kilongs it was evident that the horse (beast?) was no ordinary animal, that the rider (colossus?) was no common man — both were shaggy and titannic in proportion, seemingly twice the size of their mundane counterparts in the world of men. And the man, in florrid red robes and a crown of twisted red branches, had his bearded round head tipped to the sky, and in truth, the booming voice which erupted from the great cave of his mouth was not very melodic, although some tune was evident.

“...thirty ’gainst me, score ’neath me

big buzzards still sleepy!”

“What is that?” Sticksinger queried.

“I think, Lady, we are seeing a true Gargantua, of the Archipelago Gargantuae.”

“Ho!” the giant cried, spying them. “Me found little folk, me ponder!” The great “horse” came forward at an agitated pace.

“I will deal with this monster, old man,” Sticksinger said, stepping well away from Swordsmith, her namesake blondewood sticks appearing in either hand. The longstick she held in left hand, its butt tucked beneath her arm, its point touching the cuff of her boot. The two-piece short-sticks, bound in center by a leather tong, she twirled loosely in her right.

The gargantua came ponderously onward, growing even larger than they could predict, for both beast and rider were proportionate of limb and body — Sticksinger guessed the giant at close to ten kilongs when dismounted.

“Salutations, me wonderful little folk,” the gargantua boomed in a rich baritone voice more suited to speaking than singing. “Me would invite thee share kingly bird.”

The great beast, seemingly a horse, slowed to rest within twenty paces of the woman. The giant parted his robes and lifted what appeared to be a huge turkey, its neck broken and dangling from the giant’s fist.

“What business have you, gargantua?” Sticksinger challenged.

“Ho! The boy knows me, ponder!” the giant cried, all smiling red beard. He swung his tree-trunk leg over the beast’s bare back and shook the ground in dismounting. Unhorsed the giant truly was closer to eleven kilongs than ten, Sticksinger measured, minus a few finger-lengths due to the massive heals on his thick-soled boots.

The old man hobbled alongside the woman. “I do not feel he is a threat.”

“Another dream, old man? I find this difficult to comprehend.”

“Too,” replied Swordsmith.

“Well met, boy and gaffer. Me August Redgill Rockheaver of Temple of Goldman du Gargantuae! Wrestler Extraordinaire!” the giant said, audibly attempting to suppress his ear-popping voice.

Swordsmith bowed over his cane. “Swordsmith of Lightcolor-by-the-Lake, Ernesto d’Onthannoloth, at your service.”

“Shalenwrathe dans Euripides Moorheath, Sticksinger — and I would advise you, gargantua, do not call me boy again,” she said, coldly, eyeing the giant with her chin thrust forward.

The giant tossed the turkey at their feet. “Thee cook, me help eat!” he said, and his grin was so infectious they found themselves smiling up at him.

Sticksinger looked to Swordsmith. “Perhaps I did not need to hunt. But then again,” she said, surveying the giant’s expanse, “perhaps I will have much hunting to do.”

“Food, is?” the giant said, licking his lips, moving toward the tree and the nest beneath it.

The woman stepped lithely between tree and giant. “That is the boy. I warn you to keep your distance, gargantua.”

“Ho! Dangerous, is it?” the giant muttered, going half a step back, eyeing the sleeping boy distrustfully.

“No, gargantua, I am dangerous.”

The giant looked from the sleeping boy to Sticksinger. His eyes blinked shut and he burst into laughter. “Ho! Boy, me like funny!”

She stepped forward and prodded her stick up into his belly. “I assure you, gargantua, I can beat you.”

His laughter doubled. Big greasy tears rolled down his cheeks. “But me Wrestler Extraordinaire! August Redgill Rockheaver of Temple of Goldman du Gargantuae! Me never beat!”

Swordsmith looked at the giant closely. “You are that good? You have never failed?”

The giant wiped a brawny forearm across his face, his mirth slowly subsiding. “Fail? Me? Me beat all comer.”

Swordsmith cocked an eyebrow. “What manner of man could you wrestle? What manner of man would possibly wrestle you?”

“Ho!” the giant laughed, his eyes snapping shut, another deluge of tears sluicing his face and beard. “Man? Man not crazy. Me wrestle Bear, sometime Lion, sometime Lion and Bear if they friend. One time only, men, thirty — they crazy.”

“I know someone who might beat you,” Ernesto Swordsmith said. He glanced at the woman who was watching him with lowered brow.

The happy smile departed the giant’s face. His knots of crimson eyebrows clenched and bunched in his brow and suddenly the gargantua did not look very sociable. “Who beat me? Boy?”

“I warned you about calling me that,” Shalenwrathe Sticksinger hissed, the shortsticks beginning to whirl.

“Me once beat hundred knight. Not even sweaty. Mistake, ponder me ogre, mayhap big big troll. Gargantua friend man.”

“The monster of whom I speak undid me,” Swordsmith said. “I had never known defeat before two nights ago.”

“Ho! Monster, yes? Me enjoy beat monsters, very much, yes. Sometime two before breakfast!”

“The man who beat me, last night,” Sticksinger said, “I have never known his equal. I had never been bested. I am ashamed, but am told I may not contest him again, which makes the defeat all the worse.”

The giant scratched his brow. “Monster. Man? Man-Monster? Me no fearful of werewolf.”

“If you are up to the challenge, we welcome you to spend the night with us and answer his challenge,” Swordsmith said, going to the boy beneath the tree. “What shall we call you, friend?”

“Friend good, but me friend call me Auggie — but me no have friend. Hungry. Sad, but me eat friend. Get hungry big.”

The woman busily fed the fire and without looking away she said, “You ate someone?”

“No someone. Friend bird of speaking.”

“Fine, Auggie. Please sit down,” the old man said as he gently raised the boy from the nest of clothes. He held the boy near the tree and parted the swaddling clothes at his waist. The boy, eyes twitching in dream-sleep, urinated loudly at the base of the tree.

The giant watched with puzzlement. “Boy sick? Sad, very. Poor, poor boy.”

“He is dying,” Swordsmith agreed, rewrapping the boy and lowering him into the nest. “Do you have weapons, Auggie?”

The giant lifted his muscular hands and smiled. Swordsmith nodded.

Sticksinger fed branches into the fire. “Which do you drink, coffee or tea, Doggie?”

The giant placed his hands, the backs of which were thick with coarse red hairs, over his mouth and guffawed furiously. After a moment he opened his eyes and smiled at the woman. “Thee really no boy?”

She lifted her brows and squinted her eyes, the log in her hand pausing before the flames.

The giant looked to Swordsmith who nodded.

“Then girl. Me neither coffee, neither tea. Burned water, yuck. Me have wine Gargantuae. Thee love?”

“I do not drink.”

The giant gaped. “Never drink?”

She shook her head.

“Ho! Thee thirsty big, me ponder.”

“Too,” Swordsmith said. He lifted a cup.

“Ho! Me love — thee love. Make hairy palm.”

The old man marveled anew at the giant’s stature, for even sitting upon the ground his great round head was nearly of a level with the standing woman’s shoulders, and for all his massive girth he was intensely gentle as he released some black liquid from a pack-sized skin into the old man’s cup.

“Drink, tongue — no throat, no belly. Ponder?”

Swordsmith nodded and sipped at the gargantua wine. The liquid was as he had heard — flaming and noxious, but immediately warming, relaxing, which was welcome since the sun was dipping beneath the mountains and a chill was rising from the ground.

“Do not imbibe too strongly on an empty stomach, Swordsmith,” Sticksinger said and passed him a cup of tea.

“I am not a lush,” the old man snapped, somewhat belligerently, for in truth he already felt half drunk. The giant, on the other hand, had the skin tipped back and was gulping thirstily.

“If you are to contest the Gray Man, Doggie, you had best sleep now,” she told the gargantua and Swordsmith blinked and nodded, “You should sleep now, for after night’s peak you must remain awake until morning — if you sleep after the peak you have failed.”

“Gargantua hungry — must eat, or sleep bad. Funny contest — me never sleep, we beat big!”

“I will wake you after the bird is cooked,” Sticksinger said and then pointed down the slope, “after you eat, you must sit apart from us with your own fire. The Gray Man will challenge you. You must accept his challenge, fight him, and win.”

“It is for the boy’s life you will fight,” the old man said, one hand resting upon the boy’s chest.

The gargantua nodded gravely. His big eyes, black irises ringed in red, glittered in the firelight watching the old man and the boy. “Me beat Gray Man werewolf, no worry,” and with that said the gigantic body slumped to the earth and he proceeded to snore.

“Is he a man, Swordsmith?” Sticksinger said, pausing over the sleeping gargantua.

“A man, very rare, but a mortal, a human. A lonely man, I think.”

And studying him, she had to admit the gargantua was a fine looking being — with majestic features huge and broad, artistically crafted, as giant kings were said to be in olden stories. Even the facial hair, profuse and bright red, was fine and shining. If one were to view Auggie objectively, with nothing to lend perspective to his size, one would undoubtedly describe him as a handsome man.

Shalenwrathe Sticksinger did not doubt that he was a lonesome creature.

The first stars appeared in the crisp air as she set about plucking the turkey. Swordsmith joined her.

“He surely stands more than a chance against the Gray Man?” she said, not looking away from the turkey.

“I was positive that you would succeed,” he answered, plucking with much dexterity.

In the small city of Moorheath, Swordsmith was a curious sight: a gimp dragging a heavily burdened travois, a comatose boy strapped to his hunched and sweating back — a sight soon to draw hecklers, bullies. This was the morning after his failure to the Vulcan Monster and his mood was more sore than his body. His cane cracked two skulls before he was swarmed and the boy was jeopardized. Then the boy (actually a young woman) Shalenwrathe Sticksinger was in their midst, her sticks whistling and toning like chimes. Daggers clattered to the cobbles and swords fell ringing. The old man, astonished, was certain he had never witnessed such a spectacle — a “boy” soundly thrashing at least six village louts. It was then he knew — was certain — that Sticksinger was the answer, the salvation of the boy; this dervish would triumph over the Vulcan Monster with its hammer hands and anvil head.

Swordsmith strove against the Vulcan Monster, with all his spirit, with all his reserve, with all his hope and pride — and it was hours of nearly superhuman effort before he fell to the monster’s sneering might.

“You must come with me, boy, for there is one who would compete against you,” Swordsmith told her, minutes later after she herded him and the boy upon his back to safety.

“There are many who would compete against me, and many who would lose if foolish enough to try,” Sticksinger told him, then added, “and never call me ‘boy’ again, old man.”

Perhaps it was not to be. But the boy would have a champion.

“Thou shalt come, Lady, thy inner voice assures thee as much. But the choice is ever thine,” Swordsmith said, speaking softly, strangely, his eyes turned inward.

And Shalenwrathe came, without protest, taking over both the sleeping boy and the ponderous travois. Swordsmith would never believe that he had managed such a burden with his body even to that point.

After the turkey was plucked it was singed over the fire for several hours and when the rabbit was sufficiently charred Shalenwrathe woke the gargantua who accepted over three-quarters of the kingly bird.

“Ho! Sleep good. Ready wrestle — kick butt, me ponder,” the gargantua yawned, stretching his arms out to phenomenal length. He shrugged out of his voluminous robes and strutted about in the chilly air in nothing but a loincloth — the smaller people were impressed that out of the spans and spans of clothing the gargantua’s girth seemingly increased by twofold. His skin, where it was not matted with glistening red hair, was startlingly white in contrast to the leather of his happily wrinkled face. His chest was two slabs of flexing muscle, and giant turtles seemingly mashed their shells against the inside of his belly. Auggie’s shoulders were square and disproportionately wide (Sticksinger and Swordsmith would find room enough to perch on even one of the shoulders) — Auggie would be a powerful force even if he were the size of a normal man.

The gargantua squatted by the fire and stuffed great morsels of turkey into his mouth, but was careful to expectorate every bone like missiles into the night. Within minutes the turkey vanished and the gargantua produced a blanket-sized handkerchief from his bag with which he proceeded to delicately wipe his mouth.

Sticksinger watched the gargantua through the tops of her eyes as she busied herself with her portion of rabbit and turkey. Would the giant defeat the Gray Man — the Gray Man who sneered at her greatest efforts, who shrugged off her best-placed blows, who parried even her genius improvisations, who seemingly never tired? The Gray Man, who kissed her with his hot mouth and laughed at her greater efforts.

The gargantua must defeat the Gray Man, but Sticksinger felt, truly, deep within her breast, that the Gray Man was truly invincible. It did not matter however colossal the gargantua, nor how strong — the Gray Man was a spirit, a demon, a warrior from Halifax not even the legendary Vanya might vanquish.

“Boy sleepy — gargantua like play — he no wake, me ponder,” the gargantua said, peering at the boy who lay across Sticksinger’s lap, moving his head up and down and sideways attempting to gain a new perspective on the sleeper. There was a surprisingly deep sorrow molding the gargantua’s eyes and brows. “Auggie sad for boy.”

“Only once has he opened his eyes,” Shalenwrathe said.

“Twice,” Swordsmith corrected — twice, but Shalenwrathe Sticksinger had not been present at that first awakening.

Sticksinger pointed down the slope. “I have built you a fire, with plenty of wood — you must keep it tended. Do not let the flames wane until the sun has risen.”

“Good,” the gargantua grunted. The customary mirth was absent in his rosy face. He lifted up his arms and flexed his biceps, eyeing each closely — they were the size of great melons. “By Tree, me swear. Me not fail.”

“Xane be with thee, August,” Swordsmith said and put out his hand over the fire.

“Isis watches, Doggie,” enjoined Sticksinger, reaching out.

“Gargantua with Tree. Tree with Gargantua,” the gargantua said in his gentle boom, smiling kindly, his vast paw embracing the tiny hands over the flames. He strode away from the other two, lumbering in his swaddling loincloth and bristling muscles.

“Will he stand a chance?” Sticksinger whispered. She huddled close to the fire and hugged her shoulders. She trembled but fought the spasm back. It was not the cold of night, but thought of the Gray Man which chilled her.

“The Vulcan Monster is mighty,” was all Swordsmith said, staring into the fire.

Their eyes met over the fire. Shadows flickered upon their brows. They did not speak. And then a great breath moved upon the fire. They watched the flames flatten, blaze whitely, mull redly, fold inward to a translucent turquoise triangle, and their eyes weakened. The strange sleep came upon them, but not before they heard the gargantua issue a tremendous heart roar.

And Sticksinger and Swordsmith slept, badly. They tossed and sweated and rolled upon their blankets. In and out of dreams came the trumpet of monstrous bear, the enraged wail of lion, the siren howl of a hundred wolves, the blood baying of hounds from Halifax, the tortured gibberings of wood gorillas. Once Swordsmith fought himself to semiconsciousness — the heat emanating from Vulcan’s forge battered him to the ground into deeper, blacker dreams. Sticksinger roused herself, close to midnight, but the Gray Man’s hot breath upon her neck drove her back, vainly attempting to lift her sticks in frozen and spasming hands.

“Extraordinaire!” they heard deep within their darkly slumber, but the answering laughter they could never admit to hearing.

Sticksinger and Swordsmith, together, opened their eyes as the first glow of the sun illuminated the horizon. August the Gargantua, Wrestler Extraordinaire, who had never known defeat, lay close to them, his face in the dirt, one great arm extended toward the nest beneath the tree, the shield-sized hand palm up and white, the little finger held in both hands of the sleeping boy.

“So,” Shalenwrathe Sticksinger croaked, “the gargantua, also, has failed.”

“Too,” murmured Ernesto Swordsmith.

The giant wept. “Ho, Auggie stupid.”

He sat, quite suddenly, his face drastically altered, older, gray. Then his eyes traveled the length of his arm. He looked upon the boy. And he smiled, so sadly.

The boy opened his eyes and looked upon the face of the giant. And he shone, a smile of delight.

“Ho, boy. Me Auggie. Me stupid. Me fail. Auggie fail thee, boy. Ponder. Ponder.”

The boy, holding the giant’s finger in his left hand, petted the squash-sized finger with his right hand.

Auggie’s eyes closed, and he blubbered. Tears sprouted and rolled from his long red lashes. His muscular shoulders shook and his great chest heaved. “Ho, ho, ho — ho,” he said.

The boy slept. His hands dropped away.

Shalenwrathe Sticksinger went to the giant. She snatched two handfuls of his tangled crimson mane and shook him.

“It is as it is, Doggie!” she shouted into an ear which was larger than her head.

The gargantua seized her and mashed her to his chest — the action was so abrupt and forceful Sticksinger was unable to evade the clutch. Swordsmith rose upon his cane in alarm. But the gargantua keened so pitiably Swordsmith relaxed. Sticksinger, however, did not relax. She struggled and kicked within the bearlike hug.

“Let go of me you brute! Filthy sweaty giant — put me down or answer in pain!”

Auggie stood and paced before the willow tree carrying the woman as a child might embrace a doll. “Me no ponder, me no wrestle — me stupid, me never see Archipelago, Temple of Goldman!” the giant bellowed and wept.

Snarling, Stickstinger, butted her forehead into the giant jaw above her and by stretching her long legs hooked her boots nastily into the giant crotch below her.

“Oof,” said Auggie, quite conversationally, and set the woman gently upon her feet.

“If you ever touch me again, Doggie,” she said, her face a trembling mask of fury, “I shall disassemble you, piece by giant piece!”

One hand upon his bloody jaw, the other clutching his wounded groin, the gargantua bowed very low to the woman before him. “August sorrowful, by Tree. August say sorry, thee, Sticksinger. Thee kick hard, more hard than many boy.”

“I accept your apology, Doggie. But never touch me again. I have vowed I would kill any many that touched me, except for battle — however, I never warned you of that vow. I forgive you,” she said, her eyes hard and unwavering upon him. She nodded. “Please, Doggie, sit down.” She retrieved a pouch from the travois and produced two white sticks which resembled her blondewood weapons, and administered to the cut on the giant’s jaw. When she rubbed one of the sticks on the wound the bleeding stopped. “It will heal fine if you don’t play with it.”

“No worry, no ponder. Auggie heal good, fast. Ho.” The giant grinned at her but the expression was devoid of any previous mirth.

“Do not worry, August,” Ernesto Swordsmith said from across the new fire where he tended the coffee pot. “I had never known defeat before my encounter with the Vulcan Monster — the creature matched my hammer blows three for every one and discovered my best efforts lacking.”

“Auggie never wrestle. Auggie now Wrestler Mediocrity.”

“Take hold of your guts, Doggie. You cannot be truly great unless you fail and rise again to conquer,” Shalenwrathe Sticksinger said as she packed the travois. “Despite your size, it would appear you are a man like any other.”

The gargantua did not respond. He stared into the fire and dabbed at his eyes.

“Ah, the boy is much smaller,” Sticksinger said softly, crouching beneath the willow. Swordsmith joined her. It was true. The boy, who had been the size of a seven-year-old when first discovered by the old man, was now the size of a toddler.

“What do we do?” the woman asked the old man.

“We proceed. To Overway, the Tao village, which is not too far from here.”

“The Vanya, old man?”

“Me people speak of Vanya,” Auggie said quietly. “Tree Friend, Stosha.”

“It is rumored that Prince Stosha Overway resided in that village, for a time, yes. But it is another warrior I seek — one of nearly equal legend, although I cannot know if we shall find him, or if he can aid the boy.”

Sticksinger snorted as she gently accomodated the boy upon her back. “Another man, old man? I think the boy would benefit at the Temple of Isis, where both the greatest healers and warriors might champion him.”

“And would you, girl, accompany the boy to that temple?”

She glanced at Swordsmith and the old man shuddered once before she looked away.

“Who is this mighty warrior we seek, Swordsmith?”

“The Ranger of The Sword, one of three known bearers of mystic Kingsteel. Morgenstern.”

“The Fool of Failure,” Sticksinger replied instantly.

Swordsmith now favored her with one of his own severe glances. “Some have named him. Perhaps you might ponder some before you conform.”

“Ponder good, very,” Auggie said, nodding. “Auggie no ponder. Ho.”

After coffee and Gargantuae wine they broke camp, and, after heated argument, the gargantua lifted Sticksinger and Swordsmith to the back of his steed — Ralph of Hopping — and tucked the travois neatly beneath one arm, and they departed north for the Tao village of Overway. Auggie, his head level with the riders, led Ralph of Hopping deftly down the ravine, easily maintaining the path carved for much smaller feet. They covered much ground, perhaps twice the distance in one hour that Swordsmith had traveled in two days.

Along the way Auggie indicated trees and shrubs, naming them and detailing the benificent properties hidden in leaf, twig, sap and root. A new air was evident, one swirling with elder scents — spices like mist, winds like spice. Swordsmith informed the fellowship of their crossing the borders of Starvast into the continent of Marthania, land of richly diverse peoples and colorful cities, country of a thousand wars and a thousand more legends: Xane, once a humble man and then God; Zalkar, beautiful and powerful, the devil of ten generations; Stosha Overway, Renegade Prince, Sword Master, Vanya; Medcrust the Foul, Betrayer of Man, Overway Nemesis; the Vanidane, four glorious and immortal guardians of the Golden People and Vanya Watchers, Keepers of The Vanya Song; Sinbar, the Devil Agent, Brightest and Darkest, rumored father of Stosha Overway.

“I thank thee, Master Swordsmith, Ernesto,” Shalenwrathe Sticksinger whispered as they entered Hidden Woods where the Tao gypsies laughed and loved and played, “I had thought I would never see Marthania, walk where walked Prince Stosha Overway, and the Lady Déajà who loved him most.”

Ernesto Swordsmith nodded and waved a hand. “I am in your debt, Mistress Sticksinger, Shalenwrathe.” He was a little surprised that this hard and strong woman would mention Marthania’s greatest romance — he would have guessed her to speak of The Fall of Shard Donhays at Castle Onnoloth, or The Flight of Turk the Master Thief; or any one other of the thousand popular swashbuckling sagas. But he did not muse long on Sticksinger’s whimsical romantic ember — for he was again in Marthania, the land of his birth, where he had participated in more than a few of those thousand legends; a land which had banished him, on pain of death, forty years before, for his mistaken role in the triumph of Sinbar The Devil Agent at the beginning of what was now called The Vanya War.

If Swordsmith remained here in the Southwestern edge of Marthania, Marth Pal’en, he would be in no true peril — but the further Northwest he traveled, into Marth Gal’en and closer to Utania the city of his birth and unwitting treason, the nearer to the end of his too-long life he came (his life, the pitiful loose-hide sack of brittle bones).

“Auggie smell cinnamon!” the gargantua cried, snorting and smiling.

At noon they came upon the first gypsy encampment, a score of elaborate wagons painted bright green and red, collapsible tables laden with handcrafts in progress and tinkerware and crystal works, fat pigs scorching over merry orange firepits, children tumbling and somersaulting and climbing trees, tourists from Spartane paying gold for the telling of fortunes, womenfolk hanging laundry from clotheslines, menfolk fashioning weapons or leading prancing Tao horses. At the approach of the strange fellowship a terrific cry arose, and Auggie was soon surrounded by olive-skinned children with wide eyes and smiling mouths.

“August, perhaps you had better set us upon the ground!” Swordsmith shouted above the din. The gargantua nodded and lifted the two from the back of the giant steed. Ralph of Hopping stood as quietly as a marble statue, though his bulbous eyes rolled crazily in regarding the beehive of children buzzing about his kilong-high hooves.

“You would think these people had never before seen a gargantua,” Shalenwrathe Sticksinger said, watching the growing throng with haughty eyes — in truth, before yesterday she had never heard of a gargantua.

“Ho!” Auggie cried with somewhat of his previous gusto. “Me little people, boy and girl — me August Redgill Rockheaver of Temple of Goldman du Gargantuae! Wrestler...” he trailed, and the merry flame died in his eyes. The corners of his mouth turned down and his beard drooped at such an angle it would have been comical if one did not notice the remorse in the gargantuan eyes. “Wrestler Mediocrity,” he finished.

A blondewood stick crashed against his backside. Auggie yelped like a monstrous canine, scattering the children.

“I am warning you, Doggie,” Stickstinger said, eyes fiery, “you had best cease in feeling sorry for yourself, you — you — you giant baby!”

“Easy on him, Shalenwrathe!” Swordsmith grated dangerously. “He has suffered a great setback.”

She ignored him, and still speaking to Auggie shouted: “The world is a hard place, Doggie — just get over it!”

The gargantua looked at her with troubled eyes. He stroked his beard. Then he did a surprising thing: he grinned. And the grin broadened into a smile. And then his head was back and he was bellowing laughter. Tears appeared upon his cheeks.

“Ho! Me laugh — girl funny! Ho! Mama say same when Auggie eat friend bird!”

She rapped him again upon the backside with her longstick. “Now Doggie, didn’t I warn you about calling me girl?”

The gargantua visibly suppressed another burst of mirth and nodded to Sticksinger with forced solemnity. “Sticksinger. Auggie stupid, thee ponder?”

“Me ponder, Doggie,” Shalenwrathe Sticksinger said sternly, and then she did a very odd thing: she smiled. At first the expression was stilted, and then it grew, wider and brighter, lighting her entire face. Auggie grinned and looked bashfully away.

A delegation of gypsy men approached in shiny black hats cut dashingly with trailing red ribbons. The lead gypsy, a ponderous and handsome man (as tall as Swordsmith, but nearly three times the girth) bowed deeply and made the cupped-fist gesture, the universal sign for “friend.”

Swordsmith bowed and coughed. “You know Southron? Utanianese?”

The gypsy smiled at Swordsmith but offered no response.

“Starvast pidgin?” inquired Sticksinger.

The gypsies glanced at each other, yet smiling.

“Morgenstern,” Swordsmith said, making fencing gestures, “great man of sword. Morgenstern. You know Morgenstern? Where to find Morgenstern?”

The gypsies smiled and lifted empty palms.

“This is going to be difficult,” Swordsmith said, “and our time is setting with the sun.”

“Ho! Krrrush-Koo rrrenthrrra tuh-tuh — Morgenstern,” Auggie said, his hands making surprisingly elegant gestures with his speech. The gypsies, their smiles vanished, stared up at the giant with gaping mouths. Swordsmith and Sticksinger looked on with lifted brows. “Fahr-Koo-sssshhh — enthrrra. Tuh-tuh teh-Vudge aah-rrroosh peeshgoosh deesno!”

The gypsies exchanged a flurry of whispered imprecations, head shakings and barely suppressed bursts of anger.

“Auggie make joke with gypsy. Auggie ponder, gypsy know Morgenstern — Auggie ponder gypsy hide Morgenstern,” the gargantua whispered to his companions.

The lead gypsy strode toward the gargantua, face flushing redly, shaking his plump fists and spouting loud oaths which required no translation.

“Gypsy say we go — no Morgenstern — we go — big boo-boo,” Auggie said.

“Tell them we will pay,” Swordsmith said.

“Pay, with what, old man?” shot Sticksinger.

“The boy needs Morgenstern. We will pay,” Swordsmith said stiffly. There was always the impossibly deep red ruby meant for the special sword pommel — a treasure Ernesto had carried since the days before he was banished from Marthania — but Swordsmith was desperate that there was some other means of bribing the gypsies. Nevertheless, they would pay.

The gypsies’ features smoothed while Auggie spoke. They glanced among themselves and their smiles slowly returned.

“Gypsy say Morgenstern maybe live here, long time.”

The gypsies laughed and talked, lifted their arms and, winking, tweaked themselves upon the biceps; some shook their heads and gestured at the gargantua with flailing arms and rolling eyes; others puffed their chests and spoke passionately through clenched teeth; and yet others did not speak, only listened to their fellows, thoughtfully twirling their outrageous moustaches. The lead gypsy elbowed his fellows back and prodded a stiff finger into Auggie’s robes at about thigh-level and spoke with much flying spittle at some length.

Auggie glanced back at his companions. “Gypsies challenge Auggie, ho! Gypsy champion me wrestle! Ho!”

Swordsmith relaxed. The ruby was safe, and he was confident that Auggie as barter was much more than a sure bet — that confident Ho! truly soothed Swordsmith’s jangling nerves. But what exactly opposed Morgenstern as collateral?

“What is the bet, Doggie?” Sticksinger queried.

“Gypsy take boy, me lose.”

Silence.

Then, deadpan, Swordsmith said: “Which boy?”

Sticksinger snorted and she half-drew her namesakes.

Swordsmith put out his hand. What appeared to be a fiery eyeball gleamed and sparkled upon his palm. The gypsies whooshed the air with their breathing. Auggie blubbered. Even Sticksinger inhaled.

The gypsies immediately returned to their buzzing conversation, shaking their bandannas, clicking their finger rings, tugging their earrings, twirling their moustachios, imprecations louder than the crows cawing from the trees. A ring of womenfolk and ogling children was pressing steadily inward about the companions — the ruby excluding even the sight of the mythical gargantua, if only for the moment.

Then the handsome portly gypsy strode to Sticksinger and seized her shoulder and jabbered huskily.

“Boy, not baubble,” Auggie interpreted.

Sticksinger calmly, almost lovingly, placed her hand upon the gypsy’s wrist. The gypsy snuffled and did a neat backward flip. He blinked from the ground, Sticksinger’s boot buried in his breast. The gypsy delegation crowded close, daggers appearing from sleeves and boots.

Swordsmith stepped forward, arms out and palms empty and up. “We accept the wager,” he said with authority, and then, aside to Sticksinger, “we accept graciously.”

Auggie interpreted. The daggers lowered.

Sticksinger showed Swordsmith her teeth in what was not a pleasant grin. Nevertheless, she stepped away from her pinned bug.

“Doggie loses again, old man,” Sticksinger whispered to Swordsmith, “and you die.”

The lead gypsy, smiling (but with a dangerous flush upon his skin), was aided to his feet. He mopped his face and brow with a yellow silk bandanna. He bowed low to Swordsmith, then again, twice, to the gargantua. He smiled and swept his arm and said in his melodic voice, “Arrruth-shhh yo, ommenthhhy teh vudge ahhhmangeey, yoooo...”

“Big wrestle, ho! Big eat, first, ho!” Auggie said, face alight with smiling-pumpkin delight.

The lead gypsy offered his arm to Sticksinger.

“Trust Auggie’s prowess, and play with this charade, boy,” Swordsmith snarled softly.

“For the boy,” Sticksinger replied, and then did a very surprising thing: she smiled.

They were conducted to a table long enough to sit over a hundred people on each side, wide enough to hold Auggie’s greath length on its surface. This great furniture was covered with all manner of smoking meats and steaming stews, bottles old and new of wine and fresh-squeezed juices, platters of fluffy warm breads and bunches of polished fruits.

The companions feasted as hundreds of gypsies appeared from the trees and visitors and tourists gathered about the table. Strolling gypsies played the violin and lute, tambourine and accordian, mandolin and clarinet. The gargantua finished four chickens and delighted all with the trajectory of chicken-bone missile. The children squealed and applauded and the women pushed pitoned meat samples before his beard. The men gathered about the gargantua and prodded his great muscles, clapped him upon the back, and shoved wineskins into his face — the giant emptied nearly a dozen skins, squishing them like grapes between his fingers. Sticksinger, attentively monitored by the lead gypsy who sat next to Auggie at her right hand, quaffed much sparkling water from a delicate crystal flute but merely sipped at an earthenware bowl of burly stew. The boy, snuggled upon the bench between Sticksinger and Swordsmith, sleeping soundly, gnawed upon a turkey leg he gripped within his ever smaller hands. Swordsmith, across the boy on Sticksinger’s left, allowing his bones to ease and his tired skin to reside, consumed much bread and sampled many spicy wines.

A dashing young gypsy who stood markedly taller than his countrymen, dressed in a flashy red silk blouse with a broad gold sash and form-fitting black breeches and knee-high doeskin boots, approached the table and stood across from Swordsmith. His hair was fine and black and fell loosely about his wide shield-shaped shoulders. The young man honed his black almond-shaped eyes upon the old man. Swordsmith lifted his brows. The gypsy fellow flashed a dazzling smile and then stepped along the table until he stood across from Sticksinger, where he winked and flashed his black eyebrows.

Sticksinger glared at the rogue.

The dashing young gypsy moved along until he stood across from Auggie. He stood for many moments studying the gargantua. His gaze was no longer wickedly boyish. His eyes, once daylight warm, were now equally evening cool.

Auggie soon noticed the dark-eyed watcher. He grinned and waved a turkey carcass and offered a half-shy ho! The young gypsy remained still, his eyes locked and flinty. The gargantua lifted his shaggy red eyebrows in curiosity. The young gypsy’s mouth twitched, then pursed, and suddenly a smile broke through.

“Ho! Tao Gypsy! Ho! Teh-vushhh arrrush, Tao man! Ho!” Auggie thundered, his eyes crinkling merrily.

“Ho! Wrestler Extraordinaire!” the young gypsy returned, and bowed low.

“I think we have met the competition,” Ernesto Swordsmith whispered to Sticksinger.

Shalenwrathe Sticksinger snorted. “A puny boy. Doggie will make short work of him.”

“It seems at least one gypsy speaks a common tongue,” Swordsmith replied, glancing across Sticksinger at the lead gypsy, who grinned back inscrutably.

“In Moorheath there is a saying,” Sticksinger replied, glancing at the lead gypsy who smiled in return. “A beggar will only accept gold from his betters. A gypsy will pilfer even a pauper’s pewter.”

Swordsmith nodded sagely. He glanced at the lead gypsy who no longer smiled.

Then three new gypsies approached Swordsmith from across the table. These were triplets, obviously, and not only were they identical in face and height, both of which were average, but across the bridge of the nose each wore a brutal score beneath the eyes, flattening what had at one time been tremendous beaks into severely mashed flesh. These men, much older than the young gypsy rogue, wore their ash-gray hair close-cropped beneath jaunty black berets. Whereas the gypsy rogue wore flashy clothes and flashing gold rings, these brothers wore innocuous dark robes commonly donned by practitioners of martial studies. As one they bowed to Swordsmith, repeated their salute to Sticksinger, and then joined the young gypsy before Auggie.

“Perhaps the intent is to have Doggie wrestle all of Tao,” Sticksinger sneered. “If that is the case our gargantua shall have the support of blondewood.”

“The people of Tao knoweth honor,” the lead gypsy spoke, his voice mellow, soft, but pointedly dangerous. “We are the people of gallantry. We are the people whose blood doth run hotter than those people elsewhere in the world. We are the fighters, the lovers, the poets, the drinkers, the fathers and mothers. We are the people whose sign is the Horse.”

Ernesto Swordsmith extened his right hand beyond Sticksinger.

“We acknowledge the cinammon people. Our need is great. I am Swordsmith, Ernesto d’Onthannoloth, and would clasp thy wrist.”

The gypsy’s hot eyes flicked between the proferred hand and the old man’s face. His lips curled down and then flattened. His eyes hardened. Then he nodded and clasped Swordsmith’s wrist.

“Yulian, First Magyar of Southern Tao. And I tell thee one time only, the gypsy doth not steal.”

Sticksinger sat staring forward. “I merely quoted a saying. And I am not a boy.”

Yulian the Magyar blinked. “Surely — surely thou are not a — not a, not a — not a woman?”

Sticksinger slowly turned her head to regard the Magyar. “I. Am. A. Sticksinger. And I shall tell you one time only.”

The gypsy’s eyes fell and he chuckled. “Silly of us. Our ears yet listen to grandmother tales. Silly of the Tao Gypsy to remember prophecy.”

“A prophecy of a boy?” Sticksinger said, her gaze softening.

The Magyar’s eyes widened.

Sticksinger leaned back presenting the Magyar a clear view of the sleeping boy.

“A boy,” the Magyar whispered. He smiled. “The wager stands. Morgenstern, or the boy. The giant and champions shall determine who gains, and who loses.”

“Perhaps you should relate this prophecy,” Swordsmith said, placing a weathered hand upon the boy’s gently breathing breast.

The Magyar sipped at a flute of wine, his eyes smoldering potently. “Since the days of the Vanya Dirge these Tao forests, the Hidden Woods, have been haunted. Spectres. Shades of hatred and death stalk these forests during the eldritch festivals — and the times of portent, such as when the moon doth bloat. The Beast of Many Animals, which preys upon our livestock, decimates our game, and slays our hounds...”

“Ho,” Auggie said, leaning close, hulking over the Magyar. The companions looked to the gargantua. “Strong. Coils of serpent. Feather, many. Hand foot — bear. Ponder wolf. Breath dragon. Ho, ponder, evil. Ho. Ho.”

The Magyar nodded, watching the gargantua through half-closed eyes. He continued: “The Thief of Maidenheads, who haunteth our woods at the no-moon. Who laugheth from branches, who calleth to our daughters — who planteth his cold seed, a cruel seed which blossoms coldly, in death...”

“The Gray Man,” Sticksinger whispered, her gaze turned within.

The Magyar did not reply. He nodded, his eyes closed, and said: “The Creature of Fire...”

“Whose left hand is an anvil and right a hammer,” Swordsmith said, gritting his teeth. “Whose mouth is a furnance and whose laughter is smoke.”

“The Creature of Fire destroys our homes, consumes our grain, devours our forest,” the Magyar resumed, “And, the final and cruelest shade — the Demon Knight — the silent one, the haunted haunter, who hath eyes like unto lamps — slayer of our fighters, our lovers — only the finest of our gallant, hot-eyed boys.”

“Four shades,” Ernesto Swordsmith said, fingering a crust of bread.

“Four contests,” Shalenwrathe Sticksinger replied as if answering a question, staring at the boy, her face balled into a silent, impotent snarl.

“‘Four shall fail and a boy shall set Tao free.’” The contests darkly,” Yulian the Magyar concluded.

“Old man!” Sticksinger growled, the skin of her face bruising to an ugly deepness, “if this prophecy applies — then the fourth, this Morgenstern, he too shall fail!”

Swordsmith did not reply. He slowly set the crust of bread upon the table and began to stroke his left arm with his right hand.

“Old man!” Sticksinger continued, her voice rising, “if Morgenstern is to contest the, this — the...”

“Demon Knight,” the Magyar supplied.

“— Demon Knight, and if he fails, then all is for naught!”

“Interpreting prophecy is a perilous engagement, girl,” the Magyar said, gently, kindly, “as reflected in the diverse cults of religion of our time.”

Sticksinger lifted a finger which she held taut beneath his fist-sized nose. “I care naught for prophecy, and I care naught for this gypsy land. And do not call me girl again, gypsy.”

“It would appear that thou hast gypsy lineage,” Yulian the Magyar said, smiling, staring with lifted eyebrows at the ominous finger.

“It would seem you would protect your interests best if you aid us, for it is the boy we attempt to save in seeking Morgenstern,” Swordsmith chided the gypsy. Though his left arm throbbed painfully, demanding rest, relaxation, his temper was stealing away his composure.

“I know nothing of thee, Ernesto Swordsmith, nor thy worthy companions; however, we are obviously bound in the tethers of Fate. If thy giant prevails, thou shalt possess the information thou seeketh. If the cinnamon people triumph, we shall have the boy.”

“So,” Swordsmith said. “The wager stands.”

“I have exceedlingly powerful personal investments in this wager. My son, Julius, is eighteen years of age and a warrior of surpassing majesty — he is in terrific danger of drawing the Demon Knight’s attention, and there is no doubt that but he die if they meet. If thy giant triumph, thou wilt have Morgenstern, and the boy is not the boy for which the gypsy watches and prays. May the battle be mighty,” Yulian the Magyar said.

“Too,” Swordsmith answered.

Sticksinger tensed, but made no comment. Her hand joined Swordsmith’s upon the boy’s breast, their fingertips making the whisper of a touch.

The Magyar clapped his hands and shouted: “Aaahrrrrooo aaahrrrriiii, yo tiiii!”

A cacophonous cheer disintegrated the atmosphere. The gypsies seemingly as one leaped from the table, and the great furniture and all its paraphanelia — August and Shalenwrathe and Ernesto gaped in wonder — almost magically vanished, so hastily did the table fly apart and the foodstuffs pop into baskets, the wine into throats, pastries slurped up as cinammon hands and fingers flew like the infamous Gypsy Nightbird. The companions almost had their benches yanked from beneath them.

Yulian the Magyar motioned for the companions to follow and led them, surrounded by screaming children and laughing folk, to what he explained was the Dark Walk, a winding pathway through crowding ancient spice trees — the gargantua hunched nearly double to pass — an avenue many of the most famed warriors had traversed in the last two hundred years, even, so the Magyar swore, the dashing Renegade Prince Stosha Overway. The further they traveled the Dark Walk the more readily apparent was the source of its name — within a hundred yards of entering the tunnel of close foliage, it became necessary to light torches spaced every twenty or so paces; the children shrieked less and clung more closely to their parents who no longer laughed.

“It is here within the Dark Walk that the shades are the strongest,” the Magyar whispered, his beefy body huddled between Sticksinger and Swordsmith, fiercely clasping either of their arms, Auggie mince-stepping behind them (surprisingly quiet for a creature so titannic).

“Then perhaps it shall be here that Morgenstern shall face the Demon Knight,” Swordsmith whispered, more to himself than his companions.

The Magyar faltered. “Is that why thou seeketh Morgenstern? My friends — for that is how I view thee — I am afraid thy misguided.”

“Now what?” Sticksinger snarled.

“Mayhap the Morgenstern was a warrior, once and long ago, but now he is a man of peace only — a constable and teacher, if thou wilt — the Morgenstern teaches our young men to use the sword, those that desire such knowledge, for the sharp blade is not natural to the gypsy. No. Morgenstern will not lift his hand in anger to another man — nor even to save his own life.”

“That. Is. Wonderful.”

Swordsmith looked across the Magyar to Sticksinger but did not attempt to speak. He was positive she would lash out at anything which angered her (which would be anyone or anything) — Yulian the Magyar also seemed to appreciate this obvious fact.

“Wonderful. Ponder,” Auggie muttered.

Swordsmith looked up at the gargantua with alarm. The giant, hobbled over, was peering into the darkness of the Dark Walk with wild eyes. Then Swordsmith looked at Sticksinger and gaped. He blinked his eyes, shaking his head —

— for instead of the usual explosion of anger and threat Sticksinger reached back and patted the gargantua upon the arm. “Calm, Doggie.”

Swordsmith was positive he heard a trace of empathy, of gentleness in her voice.

“Watching — eyes. White eyes. Bug eyes. No ponder, red eyes, blue eyes, fire eyes — go crazy. Eyes, eyes, eyes,” the gargantua muttered, his voice strained, his gaze flashing wildly.

“It is said that the dead watch the living upon the Dark Walk,” the Magyar said, who would not lift his own eyes higher than looking at the ground. “Animals sense the strangeness of the Dark Walk more so than men.”

“Chuhnt aah-rrruth, arrrush — no — tevuh, gypsy!” Auggie snarled, literally.

Swordsmith and Sticksinger yanked the Magyar to lock — whirled to stare up at the gargantua with bulging eyes and hanging jaws. The giant was meeting the gypsy’s startled gaze with a terrible something Swordsmith would never have guessed possible.

“I meant thee no disrespect — yo, yo, ahventhrrraaa to enyo venthrrraa.”

The gargantua did not blink. His tremendous bulbous eyes were ironshod. Then he pursed his great lips and nodded once. “Gargantua furry. But — gargantua ponder. Ponder?”

The gypsy nodded and they continued deeper into the Dark Walk. Gradually the ceiling lifted, the overhanging branches retreating until Auggie could stride forward at full height, and after perhaps a league of their quiet but hurried march they entered a large oval clearing set with bleachers surrounding a central arena. Although it was yet only hours after midday, here in the clearing it was seemingly night, as if they had meandered into a subterranian vault. Torches were spread about the bleachers and braziers about the arena.

The oval arena, a jumbled ring of hefty rocks surrounding a compacted pit of sand, was as wide as Auggie was tall and perhaps twice as long. The ring was surrounded by a wide moat of dark waters. The three companions grouped about the sleeping boy at a small gate which led over a small bridge onto the arena. The grim gypsy triplets and the young gypsy rogue waited at the far side of the arena at a similar gate, each standing with legs spread wide and arms folded at chest level.

“Do you know the rules, Auggie?” Swordsmith asked.

“Ponder same. Wrestle places, many. Thee enjoy, Swordsmith, Sticksinger. Auggie no fail. Ho!” the gargantua said, all smiles, relaxing back upon his heels, his hands upon his hips.

“You will kill them, these gypsy champions?” Sticksinger inquired, purposely not looking across the arena to the young gypsy rogue who blatantly and audaciously stared and smiled, flashing his white gypsy teeth and garish gold jewelry.

“Ho! Sleep gypsy, kill gypsy, swim gypsy. Auggie win by Tree. Auggie ponder no hurt tiny folk. Auggie like cinnamon. They crazy, tiny gypsy, wrestle Auggie! Ho!” he rumbled and threw back his head to bark laughter (causing a loud stirring in the bleachers, which were filled to almost overflowing).

“How is that you speak the gypsy tongue?” Swordsmith said.

“Ho! Gargantua speak much. Talk South, North, East, West, Ocean. Gargantua love talk. Love tiny folk. Talk all time. Ho!”

“It looks as if the gypsies, despite their claimed honor, have a surprise waiting for our Doggie,” Sticksinger said, nodding to an ominous black tent which was on the far side of the arena, behind the four gypsy champions.

“Bear or dragon,” the gargantua assured, “Auggie Wrestler Extraordinaire. No ponder, ho!”

Yulian the Magyar approached the arena at its radius. He bore two blazing torches which he swung above his head. He addressed the populace in a rich, commanding language. The people cheered. He spoke more: “Midi rrruth an Tavo, an Ricco, an Bravo!” and the triplets trotted stately over the bridge to the sand of the arena. They stood just inside the arena with their heads down.

“Three son Magyar,” Auggie told his friends.

“The stakes are personal, then,” Swordsmith said.

“Midi rrruth an Yulius!” Yulian the Magyar shouted, face beaming light. The young gypsy rogue leapt upon the handrope of the bridge and trotted with mincing steps along the narrow string and somersaulted into the arena, completing two complete flips before his close boots lightly touched the sand. He bowed many times to the audience which cheered and applauded lustily — Julius Magyarson was obviously the local darling. He bowed to the companions and blew a kiss to Sticksinger.

“Boy son, Magyar, ho!” Auggie told them.

“The boy endangered by the Demon Knight,” Sticksinger said, her face calm but her eyes filled with fire.

“Perhaps the Magyar does not realize that we may represent the salvation which he so desperately yearns,” Swordsmith muttered.

“Midi rrruth an Bulbas!” Yulian the Magyar trumpted, gesturing with his torches toward the far end of the arena. The spectators went wild and the four brothers in the arena looked to the black tent.

“Another son?” Sticksinger queried.

“Ho!” Auggie replied.

Then Yulian the Magyar turned and gestured to the gargantua: “Midi an Augustus Moire-gill Rockheaver an Temple an Goldman an Gargantuae! Wrestler Extraordinaire!”

Sticksinger put two fingers into her mouth and whistled so piercingly that many people in the near bleachers slapped hands over ears — Swordsmith would have been deafened except that he surprised even himself with the fervor of his own applause as his arthritic hands came together loudly above his head.

“No worry, no ponder, ho!” Auggie said, patting his companions gently. He dropped his robes where he stood, and although Sticksinger and Swordsmith had seen him thus before, the spectacle of his massive naked muscles forced them back several steps. Auggie stepped onto the sand of the arena with one reach of his leg, completely eschewing the rope bridge (which would not have held his weight anyway).

Auggie stood on the sand of the arena with his feet spread and his hands at waist level, palms turned toward his opponents, as if in invitation. The gypsy champions arranged themselves in spearhead formation at the opposite side of the oval — Julius the rogue closest to the gargantua, standing lightly with his left foot forward and his hands upon his hips. The triplets — Tavo, Ricco, and Bravo — stood just behind their younger brother, three across with arms yet crossed before them.

Then Julius was moving forward. He looked like a lean racing animal.

Auggie, his hands out and palms up, crouched so that his knees came out like windmill blades. His head, while crouching, was half again as high as the rogue gypsy’s. The gargantua was smiling a beaming grin.

The gypsy hit the sand in a rushing head roll and came up inside the gargantua’s dreadnaught defense. With a leap the tiny thing was upon the huge thing’s breast. It was difficult for the watchers to comprehend what they were witnessing — for to compare the contest to a wrestling match between a child in diapers and an adult in armor would not even approach the ridiculousness of the reality in the arena.

The gargantua stood and grasped at his chest, but the gypsy was already dropped to the sand — the gargantua bent to seize the speedy little thing, but the gypsy vaulted beneath the arch of the tree-trunk legs, came up behind the doubled giant and threw his full weight upon the massive hindquarters.

Auggie stood and took two mincing steps forward and saved himself from a near fall — and then the gypsy triplets dashed forward as one.

Julius spun neatly about and saluted Sticksinger. She threatened him with a fist.

Auggie swiped at the threesome with a forearm that had often felled full-grown grizzly bears, two at a time, but against the three men he applied muscle governors so as not to crush the life from their puny bodies — the triplets seemingly vanished and the loglike arm met nothing — and then the triplets were reappeared, one upon each gargantuan leg and the third scaling the fortress of Auggie’s torso.

Julius the young rogue suddenly was clambering up Auggie’s back, handhold over knowledgeable handhold, until he perched upon the shoulders which were wide as a beast of burden, the shaggy head reared before him like a horse, the ears hanging before Julius like stirrups — the gypsy did the natural thing and inserted his boots.

Auggie tottered forward. Auggie tottered backward. Tavo on his left leg, Ricco on his right leg, Bravo hanging from his beard, and Julius riding his ears. If the gargantua fell backward he would dive into the moat along with his riders (unless even one of the gypsies was able to dismount before the plunge, thereby taking the victory).

The crowd screamed, waving arms, sloshing crocks of beer and ale.

“When do you think our gargantua is going to enter the contest!” Sticksinger shouted.

Swordsmith held his breath and did not reply. He studied the match intently, his shaggy white eyebrows low over his eyes. It must be very different for Auggie, wrestling four highly trained acrobats, as opposed to competing against a dragon, say, or a bear/lion team effort — in truth, to this point, Auggie appeared to be a clumsy gargantuan clod. But Swordsmith felt there were other forces at work here — the boy must live, and Swordsmith felt in his marrow that Morgenstern was required, and the procuring of Morgenstern was in Auggie’s very large hands.

“Ho!” Auggie thundered, drool spilling over his lips. “Good, very good gypsy! Now! Watch out! Ho!”

And the gargantua did a neat and unencumbered forward roll, sending gypsies flying all about the arena — one perfectly fluent motion, which terminated with Auggie on his toes — the arena rumbled and rocked, the waters below churning and frothing. Tavo landed on the very lip of the arena and clung just above the waters which splashed upon his boots; Ricco, who lost his beret, landed upon his feet and spun around in a ready crouch; Bravo, caught in the tide of Auggie’s somersault, came down with his face in the sand; Julius had somehow managed to remain with the gargantua and came up fastened to Auggie’s back.

Auggie calmly seized Julius and pried him away, waved the gypsy once high above his head, and then with an underhand swing he bowled Julius across the sand smack into Tavo who had just climbed to the surface of the arena. The two gypsy brothers met with a loud impact and Tavo was cast backward into the waters. Julius staggered about drunkenly. Tavo soon appeared at the ring of rocks and pulled himself soggily from the water where he collapsed.

Ricco attacked the gargantua, and Bravo, blinking sand from his eyes, was close behind.

Auggie threw back his head and roared. Ricco skidded to a halt. Bravo smashed into his brother’s back.

“Ho! Just kidding,” Auggie laughed, returning to his wrestler’s crouch.

The brothers circled, Ricco moving cautiously in a fighter’s stance about Auggie’s left and Bravo sprinting to the right. Suddenly Julius appeared between Auggie’s knees, no longer blinking and staggering drunkenly, but executing a perfect flip — his boots struck the gargantua flush upon the jaw.

Auggie stood up, blinking, great hands and arms hanging slack.

Ricco leapt upon Auggie’s left elbow. Bravo bounded in and locked a powerful wrestler’s hold upon Auggie’s right wrist. Julius dove between the gargantua’s sagging knees to kneel against the heels.

The crowd hushed as August Redgill Rockheaver of Temple of Goldman du Gargantuae, Wrestler Extraordinaire, his heels only five paces from the edge of the arena, teetered slowly backward. Ricco and Bravo, gritting their teeth and straining every muscle in their bodies, heaved and threw their weight toward the edge of the arena.

“By Xane,” Swordsmith whispered. He felt that he teetered there on the edge with the gargantua.

Sticksinger, standing resolute, eyes angry and unmoving, gritted her teeth until a tooth broke.

Slowly, Auggie bent back, further, further, until he was at an impossible angle, nearly perpendicular to the surface of the moat. Julius leapt up and snaked his arms about the inside of the gargantua’s knees where he hung and swung his legs out over the water.

“Brother!” Ricco cried in the cinammon tongue, “thou dost not exert thyself fully. Thou must cease being lazy and aid me in drawing this ape into the moat!”

“Fie!” Bravo answered, his face darker than his black martial robes, “I pull with twice thy strength!”

“Brothers!” joined Julius, “if thy muscles were as strong as thy mouths, both of thee might have aided me, somewhat, in wetting this gargantua by this time!”

The brothers snarled and exerted themselves by double, for such is the way the gypsy extols his comrades to great feats of arms and strength.

Auggie teetered further. Now only his heels were buried in the sand.

“Brothers! He is going!” Julius shouted triumphantly, swinging out and out as if he were upon a trapeze.

The crowd quieted. They tensed, awaiting that glorious moment when their champions finalized the bathing of the foreign monster.

But the gargantua did not fall. Body curved and bowed backward, impossibly defying gravity and the muscular endeavors of the gypsy champions — the gargantua did not move that necessary inch required for defeat.

The three gypsy brothers ceased their efforts. They glanced uneasily among themselves. The brothers on the arms each gave a tentative tug. The brother swinging from the knees made one tentative swing.

The gargantua did not fall. He hung there, as if his body were a huge wire bent in a half loop, hanging out in space above the water. Ricco and Bravo were heavily-muscled men, and Julius, though lean, was very tall. But the gargantua did not fall.

“Ho!” Auggie suddenly broke in laughter, making the gypsies’ eyes alight in terror, “Ho! Gypsy close, gypsy crazy — gypsy WET!”

As one the brothers screamed and attempted to scramble away from the laughing gargantua, but Auggie had Ricco in one palm and Bravo in the other — Julius dropped between the giant feet and backrolled out of danger; however, the remainder of the triplets were dropped lightly into the water, despite their valiant attempts to somersault and flip onto the edge of the arena.

Auggie flexed his muscles and slowly, his calves and thighs and belly undulating with the effort, he rose to stand straight and impossibly tall.

“Old gargantua trick!” Auggie chuckled, shaking out his muscles.

Julius the rogue gypsy looked from his dripping brothers now outside the oval of battle and then at the grinning gargantua who stood nearly twice his own height. Then he nodded his black head, his black eyes dancing, and then grinned and trotted into an easy circling pace, tossing his black hair so that it glistened in the torchlight, prancing to the giant’s left. He rolled into a series of acrobatic maneuvers, beginning with simple cartwheels and rapidly advancing to complicated twists and double — then triple — flips, both forward and backward — ever circling to the giant’s left.

The crowd, rising and falling in the bleachers, bellowed and screamed. Whole sections rose at once to wave arms in the air and then sat back laughing in the bleachers.

“It almost looks like...” Sticksinger trailed.

“A wave,” Swordsmith finished.

Auggie flourished his hands above his head. He bowed to his opponent. Then snapped into a neat cartwheel, making use of the entire arena surface. He was lithe, he was quick, and he could truly move. The gargantua, bellowing laughter, returned the length of the arena in another cartwheel — this time, however, his hands did not touch the sand.

The arena shook and lifted. The moat erupted in geysers, whirlpools and water spouts.

Pandemonium in the bleachers.

Auggie executed a perfect backflip, followed by a frontflip, escalating into a series of acrobatics as equally perfect as formerly accomplished by the young gypsy rogue.

Julius, standing tall and unsmiling, finally saluted the gargantua. He turned and neatly dove into the moat. The audience roared its approval, apparently as delighted as ever in the dashing young man’s performance (afterall, he had unflinchingly faced a being nearly twice his height, five times his weight, and perhaps ten times his strength) (and he was alive).

“We have won!” Sticksinger shouted, her eyes merry and her voice as light and giggly as any young girl’s. She seized Swordsmith and crushed him in a hug — Swordsmith groaned aloud, the full length of his spine popping and snapping in protest.

“Hold, Shalenwrathe! Hold!” Swordsmith bellowed, actually lifted from the ground in Sticksinger’s arms. “The black tent! The black tent!”

“It opens,” she whispered, slowly placing the old man upon the ground. Her hand instinctively reached out to touch the sleeping boy, and met Swordsmith’s hand already there.

The crowd quieted. Auggie turned from waving to Julius. He turned to face the opposite side of the arena. The opposite side where the rope bridge lead near to the rising flaps of the black tent. The black tent glistened wetly in the flickering torchlight.

A voice said something in the audience. Another voice joined the first. The two voices were saying one word, repeatedly, quietly. Soon several voices joined. The word grew louder, more distinct, a group chant, almost discernible, as the curtain flaps continued to rise. Now the entire congregation chanted the one-word hymn.

“Bulbas,” Sticksinger whispered.

“The fifth son,” Swordsmith answered in a whisper.

“Bulbas - Bulbas - Bulbas - Bulbas!”

The spectators began to stomp their feet upon the bleachers and clap their hands.

“BULBAS - BULBAS - BULBAS - BULBAS!”

The tent flaps were now fully drawn, but the interior of the tent was dark, very dark — dark enough so that nothing could be seen — but then something appeared in the tent opening. A shadow, only, at first. The shadow of something large. The thing moved slowly from the tent, very slowly. Whatever it was — it was large.

“BUL-BAASS - BUL-BAASS - BUL-BAASS - BUL-BAASS!”

The ground rumbled and groaned. The wooden bleachers sounded as if they would simultaneously splinter into thousands of screaming toothpicks. The voice of the people was deafening. Their chant was frightening.

What appeared to be an arm entered the realm of brazier light. It appeared to be an arm, but there was something decidedly wrong with its shape and size. The thing, the large thing, the huge thing, crept from the tent. And what appeared to be a foot on the end of a leg appeared. Whatever the thing was it was moving very slowly, either for maximum suspensful effect, or because it could not move any faster than it did.

“BUUUL-BAASS - BUUUL-BAASS - BUUUL-BAASS - BUUUL-BAASS!”

Whatever the large thing was it now moved fully into the light.

Swordsmith gasped. His hands flew to his chest and his fingers tangled at his heart. Sticksinger threw her hands over her mouth but could not quite contain the too-womanly scream that issued from there.

“BUUULLL-BAAASS - BUUULLL-BAAASS - BUUUUULLLL-BAAAAASS!”

“Oh!” Auggie chirruped. He smiled. His smile disappeared. He attempted a grin. The expression faltered. Auggie blinked and scratched his head.

Silence.

The thing came on. It moved at a steady plodding pace. The ground moved beneath its short, half-stepping waddle, but the thing took such delicate steps that not a noise did it make in its passage. The ropes of the bridge wang-chunged tautly as the thing passed — then snapped and the bridge completely disintegrated just as the thing crossed over. It took a long time, plodding, waddling, all in the tomb silence.

Auggie stood patiently awaiting its measured arrival, his face flexing in a half grin.

At some point Sticksinger and Swordsmith had actually clasped hands over the sleeping boy.

The thing came to rest within touching distance of Auggie. Auggie looked down upon it — the top of its head came approximately to the gargantua’s navel, but it’s width was by far greater than Auggie’s ample girth!

It appeared to be a man, but it was very difficult for Auggie to tell, for its head, although of a man’s head height, was wider than four heads stacked side by side. The features on the thing that passed for its face were great lumpy hanging things pulled drastically to each side and the creature was seemingly devoid of hair. It had the normal dispersion of limbs, head and torso, but its vast circumference equaled that of ten large people grouped together.

“Huwwoh,” the thing whined in an uncannily high whistle.

“Ho!” Auggie replied, his half-grin transforming into a very authentic smile.

“Eyeuh newuh thaw uh gawganthua befowuh,” the creature whistled shyly.

Auggie bent low and peered into the creature’s face. He discerned two warmly brown, raisin-sized eyes peering back at him, and a small measure below the eyes was a slight gash which produced the high whistle — Auggie noticed that this fleshy gash was slightly upturned.

“Ho!” Auggie thundered and reached around and thumped the creature upon the back. “Bulbas! Me ponder! Thee gypsy! Me August Redgi-uh — me friend call Auggie!”

“Thawths cowwect, eyeuham gypthy, Auhgiee. Eyeuh hope eyeuh didnuh scahwuh thee. Eyeuham wathuh fat, eyeuham uhfwaid,” Bulbas whistled.

“Oh ho! Auggie no scare, Auggie grown! Wrestle, you come?”

“Yeth, eyeuham uhfwaid tho — ahwtho eyeuh hope we can thiwuh be fwiendth. Thow thee thewes noffing eweth eyeuh can dew. My fowuh bwohthuhws wahmed thee up fowuh me,” Bulbas whistled, patting Auggie with a foreshortened finlike appendage. “Donne wuhwy, fwienn Auhgiee, buhcuth eyeum wewwy, wewwy thtwong!”

“Ho! Wrestle is good, Bulbas!”

“Thee won’th thake ith puhsunuwwy?”

“Friend! Ho!” Auggie said and offered his wrist for clasping.

“Fwiend! Ho!” Bulbas whistled delightedly, placing his plumped digits within Auggie’s hand.

And the cheering and applause began afresh as the two exaggerated specimens squared off and prepared to wrestle — the volume of the cacophonous delight rising and rising, overwhelming the electrified atmosphere so that tears rolled from every eye. Auggie assumed his formidable wrestler’s crouch and Bulbas tipped his great lump forward.

“Ho!” Auggie thundred, moving forward.

Bulbas came forward in the same steady pace, tooting and whistling.

They met and grappled, or rather Auggie grappled — he seized Bulbas about the middle but could not quite manage the reach necessary to gain any real hold, he shifted Bulbas to the side, or at least he attempted to shift Bulbas’ great bulk, but Bulbas did not move. Auggie grunted. Auggie pushed. Auggie pulled. But whatever Auggie attempted to do Bulbas could not be moved.

Then Bulbas began his steady forward pace, his flipperlike appendages grasping at Auggie’s hips.

The gargantua moved backward.

Auggie grunted. He strained against Bulbas. He leaned his tremendous stature down upon the shorter being, but Bulbas disregarded whatever Auggie attempted — Bulbas maintained his slow but ever-active ground-gobbling pace. Auggie’s heels dug great furrows in the sand, but strain and exert himself as he would, Auggie could not slow the ominous momentum toward the edge of the oval and the waters which waited for him below. He doubled his effort and shoved himself away from Bulbas, or at least he attempted to shove himself away, but Bulbas had not exaggerated when he assured Auggie that he was “wewwy, wewwy thtwong!” Auggie could not escape.

The edge of the oval arena was very close.

Auggie lifted up a great arm above Bulbas’ head and prepared to bring his fist down with the force of ten plummeting anvils. But then he lowered his hand as his heels neared the dropoff.

“Thahwy,” Bulbas whistled, his feet never pausing. But they did not go over the edge. In fact, even though Bulbas’ feet never faltered, in fact were rolling forward at a greater pace than ever before, the two mighty combatants were not moving. Bulbas fastened his raisin-sized eyes upon Auggie.

Every vein stood out darkly in Auggie’s face. All his tremendous muscles bulged and rippled with veins. Auggie’s eyes were clenched shut. A low moan escaped the gargantuan lips.

“Whuth ith wong, Auhgiee?” Bulbous was very concerned.

“Ho!” Auggie muttered between grimacing lips. “Heavy, Bulbas, big heavy!”

Bulbas realized Auggie had somehow managed to lift him up and was even now holding him many inches off the ground, so even though his feet ever marched, the two of them now locked within place. Bulbas burst into whistling tears, for he had never experienced the warm and close sensation of being cradled in another’s arms, for even at birth he had been too heavy for even the strongest man to lift.

“Betthuh put me down, Auhgiee, owh thee might die,” Bulbas sobbed.

“Ho!” Auggie grunted, tears streaming from his cramped and scrunched eyes. Then the gargantua did a truly remarkable thing: he took a step forward, away from the edge of the oval arena. The oval arena protested loudly — sand bloomed up in clouds about Auggie’s feet. He took another step. Not only had the gargantua succeeded in hoisting an impossible weight, he was now laboring forward, step by grueling step.

Something in the earth snapped. The wildly screaming crowd gasped and quickly hushed. They heard — or more accurately, sensed — sensedsomething, something vast occurring. There was an odd trembling in the bleachers, in the ground, upon the surface of the moat — ripples spread over the waters and quickly formed into waves. Something was happening, something big. The ground shuddered — an actual groan erupted from the earth. People began to shriek and panic in the bleachers.

And then Auggie seemed not so tall. No one had actually seen him shrink, but it appeared the gargantua was now not as gargantuan. The earth grumbled and turned in its bed and now Auggie was only the height of a common man, and yet it seemed Bulbas was the same distance from the sand!

“Betthuh put me down,” Bulbas whistled. “Thomthing ith happening!”

“Ho! Auggie stuck! Muscle no listen!” Auggie whimpered, his eyes yet locked shut.

Suddenly the earth belched hugely and water geysered high into the air. People screamed. A heavy mist and a torrential rain flooded the air. After a few moments, when the water rained down lending some visibility, Swordsmith stepped back in horror.

The oval arena was vanished, unable to withstand the combined weight of the titans upon its surface — Auggie and Bulbas lowered even as Swordsmith watched. The gargantua stood as before, holding the monstrous gypsy, but now they sank in an oval pool of water — the water at a level with Auggie’s waist, and rising.

“Betthu weth me go, Auhgiee — eyeuh cainth thwim!” Bulbas whistled in terror, the water surrounding his body and lapping at his neck.

“Auggie in trouble — Auggie no swim, ho!” the gargantua bellowed, his eyes wide open and rolling in fright as the water rose to his chest. In his fear he was squeezing Bulbas so tightly that his fingers nearly touched behind the bloated gypsy.

“Hewp! Hewp!” Bublas tooted.

Auggie howled in exertion and bent back his spine — incredibly, he lifted Bulbas up out of the water (for just a moment) — then there was a loud thwumping noise, and the two titans vanished into the pool as if sucked by an incredible mouth. A huge sucking whirlpool formed where they had been.

Sticksinger snatched up the sleeping boy and pushed him firmly into Swordsmith’s arms. “You don’t let this child out of your sight!”

Swordsmith seized her arm as she turned away. “What do you think you are doing!”

“I am a very strong swimmer. There is a reason for that!” she snarled and wrenched her arm away from him.

But before Sticksinger could stride to the edge of the pool a violent fountain erupted like an explosion. A cataclysmic wave roared from the pool nearly washing Sticksinger from her feet.

Then they saw Bulbas bobbing at the center of the pool, with Auggie clinging desperately to the gypsy’s middle. After a few moments the water subsided allowing the gargantua to kick his legs; Bulbas was apparently as porous as a cork, and the two soon were at the edge of the land and climbing free. Sticksinger and Swordsmith were present to thump Auggie on the spine.

“Ho-blub!” Auggie bubbled, spewing water.

“Whesthuwhuw esthwodinaiw!” Bulbas’ tiny eyes were sparkling as he flexed his maw in what passed as a grin. He produced a high, staccato chitter which they soon perceived as the odd gypsy’s giggle.

“Bulbas,” Auggie coughed, “Wrestler, Extraordinaire!” He pulled Sticksinger and Swordsmith to him and hugged them close — Sticksinger lifted one eyebrow but made no further attack. “Me friend. Bulbas, Sticksinger. Bulbas, Swordsmith. Ho!”

HOME AnimalHeart Storyteller's Last Stand Contest Darkly Saying Good-bye to Papa My Father, The Killer

Note on the text:

This odd-lengthed

story was found in

Rodolphus' "trunk"

and it was debated

what should be done

with it, or even how it

is to be categorized.

It is not known if this

was to be a work

of continuing serial,

or if it is just a long

short story, or a

very short novel. It

is presented here

in the original, as

a novella.

-the editors