Her body stayed behind; sprawled in a chair stained by two generations of drool, liquor, and sometimes urine. With shut eyes and arms hanging awkwardly, it sat motionless while a cigarette dangled precariously from two fingers, sending a smooth column of white up into the cloud that hovered on the ceiling. Her chest rose and fell, peacefully, for the entire afternoon, long after the spent cigarette butt had fallen to join two friends on the hardwood floor.

Cheryl didn’t hear the screech of the bus as it braked in front of the house. She didn’t hear the front door creek open, the small footsteps, or the two attempts to push the door shut. But she did hear the little voice that ended the silence.

She opened her eyes too quickly. Even the dim light was enough to pierce her skull and send sharp pains throughout her head. She quickly shut them and tried, but failed to grab her pounding temples because of her sluggish drunken movements. She kicked her feet and struggled for a moment to sit up and face the blurry little girl standing across the swaying room. She licked her chapped lips, took a deep breath, and in her own mind, greeted her daughter with the control and care of any loving mother. Then she reached for the bottle lying sideways on the coffee table and held it to her parched lips.

Empty.

With the flick of her wrist, she sent the little girl running for the garage to bring in the Captain’s reinforcements. She collapsed again into the chair, but this time far from heaven. This was the hell where her body ached, her head spun, and she wallowed in a murky swamp of horrible memories. Her father’s temper, the bruises, her mother’s swollen face. They were there, in the room again. She heard the screaming. She felt the terror of hiding in the closet, waiting for it to pass. She yelled, filling the house with her angry, urgent demand. What was taking her spoiled little daughter so long? Had she forgotten, stopped to play, make a sandwich? Stupid little irresponsible…

Then her uncle’s face, hovered above her. She felt his spittle on her face while his dirty hands held her mouth shut. She threw the empty bottle. Its flight across the room ended with a dull thud against the wall and it fell in one piece to the floor.

Then a cool bottle was in her hand. There you go mommy, you’ll be all better now.

With shaky hands, she wrestled with the lid until it fell to the floor. She raised the bottle and took two large draws. The burning down her throat meant her escape was moments away. She looked at her sweet child and reached out to pat her on the head but only managed to drag the back of her hand across her face which sent her running off into other parts of the house. At least my child has a good life, she thought, as the hint of a grin returned and Captain Morgan once again lifted her out of her misery.

He punched in several numbers into his calculator and scrawled another answer: “hydrophobic: the chemical was less soluble in water than in an organic solvent.” He looked at Mr. Jones, everyone called him Doc, sitting like a hunched statue behind his desk, glasses hanging from his nose like a rock climber seconds away from a fall. They were the only two left in the room, maybe even the school. Doc was probably thinking about how much he’d rather be flying down the sunny road in his vintage 68 Mustang.

Henry liked Doc and wanted to be the top student, but he wasn’t. He was smart enough for it but just not dedicated enough. Which is exactly why the flu bug so often struck on the day of an exam. It let him procrastinate one extra day, which he hated to do but what could the teachers do about it? Nothing. He’d get an extra study day and the knowledge the deadline was passed finally gave him the motivation to crack open his books. It was stupid. He hated it. But this time had been different. It was a tough chapter and he knew the material and was ready. And now Doc would think he had faked it for an extra study day. It wasn’t fair. Or worse, he might think he had hooked up with Sam to get a preview of the exam. But he hadn’t.

Doc grunted and said, “I’ll be right back,” and then vanished into the halls of Jackson High School.

Henry turned back to the exam and a queasy feeling rose from his stomach that had nothing to do with being sick. Behind him on the wall was the answer to every question on the test. Doc always posted the answers after the day of the exam and today would be no different. Henry hadn’t seen them, but he knew they were there. Taped to the wall where everyone could look and curse themselves for missing the rogue oxygen atom or forgotten compound acid. And now Henry was alone in the room with them.

Doc was away for at least fifteen minutes, Henry finished the exam with five minutes to spare and was sitting waiting for Doc on his return.

“Done already?” Doc said.

Henry nodded, defeated, stood, and dropped the test on the front desk. Maybe he should have purposely gotten an answer wrong. But he couldn’t. He knew every answer fair and square. He’d studied hard and wished he could have taken it with the rest of the class yesterday.

“I’ll have it back for you in the morning. Don’t feel bad though if you did poorly, the high was only 70%.” Doc said with a wink.

Now Henry was the frozen statue, not wanting to leave without offering an explanation. What words could explain and defuse the suspicions that would invade Docs mind once the test was graded? There were none. He nodded and left the room. Tomorrow Doc and the rest of the class would all see him as a cheater.

The story is fantasy, somewhat dark, and set in the original Diablo world (although knowledge of that game isn’t necessary). The blood, shadows, murder, and evil dripping from it’s pages make it a decent Halloween story. (The picture is stolen from the movie “Hostel,” which I haven’t seen and has no relation to the story other than the image kinda fits.)

Vengeance of the Tainted

The problem was the solution, or was it the other way around; Broan wasn’t sure. At least one filthy murdering bastard was waiting for Broan to show his face and therein was the problem. They knew him but he not them. And his only hope of getting justice was through this hazy, absurd connection. The innocent believed him dead and the guilty knew the truth. For a fortnight he’d stayed hidden trying to figure out how to solve this riddle but it had gotten him nowhere. It was a hopelessly impossible situation and he was tired of waiting.

From the hillside outside the sleeping town of Tristram, Broan sat huddled in a thick woolen blanket as the lanterns in the village succumbed to the late hour. The bright moon painted the valley a deep blue, making it easy to see but also, to be seen. He would wait until every household was dark and the only remaining flickering came from the watchman fires on the outskirts of town.

He opened his blanket enough to slip out an arm but not let the cool fall air steal his warmth. His blades glimmered in the moonlight. Long, shiny, and sharpened to perfection, they felt more like an extension of his arm than a tool. A generous gift from his father, they were a recognition of his unmatched skills and an investment in the family sheep farm. Witnesses described his shearing as a reckless fury but he’d never so much as even scratched one of his sheep. And any other man was lucky to shear one to his ten. People came from miles away just to watch. He was that good.

He laughed, quietly, because of both the irony and his fear of this night. He had no formal training for fighting. Knives, swords, or fists seemed like probable weapons, but he knew the shears. Someday a bard would sing a mocking tune about the foolish shepherd who perished on a pathetic path of vengeance armed only with a farmer’s tool, but so be it. These were his best chance. Or so he hoped.

No more lanterns. He stood and the blanket fell to the ground, the night chill would no longer be a problem. It had been years since he’d allowed his blood to run hot and let loose his temper, but now it was time. His rage served as a power that infused him with the strength of an ox but it also made him dangerous. After one of his first anger-laced tirades, Father had explained it like the fire in the stove. Controlled and in strict moderation, it warmed them and cooked their food. But if the fire was allowed to become fierce, it could destroy not only their house, but, ultimately, the entire town.

He obviously was not a full barbarian or managing it would have been impossible. But even a partial barbarian would have been run out of town if the villagers had known. Father had suspected it in his own lineage and with Broan, there was no question that the fire ran through his veins.

As a boy, Father helped him tame it. His young temper had destroyed countless sheep, farm tools, household items, and once, the entire barn. Had they lived closer to the village, the rage could never have been hidden. But in the solitude of the farm and under Father’s understanding, he survived the transformational years that destroy most young barbarians. But to actually tame it had taken much more than what Father could offer.

He turned and looked through the charred remains of the farmhouse, at the garden where she used to spend her afternoons. He could almost see her, waving and calling to him. Even her memory soothed the monster inside. He could almost feel her soft skin under his calloused hands, smell her lavender scented hair, and see the dark green eyes that so effortlessly calmed him.

Father said it was it her gypsy magic but Broan knew better. Rather than cower in fear at the monster inside him she had understood him, accepted him, and, somehow, loved him. How she saw past his evil and believed in a man tormented by chaos he would never understand. But her faith had put an end to his nightmare. She had turned him into a kind, loving husband and then, a father.

The impossible had occurred, a barbarian had transformed into an admired and reputable man. Of course, the town still didn’t know the truth. Even after knowing and trusting him they would never have risked one of his kind among them. A tear carved a path down his cheek and he closed his eyes. His life had been taken from him. First his mother, and now father, son…and her.

The memory of loss caused the heat inside to grow again, she wouldn’t want this. Perhaps as a spirit she would try and stop him from venturing into this night. He waited, giving her a chance, but felt nothing. She was truly gone. They all were. Tonight the beast inside would be set free to destroy a bigger monster. It was the right thing to do. He snapped the shears and the steel rang like music. Yes, it was time to act. He began a silent, hurried pace towards a large building in the middle of town.

Broan let enough heat surface to chase away the night chill, but stopped well short of rage. He needed to be able to think, reason, and plan…something a normal barbarian could not accomplish. He wouldn’t turn his anger loose because he knew didn’t want to punish the innocent. And just because a man was evil didn’t mean he was guilty. There were too many times in his youth he himself had been condemned for crimes of which he was innocent, yet he couldn’t blame the townsfolk for their accusations. As a somewhat troubled youth, he was often guilty, but not always.

But come morning if you find a hen mangled and eaten, you blame the wolf, right? Even though you didn’t see it happen, the nature of the wolf and the evidence are too overwhelming. He knew from personal experience, however, that it wasn’t always the wolf committing the crime. Sometimes there was a cunning fox that got the hen yet the wolf still paid for it. He knew the way of the wolf too well, and he also knew the odor of a fox. Hopefully tonight he would be able to tell the difference.

All logic pointed to a wolf: a large, ugly, brutal one known locally as the Butcher. And although his circumstantial evidence incriminated, it fell short of a death sentence. Broan wanted more proof before making the confrontation, but the nights were getting cold and he knew surviving his nomadic mountain life once snow began falling was impossible. He didn’t mind dying. In fact, he longed for death, but not until justice was served. Tonight it was all or nothing. If he was wrong about the Butcher, everything would be lost.

It was hard to imagine that the Butcher wasn’t involved. Ugly as an ogre and conniving as a troll, the Butcher had tormented his family from Broan’s earliest painful memories. It was no secret that both Father and the Butcher had courted Mother during their youth. Father said he was a mean son of a bitch even before Mother had made her choice, but then he became a living nightmare to the entire town. And after Mother had fallen ill and passed on, the Butcher became downright cruel. If it wasn’t for the fact that he was as good in his butchery as Broan was at shearing, the King certainly would have thrown him in the dungeons years ago. Everyone tolerated his arrogance and demeaning vulgarities because he could hack up a scavenger and make it taste like a prize winning steer.

If the Butcher was innocent of murder, he was guilty of enough other things that killing him would be a service to the entire kingdom. Although Father would never admit it and Broan was barely eight years old, Broan had always known why one night their wild boar hadn’t tasted quite right and why Deke, his pure bred Core Hound, didn’t return that night. Father never requested the services of the Butcher after that incident. Broan had wanted to go report it to King Leoric, a good fair man who was certain to punish the evil Butcher. But Father wouldn’t have it because the King has more pressing problems than petty disputes, he’d said.

But those early days were over shadowed by the past year. The Butcher had become furious that Father was trading with the gypsies. Most people didn’t like them, but the Butcher downright hated them. Had Father not stepped in to help last winter the whole lot of them probably would have starved and the Butcher knew it. It seemed to Broan that a man who would kill a boy’s dog and secretly sell it back to him as food for no better reason than just to be mean could likely kill an entire family for saving a group of gypsies.

It was enough to confront the Butcher but not yet enough to slaughter him. He would not kill an innocent man, even a cruel one. But setting the Butcher free, if innocent, meant the loss of his advantage in hunting the murderers. The Butcher would never keep his secret. Before sunrise, the whole town would know Broan lived. Everything hinged on how the Butcher received him; would he be shocked to see a dead man walking, or would he recognize a known vigilante? One way or another, tonight he would learn whether or not the Butcher was responsible.

*

Sticking to the shadows, he approached the dark butchery. The anger and confidence that had infused him on the hill wavered at the sight of the building that was the center of nearly every child’s nightmare. The massive structure loomed like a demon watching all who approached, ready to suck those venturing too close into a bloody room full of sharpened hooks, cleavers, and animal carnage.  Rumor had it that a man once journeyed past the blood stained counter into the forbidden area and was never seen again. And although it sounded like a story children would tell to scare one another, even the adults stayed away. If you had to deal with the Butcher you only walked in as far as absolutely required, and then you ran out without looking back.

Broan released a bit of rage, just enough to push him forward and creep to the front door. He pushed it open, not even locked. That’s how confident the Butcher was that nobody would dare bother him. The opening released a pungent smell of raw meat and his nostrils filled with stench. Although the dark part of him craved this smell, he was still human enough that he had to stop his stomach from convulsing what was left of dinner. Although it had been years since he’d been inside the butcher shop, before Deke vanished, he had never forgotten that smell of death and terror. It was almost enough to make him reconsider. After a slight hesitation, he slipped through the door.

Despite the cold night, the shop was warm and humid. Out of the bright moonlight, it took what seemed like an eternity for the counter to form from the shadows. As his eyes continued to adjust, the wide entrance into the forbidden area appeared on the other side. He climbed over the counter and quickly ducked behind it, as if the Butcher was right there waiting to split his skull with a cleaver. He waited through an extended dark silence. No Butcher, no cleaver.

Directly ahead was the open gateway to the forbidden area. The reality couldn’t be worse than the images of the Butcher that used to fill his nights: white smock streaked, spotted, and splashed crimson while the Butcher swung his cleaver and laughed hysterically. He had to remind himself those images were only his imagination. Staying low, he crept forward and crossed into the darkness.

The large room was windowless but a few cracks and holes let streaks of moonlight cut through the gloom, enough to silhouette several large hanging carcasses. Giant hooks and chains hung haphazardly at various heights and several large metal tables were unarranged throughout the room. A faint light in the back of the room seemed to beckon and he moved slow and cautious, shears in front.

The light came from a stairwell that dropped down to a door that was slightly ajar. Cool air from below touched his sweaty face and he gently began his decent, putting his weight slowly on each step. Halfway down, a muffled voice from beyond the door froze him, one leg caught midair. Moments later, a different voice responded. This voice sounded angry.

Two people? He should to go back up the stairs and walk away. His best chance would be to confront the Butcher, one-on-one. The Butcher alone was more than one man could handle; two would be a death sentence. Plus it complicated his analysis of the Butcher’s reaction to seeing him. He started to bring his foot back for a retreat when he wondered, who is the Butcher talking to? Nobody is allowed past the counter and no one he knew would even want to go past it. Kids didn’t even mock dare each other to try it. So who then was inside and what business did this person have with the Butcher?

The question had to be answered. He wouldn’t chance confronting two at once, but he would find out who was here. Just a few more steps and then he would slip away quietly to make a new plan based on solid information.

He waited to place each downward step amidst the mumbled chatter. He reached the door and carefully positioned his ear near the opening. A voice, not the Butchers but a strangely familiar one, spoke.

“You have no choice, understand? I’m not asking you, I’m telling you. Until my son is found everything else waits.”

A loud crash made Broan jump and he brushed the door, it swung halfway open. Horrified, he jumped into what was left of the shadow as a solid stream of light shot up stairs. He readied his blades while his body pulsed with sharpened senses. If they rounded the corner, he would be ready for an attack. If they insisted on a fight, they would fight a barbarian.

“I don’t care who you are.” The throaty yell of the Butcher filled the stairwell as another crash sounded from inside the room. “Nobody tells me what to do!”

A faint green glow suddenly appeared and all fell silent. Broan breathed through his open mouth while his heart thumped almost loud enough to give him away. Then the mystery voice spoke again, calm and serene.

“Perhaps you have forgotten who you are dealing with? You will find the wayward shepherd after you find my son. And this time, I won’t tolerate failure.”

Broan’s mind flooded with thought, as energy pricked every hair on his body. There was no doubt now, these men knew. They were guilty and they would die. Not tonight, not against two of them, but soon, very soon. Only one question remained and he didn’t hesitate. He moved his head into the open doorway to identify the mystery voice.

His mind rejected the view in front of him. Impossible! King Leoric had his arms outstretched and green light danced from his fingertips surrounding the Butcher’s throat, apparently holding him in place. The fat man, so fearsome and brutal, looked helpless. His lips drooped on his face as he struggled for breath and tried to form words. Broan couldn’t move. He couldn’t process what he was seeing, what it meant, what was happening. He was completely dumbfounded and reacted without thought as fire ignited his soul.

He stood full height and shoved the door. It swung back on its hinge and shattered against the wall behind it. The King and the Butcher both turned and looked at him, the Butcher clutching madly at the green light surrounding his throat and the King looking calm and amused.

“A friend of yours?” the King asked the Butcher.

The Butchers face contorted into an angry bitter snarl, and the green light vanished.

The massive, towering man rose to his full height. He probably outweighed a horse with his rolls of fat drooping from his neck and arms. He turned and locked his beady red eyes with Broan’s.

“I’ve been looking for you, shepherd.”

The Butcher bent down and rose wielding a thick bloody cleaver so massive it nearly touched the ceiling. Three men, three large men, would be needed to hoist that much steel. Broan blinked, trying to comprehend. The Butcher laughed.

“This will be a lot more fun than fire,” the Butcher said, his purple lips curling upwards.

The Butcher swung his arm and the giant cleaver slashed down onto the large table between them, shattering it. Hundreds of wood shards showered around the room. No wonder he could cut up a full steer in just minutes, one chop with that cleaver could severe a horned demon in two.

“Stop!”

The King spoke an instant before Broan released his rage and both Broan and the Butcher stopped short of an attack, but neither backed away. Like battle hungry Hell Hounds, they stood ready to strike.

“Shepherd, where is my son?” The King sounded furious.

The question felt out of place, what was the King talking about? “Prince Albrecht?”

The King leaned closer, extending his fingers. “Tell me where he is and I promise you will die quickly. Otherwise, your death will be long and painful.”

“Your Majesty, I have no idea where your—”

The green light and pain were instant. Lights flashed and it felt as if the flames of hell surrounded him. It paralyzed him and hijacked his thoughts, sending the worst of memories through his mind like a parasite. Deke, the burning farmhouse, his crying son; his darkest moments twisted his soul like a tornado, churning his fury for vengeance. His body shook and blood boiled as the rage began exploding inside.

NO!

He tried to stop it but the assault on both mind and body were too much. His clothes ripped, his body contorted, and his fingernails expanded like hungry, living daggers. With a giant howl and an explosive crack, he became the Barbarian.

The green light vanished and the Butcher and King gaped in shock. Through the Barbarian’s rage-filled eyes, the world was red and ripe for the shredding. His eyes rested on the Butcher and an angry, low growl escaped his chest. He heard the Butchers heartbeat quicken and the smell of the thick blood it pushed made his mouth wet with hunger. His mind was filled with an image of his own razor-sharp teeth, the Butchers throat, and blood; lots of sweet smelling blood. The thought alone, rather than a conscious choice to attack, propelled the Barbarian forward in a blinding charge, launching him like an arrow across the room. The two massive bodies collided in a sickening crack and the surprised Butcher fell to the floor.

In a fluid motion, the Barbarian straddled the Butcher, grabbed his shoulder and squeezed until his fingers sank far beneath flesh and spilled crimson. Both the Butcher and Barbarian howled, one in delight, the other in anguish. The Butcher kicked and the Barbarian, falling backwards, swiped for the heart with the shears, an attack that should have been the final blow. But the shears merely scraped uncontrolled across the Butchers bulky chest. The Barbarian flew backwards across the room and smashed into the wall.

The Barbarian did not have the nimble dexterity of a shepherd and the shears were useless. He shook his hand vigorously until the straps broke free and the shears flew across the room and clanged against the wall. The King’s paralyzing green light appeared and the Barbarian felt pain, but it only fueled his rage. He pushed against the force and his body moved slightly. He pushed again, fighting the flashing lights and burning flesh and was able to step forward against the King’s magic.

The King was frantic and slowly moved towards the door. The Barbarian stepped forward again, pushing against the King, the pain, and the confusion. The one thing that now consumed him, violence, drove him forward. With all his strength, he forced his trembling body forward in another laborious step. His vision became hazy and the room began to spin, he pushed again but exhaustion prevented it. The blurred images of the King and Butcher vanished through the doorway and the green light vanished. The Barbarian fell to the floor.

*

He opened his eyes to darkness. The urge for destruction had vanished but the memory of his rampage filled his eyes with tears. What had he become? How could that have happened when he’d spent his life controlling himself so the monster would never surface? The beast would never relinquish its hold on his soul once it tasted blood. He touched his arms, fingers, and caressed his face. He was man again, apparently safe from the edge of destruction. This must never happen again, even if it meant abandoning his quest for revenge. The evil was too great. The Barbarian would destroy the entire town.

The regret and loss settled hard on his mind. In addition to the complete loss of his family, now there was a failed attempt at revenge. And his beloved shears, his last connection to his past life, now destroyed. It all weighed on his soul but none more than the recollection of the hatred and evil that had coursed through his veins.

He struggled to his feet and stumbled through the darkness for the stairway. No more of this. Revenge was too bitter. He would go far south and start a new life with the gypsies. Yes, she would want that.

He found the door and climbed the stairs into the room with the tables, chains, and hooks. At least he could see now and stumbled through the butchery. He had even climbed over the counter before he noticed the yelling. Lots of yelling.

He pulled open the door enough to peer out and his hope fizzled like a doused candle. Hundreds of men with torches surrounded the building, taunting and threatening. He pushed it shut. How long had he been down there in the dark? It had only seemed like moments—

“Barbarian!” It was the King. “Come out in man form and confess your crimes before the Archbishop of God! Free yourself of this evil or burn in hell.”

The King’s words stirred the crowd and they echoed the demand with a roar of jeering. Broan cracked the door again and scanned the mob. To the right of the King was the Butcher, with his giant cleaver and a shoulder wrapped in fresh red-stained bandages. To the left was the Archbishop Lazarus, a strange reclusive man that Broan had never quite figured out. The crowd appeared to extend all the way around the building.

He opened the door enough to yell out, “I don’t know anything about the Prince, and I have never harmed a single soul. The Butcher killed my family; I came for revenge, nothing more.”

“You are a barbarian, shepherd. You yourself don’t even know what evils you have committed. Will you spread your destruction further, beyond your family and my son? No! It ends tonight, no more will perish! Your life is over, that much is certain. But we can cleanse your evil and save you from Diablo’s eternal damnation.”

Broan slammed the door, walked back to the counter and rested against it, laying his head on his arms in fatigue and frustration. It wasn’t true, he had never transformed before tonight. Had he? No, the mere thought was foolish, he didn’t remember the fire because he had been out hunting. He’d come home to the destruction. Was it possible that he could have…no. It wasn’t. His curse was certainly damnation, but he had tamed it. Or rather, she had tamed it. But where was she now? Why had she forsaken him? Surely if she still loved him, believed in him, and wanted him she would touch him….direct him. Wouldn’t she?

He looked to the heavens, pleading.

“Barbarian!” The King sounded impatient.

What did it matter now? Life held nothing for him. Death was welcome. Maybe they could cleanse him and he would find her waiting.

He opened the door, the crowd fell silent and he stepped out into the night. The Butcher raised his cleaver and took several steps forward before the King’s green light froze the weapon in the air.

“He will be cleansed first,” said the King.

The Butcher relaxed and the light vanished. The weapon fell to his side and he eyed Broan as a wicked grin crept across his face. In a low voice as he backed away he said, “It’s too bad you are the last one, I’d love to do your mother again.”

The anger was instant, although the transformation wasn’t. Broan lunged for the throat of his enemy but the King had been ready with the magic. He struggled against the pain but did not let the Barbarian take him this time, what if he killed all the townsfolk too?  Besides, he just wanted death, to be free. The Butcher’s pathetic life was punishment enough for his evil.

The King released the hold and Broan dropped to his knees. “Finish me,” he said.

“Archbishop Lazarus will now cleanse the monster,” yelled the King to the cheering crowd.

The Archbishop stepped forward and knelt beside him. “Barbarian,” he whispered. “Don’t give up so easily.”

Broan looked up into the thin, war-scarred face of the Archbishop. “Just kill me and get it over with.”

The Archbishop’s eyes furrowed. “Such a strange request for a Barbarian. I’ve known Barbarians and you are unlike any I have ever encountered. How is it you have learned to control your passion?”

Broan didn’t answer, but turned instead to the angry men demanding his execution. He filled his lungs and exhaled slowly while his eyes focused in the distance, beyond the torches and shouting.

“I know your desires, I know of the burning, the thirst that drives you.” Broan didn’t respond. The robe clad vicar leaned in closer, and in an even softer voice said, “I know how your soul burns for revenge against the Butcher for his sins against your wife.”

Broan’s eyes shot a quick glance at the Archbishop, and then back to a faraway land.

“Oh, yes Barbarian, he bragged about the horrible things he’d done to her before he slit her throat. How he made your son watch.”

Broan’s breathing intensified and the corners of his mouth turned down ever so slightly, but his eyes remained focused.

“Just like he did your mother so many years ago.”

A faint glow ignited deep in Broans eyes and he spun his head to face the Archbishop. “Why are you doing this. Aren’t you supposed to cleanse me so I can face God?”

“God?” The Archbishop laughed and shook his head. “Even if it was possible, God has abandoned you,” he paused and looked back at the villagers, “he abandoned all of us long ago. Look around, what do you see? An entire town that conspired to have a good family tortured and murdered for helping the gypsies.” He shook his head in shame and disappointment. “Now you tell me Barbarian, what kind of God would allow that happen to good people? And what kind of God would allow such evil to go unpunished?”

“It wasn’t them, it was the Butcher,” Broan said. “I already know that.”

“But who do you think ordered the Butcher to do it? Who do you think helped hide the evil deed? And who do you think pleaded with the King to rid Tristram of the rogue family living in the farmlands supplying the gypsies with food?” The Archbishop pointed around to the angry mob, “And who now stands ready to execute a man they know is innocent of any crime?”

Broan scanned the glowing eyes that surrounding him. It appeared every man in Tristram was present and armed with torches, axes, and daggers. And not a single understanding or half-sympathetic eye. Their solemn faces were bitter and ready for blood. Although none were close enough to have ever called him a friend, he’d always felt that a mutual respect and kindness existed. An appreciation for his services, often given freely for those in need. But now he could see it. The anger and hatred that burned in them was evil. Truly, God had forsaken Tristram.

Sweat began to form on his forehead, and suddenly he felt the energy to stand, but he stayed on the ground with the Archbishop.

“To hell with them all. Cleanse me, I want to face God and see my wife.”

“Do you feel your wife? You tell me Barbarian, does she abide in your heart? And what of this God you speak of? Does he protect you? Did he protect your family? What God has rewarded you for your sacrifice and kindness and punished the evil around you? This God you speak of that doesn’t seem to care, why do you think he will now receive you?”

Broan locked his fiery red eyes on the Bishop. “If what you say is true, why shouldn’t I just start my massacre with you, right now.”

The man smiled back at him. “Because I am the only one here able and willing to help you get your revenge. If by chance this God of yours exists, did you ever consider the fact that maybe you, yourself are God’s avenging angel? Sent here to make them pay for their sins? But if no God is watching, well, who then will punish the wicked? Either way, Barbarian, I am the one who can help.”

Broan scanned the crowd: men he once trusted, a King he once cherished, and the Butcher whom he always hated. All had betrayed him. And who is to say that she wouldn’t want this? Maybe God would even reward him for punishing them, after all, doesn’t God want evil destroyed? They had taken her life, a truly good woman, and yes, they must be punished. Any God that would let them go unpunished was not worthy of his service. Maybe the Bishop was right, maybe he was God’s angel of vengeance. But like the Bishop had said, even if he wasn’t, it didn’t matter. Somebody had to make things right.

From the corner of his eyes, he saw the Butcher raise his cleaver in arrogance and mocking degradation. Comfort seethed through Broan’s chest; tonight the Butcher would die. The thought churned the brewing hunger for carnage deep inside. It was time to free the Barbarian.

“How do I get past the Kings magic?” Broan said.

The priest smiled and carefully removed a small charm from inside his coat. “This can protect you for a moment, not long, but long enough. Run to the Cathedral, you won’t have a problem getting inside. The lower levels are an abandoned labyrinth that only I have explored, you’ll be safe there. What better place to take refuge than the King’s own quarters? When they search for you, you’ll fight them in smaller numbers instead of all at once.”

Broan took the small charm and the Archbishop continued.

“I’ll tell them the cleansing will begin and then stun them to buy you more time; just keep your eyes closed. Then you can run right through them, but don’t stop until you are deep inside in the Monastery. There is enough food and weapons to survive for years. I’ll come as soon as I can.”

Broan nodded, and let his anger surge. Not a full transformation, but enough to give him the power and speed needed. The Bishop stood and helped Broan to his feet.

“Remember, eyes down and closed,” he whispered to Broan, who obliged.

“The Barbarian has confessed and wishes to be cleansed of evil before his execution,” yelled the Archbishop. “All kneel!”

Everyone dropped to one knee, including Broan. Although he maintained an image of exhaustion and submission, he not only felt alive and ready for battle, he was excited for it. It was all he could do to keep a smug grin from creeping across his face.

The Archbishop began chanting loud, strange words and Broan closed his eyes and bowed his head. Through his closed eyelids he saw the bright flash of light. In the same instant a loud bang filled the sky. He opened his now glowing eyes and jumped to his feet. In two large leaps he reached the wall of kneeling men and cleared them in a single bound. Two more steps and a man behind him yelled. On the third step, a green light surrounded him and the charm in his hand burned hot. On the fourth step, he heard the frantic, fading voice of the Archbishop ordering everyone to pursue the escaped criminal. But it was too late. He would easily reach the monastery before they could stop him.

*

The once derelict monastery – the building King Leoric had commandeered for his own royal cathedral – was starting to come to life with the early morning hour. Broan passed through the tall spired corridors as if he himself wore the crown. Tristram’s unchallenged peace and prosperity had fostered a trusting staff. Guards, cooks, butlers; none took a second glance as Broan raced to the less traveled stairway into the dark lower levels.

He grabbed a burning torch from a wall mount and descended. The fire burned thick cobwebs that shrouded the lower labyrinth with an eerie warning to all explorers. But he pushed through, deeper into the blackness. He passed an archway into a large opening. Rats and other small beasts scuttled into shadows to escape the flickering light.

Broken tables and chairs littered the room and ornate half-decayed curtains draped the walls. It offered enough space to fight, yet not so much than an entire mob could attack at once. It was perfect. Small corridors fed the room from various directions offering an escape if needed and he quickly scouted them for the advantage.

Scarcely had he finished his complete scan of the room when the sound of footsteps and hushed voices began to echo off the stone walls. He doused his torch and found, surprisingly, that instead of blackness he saw the world in a faint red hue. Mice, previously unseen in the darkened cracks, pulsed like fireflys from within their hiding places. Perhaps a full transformation would not be required. In this heightened state he certainly felt stronger, had new abilities, and yet retained his mind. The cravings were present, of course, yet not overwhelming.

He positioned himself in the shadows, or what would soon be shadow once the torches dancing in the distance arrived. The hallway feeding the room was narrow. At most, three maybe four could reach him. He massaged his knuckles in anxious anticipation, smiling like a fiendish demon.

The Butcher led the posse, a torch in one hand and giant cleaver in the other. The sight of the somber somewhat fearful townsfolk behind the giant made him laugh. His inhumane voice, low and deep, echoed off the walls and filled the catacombs with a warning to the mob. And when all but the Butcher stopped, looking anxiously at one another for support and reassurance, he laughed even harder. Several of them left.

“Coward!” Yelled the Butcher. “Come out and fight like a man.”

This both disgusted and infuriated Broan. Not the coward part but the irony that the Butcher, of all people, accused him of lacking humanity.

“If we are agreed I am a man, why do you hunt me like a monster?”

The Butcher bellowed and destroyed an old chair with his oversized blade. “You and me, Barbarian, right now. Let’s end this once and for all.”

The townspeople apparently liked the idea, as they quickly shuffled backwards in support of a Butcher Barbarian brawl. Broan stepped forward and into the glow of their torches but it didn’t have the reaction he expected. They straightened and fear seemingly drained from their faces.  It gave him pause.

He looked at his hands and saw the nimble fingers of a shepherd and a sudden chill shot through his body. Anger! Barbarian! Get mad…kill the Butcher. His mind raced in a sudden rush of fear trying to invoke his rage as the Butcher advanced. He killed your wife, your family! But the confidence was gone, panic and mounting fear were his new battle companions.

Now it was the Butcher who laughed. “You are nothing but a coward!”

Broan stepped backwards, the cleaver rose into the air, and Broan dove. A shattering crash shook the ground under the weight of the mighty cleaver as Broan rolled over the dusty floor. He scampered back to his feet. The Butcher wasted no time and was immediately upon him again, this time the cleaver came from the side and Broan dropped to the floor while a rush of air sounded above him. The effort caused the Butcher to stumble forward, slightly off balance from the heavy attack into nothing.

Broan saw his chance and rushed the back of the Butcher to knock him to the ground. He may as well have run head-on into a stone column. The failed charge instantly sent a wave of pain through his shoulder and neck and didn’t even budge his target. The Butcher spun and caught Broan with the backside of his arm, throwing him against the wall. Pain attacked his back and head.

He watched a blurry Butcher advance.

“Such a disappointment, young Shepherd. Your wife even put up more of a fight—“ he picked up Broan by the neck and hoisted him into the air. “—even after I had ripped off her right arm.”

Broan kicked and grabbed the meaty hand choking him. A loud clang, the Butcher dropped his cleaver and wrapped his other hand around Broan’s throat.

“Not a bad idea. I think I’ll just squeeze the life out of you.”

Still swinging his feet, Broan twisted, bit, and punched. His chest screamed for air, desperate for breath. His childhood flashed before him; working with his father and hearing his mother’s singing while she prepared a stew. He heard his son’s  first laugh. Then she appeared, smiling. She opened her mouth to call him or perhaps to beckon him? But something was wrong, her eyes opened wide, her mouth drew back in terror, and she ran awkwardly from him, falling to her side. He saw her stained dress and to his horror, the meaty bloodstained stump where her right arm had been. She grabbed a goblet from the table and threw it at him, and she screamed. He screamed. He shook. And the Barbarian exploded into the world.

The power of the transformation threw the Butcher to the ground. The Barbarian stood to full height and roared with such intensity that cutlery rattled in the upstairs chambers.  The Butcher’s face contorted into an expression of terror and he kicked his feet and flailed his arms in an attempt to escape.

The Barbarian picked up the giant cleaver. His hand surged with heat upon contact with the hilt, a heat that climbed his arms and filled his body with crazed passion. He opened his mouth and the sound of hell rattled up out of the cathedral and every woman and child still sleeping in the town of Tristram awoke to the terror.

The cleaver sliced effortlessly through the air and fell onto shoulder of the Butcher and amid a burst of flesh and crimson, his right arm fell lifeless.

For a moment, the Barbarian stood watching his quivering mortal enemy, lying in a growing pool while a dying pulse pumped a weakening stream of dark liquid from his bare shoulder. The Barbarian’s eyes burned red, his mouth frowned, and he swung the cleaver again.

The Barbarian, covered in gore, turned to face the mob but the chamber was empty. Torches, farm tools, and swords littered the floor behind them. It would be the last time any man ever walked away free from the holy cathedral. He knew they would return. It was their nature. And when they did, he would be there, waiting with his giant cleaver.

The old priest hesitated. Optimism? He drew back his hood and adjusted his round, thin wired spectacles. The small boy’s eyes were white against his dirty face, looking up and waiting like a starving buzzard for nourishment. The priest leaned against his staff and bent down, his knees cracked and popped. The child, face void of emotion, just watched, and the crowd murmured. Surely the Sage was offended.

Wisdom and innocence locked eyes, and the Priest spoke. “What did you say was your desire?”

“Optimism,” the boy said, the word fell from his lips like a heavy yoke, burdening all whose ears it touched. It caused the priest to wobble and he gripped his staff.

Now he understood. Despite his protests, they had continually begged him to see the child. He is possessed by demons, they cried. You must bless him. He’d refused many times because no child needed his blessing. Now, unfortunately, he understood. He sighed but did not avert his gaze, even as the eyes of the child drained happiness from him like smoke drifting from the alter. So this was the one that would destroy their world. This was the one that would expose the lies.

“I’m sorry,” he said to the child. “But I cannot help you.”

The child blinked, but showed no emotion. No disappointment, no sadness, no longing. “Then I will leave our village forever.”

The Priest slumped against his staff. He old eyes sagged and his warm smile vanished into lethargy. “No, it won’t help. The prophecy is upon us,” he said.

The child turned his head, his eyes begged for tears but instead remained dry and hollow. He looked back to the Priest. “I am sorry,” he said.

The weary priest reached out and embraced him and the boy’s head rested on his shoulder.

“We created you boy, do not be sorry. Your burden is greater than they can ever know,” he whispered.

The boy straightened, knowing the old man was near his limit. Several others nearby had already fallen to their knees. He pointed to them. “That is my burden.”

The boy departed and the Priest fell to the ground breathing heavily, pained in his heart yet thankful for respite. The crowd pointed in condemnation at the departing child, certain now of their erroneous conclusions. “It is our burden,” he tried to tell the boy. But it was too late.

The marriage stayed in tact four more years after writing this entry. The aftermath and confusion of my divorce twisted my body, mind, and soul in ways that changed me forever. My life now, with a woman that is truly an ideal match for me, is like a calm peaceful morning following a night of thunder and lightning so close you can smell the burnt air. That storm ripped my house apart and I thought my life was destroyed. Now five years later, a new home stands testament to the healing power of Father Time.

My Crucible (November of 2000)

I look for a reason. Unsuccessful, I fall back asleep, wake up an hour later, and try again. Getting out of bed is the toughest part of my day. My job starts in the afternoon, kids are at school, and I only work three hours a day. I could sleep almost all day if I wanted.

I’m not tired, I’m empty. Crack open my chest you’ll find an empty hole. My belly button to my throat is an empty cavity where my spine dangles like the root of a tree searching for nourishment. There is nothing to feed it.

As a lifeless drone, I do the bare minimum required to survive. It’s not a good place to be. I don’t complain or try to change, I just tolerate life. It’s what I’ve done for over thirty years but it’s starting to bug me now.

It’s not that I don’t have plenty of opportunities to fill my soul. Nourishment is plentiful; my kids, a job I almost enjoy, music, writing, photography, rock climbing…plenty of passion. Well, there could be at least. So why am I so empty?

By the time I was 13 and without even knowing what happened, I embraced a belief that a woman contained the key to my happiness. She would fill my chest with happiness, passion, and pleasure. It wasn’t a conscious choice, but rather a gradual dependence formed by years of social programming.

I watched TV and saw movies where women made men happy. I saw how men gave anything for the pleasures offered by beautiful women. Large breasts, a slim figure, beautiful hair, and inviting eyes were the secret formula for happiness. The media sold it and my hormones bought it.

In addition, my religion taught that marriage would give additional meaning and purpose to my life. Women were a one stop solution to the meaning of life. But there was a catch with religion: sexual desires are good only in the confines as marriage. Not a bad thing in itself, but the guilt from my lusting poisoned my youth.

By eighth grade this programming controlled my life. I would only find happiness when a girl accepted and loved me. But, I was such evil person because of my carnal desires and constant disappointments to God, my parents, and myself. My self-esteem was a mess. I spent my pathetic teenage years dreaming and wishing for a girlfriend yet lacking the confidence to barely even talk to girls. I had moments of elation and some fun relationships, but for the most part, my dependence on them got in the way and messed things up.

Acquiring a girlfriend and managing my sexual desires became a juggling act: a cycle of passion, masturbation, guilt, self-flagellation, depression, and back to passion. It was a thorny complex cycle. My soul screamed for happiness, my body screamed for pleasure, and the two blurred together offering women as the solution. But to form the pure and wholesome relationship required for true happiness component, I had to bury my evil sexual desires. I worked hard on this one (see the above cycle/juggling act) and held on because I believed the nightmare condition would all end once I was married. At that point it would all come together; happiness, meaning, and pleasure. I tried to be a perfect little Mormon boy and later considered careers based on money rather than something I enjoyed.

Marriage and the introduction of sex medicated me for a time. It kept me numb to the fact that I wasn’t living my own life or following my own dreams. As long as I had my fix, I kept going. When the sex frequency took a nose dive after the first year, my world spun. Start juggling again, this time on a spinning merry-go-round. Now, after ten years of marriage we teeter on the brink of divorce. I’ve spent my whole life leaning on admiration and sexual gratification from women, a rickety old crutch to begin with, and it is being taken away. Now I’m empty. I don’t have the love and admiration of the women I married, I am sexually frustrated, and I’ve realized my life-long scripts are bullshit.

I’m in a tough spot. I don’t like relying on women for validation, meaning, and pleasure. Thirty years of programming doesn’t just flush down the toilet. It takes work to clean up a mess like this. I’m so used to relying on women I don’t know how to take responsibility for my own happiness. The thought scares the hell out of me. Somehow, though, I’ll have to learn to fill my own tank. It’s the way it should be because I know happiness can only come from within; through self-love, service, creativity, honesty, spirituality, intimacy…I know where I need to be but don’t know how to get there.

I’m not alone with this. Sex sells because people like me buy in to the fact that it’ll bring happiness. I can understand why even the president of the United States would risk everything for a blowjob. Sex, money, drugs, and power are where men look, typically. We all have our periods of vainly searching for happiness in places where it can’t be found. The lessons we learn from media, religion, social influence, and even parents aren’t always the most effective ways to live.

So what now? I can’t say. There is no easy answer. For me, it’s one day at a time and courage to look in a new places for happiness. It’s scary, but I’ll get rid of my addiction to women. I’m determined to be happy independent of my sexual and emotional issues with women.

His hands shot to his face just in time to conceal the wide grin that parted his cheeks. Everything had worked out perfect. Since her fall, two weeks ago, he’d prayed every day that she would hold on long enough. When the phone would ring, his heart would stop. Mom would talk low and quiet and the thought of grandma dying too soon made tears trickle down his cheek. But she hadn’t. His eighth birthday was yesterday and since then, he’d been ready to explode with excitement. Masking it with sadness had been like trying to hide a bucket of exploding firecrackers.

A hand touched his shoulder and he looked up to see his mother and his blood ran cold. He breathed heavy and sweat beads appeared on his forehead as he stared back at her in wide-eyed fear. Could she see the happiness? Would she be angry?

She picked him up and buried his head in her shoulder.

“Poor Blake,” she told somebody. “He has been dreading this day.”

He pressed his grin into her fluffy dress and almost laughed. She didn’t know. Nobody knew. He held her tight and didn’t let her put him down until she asked if he wanted to take a nap. He nodded and she carried him off into one of grandma’s cold, dark bedrooms and plopped him onto the bed.

She stayed with him for a few minutes, stroking his hair, but he kept his face buried in the pillow and pretended he was asleep until she left. Then he spun over and let his mouth go free. It stretched from ear to ear as his eyes danced with excitement. It was now only two days away.

Last year they had all gone without him. Mother, Grandma, and everyone had rode off leaving him alone with an older girl he didn’t even know. It wasn’t fair to leave him like that, to exclude him from father’s mourning just because he wasn’t eight. He’d cried all afternoon…so hard even the girl started crying, saying she was so sorry but not to worry because his father was watching from heaven. Of course father was in heaven. He never told her why he had really been crying…or told anyone why he’d cried every day since. At least every day until yesterday. Now he could go and partake like everyone else.

Waiting the next two days was torture, worse than Christmas. Mother was gone most of the time, helping with all the work. Grandma had to be prepared for the ceremony and everything had to be blessed by the elders. The church had to be set up, talks had to be prepared, friends and family notified. It was a lot of work and he was glad they were all busy. It was too hard to look sad all the time when they were around.

On the big day, he woke up before Mother, put on his church clothes, and clipped his tie into place. He climbed onto the sink and drizzled water onto his comb and ran it through his hair until it was straight like mother liked it. Then he sat on the big chair in the front room and waited.

He heard the water running when she started the shower. A short time later, the hum of the blow dryer made him think of her hair bouncing around as she fixed it up. When she came walking down the hall she stopped when she saw him.

“You look very handsome…how long have you been awake?”

“Not very,” he said.

“Did you already eat something?” she asked.

“We aren’t supposed to, remember?”

“Well, adults aren’t, but kids can if they want to. You don’t have to fast like me,” she said.

“I want to,” he answered.

She nodded, walked into the room, and sat on the couch. “Do you have any questions about what happens today?”

He shook his head, no.

“Today we honor Grandma by accepting her into our own hearts and lives forever. We take all the good in her and make it part of us.”

“I know,” he nodded. “Just like you did last year with father. And Grandma was there, so part of father is in her. And now, he will be in me, too.”

Her eyes flooded and several drops escaped down her cheeks. She opened her mouth to speak but no words escaped. She nodded and wiped her tears.

She pulled him onto her lap and squeezed. For some reason, now he knew she wouldn’t mind that he was happy. She understood.

The chapel was dark and empty when he pushed through the large double doors. He was the first to sit and he took the front row on the edge so he would be the first to partake. The lights flickered and the shadows vanished. Hushed whispers chased the silence as others entered and sat on the long wooden benches. Old lady Jergins walked up onto the stand and sat at the organ. Moments later, the pipes hummed and soft music drowned the whispers.

He didn’t have to hide his smile anymore, it was gone. This was important and even though his body shivered with excitement, he sat still with his arms folded. This was serious; he was with the adults and was expected to act like one. And it was almost time.

Mother sat next to him and put an arm around him. He felt a soft kiss on his forehead. Then the preacher walked up to the pulpit and motioned for all to stand.

Blake heard the back doors open and watched the isle anxiously as they brought her forward. The elders appeared, carrying the large, covered silver platter. It wouldn’t be long now; Father would be a part of him forever.

He sat still, arms folded, and looking ahead as if he was listening to the stories and talks. But his eyes were glazed and his mind filled with images of his father as he waited. When it was time and the preacher again asked the front row to stand, his eyes filled with tears. Mother squeezed his hand and he looked up at her. She smiled at him, through streaks of tears on her cheeks. She was the prettiest woman alive and he hugged her. His chest was tingling and more tears fell down his face. This was the happiest day of his life.

He walked up the steps, first in line, and the row followed. The elders lifted the cover and he stepped up to them. He opened his mouth and one of the elders leaned forward and put a small piece of meat in his mouth. Now, father would always be a part of him. Forever.

Cover art copyrighted by Judy Schmidt and used with permission.

Summary
In a world created by evil, rebellion is inevitable.

For the first sixteen years of his life, Prince Jasper has revered the stranger who saved them from destruction thirty years prior, a man known only as the Guide. But he’s afraid of his buried thoughts and burning questions. Have his parents and the Guide lied to him? When his first love is sacrificed under the guise of honor and tradition, his eyes start opening to the horrible truth. He voices his concerns and is instantly shunned by everyone he loves.

Jasper’s fall from grace is swift. His life is threatened and he is rescued by a small group of outlaws who introduce him to swords, sorcery, and dark secrets about the Guide. His parents, friends, and the entire kingdom have been beguiled by cunning lies. Now, hunted and despised by the people he struggles to save, Jasper joins the Resistance to fight an underground war against the dark powers that shroud his nation in ignorance.

Prologue

Is that her? ZieZee’s thoughts passed to her partner as she pointed down the rocky slope through branches of naked trees that reached into the sky like giant spider legs.

Dorg looked at the large mound of snow in the ravine below, nodded, and answered with his mind. Yes, she’s under there, protecting the egg.

Cloudy vapor froze in frigid air as it left their bodies, marking time in steady puffs. Only two creatures could survive this icy tundra: their kind and the massive beast nesting in the gorge below. They watched and waited, camouflaged by thick white fur on the snow covered ridge. To the keen eye they looked awkward; standing knee deep in the snow made them look unnaturally short, even for snow apes.

Let’s get it over with; I want to get out of this cursed animal. Her thoughts again filled his mind.

Not until dark, we need that advantage. Besides, these apes are one of your best creations…fast, nimble, and strong. Enjoy it; you’ll be ataiki again soon.

Better than human, she answered.

The corner of his lip curled in satisfaction. Swine was better than ataiki but ZieZee was too stupid to know. Her ignorance worked to his benefit, it let him manipulate her. He reached up and wrapped his four fingers around a thick branch, jumped, and sailed through the air. He swung branch to branch until he had weaved high to a perch that hung precariously over the cliff and he sat in a forked limb, letting his legs dangle. But ZieZee hadn’t followed him. He looked down and saw her still standing in the snow below.

Her voice again filled his mind. I’m not going up there.

He didn’t answer. It was her own fault she was miserable. He turned and looked at the mound of snow directly below him. It was like a large knot on a tree, an unnatural blemish that called attention to its abnormality. It didn’t belong…it had to be Nix, the dragon. For two years they had searched, tapping deep into the spiritual realm, but dragons were fortified against their detection. This was common with magical creatures. But this had to be her, everything pointed here. Moving close enough to verify would be foolish because if she was awake, she was watching and waiting. If she was sleeping, the pulse of the ground and the heat of his body would wake her. Either way she wouldn’t pass an opportunity to feed since for six years she’d been unable to leave her egg. He would assume it was her and they would proceed as planned.

He clutched the vial that hung from a leather strap around his neck and lifted it to his bulgy, pink eyes. The silver container hid the contents and he considered opening the lid to look inside, but it wasn’t a serious consideration. He’d never take a chance like that with victory so close when he understood little about the green, luminescent fluid. Whatever it was had evolved when the demigod Vitaneous was destroyed, five hundred years prior. For hundreds of years he had been afraid of it, in fact everything he knew about it had come in the past year after he forced ZieZee to swallow several drops. Drinking it somehow magnified their connection to the spiritual realm; hopefully it would be enough to subdue the dragon.

It’s dusk, can we start? ZieZee’s voice spoke alongside his thoughts, startling him. Sometimes he didn’t like how she could speak right to his mind, invading his solitude. He growled, one of the few sounds he could make as an ape, and it quickly escalated to a loud rhythmic chant. He beat his chest.

What are you doing? You are going to wake her!

He ignored ZieZee and filled the canyon with his howl, which echoed off icy granite walls towering around them. When he finished, the mountains replayed his screams in an eerie chant that slowly faded back to silence.

He focused on ZieZee and sent his thoughts, we need to move fast…there is lot to do. Ready?

Why did you do that? Now she knows we’re here.

He didn’t answer until his disgust at her thick brain faded. It wouldn’t help if she sensed his indignation. He cleared his mind. Because now she’s looking for a meal, it will weaken the protections around her mind. I’m taking the vitane now; see you on the other side.

He opened the vial, cocked his head, and poured the liquid down his throat. It lacked the burning he was used to in human form and for the first time, he noticed the bitter taste and slimy texture. His chest warmed. He licked the sides of his mouth and his head twitched at the tartness. His chest burned with heat. He looked down, making sure he was directly above the mound of snow covering Nix but his vision doubled, tripled, and then faded into a single bright haze as death snuffed the life from his body. His perceptions changed with the shift to the spiritual realm. All physical sensations ceased, replaced by intuition, thought, and emotion. Now he existed like a cloud of warm air: a pulsing aura of energy unseen by the creatures of his world below.

The dead body of the ape he left behind slumped and, for a moment, remained frozen in the forked branch. Then it teetered, rolled sideways out of the tree, and tumbled like a puppet towards the ground. Dorg could see none of this. Nor could he hear the snap of jaws as the dragon’s neck shot out from under the white blanket in a barrage of fangs and flying snow to catch the ape in its maw of long white daggers. But even without physical senses, he experienced it in vivid detail through mental perception, including the sudden crimson stains that spattered the pristine snow. He was keenly aware of bones shattering and crunching as the dragon devoured the ape. He perceived her hunger. She hadn’t eaten in months and was starving.

Images of the world below flashed through his mind like a dream. He sensed ZieZee, in the body of the other snow ape, descending into the gully. In the next valley, five wild apes slept huddled in a small cave. Beyond the stars he felt the shunning force of the great light, the power that seduced nearly every detached soul to abandon this world. It beckoned to all, save three: ZieZee, himself, and what was left of Vitaneous. It rejected them, pinning them forever to this forsaken world. It certainly had never expected them to fill a barren wasteland with life, as they had done. And now that they were learning to harvest energy, it wouldn’t hold them forever.

Dorg!

He jolted at ZieZee’s cry for help. She had left the ape and was with him in the spirit realm, fighting Nixun. She was straining, pulling, screaming…how long had it been? Was it too late? Once he had lost himself for hundreds of years in such rumination. He sensed the dead body of the ape, left behind where she had taken her own flask of vitane. It was still warm and able to sustain life. Relieved, he focused on the dragon and felt himself immersed in its essence and ZieZee’s struggle. He pulled with her, expecting the dragon’s soul to break free as happened with other creatures. But instead, a bolt of energy lashed through him, burning like acid. He raged, shooting back in full concentration and crashed into the dragon, splitting the dusk sky with lighting. Thunder cracked and rolled and the dragon’s body fell limp.

A new essence joined them, Nix, floating like spider silk on a breeze. She was like a baby in this new world, unable to maneuver or even comprehend her surroundings. They encircled her, guiding her to ZieZee’s ape lying dead in the snow. Both body and essence still craved life and the two latched quickly. The ape’s chest expanded thrice, and then an eye cracked open. Nix was inside.

ZieZee drifted to the empty, motionless corpse of the dragon. Dorg sensed life returning to the giant beast; a talon twitched, a wing opened, and red eyes glowed. ZieZee had again become mortal. She tried to stand but collapsed in a cloud of snowy dust; it would take her a moment to learn how to control this new body. Practicing on the summit eagles helped, but nothing could have completely prepared her for this.

The ape rolled in the snow.

He sent ZieZee his thoughts. Hurry, before she gets control. She’ll fight to the death to protect the egg and we need her alive…to put her back when we are finished.

Nix could live for at least a month in the fattened body of the ape, even if all she did was lie motionless in the snow. Eventually, they needed her soul returned to the dragon body. If she was injured or killed their plans would be worthless. After nearly a thousand years of work, Dorg wasn’t about to let that happen. ZieZee thrust her legs and fell forward, grunting as flames shot from her nose and melted a long stretch of snow.

The nest, ZieZee told him. We’re too late.

Dorg sensed warm radiant energy below, the infant was alive. They were not too late. ZieZee stumbled again, raking claw marks in the snow as she failed in her awkward attempts to stand. Finally, she lunged and rolled sideways, sliding on her back halfway down the slope to the ape, which was also struggling for control. Then something moved in the nest.

As an the image of the scene formed in Dorg’s mind, the ape made a gurgling sound which was surely meant to be a booming roar from a dragon’s body. Nix grunted and pawed in confusion as she slipped and inched back towards the nest. ZieZee, meanwhile, rose and stretched her new wings.

What should I do? ZieZee asked.

The image clarified and Dorg pulsed in fury. The egg lie in pieces, hatched. Plans destroyed. His rage culminated in volatile energy that radiated a faint red glow above the nest that even mortals could see. An infant dragon lay curled and quivering below. ZieZee was right, they were too late. An egg would have survived the flight over the mountains but this newborn would not even survive the next few moments. Death was imminent. There would be no dragon child to ransom cooperation from Nix.

I told you we shouldn’t have killed the father, ZieZee said. You’ve ruined everything…

That pricked his rage and the red glow exploded, spawning a storm of fury that rained shards of burning energy on ZieZee. She shrieked and roared. Dorg shut her out, for two reasons; he didn’t want to expose her to more damage, but moreover, he didn’t want to hear her foul response. What did it matter? All was for naught…

The ape, now ably walking on all fours, reached the nest and threw herself on the tiny dragon to warm the freezing child. Even a dragon, with its size and heat, had little chance of saving the newborn after such an extreme sting of chill. The young spirit soon detached and its essence dwelled briefly while accustoming to the spirit realm. Dorg made no attempt to shield it from the call of the great light; he had no use for this soul. A wave of love passed from child to mother before it pulled away, leaving Nix howling and caressing the dead body with pudgy ape fingers. The child’s essence hesitated and then streaked through the sky.

A dark ambiance touched Dorg’s mind; ZieZee was cursing furiously and trying to attack him. But it was pointless. In mortal form she could neither see nor sense him and without vitane, she would have to take her life to free her soul. Even she wasn’t stupid enough to kill the only living dragon. He would deal with her eventually but he could not help her until after returning to the lair where he would take a new body, cultivate more vitane, and then come for her. It would take weeks.

A shift in the mood of Nix caught his attention. She now emanated panic rather than sorrow, and even ZieZee’s anger had been replaced with curiosity. An image filled his mind of Nix pushing the tiny dragon body aside and frantically digging through the feathered lining of the nest. Then he sensed another life form. Faint and obscure, it had gone unnoticed. Twins! And the second child hadn’t hatched.

Nix pulled the egg from its refuge and sprinted away, hobbling through the snow like a three legged wolf as she held the egg against her furry belly with one arm. Even with the egg, she was faster than expected and before ZieZee could react, fresh tracks stretched halfway down the canyon. The dark thicket across the clearing was like a quagmire for a large dragon; there was no chance ZieZee could follow a nimble creature flying from tree to tree, and, apparently, all of them realized it. ZieZee beat her wings twice, shot into the air, flipped over, and dove for the ground. She pulled up at the last moment and shot forward in a silent glide just above the snow.

Don’t hurt her…we need her alive. Dorg said, re-opening his mind to her.

ZieZee closed the gap, gaining rapidly, but the lead was too great. As Nix leaped and reached for a dangling branch, a mere swing from safety, ZieZee rolled and slashed with an outstretched talon and clipped Nix’s back leg. Nix spun to the ground well short of the forest and ZieZee sailed past, barreling into the white covered evergreens as branches snapped, cracked, and chunks of snow fell to the ground in deep thuds.

Nix rolled and flipped onto her feet but ZieZee had already recovered and blocked her escape into the forest. ZieZee lowered her head, growling as she bent down on all four legs ready to pounce on the tiny ape. Nix seemed transfixed staring into the giant slit, blood-red eyes that used to be her own. She turned and shuffled the egg to her side, away from ZieZee, but cocked her head to keep her gaze. Then she opened her mouth and hissed, fangs bared in an apparent attempt to fill the air with fire, but only warm cloudy air came from her throat, fading even as it appeared. ZieZee jumped forward, knocking Nix to the ground and pinned her between talons built to shred snow apes. Nix thrashed and ZieZee pushed her deeper into the snow. Then ZieZee leaned forward and with her other front claw, pried loose the egg and then placed it into her fang-laced mouth. With a stiff beat of wings, ZieZee rose into the air with Nix clinging to her talons, refusing to let go. But with a quick shake, she was jolted free and fell back into the snow as ZieZee climbed higher and beat a steady course west, towards the caverns.

Dorg followed as Nix chased the departing fluttering spec in the sky. He told ZieZee he would join her in the caverns when Nix stopped, so they could find her again. But ZieZee didn’t answer. Time apart would be good and help her cool off to refocus on their purpose. He followed Nix for two nights until she finally collapsed broken-hearted and exhausted in a snowless clearing at the base of the mountains. Despondence and exhaustion would keep her in this area until they returned. Satisfied, he set his mind on the lair and sensed himself rushing over mountain peaks and thick forests.

He plunged through volcanic rock into the heart of the caverns that he and ZieZee called home. She was waiting, pretending to be asleep in a distant corner with one giant talon curled around the newly acquired egg. Below, he sensed the young man they had previously captured wrestling the straps that bound him to a chair. Dorg had handpicked this tall muscular warrior. His long brown hair and dashing smile were ideal to lead the humans to victory. Like swatting at a fly, he brushed the soul from the man and hurled it to the light as the body fell limp.

He filled his mind with images of the man and felt himself drift to the body. He imagined himself making a fist with the man’s hands and felt fingernails digging into his palms. He pictured himself speaking and felt parched lips cracking. Then he imagined expanding his chest to take in air and felt a cool rush through his throat. The man in the chair opened his eyes and Dorg saw shadows flicker on the cave walls. He gasped for air and coughed as life returned to the body. He had made it; everything had worked to his desires. But now he needed sleep, his energy was spent. The thought of his bed in a nearby cove was soothing and he leaned forward to stand but couldn’t. His legs and arms were still bound to the chair.

“ZieZee? I’m back, untie me,” he yelled.

The caverns echoed his voice. He twisted and spun his head for a quick look behind and a sting shot down his back and his neck popped. He winced and straightened. She was watching him with those big red eyes. No doubt still angry.

“It was an accident, I didn’t mean to attack you. You know what it’s like…it’s hard to contain emotion in spirit form. Please, set me free. I need sleep,” he said.

She could have answered, she had rested enough to send thoughts to his mind, but she didn’t. He sighed and leaned his head on the back of the chair, sagging into the straps that held him. She would forgive him. His plan had worked and that’s all that mattered. To the south, amid the clashing of steel and cries of death, he would soon emerge a hero. The humans would revere and worship him: the man who saved them from the dark ones. Then they would return Nix to her dragon body and hatch the egg themselves. Nix would do whatever they asked of her. All would be in place to lead the humans into an age of peace and prosperity. Finally, he would have the resources needed to research the vitane. After so long, the end of his banishment was near…maybe even within the lifetime of this new body.

Recently, I had an opportunity to gain some insight. I play an online game called “World of Warcraft,” commonly referred to as “WOW.” If you aren’t one of the eight million people who play this game, hold your judgment until you finish reading…I’ll give you some background.

The effects of this alternate reality of this world aren’t limited to the imagination. Marriages have been formed and dissolved, lawsuits have been filed, and in-game items have been traded and purchased using real world currency. In fact, I have spoken with a 21 year old man who works in an office in China with 40 others. They play WOW eighteen hours a day. They grind away in the game earning gold, the currency of WOW. The gold is sent to their supervisor’s in-game character and then marketed in the real world for $20 per 100. In this WOW Sweatshop, he earns $200 per month and is thankful to have a job to support his family. But that’s another article.

In WOW, I play a short little gnome named ZieZee. As a gnome, I am part of the “Alliance,” and therefore allied with the human, dwarf, and night elf races. Most of the others characters I encounter are real people sitting at their computers plucking away at a keyboard while exploring a vast world of swords, magic, monsters, dungeons, cities, etc. I can chat with them, team up with others finish quests, or even form guilds comprised of hundreds of individuals all working together.

On the other side are players who create characters that are Orcs, Trolls, Tauren (big Ogre-like creatures), or Undead. They are known as the Horde and enemy of the Alliance. The two sides cannot communicate, group up, or collaborate. In some worlds (there are multiple WOW worlds that you can join), you can freely attack and kill members of the opposing faction. Initially, I created a character in one of these worlds. Later I decided it did not suit my personality and transferred to a friendlier place.

As I explored the land, I become progressively more powerful. Characters who have played for months or years can easily mow through armies of lower characters and I often ran across these more powerful characters. Alliance characters would often lend me a hand with a difficult beast. Hoard characters, however, would often charge, attack, and kill me. Dying, although not the end of the game, is an inconvenient process.

I wasn’t interested in the player vs. player aspect of the game. I left lower Horde members alone and let them go on their merry way. As they cautiously kept their distance I often waved or smiled to indicate I meant them no harm, although their distrust kept them away. Communication between factions is limited to basic physical actions. Although I didn’t harass lower Horde, I didn’t find the same courtesy from their bigger brothers and sisters. I found myself being attacked from behind, attacked while opening a chest, and attacked while just walking down the path time and time again. With each brutal ambush, I my anger increased. I found myself hating the Horde; really hating them. I noticed my face automatically jumped to a bitter scowl whenever I saw one. Fear griped me when I saw them on a distant hill. I truly developed an extreme prejudice for the races that made up the Horde.

I abandoned my friendly nature and begin fighting back. I’d join others in raiding Horde villages, killing other players. It felt good to get even. They had caused me too much pain and suffering.

Then one day as I was out adventuring, I came across a Horde undead Priestess gathering Herbs for her potions. I went into stealth mode (an ability my character has) and snuck up behind her. Although I was ready to attack with my backstab ability and she was seconds away from death, I hesitated. I followed her for about four minutes as she picked her flowers and my hate and anger for the Horde wavered. I couldn’t kill her. And not only that, I couldn’t play this game anymore.

I know it’s just a game and all pretend, it doesn’t matter, right? No, it doesn’t, but it still didn’t resonate with me. I didn’t like feeling the anger, hostility, and fear that surfaced during my interactions with the Horde. I didn’t like the vengeance that drove me to sneak up to assassinate the Undead Priestess. Even if it was a game, it was so far out of character for me that I couldn’t do it anymore.

I snuck around in front of her, holstered my two poison tipped daggers, took off my armor, and unstealthed…appearing for her. Now I was helpless. I’m sure she realized I could have killed her easily while I was stealthed, but now a few quick spells and I’d be the dead one. I waved and sat down on the grass. She didn’t move, but instead stared dubiously at me. I watched the screen curiously. It took several moments but then she sat down in front of me. Using the basic physical gestures allowed, evoked by typing “slash commands” we communicated. /wink, /smile, /laugh, /hug, and finally, /dance. In the end we waved goodbye and went our separate ways. It felt really good.

I paid to have my character transferred to another world, where you couldn’t mercilessly attack the members of the other faction. Sine then, the game has been much more enjoyable for me. Why I ever played in a world driven by hate and violence I don’t know. I guess I hoped that I could somehow find a way to cope and survive. Maybe I thought I could make a difference. It sounds stupid because it’s just a game. But really, it’s not just a game, which is why I struggled with it. It is real social attitudes manifested in a pretend world. It’s examples of the real problems we have in our world. And it drummed up real feelings of hatred, vengeance, and anger within me. Had I started playing WOW with the intent of fighting bitter enemies, I would have handled it better. But I wanted to play to have fun, explore, and socialize.

Yes, it is just a game, but now I think I can understand, a little, the hatred and anger experienced by real people in the real world. I know why in Seattle a few years ago an African American man bitterly told me to get out of his shop because the “white man’s shop is down the road.” He didn’t want to share his African carving and artwork with me because of the anger and hostility that burned in him merely because my skin is white. His history has burned that in to him. The war in Vietnam burned it into others. It’s too bad we can’t just switch to a new game server where that doesn’t exist. It takes vulnerability…putting away our daggers and standing in front of one another exposed. And in real life, that’s a scary thing to do.

Like burning acid
Boredom eats my heart and soul
Stealing my spirit

Empty of Spirit
I meander through the void
the prey of cheap thrills

My soul now enslaved
Instant Gratifications
Are my ties that bind

Passion is traded
Like a hooker on main street
For thrills and disease

Focused on the stars
I can escape from the void
And reclaim my soul

“Where’s your red nose Rudolf?” somebody yelled as the boys burst into more laughter.

He tried to walk with a normal easy stroll but he felt tense and awkward. It was hard to normalize this situation while he battled both embarrassment and fear. Embarrassed everyone was staring at him and fear that another snowball would smack the back of his head…or worse, that a sudden shove to his back would throw him again face first to the ground.

“We want to see you fly Rudolf!”

“So would I,” he thought amid their jeers.

His head suddenly lurched forward and he felt the cold sting of another snowball. He didn’t pause to brush off the snow, determined instead to distance himself between himself and the school.

He both loved and hated his name. Christmastime was the worst. Most of the rest of the year passed with only minor incidents but after Thanksgiving the teasing continually got worse. By the last day of school before Christmas break he expected this. Even the snowballs.

But his name was all he had from his father. He held onto the name in the same way that he held on to his imagined life with a father he’d never met. Somewhere out there was a man named Rudolf who understood. And Rudolf tolerated the teasing because the pain of letting go of the idea that someday he’d find his father hurt more than the snowballs.
After a few blocks, the mob lost interest and Rudolf was left to walk in peace. He shook the icy water out of his hair and wiggled his shoulders to rub his coat on his back. It soaked up some of the freezing slush that had drizzled halfway down his spine. He picked up his pace to get home where he could take off his wet shirt and wrap up in a blanket.

The house was cold and empty. His mom worked two jobs and wouldn’t be home until just before the sun rose tomorrow morning. She’d sleep a few hours and then rush out to catch the bus. Rudolf spent most of his time in the dark, quiet house reading. He tossed his coat on the couch and quickly stripped off his wet shirt, careful to keep it from touching his bare skin. He grabbed the heavy wool blanket on the couch, wrapped it tightly around his body, and collapsed in a cold shiver onto the soft dusty cushions. He spent most of his life alone on this couch.

After his shivering subsided, he reached one arm out from inside the warm blanket to the table behind him and flicked on the light. In the same motion, he grabbed his book. For the next five hours he was happy. In these adventures he had friends and people who loved him. Men admired him. Girls oogled over him. And he stomped out evil and saved the world.

When his eyes finally dropped shut and the book fell to his chest, Rudolf slept with a smile as his escapades continued throughout the night. When he opened them the next morning, the smile stayed in place. He loved dreaming. It had been a wonderful night. In the real word, his mother had come and gone again. In this world his warm breath form a tiny cloud in the cool air above him. He tightened his grip on the book, still resting on his chest, lifted it, and escaped for the rest of the day. He finished it just after the sun stole the meager winter daylight.

His stomach growled. He rolled off the couch and stood, careful to keep the blanket wrapped tightly around him. He moved through the house to the kitchen and looked for something to eat. The fridge wasn’t completely empty but it didn’t have much to offer; a pickle jar with only green juice, old cottage cheese that looked more like blue cheese, and a carton of milk that was on its way to becoming cottage cheese.

Earlier in the week he bought can of Speghettios for 99 cents at the mini market down on the corner. They were probably still on sale. He shuffled through the kitchen drawer for spare change. Unsuccessful, he went back to the front room and searched the bookshelf. He let his blanket fall to the floor and ruffled through the cushions of the couch and chair. Seventy five cents later, he decided to make the best of it. Wearing three shirts, both pairs of his pants, three dirty socks (two on each foot and one on each hand), and his coat, he ventured out into the dark cold Christmas Eve.

Near the market he checked a payphone hoping for a break. It was empty. Inside the market he confirmed the Speghettios were still on sale and even spent a good minute looking at the picture of the little round noodles on the cover. He paused on his way out of the store and thought about buying a Snickers bar instead. But he wanted the Spheghettios. He figured he could find some change somewhere.

Outside he walked down the streets. Several of the houses had blinking lights along the roof and windows. Most of them had a Christmas tree on display in one of the front windows. He wondered what it was like past the glowing trees. Did families actually sit together for a Christmas dinner? Did they read Christmas stories? Maybe sing around the piano? He hoped so.

A large SUV in the distance slowed and turned into a driveway several houses ahead and on the other side of the road. Car doors opened and closed. He saw a few shadowed figures walk into the house and a couple more around to the back of the car. The back swung open and the people unloaded the vehicle. He heard muffled voices as the figures, loaded with grocery bags, walked into the house.

As he drew even with the house, a dark Christmas tree in the window suddenly sprang to life. As he watched, something near the car caught his eye. Curious, he walked across the street and saw a grocery bag laying on the ground near the vehicle.

He crossed the street and picked it up. It was heavy. He opened the bag and wasn’t surprised to see it was full of food. He was, however, surprised to see a can of Spheghettios. For a moment he hesitated. He could take the can and leave the rest. He didn’t consider taking the whole bag. In fact, he wouldn’t have even considered taking anything but Spheghettios had been on his mind all night. They wouldn’t miss a mere can of Spheghettios. Their nice car, nice house, bags of food…why shouldn’t he take it? He could leave the rest on the porch, ring the bell, and run.

He walked up and rang the bell. The door swung open and he held out the bag. The warm air rushing out of the house carried smells that made his mouth water.

“You forgot this,” he said.

The teenage boy at the door looked down at him for a moment.

“Oh, thanks.” He said and took the bag. “Have a Merry Christmas,” he said with a quick smile.

An irritated yell from back inside the house interrupted Rudolf’s response, “Come on Jake, we’ve already been waiting all night!”

Jake glanced around and then back to Rudolf.

“Thanks, you too,” Rudolf answered as he stepped back.

The door shut and Rudolfo turned and began walking down the steps. He reached the sidewalk and hurried to the left and out of view of the front window. And then he stopped. He felt the can in his pocket. He wanted it so bad. He could already smell and taste them. But he was starting to feel sick. He remembered the boy wishing him a Merry Christmas and felt worse.

He rang the bell a second time. A large woman wearing a red sweater decorated with green Christmas designs answered the door.

He avoided her eyes and held out the can in his sock covered hand.

“You forgot this too,” he said.

She didn’t take the can. With his head hung low he rolled his eyes up. She was staring down at him and he quickly looked away, ashamed. He thrust out his hand again hoping she would take it. But she didn’t.

He looked up and she was covering her mouth with her hand. ‘She knows,’ he thought. ‘She knows I stole it.’
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I was hungry.”

“What’s,” she cleared her throat and seemed to struggle to speak. “What’s your name?” she asked.

“Rudolf,” he answered.

“Like the Reindeer?” she said.

“Yeah,” he answered. “Like the Reindeer,” he said without enthusiasm.

“What are you doing alone tonight?” she asked.
He shrugged.

“Won’t your family be worried?” she asked.

“Nah,” he said and held out the can again.

She took the can and bent down so her eyes were even with his.

“We are just getting ready to eat and we have plenty. I would be honored to have such a fine young man join us for dinner. Would you like to come inside?”

Rudolf wanted to but shook his head, no. He felt bad.

“I’m sorry about the Sphegettios,” he said, again avoiding her eyes.

“Rudolf,” she said.

When he looked at her she had tears streaming down her cheeks.

“Thanks for stopping. Thanks for reminding me what Christmas is really about. Sometimes I get so caught up in everything I just…”

Rudolfo didn’t understand.

“Take this, at least,” she said and pushed the can back into his hand. “You deserve a lot more.”
He hesitated but accepted her gift.

She chuckled and sniffed. “You saved Christmas Rudolf.”
He was confused, but he smiled at her and shook the can, “So have you.”

“Stop by again some day, will you?”

He nodded.

“Promise?” she asked.

He looked back at her and nodded. “Ok, I will,” he grinned.
The looked at each other for a moment and Rudolf stepped back.

“Merry Christmas,” he said.

“Merry Christmas, Rudolf” she answered.