Chapter 3

The alarm was first raised by Juro, a local fisherman who had a small fishing hut on log poles in one of the shallow corners of the river near the edge of Lily Lake. He then nearly at once attracted the attention of Àcheram, the Dockmaster, who then began blowing the horn he always kept by his side, as if he were trying to rouse all of Tellismere itself. The Dockmaster had the keenest eyes in the village, and could smell trouble even further away, it was said. He was now blowing his horn with all of his strength, not just the usual short toots he used to communicate, with incoming and outgoing vessels on the river, but deep long soundings that conveyed a much more desperate meaning.

Rowan dropped his hammer and tongs, and the rest of the smithy started to also fall silent as everyone stopped in turn also to listen.

"Why is the Dockmaster calling out an alarm? Is a boat about to crash into the docks? Or is there trouble on the river?" Ignold, Gorge's nephew and the junior journeyman smith wondered out loud.

"I think not." Rowan replied with a confidence he didn't feel. "That has happened before, most recently about three years ago, and he used just loud short and fast notes then. This is different and new ... some other problem entirely. Can anyone hear another horn from the direction north river watchtower? If there was trouble coming from down the river, surely Duflyl would have sounded an alarm from there as well. We're certainly close enough to hear it clearly from here!"

Walking outside of the smithy onto the river road, everyone stopped to listen more carefully. Whatever the trouble was, the River Watch alarm had not sounded their alarm, nor had the Crossroads Bridge Guard sounded their alarm either. The East Tower watch post, further south on the eastern forest edge of the village, was also silent as well, but if this was not an attack, then what was wrong?

Rowan started to trot past the stable, across the road, towards the docks to get a better look at the situation when Boyle came barreling around the corner and nearly collided into his friend, nearly out of breath and his blue eyes wide with alarm.

"There's big trouble across the river, on the Duke's island... , right where his daughter has her big tent. You can hear screaming over there from the docks, and I could see something big moving behind her tent ... something really big!" He panted.

Boyle might be just a little slow of wit, but no one had ever accused him of being over-imaginative ... and there was nothing at all wrong with his eyes either. If he saw something bigger than a twelve foot tall pavilion tent, then it was real.

"Cedany and the other attendant ladies must be in danger!" He wheezed, panting for breath.

With a sudden jolt of thought, Rowan suddenly realized that his beloved was in perhaps in mortal danger from this huge menace, and that he had already dithered and waited far too long. In a blink he was gone, running as fast as he could, running as if for his very life ... and that of Cedany's, down the hill towards the docks, leaving a panting Boyle soon far behind him. For a brief moment, he had considered running down the road to the bridge and crossing there, but he knew that would take nearly five minutes, even at a dash. No, he felt that every second was precious, now. Running as fast as he had ever run before, Rowan sped down the slope of the riverbank and down the length of the nearest dock, and when he reached the end of the wooden planks, he dove swiftly into the river and swam for the island shore, with fast crisp chopping strokes.

He knew that he was a fast and strong swimmer, and he was sure that he could cross the river here to the island, across the lily covered lake, faster than he could have run the distance around it, but every stroke and breath that he took seemed to be one too many. At exercise, he often had swum this distance in about three minutes, but now even taking just two minutes would mean disaster. Of this he was sure.

Now in almost a blind, terrified panic, he arose when the water became too shallow to swim, and hastily splashed his way the final twenty yards to shore, scattering lily pads, ducks and swans alike in his hasty dread. With a swift glimpse behind him across the river, he could see that Boyle was starting his own, much slower, swim across the river and that more sounds of alarm were now coming from the river bridge guard tower. Help was coming, but probably much too late now to help the ladies.

Now that he was on shore on the Duke's island, he at last got his first clear look at the situation he now faced, and if anything, his heart was even more filled with dread and terror. Boyle had certainly not exaggerated the size of the creature that he had seen, and now, at fairly close range, the monster seemed to be even larger. It was certainly near the height of three grown men; fifteen feet tall at minimum, maybe even a foot or two more. Just the sight of the huge monster caused Rowan's blood to freeze in his veins.

The creature was man-shaped, but had cloven hooves for both of its two goat-like feet, and black coarse fur that covered its body up to its neck. The hands were tipped with great black pointed claws that appeared to be able to easily rend and shred armor, gauging by the sickening sight of the pile of guardsman and female bodies strewn all over the grass around the monster. Its head was much like that of an especially angry goat, except it had but a single long and straight horn on its forehead that appeared to have a black menacing glow to it.

The Lady Ayleth, and her few surviving attendants, were fair nearly trapped out in the open of the field behind their pavilion; quite cornered and unable to either escape or retreat. The demonic creature was faster ... and far stronger. In fact, the only thing that appeared to be saving them, at the moment, was that the Lady's Foole, dressed in his comical motley jacket and colorful pantaloons with his jester's belled cap, was standing protectively in front of her, loudly chanting a prayer of protection. That and perhaps the evil creature considered that it was in no danger whatsoever here, and was enjoying itself, not wanting to rush its sport. Already it had been gruesomely busy as blood was literally dripping from its clawed hands to the ground.

Then it laughed; a terrible awful sound that Rowan never, ever wished to hear uttered again. It echoed of hell, and of a thousand horrible dooms, and all that heard it shivered and some of the ladies near the Foole obviously lost bladder control and pissed down the front of their thin white linen shifts. It had to be a Daemon, Rowan thought; one of the legendary near-immortal infernal creatures of the past, from the evil days of the Dragon Wars, of an age past.

Look as he might, with hope and fervent prayer, he did not see Cedany; she was not present with the Lady or her few remaining attendants. He prayed that she had made it to safety, or had fled; perhaps to summon guardsmen earlier, but his heart fell ... he knew that Cedany would never leave her mistress' side willingly. Perhaps she now lay among the fallen, hopefully only wounded ... but Rowan had no time to commence a search for her. Bodies were scattered everywhere, and there was blood ... pools of it, just as Cedany had foreseen.

One of Ayleth's remaining attendant ladies could no longer stand the horror anymore, and she made a terrified dash for freedom. The Daemon was much faster. In a single lightning fast grab, it seized the horrified girl and tore away her brief white linen shift. When she was naked and helpless in its arms, she was nearly at once then brutally impaled upon the creature's gigantic phallus. It was a monstrous rape, but almost fortunately for its victim, his titanic sized member was far too huge for any mortal woman to hope to accommodate such an assault, and it didn't last long. Upon her violent impalement, her womb, bowels, and gut all burst outwards nearly at once, as her lower body, from her groin to her stomach, virtually exploded in a visceral cloud of rain of blood and tissue from the massive irresistible internal pressure. After a few moments the creature grunted and then uttered another vile laugh as the Daemon's massive cock erupted a flood of dark semen throughout the ravaged innards and it soon discarded his bloody quivering and soon to be lifeless plaything and victim to the ground. The sight of its black smoky ejaculate, mixed with the flowing blood of the ravaged maiden, was just an unspeakably terrible a sight to behold, and Rowan didn't think that she had been the Daemon's first unwilling victim to be torn apart in such an unwholesome and horrific manner.

Corpses littered the grassy field; dozens of them, both guardsman and soft naked and utterly violated female flesh was strewn all about the area, as if it had become an abattoir; a slaughterhouse. Blood was everywhere, in pools and in small trickling streams that now slowly were flowing down to the river. Far, far too much blood covered the green grass, all over the field.

A trio of young guardsmen stood off at a distance, waiting and watching in despair. They knew they were no match alone for this terror, and they had seen their friends and barracks-mates casually dismembered and slaughtered, without any injury done in return to the foul creature. Their only hope was reinforcements; as many soldiers and guards as could be summoned to help ... but it would take time. Time that the Lady Ayleth and her few surviving friends did not have.

When the monster smiled and started to take a step towards the Foole, the Lady, and their remaining companions, Rowan knew that he had to act. He needed to do something, anything, to give the guards just a little more time to assemble and find their courage. It wouldn't be enough, of that he was certain, but still he needed to do something to delay the inevitable. Perhaps his death would buy the Lady a few precious moments with which to escape.

Once again he dashed into a full run and he sped towards the monster, and when he reached it Rowan leaped at the last moment and dove up upon the creature's broad hairy back. With a jerk and a lift, he was able to wrap his strong left arm around the monsters neck, and with his free right hand, he drew his small belt knife. It was a very poor weapon for such an undertaking, but it was the only one that he had on-hand. It didn't much matter anyway, since his knife blade instantly snapped against the seemingly impossibly rock hard skin and flesh of the monster. Seemingly, his one and only chance was gone.

Looking at the ground he could see other broken weapons near the Daemon's feet. Obviously some magical or pure blessed-silver weapon was needed to harm this foe and he hoped that someone from the castle was hurrying here with one, and would hopefully be arriving soon or else the blood pools would soon become even deeper.

The Daemon paused a moment, seeming uncertain about whether it should first dislodge this pesky mortal now riding his back, or else instead grab the terrified Lady that was now just within his reach. It was at this moment that another guard arrived, in full armor, and without waiting for his three dithering companions, bravely threw himself alone against the creature. In but a moment, his sword, alas a normal and very un-magical one, was shattered as well against its seemingly impervious skin, and with a single vicious swipe of an awful razer sharp claw, his brave head was severed from his body, and rolled away from his body for some great distance on the blood covered grass.

As the helmet flew from the severed head, Rowan saw, in a flash, that it was his friend, Lieutenant Robrick, who had boldly given his life, to give him another moment's protection, and to aid in the rescue of the Lady. It was for nothing ... but it was the bravest thing that Rowan had ever seen in his life and he swore under his breath that somehow he would avenge him.

Staggered nearly off balance for a moment, as the Daemon gave Robrick's mangled and headless body a vicious kick to knock it away from him, Rowan took the moment to make one last try to subdue the creature, with his bare hands even if necessary. He was the strongest man in the village beyond a doubt, with arms coiled tight with hard muscles from wielding the hammer endlessly against the unyielding forge, and he decided to risk everything, in an attempt to snap the creature's neck, since its skin was too tough to be cut with swords and spears, or even be choked into submission.

"This is probably going to hurt ... bad, but I'll likely not live long enough to regret it!" Rowan thought to himself, as he lifted himself up further on the creatures broad back, so that he actually soon stood on top of the Daemon's shoulders. With a prayer to Árfæsliss, the Goddess of Mercy, and Gléagerád, the God of Wisdom and Fools on his lips, he wrapped both of his mighty hands around the terrible black glowing horn on its forehead.

The pain from merely touching the horn was unimaginable, like red hot skewers going into every part of his body at once. His hands felt like they were on fire; fully ablaze as if they had been immersed into molten iron straight from a furnace. At first he thought that they had indeed been utterly burned away to the very bone, but after opening his pain-stabbed eyes for a moment, he could see that they were both apparently undamaged and his grip upon the infernal horn was tight.

With all of his mortal strength, Rowan pulled back on the horn, trying to snap the creature's neck, and held his grip iron tight despite the agonizing soul-wrenching pain. Alarmed, the Daemon now tried to claw and shake his captor loose, but despite the wounds, Rowan held on firm. The Lady was inching away now, once again just barely out of reach. When his legs flew away free from on top of the monster's shoulders, he instead now wrapped them both tightly around the Daemon's neck so that not even its vile claws could now dislodge him no matter how hard the claws raked and tore into his flesh. His blood flowed like a river down the infernal monster's chest and fell like a gruesome crimson rain to the ground. Still the creature's neck was too strong and thick to be broke.

His eyes clouded with exertion and stabbing pain, Rowan looked up to see that his friend Boyle had now arrived and appeared ready to fight, bravely but unarmed. Taking advantage of the distraction, the stout lad was ordering the trio of uncertain guardsmen to go forth with him. As several new reinforcements also belated came at last to assist in the battle, the group of guardsmen at last found their courage and followed Boyle into the fray. Their weapons proved impotent, just like all of the others, but at least now they were an additional distraction for the Daemon, and this allowed the Foole to now attempt to lead the women he was protecting further away to safety.

With a last desperate and inhumanly fast lunge forward, the Daemon reached out to grab the Duke's daughter, who was obviously still his original intended prey, right from the very start, but with his head and neck immobilized by Rowan's grasp, his claw swing at her was just out of range and insufficient to grasp and hold her.

She had nearly gotten well enough away and out of his reach for good, until suddenly and totally unexpectedly, the daemonic horn snapped cleanly off from the base of its skull and Rowan, black horn still firmly in hand, flew backwards off of the creature to fall to the blood soaked killing ground.

Freed at last, the Daemon leapt forward at an astonishing speed and at once snatched up the Lady Ayleth into both of his bloody clawed hands and he held her fast. As Rowan woozily got back onto his bloody feet, he could see the Lady's gown being torn away with its sharp fanged teeth and the Lady's thin white gown fell away in bloody tatters to the ground, leaving her naked and defenseless in its arms. In a matter of moments, she was naked and helpless in its demonic grasp, It cried out an awful, terrible cry of triumph and it was quite clear that the horror now intended to debauch and dispatch his new noble victim exactly as he had done the earlier maidens; to use his improbably massive phallus to rip deeply inside of her and to use it to eviscerate her and soil her with his infernal seed, just as he had done to her other attendants. Its arms carried her screaming but helplessly, down to press her bare cunt right up against the tip of his monstrous barbed and leathery cock. He toyed with his phallus, rubbing it against her smooth pubic mound and her flat stomach and her ripe breasts, toying with her. Then back once again to press its cockhead firmly against her helpless vaginal lips, which were now ripe for just a single remorseless thrust to execute her unspeakable final outrage and doom.

With not a second left to lose, Rowan once again leapt back onto the Daemon's back, but this time he had a weapon that could absolutely indeed pierce this otherwise invulnerable hide. With a desperate mighty stab, he drove the Daemon's own horn deep into the center of the evil creatures back, halting forever that fatal thrust that would have impaled the young Lady upon its horrible barbed phallus, rending and rupturing her entrails and guts fatally.

Not yet mortally wounded, the monster instead decided to more certainly and quickly instead dispatch its victim, and it attempted instead to bite off the Lady's head, but another strong stabbing of the horn removed most of the strength and accuracy from the bite of its long fangs. In a spray of blood the Lady flew free from the monster's hand and was flung onto the grass and to relative safety with but relatively minor injuries.

Now, perhaps direly wounded, the Daemon rolled free and crouched upon the ground on all fours, as if it were a injured black leopard preparing for one last final murderous leap upon its foe. With an awful howl of anger and pain, it pounced upon a weary and sorely wounded Rowan, who had just barely the strength to have arisen back onto his feet to meet this final onslaught. From the corner of his eye he could see Boyle and the guardsmen, all also knocked to the ground and quite stunned, but otherwise more or less hale and hearty.

Rowan could see that Boyle, with a determined scowl of his face was struggling to regain his feet, to help aid his friend from the terrible assault that was about to come, but that he just couldn't manage it in time. Alone, Rowan held the Daemon horn firmly in his right hand, and he tried to duck under the creature's deadly leap. He mostly succeeded.

Rowan could never clearly remember the next few remaining moments. He felt terrible pain and the flow of fresh newly flowing blood, but not quite all of it was his own. In a desperate frenzy, he just kept plunging that Daemon horn over and over, as deeply as he could, into the chest of the now mortally wounded and loudly bellowing infernal monstrosity, until at last, everything was silent, quiet, and still, and the last drops of blood flowed onto the formerly green grassy field amidst the hushed voices of the pitifully few handful of survivors.

He lived, he thought, but Rowan found that it hurt too much to move, and that his strength was quite gone. In the darkness, he thought he could hear the sound of women singing, and of a weaving loom shuttle moving, but when he opened his eyes to see if he had, indeed, entered the Shadowlands. He, instead, saw that he was lying in a great pool of blood.

When his eyes cleared and focused a little more, he could now see Cedany's face quite near to his own. She was smiling at him; happy even, but why was her face so very pale? Her skin was now alabaster white, and as pale as a corpse's, and while her lovely green eyes looked deeply into his, they were entirely without reaction and unblinking. The gapping wound across her throat was terrible to behold and it would desperately need a medicus' care right away at once, except that the blood had long since stopped flowing and her dreadful wound was now dry.

With the very last of his strength, Rowan raised a hand to gently close his beloved's beautiful green dead eyes, after he looked into them for the last and final time, and he didn't even have the strength to howl out even a single tear for his awful loss. When he shut his eyes again, he collapsed into the darkness of an abyss, and he never expected to ever open them again.

When Rowan next opened his eyes, they hurt with so much pain that he quickly clinched them tightly closed again. He wanted to call out with pain and sob for the loss of his beloved, now forever taken from him to the Shadowlands, but he did not have the strength to even whimper, and the first tear of sorrow and despair just would not come.

Still, what he had briefly seen was encouraging. He was in a good bed, with a glass window that clearly let in the strong morning sun, and several people were hovering over him in attendance. Only a few villagers in Swanford had homes with plate glass for windows. The Headsman had glass windows, as did Frigrast the head trading factor, and even the zealous priest Lankfred had a few in his home as well, but none of these places felt quite right.

"Where am I?" He weakly whispered.

"Good morning young hero! You're in Madame Ethrell's house, and she and I are tending to your wounds, of which I might say you had a great many. The worst of your injuries are mostly healed, but a few matters still require careful attending to. Still, we have very hopeful and encouraging expectations!"

Rowan managed to get his eyes opened again, a little wider this time, and ignoring the pain, he squinted to take a closer look at his tenders. Now that he could focus a little, he could clearly make out the stout, but petite form of Ethrell. She fancied herself as the local Wise-Woman, and often tended to the minor and not so minor hurts and illnesses of the village, and was popular with nearly everyone. Father Frigrast had once publicly condemned her as a witch, but let the matter drop once he learned that absolutely no one was inclined to gather faggots to burn her at a stake. Village opinion was that once you were safely into her hands for care, your odds for a full and speedy recovery were exceedingly good. Unlike the more skilled and rare travelling Moon-Women, Ethrell had no magical abilities or the gift of prophecy, but she knew her herbs and healing skills more than adequately.

The other man, who stood towering next to her, was a stranger that Rowan did not know, but he had a vague guess as to his identity.

"And you are the Duke's Foole? I think I saw you on the pavilion green, sheltering the Lady and her attendants."

"Quite so. Gléager Oddtus is my name, but I just usually go by Oddtus for casual simplicity, and while I'm not actually the Duke's Foole, he manages that job well enough on his own, without my help, I'm visiting with him for the summer. I'm a fully accredited Histrio or Lore-Master, and also quite a skilled gléaman or joculator, and I'm also a moderately talented poet and skald that has performed in every royal and Ducal court in these lands, near or far. Furthermore, I'm rather a deft hand on more than four dozen musical instruments, but I hate being called a mere simple mestier or a mundane minstrel. All of these skills are quite at your service, but I need to state now and for the record that I do not do pantomime ... and all mimus should in fact be gathered up and taken off to Caestor, to be fed to some hungry lions in one of their arenas!

"Gléager ... that's the name of one of the banished Gods, isn't it."

"Partially. That God's name is Gléagerád, the God of Mirth and Wisdom. Both qualities of which have been in very short supply on this world, in recent years. All true Lore-Masters take some part of the God's name; it's traditional and I have it on very good terms that the God doesn't mind sharing. The God also watches after fools, which covers both of us nicely. It's suicide to run into battle against even some of the minor Internals without a magic weapon, or good silver to affect it, but you somehow managed the impossible against one of the greater Daemons with naught but your bare hands. That is true foolishness indeed!"

"Good terms ... you have spoken with the Gods?"

"Of course not, they're all Banished ... just how old do you take me for? Besides, if the God has any objections to my name, he can politely ask me to stop using it, and I'll cheerfully take another one. Like colorful gléaman clothing, and a stupid story that's been told too many times to still be funny, it's good to gather a few extra names and give them a frequent good airing out. They get so worn out and tattered after traveling!"

"Oh ... well, how badly am I hurt ... and is the Lady Ayleth quite alright?"

"The worst of your wounds have closed and should heal up nicely, and very soon, but you'll have several interesting scars left to show for the experience. That and your ribs may likely be tender still for another week or two. You broke over half of them during the battle. As for the temperamental Lady Ayleth, she did not receive any significant debilitating injuries, except, perhaps, to her pride, but since that portion of her was already badly oversized and swollen, a good lancing of that boil will be most efficacious for everyone. Her father the Duke has taken her back to Tellismere, the city, to be treated there. I think he will find that her minor bodily wounds will heal fast and clean, but that the fang scars on her face will be far more difficult to treat. It is possible that she might remain scarred for life, and that could be a rather bad thing for everyone concerned."

"Everyone? How so? From what little I know of her, her pride and attitude towards her lessers could use some adjusting. Perhaps this disfigurement will wean her of her pride."

"On the contrary, such a personal scarring might probably instead lead to even greater scorn, and her treatment of others could even descend into base cruelty. Mentally, she had an extremely close call with a rather appallingly lethal deflowering as well, and she'll remember that experience in her dreams for some long time yet to come I fear. As the only child of the Duke, she may yet become the Duchess upon his death ... especially as his health has never been especially good ... weak mind equals a weak body, or is it the other way around? Or so they say. Even should she take a powerful husband that is her social equal, as Duke's daughters tend to do, she might then provide him with wicked counsel and influence him in other unwholesome ways. In every likely eventuality, this Duchy and its people would suffer as a result."

"But you apparently already have a plan for an alternative?"

"Of course I do, but this isn't the time or the place to discuss it. When you are fit and healthy, we will be paying the Duke a casual visit. He wants to meet and honor the man that saved his daughter. Well ... perhaps not really, but he really should meet you anyway, so that gives us awhile to ponder useful alternatives. Now, you've rested in bed quite long enough, and you've got a very long bath to take now. You should also have a bowl or two of soup, as well, if you've got the stomach for some. You've been in a drugged sleep for just over two full weeks now, while the worst of your wounds were healing and until we thought it was safe enough to wake you."

"Two weeks? A bath? I don't see any blood on me anymore."

"It's not that kind of bath. Up with you young Sir! You've already been in bed long enough for now. Tomorrow is the Hāligdæg-tū and the Summer Solstice. A doubly auspicious day for many undertakings, and you'll need to be fit and hale to see it through!"

"Cedany!" Rowan suddenly remembered his beloved and nearly bolted up out of the bed. Hoping against hope, he prayed that she would be near him, to soon be again by his side ... but he recalled her murdered, but un-violated corpse in the field of blood and he sadly sat on the bed with his head in his hands, weak from the memory.

"Gone lad. Buried in the village death-field and well on her way to the Shadowlands. We all did want to wait for you to be up, to be there at her grave to offer your prayers for her safe final journey, but it's high summer ... and she needed to be put to rest quickly. I've talked to her father and tried to give him comfort, but he doesn't quite understand. He's angry and blames everyone, except perhaps the Daemon, and perhaps he always will. He has died in his heart, but you have still so very much to live for. Now up with you, your bath awaits and it really can't be postponed any further."

It took both of his nurses to get Rowan standing up on his feet, and now that he had arisen, he felt as if he was sick with a heavy fever, as if by a strong winter flu. He felt wrong, and his head and body spun with dizziness and alternating pulses of burning heat and odd sudden chills. Oddtus managed to get Rowan into a very large, beaten copper tub outdoors on a patio, which was filled with cool well water, and very oddly, a great amount of picked water lilies blossoms, all of a light blue color. As Rowan entered the chilly water, nearly at once the bright flowers began to fade and wilt into dark dry and empty husks. Their life and beauty entirely sucked out of them.