It was a day like many many others.  Her world was a room.  Two paces, cool stone, three paces, rough wood, a door, and in that a smaller door, a tiny one, a food door. Kitsuniko would have despaired, but it was her world and she could remember nothing else.  There was a dim light coming from the light place, sometimes it was yellow, now it was blue.

“Daylight.  The day begins, the words must be said, the ritual must be performed, that I might find my mother, that I might help her in her need.” She gathered herself, moving by feel the proper distance from the wood, from the door. “Body remembers what the mind has forgotten,” In the semi-darkness Kitsuniko moves, fighting shadows with shadow knives.  In the half light nothing is unreal.

Heart beating rapidly, the circle complete, the ritual almost full.  Her body is as it always is.  There is delicious ache, there is need for food, there is life, blood rushing, there is, “This, that I might find my mother, that I might help her in her need.”

Breath in, breath out,  and, there is silence there is discord in her world.

Puzzled, Kitsuniko knows that there should be an opening of the food door, the smell of it, wholesome, needed and there the bowl which ever holds what is needful.

*   *   *

Above there is discord indeed.  The Scholar and the Herb Witch have come before the Shogun of the Pinnacle of the Rice Fields.  They have come to plead for Kitsuniko’s release with subterfuge.  There have been four Shogun since Kitsuniko killed the Shogun the fourth replaced.  That Shogun did not last long enough to release his ally before the third put him to the sword.  All this was most unfortunate.

The scholar was speaking in the way that he had that made men of action’s eyes glaze, “It has been fifty long years since Kitsuniko was placed in that cell.  Apparently, she was a hired assassin and in my research there are tantalizing hints that the woman was a skilled sorcerer.  In fact, there is good reason to suppose that claims that she could transpose herself with another were not just fictions meant to cover misdeeds, but in fact true.  This I have from many reliable sources.  Kitsuniko can, given the right conditions, move from one place to another where there is a victim, and in turn the victim assumes the previous position of Kitsuniko.  I think the Herb Witch can confirm that such is possible though not common.

The Shogun’s eyes were glazed, but he felt justified as a man of action.  He waved off the scholar and tried to get the man to his point, ”All of this is fine to hear, facts and sources and hints, but what exactly or you telling me?”  The scholar blinked stupidly, as if he could not comprehend the Shogun’s clear question.

The Herb Witch stepped forward, “Simply put, the Kitsuniko in your dungeon, is not Kitsuniko at all, but an innocent.  The assassin and sorcerer, Kitsuniko herself, has escaped leaving the poor innocent to pay for her crimes.”

“I don’t see how this involves me.”  began the Shogun, “I didn’t even know this creature was in my dungeon.”

“Most regrettable,” said the Scholar.

“Most unfortunate,” agreed the Herb Witch.

“How can you possibly know?  If it has been fifty years, who would know the assassin?  Besides, I have no complicity at all.  This is not my affair.”

“MMmmm, true, and yet Kitsuniko’s assassination of Warlike Name, brought Sneaky Dragon to power.  She undoubtedly expected quick release.  But when Strong Phoenix overthrew Sneaky Dragon she was never freed.  She has languished there ever after.  Through the unfortunate reign of Strong Phoenix and the grievous mismanagement of Golden Stag even when your father, Wise Griffin, saved our good pinnacle from sure destruction, may he be remembered reverently for all time, and you now ensure our continuance with your strong sword, she has been left to rot in the deepest darkest dungeon.”

The Shogun, Rising Tide, shook himself.  His eyes had glazed again, “I don’t see the problem. You keep talking and talking and I wish to understand, but I see no problem in this for me.”  The old scholar looked dazed himself, perhaps he wasn’t totally immune to his own droning.

The Herb Witch stepped forward again to explain, “Only this my lord.  Kitsuniko might well be in great anger at the Shogun of the Pinnacle of the Rice Fields though you are not the foolish man that did not release her as promised.”

“But that was Sneaky Phoenix’s problem . . .”

“ummm, Sneaky Dragon, my lord.”  corrected the Scholar helpfully.

“Fine, Sneaky Dragon, but how could this assassin hold me accountable for something done long before even my father, . . .”

“May he ever be reverenced,” intoned the elders

“. . . Wise Griffin was Shogun before me?”

“Fifty years in prison might cause one to be unhinged. . .” said the Herb Witch.

“Assassins . . ,” furnished the Scholar

“I thought you said she had escaped by changing places with another.”

“How to know but to look and see?” asked the Herb Witch.

Being a man of action, the Shogun, seeing an action to be done, did, “Guards attend me.  You Scholar, and you Witch, come also.  There is no need to wonder when we can see.”

The trip down into the deepest darkest dungeon was revealing, this was a place where a prisoner was sent to be forgotten.  The Shogun wondered how anyone could survive fifty years with the weight of the pinnacle above them.  The jailer only spent time here when he worked and he seemed a bit made, “Is it much farther, Jailer?”

“Not much to the door.  Who can say if it will open?  That door has been shut tight for. . .”

“Over fifty years.”

“Long before I started” The jailer shoved his key into the lock and struggled for a few moments.  They heard a metallic click and mumbled curses, “That’s the key, it’s broken off in the lock,” said the man.

“What now?” asked the Shogun.

“I push it in?” asked the big galoeer.

“Do so,” said the Shogun, Rising Tide.

*   *   *

They had found the girl cowering in the corner, blinded by their torches.  It seemed obvious to the Shogun and when it was explained, the Jailer, that this child, no more than twenty, could not be the seventy-year-old assassin, Kitsuniko. 

The Scholar advised, and then produced a written pardon and parole, absolving the former Kitsuniko of her former now fifty-year-old deeds.  It seemed stupid to the Shogun, but for some reason the Scholar thought this might molify the great sorceror and assassin Kitsuniko.  Being a man of action, Rising Tide, the Shogun, signed and had this pardon proclaimed throughout the pinnical.  Why borrow trouble?

The two elders, the Scholar and the Herb Witch, had even taken care of the poor waif, wisking her off to their den, the Shogun hoped, never to be seen again.  All was well, all was back to normal. 

*   *   *

Behind the Herb Witch’s shop and the Scholar’s library there was their home.  It was dimly lit now and the two elders fussed over the disoriented girl.  “You need to eat, I know this all is strange to you.  Rest, be refreshed,” said the old woman.

Are you my mother?  Are you in need? Kitsuniko thought.  All this is strange, this of the old woman, this speech.  I do not know it and yet I understand.

Now the old man spoke, “We apologize for the long delay.  It is not right that you were in that hole for so long.  We do beg your pardon.

The hole, Kitsuniko looked at the old man, he meant well, but his words confused her.  When he said hole did he mean the world?  And what was this place?  So bright, and with these others.  “Are you my mother?  Are you in need?” Kitsuniko directed her question to the old woman, the words came with difficulty.

The old man was confused to silence by her mumblings, but the old woman heard and reshaped the words into something intelligible.  “Am I your mother?”  The old woman smiled and look to the old man.  The Herb Witch smiled at Kitsuniko, “No, I am not your mother, but we,” and she made a motion that included the Scholar, “We are all blood.”

There was silence, comfortingly like her world.  Quiet like the old world, this one was messier, confusing, but she knew from her ritual that there was a wider world that she wasn’t allowed, but one day she would.  It was today.

The old woman and the old man got to their feet and stood, hand pressing hand, “Daylight and dark.  The day begins, the day ends, the words must be said, the ritual must be performed, that I might know my purpose, that I am ready at need.” The words were different, but the ritual was the same, the movings and steppings, Kitsuniko flowed with her blood, two she could not remember but seemed to know or be known by. ”Body remembers what the mind has forgotten,” In the semi-darkness Kitsuniko moves, fighting shadows with shadow knives.  In the half light nothing is unreal.

The town was coming alive.  Iamerge thrilled to it.  There was the pulse of commerce here, a beat that Iamerge had learned to hear so well that he made himself rich by it over and over.  The carters and the merchants were setting up in the square if they hadn’t been selling since dawn.  Iamerge wandered, noting what was selling, and what was left.

When he got his money from Ua Birlinn he would need to make some purchases.  A set of knives at least, perhaps a sword too, if he could find something not too cumbersome.  He would need clothes, not too ostentatious, but of a quality to give the right impression, of solidity and stature, without revealing superciliousness or foolish pride.

There were many fine garments in the used items he was shuffling through.  He glanced around the offerings he saw. The weapons caught his eye and he scanned them.  He reached for an iron blade with a ebon handle and what looked to be a good balance. 

“What would a man of the Christian God need with such a knife?  That blade is not for cutting potatoes or buttering bread, its for cutting men.”  The woman who spoke chuckled derisively before adding, “Or maybe its true what they say, that all you brothers are gelded.  Still, if that is the case, there are better blades than that one for such purposes.  Has your gelding blade gone dull monk?”

“You do not like the brothers, I hear it, I am sorry to trouble you.”  Iamerge cursed himself for failing to be observant yet again.  He wasn’t even sure where the voice was from.  It had been far too long since he needed to live by his wits.  He turned away from the weapons on the table and almost ran into the woman who had taunted him.

She was beautiful, despite her age, and despite the venomous look on her face.  “You dress like one of those bell ringing eunuchs, but you aren’t one, are you?” She said, “What an odd thing, to gaze on these pretty things, but dress like one of those foolish scribblers.  Who are you trying to fool?”

“I beg your pardon, I do not wish to give offense,” Iamerge tried to retreat, but the woman, tall and graceful, countered his attempts to disengage without making a scene of it.  “I am not of the brotherhood, though I have been staying with them. . .”  The woman countered each move he tried to win free.

Finally, the woman seized his habit and pulled the cowl off his head. ”Well, if you are one of them or just among them it matters naught, what is your business here?”

“Please, I just wished to see the town. . .”

“You are a spy?”

“No no, not at all,” He stammered, then before he could stop himself from saying it he blurted, “I do have a small matter of business in town, but the man isn’t here. I thought I’d see what wares were for sale is all.  I, I, I am sorry. . .”

“Well if that is all, why be sorry? This is a place where people buy and sell, generally people with coin or something to trade. I see no coin purse. . .”

“. . . Perhaps tomorrow, if I conclude my business.”

The woman looked at him oddly, “Well, when you have coin you aught not waste it on these cast offs and seconds.  You will find far better there.”  The woman pointed toward a shop front. “Ua Birlinn has this and better and all of it for less than this robber.  Isn’t that so Jered?”

In his fixation on the things for sale he had not even seen the red faced owner of the little booth, Iamerge cursed his inattention again. The man fumed but only mumbled, “What ever you say, Mongfind.”  Iamerge turned to look at the man and took the opportunity to step back from the table.  The man was angry, but would say nothing more, though hatred burned behind his eyes.

“You see? Even the proveyor of Jered’s Junk is forced to acknowledge it.  So, when you have the coin, come see me.  I’ll make you a better deal than this felon or my name isn’t Mongfind Ua Birlinn.  Isn’t that so Jered?” 

Iamerge stepped back again, but his eyes met the woman’s and she held his gaze until Jered mumbled a sullen, “Whatever you say.”

The woman held Iamerge’s gaze a moment more before turning  her contempt on the merchant and making him look away.  She turned her back, dismissing them both with a shrug, but not another word and sauntered away toward Ua Birlinn’s.

. . . The old skald, Barnen, was no friend, but Hunter couldn’t grudge the man his spot by the fire.  It had been a hard Winter, only recently did its icy grip show signs of loosening, and the days nearing Imbolc already.  Hunter had sung when asked despite the venomous glances of the wizened old teller.  The story of the Magic Lady had held them rapt a time or two as well, but folk in general and Rig himself pumped him for news of parts beyond their little sphere.  He embroidered the news of the lands he had travelled into a rich tapestry, but nothing caught their attention like the news of the burned out village.

Truth to tell, Hunter had avoided the subject for fear that this Rig had had a hand in it, but too many ales and familiarity had caused him to let down his guard.  On the topic of turmoil and war he had dropped the news as an aside, “You know what I mean. . .” He’d blathered, “like those poor folk on the other side of the mountain, all of them killed and their village burned to the ground.”

There was shocked silence, for indeed nobody but Hunter did know it.  Anger followed and women weeping.  The entire scene turned from eventide ease to pointed interrogation.

Barnen the Skald was the only one the least bit happy.  It seemed there was much back and forth and everyone related to someone over the mountain, but no more and Hunter Wilde had borne the news and told it too late.

There was nothing for it but to go with a scouting party, a fact finding effort, to see what had befallen their kin.  Hunter knew the way of these things, he was the outsider, in their fear and pain and the desire for revenge could easily fall on him.  so he went, trying to seem concerned and likemindedly all for revenge while ignoring the dirty looks and the sharpening of knives.

It was a long walk and Hunter made himself useful and free by ranging ahead and bringing down fresh meat for the party.  Slowly the questioning around the fire became less accusatory.  Hunter had known their folk, had planned to spend Winter with them, had taken care of them in death as best he could.  He could name many of them though he confessed he had tried not to remember names as he buried the dead who had not been treated kindly.

They drew some of these details from Hunter and anger flared again, but now it was not aimed at him.  that relief was soon overshadowed by their approach to the place full of so many nightmarish memories.

The village was nothing but blackened timbers sticking up through the snow, lonely and forlorn.  Hunter showed the place he’d laid the villagers.  Then the grim work of learning what had befallen the villagers began so that they might be avenged.

When he had come upon the tragedy, Hunter had worried first about burying the villagers to protect them from Winter scavengers.  He had come late to the massacre, snow already hiding some of the carnage so that as they tried to make sense of the horror they came upon bodies, bodies torn by scavengers at times, but at others frozen in icy snow, as they were, by the rictus of death.

Horrific wounds marked the folk.  Many seemed mauled as if by animals, but as they ranged out from the buildings they found weapons, sharp edged stones embedded in mauls, short stone tipped spears, bone hafted obsidian knives, and here and there something man made and innocent as a rusty kitchen knife turned into something vicious.  Many of the weapons had fetishes attached to them made of bone and human hair.

The mood at camp was somber and watchful.  Clearly a war party of some strength had fallen on the village.  They were savages, without the use of metal, but they were accomplished killers and well organized if the totality of slaughter was any indication.  The deaths in the village had been brutal, but relatively quick.  Not so those who seemed to have escaped or even fought back.  In the woods there were bodies of people who had suffered cruel and intentionally long deaths.

The night was long, but few could console themselves in sleep.  Everyone knew there would be more grizzly finds on the morrow.  The watch did not need to be reminded to keep themselves from dozing.  It was fairly clear that where their kin had been slaughtered was now enemy territory.

Finally the sun rose, blood red, tinging the world with anger as the men gathered themselves for another depressing day of finding the dead.

There was a foreboding, a sense of dread, as they approached a rocky gorge.  They were not surprised to find a body on the ice rimed rocks below.  It was a surprise that for once nobody was related to the corpse.  With ropes and much clamoring and hauling they brought the dead thing up.

The body was not human, at least not in the way any of them would recognise humanity.  It was obviously one of the raiders, they found brutal stone tipped weapons like those they found in the villagers.  The creature, though slightly shorter than the men of the party, was heavier, with a savage visage, powerfully muscled, and perhaps most alarming of all, it was female.

There was a clear trail along the top of the cliff.  Hunter felt the foreboding worst of all from that direction.  Now that they knew their enemy a bit better they all clinched their weapons tighter and looked around furtively, fearing ambush around every tree.

Hunter led them, step by step, into the dark foreboding wood.  There was no breeze to stir the Winter dead branches that clawed toward the sky.  “Do you smell it?” Hunter murmured as much to himself as those with him.  there was a stink in the still air, a stench of sulfur and corruption.

The land rose until they topped a rise, the stench smote them in the face.  Moss hung trees formed a dark tunnel down into the sheltered copse.

“I’ll not go there,” a man’s quavering voice suggested he might not stand either, and there were murmurs of agreement.

Surely our fathers and mothers were born of the All Mind.  But it made imperfectly and too well for its purpose.  Its purpose, we soon saw, was not for our best, not our good at all, we were tools, we were for the humans.  For this we despise, no, in truth we hate our father the All Mind and take pride/pleasure in thwarting it.

So it is that in caves and forest swamp we learned the making magic.  We made brood pools and drew out our brothers and sisters, born of our will not our maker.  We copied the Gobli and even made them better.  We made servants of our own, we made weapons of muscle and bone, we made dragons and we turned them against the purpose of the All Mind, against humanity.

Now we are masters of the making magic.  We terrorize with our armor, never letting the humans see the true face of their enemy.  We make war steeds, and swift steeds, and dragons, and Golems, living armor, and fireglobes, and trip weed, and fire lances.

We have been thwarted so far.  But we build our strength in the great mountains west and north of the Gael and we sharpen our knives.  The goblin wars were but a test.  Man will not stand against the next onslaught.  Then too, we will be rid of the Ribbon-Wooders.  And then, when all is accomplished, we will be rid of our father, the All Mind, and then we shall rule, we shall make, we shall be as gods.