Syth and Axe (Part 14) - Heart of Iron

 

Syth and Axe vol. 14 - The Heart of Iron

1962 - Near Salem, Massachusetts

Paul stood in the darkness, watching the swamp glow.

“Were lights.” Rip muttered, feeling at the weird tucked-up sleeve that hung from the severed stub that had been his arm. “This tingles every time I see them, especially when I’m just about to fall asleep. Not natural, whatever they are.”

“You’re always about to fall asleep,” Paul laughed, “So they are fae? I thought they were just swamp gas.”

Rip shrugged. “Not sure. Don’t remember much of what happened in there - just little fits ‘n spurts.”

He stood a little straighter, still only coming up to the middle of Paul’s stomach. His beard had finally been trimmed at the request of someone who had turned out to be Rip’s great-great (something something) grand daughter. “Not so Kneelength anymore, eh? Sune would be sad.”

“Sune - he’s that monkey guy you met?”

Rip nodded. “Yeah. Traveled with some sort of large bull-like creature. I forget his name. It was a whirlwind of an event - I’m pretty sure I traveled to another whole world.”

Paul smiled. “Who’d’ve thought?”

“Not me. Not really much in the way of thinkin’, even now that I’m all civilized and stuff,” he plucked at a button on his waistcoat.

“Pretty sure that’s still not in style. Not enough color.”

Rip smiled. “It reminds me of simpler days.”

“Look at you, sounding all serious and contemplative.”

Rip chuckled. “Don’t remind me. Ol’ Bessie is doin’ her best to teach me the way of the world. Keep sayin’ I need t’ move to San Francisco to really experience the liberated lifestyle - grow roots or sow oats or something. I dunno. Still can’ make sense o’ this world. Don’ think I could leave this area.”

“You left New York, that’s a step.”

“You know what I mean. East coast is east coast - homeland’s nearby. Can’t go shootin’ off to live in some commune in California. That’d just be a waste o’ my prostigious talents.”

Paul chuckled. “Clearly.”

The light shimmered and flickered out of existence.

“So… follow it?”

Rip shook his head. “I ain’t a fool. I know better’n that.”

“But it’s clearly trying to show us something.”

“Yeah, the bottom of a swamp.” Rip replied. “Ain’t you ever heard of will o’ the wisps?”

“Yes, but it’s clearly just swamp gas.”

“An’ you believe that, after all ya’ve seen?”

Paul shrugged.

“An’ weren’t ya jus’ saying it was tryin t’ show us somthing? Swamp gas known for doin’ that?”

“Ah, you’ve got me,” Paul replied, throwing up his hands in mock surrender. “I don’t know what to think. Even in spite of all the things I’ve seen, I’m still not able to believe that every legend is true.”

“So Pecos Bill…”

“He’s real.”

“An the Jersey Devil.”

“Yes.”

“Sasquatch?”

“They don’t typically go by that name, but yes, they’re real too.”

“Headless Horseman?”

“Yep.”

“What about John Henry?”

Paul paused for a moment, memory flooding back on him of his old friend, lying on the ground, his great heart having given out from strain, his eyes glazing over as he smiled his last grin. The bonus was his… he’d overcome… but his heart hadn’t.

Paul nodded. “Not all the stories are true, but the best of his are.”

Rip shrugged. “Seems like most of the legends are true.”

Paul smiled sadly as the memory of John slowly vanished. He hadn’t thought about him in decades - at least not seriously. Sure, his memory had resurfaced, but he’d died lifetimes ago… another name, another person, another life. Paul nodded, half to himself and half in agreement with Rip. “I guess you’re right. Ever since Nahanni… I just…”

“Don’t know what t’ think?”

Paul nodded. “Exactly. Too much happened there. I thought I had a finger on the pulse of what was going on, but now I have no idea.”

“Do you believe in ghosts?”

“Not really,” Paul admitted.

“I once met some, up in the Catskills.”

“So I heard,” Paul replied, his eyes glued to a new clump of lights swirling in the darkness.

“Yep,” Rip continued, “dancing Dutchmen, an’ their brew. Whew… it’ll knock yer socks off. Toss ya in another world.” He paused. “Well, literally for me, I guess.”

Paul watched the lights shimmer and vanish off into the darkness. “I’m following them,” he said, taking a step forward.

“Into the swamp. Sure, why not. I’ll wait ‘ere.”

Paul chuckled and strode off into the muck, following the strange glowing forms. They hovered and danced, moving closer and closer to the ocean. Dead trees loomed around, casting skeletal shadows across the land in the freshly risen new moon. “Wonder if any of those dogmen ever made it here?” Paul asked himself, sloshing through the muck.

A form appeared for a moment, then vanished.

Paul squinted through the darkness, then turned after the lights, moving away from the ocean now - up the coast and more inland.

“Where are you taking me?”

He stepped out onto a road.

Rip stood there, chuckling. “Yah don’ have to take the long way round… can just follow ‘em from the road.”

Paul laughed in return and stepped out of the muck and onto the road. It was weathered and beaten, chunks of stone lying at odd angles, like someone had recently tried to drag the road with some sort of device - only succeeding in pulling up more and more rocks in the process.

Rip pointed up the road. “Used to all be part of Salem, you know. Salem town, Salem village.”

Paul gazed at the strange lights moving off toward the north.

“Then the trials happened, chaos. Lots’a conflict. One fella was pressed.”

“Pressed?”

“Yeah. Had a large stone place on ‘is chest until he confessed he was a witch.”

Paul gazed off into the darkness, thinking of the horror that would entail.

“An’ he died. Others were hung from some o’ the trees.”

Paul listened, imagining the scenes.

“An’ up that road was Salem Village. Called Danvers now.”

“Seems like a random change.”

“Some fella named Danvers - you know. That way it’s not confusing.”

“Have you tried to pronounce Chelmsford or Worcester?” Paul said with a laugh.

Rip inhaled deeply, then replied with a perfect Bostonian accent. “Che’msf’d. Woostah’.” Then smiled. “See, Bessie taught this ol’ dog some new tricks.”

“Impressive.” Paul responded. “You a flatlander now?”

“Hardly,” Rip replied. “Still long for the mountains.”

The small wisps seemed to hover for a while, then vanish again.

Paul eyed them again. “What’s really off to the north? Sure they’re not just leading us to Danvers.”

“Supposedly, there’s an ol’ haunted Assylum up there.”

Paul stared up the shadowy road. “Well, let’s see.”

The strange lights continued up through the marsh, into the forest, through a few small communities, and eventually, true to form, dumped them out before an old, decrepit monolith of a building. Something seemed to suck in a bit of extra light, and the figure, and the orbs, vanished with a wink, leaving a small, shimmering scar in the world that slowly sealed shut.

A shadowy figure stepped out of the darkness in their wake.

Paul squinted. “You.”

The old woman gazed up at him, confused. She had her hand tucked against her side, as if covering an injury. “Ah, so it found you. But why did you follow?” She turned and shuffled away.

Paul reached out, trying to stop her, but Rip grabbed him.

“What’re you doin’?”

“That woman…”

“What woman?”

Paul looked back. She was gone.

“You didn’t see her?”

Rip shook his head. “No. I saw you go rigid and then start rushing forward after nothing.”

Paul gazed toward the monolithic structure before them. “She was right there.”

“There was no one.”

Someone vanished into the front door of the massive asylum.

“This way!”

Rip followed, passing a shadowy figure, which seemed to rise from the darkness and grab a large gardening tool. The figure was a large, burly man, bare-shouldered, but wreathed in darkness, so he couldn’t make out any features, save for piercing white eyes, which seemed to stare through him. The figure slowly rose to full height before going back about his business..

Rip scooted away from the man and caught up with Paul, following him  along the lawn and into the front entrance of the old asylum.

The smell of must and old floor wax struck his nose. Strange mixtures of septic washing and feces mixed in a pungent miasma that nearly bowled him over. He covered his face with his beard and rushed after Paul, who stood in the once-grand entrance, gazing up at the ruined woodwork. While the hospital was still in operation, it had long been left in half-maintained misery.

Paul stood in the darkness, a few electric bulbs sputtering vainly against the night.

“She was right here!”

“There was no one this whole time!” Rip protested, gazing around. “Yer seein’ things.”

Paul shook his head. “This way,” he said, hefting the axe. He rushed down one of the side doors, off into what seemed to be a broad wing of the hospital, leading off through several other buildings. What they held, after smelling the entrance hall, Rip wasn’t in any hurry to find out.

Something shifted in the darkness, a shape silhouetted against the sputtering electric bulbs far behind him. They cast strange, undulating shadows against his form - some sort of long cloak…

… or rider’s jacket - a high necked jacket.

“Cole?” Rip muttered, staring into the depths of his own sordid past. “Cole, is that you?”

The silhouette stepped into one of the small glowing orbs of light released by the bare bulb dangling overhead. “Rip, back in the land of the living, I see.”

Paul leveled his axe. “You have some nerve, Cole.”

“Wandering the wilderness of the east coast? This is my home territory, Paul. Where is it you hail from? Canada? Pretty sure you’re the one far from home.”

“After what you did in Nahanni… showing your face anywhere.”

“My face?” Cole interrupted with a wry, decrepit smirk. “Well, I do still change it up on occasion. It allows me to keep showing my face wherever I’m not wanted.”

“You could do with changing the jacket then.”

Cole fingered the fabric of his long coat. “Ah, well, there are lines even I won’t cross. What brings you to Danvers, Paul?”

“I suspect you already know.”

In the distance, a door slammed shut.

Cole smiled. “The natives are getting a bit restless…” he said, cryptically. “Seems we’re about to have company.”

A door down the way burst open, and a gurney wheeled out into the hall, pushed by a scrawny figure in a strange coat.

Cole regarded it momentarily. “You wouldn’t believe the things we’ve got hidden away here.”

Paul thought he heard a throaty “gulp” sound from someone in the darkness behind Cole.

“All sorts of monstrosities. Heard we might have more… if the mistress plays her cards right. Fear-eaters love this region.”

“Fear eaters?”

Cole gazed back, his corpse-like face betraying no emotion. Was he smug, concerned? What was he hiding? He turned toward Paul and Rip. “You’ll find out soon.”

“What’s your goal here, Cole?”

His rictus face curved into a slight, knowing smile. “Who says I have a goal?”

“I’ve never known you not to have one.” Paul replied, “though I’m sure what it is.”

The figure pushing the gurney vanished from view, and the strange gulping sound stopped. Another door slammed open and then shut again, and a shadowy figure stepped into the gloom. He was tall, with broad shoulders and what appeared to be a dirty sleeveless shirt covering his dark gray skin - though it may have been a trick of the light.

A strange glint shimmered, like the eyeshine of a cat.

Paul felt a slight frisson of familiarity at the sight.

Rip gazed at Cole and growled. “All this time, an ye never thought once a bit o’ regret for what ya did to me?”

Cole regarded Rip.

“An’ ya go an’ get yerself killed and what is this you are now? Some sort of ghost, a fairy yourself?”

“No…” Paul whispered in alarm, his eyes still locked on the newcomer as Rip addressed Cole. A flash of recognition, a word at the tip of his tongue. He racked his brain, trying to put a face to what he was seeing - to recognize… he knew this man, but couldn’t… quite place him…

Cole’s rigid face turned to gazed behind him, rictus grin twitching slightly - a smile? A worry? “You’re not supposed to be here.” He spoke, seemingly trying to remind the newcomer.

“I go where ah wanna.” Came the response.

Cole bristled. “If she sees you…”

“Who’s gonna tell?”

“You have a tendency of making your presence known…” Cole gazed back and forth between the newcomer and Paul, then seemed to sigh. “Fine. Well, I guess re-introductions are in order.”

Paul gazed up at the dark-skinned man. “Re-introductions?”

Then a flash of realization dawned on him. This man had been the gardener up front… and his tool.

A hammer.

A steel-driving hammer.

“John…” Paul gasped as the recognition finally clicked.

Cole sighed. “So you remember. Figured that was a few lifetimes ago.”

“Yeah,” Paul replied. “Too many to count.”

A look seemed to pass over Cole, a sudden realization. John strode confidently up beside the horseman. “She’s been screaming about you again.”

“I bet so,” Cole replied. “She can wait.”

“Won’ be happy. Says ya’ve done a terrible job protectin’ ‘her.’”

“Not my problem that some in this realm are better at finding her pieces than she is at hiding them,” Cole replied, gazing at Paul as if seeing him for the first time. Paul gazed at Cole’s inscrutable features. “More lifetimes than you can remember, eh?”

Paul nodded. “You could say that.”

“I’ve lived for about three hundred years. You’d say about the same for yourself?”

“About…” Paul replied with a moment of hesitation.

“So you knew him about a hundred years ago, and you can’t remember?”

A slight trill ran through Paul. “Oh, I remember all right.”

“But it’s vague?” Cole replied.

“Yes.” Paul replied.

John eyed them both. He’d been dead for just about a hundred years, but to Paul, it’s had been far longer than that. Henry’d been his friend on his first go-around, before he’d been forced to relive a chunk of time, making friends with the likes of Pecos Bill and others. What he’d wasted on his first pass through life he’d attempted to redeem, and while he’d lived under an assumed name the first time, he’d accidentally made a legend of himself on the rerun.

Cole seemed to settle on something, and now turned, waving a dismissive hand, as if changing the subject. “You’ll want to leave, Paul, if you hope to stay alive.”

And with that, he strolled off down the hallway.

Henry stood alone, hammer resting against the ground, eyes glowing slightly as he stared back and forth between the two men.

“John, come along.”

“Don’ answer to you, dullahan.”

“I have no horse. Not a dullahan,” Cole replied, his boots clattering against the floor of the asylum.

“Ain’ comin’. I have unfinished business wid our ol’ friend here.”

Cole paused, standing in the dim light of the dying bulbs. He turned, his long cloak-like jacket rustling slightly as his rigor mortis gaze settled on the grey-skinned man. “I won’t tell you again, John. Come back here where you belong. The lady wouldn’t want you disturbing our guests.”

“If our lady knew they was ‘ere, she’d be most cross, don’tcha think? An’ if she knew you led them here, what’d’ya think she’d do?”

Cole seemed to bristle. “And if she finds that you’ve been wandering the estate again in your condition, she’ll put you back in the ground.”

“She could try.”

Cole chuckled, a high, almost-tinny note that seemed to resonate from everywhere and nowhere at the same time. A long blade dropped into his hand, and he stretched it out toward the steel-driving man. “Come along now, John. Don’t make me do something we’ll both regret.”

The hammer appeared in John’s hand. “Le’s try, ol’ man. See what happens.”

Cole sighed, and his blade burst into a brilliant blue flame. “She’ll have to stitch you back together… again.”

“Not if I find a way to putcha in the ground permanently, dullahan.”

Rip grabbed Paul by the arm, “Might wanna get out o’ here, lad. This is about t’ get nasty.”

A blue streak slashed through the air, clashing against the mighty hammer. Both weapons sprung back, then swept again. Sweeping arcs of blue, slightly glinting metal of the hammerhead. Clash, then repeat. A bulb shattered above their head, raining shards of broken glass on them. Ignoring it, the two sparred again.

“Stand down, you corpse,” commanded Cole.

John swept at him, a blow too broadly telegraphed and easily blocked. Cole’s sword easily caught the hammer, and he laughed for a moment before the feint was revealed. The hammer dropped to the ground, taking the trapped sword with it, then two, three, four blows in swift succession rained down on Cole’s body. Something cracked as John brutally smashed into him, using his clenched fists to drop blow after blow on Cole’s surprised form.

Paul stepped back, watching as John barreled the horseman to the ground, pummeling him over and over.

Rip tugged again, “Le’s go!”

Paul allowed himself to be pulled away, the two ghastly forms battling it out in the hallway, weapons abandoned, fists and elbows flying. Cracks and thuds rang out, drawing attention from more than one of the patients in the hospital, their strange, erratic movements lending a macabre vision to the whole scene.

As he rounded the corner out of sight and into the cool night air, the scraping of steel and clashing of weapons confirmed that the two had devolved back into the more vicious and deadly duel that had begun the conflict.

Shadowy figures moved across the lawn as the two broke through the front door and fled into the woods, Rip waddling as fast as his legs could carry him, his spectral arm flashing in and out of existence, a large spined claw of some sort.

“Better get that thing under control!” Paul yelled, barreling along beside him.

“You knew that guy back there?”

“Cole?”

“No, the gray fella.”

“Old friend. Died in the 1800s,” Paul replied.

The claw burst into existence, materializing a spined arm along with it.

“What’s that?!” Rip cried.

“No idea!” Paul replied as they tore through the nearby forest. The claw randomly snapped at Paul. “I’ll take it off if you don’t get it to stop!”

Rip strained, and the strange apparition whiffed out of existence, leaving the stump behind.

“‘Ts getting worse,” Rip muttered.

The trail turned, revealing a decrepit old cabin. “Over here,” Paul observed. They paused to catch their breath. 

“Can’ keep up with you. Yer big ol’ strides,” gasped Rip.

Paul hefted his axe, gazing back through the forest. “We need to get going again, soon.”

Rip nodded. “Just… so tired.”

“Better not fall asleep in this place, Rip.”

Paul looked up. A shadowed silhouette appeared from the darkness, his gait marred by the slighted hitch. His rictus face was scarred with new damage, drooping slightly.

“You,” Paul spat.

“Yes, me.” Cole acknowledged before turning his gaze to the shorter man with apparent sincerity. “Rip, listen to me. Do not fall asleep in this place. These woods are tainted, and you can’t afford to have nightmares in this place.”

“Ya’ve always shown such concern for me, Cole,” replied Rip with a dry sarcasm.

Cole was about to reply, but Paul interrupted, bitingly. “Don’t lie to us, Cole. What’s your angle here?”

Cole paused for a moment, cast a gaze at Rip, then turned back to the forest. “I need to know what you’ve done with the crone’s bone pieces.”

“The crone?”

“Spearfinger. The old woman you met in Brown Mountain.”

Paul shrugged. “Who’s asking.”

Rip yawned. “Several are gone,” he said, “Ain’t that right, Paul.”

Paul cast a glare at Rip as the bearded man’s eyes began to quiver. He was about to lose consciousness. 

A whiplike crack split the night. “Wake up!” Cole commanded, “you can’t sleep here.”

“Why?”

“I can’t tell. Not even you, Paul,” Cole replied, casting a decrepit gaze toward the large man.

“Not even me,” Paul scoffed. “You say that like we have a connection - like you’ve ever been honest with me in the centuries…”

Cole shrugged, pivoting to another line of conversation. “Where are the pieces, Paul?”

“Tell me why you want to know.”

“I’ve been tasked with protecting the old crone. In exchange, she’ll grant me the one thing I desire.”

“Which is what?” Paul asked.

Cole smiled - that unnerving, too-rigid grimace of a face not-quite-his. “I can’t tell you that.”

“Then neither can I.”

Something rumbled in the darkness.

“What are you doing with John?”

“I have nothing to do with that,” replied Cole.

“Let him go.” Paul replied. Rip groaned in agreement at their side.

“That person you saw outside in the Asylum tonight was a shell and a specter - nothing more. He’s animated by the malevolence that is that witch, but that is not your friend, no matter whose face he wears.”

“You’d know a thing or two about wearing out faces, wouldn’t you?”

Cole tossed up his hands. “I bear this curse. I don’t excuse it. I’m telling you - don’t be distracted by his appearance. It is not your friend. John Henry is dead - that is not John Henry.”

“You’re dead too, yet you can’t seem to stop showing up.”

Cole scoffed. “That’s different.”

“Tell me how,” Paul spat, dragging his axe from across his back. “Tell me why I should split your remaining body in half right here, right now.”

Cole extended his arms with mock sincerity. “Give it a try, old man. See what happens.”

“I think we both know how that would end,” Paul replied. “Seems we haven’t yet found out how to kill you.” He let the axe drop, and the head sank into the punky wood of the shack’s front porch. “What’s your angle, Cole.”

“Absolutely nothing, other than to take that witch down a peg.”

“A witch outside Salem? Isn’t that original!”

“Well, I call her what she is. Salem was an afterthought.”

Paul scoffed. “And I’m sure you’re completely innocent.”

“Never claimed I was,” Cole retorted. “You saw what I did in Nahanni.”

“I did.”

“Nothing innocent about anything I’ve done,” Cole replied. “Sent our friend into the fairy realm, sowed distrust across the land - tried to send you there, too. Wherever did you go when you vanished that day in the swamp?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“I would, actually, but I can’t seem to get a clear answer. You’ve done a good job of covering your tracks.”

“Seems we’ve both learned a thing or two in our old age, Cole,” Paul smiled. “Guess I’m not the moron lumberjack you take me for.”

“Oh,” corrected Cole. “I never thought you were a moron. You’re far to clever for me to underestimate you. That’s why I tried to remove you.”

“That whatcha did to me?” Rip asked.

Cole shook his head. “No. That was simply betrayal.”

“Without the slightest bit o’ remorse, eh?” The short man shrugged sadly, “not sure that makes sense.” Rip pulled himself to his feet and began to rummage in his back, his hand absently stroking his beard. “But I guess times change, like your face.” He drew out a bottle and took a long drag, let out a satisfied gasp, and chuckled. “Civilized me, apparently.” Rip gazed at Cole. “And you’re oddly absent a horse for a headless horseman.”

Cole gazed toward Paul. “Maybe you’d like to explain.”

Paul shrugged. “He got in the way,” he replied coldly.

Cole’s hand clenched slightly.

“Honestly, I’m surprised the horse didn’t just resurrect,” Paul replied, then turned to Rip. “Lost his head in the fairy realm of Nahanni, right after killing a sasquatch child.”

“I did nothing to kill that child.”

“Of course,” Paul replied sarcastically, “because if I chain someone to a rock and leave them to die of exposure, it’s totally not my fault. You claim to never kill - but that’s on you.”

Cole folded his arms. “I have never killed a man in my life.”

Rip gazed at him sadly, as if drawing a memory from a deep well. “I remember one,” he said, his voice thick and his eyes stony, “didn’t like to admit it until now. Name was Maxwell.”

Cole seemed to think for a moment, as if accessing an ancient memory, then nodded. “I didn’t kill him.”

“Let me guess, you let something else do the job?”

The horseman struggled to regain his composure. “He was a fool.”

Rip stepped forward with a scowl. “He was a fool who trusted you, and you betrayed him, like you betrayed me.”

“Yes.”

Rip seemed taken aback. “What do you mean, yes?”

“You were a fool to trust me, and so was he.”

“Great sales pitch, Cole.”

“I don’t have a choice.” Cole replied, a slight crack appearing in his veneer.

“You keep saying that,” Paul replied, “and yet I seem to always have one whenever I face an impossible situation.”

“Do you, though? At any point along this trip, did you have the freedom to choose your own path? Or were you just blown along by the winds of fate.”

Paul hefted the axe. “I’ve made my own way in this world longer than you’ve been alive, Cole.”

Something twitched in Cole, a thrum of recognition.

Paul tested the weight of the axe. “Besides, I still don’t trust you, never will.”

Cole’s arms stretched out to his sides, his long cavalry sword still sheathed and a distance from his outstretched open hands. He was showing a gesture of good will.

“It’s not working on me, Cole.” Paul replied.

Rip seemed to contemplate the picture. “Were we ever friends?”

“What?”

“Before you betrayed me on that mountain top - when ya turned me over t’ yer sailor friends and sent me screaming into that fairy realm,” Rip replied. “Were we ever friends?”

Cole didn’t reply.

“Not getting a guilty conscience now, are you, Cole? That’s so very uncharacteristic of you.” Paul said with a hint of mockery.

Cole suddenly sprang into action, wrenching his sword from its scabbard.

Paul jerked into action, wrenching his axe from the porch and bracing for the strike that never came. Instead, something ripped passed his face and shattered the wall of the old cabin. The port vanished in a spray of musty wood and swamp water.

Cole hadn’t been drawing on Paul. He knew John was on his way.

 “Knew I’d be able t’ track ya’s all the way out he’ah.”

Cole’s blade flared to life.

Rip eyed it warily and seemed to smile sadly. “Still glows, eh?”

The horseman turned to John. “Away from this place, revenant.”

Henry let out a throaty chuckle and reached out his hand. The mighty sledge wrenched free of the cabin and returned to his outstretched fingers. He closed them around the haft, waited just a beat, then swept down on Paul like a bolt out of heaven.

Paul ducked, bringing his axe up before the sledge could make contact. The head struck haft, and they exchanged several blows before John leaped back, his undead form heaving and sweating. “Good moves for an old wood-cutter.”

“Centuries of practice,” Paul replied, his grip tightening on the axe.

Another blow. Paul parried quickly, jumping back. He blocked an overhead strike, and the hammer struck ground, splintering the boards and leaving John exposed. Cole swept in with a blade, but Paul kicked at him, knocking the longsword free.

“No!” Paul demanded, “this isn’t your business, Cole.”

“This is not your friend, Paul!” The horseman insisted. “Destroy him, or the witch gains another pawn.”

John scowled. “Knew ya was traitor.”

Paul batted away another attempted strike by the horseman, then ducked as a blow swung toward his face. He felt his beard twitch in the wind, leaping back. John did the same.

They stood across from each other, horseman at the side, Rip behind. Cole held the sword at the ready in his gloved hands, the collar of his jacket standing rigid against his headless body where his neck should have been. An ethereal glow seemed to emanate from him, matched by the reddish tinge to John’s undead form.

John’s gaze shot from Paul to Cole.

“Traitah t’ the core, ain’t ya?”

“I have my own reasons.”

“An’ afta’ all the trust she put in you,” John replied with disdain, then his gaze shifted to Paul once more. “Ya surely don’ actually trust this’n, do ya?”

“I don’t, but I don’t trust you anymore, either.”

Henry shifted the sledge from one hand to the other, “I’m hurt,” he replied, tossing it back and forth like it was a weightless stick. “Can’ say ah blame ya, though.” He took a test swipe at Paul, who batted away the hammer with seeming ease, “not after all this…”

“What’s your angle, John,” Paul asked, blocking another strike before sweeping at his old friend with another attack. Both strikes seemed to be half-hearted probes at the other’s defenses. Both did nothing.

Cole growled. “Finish the strike, Paul!”

Paul parried another blow, driving the head of the hammer down into the ground. A blade swept through the air, aimed at Henry’s face. Paul reared up, batting the blade away before dodging a sweeping blow from the hammer from his side.

“You’ll regret this, Paul!”

Another blow swept high above Cole’s shoulders, the strike easily severing the pale head from his body, sending it spinning off into the darkness. John charged forward and, with the horseman off-balance and still reeling from the loss of his head, the large steel-driving man shoved forward with the flat of his hammer, crunching Cole in the chest and launching him back. He passed cleanly through a tree, leaving no trace behind, skidded to a stop several yards behind. A few pebbles dropped down from above, along with some sparse leaves and needles. 

Cole gradually rose to his feet, seemingly startling John momentarily.

“Diablo…” muttered the steel-driving man.

The horseman dusted himself off as he strode forward, pausing momentarily to pluck his severed head from the ground and the sword from where it had dropped after the blow. He replaced the shattered head onto his shoulders, his rictus grin returning, a strange light oozing from his hollow eyes, as if a spirit trapped within was melting like candle wax down the face.

“Ah, guess my secret’s out,” he replied menacingly, brandishing the long sword. “She didn’t tell you that you were facing an immortal?”

“I think ya can be killed, yer just stubborn, tha’s all,” Henry replied, toying with his hammer.

Cole’s smirk said it all. “If I can, no one’s found a way - and trust me, I’ve looked…”

Paul gazed at the man, his strange, wide grin, those hollow, glowing eyes, the flames flicking along the edge of his now-spectral blade. Strange shimmering lights flickered along his body and coat as he held the sword’s point toward the grey-black steel-driving man whose dark skin was covered with pale scars from his unfortunate life and even more unfortunate death. How long had it been since he’d been raised? Was there any semblance of his old friend buried in that animate corpse?

“A stand off, then,” Cole replied. “Two immortals facing off. And what do you hope to accomplish?”

“Not lettin’ the likes o’ you keep hauntin’ this place.”

“You think I like it here?” Cole replied. “You think I wish to remain in this forsaken realm? You’ll find this immortality we’ve both had thrust on us is a curse, not a blessing.”

Henry tossed his hammer slightly and spun, bringing it crashing down onto Cole’s shoulder before the horseman could react. He staggered back, now standing slightly crooked, sword hanging from a broken arm.

“Think that’ll be enough?” Cole mocked, snapping his arm back into the socket. “Better men than you have tried.” Bones crackled beneath his torn coat, mending as skin stitched back together. “C’mon, then. Try again.”

Henry swept his axe, and Cole neatly parried it, ready for the blow. It went wide, slamming into the ground.

They swept back and forth at each other, clearly mirroring the conflict from the asylum.

Finally, the horseman seemed to shake off whatever inhibitions had been holding him back, and with a loud “Enough!” he proclaimed his intention to strike down the other man, and slashed for the neck.

But the blade paused a mere foot from John’s neck. Paul stood there, blocking the blade with the hardwood of his axe. The blade had already bit a small notch out of the handle when Cole realized he’d been stopped. He spat and wrenched the blade free.

“This abomination must not be allowed to live!” Cole insisted, taking a step back, “Paul, you don’t understand. Both he and his master must be destroyed before they can welcome more of those fear eaters to this realm.”

“Abomination!” Paul scoffed, “You’re one to talk!” A blow swept at the back of his head. He deflected it, then parried another blow himself as John tried to take another swing at him from behind.

The three moved apart from each other.

Rip rested against the shattered wall of the cabin, watching in half-interest. “Syth’d be fascinated right now…” he muttered with a yawn.

“Don’t sleep here!” Cole cried. John used the distraction to strike at Paul.

Paul blocked it, straining, pushing back against John’s hammer with his axe. He pushed the man away, then intercepted another opportunistic strike from Cole.

“You don’t know who you serve!” Cole nearly shouted. “Stand down.”

“So you can kill me?” Henry scoffed. “Let’s no’ pretend you wasn’t the one t’ show her where I was buried. Le’s not pretend you’re no’ the reason I’m in this state today. Wha’d ya hope to gain playin’ ‘er fiddle the way ya did. Ya’ part o’ her band until ya didn’t like yer seat!”

Cole scowled, or at least the part of his face that wasn’t crushed attempted a scowl. The other half hung in half-exposed ribbons of flesh, fat, and broken bones. The glowing mass that seemed to be his very soul was leaking down his cheek, dripping in molten blobs onto his jacket, where it evaporated on contact, wafting away.

“She will upset the balance of the world.”

“Thought tha’s what you were all about, horseman,” John spat, whirling his hammer around again, knocking back Cole’s blade before sweeping at his head once more. Cole recovered just in time, blocking the strike and parrying. He caught John along the muscles of his shoulder, cutting a deep bloodless gash.

“I’m upsetting the balance of the other world, not ours. She seeks to supplant even the elementals in their charge.”

John chuckled as he realized the last strike had split skin. He looked down momentarily, then back up at Cole. “No pain anymo’. Bein’ dead ain’t so bad.”

“Live like this for centuries and say that.”

“Mebbe ah’ will.”

Another strike, another parry.

The two exchanged several more blows before stepping back again, Paul and Rip forgotten. John smirked at the dripping waste that had been Cole’s newly-reconstituted face. “Di’n’t know ya when ya was mortal. Yah always this way? Hideous inside an’ out?”

Cole growled and struck out again, only to be blocked by Paul.

“Stand aside!” He commanded again. Paul ignored him. “Tell me what’s going on, Cole. Why’d you raise him?”

“I didn’t.”

“Then why did she?”

Cole blocked another strike and swept his blade around Paul, attempting a strike at John’s unguarded side. Paul lowered his axe, absorbing the bulk of the blow though the edge of the blade grazed John along his thigh, burning a flaming line across his already-tattered pants.

“Because of you, Paul!” Cole replied, stepping back.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Paul absorbed a blow from John and shoved him back. The man staggered, toppling off the side of the path and into the dirt.

Cole rounded on Paul. “Don’t get involved in this.”

“Tell me why, then. Why did she raise him?”

“That crone you met in Brown Mountain…”

“Spearhand.”

“...finger, but yah, she’s an ancient evil that was sealed away.”

“We figured that out.”

“But not until after you helped her seal that creature in the valley.”

Paul nodded. The red-eyed wendigo, the innocent woman who had been forced into a life of cannibalism after being trapped and betrayed. He knew all about her. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

Cole gazed behind him, his spectral form shimmering and oozing from his damaged face. He pried the shattered head free and tossed it aside, allowing his ethereal form to dissipate slightly. “She hid several bone fragments to retain her immortality.”

Paul nodded again. “I know. As I said, we’ve destroyed a few.”

Cole paused. “And you’ve got her running scared. She’s trying to keep as much distance between you and her as possible, and to secure that, she raised an old friend of yours, training him up so he could hunt you down and kill you.”

“She’s scared of me? She could gut me before I knew what was happening.”

“Maybe, maybe not. She’s not certain enough to try, that’s for sure. How did you help her seal that wendigo?”

“Really nothing,” Paul responded, trying to remember that far back. He hadn’t even realized the old crone had been some strange Cherokee witch until discussing it later with Syth. Of course, Syth had known of her, had translated some old texts and writings. That’s when they’d begun exploring the ruins of old settlements, finding strange crone statues which, when split open, revealed the strangest items inside - bone-like fragments. Out of abundant caution, they’d begun to destroy any they’d found.

“There has to be something.”

Cole turned to the forest. Henrey had completely vanished.

“We don’t have much time.” He seemed genuinely concerned, now.

“I don’t trust you, Cole.”

“I don’t care about that,” Cole replied, “I haven’t earned your trust. However, you have to agree that the abomination we just fought isn’t the friend you remember.” A note of desperation. This was new.

“You’re normally so confident, Cole. Has the loss of your horse scarred you to the core?”

“This isn’t the time to jest,” Cole replied. “Your very life is on the line, and the fate of this whole region, if not the entire existence of reality.”

“Forgive me if I’m not too terribly concerned about what you find troubling. After all, every time I’ve let my guard down around you, I’ve been stabbed in the back.”

“Then don’t trust me. But I need to know how you helped her.”

Paul folded his arms, still clenching his axe in one hand so that it hung to the side. “You know what? I have no idea at this point. She helped me more than I helped her.”

“How.”

Paul shrugged. “She patched up some wounds.”

Cole sighed. “Let me guess, something else stabbed you in the back.”

“In a manner of speaking, yes,” Paul replied. “And she helped stitch me back up.”

Cole’s movements became agitated. “And then one?”

“Nothing.” Paul replied, “we parted ways and I didn’t even know who she was until Syth figured it out.”

Something shuffled in the brush.

Cole muttered something to himself. “Then I don’t have a choice.”

“What?”

“I have to stand with you.”

Paul felt a strange thrill of hope - of suspicion. Had Cole changed? Really?

Rip laughed. “Sure.”

Cole gazed down at the bearded man, who pulled himself up, using a stick as a sort of cane to get fully upright. “Lived a long time in exile, not even knowin’ who I was. Ya know who sent me there?”

The horseman remained silent.

“Ol’ treacherous Indrid Cole,” Rip replied. “Lived years o’ me life wanderin’ with the likes of Nuwo and Sune, avoiding gettin’ eaten by pale things in the night.” He waggled the stub of his arm, which flashed slightly with some ethereal presence, “An’ ya know what sent me there? Ol’ traitor Cole. Know how much ah trust ya?”

“Not at all.” Cole replied dryly.

“‘xactly.”

Cole sighed. “Yes, I’ve betrayed you both, and I did it for my own ends. I’m not asking for forgiveness, but I am asking you to help me take her down.”

Paul unfolded his arms and let the axe head rest against the ground. “And how, pray tell, do we do that.”

“Tell me how you helped her - why does she fear you?”

“I told you,” Paul replied, “all she did was mend a wound across my back, then she went on her way. I didn’t even know who or what she was. And I haven’t seen her since.”

Something shuffled in the darkness, a strange chanting lilt wafting out from the shadows.

“She mended you, nothing more?”

“Exactly. Still have the scars.”

Cole stepped beside them.

“I don’ like this,” Rip muttered into his beard.

“Neither do I,” Paul whispered back, “what arms you got in store?”

“Tryin’ not to use the tentacle,” Rip replied, “bit outta control.”

“Like all of them,” Paul whispered back.

Then a blast threw them back into the remains of the shed.

“Uwe la na tsiku,” came a strange, lilting melody from the darkness, “su sa sai.”

Then a beautiful young woman stepped from the darkness. She looked around, confused. “What’s happening? Where am I?”

Paul stepped forward. “We’re in Massachusetts,” he said. “You need to get out of here.”

She looked up at him, then cast her gaze down at his axe. Her gaze then shifted to Cole, and her face blanched. “D-don’t hurt me!” She cried.

Paul looked behind him, seeing Cole standing there, sword drawn.

“Put down the blade, Cole. She’s obviously lost.” He turned to her. “Did you come from the asylum?”

She shook her head. “No. I got a flat tire and was looking for help. I heard voices and came here. I don’t know where I am.”

Paul stepped forward. “We’re trying to take care of some things. Where is your car?”

She looked uncertain. “I-I think I need to go.”

“Wait.”

Paul turned. Cole stepped forward, his sword still drawn. “Where were you coming from?”

“Salem.” She muttered, clearly terrified.

“And where were you heading?”

“Boston.”

Cole seemed to eye her. “Do you make that trip regularly?”

“Every week, I’d guess. Family lives there.”

A sword swept from its sheath and shot toward her neck. Paul deflected the blow with a cat-like reflex. His axe pinged off the blade, sending it careening out of Cole’s hand, extinguishing itself in a tree near Rip. The bearded man jumped, his tentacle arm whipping into existence and flailing erratically.

The girl screamed.

“What’s your problem, Cole!”

The girl screamed again as Cole drew a dagger from his jacket. “Get out of the way, Paul, she can’t be allowed to leave here.”

“So she took a wrong turn, that’s not grounds to kill someone. Find another head!”

Cole rushed at her, but a large tentacle burst from the cabin wall, smacking Cole with a solid, muscular thwack, and sending him careening into the forest. He seemed to vanish through the trees.

“Rip, get that under control!” Paul cried as the muscular appendage smashed and twitched. The cabin was a pile of twigs by now, as were several nearby trees. The girl cowered in fear, the large thing whipping back and forth as Rip tried to manage it.

The girl dove to the ground as the tentacle whipped overhead, this time catching Paul square in the chest and sending him back into a scrappy whip of a tree. It shattered under his weight, and he went down into the swamp.

As he pulled himself back to his feet, he saw Rip wrestling with the arm, trying to bind it back into its own dimension. But it was having none of it. Apparently, it perceived a great threat, and was trying to lash out in all directions until it found it. The last time they’d experience this was deep in the bowels of Shasta, with a massive kraken beneath their feet - or had there been a time since? He couldn’t rightly remember - so much had happened in the intervening years.

The girl lay on the ground, her head covered.

The tentacles crashed down around her, missing by inches. She screamed.

Paul rose to his feet and rushed forward. “Get out of there!”

The massive coil of slime and muscle whipped toward his face. He dropped backward, sliding along the dirt, as the appendage whistled where he’d just been. Its inertia seemed to carry it in a wide circle, giving Paul just enough time to pluck the girl from where she’d been. He dragged her along, rushing away from Rip and the crazed arm.

Deep in the forest, the two of them paused, out of reach of the maddened monstrous arm that Rip had failed to keep under control.

“Wh-what’s happening?” the girl asked.

“We’re getting you out of here. Too many forces are at work - none of them good. You’re not safe. Get back to Salem and get shelter.”

“Salem?” she asks.

“Yes. It’s back toward the south - and further south to Boston. You’re in Danvers.”

The girl seemed confused. “Why would I go to Salem?”

“You said you were from there.”

“I did?”

“Yes, you said you blew a tire heading from Salem.”

The girl nodded. “Yes, of course. Sorry, I - I just forgot myself with all of this going on.”

“Where’s your car? We’ve got to get you out of here.”

“Th-this way.” The girl pointed. “I-I’m scared. C-can you go first?”

Paul gazed back at her pale features, here eyes misty with tears. “Stand at my side, then. I’ll protect you.”

“Wh-what’s out here? Who are all these people?”

“There’s an asylum near here,” Paul explained, as if that explained everything. It seemed to satisfy her.

“Wh-why - th-that man didn’t have a head.”

“It just looked that way.”

“Wh-what was going on?”

“He was a friend, and he was scared - you know how Salem is with all the witch rumors.”

“Witches?”

“Yeah, you know? The Salem witch trials and all that? Rumors still circulate. People get scared. Don’t worry about it. This way to your car?”

She nodded.

Something shifted in the darkness, and that strange chant seemed to come from multiple angles.

“Uwe la na tsiku…” came the haunting rhythm from a voice as old as time itself, yet youthful. He turned suddenly. The girl was pale.

“Do you hear that?”

She nodded. “What is it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Su sa sai…”

The whisper on the wind, an ethereal enchantment, a statement of intent though not understood, yet clearly threatening.

“We need to keep going.”

She followed. “What’s chasing us?”

“An ancient witch.”

“No…” she gasps.

“It’s true. She goes by the name Spearhand. She’s hidden parts of herself around, and I’ve destroyed a few of them, apparently. She raised a friend of mine to keep me at bay.”

“A friend? H-how?”

“I don’t know. Apparently she knows how to reanimate the dead.”

“That’s terrible!”

“Yes.”

She fell silent. “Th-that just sounds so unreal. If I hadn’t seen it…”

Paul nodded, forging through the forest with her in his wake. “I know. I didn’t believe it myself. But the things I’ve seen.”

“L-like what?”

“Never mind that,” he replied, “we’ve got to get you safe.”

She paused behind him.

He turned. “What?”

“Are you trying to kill me?”

“Me? What? No!”

“Th-then why should I trust you. How do I know th-that other one wasn’t trying to protect me from you!”

“It doesn’t matter now. We have to get you to safety.”

She held back again, shaking her head. “What’s out here?”

“A creature that takes other people’s heads for his own, a shade of a man who’s been dead for over a century, and a witch - an ancient embodiment of evil from Cherokee legend.”

Her eyebrow seemed to cock in disbelief.

“I’m telling you the truth, and if you don’t want to get taken by one of them, you’ll follow me back to your car and get out of here!”

“Who is this witch?” She asked.

“A woman from Cherokee myth. She killed many people. Her name was Spearhand, at least in English.”

“That chanting?”

“Probably her,” he replied. “Not sure. That definitely wasn’t any language I know.”

Something shifted in the darkness.

“We have to keep going.”

She nodded and followed.

The forest gave way to a dark road. It stretched off in each direction, gray-white in the darkness. It was paved, but only just so. Paul stepped onto the hard surface. “Where’s your car?”

She stepped out alongside him. “I’m not sure.” She looked both ways, apparently trying to make some sense of where she was. “I-It all happened so fast.”

“Why’d you wander so far out into the woods?”

“I heard noises and thought there’d be a house. They led me to you and that other person.”

Paul nodded. “It’s dangerous. What were you doing in Salem?”

“I work there,” came the response, “and commute down to Boston when I need to head home for the weekend.”

Paul looked up and down the road. It was dead quiet.

“Which way?”

She looked one way and then the other, then pointed off to the left. “I think that way.”

Paul nodded, “Okay, let’s go.”

They walked around the next corner. Nothing but poorly-paved road, looming trees, and the distant glow of waning moonlight. They trekked along. Nothing.

“I’m not seeing anything,” Paul finally said, “any of this looking familiar?”

She shook her head.

He paused and looked back and forth in the forest. Was there another road? Could she have gone down another path? How far could she have gone? He knew how to navigate through forests, and the only thing he could guess would be up this road.

“You said there was an asylum up here?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Nearby?”

“Yes, probably around the next turn if I’m guessing right.”

“S-so madmen escape sometimes?”

“Not if they’re doing their job right…”

He turned. Her skin was still pale, but she seemed more intrigued than scared now.

“Where’s your car?”

“There was never a car…” she whispered. “I come from there.”

And as they rounded the corner, he could see the dark looming edifice of the asylum. He turned to see her smiling up at him, a knowing look on her features. “Thank you for saving me and bringing me… home…” she whispered. “You’re right, they don’t allow inmates to wander… at least normally. I needed to see for myself what John was talking about. And you rescued me and drove off those scary men.”

“Wh-who are you?”

She shrugged, then turned and began to walk toward the asylum, humming to herself.

He rushed to her side. “Wait!”

She turned.

“Who are you? What are you doing?”

“I’m one of John’s friends,” she replied. “He came and told me you were in the woods, so I came to see for myself.”

He still didn’t understand.

“But why?”

She shrugged and began to talk away again. “Oh, and Paul…”

He watched as she turned with a knowing look in her eyes. “It’s Spearfinger.” she replied, holding up a hand to show a single, sharp nail-like knife protruding from where one finger should have been. “If you’re going to tell my story, get it right.”

With a laugh, she turned, and that eerie, singsong melody began again… only this time it was strange gibberish. She took several paces before pausing. Cole had appeared from the darkness, dagger in hand.

“Ah, my wayward apprentice,” she muttered. “Your useless efforts have brought him right to my door. Not that it matters. Henry was just about ready anyway.” She gazed between him and Paul, “maybe I’ve found your replacement.”

Cole turned toward Paul, his headless face an inscrutable storm of blackness against the deep blues of the night behind him. Something malevolent seemed to loom, then vanish. “No, I don’t think so.”

She laughed. “And you really think you could stop me?” She asked. “You know I can’t die,” as if to prove it, she drew out her blade-like finger and ran it along her skin. It skidded along it as if both were made of stone. Paul could almost hear the scraping of rocks as she did so. “Your pathetic blade would dissolve if you so much as tried to touch me with it, and after losing your horse, do you really want to risk failing your mission this close to the end?”

Cole fell silent, his form showing … defeat? Resignation? What was that communicating?

The horseman finally turned away from her and began to walk toward Paul.

“So, you’ve made your choice then? After all these years, you would complete the betrayal?” She asked.

He ignored her and continued until he stood at Paul’s side.

“I’ll ask you once more. Did you do anything to aid her, other than trapping that wendigo?”

“No. Nothing I can remember.”

“And the only time you met, she helped you?”

“Yes.”

“Then it’s decided.”

Paul eyed Cole momentarily.

“She didn’t want you near her for a reason,” Cole muttered, “let’s find out why.”

And with that, he shoved Paul toward her. Paul staggered forward, just in time for Spearfinger to sweep toward him in return, seeing this as a sign of aggression. Her fair form dropped, revealing her the ugly crone she had always been. She sped toward him faster than seemed possible, blade-finger extended, ready to slash through him.

He paused just before the strike and kicked, extending as much strength as he could without increasing his size. The blow caught her in the middle of her chest and sent her barrelling back. She whipped through the air, landing with more agility than seemed possible with her expansive age. She rose to a strange, impossible crouch and rushed forward again.

“I’ll finish him and then eat you, Cole.”

Her hand shot out, bladed finger ready for another swipe at Paul. Then a sword swept through the air, catching it and driving it down into the soil. Caught by the momentum, she spun head-over-heals, landing several yards behind in a spray of dirt.

“Cole!” she screamed.

Cole stood there, sword at the ready. “It didn’t dissolve, you old hag!”

Paul spun. “We need to finish this quickly!”

“Agreed.”

She roared and rushed him.

Paul sped toward her. She rushed toward him. His axe crashed down on her with brutal force, driving her body into the concrete of the road with enough force to splinter it. His axe head splintered, then shattered.

Everything fell silent.

Cole seemed about to move when she quivered and rose.

“You think that pathetic weapon will stop me? I didn’t stop for Cole and I won’t stop for you!”

“Then I’ll keep hitting until you stay down!” Paul replied.

She rose from the broken patch of concrete, energy and malice seemingly rippling off her. She extended her blade-like finger and looked poised to rush him. He braced himself as well, ready to charge her.

She rushed at him again. He roared, his body beginning to grow larger.

Then the world just… stopped. 

He grew no larger, and what’s more, he saw her pitch forward into the dirt, as if tripping on something. Confused, he felt something wet running down his shoulders - right there between the shoulderblades, across them. It was soaking into his shirt. He absently reached back. His shirt was ripped…  Then he felt the cut… ragged flesh... He had just enough time to turn to see Cole standing there, holding a bloodied knife… then retreating.

Spearfinger rose to her knees as his pain registered - it blossomed across his entire back. He hadn’t felt this pain since… he staggered forward to his own knees and felt another slash across … 

Cole stepped in front of him, bloodied knife at his side. He paused in front of the crouched Spearfinger, then turned to Paul. “Sorry. I told you not to trust me.”

The pain exploded from the multiple stab wounds as the shock wore off. Paul fell to his elbows, watching as great drops of blood splashed over him onto the ground. Through hazy vision, he gazed up to see Cole helping Spearfinger to her feet. “Sorry for the shock. Had to keep up appearances,” he said, gazing at Paul as he lifted her to full height. “No hard feelings?”

She looked up at him, scowling at the seemingly insensitive pun.

“What?” He asked. “Your threat is removed.”

She gazed between him and Paul. “You left him alive?”

“He’s solid muscle. You think I’d be able to get all the way through him with a few stabs? Besides, I’ve never killed a man - I figured you’d want to do the honors.”

She eyed Cole suspiciously, then ran a knife-like finger across her own arm. It scraped like stone. She was still immortal. He gazed up, a wicked grin stretching across her distorted features as she crossed the distance, seemingly taking the invitation.

Her finger extended, she began her strange little chant again.

Paul tried to rise, but the pain was too great. His shirt clung to his back, his sleeves now coated with crimson. He gazed up at her again. She was mere steps away now. He looked beyond her to Cole, who slid something into his pocket and drew his sword.

Whatever he was about to do, Paul never saw, because there was a brilliant flash of fae light - blue-white, tinged with a strange, ethereal sea-green.

Then the old crone was clamped in a crab-like claw. It clenched firmly around her stony body, lobbing her off into the woods before anything could happen. Then a human arm swept around Paul’s neck, a fairy cross flipped through the air, and they vanished.

A snowy realm of ice and rime. Rip reattached his amulet with one arm, looping it awkwardly around his neck, before turning to Paul. “Oof! You’re hurt, ol’ duffer!”

“Wh-where are we?”

“Kringle’s,” Rip replied. “Land of the snow elves. They pulled my fat outta the fire a few times.”

Paul felt his body collapse under his own strain. “Cole…”

“Whoa! Hold on. We’re safe, forget about him. We need t’ get you help!”

Then the world really did fall out from under him.

When he awoke, he was in a bed with a dark figure looming over him.

He blinked several times. “Am I in hell?”

Syth scowled. “Poor taste. You know the devil isn’t half as handsome as I am.”

“W-where?”

“Pine Barrens,” Syth replied. “Did you know that Rip can hop dimensions at will?”

The small man sat in the corner. His severed arm was missing again, and he was lounging sleepily. “I didn’t either, but since this amulet keeps me grounded, figured if I took it off, might get back that ol’ dissolving trait. Was right… Cool t’ know.” He yawned again. “Now, if’n ya don’ mind. Gonna sleep ‘til the cows come home. Oh, an’ Paul… don’ go wanderin’ off with any pretty ladies anymore.”

Syth gazed over at the short, bearded man. “Stranger and stranger.”

“How did I get here?”

“Well, seems Rip over there whisked you into the fairy realm. From there to here was just a few hops back and forth until he found the right entrance. Almost fell into the Blue Hole.”

“What happened?”

“Besides almost dying of blood loss and severe knife wounds across the back? Mostly uneventful.”

“What about Cole and Spearfinger?”

“Those two are working together now?” Syth replied. “That’s… concerning. Where were you?”

“Danvers.”

“The asylum?”

Paul nodded.

“Heard weird things are happening there.”

“You have no idea,” Paul replied. “I think something’s about to start happening,” he gazed down at Rip, sleeping soundly in the corner. Had the warnings from Cole been a ruse the whole time, or had he genuinely been trying to warn them? “Do you know what a ‘feareater’ is?” He asked.

“Raven might know. Her people feed on that, don’t they?”

Paul nodded, “that’s what Bill says. I think something big’s about to happen… and it involved Raven’s people.”