by Aaron Onyon
in Issue 128, September 2022
Ferin was a thief. He was not a good thief. Not that it was his fault. The guild made life very difficult for freelance thieves. Before the Thieves Guild moved into Hearthstone times were good for a solo cutpurse. Ferin and his contemporaries had the small town to themselves. But then a new mayor was elected, replacing the old corrupt and incredibly bribable government. Hearthstone began to prosper, and with its newfound wealth came a shiny new class of thief. Gone were the days of sunlight muggings and easy extortions. Now armored guards tramped the streets in regular patrols and the brand new jail overflowed.
Into this growing town flooded young cutpurses, intelligent and highly organized. They quickly formed a guild and began pushing out the old guard. All the established thieves either joined the new group or faded from the scene. Some left Hearthstone in search of backwaters more suitable to their style of blunt coercion. Some were forced to take honest work as laborers. Ferin shuddered at the thought. He’d been accused of many things, but doing an honest day’s work wasn’t one of them. And so Ferin slowly became a relic, a leftover from a bygone age. Constantly hounded by the guild, the guards, and potential employers, Ferin became increasingly destitute.
One fine summer evening Ferin was walking along Melody Lane, which skirts along the north edge of Hearthstone. The setting sun did little to dispel the day’s humidity, and Ferin sweated profusely under his black cloak. He kept his face hidden with a large black hood; it would not do to let his face be seen in this neighborhood. Seeing a guard patrol marching his way, Ferin ducked down an alley between two large estates. Both buildings were large timber frame homes faced with stone. The house to his left stood two stories high, while the one to his right soared four stories.
Standing in the shadows created by the setting sun, Ferin waited for the patrol to pass. He was suddenly startled by the noise of a door opening behind him. Instinctively spinning and dropping to a deep crouch, Ferin loosed a short blade that he kept sheathed in his right boot. A small door set into the wall of the four-story estate was slowly opening. Ferin quickly sprang forward. The door was swinging toward him, and Ferin silently hid himself behind it. Out of the door came what appeared to be a scullery maid taking a bucket of table scraps to be dumped.
Ferin’s mind raced. This was a rare opportunity indeed. This estate must house treasures far beyond the paltry shopkeepers’ and artisans’ homes that he was used to robbing. Ferin weighed the risks. If he was caught, it was off to the jail, where thieves were regularly being removed of their hands, often in front of cheering crowds. But if he succeeded, he could leave town a rich man, travel somewhere warm and spend the rest of his days in a drunken haze. Licking his dry lips, Ferin quickly ducked through the door.
The door led to a dimly lit store room. Crates and casks lines the stone walls of the chamber. In the center of the room was a small round table. A single candle burned atop the table, casting flickering shadows on the walls. The floor was dry and littered with saw dust. Directly opposite Ferin was a small wooden door, standing ajar. Ferin knew it would be only a minute before the scullery maid returned, so he crept quickly and silently across the room, the sawdust making stealth easy. The door opened to a long hallway running to a set of rickety wooden stairs. The hall contained three other doors, each presently shut. Ferin stole quietly down the hall, pausing to listen at each door. All was silent, and Ferin reached the stairs without incident.
He began to ascend the stairs, but the second step squeaked loudly. Grimacing, Ferin froze. The door nearest him in the hallway opened and a man stepped out. “You’re early, please, follow me.” He disappeared back into the room.
Ferin knew if he didn’t follow the man it would immediately arouse suspicion. Sliding the small blade into the sleeve of his left arm, he followed the man into the room. It was small and sparsely furnished. The walls, like the storeroom, were of stone, and the floor was again covered with saw dust. A small table occupied the center of the room, with a plain wooden chair on either side. The man, who was already seated at the far side of the table, was tall and thin. Grey hair and a heavily lined face indicated old age, but his grey eyes were alert. Ferin slowly crossed the room and settled into the seat opposite the mysterious man, who began to speak.
“The target is Mary Westgate. She lives in a cottage east of town, on the highlands road. 500 now and 500 more when the job is done.” He spoke clearly and concisely, as would a herald reciting a new edict in the town square. He set a cloth bag on the table, the chinking sound indicating its contents. Any confusion Ferin may have felt was instantly erased. Here was the payday of a lifetime, fallen directly into his lap. Grabbing the bag, Ferin rose without a word and turned to leave the room.
He was just crossing the threshold when he ran into someone. Stumbling back, Ferin quickly regained his balance. In front of him stood a figure cloaked in black with a large hood pulled down low over his face.
“Who are you?” demanded the man at the table, rising from his chair. His gaze shifted back and forth between Ferin and the newcomer. “The deal was for one slayer, we’re not paying for a pair. My employer will hear about this” he shouted.
Thinking fast, Ferin pointed an accusing finger at the other robed man, “Imposter” he snarled. The hooded man drew a long thin blade from the depths of his robes with remarkable dexterity.
Ferin glanced quickly across the room. There were no windows or doors other than the one he had entered – the one now blocked by the advancing killer. The man at the table had risen, his hands held wide, palms forward.
“Please, gentlemen,” he said. “Please, no bloodshed…”
He stopped speaking and dropped under the table in a flash. For at that moment the robed newcomer lunged at Ferin with his dagger. Ferin stepped backward, tripped on his robe, and fell to the floor. The long hood was pulled from his face during the fall, revealing his face. An audible gasp sounded from under the table to Ferin’s right, and his assailant faltered in his attack.
Sensing his chance, Ferin threw his small blade, aiming for the hood of his attacker. With a grotesque fleshy thump, the blade disappeared under the hood. The robed man staggered back, dropped his dagger, and groped for his face. Grasping the handle of the small blade, he pulled it, with some effort, from his face. A gout of blood sprayed from beneath the hood, splashing Ferin’s boots as he rose to his feet. A tense moment passed, everyone in the room seeming to hold their breaths. Then the robed man fell to his knees. Ferin tore the small blade from the man’s hands and plunged it into his chest. Rapidly pumping his arm, Ferin plunged the knife into the man’s chest, neck and stomach a dozen times. Crimson fountains seemed to erupt from the man’s body and soon the floor was stained red.
When Ferin finally ceased his attack he looked up just in time to see a flurry of motion and then all was blackness. The old man, during the brief struggle, had torn a leg from the table. Waiting for a opportune moment, he leapt out from his makeshift cover and struck Ferin on the head.
***
Ferin woke to the sound of quiet voices. His head throbbed, but no worse than a hangover, to which he was accustomed. At least he could remember what had happened. Not opening his eyes, he listened to the conversation going on somewhere to his left.
“10,000 for the live capture of guild killer.” The voice was deep and clear.
“What will happen to him?” asked a second voice. This Ferin recognized as the voice of the man that had struck him with the table leg.
“That is the Brotherhood’s business” replied the first voice with a note of agitation.
The sound of footsteps was followed by a closing door. Then all was silent. A horrible, soul-shriveling silence that filled him with a sick dread, unlike anything he’d ever felt before. He heard the sound of quiet footsteps and soon felt a soft wind on his face. Opening his eyes, Ferin saw a dark face looming over him. The features were handsome, the dark eyes were hard as iron. A well-trimmed black beard covered the man’s chin.
The man stood at his full height as Ferin slowly rose to a sitting position. Glancing around, Ferin saw himself in a small chamber. Four walls of solid stone surrounded him, broken only by a small wooden door directly across the room. His feet touched down on a hard packed dirt floor. The ceiling was formed of timber trusses.
“My name is Mufara” said the man as he handed Ferin a black hood. “Put this on your head” he said solemnly. Ferin took the hood in trembling hands.
“Where am I?” asked Ferin in a quaking voice.
“An abandoned farm south of Hearthstone” came the reply.
“What am I doing here?
“The brotherhood has gathered,” said Mufara. “Come.”
Mufara laid his strong hands on Ferin’s shoulder and guided him toward the door. Ferin tried to pull away, but the grip became a vise. Mufara looked Ferin in the eye, his expression stony. Ferin felt a prick on his spine as Mufara placed a dagger between his shoulder blades.
“Nice and easy,” Mufara said in his deep, clear voice.
Ferin moved toward the door, his eyes darting all about him in desperate search of an escape. The grip on his shoulder released and the hood was thrown over his head. The dagger remained firmly planted at Ferin’s spine. Mufara took Ferin’s hand and led him down a hall and up a flight of stairs. Ferin was then lifted by strong hands and placed in what felt like a small cart. The smell of horse assailed Ferin’s nostrils.
With a lurch, the cart began to trundle along. Other than the occasional creak of leather harness and hooves hitting soft earth there was little sound. Ferin tried to keep track of time as it passed. For perhaps an hour they bounced along what surely was a rough and derelict road. At all times during the ride Ferin felt the pressure of the dagger pressing into his spine.
Finally, the cart came to a stop. Ferin felt strong hands grab him by the shoulders and guide him off the cart. He was led a short way, then the hood was pulled from his head. It was dusk. Ferin stood in a clearing surrounded by tall trees. In the clearing stood a somber gathering. Dozens of people stood in two lines, one on each side of Ferin. All of them wore large black hoods over their faces. And in each of their hands flashed a silver dagger. The two lines terminated at the far end of the clearing at the head of an overgrown path.
Mufara gave Ferin a push, indicating that the unlucky thief was to walk between the two lines of shadowy figures. Desperate, Ferin crouched and rolled to his left, coming up on all fours and scuttling as fast as he could. Before he had gone five feet he felt half a dozen dagger points prod his back, shoulders, and sides.
“It will be easier for all if you cooperate,” Mufara said.
Ferin’s shoulders began to shake, his frame went limp and he began to sob quietly. Mufara hooked him under the shoulders and dragged him back to the two lines of hooded figures. Mufara gave him another push, and Ferin began slowly toward the line of flashing daggers and hooded faces. The first person he came to was a tall man with bare muscular arms. The man grabbed Ferin’s cloak and raised the dagger. Ferin grimaced, preparing himself for the pain. But it never came. The man simply cut away a handful of cloth from Ferin’s cloak and released his hold. Ferin slowly continued down the line. The next, a short heavy woman, grabbed the other side of his cloak and cut away another piece of cloth. And so it went, each silent member of that somber company cutting away a piece of Ferin’s clothes until, as he approached the small path, he was completely nude.
As the final piece of cloth fell away, Ferin turned to see the company, who had now gathered into a small crowd behind him. Mufara stepped forward and pointed to the small path.
“Run” he said.
And Ferin ran; he ran as he had never run before. He ran until his lungs burned in his chest and his feet bled. Finally, he collapsed at the base of a large oak tree. Gasping in fear and agony, Ferin scanned the forest around him. Night had settled in. Crickets chirped, a lonely owl soared past on black wings. Ferin leaned his head back against the oak and closed his eyes. Exhaustion and fear battled within him. Finally, exhaustion the victor, Ferin fell asleep.
Suddenly he opened his eyes. Something was wrong. He scanned his surroundings, noting only that the moon had traveled some distance since he had fallen asleep. Three, maybe four hours had passed since he had closed his eyes. Nothing looked out of place, yet something was wrong. Ferin could feel it.
Then he heard it. A soft shuffling, a gentle rustling of leaves. Leaning forward, Ferin began to crawl on hands and knees around the base of the large oak tree. There, standing on the opposite side of the tree, stood a small figure. He wore a tattered robe and leather boots that curled up at the toe. His bald pate glistened in the glow of the moon, and a long, coarse beard hung from his face. In his left hand he held a small bottle, in his right was a crumpled rag.
The old man stared directly at Ferin, still as a statue save for his quivering beard. Ferin, not letting his eyes leave the newcomer, crouched down and began groping for a stick or stone, anything he could use as a weapon. The stranger mirrored Ferin’s crouch, setting the bottle and rag gingerly on the ground. As the old man stood he drew what looked to be a thin, slender branch or twig. The silence of the forest was punctuated only by the howl of a far-off wolf.
“What business brings you to this lonely spot in the middle of the night?” asked Ferin.
“I have waited long years for this many specimens to wander to me.” replied the man. His voice was hoarse and high-pitched, and as he spoke his chin continually jerked to his right shoulder. “When I am through, the conclave will take me back. Never again will the name Vaggaddu be spoken with scorn!” His voice, which started as a whisper rose to a shrill tittering that sent birds and squirrels scurrying through the surrounding trees.
From the shadows nearby a flash of silver whirred through the night air. Ferin froze. Vaggaddu squawked in astonishment. His robe was pinned to the oak by a glinting dagger. Ferin recognized it as a dagger carried by one of the robed members of the Brotherhood. Out of the shadows rushed a black hooded figure, naked sword in his hands. Ferin watched in morbid fascination as the killer approached the old man pinned to the tree.
But the old man seemed completely nonplussed. In one swift motion, Vaggaddu pulled the dagger from the tree stump and swiped upward. The attacker stopped his advance well short of the clumsy blow and crouched into a defensive position, slowly circling the old man. Vaggaddu pointed the small twig in his hand toward his assailant and tore the front of his cloak open. Then he ran the dagger across his chest; the streaming blood seemed a black sheet running down the front of the old man. And as he did this a gout of black liquid rushed from the wand and blasted the attacker in the face. Blinded by the spray of blood, the assailant dropped his sword and raised his hands to his face, desperately trying to clear his vision.
Ferin, sensing his chance to escape, began slowly to turn, but before he had moved hardly at all he felt someone grab his hair. His head was jerked violently back and a dagger was held to his throat.
“I hoped I’d be the one to find you” whispered the voice of Mufara in Ferin’s ear. “You’re mine now, to do with as I please. Once this old hermit is dead, I’m going to flay you alive.”
Mufara began to drag Ferin by his hair across the forest floor when suddenly a burst of energy washed over the pair, knocking them flat. It was as if a large invisible wave had rolled over them. From the darkness of the trees emerged small shapes, humanoid but with bent and crooked limbs and torsos. The creatures leaped on the pair, wrapping their arms and legs with sturdy ropes. Ferin felt himself hoisted onto small but sturdy shoulders and borne silently through the woods. Ferin struggled, but the bonds were too tight, too expertly tied. Glancing to his left and right, Ferin saw Mufara and the other killer also borne likewise.
They traveled through the silent trees for a short time before the bizarre caravan reached a small cave. The mouth of the cave was barely wide enough to admit a man, and the little creatures were forced to turn and twist their living cargo to fit through the small opening. Vaggaddu led this odd troupe, his cloak left open, blood still flowing freely.
On they went through what appeared to be an abandoned mine shaft. At last, they came upon a crudely hewn chamber. The ceiling was very short so that a grown man would have to hunch to avoid hitting his head. Torches cast their flickering glow across the room. In the center of the room was a pair of chairs. Leather straps protruded from the arms and legs. Grimy red stains covered the chairs.
The little creatures unceremoniously dumped their cargo onto the hard stone floor. Ferin, who landed on his side, glanced into the corner and groaned. There he saw two dead members of the brotherhood. The one nearest him had the top of his skull removed. Dried viscera and blood coagulated on the gooey mass of brain that had partially spilled onto the floor. Maggots crawled over each other as they devoured their gory meal, and flies buzzed around the dead pair like a small black thundercloud.
Vaggaddu began issuing orders to his minions in a tongue that Ferin did not recognize. Torchlight revealed the creatures to be squat men, their arms and legs seeming to have either too many or too few joints. Filthy black beards hung from their faces, partially obscuring their thick, cracked lips. Large noses and bulbous black eyes stuck out from their faces. But for all their ungainliness the imps were an industrious lot. They lifted Mufara to one of the chairs and severed the ropes that bound him. Swiftly they secured Mufara’s arms and legs with the leather straps. These they tightened cruelly, giggling with glee when the captured man winced in pain. Once Mufara was secured, they proceeded to bind the other slayer in similar fashion. These chairs were situated so that, when secured, the two prisoners sat back to back.
Vaggaddu stepped forward, two small vials in his hands. Three little imps climbed up on Mufara. Two grasped his head and forced it back. The other, perched on the captive’s lap, pried open Mufara’s jaws with a cruel-looking metal hook. Their job done, Vaggaddu poured the contents of one vial into Mufara’s mouth. Immediately the imp on his lap forced his mouth shut. There they sat for several tense moments. Mufara struggled, but inevitably he was forced to swallow. Seeing this, the imps hopped off and set to doing the same to the other prisoner.
Mufara began to spit and gag, doing what little he could to cough up the wretched tasting liquid. “What is this vile concoction?” Mufara asked, spittle running down his chin. “And what do you intend to do with us?” His voice was strong and steady, and if he felt any fear he hid it well.
“I’m so glad you asked” said Vaggaddu. “The serum you have just ingested will keep you alive and alert while I conduct my experiment. You see I believe, unlike those fools at the conclave, that the human brain is capable of processing multiple visual stimuli at once. To that end, I have determined that if a set of working eyeballs, like the ones currently occupying your companion here,” he indicated the other captive, who had just been forced to swallow the same serum, “were to be transposed onto the back of your own skull and hooked to your brain, you would be capable of seeing behind you as well as in front. Not only would you now have 360-degree vision, but you would be able to process more than one image at a time.
“You should feel honored,” Vaggaddu continued, “my technique has been perfected; the errors I made working with those two simpering fools in the corner will not be repeated. In a few hours, you will be the first human being ever with the ability to see in all directions, all at once.”
During this Mufara’s eyes brightened. One could only imagine how much this new ability would help a man of his occupation. His brow furrowed suddenly. “How exactly do you intend to hook a new set of eyes to my brain?”
“Ah you see, I will need to remove the top of your skull to access your brain. Also, two holes will be bored into the back of your skull to make room for the eyes. Fear not, the serum will prevent you from dying. Unfortunately for you, it will not prevent you from feeling everything.”
This last he said with a wicked smile, seeming to enjoy the sudden look of fear that flashed across Mufara’s face. But Mufara’s fear did not last long, and the fear was soon replaced with a look of grim determination. “So be it,” Mufara said.
During all this Ferin had worked himself into a sitting position against the wall. He tried to put as much distance between himself and the rotting corpses piled in the corner. The stench was overwhelming, and the flies swarmed his naked, bound body. Then Ferin noticed a reflection of light coming from the bodies in the corner. In the boot of the nearest body there lay a small knife. Ferin began to wriggle and squirm toward the corpses.
Then the screams began. Ferin glanced to the center of the room to see the imps holding Mufara’s head as Vaggaddu slowly turned an iron auger into the back of his skull. The grim look of determination that had covered Mufara’s face was now one contorted in pure agony. Ferin squirmed faster, fear and desperation adding speed to his flailing. Flies swarmed him as he approached the bodies, and maggots began to crawl over his naked flesh. Ferin felt his skin crawl. With a grunt of grim determination, he continued. He had moved so that his back was to the bodies, his bound hands grasping for the knife.
The screams subsided, and Ferin looked toward the chairs. Vaggaddu had finished drilling the holes in the back of Mufara’s head. Mufara’s face was ashen. Vomit covered his lap. An imp came toward the chair carrying a bloody hacksaw, which he handed to Vaggaddu. Ferin tore his horrified gaze away from the scene unfolding in the center of the chamber and grasped for the knife. After a moment of fumbling he felt his fingers close on the handle.
The screams now continued, accompanied by the awful sound of iron on bone. Ferin worked quickly, sawing at the bonds that held his hands. A few moments later his hands were free, and he quickly set to sawing the ropes on his feet. They quickly fell away, and Ferin looked to see if his struggle had been noticed. It had not, so intent were all the occupants in the room on the awful experiment in progress.
Vaggaddu had the saw almost through Mufara’s skull when Ferin decided to make good his escape. Sprinting toward the door, he lowered his shoulder and rammed it with all his might. The wooden portal gave under the impact, and Ferin fell clumsily amid the wreckage of splintered boards and broken hinges. Jumping to his feet, Ferin ran down the tunnel in the direction they had come from.
“After him you slobbering idiots” screamed Vaggaddu. Ferin soon heard the patter of small feet pursuing him down the stone passageway. He quickly found himself out of the tunnel and back in the forest. Darkness still shrouded the surrounding trees and brush. Thinking fast, he climbed a nearby tree. A few seconds later a squad of imps ran out of the cave mouth. They fanned out into the forest, and in a few moments, Ferin was completely alone.
And so he waited. Fear, exhaustion, and horror gripped his mind and body, preventing him from moving. After an hour had passed Ferin finally was able to control himself enough to descend from the tree. He chose a direction at random and decided to stick to it. With any luck, he would eventually reach a village or farm or road.
After covering several hundred yards he tripped and nearly sprawled on his face. Looking back he saw the prone body of one of Vaggaddu’s imp. Its throat had been cut ear to ear. Looking ahead Ferin saw several other imp corpses, and also the dead bodies of several members of the Brotherhood. All were covered in vicious wounds, and the smell of blood was heavy in the air. Ferin stooped over one of the dead men and removed his robe. Donning it, Ferin then armed himself with a sword and two daggers.
He continued to run, occasionally passing the corpse of a man or an imp. Soon he came to a clearing, where he stopped to catch his breath. Dawn was throwing its first streaks of light across the sky. A twig snapped somewhere behind him. Twisting and crouching, Ferin saw a lone figure enter the clearing. It was Mufara. An odd look was in his eyes, one that Ferin couldn’t quite identify. It seemed to be somewhere between agony and insanity.
“What did that maniac do to you?” asked Ferin in a whisper.
“Witness” said Mufara, throwing back his hood. A bloody red line rimmed Mufara’s head; crude stitches held his pate to the rest of his skull. Blood and pus ran in streams down his face and neck. Then Mufara turned. Ferin gasped. Two eyes stared at Ferin from the back of Mufara’s skull. One was loosely attached, seemingly held on by a few thin threads as it dangled from its bloody socket. The other, which was set much better, was red and glazed. A profusion of pus and gore flowed from the two recently created sockets. Ferin watched in horror as a stream of blood ran from the stitching of Mufara’s skull. It flowed directly into the socket containing the dangling eyeball.
Mufara turned back to face Ferin. “Don’t you realize what has been done? Vaggaddu was right, I am able to process more than one image at a time. The complete panorama of my surroundings is visible to me. Never again will I expose my blind side in battle!”
As he spoke Ferin noticed the old smoothness was gone from his voice, it was instead replaced by an urgency that seemed to indicate hysteria. Mufara continued, “You have proven this night incredibly resourceful. Many of the Brotherhood lie slain. Come. Together you and I will rebuild it. Together we will create an order of assassins that will be feared. With Vaggaddu’s help, we will create a cadre of killers unlike the world has ever seen!”
Ferin shook his head. He’d had enough of fancy guilds and brotherhoods. “No” he said, his voice shaking.
“You will not join me?” asked Mufara.
“I will not,” came the reply.
“Very well,” said Mufara. He drew a long thin dagger from the folds of his cloak and began to circle Ferin. Ferin took one of his daggers and deftly threw towards Mufara. The blade whistled as it flew over Mufara’s shoulder and sailed into the underbrush. “I could dodge your strikes with all four eyes closed” laughed Mufara.
Ferin now circled his opponent, sword in one hand, dagger in the other. He felt his bare feet come upon a patch of loose dirt. Kicking out, he sent the loose sod into Mufara’s eyes. Howling, Mufara vigorously rubbed at his eyes with his free hand. Switching to an overhand grip with his sword, Mufara turned his back to Ferin and continued to circle. Ferin looked for a weakness in Mufara’s awkward stance, but he was continually distracted by the bizarre eyes. One dangling, one glazed, both unnerving.
By now Mufara had the soil removed from his natural eyes, and he turned back to face Ferin. As he turned Ferin threw the second dagger. Mufara, seeing the blade approaching, ducked. Again Ferin’s aim was poor, but this time it worked to his advantage. His throw was low, and when Mufara ducked to avoid the projectile it struck his head, handle first. The dagger handle had struck Mufara right along the bloody, crudely stitched seam where Vaggaddu had sewn his head back together. Several of the stitches burst and Mufara’s pate began to flap up and down. Ferin could see Mufara’s brain, but Mufara seemed to be unaffected. Vaggaddu’s serum must still be coursing through his veins, preventing him from falling dead.
Ferin boldly struck out with his sword, intending to overwhelm Mufara. The blow was easily parried, and Ferin was forced back. Strike after strike Ferin aimed at his foe, but he was outmatched. His arm began to tire, and his breath grew ragged. Mufara tipped his head back and laughed, the top of his head flopping wildly.
Ferin now formed a desperate plan. He struck low as if to swipe Mufara’s feet out from under him. In midstroke, he dropped the sword to the dirt and leaped atop his adversary. His fingers clutched at Mufara’s flopping pate. The ooze of blood and pus made grasping it difficult, but Ferin was able to get a grip. Once his grip was established, Ferin planted his feet on Mufara’s shoulders and began to pull. Mufara screamed. The crude stitches easily tore and the top of Mufara’s head tore away in a spray of blood and viscera. Reaching back down, Ferin grasped Mufara’s brain in both hands and ripped it from the skull. He crushed the grey ropey mass to a pulp.
Mufara, when his brain was removed, stood still as a statue. Ferin leaped to the ground and faced him. His eyes, all four, stared vacantly. Vaggaddu’s serum may be keeping him alive, but without a brain to guide it, Mufara’s body was incapable of motion.
Several hours later Ferin emerged from the forest onto a large and well-kept road. The sun was shining warm and bright and beautiful. As he ambled down the road toward a distant village, he pondered several things. Firstly, how long would Vaggaddu’s serum last? Would Mufara stand as a statue, his eyes forever staring all around him? And secondly, perhaps, just perhaps, it wouldn’t hurt to get an honest job.
© September 2022, Aaron Onyon
Aaron Onyon is a previously unpublished author debuting in Swords & Sorcery Magazine.