On the frontier's ragged edge stood a lone dwelling, rude of plank and spare of adornment. Watchful trees girded about the eaves. Within sat a mother who wept for the loss of a son.

On the road south strode the object of her heartache–a lad of seventeen summers, grown tall in the forest’s ways. Pangs of guilt assailed him, for though she’d kept the tears at bay for his benefit, he’d spied their sheen quivering his mother’s eyes. A woman of stalwart spirit, he knew she’d rally after his departure, and that the locals would attend her needs in his absence.

A wanderlust beckoned him onward, as a pharos does the tempest-tossed, or an oasis the parched caravan. A need nettled him for that place around the bend, that unfixed point beyond the mist enshrouded mountain peaks. What mysteries awaited him in the valleys and byways of Tular? What fabled spires pointed jeweled fingers at the heavens in Tularana, capital of his homeland and center of the world?

These questions and more compelled his journey. And so at last he came to the village of Larkun, the farthest afield from home and hearth his young legs had ever carried him outside his mother’s purview. There he purchased pemmican and soft doeskin moccasins with coin earned at the smithy and in wrestling bouts at the harvest fair. He passed the night in a stable among hay bales and stalls and the pungent odors thereof. Morning found him devouring the leagues in a steady gait.

A convoy of itinerant tinkers joined him on the wooded avenues two days out, their wagons lurching along, and wooly draught animals wheezing under the strain of pots, pans, tools and sundry baubles for sale or barter.

A girl perhaps a year his junior caught his gaze as she snapped her reins, handling the lead wagon with the ease of long practice. Soft chestnut ringlets fell about her shoulders. Slim forearms showed bronze under the suns’ regard, and a flush set her cheeks aglow, deepening the blue of her eyes. Those azure eyes darted to the side and noticed the towering youth gawking. They ranged across wide shoulders and down powerful arms to the sword at his lean waist. Full lips curled into a smile.

"See something you like?" she said, a lilt in her voice as she nodded at the wares clattering from pegs driven into the wagon’s sides.

"I am called Mombash," he said, unsure of how to proceed. Heat crept up his neck and flooded his face.

"‘Mombash,’" she said. "Sounds ominous."  Her smile widened. "My name’s Menardra. And this"—she encompassed the procession with an outstretched hand—"is my family."

Mombash studied the travelers–their colorful garb, work-calloused hands, and the contentment evident in worry’s absence from their faces. Fortuneless or no, they moved in surety of purpose. They seemed folk of benign persuasion; he took an instant liking to them.

A man materialized from behind the wagon and insinuated himself between Mombash and the girl. He grinned and nodded at his fellow rambler, then addressed she on the driver’s seat.

"Menardra, halt at the first rest area you see. We’ll pitch camp and circle the wagons." The places referenced offered graded clearings at roadside, for pilgrims or merchants on long excursions.

"Yes, Father."

The man slapped Mombash on the back. "I’m Seivos, of Belemedes. And you?"

"Mombash, from these parts."

The man fixed him with a stare. "What are your intentions toward my daughter?"

Mombash felt his brow furrow in bafflement. "I have none, unless you consider further conversation an ‘intention.’ "

"Ah, a man who chooses intellectual stimulation over pursuing the mindless rut. I welcome such in our company." He smiled and pummeled him again, then drifted off into the rear of the train, where he laughed with two other men on foot.

"Father’s having fun at your expense, I’m afraid," Menardra said with a sigh. "He needles any male who speaks to me. Let me apologize up-front for his ... eccentricity."

Mombash whistled low under his breath. "I take no offense, then. But tell me, what is a ‘rut’?"

Menardra turned pink from brow to bodice. "Never you mind about that."

~*~

The troupe turned off the dirt road and drew reins in a level glade in late afternoon. With adequate provision for raising tents before nightfall, the women set to with cook pots and flint on steel. Ere long, the campfires raged, stews bubbling like wrathful volcanoes.

Mombash aided in unhitching the teams, rubbing down the foam-flecked hides, and fashioning hobbles. Simmering beef and potatoes dashed with herbs called his name from the fires. But hawk-eyed grandmothers stood vigil ‘round about, until the dinner bell’s clangor made them relent.

After the repast, Mombash reclined against a fallen log, stomach full. The fires warmed his toes as he craned his neck at the majestic trees with stars in their crowns.

The elders gathered near, flames reflecting off their solemn expressions. Menardra seated herself beside him.

"It’s time for a tale’s weaving," she whispered.

Mombash smelled her skin and hair—like honeysuckles on a spring day—and knew that she had bathed. He felt filthy by comparison, having found time wanting for such luxuries. He prayed that his ripeness would not prove the death of her.

A wizened dotard with flowing silver locks and a worn leather patch covering one eye severed the hush with a voice like a millstone grinding.

"These trees hold secrets older than the crumbling temples of Zhokrunh. They have seen more than the dark enchanters of the south, who brood unremittingly over their phials and tomes and pools that reflect future events in a fog. Their roots have quested into the earth, discovering forbidding planes, and hearing sounds uncongenial to mortal ken. They have stood watch over many a wayward soul. And they remember all.

"The years have preserved their stories for us. One of these is that of Tul-banoth, and his ensorcelled lyre. Legends say he once ruled over a vast tract of land as a prince. He retained five hundred servants in his house alone, and strolled its gardens as light in heart as in step.

"Yet he became arrogant in his wealth, and this canker of the soul opened doorways best kept barred. A demon named Talithoth came upon him, in a jealous rage at his smugness and comfort. The creature’s influence once lay as a pall over this land, until the great god Palanth sundered his dominion and banished him to the unquiet places under knoll and stone. Still, his reach waxes in certain phases of tide and weather, or when he who should reckon himself blessed gives credit to himself alone. Thus was the predicament of Tul-banoth, whose greed took second place to no man’s.

"Talithoth heard him singing in the garden, one evening, and confronted him with demands not easily dismissed.

"‘I heard thy warbling,’ Talithoth hissed, ‘like that of a rapturous sparrow. From this day forth, thou shalt sing for me, and pluck thy lyre in mine honor. Thy melodies shalt provide balm for pure hearts, and a lure as a hooked worm. Thus shalt thou summon refreshment for thy master. The years may not claim thee, oh man of means, and thy riches shalt become naught, delivered unto petty hands that squander without thought of tomorrow’s necessities. Make amends with thy lot.’

"At this, Talithoth bore him screaming away in a whirlwind, dispossessing him of all he’d ever known or loved. Tul-banoth found himself wandering trails strewn with pine cones, a tiny statue of Talithoth filling his purse. With starvation gnawing his innards, he yielded from his hesitancy in playing the lyre, and struck up a tune for his supper. As bees to the blossom, two maidens approached him from a hamlet, faces blank and serene.

"The statue quickened and pounced upon them, draining away their lifeblood with teeth of stone. Tul-banoth cried out in horror, but the demon’s likeness ignored him and engorged itself.

"With the deed done, and once-pulsating throats cold and still as alabaster, Tul-banoth took up the statue. When he touched its blighted surface, revitalization surged up his arm like a river’s current. His heart beat faster, and his thews creaked with power. So he gained life in the passing of two young girls.

"Centuries bloomed and withered on Time’s branches. Tul-banoth found subsistence in the snuffing of innocent lives. The mute statue grew as a weed in a hedgerow, reaching the height of a man. Somewhere they keep each other company, awaiting those who have ears for a song."

The old man exhaled slowly, features wan, as if the tale’s recounting had affected him more than the mere knowledge of it unbirthed on his tongue.

"‘Tis no yarn for sunny skies and picnics," Mombash said, rubbing his chin.

"Not all our fireside lore ends in gloom and despair," said Menardra. "Some narratives elicit smiles in their happily ever afters."

"I prefer the latter before bedtime," Mombash said. "An uneasy mind gathers no rest."

Menardra chuckled, her voice a tinkling stream of goodwill. "It’s only a fiction for the children’s benefit, I suppose. Tomorrow I’ll have Father regale you with his exploits as a rank-and-file soldier in the Tularan army."

His eyes came alive at the thought. "I look forward to it."

The crowd soon dispersed, each to his separate tent or wagon. Menardra excused herself with a nod and a smile.

"Pleasant dreams, Mombash," she said with a mischievous grin.

He wished her a good night and fell into a deep sleep, his sword hilt close at hand dispelling all dreams.

~*~

Mombash came fully awake, alert to his surroundings. Night birds twittered in the brush. Banked fires burned low. A cool breeze tugged at his collar. Nothing seemed out of place.

Then he heard a tune lurking behind mundane camp sounds. A melody as of chimes on a spring day, or the voice of many waters. He breathed it in, mind expanding, vision leached away by an overpowering whiteness.

Terror welled up in him at the realization that he was falling under some insidious spell. He smacked himself in the face, hard, and the burning in his cheek pierced the haze clouding his mind. He sat up in his bedroll and tore a long strip from his blanket’s hem. This he ripped in half and wadded each piece, stuffing them in his ears. The music’s effects dampened, he ran a hand through auburn hair and thanked Palanth for clarity of thought nigh stolen.

Mombash rose in a crouch and drew his sword. Thank Palanth for Tol the blacksmith, he mused. I may find his teachings in swordsmanship useful, this night. He scanned the tents and carts, relying on visual acuity more than his diminished sense of hearing. He glided past snoring forms and worked his way to Menardra’s family wagon. A clammy hand took hold of his heart as he peered through the back flap and saw her empty pallet. Seivos’ chest rose and fell in sweet oblivion, as did that of his wife beside him.

Mombash dropped the flap and stepped away. He grabbed an oil lamp and taper hanging from a wagon’s tailgate. Dying coals flared the tallow to life, and a feeble glow soon encircled him. He squinted at the dirt and fallen leaves for signs of Menardra’s passage. Finding her unobscured footprints, he followed their trail into the forest.

It dawned on him as he walked that he should have awakened his comrades; he nevertheless forged ahead.

No time, he thought. Her life might be riding on the next moment.

He held the lamp aloft and moved as fast as his eyes took in the path Menardra unwittingly had created in her passage: broken twigs here, an upturned clump of moss there, or a clear heel’s indentation in the loam. He wound through the trees and over fallen logs, skirting dead falls and lichen-encrusted boulders. His path meandered downhill.

After an hour’s walk, Menardra’s guiding track converged upon a hole in the earth, a blasted wound in an overgrown hummock’s side. Vines dangled over the opening like beaded curtains and twisted themselves in knots as adders locked in combat. Wooden support beams held the cave mouth open, beads of moisture gleaming on their surfaces like sweat.

Mombash heeded the larger footprints intersecting Menardra’s from the east at the aperture.

He thrust his sword out before him and lowered his head, brushing aside the green tendrils with his shoulder. The vines fled his touch and drew back of their own accord, undulating above him. The whole tangled mass lashed out, two wrapping themselves around his right arm, and one his left. Another snaked across his waist; a fifth dropped over his head and formed a noose, cutting off his air. Smaller offshoots slithered around his ankles and immobilized his legs.

Mombash thrashed backwards, arching his back and heaving against the taut vegetation. His arms came free, even as the garrote coiled more tightly about his throat. Black splotches bloomed in his field-of-vision. Blood pooled in his head, the pulse pounding away as a hammer at a forge. He threw himself against the strain, felt an assailing member slacken its grip and tear away from his waist. Mombash stabbed his fingers upward, forcing them between the cord and his bruised Adam’s apple. He clawed at the fibrous rope until it loosened, then hurled its flailing length from him. He hacked at those impairing his movement, watched their dismembered parts squirm for sanctuary as they oozed a foul, yellowish ichor.

He gasped and fell back, going down on one knee. Probing beneath his chin, he felt the tender flesh swelling where the bedeviled vine had throttled him. He stood and rasped out a cough, tasting flecks of copper. Spitting crimson, he reached for a broken branch. He tied a kerchief around one end and soaked it in lamp oil. Igniting this, he lunged at the deadly hangings before the entrance. Those animate growths shrank from the open flame, skittering to perches far removed from the heat’s destructive power.

Mombash stepped past the singed guard and found himself in pervasive gloom. Water dripped overhead, and the smell of damp earth cloyed his nostrils. The low-ceilinged cavern breathed like a sleeping behemoth. He wondered how far back it ran into the hills, and how many outlets opened unto unspeakable horrors.

As if a dream’s remnant, he heard the captivating melody and its muffled refrain.

Like a fiend whispering sweet nothings in my ear, he observed. He ignored the undertone and fixed his mind on Menardra’s smile.

Mombash walked in a squat, torch guttering in the wetness. Mud slopped around his boots. The narrow walls slimed his shoulders in limestone. He followed the tunnel into darkness, curving in a downward slant, where he entered a round, natural cathedral. Something heavy flopped away from the light down a branching passage, little more than a chute in the wall. He shuddered and focused his gaze across the room, where light emanated from a fissure in the rock. He trudged forward, watching his steps in the dimness.

Squeezing through the vent, he absorbed the sight before him in a sweeping glance. Menardra knelt a few feet away, swaying like a charmed serpent. He saw her eyes, wide and vacant as the windows of an abandoned house. Beside her lay another girl in a stupor, chest rising and falling shallowly. Mombash knew her for the child he’d seen just yesterday, skipping alongside the trundling wagons. A graven image like bloodshot marble hulked over her. Pinpoints of blood dotted her neck where it leaned against the skin.

In the far left corner, Mombash saw a pile of cushions fronted by reed mats. Sitting atop this incongruous bulwark of comfort was an elderly man who strummed a silver lyre, caressing its strings as lovers clutch each other in passion’s embrace. An ingot of dread formed in his stomach when he recognized the patched eye and long hair.

The storyteller at the campfire!

The man’s eyes met his, and a look that Mombash took as one of relief narrowed his pupils.

Movement to the right dragged his eyes from the oldster. The imitation of life hovering over the girl raised itself on stony hands, and a face lifted from her neckline. Tapering teeth extended over sanguine lips—lips wrenched upwards in a grin of purest delight. The eyes were socketed hell fires afflicting him like bore worms. It clambered onto all fours, head bobbing as with muted laughter.

Mombash reacted with the speed of a hurled missile, launching himself across the room and colliding with the lyrist. The man fell sprawling without so much as a word, and Mombash took up the fragile instrument. Without ceremony or hesitation, he broke the apparatus over his knee.

The statue roared inaudibly and lumbered toward him. He backed away and led the entity through the breach, across the open gallery, and up the shaft. It shambled after him in a blind rage, closing the gap between them with surprising dexterity of movement.

Mombash dived through the orifice, into moonlight and star shine. He hoisted himself to his feet and flattened his imposing figure against the rock adjacent the cave. Vines roiled in confusion above the lintel. The effigy’s head appeared in the doorway, and the insensate plants struck out at the ready target, as if seeking vengeance for their hurts. The simulacrum twisted in their grip, and Mombash, seeing his chance, raised his sword on high and clove with all his might the place where neck and shoulder met. Sparks flew, as did a great chunk of its adamantine anatomy. The figure battered at him, but the vines’ efforts enfeebled its blows momentarily. Mombash swung his sword up and over his head again, bringing it down slantwise. His second blow sent the head rolling. The body stiffened at once in the vines’ enfolding arms. Its mouth worked once, twice, then fixated itself wide open, as in a howl of protest. The live-coal eyes expired like lamp wicks doused in water.

Mombash sagged as adrenaline ran its course through his veins. Holding his sword at attention and never letting the downed statue out of his sight, he ventured back into the cave, hunkering under the viny sentries.

He found Menardra aware of her surroundings and frightened by the implications of the evening’s events. The injured younger girl rubbed her head groggily and looked at him with a benumbed expression.

"Menardra," Mombash said, "are you fit for travel?"

"Aye," she whispered. "I think so."

"Good. Get yourself and the child out of this den of iniquity. I have unfinished business with Tul - banoth. And steer clear of his welcoming committee at the exit."

"Have a care," she said in a small voice, and led the other girl dutifully from the chambers.

Tul - banoth wheezed and rolled into a sitting position. Laughter wracked his frame. "You liked my vegetable attendants?" he said. "I call them foolkillers."

"No more than I enjoy a good, swift kick in the teeth. Or the look on your prunish face."

Tul - banoth’s smile faded. "I joined your wayfaring friends a mere two days before you did, posing as one of their ilk. I have sought death for decades, and when I saw the strength of your arms and disposition, and the breadth of your back, I decided you were a man molded for the task. The man who could give me what I so richly deserve and crave–dissolution."

"Aye, and worse," Mombash said.

"I have aided in the kidnapings and murders of countless innocents," Tul - banoth continued. "How I have longed for death’s honeyed kiss. But my curse entails an inability to terminate my life by my own hand. I knew that spiriting those girls away would bring you running. I saw it in your eyes. And so I stand justified in that belief."

"The centuries haven’t taught you everything," Mombash said. "Such as the concept of justice. Killing you would prove far too lenient for your crimes. Better to leave you to the burrowing imps of the earth. Perhaps they’ll appreciate your musical talent."

Tul-banoth’s eyebrows lifted. "You can’t be—"

He was cut off by Mombash’s sword hilt descending on his knee, shattering the bone.

"Serious? Do I have the look of a jester? No more singing for your ‘meals.’ No more onslaughts against harmless children and women. And no escape from the reality you’ve helped shape." Mombash turned his back and strode for the rift in the wall. He glanced over his shoulder before departing. The man lay in a sobbing heap.

"Enjoy your hole in the ground," he said, and went out.

He met Menardra and the child at the cave’s maw. Putting his arms around them both–a source of comfort to hold the night’s remainder at bay–he ushered them into woods brushed with dawn’s pink fingers.

~*~

On sanity’s ragged edge squatted a lone cave, rude of occupant and spare of virtue. Watchful vines writhed about the entryway. Within sat a deathless being who wept for the loss of a song.