oska Shadoweaver squatted in the dust, taking in the scene from a vantage he hoped was safe. Fourteen charr crowded around two dead dolyaks, their curved blades slicing away at the thick hide. Steam rose from the opened carcass in the chill air. The charr had found the animals in the northern paddock and stolen them away while a larger force battled his guild at the front gates. By dawn, Gos was the only one with enough energy to track where the dolyak had gone. He hoped that the beasts had fled in panic during the night, but after a few hours of tracking, it was clear the charr had stolen them away. He watched the gluttonous creatures quarter and devour the meat, defiling it even as they stuffed their toothy maws.

Fury and dismay boiled within the lithe assassin. The dolyak were a major part of his guild’s wealth and workforce, moving stone and timber for construction, providing wool for spinning, milk in the spring and gold for their calves at market. Without the dolyak this winter, there would be no dung to burn and no simple way to plough the snow around the buildings. He shivered in his fur-lined cloak. It would not be long until the snows fell and the guild became more isolated than ever.

Each charr ate its fill and cut away slabs of meat to carry with them. Gos’ anger increased as he watched the vile creatures clean their weapons and simply walk away, leaving the half-eaten carcasses to rot. In the continuing conflict between his guild and the charr, they had made what they must know to be a strategic blow. Not only was insulting to leave the animals dead here so many miles away from the guild, it would be hours before he could lead anyone back to salvage the meat and fur, time in which scavengers would finish off the remains.

He swore at their retreating figures and waiting until they were gone before standing up. To his dismay, inquisitive heads poked through the surrounding brush. Others had been watching the charr. A half-dozen moa birds stalked from a mud-bottomed rill, their strides reminding him of the infernal machines of the Luxons. He picked up a rock and tossed it with an oath as they turned their heads side to side to take in the abundant feast set by the charr. The birds, far taller than himself, their tawny plumage fluttering in the chilly wind, regarded him blankly and continued walking.

“Shoo!” he rushed at them, arms outstretched. “Get off!”

The birds’ ridiculously small wings outstretched in alarm and two of them lowered their heads and opened their mouths to hiss a warning. He stepped back, surprised at such a response from animals he considered to be docile and stupid. When he did not retreat, one of the birds charged at him with an angry honking noise. Reflexively, Gos drew his daggers. The blades snickered through soft flesh as he brought the blade up and sliced its shrieking throat. In hardly a flutter of his heart, the great bird fell dead at his feet. The remaining birds regarded him cautiously then burst in a chorus of enraged honking, their heads bobbing slowly. He stooped and snatched up another handful of rocks.

“Go on!” He shouted, tossing the stones, mentally cursing Dale’s admonition that her guild not harm the moas. For whatever misled reason, the besotted ranger liked the birds and refused to make use of them as provisions. They looked quite wholesome.

Their calls became more strident and the hair of his nape rose. He turned and saw another score of the creatures trotting across the flat behind him. The moa had called more to the feast, or perhaps intended to rid themselves of a troublesome assassin. As the mobbing calls continued the horde gathered confidence and rushed toward him. Rolling his eyes, Gos vanished into the shadows, reaching the furthest moa, well behind the body of the angry flock. He ran while they squawked in confusion and was well ahead of them before the resumed the chase. Head down, willing his power into speed. He knew the lure of the carcasses would draw them back. And while he walked home, the moa would gorge themselves on the guild’s precious dolyaks.

A dark bank of clouds slid down the flanks of the distant Shiverpeaks. As he walked alone, snowflakes began to fall upon the dry soil of sundered Ascalon. He felt naked in the foul weather, a tiny figure in a ruinous landscape. He was returning home without the dolyaks and with the news that there would be nothing left for them. As he crested the last hill that warded his little guild hall, he saw a suspicious pillar of smoke. Something burned at the guild. His heart flipped in his chest and a painful breath caught in his throat. Gos ran as if a hundred moa were on his trail. In the nick of time he ducked into the shadow of boulders as retreating charr emerged over the brow of the hill. Their voices bore merriment, the set of their shoulders aswagger. And if charr could laugh, these were laughing. Their teeth shone and feline lips curved, whiskers and fur standing from their faces. They were pleased with themselves.

If I were twenty men, I would strike you. What have you done to my home?

He felt ill as he noticed two figures bound with sacks over their heads. The charr had taken prisoners. He recognized some of the battered armor of the guild’s ordinary guards. They had no doubt breached one of the walls and made a smash and grab raid. Surely there were not enough to have destroyed his home.

We are the legion of pain!
We are the claws of destruction
We are the masters
We are the killers of all

We are the legion of pain!
Bow down meat and human stew
Cast down your walls to us!
Bow down, we cut your throats!

We are the legion of pain!
We march as one on the hunt
Bone snap and flesh rend!
Our proud talons trample all!

The charr had stopped to sing their song, roaring the words ‘we are the legion of pain!’ in good humor as one of the human prisoners was brought forward. Under the filth and gore of his injuries, Gos did not recognize the man, but felt dread as one of the leading charr placed a taloned hand on the prisoner’s shoulder. Their voices fell into low guttural tones amid the spark of predatory eyes and the licking of lips. The prisoner gave a small cry when the charr lifted him off his feet. After the song, the man surely knew what was coming, he kicked and struggled, but hungry jaws closed over his throat. There was no scream, but the legion of pain closed around their leader and the meal was shared. Gos saw the second prisoner on his knees away from the knot of charr. Gos decided the man could run, so he shadow stepped to his side. With a flash of steel, he cut away the cords.

“It is Gos, come with me.”

He tore the sack off the man’s head. A young blonde-haired man stared back at him for a moment and nodded rapidly, saying nothing as he scrambled to his feet and took flight. The charr roared their anger and charged after them. The whoosh and chime of fire charms signaled a volley of burning arrows as charr bowmen surged after them. Gos zigzagged like a hare as fiery shafts exploded between him and the young man. An arrow stung the back of his thigh, followed by hungry flames and the smell of burning cloth and flesh. He cried out, but continued running, the hot breaths of the charr at his back. The young guard was ahead of him now, uninjured and faster on his feet. Gos let him draw further ahead and shadow stepped to him, trying his best to keep up. The charr could see he was faltering and a pair of shafts struck him in the back. Scorched and flagging, Gos faltered. The man he had rescued grasped his shoulder, dragging him forward, forcing him to run despite the agony of his wounds and the continued burning.

“Run, come on sir! We aren’t far...we get under the walls, the rangers’ll shoot ‘em!”

He looked up from his personal pain and saw the wall of the guild and the new gate. The plume of smoke was whiter now, indicating the steam of water to put out the fire. The sight of home gave him strength and he kept pace with the guard’s grip on his shoulder. As they came within bowshot range, the charr stopped with a snort of annoyance. A few last arrows raised plumes of dust on the road, their flames fizzled and died. Gos stumbled to a limping walk beneath the darkness of the gate. He saw worried faces around him and he was lifted into the arms of a large and familiar figure.

“Oi, little Gos, ye been shot.” Demen rumbled, “I’ll get ye to Tasmina...have those out in a jiff.”

“What’s burning?” he demanded.

“The beasts sneaked in and burned our granary and they got the smokehouse, too,” Demen said.

“Oh gods....” tears started in his eyes. It was winter, times were already lean enough. His breaths came in miserable helpless sobs. “They killed our dolyaks...and the moa are eating them. I couldn’t stop them, I tried...I tried.”

“Don’t trouble yourself, Gos. Shhh...” Demen muttered, “it’ll be okay.”

It was not okay, of course. The charr had proved their cunning. In the space of a day they had destroyed their food sources.

For the next month, they subsisted on what little remaining grain was not burned in the fire, a boiled gruel that tasted cruelly of smoke and served as a reminder that soon there would be no barley left for porridge, and no beer to boot. If the winter was cruel, they could expect to starve, but long before that, he suspected they would be forced to seek refuge in one of the poor towns to the north of them. They would blend in nicely with the insane inhabitants of Sardelac, or the vagabonds of Ascalon City. He was certain the charr were watching and would take possession of the guild and its precious woodland the moment they left.

Tomorrow was, by the estimations of both Tasmina and Dale, the eve of Wintersday. With nothing on the menu but more of the smoky, foul tasting gruel and a few turnips that the cooks had found (to great fanfare) hidden behind some barrels, he and Demen went out hunting. There was precious little stirring in the icy landscape. Of course, they could have had their pick of devourers, but their flesh was foul tasting and required soaking in water for three to four days followed several hours of boiling simply to become edible but not palatable. There were grawl, but Demen averred that grawl roast was not a Wintersday tradition and the beasts looked uncannily like humans when quartered for the pot. Thus they settled on crown of thorns, a flavorful sentient plant.

“There’s usually a patch around here.” Demen said, prodding with the head of his hammer.

“I think we ate them last week.”

Gos felt his stomach rumble at the thought of the last batch of boiled crown of thorns, their succulent pith had a wonderful sweetness. “Really, we should hunt grawl.”

“People won’t eat it if they find out.”

“Are they really going to ask? There’s been no meat for weeks.”

“We could go up the slopes and maybe see if those caribou wandered back down,” Demen said, ignoring his words, “I have a few coins...we could get out to Sardelac and buy something.”

They continued to walk together. Gos felt somewhat silly carrying a bow, even if Dale had taught him how to hunt with it. It was no good. Song and Branch was not the only hungry guild scratching out a living in the ruins of Ascalon. Anything good to eat was already warming someone’s stomach or hiding from the cold. It was getting dark and colder. The two of them knew it was time to call it a day.

“They’ll know we tried...it is Wintersday! We’ll go to Ascalon City for a few days after the celebration starts...and maybe we’ll beg a few fruitcakes from the priests, eh?” said Demen, sensing the dark mood of the little assassin.

“We are going to starve...the charr are starving us out.”

“We all know that.” Demen frowned, “but we will persist and none of us are giving up.”

They both fell silent and continued walking over the hard frosty earth. Snow had blown into sculpted drifts, outlining the burned remains of trees and shrubs. They came to the top of a hill and gazed across the plain below Sardelac Sanitarium. They spied a few Grawl moving away but Gos saw something else. Moa were scratching the crusted snow, looking for what little remained beneath it.

“They look good,” Goska murmured, his mouth watering at memories of roasted duck in Kaineng City and succulent Wintersday capons in his Kurzick homeland.

“We talked about this, Gos. Dale says no killing the moa.”

“They ate our dolyaks,” Gos said as he pulled an arrow from the quiver, “I say fair is fair.”

“They do look...plump,” Demen said, now watching intently, “You reckon we can...just say we bought something?”


“I think if we brought them directly to the cooks, they could make it look...innocent.”

“Well, moa is acceptable for Wintersday.” Demen looked over his shoulder as if Dale might appear to tell them off, “Well dancing ones are...dunno about eating them.”

The following day, all was ready for the anticipated Wintersday feast. The hall had been cleaned, the floor scrubbed and the cobwebs beaten back. A few garlands of ivy and scraggly spruce boughs had been dragged down from the heights and tied around the columns closest to Dale’s table. The guild leader sat at the head with Demen and Hebek flanking her. The household cook had brought out a platter bearing a large roast surrounded by chopped crown of thorn hearts. Shame burned Goska’s cheeks as Dale started carving the Wintersday roast. She paused in her cutting, her brows suddenly coming together in consternation. He clenched his fists as Dale cut something and held it up for examination. It was a piece of skin that had been left on the roast. He could see the obvious dimples where feathers had been plucked.

“Demen?” She asked in a dry voice.

“Yes, Miss?” the old warrior smiled nervously.

“Demen...is this moa?”

“Well, not as such.”

“Not as such?”

“Well, for a start, it’s a roast.”

“Roasted moa?” Her brows came down and the hall became silent.

“Aye, I cannot lie.”

“I guess we cannot waste it...but I did tell you not to hunt them.” Dale said archly, cutting off a sliver and putting it gingerly on her plate as if it would scream in accusation if not treated reverently, “Several times.”

“It was that or grawl.” Demen said, “an’ these birds get in our crops, an’ they chased poor Goslet.”

“They are like the people of Ascalon and were stricken by The Searing. We should not kill the few that survive.”

Demen sliced a piece from the roast and took a small bite.

“It does taste good though! If that isn’t proper feast fare, I dunno what is!”

The meat made the rounds of the table and Goska noted that it disappeared despite Dale’s obvious annoyance. Even her young wolf, Sage, lay under the table, cracking moa bones with his newly grown teeth. The moa meat dripped with fat and he licked surreptitiously from his fingers.

The next morning, Goska gathered the spoils of their many battles with the charr into a bag. The watch and priests of Ascalon City took bounty this time of the year, exchanging food for any token proving the destruction of the bourgeoning charr and other vermin. Fresh snow had fallen overnight but the lure of eggnog and fragrant fruitcake called to him. He wanted to bring gifts and good cheer to his friends. He meditated once his wife, Tasha, fell asleep and at the first gloaming of sunrise he used his special skills for speed and lightness afoot. No one saw him leave and soon he was dashing across a fresh layer of snow toward distant Ascalon City.

If anyone had been abroad that frosty morning, they might have seen a pinkish haze as his little body rode the wake of shadows. The world was still and cold except for Gos, glad of his mask to keep each breath warm. The wind came from the north, forcing him to weep tears of ice as he ran into its dry, biting chill.

At noontide he rejoiced to see the battered walls of Old Ascalon. He shifted his grip on the bag of charr carvings as he approached the gate. He glanced up at the guards as he entered and they waved him through. The square within was miraculously decorated with boughs, ribbons and sparkling glamour. Surely it was the work of illusionists, but a smile quirked his lips. He could hardly help but be happy among the bustle of the festive crowd. He rushed to bring his bag to a beautifully coiffed priestess of Dwayna, pouring out the ugly little figures that the charr carried as talismans.

“Looks like you have fought all year,” she remarked as she sorted the carvings into little stacks, “By the rags you are wearing, I would say you are in need of a little cheer.”

“I want half of my reward in eggnog and the other in cakes.”

She nodded to him, motioning to an assistant. She glanced back at him with a mischievous grin. “That’s a whole cask of eggnog. You aren’t from around here, I know the folk who live in the city. Do you intend to carry it yourself somehow?”

He deflated as he realized this one major flaw in his plan. One hundred ceramic jugs of eggnog would be heavy and burdensome to carry, same with one hundred cakes. He frowned as a dense packed bag filled with treats was dropped at his feet, followed by a barrel containing the desired liquor. In his excitement to do something wonderful for his guild, he had completely made a mess of things.

“Last year we had a dolyak... but the charr killed them,” he shrugged, “I’ll try to figure something out.”

“Pity your guild has no Celestial Sigil,” she remarked. Goska nodded sadly. Indeed, such a magical device would make their lives so much easier, not simply for procuring supplies, but as a safety hatch in case they were ever overwhelmed and needed to escape from the charr. He sold off the cask and most of the loaves for a tidy sum, pocketing the platinum for the guild coffers. Departing from the glamour of the city he turned toward his home and erstwhile sanctuary.