CHAPTER ONE

 

“Curiosities”

 

 

 

 

 

The town's real name was Ellalay - but nobody called it that anymore. It was known to one and all as Quester's Corners, due to it's proximity to four different types of magical wilderness - forest to the North, sea to the East, desert to the South, and the foothills of the great Lumin Mountains in the West. The kingdom's quest guides had discovered its useful position some years earlier and adopted it as their capitol. Now, only a row of small farms between the town and the forest were left to remind anyone of the Ellalay's simple agrarian past.

 

For those of you who do not reside in the Kingdom of Quintessentia (or, for that matter, in the early 16th Century), quest guides (or “questers”) were transient men and women who lived lives of uncertainty and danger so that others might know security and peace. Nobles paid hefty fees for unicorn horns from which they could drink their wine without fear of poison, for a sackful of priceless, fiercely guarded dragon treasure, or to have the head of the monster that had terrorized their land mounted upon their wall.

 

A river of remarkable people rambled in and out of the town, as steadily as the ale flowed in the city’s many taverns. But one regular visitor was singled out:

 

Master Sequiel, the greatest quest guide in Quintessentia. And he was rumored to be coming there that very day.

 

*****

 

Scarlet streaked a deepening blue sky over Quester's Corners - but nobody was watching the sunset.

 

Instead, they were watching yet another nondescript carriage pull into the town square, stopping in front of the Quester’s Inn. Could this be the one that carried Master Sequiel?

 

The carriage ground to a halt and the door creaked open to reveal – tourists, and poor ones at that. Probably come to gossip about and gawk at Master Sequiel, just like everyone else.

 

Just about the only ones in the square not talking about him were the street bards – they were singing about him. One had run through all the Sequiel songs he knew, and was forced to improvise:

”Good Master Sequiel

Of him…uh…speak we well…”

 

Even some of the street merchants, with their clattering carts full of questing aides and phony magical items, had fallen into gabbing about Master Sequiel instead of hawking their wares.

 

"Are you sure he's coming in a plain carriage?” said a street merchant, as he passed the Quester’s Inn. “Surely he can afford the best."

"I dunno,” said the innkeeper. “He seems to like things plain. Don’t even stay at my inn when he’s in town – and we all know mine’s the finest. He camps out in the woods.”

 

"Is he coming in a carriage at all?" said the tourist, immediately picking up on who the conversation was about. "I pictured him riding around dashingly on a noble steed."

"No noble steed, no band of merrie men, no servants, not even so much as a dog travels with him,” the inkeeper said, reaching own to stroke the head of his own dog, who sat obediently at his heel. “He's a lone wolf, he is."

"Did somebody say he's a werewolf?!"

"No, I said he's a lone wolf - though I wouldn't discount the possibility of him being a werewolf, too, mate."

 

A wild-eyed elderly man was standing nearby, ranting.

 

"Though to you he appears to be a mere quester - or as some blasphemous tongues have said, a werewolf - in truth he is a savior sent by Lord Brigadion to rid our land of magicals and the chaos they bring!"

 

"Last time I checked, old man,” said a young quester, “saviors don't ask for payment."

"He's not in it for the money, or to win heavenly points with Lord Brigadion. I can tell. He's like me. A slayer. Sticking your sword into the most powerful beasts in the world and watching all that power drain out at your feet. Ooooh! Don't spread this around, mates, but I'd do it for free."

"How do you know what he's like? Have you ever quested with him?"

"'Course not. He doesn't let other questers come along with him. I know. I've tried to follow him, or slip in amongst the questing party - he can smell his own kind a mile away. Dammit, I want to see him in action! I hear he's vicious. You see this scar? I got it in a fight with some bloke who said that Master Sequiel was a tougher quester than I was - and that bloke fought like he meant it!"

 

"Oh, were you in that fight, Mr. Scraglior?” said the young quester. “It’s legendary!"

"You think that fight is legendary?” said the innkeeper, “You should have been in the Owl's Talon Tavern when 56 drunken men became embroiled in a brawl over whether or not Master Sequiel has a strange golden toenail on his left foot that tingles whenever a magical is near."

"Hey, I was in that one!” said another quester. “Of course he doesn't! He has a unicorn's horn that sprouts out of his head when no-one is looking."

"Well, I don't care how many fights are fought in his name, he doesn't fight any himself" said a young knight. "I have been on a quest with him - for my master, Lord Dublian. We got to mouth of the dragon's den - Sequiel and a half-dozen of my Lord’s men, including myself - and he told us exactly how to slay it - sort of trained us on the spot, you might say - but wouldn't take any part in it himself.”

“Are you calling Master Sequiel a coward?” said Scraglior, growing red in the face. “He’s slain more dragons than you’ll ever pretend to have slain, young whelp!”

”I don't know if it was cowardice,” said the knight evenly, “or laziness or he just didn't want to get his hands dirty – but that's when…” he lowered his voice, “well, that’s when I became convinced that he must be a noble…like my master.”

 

Scraglior was about to continue badgering the knight, but was cut off by a grocer:

"Oh, come off it! No noble would spend half their life tromping around the woods without their candelabras and doilies and other trappings."

 

"Not if they can help it,” said a fishwife. “But what if his family chucked him out?"

"That's what I heard,” said the innkeeper, “only it wasn't so simple. I heard he was the son of a fine elven lady, but he was banished to the realm of mortal men for all eternity when her husband saw his rounded ears - the ones he inherited from his human dad."

"Ooooooooooooooooh..." said everyone within within hearing distance.

 

“That’s why he spends all his time looking for magicals – he’s trying to find his way back home.”

 

"Well, wherever he gets his features from,” giggled a giddy young milkmaid, “they certainly are fine!"

"I suppose so,” said a young noblewoman. “But he's always wearing those black clothes - it's depressing!"

"No it isn't!” the milkmaid insisted. “It reminds me of...a dark, mysterious moonless night, where lovers meet in secret!"

 

“Lovers?” said a barmaid. “Master Sequiel’s a virgin.”

”He’s the very definition the tall, dark handsome stranger! He’s got a lover in every town!”

”He’s a virgin! How d’you think he attracts them unicorns.”

”Magic,” said the tourist. “He’s a sorcerer, en’t he?”

 

“No!” said the grocer. “The Brigadionists chased out all the sorcerers in the Inquisition of 1313. He just uses good ol’ fashioned wits - like Captain Corpalot did when he slayed the Great Sea Monster of Wango Bango single handed with nothin’ but a short sword! “

 

“There weren’t never no sea monster at Wango Bango,” said a grizzled old sailor. “I sailed there meself a hundred times without incident. That were just a whaddayacallit – alley-bye, ‘cause he was really plunderin’ a ship off the Cape of Good Hope.”

 

“Corpalot is not a pirate!” said the merchant. “I do business with the man. A swindler, a chizler, a liar and cheat, to be sure – but he makes enough money off of me that he wouldn’t have to bother with actual piracy with swords and cannons and such.”

 

“What d'you spose their quest is about?" said the tourist. “Sequiel and Corpalot.”

"Last time it was just a standard treasure grab-and-go,” said the young quester. “Although I did hear there was a dragon-slaying involved."

 

“Maybe they’re going to slay the Dragon King?” said the inkeeper.

 

“I hope so,” said the grocer. “With our ol’ king gettin’ madder by the minute, I don’t trust him to protect us from them dragons.”

 

“I’ll thank you not to talk about his majesty that treasonous manner!” exclaimed the young knight.

”You’re one to talk!” shouted Scaglior gruffly, advancing on the knight. “After you called Master Sequiel a coward! I’d like to see our king fight a dragon himself!”

“It’s we knights who actually fight the dragons! I remember when we were the heroes of Quintessentia – last week!”

 

"I hear it's even bigger than that,” the tourist interjected. “Their quest, I mean. Something to do with the Dracophoenix of Legend,”

 

"Brigadion help us!” cried the fishwife. “They'll bring about the end of the world!"

"Nay! Nay!” said the old Brigadionist. “They're going to slay it!"

"Don't be foolish, the Dracophoenix can’t be slain,” said Scraglior. “Even I admit that.”

”Yes it can,” said the tourist. “Temporarily.”

”How can you slay something temporarily? Either it’s slain or it isn’t.”

”Well,” said the inkeeper. “if anyone could find a way to truly slay the Dracophoenix, it’s Master Sequiel…”

And, as if waiting for this ideal moment of introduction, the nondescript carriage that actually held Master Sequiel pulled into the town square.

 

As the carriage door swung open, the great hubbub died instantly, like a dragon with a sword stuck in just the right spot in its chest.

 

Master Sequiel’s fine figure stood framed by the carriage door.

 

Sequiel emerged from the carriage like a cockatrice from an ordinary chicken egg. The doorway became a very narrow proscenium arch, the man standing within was onstage.

 

When it came to appearance, there were basically two kinds of questers (as a quick glance around Town Square would tell you, since many questers were present) –  there were the scruffy “wild men”, who wore worn-out, mismatched articles of clothing, or animal skins. Then there were the “faux-royals”, who wore fine robes in radiant colors, studded with gold and jewels. Sequiel fit into neither category. His shirt, trousers and cape were silky, sleek and spotless. His only decorative adornments were two designy silver “Q’s” (standing for “quester”) on his cowl, and a third that acted as his belt buckle. He wore a cape that always seemed to be fluttering elegantly in the breeze, like the mane of a soaring Pegasus. Wavy raven hair that flowed down to his shoulders, and the goatee on his chin was meticulously trimmed.

It was clear to one and all in Town Square that Master Sequiel was just as full of excitement as they were. However, it was immediately apparent to the throng that his excitement had nothing to with them. In his mind, he was already on the quest. He was always on the quest.

 

Oh, but he could spare them at least a moment to stand there on his little pedestal with imposing poise, wearing a distant, quizzical expression on his face, the way magicals sometimes looked at him when they found he was observing them. Hopefully that would be enough for the townfolk to get by on until he returned with a bounty of tales from his latest quest.

 

It lasted just a few seconds, and then he trotted away. The carriage was now just another dingy carriage-for-hire.

 

******

 

Despite his restless need to keep moving, Sequiel was glad to see Quester’s Corners. It was so much more invigorated than the goodly Quintessentian villages he saw from his carriage window - all the same and always the same, time out of mind - except the odd one here and there depressingly charred and disheveled from a recent dragon attack. Even Paromdon, the ornate, bustling capitol, was currently wrapped up in political concerns that were no concern to him.

 

Unlike “old Paromdon-town,” Quester’s Corners had a thrown-together look - additions to the original town square buildings and entire new structures had been added hastily to capitialize on the influx of business. It reminded Sequiel of the way the physiologies of some magical creatures combined parts of different animals that shouldn’t go together, but did.

 

As he pushed through the crowd, to anyone who said, "Good day, Master Sequiel," he returned the greeting pleasantly, but quickly strode away before they could say any more.

“Offer you a drink, Master Sequiel?”

“No thank you,” he replied with a gracious nod of his head, without breaking stride.

 

“How 'bout a nice hot meal, Master Sequiel.”

“No, thank you.”

“Come up to my room later this evening, Master Sequiel. Free of charge.”

“No, thank you”

 

“Have a go at the dice, Master Sequiel? Your first bet’s on me. Why, with your luck…”

”Questing fulfills all my risk-taking needs, thanks.”

 

“How’d ya like some fresh gudleyroot, Master Sequiel? Attracts the pixies.”

 “No thanks, I pick my own.”

 

“Heard you captured three more unicorns since you were last here, sir. Care to tell us about it?”

“Soon as I come back this way, lad. On my way to meet a client, he’s waiting for me.”

 

Only one man looked incontrovertibly insistent enough to make Sequiel slow his stride and allow the man to walk beside him. In looks, he fell on the faux-royal side, but not as gaudy as some – his brown robes resembled those a young lord might wear when out hunting deer on his land.

 

"Ah, Quester…Brivald, isn’t it?” said Sequiel uncertainly, “Leader of the Quester’s Guild now, aren’t you?”

 

Brivald nodded.

 

“I'm on my way to meet a client," said Sequiel. “He’s waiting – “

"A client –“ Brivald interjected. “we all know it's that scoundrel Corpalot. Now what's the quest all about?"

"Confidential."

"Come off it, Sequiel. You love to talk about your work. Hell, it's all you ever talk about!"

"In this case, I don't know myself yet."

“Well…” Brivald lowered his voice. “I know something…”

 

Sequiel began listening more intently, as Brivald went on in a low whisper.

 

“There's been a rumor passing amongst the guild members. Supposedly, if this quest succeeds – and if you lead it, we know it will - it will mean the end of questing as we know it - possibly, the end of all questing. And we all know the Brigadionist Elders would love that."

 

"How exactly is one quest supposed to do that?"

"I don’t have details, but frankly, there are those of us who are concerned...who would prefer you hold off on this quest until we have a chance to investigate."

"This must have been quite a stirring rumor. Well, before you told me this, I might have considered holding off. But a quest to end all quests - literally - that's far too intriguing risk missing out on!"

 

Or wait for, Sequiel thought.

 

"Very well, Master Sequiel. Don't say I didn't warn you."

"Warn me of what? Come now, Brivald. Surely, if you know one thing about me for certain, it's that 'the end of all questing' is the last thing I would want."

 

"True, true..."

"There's bound to be something unique about this quest that inspired that rumor, though. I’ll tell you all what it is next time I’m in town. Well, good day!"

And with that, he dashed off down the dirt lane that led out of the town, his black cape flapping behind him.

 

As he had no permanent address, Corpalot's request for his services had reached him in the manner of most such requests - passed through the gossip grapevine that grew wildly all over Quintessentia.  Most often, Sequiel met clients in taverns (as it had been with Corpalot the first time), occasionally at their homes, but never before had he been asked to meet one behind an old barn. This promised to be a unique quest.

 

Perhaps this was why, as Sequiel stood waiting by the backside of a weathered wooden building, he found himself touching a small crystal ball, which hung in a pouch on his belt - something he would not ordinarily do in such a very bucolic, ordinary location.  Sequiel felt a familiar, but always thrilling, tingling sensation run into his hand, up his arm, and into his chest. He could feel his crystal drawing on a flow of energy from within the barn walls. This could mean only one thing:

 

"There are magical creatures in there!" he exclaimed to himself.

 

"Indeed," said Captain Corpalot, strolling up behind him. Sequiel could already tell that two years on dry land had not lessened the sailor's accent. 

 

Corpalot’s robes were so faux-royal, they were in a class of their own: a royal purple silk shirt, a long blood red coat with gold trim and buttons, a matching wide-brimmed hat with a long purple plume sticking out of it. On other men they would have looked silly – a jesterish parody - but they suited his robust, hearty physique and his attention-commanding demeanor.

 

Eschewing a proper greeting, Sequiel turned and immediately demanded, "And what are they doing in there?"

 

The barn admitted nothing unusual to the ordinary senses - the sharply banal smell of animal dung pervaded the air, and a cow's faint mooing was all that could be heard from within.

 

Sequiel looked fit to chew through the wooden wall like a rabid beaver in order see what was inside.

 

"You'll find out when the rest of Quintessentia does," replied Corpalot with calm finality. "But what I have to show you may be considered a preview. Come. Along the way, I'll swap ye a few tales of adventure on land for tales of adventure on sea..."

 

“How about tales of what you've been doing on land the past year?”

 

"That en’t adventure, man...it's business."

 

Corpalot led Sequiel into the edge of the woods, to a clearing where a small, ordinary-looking campsite had been set up-- a few plain tents arranged around a fair-sized campfire.

 

"I was expecting you’d lead me to a castle or a manor house," said Sequiel. "I am relieved."

 

Corpalot grinned his crooked, piratey grin.

 

As they rounded the fire, Sequiel saw that there was someone sitting by it: A short, frail-looking young man, a few years younger than Sequiel, with straight, straw like dirty-blonde hair that made it look as if a broom had been shoved down upon his head. His brown cap, vest and pants and his off-white shirt were plain, handmade and well-worn - a poor peasant's garb. He was softly struumming out a tune on a battered old lute - but stopped when he saw Corpalot and Sequiel approaching. He looked up at Sequiel, obviously wondering who he was.

 

Corpalot loves his surprises... thought Sequiel. Even I’m one of them.

 

"Ah, Mr. Hayne, I’m glad you found the campsite,” Corpalot said, wringing the lad’s hand. “Sequiel, I'd like you to meet Mr. Sondrew Hayne of Paromdon.”

 

"A musician," Sondrew quickly added, as he rose to greet Sequiel.

 

"Mr. Hayne, this is the legendary Master Sequiel,"

 

It was clear that Sondrew recognized the name; he shook Sequiel's hand and was not impolite, but Sequiel distinctly noticed Sondrew lacked the awe most Quintessentian lads would have clearly shown at meeting the most famous quester of all.

 

Perhaps he idolizes famous musicians instead, thought Sequiel, not minding the slight, merely making an observation to himself.

 

Foremost in his mind, however, was what Corpalot had said about a preview of what was inside that old barn. What is this lad a preview of? He wouldn't look out of place in a barn, but an ordinary barn - not one harboring magicals. He’s certainly not a quester. Perhaps he's a shapeshifter or a wizard in disguise?

 

Sequiel gently touched the crystal ball - there was a gryphon somewhere in the area - perhaps something to look for later on - but that was all.

 

“And where is --” Corpalot began.

 
“He’s on his way,” answered Sondrew swiftly.

 

“Ah, splendid,” the captain replied. “Would have thought you’d arrive together but...well, so long as it arrives tonight.”

 

Perhaps he’s a servant thought Sequiel. The servant of a quester who’s bringing something important.

 

Sequiel took a seat on the ground by the fire a few feet from Sondrew, but Corpalot remained standing, towering over them.

 

“Meanwhile,” said Sondrew, looking up at Corpalot “perhaps you could elaborate upon…”

 

"I sense your impatience, gentlemen,” he said. "Rest assured, all will be made clear when the others arrive."

 

This was directed with a particular sting at Sondrew – presumably regarding the absence of his master, as though it were the servant’s fault.

 

“In the meantime, Mr. Hayne…know any sea shanties?”

 

He's enjoying this, thought Sequiel with great annoyance, keeping us in the dark as long as he can, making us beg him for a few scraps of information.

 

At that moment, another man came into view, running towards the campsite. Sequiel stared at him, hungry to see the first of the "others," but as he came into the firelight, Sequiel realized he was just a messenger.

 

Corpalot waited for the messenger to come right up to him before snapping, "I told you not to interrupt me here unless it was an emergency!" He looked fit to make the poor lad walk the plank.   The messanger leaned in and whispered into Corpalot's ear.

 

"Sir...small emergency...factory..." was all that Sequiel caught.

 

"If you'll excuse me, shan't be a moment" said Corpalot to Sequiel and Sondrew, in his polite voice again. He paused, observing the apparent uneasiness between his two guests, and appearing satisfied, left with the messenger.

 

What the devil is a factory? thought Sequiel.

 

"You don't happen to know what we're doing here, or what this quest will be all about?" Sequiel asked Sondrew, once Corpalot was out of earshot.

 

"No," answered Sondrew. "So I'm guessing you don't either, then."

 

Sequiel shook his head.

“Who was Corpalot asking you about?”

“My musical partner.”

 

“Oh…I suppose you’re…just the evening’s entertainment?”

“Could be for all I know.”

 

They both dropped into silence for a few moments, then Sequiel asked, "So...you're from Paromdon?"

 

"The Zoho Bridge," said Sondrew. The Zoho Bridge was Paromdon's most famous Bohemian artistic district. "Actually, a crack in a pillar under the Zoho Bridge. You?"

 

"Master Sequiel's home is everywhere and nowhere."

 

"I see..."

 

A longer silence followed - one that threatened not to end until Corpalot returned or these mysterious "others" arrived. Sequiel focused on the fire, toying with the idea of looking around for that gryphon the crystal alerted him to, but not wanting to appear unprofessional or unfocused in case Corpalot returned.

 

Sondrew meanwhile resumed his gentle stream of lute music. 

 

Suddenly, there was some slight movement in the branches above them, but as the perceptive Sequiel glanced up to see what it was, Sondrew asked,

 

"Do you have a favorite song? I'll play it for you while we wait. One of the ones about your exploits, perhaps? I'll admit, they have written some pretty good ones."

 

"Don't suppose you'd know any Gryphonic songs?" asked Sequiel unhopefully, unsure why he even bothered, since no human bards ever did. ”You know…songs that gryphons sing…”

 

Sondrew looked at Sequiel with great scrutiny.

 

Perhaps he’s trying to decide whether or not I’m mad for even thinking that gryphons sing, Sequiel thought.

 

"A few," answered Sondrew at last, suddenly sounding very suddenly excited - how Sequiel had expected him to sound when they met. "But my partner knows them all."

 

He rose suddenly enough to startle the stalwart Sequiel and gestured towards the sky with his lute in a showmanlike manner.

 

"Pre-senting the the Taloned Talent, the Winged Singer, the Catbird Bard, the Aoelan Avian Feline, Mister Ballad Quill!"

 

As suddenly as Sondrew had risen, a creature dove towards them from above. A great "FWOOSH!" of wind swept through the campsite. It momentarily flared the fire and wound around it in a whirlwind, twisting it upwards like a unicorn's horn. Leaves fluttered through the air and pine needles fell like confetti. Behind him, Sequiel could feel the wind toying with his cape.

 

The source of the enchanted wind, however, impressed Sequiel far more.

 

A magnificent golden gryphon with a shaggy red mane landed gracefully in the midst of the maelstrom - wearing a brown cap and vest in the same style as Sondrew's.  Ballad nodded to Sequiel in greeting, folding his wings as he did so, and the wind died down at once.

 

It was instantly apparent to Sequiel that this gryphon - this "Ballad Quill" - was worthy of Sondrew's grandiose verbal fanfare.

 

Sondrew should have seemed even shorter and frailer standing next to a creature twice the size of an ordinary lion, yet he somehow stood taller and stronger since Ballad’s entrance.

 

"We're makin' this too easy on him, Sondrew," said the gryphon. "Master Sequiel! He shoulda had to try and find me, he should." While his voice danced between deep growls and high-pitched squawks, the only thing marring his Quintessentian pronunciation was a thick Zoho accent.

 

"Does he live...?" Sequiel began.

 

"Under the Zoho Bridge, in the heart of old Paromdon-town, with Sondrew!" exclaimed Ballad proudly, puffing out his chest and fanning his wings. "Have for almost two years."

 

"The panic you would cause!" Sequiel said with amusement, which quickly shifted to concern: "You must have to be in hiding most of the time!"

 

'Well, we do have to be careful," said Sondrew. "But there are a few places owned by fellow Bohemians that let us perform."

 

"Generally where the clientèle is too drunk to know whether or not I'm real."

 

"Once, I overheard someone say that the gryphon puppet was true-to-life, all right, but the human puppet needed some work." Sondrew chuckled.

 

"Anyhow, what I don't get to see - " He flexed his great gryphon ears. "- I can hear.  I can hear everything that goes on over our humble abode, every whisper - every accent - and, more importantly, eveery song. Ah, but I heard you had a hankerin' for one of the melodies from me wild childhood! How's 'Awk Roarrrrawk Rawwk Riik Riik' for you?"

 

"One of my favorites," said Sequiel. "This will be the first time I'll hear it when I'm not hiding behind a rock or a bush, watching from afar."

 

Ballad’s song was robust, inescapably powerful. It was as though Sequiel was being attacked with joy. The quester observed how skillfully the gryphon used his wings to further craft the sound after it had left his beak.

 

After a few bars of the song, Sondrew joined in with a traditional Quintessentian folk song, the lilting, lyrical “The Maiden of the Mountain”. The two songs, to Sequiel's surprise, went together like werewolves and their raven familiars.

 

A few moments later, Sequiel realized some change had occurred, but he was so entranced by the song, it took him a moment to realize what it was - Ballad had taken up the Quintessentian song, while Sondrew had switched to the gryphonic one.

 

Once the song had drawn to a close, Sequiel applauded exuberantly. Ballad made a sound that combined a purr and a coo, and Sondrew beamed.

 

"How did Corpalot manage to get such a pair of mysterious minstrels involved in this mysterious quest?" Sequiel asked.

 

"Well, we used to work for him -" Sondrew began.

 

"Slave for him, more like," said Ballad.

 

"- in his magic mill - factory, he calls it. It's how Ballad and I met. We escaped it together."

 

"So that's what's happening in that old barn!" exclaimed Sequiel triumphantly. “When the rest of Quintessentia finds out,’ my eye! Er - that’s what Corpalot said when I detected them in there…”

 

"Magic for Everyone!" Ballad crowed. "That's what he called it!"

 

"We didn't understand everything he was doing," Sondrew explained, "but I think he was trying to bottle the enchanted wind from Ballad's wings..."

 

Ballad flapped nervously once, like a spasm, and the fire and Sequiel's cape jumped.

 

"Of course," Sondrew went on, "he told us that if we joined this quest we wouldn’t be allowed to say anything about the factory to anyone."

 

"Whoops!" screeched Ballad exaggeratedly.

 

"Anyhow, we hadn't seen him since we escaped. Then all of a sudden one night he appears in Zoho, calling down to us from the edge of the bridge."

 

"Got me claws splayed, scarin' us like that, he did. Still don't know why I didn't just snatch Sondrew up and fly off afore he even started talkin'. Still don't know how he found us, niether."

 

"One of his kind, I imagine," said Sondrew, referring to Sequiel with a slight sting.

 

“We didn’t answer ‘im or nothin’, but I think he knew we were there. He just said to come to this spot on this day at this time of evening.”

 

"He must have promised you something amazing to get you to work for him after what he did to you," Sequiel commented.

 

"Beyond a few coins," said Sondrew, "only that if whatever he plans succeeds, it would mean that Ballad could perform in public - in broad daylight - without getting slain."

 

"Without someone tryin' to slay me, he means," Ballad added, “which I imagine would detract from the performance.”

 

"Quite a promise," said Sequiel.

 

"Indeed," said Sondrew on a sigh, "But he's the only one who's even promising it. What did he promise you, Sequiel?"

 

"Nothing in particular. My sizable fee, of course. But, the last time I was with him...I realize you have just shared a confidence with me, but still I must ask, can you keep a secret?"

 

"I am a secret," said Ballad.

 

"No, I didn't just see a huge singing gryphon walk down this street, sir," said Sondrew. "A gryphon in Old Paromdon-town, are you mad?"

 

Getting their drift, Sequiel continued, in a whisper.

 

"The last time I went on a quest with Corpalot...I saw the Dracophoenix of Legend. Second time I've seen him in my life."

 

Now it was Ballad and Sondrew's turn to be impressed. The Dracophoenix of Legend - half-dragon, half-phoenix - was known and feared by humans and magicals alike - even dragons - as the most powerful magical creature in the world. King Saequiel the First had prophesized all the way back at the Dawn of the First Age that the Dracophoenix would destroy the kingdom - and possibly the entire world - as soon as it reached maturity. Rumors of sightings had persisted for centuries, but nobody seemed to really know if the Dracophoenix truly existed or not. Master Sequiel however, Ballad and Sondrew realized, was not some random drunkard or madman who had wandered into the mountains one night and came back raving about the Apocalypse, but the land's foremost expert on magical creatures.

 

"I've no reason to think my seeing him had anything to do with Corpalot - he wasn't there the first time I saw the Dracophoenix, as a child - but I've searched high and low for the past two years and haven't come up with any leads."

 

“My mum used to sing me scary songs about the dracophoenix,” said Ballad, “Dunno if the whole thing’s true or not, but the songs’ll give you chills. I’ll sing some for you later.”

 

“I don’t doubt that you have reason, Sequiel,” Sondrew asked, “but why do you want to find the creature that might end the world?”

 

"Well, you had to be there, I suppose. Harbinger of the apocalypse or not, this creature was a singular curiosity - the magical to end all magicals.  Hopefully not literally, of course. Though I must say, seeing a gryphon and human in matching hats and vests give me a personal performance ranks a close second in my experiences."

 

As Sequiel’s tale came to a close, he ceded the floor to Ballad. Apparently saving the dracophoenix song for a darker moment, Ballad sang a song about the warmth and reassurance of living in a prideflock.

 

Meanwhile Sondrew emptied a flagon of cider into a pot and warmed it over the fire. He soon passed mugs of warm cider around.

 

A sense of camaraderie enveloped the group as they contentedly sipped their cider, their hunger for learning more about their mission momentarily sated by tasting one another’s confidences.

 

Sequiel spied a glint of light out of the corner of his eye. Turning to face it, he saw a pair of radiantly glowing jade orbs floating mysteriously in the darkness just beyond the firelight's reach- the eyes of a werewolf, Sequiel quickly realized. The eyes of a hunting werewolf.

 

The instant Sequiel realized the eyes were focused on him, the werewolf burst into view.

 

In three swift strides she was upon him, her clawed paw-hand gripping his throat and lifting him a few inches off the ground.

 

Her elegant emerald cloak settled around her lithe frame. Her face, which was covered with fine mahogany-colored fur, was lustrous in the firelight, framed by long, wavy auburn hair and the emerald hood of her cloak. The nostrils on her large, dark nose were flared. Her brilliant gaze seized him as tightly as the paw-hand around his neck.

 

Sequiel realized that she could easily have killed him while she was at it - but she hadn't.

 

"What is Corpalot -" she began, but then she spied Ballad bristling. Sharply, she turned to him, "Wings down and beak shut, gryffie, or the human dies -"

 

Ballad growled some words with his beak clamped firmly shut. His statement was unintelligible, but Sequiel could tell it was some colorful gryphonic insult towards the werewolf.

 

Returning her gripping gaze to Sequiel, "As I was saying, what is Corpalot playing at, Hunter Sequiel- inviting you here? He promised no hunters."

 

“Why don’t…you try this…very effective intimidation...on Corpalot himself?” Sequiel gasped. “I’d like to be there…when you do…and see what he says.”

 

“What he’s trying to say is that we don’t know any more than you do,” said Sondrew with timid determination.

 

“I know one thing, boy,” she said. “I know who Master Sequiel is, and that he’s not exactly a good omen for magical creatures, is he? Maybe you didn’t know that, gryffie, being all chummy with him the way you were.”

 

"He en’t done nothin' to me" said Ballad. "Didn't even see me comin'. Didn’t see you comin’, neither. I en’t even sure he is the real Master Sequiel. Maybe Corpalot's just after throwin' a scare into us."

 

Sequiel knew it was probably just a clever ruse, but his quester’s pride was a bit hurt anyway. He couldn’t help thinking, You didn’t hear her coming either, did you Mr. Magic Ears? However, he was more vehement in scolding himself for letting his guard down to the point where he hadn't noticed the werewolf's approach.

 

“We’re all just here to work for Captain Corpalot,” begged Sondrew.

 

“That’s just exactly why I don’t trust anyone here!”answered the werewolf.

 

Sondrew and Ballad's expressions suggested that they concurred.

 

“Well, maybe I'll just hold you 'til Corpalot shows up,” the werewolf said to Sequiel.

 

"I must warn you, my lady,” Sequiel said, his usually smooth voice beginning to crack, “much like your own kind, I do not take well to captivity. Not even for a few moments.” 

 

She sniggered derisively at this remark, but Sequiel looked directly into her supernaturally striking eyes. Though his eyes were an Earthly brown, a raging madness suddenly radiated out of them. He looked as if he might transform into a werewolf – or something – though no physical change took place.

 

The werewolf’s intense expression slackened in momentary fear – Which quickly became awe as she realized she had briefly been frightened by a mere human --  a human she held by the neck.

 

In the same instant, Sequiel pulled the drawstring from a pouch on his belt, releasing powdered wolfsbane.

 

Ballad flapped his wings once, sending forth a quick little breeze that blew the powder directly into her face.

 

The werewolf yowled in pain. Her grip on Sequiel’s neck loosened. She staggered back a few steps.

 

Sequiel seized upon the opportunity to spring out of her grasp, instinctively drawing his sword as he landed on his feet. 

 

Freedom had cleared away his moment of madness like a fresh breeze blowing away a stale smell. He always took a certain satisfaction in the “zing!” sound that was made as the sword was drawn, and this time was no exception.

 

The werewolf dropped to the ground, groaning.

 

Sequiel's blade glinted in the moonlight.

 

He strode toward her with resolve, bent down and pressed his sword firmly against her neck.

 

 “I have a few questions of my own, werewolf. It’s a full moon tonight, yet you’re in your half-moon form. How is that?”

 

“I guess I’m just special,” she said sneeringly.  “Does that make me more valuable to a hunter like you!?”

 

“You seem like a formidable alpha-type werewolf,” Sequiel continued. “Where's your pack? Where's your raven familiar?”

 

At this, she smacked away the sword by the flat of its blade with her thick paw-hand.

 

His sword fell to the hard-packed earth with a horrible clatter – the absolute opposite of his beloved “zing!” sound.

 

She leapt up agily and knocked him to the ground.

 

Fangs bared, she sniffed vigorously at the other pouches on his belt, checking to see if there was anything else that could harm her. He managed to get in a couple of angry jabs at her sensitive nose before she nipped him on the fist.

 

There was no mistaking it now – this was a battle. Sondrew and Ballad stared at the two combatants like children watching adults fight.

 

Sequiel shoved the werewolf away, and scrambled to retrieve his sword.

 

The werewolf grabbed a large stick off of the ground and swung it at Sequiel’s head. Sequiel parried it with the sword.

 

The sword and the stick clashed loudly as the werewolf fought Sequiel’s expert strikes with her strength and surprising skill.

 

“Corpalot couldn’t intimidate you,” Sequiel observed, as he parried a particularly vicious blow. “So he must have something you want.”

 

“He’s already given it to me.”

 

The werewolf batted forcefully at Sequiel’s legs.

 

“But whatever it is, he can take it away, can’t he? Can’t he?” Sequiel continued baiting her as he jumped high to avoid the blow.

 

The werewolf produced an item from the folds of her voluminous garment.

 

“What’s he give you, then? This pretty bauble?”

 

She held up his crystal. It glimmered in the firelight. She must have plucked it from its pouch while they were grappling on the ground.

 

“Give – it – back,” he demanded.

 

“Corpalot told me about this.  You use it to find my kind,”  She said bitterly, studying the crystal in her paw-hand with morbid fascination.

 

“Yes, using tools is something we humans do.”

 

“Fetch!” she commanded tauntingly, lobbing the crystal into the darkness.

 

Sequiel was torn between dashing after it and attacking her. The werewolf leaped upon him in his moment of indecision, which helped him make up his mind.

 

Once more, they fell to the ground struggling with one another.  Sequiel lunged at the werewolf with what would have been a severe blow, but she nimbly avoided his blade, then lunged forward to shove him  towards the fire – stopping short at the sound of a booming voice.

 

“Thought you two’d get it outta your system, but enough’s enough!”

 

It was Ballad. 

 

The gryphon strode with determination toward Sequiel and the werewolf. He now seemed an imposing figure, looking even larger than before with his wings spread wide.

 

The werewolf thrust a paw-hand into one of Sequiel's pouches and pulled out a handful of small blue spheres. She sprang up and took aim at Ballad. When Sequiel saw the fortitude and focus in her expression, a spark of recognition went off in his mind. She was indeed a special werewolf.

 

He remembered her.

 

But there was no time to dwell on that now. Sequiel dove inbetween the werewolf and the gryphon – an instant too late to block her attack. He landed with a thud on the hard forest floor.

 

Splat! The werewolf's aim was true. The wax-sealed spheres had burst on impact and now Ballad’s feathers and fur were drenched in a sticky indigo-colored substance – glomwood sap.

 

Ballad made the most horrible sound Sequiel had ever heard, before his voice lowered to a squeak and then dwindled to silence. Every magical creature had a weakness, and the sap of the glomwood tree was the gryphon’s. Not only is it simply dreadful to get out of feathers, its fumes cause an immediate loss of the gryphon’s most treasured asset - his voice.

 

“See what Hunter Sequiel had in store for you!” the werewolf cried to Ballad.

 

“What in blazes?” bellowed Corpalot, who had just come upon the scene. “Have you damaged the gryphon, Master Sequiel?”

 

The gryphon’s despair was palpable. Sondrew immediately burst into tears at the terrible appearance of his friend’s suffering.

 

The werewolf stared at the residue of glomwood sap on her paw-hand. Her expression seemed to say “What have I done?”

 

Seeing his opponent distracted, Sequiel dashed off in the direction his crystal had been thrown and began searching for it in earnest.

 

Corpalot could not believe his question had still not been answered. His face reddened with frustration and anger.

 

“Whatta slipshod crew...” he muttered.