The Adventures of Trik the Elf
The Monster of Endora

Trik rode into the village of Endora late in the evening of an autumn day. The road was lined with single-story timber buildings with straw-thatched roofs, and lanterns were pitched along it every fifty feet. A young woman with long brunette hair tied in a pony tail waited for Trik at the jail house, a large single-story building that was stone instead of timber. Trik dismounted there, hopping onto the dirt road.

The young woman stepped up to him. “Trik,” she said.

Trik nodded.

“I’ll take your horse,” she said, with a soft country accent.

Trik glanced at her eyes, catching her gaze. Her eyes were green, even in the dying light of the evening. He took his sword from his saddle and sheathed it in the scabbard that hung from his belt. He took the reins of his horse and handed them to her.

“My uncle is inside,” she said. “He’s waiting for you.”

Trik tipped his wide-brimmed hat to her, and then he made his way past her to the jail house.

Trik stepped inside a candle-lit room, his leather boots tapping on the hard stone floor. A middle-aged man with a mustache and shoulder-length gray hair sat behind a desk at the far end of the room. He was slouching in a chair with his arms crossed over his chest and with his leather boots resting on the desk. There was a wide-brimmed hat on the desk, lying on top of a bastard sword. “Evening, stranger,” he said, his voice a deep baritone.

“Sheriff Norris,” said Trik.

The sheriff nodded. He glanced at Trik’s hat, which cast a shadow over the elf’s eyes. “You ever take that thing off?” he asked.

“No,” said Trik.

“Suit yourself,” said the sheriff.

Trik turned to his left. There were three stone cells along the far wall lined with iron bars. Inside one of the cells was an old man sleeping on a pile of hay. He was lying on his back and snoring.

“My niece tells me you’re the best,” said the sheriff.

Trik turned toward the sheriff. His expression was firm.

“I suppose you’ve been informed about the problem,” said the sheriff.

“A monster,” said Trik.

The sheriff nodded. He reached into a drawer behind his desk and brought out a sack of coins. He dropped the sack on the table. “Four-thousand silvers, up front,” he said.

“You heard right,” said Trik, “I am the best.” He glanced at the sack of coins. “Four-thousand isn’t enough. I want five.”

“Five,” said the sheriff, his eyes widening. “Who told you to bargain with me?”

“I’ve come far,” said Trik, “but not too far to turn around.”

“Five,” said the sheriff, nodding. “Alright, stranger,” he said. “You’ll get it.”

“My name is Trik,” said Trik.

“Alright, Trik,” said the sheriff. He sat up in his chair. “You’ll get your money.”

“Tell me about your monster,” said Trik.

“He’s a man-eater,” said the sheriff. “He’s got arms like a bear, and skin as thick as these walls. I lost two good men in a fight with him this summer. Went into the forest one evening, and never came back.”

“Are you trying to scare me?” asked Trik.

“I’m just letting you know what you’re up against,” said the sheriff. “I don’t need another wannabe hero. I need someone who can get the job done.”

“I’m not afraid of monsters,” said Trik.

The sheriff nodded. “You talk a good game,” he said. “I hate to see another man lose his life.”

“Where is it?” asked Trik.

The sheriff cupped his hands on the desk. “Comes at night,” he said. “Disappears before anyone can catch a glimpse of him.”

“What’s he after?” asked Trik.

The sheriff looked down at his hands, and a pained expression fell over his face. “Young ones,” he said. He leaned back in his chair. “There ain’t a mother in this village who hasn’t feared for her child’s life.”

“Children,” said Trik. Shortly after he said this, there was a loud shriek behind him.

A village woman with a look of terror upon her face burst into the jail house. “My boy,” she screamed, staring at the sheriff. “That monster took him.”

The sheriff’s eyes widened and he got up from his desk. “Where?” he asked.

*

Trik and Sherrif Norris walked up a grassy hill behind the village. The sheriff was holding a lantern, which cast a cold light on their surroundings. The grass under his boots was wet. On top of the hill, he took a knee. There was something lying in the grass, a torn piece of cloth. He held it up for Trik. “Boy’s shirt,” he said.

Trik looked down at the torn piece of cloth in the sheriff’s hand. There was dried blood on the edge of the cloth. He glanced at the boy’s mother, who stood at the base of the hill.

The sheriff pointed at a footprint in mud. It was twice the length of a man’s foot, and there were six toes. Several other footprints led down the hill and into the dark forest beyond. “He’s gone,” he said.

Trik knelt beside the sheriff and pressed his hand into the warm mud. “This is fresh,” he said. “Less than an hour has passed.”

“The boy was young,” said the sheriff. His face contorted into an expression of grief.

“We must pursue him now,” said Trik, “while there is time.”

The sheriff glanced at Trik. “The boy is dead,” he said. “There’s nothing we can do.”

Trik stared at the outline of the footprint, his eyes tracing every groove of the impression. He scratched his chin with his index finger. He looked at the forest, his eyes penetrating deep into the shadows.

The sheriff got to his feet. “Come,” he said. “I’ll show you to your room.”

As Trik turned away from the forest, a black bird flew out of the trees and into the sky. Trik watched it dive past the moon, its winged silhouette casting a dark shadow over the heavenly body.

*

Trik lay on a hay-stuffed mattress at the village’s only inn. The morning sun had not yet risen, but already light peered through the open window on the second floor of the inn. In addition to the bed, the room contained a wicker chair, a wardrobe, and a wooden table with a brass cauldron on it. He rolled over on the bed, and placed his bare feet on the floor. The blanket fell off him, revealing his thin but athletic frame. His chest was bare, except for a dark trail of hair that ran vertically from his chest to his abdomen. He wore gray cloth underpants that extended nearly to his knees. His shaggy dark hair covered his ears.

The cool wind from the north swept into the room, furrowing the curtains that hung over the window. He stepped off the bed and up to the open window. The forest of Endora was framed in the window, a vast dark green mass that extended east, west, and north as far as the horizon. Here and there were dashes of red and orange, the first signs of autumn. As he watched from the window, the sun broke over the horizon in the east, giving the clouds a ruddy red glow.

There was a knock at his door. Trik looked over his shoulder. Again, someone knocked. He stepped up to the door, taking the knob in his hand. He turned the door handle slowly and opened the door.

Standing in the hallway of the inn was the same young woman he had encountered the night before outside the jail house. There was a yellow flower in her hair, and her eyes were bright green and lovely. Her cheeks reddened as she looked at the unclothed elf. “I’m sorry,” she said, casting a hand over her eyes.

“What do you need?” asked Trik.

“Um,” she said, not moving her hand, “Sheriff Norris asked me to fetch you. He said that your horse should be made ready. He waits for you at the jail house.” She lowered her hand such that one bright green eye peered over her petite fingers.

“That’s all?” said Trik.

“Yes,” she said, lowering her hand again. Her cheeks were still flush. “I’ll go,” she said, turning away.

“Hey, wait,” said Trik, as she walked away.

The young woman halted in the hallway and turned around. There was a smile on her lips that quickly faded. “Yes,” she said.

“What’s your name?” asked Trik, his blue-green eyes piercing hers in the dim hallway.

“Carina,” she said.

“Carina,” repeated Trik, softly. “Thank you.”

She smiled and nodded at him, her cheeks flushing once again. She stepped back, shyly. “Okay, bye,” she said.

He nodded at her before stepping back into his room and shutting the door. He looked at the window. The sky was now quite red, and cloudier than before. He glanced at the cauldron of water on the wooden table. There was a towel next to it. He walked up to the cauldron, taking the towel from the table. He lowered his head into the cauldron and splashed water over his face.

*

Sheriff Norris was mounted on a powerful black destrier in front of the jail house. He was wearing a leather corsair over padded armor. There was a bow in a leather carrier on the right side of the sheriff’s saddle. Beside the sheriff’s horse was Trik’s brown stallion. It had been saddled and laden with saddlebags. “I had Carina pack our rations,” said the sheriff.

“How thoughtful,” said Trik.

“I have heard you are a skilled swordsman and a skilled archer,” said the sheriff.

Trik stepped up to his horse. He grasped the horn of the saddle with his right hand and quickly mounted it. “I have been practicing since I was a child,” he said, taking the reins.

The sheriff smiled and rode forward on his black destrier. Trik slapped his reins and took off after him. They rode to the grassy hill behind the village. The footprints had been worn by rain and wind, but they were still visible. The sheriff and Trik followed the footprints to the edge of the forest. There beneath the eaves of the trees the sheriff halted, and Trik halted beside him.

The sheriff held out his right hand and pointed. “Here is where the monster fled,” he said. “See how the leaves and branches part.”

Trik’s eyes pierced the half-light of the forest. There was a path of flattened undergrowth, over which some broken twigs lay. “I see a path,” he said.

“The last time I pursued that path,” said the sheriff, “I lost a deputy.”

“Would you like to go back?” asked Trik.

The sheriff eyed him. “You’re testing me,” he said.

“Not at all,” said Trik, slapping his reins and riding into the woods. The sheriff followed him at a short distance.

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The broadleaf trees of the forest closed in around them as they wandered deeper into the woods. The towering trunks of the coastal greenwood trees were as large as the small cottages of Endora. The path snaked into the woods, over hills, under branches, and past springs of trickling water. As the sun climbed over the trees, they halted near one of the springs to let the horses drink.

Trik and the sheriff were standing beside their mounts. There was a patchwork of limestone before them, upon which grew hardy small trees with gnarled roots. Here and there popping up from the naked limestone were brightly colored toadstool mushrooms.

“You see there,” said the sheriff, pointing at a cluster of spotted red toadstools, “mushrooms.” He plucked three large toadstools from the rock and held them in his hand.

Trik’s eyes narrowed on the spotted toadstools. “Fairy stools,” he said.

The sheriff let the toadstools drop from his hand onto the limestone beneath his feet. He brushed his hands together, removing the grime and dirt from the toadstools. He walked down to his horse, and took something out of the saddlebag. “Are you hungry, yet?” he asked, holding out a strip of salted beef.

Trik was still looking at the toadstools on the ground. They were glowing with a faint golden light that arose from the spotted red cap. He picked up a toadstool from the ground and bit a piece off it.

“Don’t,” shouted the sheriff, rushing up to Trik. “It’s poison.”

Trik spit the bit of mushroom onto the ground. “I know,” he said.

“Then why did you put the thing in your mouth?” asked the sheriff.

Trik looked down at the mushroom on the ground. “A large dose is poisonous,” he said, “but a smaller dose can be safely consumed.”

“But you spit it out,” said the sheriff.

“I did,” said Trik, “because it is not an ordinary toadstool.”

“What do you mean?” asked the sheriff.

“I mean,” said Trik, looking about them, “these toadstools are fresh. They sprouted here only this morning, which means there was magic here.”

The sheriff glanced about. “I see nothing,” he said.

Trik glanced at the sheriff, out of the corner of his eye. “Come,” he said, and strode back to his horse. He grasped the horn of his saddle and mounted up. He looked down at the sheriff. “I think I may know who is responsible for these crimes.”

The sheriff’s eyes narrowed on him. “By all means,” he said, “enlighten me.”

“Not here,” said Trik, his voice unsteady. “Not in this place.”

*

They rode deep into the woods on a trail marked by toadstools. All about them were the sounds of the forest, the snapping of a branch as a squirrel scurried across it, the squawk of a bird in the branches high above their heads, the rustle of leaves from a rabbit in the underbrush.

The sheriff looked over at Trik. “Will you tell me now?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Trik. “His name is Gronn. Long ago, before the elves departed for the Far Shores, he dwelled in these woods. Perhaps he has always dwelled here.”

The sheriff eyed him. “You know a lot for a bounty hunter from the city,” he said. “Who is this monster? And why does your voice shake when you speak of him?”

“He’s an old foe,” said Trik.

“Now I’ve heard everything,” said the sheriff.

“Many years ago,” said Trik, “we fought in these woods.” Trik’s eyes narrowed on a patch of dense trees in the distance, and he clutched the reins tightly in his hands. “He spared me then.”

The sheriff’s eyes widened. “Spared you?” he said.

“Yes,” said Trik.

“How long ago?” asked the sheriff.

“When I was young and brave,” said Trik. “I was foolish and brave—too brave.” He pointed at the dense woods ahead. “I fought him here. We clashed for days without rest or food. On the last day, Gronn got the better part of the fight. He held me down. His foot was on my throat. He would have killed me then. He should have killed me.”

“He spared you,” said the sheriff.

“I wanted to die,” said Trik. “He knew this better than anyone, even me. He spared me, so I would live with the disgrace of losing.”

“The more you talk about this monster,” said the sheriff, “the more he sounds like a man.”

Trik turned to the sheriff, his blue-green eyes glowing in the half-light. “He is both,” said Trik.

“Both,” said the sheriff, with a questioning look.

“Yes,” said Trik. “Both.”

*

As the light began to fail, they stopped in a glade with a little pond at its center. They left the horses to graze by the pond as they prepared the camp for the night. The sheriff had brought a tent with supplies, and materials to start a fire. It was not long before they had gathered enough firewood to keep a fire going.

Overhead, the stars twinkled in a dark blue sky. The smoke from the fire swirled above the glade into the night sky. There was a pot of rabbit stew over the flames. The sheriff had shot the rabbit, skinned it, and prepared it while Trik had raised the tent.

The sheriff removed the pot of rabbit stew from the flames and used a large metal spoon to dish out a bowl for himself. He dished out a second bowl for Trik. “Tell me about yourself,” he said, as he handed the second bowl to Trik.

“What do you want to know?” asked Trik. He took a bite of stew.

“When I hired you in Rule,” said the sheriff, “you called yourself a bounty hunter. You have seen much, yet you are so young.”

“I seem young,” said Trik, before taking another bite of stew.

“You’re not a city-slicker,” said the sheriff. “You know these woods too well.”

“I have learned,” said Trik.

“I have lived near these woods my whole life,” said the sheriff, “yet I have never heard of these fairy stools. You must be a ranger, or I am a fool.”

“You are not a fool,” said Trik.

The sheriff ate his stew, eyeing Trik. When he was finished, he placed the wooden bowl with the spoon in it on the ground near the tent. “I believe you are hiding something,” he said. “But it’s not my place to judge a man for what he won’t say, only what he won’t do.”

Trik placed his empty bowl by the tent. “When we find this monster,” said Trik, “I’ll do my part. You have my word.”

The two crept into the tent and set up their sleeping bags for the night. As the night grew cool, they crawled into their sleeping bags. The sheriff fell asleep without trouble, but Trik remained awake for hours before closing his eyes and allowing sleep to take him.

*

“Trikodemos,” whispered a voice so quietly that it may have been the wind.

Trik’s eyelids peeled open. He was lying in the tent, with the tent flap open to the starry night and the moon above the glade. Moonlight and starlight shined down on the glade, and a cool breeze washed over the grass. A shadow was passing over the glade, darker than any natural shadow.

Trik slid out of his covers. He wore a light shirt and trousers, which hung tight on his thin athletic frame. As he peered out of the tent into the glade, he saw the shadow passing over it, and a voice as quiet as a breeze whispered, “Trikodemos.”

Trik took his silver elven sword from his bag, clutched its hilt in his hand, and got to his feet outside the tent. He looked at the path the shadow had taken across the glade. It had passed over the horses.

The horses, two dark shapes, lay on their sides near the pond. Trik rushed across the glade toward them. As he got near, he realized they were not sleeping, but dead. Both beasts had been strangled. Their eyes were open and bloodshot, and they had bruising about their necks. He knelt at the side of his horse, and placed his hand on the beast’s forehead. A tear crawled down his cheek.

From somewhere in the woods emerged the sound of a quiet laughter, like a gentle rain.

Trik clutched the hilt of his sword tightly and glared into the deep woods. “Gronn,” he shouted.

*

The sheriff awoke just before sunrise. Trik had already gathered many things from the tent and put them in a bag he had taken from his horse. He continued packing as the sheriff sat up in his sleeping bag.

“I’ve slept too late,” said the sheriff, looking up at Trik.

Trik shook his head, but did not look at the sheriff. He moved around him and grabbed his short bow from his sleeping bag. He strapped it to his leather bag. He had left the other leather bag outside the tent. It was already filled with supplies that had been taken from the destrier’s saddlebags.

“What’s the matter?” asked the sheriff.

Trik stuffed the last few supplies into his leather bag and dropped it outside the tent with the other bag.

“We must tend to the horses,” said the sheriff. He got to his feet inside the tent.

Trik looked back at the sheriff from outside the tent. “The horses are dead,” he said. He walked up to the fire pit and took a strip of salted mutton from a warm rock. He placed it in his mouth and began to chew it.

“Dead?” said the sheriff, as he put on his tunic. He dressed in his padded armor and strapped his leather corsair over it. He placed his broadsword in his scabbard.

“Afraid so,” said Trik. He tied up his leather bag with leather straps.

“What happened?” asked the sheriff, as he stepped outside. “What did I miss?”

“Gronn,” said Trik, again not looking at the sheriff. He tossed his leather bag over his shoulders and tightened its straps.

“Gronn,” whispered the sheriff. “He was here?”

“Yes,” said Trik.

“Where are the horses?” asked the sheriff, his eyes widening.

Trik pointed at the pond, where the bodies of the two beasts lay in the grass. The sheriff walked down from their camp to the pond. He stayed at the pond for several minutes, while Trik took down their tent and covered the fire pit with dirt and rocks. When the sheriff walked back to him, his face was sullen. “Damn son of a bitch,” said the sheriff. “That horse belonged to my father.”

Trik grasped the straps of his bag. “I’m ready to go,” he said.

The sheriff stared at Trik for a moment before answering. “If you turned around now, nobody would blame you,” he said.

Trik shook his head. “I would,” he said.

“Well,” said the sheriff, “I ain’t quitting either.” The sheriff knelt at the side of the heavy leather bag on the ground. He took it and heaved it onto his back. “Did you see him do it?” asked the sheriff.

Trik shook his head.

“Then how do you know it was him?” asked the sheriff.

“I know,” said Trik. He turned away from the sheriff and began walking toward the woods.

The sheriff followed Trik, a few paces behind him, carrying his heavy leather bag on his shoulders. As they stepped into the woods, the sheriff looked back at the glade. The sun had broken over the trees, and the pond was calm. Two dark shapes lay still on the ground near the pond.

*

Trik halted and took a knee. He was deep in the woods with his heavy leather bag strapped to his back. The sheriff halted beside him. They were on a trail, half covered by grass and half by naked limestone. Trik picked up a red toadstool from the forest floor and held it up to the light.

“It’s fresh,” said Trik. “He’s been here.”

The sheriff glanced at the mushroom, and his brow furrowed. “And this monster,” said the sheriff, “he is magic?”

“He was born of magic,” said Trik. “As time has passed, he has become less magic and more beast.” He looked at the forest. The trail slanted down before them and continued for some way. He dropped the mushroom on the ground and stepped forward.

“What do you see?” asked the sheriff, following Trik down the trail.

Trik halted suddenly, and the sheriff halted beside him. He stood at the edge of a large bowl-shaped depression in the ground. Trees grew there, with their gnarled roots exposed in the limestone. “Do you feel that draft?” asked Trik. He held out his hand, palm open to the breeze. “There’s a cave.”

The sheriff leaned over the gaping depression. Somewhere far below in the shadows was a little stream flowing in a rocky bed. Toadstools sprang up everywhere around the stream. “It must be at least two hundred feet deep,” said the sheriff. “We’ll never get down this way.”

Trik walked around the perimeter of the depression on the limestone ledge. He stopped again, not forty paces from the sheriff, a quarter of the way around the perimeter of the depression. A trail began there that continued down, switching back and forth, until it reached the bottom of the depression. The trail was partially concealed by brush and branches, but in the sandy parts were large footprints. “There’s a trail,” he said, looking at the footprints.

The sheriff walked around the perimeter of the depression and halted beside Trik. “Footprints,” he said, staring at the six-toed prints in the dirt.

“He’s down there,” said Trik.

The sheriff looked.

Trik faced him, his eyes gleaming. “Gronn,” he said.

“You sure?” asked the sheriff.

“Yes,” said Trik. He stepped onto the trail and followed it down into the depression, switching back and forth twenty times, before reaching the bottom. As he descended, the air grew cool and moist, and the draft from the cave’s mouth washed over him. The sheriff followed him at a distance.

“There’s a foul smell,” said the sheriff, as they approached the bottom of the depression.

The cave’s limestone mouth gaped wide before them. It was twenty feet high and its walls were thirty feet apart. The stream gushed out of its blackness. Trik peered into the cave. “It is too dark,” he said, “even for my eyes.”

“I’ll light a candle,” said the sheriff. He dropped his bag on the ground. He took a candle from it and lit the wick with a flint.

Trik drew his silver sword from his scabbard. He marched down to the cave’s mouth. The sheriff joined him there, holding the candle in one hand and his bastard sword in the other. “This is it,” he said. “Are you sure you’re ready?”

“Yes,” said Trik. He stepped into the darkness.

The sheriff followed him.

They had not gotten far when there was suddenly a great foul wind emerging from the somewhere deep within the cave, and the grumble of an old voice. “Trikodemos,” it moaned.

The candle flame flickered. “He’s here,” whispered the sheriff.

Trik nodded. He tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword, and continued into the dark.

“Trikodemos,” moaned the same deep and distant voice. “What are you doing?”

Trik and the sheriff halted. The sheriff held the candle out before them. In the darkness, the light from the candle filled the cave, and cast their shadows on the limestone walls.

“Gronn,” said Trikodemos, staring into the darkness beyond the light of the candle flame. “Show yourself.”

“You’re not ready,” said Gronn. “You know it in your heart.”

The sheriff glanced back at Trik. His eyes were wide with fear, and the candle was shaking in his hand.

“I’m not afraid of you,” said Trik, his palms damp with sweat as he clenched his sword’s hilt. “You are nothing but a coward who preys on children and animals.”

There was a deep laugher that echoed against the walls of the cave. A great stinking wind swept out from some dark place and roared past them. The candle flame flickered, and then went out altogether, and left them in darkness.

“Run,” shouted Trik to the sheriff.

Trik turned to the mouth of the cave, a light which now seemed distant and dim. As he turned back to the sheriff, he saw before him two small red eyes inside a mottled gray face. The nostrils of the monster flared, as it bared its long white fangs. Its tongue lashed out of its mouth, slapping the elf’s face. Trik raised his sword, but already he was flying through the air.

Trik lay against the wall of the cave, with the only the dim light from the distant entrance on him. He could not see his sword, nor could he see the sheriff. “Norris,” he cried.

“He’s dead,” said Gronn.

There was a crack of bone, and a spray of blood that struck Trik like a gentle rain. Trik got to his feet. He sprinted toward the mouth of the cave. As he rushed out into the light of day, he heard behind him laughter. His tunic was soaked with warm blood, the sheriff’s blood. He rushed to his leather bag and pulled the short bow and the quiver of arrows from it. He aimed the bow at the cave, and shot nine arrows into the darkness.

“You missed me,” said the voice from the cave.

Trik reached into the quiver and pulled from it the last arrow. He held up the bow, standing before the cave. He peered in the darkness, a darkness that not even his elf eyes could pierce. “Coward,” shouted Trik.

“Come and get me,” said Gronn.

“No,” said Trik, stretching the bowstring. “This time you will come to me.”

There was a stomping sound and a great rush of air, as something huge and hideous burst from the cave into the light. Gronn, hunched over as he was, stood still twice Trik’s height, a huge gray troll with red eyes and sharp teeth. Trik loosed the arrow.

The troll gave a great cry as the arrow pierced him between the eyes. He stumbled backward, and fell into the limestone stream emerging from the cave. Water splashed about him.

Trik glanced into the cave, which was now filled with daylight. The darkness of the troll’s magic was gone. He turned to the great mound of gray flesh before him. The troll lay on his back in the stream, and black blood oozed from the arrow wound in his forehead.

*

Trik stepped out of the forest with the leather bag over his shoulders. He wore his sword on his belt. It was late evening, and the sun was going down behind him. Before him was the village of Endora, its roadside lanterns glowing dimly in the dark. He marched to the jail house.

Carina sat on the stoop of the jail house beneath a lantern. “Trik,” she said, looking up at him. “Where have you been? I thought you were dead.”

His legs trembled as he walked toward her with the heavy bag on his back. He dropped the leather bag on the ground beside him.

She looked behind him. “Where is my uncle?” she asked.

Trik reached into the leather bag and drew from it the sheriff’s bastard sword. There was dried blood on the handle. “I’m sorry,” said Trik. “He didn’t make it.”

Carina’s eyes became moist with tears. “Oh, no,” she cried. “No, no.”

“He was a good man,” said Trik, carrying the sword to her.

“That monster?” said Carina, her eyes still wide.

Trik lay the sword beside her. “Is dead,” he said. “He will never again harm a child in this village.”

Carina’s body was trembling, and there were tears on her cheeks.

“Your uncle was brave,” said Trik. He put his hand on her shoulder. “You should go inside.” He turned away from her, and started walking down the street.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

He looked back at her. “To get a horse,” he said.

She got up from the stoop of the building. “I have a horse,” she said.

“Yeah,” said Trik, halting. “How much for it?”

She walked up to him. “My uncle promised you payment for slaying the monster,” she said. “You’ll have it.” She looked into his eyes. “Just promise me one thing.”

“What is that?” asked Trik.

“That you will stay for my uncle’s funeral,” she said.

He looked at her tearful eyes with his tired eyes. He smiled softly and nodded. “Alright,” he said. “I’ll stay.”

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