Chapter One.

Author's note: This story as yet has no title, but it does have a beginning, and it will have an end. Enjoy.

Shreel sat on the peninsula of Shren. An unassuming village, it was hemmed in by cliffs and plains. Several miles south lay the river. No one had ever bothered to name the river; there was only one, why bother? From the north, Kremlin, mountains flowed out in to a glorious, rolling grassy plain. East of Shreel were the famous cliffs. The land abruptly stopped, falling hundreds of feet straight down to the ocean's blue bosom. A particularly hardy, and industrious, sort of bird had made it's home upon these sheer walls of stone.

Lord Buncombe, ruler of Shreel, was not a smart man. He had met a few, but it never seemed to make him any brighter. Buncombe, Lord was his first name, was a happy man, however dumb he might have been. He was also a shrewd man, often a vicious man and an on the rarest of occasions a wise man. Shreel was not an bucolic place to live, nor was it a hellish endeavor. Lord Buncombe, for all his wrongs, was improving the place. On advice from one of the smart men he'd met (the same who told him to use his first name at any occasion), he talked the town's farmers in to selling their surplus grains. The farmers made some extra scratch, and Buncombe's brewery was the finest in all of Shreel. With a source of beverage, Lord Buncombe created a consistent income for himself. If the crops were particularly good, he would pay the town merchant, there was only one, to take some excess beer to Plantain, or Divianas. This was not a frequent occurrence.

Waylon, a youth of few years, made his rounds of Shreel. The boy, with brown hair, proudly marched across the town square to Harlin's cart. Before the merchant saw him, Waylon produced from his small satchel two fish and a dull lump of metal. “Harlin! Harlin! I've come to barter!” the youngster squeaked.

From the ornate cart descended a wry, short man. He smiled gregariously, his smile always set Waylon at east, and extended his hand. A surprisingly deep voice left his lips, “Well lets see what you've brought me, boy.” The child handed over the fish, which really were quite nice, and the odd lump of metal. “Oh my! These are excellent fish! Have you been scaling the cliffs again?” The boy nodded with a bold smile. “I could give you a full gold coin for these two lovelies! But what is this? I've never seen anything quite like it before.”

Waylon's eyes nearly bulged out of his head at the mention of a full gold coin. He didn't care in the least what the metal bit was! “I have no idea. I found it in a birds nest. Perhaps it is a locket? I didn't have time to look at it. Those flying meanies were really upset today!” The older man smiled.

“I'll have to figure it out and pay you for it later. In the mean time, here is one whole, solid gold coin, just for you!” The merchant set the fish on a crate and reached in to the coin purse tied to his waist. Again, the boy's eyes barely stayed in his head. “And by the way, I have something else for you, dear boy.” From the same crate the fish laid upon, the brashly clad merchant pulled a large knife. He drew the weapon swiftly, swinging it over his hand, grasping the blade and presenting the ornate hilt to the boy. “That should teach those feathered beasts who gets the fish!” After the speechless boy inspected the blade, Harlin squatted and drew close to the boy. “Because you're my favorite client here, I'll cut you a deal. If you give me two more of those fish in your bag, I'll let you have the knife.” He spoke softly and smiled.

The boy frowned, he turned his back to the merchant and opened his satchel. He counted three fish. His tiny mind began to race with possibilities of eating whole birds, not just fish. His mother's words echoed through his head, “Don't you come back here with less than three fish again Waylon!” Even as a memory she was screaming. The boy plucked the smaller two fish and turned to Harlin, presenting his trophies with flee.

“And that, my boy, is why you're the best!” said the older man as he took possession of the meat. He patted the younger boy on the head, “Now you run along! Your sweet mother is surely worried about you!”

“HARLIN!” A gravelly voice bellowed across the square. Boot steps echoed from the wooden walls, and the merchant's cheerful disposition instantly crumbled. Merely the sight of Lord Buncombe's rotund figure, with the sunlight glinting from his bald, sweaty forehead, repulsed Harlin. The fat man waddled awkwardly to the small merchants cart. Buncombe, towering over the trader, snatched the odd lump of metal from the lithe man's hand. “Ah! You're too kind my boy! I expected a handsome reward for my beer, but a nugget of gold, that is just too much!” A mock smile graced the bulbous cheeks of the despot.

The smaller man, clad in a red shirt, clawed at Buncombe's hand. “I just acquired that, you pompous ass!” he snarled. A great belly laugh rung Harlin's ears. Buncombe's huge hand, still clasping the strange metal bit, swung through the merchants head, flooring the tiny man.

“Be glad I'll take your sorry trinkets as payment!” Buncombe's voice was all but friendly. He turned and began to walk across the square to his brewery. Bells rang out. Instantly, every eye in the square turned to the central guard tower, anxious. People filed out of buildings, crowding the small square. None knew what to expect, the bells never rang. Buncombe grumbled a curse, and started waddling towards the road. He felt compelled to greet every guest of his fair city. He stuffed the trinket in to a trouser pocket. He coughed, cleared his throat and made sure he was ready to speak clearly to this unknown person. As he rounded the last building, he could see across the golden fields a horse and rider, galloping full gait towards Shreel.

The fat man had neither great vision, nor was he blind. Slowly the approaching pair gained detail and color. Buncombe marveled at the black pelt of the horse. As the beast neared, he would have sworn it was carved from solid obsidian. Again, a smile graced his swollen, fat jowls. The beautiful creature galloped onward, closing the great distance incredibly fast. “What a marvelous horse this man has! Such speed! Such grace and elegance!” Buncombe whispered to no one in particular. In a breath the animal was upon him.

“Give me the Trinket of the Damned, for all that is good and holy! Now, damn you!” shrieked the rider. The rider was a man built of Harlin's ilk, he was short and emaciated. His wild blue eyes were set in great dark sockets. Before Buncombe could respond, the tiny man's hand was clasping his throat. Again, he screamed “Give me the Trinket! Give me the Trinket!” Lord Buncombe tried to free his throat, but the small man had a vice grip on the fat man's windpipe. The diminutive fist tightened. The horse snorted and shook its head. “Quickly! Quickly! We must have it! Give me the Trinket of the Damned! Live depend on us recovering this artifact!” The riders eyes were bulging, lit with insanity and framed by the fires of hell. His lips quivered, and his eyelids opened and shut a hundred times between words.

Lord Buncombe, for the first time in his life couldn't speak. The hand grasping his neck was crushing his larynx. Blood pooled in the bulbous cheeks, his own eyes pushing their boundaries. He swatted at the wrist. Swinging his giant hands wildly, Buncombe tried anything to liberate his airway. The town looked on, all were paralyzed with terror. After what seemed an eternity, the rider yelled a hellish shriek. His hand fell loose from the town's leader, who promptly fell to his knees. In that same instant the horse bucked the demure man, flailing its hooves outwards. Buncombe's fat jaw caught the horses hooves. The rotund man pitched backwards, an arc of blood echoing his flight. The soil rumbled when his carcass returned. His last oratory was a dull splat.

The horse no longer looked a prime specimen. The beast's black hair grayed before the audience. The healthy muscles shrank. In an instant the horse aged years. With a pitiful groan, the mare collapsed. The rider struggled to crawl to the body of Lord Buncombe. He tried to clean the pockets of the former politician. Unfortunately, the brewer was too fat, the tiny man couldn't move the body to get to his possessions. He shrieked again, pulling desperately on Buncombe's shirt. He mustered his strength, and jerked the carcass. His hand loosed from his body. The appendage was a horrible greenish hue.

Waylon and Harlin watched the scene, filled with absolute terror. The man who had ridden so furiously on the horse was decomposing before their very eyes. His small body pitched forward across the fat man. Waylon blinked. As he reopened his eyes, there was only dust, floating across the sweet afternoon breeze. Rider and horse were gone, the only sign they'd even been was Buncombe's body laying in a puddle of his own blood.