***
The old warrior walked through the desert, in his dreams. His dream-self reflected his real self. Well over six foot in height, barrel-chested and clad in heavy scaled armour. The pelts of wild lions that he had slain himself, swathed him, and a shaggy white beard tumbled out of an embossed iron helm. A giant two-handed sword protruded from his back sheath.
But he hurt. Even in his dream there was a deep aching throb, a stab of pain just under his ribcage. The healers told him that it was some sort of malign growth, and though they had tried hard, they said it was incurable. And if they had cured it – so what? He was deep in his sixties, and old age grinned its rotten-toothed grin at him. There were few years left for Turgath, Lion of Krangar.
He had come to this place to die.
He’d walked for months along the coastline from Krangar, away from his adopted country, back to the land where his forefathers had carved their bloody glory against the forces of the Dark. He would see the place of legends, even though all told him it was just a desert. He would see it, and die there.
He had seen it.
An endless expanse of sandy desert studded with the ruins of old buildings and straggly grass, haunted by a low, droning wind. Only heat and dust waited for him here. There was one more place to visit. At the southernmost tip of this land was a tower. A tower his forefathers had helped erect, and the storehouse of their greatest secrets. The desolate land concealed in plain sight this secret place. Nobody went there. He had the location marked down on a scrap of parchment.
But it did not seem as though he would make it. The pain in his gut was overwhelming. He would die before reaching it. He would die a straw death, of old age, and not through battle. His forefathers would turn their backs on him. In his sleep he cried out. If only he could have one more battle, and die in it. One more dark champion to face. He groaned in his sleep.
Far above him, the two crescent moons seemed to blink in the night.
In the dream-desert before him, a figure grew steadily larger. It danced and pirouetted its way towards him. The sound of bells carried on the wind. It came right up to him. A jester in checked red and white attire, sewn with bells. Her face was oval, perfect … painted glistening red, with the eyes of a cat.
He drew his zweihander, the blade flashing. But the apparition laughed. “I mean you no harm, soldier. Put away the blade, old man.”
“I know you. You are the one they call Red-face the Jester. Destiny sends you to me, creature of chaos. I will cleave you from head to crotch.”
“No. I send me to you. You made a wish, in this place, on this night. And here I am to fulfil your every desire.” The jester smiled sweetly.
“My desire is to slay creatures of evil! Agrall na-thok!”
With a thunderous warcry, Turgath swung his blade through the Jester … and cut only air. The apparition was insubstantial.
“Are we done fooling about? Can we get to business?” she said, flicking a speck of dust off her shoulder.
“I make no deals with your ilk. Everybody knows not to.”
“You were wishing for one last battle. Why?” asked Jester, ignoring his abrasiveness. Turgath narrowed his eyes, perplexed. He could not hurt this phantasm. He lowered his great blade, wincing as he hurt inside.
“I cannot die a straw death, that is why. How will my ancestors know of my glory if I am barred from the halls of the berserkers, if I die not in battle?
“So what you truly seek is glory. Why?”
“Because … because if one’s name lives forever, then one lives forever. But what would you know? You are a woman.”
Jester gave him an ironic smile with her full lips, and twirled around. She was a man. Even Lord Harlequin’s body had changed in that instant. His lines spoke of heavy muscles under his garb.
“Better, now? If you really think appearance means that much.”
Turgath grunted. Half in pain, from his affliction, and half in approval.
“What if I supplied it? What if I ensured that your name would live forever? What if I sent you a true servant of darkness to deal with?”
“Your deals are tricks! Isn’t it true? We all know it.”
“Ah, you are so old, so wise. That is true. Indeed, the one I send to you has been tricked. He expects a harmless old guide, and certainly not Turgath, the Lion of Krangar.” Lord Harlequin barked out a loud, amused laugh.
Turgath licked his lips. “This Servant of the Dark … he is powerful?”
“Very much so. You will meet the end of your current existence at his hands. But … but you have the chance to end his, as well. I know what your sword Gorfin can do. I know …”
“How do you know this? What ARE you? Where did you come from? What do you want?”
Lord Harlequin did a backflip, and began to walk upwards on his hands. In the thin air. He grinned, upside down. “I cannot lie. I am a creature of chaos, pure and simple. I delight in trickery, the cleverer, the better. I don’t know where I came from, I have always been. Does that satisfy you?”
“Evil! A creature of evil!”
“I beg to differ. Chaos is the absence of order. It does not necessarily imply malice. It can also imply … opportunity. But, enough of the philosophy. Do you want glory? Eternity? The battle that you crave?”
Turgath had tears in his eyes. “Do not lie to me, creature. On the mightiest oaths of my forefathers,” he said, biting his tongue, allowing the dream-blood to flow, “with Words of Blood, if you play me false, my vengeance and the vengeance of my ancestors will destroy you.”
“Tch! What is there to play false? I tell you the truth – only the truth.”
“What must I do?” sighed the warrior.
“This is where you must go …” said Lord Harlequin, explaining.