It was a terrible plight, Dermanassian thought, to be alone in the world. To be the last of a race once the envy of all civilizations, now lost to mass insanity and death.

The residents of Bullfrog stared as he dipped his spoon into his crockery bowl. "Freak," someone snickered.

Dermanassian moved his angular face deeper into the shadows of his hood.

Perhaps leaving the east had been a mistake. But although they were cousins of sorts, the eastern elves were a mediocre substitute for his own kind. It was his awkwardness with them, as much as desire to see the world and test himself against it, that had driven him to wander the land at the threshold of adulthood.

Ending up in this swampland inn at the beginning of storm season was a bit of poor planning and bad luck.

The town of Bullfrog was, by local standards, a major trading hub. To him, it was a stinking settlement on a patch of drained bog, which might have been more pleasant left under water. Yet he needed rest and supplies, and so he ventured into Bullfrog one morning hoping for both. He planned to be on his way as dawn burned off the morning fog. Instead, he had been trapped in the fens by a sudden storm. Now, he sat in damp clothes eating his second dinner of pungent stew. The rain lashed through the trees outside; rising waters swirled among the stilt supports of the inn and the thin trees dotting the fens.

The people of Bullfrog were over-protective of their marsh, though it was suitable only for ranching their bizarre livestock - giant rodents with a lingering, musky flavor symbolic of the place itself. The folk made it clear they did not like outsiders; they rarely spoke to him, which he thought was just as well. Yet they spoke about him, in overly loud voices meant to ensure he would hear their taunts and insults. The innkeeper pointedly instructed him to destroy his dishes in the fire when his meals were finished, so as not to contaminate the good folk of Bullfrog. And, of course, to compensate the innkeeper for his losses, Dermanassian was charged twice the rate. The youth noted the innkeeper had no such queasiness when handling his coins.

Their treatment of Dermanassian was new to him only in its extreme. His race had been gone for thirty-some years - long enough for one generation of humanity to depart and another to be born and mature. It was sometime during this revolution of time that the reputation of his race had changed. Where once he might have traveled surrounded by luxury, respect, and kinsfolk, he now crouched in the corner of a run-down inn, slumping his shoulders to minimize his height as if the citizens of Bullfrog might miraculously forget that he was in the room.

His meal finished, Dermanassian stood. He gathered his dishes to take with him to his room, for he had no desire to reward the innkeeper's malicious avarice with additional coin.

"Like diseased rats, they were," a man spat as Dermanassian reached the door.

His hand hesitated on the latch, but he did not need to turn to know who spoke. It was, inevitably, Roca, who loudly insulted him and his race whenever he was present and probably even when he was not. Roca, with brown curling hair that hung in ringlets wet with rain and grime. With yellow pants torn on the left leg so that his scuffed knee poked through as he lounged in his chair. With the ceramic tankard that never emptied no matter how much he consumed. With the chipped tooth that glinted when he guffawed at his own jokes until Dermanassian found himself imagining his fist landing squarely in the man's jaw.

"Ach! No doubt they deserved it."

Dermanassian heard Roca spit into the fire. His knuckles whitening, he opened the latch and stepped into the rain. He took care not to slam the door behind him; he certainly would be charged for any imagined damage.

Unprotected by the inn's wooden frame, he was lashed by the wind. His cloak billowed around his legs. Instantly, his pants were soaked through, undoing what little service the inn's hearth had performed toward drying his clothes. His black hair whipped about his face and he wiped it absently away. The moment he finished the gesture, more hair broke free of his braid. He sighed; it was futile to strive for any comfort in this bleak place.

His room, or hut as he thought of it, was the farthest in a series of such one-room structures. Its thatch roof offered minimal protection against the wind and storm so that Dermanassian found himself existing in a perpetual dampness filled with the howling of wind forcing its way into the gaps between the slat boards. He would be happy when this storm finally lifted, the floodwaters drained, and he could depart from this purgatory.

He splashed down the building's five stairs, two of which were already below the floodwaters. He steadied himself against the urgent tug of the currents, leaning forward with his dishes clutched to his chest and his cloak's hood flapping around his face.

He rushed as best he could through the muddy water to his assigned hut, head bent against the swirling wind and driving rain, and booted feet slipping on rocks hidden by the waters.

Behind him, he heard the splash of rapid, lurching footsteps.

Dermanassian did not turn.

The splashing grew louder; the sounds of wet pursuit, of more than one pursuer.

He grimaced in his hood. He clutched his bowl tighter to his chest.

"Boy!" Roca yelled. His voice thick with liquor, mixed with the voice of the storm.

Dermanassian refused to turn. He was still paces from his lean-to and had no wish to engage the crude natives of Bullfrog. He wanted nothing more than to be left in peace, to sit upon his soggy mattress and wait out the rain.

Roca shouted, "I'm talking to you!"

Dermanassian grunted as a rock thudded into his shoulder. He stumbled, dropping the heavy bowl. It sank into the roiling water as Roca and his friends laughed and slapped each other on the back.

Dermanassian spun, his black eyes flashing. He squinted into the rain at Roca, accompanied by two men from the inn. He knew them to be ranchers who worked with Roca, for he had often heard them happily discussing the more gruesome aspects of their trade. They carried fistfuls of stones.

"Why don't you run, boy?" they taunted.

Dermanassian flinched and his gut filled with foreboding. He _did_ want to run. But he was tired, he was wet, he had nowhere to go, and emotion churned in his fatigued brain. He should have nothing to fear from such oafs as these. He was a desert elf still, a member of a distinguished and cultured people, far superior to these rodent farmers. Yet, his sword and daggers lay in his hut, for civilized folk did not carry weaponry to the meal table and thus he had no way to defend himself as the men's arms cocked to throw the rocks.

He ducked, protecting his face with his arms.

The rocks pounded into arms, his thighs, his stomach. He gasped and dropped to one knee. The fast water swirled about his leg and, unbalanced, he was nearly dragged under by the current.

The men of Bullfrog rushed toward him, Roca leading. Dermanassian felt himself covered in grappling hands whose thick, working fingers dug into his flesh. His arms were twisted and yanked back. Roca grabbed the youth's angular jaw and forced his head back so that the rain pounded into his unprotected face. He squinted, hardly able to open his eyes against the driving rain.

Roca leaned close, his face a hateful blur and his breath heavy with alcohol. "You're a proud one, I think. Too proud for your kind." His wide fingers clamped hard on Dermanassian's face; his mouth filled with salty blood as his cheeks were crushed into his teeth. His mind flashed with fear and anger.

"Now, don't you worry, boy," Roca whispered, his voice barely heard above the storm. "We're not going to do anything more than you deserve."

The men twisting his arms laughed and jerked him harder, until Dermanassian thought his arms would be wrenched from his shoulders. He gasped from the pain. Roca sneered. He dropped his hold on Dermanassian's jaw, reached back, and suddenly punched the youth in the eye.

Dermanassian's head snapped back. He would have crumpled into the water, but Roca's men held him fast by the arms. He shook his head slowly, his vision momentarily gone and his whole body stinging with the blow. Whatever anger he had toward the men vanished; he had nothing in him but terror, for he suddenly understood that these men would no longer be placated by taunting him over a few tankards. They meant to kill him.

Roca pulled back and slammed his fist into Dermanassian again and again until the youth's awareness swirled with laughter and shocks of pain and blood and water and the howling of the storm… until his pain-befuddled mind had no room even for fear. Then the men released his arms and they fell to his sides, unnoticed.

"Where's your pride now, boy?" Roca whispered.

Dermanassian swayed on his knees before toppling into the floodwaters.

He did not immediately notice that his swollen face was submerged and, perhaps, he would not have cared. Strong fingers wrapped in his black hair, pushing his head down as the current spun around him. He opened his mouth to breathe, and sucked in the tepid marsh water. His body spasmed. He tried to cough, but the effort only brought more water into his lungs. His body convulsed, its struggle to survive waking his mind.

Frantic, he reached for the calloused hand forcing his head under the water, groping at its wrist as he tried to yank it away. His other hand fumbled for the heavy bowl, sunk near his feet. He grabbed its round edge and swung it up. The bowl slammed into Roca's face, shattering against his broad cheek. Roca jerked back, stumbling in the fast water. He wiped a thick-fingered hand against his cheek and leaving a line of his blood streaking down his face as it mixed with the rain.

Dermanassian coughed deeply, vomited water, and staggered to his feet.

Roca sneered. He reached behind his back and pulled out a serrated knife, a wide ranchers' blade that shone dully in the gray of the storm. It was a knife meant to cut through tough hide and hair, to slice flesh from the bone. Even drunk and bloodied, Roca gripped it with an experienced hand.

"Cur," he hissed.

Dermanassian knew he would receive less mercy from the rancher than the rodents clubbed and carved in the slaughterhouse. He crouched, peering at Roca through his swelling eyes. Blood mixed with the rain, streaking the youth's face a watercolor red. His black hair was drenched and tangled, his gray cloak twisted in the wind. His entire body trembled with agony and exertion. Marsh water dribbled from his nose and mouth. He wheezed, trying to fill his water-logged lungs with swamp air, but gasped as his fractured ribs burned from the effort.

Roca's companions were behind Dermanassian, cutting off retreat as well as any possibility of rushing to his hut for his sword. They made no move toward him; they were grinning and relaxed, evidently content to watch Roca disembowel him. Likely, they would not move so long as they believed he presented more sport than serious threat.

Though the red and rain clouded his vision, he focused on Roca stalking forward. Terror filled the youth's veins, but he did not panic for it numbed his mind to all considerations but cold survival. He was on his feet. He could fight. He would fight. He would not be murdered in this wind-lashed bog. He would not be murdered by the likes of Roca. He had not survived the downfall of Glorious Tehare only to end his short life in Bullfrog. Dimly, he knew what was happening to him, for during his training he had many discussions with veterans: it was an abandonment of the self to training, reflexes, and skill. It both frightened and strengthened him.

He panted, but the swamp water still bubbling from his aching chest was forgotten. He did not think of his torn lip, his bruised cheeks, or his eyes made huge by purpling flesh. He had senses for nothing but Roca and the knife, lunging toward him.

There was a flash as the blade caught the light, a shout from one of Roca's friends, a growl from Dermanassian. The youth gripped Roca's wrist and, using all his strength, twisted and hauled backward. Roca spun, hitting the marsh water with a heavy splash, and his knife was lost beneath the flood.

Dermanassian stalked to the side, so that all three men faced him. He unclasped his drenched cloak and threw it aside, for its wet bulk weighed on him.

Roca cursed, his face flush with embarrassment and drink.

Dermanassian did not allow him to stagger his feet. Instead, the youth rushed forward and kicked Roca in the throat. Roca squealed and Dermanassian felt the flesh and bone yield beneath his boot. Roca's neck twisted in a series of snaps until the bones jammed his flesh into odd bulges and his head sat at a grotesque angle. His eyes wide, his mouth fell open. He teetered for a single instant, then collapsed into the floodwaters and vanished.

For a moment, both Dermanassian and Roca's friends stood stunned. Then one of the three men - Nert - pulled a knife from a leather sheath strapped to his thigh. It was a massive, if crude, dagger; its hilt was made from the leg of a white goat so that the pommel was fashioned from a yellowing hoof, and the blade so long that it was almost a sword. The two ranchers hunched forward in the driving rain.

"I will not die here," Dermanassian gritted to himself, tensing for the onslaught.

They came in a howling fury, a wall of churning limbs and battle cries, determined to bring down the weaponless youth.

Dermanassian lashed out with a desperation that was strangely detached. His fist slammed into a broad jaw, his knuckles scraping across day old stubble. He spun, grabbing and twisting an arm backward, and then struck the vulnerable joint as hard as he could. The bone broke with a crack like the branch of tree; he felt it abruptly yield. Nert screamed with shock and realization as he stared in horror at his dangling arm.

Dermanassian did not pause. The goat-knife was in his hand and he struck out with it, his movement smooth and controlled. He drove the long blade up into Nert's stomach, beneath his wide ribs, and into his pounding heart. Nert's body went rigid, and Dermanassian kicked him from the knife even as he died.

There was movement behind him. Dermanassian rolled the knife's hilt in his hand and whipped the blade in a wide arc. He felt it slash through cloth and flesh. He turned to face the wounded man, the bloody knife tight in his fist.

"Monster," the man cursed, clutching his gaping abdomen and backing away. His organs, pale pinks and blues and whites never intended to be seen, were cradled by his thick fingers. Despite the cleansing rain, the man's shirt and pants dripped with blood. With a cry, the last rancher spun. Nearly losing his footing, he staggered back toward the inn.

Horrified, Dermanassian flung the gory knife from him and it disappeared into the rushing floodwaters with a plop nearly lost to the rage of the storm. Feral, he ran to his hut. He bounded up the stairs and flung open the door, almost filling the tiny space with driving rain. Unheeding, he grabbed his travel pack, his sword, and fled into the darkening swamp leaving the door to the hut swinging in the wind.

Dermanassian panted as he huddled in the crook of a branch high above the flood marsh. The storm tossed the tree and lashed his exposed skin as first light streaked the pewter sky. The storm's voice had lost much of its strength and he dared hope that it might pass entirely before this day's end. He could travel much faster then, faster than his stumbling flight through the dark.

He was exhausted, as much from shock as from physical effort. He had trained in the martial arts, as had every youth in his city. He had excelled at them too - both in grappling and bladework. And he had dreamed of the opportunity to prove himself superior to some opponent, in real combat, not just some sparring ring. Yet, he had never seriously imagined what it might be like to kill someone. To sink his blade into another's body and feel the skin puncturing, the organs tearing, the blood leaking down the offending hilt and hand. His hand.

He shuddered.

They would have killed him. They would have held his head beneath the floodwaters until his lungs filled with the brackish mess. They would have gutted him, letting his innards plop into the water and his blood mix with the rain. And they would have felt none of the guilt torturing him. He wiped the back of his hand against his nose, but instantly regretted it as the movement set off yet another wave of throbbing.

He heard splashes in the distance.

Dermanassian realized he had been listening to the sound for some time, but only now did he understand that it was the sound of footfalls. The noises, still distant, were frenzied and determined. They fanned out through the fens searching for him. They must have chased him most of the night.

He gathered his gear and slipped down from the tree without a sound, the floodwaters reaching to his knees. He would not wait here; Dermanassian was sure they would find him. He did not think the folk of Bullfrog would concern themselves with the fact that he had defended himself; certainly he was not willing to gamble his life upon their understanding.

"Well, now."

Dermanassian jumped and turned, his hand grabbing at the wet hilt of his sword. The blade pulled free of the sucking of sodden leather as the youth saw a broad-shouldered man leaning against a tree. The man's small crossbow aimed at Dermanassian's chest. The youth had no doubt that the man's relaxed confidence was directly linked to his skill with the compact weapon. He had the look of a hunter, with a pack brimming with camping gear and braces of red squirrels dangling from their bushy tails.

The man smiled coldly as he approached Dermanassian. His voice rumbled as deep as a giant's. "You must be the vicious killer the whole town is tromping through this swamp looking for. But, if you ask me, you look more like a runaway kid who's gotten himself into more trouble than he can handle."

The man limped forward, stopping far enough away that Dermanassian could not hope to lunge at him with his sword. The cross-bowman merely had to call out to the townsfolk and Dermanassian would be trapped.

"Let me go," Dermanassian pleaded.

The man shouldered his backpack into a more comfortable position. "Well, let's see. I'm the peacekeeper here in Bullfrog. Right now, nothing would keep the peace better than pinning you to that tree and letting the good people of Bullfrog stone you to death. After all, you murdered three men."

"He died?" Dermanassian had hoped against all reason that the man he injured would live. "I did not mean to kill him."

"With his guts hanging to the floor, from what they tell me. I've not seen the corpse myself, having just come back with the easing of the storm." The peacekeeper sucked his teeth in thought. As the storm lessened, Dermanassian heard the faint sloshing of people moving through the water in the distance. "Roca and his pack were fools; it was a matter of time, really, before their foolishness did them in. They got no worse than was their due, and probably better."

"Let me go," Dermanassian asked again, anxious.

"Don't worry. I'm not going to let them kill you right here in the swamp. We've got to have a trial first, you know." The hardened man winked. "Then we'll stone you."

Dermanassian's heart sank with the few, futile hopes he had allowed himself. The wet footsteps grew closer and he knew the searchers were almost upon them. In moments, he would be overwhelmed. "I am doomed then. You care nothing for what I have to say, nothing for justice."

"Justice here is what we say it is." The man called out to his fellow swamplanders, armed with spears and bows, as the first of them appeared amongst the trees. "I don't know where you're from, boy, but this here," the peacekeeper continued, opening his arms expansively as if to encompass the entire swamp, "this here is the real world."

The folk of Bullfrog closed their circle around him.

Bullfrog did not see many prisoners and, those that it did, found their visits shortened by speedy executions. Thus, Dermanassian's prison was a corroding cage strung high in the branches of a tree, exposing him to jeers of passersby. He was uncertain why Bullfrog's peacekeeper did not hold his trial right away, but, after two days of squatting in the cage, reasoned that his presence and looming trial was providing a measure of entertainment for Bullfrog. During its storm season, in particular, when few travelers stopped in the swamp, Bullfrog seemed in desperate need of amusement. The arrival and beating of the desert elf, the deaths of three ranchers - even ones of ill-repute - and the capture of their killer was more activity than the trading post had seen this season.

The Shame Tree overlooked a raised longhouse, which served as the peacekeeper's office and home, as well as a center of activity now that he had returned from his hunt. The gigantic longhouse had a wide covered porch stretching across its front. The peacekeeper sat with his friends, working the dark hides of squirrels and telling tales of when he served in the kingdom's army as it marched upon the rebels holding the Pass of Trifal. He talked with practiced ease, hardly pausing as he swatted the mosquitoes swarming in the dusk. Their numbers had multiplied into thick clouds as the flood receded and were kept from overwhelming Bullfrog only by the oily wax burning in innumerable braziers and filled the town with curls of acrid smoke that melted into the night sky.

"We huddled behind the jagged rocks," he told. "The enemy's catapults lit the darkness with balls of rock and fire, crashing all around us, burning anything that could be burned, smashing anything that could be smashed. There were flaming corpses and screaming wounded. We were down to our last hundred men. It was us foot-soldiers and Lord Tagel. We could run away, or we could try to take the fortress. History knows how we decided.

"Staying to the darkness as best we could, we gave our final battle cry and rushed the mountain. We must have been god-possessed. We wove through their deadly arrows, forcing our way up the cliffs, more sure-footed than the wildest cats, more fearsome than demons. Then we engaged them, hacking our swords through their ranks so that their limbs flew and the stones grew slick with their blood. Down into the bowels and up into the towers of their fortress we raged. Our swords carved vengeance for our fallen comrades and we screamed their names and the king's."

The peacekeeper sighed dramatically. "We became lost in our warlust, blinded to anything but its power. Maybe it was hours - I just don't know - but when red dawn finally came the enemy was defeated. The rising sun found vultures circling, but beneath, the royal flag waved bloody and triumphant upon the ramparts."

The peacekeeper chatted a bit longer, showing off the ragged scar that ran down his bad leg before he said his good-nights. He waved away his guests with a hearty laugh as he covered the fires in his braziers.

Dermanassian watched the townsfolk disappear into their homes, the muddy swamp pulling loudly at their feet. When they were gone and only the peacekeeper remained, he said softly, "That is not how it happened. Lord Tagel's army was slain to the man; he alone escaped, having ridden in the back. The mountain cult that defeated him was infiltrated and destroyed by assassins the next month."

The peacekeeper's face turned to stone. The weak moonlight cast bizarre shadows through the swamp trees so that he looked like a statue in a haunted garden.

"The story you tell," Dermanassian added, rubbing a long finger along the rusting cage, "was the concoction of royal advisors. My tutor was one of them" His lips were misshapen and bruised, and so he enunciated every word. "You are no hero of war. Not only did you not fight in that battle, but given your description of war, sir, I doubt you ever served in any army at all." He continued before the peacekeeper could speak. "Tell me, Peacekeeper," he asked, looking hard into the man's eyes through his swollen ones, "do the good folk of Bullfrog know your battle-honor is as feigned as your justice?"

The huge man glowered and answered with a forced, angry laugh. "Say what you want. Do you think they'd believe me? Or you, a stinking outsider? Your kind has no credence here."

"It would not matter whether they believe me, or even if I tell them. One day, a drop of doubt will fall over their minds - doubt spreads in the mind like spilled ink on parchment. When it does, your power here will fail."

Without a word, the big man spun on his heel.

As he vanished into his longhouse, Dermanassian called out, "As you told me, sir, this is the real world - and you are a fraud, whether the folk of Bullfrog know it yet or not."

The peacekeeper slammed the door behind him, leaving Dermanassian alone in the chirping darkness.

He did not regret his comments. Two days in a cage had turned his panic into fatalism. He knew now why successful fighters put their passions aside to survive; wild emotions did a caged man no good. Thus, though his eyes scanned the cage again in hope of escape, he knew that he would be killed, whether he gave lie to the peacekeeper's tales of imagined heroism or not. Still, he suspected that his trial might well begin at daybreak. Perhaps, he thought morosely, it was for the best. He had no desire to continue hanging from this tree like a criminal, awaiting the brutal pleasure of the people of Bullfrog, his body a collage of bruises, dull aches, and mosquito bites. Since there was little chance of him escaping, better they simply execute him and get it over with.

Still, his heart lurched when some time later the door to the longhouse opened. The peacekeeper's shoulders slumped. His face was an unreadable mask, though his hand twitched as it clutched his crossbow. He limped down the stairs from the porch and over to Dermanassian's cage, his bad leg first scraping across the wood boards and then dragging through the swamp muck.

When Bullfrog's peacekeeper did not speak, Dermanassian murmured, "Is your decency so far gone that you would murder me here, without even a pretend trial? No," he shook his head, "forgive me. "Perhaps simple murder is more honest." Weak from exposure and injury, he used the bars of his cage to pull himself to his feet. Unable to stand at his full height, he hunched.

The peacekeeper stared. "I'm not a murderer." The protest jerked from his mouth.

Unconvinced, Dermanassian watched the crossbow. Any moment, he supposed, the peacekeeper would aim it at his chest and let the bolt thud into his heart.

Following his gaze, the peacekeeper too looked down at the crossbow clutched in his twitching hand. As if noticing it for the first time, he started. Then, without another word, the peacekeeper turned and limped back into the longhouse, leaving Dermanassian puzzled.

His trial did not start at daybreak. The peacekeeper did not leave his longhouse all day and, when a woman carrying biscuits came by, he yelled through the door that he was ill and sent her away. She came to Dermanassian's hanging prison and held up a yellow biscuit in offering. Ravenous, he smiled and reached to take it but, just as his fingertips touched it, she laughed and threw it into the mud.

It was not until near midnight two days later that the peacekeeper shuffled from his house.

"What do you want?" the peacekeeper asked Dermanassian, his voice a hoarse and unnatural whisper and his skin flush with fatigue and humiliation. "If they know, they will run me out in shame. Or worse. This town is all I have. I can't lose it."

Dermanassian snorted. "So now I am an extortionist as well."

"Aren't you?"

Dermanassian had no sympathy to spare for the peacekeeper. "What fantasies you live in are your concern. I want nothing to do with them, with you, or, for that matter, Bullfrog. As to my desires, there is none greater than walking from this place, never to return. Should Bullfrog and all its inhabitants be washed away in the next storm, so much the better."

The peacemaker blinked inscrutably. "You'll just go away?" He pulled a polished key from his pocket and offered it to Dermanassian.

Dermanassian frowned. He had no wish to be taunted. "If this is a further example of local humor, sir-"

"No," the big man shook his head. "Take the key, go from Bullfrog, and leave me what little honor I have left."

Still wary, Dermanassian took the key and jiggled it into the lock. Swinging the door open, he slid stiffly down from his prison. "What will you tell them? What will you say happened to me?" he asked with suspicion.

The peacekeeper shrugged listlessly. He motioned Dermanassian to follow him back to the longhouse.

Dermanassian's sharp eyes scanned the darkness for signs of the swamplanders. He did not trust that the peacekeeper was not luring him out for more sport. Yet the peacekeeper led him to the longhouse without incident.

The inside of the house was lit by a single fat candle, burned nearly to the stub. Its wax pooled onto a simple wood table. The crossbow, still loaded, leaned against a chair leg.

The peacekeeper pointed to behind the door where Dermanassian's belongings lay in a jumble. "Take them," he gestured.

Dermanassian snatched them up, swinging his travel pack across his shoulders and drawing his sword. He felt reassured with the familiar blade in his hand; whatever plan the peacekeeper had, at least it would not find Dermanassian unarmed.

The peacekeeper stared at the flickering candle, its wavering light cast strange shadows across his face. His eyes were flat, deadened. Dermanassian peered outside, again looking for ambushers who might be lurking in the night.

The big man's hand twitched against his leg, as if feeling his scar through his tough pants. "I was hardly more than your age when the guard caught me," he said abruptly, the words tumbling from his mouth. "I didn't mean to kill the clothier. I just wanted his purse. I'd never seen gold coins before. I didn't mean to kill him. I-" He looked at Dermanassian suddenly, as if yearning for forgiveness and understanding. "I'm not a murderer," he stammered.

"And I am not your confessor, sir," Dermanassian said coldly, no more than glancing at the broken peacekeeper. "If you are seeking absolution, then seek elsewhere."

Satisfied that none waited to attack him in the moonlight, he slipped into the darkness, determined that dawn should find him far from the swamps of Bullfrog.

As he crossed into the reedy trees, he caught the thwak of the crossbow as it was released inside the longhouse. He paused in his step, and empathy flashed within him despite his attempts to ignore it. After a moment, he continued on, hoping the peacekeeper at last found peace.

Between stories, she designed and now moderates an adventure fiction critique group, was a Contributing Editor at SwordandSorcery.org, and writes essays and book reviews related to speculative fiction.

For amusement, the author enjoys reading just about anything, watching documentaries on just about anything, and traveling just about anywhere (more than 25 US states, more than 25 countries and territories so far!).