I don't think I have much to say at this point. Except, yeah. Ha ha Marisa. Gotcha.

Anyway.

Enjoy!


That night, while the members of Skullmaster's party feasted, those that were not slaves nor servants anyway, Norman went out to the clear area behind the stables.

Even long past full nightfall, he trained in every combat art he knew, pushing his body to its absolute limit and beyond. He did not fear angering his master by failing to be within earshot – Skullmaster need but whisper Norman's name and the magical pact that bound him to servitude would compel him to answer.

Norman had long been grateful for the amount of leniency that was present in the magical binding. He could not refuse any direct order given by Skullmaster, and he was physically unable to harm him in any way (and indeed he had tried quite viciously as a child, but his body simply refused to obey). But he had learned that unless Skullmaster's orders were specific, the means by which Norman followed them was largely up to himself.

Additionally, if he had not been given an order, he could do as he wished within certain boundaries. Norman had learned he could not stray more than a few leagues from Skullmaster at any time or his body would turn back of its own accord – and it was rather painful when he drew near the limit of that tether.

And, of course, he could not resist the few standing orders he had been given, mainly concerned with protecting Skullmaster.

Once, when he had been but thirteen, one of the members of Skullmaster's demonic court thought to assassinate the master and take his place. Norman had been down in the kitchens at the time but a compulsion had driven him into the banquet hall where he physically got between Skullmaster and his would-be murderer with nothing in his hands but a serving tray. However, the action had alerted the other guards to Skullmaster's peril and they had quickly dispatched the traitor.

That day, Skullmaster had given Norman an order to become the finest warrior in the Skull Mountains such that he could defend his master at any time. It was the only order Skullmaster had ever given with which Norman agreed wholeheartedly.

So Norman was able to practice his arts and strengthen his body without fear of displeasing his master, not that Norman much cared if Skullmaster was happy or not. Twenty years had grown nothing but contempt and rage in his heart for the one who had murdered his father and stolen his life and his freedom. But it served him better if Skullmaster thought him obedient if not loyal (Skullmaster was not such a fool to believe that his hostage and slave was a willing participant in any of his duties) because a complacent Skullmaster was more willing to let Norman have time to himself.

Norman trained until the moon hung high in the sky. Then, his body aching with the pleasant assurance he had done well, he returned to the house. On silent feet, Norman inspected the estate. Some of the more obnoxious demons had fallen asleep in the banquet hall, either rudely at the table itself or slightly less rudely in a corner of the chamber. Lavalord and Warmonger had retired to the pair of guest rooms they had claimed, and from the loud snores audible in the hallway, were apparently well-sated. But light shone from under the door to Skullmaster's own room.

Norman would not have disturbed him, but Skullmaster spoke his name. "Norman. Enter."

Norman did as ordered. He was vaguely pleased that he bore the heavy sweat of his work and his clothing was more dirty and patched than ever. Most demons who offended Skullmaster's nose or eyes with their ill-kempt personages paid for it brutally. But Norman had only the clothing Skullmaster gave him, and he had not given any in more than a year. Norman therefore hoped he smelled particularly foully just to annoy his master.

Skullmaster looked at him from where he had sat at a desk, a book open before him.

"You have kept up your fighting."

Norman nodded once.

"Good. I have a mission for you, boy."

Norman hated it that Skullmaster still called him that, but he did not so much as flinch.

"For the remaining two weeks before The Dawning, I wish you to thoroughly explore the city and its inhabitants. Before the Equinox, it is necessary that you commit to memory every particular that I might need to know. Not just the streets and overall layout, but where people of significance live and work. I want to know the comings and goings of every possible entrant into The Dawning that you might be able to lead me to them when the time comes.

"That and continuing your combat training are your primary responsibilities for the duration of our time here. If I see you about the house for any length of time during which you are not training or sleeping, you will be punished. Do you understand me?"

Norman felt the slightest shiver over his spine as the pact took hold between them. He raised his chin and nodded once.

"Good. Then you are dismissed."

Norman withdrew and shut the door behind him. He waited until he was up in the attic to smile.

It has been twenty years since I could so freely enjoy a world not of fire and sulfurous stone. And to remain out-of-doors and away from you? Yes. Gladly.

-==OOO==-

In the morning, Norman rose at dawn. He took some provisions for himself from the stores in the pantry and left the house before any but the other slaves had risen. The warm sunlight and the breaking clear day raised his spirits considerably. Yes, of course he would gather the intelligence required, and he was quite sure it would be put to a darkly nefarious use, but he could not worry about that yet. For once, he could enjoy himself with the illusion of freedom.

Norman decided it was too early in the day to expect Max to be awake yet as he recalled being a boy himself and hating rising at dawn, so instead he walked the streets closest to the borrowed estate for several hours until he could have walked them blind. Along the way, he encountered several other servants and slaves under Skullmaster, all of whom scurried along as if set specific errands. Norman knew Skullmaster well enough to guess that they had particular targets to shadow and observe, and that Skullmaster himself would be the only one to connect the knowledge each returned with his plans for whatever it was he sought here.

Norman waved mockingly at those demons and half-demons he particularly hated, and they growled in return. He knew he was not the only one grateful to be outside, but the others had no such freedom to wander and resented him for it.

When the sun had risen high enough to dry any nighttime dew and heat the land, Norman made his way to the appointed bakery.

After his appearance frightened off a child who had clearly come to the bakery to buy a treat for herself, Norman slid around the side of the building that he might wait in concealment for Max to arrive. While there, he found he could hear into the kitchen behind the store.

"It's not fair!" a girl's voice was upraised. "I want to read, but I have to work in the shop. Why doesn't Max? Why can't he work and let me get back to studying?"

"Darling, we've already discussed this. I'll not do it again," returned a firm, matronly voice.

"Yeah, Bea. Give it a rest," came a boy's voice.

"It's not that I don't feel bad for him. I do! But it isn't fair."

"Beatrice, fair would be that boy still having a mother at all. Fair would be your father returning from the coast to help me. But I need as many hands in the bakery as I can get. And as you have yet to bake bread without burning it while you lose yourself in your books, you cannot be trusted back here. At least your brother can do that much while you help me up front. And Max has not learned to do either and I will not burden him when he has other concerns."

"Other concerns? His mom died months ago! I need to complete my reading now!"

"You read too much," the boy said teasingly.

"Enough, Beatrice."

"But mother!"

The woman's voice was unwavering. "I know you wish to apply to study at the Academy, my girl. And you shall. But not right now. And that is final."

Suddenly the door nearest Norman opened and Max emerged. His shoulders were slumped and his hands were deep in his pockets. He looked up, white-faced, and clearly saw that Norman had overheard.

Max started to walk away and Norman fell in behind him.

After a few streets had passed, Max spoke quietly. "They don't know that I can hear them arguing. The room I'm sleeping in is on the other side of the big fireplace, so I think they think the brick blocks the sounds. But it doesn't."

Norman waited.

Max continued. "Bea and Felix and me have been friends since I came here with mom. When...when mom died over the winter, their family took me in. I don't have anywhere else to go. And I know I should be helping out more. It's so busy in the shop with everybody coming into town for The Dawning. But...it feels like I'm going to crawl out of my skin if I stay there too long. I don't know why."

He huffed a laugh. "Bea's not really that mean, not usually. But she's really smart and she wants to go to the Academy and be a scribe or a scholar, like my mom."

He looked up at Norman with the light of pride in his eyes. "Mom was actually a scribe for Lady-Queen Mujaji. She even took me to the palace sometimes to visit. Bea's always wanted to be just like her. I think she's mad at me halfway because she's still sad about my mom."

Norman rested one of his huge hands on the boy's narrow shoulder. "I understand."

Max sighed. "I bet you do. Nobody human becomes a slave to somebody like that ugly Boneface without something going pretty wrong."

Norman nodded. "He killed my father."

Max flinched. "I'm sorry."

"I'm sorry about your mom," Norman replied. Then he asked, "Do you have no other family? No father to take you instead?"

Max shook his head. "No. I'm an orphan. Mom isn't...wasn't...my real mother. But she raised me and brought me to live here. I don't remember my parents, just the people who found me and gave me to her."

Norman gave the shoulder under his hand a slight squeeze. "They chose well for you, and she must have been a good person to have raised you so well."

Max's face lost some of its paleness and he couldn't help but warm under the compliment. With that infusion of hope, he straightened up and made a proper smile.

"Well, nobody's going to think I'm worth much if I let you wander around looking like you do. Let's see what we can make out of that briar patch you call hair."

Then he paused. "I completely forgot! Here."

Norman had noticed the lumpy bag Max was carrying, and from this the boy drew a round yellow circle of fabric. He also pulled out a pair of long, sturdy pants in a dark olive-green color. He handed them over while his words tumbled together almost nervously.

"I thought the patch would help cover up the hole in your shirt so nobody else can see the mark. I'm not much good at sewing but I'll give it my best while we have the barber fix your hair. And I found these pants a long time ago in a pile of clothing somebody had thrown out. I always meant to size them down to fit me but, well, I'm still not very good at sewing. They might not fit, but if they do they'll be better than your I-just-lost-a-fight-with-thirty-angry-cats look."

Norman stared at them. It was a kindness he hadn't experienced in two decades.

His silence made Max fidget uncomfortably. "I mean, if you don't like them, it's fine…"

Norman broke out of his surprise and put a hand down to tousle Max's hair with real affection. "Thank you, Little One. I am in your debt."

"Not even close," Max smiled at him. "Now, let's go see the barber."

The barber turned out to be a rotund man with twinkling eyes. Norman felt awkward in his shop, its gleaming cleanliness a stark contrast to his own tattered appearance. But the barber accepted him with warmth, partially due to Max's own enthusiasm. Max chattered constantly, filling the air with friendly commentary, and the barber replied in kind. Norman could see the man was very friendly with the boy, and had taken Norman, branded chest and all, at his say-so. While Max sat on a stool and carefully stitched the round circle onto Norman's black shirt, the barber sat Norman in a chair and began work on his mass of hair and beard.

An hour later, before they even permitted Norman to look at himself in the glass, they sent him with his newly-patched shirt and his borrowed trousers to change in a tiny back room. The trousers were a little baggy and long, but he tucked them into his boots and found they quite suited him. The shirt, when pulled over his head, settled with the round yellow circle in the center of his chest. It reminded Norman so of the sunlight that had been almost miraculous after his time in the Skull Mountains that he felt warmth fill his heart for more than one reason.

"Come on, Normie!" called Max brightly. "Come take a look!"

Norman returned to the main part of the shop and looked at himself in the glass at last.

Gone was the mass of tangled, matted, unruly hair. Gone was the beard that looked more like a bush that had recently been on fire. Instead, the front of Norman's hair had been cropped short, with the rest drawn into one long tail gathered behind that fell like a smooth ribbon to the middle of his back. The beard had been severely curtailed, cropped into a short, neat length with two points that made his jawline appear longer and squarer than ever.

Max dug into his bag and pulled out a long yellow ribbon of the same color as the patch.

"Here, big guy. This should finish the look."

Without waiting for permission, Max jumped onto the nearest chair and neatly tied the ribbon into a headband around the crown of his head, the long tails floating behind Norman like streamers. Norman had seen several warriors in the city with similar such headbands.

"What is it for?" he asked.

"Many young soldiers wear them," the barber spoke up, "in order to prevent their hair from falling into their eyes from combat." Then he looked at Max. "When one gives a headband to another, it is a sign of fellowship. Brothers often share them with one another, or members of a unit of the Guard may distribute them. It signifies that any who raises a hand to one has challenged his mates."

Max rolled his eyes. "Or, I just had it lying around and I don't need it because my hair isn't so long."

Norman let that explanation slide, guessing the truth for himself and not needing the boy to be comfortable verbalizing it. He simply nodded and said, "Thank you, Little One."

Max beamed.

Several customers entered and the barber was forced to bid a hasty goodbye as he turned to them. Max elbowed Norman and tipped his head over to the strangers. Norman looked and saw them watching him, but recognized nothing else about them worth the elbow he was still receiving in the ribs. Instead, he put a hand on Max's back and escorted him out of the shop.

"Did you see?" the boy practically bounced. "They were impressed!"

"Impressed, Little One?" Norman repeated.

"Yeah! Now that you don't look like you just rolled out of a tangle tree, you look like you belong at the head of the Guard or as some kind of ultra warrior preparing to enter The Dawning! I bet nobody calls you a barbarian now!"

Norman snorted but said nothing. Privately, he was gratified for the change. Not only would he draw less attention than he had as a walking hair monster, but he might be able to venture places that would otherwise have been closed to him.

Not that Norman particularly wanted to help Skullmaster in any way by obeying his orders, but he would have to make some attempts to do so or feel the horrific backlash of disobedience.

Accordingly, Norman looked to Max.

"If you haven't anything else to do today, would you mind showing me around the city?"

Max's face lit up. "Sounds like fun! Where to, big guy?"

"Everywhere."

-==OOO==-

And so it was. For the two weeks before The Dawning, Norman and Max rambled across the city of Intuition, and it seemed Max had learned every hidden by-way and shortcut.

As still more challengers and attendants arrived for The Dawning, Max and Norman investigated each. Norman did not explain his orders, and Max didn't ask his purpose. Instead, Max began for himself a running tally of everyone who would face the Conqueror and started making guesses as to which warriors would succeed.

Norman learned the boy kept himself partially independent by participating in the games of chance and by making wagers wagers throughout the city, and he was uncommonly good at them, too. For the duration of their time together, Norman almost never needed to return to the estate house for food – Max was able to win sufficient money reliably enough that he could feed himself and Norman quite comfortably.

Norman also learned that when Max was not feeding his giant shadow, he saved his winnings carefully, intending to give them to the baker and her children when he had become old enough to take an apprenticeship or join the Guard. The sum he named as having hidden in his mattress behind the bakery kitchen was already almost enough to send Bea to the Academy for as long as she might wish to study there, and Max had no doubt he would be able to double or triple that amount in only a few years.

It stunned Norman at first that his young, rambunctious friend was so generous, but the more time he spent with Max, the more he understood. Max felt profoundly indebted to the baker for giving him a home when he would otherwise have been alone, and he intended to repay that charity tenfold.

But Max's innate kindness was not limited to his adoptive family. Norman saw the boy, more than once, buy a bag of bread or meat and turn around and hand it off to the urchins in the street who were hungry and poor and alone in the world. Max would shrug if asked and remind Norman that he had been abandoned once and he hated seeing children go hungry. Norman could only agree and contribute a portion of his own share to the next street children they met.

Every day was spent in this manner, wandering the city, learning its secrets, and, quietly, feeding its populace a bit at a time. Max was possessed of a bright, happy energy that never seemed to wane even when the sunshine was replaced by rain, and he was filled with jokes and laughter and a great deal of sarcasm and snark which he shared with Norman freely.

Norman was slow to tease him in return, but such warm joyfulness was feeding his blackened heart and filling it with all that had been absent since the death of his father.

Of course, Norman still returned to the estate to train every evening and to make a report to Skullmaster when it was demanded, but he did so with somewhat less rage in his heart. Or, rather, he still would happily kill Skullmaster if ever given the chance. Now, however, he knew if or when he won true freedom he had something to return to and live for afterwards – and he was more prepared than ever to fight to ensure that he could return to follow Max, his Little One, wherever he might go.

It was the first time he had ever wanted anything other than revenge, and with each passing day, Norman found he wanted it more and more.

The only shadow other than Norman's continued slavery that hung over them was a literal shadow – a cloaked figure Norman managed to spot lurking nearby from time to time. But the figure never drew close, nor threatened in any way, and Norman could make out none of its features beyond the heavy hood. So he watched it warily but did not approach it. Max was unaware of the mysterious figure who followed them so often, and Norman did not want him to worry, so he said nothing.

But he never stopped his self-appointed vigil over the boy. For as long as Max walked at his side through the streets of Intuition, Norman was prepared to defend him by any means necessary.

-==OOO==-

On the day before The Dawning was to begin at the break of morn on the Spring Equinox, a vast caravan entered the city, igniting excitement and the rush of crowds to catch a glimpse. For the caravan bore with it three other rulers of the Seven Lands, personages rarely seen outside their own borders.

Norman propped Max on his shoulder so the boy could see when they found a good spot somewhat near the palace grounds.

At the head of the column rode a man who rivaled Norman for size, though his full red beard and hair spilled unbound before and behind him. He wore a golden helmet and rode a magnificent charger, flanked by a company of armored, impressive soldiers.

"That's Beowulf," Max said. "My mom told me about him. His kingdom is to the north and they're some of the best fighters in the Seven Lands."

Norman nodded as he watched the king with eyes that were bright with respect. "I know. When my own father was destroyed by Skullmaster, most of the Norns who escaped him fled to Beowulf's lands for protection. From what I have learned, he has treated them well."

Behind Beowulf's guards came a set of people who walked. Max might have confused them for commoners because they wore no spectacular regalia, nor carried any flashing banners of their kingdom. They all wore simple grey caps styled like the head of a wolf, and carried bows and arrows rather than shields and clubs and swords. But they marched in a formation unlike any Max had seen before.

Norman understood it first and anticipated the question. "Sight lines. So any one of them can fire without risking striking another. But to maintain that kind of formation takes intense training and discipline."

"Then that old man in front must be Jonayayin from the west," Max concluded.

He blinked when the man in question scanned the crowed and the black eyes met Max's own with a sharp gaze. But then the procession moved on and they were faced with a troupe of colorful jugglers and acrobats rather than any soldiers.

"King Hanuman is said to be a great trickster," Norman observed. "Don't be fooled, Little One. Every one of those people playing the mindless entertainer is capable of defending against any assassin."

"But where is the king?" Max asked. "Is he in that golden litter?" Max pointed at the curtained box carried on long poles by eight strong-looking men dressed in the same bright colors as the others.

"Maybe," Norman said slowly. "I have heard that Hanuman of the east has not allowed outsiders to see him for some reason since he was a child. But, on the other hand, that would be the likeliest place for him, and a true trickster is never where he should be."

As the caravan finished, flanked by the Guards of the Lady-Queen Mujaji, most of the interested onlookers returned to their tasks. But Norman's compulsion and Max's curiosity bade them follow to the very grounds of the palace. There, they were stopped by the Guards, of course, but they could see from the gate that the Lady-Queen herself descended from the grand entry to her palace to greet her guests.

If they could have overheard her words, they would both have been all the more intrigued.

"Welcome to my home, my friends," she said, spreading her arms wide. Gold bracelets adorned her wrists and shining earrings and necklaces sparkled around her face. Her dark brown skin set off the scarlet gown she wore, and her black hair was pulled into a severe knot at the top, also stuck through with golden pins.

But it was not a frail grip that met Beowulf's meaty hand.

"It is good to see you, warrior-sister," Beowulf said, his laughing face slightly more solemn for the occasion. "The northern Halls are empty without your laughter."

"By which you mean my common sense and advice," she replied. "I never did laugh nearly as often as you, old friend."

"No one does, I believe," said Jonayayin. His retainers joined Beowulf's in forming a defensive perimeter around the leaders of four of the Seven Lands. He bowed gracefully to Mujaji who inclined her head regally in return. "I am pleased to see that you are well, She-Whose-Sight-Is-Keen."

Mujaji smiled at the name Jonayayin had given her so long ago. "It does my home great honor to share it with you, Killer-of-Monsters."

"Well! Isn't this just a picture! Of course, a picture of what, I daren't say! The three of you happily hug and kiss your hellos and leave me here to boil to death!"

"It is your own doing, old friend," Beowulf laughed. "Have you still such vanity as that?"

The hooded figure emerged from the ever-moving troupe of entertainers, and none but his closest associates knew if he had been in the litter all along or if he had gone disguised amongst them. Not a single point of light penetrated the dense, heavy cloak which must have been stifling in the bright sunlight. The final member of the four started up the stairs of his own accord.

"Nice to see you, I'm sure, Muj. But if I don't get out of this sun, there won't be anyone left to go back east and keep things running so smoothly. Oh the things I do for all of you!"

The other three were well used to the antics of their fourth, and so merely followed him into the palace, signalling to their followers to disperse. Once inside the vast receiving chamber, Mujaji led the way through an unobtrusive door and past several of her most trusted Guards to a private chamber furnished comfortably. Only there, with the door closed behind them and no other eyes present, did the fourth finally allow his cloak to drop.

"Do you have any idea how itchy fur is in this heat?" he demanded disgustedly.

"Hanuman, you are no longer fooling anyone," Jonayayin said calmly. "Do not suppose that we have forgotten who and what you truly are."

"What I am is still a monkey, thank you very much!"

But the fourth king smiled a little more genuinely. He always insisted he was particular about keeping his appearance concealed less because he was bothered by his furred body and chimp-like face and limbs, but much more so because he had not yet, in many years of study, been able to undo the curse that had transformed him. When Beowulf spoke of Hanuman's vanity, it was not his form, but rather his failure that he meant.

However, behind the beige fur and oddly slanted features whirled one of the sharpest minds in any of the Seven Lands, and Mujaji, Jonayayin, and Beowulf knew it well.

Beowulf crossed to take a seat in one of the plush chairs gathered around. "Sword-sister, you must tell us why you have called for The Dawning. Are you truly leaving these lands?"

Mujaji sat beside him and gestured for the others to sit as well. "No, of course not. But things must happen when there is no other choice."

"Your invitation was carefully worded," Jonayayin pointed out. "If you do not seek to pass on your kingdom, then what 'dominion' do you mean?"

Suddenly Hanuman's eyes narrowed. His slouched appearance vanished and he was all keen hunter, not of prey, but of knowledge. "Mujaji, it can't be time yet."

"Ah, but it is." A fifth voice spoke from the other end of the room where another door was opening. Had the voice not been familiar, all four would have been to their feet and prepared for battle, as they were all exceptional warriors.

Beowulf's eyes went comically wide. "I did not know you were here!"

"I have been here for many years," answered a diminutive figure who moved across the floor on feet that clacked unlike any shoes or boots ever would. "I apologize for my failure to communicate with you, Beowulf, but my presence here could never be known to those who would divine the reason why."

"You are the one to have called for The Dawning, then," Jonayayin concluded.

"Just so, old friend. I would have rather waited a few more years, but time is short. Evil grows by the day. Even now, the demon-lord Skullmaster is within the city, though he will of course not face the Conqueror himself. The danger has never been so great."

"You're very quiet, Hanuman," Mujaji said. Then, her black eyebrows rose. "Or is this revelation no surprise to you?"

"Of course it isn't," the monkey king smiled lazily, though his eyes had lost no sharpness. "I knew he would be here long before you were ever aware he had arrived." He turned to the hooded figure. "But I thought we had more time."

"I wish it were so. But we cannot wait any longer. The balance of the very world hangs on The Dawning now, and on the challengers that face the Conqueror tomorrow. We must hope the Powers are with us, and that the correct champion reveals himself before it is too late."