9th Day of Mitalacue, 5537A

Glencorraid, Rekamifoke

The clouds had been moving in from the west. From where he stood at the bottom of the hill, Goliath could see a large ring around the full moon. It slowly rose above his home like a silver eye, casting its cold glow on the structure's stone walls. A warmer light from the continual flames within suffused through the two frosted glass windowpanes.

The six horses paced nervously in the small corral. Steam burst from their nostrils, a silver fog that quickly vanished in the chill evening air. His mother had sent him here when the men came, to tend to the horses while she, Laird Drew and Father Tyvold spoke of things he knew not what.

He could guess, of course. Goliath was no fool. Whenever his mother would grow silent and terse, it was always when the subject of his father was raised.

Whoever he might be. Sometimes Goliath thought she knew, other times-

The boy turned and stared out over the dark surface of Loch Arlou. The moon painted a white streak across the black, placid waters. The boy loved it when he could go out swimming or fishing on the loch, which wasn't very often. He sometimes dreamt he was a giant fish, swimming wild and free in those deep waters. When he was six, half his life ago, he'd asked his mother if she could turn him into a fish.

"Now wha' ye be wantin' tha' fer?" she had asked, and then she laughed. Mother almost never laughed, but Goliath was not happy for it. He had been in earnest, and the laughter had cut him.

The youth sighed and picked up the two water buckets, attached on either end of a long pole. Hoisting the yoke over his shoulders, Goliath trundled over to the loch's shore.

He'd just finished filling the buckets and was dawdling; he hated the heavy feel of the full yoke on his neck and shoulders and wished again that he were taller and stronger. Yet the horses weren't going to get fed and watered on their own, so he-

The boy let out a yelp of surprise and jumped back, the yoke falling from his hands. Terror mingled with each deep breath as the child peered around him and then slowly moved to look down upon the water again.

For a moment, Goliath had thought he'd seen the reflection of a dark shape standing over his shoulder as he'd looked at his reflection in the water; a man wearing a large, floppy-brimmed hat. No other details had registered in his shock at the split-second vision, which now, as the boy again looked around him fruitlessly, seemed more like a trick of the moonlight and the water's ebb and flow than anything else.

But when Goliath turned to look back at his house, he froze again in fear.

Laird Drew's guards weren't standing outside it anymore. And the door was now ajar.

The yolk was left behind as the youth ran for home as fast as he could. His legs pumped and his toes dug into the grass to keep him from slipping as he ascended the hill, the cold air filling his lungs to what seemed like bursting with every stride.

He could hear yelling and screaming coming from inside the house now.

The men were not allowed inside with their chainmail shirts and hand axes. Lady Mercy never permitted anyone bearing arms or armor to enter their home, and for that Goliath had been grateful. From his mother's influence, the youth was less enamored with fighting and violence than any other boy he knew. Yet one more reason for his not being popular among the neighborhood children. They called him a coward.

It occurred to Goliath just before he reached the open door that none of the other village boys would ever have dared to hurl themselves unarmed into a battle such as he could see was unfolding inside.

Goliath was no coward. This he knew with certainty.

But years later, he'd sometimes catch himself wondering if things might have turned out better if he had been.

Of Laird Drew's four men, three were currently in battle with two bears. Beasts who stood as tall as they did, with golden fur, silver eyes and ivory claws. They roared in rage, slamming their paws into their opponents even as the men's hand axes chunked again and again into their fur, gouging angry wedges of crimson.

Goliath knew immediately they were celestials- beasts of Asgard- summoned by his mother for her protection.

The next sight that registered on the child's reeling brain was that of Laird Drew and Father Tyvold- locked in mortal combat with each other.

Goliath knew not how, but the Laird of Glencorraid was now clad in his plate mail and wielding his ancestral claymore. He'd had neither with him when he arrived, although like all the local children, the lad had heard tales of the Laird's great adventures when he had been a younger man- and of the supposed horde of magical treasures he'd accumulated.

Father Tyvold dodged under the arc of the huge sword's swing.

The priest looked even older than his supposed sixty years- there was hardly an unwrinkled inch on his bony frame, and his gray hair was all but gone- but he was surprisingly supple as he ducked and weaved. A glowing spear appeared in the air in front of him and thrust itself at Bjorn, but the Laird backed quickly off, and the spiritual weapon did naught but punch a hole in his armor.

They were yelling at each other- in fact everyone was either yelling or screaming, but Goliath couldn't make out any clear words. The boy added his voice to the din, shouting at everyone to stop fighting, but no one paid him any heed. Then he saw Laird Drew's fourth man.

He was attacking Goliath's mother. Lady Mercy, backed into a corner, was surrounded by her glowing shield of faith. She had her holy symbol of a silver chalice clutched in one hand and was casting another prayer even as she tried to ward off the constant blows of her assailant's axe.

Goliath watched in horror as the axe blade cut through the shield and into his mother's side. She screamed in agony once, her prayer lost, and then again as the warrior yanked it clear.

The youth's shouts for restraint turned into a mindless scream of rage as he ran at the man. He had no weapon, no plan, not even a coherent thought. Only an instinct that engulfed him suddenly and totally in the space of a split second.

An instinct to kill.

But as he launched himself at the guard, something changed.

And that something was him.

A terrible pain in what seemed to be every muscle in his body shot through Goliath. In his adrenaline-fueled fury, he barely noticed, but he couldn't help but notice his sudden change in perspective.

For the briefest of instances, it seemed like the guard had shrunk suddenly, so that Goliath was now actually taller than he. As the youth swung at the man's head, his fist went sailing over the top of it.

His fist was larger, with a dark orange skin tone and large, thick nails. Goliath's legs didn't seem to be working right either, and his wild swing overbalanced him. He stumbled past his opponent and crashed into the wall.

Stunned, it took all of Goliath's effort just to remain on his feet. Then he heard his mother scream again.

But this time, she was screaming at him, her light blue eyes opened wider in fear than her son had ever seen them.

"Goliath!" she cried. "What's happened tae my bairn?"

The fighter also turned to look. His face showed fear as well- but also disgust.

"Hobgoblin!" he shouted. "He's a monster!"

Without thinking, Goliath's hands shot up to his face, feeling his flattened nose and chin, and the hair that now seemed to be everywhere.

It was true. The guard hadn't shrunk- Goliath had grown. Somehow, he'd become a hobgoblin; the fiercest creature he'd ever seen. How had this-

A powerful blow slammed into the boy. He looked down to see the warrior's hand axe buried in his chest nearly up to the hilt.

Her mother screamed again, but all sound seemed to abruptly fade away into a dull roar at the edge of his hearing.

Am I dying?

The guard yanked his weapon free with a grunt, but Goliath didn't even look up at him. Almost idly, he touched the gushing wound with his finger-

-and it closed up completely.

Now he looked at his mother again. Her look of astonishment indicated that she had done nothing. Although she certainly had the power to heal, she hadn't touched him.

And then the killing rage returned, and he didn't care.

With an inhuman bellow, Goliath- or whatever he was now- lunged at the guard and tried to wrest the axe away from him. The two grappled, both eventually toppling to the floor.

Goliath managed to straddle his opponent. He had the man pinned, but he still couldn't pry the weapon out of the man's hands.

The youth gasped. Immense blows were now raining on his back. He craned his head to look.

Lady Mercy's bears had vanished- either slain or returned to Asgard. The three guards, all heavily beaten and bruised but still standing, were attacking him from behind now. Their axes rose and fell like a rain of steel hail. Each blow opened a new wound and although Goliath could feel himself healing up again, he knew the men were slicing into him faster than his new-found power could save him. He had to flee; he had to-

Goliath's perspective suddenly changed again; far more radically than last time. His vision was suddenly much poorer; everything seemed blurry. His field of view was distorted too; he could see further to his sides than before, but not as well right in front of him. Odd, high-pitched squeaks were coming from somewhere nearby, but he couldn't pinpoint them.

He could not only see leathery wings flapping in his vision, he could feel them.

And as Goliath flew away, three descending hand axes inadvertently sliced instead through a chainmail shirt and buried themselves deep into the chest of their fellow bodyguard. The man gasped, spouting blood from mouth and chest, and went silent forever.

More yells. More shouts. More screams.

And then something large and dark whizzed by Goliath, followed by a loud thunk. One of the men had retrieved his axe and hurled it at the bat that was now flapping madly by the far wall. It had missed and embedded itself into a space between two mortared stones.

Instantly a hobgoblin again, Goliath yanked the weapon free and hurled it back at its owner.

The man gaped down at the weapon protruding from his chest. His mouth opened in a silent "O," and then he crumpled to the floor next to his fallen brethren.

The two remaining guards looked between themselves and then over towards their lord, who continued to battle Father Tyvold. They then glared at the hobgoblin again and seemed to be gathering up the wind to charge at the boy.

Goliath glared back at them with an equal hatred.

No. A far greater hatred.

A hatred that suddenly flung a piece of itself out of his mind and cast itself out in a great cone that Goliath could not see but nevertheless sense with great clarity. The two men stood bathed in the power of the child's mind for a moment-

-and then one of them turned and ran shrieking out the door.

By the time his companion had recovered from his shock, Goliath had rushed forward and picked up a hand axe from the floor. The two engaged in furious hand-hand-combat.

Goliath knew he was going to win. He'd never had any combat training in his life, but now he was as strong as this warrior, if not stronger.

And unlike his opponent, Goliath's wounds continued to heal.

He had no idea how much time passed, but the guard lay dead at his feet.

And once again, he was himself. He was only Goliath, son of Lady Mercy.

His mother still stood pressed against the far corner of the room. Her shield of faith expired, the cleric continued to hold her holy symbol out in front of her as if she was trying to keep out the whole world with it. Her eyes, wide with either passion or madness, darted from it to her son to the one battle that was still going on, from which an explosion of sound suddenly swelled.

Father Tyvold, now bleeding from numerous wounds, had thrust out his holy symbol of an eye at Laird Drew and incanted. A horn blast that sounded as loud as if Heimdall himself had blown Gjallahorn enveloped both men. Goliath could literally see Bjorn's plate mail bend inwards slightly from the sound. The Laird dropped his claymore and sank to his knees, clutching his ears; his scream lost in that unimaginable noise.

The first voice that Goliath could hear after the horn blast had faded was that of his mother.

"Stop!" Lady Mercy screamed. "Stop it! 'Twas neh suppos' tae be this way! Stop it, both o' ye!"

Father Tyvold spun around. The priest's face, which Goliath had so often seen filled with a grandfatherly kindness, now contorted with rage.

"Ye started this, Mercy! Ye are tae blame! Accursed ye are, for what ye've done!"

And then he turned his eyes on Goliath.

"An' for what ye've borne," he muttered.

The youth stared back at him. The cleric's words punched through his gut, leaving a wound that no power could heal.

Father Tyvold took a deep breath. His face flushed even redder.

"Ye are no bairn. A demon ye are, but ye'll neh prevail! May the power o' the High One burn yer flesh tae ash an' send yer soul back tae the Hell from where it came!" he finished with a screech.

The cleric incanted again and his right hand began to glow white. Paralyzed with fear, Goliath could only watch as a searing beam of light suddenly erupted from it, aimed right at him.

He couldn't run. He couldn't change form. He was going to be-

And then somehow, Goliath was watching from ten feet behind Father Tyvold; watching as the white light passed through the spot where he had been standing only moments before and vanish out through the open door of the house.

The priest whirled around, a snarl on his lips- but he'd been distracted too long.

Still on his knees, Laird Drew swung his claymore in a crisp arc, and took off both of Father Tyvold's legs just below the knee.

The cleric's scream of agony filled the house, almost as loud as his sounding prayer had been. Goliath watched in horrified fascination as a small compartment that he hadn't seen before in the Laird's armor slid open. Dropping his sword again, Drew's hand darted in and came out holding a dagger. He crawled over to Tyvold, who now lay on his back, writhing in pain.

"Tae damnation we all go then- but ye first!" the Laird roared as he thrust the dagger's point expertly down between the priest's ribs.

Father Tyvold's face passed quickly from rage to pleading to an unbearable sorrow. It begged forgiveness that never came before it settled into the blank mask of death.

His deep breathing the only sound Goliath could hear now, Laird Bjorn Drew picked up his sword again and turned to face the child.

If Goliath had hoped it was over, Drew's face dashed that hope to pieces. The Laird of Glencorraid's face was not suffused with the same rage that Father Tyvold's had held, but there was no kindness at all there.

"It all ends here," the noble growled between deep, ragged breaths as he rose to his feet. "I ken neh wha' ye meet be, Goliath, but too much has happened here tonight. I meet neh be blameless in this matter…"

And now he stood fully erect. Despite the great wounds covering his body and the blood that streamed down his face from a deep gash in his forehead, the Laird seemed to gather his strength back as he took a step towards the boy, the claymore coming back into battle position.

"…but I will be the sole survivor o' it!" he screamed as he rushed to attack.

Goliath stumbled backwards along the wall. He tried to hurl his hatred at Laird Drew as he had the guard, but only his own fear trickled out. He tried to will himself elsewhere, but that ability too seemed to have vanished. He could feel it all leaking out of his body like water from a sieve. He had no chance against the Laird. Even a hobgoblin wasn't as strong as the mighty Bjorn, and Drew was a legendary fighter, even when wounded near to death.

The youth tripped backwards and fell. The claymore glinted in the continual flames as it rose overhead. Goliath shrieked and held out an arm in a futile attempt to block-

"NO!"

Lady Mercy pounced on the Laird from behind. Her hand shot out over his right shoulder- and then, unbelievably, gave his cheek a tender caress.

And Laird Bjorn Drew screamed one last time.

Goliath watched in abject terror- he might have been screaming, too- he wasn't sure of anything he was hearing now; let alone of what he was seeing.

Lady Mercy had the most gentle of hands, and times innumerable her son had seen those hands glide softly across the flesh of the injured, knitting bones, closing wounds, healing diseases. Even fell curses faded under her touch– that touch that could heal. Heal, but never harm.

Until now.

Somehow, Lady Mercy had turned her god-given powers around, and the results were horrifying to behold. The skin on Laird Drew's face, and then elsewhere, boiled red with huge giant blisters, which then erupted in a shower of blood and pus. They spread and grew deeper. More blood flowed, and now Goliath had a momentary glimpse of Bjorn's entrails squirming to squeeze past the bottom of his breast plate before the Laird's eyes rolled up in his head and he collapsed to the floor with a great clatter of steel.

Goliath wasn't sure how long the silence lasted.

When he finally managed to raise his head from where he'd buried it in his hands, he saw his mother on her knees next to the bodies of the Laird of Glencorraid and the High Priest of Aug Rondon. Her tear-streaked face was turned upwards, her lips moved silently, and a sadness that seemed impossible for a mortal frame to contain was lodged there. A sadness that reached out towards her only child.

Goliath reached out a trembling hand.

"Mama?" the boy whispered.

His mother whispered back, but not to him. Those light blues eyes strained upwards, and it seemed to Goliath that they were looking for something that they knew they would never see again.

"My Vow- broken. My good intentions- all come tae this. I should have kenned- the Strands o' Fate canna be unwoven. What I've done has come full circle. All our souls-"

And here she looked over at Goliath and without warning shrieked again.

"- DAMNED TO HEL'S REALM!"

Goliath screamed in terror- it felt as if the new power of his own mind had been turned upon him- and he jumped to his feet and ran out the door.

He tumbled down the hill, but he just got up and started running again. He ran and he ran. There was nothing left but the running.

And the crying.

He ran into the waters of Loch Arlou, and when the waves began to push against him, the boy hurled himself face-down into those icy waters and let them close over him and wash away the tears.

And with a great sweep of his mighty tail, Goliath, son of Lady Mercy, swam away into the black depths.

Aslan didn't know when he'd backed up against the wall of the chamber.

The paladin fought off the sudden urge to polymorph that came over him, but that was all he could do. His knees bent, and he slid down to the floor as the pain in his heart overwhelmed him. Like almost no time had passed, he buried his face in his hands again.

"Mother," he whispered so softly no one could hear him. "What did you do?"

His opponent in the Revealing Duel gazed evenly at Aslan.

Unru knew he possessed only the barest bones of the true story, but he knew it would trigger a memory in the paladin, and it certainly had. Aslan was broken. Unru had triumphed. The illusionist finished his tale merely for the sake of his audience.

"Wha little we ken fer sure 'boot wha' happened tha' night came from tha' one guard who'd ran, an' by the time he'd fetched others from the village an' come back, there was no one there but Lady Mercy- and she swore they'd neh get a word out o' her."

Corrigan sighed. "Well, no one ever saw Laird Drew, Father Tyvold, or the others again. There was a great hue and cry 'boot the whole thin', as ye meet ken, but with no proof, they couldna arrest the Lady. Drew's eldest son became the new Laird, a new High Priest was sent tae Aug Rondon from Odinskirk, an' tha' was the end o' tha'."

Unru's face grew a grim smile as he looked at his illusionary son and friend.

"And this, as they say, is the end of this."

Unru waved his hand, and the entire scene vanished even as he resumed his natural form and addressed the room.

"I trust I've proved my point?"

No one could answer him. All everyone could do was look over at Aslan.

Their friend hadn't come back to them. They couldn't see his face, but they could all see his shoulders shake as he wept.

They were the tears of a child.

He was still in Glencorraid; still locked back in the past.