The blade sliced through warm air, dusk's amber light flickering along its length like shooting stars. His muscles gloried in the sensation of release as his arm straightened, every ounce of strength focused on this one swing. Aim slightly past where you want to connect - that way, you'll strike with full momentum. The waning day blinded him as he turned but it didn't matter. The sword connected, chopping into his target, and a severed head tumbled through the air in the wake of his blow.

Barlon smiled through the cloud of ruptured straw, and then flinched as a piece drifted into his eye. His decapitated scarecrow wobbled in its support, the head mocking him from the floor with a smug, inanimate expression.

"Shut up," he muttered, blinking madly. "I still killed you."

He sheathed the sword and spent some time chasing straw fragments from his bare chest, teasing them from the ridges between muscles. Barlon was proud of his solid figure, but decided a shirt would be a good idea next time he made war on his pest deterrents.

A clapping sound drew his gaze to Rhianne, who approached with a broad grin, her eyes focused somewhere beneath his chin. "You showed that straw man!" she said, her deep brown eyes flashing with mischief.

Barlon smiled in return, admiring the curves that gave shape to her thin dress. "He deserved it - he was mocking me."

"Shut up and kiss me." She curled an elbow round his neck and pressed her lips to his. She had a warm, luscious mouth, firm yet pliant, and he responded urgently. One hand slipping into her brunette hair, he moved against her, his other hand following her waist's shape to grasp at the small of her back. Her tongue flicked against his as their lips slid back and forth and he felt fire smouldering in his abdomen. She hooked one knee over his hip and moaned. "You're just too good, baby."

He clasped her bottom and hoisted her up so her ankles locked behind him, and held her while they kissed some more. Rhianne was fire to his blood, and Barlon could never resist a chance to touch her. He tracked kisses down the side of her neck and pressed his lips to the crook of her shoulder. She let her head roll back so he could follow the line of her collar with his mouth, ending in the sweet spot behind her jaw on the other side. Barlon felt her legs clamp harder into his back, and suddenly she giggled.

"Oh baby, that feels hard."

He breathed in her ear. "That's because it's my sword hilt. What say we retreat to my cabin, fair maiden, and discover how much competition it has?"

"Whatever you say, Lord Barlon."

With some reluctance, they disentangled and ran, hand in hand, from the field he'd been using for sword practice. Through a short stretch of woods and down a hill to the outskirts of Makerest village, they went, giggling and casting grins at one another. Home was a large reinforced log cabin, passed down through the family for generations. It became Barlon's upon the death of his mother when he was sixteen, and he'd lived and worked there in the year since.

The two lovers burst through the front door, made it successfully through the hallway, then collapsed and made frantic love on the kitchen floor, proceeding to the dining table at some point mid way. Having recovered in a sweaty heap for half an hour, they proceeded into the bedroom and set to again, this time in slower, more controlled fashion. The kitchen was for lust, the bedroom strictly for loving.

By the time night finished falling, Barlon lay atop his covers with Rhianne snuggled into his chest and snoring gently. He stared at the ceiling, contemplating the post-coital openness of mind that let him think clearly. In the absence of urgency, melancholy began setting in. The thought he'd spent all day burying came crashing to the forefront of his mind.

The flash of silver. A lighting, instinctive reaction. The rending of flesh...

"No!" he whispered insistently, a chill sweeping through his chest. Last night did not happen, could not have happened! It must be simply a recent nightmare; his greatest fear given visual form by his unconscious awareness. He shifted about fitfully, wishing for a distraction, and fell back on his oldest dream; that of Duelism. He was the son of Roger Dunbar, travelling the roads with the Black Stallion, taught to bring punishment to the wicked and justice to the lands. No more trapping, selling just enough hides to get by; no more farming and tilling just to survive. Mind lost in happy fantasy, he got to sleep eventually. The nightmare came again three times before dawn.


Barlon woke to find Rhianne gone, and cracked a knowing smile. Right now she was probably running home to climb through the window of her room and ruffle the bed before her father got up. Nightmares aside, he felt at peace with himself, if not content with his life. A warm day and the solace of his cabin were two things he craved in life. Having eaten a hearty breakfast, Barlon threw on some cotton trousers and shirt. He laced his hardy leather boots and set out down the dirt track that led from his home into the hamlet of Makerest.

It was Moonsday, so nobody was working, and the calming silence complimented perfectly the pleasant beam of the sun. A glinting from belt level reminded Barlon that he wore his heavy hunting knife, having strapped it on without thinking about it. The six-inch serrated blade was his constant companion; a treasured possession since childhood, and he was so used to wearing it that his walk altered slightly when he didn't have it on. He patted the weapon affectionately, and suddenly flinched as if struck.

A memory hit him with the stunning force of a thunderbolt. It was momentary, gone in a flash before he could grab hold of the image, but left him stumbling. Could something so obviously important be so easily forgettable? Had it been a memory at all? Most worrying of all; why was it triggered by touching his hunting knife? Barlon shook his head and resumed his walk, still puzzling.

Five minutes from his home, he reached the village. Makerest was a single North South road accommodating a collection of solidly constructed commercial buildings. Surrounding the main thoroughfare was a collection of log huts housing thirty families, mostly traders or suppliers of one kind or another. Makerest prided itself on its self-sufficiency and, rather more quietly, on what it saw as independence. There were three churches; one Two Moons and two run down old buildings with officially sealed gates. There was also the obligatory inn, and it was towards The Moon and Traveller that Barlon headed now.

The heavy door creaked open to reveal a small lounge half filled with locals, mostly engaged in soft conversation. Barlon made his way along the rectangular room, weaving between the few tables, to the bar across the far end. Steff and Grinda were propped up against it and, as he approached, all greeted all.

"Didn't think we'd be here long before you showed up," remarked Grinda.

"What else am I going to do on Moonsday?" he responded, chuckling.

Barlon leaned with his two best friends and, as he ordered a drink, the conversation turned to the usual easily-forgotten trivia and banalities. Grinda was animated, gesticulating wildly as he spoke, his short black hair somehow remaining as still as death, like it was painted onto his head. Steff cradled his glass quietly and interjected the odd considered comment. His blonde hair, tied at the nape of his neck, shimmered when he moved, and he stood a head taller than the other two, his piercing blue-eyed gaze always roving. Inevitably, they ended up talking about the opposite sex.

"So, Steff," said Barlon cheerfully, "any luck with the hens yet?"

Steff smiled, barely. "Not me. This cock crows alone."

"Yeah?" interposed Grinda. "I hear little Sophie likes you."

"You think I didn't notice? I'm considering my position."

"Ridiculous! I've been trying at her for months and got nowhere. She's the only untouched girl in the village who's anything like our age, and the one person she's interested in is scared!"

"Wait a minute, I didn't say-"

"You may as well have."

Steff grinned suddenly. "My sensibilities don't answer to your filthy mind, Grinda. I'll grant you, from my point of view she's the only prize in the village worth winning. I'm just biding my time." He pointedly turned to Barlon, diverting any further attention. "How's Rhianne keeping?"

"Well oiled, I'll bet," smirked Grinda as Steff sighed visibly behind him. "I reckon she's a demon in the old chamber, eh Barlon?"

"Quite the opposite, my friend," replied Barlon in an affected formal tone. "It's like being ridden by a Moon's angel." He delivered the line in a light manner but felt the tightness in his smile. Then he added, "Just because you never get any."

Grinda bridled. "I get it whenever I want; I roam the yard. I don't bore my emotions with one target all the time."

Barlon took a sip from his drink, refraining from comment, but stared at his ribald friend frankly. Grinda snorted and turned away. Steff waited for a few moments before he spoke up.

"It's genuine isn't it, Barlon? You really do love Rhianne."

Their eyes met and Barlon hoped Steff saw the relief he felt that someone had noticed. What seemed obvious to him often seemed invisible to others, especially Rhianne herself. He could feel the sternness in his face as he nodded and answered softly. "Time will stop before I love another woman more."

He lowered his eyes, taking another sip, and an uncomfortable silence ensued. Barlon had nothing more to say, Steff appeared content, and Grinda actually looked embarrassed. For a while it seemed as though everybody else around them had stopped to listen to their conversation. They hadn't, of course, but it left Barlon picking distractedly at his clothes and taking imaginary interest in everyday sights and sounds. After a time he noticed Steff looking from him to Grinda and back, his brow furrowing in consternation. Finally, his blond friend drained his glass and put it down on the bar with unnecessary force.

"Oh well, must be off. Work to do."

Barlon sighed and smiled indulgently. "Steff, it's a day of rest for moon's sake!"

"Well, I suppose I'm just wicked, then," was the reply, and then Steff was gone, stepping through the door and closing it behind him. Barlon stared after his friend in slight confusion, certain he was missing something of the situation.

Grinda turned to Barlon as the door clicked shut, his face clouded. "How are you coping after the other night?"

The flash of silver. A lightning instinctive reaction. The rending of flesh. Blood...

Barlon felt himself go cold to the bone. A memory, not a nightmare, and yet both at once. He turned his white face to his friend's.

"I thought it was a dream."

A frown. "No. Not a dream."

"Who?"

"It was old Tom, the horse breeder."

"Have they found him yet?"

"No," Grinda sighed. "Look, I know... I know you actually, like, did it, but I feel really bad, and all I did was distract him. Do... Do you think they'll find out?"

Barlon's face felt numb and he knew he must have gone ashen in colour.

The flash of silver. A lightning instinctive reaction. The rending of flesh. Blood. Death...

"We, I, had no choice, Grinda." The dread memory was flooding back. "He was completely insane on drink; it was him or us."

Grinda smiled faintly. "Oh, I believe that, but we don't have any proof, and we don't have a local magistrate. If this goes to council, it'll be in Fallyharn, and nobody knows us there. Our word won't mean a thing."

Barlon felt anger rush through him at his friend's pessimistic, if realistic, analysis of the situation. "I don't care. Those bastards aren't going to take me for this. I'm no murderer, and if the church is so all wise then they damned well ought to know it." It might have been fear talking, but he felt righteous and determined.

Grinda looked miserable. "It's alright for you; you always did love playing with your sword. Duelism would suit you down to the ground."

"Maybe so, but I never wanted to make my life with it, not like this." His eyes felt hot. "They are going to have no easy time bringing me down." He offered his hand. "We can fight this, Grinda. Are you with me?"

Grinda gave a fierce grin and accepted the proffered handshake firmly. "What's the care? I'm with you."

They shook again. "To the end."