Once, this had been a place of mystery and beauty. For ages the archway had rested between four towering pillars whose intersecting shadows acted as a key to what magic lay within. Only legends remained regarding what dwelt within the archway, and what had gone so terribly wrong. A Fey Way it was called—a portal that led to the fey realms and all the secrets held within. Some tales told of benevolent fairy folk emerging from the archway to help those who lived here in ancient days. Other tales spoke of something else entirely. Shadow creatures. Terror. The stuff of nightmares.
None of it really mattered anymore. The pillars that had once stood like silent guardians in the valley were now toppled and broken. What remained lay splintered, lost among the rocky ground, half-buried in the earth. The archway, arcane runes chiseled into its eroded surface, was cracked in a dozen different places. Precious stones that had once adorned its surface had long ago been pried from their moorings, leaving vacant holes that stared skull-like into nothingness.
Yet shadows remained within the archway—pockets of darkness not created merely by lack of sunlight, but conjured by a lingering magic borne of an age lost in the reaches of yesterday. The pillars had fallen after unlocking the fey portal, and for centuries uncounted it had remained ajar.
“Nothing. Ten miles into the mountains to see another pile of ruins.” Standing from her crouched position, Ryder slung her bow with a muttered curse.
She propped a booted foot upon a stone and leaned upon her knee, surveying their surroundings with one hand falling to the hilt of her sword. Fingers drummed upon the pommel—it was an old scrap of an Astradian marching tune she kept beat to, one she had heard years ago as a child. It came to her now, as it always did, when expectation and uncertainty met at a crossroad.
Next to her, Wisteria made a sharp shushing sound and waved Ryder back to her vantage point. She consulted a battered old journal, her eyes flicking back and forth from the book to what lay before them. Upon the page was an ink rendering of the valley below with scribbled notes. Small rune markings were scrawled in the margins with possible translations rendered below. “Nothing you can see,” said the seeker. “You heard what the vandi said as well as I did. Something is down there, just wait.”
Ryder gazed down into the valley, her sharp eyes taking in every detail this time. Amongst the crumbled remains hung a cloud of utter silence. Nothing stirred, but there was a heaviness about the place like the cloying bitterness of blood when it has been spilt freely...and violently. A presence, almost. Within the stone archway hung a curtain of gloom that rippled in the late afternoon breeze.
“See,” Wisteria whispered. She glanced to Ryder, a light within her almond-shaped eyes. It wasn’t a patronizing look, rather it was one of excitement. It was moments like this a seeker lived for: a glimpse into an ancient world unseen by mortals of this modern age. This is where history was both discover and forged. “You feel it, too. That Astradian blood of yours knows danger when its near, I’d wager. You’ll be wanting that enchantment upon your arrows, I think.”
Ryder fingered the string upon her bow and glanced over her shoulder, gritting her teeth at the mention of the word ‘enchantment.’
“Where’s that damned wizard?”
“Examining the desert flora, last I saw,” Wisteria said. She gestured back the way they had come. In a harsh whisper she said,
“Cragan!”
From behind them came a cloaked man, his short beard the only visible feature beneath a dark hood. He carried a staff in his hands and frowned as he hurried toward them, glancing over his shoulder as if he had forgotten something along the trail. Drawing closer, he took out a long-stemmed pipe and clamped it between his teeth, not bothering to light it.
“What took you so long?” Ryder asked irritably. She scowled as he drew beside her, raising his eyebrows and dropping a sly wink as he opened a palm to show his findings. It did little to soften her mood.
Smiling around the pipe stem, Cragan produced a sampling of cactus roots, leaves, and flower petals. “You’d be amazed how these simple things can be mixed into—”
“We didn’t bring you along for a gardening expedition,” Ryder said. She pointed down into the valley where the ruins had gathered more of the late afternoon shadows. “That’s—”
“The Fey Way of Fangtooth Gulch,” Cragan finished breathlessly. Hastily he tucked his findings into a pouch and crouched down next to Wisteria. “There are countless of them,” he continued, scratching thoughtfully at his beard. “Fey Ways, I mean. All taking on various shapes. This one’s seen better days, so it seems. The Gulch was named after something escaped the portal and killed nearly everything within ten miles, if you believe the gypsy tales, that is. For the record...I do. The Fey Way itself has been here for centuries.”
“Predating the Age of Dominion,” Wisteria added. “Probably fell to ruin around the same time the great cities were destroyed at the end of the age.”
Cragan clamped down upon his pipe, eyes narrowing upon the ruins below. Within the archway the gathering gloom gave way to pure pitch. “Broken but not destroyed, is it?”
“We’re come quite a ways to find out,” Wisteria said. “You promised a spell upon the our archer’s arrows, wizard. Now’s the time.”
Cragan lifted a finger. “I am
not a wizard, and never claimed to be. I’m simply a candle-maker. A chandler by trade.”
Wisteria sighed. “You can produce magical effects from your candles, right?”
“Correct.”
“Then you’re a wizard in my book. Do your trick, Cragan, and be quick about it.”
Reluctantly, Ryder withdrew three silver-tipped arrows from her quiver. “My arrows never needed a wizard’s aid before.”
“I’m not a—”
“Just hurry it up,” Wisteria urged.
Cragan muttered words around the stem of his pipe and dug through the contents of one of his satchels. An assortment of candles, wicks and small jars of tallow spread out over his lap. He dipped his fingers into one of the jars then crushed the contents of his scavenging over his palm.
Ryder frowned. “I still don’t understand why this is necessary.”
Wisteria rose to her feet, drawing a long dagger from a sheath at her belt. Pointing with the weapon she said, “Because what lurks in the shadows down below can’t be killed by
unenchanted arrows, despite how good of a shot you may actually prove to be. Did you listen to anything the vandi told us, or were you already indulging in their wine?.
“I heard folklore and children’s tales, same as you,” Ryder said, refocusing her attention. Turning her gaze back to the Gulch, she added, “fairy tales to scare kids.”
“Call those stories what you will, but layered within those tales are hidden secrets and lost truths. The portal that exists here is broken. But it holds enough magic for certain creatures of the fey realms to pass through.”
“
Leak through, I’d say,” Cragan said. He adjusted his pipe from one side of his mouth to the other, licking his lips as if tasting the non-existent tobacco. His fingers pulled apart, creating a long sticky line of tallow that he bounced up and down in the air before his eyes as though testing the weight. “It’s something like a closed door with a few cracks through its surface. Something on the other side leaks through into our world where it takes on form. Ghastly form, I’d wager.”
“Nightmarish, according to the vandi we encountered,” Wisteria said. To Ryder, she added, “It is not of our world. To destroy it, you will need the aid of the wizard’s magic.”
“Fine,” Ryder said. She shrugged and offered three arrows to the candle maker. “This is all on your coin, seeker.”
One by one, Cragan plucked an arrow from Ryder’s grasp. He rubbed the sticky substance onto each one, then muttered words in a language that neither Ryder nor the seeker recognized. His fingertips took on a pale glow that gradually brightened to searing red, then with an abrupt flick of his hands, the light disappeared...only to reappear upon the head of each selected arrow in a flash of sparks. The silver tips burned golden for a long moment before the enchanted glow at last dimmed. Dusting off his hands, Cragan offered a satisfied smile.
“Done. I had begun to think you’d brought me along only for my charm and personality.”
Ryder collected the arrows and inspected each tip. “All right. Now what?”
Closing her journal and returning it to her satchel, Wisteria flashed Ryder a crooked smile. “Now I draw it from the portal and hope that your skill with a bow is worth the gold I paid out.”
From the satchel, she withdrew a small wooden box. Its painted surface gave no indication of what may lie inside.
“What’s that?” Ryder asked.
“Just a little keepsake,” she said. “A tool of the seeker’s trade.”
“Wait...you’re going down there with a box? That’s it? Where’s your magical arrows, or blade, or...whatever?”
“If your shot is true, this should be all I need.”
She stepped past Ryder toward the gradual decline that led into the shadowed valley. Before she could descend, however, Cragan blocked her with his staff.
“Before you scamper off to risk life and limb...you certain about all this?”
She dropped a wink at Cragan then spared another glance to Ryder. “Oh, it’s only folklore and children’s tales. Hadn’t you heard?”
* * * * * *
Although the sun edged nearer to the horizon, the valley gathered shadows as though it were full twilight. Wisteria picked her way carefully down the hillside and into the scattered ruins. The shattered bulk of a column lay in eroded pieces on the valley floor where she now stood. Ahead, the Fey Way loomed; a pocket of gathered gloom and fabled horror.
This close to the archway, Wisteria could see the mass of darkness within. It was not shadow, as it had appeared to be from the top of the ridge. Rather, it was comprised of pockets of drifting darkness, like great ink spills filling the void. These spills of darkness leaked and trailed downwards, only to form other pockets that drifted and collided. And within each strange pocket of inky darkness something seemed to shift and undulate like some sleeping beast seen through a tiny holes cut in a dark curtain.
Glancing back, Wisteria could see Ryder’s silhouette, the curve of her bow making a laughing moon-shape against the pre-dusk sky. Cragan stood beside her, his enchanted staff now gripped nervously in both hands.
Cautiously, she approached the archway, coming to stand less than five feet away. Kneeling, her eyes never leaving the strange pockets of floating darkness, she placed the wooden box upon a piece of ruined column and drew her dagger from its sheath with her breath held in anticipation.
Around her, the air in Fangtooth Gulch seemed to thin and the nightmare abomination slumbering within the archway awoke.
Each ink-spill was suddenly full of yellow, blinking eyes. There were half a dozen in all, each one filled with monstrous wrath and narrowing upon this latest intruder. From one of the black pockets a whip-like limb shot out, striking Wisteria in the chest and sending her stumbling over the rubble. It curled back, rising like a snake ready to strike again, its tip pointed not unlike the pincher of some obscene spider.
From the ridge came the “twang” of Ryder’s bow. The arrow burst into magical fire in mid-flight, striking the center of the Fey Way only to explode as if it had struck solid stone. Fire dripped like liquid down its surface, and from within the eyes widened with fury.
“Wait!” Wisteria cried out, struggling for breath. “Not yet! It must be drawn out!”
She stood, closing her fingers around the hilt of the dagger she had managed to hold on to. Step by step she moved closer, feeling the eyes of the fey beast crawling over her. The limb swayed back and forth tauntingly, a knobby joint in its center creaking like an old oak tree caught in a storm, and as she came within a foot of the box, it lashed once more.
Spinning to the side, she made a swiping blow behind her and felt the enchanted steel of her dagger make contact. The pincher withdrew, sizzling like a thing branded. What little air remained in the gulch was suddenly sucked away like a vacuum and the pools of inky pitch within the Fey Way began to mingle and combine. Hateful yellow eyes now peered out from an open black doorway, and the monstrosity that dwelt within the ancient portal made a sickening roar that echoed through the valley.
Four spiderous legs exploded outward, gripping the sides of the stone portal then pulling itself out from the lair and into the gulch. It was a thing of absolute horror; a nightmare marriage of spider-demon and man, dragging a grotesque torso across the ruin-strewn ground upon creaking limbs. Four human arms sprouted along its upper body, each upraised to reveal long midnight claws that gleamed in the fading light as daggers. Glowing eyes dotted its hideous face, and the mouth that opened upon its head was twice the size of a man’s and filled with a hundred needle-like teeth all the color of blood.
Horror seized her, but even as she crumbled to her knees, some rational part of her mind held onto why they had come.
“Now!” she screamed.
“Ryder, now!”
* * * * * *
Ryder stood upon the ridge with the bowstring held at her ear. When the monstrosity came tumbling from the portal, birthing itself like some fell obscenity from a stone womb, she did not flinch or waver. Cragan was screaming beside her, helpless in a seizure of pure terror. But he was not Astradian. He had not known the unforgiving lands of the Brithel desert where war had honed its inhabitants to a keen warrior edge. What shade existed in that realm was only the shadow of death that loomed each and every day, offering its eternal solace to man, woman, and child with cruel indifference.
Ryder had lived nightmares. She had tasted of death, and although what crawled upon the valley floor was surely a creature of horror, it was merely one more shape the death shadow had assumed.
And this time, she had been given a candle to vanquish the shadow.
She loosed the first arrow and watched as it made a fiery streak into the gulch and struck the beast in the throat. It roared in surprise and pain, legs skittering unsteadily as its arms clawed at the buried arrow that continued to burn. She pulled the string back once more, her last enchanted arrow pointed at the creature’s upper torso where she believed the heart to be, if indeed it had one.
The prayer she murmured to Tembral, the god who ruled the hearts of those from the northern wastes, was the same one she had whispered as she fled that desert realm in disgrace. The same one she spoke to the darkness every night. True the god had not answered a prayer since her exile, but the words flowed over his lips all the same.
“I am your bow. I am your arrow. I fly to your enemy’s heart. I drink their blood, and offer their spirit. If this spirit does not please, I offer mine to take its place.”
She fired.
* * * * * *
The last fiery arrow struck the creature through the chest, bringing a burst of fire that engulfed the upper portion of its body. It careened backwards, legs splaying out from under it as a resounding screech of pain and anguish loosed from its throat. Claws scraped across the ground, crushing ancient stone as it retreated.
Wisteria lunged forward, her fingers prying open the wooden box even as she stared awestruck at the dying monster that now limped back towards its fey home.
“No,” she whispered. “There is no going home for you.”
A light appeared from the box, silver to match the pale light of the Laughing Moon that had just risen in the twilight sky, and suddenly the demon ceased in its desperate attempt to escape through the portal. Magical fire continued to burn its body, and although the creature’s mouth remained open, the deafening screech abruptly stopped. The eyes, those that had not been seared away, suddenly turned away from the Fey Way to stare through the flames at the box. Upon seeing what lay within, the eyes widened and the body convulsed, as if somehow this abomination had felt the very clutch of fear it had countless times imposed on others.
Its body contorted and the upper torso, now nearly lost to licking flames, bowed backwards with the sound of a tremendous crack. The yellow eyes, wide with terror, rolled backwards and from its mouth issued a cloud of black smoke that lingered above its body for a moment before being pulled downward into the box.
There was a bright glow from within and then the lid snapped shut all of its own. The unmoving body of the fey creature crackled and burned for a moment longer, then all at once crumbled to dust. A handful of determined flames continued to lick the sparse grass, but after a moment longer, even those dimmed and winked away.
* * * * * *
“A soulsink scarab,” Cragan said, gazing wonderingly into the box held in Wisteria’s hands. “I’ve read of them, but...never dreamed...”
Ryder spared a glance into the box as she slung her bow. “Soulsink?”
Cragan poked the carved scarab with a finger, one eyebrow arched inquisitively. “The scarab design has been used for centuries. Some are deadly weapons, others are crafted for magical purposes. The art of carving them, as well as the necessary tools, has been virtually lost—I can’t fathom where you would even have come by this little trinket. Only a handful of people are still known to practice the—”
“What does it do?” Ryder interrupted. “What happened down there?”
Wisteria withdrew the box from Cragan. “The scarab absorbed its spirit. It’s soul, or whatever you want to call it.”
Adjusting her bow upon her shoulder, Ryder leaned in for closer look. “Absorbed?”
“Think of a sponge dropped into a puddle,” Cragan offered. “The water disappears, but it’s not actually gone. It’s all still there, just unseen. Absorbed into the sponge.”
“And what happens when you squeeze it out?” Ryder asked. “I’m not likely to be around with another arrow to stick into its chest.”
Shutting the lid, Wisteria placed the box in her satchel and began walking back along the trail to their horses. “That’s for my patron to determine. I hired Cragan to enchant the arrows. I hired you to make the shot. And my patron hired me to deliver the goods. That’s what I’m off to do now.”
Ryder glanced once more into the gulch. It was dark now, concealed in covetous shadows to hide deeds now added to the legacy of the location. “And what about this place? I mean...is it over?”
Wisteria flashed a smile. “We did what we were hired to do. What more could there be?”
Cragan offered a chuckle as he replaced the unlit pipe between his teeth. “So, a fairy tale ending after all, it seems. Heroes prevail, the monster’s vanquished. I say we make our way back to that vandi camp and spread the good news. I foresee wine and celebration..and great embellishments regarding my part in all this.”
Together the three moved away from the ridge, their voices fading as even they dimmed from silhouette to shadow to pure dark. Overhead, the Laughing Moon grinned into the valley, though whether it was a smile of triumph or one of mocking defeat, none but the scattered stars would know.
Dedicated to the memory of Sarah Schwartz.
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Eight years ago Laughing Moon began to whisper, then speak, then cry out a story into the late nights, long days, and restless hours of pounding keys. 
