TO CATCH A TREE
by Scott Colby

Howarnly Mallor the Third didn't know why the forest could fly.  He didn't know why it passed overhead every year, migrating with the seasons.  He didn't know that the distant wood crossing over the lake near his homestead was called the Imorin Forest, or that it was home to the marii and the eashue. 

But Howarnly knew there was a straggler, a single tree that trailed the forest like a small predator stalking larger prey.  He knew it crossed directly over the top of his homestead every spring, after the thaw, and he thought it flew low enough he might be able to catch it. 

And so he stood on the flat roof of his simple cottage, readying his homemade trebuchet.  He'd traded his entire herd of goats to a passing Omman for the design, a month's worth of yams to a Nefazo caravan for the big net it was primed to fire.  A worthwhile investment since the floating tree would surely make him rich beyond his wildest dreams. 

“Howie, you idiot, get down from there!” Olani hollered from the front yard, rolling pin in hand.  “You're just going to hurt yourself!” 

“Quiet, woman!” he shouted.  “This here's man's work!” 

The rolling pin soared past his ear, landing on the far side of the house with a dull thump.  “If you put another hole in my roof with that piece of junk, I swear I'll throw your worthless ass in the lake!” 

Marry a Mana'Olai, his friends in the guild had told him.  They're loyal to a fault, and great cooks to boot!  He spat at the memory.  When his flying tree made him rich and famous, the first thing he planned to do was find a wife who wasn't so fat and ugly and mean.  Maybe a princess with a big boat. 

The tree was almost in range now, a slender needle of wood silhouetted in the afternoon sun.  His heart raced as it came closer...closer...closer.  With a triumphant cackle he released the trigger rope, sending the trebuchet's counterweight swinging downward and flinging the net out into the sky.  Howarnly whooped as the net struck true, wrapping itself around the little tree.  The rocks tied to the net's corners pulled the tree downward—and right for him.  It collided with the trebuchet with a massive crash, sending splinters everywhere and hurling him off the roof.  He landed in the pigsty with a heavy splat, pushing aside a friendly sow that wandered over to give him a kiss.  The tree came to a gentle landing twenty paces away. 

“I did it!”  he shouted.  “That tree is mine!  All will know the name Howarnly Mallor the Third!” 

He rushed to claim his prize, skipping and jumping like a schoolgirl in love.  And what a prize it was; a perfect specimen of treedom, twenty paces long with perfect bark and glistening red leaves.  He could smell the salt water, the luxurious yacht rocking gently beneath his feet as his young, nubile princess fed him grapes and rubbed his shoulders.  He gave the tree a hug, pressing his face to its rough brown bark. 

The tree growled. 

“What the...” 

A trio of Aiemer sharks the size of Howarnly's forearms leapt from their hiding places in the leaves, snapping and snarling.  He gave a surprised yip and ran toward the house, one of the flying sharks swimming through the air, hot on his heels.  It caught him, took firm hold of the back of his pants with its jaws, and tore them free.  Howarnly stumbled to the ground in a pitiful, pathetic ball of yelping and crying and begging for his life. 

Olani was there in an instant, braining the beast with her spare rolling pin.  It dropped to the grass, dead, and she picked it up by the tail to examine her trophy.  “At least we got dinner out of the bargain.  Now fix that roof, or you're going in the pot with your little friend here!  And put some damn pants on!” 

Meanwhile, the other two sharks were thrashing his wonderful net.  The cheap hemp came free, and the tree floated back up into the sky, its toothy inhabitants rising to join it. 

MOMBASSA
by Scott Colby

Mombassa leaned his rusted old blade against the rear wall of the alley and took a seat on the dirt road beside it.  Legs crossed and arms spread in the ancient fal'a'na position, he closed his eyes and began to meditate.  No one would bother him in this part of Priyati, where the streets had so recently run red with the blood of slaughtered Makua'Moi, where the stars had rained down from the heavens to set the neighborhood ablaze.  No one would bother him, that is, save those he'd come to kill.

 He breathed heavily, wheezing, the result of several broken ribs suffered at the hands of a demon outside Terra Haute.  He flexed his left hand, still feeling echoes the two fingers he knew he'd lost to a pair of creatures in the foothills of the Mauna Kuini.  His head throbbed, the results of an ambush just outside town.  Mombassa had never encountered so many demons in so few days.  If the tales the locals told were true, there could be only one reason: there was wild magic loose in the land, and wild magic called forth all sorts of nightmares.

A ha'ha'we'lo, he'd sought to find it, to stop it or at least curtail it so the dark things would crawl back under their rocks or back into the protection of their shadows.  Alone, they were easier to kill.  In groups, excited, they were death to all unlucky enough to cross their path. 

The trail had ended in Priyati.  He could track the magic no further; neither, it seemed, could the demons.  They came out after Diun set, raping and pillaging and turning Priyati's evenings into a living hell.  Mombassa's nearest fellows were a fortnight away, and, drawn to him as the demons were, he knew he couldn't hope to hold out that long. 

The slow scraaaaaaaaaaaaaaaape of talons lumbering through dirt brought Mombassa to his feet, the ancient sword to his hand, and the first words of the last song he'd ever sing to his cracked lips. 

“Here in the night, devoid of the light...” 

The beast paused in the mouth of the alley, a black mass framed in faint starlight.  It snuffled a few times, testing the air.  He could hear others approaching behind it, some running, some shuffling, and a blood curdling scream sent a shiver down his spine.  He tightened his sword and focused; one note off, the slightest error in pitch or tone, and all would be for naught. 

“...here I shall stand, defender of man...” 

A smaller shape leapt over the first, howling as it rushed the Ha'Ha'Welo.  He cleaved it in two with one might swing.

 “...here I shall burn, and evil will learn...” 

The first one came now, leading a roiling mass of grasping hands and pumping legs and snapping teeth as a host of demons fought among themselves to gain entrance to the alley.  There were so many... 

“...that I'm more than flesh and bone...” 

Mombassa ducked under his enemy's first wild swing, sidestepped a trip, and plunged his blade into its back.  Another leapt down at him from atop the back wall.  He caught it by the throat and crushed its high, sloping forehead against the building to his left. 

The others were almost on him now.  Just as Mombassa had been taught, just as he'd taught three apprentices, he raised his voice to deliver the final line he'd never been allowed to practice. 

“...and I've got fire of my own!” 

Mombassa lost his grip on his weapon and collapsed to his knees, every nerve in his body suddenly flooded with ecstacy.  He looked on in awe at the flames roiling across his skin, at the demon horde that just kept coming, and he smiled triumphantly.  This, he thought, must be what it's like to meet God...