The vast fields between the forest in Gorrals and the Twins is like a rolling sea of grass. On windy days the grass turns over in waves one can follow with the eye from one acre to another. Stones peek up out of the grass here and there on higher hills. Still, even these are less than the height of a sapling oak. The sky is clear and blue on most days; the weather is mostly windy, usually chilly, and there isn't much difference from season to season save for the color of fall and the two extremes of summer and winter. Rains are frequent but brief during the warmer seasons, lasting at most a day. The snows are the same when it's colder, if not rarer; the snow seems to like to keep to itself up on the mountain tops. Of the mountains, there are only two visible within apparent reach; there are those off in the far distant western wilds before the hills where the giants soar. And there is the one faint peak far north. The two within reach are called The Great Twin Mountains, or simply the Twins by the locals. Where once two mountains leaned one upon another, there is now a ravine that divides them cleanly from front to back, east to west. The rock there is flat and smooth, as if machined and carried away. It has been that way since before the men who live there now journeyed that way; it, like so many things, is a wonder in that country of Gorrals, remains of an ancient time.

  By morning, the boys and Bombo had cut down the majority of field that separated them from the Twins and the valley pass that led to the River Steels. The journey had been a cool one under clouds and stars and the wind blew at their backs so that it was easy to keep a brisk pace, even for Bombo, despite the soreness they felt over the days since the great stampede.

  Closer, they saw what looked like a small town sprawled at the foot of the nearer of the Twins. It was more of a village, they found when they got there, if that; it lay within a spread of douglas firs that grew at the foot and ankles of the mountains, dressing them a blue green where they were otherwise rocky blue on the climb to their frosty tips.

  There were caravans and camps settled all about what were log buildings. The wind was cold here, even cooler than at the farm. And the smell of smoke meshed well with the sappy fragrant firs, creating an environment with which none of them were quite familiar, though they each liked it, perhaps Bombo the most.

  He was all smiles as he looked about; he was all laughs when he greeted curious strangers who openly marveled at his size, shape and color. These were mostly merchants and woodsmen, hunters and fisherman, their wives and their children, and a few dignitaries who were east for the sights, sounds and fabled hunts.

  Frem was less open to all the marveling and shooed off more than his fair share of would-be gawkers.

  Deeper into the village they came to an inn, a C-shaped building that ran along the face of a cliff wall at the foot of the southern twin.

  Billows of smoke poured from two chimneys atop the building, and the smell was a rich, pungent barbecue not unlike that within a Mannley camp.

  An old sign hung over the door that simply read “Inn,” and, below it, planted in the ground on a stake was a painted display of a pig wearing a white chef's hat, closed-eyed and licking its smiling lips; two other pigs winked on either side of it as they bit into pulled pork sandwiches. The words “Winky's Famous BBQ Restaurant” came up beneath and around them so that it bordered them on all sides but up, and, as he gazed at it, Bombo's jaw nearly dropped to the floor.

  “A Winky place here?” he said aloud to himself, his eyes wide as he looked at the boys, the sign, and the boys again.

  “What's a Winky place?” Frem asked.

  “Come, I show you,” Bombo said as he headed inside.

  It was dark inside despite the windows and open doors. It was all glossy wood, the floors, the bar, the tables, benches, stairs and banisters. A band played on a stage opposite the door, and, between that stage and the door, there were three benched tables, each the width of the stage and filled with patrons eating and drinking.

  At one end, the western end, was a bar; opposite that, through a set of swinging double-doors, was a kitchen.

  Men and women danced in groups in places where there weren't tables, especially in front of the band. One was a woman in a dress and an apron. Upon seeing the boys and Bombo she stopped her dancing and met them at the entrance door.

  She asked how many they were and then led them to an unoccupied section of table where the two boys could sit across from Bombo, who barely fit on the bench. He was all smiles, nonetheless, already nodding his head to the beat of the music and stamping his feet. She asked them what they'd be drinking to which Bombo replied sweet tea, Windston replied water and Frem asked for a beer.

  “Are you ready to order?”

  Bombo nodded, still smiling, and said, “Three rib plates with beans, corn, fries and garlic bread. Extra bread, extra ribs – extra everything.”

  “Yes, sir,” she said, and she was off.

  “Wait till you boys get your hands on this food. It will change you. Especially the sauce. You will not be the same. It is the only place where I find spice like Saria. It is so good. So, so good.”

  “We've had barbecue before,” Frem said, looking at Windston. “We just had it with Clement and the elves.”

  “Not like this,” Bombo said, still smiling, shaking his head. “This is slow-cooked and seasoned with spices before drizzled with a special Winky sauce.” He licked his lips and then made a big popping sound with them. “So good. So, so good.”

  “Sounds disgusting,” said Frem. “Winky? What does that even mean. Is that, like, a wiener?”

  Bombo gave him a short glare before saying. “It's so good. My treat before we part ways, boys. My gift to you.”

  Frem didn't say anything more, just glared at Bombo. His skin was a light green now, like the inside of a fresh cucumber. His hair was a darker green and browning, and his eyes were a very light blue around the irises.

  Windston, whose hair was getting unruly with tangles and curls and whose eyes were baggy from overexertion and lack of sleep, simply stared at Bombo, wondering if he'd really leave them. Honestly, he doubted that he could, though he didn't feel the need to mention it.

  He didn't feel the need to mention anything. He hadn't since the big stampede. Frankly, he hadn't since the Witchee Woods. He was tired. That was an understatement. He was exhausted, mentally and physically, though he tried his best not to show it.

  He tried his best to ignore it. But how could he? He hadn't felt in control since they left Zephyr. The more he sat and thought about it, the more he realized he hadn't made a single decision of his own that wasn't merely a reaction. Even the trip up north to Ice Mountain was technically a reaction to meeting Frem. But what… what did he want? His sword, yeah. But what else?

  To be a hero? To save the world? Or to just… live?

  The waitress returned with their drinks. She was a different woman than before, young and cute, brown-headed and pale skinned. She set two of the drinks down – Windston's and Bombo's – and then leaned on the table, showing cleavage beneath her collar at Frem, who leaned closer, wide-eyed, and swallowed. “Are you sure you should be drinking beer?” she asked him, obviously deliberately teasing him.

  He looked up at her eyes and narrowed his own. “Yeah,” he said shortly.

  She looked at Bombo, who shrugged, and then set a cup of dark, frothy ale down in front of Frem, who hesitated before snatching it and guzzling it down right in front of her. She watched, smiling and shaking her head, and had almost turned to leave when Frem slammed it down and asked for another. “And one for my friends,” he said.

  The woman looked at Bombo again, who again shrugged, and then left, smiling and shaking her head again.

  Frem wiped his mouth and let out a long, loud burp, which caught the attention of nearby diners. He ignored them, leaned his head back and let out a groaning sigh of contentment.

  Windston was the only one not smiling.

  Bombo, who had just taken a sip of his tea, sighed as well. “It is nice and cold,” he said.

  Windston nodded. His water had been crystal clear and cold as well. In fact, there were even chunks of ice floating up top, and he wondered how they'd gotten there and where they'd come from.

  “These places are magical,” Bombo said. “Winky places.” He was shaking his head when the first woman from before – shorter and older and with a bowl haircut in the front, a ponytail in the back – set down a plate of garlic bread slices, browned and yellowed, buttered and steaming.

  “Enjoy,” she said.

  “Thank you,” Bombo replied, grabbing a slice. He tossed it to Windston, who almost dropped it. “Cheer up,” he said to him. “No glum faces before I leave. I want smiles. I want happy. No tears. Not for me. This is why beers. Maybe we can have some cheer, no?”

  Windston shrugged and Frem stared at him for a long while before burping right in his face.

  The round of beers arrived. It was the young bartender again and she winked at Frem, who rolled his eyes and turned as he drank, stared at the band and bobbed his head.

  They drank, the three of them. Even Bombo. The beer here wasn't bitter, but thick and sweet. When the food came, they ate and were merry, even Windston.

  The band played and they began to loosen up more and sing what songs they knew with them. “Hilltop Town by the River” was one only Bombo knew. “She Done Came Down This Here Mountain” was another. Bombo got up and danced a jig at “Silver Moonlight River Rollin'” and all three were on their feet with the squeezebox man for “Howdy Doody Dolly, Doody Wanna Be Ma Lady?”

  The food was good, the sauce just tangy enough so that each of them winked at least once. And then there were round after round of drinks. They shared with their neighbors and their neighbors shared with them. These were merchants, adventurers, locals alike, all friendly, if not a bit silly and tipsy.

  By nightfall they were good and drunk, and they teetered out of the restaurant as a commotion gathered and children cried, “Wandman! Wandman!” and, “It's the Wandman, Daddy!” and, “Hurray for the Wandman! Hip-hip-hooray! Hip-hip-hurrah!”

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  They were all jumping and clapping and dancing around one very tall man in a brown hooded robe. His hood was up, he bore a staff, and the diamond white gem that crowned it twinkled in the firelight, casting shapely light in all directions that danced with the fire as he spun this way to greet one child by name, that way to greet another. Windston watched with infectious laughter which he had picked up from not only the children, but their parents and grandparents and others who didn't appear to have any children at all. Everyone was gleeful and they all shouted his praises as he twirled his staff, tossed it, caught it, spun it overhead and let loose a handful of some sort of powder that caused the flames to leap up at the sky in shades of blue, green, purple and pink.

  Frem stood next to Windston, bumped him with his shoulder. He cupped his hands to his mouth and yelled, “Boo! Let's see some real magic!” as the Wandman raised his hands to the air to the cries of the crowd and then lowered them so that everyone hushed. With those same hands he pushed at the children nearest him, beckoning them to return to their fathers and mothers; and then he turned, letting his hood fall, freeing puffy white curls that fell about his shoulders. His robe fell next, revealing a velvety blue uniform of some sort, perhaps military; it was faded, navy blue and there were dressings on the shoulders that fell about like golden scrub brushes with limp tassels. Brass buttons lined the front of his fanciful jacket from top to bottom, and his pants, which were clean and free of holes, were also blue. More magnificent even than his attire was the puffy pure whiteness of his curly white beard, which hung just down to his collarbone. His eyes, too, were an unusual thing to see, all bright and green and with whites as clear and clean as a brand-new babe's; they were blanketed with puffy white brows that lay flush on them and hung down on the sides over what was smooth, clear skin where wrinkles should typically be on a man of his age.

  “Free peoples,” he said, his voice rising. As he said this a green glow came about him and grew brighter as Windston watched in awe; it was just like Clement the Heath's before it had turned yellow and then gold. “Young ones. Old ones. Those in between. I invite you once more to enjoy a flamboyant display of real live magic!” He bowed and his beard hung and his hair hung about it and he shook both so that they bounced healthily, shining, gleaming in the firelight.

  Bombo stepped up and settled next to Frem, who was so fascinated with the old man that he had even forgotten to give him his typical I-hate-Bombo scowl.

  “Behind me rises flame. It frees itself from the very wood within which it was once contained as energy, wood that grew by the light of the sun; from fire, to wood, to fire once more!”

  Whistles, cheers and claps.

  “Allow me to demonstrate that we too possess this fire.” As he said this the flames erupted so that they rose in high points without dancing but rather shooting embers upward, daggers of clear orange light. “We possess it; therefore, we control it,” he said, slowly raising his arms. The wood beneath the fire hissed and popped, whined and creaked. He spread his arms slowly wider and the flames spread flat until they meshed to form on one side a rectangular cube of flame. “Chisel here,” he said, clapping; a bit of the flame's upper right-side angle flattened and sparks flew from it. “Chisel there,” he said, clapping on the other side, mirroring the effect. “Flatten!” he cried and squashed an imaginary box between his hands, the flames replicating the action in real time. “Or give it room,” he said, lifting his top hand from the bottom so that the flames expanded again. “No matter what you do, you'd never expect…” Pause. “…a plump little bunny rabbit!” As he said this a flaming rabbit ran from the box as a fire bird swooped after it within and about the crowd, leaving a trail of smoke and cindering bits where it flew.

  The crowd exploded in cheering where the rabbit was not and excitement where it was.

  “Be careful, though,” the Wandman said. “For even bunnies can change.”

  Change it did, into a long, slender snake that reached up and snatched the bird in its mouth, swallowing it whole. It was more than twenty feet long, wrapping here, winding there, always smoking, burning trails in the grass.

  “Mister Snake?” he called.

  The snake stood upright before him and hissed, “Yesssssss?”

  The crowd laughed.

  “Would you be so kind as to lend me a hand?”

  The crowd laughed again as the snake lifted its coils and examined itself, nervous and anxious, unable to oblige.

  “How about… a wing?”

  Just then the snake sprouted wings. It sprouted wings and then legs; it grew broader and taller, but not as long. When it was finished it was a winged unicorn and it flew up in the air and darted about higher and higher until it was an orange halo of light moving about behind the clouds.

  The Wandman kicked up his staff, which few had probably noticed had been lying across his feet throughout most of the show. He raised it up above his head and from it shot forth a bright silver beam that he used to search here and there in the clouds. Finally, he found the fire beast; it was galloping higher toward the moons. “We cannot see you!” he called out; the horse grew larger and larger. Soon, it was as big as a cloud and it skated across the moons as if it had touched them with its hooves. It continued forward toward the brightest of bright stars – the new star, the red star, which seemed to twinkle wildly in response.

  Windston's eyes went wide as the unicorn stopped just before it and sniffed it. It looked back down at the crowd and held its head low before standing on its hind legs while its torso shrunk, its forelegs spread, its hooves separated into fingers. It became a man, a muscular man without features, only a bald head. It turned its head so that it looked at the star and then it moved forward so that it should have covered the star, only it didn't; the star shone through as brightly as ever, only now it was the fireman's eye and it gazed down at them and burst alight even brighter in what looked like a controlled explosion.

  “Whatever are you doing up there, oh man of fire? Do you mean to head this way?”

  There was no response but the eye that was the star had separated into two. The head that was at first a profile looked at them dead on now. It held out a hand and pointed a finger at them. Without warning fire from the finger crashed down on the Wandman in a terrible explosion of furious flames. Like in the field his wand leaked sparks of light that cascaded over the village. No one was harmed, no home, no animal. Even the birds that flew about in the sky with the bats were protected from the flame, which still bore down against the field of white light sparks.

  “Oh, red flames,” the Wandman said. “You send your message clear to me. But I have said before what I'll say again; I am fire just as you; you will burn me not, but rather fill me with more fire so that I might grow and grow and grow!”

  As he said these words the fire was sucked into the gem atop his staff. His hair and beard shot out in points as if he had been electrified and his eyes, which were still green, glowed brightly like green stars.

  When the flame disappeared into his staff the fire on the pyre went out too. The remaining wood was orange and smoldering where it wasn't charred black, and smoke filled the air where the flames had been. The Wandman was doubled over now, his hair hanging over his face.

  “For a time,” he seemed to mumble, though he was easily understood. “Even the powerful rest. But behold!” he said, standing upright again as the flames shot forth from the pyre. “What are ashes can again become flame! What dies can be born anew! And though we may be dwindled, we are not doused until we ourselves decide to droop beneath black skies, twinkling stars, and the moons our fathers once beheld – under the eternal sun within the eternal sky!”

  A ball of light no one had noticed had risen behind the mountains and it shone down on them so that it was like day but gradually darker as it rose higher and higher and higher and higher until it faded from sight as less than an orange blink of blotched vision and was gone.

  A great applause broke out. The Wandman bowed this way and that way as coins of brass, copper and even silver splashed all about him and fell at his feet. Like birds to worms, his hands pecked at the grass until all the coins were gone. Still shouting. Still cheering. Muffins flew. Cakes. And others came by to set drinks at his feet which he gladly accepted and overturned in his mouth.

  “More!” cried a man in the crowd throwing brass coins. “More, more, more!” he shouted. Others joined him. “More, more, more, more, more, more, more!”

  The Wandman accepted what they gave to him with bows. He stood tall, slowly, and the fire rose higher. It changed color from orange, to red, to purple, to blue. It stayed blue and grew taller and taller, wider and wider. The flames finally rose up from the pyre and drifted overhead like a triangular prism of dazzling blue in the sky among the clouds. Higher it rose, and then some of it poured out from it, spreading at its foot like a great ocean far and wide. The peak was white and a tower rose on the western side.

  “It's Ice Mountain!” someone shouted.

  “It's Ice Mountain and the great tower of ice!”

  The mountain grew larger and tipped over so that staring up at it was staring at it straight ahead. It grew closer, fitted within the borders of an invisible rectangle so that parts of it, as it grew larger, were cut off as if the crowd were zooming in on it.

  The tower zoomed closer.

  There was a hole in the tower.

  In the tower was a man walking back and forth.

  He called and cried out and tore at his hair and stomped his feet and fell to the ground wailing and moaning. The fire was more than blue but colored as if true to life. There were trinkets and books on shelves around a great table of chairs and food and wine and treats and goodies. The man paced back and forth, sometimes on the table, sometimes over it. He levitated in a flying lotus upside-down. The walls swirled and faces popped in and out of it. Inanimate objects formed faces themselves as a collective singular and they spoke as well. They spoke of many things that made no sense and other things that almost did. They spoke of a man in the dark, the one that comes as an impending doom unstoppable. They blamed him, and only him, and he blamed himself.

  The crowd watched mesmerized.

  In an instant it was gone and all at once realized they had seen not only a fire display, but something else; a glimpse, perhaps, into the actual tower of ice where a madman supposedly lived.

  Finally, when all had become normal and still, the sky lit orange again as a giant stemmed ball with green leaves. It was a tangerine and it fell square on the crowd without burning them, sparks flying everywhere. Windston caught a glimpse of the Wandman and watched him recoil briefly from the cool flames, his actions all but admitting he wasn’t expecting that to happen.

  All was still again.

  Bombo clapped before anyone else. Everyone else clapped after him.

  Windston, however, had to pee. He left to do so behind the inn, where he had peed several times already. As he was peeing and the world seemed lighter and the darkness thicker and the singing and cheering and merrymaking that had resumed seemed like a pleasant backdrop that should always be present in what should forever be a pleasant world, he thought about the feathered drakul stampede and the man who had saved them and it dawned on him that that man had been the Wandman.

  What dream had he been in that made him forget to notice such obvious things? Was the world as blurry as it seemed right now? Would it stay so?

  Finished peeing, he stumbled around the inn, smiling at nothing, at everything, as he passed smokers smoking rolled cigarettes of tobacco and other things; drinkers drinking ale, liquor, wine and brandy; lovers kissing and feeling one another in the dark, away from others; and the moons' light rained down on everyone, bathing them faintly where planted torches' fire couldn’t and the pyre didn't. He squeezed through crowds and gave an excuse me when he had to; he smiled at some and nodded at others; he watched for others' shoes and made sure not to step on toes.

  In the inn, where he expected to find Bombo or Frem, he found another band playing, full tables of card players, dice rollers, and a nearly full bar with two empty stools; one at one end, beside the not cute waitress, who must have been on break; one at the other end, a ways apart from the closest, which was occupied by the Wandman.

  He smiled and teetered his way over to the empty spot beside the Wandman. He was noticed by the bartender. The Wandman didn't look up at him but rather looked up at a clock as it ticked ticked the minute hand a notch past midnight.

  Windston looked over at the Wandman and thought about saying something. But he lay his head down on the bar instead and fell asleep.

  He awoke early the next morning on silk sheets wrapped around a linen mattress stuffed with goose feathers. The pillows were stuffed with down as well, and there was a thick blanket spread about him.

  Bombo was snoring in the next room over, in the same suite he must have paid for. Frem was in yet a third room but he wasn't alone. He was still awake and saying something Windston could barely hear to some giggling lady – probably the cuter waitress.

  The room was spinning and Windston got up just in time to find a good bucket to puke in.

  He drank water from a pitcher on the table. It was clear and cool.

  After that, he went back to bed. He dreamed dreams that made no sense, neither pleasant nor unpleasant, in spurts all day. He stayed in bed all day. By the time he was fully awake it was nighttime and he found that he was alone.

  He found Bombo and Frem downstairs in the bar. They had just finished eating.

  Windston ate as well. And then they drank a little, much less than the night before.

  The Wandman was nowhere to be found, though he was mentioned quite a bit. Apparently, he was a wanderer who came and went randomly. He hadn't been there all the time but had only just started appearing earlier that year.

  Some said he was from somewhere way out west while others said he was from the south and west in Galsia. He was supposedly heading north next, though there isn't anywhere north to go if money is what one is after.

  One man, a mercenary guildsman, said he was headed up to the great drop. He had seen him go there once and had seen him return from that way several weeks later. What he was doing there nobody could guess. The only thing north of that drop was the frozen swamp and, beyond it, the unclimbable Ice Mountain.