The mountain had been carved in ages past by a forgotten
people into the likeness of a great head. A head with eyes staring blindly into
the sky and a mouth open in awe or horror or some other emotion that only the
long-dead stonecarvers understood.
The young man with jet black hair and a long, sharp-boned
face climbed the steep, narrow stair that led to the mouth of the vast head. He
carried nothing but a slender walking stick of polished oak.
As he entered the cave of the mouth he opened the wings of
his cloak. A pale green light came from the inner lining of the cloak and lit
his way through the darkness of the tunnel. Small, skittering creatures fled
the light and his footsteps.
He passed several piles of human bones but scarcely gave
them a glance. The tunnel branched into many tunnels, and the young man paused
for a moment, tilting his head as if listening, before he made his choice and
went on.
In a chamber deep inside the mountain he found what he
sought. Before him stood a naked giant of a man. Or rather, two halves of a
giant man. This was the terrible Zofim, the One Torn in Two.
The two halves of Zofim were busy arguing over the thigh
bone of the last treasure-seeker who had dared to enter the giant’s lair. When
the young man appeared the two halves dropped the bone and turned their one eye
each at the interloper. The two halves of Zofim’s mouth grimaced and slavered.
Then both halves of Zofim moved toward the young man.
With one leg apiece you might imagine that Zofim’s halves
had to hop awkwardly in order to get anywhere. In fact, over the centuries
Zofim’s bony feet had elongated into grotesque handlike extremities, the toes
so long and splayed out that they could crawl spiderlike over the stones. The
halves of Zofim didn’t hop. They came gliding across the floor, each on one
leg, their one foot like a taloned spider upon which they rode.
When they were inches from the young man and towering over
him, they stopped and moved closer together. Close enough that their two halves
of a face touched and formed one face with a red gash down the middle. This was
the only way Zofim’s lips and tongue could form words.
“Did you bring it?” the hideous mouth growled.
The young man nodded. He slipped a small glass vial out of
an inner pocket of his glowing cloak. Zofim leaned forward expectantly.
“I hope you remember our bargain,” the young man said. “In
exchange for making you whole again, you give me half your treasure.”
Zofim’s bifurcated mouth scowled.
“We remember,” he said.
The young man held out the bottle. Zofim’s two hands grasped
for it, pulled out the cork, then poured its thick syrupy contents over his
tangled, blood-crusted locks. As the clear fluid ran slowly down the two halves
of the giant’s face, neck and chest, it followed the red gash. The fluid
traveled the length of his scabbed and filthy frame.
At last it was done. Zofim touched the middle of his face,
then his chest tentatively. He strained to pull himself apart, but could not.
The red gash still traveled the length of his body, but it was a scar now. The
giant was whole. The One Torn in Two was One again.
“And now,” the giant
said, grinning, “you die.”
He reached for the young man, but Zofim’s legs refused to
move. He looked down, snarling. His feet were stuck to the stones of the
chamber.
“The Honey of Binding is a very tricky substance to use
safely,” the young man said. “It will make anything one with anything else. I noticed
that some of the honey made it all the way down your legs and to the floor. In
a few moments you will be One with the mountain itself. You will be flesh
merged with stone.”
The giant’s eyes grew wide with terror. He struggled and
roared and foamed at the mouth. The young man stood nearby, watching. A short
time later the giant was completely still, his eyes staring blindly upward, his
mouth open in what was decidedly horror. And rage. And agony.
“Why settle for half the treasure when one could have it all,”
the young man said. His voice was calm but hands were shaking and his brow
slick with sweat. It had cost him much to hide his fear from the giant.
The young man was an apprentice mage from the island of
Kyning Rore, but he had grand dreams. He was determined to become Archmage of
the High Council someday, and he knew it would take as much gold as it would
actual spellcraft to raise himself to that eminence. Gold opened doors, and
bought allies, and silence. Gold was more important than spellcraft, which he
had never been the best at anyhow. Even the teacher he looked up to the most,
Nicholas Pendrake, had lost faith in him and refused to teach him all he knew.
Once he had found and gathered up the giant’s gold, Ammon
Brax returned to the motionless giant for a final farewell.
“It’s time we went our separate ways,” he said. “Some of us,
anyhow.”
