| THE LORELEI SIGNAL |
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| Written by Jasmine Giacomo / Artwork by Lee Kuruganti |
| Flowers for the Sentinel |
And it came to pass, after the Wraith War ended, that the Sentinels spread across the land, determined never
again to let the people of the Flowing Hills suffer needlessly. One to a village, two to a town, four to a city, they
stood guard eternally. And that their charges should not fear them, they handed down justice to the everyman,
clear and perfect, for none could lie to them and live.
Consha Drumstalk had been bringing flowers to the Sentinel for as long as she could remember. Her father,
the mayor of their village of Seedplain, told her stories of when she’d been two years old, and had picked a
fat blue daisy from Mistress Handy’s garden walk and laid it on the Sentinel’s left foot. That was the first time
he could recall her floral gift, though Consha couldn’t remember back that far.
Today, the young blonde came to see the Sentinel before dawn, her small basket full of night-blooming
shadowfire, their slightly musty scent barely reaching her nose, their orange glow illuminating her way down
dusty streets like a well-shuttered lantern. It was so early that the village baker, Hemley, wasn’t even awake
yet.
Seedplain was laid out in a circular fashion, with ring-streets and spoke-streets. All villages, towns and cities
in the land of Undularnia were created this way, and had been since they’d all had to be rebuilt after the
Wraith War, six hundred years back. The squared-off cities had presented a long, flat edge the wraiths had
attacked all at once. The circle-cities drew them in more toward the Sentinels; the designers intended that
the wraiths would be seen as they began to wrap around the town, and the Sentinel would call them to
combat.
Consha slipped along Amber Ring in front of her father’s fine wood-and-yellow-brick home, then turned onto
Plow Spoke. It led her to the open, grassy Village Circle, where seasonal festivities, marriages, and Sentinel
justice occurred.
The Sentinel stood in the center of the Circle. Consha sighed, an ache in her heart, and slipped into a seated
position beside the statue’s left leg.
“Hello, again, Marhon. It’s me, Consha,” she greeted it. Looking up at the gray stone that towered into the air
above her, she smiled. She always greeted the statue, though it never spoke back to her. It never spoke to
anyone at all, but its judgments were instantaneous in the cases brought before it.
The statue’s form was that of a burly warrior, more than twice the height of anyone in Seedplain. One hand
held a small round shield, and his other grasped a long, double-edged sword. Engraved in its hilt were the
letters MARHON. No one knew if this was his name, but it was what Consha called him. His armor was carved
to resemble metal plates in an overlapping pattern of serpentine scales. The muscles of his arms and legs
were prominent and thick. On his head he wore a minimal cap helm, and his hair was plaited in a thick braid at
the base of his neck, its end curling tightly. His eyes were fixed, his expression wary, as he gazed sightlessly
to the south.
All of the Sentinels faced south. It was the direction the wraiths had come from, in their swarms of gray-and-
white armor.
Consha’s fingers began plaiting the long, viny stems of the shadowfire blossoms together; she would adorn
the Sentinel’s ankle with it once it was long enough. She knew he had no true power over matters of the
heart, but she did not come to ask for judgment; she simply came to talk to her oldest friend.
“Marhon, I don’t think Gembal loves me. He seems so hesitant in my presence, and not that tongue-tied
hesitance, like Timbrel has when he’s around me. Timbrel's a little twit. I so want Gembal to love me, but I
don’t know how to be what he wants. He’s so successful, so smart. His family’s granaries are always full, and
his crops of the finest quality. He always gets top coin from Handsbreadth and Oak Hollow. And me, I’m just
the girl who talks to the Sentinel.”
She sighed, tucking a strand of pale hair behind her ear, and kept weaving flower stems. “Father knows it’s a
good match, marrying me to him. Hulls and chaff; even I know it’s a good match. Binding the mayor’s daughter
to the wealthiest grain trader in the valley? It might be enough to turn this village into a town.
“But...if there’s no love....” Consha sighed again. “I don’t feel as if I have a voice in the matter. It’s not fair!
Why should he get to ask for my hand, if he does not love me? Shouldn‘t marriage be for love?” Tears welled
in her eyes; her fingers stilled in the light of the dying blossoms they held. “I wish you could tell me about
how it was when you were alive. I bet you could have married the woman you loved.” Consha looked up at
the motionless statue, its silhouette dark against the stars above. “If she was five paces high, that is,” she
said with a giggle.
The flower chain complete, Consha wrapped it delicately around the statue’s ankle, where it rested on his
carven sandal straps. The flowers cast a nearly-flesh like glow on the stone skin of the statue’s leg, and
Consha stared at it for a long moment.
“I wish you were real. I need to get back to bed, before Father misses me. Blessings of hawthorn and yew
upon you, Marhon.” Consha turned away, carrying her empty basket.
The statue did not reply. It never replied.
* * *
The next morning, Consha slept in until sunlight touched her cheek. Her mother asked if she felt ill and placed
a hand on her forehead. Consha submitted to her with good grace, letting herself be chased out into the
bright morning sun after a hearty breakfast of boiled grains, honey and fresh fruits.
She walked, carrying a market basket, around Kine Ring, which led past Gembal’s place of business. The tall,
slender young man stood in his village warehouse door, his blond hair tailed back from the morning’s fresh
breeze. Her pale-yellow dress caught his eye as he talked with a pair of farmers, and he looked out at her a
moment before smiling and nodding politely.
Consha nodded back, trying to hide her disappointment, and continued walking to the market on the south
side of town. Their nuptials were a mere month away, and he nodded to her as if to an acquaintance.
I’m nothing to him.
At the market, the scents of fresh breads and the sights of freshly-sliced moonbeam fruit and ripe, juicy,
golden parples made her hungry all over again. She bought some of each as well as what her mother had
sent her out for, and ate her second breakfast slowly as she ambled down Blossom Spoke. She could see
that the Sentinel had a case set before him, and such things often drew small crowds, at least in the smaller
villages where there was little else to entertain the populace.
Consha sat a few dozen paces away from the Sentinel, his stone form crisp and clean in the sunlight, and as
the voices of the two claimants of a single sheep flowed into her ears, she noted for the hundredth time that
neither moss nor lichen ever grew on Marhon. The river valley where Seedplain was built was on the humid
side, and all other stone structures—and some wooden ones—eventually gathered moss or lichens. But not
the Sentinel.
“I claim this sheep as my own, because it has my mark in its hoof,” Dharmul the sheepherder was saying,
playing to the crowd with large gestures. “See for yourselves, as the Sentinel has clearly seen: my dye mark
there on the hoof. It's the leaf-green of this current year.” He bent and pointed to his flock's symbol, his long
brown hair falling into his dark eyes, and a few of the crowd nodded as they too spied the six-pointed green
star.
“Nay, foul liar,” Starvlos, a man whose father had moved into the village a mere forty years ago, proclaimed.
Many still considered Starvlos an outsider. His short stature, hooked nose and fiery hair marked him as
belonging to some other stock than had populated Seedplain. “You traded me this ewe two nights gone.
Were you more in your cups than I thought? For surely you have forgotten I paid you not three, not four, but
even unto six bushels of Gembal’s finest grain for her! You should have checked your barn stash before you
dragged me away from my dairy; my cows want for milking and you waste my time before the Sentinel!” His
red brows drew together, and his anger was such Consha wondered if they’d spark together and burst into
flame.
“I call for the Sentinel’s judgment,” Dharmul said, after a pause long enough to give many people doubts
about his word. They all knew Dharmul dare not try to lie to the Sentinel, at the cost of his life. Cutting off all
further argument and calling for judgment was the quickest and safest way for those who realized they were
in the wrong to get the case over with. A judgment against them was the best case scenario, better than
making a fool of themselves in public with further protestations, and better far than death.
The crowd upon the Village Circle went silent. All eyes fixed upon the Sentinel, though they all knew he would
not move, nor speak. When Sentinels judged, things simply happened, and all accepted it as a just response—
arguing with a Sentinel’s judgment was tempting fate.
The ewe in question turned and strode to Starvlos, rubbing her side against him affectionately. The crowd
murmured in appreciation of the judgment, and Dharmul wrinkled his brows in puzzlement.
Starvlos looked at him. “Best lay off the spirits a tad, Dharm.” He grinned as he attached a halter to the
sheep.
Sudden screams arose from the distant market at the southern end of town. Consha looked over in alarm, as
did everyone else. A trickle of people, widening into dozens, began running toward the Village Circle, shouting
over one another and screaming incoherently.
“What is it?” Dharmul grabbed his wife, who was literally clawing at her eyes. “Speak, woman!”
“W-w-wraiths,” she blabbered, nails digging into her cheeks. “We are doomed! Wraithssss....” The woman
collapsed, her eyes rolling up into her head. The blood drained quickly from Dharmul's face; his head snapped
up, looking back the way she had come.
Hazy blurs moved among the screaming, fleeing villagers. Here and there, a man or woman flopped to the
ground and did not rise again. The wraiths had returned from the Dead Lands, mere miles from Seedplain's
southern fields!
Full of the horror of legendary evil come to life, Dharmul fled past the Sentinel, along with everyone else,
leaving his wife on the ground where she fell.
Consha had gotten to her feet without noticing; her heart beat a staccato rhythm that thundered in her ears.
Mother. I can’t go without Mother!
Running across the Circle, she dashed directly past the Sentinel, brushing her fingers across his shin. “Please,
help me be swift,” she murmured, her legs pumping hard.
She hadn’t made it to Stitchery Spoke yet when she saw a grayish-white blur to her right. She turned her
head and saw the solid gray figure fade to translucence and leap through a wall, into the shop within. A
scream, long and tortured, emanated from the shop door, and Consha skidded to a halt in horror.
“Consha!” came a bellow. She looked around wildly. Among the fleeing villagers and blurring gray forms,
Gembal was running directly for her.
He’s...saving me? She knew he’d come the long way around to find her; he could have fled town and she’d
never have known.
“Consha, run! Your parents are already out!” Gembal pointed to the north, ahead of him.
She turned without a word and bolted to the north, along the grassy edge of the Circle, but she only got a
dozen steps before she slowed.
“Consha, what are you doing? We have to run!”
“Gembal, the Sentinel! He’s from the Wraith War! He can save us!” She started in Marhon’s direction, but her
fiancé grabbed her arm.
“Shouldn’t he have done something already, then?” he rasped. “Come on, we have to save ourselves!”
“He knows me; I’ll beg him to help us.” Consha tugged on her arm, trying to free it.
“Consha,” he said in incredulous disbelief, “it’s a statue!”
Her eyes slitted. “He’s in there somewhere; how else can he judge for the village?” She ripped her arm free
and bolted toward the silent statue, crosswise to the fleeing villagers. The southern end of town was full of
grey and white blurs as the wraiths moved among their victims, scaring them literally to death, and feeding
off their mortal fear.
Consha halted before Marhon and tried to contain her trembling limbs. “Sentinel, I call for your judgment upon
the wraiths!” she called, seeing Gembal flee out of the corner of her eye. “Please, save us from their wrath;
they’re killing everyone! Please, Marhon!”
The statue did not reply.
She threw herself down and placed her hands upon the statue’s left foot, tears of fear leaking down her
trembling cheeks. Her teeth chattered. “Please...”
She looked up suddenly as a shadow fell across her arms, fearing her doom was upon her. But it was Gembal,
carrying a borrowed sword. His light blue eyes looked down at her in desperation.
“Running won’t save us. The wraiths are faster than we are; they’re starting to catch up.” He looked around
briefly. “But they don’t seem eager to come close to the Sentinel. You might be onto something. Keep asking
him; if anyone can reach him, it’s you, Consha.”
She had raised herself to a sitting position as he spoke, and now blinked at the naked fear and desperate
hope mingled on his handsome features. And he held a sword, to defend her, whilst she begged the Sentinel
to wake and defend them!
Surely, he does love me after all. Her heart took an extra leap, and hope rose in her. She gave him a
tremulous, half-mad grin, which Gembal returned wholeheartedly, letting his eyes linger on her features. The
urgency of the moment returned, and she dropped her gaze to the grass, and spotted tiny lamb’s-hoof
blooms in small blue clusters. It was merely a weed, but it might be the connection she needed to reach the
Sentinel.
Her fingers plucked the small stems roughly, and she began splitting them below the flower heads with her
thumbnails, tucking other stems through the holes, making a chain. All the while, she murmured to Marhon
under her breath, begging him to wake, wield his sword, and save them.
“It’s been too long,” Gembal said, startling her. She nearly dropped the flower chain.
“What do you mean?” Her trembling hands paused for a moment in their work.
“The Sentinel’s stood here so long, he’s forgotten he once moved, once defended Undularnia from the
wraiths. He’s forgotten his original purpose.” Gembal’s eyes scanned the edges of the Circle; the wraiths
were working their way slowly north, around both sides, making sure they didn’t leave any living food behind.
After another minute, Consha thought the lamb’s-hoof chain was long enough; she gingerly placed its delicate
strand around Marhon’s ankle, atop the shadowfire blossoms, remembering the flesh like color the night-
blooming flowers had bestowed on the statue’s skin the night before.
“Marhon—Sentinel—please bring judgment upon the wraiths…” Consha broke off as Gembal gave a cry of
alarm; a wraith was daring to approach the Sentinel, in order to feed upon its supplicants.
Gembal was a trader, not a warrior. Stepping between Consha and the wraith, he gripped his sword in a
white-knuckled fist. The wraith's tendrils teased out toward his skull. Consha knew he was going to die. The
wraith would suck his soul out, and let him shriek himself to death without it. He might even be raised as a
wraith, doomed to haunt the shores of the Dead Lands forever with them, doomed to murder lovely young
women like herself for eternity…
“Gembal, no!” Consha shrieked, seeing him sink to his knees at the touch of the wraith. Its white arm-like
ribbons sunk into his eyes, and he began to cry out in horror.
“Marhon, you bastard,” she yelled, turning her fear into anger and unleashing it at her longtime, silent friend,
“how dare you leave us to die! You’ve watched over us for centuries! Now you abandon us?” She clambered
to her feet and kicked the enormous statue in the shin. “Get off your stone arse and save Gembal! He'd be
safely out of town, save that he seems to truly love me…”
A strange awareness shot through her, leaving her in tingles. She sensed Marhon was listening to her.
“Wake, Sentinel,” she heard herself saying, reciting Queen Rhab's Speech from the Legend of the Wraith War.
“It is time to fight for the people of the Flowing Hills.”
The wraith was leaning in over Gembal, whose eyes were rolling up in his head. A flash of light flared in
Consha’s eyes, blinding her momentarily; when she could see again, the gray creature was split into two
halves, each of which was writhing into nothingness in the air. She dashed to Gembal’s side and cradled his
head in her grass-and-flower-strewn lap, bending over him in protection. When she glanced up, her heart
nearly stopped beating.
Marhon had stepped over her entirely, planting his enormous stone foot between her and the now-vanished
wraith.
No, that’s not right. His foot was of flesh; his tanned toes were visible within his leathern sandal. His sword
had a shining white blade so brightly polished its surfaces gleamed and glittered, blinding her if she tried to
look at it for more than a few seconds.
Marhon raised his glittering sword and gleaming shield to the sky. His armor rippled in lithe waves, each small
metal scale covered in dazzling blue sparkles, as if he wore a thousand sapphires upon his chest, back and
thighs. He roared a challenge that rolled across the buildings and streets, and out across the fields that
hemmed the village. “The Sentinel awakes! Wraith, I call thee to the honor of single combat!”
Instantly every single wraith in the village ceased moving. They could not resist the power of the Sentinel's
call. Though they existed eternally until slain, their power lay in the whips and scourges of mortal fear.
Sentinels feared nothing, least of all death. Thus, their call to battle commanded the wraiths completely.
The undead enemy flowed into the Village Circle, their white and gray bodies and armor blending seamlessly
into an enormous wraith avatar who wielded a blade and shield of deepest black. The enormous wraith-
Sentinel stood as high as Marhon himself, human-like limbs and features clear one moment, then blurred into
swirling fog the next.
“Run, Consha.” Marhon’s voice rumbled, low and strong like the distant sea. “Take your beloved with you.”
As Consha helped a nearly insensible Gembal to his feet, Marhon stepped over them with his other leg,
putting his massive body between them and this massive, most dangerous wraith.
“Hurry, Gembal,” she gasped, tugging on his hand. They staggered across the grassy Circle and into Weaver
Spoke. Behind them, the great clashes and strikes of the warriors’ mighty weapons cracked the air like
miniature thunderbolts, rolling out from the Village Circle in shock waves.
Consha skidded to a stop in awe, and Gembal stepped beside her, their eyes filled with the great warring of
hero and villain. Marhon’s white blade struck again and again on the midnight shield, while his gold-and-white
shield took the horrific blows of the wraith avatar’s black sword. His glimmering blue armor winked like the
wings of a thousand dragonflies over a blue pond, while his opponent shifted into misty clouds as often as
into corporeal form.
Gembal’s jaw fell open.
Marhon ducked and swung at the wraith’s belly with a roar, the enormous white sword cutting a swath
through the air that could take the roofs off three houses. The wraith hissed and bent bonelessly out of the
way. Marhon stepped in and tackled the wraith, his muscles gleaming in the morning light as he bore the
ghostly figure to the ground. His fleshly body penetrated the creature somewhat, and the wraith swirled
around him, trying to envelop him entirely within its cloudy mass.
“No...” Consha breathed, unconsciously reaching out a hand toward the battle.
But Marhon wasn’t done yet. He braced himself against his shield and raised his shoulders up, bringing the
sword across the wraith’s semi-corporeal throat. A high-pitched, extremely loud shriek echoed across the
valley, quickly passing into a range beyond that of normal hearing. The sensation pressed against Consha’s
and Gembal’s eardrums, and they clapped their hands over their ears, crying out with the pain.
The wraith avatar imploded. A dark bubble expanded in a shock wave from the point where it disappeared,
blowing dust and grass outward from the Village Circle, showering the watching couple with sandy grit.
Marhon got to his feet, panting, his sword dripping black fluid, visible even at a distance. He stood among his
own massive footprints. He turned his head toward Consha and Gembal, and after a moment, he knelt on one
knee, set aside his shield and beckoned them closer.
With trembling and awe, they hurried to the Sentinel. Sweat beaded his brow, and curly wisps of dark red
hair had escaped his cap helm and braid. His grin was broad, and he greeted them warmly.
“Consha of the Flowing Hills, I thank thee for letting me perform my chosen duty. Nay, for kicking me in the
shinbone and reminding me of it. For, I am ashamed to admit to thee, I had forgotten it, these long years.”
“I’m just glad you recalled it at all,” Consha said in a quiet voice.
“Little Consha, thou hast brought me blossoms of spring and summer all the years of thy life, and thou hast
been my most favorite child of Seedplain. Thou shalt receive my favor the rest of thy days; this I swear to
thee upon my very life.”
Gembal gasped; the word of a Sentinel was the very word of truth itself. In neither living memory nor legend
had anyone received such a boon of a Sentinel.
Marhon’s eyes shifted to the grain merchant. “See that thou treatest her well, young trader,” the giant said,
and Gembal gulped, hearing the faint strains of a threat, should he fail.
“Great Sentinel—Marhon—I will ever honor and protect this woman; truly she is a treasure not only to
Seedplain, but to all of Undularnia. Without her, we would all be dead.”
Marhon nodded his great head, and drove the point of his white blade into the ground, resting his hand on its
crosspiece but lightly. “My first call awakened all the other Sentinels in the land of the Flowing Hills—it is called
Undularnia now? Verily, an odd name." He shrugged; what could one expect after sleeping for six hundred
years?
He continued, "The others will protect their people from the wraiths, in the manner in which I defeated this
avatar. As with Seedplain, many may die, but the warning is issued, and none shall stand idle in the face of
their peoples’ doom. We Sentinels thank thee, Consha Drumstalk. We would not wish to stand idly in shame.
Thou hast saved not only thy people, but my people as well. Live well, little one, with thy companion.”
Marhon reached out his large hands, turning Consha and Gembal toward each other and urging them
together. The couple looked at each other awkwardly for a moment; they’d never hugged nor kissed.
“You stayed with me,” Consha breathed. “Even Dharmul left his wife, but you stayed.”
“I’ve loved you for so long, Consha,” he replied. “I dared not let you die now, so close to finally being with
you. Not even wraiths could keep me from our wedding.”
Consha laughed at his boast, and her fiancé slipped his arms around her, lowering his head for their first,
long kiss. When they parted, minutes later, Consha realized Marhon had not moved at all. She tilted her head
to look up at his face, just a bit above hers, and sighed wistfully.
Marhon the Sentinel had returned to his stone form. His sword no longer glittered, and his armor had lost its
living blue dazzle. His hands still formed the gentle gesture that had brought the couple to each other’s arms.
His stone face was split by a broad grin.
The villagers began to come out of their homes and back from the fields where they had fled. They marveled
at the Sentinel’s new position, cried tears of joy at finding loved ones still alive, tears of sorrow for friends
and family lost to the wraiths.
Gradually, Consha’s story of reviving the Sentinel made its way around the Village Circle’s crowd, and her
parents hugged her tightly. Her father proclaimed her the village heroine, and declared he was going to send
a letter to the Queen immediately, recommending Consha for the title of Defender of the Realm. Consha
blushed and looked down; her eyes fell upon Marhon’s left ankle.
Her twining chain of lamb’s-hoof blossoms was still there, as well as the older chain of shadowfire, turned to
stone for all to see. A tear of bittersweet loss slipped down her cheek. She stepped forward and placed a
hand on the stone flowers.
“Thank you again, Sentinel. I’ll bring you more fresh flowers tomorrow.”
That night, and every night thereafter, the shadowfire blossoms around the Sentinel’s ankle glowed bright
orange across the Village Circle, a reminder to all of a young girl's faith in her Sentinel.
again to let the people of the Flowing Hills suffer needlessly. One to a village, two to a town, four to a city, they
stood guard eternally. And that their charges should not fear them, they handed down justice to the everyman,
clear and perfect, for none could lie to them and live.
Consha Drumstalk had been bringing flowers to the Sentinel for as long as she could remember. Her father,
the mayor of their village of Seedplain, told her stories of when she’d been two years old, and had picked a
fat blue daisy from Mistress Handy’s garden walk and laid it on the Sentinel’s left foot. That was the first time
he could recall her floral gift, though Consha couldn’t remember back that far.
Today, the young blonde came to see the Sentinel before dawn, her small basket full of night-blooming
shadowfire, their slightly musty scent barely reaching her nose, their orange glow illuminating her way down
dusty streets like a well-shuttered lantern. It was so early that the village baker, Hemley, wasn’t even awake
yet.
Seedplain was laid out in a circular fashion, with ring-streets and spoke-streets. All villages, towns and cities
in the land of Undularnia were created this way, and had been since they’d all had to be rebuilt after the
Wraith War, six hundred years back. The squared-off cities had presented a long, flat edge the wraiths had
attacked all at once. The circle-cities drew them in more toward the Sentinels; the designers intended that
the wraiths would be seen as they began to wrap around the town, and the Sentinel would call them to
combat.
Consha slipped along Amber Ring in front of her father’s fine wood-and-yellow-brick home, then turned onto
Plow Spoke. It led her to the open, grassy Village Circle, where seasonal festivities, marriages, and Sentinel
justice occurred.
The Sentinel stood in the center of the Circle. Consha sighed, an ache in her heart, and slipped into a seated
position beside the statue’s left leg.
“Hello, again, Marhon. It’s me, Consha,” she greeted it. Looking up at the gray stone that towered into the air
above her, she smiled. She always greeted the statue, though it never spoke back to her. It never spoke to
anyone at all, but its judgments were instantaneous in the cases brought before it.
The statue’s form was that of a burly warrior, more than twice the height of anyone in Seedplain. One hand
held a small round shield, and his other grasped a long, double-edged sword. Engraved in its hilt were the
letters MARHON. No one knew if this was his name, but it was what Consha called him. His armor was carved
to resemble metal plates in an overlapping pattern of serpentine scales. The muscles of his arms and legs
were prominent and thick. On his head he wore a minimal cap helm, and his hair was plaited in a thick braid at
the base of his neck, its end curling tightly. His eyes were fixed, his expression wary, as he gazed sightlessly
to the south.
All of the Sentinels faced south. It was the direction the wraiths had come from, in their swarms of gray-and-
white armor.
Consha’s fingers began plaiting the long, viny stems of the shadowfire blossoms together; she would adorn
the Sentinel’s ankle with it once it was long enough. She knew he had no true power over matters of the
heart, but she did not come to ask for judgment; she simply came to talk to her oldest friend.
“Marhon, I don’t think Gembal loves me. He seems so hesitant in my presence, and not that tongue-tied
hesitance, like Timbrel has when he’s around me. Timbrel's a little twit. I so want Gembal to love me, but I
don’t know how to be what he wants. He’s so successful, so smart. His family’s granaries are always full, and
his crops of the finest quality. He always gets top coin from Handsbreadth and Oak Hollow. And me, I’m just
the girl who talks to the Sentinel.”
She sighed, tucking a strand of pale hair behind her ear, and kept weaving flower stems. “Father knows it’s a
good match, marrying me to him. Hulls and chaff; even I know it’s a good match. Binding the mayor’s daughter
to the wealthiest grain trader in the valley? It might be enough to turn this village into a town.
“But...if there’s no love....” Consha sighed again. “I don’t feel as if I have a voice in the matter. It’s not fair!
Why should he get to ask for my hand, if he does not love me? Shouldn‘t marriage be for love?” Tears welled
in her eyes; her fingers stilled in the light of the dying blossoms they held. “I wish you could tell me about
how it was when you were alive. I bet you could have married the woman you loved.” Consha looked up at
the motionless statue, its silhouette dark against the stars above. “If she was five paces high, that is,” she
said with a giggle.
The flower chain complete, Consha wrapped it delicately around the statue’s ankle, where it rested on his
carven sandal straps. The flowers cast a nearly-flesh like glow on the stone skin of the statue’s leg, and
Consha stared at it for a long moment.
“I wish you were real. I need to get back to bed, before Father misses me. Blessings of hawthorn and yew
upon you, Marhon.” Consha turned away, carrying her empty basket.
The statue did not reply. It never replied.
* * *
The next morning, Consha slept in until sunlight touched her cheek. Her mother asked if she felt ill and placed
a hand on her forehead. Consha submitted to her with good grace, letting herself be chased out into the
bright morning sun after a hearty breakfast of boiled grains, honey and fresh fruits.
She walked, carrying a market basket, around Kine Ring, which led past Gembal’s place of business. The tall,
slender young man stood in his village warehouse door, his blond hair tailed back from the morning’s fresh
breeze. Her pale-yellow dress caught his eye as he talked with a pair of farmers, and he looked out at her a
moment before smiling and nodding politely.
Consha nodded back, trying to hide her disappointment, and continued walking to the market on the south
side of town. Their nuptials were a mere month away, and he nodded to her as if to an acquaintance.
I’m nothing to him.
At the market, the scents of fresh breads and the sights of freshly-sliced moonbeam fruit and ripe, juicy,
golden parples made her hungry all over again. She bought some of each as well as what her mother had
sent her out for, and ate her second breakfast slowly as she ambled down Blossom Spoke. She could see
that the Sentinel had a case set before him, and such things often drew small crowds, at least in the smaller
villages where there was little else to entertain the populace.
Consha sat a few dozen paces away from the Sentinel, his stone form crisp and clean in the sunlight, and as
the voices of the two claimants of a single sheep flowed into her ears, she noted for the hundredth time that
neither moss nor lichen ever grew on Marhon. The river valley where Seedplain was built was on the humid
side, and all other stone structures—and some wooden ones—eventually gathered moss or lichens. But not
the Sentinel.
“I claim this sheep as my own, because it has my mark in its hoof,” Dharmul the sheepherder was saying,
playing to the crowd with large gestures. “See for yourselves, as the Sentinel has clearly seen: my dye mark
there on the hoof. It's the leaf-green of this current year.” He bent and pointed to his flock's symbol, his long
brown hair falling into his dark eyes, and a few of the crowd nodded as they too spied the six-pointed green
star.
“Nay, foul liar,” Starvlos, a man whose father had moved into the village a mere forty years ago, proclaimed.
Many still considered Starvlos an outsider. His short stature, hooked nose and fiery hair marked him as
belonging to some other stock than had populated Seedplain. “You traded me this ewe two nights gone.
Were you more in your cups than I thought? For surely you have forgotten I paid you not three, not four, but
even unto six bushels of Gembal’s finest grain for her! You should have checked your barn stash before you
dragged me away from my dairy; my cows want for milking and you waste my time before the Sentinel!” His
red brows drew together, and his anger was such Consha wondered if they’d spark together and burst into
flame.
“I call for the Sentinel’s judgment,” Dharmul said, after a pause long enough to give many people doubts
about his word. They all knew Dharmul dare not try to lie to the Sentinel, at the cost of his life. Cutting off all
further argument and calling for judgment was the quickest and safest way for those who realized they were
in the wrong to get the case over with. A judgment against them was the best case scenario, better than
making a fool of themselves in public with further protestations, and better far than death.
The crowd upon the Village Circle went silent. All eyes fixed upon the Sentinel, though they all knew he would
not move, nor speak. When Sentinels judged, things simply happened, and all accepted it as a just response—
arguing with a Sentinel’s judgment was tempting fate.
The ewe in question turned and strode to Starvlos, rubbing her side against him affectionately. The crowd
murmured in appreciation of the judgment, and Dharmul wrinkled his brows in puzzlement.
Starvlos looked at him. “Best lay off the spirits a tad, Dharm.” He grinned as he attached a halter to the
sheep.
Sudden screams arose from the distant market at the southern end of town. Consha looked over in alarm, as
did everyone else. A trickle of people, widening into dozens, began running toward the Village Circle, shouting
over one another and screaming incoherently.
“What is it?” Dharmul grabbed his wife, who was literally clawing at her eyes. “Speak, woman!”
“W-w-wraiths,” she blabbered, nails digging into her cheeks. “We are doomed! Wraithssss....” The woman
collapsed, her eyes rolling up into her head. The blood drained quickly from Dharmul's face; his head snapped
up, looking back the way she had come.
Hazy blurs moved among the screaming, fleeing villagers. Here and there, a man or woman flopped to the
ground and did not rise again. The wraiths had returned from the Dead Lands, mere miles from Seedplain's
southern fields!
Full of the horror of legendary evil come to life, Dharmul fled past the Sentinel, along with everyone else,
leaving his wife on the ground where she fell.
Consha had gotten to her feet without noticing; her heart beat a staccato rhythm that thundered in her ears.
Mother. I can’t go without Mother!
Running across the Circle, she dashed directly past the Sentinel, brushing her fingers across his shin. “Please,
help me be swift,” she murmured, her legs pumping hard.
She hadn’t made it to Stitchery Spoke yet when she saw a grayish-white blur to her right. She turned her
head and saw the solid gray figure fade to translucence and leap through a wall, into the shop within. A
scream, long and tortured, emanated from the shop door, and Consha skidded to a halt in horror.
“Consha!” came a bellow. She looked around wildly. Among the fleeing villagers and blurring gray forms,
Gembal was running directly for her.
He’s...saving me? She knew he’d come the long way around to find her; he could have fled town and she’d
never have known.
“Consha, run! Your parents are already out!” Gembal pointed to the north, ahead of him.
She turned without a word and bolted to the north, along the grassy edge of the Circle, but she only got a
dozen steps before she slowed.
“Consha, what are you doing? We have to run!”
“Gembal, the Sentinel! He’s from the Wraith War! He can save us!” She started in Marhon’s direction, but her
fiancé grabbed her arm.
“Shouldn’t he have done something already, then?” he rasped. “Come on, we have to save ourselves!”
“He knows me; I’ll beg him to help us.” Consha tugged on her arm, trying to free it.
“Consha,” he said in incredulous disbelief, “it’s a statue!”
Her eyes slitted. “He’s in there somewhere; how else can he judge for the village?” She ripped her arm free
and bolted toward the silent statue, crosswise to the fleeing villagers. The southern end of town was full of
grey and white blurs as the wraiths moved among their victims, scaring them literally to death, and feeding
off their mortal fear.
Consha halted before Marhon and tried to contain her trembling limbs. “Sentinel, I call for your judgment upon
the wraiths!” she called, seeing Gembal flee out of the corner of her eye. “Please, save us from their wrath;
they’re killing everyone! Please, Marhon!”
The statue did not reply.
She threw herself down and placed her hands upon the statue’s left foot, tears of fear leaking down her
trembling cheeks. Her teeth chattered. “Please...”
She looked up suddenly as a shadow fell across her arms, fearing her doom was upon her. But it was Gembal,
carrying a borrowed sword. His light blue eyes looked down at her in desperation.
“Running won’t save us. The wraiths are faster than we are; they’re starting to catch up.” He looked around
briefly. “But they don’t seem eager to come close to the Sentinel. You might be onto something. Keep asking
him; if anyone can reach him, it’s you, Consha.”
She had raised herself to a sitting position as he spoke, and now blinked at the naked fear and desperate
hope mingled on his handsome features. And he held a sword, to defend her, whilst she begged the Sentinel
to wake and defend them!
Surely, he does love me after all. Her heart took an extra leap, and hope rose in her. She gave him a
tremulous, half-mad grin, which Gembal returned wholeheartedly, letting his eyes linger on her features. The
urgency of the moment returned, and she dropped her gaze to the grass, and spotted tiny lamb’s-hoof
blooms in small blue clusters. It was merely a weed, but it might be the connection she needed to reach the
Sentinel.
Her fingers plucked the small stems roughly, and she began splitting them below the flower heads with her
thumbnails, tucking other stems through the holes, making a chain. All the while, she murmured to Marhon
under her breath, begging him to wake, wield his sword, and save them.
“It’s been too long,” Gembal said, startling her. She nearly dropped the flower chain.
“What do you mean?” Her trembling hands paused for a moment in their work.
“The Sentinel’s stood here so long, he’s forgotten he once moved, once defended Undularnia from the
wraiths. He’s forgotten his original purpose.” Gembal’s eyes scanned the edges of the Circle; the wraiths
were working their way slowly north, around both sides, making sure they didn’t leave any living food behind.
After another minute, Consha thought the lamb’s-hoof chain was long enough; she gingerly placed its delicate
strand around Marhon’s ankle, atop the shadowfire blossoms, remembering the flesh like color the night-
blooming flowers had bestowed on the statue’s skin the night before.
“Marhon—Sentinel—please bring judgment upon the wraiths…” Consha broke off as Gembal gave a cry of
alarm; a wraith was daring to approach the Sentinel, in order to feed upon its supplicants.
Gembal was a trader, not a warrior. Stepping between Consha and the wraith, he gripped his sword in a
white-knuckled fist. The wraith's tendrils teased out toward his skull. Consha knew he was going to die. The
wraith would suck his soul out, and let him shriek himself to death without it. He might even be raised as a
wraith, doomed to haunt the shores of the Dead Lands forever with them, doomed to murder lovely young
women like herself for eternity…
“Gembal, no!” Consha shrieked, seeing him sink to his knees at the touch of the wraith. Its white arm-like
ribbons sunk into his eyes, and he began to cry out in horror.
“Marhon, you bastard,” she yelled, turning her fear into anger and unleashing it at her longtime, silent friend,
“how dare you leave us to die! You’ve watched over us for centuries! Now you abandon us?” She clambered
to her feet and kicked the enormous statue in the shin. “Get off your stone arse and save Gembal! He'd be
safely out of town, save that he seems to truly love me…”
A strange awareness shot through her, leaving her in tingles. She sensed Marhon was listening to her.
“Wake, Sentinel,” she heard herself saying, reciting Queen Rhab's Speech from the Legend of the Wraith War.
“It is time to fight for the people of the Flowing Hills.”
The wraith was leaning in over Gembal, whose eyes were rolling up in his head. A flash of light flared in
Consha’s eyes, blinding her momentarily; when she could see again, the gray creature was split into two
halves, each of which was writhing into nothingness in the air. She dashed to Gembal’s side and cradled his
head in her grass-and-flower-strewn lap, bending over him in protection. When she glanced up, her heart
nearly stopped beating.
Marhon had stepped over her entirely, planting his enormous stone foot between her and the now-vanished
wraith.
No, that’s not right. His foot was of flesh; his tanned toes were visible within his leathern sandal. His sword
had a shining white blade so brightly polished its surfaces gleamed and glittered, blinding her if she tried to
look at it for more than a few seconds.
Marhon raised his glittering sword and gleaming shield to the sky. His armor rippled in lithe waves, each small
metal scale covered in dazzling blue sparkles, as if he wore a thousand sapphires upon his chest, back and
thighs. He roared a challenge that rolled across the buildings and streets, and out across the fields that
hemmed the village. “The Sentinel awakes! Wraith, I call thee to the honor of single combat!”
Instantly every single wraith in the village ceased moving. They could not resist the power of the Sentinel's
call. Though they existed eternally until slain, their power lay in the whips and scourges of mortal fear.
Sentinels feared nothing, least of all death. Thus, their call to battle commanded the wraiths completely.
The undead enemy flowed into the Village Circle, their white and gray bodies and armor blending seamlessly
into an enormous wraith avatar who wielded a blade and shield of deepest black. The enormous wraith-
Sentinel stood as high as Marhon himself, human-like limbs and features clear one moment, then blurred into
swirling fog the next.
“Run, Consha.” Marhon’s voice rumbled, low and strong like the distant sea. “Take your beloved with you.”
As Consha helped a nearly insensible Gembal to his feet, Marhon stepped over them with his other leg,
putting his massive body between them and this massive, most dangerous wraith.
“Hurry, Gembal,” she gasped, tugging on his hand. They staggered across the grassy Circle and into Weaver
Spoke. Behind them, the great clashes and strikes of the warriors’ mighty weapons cracked the air like
miniature thunderbolts, rolling out from the Village Circle in shock waves.
Consha skidded to a stop in awe, and Gembal stepped beside her, their eyes filled with the great warring of
hero and villain. Marhon’s white blade struck again and again on the midnight shield, while his gold-and-white
shield took the horrific blows of the wraith avatar’s black sword. His glimmering blue armor winked like the
wings of a thousand dragonflies over a blue pond, while his opponent shifted into misty clouds as often as
into corporeal form.
Gembal’s jaw fell open.
Marhon ducked and swung at the wraith’s belly with a roar, the enormous white sword cutting a swath
through the air that could take the roofs off three houses. The wraith hissed and bent bonelessly out of the
way. Marhon stepped in and tackled the wraith, his muscles gleaming in the morning light as he bore the
ghostly figure to the ground. His fleshly body penetrated the creature somewhat, and the wraith swirled
around him, trying to envelop him entirely within its cloudy mass.
“No...” Consha breathed, unconsciously reaching out a hand toward the battle.
But Marhon wasn’t done yet. He braced himself against his shield and raised his shoulders up, bringing the
sword across the wraith’s semi-corporeal throat. A high-pitched, extremely loud shriek echoed across the
valley, quickly passing into a range beyond that of normal hearing. The sensation pressed against Consha’s
and Gembal’s eardrums, and they clapped their hands over their ears, crying out with the pain.
The wraith avatar imploded. A dark bubble expanded in a shock wave from the point where it disappeared,
blowing dust and grass outward from the Village Circle, showering the watching couple with sandy grit.
Marhon got to his feet, panting, his sword dripping black fluid, visible even at a distance. He stood among his
own massive footprints. He turned his head toward Consha and Gembal, and after a moment, he knelt on one
knee, set aside his shield and beckoned them closer.
With trembling and awe, they hurried to the Sentinel. Sweat beaded his brow, and curly wisps of dark red
hair had escaped his cap helm and braid. His grin was broad, and he greeted them warmly.
“Consha of the Flowing Hills, I thank thee for letting me perform my chosen duty. Nay, for kicking me in the
shinbone and reminding me of it. For, I am ashamed to admit to thee, I had forgotten it, these long years.”
“I’m just glad you recalled it at all,” Consha said in a quiet voice.
“Little Consha, thou hast brought me blossoms of spring and summer all the years of thy life, and thou hast
been my most favorite child of Seedplain. Thou shalt receive my favor the rest of thy days; this I swear to
thee upon my very life.”
Gembal gasped; the word of a Sentinel was the very word of truth itself. In neither living memory nor legend
had anyone received such a boon of a Sentinel.
Marhon’s eyes shifted to the grain merchant. “See that thou treatest her well, young trader,” the giant said,
and Gembal gulped, hearing the faint strains of a threat, should he fail.
“Great Sentinel—Marhon—I will ever honor and protect this woman; truly she is a treasure not only to
Seedplain, but to all of Undularnia. Without her, we would all be dead.”
Marhon nodded his great head, and drove the point of his white blade into the ground, resting his hand on its
crosspiece but lightly. “My first call awakened all the other Sentinels in the land of the Flowing Hills—it is called
Undularnia now? Verily, an odd name." He shrugged; what could one expect after sleeping for six hundred
years?
He continued, "The others will protect their people from the wraiths, in the manner in which I defeated this
avatar. As with Seedplain, many may die, but the warning is issued, and none shall stand idle in the face of
their peoples’ doom. We Sentinels thank thee, Consha Drumstalk. We would not wish to stand idly in shame.
Thou hast saved not only thy people, but my people as well. Live well, little one, with thy companion.”
Marhon reached out his large hands, turning Consha and Gembal toward each other and urging them
together. The couple looked at each other awkwardly for a moment; they’d never hugged nor kissed.
“You stayed with me,” Consha breathed. “Even Dharmul left his wife, but you stayed.”
“I’ve loved you for so long, Consha,” he replied. “I dared not let you die now, so close to finally being with
you. Not even wraiths could keep me from our wedding.”
Consha laughed at his boast, and her fiancé slipped his arms around her, lowering his head for their first,
long kiss. When they parted, minutes later, Consha realized Marhon had not moved at all. She tilted her head
to look up at his face, just a bit above hers, and sighed wistfully.
Marhon the Sentinel had returned to his stone form. His sword no longer glittered, and his armor had lost its
living blue dazzle. His hands still formed the gentle gesture that had brought the couple to each other’s arms.
His stone face was split by a broad grin.
The villagers began to come out of their homes and back from the fields where they had fled. They marveled
at the Sentinel’s new position, cried tears of joy at finding loved ones still alive, tears of sorrow for friends
and family lost to the wraiths.
Gradually, Consha’s story of reviving the Sentinel made its way around the Village Circle’s crowd, and her
parents hugged her tightly. Her father proclaimed her the village heroine, and declared he was going to send
a letter to the Queen immediately, recommending Consha for the title of Defender of the Realm. Consha
blushed and looked down; her eyes fell upon Marhon’s left ankle.
Her twining chain of lamb’s-hoof blossoms was still there, as well as the older chain of shadowfire, turned to
stone for all to see. A tear of bittersweet loss slipped down her cheek. She stepped forward and placed a
hand on the stone flowers.
“Thank you again, Sentinel. I’ll bring you more fresh flowers tomorrow.”
That night, and every night thereafter, the shadowfire blossoms around the Sentinel’s ankle glowed bright
orange across the Village Circle, a reminder to all of a young girl's faith in her Sentinel.
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Jasmine Giacomo writes from Washington State, where
she lives with her husband and two small children.
Her adventure fantasy novel, The Wicked Heroine, will
be released in early spring of 2010.
Visit her website at: http://worldsofjasmine.blogspot.com/
she lives with her husband and two small children.
Her adventure fantasy novel, The Wicked Heroine, will
be released in early spring of 2010.
Visit her website at: http://worldsofjasmine.blogspot.com/