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 he men that had been fawning on her but a moment before fell on their backsides as if they had been shoved, each shaking his head to clear it of an almost drunken fuzziness. Catalunya herself placed her delicate hands over her ears and began to scream in agony, a high-pitched wail that grew louder and louder as they scrambled out of her way.
As she screamed, she began to shimmer and seemed to melt. Her pale apricot skin darkened to an olive-green, and her eyes turned from the blue of night to the clotted red of old blood. Wrinkles appeared on her face; the moisture seemed to be evaporating out of her skin and into the air, depriving it of its soft, plush glow. Her high-pitched wail dropped several octaves as the change took place. Her sandals cracked and snapped off violently from her ankles and her legs kicked and thrashed; they began to elongate and meld together into a long, thick trunk.
The adventurers stood there dumbfounded, all of them, as the lustrous strands of Catalunya’s hair burst forth from the diamond tiara that held them in place, and thickened to the size and shape of dreadlocks…
…dreadlocks that had the size and shape and finally the heads of snakes, the same color and contour of the lower torso of Catalunya’s body. She was no longer a beautiful woman at all – she was a Medusa!
“You bitch!” the Medusa hissed through sharp fangs. “You bitch! You dare to close the box, now I am imprisoned forever! None of you meager mortals shall live to see the light of day!”
Shogun stood up, still confused. “What is happening?” he cried, looking at Catalunya as she completed her transformation. The monster quickly used the unlucky fellow as her first target.
“Shogun! Dinnae look at it!” Gladstone cried, but he was too late. Beams of red light projected from the beast’s eyes, and hit Shogun square in the chest. A perfect stone statue of Shogun now stood in his place, perfect in every detail, right down to his full plate of Valorite armor.
The dragon roared a challenge and fire burst from its maw, but in an instant, it became a stone dragon. Freestander cried out in agony as he watched his beloved companion petrify. He raised his sword and charged the transformed seductress, but was frozen in his tracks, his body locked in a battle stance, forever at his dragon’s side.
“Get out of here, now!” shouted Arana, but the heavy oaken doors were blocked by the bulk that was the Medusa. “Quick, through the wall!” he yelled, and the remaining members of the party ran for their lives, averting their eyes lest they become another victim of the Medusa’s vengeance.
The Medusa chased them as they stumbled through Arana’s crude gap in the wall, but when she herself reached the boundaries of the room, an invisible force held her back. Catalunya would reside in the cursed chamber, bound by ancient sorcery as the vile guardian to the Famed Treasure of Fayrhaugh for all time.
Her screams of hate and despair followed them all the way up the tunnel path, and they did not stop running until they reached the warmer air of the outdoors. Dusk greeted them, and Arana’s horse whinnied its annoyance at being left so long. Ten adventurers collapsed outside the cave entrance, panting and wheezing. M’Ladyhawke pressed her hands over her eyes as if to relieve them of their burning weariness.
Arana wordlessly passed around a flask of water while he regained his breath. The sun had not yet set, and the weather seemed to have cleared. They were on the north side of the mountain, and he leaned wearily against the cool sides of the mountain for support.
Keith sighed and ran his fingers through his hair with a grimace on his face. “You were right, Arana,” he said sarcastically. “This was nothing like last time.”
“Shaddup!” Arana warned, grinding the word out between his teeth.
Shahrressa sighed, vexed. “Don’t argue,” she said disapprovingly. “The last thing we need now is more arguing.” She picked herself up from the ground and walked over to her mare, patting it on its pretty nose and whispering soothing words.
“Freestander had the book,” Kedra noted with a sigh. “It’s worthless, now.”
M’Ladyhawke stood up. “Oh, poor Freestander, and Shogun too, what are we going to do?”
Peacefrog scowled. “We? We are going to do nothing,” he snapped. “What’s done is done. And I’m done, done with this whole bloody mess. As soon as I saw you, M’Ladyhawke, I knew there would be trouble. I hope you are well rewarded by this merchant or whoever sent you.” He pulled off his gloves and slapped them angrily into his pack.
M’Ladyhawke wanted to throw a haughty rebuke at him, but found she could not. With his scathing comment, Peacefrog placed the blame on her – he didn’t care whether he hurt her or not. The others did not say anything, either in agreement with him or defense of her. They all just tried their best to pull themselves together, searching what packs they had for supplies and checking their mounts, and pretended not to hear.
M’Ladyhawke shriveled a little, feeling the responsibility for her party hit her like a ton of bricks. It was she who pieced together her team, and it was she who pulled the Ankh from the chest. She led them into the mountain, and led them to certain death. For a moment, it was too much to bear, and she sank back down into the damp grass. She sobbed into her hands, quietly letting the tears fall down her wrists.
But the moment passed. She knew that she had done everything she could to protect her crew, and Shogun and Freestander both knew the risks involved from the very beginning. It was always a given that some or all of them may not return from their quest. It may be that, with a little help, the two men could be rescued again – nothing was impossible. And she had saved the men from their enchantment by breaking Catalunya’s evil spell in the first place. M’Ladyhawke clenched her jaw to kill the sob in her throat. She would retain her composure and prove to them all why Markee Dragon chose her above any other to carry out his Quest.
“I can’t undo what has been done, you are right,” she said. “But that doesn’t end the Quest. It doesn’t mean that we have failed. I care about the men who were lost – and I will return for them, as soon as I am able.”
Her announcement was simple and to the point. After a moment’s reflection, Arana stood up, crossed the clearing, and locked eyes with his friend. “You can count on me, ‘Ladyhawke, when you return for them,” he pledged.
Gladstone echoed his sentiments. “And me.”
Shahrressa and Kedra nodded their assent, and Orange and Keith, and then Mobius…
And they all turned to Peacefrog, who shook his head.
“I know that later, I will regret this,” he said, simply. “But I will travel with you to Tihamah, and wherever else we need to go to set things right.”
M’Ladyhawke beamed. “Thank you, Peacefrog,” she said. “And thank you all.”
Arana placed a light hand on her shoulder for reassurance. “What now, ‘Lady?” he asked. “Shall we take the relic to Tihamah?”
But M’Ladyhawke searched her pocket desperately, and let out a groan of despair. “It isn’t here!” she cried. “Gladstone, the Ankh, it isn’t here…”
She felt a tug at her elbow and turned around. Raggot looked up at her with his crooked smile. In his hand was the ancient artifact M’Ladyhawke had been seeking, and wordlessly he handed it to her.
M’Ladyhawke sighed her relief. “Thank Haven,” she told the lad. “Thank you, Raggot.” He nodded and ducked away again, to the company of the horses that were stamping their feet and acting restless.
The group assessed the situation. There were ten of them, and only five horses. Orange and Gladstone doubled up on the bard’s giant draft horse, as did M’Ladyhawke and Arana, Shahrressa and Kedra, and Peacefrog and Mobius. Keith pulled Raggot up behind him, and they set off for Tihamah, leaving the horror of Fayrhaugh behind them, for now.
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