Beatrice trotted her horse easily along the road, watching as the cabins comprising the village of Sydun grew on the horizon. The land about her was white, covered by a gentle blanket of snow, surprisingly light for this far north. The sky was gray and leaden and rather gloomy, the sun having already begun its descent toward the western horizon. In front of her, a wagon plodded along anxiously, apparently wanting to hurry but afraid to. She made no attempt to pass it, for she was not in a hurry.

Beatrice was not going to any particular place after all, but rather she was simply riding for the sake of riding. She did that often, for she liked to travel and was seldom at home, and even when she was she remained only for a short while. Some would have dismissed her as a vagabond, but only a fool would have deigned do so. The sword belted on one hip, the bristling quiver resting on the other, and the bow slanting across her back, all hinted at the the true nature of her profession.

No vagabond this, but a ranger, a person dedicated to protecting the people of the north land from brigands, trolls and other dangers. The rangers were not numerous, and thus protecting the people required no small amount of travel. What was more, they usually slept under the wide sky, preferring it to the trappings of buildings. That was just fine to her, and so she rode along, patiently trailing the wagon.

The wagon driver glanced at her abashedly over his shoulder, and she just smiled and offered a forgiving nod. The side of the wagon was banged up, for when the driver had spotted her, or more particularly the weapons on her person, he had urged his team into a gallop. The horses had stumbled and skidded in the snow, and the wagon had banged hard against a tree. Beatrice had trotted over to offer what help she could, but the driver had attacked her with a spade. Only after disarming the man without harming him had she managed to convince him that she was not a brigand.

Beatrice noticed that a crowd of people had gathered outside the village, shouting in angry voices, shaking fists and brandishing pitch forks and torches. Curious as to what was going on, the ranger veered her horse toward the gathering. The villagers were gathered around the corpse of a young man, torn to pieces, as if by some rapid animal. A woman was kneeling in the bloody slush beside the corpse, crying hard. A man, presumably her husband, was also kneeling, holding her close. The woman cried audibly, but his were quiet tears, as he stared forlornly at the bloody form, lying mangled in the snow.

Beatrice climbed down from the saddle, pulling her forest green cloak tighter about her as she landed to hide her sword. She was tall and slender and hard-muscled, with tanned skin and wavy brown hair that reached to her shoulders. Her eyes were dark as well, and she had a slender neck, and a long and straight nose that was by no means unattractive. If anything, that nose just made her more beautiful, giving her character and distinction. She was young, having just recently reached the age of nineteen, but she carried about herself an air of experience that made her seem older than she actually was. Beatrice strained her ears, listening to the folk about her, trying to gather information.

''The demon,'' one villager said.

''It has struck again,'' said yet another.

Beatrice watched as a tall and muscular man, with light blond hair and a huge square jaw walked to stand before the crowd, and the gathering quieted. ''This,'' he said in a deep, baritone voice, accentuating his point by sweeping an arm toward the ragged corpse. ''This, is an outrage.'' The crowd stirred with angry voices shouting out in assent, and then the gathering quieted once more. ''For the fifth time has the beast claimed one of our own,'' the large man went on. ''For the fifth time have the people of Sydun had to bury a friend or a loved one. Well, no more I say!'' He finished in a shout that had a dozen pitchforks raised angrily into the air, and numerous cries of outrage could be heard.

''Tonight,'' the large man thundered, ''I will go into the woods and confront the demon, and when it shows its ugly head, I will split it like kindling.'' He looked at the gathered folk, gray eyes roving from man to man. ''It will not be easy, for as you know two would-be hunters have already fallen victim to the beast, and torn to shreds. But if you help me, we will inflict upon it the pain felt by its victims, and their grieving families, ten times over. Are you with me!'' He thrust his heavy axe straight up above his head, and the crowd erupted with cheers and offers of assistance.

The gathering dispersed then, with those who would not be taking part in the hunt filtering back to their homes, while the hunters lingered. Beatrice stayed behind with the hunters, thinking to take part in the hunt to come. She noticed the sidelong glances the other hunters gave her, for indeed, she was the only woman there. She noticed the glances, but did not let them affect her, for she knew the truth of it. She could outfight any man there, and perhaps any two of them together.

The large man - Skegge was his name - led the procession of more than a dozen angry peasants, who wielded shovels and pitchforks, and some carried blazing torches. They swept westward out of the village and over a large meadow. Beatrice did not even try to conceal her weapons as she walked, hand resting easily on the pommel of her sword. Across the field was a small forest of hardy evergreens, branches lightly dusted with snow. They strode into the forest, and the search for the fiend began.

The minutes dragged into an hour, the hour became two, and still not a sign of the fiend was to be found for all their searching. Some of the men began to get agitated as the rush of the speech began to wear off, and their fear served only to weaken moral among the others. The sun disappeared below the horizon, and the shadows at the edge of the torchlight faded to black. Beatrice realized it had been a mistake to bring the torches, for their light would only weaken the night-vision of the party.

Skegge did not seem agitated in the least as he stomped along angrily, twigs and pine cones crunching under his heavy boots, his axe clutched in a large fist. From time to time he shouted out a challenge to the fiend. He dared it to face them squarely, and answer for the terrible crimes it had committed against the villagers. He cried out again and again, but despite his taunting, the forest remained quiet and dark about them.

Beatrice was not fooled by their seemingly peaceful surroundings, though, for the senses of a ranger were honed to near perfection. Those senses were now telling her that there was something out there, prowling the edges of the torchlight. The men about her were clearly nervous, and then she felt a silent dread creep into her as well. She focused, falling deep within herself, achieving complete calm. Emotions such as fear and anger could not touch her while in this state. This technique had been taught to her upon the completion of her training as a ranger.

As she came more fully into this state of perfect calm, she noticed something very peculiar. The technique shut out all distracting emotions, though in the past she had always been vaguely aware of them, hovering outside the bubble of serenity. But the dread she had felt earlier did not hover outside, but rather gnawed viciously at the bubble. She realized the sensation of dread was not natural, but was of a magical origin. The feeling of dread fought to break through to her, but she had little trouble in keeping it out.

The other hunters were becoming visibly afraid, with many uttering that they should turn back and return in daylight. More than one anxious glance was turned on Skegge, with the hunters trying to draw strength from the large and imposing man. Indeed, apart from Beatrice, he was the calmest hunter in the group. But that did not mean the aura of terror did not affect him, for he was symptoms of being afraid.

Beatrice clutched the hilt of her sword, and it hissed as it left its scabbard, its blade reflecting the torchlight in a flickering, orange glow. She glanced all about, eyes scouring the pockets of shadows, searching for the blackest of forms. Nothing stirred within the gloom, but she could still sense the creature. Stillness hung thick about the party, the sudden hush that preceded the charge of the predator.

Abruptly one of the trailing hunters in the group screamed, a cry that fast turned into a sickening gurgle as he fell to the ground. In the flickering torchlight, Beatrice could see the man writhing on the ground, clutching at his throat. His efforts were of little consequence, for bright blood was verily spurting between his fingers. The blood mixed with the snow, turning it into a garish, bloody slush.

The hunters brandished their shovels and pitchforks, but then another scream tore through the night, this one behind them. This cry had come from one of the flanking men in the procession, and the fellow stumbled backwards and fell on the snowy ground. The front of his coat had been torn to shreds, revealing several bloody lines that had been raked across his chest.

Beatrice rushed to the edge of torchlight, facing the deep shadows with her sword held up defensively before her. Something stirred within the gloom, and she instinctively flashed her sword across, deflecting a clawed hand swiping for her throat. Sparks flew as the claws were deflected, briefly revealing the twisted, inhuman visage of her enemy. Again the fiend struck at her, but her sword came flashing back to deflect. She retracted the blade and thrust ahead, but the humanoid shape leaped back, and the shadows stilled.

Beatrice waited with her blade at the ready, but she feared the creature had simply decided to find itself a weaker victim. Her fears came to fruition as another man cried out, though this one managed to bring his shovel up to partially block the attack. The claws deflected off the handle, merely slashing him across the shoulder. The man was knocked off balance by the attack, though, and he stumbled back.

The fiend launched a vicious backhand that would have caught him, had not Skegge pushed him out of the way and parried with his axe. The large man punched out with his free hand, catching the creature and stunning it just long enough for him to bring his large axe to bear. He grabbed the weapon in both hands and chopped mightily at the creature, but the weapon simply banged off its hide. He recovered quickly, bringing the haft of his axe up to intercept an incoming strike. The move saved his life, for the claws were knocked off center, but still they slashed across the right side of his face.

The remaining hunters gave into their terror then, and they scattered and fled, those with torches leaving those who did not all but blind in the dark night. Beatrice ran as well, eyes closed, for in total darkness her eyesight would only serve as a hindrance. She was not trying to run away from the creature, but was rather trying to find it, that she might put an end to its terror once and for all. The dread sensation fighting to break through her bubble of calm was now gnawing less incessantly, and she suspected the creature was off hunting down the other hunters, who were easier prey than she.

Her fears were confirmed a few moments later as an agonized scream tore through the greater clamor of scrambling men. The scream was cut off quickly, and then another man cried out in pain and terror, only to be cut short just as promptly as the first. Beatrice scrambled through the night, stumbling often, and more than once did she bump into a fellow hunter as he scrambled madly to get away. She skidded to a halt then, as she heard Skegge call out a challenge to the fiend.

Figuring she might as well be with the man when the creature struck, she followed the voice some distance off to the side. The dread gnawing at her bubble of serenity was gone altogether now, but she kept it up all the same. Then she heard a mighty bellow, and she brought her blade across to parry the axe blade swinging for her head. Skegge, blind in the darkness, swung again. Beatrice darted out of reach, all the while shouting that she was not the fiend but an ally. It took several moments for the words to register with the enraged man, and then he put his axe up apologetically.

''I thought you were the demon,'' Skegge said. ''You are a capable fighter.''

''I have had some practice.''

They started calling out challenges to the fiend then, hoping it would show itself that they might dispatch it together. But call as they might, the creature did not come, though a few more screams erupted in the night, signalling the death of more of the hunters. They started walking through the woods, ears straining in the night. Beatrice did let her bubble lapse about her then, that she might feel more keenly if the baleful aura returned. They searched for a few hours, but found nothing.

They did not stop their search until the first rays of dawn peaked in between the boughs of the evergreens. Beatrice suggested that they return to Sydun to let the other survivors know they were alright. Skegge would hear none of that, not even when she pointed out that he needed to have the wound on his face treated. ''I will not rest until I have payed that wretched creature back for what it has done,'' there was rage in his voice, but also grief.

''Has it killed someone dear to you?'' Beatrice asked, and she knew from the mist that came into his eyes that her guess had been correct.

''I came home from work one night to find the door to my house broken,'' Skegge began in a quivering voice. ''I rushed inside to see if my wife and daughter were alright, but as I entered, I saw them lying torn apart on the floor.'' His grip on his axe tightened until his knuckles went white from the strain. ''And that thing was standing over them, covered in their blood. They were the first people the beast killed.'' A long moment of silence ensued, with Beatrice respectfully letting the man mourn in peace.

''That creature was a demon,'' Beatrice said, ''a true minor fiend.''

Skegge looked at her curiously.

''Demons can not enter Gaia of their own volition,'' she explained. ''They have to be brought forth from the underworld through a certain magic ritual.'' She had never met a demon before tonight, but had heard about them from her fellow rangers. Supposedly they exuded an aura that instilled a sense of dread in mortals, the same kind of dread she had felt gnawing at her earlier. ''Tell me, there wouldn't happen to be any mages around these parts who could perform such a ritual?''

''Alvin,'' Skegge said without hesitation, disdain evident in his voice. ''A mage who lives in a cabin nearby.''

''Do you know the way to this cabin?''

Skegge nodded, then led the way through the trees, stopping every now and then to try and find out where in the wood they were. Beatrice followed quietly, hand resting on the pommel of her sword, senses turned outward to their surroundings. She expected that if the demon got close she would sense its baleful aura. But then she did not know much about demons, and so it could not hurt to be careful. And even had she been hunting a fox, she would have taken all precautions, for it was simply a part of who she was.

They came upon the cabin unexpectedly as they stepped out into a roughly circular clearing, with the structure standing in its center. Skegge moved as if to kick in the door and storm the place, but Beatrice stopped him with an outstretched arm. They had no real proof that this Alvin had summoned the demon after all. Beatrice rapped on the door, though she was ready to draw her sword if the situation demanded it. There came no answer, and so she knocked again, this time a bit more forcefully. When there came no answer, she tried the door, and found out that it was unlocked.

There was nothing remarkable about the interior of the cabin, with its plain furniture and creaking floorboards. Everything was covered by a layer of dust, as though the place had not been cleaned for a very long time. But that all might as well not have existed for all the attention the two companions paid it. A foul stench hung thick about the room, as though something were rotting within its confines. What was more, a baleful aura permeated the place, an aura that chilled them to the marrow of their bones.

Beatrice felt deep within herself, again achieving that perfect calm that prevented the sensation of dread from touching her. The terror gnawed at the outside of her bubble, fighting to break through, but the bubble was too strong. Across from them she spotted a closed door, and drawing her sword from its scabbard she approached the door. Skegge clutched his axe in a white-knuckled grip and followed.

Beatrice kicked open the door and cautiously stepped into the room, her sword held up defensively before her. The chamber was dark and windowless, but the light spilling in through the door revealed enough of what was inside to give the ranger pause. A pentagram had been scratched into the wooden floor, and many runes and symbols had been scratched about it, with melted candles at each of its five points. She had heard that such a design was inscribed for the purpose summoning and confining demons. Beside the telltale floor design lay the mangled and rotting corpse of a young man.

''That is Alvin,'' Skegge confirmed.

''Indeed,'' said a grating and unearthly voice suddenly, and a figure stepped out from the shadows at the other end of the room. The creature was of height with Skegge, but was broader, with heavier muscles and pallid green skin. Its face was purely horrible, with a wide and flat nose and a broad mouth. It had scraggly hair, pointed ears, and its eyes were red dots in pools of sickly yellow. The demon flashed its pointed, yellow teeth in a smile that promised a horrible and agonizing death.

''I swear it was smaller when first I saw it,'' Skegge breathed.

''I have fed well on your people,'' the demon chuckled, a hollow, grating sound. ''The meal you delivered to me last night was especially nourishing. With each kill I grow stronger and more powerful. By the time I return to Hell, I will be many times stronger than I was when that fool Alvin summoned me to this world.'' The fiend held its arms gloriously out to the sides, and the corners of its mouth lifted again in that awful smile. ''Gaze upon the entity that is Orobas, and know that you are doomed.''

''Why did Alvin summon you?'' Beatrice demanded.

''Revenge,'' Orobas said. ''The yokels in that village turned on him when they learned of his affinity with magic, and banished him from their midst. He summoned me to pay them back, but mistraced a rune of protection when inscribing the pentagram on the floor. Such a design can not afford to be almost perfect, as he soon learned. I broke free of its confines, and fed well on the pitiful fool.''

Beatrice levelled her sword. ''Your feast ends here.''

Orobas barked a mocking laugh that turned into a snarl as the demon rushed across the way at her. Beatrice was indeed surprised by the agility and speed of the creature, but years of training had honed her reflexes to their finest fighting edge. She managed to pick off the incoming strike, then she deftly twisted her blade to intercept another. Skegge joined in beside her then, swinging his heavy axe. Together they pressed the fiend hard, forcing it on its heels and putting it squarely on the defensive.

Beatrice surged ahead with a sidelong slash of her blade, but the demon dropped into a squatting position, the sword flying harmlessly over its head. Skegge roared in, axe high over head for a mighty chop, thinking to catch the fiend helpless in its squat. But the fiend was not caught flat-footed. It sprang to its feet even before the axe began its downward momentum, then slapped the large man across the face. The force of the blow knocked him from his feet, the axe clattering on the floor. Orobas did not pursue but turned fast on Beatrice, a wicked grin scurrying across its face.

Beatrice could feel the sensation of dread try and break through to her, but her bubble of serenity held the insidious aura at bay. She snapped her arm forward, and a throwing knife struck the fiend squarely in the chest. The knife hit, but did not break the skin, but bounced off harmlessly as though it had struck stone.

Beatrice did not pause to ponder the implications of what had just happened, for in doing so she would only be giving Orobas the upper hand. She charged at the demon with a thrust for its belly, and sparks flew as it disdainfully turned the blade aside with its claws. It countered with its free hand, arm spearing out for her abdomen. She had to suck in her belly and scramble back to prevent the fiend from driving its killing claws into her stomach.

Orobas started to charge but had to pull up short and whirl about as Skegge rushed in at its back, axe raised to strike. ''For my family, damn you!'' he roared as he brought his weapon down hard on the fiend's skull. There was enough strength behind that strike to fell a small tree, but the blow did not split the demon's head, but instead there came a loud crack as the axe head broke off from the handle. The fiend snarled and crunched its fist into his throat. Skegge dropped the haft and stumbled back, then toppled over and jerked spasmodically on the floor.

''Naught but magic will harm me,'' Orobas proclaimed.

Beatrice smirked.

Orobas rushed forward to savage her, and Beatrice had to work furiously to keep those terrible claws off her. The ranger thought she saw an opening at last and retracted her blade then thrust for the fiend's chest. The creature barked a laugh as it slapped the sword aside. But that laugh turned into a surprised croak as she deftly twisted the blade to cut a gash in its forearm. The ranger struck again, and the fiend, surprised that the blade had cut into its flesh, did not manage to parry, the sword tip poking a hole in its side. It scrambled back, one hand holding tight to its spilling guts, black blood pouring between its fingers and down its leg, smoking on the floor.

''There is magic in that sword,'' Orobas growled.

Beatrice flashed a wry smile, for there was indeed magic in the sword, which she had named Biter for the enchantment upon it. That enchantment made it so that it would never break and never dull, ever maintaining its razor-sharp edge. She brought the sword into a series of left and right diagonal cuts, gauging the fiend's reaction. The dots of flame that were its eyes followed the blade warily. She reminded herself that she had yet to slay the demon, and that just because it was injured did not mean she had won.

Beatrice came on, and this time it was the fiend who was on the defensive, using its free hand to parry while clutching its side with the other. The ranger got in several minor hits on its torso and arms, and then the backing fiend tripped and stumbled. That provided her with an opening that she wasted not time in exploiting. She surged ahead with an over the shoulder chop that severed its arm halfway between wrist and elbow. Black blood poured from the stump, and it tried to swat the ranger, but she had backed out of reach.

Orobas rushed ahead with its severed arm leading the way, caustic blood spouting from its stump arm. Beatrice scrambled out of the room to get beyond the range of the bloody spray, then whirled with another throwing knife spinning forth from her hand. The fiend appeared in the doorway and slapped the knife out of the air. But for the split second its focus was on the projectile, the ranger struck.

Beatrice charged forward with her sword swinging mightily, severing the demon's leg just above the knee. The ranger was in close to it even as it toppled over, and with a cry of victory she brought her sword down hard one last time. Orobas raised its remaining arm in a desperate attempt to block, but to no avail. Biter sheared right through the arm, digging into the muscle of its torso and smashing its collar bone. Blood spurted and bubbled from the garish wounds, forming a sizzling pool around the fiend.

Orobas laughed, blood coming out with each chortle.

''You seem happy about your impending death,'' said Beatrice, looking down at the mutilated fiend.

''There is no death for me, ranger,'' Orobas replied. ''You and your kind are doomed to die the final death, but not I. You may have slain my body in this world, but my spirit will just return to Hell, where I will wait for a hundred years. A century, ranger, and then I can be summoned again to this world, to pick clean the bones of your people. Know that your descendants shall be the first I seek out.'' That said, the fiend let out the last breath of its pitiful life, and the fires in its eyes went out, cooling to black orbs. The dread gnawing and gnashing at her bubble of serenity vanished.

Beatrice spat on the corpse, then moved back into the chamber with the pentagram, to where the the body of Skegge lay. She crouched over the body, her mouth tightening as she saw his throat, completely crushed by the punch of the fiend. His unseeing eyes stared up at the ceiling. She brushed her hand over his face, closing those eyes forever. ''Your family has been avenged,'' she said quietly. She collected her throwing knives, then she cut off Orobas' head, that she might present it to the villagers.

Beatrice walked into Sydun some time later. At the inn there she told the barkeep of Skegge's and where his body could be found. She also told him about her fight with the fiend, though he seemed a bit skeptical. But that skepticism could not hold against the proof that was Orobas' head. The barkeep ordered his bouncer to take the head out and throw it into the dung heap where it belonged.

Beatrice was back on the road later that day, trotting her mount easily along the road away from the village, the setting sun in her face. She was not going to any place in particular, but was rather just going where the road took her. This had just been the latest addition to a string of adventures she had gone on. This was certainly not her last, for the life of a ranger was fraught with peril, and hid many surprises. This was just another word in the ballad of Betarice the ranger, whose name would become legend throughout all of Gaia.