A loud squawl erupted from the calder roses. Torel stooped to pick up the naked pink form and cradled it in his arms. Where did this baby come from? he wondered. Where is his mother? The hunter called but no one answered the summons.

Morning sunshine cut chinks through the mossy wall of the forest. A raven cawed mournfully from a dead stump, the bird's black feathers dull and muted in the shadow of the canopy. The hunter listened to the utter desolation, broken only by the baby's cooing sigh and the hot breeze that slithered through the trees.
The child, a strong boy of about eighteen months old, whiskery black hair crowning a round, pumpkin-shaped head, wriggled against the Geltish woodsman's chest. The babe's mouth instinctively sought a ripe nipple, which the Torel sorely lacked. Instead, he unslung a bladder filled with goat's milk and squirted a few drops into the child's mouth. The food received a joyous reception, followed by a sad cry for more.

After satisfying the small one's appetite (a good quarter of the milk bag bought from a farmer's maid for three kepesks) the hunter looked to clothing the infant. A quick rip shortened his cloak but provided a neat rectangular diaper. An old broach pin held the cloth in place.

Again Torel called out, in all four directions. "Hello! Is this your baby? Hello!"
Only the distant frogs replied.

The Gelt returned to his horse, which munched quietly on a grassy hump surrounded by trees. Reorganizing his belongings, Torel managed to make a cradle on one side of the saddle bags. The babe lie quietly with big eyes as it felt the horse's breathing. The animal motion would soon rock him to sleep.
The hunter mounted and clicked his tongue twice. The horse, a pie-bald mare, forgot the fresh grass with a resentful look, then made its way slowly in the direction Torel reined. But it wasn't long before the horse resumed its meal. More cooing sent Torel from his saddle again.

Another baby! A year old girl, naked and playing in the tall weeds. From the clumps of whisk-broom behind came another tot of about the same age. Three! Three babies! How was he going to get to the temple of Zom-Degg before night fall with all these infants? Torel had planned on fighting the guardian of that temple and making away with its treasure before nightfall. But now...

I'll just leave them, he lied to himself. I'm not a nursemaid. Their mother is probably near. The woodsman collected the reins of his horse but a thought stopped him. What if they have no mother? The guardian was said to dwell just in the next series of small sloughs. What if it was a magical guardian? And it turned all its victims into babies? He had heard of such things: the sorceress Kilsi, who turned men into rabbits, before castrating them; the witch Berrolo, who turned women into spiders then fed them to her pet scorpions. But these were just stories...

More cooing and babbling filled the small clearing. Four more naked children, ranging from ten months to three years. Torel sighed, realizing that he could do little for so many children. My milk skin might satisfy them for a short while, he thought, laying down his cloak for the infants to play on, and passing the milk from child to child. All settled, he tied up his horse and drew his long bow from its saddle sheath. He bore a long huntsman's blade on his belt along with three empty burlap sacks. "After I take care of that guardian, I'll think of something to do with you little bobbins," he promised.

Torel waded through swampy puddles, skirting tall rocky out-croppings. The guardian and the temple should be just beyond. He thought he could make out a pillar of the old shrine to Zom-Degg, god of the long-dead Skril tribes, a people vanished in a war of racial cleansing. The Skrils had no use for their treasure, said to be the most valuable in the world. With that money Torel would leave the Gelt, give up hunting and trapping, live in a city with a pretty wife and a have dozen- He never finished the thought.

Crossing a muddy creek, the hunter found himself on a weed-broken patch of turf that once must have been a lawn. Rising above the sward was a small temple composed of six pillars and a flat floor of red-veined marble. Resting in the center of the temple floor was a pool with a small fountain bubbling up through a moss-covered statue of Zom-Degg. Torel could make out that it once had been an image of a hunter, now headless, bearing a bow and a spear. The water gurgling out of a wound in the shoulder.

Below the geyser was a mound of rotting cloth, swords and gold! Could this be the most valuable treasure in the world?

The blow came without warning. A terrific force sent Torel to the ground, slamming him into the soft grass. Whatever had attacked him had grasped him around the back and would not be easily budged. Torel dropped his bow and drew his knife. With awkward backward slashes he stabbed at the dark, hairy thing holding onto him. The attacker leapt away with a howl, but not before leaving four sets of claw marks in Torel's neck, shoulder and back.

The hunter turned to face his enemy. He had to look quick for it was at him again, bearing long fangs and dirty, broken nails. Its body was smaller than a man's, squat, naked but carpeted in a thick thatch of hair. Despite the covering, two small breasts hung from the chest, marking it for a female. But it was the face that riveted Torel's attention. The eyes were human but wrapped in warty wrinkles of flesh, the ears long, dog-like and the nose, flat-pressed and small.

The hunter raised his knife. The creature now knew the dangers of that blade and recoiled, then snarled and circled. Torel kept the dagger between himself and the monster. It tried a few more times to circle behind the lad but to no avail. With a blood-curdling squeal, the thing disappeared into the swamp.

Torel waited for several minutes. When no new attack came he put away his dagger. His tunic was ripped and a long gash on his shoulder bled, soaking his chest and back. He ignored these irritations, looked only to his prize, the small fountain and its circle of wealth. Standing beside the pool, he saw clearly for the first time what he had fought for. There were many sets of clothes, abandoned with their weapons and purses still slung on their belts. It was the gold, spilled from such pockets, that he had seen earlier. Judging from the number of cloaks and tunics he found rotting, rain-soaked and sun-bleached, there was a small cache of coin, weapons, jewelry and other valuable personal effects. Hardly the "greatest treasure" of the legends. Was their more hidden elsewhere? But where?

The woodsman sat on the edge of the small pool to think. Tearing off his boots, he dipped his feet into the cool liquid and washed the wound on his shoulder. Idly, with no further worry of danger-Torel's dagger rested near at hand-he reached over to a poach that clung to a belt beside him. The purse contained at least twenty coins, gold he hoped. A bulge beneath the pile took his interest next. A helmet perhaps? There were many swords lying about and he supposed there would be armor too.

Pulling the rotting blue material aside he saw that it was not a helmet but the missing head from the statue that crowned the fountain. The hunter-god's head. Torel picked it up and examined the ancient carving. With a grunt of humorless mirth he tossed it away into the depths of the pool. Even as it sank he could see the fangs and wrinkled apish brow of the god.

The treasure's appeal was forgotten then as the physical necessity to quench his thirst took its toll. Torel cupped a handful of water, pressed it to his lips. But he did not drink. A sudden thought came to him then. The guardian had been terrible, but not insurmountable. If a Geltish lad from the deep forest could defeat it, why not warriors in armor and dandies with swords? Maybe he wasn't the first one to win the treasure of Zom-Degg. Perhaps others had won their way to this pool to-
Torel dropped his hand, allowed the water to fall away. He dried his palms and fingers carefully on his torn shirt. Taking his feet from the pool, he dried them also with infinite care, then rebooted them. He gathered together all the discarded garments along with his knife, taking great care not to go any nearer the pool than necessary.

He forgot about another treasure. He now knew if he was to gain at all from this adventure it was by taking the small amount of riches found here at the poolside. He emptied the pouches, dug in pockets, untied belts until all the best items had been collected. These he packed into the bottom of one of the sacks he had brought. The resulting pile of bags was easily carried by one man but half a fortune still.

Besides jeweled daggers, necklaces and other diadems, he gathered the best of the fallen trophies, a pile of ordinary weapons and armor. From these he selected one sword, well-crafted Narah-bezan steel, no jeweled plaything, but a warrior's weapon. If the guardian returned it would meet three feet of cold steel.

Once back at his camp, Torel dumped the sack and began to pack the treasure into his saddle bags. He stopped when a baby tugged at his leg hungrily. The hunter looked at the small crawling creature, and smiled. By some miracle he just might be able to manage the seven little creatures, but then what? He knew no women, and certainly none who would want seven children. Orphanages? None in the Gelt.

While pondering this, his thoughts turned to who these babes had once been, before drinking from the fountain. This small mewling brat might have been a rich, brave knight. The girl, a daring adventuress. That one, with the golden curls, a king. Torel had seen their clothes, taken their wealth for his own. Guilt began to creep into his thoughts.

A shadow appeared behind the hunter. Torel spun, the new sword ready to cleave or stab. He saw the hairy beast. It had one of the babies! The hunter drew the blade back for a deadly swing but stopped suddenly.

The guardian wasn't attacking. She held two of the infants in her arms now, nestled them to her engorged breasts. The sprites giggled around her, each jockeying for attention.

The hunter laughed, finding his horse. He sheathed the sword, mounted. Why not? he asked himself. She deserved something as the last of her race. And of the men and women who had come here-perhaps they too had what they wanted? To them it had been the greatest treasure-youth. A treasure Torel had no use for.
The hunter had one last thought before riding away. If I had drank, I too... But why had the she-beast attacked him? Watching her there with her brood of seven he quickly understood. Who needed eight?

G. W. Thomas © 1998 Illustration © 2009