On the third day, the mountainside filled with mist. The traveling villagers hoped it would burn off by noon, but after three hours, the rising sun was nothing more than a bright yellow stain on the swirling, blinding vapor around them.

“The morning mist still lingers. This place feels enchanted,” said Garn, who was the wisest man in the village, and knew about enchantments.

“This is no morning mist. We have reached the clouds,” said Arno, who was the smartest man in the village.

“It’s too dangerous to go on. We should go home,” said Denar, who was a coward, but was easily cowed by his three wives who wanted him to make something of himself.

“No. We keep going — but slowly and carefully,” said Rang, who was the strongest man in the village, and that put an end to the discussion.

The four men shouldered their packs and resumed their trek up the narrow, rocky path they had been walking for the past two days. The mist muffled sound as well as light. They heard nothing but their own breathing and the occasional grunt as one them stumbled over some unseen stone. Even the air was still.

“Did you hear that?” asked Arno.

They stopped and listened. This time, they all heard it: the crunch of footsteps on the mist-shrouded rocks ahead of them. The unseen feet clicked and scraped as they moved. They were too numerous to belong to a single man, and too coordinated to belong to whole troop of men.

As one, the villagers drew their swords. They knew what sort of creatures hunted the high mountain passes.

“I will draw the beast out,” whispered Rang. “Arno, Garn — get to either side. Strike when it’s attention is on me. Denar, take the rear. If we three are killed, return to the village and tell the elders we have failed.”

The beast was all scales and claws and teeth. It stood as tall and long as the elders’ meeting house, and roared as it charged past Rang straight for Denar. The coward with three wives dropped his sword and fell to his face; the mist-monster shot right over the top of him.

“Is it gone?” he whispered.

“Hush,” said Arno, studying the wall of mist around them.

“It’s coming back,” cried Garn. “Over there!”

The beast burst from the fog, its jaws snapping. Garn swung his sword at the thing and connected, but didn’t think he penetrated its scales.

“Rang!” called Arno.

The beast had Rang on his back, beneath a heavy claw. It reared back, opening its mouth and hissing at the sky.

A man flew from out of the mist and landed on the creature’s back. Without losing momentum, he ran up the thing’s spine to its long neck. A sword appeared in his hand. It chopped once, and the beast’s head spun off into the mist.

The villagers scrambled to their feet and bowed to the man who had saved them.

“Master Fenn,” said Arno, for he had no doubt that this was the man they had come to find.

“I am Fenn,” said the swordsman. His voice was full of rocks and mist, a mountain voice not used to speaking the words of men.

“We have come here seeking you.”

Fenn frowned. “Then you are fools.”

Fenn was older than the villagers had hoped, yet no so old as they had expected. His hair was white, but the weary creases on his face spoke of horrors seen and battles fought, not the uncaring marches of time. His armor had seen as many battles as he had, but like him didn’t seem as worn as perhaps it should have.

“Maybe we are fools,” said Denar, who was no fool, but knew the dance of pride and humility. “In our foolishness, we have sought out the greatest warrior the highlands have ever known, in hopes that he might take pity on a poor village beset by his ancient enemies.”

“The Krall are dead,” said Fenn.

“But their descendants still prowl the valleys like packs of jackals, demanding tribute and slaughtering those do not pay — and they’ve reached the highlands. Even now they threaten our village. If we do not give them our crops come harvest, they say they will burn us out. But if we do, the winter shall surely starve us.”

Fenn looked from one of the villagers to the next. Each of them shivered beneath his stare.

“Are you not men?” he asked. “Do you not carry swords? Why have come to me to fight your battle?”

“We are not warriors,” said Rang. “We are farmers and shopkeepers. But you, Master Fenn, you are a warrior.”

Fenn sighed.

“I am a warrior cursed,” he said. “In my last battle, I was cursed by a mountain witch, and now I cannot leave this place of mists and monsters.”

“There must be some way to break the curse,” said Garn, who had been reading about curses earlier that year.

“Perhaps,” said Fenn. “Perhaps. But I would need three things from you.”

“Name them,” said Garn, “And we shall bring them.”

“I need fire from each of your hearths.”

“Done,” said Arno, who was already thinking of the best pots and jars for carrying hot coals.

“I need a full sheaf of ripe grain.”

“Done,” said Rang, who knew he would need the turn of another moon before his grain was ripe.

“And I need the hearts of seven dragon apes.”

“They will kill us!” said Denar, who prided himself on avoiding danger whenever possible. “They have hands like men, and use mighty trees as clubs. Their hide is like armor. And their cunning is greater than any other beast’s.”

The others said nothing, but nodded.

Fenn sighed again.

“Then I cannot help you.”

Rang looked to Arno.

“Your cunning is greater than any dragon ape,” he said. “And Garn — surely you know of some potion, some enchantment that help us. And Denar — well, Denar, you can help us recruit more men from the village. If we work together, we can collect seven dragon ape hearts before harvest.”

Arno, Garn, and Denar all nodded. It was a good plan.

As they returned to the village, the men’s hearts were strangely light, considering the task before them. For while they carried a burden of fear, it was buoyed by hope.

A moon passed, and half of another, before the villagers returned to Master Fenn’s misty prison. Rang carried a sheaf of wheat on his back. Garn carried the ape hearts in an oilcloth sack over his shoulder. Another two dozen men followed them, and they all carried small clay pots with metal handles; the pots gave off smoke and were warm to the touch.

“Master Fenn!” Rang called into the mist. “We have returned!”

A dark smudge appeared in the fog. It grew and sharpened into the shape of Master Fenn. He looked the same as he had the last time they had seen him, though they themselves were harder and leaner than before.

“You have the things we require?” he asked.

“Yes, master,” said Rang. He lay the sheaf at Fenn’s feet. The pots of fire they placed in a circle around the grain. Garn pulled the dried hearts from his bag with a flourish, and placed them in a ring outside the pots.

“You have done well,” said Fenn. “And so I must ask again: Are you not men? Do you not carry swords? Why have come to me to fight your battle?”

“We are not warriors,” said Rang.

“You have killed seven dragon apes,” said Fenn. “With cunning and steel and some small magic, you have done what many hunters have failed to do — seven times over. You are warriors.”

“But the bandits who threaten us are no apes,” said Denar.

“No,” said Fenn, “They are thieves and bullies, less dangerous than apes, and certainly far less than warriors. If you can defeat seven of the highlands’ fiercest beasts, how much easier will it be to defeat these vultures of the valley?”

“You won’t be helping us, will you?” ask Arno, who understood what Fenn was truly saying.

“I have already helped you,” said Fenn. “You came to me for one warrior, and I have given you a whole village full of them.”