 
SPIRALING INTO CHAOS

By

GEORGE STRAATMAN

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2019 George Straatman

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or if it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords and obtain your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Other Smashwords Titles by George Straatman

THE CONVERGING

THE CONVERGING: MARK OF THE DEMON

THE CONVERGING: CLOSURES IN BLOOD

JOURNEY THROUGH THE LAND OF SHADES

ABJECTION ALONG THE ROAD TO APOTHEOSIS (JOURNEY BOOK 2)

CIRCLE OF THE WITCH

THE CHAINS OF CAPITULATION (JOURNEY BOOK 3)

THE FINAL CONVERGING: AN IMMORTAL HEART ASUNDER

TALES OF LORIO AND ISSIDRIS: A PARTING OF WAYS

TALES OF LORIO: DAUGHTER OF DUST

DEDICATION

I dedicate this novel to those who create worlds and populate them with characters who speak to us long after their tales have been told.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

As always, I would like to thank Leonard Clark, who provided the critical second pair of eyes that is so essential in insuring that this novel will shine to its full potential.

AUTHOR'S FORWARD

While writing the Journey through the Land of Shades Fantasy series, I developed, shall we say, a proclivity for writing in a decidedly non-sequential manner. Half way through the first draft of The Chains of Capitulation, I was possessed by the compulsion to start writing the sequel to this series...events that take place seven years after the conclusion of Islena Doraux's epic time in the Antiquated Land. After writing approximately a third of this new tale, I moved on to writing the last novel and a half of the Journey series. Rather than resume work on the sequel, I followed my intuition and began writing Tales of Lorio and Issidris: A Parting of Ways and then its sequel Tales of Lorio: Daughter of Dust (which may or not be the final novel in the Tales series...as well as being her creator, I'm Lorio's biggest fan...what can I say). Finally, I've decided it's time to fill in the gap between the end of Islena's epic journey and the beginning of Lorio and Issidris' rambling adventure. Spiraling into Chaos and its sequel The Beckoning Abyss will chronicle the period of darkness that befell the Antiquated Lands in the wake of Islena's triumph over Myrhia on the ramparts of Kammlogran.

Elements of the Drama

Stuart Macevey: Former Seattle Policeman, Private Investigator and bane of the ShadowCaster.

Sisters of Esotaria: An esoteric order of elite female Stealth Rangers and Battle Mages devoted to the divine service of the Goddess, Gyzarayne.

Nalosan: The capital city of Emercia, located on the shores of the Bay of Imerlac.

Prion: A Captain of the Emercian Escort Guard, a force charged with escorting merchant caravans along highways throughout Emercia.

Redrick: Emercian Military Consul...eventually, King Artumas' Regent.

Xhendyn: A demonic entity conjured from the resonating essence of Myrhia's evil for the purpose of freeing the inured Enchantress.

Skyram: An Emercian port city on the southern coast of the country.

Lorio: Queen of the new nation of Lamia, heroine of the quest through the Land of Shades. An immortal.

Islena Doraux: An alien to the Antiquated World, Islena is also known as the Daughter of the Tempest. An ascendant being who saved the Antiquated World during the Emerald Enchantress war.

Aden: A small village in central Lamia.

Tedar: A Lamish itinerant, who, while dallying with the Queen of Lamia, is possessed by a bone demon to deliver an augury.

Kammlogran: The castle that serves as the Royal seat of power in Emercia...located in Nalosan on the shores of the Bay of Imerlac.

Appelion: A Stealth Ranger of the Sisters of Esotaria who attempts to surreptitiously gain entry into Kammlogran.

Karosyn: Matrium of the Sisters of Esotaria, who serves as the Ascentrix's mentor and guide.

Thurgis: A porter employed in Kammlogran, who inadvertently provides Appelion with information concerning the castle's interior layout.

Lyndsyn: First Battle Mage of the Sisters of Esotaria.

Tygon: Consul of Trade in the court of King Artumas.

Dynok: Consul of Foreign Affairs in the court of King Artumas.

Melansa: Jerhia observer to the Emercian Court. First cousin of Tier Marshal Arminda.

Latrizel: Metocan observer to the Emercian Court.

Sygeanor: Advisor to Grand Mage Inos of Metocan. Later, Grand Mage. Illegitimate daughter of Kyros, an Inner Circle member murdered by Lorio.

Othgol: Capitol of the CornerStone Nation of Metocan.

Inos: Long sitting Grand Mage of Metocan.

Kyros: A former Inner Circle member who is murdered while attempting to abduct Islena Doraux. Father of Sygeanor.

Ulgak: A province in Northern Metocan, whose people were inclined toward dark technologies and sorcery.

The Appraxis: Devotees of Sygeanor...Ulgak wielders of forbidden sorcery such as blood magic and necromancy.

Hand of the Way: An elite cadre of guards formed to protect the portals between Kammlogran, and the secret location were Myrhia's petrified body is being sequestered.

Esuruban: Captain of the Hand of the Way.

Myrhia: Former Queen of Emercia, wife of King Artumas...also known as the Emerald Enchantress. An Ascendant being also known as the Mother of Iniquity.

Maroc: Maxim Tier Marshal of the CornerStone Nation of Jerhia.

Gyzarayne: The patron deity of women to whom the Sisters of Esotaria have sworn a divine oath.

Lissom: The Ascentrix of the Sisters of Esotaria. Leader of the order and Gyzarayne's Divine Emissary in the tangible world, imbued with a measure of her deity's power.

Azidara: A citizen of Fairmarch, this apparently ordinary woman helps Stuart when he first arrives in the Antiquated World, becoming his companion and lover as they make their way to Nalosan.

Wraiths Hollow: A small hamlet in central Fairmarch.

Arminda: A Jerhia Tier Marshal and heroine of the Emerald Enchantress War and the great quest. Maroc's heir apparent.

Gillian: A Tier Marshal commanding the Jerhia forces in Lamia. Hero of the great quest through the Land of Shades.

Anciel: A Lamish girl living in the Northern Lamish village of Glanox.

Megis: A villager living in Wraiths Hollow.

Lethoras: The unsavory noble lord of Wraiths Hollow who covets Azidara.

Veilguix: Lethoras' retainer.

Fhirz: A standard combat stance employed by the Jerhia for short blade combat.

Thieves Trough: A disreputable section of Nalosan.

Dizar Kor: The capital city of Fairmarch.

Eamon, Imrach and Gadral: A trio of brigands who attack Stuart and Azidara during their flight to Dizar Kor.

Nirras: A guard in Castle Kammlogran.

Sybian: A First Scout in the Jerhia military assigned to the forces in Lamia.

Corrent: a village in Northern Lamia.

Reyfort: A Suran Rogue.

Ihzrac: Suran ceremonial swords.

Ynathreen: Queen of Redia.

Zargarist Mountains: A mountain range in Northern Redia.

Braxys: A Redian metal smith who discovers the properties of a Redian clay that is later dubbed Ynathrite.

Elderspire: The capital city of Redia.

Muragren Eb Tamen: Ynathreen's Seneschal, a former slave and Fairmarch Academic.

Thenyr: Redian General commanding Queen Ynathreen's army.

Ynathrite: An indestructible metal forged from Redian Red clay.

Rizarchen: A mortal combat tournament that determines succession to the Redian throne.

Serran: Master of the Royal Purse in King Artumas' court.

Aisen: A serving girl in Castle Kammlogran.

Perservya: The Goddess, Gyzarayne's first Ascentrix.

Matra: The Goddess, Gyzarayne's first Matrium.

Nayoro: Regent to Queen Lorio.

The Pitted Blade: A disreputable Ale House in Nalosan.

Issidris Il: A former criminal guild leader from the isle of Ciprite. Retainer of the Sisters of Esotaria.

Ciprite: A bleak and impoverished island across the Sea of Permanent Departure.

Brechzun: Queen Ynathreen's weapons master.

Esamot: Captain of Queen Ynathreen's personal guard, the Gray Doves.

Thasron: A village in Northern Lamia.

Jagendzul: A hamlet in Northern Redia. Home of Esamot.

Galloway: A large country that stretches along the southern coast of the Eastern Continent.

Garendal: A port city located on the coast of Galloway.

Aryon Mar: Garendal's harbor master.

Albreth Korum: Captain of Garendal's harbor watch.

Vrezgroth: Overseer of Sygeanor's Appraxis.

Ashern: Sybian's Adjutant during the Jerhia campaign in Northern Lamia.

Majeer: A nation and desert continent across the Sea of Prevailing Mystery.

El Sharom: The Capital of Majeer.

Thaz Ekai: A demon posing as a God...now worshipped in Majeer.

Ekaz Azeer: Prophet of Thaz Ekai, ruler of Majeer.

The Argent Robe: A divine artifact given to Ekaz Azeer by Thaz Ekai.

Enom-Zhar: The seat of Thaz Ekai's misogynistic theology in El Sharom.

Rite of Abjection: A rite during which Majeeri women's' lower faces are scarred and indelibly inked to signify that she has been redeemed by Thaz Ekai.

Shan-en Naroon: Matron of the Rha-Sheem.

Rha-Sheem: Women who have passed the Rite of Abjection and are then trained as Thaz Ekai's holy warriors.

Faz-Shal: The village of Shan-en Naroon's birth.

Otaru Ree: A Goddess exiled to reign over the realm of Purgatory.

Hamlen: A village in Southern Fairmarch.

The Laughing Widow Inn: An Inn in Hamlen.

Bahlor: Azidara's deceased husband.

Natur: A small hamlet in Eastern Galloway.

Egur Bhgaz: The commanding general of the conventional Majeeri Army.

Bachnaz Kazel: A Majeeri phrase translating to 'Land of the Unclean'.

Trakaz: Admiral of the Majeeri Navy.

Thomas Nier: Guard in Natur.

Jhiel Nier: Guard in Natur.

Jarrod: Member of the Metocan Inner Circle.

Kevlan: A Metocan of historical renown.

Chapter One

1

Stuart Macevey gazed fixedly through the window of his seventh-floor office as the city beyond slowly made its nightly descent into darkness. This was promising to be a typical Seattle evening...overcast and forbidding.

"At least it's stopped raining," Stuart whispered and willed his gaze away from the window and instead tried to focus his attention on the file and assorted photographs that lay scattered across his desk. He swept up the photos with a weary sigh and slowly shuffled them into a roughly chronological order. They were stills of yet another in an endless series of tawdry betrayals that constituted a large part of his stock in trade. In this particular case, it was a wife who spent her spare hours staking her own claims while her insurance adjuster husband ran himself ragged in a futile attempt to keep her happy. Stuart and two of his associates had tailed the woman for the better part of two weeks, snapping endless rolls of film while she filled whatever void drove her with four different men. Now, sitting alone in his small office as the clock inched its way toward midnight, Macevey was left with the distasteful task of deciding which of the photographs to turn over to his client tomorrow afternoon. Out of some sense of compassion, Stuart tried to cull out the most humiliating of the pictures, leaving in just enough to drive the point home with emphatic finality...the person you thought you knew and loved was really a total stranger.

Stuart shook his head in dismay and let the photographs slip through his fingers, where they spilled over the glass blotter like dirty snow.

He rose from his desk and paced around the dimly lit room, before stopping to gaze out of the window that afforded him a stilted view of Seattle at night. The muted glow of the few streetlights provided very little reassurance against the predators that moved under the cover of darkness.

'Be thankful there are streetlights at all,' Stuart thought with only a residual trace of the bitterness that this observation would have provoked six years ago.

Then, this section of Seattle had been one of the lawless enclaves that dotted the urban landscape of 21st century America. Known as the dead zones, these city sections were areas of decay and rampant criminal infestation. Having neither the will nor the resources to confront the plethora of problems that plagued these parts of major American cities, Civil Authorities had instead decided to simply wall them off and abandon them to the human monsters that lived there.

He had been Lt. Stuart Macevey then, a twenty-one-year veteran of the Seattle police force and one of the few who seemed to realize that the concept was an unconscionable abdication of moral responsibility. When a gang of teenage psychopaths began burning derelicts to death for warped amusement, Macevey succeeded in convincing his superiors that they were obligated to intervene. The National Guard and the Seattle Police Department had essentially invaded the area and reclaimed the hellish section of the city...the first of many such reclamation projects that would sweep the country over the next five years.

And Stuart Macevey's reward for his unwavering pursuit of a higher moral ideal? He had been banished from the police force he loved and relegated to the role of second-rate gumshoe, warily rummaging through the sordid dirt of other people's pathetic little lives. His glance strayed back to the photographs on his desk and he winced.

The reoccupation had been a disaster from the outset, and only later did Stuart learn that Alain Joubert, his former partner, was the initial cause of the debacle. That Joubert's utter corruption had escaped Macevey's notice in the years that they were partners was an unforgivable indictment against Stuart's police instinct.

"Ah, but he was a clever one," Stuart whispered and that was inarguably true as evinced by the totality of his disappearance once the dust had settled in the zone. Six years of searching, official and otherwise, and there was still no trace of Alain Joubert. It was almost as though he had vanished from the face of the planet.

An internal affairs investigation had revealed that Joubert had been filtering information to the different gangs that held sway in the zone, alerting them to the various police initiatives that had been meant to target their activities. In hindsight, Macevey recalled how virulently Joubert had opposed his planned reclamation of the zone. When the concept was accepted, it had been Alain who had alerted the gangs to the authorities' intention. Well-equipped and fiercely determined to protect their hard-won enclaves, the usually hostile rivals had united to ambush the lead elements of the National Guard and the Seattle Police force. The first hours of the operation had seen the advance elements suffer massive casualties.

After two days of intense urban warfare, the authorities had succeeded in gaining control over most of the zone, but then a massive explosion had leveled much of the Seattle waterfront in a blast that remained one of the great mysteries of the 21st century. The scope of the debacle was such that a public sacrifice, however symbolic, was demanded and Stuart had been deemed well-suited for the role. He supposed that he could take some consolation that he had been granted a partial pension and a license to practice as a private investigator, but these were scant compensations for the loss of the one thing that he truly loved.

The accursed walls had eventually come down and the poor and downtrodden had gradually drifted back into what was once again an urban ghetto while the days wound down around them with utter indifference to their plight.

And, of course, the predators also resurfaced, commencing the slow, yet inexorable process of reclaiming their territory. The rubble had been cleared and new buildings erected as the area struggle back towards some manner of normalcy. Still, this was far and away the most dangerous area of the city and Macevey could not help but wonder if the lessons of the recent past would be all too soon forgotten.

It seemed somehow fitting that Stuart finally selected the fringe of the zone as the place where he would attempt to pick up the pieces of his shattered life. Many of his clients had expressed their concerns over venturing down to his office, but something that he did not entirely understand prevented him from relocating his office to a less inimical environment.

Now, he found himself sitting on the edge of his desk and attempting to unravel the mystery of his refusal (inability) to cut himself free from the area where his life had effectively fallen to ruin. The bleakness of the night and a pervasive sense of total isolation set a perfect mood for an exercise in dark introspection.

'By all means then, let's dive into this pool and see what's at the bottom,' he thought with a blitheness that he did not really feel. Upon reflection, Stu realized that the only thing that prevented him from falling into a consuming despair after he had turned in his detective's shield had been the mysterious Elizabeth Simpson. Stuart suspected that it was Simpson who lay at the heart of the conflagration that destroyed much of the zone. In the months that followed his dismissal, he had resisted the black allure of depression by focusing his energies on the enigmatic woman and the path that led her to the heart of the zone during the turbulent days of its reoccupation.

He had spent innumerable hours searching through countless archives, trying to assemble a paper portrait of Elizabeth Simpson. What he discovered both intrigued and troubled Macevey, while giving him the wherewithal to survive the grim monotony of his everyday vocation. In the end, the information he accrued led Stuart to one of two astonishing conclusions...Elizabeth Simpson was either a ghost or an immortal of some sort. This amazing revelation rekindled a spark in the pit of his soul and a new perspective on the world about him and its tangible limits. Stuart came to believe that there was a greater depth and resonance to the world than the endless stream of sordid and petty cruelties had led him to believe.

He recalled the one occasion that he had met this extraordinary creature, and how the hair on his arms and neck literally stood on end in response to the power and majesty she radiated. She had been in the dead zone when the lethal blast had ignited, but instinct informed Stuart that she had survived the cataclysm. He had spent endless hours trying to substantiate that belief, though his efforts proved fruitless. Like Alain Joubert, she had simply vanished.

Stuart had always been a pragmatist, ruled by reason and the reality of his five senses. Thus, he was astounded by his burgeoning fixation with all things supernatural. He reasoned that, if Elizabeth Simpson was indeed a super-human entity of some sort, it followed that there must be others of her ilk...some benevolent and some malevolent.

It was four years after his strange encounter with Elizabeth Simpson that Stuart Macevey finally unearthed concrete proof that this world held wonders that science and reason could not explain. From the first instant that Marika Chambers had stepped into his office, Stuart realized that he was venturing into dark and uncharted territory. Accomplished and beautiful, Marika was generally regarded as the most gifted African American Sociologist that this country had ever produced. Yet, she entered his office like a frightened child seeking refuge from some abstract night terror. As events would have it, the analogy would prove incredibly fitting.

Marika had told her story and at first, Stuart had been privately skeptical. She tearfully insisted that she had somehow opened up a psychic conduit to a serial killer who was terrorizing east Los Angeles. If this was not bizarre enough, she went on to disclose her suspicion that her subconscious had actually created this monster and was directing its actions. Only the expression of absolute desperation writhing in her limpid brown eyes had prevented Macevey from gently but firmly sending her on her way.

He had agreed to help her, and that acquiescence led the pair to embark on a nightmarish cross-country ordeal from Los Angeles to a rural Georgia that may or may not have ever existed. In the end, he had managed to help Marika Chambers exorcise her demons, though he was still uncertain just what it was that they had managed to vanquish.

They had become lovers during the ordeal, driven together perhaps by the need to feel grounded in the reality of the flesh and its warm comforts. When her nemesis was driven off, he recalled that she expected that theirs might be a common future and yet some inner imperative had prompted him to hold her at arm's length until she finally gave up the effort. Eventually, she moved back to New York to take up the threads of her old life and though she still called him on occasion, the calls came with less frequency. In light of the experience that they had shared, he supposed he couldn't really blame her for wanting to distance herself from the dark memory.

And yet, as he sat in the dim solitude of his office, Stuart was forced to ask himself what had prompted him to banish this exquisite creature from his life. He had skirted around this question on numerous occasions but had never given the matter deep and honest consideration. For that matter, how had it come to be that he had made it through nearly fifty years of living and developed no real emotional attachments to anything other than his twenty-one-year love affair with his police career? There had been no romances or close friendships, only a series of brief infatuations and acquaintances.

As the rain outside began to fall in earnest, Macevey was forced to concede that his life was emotionally sterile. He had never felt the need for companionship and attachment. During his career, he had used the dangerous nature of his job as a justification for his reticence, but the banal existence of these last six years had forced him to abandon that deception. Other than the odd irate spouse, the most perilous aspect of his life was the nightly trek from his office to the parking lot.

Then why did he take such great pains to disentangle himself from the attachments of everyday life? There was a time when Marika might have helped him explore the subject, but they were separated...physically by a continent and emotionally by an immeasurable void. He found himself wanting for courage to pick up the telephone and simply call her.

As his eyes strayed back to his desk, it occurred to him in a moment of absolute clarity, that his life was every bit as empty as the sham of a marriage that he would soon help bring to an end. In a further astounding revelatory flash, Stuart Macevey saw that he had outlived his usefulness.

"At least, in this world," he suddenly added and then wondered where this qualifier had come from. Yet, it was indisputably true that he had constructed his life in such a way that he now had little or no meaningful connection with anyone or anything around him. There were moments...more and more of late...he could feel some indistinct, nascent force pulling at him, though towards what and for what purpose, he could not say.

"You're talking utter rubbish," he chastised himself in a voice that was quavering and nervous. Still, alone and forced to confront the truth of his situation, Stuart could not deny that this feeling of being drawn towards...something was undeniably real.

On the heels of this came another revelation that filled him with a profound dread...he was going crazy. Insanity was not a precipice from which one simply plummeted. Rather, it could be likened to a steep slope down which he might slide with increasing momentum. His obsession with supernatural phenomena, combined with his increasing sense of isolation, was pushing him into the cold embrace of lunacy.

He glanced down at his hands, which were shaking slightly, and fetched a deep sigh. Alone in the dull seclusion of his office, Stuart Macevey saw with crystalline clarity that he had come to a critical juncture in his life. If he was to preserve his mental health, Macevey deduced that he would have to jettison the nonsense that had led him to this sorry state and make an attempt to finally construct a normal life for himself. The first thing that he would have to do would be to clean house of anything connected to his obsession with Elizabeth Simpson. Burn it. Shred it. Trash it...whatever. It would simply have to disappear from his filing cabinet and his thoughts.

'And then there's this place,' he thought. His continued presence in the dead zone was a symbol of his refusal to come to terms with the end of his police career and the inherent failure that had signaled that end. In the instant of perfect comprehension, Stuart Macevey resolved himself to exorcising three of the demons who plagued his life: the zone, Elizabeth Simpson and Alain Joubert.

Deep in the recesses of his mind, a malicious voice chuckled sardonically at the notion, but Stuart pointedly ignored it. He could see his future all too clearly if he allowed himself to languish in his present state. Alain Joubert was part of his past history. Elizabeth Simpson was a long-departed specter, while the dead zone was the physical embodiment of everything that was dysfunctional in his world.

Tonight, here and now, was the time to start the process of putting the lot behind him and salvaging whatever time he had left.

He exhaled deeply, feeling an overwhelming sense of relief as though he had narrowly avoided some subtle, yet terrible calamity. Tomorrow, he would clean out the filing cabinet that contained his research into Joubert and Simpson. Once that was accomplished, Stuart would set about looking for an uptown home for his business. If things went particularly well, he might even call Marika Chambers and suggest that they get together sometime in the very near future.

Feeling jubilant, Stuart Macevey retrieved his coat and headed for the parking lot.

2

That feeling of jubilation had dissipated somewhat by the time that Stuart reached the street, replaced by a steadfast resolve to bring some much-needed normalcy to his life. He exited via the rear service door, which opened directly onto the small parking lot. A single light standard illuminated the parking lot but was rendered useless by the dark night and the relentless rain. Stuart's car was parked close to the light perhaps a hundred feet from where he stood.

The entire lot and its surroundings were steeped in deep and ominous shadow that would provide excellent cover for the predators who stalked this area of the city. Macevey experienced an unusual moment of anxiety and was grateful for the reassuring weight of the handgun in its holster beneath his coat. It took a tremendous exertion of will not to draw the gun as he started across the lot, but he did nimbly undo the top two buttons if only for easier access to the weapon.

A low, furtive noise came from somewhere off to his left. His trained ear identified it as the scuff of a soft sole on wet pavement, barely audible, but there, nonetheless. He stopped and listened carefully, his hand disappearing into his coat as he did. As he gripped the butt of his revolver, Stuart's gaze swept the shadows on the west end of the lot but found that they were impenetrable. If there was someone there, they had him at a distinct disadvantage and Macevey correctly deduced that his best course of action would be to make it to his car as quickly as possible. He listened carefully for another second and when the sound did not come again, he hurried across the lot to his vehicle.

As he fumbled for his keys, Stuart heard another sound and slowly pivoted in place. The wind was blowing the rain directly into his face and he was forced to squint to try to detect the source of the sound. Thinking that he might dissuade any potential attacker with the sight of a gun, Macevey drew his weapon.

In his state of adrenaline-induced awareness, the next sound reached his ears with an incredible clarity; distinct twang that caused the hair on the nape of his neck to rise.

His eyes detected the flash of luminescent blue light the instant before the arrow struck the left side of his chest. There followed a dull metallic thunk as the head of the arrow impacted against the side of his car.

'Holy shit, it passed right through me,' he marveled dazedly and then his legs unhinged, and he collapsed onto the wet pavement beside his car. When he hit the ground, the shaft of the arrow snapped off, causing Stuart to bellow in agony.

Someone was approaching quickly, and he raised his head to see a tall figure sprinting towards him out of the darkness. Though his vision was blurry, he could see that his assailant was clad in a tightly fitting black outfit. To his surprised, he discerned that the form was distinctly feminine, though the attacker's face was veiled and hooded. Even as she approached, the mysterious attacker nocked another arrow and raised her short bow to fire again.

"Not necessary," he croaked, judging that the first arrow had pierced his heart. When she was within twenty feet, the attacker loosed the second arrow, which struck him less than an inch to the right of the first shot. Stuart uttered a groan and his head fell back to the pavement with an audible thud. In the next moment she was towering over him, gazing down on him with luminous blue eyes. Through eyes that were blurry with pain, Stuart could see the sharp ridges of her cheekbones above the material of her veil.

"I'm sorry. I miscalculated the force of the first shot," she intoned softly. Macevey struggled to raise his head as she reached one leather-clad hand out and gently stroked his cheek.

"Why?" he managed through gritted teeth. The assassin (he had come to think of her in these terms) delicately ran her thumb and index fingers along the shaft of the second arrow. When they came upon two small protrusions, she bent forward and instructed, "Your passage shall be swift and painless. When you reach the other side, you must make your way to Nalosan and seek out the Sisters of Esotaria."

He shook his head in confusion, baffled by the unfathomable references and believing that he was surely about to die.

"The pain will go now," she remarked and then depressed the two protrusions. As she promised, the pain immediately vanished, replaced by a warmth that suffused his entire body. In the next instant, the dreary landscape of the zone dissolved into a soft blue light that wrapped Stuart Macevey in its embrace and carried him into the void.

The woman watched anxiously as the light enveloped the good man. In the next moment, he was gone without a trace. She collected the two arrows, silently castigating herself for the clumsiness of her first shot. She faded back into the security of the shadows where she would await her own recall, glad that her work in this wretched and alien world was done.

Chapter Two

The grating sound of studded iron on paving stones was unusually loud in the stillness of the moonlit night. It jangled Prion's already frazzled nerves as he watched the huge supply wagons slowly rumble along this deserted section of highway. The night was warm and close, and he could smell the ocean not too distant from where the ponderous caravan was presently laboring its way through the forest.

A palpable tension hung over the supply train...one that affected both man and beast as though the oxen and horses could discern their masters' anxiety. The beasts were forever gazing about as though they fully expected the creatures of the otherworld to explode from the deep shadows that lined the highway and tear them to bloody pieces.

Prion could certainly empathize with their disquiet.

He reined his horse to a halt and allowed a number of the heavy wooden carts to trundle by, making certain that the drivers were alert. After twenty or so wagons went past, he spurred his mount to the front of the long procession, knowing that they were coming to a stretch of highway that was especially vulnerable to ambush.

Prion had been a Captain of the Imperial Escort Troop for more than twenty years. The Troop was charged with the task of ensuring that merchant convoys (such as the one he and his men were escorting tonight) traveled safely between destinations inside Emercia. By and large, this duty was mostly symbolic in nature as the roadways and highways of Emercia were perhaps the safest on the Eastern Continent. The escort troops had earned the contempt of their fellow soldiers in the Imperial army for their tame and often cozy assignments. Even Prion had to admit that there were times when the duty was almost intolerably boring, if not totally pointless. How many times had he complained to his wife, Mika, that the monotony of his job was driving him toward premature senility?

Over the course of the last six months he had certainly come to rue those complaints and longed for a return to the tranquility and boredom of the old days. From his narrow perspective, even the bleak years of evil Myrhia's reign were preferable to the uncertainty and terror that had enveloped the highways of Emercia since the thieving guilds had taken root like rampant weeds.

In the six years since the Dark Lady's defeat and the return of Artumas to the throne, the once peaceful and relatively lawful country had been beset by vicious and increasingly aggressive criminals who seemed determined to strangle the flow of commerce throughout Emercia. At first, Prion had been of the opinion that this brazen campaign of pilferage and ambush was motivated by simple greed on the part of the Guilds. Lately, however, he had been forced to re-assess this position, coming to the disturbing conclusion that these attacks were motivated by something far more sinister than simple avarice.

This particular route was the most dangerous in the Country, running along the coastal highway between the Emercian Capital of Nalosan and the southern port City of Skyram. In the last six months alone, eight convoys had failed to make it to their destinations. This section of the highway was assigned to Prion's detachment and every shipment that did not arrive safely struck a blow against his personal and professional pride.

Redrick, the King's military Consul, had taken to assigning detachments of the Emercian Cavalry to the escort details and thus far, their imposing presence had seemed to dissuade the guilds from striking against these particular convoys. On this occasion, the Consul had seen fit to dispatch the Cavalry to accompany a much-needed shipment of weapons to the outposts along Emercia's northern border, leaving the escort troops to fend for themselves on this particular run.

"You might consider accompanying this run personally, Prion," Redrick had suggested, in a tone that clearly implied his presence was expected. As the convoy passed through the city gates, heading south, the Captain of the Escort had been assailed by a sense of deep anxiety. Now, surrounded by fifty competent horseman, all adept at both sword and bow combat, Prion could not shake that sense of mounting trepidation.

'How can you be so terrified by a band of simple thieves?' an inner voice demanded indignantly.

"Because these are no simple bands of brigands," he murmured to himself and shivered. It was the first time that he had given voice to the notion, however timidly, that something more than bloodthirsty greed might be behind this campaign of highway terror. Prion was certainly not privy to the inner workings of the King's Court, but he was astute enough to guess that even Artumas' inner circle was beginning to suspect that these attacks were part of a nefarious plan to undermine the aging king's authority and control in the eyes of the Emercian citizenry. The raids of the last six months certainly gave every indication that the once great king could well be losing his grip on power. If this were the case, then it was not just Emercia that stood to lose its foundation and stability. This was the most affluent country on the Eastern Continent and if it was to fall into anarchy, it was likely that the other countries would follow hard on its heels. This would signify a return to darkness that would resemble the bleakest days of Myrhia's reign over the lands of the east.

'But who would benefit from such a dire eventuality?' Prion pondered and he could not think of a single beneficiary who would somehow profit from the chaos that Emercia's collapse would inspire. Brigands and thieves were leeches who needed a healthy host to prosper, but if Emercia would collapse they would be like parasites that no longer had a source of nourishment. If not the thieves, then who?

He was contemplating this precise question when a cry of warning pierced the darkness from somewhere near the head of the column.

"Archers to the ready!" Prion bellowed as he spurred his horse along the east side of the Highway towards the front of the supply caravan. He had gone no further than fifty yards when a huge ball of orange flame erupted into the night sky, sending the animals into a frenzy. He managed to control his mount and pushed through the screams and chaos to find a twelve-foot-high pile of branches and tinder burning across the entire width of the highway.

The supply caravan had blundered into an ambush.

'Where were the damnable rangers?' he thought, knowing that a quartet of riders had been dispatched to constantly move ahead of the main body of the convoy, moving back and forth in an effort to detect any possible threat. He was considering the grave implications of this failure when the night came alive with the strident hiss of hundreds of launched arrows.

"Fire arrows," someone cried, as Prion wheeled his horse about to see a wave of flaming projectiles converging on the caravan. It took only a moment to discern that the arrows' prime targets were the oxen and horses that were pulling the massive carts. In the same instant, the entire western side of the highway erupted in a wall of flame that further exacerbated the anarchy that engulfed the supply caravan.

Prion's horse reared and this time he failed to calm the beast. Instead, he found himself being thrown to the ground where he landed heavily on the fore slope of the ditch, before rolling down into the reeds. When he was able to regain his senses, he scrambled to his feet, where he beheld a tableau of terror stretched out along the highway. It seemed as though every cart had been set ablaze. The screams of man and beast tore the night sky even as the stench of burning flesh and hair assailed Prion's nostrils. The escort guard was attempting to form a skirmish line along the east side of the highway, correctly reasoning that, if three sides of the box-like trap were alive with curtains of flame, the attack must surely come from the east. Even as they attempted to mount a defensive perimeter, the captain understood that the issue was already decided.

Spurred by both horrible pain and absolute terror, the oxen bolted for the trees, crushing many of the fifty guardsmen beneath the massive burning carts. Seeing that the battle was lost, the remaining guards threw down their weapons and fled towards the trees, where they were cut down by another volley of arrows.

Dazed and incredulous, Prion staggered up onto the roadway, surveying the carnage. He grimaced as a wagon driver ran blindly about through the maze of burning wagons, beating at his head and shoulders in a futile effort to extinguish the flames that had found purchase on his hair and clothing. An arrow sliced through the night sky and brought his pitiful wailing to an abrupt and merciful end.

The scope of the destruction was a brutal and vivid confirmation of Prion's earlier supposition; the attacks on the convoys were motivated by something other than greed and thievery. Of the huge cache of goods, there was nothing left to pillage. Clearly the intention of this attack had been the utter demolition of the caravan. Peering through the smoke and flames at the dead bodies and the burning carts, the captain of the escort guard realized that this objective had been achieved with a totality that was as bewildering as it was horrifying.

It then occurred to him that he was possibly the only person or beast left alive on the bloody stretch of Highway. As a natural order of progression, it became clear that his survival was no mere coincidence. He was the ranking officer of this ill-fated expedition and had been left alive for a very specific reason.

He began to wander back along the length of the charred column. Despite the ubiquitous heat and flames, an icy chill descended upon Prion. The scope and swiftness of the destruction was nearly inconceivable.

"Captain Prion," Someone declared jovially from somewhere in the trees beyond the highway. He considered drawing his sword, but in light of the carnage around him, decided that this would be not only futile, but downright silly. Instead, he scanned the impenetrable shadows for some sign of the person who had hailed him.

There was a whisper of movement and then perhaps a hundred figures slid smoothly from the darkness. To a one, each was dressed in black, cloaked and hooded. As they drew closer, the Captain of the Escort realized that each figure wore a full-face mask. At the edge of the highway, the attackers stopped and stood with their arms crossed in front of them and their legs spread slightly.

Finally, a tall figure stepped onto the paving stones and crossed over to where a bemused Prion stood. His step was unhurried, and his posture hinted at both litheness and supreme confidence. He came to a halt not two paces from the Captain. Like the others, he was attired in black, though his mask was made of pewter. Beneath his black robe, Prion could see a heavy leather cuirass, but it was the emerald intaglio adorning the leather that caused him to utter a gasp of shock and take an involuntary step backwards.

His eyes shifted from the intaglio to the unnerving mask, though the eyes were hidden in the recesses of the hood. "Who are you?"

"If a name is of consequence, then you may call me Xhendyn," the man responded lightly. Prion found his almost jovial manner terrifying, considering that the man had just engineered the slaughter of over a hundred men. "Now we are on equal footing, Prion, as we both know each other by name. I see that you recognized this symbol. As well you should, as you had the honor of serving her for many years."

"I...I don't know what you mean?" Prion stammered, feigning ignorance.

"Perhaps this will serve to clarify the situation," Xhendyn intoned menacingly. In the next instant, Prion's right leather boot erupted into flames. He began to hop about the paving stones, frantically stamping his feet to extinguish the flames. In his anxiety, he failed to notice that the flames did not actually consume his leather boot, nor did they spread to his trousers. The hooded figure watched in amusement for several seconds and then made a barely perceptible gesture with his right thumb and index finger.

As quickly as they had appeared, the ghostly flames vanished, leaving a bewildered Prion gazing wide-eyed at his unscathed boot.

"I trust that I now have your attention and so I will ask you again; do you recognize this symbol?" Xhendyn demanded, gesturing towards his chest.

"Yes." Prion stammered weakly. "It was the symbol of the High Queen."

"The Goddess, actually," Xhendyn amended blithely. "Though the imbeciles who you serve lacked the courage to see this."

Prion blinked at the notion that Myrhia could be described by any term other than vile monster. Still, he had the good sense not to argue the point. Xhendyn swept his gaze over the length of death drenched highway. "I'm certain that you are wondering why you have not joined your comrades in the journey to the land of shades. You have a small, yet significant role to play in the drama that is about to unfold in this sorry country of yours...you will be my messenger."

He leaned closer to Prion, who recoiled when he first saw that Xhendyn's eyes were the burning red of embers. "I entrust you with this responsibility because my informants promise me that you are a servile dog. You will return to Nalosan and carry news of what has transpired here to Artumas along with this message...everything that he holds sacred will soon be taken from him. On this, he has my personal oath. When he has lost all that he cherishes, we will then erase him from this world as though he had never been. Now, dog, repeat what I have told you."

Slowly, haltingly, Prion repeated Xhendyn's words. The mysterious figure raised his arm and pointed along the highway to the north. "Now go!"

Prion pivoted in place and stumbled away on legs made wooden by apprehension. After a few moments he began to run.

Chapter Three

1

He came awake with a start, his heart skidding painfully in his chest and his breathing thunderously loud in his ears. The room was dark save for the luminous numbers which seemed to float like holograms, informing him that it was just after two o'clock in the morning. There had been a sound, he was utterly certain of that. It had been sly and subtle, but he had no doubt that it had been there.

Alain Joubert had learned to trust his instincts; a trust to which he attributed his continuing presence amongst the living in a business where so many of his peers found themselves interred in unmarked graves all over the countryside.

Lying absolutely motionless, Alain listened carefully for a moment, trying to detect even the slightest whisper of unusual sound. When none came, he carefully reached for the handgun that he kept in a pocket on his side of the bed. He deftly fingered the safety into the off position, and only then did he reach for the lamp. It might have amused his acquaintances to learn that Joubert frequently practiced this exact drill when he was alone, along with several others that he considered essential exercises in self-preservation.

He pulled the ornate chain and a muted yellow glow cast a small circle of light around the king-sized sleigh bed where he lay. Though the room was steeped in deep shadow, Alain could still see that he was alone.

'No, not quite alone,' he reminded himself with a quick grin as his glance happened upon the woman sleeping next to him, totally oblivious to the bit of nocturnal drama that had just transpired. He reached out and gently traced the delectable curve of her hips and ass with his fingertips, causing her to roll over onto her back with an audible sigh. Her full breasts lolled on her chest as Joubert delicately fingered one of her erect pink nipples, eliciting an even deeper sigh from the blond beauty with whom he was sharing his bed on this particular night. He briefly contemplated kissing one of those enticing nipples and indulging in the lush and pliable body, but something prevented him from indulging that urge. Besides, she had vacuumed up a lion's share of coke and would probably need a good eight more hours of sleep coming down off the rush.

He swung his feet onto the floor and sat on the edge of the bed, wondering if she ever noticed how he would never join her in even a single line of the party powder. Being the self-absorbed bitch that she was (and the latest in a long line of self-absorbed bitches), Joubert sincerely doubted that she did. She was just another bloodsucking leech who was content to ride the party train until he lost patience, or her abused flesh lost its luster.

There had been a time when Alain had been perfectly content to ride that train right along with his circle of friends, but Joubert had undergone a slow, yet radical transformation over the last nine months or so. He had given up both the coke and even alcohol. Now, he would have nothing more than the occasional beer or glass of wine. If someone would have inquired as to why the sudden turn to sobriety, he would have responded that he had to be alert...ready.

He shook his head in bemusement. Ready? Ready for what? He had no idea, but this ignorance did nothing to attenuate the sense that it was imperative that he remained lucid and prepared for...whatever was to come.

2

It might have struck Joubert as both amusing and ironic to discover that both he and his former partner, Stuart Macevey, had spent many a contemplative hour attempting to fathom the mysterious changes that had swept through their lives in the past few months. Furthermore, it would have startled both men in turn to learn how much time each expended thinking about the other.

Alain Joubert had lived the first thirty-five years of his life in the city of Seattle, watching with indifference as the city slowly sank into decay in the early part of the twenty-first century. His old man had been an immense waste of humanity, but he had imparted one bit of advice that served his son well over the years...if you wanna succeed at being crooked become a cop.

Joubert had done precisely that and discovered that the old man had been correct in this one supposition. Alain had been extremely cautious in building a network of contacts that had helped him exploit his position of authority. He had watched many a corrupt cop and government official be brought down by both avarice and carelessness and was determined to avoid a similar fate. He had succeeded by tempering his greed and by not including his fellow officers in his extracurricular activities no matter how willing they seemed to bend or break the law. He also had the good sense not to flaunt the trappings of his ill-begotten gains. As far as his coworkers and superiors were concerned, Alain Joubert was a stolid, if uninspired detective who did his job and kept his nose clean. In the meantime, he had quietly exploited the opportunities that came his way, while amassing a virtually untraceable fortune.

By the time that the department partnered him with Stuart Macevey, Alain Joubert had accrued over a million dollars, mostly from providing valuable information to the various drug gangs that held sway in the Pacific Northwest.

"Stuart Macevey." He whispered the name as though it was some magical incantation. It had been Macevey and his damnable idealism that had laid all of Joubert's lucrative schemes to waste. When Macevey decided that it was his fate to right the great social wrong that the zone represented, Joubert quickly deduced that his conduit to illegal wealth was about to be pinched dry. When the righteous Stuart had actually managed to convince the brass to liberate the dead zone, Joubert quietly began to make preparations to decamp. Out of spite, he had leaked news of the impending invasion to the two main gangs, who had laid down a particularly nasty welcome for the vanguard teams.

And then he had vanished.

The recollection made him smile, knowing that he had baffled his former employers with the thoroughness of his disappearing act. No doubt they would have been further infuriated and embarrassed to know that he had settled less than a hundred miles away from his home precinct. Ever cognizant of a need for an escape route, Joubert had purchased a home in British Columbia, Canada, along with a new set of identity papers on the thriving Vancouver black market. As the smoke settled in the aftermath of the reoccupation debacle, Alain had simply driven away with a suitcase and his new identity papers, crossing the border into Canada and the promise of whatever future it might hold.

Over the next few years, Alain had worked quietly to explore the opportunities that his new home could provide for an ambitious and morally unencumbered fellow such as himself. To his delight, Vancouver was a thriving center for both drug distribution and prostitution and it was not long before Joubert found himself a niche in that distribution chain. Ever cautious, he had established an elaborate contact and supply structure in which no individual component had any knowledge of any contact beyond either side of his own position in the hierarchy. Those who displayed more inquisitiveness than was strictly necessary found themselves floating face down in the Pacific. The others quickly got the fundamental message...don't ask questions, just make money.

Alain Joubert became known in drug circles as the shadow man, more of a myth than an actual living person. This pleased him immensely and the resulting flow of wealth made his efforts in Seattle look like childish dabbling.

'And yet, here you are jumping at shadows in the middle of the night?' he thought with no small degree of consternation. The question was certainly valid. His was a profession where a certain sense of paranoia was inevitable, if not essential. However, lately he could not escape the unnerving impression of direct scrutiny as though he was under constant observation. That was absurd of course. He knew that on an intellectual level, but viscerally, Alain could feel an unseen gaze track his every move. If this was not enough, he found himself pondering the noble Stuart Macevey with increasing frequency.

In the context of this reflection, Joubert began to feel that he and Macevey had unfinished business. A particularly bizarre incident from just last week came to mind. Joubert found himself driving toward the border with no clear recollection of having set off on the trip. He had pulled over to the side of the highway and gripped the steering wheel with white-knuckled intensity, coming to the unsettling realization that he had been heading to Seattle with the intention of killing his former partner. Jittery, Alain had turned around and driven home, terrified not only by what had nearly happened, but also by the fact that he had been acting like a mindless windup toy. More precisely, his actions gave him the distinct impression that he was being directed.

Even as he recalled the bizarre events of that afternoon, Alain began to tremble. More than anything else, Joubert feared and abhorred the loss of control over any aspect of his life, however small. He stood up and stumbled across the room on unsteady legs, intending to pour himself a finger of Scotch to calm his nerves. He was about to reach for the crystal decanter, when someone spoke from the shadows in the far corner of the room.

"No need for alcohol, friend. Where you're going, you will need your wits about you." The voice was low and heavily inflected in an accent that Joubert did not recognize, though the words were clear enough. He stole a brief glance at the bed and the gun, trying to gauge his chances of making a successful dive for the weapon.

"Don't bother. There is no reason for hostility...my intentions are strictly benevolent," the intruder remarked lightly. After a moment, he added, "Also, I am immune to your weaponry."

Seeing little alternative, Joubert turned slowly to face the speaker, trying hard to display no outward sign of apprehension. At first, it seemed that there was no one in the shadows as if he had been spoken to by a phantom, but as his eyes adjusted to the different textures of light, Alain realized that the person speaking was clad entirely in black.

"Who are you?" he demanded, making a less than convincing effort to sound forceful. The figure uttered a low sigh and took two steps into the room. Joubert was cognizant of his breathing hitching in his chest. The intruder's features were concealed behind a hood and cape and his face was hidden by what appeared to be a pewter mask.

Alain could not decide if he found the man's outfit comical or terrifying, though his eyes were drawn to the intaglio on the intruder's leather cuirass. Something about the esoteric symbol filled Joubert with a deep and primordial dread. When the caped figure had come within three paces, he came to a halt and replied, "I am called Xhendyn."

"Why are you here...in my house?" Alain asked, unable to drag his gaze away from the intaglio. Despite the raw nerve it touched, he still found something incredibly compelling about the design....it spoke of phenomenal power and unlimited potential. Xhendyn tracked Joubert's gaze and smiled, privately delighted by the dawning lust that he gleaned in the other man's eyes. In that moment of empathy, he knew that his years of searching would be rewarded. He raised a leather clad finger and pointed it at Alain's chest. "I have come for you, of course. There is something that I would have you do."

"And why would you think that I would do anything for you...without knowing who you are or for that matter, even what you are?" Alain challenged. He sensed that this man posed no immediate threat and so he relaxed slightly. Though there was a definite air of malice about the intruder, Joubert intuited that it would not be directed at him. His intuition further informed him that he now found himself at a critical, though decidedly bizarre juncture in his life and he would do well to listen carefully to what this stranger had to tell him.

"I've been watching carefully, Alain. I know that you're an intelligent man who gives careful consideration to all that he does. It is why you've been so...successful in your chosen field of endeavor. Still, you have only scratched the surface of your potential. I am going to give you the opportunity to realize that potential. I can assure you; the rewards will prove to be beyond your wildest imaginings."

Joubert's eyes narrowed and he began to wonder if this was all a particularly vivid dream.

"I'm not sure that I'm really interested," he heard himself say distantly.

Xhendyn merely shook his head. "Actually, I'm not offering you a choice in the matter. In my world, there is an item of limitless value that I must have. As fate would have it, you are the only one who can retrieve it for me. As I've said, your reward will be wealth beyond measure...and power that you could never achieve here."

Alain's glance strayed back to the beguiling intaglio. His mind insisted that he was immersed in some kind of waking dream or hallucination, but that glowing emerald symbol belied such trite dismissals. "Why me? What makes you think that I can retrieve whatever it is that you want. I'm a shrewd...businessman, but I'm certainly no master thief."

Xhendyn abruptly stepped forward and placed his hand on Alain's bare shoulder. His touch was cold and vaguely repulsive, causing Joubert to shiver involuntarily. "What you are in this world is merely a...pale shadow of what you will be in mine."

With this rather cryptic declaration, the intruder began to laugh, though the irony of his metaphor was lost on Joubert who was still convinced that he was in the midst of a dream. Xhendyn's laughter ended as abruptly as it began. For the first time, Alain saw that the man's eyes were a deep, burning red and suddenly his dream assumed a more menacing nuance. What if this thing standing before him was not a man, but something far more sinister? The thing with the horrible red eyes was speaking again. "When you pass through, it is impossible to predict where you will end up. This should cause you no undue concern. In my world, you will be to its inhabitants as a gentle breeze to a blind man...something barely perceived and never seen. You will make your way to the grafter's quarter in the city of Nalosan. There you will find the path that leads to me and your new purpose. The travel will allow you time to become acclimatized to your new world and the staggering depths of your new powers."

Joubert regarded Xhendyn with a quizzical expression that clearly conveyed his skepticism. "I would advise that you select some warm clothing and a sturdy pair of boots, my friend. It would not be wise to be wondering about the wilds like a half-naked savage."

To his eternal amazement, Alain felt himself nod and then move toward his closet, where he selected a pair of black tracks, a tee shirt and a black hoody. Even as he rummaged for a pair of heavy hiking boots and thick socks, his mind kept trying to maintain the pretext that this was all a bizarre dream. When he was fully dressed, Joubert drifted back over to Xhendyn, who gave his choice of attire an approving nod. "If there was more time, I would attempt to explain the road that destiny has charted for you, but when a portal is opened in the fabric of reality without a keeper, its life is precariously short. When you find me, all will become clear. For now, you must be effectively culled from this world."

Alain blinked as Xhendyn raised his arms, holding his hands about two feet apart. A bluish-white spark erupted in the cusp of either palm and then leapt towards each other to form a solid arc of hissing flame. The intensity of the flame was near blinding in magnitude and Alain could feel its palpable heat on his skin.

In the moment before Alain Joubert was expelled from the reality of his own world, he came to accept the terrifying truth of his present predicament. On the bed, the hissing flame roused the nameless blond, who sat up and gazed blearily about the room, her beautiful face still distorted by the fading coke buzz. Alain's eyes swept over her flawless bronze skin and exquisite breasts. Her sudden entrance into this nocturnal drama decried the notion that this was a simple dream.

"Alain, what...what's going on?" she inquired, her voice growing shrill at the sight of the cloaked intruder. With lethal speed, Xhendyn turned toward the woman, turning the flats of his palms toward her as he spun. A geyser of blue flame spewed from the arc and enveloped the woman before she could even digest the threat. Though there would be unimaginable horrors to follow (many of which he, himself, would author) Alain Joubert would never forget the harrowing shrieks that tore from her lips as the flames consumed her flesh. The acrid stench of burning flesh would permeate his nightmares and threatened to push him over the edge into gibbering insanity.

Mercifully, as quickly as the immolation began, it was over, leaving a small pile of cinders on the sheets which were miraculously unscathed.

'That isn't possible!' Joubert thought with a mixture of awe and dread. In a voice that he scarcely recognized, he asked, "Was that really necessary?"

Xhendyn uttered a chuckle that reminded Alain of dead leaves rasping over tomb stones. "Like you, I am a creature who regards procedure as sacrosanct. I despise loose ends even if they pose no real threat to my machinations. This wretched creature was a loose end that has now been tied."

The air of utter indifference in the intruder's voice caused Joubert to shudder. Though he should have been immobilized by fear, the survivor in his mind simply switched his mind to autopilot, prompting him to act and observe until he grasped the dynamics of the situation into which he had been thrust. Instinct informed him that he was in no immediate danger and he decided to let the current of events simply pull him along for the time being.

Xhendyn seized Joubert's wrist and began to usher him toward the far wall of the bedroom. As they approached, the wall began to lose its solidity. The paint peeled back and the sheet rock beneath simply sloughed to the floor. In its place there opened a curtain of what appeared to be translucent blue jelly.

'I don't want to go there,' Joubert thought anxiously, but even as the thought took shape in his mind, he felt Xhendyn plant his hands in the small of his back and propel him roughly into the roiling curtain. It washed over him in a repulsive wave that filled his mouth and nose, abruptly cutting off his scream of negation.

Within thirty seconds, Alain Joubert passed out of existence in this world and into the new reality of whatever world awaited him.

Xhendyn watched his passage with a sense of deep satisfaction, knowing that a crucial step in his plan had unfolded successfully. Turning back to the room, he spread his arms in a grand gesture and searing blue flame spread out in a fan, where it quickly found purchase on the walls and ceiling.

He watched it feast on the tangible remains of Alain Joubert's life and then turned to follow the ShadowCaster through the portal.

Chapter Four

1

She ran smoothly down the path, oblivious to the occasional branch that snapped at her face with something that might have been conscious malice. The air was alive with a thousand rich fragrances and the full moon lit her way with a ghostly silver and blue light. She sprinted effortlessly without even a hint of weariness. Somewhere behind, she could hear the labored breathing of her pursuer and she allowed herself a smile. He was clearly beginning to flag and now the most entertaining phase of the night's game could begin.

She came to an abrupt stop and stood with her head bowed, listening to the sound of his heavy approach.

When she judged that he was just around the slight bend in the path, she darted swiftly into the foliage and knelt behind a tree, waiting for him to come into view. He came to a staggering halt in the center of the path, bending forward with his hands on his knees. She heard him utter a vile curse as he gasped for breath, informing her that, after an hour of intense pursuit, he was ready to quit the chase.

A satisfied grin spread over Lorio's exquisite face. She had successfully broken another of her people's proud young lions and all that remained to do was to put the finishing touches on her conquest.

2

It had been six years since Islena Doraux had vanquished Myrhia and shattered the enchantress' web of evil. In that time, Lorio and her people...the Lamish...had experienced an age of prosperity the likes of which they had never known. In the years before Myrhia's darkness had descended upon the Eastern Continent, the Lamish were an itinerant lot, who drifted from country to country. In many of these countries, they were regarded as sordid, shiftless and generally unwelcome interlopers. In a few of these kingdoms, they had been chased down like rabid dogs and forced to flee for their very survival.

Myrhia had been determined to extirpate the Lamish, driving them to near extinction during her reign of terror. As fate would provide, in the grimmest moments sprouts the seed of deliverance. In her consuming desire to possess Islena Doraux, Myrhia had invested Lorio with virtual immortality. For her part in defeating the enchantress, Lorio had been granted one boon from the victors; a sovereign country for her people.

The cartographers drew the new map of the Eastern Continent that showed a two-league wide sliver of land that ran from the icy barrens in the north to the great ocean at the Continent's southern tip...and thus Lamia was born.

Gradually, the scattered remnants of her people made their way to their new home, though many were wary of the notion, fearing that it was yet another new device to humiliate the long-suffering Lamish. Eventually, they had returned and unanimously selected Lorio to be their Queen, though it might have been more appropriate to think of her as their Goddess, given her immortality.

In the time since the birth of her fledgling nation, she had wandered up and down the length of her Country, resolving petty disputes, engaging in contests of strength and skill and toying with those arrogant enough to believe themselves worthy of her bed. In her rare moments of quiet introspection, Lorio realized that time would stretch out before her like a river and that everyone she had ever known or cared about would be left in the shallows behind her. Loss would be her only one constant companion.

Islena Doraux, her Father, the unborn child that she had sacrificed so that Islena could have her moment of triumph: these were but a few of the millstones of loss that she was already forced to carry. In her weakest moments, Lorio could clearly visualize the time when the weight would simply crush her into the earth. Though she could not die, it could well be that she would lie on the bare earth and allow the shifting dirt to slowly cover her and erase her from the world.

She never shared this fear, just as she never shared the depth to which she missed Islena Doraux. When Doraux had elected to return to her own world, her own reality, Lorio fervently believed that her own life was over. She worshipped Doraux and deplored the transmogrification that Islena had experienced during her ascension. The void that Doraux's departure opened could not be filled by adulation, a realm and the constant needs of her often child-like people.

Yet, despite this gnawing ache, Lorio was the quintessential survivor. She turned to her physical prowess in combat to keep her focus, just as she employed the flesh of the worthiest of her subjects in an attempt to fill the longing that Islena's absence induced. She was indifferent to the whispers that reached her ear and the contempt that her sometimes wanton behavior evoked.

She was Lorio, after all, Queen of the Lamish and a heroine of the greatest conflict this world had ever known. She had accepted that hers was a wanton's soul and a harlot's heart and if she chose to expose those on occasion, the rest of the world would simply have to accept as much.

3

Lorio watched from the concealment of the trees as her pursuer stood in the center of the path, trying to gather himself to continue the chase. She drank in the powerful lines of his naked, muscular body and her eyes finally settled on the up-thrust silhouette of his erection, which had not waned despite the intense exertion of the chase. She felt her own naked body respond in anticipation of the pleasure that she would take from his manhood once she had subjugated his ego. She could not accurately recount the number of times that she had indulged in this particular game over the last six years, but the conquest had never failed to satisfy her.

With a feral cry and an explosion of sinewy muscle, Lorio burst out of the trees with the bewildering speed of a striking serpent. Before the man could even grasp what was about to happen, Lorio gripped his left ankle with her right hand and twisted his leg back and around, sending him into a twisting flip. He landed heavily on the flat of his back, his breath exploding from his lungs with a guttural grunt.

He attempted to rise, but Lorio placed her left foot on his broad chest and pinned him to the ground. He gripped her ankle and attempted to pry it away but found himself immobilized as though he had been pinned by a giant. Finally, he abandoned his ineffectual pawing and just lay there, gazing up at his Queen, with a mixture of awe and the first stirrings of trepidation. She looked down upon him through the deep valley of her breasts, along the flat expanses of her striated abdomen and over the curves of her magnificent thighs, fixing him with an expression of contempt and feigned pity. "Am I to assume that your braggadocio was mere bluster then?"

She had been visiting the village of Aden earlier, when she had overheard him telling his cronies that, were she not the Queen, he could make her his personal whore. She had turned on the gorgeous specimen of manliness with contrived fury, finally inviting him to the test. With the eyes of his friends upon him, he had reluctantly accepted, which led him to this moment of dawning epiphany when he realized that his Queen was everything that the tales proclaimed her to be.

With a fluid sweep of her left leg, she slapped his jutting erection with the sole of her foot and declared. "I will be disappointed if I cannot put this to good use."

Then she simply stood back and hauled him to his feet. "Now, Charza." She began, addressing him by the Lamish slang for whoremaster. "It's my benevolent nature to always grant second chances and so you will have yours...there is a stream just through these trees to my right. I will await you there and we will fight. If you submerge me in its cold water, I will be yours to do with as you wish."

His dark eyes spoke eloquently of his subjugation. His confidence had been deflated like a balloon, but Lorio knew that his male ego would still compel him to try. Leaping back gracefully, she uttered a derisive chuckle and veered into the thick undergrowth off to her right. She paused for a moment, gazing over her shoulder to be certain that he would follow. The heavily muscled male fetched a weary sigh, but then pushed his way into the tangle of brush...just as she knew he would.

As she set off toward the stream and the climax of her night's amusement, Lorio briefly considered why she derived so much pleasure from disabusing males of their inane notion that they were somehow superior. Though she took great care never to hurt the males she toyed with (however obnoxious they might be), the Lamish Queen could not deny the malicious pleasure she experienced while administering these lessons in humility.

She moved lithely through the thicket, mindless of the branches that snapped at her flesh. Before her apotheosis to immortality, Lorio had suffered immeasurably at the hands of men very much like the one who now pursued her. Though she had since extracted her revenge many times over for every indignity that she'd endured, the Queen could not look upon a man without experiencing a shiver of revulsion and loathing.

Like many other aspects of her nature, Lorio had come to terms with this cold streak of spite and made no apologies for it.

'Besides, I've never heard one of my toys complain as he luxuriated in my flesh.' She thought with a lusty grin.

As she pushed forward her nostrils flared at the sweet scent of water somewhere just up ahead. Behind her, Lorio could hear her quarry blundering through the foliage with the grace of a confused bull. Listening to his incompetent fumbling, was it any wonder that she viewed men with a degree of contempt.

'Perhaps, but why can you not simply foster a normal relationship based on mutual respect rather than these empty dalliances?' a voice inquired in her mind. Lorio's heart was lanced by such a profound pain that she simply stopped in her tracks. It was the voice of the one person that she had truly loved and cherished...the voice of the one person who was eternally lost to her and whose name she could not speak.

Lorio bowed her head and grimly tried to deny Islena's memory a foothold in her conscious thoughts. As the naked beauty stood in the cool moonlight, struggling to regain her composure, a current of cold air assailed her flesh. She actually recoiled as though she'd been touched by something indescribably repulsive. She peered about but could discern no trace of the thing that had touched her.

"An ephemeral being has no tangible form, Lorio. You, of all people, know this to be true," she chided herself. Some invisible force had definitely brushed past her, moving through the brush with a resolute purpose.

She was considering what to do next when the night's silence was shattered by harrowing screams.

4

Tedar never intended to be here. The twenty-three-year-old lived his life with a sense of carefree frivolity that was typical of his people. He had drifted up and down the fledgling state of Lamia, settling for a while in one village before picking up and moving on at a whim. In his most exotic of dreams, he never imagined that he would bed the legendary Queen of Lamia. He was a handsome scoundrel to be sure, but Lorio seemed as inaccessible as the heavens themselves.

When news reached the village that she and her entourage would be passing through, Tedar and a group of cronies decided to hang about the small square to catch a glimpse of the legendary beauty. As she passed by, he had made some vulgar and cavalier remark to the group about having her. To his horror, she had personally overheard the remark (a fact that he could still scarcely credit given the din that her coming had inspired) and moved through the crowd to confront him.

Stricken with terror and certain that his head was about to be separated from his shoulders, Tedar had been shocked when she invited him to engage in a private contest. Feeling the eyes of his cronies, he had accepted her challenge, though he was wary of the malicious gleam in her beautiful brown eyes.

As instructed, he awaited her arrival on a hill just outside the village. As darkness descended on the world, Lorio stepped out of the shadows. He had watched in disbelief as she silently slipped the loose-fitting garment over her head and stood utterly naked before him. His incredulity had turned to awe as he drank in the visage of her enormous beauty. The sheer weight of her presence made it difficult for Tedar to breathe. She glided forward and slowly divested the stunned Lamian of his clothing until he too was naked. Pressing against him, her strong hands began to explore his body while he stood as rigid as a piece of statuary. Her carnal magic drew him to full erection in a matter of seconds.

She stood back and swept an apprising gaze over his flesh. The heat of her lust made Tedar want to squirm as her eyes settled on his up-thrust manhood. Uttering a throaty chuckle, she declared "I believe there was the matter of making me your whore. To do this, you'll have to catch me."

With this, she set off down the path, sprinting into the darkness with leonine grace. Overwhelmed by the exuberance of the moment, Tedar had set off after the Queen, certain that he was about to engage in the experience of a lifetime.

On this one matter, his assessment would prove correct though not in a way he could ever have expected.

It had not taken long before this exuberance had dissipated, replaced by the realization that he was pursuing something akin to trying to catch the wind. The woman was indefatigable, and he deduced that he would never catch her...unless she elected to be caught. After an hour of futile pursuit, he had stopped to catch his breath and was considering giving up, when she pounced on him like a shadow warrior.

She had invited him to conclude the night's humiliation with an erotic struggle in the water. He had been reluctant, but the allure of her amazing body had been too strong to deny. Tedar staggered to his feet and began to push his way through the dense brush, wondering if his masculine pride was occluding reason. He was contemplating how it might feel to caress her full breasts when an icy wind accosted him, causing Tedar to stop in his tracks. The night was sultry, and he could feel sweat running freely over his muscular torso. Yet this cold wind had been as incisive as a needle. Dread traced an icy finger along his spine as he took a tentative step back in the direction of the path.

Before he could go further, a tiny spark of light flickered into life not far from where he stood. It hovered between the branches just above the ground. As he stared fixedly, the spark coalesced and grew until it was a flaming argent ball about the size of a man's head. Tedar raised his arms to shield his eyes against its intense glare.

As the stricken man watched, the argent ball began to assume a discernable form. Tedar was riveted by its sharp incisors and its baleful eyes. Those eyes found and held his own with their mesmerizing intensity. Then the entity pounced on the hapless Lamian. He attempted to scream, but his cries were silenced by the thing as it forced its way into his mouth, nose and eyes. He could feel its alien presence working its way into the core of his flesh. The sensation was warm and almost pleasant at first, but that pleasure soon turned to agony as the scorching heat intensified.

Tedar did scream then...shriek after harrowing shriek tore from his lips as the harbinger consumed him from the inside out.

5

Lorio raced through the foliage with total abandon, uttering a vile curse when the screaming ceased. The sheer panic and frenzy of the cries informed her that the male hadn't survived whatever had assailed him.

'I don't even know his name,' she realized, and this struck her as ineffably sad, if not pathetic.

Even without the piercing shrieks, she was able to locate the male by the acrid stench of burnt flesh. She pushed through a curtain of brush to discover his charred remains propped against a tree. Despite her revulsion, she noted how the surrounding foliage had somehow managed not to ignite...an oddity, considering that the victim's flesh was consumed in a matter of seconds. All that remained of the young and powerful Lamian was a charred skeleton.

She was pondering what to do next when the skeleton raised its head with an audible creak. Ever intrepid, Lorio felt no anxiety in the face of this improbable reanimation. This fearlessness could not be attributed to her virtual invulnerability alone. During her epic quest in the company of Islena, Lorio had witnessed a full spectrum of wonders from the fantastical to the abominable and everything in between.

'What's more, I know this thing,' she understood. The entity that killed the male was a speaking demon; one of the instruments of prophecy that were occasionally dispatched to foretell the future. If so, this thing was not malevolent, rather it was a simple tool of communication and the unfortunate male was merely the medium through which it would speak.

Standing fully erect, Lorio strode forward, and in a voice resonating with authority, demanded "I'll have your message, demon, and then be gone!"

Its eyeless sockets fixed upon the statuesque Lamish Queen and its lower mandible began to clatter. Lorio could not forestall the grimace that twisted her face when the thing began to speak. Its voice was low and grating and reminded her of sharp claws scrabbling over granite.

"MARK ME WELL CHILD OF DESTINY, FOR THE TIME OF THE SHADOW CASTER IS WELL NIGH UPON THE WORLD. IT COMES FROM BEYOND THE EDGES OF SPACE AND TIME AND SHALL TRAVERSE YOUR LANDS LIKE WIND AND PESTILENCE, LAYING WASTE TO EVERYTHING IN ITS PATH."

Mind whirling in a vortex, Lorio spat forth the first question that took shape. "What does this...shadow caster want?"

"IN THE BEGINNING, IT WILL WANT ONLY TO GRASP THE PURPOSE OF ITS SUMMONS. AS ITS PALL SPREADS ACROSS THE LAND, IT WILL SEEK TO POSSESS THE RECEPTACLE OF POWER," the speaking demon intoned cryptically. Lorio pondered the implications of this for a moment and then correctly deduced that this shadow caster was being drawn into this world. By who? That was the salient question.

'And what is this receptacle of power?' she wondered and with comprehension came dawning horror.

"You're talking about that bitch, Myrhia?" she rasped, spitting the enchantress' name as though it was venomous poison. Why the Cornerstone Nations had acceded to Artumas' request to have her sequestered was still an extremely sore point for the Queen of Lamia.

"How might this shadow caster be stopped?" Lorio asked.

There followed a protracted silence and then the speaking demon revealed "THE SHADOWCASTER IS INVULNERABLE TO ALL THINGS IN THIS WORLD. WHEN IT DISCERNS THE TRUTH OF THIS, ITS HUNGER FOR POWER WILL GROW. THOSE WHO HAVE SUMMONED THE BEAST BELIEVE THAT THEY CAN CONTROL THE SHADOW CASTER...THEY ARE WRONG."

"By the mother!" Lorio exclaimed, bewildered by the mindless avarice and stupidity of men. "Are you saying that this thing is unstoppable?"

"THE UNIVERSE IS A PLACE OF INFINITE BALANCE...ONE WILL COME FORTH TO CONFRONT THE SHADOWCASTER. THIS ONE WILL BE INVESTED WITH THE POWER TO VANQUISH THE SHADOWCASTER'S EVIL."

'Islena!!! It's speaking of Islena!' Lorio thought with a surge of excitement that was very close to euphoria. Suddenly the sense of infernal bleakness fell away from her like a cowl as the prospect of Islena Doraux's imminent return infused the Lamish beauty with a new resolve. She found it difficult to focus on the speaking demon's message. "BE FOREWARNED, UNLIKE THE SHADOWCASTER, THIS CREATURE WILL BE FRAUGHT WITH HUMAN FRAILTIES AND WILL BE VULNERABLE TO EVEN THE SMALLEST PERILS THAT THIS WORLD HAS TO OFFER. THE RESPONSIBILITY OF PROTECTING THIS CREATURE HAS BEEN CHARGED TO YOU, DAUGHTER OF LAMIA. SHOULD YOU FAIL IN THIS BURDEN, THE SHADOWCASTER WILL FIND THE RECEPTACLE. SHOULD THIS GRIM EVENTUALITY COME TO PASS, DARKNESS WILL DESCEND ON THIS WORLD THAT EVEN THE EYE OF PROPHECY CANNOT PENETRATE."

Lorio heard this final admonition only peripherally. Her thoughts were turned completely to Islena's second coming. Though she never voiced the sentiment, Lorio had privately hoped that Doraux would return to revitalize her world. Now, apparently, her hope would become a reality and Islena would return to fill her world with light like the dawning sun.

A strident hiss broke Lorio's reverie and she turned back to the speaking demon to find that it had exploded in a cloud of fine gray dust. The final trace of Tedar was effaced from the world, leaving the Lamish Queen alone with her burgeoning excitement.

The speaking demon had cautioned against the weakness of this would-be savior, but Lorio knew that she and Islena were a virtually invincible team. Smiling broadly, she made her way back to the path and the village. In the morning, she would depart for Emercia, where she would apprise Artumas of all that had come to pass. When Islena first materialized, Lorio wanted hers to be the first face that Doraux would see.

As she sprinted gracefully through the moon lit forest, Lorio realized that she really knew nothing of this shadow caster. Despite the speaking demon's dire warning, the Lamian Queen felt a cold pity for the creature.

Against adversaries such as herself and Islena Doraux, the shadow caster was already as good as dead.

Chapter Five

1

It had long been said that Nalosan was far and away the most beautiful city on the Eastern Continent. Only Amberdias, the capital of Natzurdan and one of the world's true wonders, could claim to be lovelier than Emercia's first city. Even the scars of war, still visible six years after the fall of Myrhia, could not deface the majesty of Artumas' Capital.

With Artumas once again ensconced on the throne, the city (and indeed, the country) had made a swift return to its former vibrancy. Commerce had always been the life blood of the nation and Nalosan had led the way in providing scores of goods that could not be had anywhere else. Its bazaars and open-air markets teemed with activity all under the calming eye of the city watch. Artumas had taken great pains to ensure that corruption amongst the watch kept to a bare minimum. Consequently, one could venture through the sea of vendor's tables and stalls without the fear of being mugged or killed by the vermin that were a natural fixture in most marketplaces.

With a mounting campaign of terror throughout the countryside, that pervasive atmosphere of security and optimism began to undergo subtle changes. Merchants and shoppers alike were afflicted by a new sense of doubt and paranoia. The city watch noted that the number of disagreements, many violent, had increased tenfold in the last few months as parties on either side of the vendor table began to think they were being cheated. Similarly, the residential areas of the city also experienced an upsurge in crime as the city's miscreants became more audacious. At one point, a new corpse was discovered in one city section or another every morning until the High King had ordered the cavalry to patrol the city streets at night.

Above this tide of lawlessness, came the gathering sense that the once mighty Artumas was slowly losing grip on his kingdom. Even the most unimaginative citizen could clearly visualize the consequences of the king's loss of control over Emercia. Each day, the grumbling of discontent grew slightly louder.

On this particular night, just three days after Prion had returned with the tale of his ill-fated convoy, a solitary figure knelt in the shadows next to the wide stone avenue that ran along the length of the Imperial Palace. Her exquisite emerald eyes moved slowly over the vast outline of the palace, registering every nuance and detail of the massive structure.

The palace had been dubbed Kammlogran and had served as the seat of Emercian power for longer than documented history could recall. It had been on the ramparts of Kammlogran that Islena Doraux and Myrhia met in a battle to decide the fate of the world. There were only two means of ingress into the massive structure situated on a rising bluff next to the ocean. On the water side, it could be accessed via a truly gargantuan draw bridge that required nearly two bells to lower. Entry to the palace could also be gained on the land side by climbing the steep stone roadway. This roadway was ten haulage carts wide and delineated by high walls topped by crenellated battlements, manned by some of the most skilled archers in the military. Huge winches were constructed atop the roadway to help pull the heavy supply carts up the road, whenever the rains made passage treacherous.

Appelion had spent the better part of five months engaged in an intense observation of Kammlogran, familiarizing herself with every visible detail of its daily operations. She had memorized the visible guard patrol patterns and the strength of each patrol. On first consideration, the palace was impregnable to unseen entry through its two main access points. The notion prompted Appelion to smile. 'Kammlogran is impregnable to most,' she thought. 'But to a stealth ranger of the Sisters of Esotaria it is but an open book.'

Appelion had arrived in Nalosan and quietly immersed herself in the life of the city. Her every waking moment was spent observing the life flow of the Imperial palace, preparing for the day when she would enter the palace and determine the secret location of the remnant. In that time, she had devised many plans to gain entry, discarding them once she found that they held some inherent flaw. In the order, the stealth rangers were known as the silent arrows...an elite cadre of assassins who were charged with the task of infiltration and elimination on the sisterhood's behalf. Long considered the most gifted of this cadre, Appelion had been chosen to come to this dismal land and retrieve the remnant for the sisterhood. As she surveyed the palace, it rankled the woman to think that she had never been apprised of the remnant's importance. Karosyn, the Matrium of the Sisterhood, regarded the rangers as a lethal tool, but not worthy of sharing the direction the Esotaria decided to follow. The battle mages and foretellers had the Matrium's ear...a fact that irritated Appelion to no end. If she succeeded in retrieving the receptacle, perhaps Karosyn would afford the rangers the respect they deserved.

She pushed this grievance from her thoughts. A stealth ranger's ability to focus was her greatest strength. This particular night was blessedly moonless, and the wide avenue was steeped in long expanses of shadow. Appelion decided tonight would be the night she would make her incursion into Kammlogran.

Initially, the stealth ranger had entertained the idea of hiding in one of the supply wagons that made daily treks into the palace. She had abandoned this plan when it became clear each wagon underwent a thorough search before it made its way through the gates. Posing as one of the palace or supply staff was also an option, but she learned that everyone who went through the gates were expected to present papers of some sort. After a month of observation, Appelion discounted the direct approach of entering through the main gates. She spent the next several weeks milling about studying the palace staff that came and went each day. She followed them to the local ale houses and taverns looking to find the ideal candidate to provide her with some insight into the basic layout of the palace's expansive interior. At last, she settled on Thurgis, a dullard employed as a porter in the palace.

When Appelion approached the man, he regarded the exotic beauty the way that a pauper would view a diamond that had suddenly materialized in his palm. He found himself bewitched by her lovely eyes, tight-fitting bodice and long, flowing red hair. The improbability of her sudden appearance or her infatuation with the lowly porter never dawned on Thurgis. Though she was forced to subject herself to his unskilled groping, Appelion eventually extracted a wealth of critical knowledge from the lout.

With a smile, she recalled the night that the imbecile finally outlived his usefulness. They had been standing not far from where she now knelt. Thurgis' arm was possessively draped over her left shoulder, gently squeezing her full breast as they gazed up at the palace. In her eagerness to gain a sense of the structure's layout, it could well have been that her barrage of questions was too persistent. He regarded her with an expression of suspicion and then remarked, "If I didn't knowse ya' like I do, I'd almost think you was some kinda spy what with all these questions you keep asking."

In the blink of an eye, the small stiletto was buried in his jugular. As he grasped at his spouting throat, the comical look of horror that stole over his face struck Appelion as ineffably funny. Thurgis now resided at the bottom of the harbor. 'A feast for the fish,' The stealth ranger thought disdainfully. 'About the limit of his worth, I'd say.'

Irrespective of how vile it had been to lay with such a creature, Appelion had gained invaluable intelligence necessary in deciding how to attack the palace. Her trained gaze swept back over the structure and settled on the darkened window, barely perceptible from this distance, that she would use to gain entry. It was perhaps twenty-man heights above the broad avenue. Thurgis revealed that it was a secluded storage room located in the back corner of a utility area. This area housed dry provisions, weapons and other sundry goods that were required to run such a lavish enterprise as a Monarch's court. The dolt had routinely spoken of a section of the palace that only Artumas and a number of his inner circle were permitted to enter. He further noted that an elaborate system of locked doors and guards equipped with enough weaponry to hold off an invading army secured this section of the palace. Armed with a general knowledge of how to reach the area, the stealth ranger elected to make this the target of her foray. If it turned out that Thurgis' assessment was incorrect, Appelion would retreat to the storage area to formulate a new plan.

Feeling the welling sense of euphoria that a new challenge always evoked, she set off along the avenue, darting from one pool of shadows to the next, until she came to a spot on the avenue directly across from the window that would serve as her point of ingress. Scanning the length of the avenue and finding it deserted (thanks mostly to the chaos of the past few months), Appelion sprinted across the avenue like a fleeting shadow over water. At this close proximity, the stone of the palace wall appeared to be virtually smooth and miserly in terms of decent hand and foot holds. The stealth ranger bit her full lip as her educated fingers mapped the subtle contours of the stone. The climb would be long and arduous and would require that she chip away at the thick bands of mortar to gain holds.

Time would be at a premium if she intended to make it to the window before the first light of dawn.

Moving quickly, she withdrew a small chisel from her pack and then strapped the black cloth bag over her shoulder. Then she started in on the mortar and was relieved to find that it fragmented with relative ease. The moist salt air of the coast would serve as her ally on this venture. She carved out a series of holds as far up as she could reach and then mounted the impromptu steps where she commenced chipping out the next grip. In less than a half bell, the stealth ranger was clinging to the side of the wall well above the Avenue...all but invisible from the ground. Her phenomenal training and conditioning allowed her to maintain a firm grip on the wall with just the tips of her toes and fingers, while she wielded the chisel like a master stonecutter.

She continued to labor, methodically picking her way toward the window. Supreme confidence was a defining characteristic of Appelion's nature, but as she reached the halfway mark, the stealth ranger was assailed by an uncharacteristic sense of doubt. Inhaling deeply, she glanced up at the window and her green eyes widened in incredulity.

Somehow, she had strayed off course and while the window was only a relatively short distance above her, Appelion found herself well to the right of her intended target. Worse still, she began to feel the first threads of exhaustion worming themselves into the powerful muscles of her thighs and calves. On the heels of that came the first inkling of fear...an emotion that was as alien to the stealth ranger as cowardice or betrayal.

'Remain calm, you foolish bitch!' she castigated herself, correctly equating panic with death.

Deliberately ignoring the burgeoning pain in her thighs, she began to angle her way toward the window, constantly checking to ensure that the barely visible casement was centered in her sights. She had progressed another length when the fingers of her left hand began to ache miserably. Appelion had successfully made climbs several times this distance without breaking a sweat and the improbability of her present struggle both shocked and frightened her.

'Perhaps something doesn't want you to reach that window.' The notion, sly and mocking, blossomed in her mind like a deadly night shade, causing her to stop abruptly. The pain and her inability to maintain focus; these were not just rare occurrences...they were unprecedented. Was it possible that some unseen force was attempting to keep her from entering the palace? As a sister of Esotaria, Appelion was intimately familiar with the workings of sorcery and so she quickly accepted this conclusion. Still, she would not be deterred by magic, which she suspected was at the heart of her adventure in the first place. Pressing her face to the cool stone, she flexed the fingers of her right hand and then her left, before resuming her push to the window.

The Sisters of Esotaria shared a unique psychic bond that allowed them to communicate instantaneously by projecting mental images. To protect individual private thought, each sister could close her mind to these images, but the ability allowed the order to function as a collective regardless of how widespread the members might be. This web of awareness gave the Esotaria an immense advantage over their enemies.

The lower ledge of the casement was less than a man height above Appelion. She paused to wipe away perspiration from her eyes, but when she turned her gaze skyward, the night sky abruptly erupted in a burst of blinding blue light. It took the startled stealth ranger a moment to discern that the burst had not occurred in the real world, but rather in her mind.

'The sisterhood is sharing a vision!' she marveled as the magnitude of the blue light continued to flare until it seemed certain that it would fry her synapses. A face appeared to take shape in the glare, and though its features were indistinct, something about the nebulous visage filled Appelion with an atavistic dread. She clung precariously to the wall and prayed that the horrible vision would pass and yet the face grew closer. Its gaping maw converged upon the stealth ranger until it seemed inevitable that it would devour her.

And then, as quickly as it came, the shared moment of empathy passed.

"By the Goddess, what did I see?" she whispered.

"The end of everything that you know," someone replied from behind her. Startled, she twisted her head back as much as she dared to discover that she was indeed no longer alone. An ephemeral figure hovered in the air, guttering and flaring like the light of a torch. His face was concealed by a hood and pewter mask, but the malefic eye shone with a cruel intelligence. It reached out and grasped the back of her tunic. Appelion cried out in revulsion as something cold brushed the flesh of her neck and she understood how hopelessly vulnerable she was.

"Go now and bear witness to the return of the true Goddess," the apparition intoned solemnly.

Appelion felt a sharp tug and then she was falling. Knowing that she had failed her sisters, she closed her eyes and allowed gravity to work its lethal magic. She struck the paving stones with a muffled thud and then lay still. As her life ebbed away in a spreading pool of crimson, the stealth ranger opened her mind one final time and asked her sisters for forgiveness.

2

A darkened ship sat in the calm bay waters some six leagues off the coast of Emercia. It was a sleek vessel, crafted from dark, lacquered woods, and had been designed with speed and stealth in mind, which was odd considering that it had no central mast or means of propulsion. Its low profile and long, tapered hull made it virtually invisible on this moonless night. The deserted deck suggested the ships occupants had no real concern for the plethora of dangers that stalked ocean travelers.

Beneath deck, the prevailing atmosphere of the ship was anything but placid.

Karosyn, the Matrium of the Sisters of Esotaria, sat on a plush cushion, oblivious to the anxious clamor around her. With eyes closed and chin resting on her chest, she sat with her hands loosely cupped in her lap. Every eye was fixed on the regal lady as she focused her mind on the search for Appelion whose last communication had reached every last individual on the ship. Those words, hard on the heels of the image of converging evil that proceeded them, unnerved the normally unflappable sisters, who now looked to the Matrium for reassurance.

After several tense moments, Karosyn opened her limpid blue eyes and surveyed the congregation of women.

"Appelion is dead. She has fallen from the walls of Kammlogran," the Matrium delivered the news in a cool, dispassionate voice that belied her inner turmoil. 'Appelion, sweet Appelion...I've failed you. I'm so sorry,' she thought miserably. Despite her anguish the regal Karosyn's angular, handsome face remained impassive. Her sisters were badly shaken by the vision of the ShadowCaster and the death of their beloved comrade. If they perceived the extent of her disquiet, the sisterhoods' confidence would be further eroded and this she could not allow. "Her death is tragic but demonstrates in painful terms that we are embroiled in a struggle for the future of our world...and perhaps all the worlds beyond. This ShadowCaster will wield powers that even I cannot comprehend nor anticipate. As we have now witnessed, nor are his minions without formidable power."

She stood to face them...a tall, matriarchal woman who held the Sisterhood in her thrall. "Never forget that we are not without our means. Ours is the path of virtue and the weapons of righteousness. For all of his purported might, the ShadowCaster will fall before his bane."

"What would you have us do, Matrium?" inquired Lyndsyn, the First Battle Mage and the stalwart hand of the Matrium.

"It is our desire to recover the remnant and consign it to a place of our choosing for safe keeping. It was my hope that stealth alone would suffice in recovering the icon and we would be able to maintain our anonymity in this primitive land." Karosyn's expression darkened perceptibly. "As this night's events have demonstrated, I can no longer cling to that hope. I will lead a party to Emercia and petition King Artumas for an audience at which time I will reveal the peril that hovers over his kingdom."

She paused, allowing her sisters to absorb the profound implications of her decree. The room plunged into a tense silence as each woman considered what the Matrium had just revealed. The Sisterhood had always been an order of shadow and so this bold sortie into the heart and light of events was a startling departure from normal operating procedure...one that succinctly demonstrated the consequence of the moment.

"Should we inform the Ascentrix?" Lyndsyn asked in an uncharacteristically somber voice.

"There is no need." the Matrium replied softly. "She already knows."

Chapter Six

1

"Perhaps it is time that you accept the fact that your kingdom is under siege, my king," Tygon declared in a tone that was fraught with his customary condescension. Every eye shifted downward to the highly polished surface of the massive round meeting table that stood at the center of the imperial throne room. It was here that king Artumas conducted much of the business of running his kingdom. He would meet on a daily basis to confer with his advisors and ministers to forge policy and the direction of Emercia. These meetings were typically dry, dull affairs, but events of the last six months had charged the sessions with an almost electric tension.

It was two days after the discovery of the woman's body at the base of the palace walls. The general assumption was that the intruder had been an assassin who had come with a mind to ending the aging king's tottering reign. Around the table, each man wore an expression of deep concern that, in some cases, bordered on fear. Still, that Tygon would speak so bluntly to the king shocked the other members of the Inner Court, all of whom wondered how the king would respond to what bordered upon outright impertinence.

"Are you suggesting that I've lost the capacity to grasp the salient nature of threats to my rule, Tygon?" Artumas inquired softly and though the king's tone was amiable enough, there was not a man at the table who did not hear the undertone of steel in the old man's words.

"Of course not, my king," the Consul for trade and commerce responded hastily, his color deepening to an alarming shade of plum. "I am merely stressing the point that we cannot sustain many more of these damaging strikes on our supply routes." He then flicked an accusatory glance at Redrick, who merely scowled and looked away.

Artumas sighed to himself, perturbed by the fractious infighting that characterized these daily sessions of late. 'I am old,' the High King thought and that was undeniably true. Each day he could feel the burden of age settle a little more heavily on his shoulders. Despite this slow decline, Artumas discerned that indulging this gradual erosion was a luxury that he could ill afford. The abrasive Tygon had been correct; Emercia was in a state of deep crisis and required a king with the energy and vigor to confront the threat. Though he would never admit it, the king sometime doubted his ability to meet the demands and challenges that the throne thrust upon him. At fifty-one years old, both his body and mind were beginning to feel the ravages of age. The pain in his hip was a constant companion now, exacerbated by the need to sit for hours at a time and listen to the endless parade of policy issues. More vexing still, he could feel his mind wander and his eyelids grow heavy as his Consuls debated the tedious details of government. 'Worse still, I'm becoming a bureaucrat.'

The gravity of the moment had his attention fixed firmly on the matter at hand. "Before we consider the supply situation, I would like to know if any progress has been made in determining the identity of the would-be infiltrator?"

The Military Consul fielded this question and as he spoke, Artumas could clearly see that the failed incursion deeply troubled Redrick. "We have learned that her name may have been Appelion. Some of the palace staff recalled seeing her with a porter named Thurgis over the course of the last five weeks or so. Incidentally, this Thurgis vanished about a week ago. I personally believe that this woman may have used him to gain a feel of the palace layout and then killed him, though this is strictly speculation on my part. The city records show no mention of a woman of this name and I am inclined to believe that she is not Emercian. The satchel recovered with her body contained a variety of exotic weapons and lock-picking tools the likes of which I have never before seen. She carried neither papers, nor any other item that would indicate who she was or who she might be affiliated with."

"Thus, her purpose remains a mystery?" Artumas asked rhetorically.

Redrick nodded glumly. "I'm afraid it does. Obviously, she was attempting to gain entry into Kammlogran, though for what purpose I cannot say."

"Assassination is the most likely guess," Tygon offered gruffly.

Artumas' gaze shifted to Melansa who was the Jerhia observer to the court of Emercia. Her cool blue eyes were fixed squarely on his, though her expression remained impassive. 'Ah, she knows there are things here a great deal more valuable than my life.'

"Would it not be prudent to consider that she might also be an agent of this Xhendyn?" offered Dynok who served in the capacity of Foreign Consul. A ghost of a smile played at his lips as he posed the question. Of all assembled around the table, Dynok was the one true politician who wore a perpetual smile as an inscrutable shield. He had served in the capacity of Foreign Consul for four years, but Artumas knew little about the man. True, he was efficient, competent and an astute observer of international affairs, but the essence of his soul remained shrouded in mystery.

"She did not bare the sigil," Redrick observed sharply. "This Xhendyn made a point of displaying the sigil."

"That in itself means nothing," Dynok countered with a shrug of his shoulders and a flip of his long blonde hair. "It's one thing to brazenly display your colors to a man at your mercy. It's quite another to flaunt it in the heart of enemy territory."

Redrick's jaws tightened as he bit back a response. He knew better than to engage the eloquent Dynok in argument. Artumas raised his hand. "Speculation is pointless at the moment. How close was this woman to gaining entry into Kammlogran?"

"I had the infantry push a siege engine down onto the avenue so that we might answer that very question," Redrick replied. "The climber's path up the wall was strangely meandering, but she managed to get within a short distance of the lowest window casement. This particular window leads into a storage area where bulk dry goods are kept. This is why I suspect Appelion used Thurgis to gain a sense of the castle's general layout."

Artumas stole another glance at Melansa who arched a finely tapered eyebrow in response. The King knew that a keen intellect dwelled behind those ice blue eyes. The Jerhia observer would reach the same chilling conclusion; the intruder was after knowledge of the portal and the thing to which the portal led. The thought was so unsettling that Artumas forced it from his mind if only for the time being. "I trust that this matter will be addressed, Redrick?"

"Yes, my king. The avenue will be patrol both day and night. Of course, we will continue to trace the origins of this woman."

"Very well, then let's turn our attention to the matter of highway piracy. How do we fare in determining the identity of this Xhendyn?"

Redrick's scowl deepened. He was a proud man, unaccustomed to failure and the admission that his efforts were proving ineffective was painful to endure. "This man...if that is what he is...is a specter. Whatever circles this rogue travels in, they are extremely well concealed."

Artumas sighed. Indeed, this was precisely the response he anticipated. 'Why would any sane being carry her intaglio?' This question had plagued him since Prion had first brought news of the raid and his subsequent encounter with the mysterious Xhendyn. He turned in his seat, ignoring the flare of pain in his hip, and gestured for an attendant to bring forward one of the large vellum maps of Emercia and place it before him. The High King studied the map intently for several moments, his eyes tracing the major trade routes that ran throughout the country. He had traveled each route on several occasions and understood how vulnerable supply caravans were to highway piracy. If this Xhendyn was as shrewd as it appeared, it would be a simple matter to strike at the supply trains and vanish into the forest, repeating the process until Emercia was literally bled dry and paralyzed. Artumas correctly deduced that crippling the economy was merely a means to a much more insidious end. Obviously, the first priority must be re-establishing the safety and integrity of the trade routes. Artumas shifted his gaze to Redrick. "I know that I've placed you beneath the magnifying glass several times already this afternoon, but I require your straightforward assessment."

"Of course, my King," Redrick responded with a slight bow of deference.

"Do we have the troop capacity to assign roving cavalry patrols to each trade highway in the country?"

The Military Consul's eyes swept over the vellum, mentally dividing the length of highways into standard patrolling block. After a moment's contemplation, he raised his eyes and reported flatly, "No, we do not. At the moment, forty percent of our mounted strength is assigned to duty beyond our borders. We could reduce the size of our working units but judging by the deftness with which the marauders destroyed Prion's escort guard, a reduction might be a grave mistake."

Artumas nodded thoughtfully, his blue eyes sweeping across those assembled at the table. Deep concern radiated from every face. The High King understood this was one of the defining junctures that separated a true ruler from those who served him. "Then I see no other recourse but to summon elements of the cavalry back from foreign soil."

The room plunged into an absolute and utter silence for several moments before exploding in a din of confused and anxious chatter. Emercia's troops were scattered throughout more than ten countries of the Eastern Continent, providing a crucial stabilizing force in regions beset by chaos. Many of these countries would fall into anarchy if these troops were withdrawn. An Ashen-faced Tygon was the first to speak. "My King, a withdrawal of forces could bring about the absolute ruin of many of these kingdoms and even create a groundswell of anarchy that would sweep across the entire continent."

"I won't deny that a withdrawal of troops might place some of the less stable kingdoms in jeopardy. However, as you so astutely observed, Emercia is in crisis. The collapse of our country would most definitely plunge the entire land into a darkness the likes of which modern history has never known. This I will not permit. My first obligation is to Emercia and its people. If the foreign cavalry is required here, then here is where it will be," Artumas declared resolutely, his tone hinting that he would brook no argument.

"King Artumas, might I have a private word?" Every eye shifted to Melansa, horrified by her unprecedented breech of protocol. In the six years since the Cornerstone Nations had sent observers to the Emercian court not once had one spoken during the course of the daily sessions. The Jerhia was cognizant of the resentful and outraged glances but she kept her gaze squarely upon the king.

2

When the last of the courtiers had filed from the room, the Jerhia emissary rose from her seat and circled back to stand behind her chair. She could feel the King's expectant gaze upon her face, but deliberately allowed a moment to pass in which to collect her thoughts. The thirty-three-year-old adjutant possessed a quick and analytical mind and the gravity of the moment was not lost upon her. "It was not my intention to be discourteous, your majesty..."

"Artumas will do, Melansa," the high king interrupted. The older man had never been one for formality, but the adjutant could scarcely bring herself to commit what she viewed as an unpardonable breech of formality. The rigorous observation of tradition and rank had been inculcated into the very marrow of her bones. "I trust that my decision raises some...alarm?"

"The Cornerstone Nations wish only to see a stable and peaceful East. You have steered not only Emercia, but indirectly the entire eastern continent in that direction since resuming the throne. For this, you have our commendation and gratitude. However, I discern a dark purpose in these recent events – a concerted effort to destabilize Emercia and by extension the rest of the continent."

"We are of the same mind thus far," Artumas interjected mildly.

Melansa pursed her lips lending a severe aspect to her pretty face. "The withdrawal of Emercian cavalry will likely lead to civil war and anarchy in many of the neighboring countries. I feel compelled to impress upon you that this turn of events would not be permitted."

"Which means what precisely?" Artumas demanded sharply.

"If the situation in the east deteriorated into anarchy, The Cornerstone Nations would move to occupy the east. This is an eventuality that is palatable to no one but would be necessary nonetheless."

"So, the Cornerstone Nations would violate the autonomy of sovereign countries in the name of stability?" the king inquired crossly.

Melansa arched an eyebrow. "We both know that there are issues at stake that surmount even national independence."

The high king sighed. He understood the reference all too well and knew also that this young Jerhia was accurate in her assessment of the situation. Emercia was on an exceedingly tight leash and the Cornerstone Nations would not hesitate to bring Emercia to heel if they perceived even the slightest threat to Western security. Patiently, he began to explain his perspective to the Jerhia, trusting that she was incisive enough to grasp the direction of his intentions. "I fully understand the ramifications of withdrawing the Cavalry from our neighboring states. This may seem ruthless, but I am hoping by doing so, this Xhendyn will tip his hand. Thus far, this enemy has proven wraith-like. It is imperative that we pin them down and discover precisely who we are dealing with. However, I am not willing to expose the heart of Emercia to do this..."

Artumas let this last thought linger between the pair. After a protracted silence, the Jerhia nodded and remarked, "We both realize that the intaglio suggests that this is somehow connected to Myrhia. It would not be a liberal stretch to postulate that this group has designs upon the enchantress herself."

The High King reacted as though he had been physically struck, his horrified expression almost comical in its intensity. "There are no more than a dozen people who actually know what had befallen Myrhia after her defeat at the hands of Islena," he countered sharply. "I find it inconceivable that this Xhendyn could possibly know anything of her true fate."

Melansa shrugged. "Logic would argue against it, but magic and wizardry quite often function beyond the bounds of common logic. As a demonstration of respect to you, the Cornerstone Nations allow custody of the Enchantress' shell to remain with you. Still, even Inos admitted that the recumbent power of the Icons resides within that shell. Mayhaps this Xhendyn has concocted a way of extracting that power. If this was deemed even remotely possible, we would be left with no alternative but to revoke this arrangement. The safety and security of your land is paramount and above all sentimentalities."

"The Cornerstone Nations have my personal guarantee this will never come to pass. I will ensure that every precaution is taken to protect the portal."

Melansa considered this for a moment and then nodded, her cold blue eyes conveying nothing of how she valued his assurances. Quietly, she remarked, "Tier Marshal Arminda is both a friend and a staunch supporter of your rule. She has vigorously opposed any suggestion that Emercia should have surrendered its autonomy. Still, she has asked that it be made imminently clear; this position will reverse if there is even the slightest hint that the vessel is in jeopardy."

Artumas bit back a sharp response, knowing little would be gained by alienating Melansa. The adjutant was merely conveying the message of those whom she served. The Jerhia had always dealt with the Emercian court with respect and deference. "You may tell your Tier Marshal that her admonition is duly noted and that every precaution will be taken to prevent the vessel from falling into malicious hands."

Adjutant Melansa smiled and nodded her satisfaction. Artumas noted how lovely the woman was when she lowered her severe countenance somewhat. "I trust that you will. For what it is worth, I agree with the notion that the female infiltrator is probably not aligned with this Xhendyn character. Unfortunately, there is a definite troubling aspect to this conclusion as this would imply that there are two distinct groups vying to gain knowledge of the portal."

The high King drew a wavering breath and nodded his concurrence, already having concluded as much. The idea that two mysterious groups could have discovered the existence of the portal was both incredible and unsettling. Melansa averted her eyes for a moment and her expression darkened perceptibly. "There is another matter that I wished to discuss privately, though I must forewarn you that I am still rather uncertain how significant this situation might prove to be."

Artumas watched her curiously as she measured how best to proceed. The Jerhia had grappled with how best to convey this information since it was first brought to her attention earlier in the morning, but now decided that a frank and straightforward recounting was probably best. "King Artumas, Latrizel and the Metocan delegation departed without warning earlier this morning."

The high king inclined his head, clearly perplexed by the news that Melansa's Metocan counterpart would leave the Capital without the formality of being granted leave. Since the occupation of Emercia, this sudden departure was unprecedented and the incisive Artumas discerned that it did not bode well for his already beleaguered country. "How is it that they were able to leave Kammlogran undetected?"

"Teleportation magic is the most likely answer," Melansa offered reluctantly, knowing how the high king frowned on displays of magic in his court.

The King snorted in disgust and ran a hand through his graying beard. "Would you care to speculate on why they would depart in such haste?"

The Adjutant adjusted the collar of her formfitting tunic. "Unfortunately, I can. Perhaps, it would be more accurate to say that I understand something of the circumstances which led to their leaving. The same thing happened in both Jerhia's capital and the Natzurdan capital of Amberdias. A fortnight ago, both ambassadors were withdrawn in a similar fashion with no word of explanation."

"Why was I not apprised of this?" the high king demanded heatedly.

Melansa's gaze never wavered. "I was instructed not to pass this information to the Emercian court. I am a Jerhia and my first loyalty is to my country."

Artumas regarded the younger woman for several moments and then nodded. He understood the Jerhia and their stringent adherence to rules, rank and tradition, so decided not to pursue the issue. "And now they have elected to withdraw their Emissary from Emercia as well. This is most uncharacteristic of the Inos who I have long known. He never once displayed such flagrant disregard toward his allies..."

The high king trailed off and lapsed into a contemplative silence. Melansa remained silent for a moment, though her expression darkened as the moment drew itself out. "Both Maroc and Arminda have reason to suspect that Inos is no longer the one directing affairs in Othgol."

An expression of unadulterated shock bloomed on the older man's face, followed by one of dawning comprehension and finally bemused horror. "Are you suggesting that Sygeanor has seized power in Metocan?"

Melansa did not respond. Instead, she extended a sheet of folded vellum which bore the seal of Jerhia's Maxim Tier Marshal. Artumas looked questioningly at the adjutant for a moment and then accepted the sheet. He quickly scanned the text, his brow furrowing as he did. By the time he had finished reading, his jaw had dropped as though suddenly unhinged, amazed by the extent to which a single page could radically alter the political landscape of the world. Gazing up at the Jerhia, he whispered softly, "This is insanity by any definition."

The Jerhia signaled her tacit concurrence with a brusque nod. "Five days ago, the Jerhia and Natzurdan leadership received identical copies of the same communiqué. The demands are shockingly explicit and the threat, while more subtle, is no less to the point."

The high King returned his gaze to the communiqué and read the text with greater care. It began in a way that was brusque and most undiplomatic and grew more ominous with each passing sentence.

By this decree, Metocan serves notice to its allies that it considers LORIO (erstwhile self-styled Queen of the illegitimate state of Lamia) to be a criminal under Metocan law. Hers is the crime of murder of Kyros. Let it also be known that the Metocan Council hereby abrogates Lorio's exoneration and no longer recognizes Lamia as a legitimate, autonomous state. Metocan further demands that the criminal Lorio be deported to Othgol where she will stand trial for her treacherous crime. Any nation that refuses to comply with this request will be considered to be an enemy of Metocan and will be dealt with accordingly. If the criminal Lorio does not willingly surrender herself and if Lamia (or any other sovereign state that may grant her asylum) refuses to comply with this demand within a fortnight, a state of war will exist between Metocan and Lamia. We trust that prudent leadership will consider the consequences of this eventuality and will act with decency and integrity in bringing this vile criminal to justice.

The communiqué was stamped with the seal of Sygeanor.

Artumas pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes, struggling to fathom the full weight of the brazen challenge that Sygeanor had issued to the nations of both the western and eastern continent. "Has Jerhia or Natzurdan formally responded to this madness?"

Melansa shook her head slowly. "As of yet, no. It is my understanding that both governments are struggling to grasp the full implications of the Metocan position. Clearly Inos has lost power in Othgol, but how willing the Metocan are to follow Sygeanor into a campaign of revenge warfare is yet to be seen. Little is known of the half-Ulgak. She has been the dark force behind Inos since the end of the enchantress wars...there have always been whispers that Inos is merely her puppet. I have never had the opportunity to meet her personally, but I understand that you have."

An expression of distaste rippled across the high King's angular face; there and gone like morning mist on a pond. He had long disciplined himself not to dwell on the years before his return to the throne, finding the memories of those events too painful to suffer repeatedly. Still, the adjutant's question was valid enough so he attempted to answer it as best he could. "The first time I encountered Sygeanor was six years ago, at a state visit to Amberdias. She was traveling with Inos and her presence seemed to hover over the man like a dark and ominous shadow. She spoke little but conveyed the impression that Inos merely spoke on her behalf. I sensed a dispassionate and ruthless frigidity about the woman that chilled my heart. I feared for Inos and it seems that those fears were not unfounded."

Melansa absorbed this thoughtfully. "In recorded history, the three cornerstone nations have never been at odds. Yet, with one woman's obsessive hunger for revenge, we now find ourselves on the brink of war."

"I am safe then to assume that neither Natzurdan nor Jerhia will accede to the notion of deporting Lorio to Metocan?"

Melansa nodded. "I can speak only for Maroc in saying that Lorio is a valued friend of the Jerhia and we do not abandon our friends to threats and blackmail. Also, I cannot imagine trying to compel Lorio to do anything she did not wish to do."

This last thought roused a spate of genuine laughter from the king. If an elite guard was dispatched to take Lorio into custody, he would most definitely not want to be amongst their ranks. With an indomitable spirit and immortal flesh, Lorio would not be easily coerced or subdued. This last thought puzzled Artumas and he asked, "Sygeanor knows that the Lamish Queen is immortal. Why would she insist on having her stand trial? It is not as though she could be somehow executed."

"True. Both Maroc and Arminda have speculated that Sygeanor intends to imprison Lorio and then torture and torment the Lamish queen at her leisure."

Artumas' eyes widened in horror. Softly he whispered, "Yes, that would be in keeping with her nature."

He sat on the polished surface of the table and traced one of the intricate patterns with his index finger. "Is it possible that there is some connection between what has transpired in Othgol and the rise of the chaos here in Emercia?"

The adjutant stole a quick glance at the high king and then averted her eyes, not wanting Artumas to see how flattered she was that he would solicit her opinion on lofty matters. "While nothing is beyond the realm of possibility, a deeper instinct tells me that the two threats are not connected. I'm not sure if this makes the situation better or worse."

Artumas absorbed this in silence and then stood. "Very well, Adjutant. I am grateful for your insight and trust you will keep me informed as this situation unfolds."

"Tier Marshal Arminda has asked me to convey her personal assurance that Jerhia will do what it can to protect the eastern nations from any aggression should matters come to that," Melansa disclosed formally.

"Let us hope that they do not. You may tell Maroc that I will recall the Emercian cavalry with the intention of drawing this Xhendyn out. Perhaps he will tip his hand and reveal the form of his calumny. I will have my commanders draw up contingency plans to return to foreign soil at the first sign of chaos. Does this allay your concerns for the time being?"

The younger woman nodded and offered the king a dazzling smile. "It does. I will send word back to Jerhia this afternoon. Again, I apologize for this breech of protocol, your majesty."

The High King accepted her apology with a formal bow and the two went to the double doors to squire the waiting Consuls back into the hall. As he crossed the vast expanse of marble floor, Artumas felt a chill course along the length of his spine and knew that his world was about to experience another season of wither. As he stepped back and allowed the young Jerhia adjutant to open one of the large, ornately trimmed doors, he wondered if he had the mettle to survive the trials to come.

3

The large chamber was steeped in a deep, expectant silence as its sole occupant stared fixedly through the open window as though seeking some form of affirmation in the night sky beyond. Indeed, there was no panoramic vista to be had, rather only a thick, impenetrable fog that hovered perpetually over Othgol, the capital city of Metocan. A grim sense of fatalism hung over Inos as he sat in the solitary darkness of his private chambers.

"All that I have labored to achieve will be undone," he whispered to the indifferent fog. As he massaged the hollow of his left temple with two extraordinarily long fingers, it occurred to the Grand Mage of Metocan that his great nation's entire history could well be on the verge of unraveling. His instincts were preternatural in their incisiveness and now informed him that his protégé (a ludicrous term to be sure) had exhausted her patience and was finally about to seize the power that had always truthfully been hers beneath the charade that the pair maintained. Though he had scant regard for his own wellbeing, Inos experienced a moment of consuming dread for the poor beleaguered world that had suffered so wretchedly in the last decade.

There had always been a pervasive aura of mystery swirling about the nation of Metocan, home to the Cornerstone nation of Mages. Many visitors found the pervasive mists disquieting, wondering what manner of beast (or perhaps demon) lay concealed by the blanket of swirling fog. Othgol could be regarded as both secretive and forbidding, though its inhabitants did all that they could to dispel some of this sense of brooding secrecy for the foreigners who ventured here. Visitors found the locals to be disarming and courteous and though a current of mystic puissance seemed to eddy through the very air of the city, first-time travelers quickly came to realize that the Metocan were a serene and friendly lot despite the enormous power that many possessed. After the enchantress wars and Myrhia's subsequent defeat, the sense of tranquility had slowly dissipated. Inos, the nominal leader of the Nation, understood all too well what inspired the subtle change in the City's atmosphere. Sygeanor's official title was Consul at large and Advisor to the Grand Mage. As time passed, it was becoming increasingly evident that these roles of power were mere charades.

The Grand Mage shook his head in disgust, admitting that his leadership was nominal and increasingly tenuous. Sygeanor was the most powerful telepath that Inos had ever encountered (with the possible exception of the emerald enchantress, Myrhia), who controlled the Grand mage as a puppeteer might control a marionette. The day was rapidly approaching when she would have consolidated her power to a sufficient degree that she might dispense with the pretense of advising Inos and claim leadership for herself.

'And what will become of me then?' the Metocan wondered with only a passing interest. He had long ago learned that it was futile to predict how the tempestuous mage might react though it was not unthinkable that she would regard him as expendable once she assumed the mantle of power in Othgol. And just when might that be? Inos was not certain, but he did discern a growing impatience in her character of late, along with a diminishing willingness to adhere to his council on matters of state.

"Worse still, I sense a creeping, insidious madness blooming in the black depths of her soul," he whispered with a pronounced shudder. Like dark roses springing forth from tainted soil, signs of Sygeanor's megalomania and obsessive hatred could be seen all throughout the city.

The most tangible sign of her increasing instability could be found in the form of the towering statue of Kyros which the half-Ulgak had insisted be cast and then erected in Othgol's central square. Inos recalled that Kyros had been a petulant, often spiteful man who once attempted to abduct Islena Doraux with the intention of coercing her into lending her help in the fight against the emerald enchantress. Kyros had employed Ulgak, Metocan's sister race, in his plot to kidnap Doraux, even though Ulgak were strictly forbidden to enter Othgol due to their unscrupulous use of magic. Only the intervention of Lorio, Islena's friend and constant companion, had prevented Kyros' scheme from succeeding. The woman, who would later become the Queen of the fledgling state of Lamia, had killed the Metocan Minister along with his two would-be co-abductors. Her intervention had likely changed the course of history, allowing Doraux to continue along her fateful path toward a final confrontation with Myrhia. Only now was Inos grasping that her actions held deeper implications the import of which was yet to be disclosed.

Sygeanor's hatred for Lorio had festered like an infection, finally corrupting the Metocan's soul and (or so Inos feared) effacing any trace of the woman's humanity. Now her obsession was evolving into something that could well threaten and destabilize a world that was just now recovering from Myrhia's siege of evil.

"Perhaps you could stop it before events come to that," Inos whispered allowed, though the timber of his voice resonated with doubt. But could he? Whatever else might be said of his protégé, Sygeanor was a creature of unimaginable power. In his long life, Inos had yet to encounter another Metocan who could effortlessly wield such a wide array of magical powers. Some Metocan were masters of telekinesis, conjury or enchantment. Others were skilled pyromancers or illusionists. On rare occasion, a student would come along who was proficient in as many as three of the magic disciplines, but Sygeanor seemed able to command virtually every school of magic with a stupefying proficiency. The uninitiated did not realize how physically taxing the act of magic could be. Prolonged use of magical energy could easily consume the wielder from the inside out and this was why rest and meditation were such fundamental aspects of the everyday lives of both the Metocan and the Natzurdan. Inexplicably, these restrictions did not seem to apply to Sygeanor (just as they appeared to hold no sway over the Emerald Enchantress). Both women appeared to have access to an inexhaustible supply of magical energy, the use of which seemed to take no toll on their physical bodies.

To the Grand Mage's growing dismay, he deduced that the comparisons did not end there. Like Myrhia, Sygeanor displayed no moral compunction about delving into the darker fields of magic. The study and practice of Necromancy and Thaumaturgy were strictly forbidden under Metocan law, but as Sygeanor evidently regarded herself to be above the law, she had taken a keen interest in both outlawed endeavors. And then there was the complex question of the Appraxis; the contingent of personal devotees that Sygeanor had surrounded herself with. Dressed in black, hooded robes, faces concealed behind fashioned pewter masks, this group followed the half-Ulgak everywhere she went like vile shadows. They were a sinister and intimidating lot and Inos had fielded complaints from all quarters about their presence at the inner council meetings. It was not beyond the realm of possibility that these sycophants were Ulgaks, which would be another severe violation of Metocan law.

When Inos had confronted Sygeanor on the matter of the Appraxis, she had waved him off and remarked dismissively, "The Appraxis are my personal students and devotees and of no concern to the chirping birds of the Council."

Beyond this, she would reveal nothing of their purpose or intentions and so they continued to follow in her wake like watchful dogs, all mystery and menace. Their dark presence capered about the city like some odd manner of kinetic energy awaiting some predestined moment of release.

Inos glanced down at his desk, the surface of which was composed of an oddly reflective wood crafted from the aptly named mirror tree. As he gazed at his oddly translucent visage, he wondered if the Metocan had always been constructed thus or was this pallor the result of centuries of hiding beneath a veil of mist.

The abrupt thud of boot heels on stone shattered his reverie and his head snapped toward his chamber door, which suddenly flew open with a crash. He was not particularly surprised to find Sygeanor standing beneath the arch. Over her shoulder, he could see at least a half dozen of the Appraxis standing at her heel like a pack of jackals. Mustering his outrage, Inos demanded, "What is the meaning of this intrusion, Sygeanor?"

Pointedly ignoring his question, she drifted into the chamber and began casually examining its contents like an old friend who had been warmly welcomed. The Appraxis trooped into the room and took up positions on either side of the doorway. Beneath the muted light, Inos could barely see their inscrutable eyes, but something about their rigid postures suggested that their purpose here was not friendly.

"I've asked you a specific question...how dare you barge in here in this manner and bring your pack of trained dogs?"

Sygeanor finally glanced sharply at Inos. "I did because I can. As for the Appraxis, you would do well to remember that these are dogs with extremely sharp teeth."

Inos bit back a caustic reply and looked closely at the half-Ulgak for the first time since she had entered his chamber. As always, she was attired in her customary hooded black robe that covered her from head to toe in a heavy velvet material that revealed nothing of the person sequestered beneath. Even her hands were concealed by tight-fitting leather gloves as though she wanted nothing of her flesh to be exposed to the eye. The final aspect of her forbidding garb was a pewter mask that covered her face but left her large limpid eyes exposed. The mask was a rather puzzling and recent affectation, one that deeply disturbed Inos, though he elected not to broach his concerns with his tempestuous protégé.

"I suspect that you know why I'm here," she remarked after a protracted silence and though her tone sounded casual, there was a resonance of what might have been either excitement or agitation in her husky voice.

Seeing little to be gained in feigning coyness, the Metocan merely nodded and remarked, "You are here to put an end to our charade and take control of Othgol."

"Succinctly put, Inos," Sygeanor replied with a flourish of a gloved hand. "You have served your purpose and as I am one to impart credit where it is warranted, I will allow that you have educated me well. Now, however, the pupil has surpassed the teacher and it is time for the torch to be passed."

"The other Council members might not share your view of succession," Inos intoned stiffly.

"And then they will die," Sygeanor remarked flatly and Inos could feel the flesh crawl on the nape of his neck. It was readily apparent that this creature would brook no opposition.

"Dare I ask what it is that you intend to do?"

Sygeanor offered the deposed ruler a blithe chuckle. "You may. To begin with, it is my intention to seek retribution for my father's vile murder. Even as we speak, that process is underway. Dispatches have been sent to Jerhia and Metocan informing them of the change of power here in Othgol. It also states, in explicit terms, that I will no longer recognize Lamia as a legitimate state and that I consider Lorio to be a criminal. The communiqué goes on to demand that she be turned over to my custody and that any state that harbors, aids or abets the criminal will be viewed as a hostile enemy of Metocan."

As he listened, Inos' face twisted into a grimace of horror and incredulity. "Do you not see that this decree is tantamount to an open declaration of war?"

Sygeanor shrugged indifferently. "Only if they decide to ignore my request for the criminal's extradition. If they deliver the hateful bitch into my hands, then the matter will conclude there...if not, then I will make them wish that Myrhia had put them out of their misery."

"You are utterly mad," Inos whispered softly, stupefied by the extent of her insanity. In an instant, she closed the distance between them, seized Inos by the shoulders and propelled him roughly backward, where he sprawled across a reclining lounger. She towered over him, her substantial breasts heavy with outrage and her hands clenched into fists. It was then he noticed for the first time that her normally piercing blue eyes were now a dark and unsettling brown.

'And somehow she seems substantially taller,' he realized, though that was impossible.

"Mad? If you mean that I am mad with grief, then I am indeed mad. If you mean that I am mad with outrage that this Lamish whore not only wanders free while my father's corpse is a nest for grave beetles, then I am mad. If you mean that I am mad with a hatred for a world that has elevated her to the status of heroine and Queen then I am most definitely mad," she rasped through clenched teeth in a voice distorted with fury. Suddenly, she straightened, and her fury appeared to evaporate like mist before the wind. She abruptly threw back the hood of her cape and then slowly removed her pewter mask with a theatrical flourish. An inarticulate rush of air escaped Inos' lips sounding very much like a wounded bird. Sygeanor uttered a demented laugh and sloughed off her cape to reveal a statuesque, chiseled body that was more human than Metocan.

"You truly are insane," Inos whispered. Standing before him, clad in sleeveless black tunic and trousers, was the Queen of Lamia in all of her majestic beauty. Sygeanor ran her fingers through her luxurious mane of black hair and preened. "Stunning, am I not?"

Unable to move, the Metocan leader simply inquired, "Why?"

"I want this face to be the last I see before I close my eyes at night and the first to greet me when I wake. I want her image to be indelibly branded in my mind...to fuel the fire of my fury and to keep my hatred at a fever pitch. I will not rest until Lorio is under my heel and at my mercy...of which there will be none. I will revel in her torture, Inos. It thrills me to know that she is immortal and can be made to suffer eternally."

"Why do you believe that she will simply turn herself over to you?" the Metocan inquired. "She is not blind to your enmity, nor is she a fool."

A radiant smile spread over Sygeanor's borrowed visage. "I have prepared an object lesson for the bitch...a demonstration of just how sincere I am in my insistence that she be delivered to me. When the Lamish rabble feel the weight of my might, they will gladly turn her over just as her own father once did."

Inos blinked at the obscure reference to the Queen's betrayal at the hands of her own father. Knowing that it was hopeless, but compelled to try regardless, Inos pleaded, "Do you not grasp that your rash actions will signify the end of the Cornerstone Nations...the fragmenting of the bond that has endured for millennia out of mind? You will undo the very fabric of our world."

Sygeanor scoffed at the notion. "The concept of the Cornerstone Nations has run its course. When I have dealt with the matter of the Lamish whore, it is my intention to construct a new Metocan that is unfettered by the limitations of Natzurdan and Jerhia. The earth wielders have lost their will since the death of Morzhian. As for the Jerhia, they are a nation of violent ants whose marginal talents have never matched their place in the scheme of things. Under my rule, Metocan will ascend to its rightful place as this world's supreme power."

"Are you suggesting a quest for global dominance? Is it your petty ambition to become another tyrant such as Myrhia?" Inos snapped.

"I have no interest in holding dominion over lands of peasants," Sygeanor declared as if the notion was beneath her dignity. "They can retain control over their pathetic patches of dirt. It is the glory of magic that I intend to elevate. Metocan will be a beacon of enlightenment shining for the entire world to envy. Every magical vocation will have a place in my court, Inos. Unlike your cowering council, I have no fear of knowledge. The so-called dark arts will be brought into the light where they will assume their rightful place in the scholarly halls of my new Metocan."

"You will succeed only in plunging Metocan into a pervasive darkness the likes of which our world has yet to witness. The Cornerstone Nations are the fabric of our society and to casually tear that fabric asunder is sheer folly."

Sygeanor sighed with her stolen visage. "Like all of the leaders before you, you are shackled with a debilitating lack of vision. It is only one of the many reasons that I have decided to end our charade of teacher-pupil. The concept of the Cornerstone nations is a yolk that serves only to repress the true greatness of this nation. No more!"

Inos shook his head in disdain, resigned to the fact that he was helpless to forestall the tragedy that was about to befall his beloved country. Sygeanor clapped her hands and spread her sinewy arms. "Enough idle chatter...there is much to do. As to your fate, Inos: you will be taken to the northern village of Felgurash where you will enjoy the cold hospitality of the Ulgak for the remainder of your days."

With this, she gestured the Appraxis forward. A pair converged upon Inos and roughly jerked him to his feet, literally dragging the former leader to the chamber door. Over his shoulder, he heard the half-Ulgak remark, "Inos, take consolation in the fact that I may yet have need of an obsequious dog when my vision for Metocan's future has been realized."

Then the chamber door slammed shut and he found himself being whisked through the darkened halls toward an uncertain future. It suddenly occurred to Inos that, as much as he dreaded the fall out of Sygeanor's ascension, he was also relieved that the shallow pretense of the past seven years had come to an end.

In her new private chamber, Sygeanor bid her Appraxis to take their leave. When she was finally alone, the Metocan's newest Grand Mage strolled out onto the balcony and gazed out into the swirling mists. Closing her eyes, she inhaled deeply, relishing the humid air of what was now her Capital city. As she listened, she could discern the faint echo of screams in the night air. Her Appraxis were engaged in bringing news of her ascent to the other Inner Council members. Unlike Inos, their ejection from the mantles of power would not be achieved through exile.

"Father, the moment of your revenge is at hand," She cooed softly as a smile spread across the lovely countenance of her sworn enemy.

Chapter Seven

1

He strode alone through the mostly deserted hallways of Kammlogran and though Artumas could feel a pervasive weariness dragging at his flesh and digging fingers of pain into his aching joints, he knew that he would find no solace in the softness of his bed on this night. The days meeting and the revelation that Melansa had shared with him during their private conversation had done little to alleviate his sense of being caught in an ever-tightening snare of circumstances. Though he had appeared resolute for the sake of his subjects, the High King needed solitude to gain his composure and steel himself against the anarchy that was festering in Emercia like a wound.

On occasions such as these, there was only one place where that solace would be found.

He quickly rounded a corner, his leather heels ringing loudly on the stone, and came face to face with the two guards stationed outside of the restricted chamber. Other than the sixteen members of the Hand of the Way, Artumas was the only person allowed beyond the door of this particular room. Indeed, in the seven years since he had been ensconced in Kammlogran, he was the only resident of the Castle who fully grasped the room's true purpose.

Since the attempted incursion into the castle, the door had been under twenty-four hour a day, double guard. It was possible that the would-be infiltrator had come with a mind to assassination, but Artumas' keen instinct informed him that what lay behind this door was really the target.

The guards greeted the high king's arrival with a deep bow and stood aside, opening the door as they did. The king nodded briefly and hurriedly stepped through as the heavy wooden door slammed shut behind him.

Upon initial inspection, there was nothing especially striking about the room's rather smallish interior. Indeed, one's first impression might be that this was an empty room deliberately left for possible future storage. Three torches were mounted in iron brackets, casting alternating swatches of shadow and light over the small space. Artumas knew that these torches burned at all times. Hidden in a shadowy corner, a third member of the Hand emerged and greeted the king with a formal bow. "Will you be traveling today, your majesty?"

"I will, though I anticipate being back within a few bells," Artumas replied. The guard nodded and removed a heavy drapery from a covered object near the rear of the room bathing its interior in an effulgent blue light. Artumas regarded the mirror for several moments, experiencing his customary mixture of wonder and apprehension. The ornate wooden frame was made of a highly polished dark wood that was common enough in castles such as Kammlogran. The reflective glass was anything but common and, in truth, was not glass at all, but rather a vertical pool of teleportation energy that had been constructed by Metocan ingenuity. The high king found himself standing before a gateway that would quickly convey him across the length of the continent.

'Magic!' he mused with no small degree of acrimony. He had never trusted magic or the people who wielded it. Had he not fallen victim to the emerald enchantress and her facile brand of sorcery? Still, this device enabled him to see her...or more precisely, what remained of her...and so he tolerated it for the time being.

As he approached the mirror, its surface began to change. The darkened glass began to glow with a subdued blue light that radiated from its center and quickly spread outward in every direction until the entire surface was alive with shimmering blue light. Inhaling deeply, he quickly strode forward and passed into the embracing light where he appeared to waver for a moment and then vanished. As quickly as the effulgence appeared, it vanished, again leaving the room subdued in muted shadow.

Stepping through the lens of the portal was a sensation that the high king had never grown accustomed to even though he had made this journey innumerable times in the past seven years. He could feel his flesh lose its substance as he lost tangible form, but this did not imply that he was floating. On the contrary, once the body lost its solidity, there was a feeling of being converted to pure energy and then propelled across a void that was neither precisely space nor time. In these moments, Artumas always felt as though his being would simply dissipate into nothingness even though he had been assured by the portal's Metocan creators that this simply could not happen.

When at last he emerged through the receiving portal at his destination, the high king breathed a deep sigh of relief at having survived the journey with his flesh and mind intact.

This terminal portal was located in a great stone chamber with a vaulted ceiling that rose to dizzying heights above the circular stone floor. With the exception of a solitary bench and a raised pedestal, the large chamber was virtually empty. As the high king crossed the chamber, his footsteps echoed on the paving stones. He made his way to the bench that had been positioned directly before the raised pedestal, where he sat down and gestured toward the Hand of the Way guard who he knew would be positioned somewhere in the shadowy recesses of the chamber.

Then Artumas closed his eyes and allowed his chin to settle to his chest. It would be a short time before the next step in the process would be complete and he took the time to organize his thoughts, compelling himself to step back and view his kingdom's current strife from a broader perspective. The chamber filled with the ear-splitting sound of iron grating on stone. To Artumas it sounded as though the very earth was being tortured. The moments stretched out and when it seemed that he could endure no more of the infernal racket, it abruptly stopped.

He inhaled deeply and could smell the salt on the crisp air that filled the chamber along with the brilliant sunshine that streamed through the retracted roof. Artumas never ceased to be amazed by the engineering marvel that was the requiem of the fallen even though he had been present from the early days of its construction. One entire side of the chamber's ceiling consisted of paneled sections that slid on massive plates and rollers, moving a section outward and then sliding in a circle to tuck neatly behind the fixed segment of the ceiling. This stroke of engineering genius had been designed by Jerhia and Natzurdan engineers and elemental workers and was powered by an arcane Metocan energy source that Artumas did not pretend to comprehend. However it functioned, the end result allowed natural light and fresh air to fill the otherwise dank chamber.

Artumas gazed at the inured figure on the pedestal and a barely audible gasp of wonder escaped his lips. There, petrified by the magic of the Proclamations, stood Myrhia, also known as the Emerald Enchantress and the former High Queen of Emercia. Her beguiling face was set with the same inscrutable and distant expression that she had worn when Islena Doraux had bestowed upon her the embrace of eternal exile seven years before. Artumas had spent countless hours searching that stony countenance for some trace of humanity...some remainder of the woman who had once been his wife and who had betrayed him and banished him into exile. He had never gleaned even the slightest hint that there might be anything within this piece of statuary and still he could not relinquish the belief that Myrhia (or Morgan Le Fay as she had been known in another of her many incarnations) was not held within the prison of livid flesh.

"Can you hear me, Myrhia?" he inquired softly. "Is it you who have summoned these demons to my door? Is this your revenge from the purgatory where you may now reside? Is this my reward for sparing you from the fiery vault of the Hiberas?"

He lapsed into silence, but there was no response. Her darkened eyes continued to stare into whatever unknowable horror she had witnessed as the force of the Proclamations rampaged through her veins.

"Why am I here?" he enquired of the statue. Indeed, this was a question of some consequence. With his kingdom teetering on the verge of anarchy, why would he be sitting idly hundreds of leagues away, gawking at the entombed remains of the creature who had so nearly destroyed him? He did not know for certain, but Artumas suspected that the answer lay somewhere in the confusion of emotions that this woman once aroused.

'And admittedly still does,' he allowed to himself.

After she was condemned to her prison of stone, Myrhia's remnant had been destined for entombment in the fiery depths of the Hiberas along with the Three Proclamations that she so desperately coveted. Something had compelled Artumas to intervene and plead with the victors to allow him to take possession of her remains. The three leaders of the Cornerstone Nations had been reluctant at first, but their deep respect for the Emercian King led them to grant his entreaty, though not without strict provisions. Like Artumas, perhaps they feared that some trace of the powerful enchantress remained inside the shell awaiting resurrection. To forestall that grim possibility, it was decided that a special facility would be designed to house Myrhia. This nameless, remote island was selected as her final resting place. Situated many leagues off of the Northern Redian coast, roiling oceans made the chain of islands virtually inaccessible. Gradually, the sanctuary was constructed and the only access to the site was through the pair of portals.

For seven years, Artumas made the disconcerting journey to and from Kammlogran to spend time in the presence of Myrhia's remains and still he did not entirely fathom why. Ultimately, he was forced to admit that he derived a bizarre form of solace from being in her presence. He would come to grapple with his doubts and insecurities; emotions that he could never allow his subjects and bondsmen to see. Here, Artumas could lay his human frailties and failings out for inspection, while Myrhia hovered over him like a symbol of the very personal weakness he sought to understand.

Now this Xhendyn appeared, representing himself as a mysterious emissary...perhaps to the memory of Myrhia's evil or perhaps something even more sinister. Was it possible this madman knew of Artumas' odd arrangement and that he had concocted a method by which the enchantress could be freed from her exile?

"Impossible!" Artumas murmured emphatically, though it was a certainty that he did not truly feel. As he grew older, the high king was increasingly assailed by an insecurity that he had never experienced as a younger man. Then the woman before him suddenly appeared and that mantle of supreme confidence had vanished. As adjutant Melansa hinted; if the Cornerstone Nations perceived any threat to the integrity of this island stronghold, they might well be forced to renege on their arrangement. If that were to happen, Myrhia's remains would probably end up at the bottom of the Hiberas. This was an eventuality that Artumas could not suffer and so he would have to unearth this Xhendyn and extinguish his threat quickly.

A horrible notion bloomed in his mind then, causing Artumas to grimace. He realized that Melansa's other revelation posed as much of a threat to his propriety of Myrhia as the mysterious Xhendyn. The portals were powered by Metocan magic. Now that Sygeanor had seized power in Othgol, she might not be willing to supply that energy...especially if Lorio was allowed to remain free. The Jerhia would never accede to Sygeanor's demands and so the world again found itself on the precipice of global conflict.

"And while the storm gathers all about you, here you sit contemplating the future of your betrayer's remains," the high king whispered in consternation. Despite this self-contempt, Artumas knew that he would do everything in his power to prevent losing what little of Myrhia was left to him. It frightened him to consider just how far he was willing to go to avert that loss.

He stood and moved closed to the pedestal, drinking in every line and angle of Myrhia's exquisite face, trying to commit the minute detail of every feature to memory. Instinct warned him that it would be a good while before he might be able to return here and so he wanted to construct a mental portrait of his former queen to ward him against the darkness that was most certainly to follow.

"Evil against evil,' he murmured and then turned and trudged toward the portal and his ailing kingdom.

2

As Artumas' hand closed around the ornate handle of the door to his private suite of rooms, he was hailed from along the length of the hall by Redrick, his military consul. The high king closed his eyes and grimaced as weariness washed over him like a cresting wave. He had the sudden impulse to flee into the sanctuary of his chamber and bolt the door. Instead, he turned and waited for the commander to approach. By nature, Redrick was a stoic man, who kept his emotions (save for consternation) fairly well hidden behind his rather severe countenance. On this occasion, however, the Consul was clearly unnerved by whatever had transpired and Artumas could feel a rush of adrenalin snap him out of his malaise. "What has happened?"

For a moment, the Consul floundered as though he could not find the words necessary to convey whatever was troubling him. At last, he revealed, "My king, four ships have appeared in the harbor, materializing out of the evening sky as if by magic."

"Do they fly a recognizable flag?"

"They do not. All four ships are anchored in the water not far from the wharf. This may seem difficult to fathom, but they have no visible sails or masts."

"Does anything suggest that they pose an immediate threat to Kammlogran or Nalosan?" Artumas inquired, though a tiny inner voice informed him that the sudden appearance of these sailing vessels went far beyond simple invasion.

"It would seem not, my liege," Redrick reported, clearly perplexed by the unexpected arrival of the four vessels. "The harbormaster attempted to hail the ships but received no response and so I dispatched a boarding party to board the nearest vessel. These ships are very unique my liege...I have seen only one of its like in all my time in Nalosan."

As the consul's voice trailed off, Artumas felt fingers of ice trace the length of his spine. The high king knew precisely to what the other man was referring. "Take me to the harbor."

Redrick nodded, spun about on his heels and the two men were off toward the Kammlogran rampart that overlooked Nalosan's harbor. The wind had picked up dramatically since earlier in the afternoon and there was a cold, salty snap to the air that caused the aging king to shudder perceptibly as the two men crossed the stone expanse of the upper rampart. Heart hammering in his chest, Artumas leaned over the massive stones of the battlement, placing his hands on the moisture-slicked stone, and his jaw dropped.

His military consul was quite correct; these ships were very exotic and built in the same style as the vessel that had carried Myrhia to the shores of Emercia all those years before. The long keel and narrow hull were unlike anything ever built on this continent, the appearance made all the more peculiar by the lack of a visible means of propulsion. The four ships stood against the horizon with an alien majesty that struck awe into every single member of the large crowds that had gathered along the harbor docks.

"How did the ship's occupants respond to your boarding party?" Artumas heard himself ask as though through the filter of a dream.

"They did not," Redrick remarked and now another emotion echoed in his voice along with consternation; apprehension. Artumas glanced quickly at the other man and was stunned to discover that he did indeed seem frightened. "I ordered my boarding crew to board the nearest vessel...which they did."

After a protracted silence, he concluded, "They found no one. The ship was deserted...as were the other three."

The high king glanced sharply at his aide and then back at the quartet of ships. "They were searched thoroughly?"

"They were," Redrick assured his monarch. "Teams have scoured each craft from rudder to stern and they are all empty"

"How is it possible that four large sea vessels could sail into this port, disembark everyone on board and not be noticed?" Artumas demanded tightly. Redrick flinched at the high king's uncharacteristic surliness. Ultimately, he was forced to admit there was no plausible explanation. "The castle gates have been closed and I have ordered Royal Guard units to search the city for any sign of the intruders."

The high king shifted his gaze to the exotic ships. "Order a squad of archers to man the ramparts...also, if we find no sign of the intruders by morning, have your men set the ships ablaze."

Redrick blinked at his liege's unaccustomed harshness, thought to say something and then closed his mouth with an audible snap, seeing that the king was furious. Artumas shook his head in apparent disgust and pushed away from the stone parapet. "Once you've positioned the archers, have the consuls assemble in the throne room. Also, make sure that adjutant Melansa is in attendance."

With this, the high king stormed away, leaving a dejected Redrick alone to reflect on his perceived failure.

3

A half bell later, Artumas sat at the head of his meeting table, quietly surveying the two rows of troubled faces that lined either side of the long table. At his request, Jerhia adjutant Melansa was seated at the opposite end of the table. Artumas reasoned that, if Emercia was at risk, the Jerhia would be required to defend both the capital and the country. "Consul Redrick, do we have any further information on our guests?"

Redrick rose to his feet, his face still ashen with shame. "No, my king. It is not even clear how the ship's inhabitants might have disembarked from the vessels as they do not possess the riggings required to raise and lower smaller crafts. What is more perplexing still is that there is no real sign of occupation on any of the four crafts...they are devoid of everyday items and goods that one would expect to find on ships of this size."

"Perhaps they are ghost ships," Consul Dynok interjected, though his demeanor made it impossible to determine if he was being glib or sarcastic.

Artumas decided to ignore the remark, instead focusing his attention on the adjutant. "Adjutant Melansa, have you had an opportunity to see the ships?"

"Yes, your majesty," She replied thoughtfully. "They are impressive vessels and, if I might anticipate your question, they are of a design that I have not previously seen. I would hazard that they are not native to any of the eastern seaboard countries."

"I would agree," Artumas concurred. "As we have no indication of who the occupants might be or what their intentions are, I have instructed Redrick to proceed on the assumption that their purpose is hostile. I have further instructed the Consul to have the ships razed if we cannot determine the whereabouts of their owners by sunrise."

The usually unflappable Dynok grimaced at this. "My liege, I understand the need for prudent precautions, but I am not sure that this would extend to destroying the ships...especially considering that we have secured the vessels. It could well be that their purpose is more benevolent than we might suspect."

"Sailing four ships into the harbor of a sovereign nation, not declaring your presence and then disembarking covertly would hardly seem friendly," Redrick interjected gruffly.

Dynok's mercurial gaze settled on the military consul for a moment and then slipped away. "I can only speculate as to how the intruders managed such a feat of stealth right under the nose of our capable military; and so soon after an assassin nearly gained access into Kammlogran itself."

"You pompous, preening ass, how dare you insult the men in my command!" Redrick fumed, leaping to his feet and pointing his finger at the Foreign Affairs Consul, who only raised his hands and feigned innocence.

"Enough!" Artumas bellowed. "I have neither the time nor the patience for your petty squabbling and infantile barbs. Someone has landed in our Capital city and I want to know who they are and precisely why they are here. Any fault in the matter can be dealt with later...if I see fit to do so."

Dynok bowed in deference while Redrick averted his sullen gaze to the table. The high king sighed. "Perhaps you are right, Dynok. It might be best to determine just whom we are dealing with before we decide how to deal with the ships. Redrick will instruct the harbormaster to have the vessels towed to dock and moored under constant guard. No one is allowed access to those ships without my personal permission."

Redrick nodded and dispatched one of the young pages to deliver the instructions to the harbormaster. Artumas waited for the boy to leave the hall and then turned his attention to the Jerhia adjutant. "Melansa, I know that this is unprecedented, but I am going to make a formal request for two cohorts of Jerhia Cavalry to be dispatched to Emercia to protect the integrity of this country."

There were sharp gasps all along the table and even the normally unflappable Jerhia responded with a noticeable widening of her blue eyes. After a moment, she remarked, "I will convey your request to Maxim Tier Marshal Maroc, your majesty."

Artumas rose and surveyed those assembled around his table. He did not speak for several moments allowing the gravity of his request to impress itself upon all present. "Emercia is in grave danger. The ominous appearance of these four ships is the latest in a series of growing threats to our country and it is my judgment that we cannot face them alone. Indeed, it is only fitting that we have help because if Emercia falls into anarchy, the entire eastern continent is bound to follow. Last night, Adjutant Melansa informed me that Sygeanor has usurped control in Othgol. She has demanded that all Nations cease to recognize the sovereign state of Lamia and turn Queen Lorio over to Metocan. I can state unequivocally these are things that we simply will not do. It is impossible to predict how Metocan might respond, but it is prudent to assume that we are on hostile terms with Othgol."

Artumas paused, again allowing his advisers to absorb the calamitous news. Many wore expressions that bordered on outright fear. No sane person would relish the prospect of a war with Metocan. 'With the exception of Myrhia,' his mind amended, causing Artumas to wonder why this strange notion had struck him at this particular moment.

"Sygeanor can't seriously be considering waging a war over her grudge with Queen Lorio?" Tygon offered.

"She has given a half moon cycle ultimatum to turn Lorio over to her keeping," Artumas disclosed. "It would be foolhardy to assume that she is anything but serious."

"The Metocan will not field a conventional army, my king," Redrick observed softly. "It is hard to imagine how we would even engage them."

"I agree. Nonetheless, we have a fortnight to concoct a method of defending Lamia."

"If I may interject, your majesty?" Melansa began. The Emercian king gestured for her to proceed and this time not a single member of those assembled made the slightest show of disapproval. She stood and smoothed her formal tunic. "I have just received word that Maxim Tier Marshal Maroc has dispatched Tier Marshal Gillian into Lamia to begin preparing for a possible Metocan invasion. Furthermore, the Natzurdan have declared their neutrality in the matter and thus we can expect no aid from that quarter."

"And thus, the mighty Cornerstone Nations have crumbled into disarray," Dynok observed theatrically, though the Jerhia adjutant thought she could detect a hint of satisfaction in his airy tone. Artumas slumped back in his chair and stroked his graying beard, dismayed by how quickly the fabric of his world appeared to be unraveling. The demise of the Cornerstone alliance would forever change the political topography of the entire world...but as the high king was about to discover, his world was much larger than he first believed.

4

The next bell passed in a blur of bravado, confused rhetoric and implied criticism, laying blame in every corner. Artumas sat mutely by and allowed his advisers to vent their anger and frustration over the apparent catastrophic collapse of the geopolitical order of the world. Tygon was in the process of proposing a draconian series of curfews and movement restrictions, when another page entered the room and made a not so subtle attempt to attract the high king's attention. Artumas gestured for his Consul to be silent for a moment and then directed the young man to make his report. The page surveyed the room nervously and announced, "Your majesty, three women have approached the watch at the castle gate and have requested an audience with the king."

Artumas blinked and glanced about the assembly. Petitions for an audience were commonplace, but it was extremely rare that such requests would be presented in this manner; even more so when one considered that Kammlogran was presently locked down. "Did the commander of the watch mention why he thought this matter so urgent that he would interrupt a full session of the court?"

The young man's discomfort increased perceptibly, but he managed to retain enough of his composure to reply. "One of the women told the commander that she was the Matrium of the Sisters of Esotaria...she further declared that the four ships in the harbor were under her command."

A profound silence descended upon the room, lasting for several moments before a thoughtful king instructed, "Have the women escorted here at once."

The page bowed deeply and was gone. After the youth had departed, Artumas stood and made his way over to the throne, while gesturing for his advisers to assume the places that they would normally take on the occasion of a state visit. This perplexed many of those present, but instinct informed the king that Emercia...indeed, the very world...had come to a critical juncture in its history. Much as Myrhia had done many years before, these women were about to change the fabric of the prevailing landscape in ways that he could not begin to comprehend.

After several moments of tense expectation, the great doors to the throne room opened slowly and three women entered, escorted by a dozen heavily armed guards. If the three were intimidated by the ominous presence of the guards, their faces gave no hint. The trio moved quickly and resolutely up the carpet with one woman taking the lead and the other two keeping pace slightly behind and off to the side of the apparent leader. The high king studied the lead woman's handsome, angular face. She was tall (as were her escorts) and possessed a regal bearing that spoke of poise and dignity. Her large blue eyes were luminous, shining with a keen intelligence that impressed the Emercian ruler. She wore an unadorned robe of some earthen brown fabric that Artumas had never before seen. Nonetheless, it seemed oddly familiar, but try as he might to bring the recollection into focus, he could not recall where he had seen this fabric before.

The other two women were strikingly beautiful, statuesque and sinewy. They both wore robes like the apparent leader, yet theirs' were charcoal gray in color and the fabric was coarser in texture. Like the first woman, the pair displayed no sign of adornment or affectation. Their icy demeanors instilled a deep chill in Artumas. There was a distinctly lethal aspect to their movements that suggested both the capability and the desire to kill if the moment demanded as much.

When the procession had come within two lengths of the throne, Redrick stepped forward and barked, "That is quite far enough."

The three women inclined their heads toward the consul. There was a glint of amused indulgence in the lead woman's eyes, but her escorts regarded the old soldier with a glacial expression that was terrifying to behold. The lead woman spoke to the pair softly in a foreign tongue and their posture of implied violence eased...if only marginally. The woman smiled at the military adviser and then returned her attention to the high king.

Abruptly, she bowed her head and dropped to one knee before the king. An instant later, her two companions did the same.

With this one simple gesture of deference, the expectant tension that had filled the room only moments before quickly dissipated. Artumas blinked and gazed about the room and saw that every face wore the same expression of surprise. Still kneeling, the lead woman declared, "Your majesty, I am Karosyn, Matrium of the Sisters of Esotaria. I thank you for agreeing to see us and ask that you hear my petition."

"You may stand, Karosyn and yes, I will consider your petition," The high king replied with an atypically stiff formality. Karosyn rose gracefully and gestured for the others to do the same. Again, she flashed her disarming smile at the aging king and remarked, "Your majesty, the matter at hand is of a critical and immediate manner. I ask that we speak in as much privacy as you would deem safe."

Redrick started to object, but Artumas silenced the consul with a raised hand. The sense of destiny was virtually overwhelming now and he had little doubt that something of immense and irreversible consequence was about to be divulged. "Very well, dismiss everyone with the exception of my advisers and personal guards."

With a soft sign of disappointment, the pages and aides began to exit the chamber. Artumas spotted the Jerhia adjutant moving toward the double doors. "Adjutant Melansa, I would ask that you remain as well."

The young Jerhia glanced briefly at the king and then bowed before moving back to her assigned spot. When the room finally cleared, Artumas returned his attention to Karosyn, though now his tone had chilled perceptibly. "Am I correct in assuming that the ships in my harbor are yours?"

"Yes, your majesty, the four ships do belong to the Sisters of Esotaria."

"Perhaps you would care to explain why you elected to make this rather dramatic entrance rather than taking the more traditional route of declaring yourself to my harbormaster?"

"My king, I apologize for any perceived offence. We are from a land whose customs vary greatly from your own. I can assure you that our purpose here is entirely benevolent," Karosyn promised softly. Artumas studied her face and could detect no overt sign of guile...ah, but he had been fooled so thoroughly before and in circumstances frighteningly similar to these. "Where are the other occupants of your ships?"

"They have been dispersed throughout the city," the Matrium responded without hesitation.

Artumas arched an eyebrow and demanded, "And why would they do this?"

"I instructed them to do so...I wish to know about this land and its customs and so I directed my sisters to go forth and gain some insight into the kind of country Emercia is," Karosyn declared in a neutral voice. "It was never my intention to give offence, nor did I realize that this might be construed as an act of either subterfuge or aggression.... If I have offended you, then I am deeply sorry."

'Ah, this woman is well versed in the art of diplomacy,' Artumas thought, knowing that, if anything, this proficiency would make her all the more dangerous. "I must insist that you recall your...followers to the castle at once."

Karosyn appeared to consider this for a long moment and then nodded her concurrence. Closing her eyes, she silently mouthed several words before returning her attention to her host. "My sisters have been instructed to return to the castle gates. I trust that they will be treated with all due courtesy."

An excited buzz filled the room as the observers attempted to digest what had just transpired. Artumas regarded the woman carefully and then demanded, "Are you suggesting that you somehow communicated with your followers just now?"

The Matrium spread her arms in a gesture of placation. "All of the sisters of Esotaria are linked telepathically. This link is referred to as the chain of empathy and it is one of many abilities that each sister possesses. I will gladly answer your questions about who we are and the origins of our order. Perhaps this will serve to cast the reason for our sudden appearance in the proper light."

"Esotaria is your country of origin?"

The Matrium again favored the king with her disarming smile and shook her head. "No, the Sisters of Esotaria is an order of women who are skilled in both the mystic arts and the warrior crafts. The women all possess unique abilities and are drawn from all over the Islands and continents that lie across the ocean."

"Do you mean to say that there are many other countries and lands across the Ocean?" Artumas asked, clearly intrigued by the notion. In that moment, the high king was struck by an epiphany that very nearly stole his breath. All of the countries of his known world had never developed a curiosity about what might lay beyond the ocean, instead electing to spend their speculative energies pondering what might lie beyond the Hiberas river. His country was the most affluent on the eastern continent and yet Emercia had no real navy to speak of and a miniscule merchant marine fleet.

'How could it be that all of us could be so inward looking and thinking in our view of the world?' he mused as he listened to the fascinating creature before him.

Karosyn favored him with a quizzical smile and said simply, "Yes. Your highness, I would love nothing better than to discuss my homeland, but I fear that events will not allow us that luxury..."

Artumas nodded, knowing that she was correct, but still feeling a twinge of resentment at the subtle reproof. "To the matter at hand then...why have you come to Emercia?"

"Our motivations are multi-fold," Karosyn began solemnly. "A dark cloud is gathering over Emercia...indeed, over every land beyond its borders. You have elected to have your advisors present and thus I will assume that they have your absolute trust. The one known as Xhendyn has revealed himself to you no doubt?"

Though posed as a question, Artumas realized that the Matrium's remarks were rhetorical and so he responded with a nod. Karosyn pursed her lips. "He is a creature of exceptional power who believes that he can draw the recumbent spirit of the Proclamations from Myrhia's inured shell."

Gasps of confusion and incredulity filled the throne room. The mention of the enchantress' name in the presence of the king was considered a dire breech of protocol. Melansa frowned and gazed about the assembly, quickly realizing that none of those assembled truly understood the visitor's reference. The Jerhia adjutant's gaze happened upon Dynok who was regarding her intently from across the room. There was a certain dawning comprehension in his eyes that made her feel ill at ease and so she averted her gaze to the drama unfolding at the foot of the throne.

'Somehow he knows about the king's arrangement,' she understood, even though Artumas had sworn that none of his advisors knew of Myrhia's present circumstance. What this precisely implied, she could not say, but Melansa knew that she would have to decipher the mystery before long.

Artumas managed to maintain a neutral expression, but inside his disquiet increased exponentially. How could it be that this woman could possess such intimate knowledge...knowledge that he had shared with less than a dozen people? "How could you possibly know this?"

"The particulars of our knowledge are unimportant. As I have said, the Sisters of Esotaria possess a broad spectrum of abilities. Let it suffice to say that there is an invisible band of magical energy that envelopes the world. Though that energy is dynamic and nebulous, we have the faculty to tap into it and glimpse the ebbs and flows that shape events. This is how we foresaw Xhendyn and the threat that he poses to the stability of our world. We have gleaned his intention to gain possession of the remnant. This is an eventuality that must not come to pass."

"Obviously, if you know of the circumstances surrounding Myrhia's present whereabouts, then you know that she is virtually inaccessible," The king interjected tightly, now regretting his decision not to dismiss the court.

Karosyn arched an eyebrow but elected not to respond. "This Xhendyn has the faculty of dimensional bending. He is able to reach out and summon a minion from another plane of reality. We have detected this intention, and though we lack the power to stop it, we have at least come to understand the nature of the threat that this interloper will pose. Xhendyn has summoned the ShadowCaster from another reality. In his own world, this man was a mere mortal. However, in this particular reality, the ShadowCaster will command power the likes of which this world has yet to witness. This creature will find the remnant for Xhendyn despite the measure you have taken to keep her concealed."

"That is simply not possible," Artumas rasped angrily.

Karosyn shook her head in negation, knowing that she could not relent to the high king's anger. "On the contrary...it is difficult to conceive of any other outcome. This is one of the reasons we made the pilgrimage to Nalosan. This interloper can move through this world virtually undetected like a shadow in the depth of night."

"Again, why have you come?" Artumas insisted vehemently.

"To offer our help in preventing Xhendyn and his minion from gaining possession of the remnant."

"And how exactly would you do that if this ShadowCaster is as powerful as you suggest he is?"

"The forces of the universe are held in perfect balance: every evil negated by a balancing force of purity. This situation is no different. To the people of this world, the ShadowCaster is a vessel of terrible, immutable power, but to the dwellers of his own world, he is just another man of petty evil. In anticipation of Xhendyn bending reality and drawing forth the ShadowCaster, the Sisters sought out and drew his bane into our world."

Artumas stroked his temple with his right hand, sensing an incisive pain building within his skull. Again, the damnable shadow of magic was casting its pall over his world, making him feel helpless and vulnerable the way a child must feel in a world of adults. "To paraphrase what you are telling me...this Xhendyn has pulled something known as the ShadowCaster into our world to help him gain possession of Myrhia and you have pulled another figure into our reality to stop him?"

"Essentially, yes," Karosyn allowed. "The bending of dimensional reality is an imprecise art and there is no way of predicting where these two might have crossed over. Xhendyn will have his minion come to him and we informed the bane to seek us out here, in Nalosan."

"Let us allow that all you have revealed is true, what would you have me do?" Artumas inquired, dreading the answer.

"The ShadowCaster will cross into this world in a state of virtual invulnerability. Many of the rules of nature will not apply to this creature and this is why he will be such a deadly adversary. His bane will be all too mortal, susceptible to all of the frailties that afflict normal men. An improvident encounter with a mere highwayman could end his life before he finds this creature, thus condemning our world to consuming darkness. It is imperative that we find the bane and keep that person safe until he vanquishes Xhendyn's minion."

"You are suggesting that my army scour the country in search of a man or woman that may well be anywhere like seeking out a needle in an impossibly vast haystack."

"Yes...a needle whose value is without precedent. The bane is the only one who can stop the ShadowCaster. If you believe nothing else that I have divulged, believe this," Karosyn urged solemnly.

The high king pondered this for a moment. "As you have stated, there is no way of predicting where either of these two have passed into our world...or if they are here, for that matter."

"They are here...of that we are certain."

"Other than locate this bane, what do you require of me?"

Karosyn inhaled sharply, knowing that she had reached a critical juncture in her audience with the Emercian ruler. "We wish to offer our assistance in your battle with Xhendyn and the ShadowCaster. We also wish to recover what is ours."

The Matrium fell silent and when it seemed that she would not expand on this cryptic declaration, Artumas prodded, "Which is what precisely?"

"I ask that you return the body of our sister Appelion so that we might give her the right of passage that every member of our sisterhood is entitled to have."

Now the chamber resounded with shock and outrage as the advisors came to understand the subject of the Matrium's reference. Artumas rose slowly to his feet. "So, you are admitting that the woman who attempted to enter my castle was one of your own?"

"Yes," Karosyn confessed flatly to the howls of outrage from the assembly.

"Silence!" Artumas thundered and the room immediately fell quiet. "How am I to interpret this flagrant act of hostility in the face of this offer of aid?"

Karosyn bowed, her lovely blue eyes never leaving the high king's face. "The decision was mine. Appelion's excursion into your castle was intended to determine the nature and security of your portal. Initially, it was my hope that the Sisters of Esotaria could deal with Xhendyn's threat unilaterally. Appelion was our most talented stealth ranger. Her failure made it eminently clear that we were not in a position to vanquish Xhendyn alone. The error in judgment was entirely mine and I beg your forgiveness and plead that you do not let anger, however justified, occlude your better judgment in this matter. Allow us to aid you in your battle with the darkness that gathers about your kingdom and protect you from your enemies."

The suggestion that these interlopers could offer Artumas a level of protection that his troops could not struck Redrick as a personal affront. "The Emercian army is perfectly capable of protecting the King!"

Karosyn slowly turned to address the military consul as the expression of sincere contrition faded from her regal face. Her speculative gaze made the old warrior want to squirm in his boots, but somehow, he managed to meet her eyes with a blend of outrage and indignation.

"Indeed?" the Matrium inquired softly. There followed a blur of motion...a subtle movement of shadow that could scarcely be recorded by the human eye...and Artumas found himself pushed back onto his throne with a gleaming blade pressed menacingly against his throat. He shifted his gaze toward his attacker to discover the lower half of her face was covered by a veil, though her almond-shaped eyes gazed back at him unblinkingly. Her gaze was cold and dispassionate, leaving Artumas with little doubt that she would slit his throat with but a word from Karosyn. The Matrium moved forward in a swirl of robes. "Artumas, these men, however capable you believe them to be, cannot assure your personal safety against creatures such as Xhendyn. Against the ShadowCaster, they have no hope of protecting you should he be dispatched to take your life."

Artumas was about to respond when the hand holding the dagger went slack. The blade slipped from the assailant's fingers and clattered to the carpeted approach to the throne. In the next instant, the attacker pitched forward and fell bonelessly to the ground at the high king's feet. Now it was Karosyn who found herself with the killing end of an ironwood staff pressed menacingly into the hollow of her throat.

"Ah, but I can," rasped the statuesque woman as she regarded the Matrium with blazing eyes. Her gaze shifted briefly to the two Sisters, who stared at their leader with a mix of apoplexy and indecision. "If either of your lackeys move, your life will end here."

"They will not," promised Karosyn in an even tone that belied her shock. The tall woman standing before her was stunningly beautiful, but the Matrium had little doubt that she would make good on her threat without hesitation. The room lapsed into a silence that seem to stretch into infinity, until finally Artumas intoned, "Your highness, I would ask that you not spill blood in my throne room."

Gradually, the lethal tension drained from Lorio's body and she slowly lowered her staff and stepped back a pace. The high king quickly imposed himself between the pair. "Perhaps you would care to explain this flagrant breach of protocol."

Karosyn involuntarily raised a hand to her throat and inhaled deeply to steady herself. "The situation that we presently find ourselves in does not allow for long contemplation. I merely wished to demonstrate in concrete terms that you are vulnerable and that my Sisters can be invaluable in protecting against threats that a conventional army cannot."

Artumas moved closer to the Matrium until the pair was only a hand span apart. He was surprised to see that they were of an equal height. "You have dispatched a spy to infiltrate my castle. It might interest you to know that it is probable she killed one of my citizens. You have landed a substantial force in my city without prior consent and now your minion has actually held a dagger to my throat. In light of all of this, what would compel me to trust the Sisters of Esotaria in any capacity?"

Never one for the stiff formality of court etiquette, Lorio intoned, "Artumas, your castle has been infested by a pack of she-wolves, but it would be my pleasure to help run them off."

Karosyn stiffened at the derisive remarked but willed herself not to be drawn into an exchange with this woman. Lyndsyn reached out to her leader through their special psychic tether. 'Please, let me punish her impudence!'

'Be still," she replied gently but firmly. 'This one is not what she appears to be.'

Artumas glanced over his shoulder at Lorio with a silent plea for calm before returning his attention to his uninvited guest. The Matrium met his gaze unflinchingly. "If a gesture of trust is required, then it shall be provided. If you agree to allow my order to protect and guide you in the forthcoming conflict with the ShadowCaster, I will consign our most valuable treasure to your custody...our Ascentrix."

Both Artumas and Lorio glimpsed the expression of utter shock and bewilderment that passed quickly over the faces of Karosyn's two companions. Though it was quickly replaced by the customary stoic expression of a guardian, that look of unadulterated surprise and horror conveyed the magnitude of the Matrium's gesture. Artumas and Lorio exchanged glances and the king asked, "What is an Ascentrix?"

"With your permission, I would prefer to show you and allow you to reach your own judgment on the value of what I offer."

"Very well," Artumas replied softly. The Matrium bowed her head and closed her eyes. Artumas could feel a coercing of unseen forces in the throne room and the hair on the nape of his neck stood up in response as currents of energy filled the room. After several moments, a pin prick of golden light took shape near the double doors. This small ball of energy expanded until it formed a curtain that stretched from the marble floor to the vaulted ceiling. There was a diffuse, hypnotic aspect to this curtain of shimmering light that evoked a sense of deep contentment in everyone in the throne room.

The expectant tension mounted and at last, a single figure stepped through the curtain and stood regarding the assembly. This latest entrant was a girl of perhaps seven years old. Her long golden hair hung down to the middle of her back and her limpid blue eyes dominated a face that promised incredible beauty at maturity. As she made her way down the carpet, the girl appeared to float with a grace and serenity that could be both disarming and intimidating. She wore a robe that was similar to the others save for the onyx and amber brooch that adorned her left breast. The Matrium and her two attendants dropped to their knees and averted their eyes as the girl drew near. Even Artumas felt a strange compulsion to kneel before this clearly remarkable creature who exuded an energy that could best be described as holy in nature. In that moment of exceptional clarity, Artumas knew that he would accede to the Matrium's every request.

The girl drew even with the three women and stood regarding Artumas and Lorio with a keen and open curiosity that hinted at unimaginable wisdom. The Matrium rose as did her escort. The faces of all three women were alight with glowing pride. "Your majesty, may I present Lissom, the Ascentrix of the Sisters of Esotaria."

Artumas smiled at the girl. "On behalf of Emercia, I welcome you to Kammlogran and the city of Nalosan."

When the girl spoke, the maturity of her voice was incongruent with her apparent age. "I thank you for receiving us and hearing our petition. I would humbly request that we be allowed to attend to our fallen sister."

Artumas nodded and one of the escorts moved to help the downed woman. Lorio flicked Lyndsyn a contemptuous grin and remarked, "I have merely incapacitated her, but she will feel no lingering effects."

Dynok stepped forward, his blue eyes gleaming quizzically. "If I may, is it wise to consider entering into agreements with a group who would proffer a child as a bartering chip for their agenda? We know nothing of these women, and they have certainly not conducted themselves in a manner that could be described as forthcoming."

Melansa had remained silent for the entire dramatic meeting with the Sisters of Esotaria, trying to absorb something of the undercurrents flowing through the moment. Her instinct for diplomacy informed her that there was something decidedly disingenuous about his protest. Artumas regarded his Consul for several moments. "Caution is prudent, and your concerns are duly noted, but I will hear these women out."

The Matrium turned her gaze to Dynok. "Appearances are sometimes deceptive. The Ascentrix is well over two hundred years old. Her path to the apex of our Sisterhood is a long and laborious road. The moment will come when she will attain a state of spiritual and intellectual perfection and like a butterfly, she will emerge into full adulthood. We are not entrusting you with her care. She has elected to consign herself to your keeping as a demonstration of our sincerity and integrity. Believe me when I tell you that none of us could compel her to do anything to which she was not amenable."

Artumas regarded the girl closely and gleaned the truth of this in the girl's candid expression. "How can you help us and at what price?"

This time, it was the girl who spoke. "We can deal with Xhendyn and we can protect both yourself and the bane. We can also help you locate this creature before your enemies find him. As to what we request in terms of compensation, the Matrium may address this matter."

Artumas turned his head toward the older woman, feeling overwhelmed by a sense of surrealism. This child (though obviously this was a misnomer) possessed a keen intellect and he could sense the power that resided just below the surface of her child-like façade.

'The delicacy of this situation terrifies me,' he realized, but managed to sublimate his emotions.

Karosyn was watching the girl with an expression of open affection and something that could well have been awe. "We ask that, in return for our aid in your war with this madman, you allow the Sisters of Esotaria to establish chapters of our order throughout Emercia and the lands you protect. We wish to bring our campaign of empowerment to your shore. It is not our intention to subvert your authority, rather we wish only to help the women of your country realize their full potential."

Looks of dismay could be seen on nearly every male face in the hall, but Artumas elected to ignore these. His time with Islena Doraux had served to greatly alter his perception of women and their potential. Clearly, these women were extraordinary creatures who possessed immense power and with unseen enemies closing in from every quarter, he could scarcely object to their offer of help. "In principle, I see no reason not to agree to this, but I must still confer with my advisors before making a final decision in the matter."

A troubled expression came over the Matrium's face then, alerting the high king that something extraordinarily disturbing was about to be disclosed. "We also request that Myrhia, or more precisely, what remains of Myrhia be delivered to our keeping."

Artumas could not suppress the expression of absolute horror that spread across his face as Karosyn revealed her final condition. This was the realization of the high king's darkest fear and the one thing that he could never agree to. "This is a matter of utmost delicacy. I can't imagine why you would either want or feel you are entitled to control over Myrhia?"

The Matrium met and held the high king's gaze and remarked flatly, "The woman you know as Myrhia was once the Ascentrix of the Sisters of Esotaria."

Chapter Eight

1

The tumult that followed Karosyn's revelation shook the throne room with cries of outrage and disbelief. For a long moment, Artumas could not respond. He stood utterly still as though he had been turned to stone by the enchantment of the Matrium's words. Behind him, he was cognizant of the rage emanating from the Queen of Lamia. Lorio made to push by him, but Artumas placed a restraining hand on her shoulder. Her smoldering gaze met his, saw the bewilderment in his eyes, and she moved back to her original position. Still, the volatile Queen continued to glare balefully at the Matrium.

"This is treachery, my king!" Redrick bellowed, his face running to a deep crimson. "Allow me to have these women confined to the dungeons."

"Do not be a fool!" Artumas rasped irritably. "Everyone will leave the throne room at once, with the exception of Adjutant Melansa, Queen Lorio and Consuls Dynok and Redrick. Now!"

There was a chorus of muttered protests, but gradually the room again cleared. When the double doors again closed, Artumas turned to the Matrium, his face alive with anger. "At this stage of my life, I have little patience with subterfuge, misdirection or hidden agendas. My country and the countries beyond Emercia's borders are in a state of extreme crisis. Now, if I am not to follow Redrick's advice and have the entire lot of you thrown into Kammlogran's dungeons, you will divulge exactly why you have come here and what it is you want."

The Matrium began to speak, but the Ascentrix raised a small hand and gestured for her to be silent. Karosyn seemed about to speak, but then nodded and stepped back. Artumas regarded the girl impatiently, but for a moment, she did not speak. Instead, the king felt something immense and powerful brush his mind. The sensation was warm and altogether pleasant. The girl watched the older man, an expression of precocious maturity set on her lovely face.

'Ah, but if these women are to be believed, she is many times older than I am,' he thought skeptically.

She came forward and placed a small hand on his wrist. Solemnly, she declared, "I understand the nature of your fear. You do not want to lose the promise of what you first believed her to be. The pain of that loss...that betrayal is like a thorn in your soul."

Artumas started to speak, but his mouth snapped shut with an audible pop. This creature had described the depth and misery of his personal pain in just a few brutally concise sentences. For a horrible moment, the high king feared that he would begin to cry like a child, but then Lorio saved him from that ultimate embarrassment. "Artumas, if she is trying to beguile you, I will strike her down."

By sheer force of will, the aging king dragged his gaze to meet his friend's eyes. "All is well, Lorio. My guest is truly blessed with the gift of keen insight." He turned his attention back to the Ascentrix and when he again spoke, his tone was soft and respectful. "If you would tell me of Myrhia, I will listen carefully."

The girl smiled disarmingly and began to recount the tale of how the emerald enchantress rose through the cloistered ranks of the Sisterhood and how she well near succeeded in destroying the ancient order. Her tale was one of deception, guile and a smooth, gradual seduction with which Artumas was all too familiar. Myrhia had entered the order, absorbed their power after convincing the Sisters that she was the rightful Ascentrix. When she had attained the position, Myrhia systematically destroyed the order and then vanished, leaving the Sisters of Esotaria in tattered ruins. It had taken the order nearly three centuries to regain both their strength and their standing in their homelands.

Artumas absorbed this tale thoughtfully and when the girl fell silent, he inquired, "How is it that you managed to locate Myrhia?"

"As the Matrium mentioned, we are all connected by empathy. Myrhia was an inconceivably powerful force, whose confidence in her own invincibility meant that she did little to conceal her whereabouts." The girl paused and an expression of puzzlement crept over her face. "For the longest time, she did not register in our collective consciousness, but some years ago, she began to radiate arcane energy like a solar flare."

The high king's eyes narrowed in contemplation and it suddenly occurred to him that Myrhia's awakening probably coincided with the period immediately after she usurped his throne. He wondered how she had spent the intervening years between her destruction of the Sisterhood and her arrival in Emercia.

"Myrhia is dead," he heard himself remark flatly.

Karosyn and the Ascentrix briefly exchanged glances and then the girl arched an eyebrow knowingly. "Respectfully, I believe that you know this is not the case. While her spirit is imprisoned within the vault of her inured flesh, she is still dangerous and could yet be freed."

An obdurate light dawned in the king's eyes and he growled, "I will not allow you to take her."

His tone was so atypical of the man she knew that even Lorio appeared surprised. She did not trust this coven of automaton women, with their rigid and inaccessible dispositions, but she suspected that their story was essentially true. Artumas' clinging obsession with his betrayer was both perplexing and disturbing.

"May I suggest that we agree to set this matter aside and resolve it when circumstances allow," the Ascentrix suggested, not willing to become mired in the swamp of the high king's intractability. "We must deal with this ShadowCaster and finding his bane is the first step in the process. I humbly petition that you allow my order to be of aid."

'For the first time, she refers to this Sisterhood as 'her' order,' Artumas observed, immediately deciding that he would not be stampeded into making a quick decision. He made a theatrical display of rubbing his beard and then turned to the Queen of Lamia, deliberately dismissing the Ascentrix and her followers. "In all of the drama and confusion, I have neglected to ask why your highness has come to Nalosan?"

Lorio smiled, an expression that unleashed the full weight of her immense beauty on the lucky recipient. Artumas could sense a tremendous excitement gleaming in her limpid eyes. "Artumas, she is returning...Islena Doraux is coming back to us!"

The high king blinked as though he misunderstood his guest. Lorio's affection for the world's savior was the stuff of legend and he often wondered how the Lamish queen managed to fill the hollow of Islena's absence. "I'm not sure that I understand."

Lorio flicked a quick glance at Karosyn. "Whatever other lies she might be weaving; I can attest that her warning about this ShadowCaster is valid."

She then recounted the vision that spurred her to come to Emercia. The others listened with rapt attention as Lorio described her encounter with the speaking demon. When she concluded her story, she fixed her gaze on Karosyn. "You suggest that the bane is frail, but I can personally assure you that Islena would crush your order like the inconsequential gnats that you are."

"Your highness, did this speaking demon specifically mention Islena Doraux...by name?" Melansa inquired cautiously, anticipating that the volatile Queen of Lamia might not take kindly to possible contradiction.

Lorio's head jerked toward the Jerhia adjutant. Though her annoyance was obvious, Lorio managed to respond in a civil tone. "Not specifically...no. Still, why else would this entity appear to me if not to signify Islena's impending return? Exactly who are you to question my judgment in this matter?"

Melansa bowed formally and then knelt on a single knee. "I am Melansa, Jerhia adjutant and emissary to the royal court of Artumas. It is my immense honor to finally meet your highness. Tier Marshal Arminda has spoken of you often and with great fondness."

Lorio placed her hands on her hips and intoned sardonically, "I'll bet she has. I have no patience with ceremonial groveling and Jerhia obsession with formality and so you may stop calling me your highness. Lorio will do quite well."

"If you wish, Lorio," Melansa responded, though her discomfort with this breach of protocol was very evident. "I do not mean to demean your judgment. I would only caution against jumping to conclusions that may impart false hope."

Before the tempestuous Lorio could respond, Karosyn interjected, "You would be wise to heed this young woman's council. I do not know Islena Doraux, but I can tell you that the ShadowCaster's bane is a man....and that he is most definitely mortal."

"How can you possibly know this?" Lorio flared angrily. Like Artumas, she could not easily part with the long-harbored hope that her soul's desire would return.

The Matrium arched a tapered eyebrow and replied, "It was the Sisters of Esotaria who located the bane and then ushered him into this world. Now, it is imperative that we find him before your enemies do."

Lorio averted her eyes, unwilling to allow this woman to see the devastating effect that this disclosure was having upon her. For the first time since the night that Islena had returned to her own world, Lorio could feel the bitter sting of tears welling in her eyes. Savagely, she dragged the heel of her palm across her eyes and bit back her sorrow.

Divining Lorio's sudden vulnerability, Artumas decided to bring the audience to an abrupt end. "I will consult with my consuls and inform you of my decision in the morning. In the meantime, you will be afforded every courtesy that Kammlogran can provide. I will, however, insist that your sisters remain within the castle."

"We will gratefully accept your hospitality, King Artumas," Karosyn remarked with a deep bow. Artumas led the women to the main doors, where he bid his staff to prepare their lodging. A despondent Lorio watched him closely. Both weariness and pain were etched deeply into the lines of his face.

'How he has aged since last we met,' she mused as he ushered her into the hallway. Gesturing for his Consuls to come back into the throne room, the high king closed the great doors, leaving Lorio alone with her despair.

2

His first conscious thought was that he was not dead. The sudden rapid influx of tactile sensation told him as much. Stuart Macevey found himself sprawled flat on his back gazing wide-eyed up into a clear blue sky. He could feel a warm breeze caress his face and could smell pine and fresh grass in a way that he had never experienced those smells before. Experimentally, he raised his hand before his eyes and examined the limb as though it was some miraculous device he had never before set eyes upon. He then raised his head slightly and saw that there was no arrow shaft protruding from his chest. Indeed, as he ran his fingers gingerly over the area where the assassin's arrow had struck, he was surprised to discover that there was neither blood nor a wound.

Abruptly, Stuart sat up and gazed about. He was sitting on the edge of a narrow dirt tract that looked to be nothing more than a glorified cart path. The path cut through a stand of towering pines that swayed gently in the warm breeze. The air was alive with the chirping of birds and the subtle sounds of dozens of other living creatures. The surroundings were so strikingly different from the oppressive urban miasma of Seattle that Stuart feared that he would begin to cry or possibly shout with sheer joy at the astounding beauty of this place.

Stuart Macevey did not know where he was, but he was unquestionably certain that he was both alive and no longer in the world of his birth.

Unlike Islena Doraux before him, Stuart was better prepared for this improbable departure from the tangible reality that had governed his previous life. Whereas Islena had been a creature of her five senses and the limits that they imposed, Macevey had been exposed to things that shattered his perceptions of what was possible and what was not. Where Islena had grappled with the sense that she had become embroiled in a delusion-induced fantasy, Stuart immediately accepted that his reality had shifted and that he must decipher the rules of this new one if he had any chance of surviving.

He climbed to his feet and glanced about, still unsettled by the vibrancy of the forest and the encircling sky. Reaching into his jacket, he was relieved to find that his weapon was ensconced in its holster.

'But that isn't possible,' a voice whispered, and he recalled how the weapon had clattered to the wet pavement of the parking lot as the assassin's first arrow had buried itself in his chest. Had he managed to retrieve the weapon as he lay dying upon the ground? Stuart could not recall for certain, but he did not think that he had. Nonetheless, it was here and that was an incontrovertible fact and a tremendous source of assurance in light of the circumstances in which he now found himself.

'Make your way to Nalosan and the Sisters of Esotaria.' This had been the instruction of the woman who had killed him...or was it more correct to say, abducted him? Nalosan was obviously some sort of place, a country or city or something of the sort. He correctly deduced that the sisters of Esotaria were a group or order. These were the two known elements of his present situation and Stuart Macevey understood that he must focus on learning more about these two obscure clues about his new reality.

There was a sudden noise from somewhere behind him and Stuart instinctively ducked into the underbrush, crouching behind one of the large trees. He had no sooner made it into concealment than a group of about twenty riders on horseback burst into view. All of the riders wore brown tunics over leather ring mail, leading Stuart to deduce that they were soldiers of some sort. The group was moving at a fair gallop and in a matter of seconds they vanished from sight, leaving a cloud of dust in their wake.

Macevey allowed several moments to pass and when it became evident that there was no more cavalry to follow, he re-emerged from concealment. Gazing along the path in the direction that the group had taken, Macevey made a spur of the moment decision to follow the group. Their dramatic appearance provided Stuart with some crucial insights into his new environment. The fact that the soldiers were on horseback, wearing antiquated armor and sporting a variety of swords and bows revealed that this new world was at the technological level of his world's Middle Ages...or perhaps even earlier. He glanced down at his dirt-caked slacks and loafers and understood that he would stand out like a neon sign in this type of attire. If he was ever to understand anything of what had befallen him, Stuart Macevey would have to find a set of clothing that would allow him to go unnoticed in this new world.

"Tunnel vision, Stu," he advised himself and set out down the dirt path, ready to duck back into the underbrush at the slightest hint of company. His own advice was indeed cogent. Dealing with his present situation in incremental steps would allow him to focus only on what had to be done in the most immediate sense. Considering his present circumstances in a broader context could leave him shackled by indecision.

"First a new wardrobe. Then find out where I am and how I get to this Nalosan," he murmured and though this seemed logical enough, something told Stuart that this charted course would prove anything but easy.

3

Stuart followed the narrow cart path for several hours and did not encounter any other signs of life. His legs began to thrum with exhaustion and he suddenly realized that he was rather hungry. Rolling back his sleeve, he glanced at his watch and was surprised to see that it still functioned. Though he surmised that it held no reference in this world, the old-style quartz timepiece informed him that it had been six hours since he left his office and nearly fourteen hours since he had last eaten anything. The realization that he would now have to scavenge for food added a new and disturbing complexion to his dilemma.

Wondering around in an alien forest and starving to death would certainly be an anti-climactic ending to an improbable adventure, but Macevey need only listen to the outraged rumbling of his empty stomach to understand this was an eventuality that could not be discounted. With this realization, Macevey began to grasp the fundamental fact that he was woefully ill-prepared to survive in a world where electricity was an inconceivable wonder. Wherever this Nalosan was, Stuart would have to find it fast and hope that these Sisters of Emercia had brought him here with benevolent intentions.

Continuing along the narrow roadway finally led Macevey to an intersection marked by a sign with a cryptic declaration that Stuart could not read. The intersection cut through his path at right angles and was approximately the same width as the one along which he was now traveling. There were wheel ruts and hoof scuffs in all directions, but he trusted his instinct and decided not to deviate from his present path.

Twilight was beginning to descend over the land, when Macevey spied the first hint of smoke just over the rise in the roadway. He moved quickly into the trees on the left side of the road and began to cautiously pick his way through the forest, keeping a visual line on the open path. Stuart had always been a creature of the city, accustomed to only concrete and asphalt. Thus, he had a healthy, if somewhat fearful respect for the forest, knowing how easy it would be to stray too far from the beaten path and become lost. The pools of shadow were deep and ominous now and the roots seemed to snap at his ankles with a conscious malice. He repeatedly stepped into pools of stagnant water and soon both of his loafers were thoroughly soaked through.

Stuart shook his right foot in disgust and cursed softly. 'I'm in serious trouble,' he thought, but oddly, the notion held no sense of exigency. Drawing a deep breath against mounting weariness, he resumed his tentative trek through the woods.

After very nearly tumbling into a small creek, Macevey managed to make it to the crest of a slope. Gazing down the decline, he found himself looking down on what appeared to be a middling-sized village. Candlelight flickered from within most of the modest dwellings and he could see lamps burning in what he judged to be the center of town. The narrow streets were mostly deserted as the night extinguished the day, for which Stu was genuinely grateful. He sat with his back against a pine tree, contemplating his next move. His apparent priority was essentially unchanged...finding food and appropriate clothing. After several moments, Macevey rose heavily to his feet and began to make his way slowly around the perimeter of the village, hoping that he would discover a cache of clothing that was easily accessible. After a moment of searching, he spotted several lines of clothing wafting lazily in a large backyard. Surveying the immediate area, he saw that the surroundings were dimly lit and so he began to make his way down toward the yard. Crouching down, Stu crawled along a low fence, that appeared to be constructed out of a material that resembled adobe, until he came to a junction that afforded him a clear view of the lines of clothing. Scanning the shadowy garments, he selected three key targets and began to crawl toward the nearest piece of clothing. In his preoccupation with finding suitable clothing, he failed to notice the shadow that darted furtively toward him.

Macevey was reaching out for the cuff of a rough spun pair of pants, when he sensed that someone was standing over him. He inclined his head to the right, just as the shadow figure bound forward and kicked him smartly in the ribs. The blow drove the air from his lungs and pitched Macevey onto his back in the dirt. As he lay gasping for breath, Stuart Macevey suddenly found himself pinned to the ground by the throat. He clutched at the wooden handle of what appeared to be a homemade pitchfork with only two wooden tines, but his attacker was bearing down upon the handle and Macevey was unable to pry himself free. Finally, he gave up the effort and allowed his hands to fall to his chest where his left hand brushed against his holstered pistol. For a brief second, there and gone like a flaring spark of malice, he considered drawing his weapon.

'Good Christ, what are you thinking,' he thought in dismay. Twenty years as a cop and here he was pondering shooting someone while attempting to steal their property. Irrespective of the circumstances his new situation might present, Stuart could not succumb to the temptation to surrender his moral currency, however desperate he might become. Sighing, he allowed his arms to drop to the dirt in acceptance of whatever fate he might deserve.

"Now, give me one reason why I shouldn't drive the tip of this washer's pike through your miserable throat," a decidedly feminine voice snarled. "Be quick about it, because I don't have a lot of patience with thieves."

Macevey blinked in awe. The woman was speaking in a totally foreign language, but by some miracle of communication, he understood her as if she was speaking fluent English.

'My mind is somehow translating her native tongue,' he realized in total wonder. When his answer was not immediately forthcoming, the woman pressed heavily down on the thing she called a washer's pike, drawing a strangled cry from her captive. He flailed his arms and the pressure relented...but only slightly. Groping for the proper response, he settled on total candor. "I'm lost and in trouble."

For several seconds, the woman remained stationary as though trying to discern the truth of this. Something in this tone must have convinced her because she withdrew the pike and stepped back two paces, gesturing for him to stand. Stuart noticed that she kept the tool leveled at his chest. Her face was lost in the shadows, but he felt certain that she was also experiencing a sense of wonder (or possibly dread) at the trick of translation that allowed them to understand each other. "I want you to walk over to the house while I decide what to do with ya'. If I even think that you're about to do something underhanded, I'm going to run this through your back and let the town watch clean up the mess. Do you believe me?"

"I do," Stuart intoned softly and obediently began moving toward the humble dwelling, while raising his hands in what he hoped was a universal symbol of capitulation.

It was in this rather unlikely fashion that Stuart Macevey met Azidara.

4

Stuart was forced to duck to avoid striking his forehead on the door jamb as he entered the woman's house. He found himself in a surprisingly spacious room dominated by an arrangement of four large wooden tables. Both his eyes and nostrils were assailed by an acrid chemical door that he associated with heavy industrial detergents. He started to cough, and the woman quickly pressed the washer's tines into the small of his back. "Move over to the chair against the wall and sit."

He complied as his eyes adjusted to the flickering candlelight. He sat on the wooden chair and folded his hands in his lap before focusing his attention on the woman who was essentially his captor. She was a tall woman with long blonde hair the color of filtered honey. Striking blue eyes dominated a beautiful face that radiated both intelligence and what might have been a cynicism-tempered humor. Her mouth was generous, and her lips were full and sensual and for a brief moment, Stuart thought that he was sitting before Elizabeth Simpson. Whereas Elizabeth Simpson possessed an air of Goddess-like aloofness, this woman struck Stuart as very accessible....very immediate. She wore a sleeveless housedress and a leather apron that did not entirely conceal an exquisite body. The arms holding the pike were long and sinewy, informing Macevey that she could have easily made good on her threat to impale him like a bug.

He felt her gaze sweep appraisingly over him and had to fight the urge to squirm under its intensity. A hint of confusion crept into her eyes and she demanded, "Hold out your hands."

Macevey complied. The woman set aside her pike, but drew a small, but nasty looking dirk from a leather holder on her hip. Stepping closer, she instructed him to turn his palms up, which he did. A frown of disapproval played at her lips and something that Stuart correctly deduced might have been fear. "Yours are not the hands of a common thief. Nor are they the hands of a man who has made his coins from respectable labor. If I didn't know better, I would guess that you were an aristocrat of some sort." She pondered this and added contemptuously, 'but aristocrats don't usually steal old clothes from the village washerwoman."

Stuart sighed and let his hands fall back into his lap. "I'm certainly not an aristocrat...and I've never been a thief. As I said, I'm lost and hungry."

"Why were you trying to steal my clothes?" she demanded flatly. "What you would have stolen, I must pay to replace. Do you have any idea how long I would have to work to afford that?"

"I'm sorry," Stuart replied softly, maintaining her gaze despite the boring intensity of those exquisite blue eyes. "If I had the means to make this up to you I would."

The woman sheathed her dirk and placed her hands on her flaring hips. "Perhaps there is a way you can make amends. You say you're hungry...if you go out and gather the clothes from the lines, bring them back in here and fold them neatly on each table, I might be able to spare some food. Mind you, I expect the clothes removed from each line and folded onto separate tables."

So touched was he by this unexpected generosity, that Stuart Macevey could not speak for several moments. At last, he said simply, "Thank you."

She frowned and then pointed to the door. "Get to it then. There is rain in the air and the last thing I need is to have those clothes get wet."

Stuart nodded and rose to his feet. He moved across the room and paused in the doorway. "I'm truly sorry for trying to steal the clothing...my situation is fairly desperate, but I still don't have the right to impose my problems on you."

The woman regarded him impassively for a moment and then nodded. Stuart could not discern if she accepted his apology and so he went out to retrieve the clothing.

5

"My name is Azidara," She said softly, as she watched him fold the final load of washing. He glanced up at the woman to see that she was smiling tentatively, an expression that lent her face an aspect of enormous beauty. Macevey suspected that her life of manual labor and struggle would not provide many occasions to smile and so he felt grateful to be the recipient of this one. "I'm Stuart."

"Stuart...that is a good name. A kind name," she remarked. "When you've finished the last of the folding, come into the kitchen and I'll prepare some supper for ya."

She disappeared through a doorway, leaving Macevey to finish his task. Hunger and exhaustion were threatening to overwhelm him now, but he forced himself to focus on the task at hand. When he had neatly folded the last sheet, Macevey stumbled after Azidara. A small brazier threw a dull flickering light over the small room's interior. As he surveyed the room, Macevey gained a sense that this was a woman who thrived on neatness and order. The kitchen was clean and well organized, with a logical spot assigned to what few items the woman had managed to accumulate. He made his way to a scarred wooden table and sat in one of the two chairs, grateful to finally be off his aching feet.

Azidara stood at a counter deftly cutting slices from a wheel of cheese on a wooden cutting board. The speed and skill that she displayed made him grateful that she had not decided to use the dirk that she had brandished earlier. As she added the slices of cheese to a platter of thick bread, Azidara inquired over her shoulder, "Can I ask why you were trying to steal my clothes or how you came to be in this village?"

He considered this for a moment and decided that he owed her an explanation though he would have to be careful what he chose to divulge. If he did not frighten her by sounding demented or dangerous, perhaps she would be able to provide him with some general insight into this world. Though she was obviously a humble citizen, it was not inconceivable that she might know something of this Nalosan or even the Sisters of Esotaria. She carried the platter back to the table along with a stone pitcher of water and sat it down between them before taking the other chair. She gestured for him to eat and he snapped up a thick slice of bread and bit off a large chunk. It was a heavy, artisan grain with a nutty flavor and in his present state of hunger, tasted like the best thing that he had ever eaten. He reached for a slice of cheese and noticed that she was watching him closely. There was an incisive quality to her gaze that returned his attention to the question she had posed. Carefully, Stuart began to construct a palatable version of how he had come to be in her backyard. "To answer your first question; I wanted the clothes so that I would be less conspicuous."

"There is no doubt that you would stand out wearing that outfit," She interjected. "Even the aristocratic finery I have seen looks nothing like the clothes you're wearing. You're correct in thinking that you would attract attention dressed as you are. Is there some particular reason that you would fear bringing attention on yourself?"

He pondered this for a moment and then responded honestly. "I'm not sure why, but I believe that it is important I maintain a low profile." She absorbed this with a thoughtful nod and then gestured for him to continue without comment. He reached for a second slice of cheese and another thick chunk of bread. It suddenly occurred to him that Azidara had taken neither food nor water. Stuart wondered if she could afford to spare either and his insatiable hunger suddenly evaporated. "There is no easy way to put this that makes sense or makes me seem like I'm not crazy. Still, your questions are fair enough and after what has happened, you deserve answers, so I'll try."

As he groped for a way to begin, Stuart's eyes happened upon her hands, which were folded primly under her chin. The skin was a cracked, angry red that wrenched Stuart's heart. "My God, your hands...do they hurt?"

Azidara regarded her hands self-consciously. "They sting and in the winter...the joints ache on cold or damp days. This sort of thing comes with the trade. The chemicals are harsh."

The stark contrast between the woman's horribly abused hands and her exquisite face told Stuart everything he needed to know about the trials and tribulations of life in a world where electricity and modern medicine were not even the stuff of fantasy. Resolving to repay her acts of kindness, Stuart began his tale. "I guess the best way to describe what happened to me is to say that I was abducted. By whom or why, I cannot say. The next thing I recall is waking up in a clearing about a half day's walk in that direction."

Stuart raised his hand and pointed in what he thought was a northerly direction. Azidara followed this gesture as a troubled light began to dawn in her lovely eyes. He could sense that she was clearly conflicted by his revelation, but decided to forge ahead, nonetheless. "When a group of soldiers rode by, I decided to hide in the forest and then follow the road they had taken. Basically, that is how I ended up here. Could you please tell me where here is?"

For a long moment, she did not respond, but just as Macevey began to suspect that she had dismissed him as crazy, Azidara replied, "This is the village of Wraiths Hollow. It sits near the middle of Fairmarch...which is the name of this country."

'Wraiths Hollow,' Macevey thought to himself and felt an involuntary shiver course along the length of his spine. There was a gothic, fatalistic ring to the name that evoked a sense of dread as though his coming here was no mere coincidence. Stuart leaned closer and lowered his voice. "I'm from a place...far away and so I have no idea where Fairmarch is in relation to anything around it. The person who abducted me spoke to me before I lost consciousness...she said that I should find my way to Nalosan and look for what I assume is a group called the Sisters of Esotaria. Does any of that sound familiar?"

Azidara's eyes narrowed and she stroked her cheek with an index finger. There was a ring of genuine bewilderment in this man's voice, but she could detect no deception in his words. "You say that you were abducted by a woman?"

"The person was masked, but the voice was definitely feminine."

Azidara nodded thoughtfully. "Nalosan is the Capital of Emercia, the country that borders Fairmarch immediately to the south. Wraith's hollow is approximately ten days walk to the border and another four days to Nalosan from there. As for the Sisters of Esotaria, I have not heard of them."

Stuart absorbed this in silence, absently chewing his bread as he pondered what he had just been told. The scope of the challenges facing him crashed down upon Macevey like a giant's mallet. He was faced with the daunting prospect of trekking four fourteen days through a world about which he knew nothing to find a mysterious group of women whose intentions remained shrouded in mystery. "What is Nalosan like...I mean, is it a place that takes travelers or accepts strangers?"

"I've never actually been there, though I hear it is one of the most beautiful cities in all of the known world. Emercia is ruled by a king named Artumas. Artumas is more of a legend than an actual man." Azidara suddenly twisted her head to the side and spat on the floor, a crude gesture so incongruent with her beauty that Stuart actually grimaced. Looking back at him with blazing eyes, she snarled, "I have no use for kings and their lot. They treat us common folk like pawns that serve no purpose but to satisfy their every whim. It is said that this Artumas is a man of the people, but I have yet to see such a beast who wore a crown and cared about those he ruled."

Azidara's rancor was as raw as her abused hands, so Stuart wisely decided not to pursue the matter. His host bowed her head for a moment and when she again raised it, her anger had evaporated. "What will you do now?"

Stuart contemplated his options and saw that he had only one. "I guess I'll try to make my way to Nalosan and attempt to contact this group. At least I have some notion where I have to go now."

A shadow appeared to pass over her beautiful face then. In the black days that were to follow, his mind would stray back to this odd juncture when this incredible woman apparently made the decision to cast her lot with his. "There is something about you that makes me think that I should make you leave here now or call the watch, and have you dragged off just to be rid of you. What frightens me the most is that I believe every word of your outrageous tale...I'm a simple woman and have enough fear of the dark things to embrace the certainty that you are not from this place...or any place on the face of this world for that matter. I've been able to survive by trusting my instinct and my instinct is telling me that whatever reason brought you here, you're being here is important for everyone. Looking at you, that hardly seems possible because you seem so vulnerable. The way that you were taken down by a simple washer woman tells me that you'd never survive the nasty bastards who haunt the King's highway. I know because my husband was a hard man and they took his life in the blink of an eye. The King vowed that he would make his road safe, but he couldn't even do that."

"Your husband was murdered on the highway?" Macevey asked softly, discerning the raw anguish that capered just beneath the surface of Azidara's anger.

She averted her gaze and replied, "Yes, some eight moons past now. He had hired on to escort a merchant caravan to Nalosan to earn some extra coins. I pleaded with him not to take the job; the king's highway has been a treacherous place over the last few years. Still, he said that we needed the money and vowed that he would be back. In the years that we were together it was the only vow that he did not keep."

"I'm so sorry," Macevey intoned, suffused by a genuine sorrow for the woman's plight.

Azidara smiled fondly, recalling the last time she had seen her husband alive. "As he left, he told me that this extra money would signify the coming of better times for us and he appeared so genuinely happy that I wanted desperately to believe him. I'm not sure why, but something about you reminds me of the optimism my husband radiated on our last morning together. There is a cot in my folding room and spare blankets and a pillow in the closet. You are welcome to spend the night there if you wish. Perhaps we can think of a way of helping you in the morning."

For several moments, Stuart was unable to speak, so touched was he by Azidara's unexpected hospitality. Finally, he regained enough of his composure to thank her. He rose and carried his dish to the sideboard and then stumbled back into the folding room and the welcome embrace of sleep.

6

Deep in the heart of night, Azidara stood over her guest, staring down on the sleeping form of the man whom she had impulsively allowed into her home. He slept on his side, completely embraced in the grip of exhaustion. In the dull light of the folding room, she could see the imposing shape of the strange object strapped against his side in some manner of leather harness. The protruding handle was cross hatched in a cold black metal that she did not immediately recognize, and though she did not know precisely what purpose this object served, Azidara was astute enough to divine that it was lethal. She started to touch the handle but was assailed by a superstitious dread that made her draw back as though the thing might bite her.

'You are a small creature, child,' she heard her mother whisper in the confines of her unsettled mind. 'If you cast your lot with this man, you will be blown away like sand before the winds of fate.'

Shuddering, she withdrew from the folding room and made her way back to her own bed that had been empty these last eight moons. As Azidara drew the covers over her bare shoulder, she was struck by the certainty that her mother's admonition would prove correct.

Chapter Nine

1

"Has any of this been substantiated?" Lorio asked distantly, struggling to absorb Artumas' disturbing revelation. Artumas' somber expression was enough to convince her that his news was irrefutably valid, but she found it difficult to accept, nonetheless.

The two monarchs were alone in the high king's private chambers. After a tumultuous session with his consuls, Artumas had summoned the Lamish Queen to apprise her of the situation with Sygeanor and the Metocan. In his preoccupation with the sudden appearance of the Sisters of Esotaria, the high king had completely forgotten about the Metocan threat against Lorio and her fledgling nation. He had summoned her to his quarters to discuss how they might deal with what could well become the second jaw of a deadly pincer. Rising from his chair, Artumas trudged across the room and retrieved the official communiqué from a side table and then carried the document back and placed it on the table before the Queen. She glanced down at the vellum for a moment and a pained expression stole across her exquisite face.

When she lifted her head, Artumas saw something that astounded him to the point of total immobility. Tears were glistening on the long lashes of the woman who was one of the fiercest creatures that the king had ever encountered over the course of his long life. In a voice that scarcely resembled her own, Lorio confessed, "Artumas, would you please read its contents...I cannot read."

"I'm sorry, Lorio. I did not know, and I certainly meant no offence," the high king offered gently, unsettled by the woman's unexpected vulnerability. She dragged the heel of her palm roughly across her eyes and waved dismissively. "I know you didn't, Artumas. My inability to read is an unforgivable shortcoming that I am trying to rectify, but I've never been particularly scholarly. Let me hear what this mad woman has to say."

The high king slowly read Sygeanor's brazen declaration while surreptitiously observing his guest's reaction. Surprisingly, Lorio absorbed the news with no discernible sign of emotion. When Artumas had finished, she shook her head slightly and sighed. "I was never meant to be a queen, Artumas. I have neither the skill nor the patience to do justice to the title. I have spent the last six years avoiding that bitter reality, but this vulgar power play demonstrates how woefully inadequate I am to rule a nation that so desperately requires guidance. Is it the common opinion that Sygeanor will act on her threat to attack Lamia if I do not surrender myself?"

"I have discussed the matter at some length with Melansa. She informs me that the Jerhia are taking this matter very seriously. Indeed, they are positioning resources to defend against a Metocan incursion into your country. As you have heard, Emercia is presently in a difficult situation, but you have my personal guarantee that I will not allow your country to fall victim to Sygeanor's megalomania or her depraved thirst for vengeance. This world owes you a debt that we are all obligated to repay," Artumas vowed firmly. She glanced up at the aging king and nodded. He had been there during many of the tribulations that marked the last half of Islena's struggle through the land of shades. He had witnessed the heroic lengths to which Lorio had gone to protect Doraux and so she could trust his promise to be sincerely given.

"Still, the prospect of open war with the Metocan is something that no sane person will relish," Lorio intoned gravely. "My people do not have the means to defend themselves against sorcery, even if the Jerhia decide to intervene...I see little option but to accede to her demands and surrender myself."

Artumas shook his head as though his mind could not credit what his ears had just conveyed. The indomitable Lorio had just proposed total capitulation. "Lorio, you can't be serious?"

The Lamish queen stood in a flexing of sinewy limbs and strode over to the nearest window that looked out on the harbor. The night was dark and filled with foreboding shadows. In the distance, she could see the silhouettes of the four impounded ships sitting against the horizon. "My first obligation is to my people and this is the only way I can envision protecting them from this insane harridan's wrath. My surrender could well avert a war that is too terrible to imagine."

Artumas recognized that there was a dark appeal to Lorio's logic, but he refused to be seduced by its allure. Conceding to madness was cowardly and would ultimately lead down the road to tyranny and slavery, a journey that the grizzled king was unprepared to make. "Lorio, I would advise that you think carefully on what you are contemplating. Your needless self-sacrifice will not placate this creature. On the contrary, once she sees that we can be cowed by fear, she will grow more brazen in her designs. We can fight her as a collective, but we will need your help if there is to be any chance of success."

"By chance, perhaps we can be of aid in this matter," A strong female voice declared confidently and both Artumas and Lorio spun about, stunned to find the Matrium standing in a pool of shadow near the entrance to Artumas' private chambers. She strode forward, pointedly ignoring the high king's expression of outrage. Glancing quickly at the bolted doors, Artumas demanded "How did you gain access to this room?"

Karosyn regarded the king with her incisive gaze and shrugged. "A simple matter of teleportation that is not altogether different from the magic that powers the portal that you have kept so well concealed. I..."

Before she could utter another word, Lorio bounded across the room and struck her across the face with an open hand. The report of flesh on flesh exploded loudly in the vaulted chamber. The Matrium staggered backwards and her knees unhinged as she pitched forward onto the carpeted floor. Lorio seized two handfuls of robe and hauled the stunned woman to her feet before tossing her roughly to her knees before the high king, whose expression of horror was comical in its intensity. Aghast, Artumas looked on as Lorio shook the stunned woman like a rag doll. "I grow tired of your condescension and your vulgar displays of power, witch," Lorio railed. "I want to make it glaringly evident that I don't trust you or your coven of she-wolves. Artumas has extended you the courtesy of his hospitality, but I am unimpressed by your coy advances and offerings of aid."

"Lorio, that is quite enough!" the high king roared furiously. "This woman is a guest in my castle. How dare you actually strike her. Unhand her at once. Your presumption is incomprehensible."

The Lamish Queen turned her face toward Artumas, who recoiled slightly from the intensity of her anger. For a moment, he feared that she would not relent and would simply thrash the Matrium to a bloody pulp, but eventually some of the rage drained from her dark eyes and she released Karosyn and stepped back. With a deep bow, she remarked, "I apologize, your highness. This woman's presence offends me. Her connection with Myrhia is insufferable. Still, I have no right to behave as I have and for this, I beg your forgiveness."

Knowing Lorio's tempestuous nature as he did, Artumas understood how difficult this admission of wrongdoing must be. He glanced down at Karosyn, who remained on her knees with her head bowed. "Do you accept this apology, Matrium of the Sisters of Esotaria? It is your right to seek further redress if you do not."

Karosyn raised her head and gingerly massaged her cheek which was already beginning to swell. She inclined her head toward her assailant and intoned, "I do accept her apology and there is no need to allow this matter to fester. May I rise, your highness?"

Lorio frowned and shrugged her shoulders, but clearly Karosyn's unfaltering decorum only served to vex her further. Karosyn rose unsteadily to her feet. "I was wrong to intrude as I did and perhaps you are correct in suggesting that I have used theatrics to demonstrate the power of our order, but the exigent need to impress upon you both the immediacy of your peril has prompted me toward theatrics."

"Again, I plead your pardon for this offence. In Emercia, we treat our guests with the greatest respect. You have magnanimously accepted Lorio's apology and so I will now tell you that I have decided to accept your offer of assistance in the matter of this ShadowCaster. What's more, I agree to allow your order to establish chapters throughout Emercia with the provision that you do not espouse views that are contrary or detrimental to the nation." Karosyn beamed a delighted smile, but Artumas could see Lorio's grimace of incredulity. For once, the Lamish beauty remained diplomatically silent.

The Matrium bowed. "I am both delighted and grateful that you have recognized the sincerity of our desire to be of assistance. Further, I must praise your tolerance in allowing the Sisters of Esotaria the opportunity to help the women of your country to realize their full potential. Naturally, we will respect the values of your society. I assure you that it is a decision that you will not regret."

Mortified by what she viewed as the high king's utter capitulation to this viper, Lorio asked, "May I take my leave, Artumas. I have matters to attend to in Lamia."

"Of course." Artumas granted. As he watched her march stiffly to the door, he was suddenly struck by the need to placate his friend. "Lorio, I beg that you reconsider your decision to surrender to Sygeanor. There are dark days ahead of us and we cannot afford to lose your strength and courage."

Lorio paused by the door but did not turn to face the high king. "With your new legion of allies, it would appear that you have all the support you require."

With this, she opened the door and stalked out into the corridor. Artumas watched her go, fearing that he had just lost a powerful ally and a dear friend.

2

One could not help but walk through the temple of the elders in Zorian, the newly designated Capital of Natzurdan, so elevated after the tragic obliteration of Amberdias during the Emerald Enchantress War, and not be struck by a sense of awe and wonder so profound as to evoke tears of joy. Maxim Tier Marshal Maroc was no exception. Beset by a mountain of strife, he could still appreciate the natural splendor of the living structure that was the temple of the elders. The Natzurdan had employed their earth lore to craft the architectural wonder from living wood some 3000 years earlier. Thirty centuries of love and devotion had served to ensure that the structure continued to stand in all of its glory today.

'How delightfully intoxicating and humbling it is to walk within the heart of a living entity,' he marveled as he marched down the central hall that led away from the main receiving hall.

As always, the leader of the Jerhia was accompanied by Tier Marshal Arminda, who was one of the great heroes of the emerald enchantress war and was presently being groomed to succeed Maroc as the first female leader of the military nation.

"Is it likely that The Elder will reconsider his position?" Arminda inquired, snapping Maroc out of his reverie. He regarded his assistant with a speculative gaze, unsettled by the deep lines of concern that rimmed her slightly puckered mouth. Arminda still bore the scars of her ordeal in the land of shades, primarily in the form of the damaged arm that she held stiffly against her hip. Like so many others, she had suffered her wound protecting Islena Doraux and like so many others, if she bore any ill-will toward fate, she kept her anger to herself. She had matured dramatically in the intervening years, developing a keen eye for matters of state and military grand strategy.

'And to think that she isn't even thirty years old,' Maroc marveled. "I don't believe that he will. Unless Sygeanor is audacious enough to assault Natzurdan directly, it is likely that our cantankerous friend will bury his head in the sand and allow events to resolve as fate would dictate."

Arminda absorbed this thoughtfully, solemnity shading her lovely face. Her bronze skin and short golden hair appeared to glow above the black collar of her ceremonial uniform. After a few steps, she remarked, "The idea of the CornerStone nations is dead."

"Yes," Maroc allowed. "The concept was founded on trust and an unflagging commitment to a common cause. Sygeanor's rash actions have forever undermined that mutual trust. Frankly, I sense a certain relief in The Elder as though he was grateful to cast off the yoke of united purpose and vision. For better or worse, Sygeanor has permanently altered the social and geopolitical landscape of our world." Maroc sighed, feeling the debilitating burden of his forty-six years. "Perhaps it is for the best that the CornerStone Nations be put to rest as a political entity."

Arminda pursed her lips at what many would consider a blasphemous remark but elected to say nothing. Over the last four years, the Jerhia had been party to enough conclaves between the three nations to know that the ancient alliance had become a relic whose purpose was more cosmetic than functional. Still, the concept of that union was inculcated into her bones since she was a child and its apparent demise could not help but fill her with an intense sorrow. To combat the lethargy that threatened to overwhelm her, Arminda turned her focus to the immediate problem of preparing for a military confrontation with the Metocan; a prospect every bit as daunting as the war against Myrhia. "Do we proceed on the assumption that Sygeanor will act on her threat to invade Lamia if Lorio does not surrender herself?"

"It would be the most prudent assumption. The usurper does not impress me as a woman who would make idle threats," Maroc replied distantly. "It is impossible to predict how Lorio will react to this outrage, but the Queen does not strike me as the type to bow to any form of duress or coercion."

Arminda, who had suffered under the hand of the Queen of Lamia, could personally attest to how intractable the woman could be. "Lorio is a ferocious warrior, but her people are in no position to withstand a Metocan onslaught. Is Jerhia morally obligated to come to Lamia's defense?"

Maroc stopped and stared at his Tier Marshal, disconcerted by the question she had posed. She stared back unblinkingly and Maroc realized that he was being given a profound glimpse into the leader that this woman was destined to become. Hers had been a rhetorical question that cut directly to the validity of the old Jerhia values. In the new world of the fragmented Cornerstone Nations, were the Jerhia still obligated to sacrifice their lives to defend the autonomy of foreign lands? Historically, a Jerhia Tier Marshal would never have entertained such a complex and ambiguous philosophical question, but Arminda was anything but a typical Jerhia. Maroc slyly decided to deflect the query back on his protégé. "If you were in my position...which you most assuredly someday will be...how would you respond to that quandary?"

Arminda beamed, her blue eyes flashing like polar ice. "I would say that the Jerhia spirit is constructed on the foundation of defending the vulnerable and the innocent. If we were to renege on that obligation, we would lose not only our identity, but our very souls."

Maroc laughed heartily, but inside, his heart was suffused by pride and love for the diminutive Jerhia. "The immediate priority is deciding how to mount a defense of Lamia. Obviously, The Metocan will not attack by conventional means and so we find ourselves at a distinct disadvantage."

"Then it is incumbent upon us to find someone who will not wage a conventional war to lead our forces," Arminda observed wryly. "Naturally, we both know who is best suited for that unenviable task."

Maroc snorted in derision and asked ruefully, "So where is he now?"

"I believe he is in the Frostpeak mountains training our rangers in the finer points of Alpine warfare."

The Frostpeak mountain range was located on the southern tip of Jerhia and was known for its sudden savage squalls and generally inimical climate. Troops trained in this location would experience some of the harshest winter conditions imaginable. Maroc's disdain for Tier Marshal Gillian did not occlude his good sense to realize that Arminda was right. Unconventional warfare was a specialty of the Jerhia sword master. It was just possible that Gillian could contrive a bold strategy that would bloody the Metocan's collective nose and dissuade Sygeanor from pursuing her Lamia invasion plans. "Very well, send orders to Gillian along with troop authorization. Realistically, it may take the better part of a moon cycle to position our troops to meet a Metocan foray into the east. We can only hope that Sygeanor will not act immediately following the expiration of her damnable ultimatum."

Arminda shook her head skeptically. "I'm afraid that I would not harbor that hope with too much optimism."

Maroc grunted and the pair continued along the corridor, delving into the specifics of what would have only a short time ago been inconceivable; a war against a fellow cornerstone nation.

Maroc and Arminda had returned to the wing of the temple of the elders that served as quarters for visiting dignitaries. They exchanged final thoughts and were about to part ways for their individual lodgings, when a young male adjutant hurried up to the pair, holding two pieces of vellum before him. The manner in which he held the documents suggested that he found them to be intensely repulsive and his solemn and troubled expression filled Arminda with a nascent dread. He stopped before the Tier Marshals but did not speak for several seconds as though unsure how to begin.

"I take it that those are for me?" Maroc prompted, gesturing toward the document clutched tightly in the adjutant's hand. The young man bowed and apologized before extending the scrolled communiqués to the tier marshal. Maroc dismissed the adjutant and turned his attention to the first scroll. As he read the communiqué from Melansa detailing the sudden landing of the mysterious Sisters of Esotaria, Maroc's brow furrowed. An order of female sages and warriors from across the eastern ocean? The concept seemed completely implausible, but the Jerhia's meticulously detailed report made it exceedingly clear this was precisely what had transpired in Nalosan. He was attempting to grapple with the ramifications of what he had just learned when his eyes happened upon the royal seal of Emercia that adorned the second communiqué.

Maroc began to read the text of the message and suddenly his mouth twisted into a rictus of horrified dismay. He tore his eyes from the obscenity on the page and gazed at his Tier Marshal, who was regarding him with an expression of intense anxiety. He returned his attention to the page and reread the message a second time, hoping that his eyes had played a cruel trick on his mind. Quietly, he disclosed, "This message is from King Artumas; Ambassador Melansa has been murdered in the Capital city of Nalosan. Her mutilated body was discovered in one of the city's parks. The high king expresses his outrage and sends his deepest condolences for our loss."

Somehow, Arminda managed to suppress the scream of outrage and grief that welled up in her chest. Through clenched jaws, she inquired, "Have they found the murderer?"

The Maxim Tier Marshal merely shook his head and placed his hand gently upon the woman's shoulder...a rare display of tactile empathy. "I am so sorry, Arminda. You have my personal assurance that this barbaric act will not go unpunished. In fact, I am dispatching you to Emercia to personally investigate her murder. Once you have determined precisely what has transpired, I grant you full authority to take whatever actions you deem necessary to avenge her murder. Enter Emercia in force so that no one will underestimate the extent of our anger or our determination to see justice served."

The Jerhia had long been tempered to suffer the loss of loved ones and family with a sense of stoic acceptance that death was a natural consequence of duty and honor. Seething with fury, Arminda bowed and wheeled away. As she strode purposefully down the stone corridor, tears began to stream down her lovely face, and she vowed that she would find Melansa's killers even if it meant reducing all of Emercia to rubble. The ghost of long dead Amrand attempted to placate Arminda, but her fury would not be denied.

Melansa was Arminda's cousin, and it was at the Tier Marshal's behest that she had been assigned to the post in Nalosan. Now she was dead, mutilated and dumped like rubble in a foreign land a continent away from her beloved homeland. As she made her preparations to depart, Arminda could not escape the guilty certitude that she was somehow culpable in the girl's horrible and tragic death.

3

By customary Jerhia standards, Melansa's chambers in Kammlogran were positively sumptuous, though in fact, they were the most Spartan in the entire castle. Artumas had wanted to assign a more lavishly appointed suite of rooms to the Jerhia Emissary, but she insisted her quarters were to be simply furnished. On the night the Sisters of Esotaria made their maiden foray into the landscape of her world's reality, Melansa could be found sitting cross-legged on a small mat before a large stone fireplace. Her hands were folded primly in her lap, her eyes closed, and her head bowed so that her chin rested on her chest. She had been introduced to the art of meditation by a Natzurdan adept who had been assigned to Nalosan, and though the practice was frowned upon by the ever-pragmatic Jerhia, Melansa found she derived an immeasurable pleasure from the art. It had never failed to focus her energy and clarify the flow of her thoughts in the face of even the most complex of problems.

The Emissary had spent the last three bells writing the report that would be sent back to Tier Marshal Arminda. She had taken deliberate care not to interject her personal opinion into her narrative, instead relating only the unbiased facts of the encounter between Artumas and the Sisters of Esotaria. Knowing that her recommendations would be expected, Melansa suggested only that the development be monitored closely before deciding on a suitable course of action. Knowing Tier Marshal Arminda as she did, the ambassador had little doubt that her cousin would divine Melansa's disquiet amidst the carefully selected prose.

With the report dispatched, she changed into a set of comfortable lounging clothes and sought the requiem of her meditation mat. As the flickering light played across her golden skin and the warmth of the fire worked its magic on her flesh, Melansa turned her mind to the task of analyzing the day's momentous events. As she pondered the many aspects of the day's drama, her thoughts kept circling back to the same tangent... by their own admission, Myrhia had once been the figurative leader of the Sisterhood. Though their tale of betrayal and carnage rang true...especially considering the fate that had befallen Artumas...could their motivations be trusted? The Matrium and the child resonated with an immense and immeasurable power, lending a tremendous exigency to the question. If the Sisters of Esotaria had come to Nalosan with a hidden and hostile agenda, Melansa seriously doubted Emercia could muster the means to thwart their designs.

The Jerhia ambassador would have been loath to admit it, but she had developed a deeper affection for the aging king Artumas, who never seemed to lose sight of his essential humanity. Despite the tribulations of the past several months, the High King never succumbed to the temptation to resort to heavy-handedness or impose Draconian measures upon his subjects. From their many conversations, Melansa discerned that his failure to protect the people of Emercia weighed heavily on his thoughts. Melansa understood that this affection could prove to be an impediment in the event that the situation in Emercia continued to deteriorate. His fixation with Myrhia was particularly disturbing and if she was being totally candid, Melansa realized that his refusal to surrender the inured husk to the Cornerstone nations at the conclusion of the war had led directly to his present woes with Xhendyn.

'And now the Sisters of Emercia have come to further complicate an already murky situation,' she thought, bemused by the delicacy of the situation in which Artumas now found himself. Melansa reflected upon the role she was to fill in her position as emissary to Emercia. Arminda was succinct in clarifying the Jerhia mission in Emercia. "While Artumas is a valued friend of the Jerhia, it is imperative that Myrhia remains secure and Emercia remains a pillar of stability to the eastern continent. I have charged you with the task of monitoring his every decision and evaluating the impact of those decisions on our twin objectives. In your estimation, if either the remnant or the nation is in peril, you must alert me at once so that our forces can react accordingly."

As she grappled with the grave implications of Emercia's present plight, Melansa could not help but wonder if she was deliberately shirking her mandate in deference to her affection for Artumas. While she had been thorough in documenting the unsettling events of the past year, the ambassador was careful not to convey how precarious Artumas' grip on power had become. Nor had she related the mounting concerns over his deepening obsession with the Icon. Melansa had little doubt Maroc would immediately intervene if she had been totally forthcoming about the climate of welling chaos in Emercia. This dereliction of duty shocked the Jerhia, who had been raised to adhere to instruction without the slightest thought of deviation.

She abruptly opened her eyes and shook her head in dismay. Peering into the dancing flames, Melansa thought she could see dark harbingers of anarchy capering in the fire. In that moment of self-consideration, the Jerhia resolved to make amends for her lapse in devotion to the Jerhia purpose.

Rising nimbly, she strode across the stone floor, sat at her writing desk and took up her quill. Yet, as she began to draft an addendum to her initial report, Melansa was assailed by a profound doubt that stilled her pen. How could she adequately convey the delicacy of Artumas' precarious position when she did not entirely understand it? The question caused her to set the writing instrument aside. Inclining her head to one side, she pensively stroked her chin with a long index finger. Everything hinged on the legitimacy of the Sisters' offer of an alliance. If they were to be believed, this Xhendyn had summoned a creature known as the ShadowCaster into their world to aid the demon in its quest to wrestle the remnant from Artumas' grasp. They, in turn, had ushered their own champion into the world...a man of human frailty who nonetheless possessed the ability to thwart Xhendyn's design.

Melansa shared Artumas' inherent distrust of all things magical and she would have dismissed this tale out of hand had it not been for the fact that the legendary Lorio effectively corroborated the story. Melansa's keen intellect granted her the ability to strip away the superfluous and grasp the salient and so she reached the conclusion that, only by finding the ShadowCaster's bane, could the nature of the Sisters' alliance be determined.

The Emissary resolved to discuss this with Artumas and allow him the opportunity to locate the bane before she recommended an intervention to her superiors in Jerhia. Sighing, she rose to her feet with the intention of retiring for the night, when a sharp rapping startled the Jerhia.

To her consternation, Melansa's heart began to hammer in her chest and her breathing became ragged and shallow.

'By the hounds of war, you are frightened!' she realized with a pang of embarrassed incredulity. She rose and moved tentatively toward her chamber door, struggling to dispel the burgeoning dread that tried to stay her every step. 'You are about to reach a critical juncture in your life,' an inner voice admonished. 'Should you open that door, there will be no turning away.'

In the five years she'd been stationed at Kammlogran, Melansa could count the visitors to her private quarters on the fingers of one hand. The soft rapping came again just as she reached the door. Hand shaking with trepidation, she reached out and grasped the handle, pausing in an effort to regain her composure. Opening the door with the anticipation of coming face to face with some unknowable harbinger of evil, Melansa was relieved to find Dynok, Artumas' foreign affairs consul, standing at the threshold. He regarded her from behind his inscrutable expression of contrived courtesy that never failed to grate on the Jerhia's nerves primarily, she suspected, because it seemed utterly feigned. The very embodiment of a courtier, Dynok's impeccable fineries and his rakish good looks could easily tempt one to dismiss the man as a shallow preening peacock, but Melansa knew this was a seasoned and skilled politician.

"Sir Dynok, to what do I owe this unexpected visit?" Melansa asked guardedly, intentionally addressing the consul in the formal language of the Emercian court. He swept an appraising glance casually along the length of her sinewy body and the hint of a smile played at his sensual lips. Melansa could not help but think that his not-so-subtle assessment of her femininity had been intentional and thought in bemused irritation, 'Surely he has not come with the intention to beguile me?' and her mind circled back on the incisive pang of anxiety that had proceeded his coming.

His eyes met hers and the hint of a smile became a full-blown grin. "A private audience, if I might ask that we speak on a matter most critical to both Jerhia and Emercia."

Melansa's expression remained impassive, but she took a single step back and gestured for him to enter. As he stepped passed Melansa, his right arm lightly brushed her full breast, but he strode into the chamber as though oblivious to the fact. The Jerhia pursed her lips and slowly closed her chamber door as her mind work to discern a possible motive for his visit. He stood in the center of her quarters, peering about the sparsely furnished interior in a way that was so startlingly forward as to be rude. His gaze finally settled on the Jerhia and he observed, "Judging by the dearth of furnishings, it is evident that you are a woman for whom creature comforts hold little value."

As always, there seemed to be a faint tone of disapproval echoing in his voice and again, Melansa found herself rankled by his manner, which was erudite to be sure, but at the same time slyly condescending. "The Jerhia are conditioned to divorce themselves from material wants, believing that obsession with materials trapping weakens one's mettle."

"Indeed," Dynok remarked lightly. "It would seem that you have not succumbed to the temptation despite spending five years amidst all of the opulence and excess that Kammlogran can offer." When Melansa did not respond, Dynok merely shrugged. "I also see that you are not a woman who will expend needless energy on casual preamble so I will get directly to the purpose of my visit. As the Jerhia's emissary to the royal court, how do you perceive the Sisters of Emercia?"

The Jerhia's eyes narrowed. Cautiously, she remarked, "They are somewhat of a puzzle."

"To be sure," the consul responded softly. "Though I would offer it is more accurate to say that they are more of a conundrum than something so innocuous as a simple puzzle...a deadly riddle with a viper's heart."

"I will allow that their purpose in coming to Emercia has yet to be fully disclosed. It would be prudent to leave the drawing of conclusion to a point in the future when their intentions are less nebulous."

"Spoken with the evasion of a true diplomat; a quality that I would not normally ascribe to a Jerhia," Dynok remarked sharply. Melansa could discern a carefully couched agitation lurking beneath the surface of the consul's customary poise and again wondered what might have motivated this extraordinary nocturnal visit. Dynok turned his face to the hearth so his eyes were veiled in shadow. "And what is your interpretation of the High King's reaction to the order's dramatic arrival? Do you credit their tale of prophecy or believe he will accept their offer of aid?"

Melansa appeared to reflect on the queries for several moments. There was a furtive undercurrent to his uncharacteristically forward line of questioning that set the Jerhia's internal alarms to braying stridently. After a protracted moment of silence, she replied, "It is hardly my place to comment on the manner in which the high king conducts the affairs of his court."

Dynok regarded the Jerhia with unbridled irritation. "Actually, it is precisely your place and purpose, so let us not be coy."

Melansa bit back a sharp response, instead deciding to cut directly to the gist of the matter. "Perhaps, Consul Dynok, you can explain the purpose for this rather extraordinary visit. It is evident that you are not here on the king's behalf."

"Just so, I am here on Emercia's behalf. My country is in grave peril from every quarter. King Artumas does not seem to grasp the potential danger that these women may pose to his realm. I find it profoundly disturbing that he has not simply sent the lot packing."

"Do you not deem it prudent to measure the potential value of their offer of aid?" Melansa asked in a tone that conveyed nothing of her own sentiments in the matter.

"They are a vast unknown in an equation that is already exceedingly delicate," Dynok replied with a dismissive wave. "You seem to favor the direct line and so I will be blunt; the Jerhia are purportedly here to preserve order in Emercia. If Artumas cannot, or more precisely will not effectively deal with the anarchy threatening to engulf this nation, can Jerhia be counted on to intervene?"

Melansa regarded Dynok silently for several moments. The man was skirting the fringes of outright treason, but for a purpose that the Jerhia emissary could not clearly discern. "Consul Dynok, I have little doubt that you are an astute politician with an incisive mind, so I feel compelled to ask why you would approach the emissary of a foreign power with an inquiry that most would construe as treasonous?"

Dynok laughed and feigned outraged indignation. "Treason is the farthest thing from my mind. I have come seeking an assurance that Jerhia will honor the terms of the treaty that it unilaterally imposed on Emercia at the conclusion of the war...to save the country and its king, if only from himself."

"Should the situation warrant an intervention, it will come," Melansa allowed. "Still, I feel compelled to warn you that I respect Artumas, as does the Jerhia leadership, and I am thus inclined to give him great latitude in managing his affairs."

Dynok offered his host a slight smile and bowed in deference. "I trust that you will not allow this respect and affection to drag my country into the vortex of chaos. I thank you for the impromptu audience, Emissary, and wish you a most quiet night."

With this, the consul turned on his heels and hurried to the door, leaving a troubled Melansa alone to unravel the implications of his perplexing visit.

Chapter Ten

1

There was the slightest hint of palsy in the hand that held the communiqué. The tremors were barely perceptible, but Gillian was well aware that they were there. He reread Arminda's instructions for perhaps the twentieth time and then closed his eyes, allowing the sheet of vellum to slide through his fingers and drift like snow to his working table. For the second time in less than seven years, the Jerhia was being torn from his tranquil exile and thrust into the vortex of critical events.

A sudden gust of wind blew back the heavy flaps of his command tent, causing Gillian to shiver violently. The Frostpeaks were mired in the cruel depth of winter and the unrelenting cold was gnawing ever deeper into the Jerhia's aging bones. Despite having been relegated to one of the most inhospitable regions in the known world, the Tier Marshal did not relish the prospect of returning to civilization. Arminda (who greatly admired the master swordsman) had dispatched him to this alpine training outpost and Maroc (who roundly detested the rebellious warrior) had taken steps to ensure that his tenure as master trainer would be a protracted one. He had spent four years in the icy barrens of Jerhia southernmost mountain range, educating cadre after cadre of young Jerhia in the rigors of alpine warfare. Gillian was a harsh, relentless taskmaster, though none of his grumbling students would ever have suspected that his commitment to the ideals and values of the Jerhia militaristic culture had begun to erode as surely as the great mountains themselves.

He sighed deeply and stood, though his lower back protested vigorously at the effort. Nagging pain was a constant companion now and he knew the day was not far off when he would be unable to conceal his deteriorating condition. The profound cold exacerbated his ailment, but he found himself reluctant to leave this place and its relative solitude. 'Ah, but I am so compelled by oath to lead another generation of Jerhia youth to slaughter in yet another war in an endless succession of wars all in the glorious name of Jerhia.'

It had been the hellish ordeal of his trek across the land of shades that first gave birth to his disillusionment with everything that his country stood for. Islena Doraux had spoken often about how her own world generally regarded war as an inherently evil endeavor, and though he had scoffed at the notion, her ideas had taken root in his conscience where they germinated like a weed that simply could not be extirpated. Eventually, Gillian the consummate warrior and master swordsman suddenly found himself loathing the very notion of war. Worse still, he had grown to secretly despise the cultural foundation of refined violence upon which Jerhia had been constructed, sensing the hollow futility of a nation devoted to the art of destruction.

'Thousands of years of history and we have perfected only are ability to destroy,' he thought with a bitter twist of sarcasm. How ironic was it then that those who lead Jerhia now regarded him as the only man suitable to lead the troops into this latest grim struggle?

Pulling on his heavy coat, Gillian crossed his tent and stepped out into the late afternoon air. His breath rose in white plumes against the pristine blue sky. The massive camp stretched out over the valley floor, an odd mix of temporary canvas structures and more enduring wooden barracks that could house up to five hundred Jerhia cadets at any one time. The camp was mostly deserted now as the trainees were off on a prescribed climbing assignment at a nearby escarpment. The task of protecting the fledgling state of Lamia against a Metocan invasion had fallen to him, though he could scarcely imagine the political machination that engineered the unlikely assignment. He had little doubt that Arminda was the one who had advanced him as the most likely candidate to stem a Metocan incursion.

"A war with Metocan," he murmured softly. The prospect was barely conceivable, unless one had the distinct displeasure of meeting Sygeanor, who radiated controlled madness the way the desert sun gave off heat. The journey to the nearest causeway would take three weeks and another three to reach the third stone road over the Great Mother. If the Metocan mistress was earnest in her intention to give Lamia only two weeks to surrender their Queen, Gillian estimated that the war could be well under way before his forces were even in position to mount a defense. This did not bode well for the people of Lamia, who simply lacked the resources to withstand a Metocan offensive.

As grave as the situation was, Gillian derived a small measure of cold comfort from the crisis. With Metocan sudden assumption of the role of pariah, the concept of The Cornerstone alliance was once and forever shattered. There could be little doubt that the immediate future would be every bit as grim as the war with Myrhia's army had been at its worst, yet Gillian discerned the faintest glimmer of hope in both the upcoming conflict and the demise of the ancient alliance of the three great nations.

If Jerhia could vanquish the nation of sorcerers (and Gillian was not without his misgivings on the issue), it was impossible to predict the political geography of the world that would be left in the conflict's wake. He could, however, predict, with a reasonable degree of surety, that Jerhia would be forced to re-evaluate the entire system of values and beliefs upon which the country had been constructed. Gillian now realized that to devote an entire society to the art of warfare was utter madness and if Jerhia was ever to enjoy any type of normalcy, it would have to deconstruct thousands of years of engrained insanity. Sadly, warfare had its role in society to be sure, but it could not be the pursuit around which an entire civilization evolved. Whatever else Gillian might be, he was not a wistful dreamer, but he did harbor the hope that he could help set Jerhia upon a path of redemption.

He inhaled sharply and gazed up at the snow-peaked mountains that ringed the Jerhia encampment. There was an ineffable beauty about the Frostpeak mountains that evoked a bitter-sweet longing in the Jerhia's solitary heart. He had squandered so much of his life in the futile pursuit of mastery of the lethal arts, unwittingly turning a blind eye to the astounding beauty and splendor afforded to every living creature. Islena Doraux had opened his eyes to the subtle miracle that surrounded him and there were still days when he cursed her for having done so. Now, as he absorbed the incessant whisper of the mountain winds and watched the roiling tumble of the ever-churning gray skies, Gillian felt profoundly humbled by the natural miracle of his very existence.

"You were right, Islena; it is good to be alive," he whispered softly and ducked back into his tent to begin plotting his strategy for a seemingly unwinable war.

2

To say that Lamia was a true country was a grievous insult to the state of nationhood or to stretch the elastic nature of the word country beyond its breaking limit. For her part, Lorio could scarcely be defined in the context of a Queen and yet this was how she had come to be regarded by the people who made Lamia their home. In truth, Lamia could more accurately be described as a preserve; a place where the nomadic nature and nebulous morals of the Lamish could be fully indulged without irritating those with whom they shared the eastern continent. In Lamia, there were no taxes, no institutions of learning or government and most certainly no seat of power. Indeed, the eternally mobile Queen would have had little occasion to spend time in a traditional castle even if anyone cared to erect one. The sliver of land, which traversed the eastern edge of the Great Mother, defied definition by any acceptable terms of statehood, and yet those who lived in Lamia were proud to call the enigmatic Lorio their queen and Lamia their home.

Anciel was a comparatively simple girl, possessed of a good heart and a compassionate nature. Like most of her kind, the first nineteen years of her life were spent in a constant state of flux, drifting perpetually up and down the length of the country in search of the elusive something that the Lamish could not, themselves, define. Her father, Flarnau, was the very quintessence of the Lamish spirit; pulled relentlessly by the need to wander as though he feared becoming rooted to the ground were he to linger too long in one place. Anciel's family had settled in the village of Glanox some two days south and east of the causeway into Metocan some five months ago and already the girl could sense a restiveness building in her father. The thought of leaving Glanox pained her as she had come to make the acquaintance of a handsome local lad who had taken a fancy to her.

She crested a rise in search of fern berry bushes, and preoccupied as she was by thoughts of her Lamish suitor, Anciel failed to notice the line of strangers who were arrayed alone the length of the slope's crest until she literally bumped into one and was sent crashing to the grass. The girl peered up and a gasp of horrified surprise escaped her full lips. The man standing over her wore a uniform of black leather and cloth, with tall leather boots adorned by pewter studs. His face was hidden behind a fashioned pewter mask, but something about his head appeared oddly misshapen. She glanced quickly to her left and right, discovering that a line of similarly attired men stretched off into the distance in both directions.

The girl attempted to rise with the intention of fleeing back to the village when the man before her raised his boot and brought it crashing down into her chest with enough force to jar the air from her lungs, pinning her to the turf like a squirming bug. Anciel attempted to scream but only a thin hissing sound escaped her lips.

"Hold then! There is no cause to abuse her thusly," someone cried in a voice fraught with unmistakable authority. She raised her head to see a tall figure striding purposefully across the hill toward her. She suddenly recognized the figure and a burgeoning excitement welled up in her chest. Striding toward Anciel and looking every bit as impressive as the sun in the heavens was Lorio, Queen of Lamia. The Queen also wore a uniform similar in style to the others, but a black velvet cape was fastened at her neck by a silver beaded drawstring. The cape fluttered behind the Queen conveying the impression that she could take to the skies if the mood so moved her.

As she approached, Anciel's assailant bowed deferentially and stepped back, leaving the girl lying at the feet of the Lamish legend. Lorio extended a leather-gloved hand which Anciel meekly accepted before being pulled to her feet as effortlessly as one might gather up a small child. "Do you know who I am child?"

Anciel tried to quell her ragged breathing and whispered softly, "You are Lorio, Queen of Lamia."

"Indeed!" the woman declared with a throaty laugh. Her amusement puzzled Anciel and filled her with a vague and formless dread. The laughter died like the withering of a vine come the first snows of winter and the woman barked abruptly.

"If I am your rightful Queen then you should kneel before me like an obsequious pawn." With this, she shoved the girl to her knees. "Gaze upon my countenance and answer my question again: do you know who I am?"

Anciel was trembling now, feeling confused and terrified very much like a fish might when it is pulled from the water and into the world of air and un-refracted light. Almost against her own volition, she craned her neck to comply with the Queen's command. What she saw caused her to utter a terrified cry. While Lorio's lovely visage gazed down upon her, Anciel could clearly discern a second face swimming beneath the familiar face of the Queen. Like the others, this face was misshapen and oddly translucent.

'Metocan!' The single word blared within the confines of her skull like an explosion, reverberating through her body in a sickening wave of agony.

"Not precisely!" the Lorio impostor declared triumphantly, even as the terrifying visage receded back into the beauty of the creature's mask. She clutched the girl's elbow and again hauled her to her feet with a display of unnatural strength. "I sense your trepidation...your revulsion...Tell me, Anciel, do you find my true face repugnant?"

The girl averted her eyes and shook her head vigorously. "I do not, my Queen."

The woman uttered a laugh that reminded Anciel of broken glass being dragged over paving stones; it grated her nerves and made her want to shriek. Somehow, she found the wherewithal to remain silent. "Like your ilk, you are a skilled liar, but no matter, I will forgive your deceit. Do you have a father, girl?"

"I do..."

"And do you love this father of yours?"

"Well enough...yes."

The woman nodded, her dark eyes burning like flaming coal. "I had a father, and I loved him more than anything in this wretched world." Now her face stretched in a humorless grin that was hideous to behold, despite her enormous beauty. "But he was taken from me when I was perhaps your age...murdered by the woman whose face you now gaze upon."

Anciel could only reply by way of a whimper. The woman inclined her head and glanced at the sad collection of structures that compose the Lamish village. "How is this place named?"

"This is the village of Glanox," the girl whispered compliantly. The woman considered this for a moment and then nodded brusquely to her followers, who immediately set out at a run. Anciel watched in muted horror as the black-garbed strangers raced into position to encircle the village. When they had formed an enveloping circle around the village, each dropped to their knees and bowed their heads. Anciel could discern a terrible purpose in their actions and began to shudder violently, until her knees betrayed her, and she sagged to the ground. The woman maintained her grip on the girl's wrist. "For every crime, there must come a moment of atonement," she remarked cryptically. "When it became evident that his own country...a country to which he had devoted his life...would not seek retribution for his murder, I vowed that I would extract vengeance in his name. Today, repayment of that debt comes due. As I have been deprived, so too shall I return the slight."

In the small village of Glanox, men and women began to emerge from their homes, drawn out by the strident cries of one of the villagers, who had seen the Appraxis as they surrounded the village. As the villagers milled about, a burgeoning sense of excitement began to overtake the gathering. "The Queen," someone declared excitedly. "The Queen and her retinue have come to Glanox!"

With this, the throng began to surge up the hill toward Anciel and her captor. With the speed of a striking adder, the woman drew an ornate dagger from within her cape. Turning Anciel's hand upward, she expertly drew the weapon across the girl's palm, inflicting a superficial wound upon the flesh that bled copiously.

"I commit the fire of vengeance to this river of blood. Within this circle, may its flames consume the children of its line," the Lorio impostor declared in an impassioned voice that echoed across the expanses of the village. About the crest of the hill, the Appraxis rocked back on their haunches as though physically struck by their mistress' strident declaration. As Anciel watched in immobilizing terror, the blood streaming down her forearm burst into flames that burned a bluish white. To her surprise, the flames caused her neither pain nor disfigurement. Instead, they arced out to the outstretched hand of the Appraxis on either side of her, where they then spread to the next and then the next in rapid succession, until the flames formed a cordon that encircled the entire village.

Sensing that they were in imminent danger, the villagers came to a grinding halt and began to retreat down the slope in a panicked rush. Abruptly, the villager at the rear of the throng came to a sudden halt, an expression of consternation and shock crossing his face. He gazed down at his forearms as though his very flesh had become an alien entity.

Then the harrowing shrieks commenced, the depth of their torment causing Anciel to whimper like a small child. Even from this distance, she could see great blisters rising on the villager's flesh and he began to flail his arms about frantically as if this could somehow alleviate his agony. Abruptly, his hair burst into flame just as his eyeballs exploded in their sockets. In a moment, he stopped struggling and collapsed bonelessly to the grass even as his flesh burst into flame. All of this transpired in a matter of seconds, though to Anciel's beleaguered mind, the villager's grim death jig seemed to have lasted for an eternity. Even as the first was ravaged by fire, the others fell victim to the same grim fate and before long the village common was alight with blackened corpses and the air reeked with the acrid stench of burning flesh. Inside many of the houses, the awful cries of the condemned rose up in unison, ringing in an unbearable dirge that made Anciel wish that death would fold her into its cold embrace just to be free of the sound.

Instead, she passed into the icy mercy of unconsciousness and slumped to the grass.

When next she awoke, the impostor Queen was gazing down upon her, eyes twinkling with frightening mirth. Anciel twisted her body and peered down the slope. What had once been her home was now a scarred expanse of charcoal. The stench of burning and death still hung in the air like a miasma, but the valley was steeped in an eerie silence.

Turning her face to the ground and cradling her head with her arms, Anciel began to cry softly. She could sense the woman's malign presence above her but could not bring herself to look upon that glacial beauty again. The woman knelt down beside the girl and began to stroke her hair gently. "It is a terrible thing to see your world destroyed so thoroughly. I can empathize with your pain. I, too, have endured the same indelible sorrow. Sadly, this was all so very preventable had the pretentious, murdering harlot you call Queen acquiesced to my demand. If you seek to lay blame for the dreadful end your village has suffered, place it squarely upon her contemptible shoulders. How far is the next village?"

When Anciel did not answer at once, the stroking hand became an excruciating pincer that threatened to shatter her skull. "Do not try my patience, girl. How far to the next village?"

"Two days walk to the south," Anciel gasped through clenched teeth. The woman pondered this for a moment and then leaned closer until Anciel could feel warm breath against her ear and shuddered with revulsion. "I have allowed you to live today so that you might convey word of what has happened here to your countrymen. Go to the next village. Tell the elder that, if Lorio does not send word of her intention to surrender herself to me within ten days' time, his village will suffer the same fate, as will the next and the next until, should your Queen prove to be the craven harlot I think her to be, this entire wretched country is empty. Do you understand?"

"I do!" Anciel shrieked through her tears.

"Then I will leave you to your grief," Sygeanor declared in the tone of one imparting some grand magnanimous gesture. She rose and raising her left arm over her head, made a fist. Her Appraxis immediately climbed to their feet and moved after her even as she turned on heel and began to march back to Metocan.

Chapter Eleven

1

"And who is this man that keeps Azidara's company?"

"I do not know, my lord," Megis replied with a quavering voice that betrayed some of the trepidation he always felt when in the presence of nobility. "He does not speak...only helps her with her woman chores...and he sleeps in her house."

"Indeed," Lethoras remarked arching a thick eyebrow. The Lord of Wraith Hollow hefted his bulk out of his chair and lumbered over to a window that looked out on his extensive gardens. To describe the king's representative as obese would have been a true understatement as Lethoras was a man prone to indulge his massive appetites in food, spirits and pleasures of the flesh. Attired in burgundy hosen and a blue satin doublet, the Lord of Wraith's Hollow assumed an appearance that was buffoon-like, though there were scant few who would have the courage to express their contempt in his presence.

"How long has Azidara been keeping this stranger's company?" he inquired casually.

"A week...maybe ten days," Megis volunteered, eager to ingratiate himself with a Lord of Fairmarch. Lethoras grimaced at the revelation, but deliberately kept his back to the peasant. He thought of Azidara, the peasant woman who held herself with the deportment of a Queen and who had repeatedly spurned his offers of friendship in the months since her husband had died. It was Lethoras who engineered the commission to escort the merchant along the king's highway and it had been he who had arranged for the assassin to end her husband's meaningless life. He had been certain that the grieving widow would welcome his patronage with boundless gratitude. How infuriated he had been when she had declined his advances. Had there been insufferable condescension in her blue eyes as she deftly slid free of his embraces? To his consternation, Lethoras thought he saw a glimmer of contempt in those lovely eyes as though he was somehow unworthy of her.

'And now she keeps the company of some trifling stranger who helps her wash linens and undergarments,' he glowered. Well perhaps it was high time that something be done to apprise her of her precise position in the village of Wraiths Hollow; a painful and public object lesson to make her appreciative of the helping hand of nobility. If it was her ambition to be the slattern of a shiftless itinerant, then let that ambition be laid bare before the village. He remembered the dullard standing behind him and returned his attention to Megis, though the man's obsequious grin threatened to turn his stomach.

Returning to his writing desk, Lethoras opened a drawer and drew out a velvet pouch, from which he counted out a dozen coppers. Throwing them onto the desk, he remarked coldly, "You have done well to bring me this information. The moral integrity of Fairmarch can never be besmirched by the wanton acts of immoral women. Do not speak of this matter with anyone...even your wife."

"Never, my Lord," Megis swore with a fervent nod. In fact, it had been his wife who had prodded him to disclose this bit of gossip for reasons that Megis neither understood nor particularly cared about. Women had their vicious ways and now he had his coppers for a few tankards of ale and that was all that Megis cared about. Bowing clumsily, he beat a hasty retreat from the Lord's private office, only vaguely curious about the consequences of his unsavory bit of work.

In his study, Lord Lethoras waited for the simpering fool to vacate the room and then inquired. "How do you judge the truth of his claim?"

A tall, thin man with a gaunt face, dominated by intense dark eyes, emerged from behind the curtain. Very little was known about Veilguix, except that he was loyal to the throne of Fairmarch and to Lethoras. Circumstances had also demonstrated that he could be brutally efficient in enforcing the Lord's will should the occasion demand it. He pondered his patron's question for a moment and then observed, "I judge that he speaks the truth, but would caution that he does so for motives that are unclear."

"Of that, I have little doubt," Lethoras replied with a dismissive grunt. "These peasants scheme like curs after a scrap of meat on a bone. On the nightfall, go to Azidara's home and determine just who this stranger is and why he is here in Wraith's hollow. I will defer to your judgment in determining whether that purpose is at cross swords with mine."

Veilguix bowed formally and moved to take his leave, a dangerous smile spreading over his face like oil on water. Registering that menacing grin, Lethoras could not help but smile to himself. So Azidara would reject the graces of a Lord in favor of an itinerant? Would she still look upon this drifter so kindly if he was a gelding?

2

An exhausted Macevey was drawing steaming sheets out of a huge wooden vat with the very fork that Azidara had used to subdue him earlier, when she sailed through the door like a fast-breaking storm.

"Azidara?" Macevey inquired softly and she turned her blazing gaze upon him with an intensity that made him want to squirm in place. He withdrew the fork from the vat and set it down in a bucket. Years of police and investigative work had honed his instinct to divine trouble, and he need only glance into her luminous blue eyes to see that something was seriously amiss. Nor did he have any doubt that he was the source of her dismay. She threw off her shawl and dropped into a chair near her folding table. For several moments, she remained silent and Stuart could see that she was attempting to organize her thoughts and regain her badly shaken sense of equilibrium.

When at last she was sufficiently composed, she asked, "Tell me true; is your purpose here a noble one?"

Macevey's gaze locked on her own and he remarked truthfully, "I cannot say with any degree of certainty. I can only tell you that my story is the pure and unadorned truth as I understand it. As to why I have been brought here...until I reach Nalosan and find the Sisters of Esotaria, the purpose of my abduction remains a mystery."

She pondered this while studying his face for any sign of deception. Evidently satisfied with what she found, she simply nodded. "What is that thing you carry strapped to your chest and what purpose does it serve?"

Stuart's eyes widened, but then he nodded, reminding himself never to underestimate this woman again. Slowly, he unbuttoned his shirt and drew the gun out of its holster. Depressing the release catch, he quickly palmed the 9mm clip and placed both the clip and weapon on the table before Azidara, who regarded both as though they were evil talismans. "What it is called is a handgun," Stuart related evenly. "As you have probably guessed it is a common weapon from my world."

He pointed to the trigger and explained, "You pull the trigger and the gun fires the projectiles, called bullets, with a tremendous velocity. It is an extremely lethal weapon in the right hands."

"And are yours the right hands?" she demanded, never taking her wary gaze off the gun.

Stuart uttered a thin, humorless laugh. "In my world, I was a policeman, which is a person who upholds the law. There were occasions I was forced to use a gun, but they were mercifully few and far between. Still, police work is dangerous business and I made a point of honing my shooting skills."

Again, Azidara nodded and dragged her gaze from the weapon with a perceptible shiver. When her gaze settled on him, Stuart saw the raw anguish and fear in her eyes. "Tell me what's happened. It has something to do with me, hasn't it?"

Azidara nodded slowly and in a halting voice began to recount the story of how one of her friends had sought her out while she was on her rounds delivering and collecting clothes and bedding. She had been at the village tavern when Megis had swaggered in, giddy with the prospect of spending his newfound wealth and just as Lethoras had predicted, the peasant had been equally as eager to impart the tale of how he had come by said wealth. Macevey had listened carefully to her tale, quickly gleaning the salient heart of the matter. "This Lethoras will come for me?"

Sensing that this was more of a rhetorical question, Azidara nodded gravely. "Yes."

Stuart nodded with equal gravity and stood. "Then I must leave at once. Azidara, it was wrong of me to stay. By accepting your hospitality, I have unwittingly involved you in my problems and for that I am genuinely sorry."

She watched in silence as he reassembled his weapon and returned it to its holster. Her lovely face was clouded by a turbulent expression like that of the storm clouds that would frequently gather over Puget Sound. In a slow, uninflected voice, she announced, "I'm coming with you."

Macevey stopped and regarded her quizzically as she pushed back her chair and slowly rose to her feet. 'How many times have I seen that flinty, unyielding expression in someone's eyes?' Stuart wondered and though she was determined to have her way in this matter, he felt compelled to dissuade her. "Azidara, you're not thinking clearly. You can't seriously entertain the notion of giving up everything you have to follow a complete stranger on what may well be a fool's errand."

Azidara laughed, a harsh, mirthless sound that spoke eloquently of the emptiness of her life in Wraiths Hollow. "This hovel and a long life of endless drudgery and loneliness? This is my lot in the world with no realistic prospect for change. I see now that Lethoras will hound and harass me until either I accede to his advances or he tires of the game and vents his wrath upon me. I have longed to see Nalosan once before I die, and it seems that fate has provided me with sufficient motivation to satisfy that urge. More to the point, if you have any chance of making it to Nalosan, you will need a guide who knows something of the ways and customs of this world."

Stuart discerned the intractable light in her eyes and knew that further argument was futile. "How long before Lethoras' men come?"

"He will send only one...Veilguix, but that will suffice. In Wraiths Hollow dirty deeds are always done under the cover of darkness.

"But if I were to leave, would that not be enough for him to leave you alone?"

Azidara regarded him with the kind of pitying expression that one normally reserves for the hopelessly naïve. "Lethoras is the type of despicable bastard who believes that his station in life conveys upon him the right to simply take whatever he desires. While he thought my bed to be empty, he was content to bide his time. Now he believes that I share it with a stranger, and this is a perceived affront to his dignity...one that he will not suffer."

Macevey considered this for a moment and then nodded grimly. He found himself thrust into a world whose sensibilities he did not understand. The simple act of accepting this woman's kindness had unwittingly disrupted her life and set her on the path of a fugitive, tied to his fate, whatever that might prove to be. The monumental inequity of it caused him to shudder. "What should we do?"

Azidara gave him a brief and all too rare flash of her gorgeous smile, taking the question to be a capitulation to her will. "There is a chest in my bed chamber that holds my husband's clothes. His build was very much like yours so you should be able to find some suitable clothing. I will gather up a small cache of supplies and we will leave."

With this, she moved off into her private quarters, gesturing for him to follow. As Macevey watched her move quickly throughout the house gathering up food and other items, he discerned a fiery enthusiasm in Azidara, whereas before there had only been an aura of stoic tolerance. It occurred to Stuart that she was behaving like a woman who has been unexpectedly emancipated from the prospect of interminable drudgery. This impression eased his sense of guilt...if only marginally.

He followed her into her bedchamber. His first glimpse into her private room revealed the one place where she indulged herself if only to a small degree. The bed was large and piled with an array of satin pillows spilling in drifts over a heavy quilt. On a small table there sat a hand drawn portrait of a man who Macevey guessed to be her late husband. If the portrait was a true rendering, then her husband had indeed been an attractive man with strong, well-defined features dominated by kind eyes. He wondered if Azidara was the artist and concluded that she must have been. The exquisite detail of shading spoke of consuming love for the subject and Stuart suddenly understood precisely how much this woman had lost when her husband had died his bloody death on the King's highway.

For her part, Azidara moved efficiently about the chamber, gathering up the few possessions that she would take on her flight from Wraiths Hollow. "The clothes are in that chest," she intoned crisply as she donned a hide vest. Stuart nodded and crossed over to the wooden chest. He opened it to reveal a neatly folded collection of breeches and shirts. He drew out the top set and looked at Azidara questioningly. She felt his gaze and simply nodded her consent, before pushing her long skirt down and stepping out of the garment in one fluid motion. Though he willed himself not to, Macevey could not help but stare at her long, smoothly muscled legs which were the color of rich cream. She noticed his scrutiny and offered him a nuanced grin. "Have you never seen a woman out of her skirt before?"

Stuart could feel himself blush and averted his eyes, again struck by the distracting enormity of her physical beauty. It came to him how a man bereft of morals, such as Lethoras, would go to any lengths to possess such beauty. When he glanced back, she had pulled on a pair of rough spun breeches that did nothing to belie her exquisite form. Still moving with a purpose, she crossed over to an Armoire that was half as tall as her again. To Macevey's surprise and alarm, she withdrew a belt and scabbard that held a short sword. From across the room, Stuart could see that the blade was honed to a lethal edge. She tied the belt about her generous hips and added a nasty-looking dirk to the belt. "I am a woman, tis true, but my husband schooled me well in the deadly dance of both weapons. Perhaps he foresaw the day when I would require mastery of the blades. At any rate, the fool who underestimates me may well find himself a gelding."

Macevey made no remark, but he had enough experience with weapon totters of all sort to deduce that this woman was comfortable with a sword and dagger. Again, he wondered what type of world he had been drawn into. When Azidara had gathered all of the provisions she deemed necessary, including a plump bag of coins, she came and stood before Stuart, who had changed into her dead husband's clothes. "The thing on your wrist, take it off and dispose of it. It declares your alien status like a brand."

He glanced down and realized that she was referring to his watch. He quickly slipped the expanding band over his fist and handed it to Azidara who examined it with some interest. "It is called a wristwatch," he explained. "It measures the time in my world."

She nodded gravely, her blue eyes filled with shadow, and then threw it onto the floor as if it might be a talisman of ill luck. With a swift motion, she brought the heel of her boot down on the glass face, her full lips twisted in a feral snarl. She then kicked the shattered remnants under the bed. "Your old world is lost to you now," she growled harshly. "Mayhap it will be yours again someday, but until then you must cast it from your thoughts and seek to master the realities of this new one."

Macevey could only nod, startled by her sudden rancor. She led him into the folding area, divulging her flight plan as they went. "Lethoras will send Veilguix tonight, once the sun has gone down. It will be his intent to kill you, of course, and accuse me of being a licentious wanton...this kind of allegation is best leveled under the cloak of darkness. You and I will be well away from here by then. We will not take the King's road...instead, we will go west through the forest. There is a network of paths that twist and wind their way southward and we will follow these. I have heard tell they reach the very borders of Emercia. Once we cross the border, we will be beyond Lethoras' reach. I ask...no, demand only one oath for my assistance...you will follow my lead in all things until we reach Nalosan. I am of this world and understand its machinations well enough. One misplaced word, however innocent, could be our undoing. Will you give me your oath on this?"

Stuart considered her demand for a moment and nodded. Deference was little to ask in return for giving up her very life as she now knew it. Again, Azidara favored him with her radiant smile and startled Macevey by leaning forward and kissing him fully on the mouth. Before he could respond, Stuart found himself being propelled firmly out of the back door and squired over the stonewall that delineated her back yard.

Azidara paused just as they passed into the trees and glanced back at the humble building that had been her home for the last seven years. An indecipherable expression rippled over her face as she mouthed words that Macevey could not make out. She touched an index finger to the pocket where she had folded her husband's portrait earlier and nodded. Then she turned and set off into the trees at a jog. Stuart gazed after her for a moment, profoundly touched by the grace and courage with which she accepted the upheaval of her world. Hoping that he could marshal the mettle to face his own future with similar dignity, Stuart Macevey hurried after his self-appointed guardian.

3

On the very night Stuart Macevey and Azidara commenced their desperate flight from Wraiths Hollow, the Jerhia Emissary to the Royal Court of King Artumas found herself mired in a struggle to unravel the subtle, yet complex mystery of Consul Dynok's earlier visit. There was a definite ulterior motivation to request that she honor the articles of the existing armistice. Were there unspoken intimations of treason in his entreaty? On the surface, the answer would be no; he merely asked her to adhere to the Jerhia's duty to protect the integrity of Emercia should Artumas fall under whatever spell the Sisters of Esotaria might deign to weave. On the surface, this was a logical...even prudent request, but Dynok's disapproval of the Sisters and their purpose seemed intense...out of all proportion and it was this dislike that stirred an alarm in Melansa's mind.

"What coy game do you play, Dynok?" she whispered in the stillness of her quarters. She had pondered the matter for the last few hours, but her efforts had yielded only more disturbing questions. Whatever his motivations were, well-honed instinct admonished Melansa to be extremely wary of the smiling Consul and his polished manner. That practiced smile was a façade behind which lurked a schemer's mind.

Frustrated by the aura of intrigue swirling about the events of the past several days, the usually restrained Jerhia slammed the flat of her palm down on her thigh and sprang to her feet. Though the hour was late, she resolved herself to confront the Consul and insist that he provide a plausible explanation for his apparent bit of subterfuge. Snapping up her tunic and throwing it on quickly, she exited her private suite of rooms and made her way through the castle hallways to the section of suites that housed the King and his Consuls.

The hallways were virtually deserted, and her heels echoed loudly as she traversed the lengths of stone corridors. The night guard roster had been increased fourfold since the attempted incursion. Recessed alcoves had been built into the stonewalls at regular intervals from which guards could stand unseen and ever watchful. Melansa marched purposefully through the corridor, eyes kept steadily forward, but she could feel the weight of their gazes upon her as she went and correctly suspected that many of the watch members found her excursion into this particular section of the castle unsettling given recent events.

Just as she rounded the corner that led immediately to Dynok's chamber, the ornate wooden door opened abruptly, and the Consul stepped into the deserted hallway. Some deeply ingrained instinct that Melansa did not entirely fathom prompted her to throw herself into the shadows of the nearest alcove. From her point of concealment, she could hear Dynok exchange some cursory greeting with his assigned guard and in the next moment, his footsteps were ringing on the stones as he marched purposefully toward her. Melansa crammed herself into the deepest corner, hoping that the shadows would provide sufficient concealment were Dynok to turn his gaze in her direction. The prospect of explaining why she was lurking about in the darkness caused her heart to hammer painfully in her chest, but the Consul hurried by with his gaze fixed directly ahead.

Melansa waited for several seconds and emerged from the alcove with a sigh of relief. In the next instant, she found herself moving after him, uncertain as to her own intentions even as she pursued Dynok like a drifting specter. Again, she was suffused by the sense that something of considerable consequence was afoot, feeling compelled to follow her instinct, even if it ran contrary to her pragmatic nature.

For his part, Dynok moved steadily through the Castle's interior, greeting the guards with a nod of a raised hand. Melansa observed the cape wound about his shoulders and correctly surmised that his destination lay outside of the castle. At last, he exited through the main doors and out into the vast expanse of Kammlogran's courtyard. Descending the steps with the lithe grace of a dancer, he made his way over to the main gate, where he engaged in a protracted conversation with the Captain of the night watch.

Melansa hesitated near the top of the steps, watching the exchange with mounting curiosity. If Dynok's visit to her chambers had been most unusual, his unaccompanied, nocturnal foray into the city was extraordinary. Finally, the Captain bowed formally and gestured for one of the guards to open the small side gate that allowed for a single passage onto the stone causeway leading down into the city.

'Whatever he is about, it will speak volumes about his intentions,' an alien voice whispered in her mind. Again, some newly roused instinct affirmed this was so, compelling Melansa to descend the steps two at a time and cross the courtyard at a jog. The captain of the watch eyed her warily as she came to a halt before him, his eyes straying to the Jerhia Sigil that emblazoned her tunic. Firmly, she demanded, "I ask that you grant me egress from the castle."

Clearly discomfited, the Captain exchanged glances with his second and replied, "Milady, the King has issued specific instructions that no one is to leave or enter the castle until further notice."

Melansa nodded tightly. "Ah yes, correct me if I am mistaken, but did Consul Dynok just leave Kammlogran?"

The Captain's unease grew geometrically as he fumbled for a suitable response. It became readily apparent to Melansa that Dynok had made some special accommodation with the night watch Captain to be allowed egress from the city. "He did."

"Very well, your dealings with Consul Dynok are of no concern to me. How King Artumas elects to restrain his bondsmen is also none of my concern. I, however, am an Emissary of Jerhia and will not be constrained by his edicts. You will allow me to pass into the city or I will summon the High King and we can discuss your intransigence with him, not to mention your selective enforcement of his decrees."

"I...I see no need," the Captain stammered, verging on apoplexy. He lowered his eyes for a moment and drew a quavering breath, gauging the risks that he had taken in defying the King's orders. Abruptly, he muttered a vile epithet and stepped back, brusquely gesturing for the guards to open the gate for the second time. Melansa nodded with a brusqueness she did not feel and started toward the gate. The sense that she was being guided was more intense than ever, prompting her to hesitate and turn back to the glowering captain. "Might I ask for the loan of a dirk?"

The Emercian arched an eyebrow. "You require a dagger, milady?"

"My business will take me to a section of the city that is less than savory. A little reassurance is always prudent," the Jerhia responded shortly. She could discern the Captain's mounting hesitation and feared that this delay would allow Dynok to slip away. "If it violates some Royal edict, then never mind."

She turned away and moved through the stone gateway, but the Captain hurried after her and withdrew his own weapon, a lethally honed dagger that gleamed wickedly in the dull light of the courtyard. "You may take this and return it to me on the morrow. I sincerely hope your business does not afford the occasion to use it."

Melansa nodded and accepted the weapon, thrusting it into her belt for the lack of a proper sheath. Then she strode down the stone approach way, willing herself not to run until she heard the gate close behind her with a metallic clatter. She could see Dynok turn out into the broad thoroughfare that passed directly in front of the castle at the base of the great stone ramp. Pressing close to the massive stonewall, the Jerhia began to jog toward the street, hoping the ringing of her heels on the paving stones would not alert Dynok to her pursuit.

The nocturnal journey through the dreary streets of Nalosan assumed an aspect of the surreal for Melansa has she silently pursued the consul through the rain-soaked streets. The merchant zone consisted of a series of wide promenades, lined with impressive stone structures that were the envy of the eastern continent and stood as a testimony to the commercial and economic savvy of the Emercian people. Towering Azoa trees were planted, providing much-welcomed shade along the busy thoroughfares during the height of summer when the teeming masses seemed to sweep along the streets like a surging river. The trees had been imported from their native Suran at tremendous expense to the crown under the direction of Artumas, himself. Normally not a man prone to extravagance, Artumas viewed the reconstruction as a critical part of the catharsis process for his country and Nalosan in particular. Like a Phoenix, Nalosan had risen from the ashes of Myrhia's infamy.

On this night, however, the incessant drizzle and brisk ocean breeze had driven most of the Nalosan citizenry to seek the comfort of hearth and home. As she passed beneath the marbled colonnades and arches of the city center, Melansa could not be certain if she regarded the vacant streets as a comfort or not. Several yards ahead, Dynok walked briskly through the mostly deserted streets, his gaze fixed straight ahead. As she trailed after him, the sense that his destination would reveal a wealth of mysteries grew stronger for the Jerhia. On Occasion, Dynok would pause and glance along the length of some of the bisecting avenues as though trying to establish his bearing. Whenever this would happen, Melansa would glide gracefully into the shadows like a specter. Once they had passed out of the area referred to as the Royal enclave, the number of streetlamps diminished, leaving large tracts of darkened roadway into which she could easily disappear to avoid any unwanted scrutiny.

This cat and mouse pursuit continued for what seemed like several bells. After a time, the rain began to fall in earnest, thoroughly soaking Melansa's tunic and trousers, while driving icy fingers deep into her flesh. She castigated herself for what was surely a fool's errand. It was most likely that Dynok was out in search of a pleasure best appeased in a discreet fashion. Despite his practiced civility and courtier's manners, Dynok had long struck her as a man for whom a warm, pliable body would hold intense pleasure.

Yet even as she spun this elaborate rationalization, her intrinsic grasp of the ebb and flow of history informed her that this banal explanation rang false. This mysterious excursion was directly connected to his visit and to the tumult that had befallen Artumas' court in the last several days. The inherent truth of this burned in every fiber of her being and spurred her after him, even when prudence dictate she return to the castle and discuss this with the Emercian King.

Eventually, Melansa came to realize that Dynok's apparent meandering path through the city was not as haphazard as it had first appeared. The winding route was clearly deliberate and most likely intended to throw any pursuit off the scent.

Dynok had anticipated he might be followed. Stealth had saved her from detection as the gravity of the moment began to weigh upon her every move. Eventually, this convoluted path led them into Thieves Trough, and it was then that Melansa discerned just how dangerous this nocturnal adventure might prove to be.

The trough had earned its name because it served as a home for every manner of miscreant a city the size of Nalosan could expect. Thieves' guilds, mercenaries, and assassins for hire all called this wretched swathe of dilapidated hovels their home and though it comprised no more than fifteen percent of the city by area, the trough was the breeding ground for nearly all of the illicit enterprises that plagued the city. It was virtually impossible to predict with any degree of accuracy the number of people who had ventured into the cesspool never to be seen again. The city watch maintained a nominal presence in the trough but even they were seldom seen on the narrow, foul-smelling streets once darkness fell.

Melansa inhaled sharply as she crept along, her brow furrowing in a disgusted reaction to the stench of raw sewage. She grimaced as her boot sank into a hole of foul-smelling water, wondering what sorry twist of fate could prompt a human being to surrender all civility and humanity. Below the eldritch stench of decaying sewage, Melansa thought she could detect something more primal, but no less disturbing...the cancerous reek of the dissolute and the morally bankrupt.

It was said the trough came into existence in response to the terrible poverty that always seemed to afflict the poor of every nation. Standing well away from the grandeur of Kammlogran and its immediate environs, this part of the city became a natural collection point for the downtrodden and the forgotten. Inevitably, this served as the catalyst for the transformation into the den of iniquity it had ultimately become. For all of the superficial poverty, the trough was also a place of wretched excess where the vile and unscrupulous could parlay their talents into wealth and power of the type that Alain Joubert would understand quite well.

All of these things resonated in Melansa's thoughts as she resolutely picked her way through the narrow streets of the trough. Why would a man of stature and prominence such as Dynok venture into the seedy underbelly of Nalosan under the cover of abysmal darkness and weather? She could conjure no logical explanation...save one; Dynok was here to convey news of the days' events to someone who made the trough their home.

'Xhendyn!' The thought blossomed in her mind of its own accord, taking root like a vile night flower that would not be extirpated by disbelief. The notion was ludicrous, of course. The very thought that the most wanted villain in the kingdom would actually venture onto the King's doorstep was not only absurd, it was laughable.

And yet Melansa could not purge the idea from her thoughts. If Dynok was here to provide information to Xhendyn, then he was a traitor of the foulest ilk. Jerhia logic insisted that she return to the castle and disclose her theory to Artumas...prompt action might even lead to the capture of the enemy of the realm. Still, she found herself drawn forward by a deeper imperative that insisted she must bear witness to this perfidy with her own two eyes.

Up ahead, Dynok was suddenly confronted by a pair of unsavory-looking men brandishing short swords. Melansa shrank back into the shadows, her hand automatically reaching for the pommel of her own weapon. Unlike Nalosan proper, which had been mostly deserted due to the wretched weather, the trough was abuzz with people who seemed oblivious to the elements. Melansa wondered if the pointlessness of their lives plagued them with a restlessness that would give them no rest.

"Proper boy, what brings ya down to our end of the world?" A small man with the face of a ferret demanded, thrusting his weapon at Dynok's chest. "Perhaps ya be wanting someone to lighten your pockets."

From her perspective in the shadows, Melansa could detect no sign of apprehension in the Consul's posture. Slowly, he raised his forearms until the sleeves of his loose-fitting tunic fell back to reveal his bare flesh. Melansa squinted against the slanting rain, scarcely crediting what her eyes insisted to be the truth. A subdued green glow appeared to emanate from Dynok's exposed wrist, eliciting gasps of shock and obvious trepidation from the pair of would-be muggers.

"We meant no harm, sir," the ferret-face groveled, his voice tremulous with fear. To her frustration, Melansa's position would not afford her a clear view of whatever Dynok had exposed to the pair. The Consul did not respond. Instead he moved forward with a dismissive wave of his hand and proceeded past the robbers as if they had dissipated into the mist. They watched him for a moment and then hurried off into the shadows on the opposite side of the street, moving like children who had been frightened by a conjured demon.

She hesitated until the would-be assailants vanished, then Melansa again set out after Dynok. Over the course of the next half bell, the same bizarre scene of confrontation and dismissal played itself out with identical results. Each time, the denizens of the trough would draw back from the proffered symbol with superstitious dread and flee like frightened animals.

'Someone had provided clever Dynok with a sigil to ensure his safe passage through the trough; someone who commanded both the fear and respect of the dwellers of this wretched place,' the Jerhia came to realize. She could think of only one sigil that would command the unquestioning respect of the vermin of the trough...the sigil of the Emerald Enchantress. With this dramatic revelation, Melansa finally understood that she had waded into a fetid pool of corruption and treachery for which she was not suited. If Dynok bore the sigil of the enchantress, that would be damning evidence enough and to venture any further would be sheer folly.

She had every intention of returning to Kammlogran then, but a hundred paces in front of her, Dynok came to an abrupt halt and was gazing fixedly up at a two-story building. The structure was comprised of wood and brick, but it had fallen into disrepair over the years. Melansa guessed the building must have served as a warehouse of some sort. A dull red light emanated through the broken shutters, casting eerie shadows on the paving stones. Dynok stood regarding the building for an extended length of time, informing Melansa that he was reluctant to enter. His rigid posture intimated this reluctance may have been rooted in terror. Eventually, he marshaled the fortitude to move forward. Crossing over to the crumbling stoop, Dynok bound up the three steps and vanished into the building, leaving a befuddled Jerhia to ponder her next move.

Despite the bustle of activity that marked her trek through Thieves Trough, the immediate environs of this building were strangely deserted. The building seemed to radiate evil in palpable waves as though the malfeasance of whatever dwelled here had permeated its wood and stone, driving the common thugs away.

The Jerhia had crept into a pool of shadows directly across the street where she knelt contemplating what to do next, when a sudden rush of cool air gently brushed the nape of her neck. The whisper of contact caused the already damp skin to rise into great hackles.

Melansa twisted about with a small cry of revulsion but found that the street behind her was deserted. The only sounds to reach her ear were the incessant fall of rain and the melancholy sigh of wind. She closed her eyes and struggled to regain her composure, reproaching herself for falling victim to anxiety. Even though she had served as an emissary of sorts for the last several years, she was still a Jerhia, bred and trained to every aspect of combat, including infiltration and espionage.

"Ah but this is a place far from the field of battle or an enemy fortification," a voice declared, evoking a startled gasp from Melansa. "You have no notion of how far you've strayed from your world of familiarity and comfort, woman."

Despite her initial shock, Melansa sprang lithely to her feet in a smooth unfurling of conditioned muscle, simultaneously drawing her dirk as she moved away from the disembodied voice. She assumed the classic fhirz, or short blade combat stance that was the foundation of the Jerhia close combat training and spun in a slow circle in an attempt to determine the precise direction of the threat.

To her chagrin, Melansa could see nothing.

"Bring her to me," the voice commanded, even as the Jerhia expertly shifted the dirk from one hand to the next to coincide with the transfer of balance from foot to foot. The shadows about Melansa appeared to congeal and suddenly her right wrist was caught up in a vice-like grip. She jerked hard in an attempt to extricate herself from the assailant's grasp, but the pressure on her wrist intensified until she involuntarily lost her grip on the weapon. It clattered uselessly to the paving stones, where it was sent spinning out onto the street by an unseen foot.

In the next moment, an unseen energy enveloped Melansa. She attempted to cry out, but her scream dried up in her throat. Through bulging eyes, the Jerhia could see the fabric of reality soften and run like clear wax before a flame. As she grappled with her unseen attacker, Melansa could see the building into which Dynok had so recently vanished. The world appeared distorted until the moldering shapes of the trough became grotesque. The sound of the falling rain became a distant thing heard through a viscous membrane.

And then everything vanished.

"A party crasher," a voice declared from immediately behind her, so close that she could feel the speaker's warm breath against her cheek as a sinewy arm encircled her throat. "Eavesdropping is a grievous offence, woman."

The Jerhia understood that something extraordinary had befallen her; something diabolical that she might well not survive.

"ShadowCaster!" the words came unbidden to her lips as she recalled how Lorio had recounted the augury of the speaking demon to the assembled court.

"Ah, a perceptive bitch," her attacker intoned, clearly surprised by her knowledge of his identity. The grip around her throat loosened marginally. The ability to react instinctively, to exploit the slightest of openings, was deeply engrained in the Jerhia psyche. Melansa bent her chin forward and drove her head backwards in the hope of inflicting enough damage on her attacker to break his grip. Instead of striking his face, Melansa found herself tottering for balance and then her legs were swept smoothly out from under her. She landed heavily on her side with a guttural grunt.

"You may know who I am, but you have no idea what I am," the ShadowCaster intoned with an amused grin. Propping herself on her elbows, a befuddled Melansa was afforded her first glimpse of the man who had been prophesied to scourge her world. She was rather startled to discover that Alain Joubert was a rather nondescript man of slender build and medium height. Amidst a crowd, Melansa doubted that she would even notice this man's presence.

'Which makes him all the more of a menace,' she thought despondently. Even his facial features, from his receding hairline to his thin nose, spoke of the mundane and ordinary. His dark eyes, however, bespoke a keen intelligence, while hinting at a capacity for infinite cruelty.

Joubert was cognizant of her scrutiny, correctly interpreting her reaction to his rather chameleon-like appearance. "I'm not exactly the fire-breathing demon you would expect. I can assure you that my sponsor will fill that role quite admirably, as you will soon see."

"What are you?" the Jerhia inquired, knowing full well that the deceptively ordinary man before her was anything but.

Joubert smiled, an expression that impressed Melansa as decidedly reptilian as it dawned on the ShadowCaster's rather unremarkable face. "Should I tell you?" he inquired demurely. "In light of your present circumstance, I see no reason why not. In my own world, I liked to refer to myself as a rather gifted businessman. In this antiquated backwater, my true nature remains shrouded in mystery...even to me."

His grin transformed into something predatory and horrible. Watching it shape his thin lips, Melansa could feel herself shiver involuntarily. "I have discovered I possess some rather amazing abilities," he declared and raised his arms in a gesture of encompassment. "As you can readily attest. I have the ability to pull things into this nether world...which is a purgatory between realities."

He ventured closer and knelt down beside Melansa. To her consternation and horrified amazement, he actually let his right-hand settle on the full swell of her left breast, where he began to massage the warm, pliable flesh beneath her tunic. "I could leave you here to die like an abandoned dog, chained to a stake on a deserted farm. You would be trapped watching the world carry on around you as you slowly and agonizingly starved to death."

The Jerhia shuddered with revulsion as he mauled her flesh. It occurred to her that his lechery was born from the certitude that she would not retaliate while faced with the prospect of imprisonment in this space between realities. In the tradition of the Jerhia's deeply inculcated sense of self-sacrifice, Melansa realized fate had afforded her the opportunity to possibly forestall whatever threat this repugnant creature might pose to her world. It stood to reason that if she was isolated in this way station between worlds, then so was the ShadowCaster. If she could find a way to harm him, perhaps even his sponsor could not intervene.

Feigning arousal, Melansa arched her back pushing her breast into his grasping palm. As she did this, the Jerhia raised her hips and repositioned her strong legs, uttering a throaty moan as she did.

"Ah the kitten finds this pleasing, does she?" Joubert rasped as he dragged his thumb over her erect nipple. In the next instant, she gripped his wrist in both hands and hyper-extended his arm upward with a savage jerk. As she did this, Melansa drew her legs upward and encircled his head, trapping his extended arm between his head and her thigh. With a snarl, she began to apply a ferocious pressure to his skull, employing his own arm in an effort to choke the life out of him. Grinning fiercely, Melansa twisted and strained, deriving intense pleasure from the sight of the ShadowCaster's bulging eyes as they met her own along the length of her torso. As his color deepened from plum toward blue, Melansa arched her back, dramatically increasing the leverage on Joubert's exposed neck. His struggles intensified and then gradually abated, but Melansa did not relent until he fell completely still. After another moment, she released her leg lock and his slack face settled against her abdomen, his vacant eyes staring sightlessly into death's realm. Releasing his wrist with a grunt of disgust, the Jerhia pushed his arm aside and sat up, wondering if she really could have achieved the demise of the world's supposed bane with such comparative ease.

Then Joubert winked at her and sat up on his haunches. "I'm afraid not."

With the speed of a striking cobra, the ShadowCaster struck her cleanly in the jaw, sending Melansa spiraling into unconsciousness.

4

Two things became readily apparent as Melansa groped her way back to consciousness. The first was the intense pain throbbing in her jaw and the second was the bite of steel in both wrists. Her head lolled on the stalk of her neck and she found herself suspended from a wooden crossbeam, manacled at the wrists. Blood ran in languid rivulets along the length of her forearm from the place where the steel restraints bit cruelly into her flesh. With a cry of agony, she wrapped her hands around the rusted chains and hauled herself upright, alleviating the pain in her arms, if only marginally.

As she raised her head to confront her captors, it occurred to her the ShadowCaster had been toying with her, even as she understood that her pursuit of Dynok had been a fool's errand born of arrogance.

Arrogance that would in all likelihood cost her life.

To aggravate her torment, Melansa's captors had stripped her of her boots, trousers and underwear. Her tunic had been torn open, exposing her full breasts like a brazen harlot. Through this haze of pain and humiliation, Melansa found herself face to face with a horrifying creature who could only be Xhendyn. His inhuman red eyes gleamed with an indecipherable emotion, made all the more eerie by his pewter mask. Her gaze was drawn to the emerald intaglio adorning his breastplate and a gasp escaped her lips. That someone would brazenly display the sigil of history's greatest evil was incomprehensible to Melansa and yet here it was, displayed as proudly as a holy relic.

Despite the protest in her neck, she managed to twist her head and saw the ShadowCaster reclining casually against a nearby wall. He offered the Jerhia an amused grin but elected not to speak. Then her eyes happened upon Consul Dynok and a sudden fury boiled up in Melansa, despite years of rigid training in the art of stoicism. "You vile bastard! How dare you betray the most benevolent man ever to wear a crown in favor of the very embodiment of evil? What possible inducement could prompt such a monstrous betrayal?"

Dynok shrugged indifferently and ventured closer to the bound Jerhia. "I am an astute practitioner of the political game, dear lady. I would much prefer to cast my lot with those who must surely triumph than sink with an aging icon who has lost touch with the world around him."

"You underestimate Artumas at the expense of your head I think," Melansa admonished gravely.

"Enough!" Xhendyn interjected, his improbable red eyes blazing ominously. "In light of your present predicament, your dire predictions of our demise are rather pathetic. I intend to crush Artumas like the inconsequential flea that he is and then restore the emerald enchantress to her rightful throne. That I could be here on the very doorstep of his throne while he gropes about ineffectually to hunt me down is testimony to his impotence." He moved closer until his pewter mask was only inches from her upturned face. Whatever this creature might be, he radiated evil in palpable waves, and it required every ounce of Melansa's discipline to prevent her from recoiling in revulsion. "The fact that a Jerhia emissary has fallen under my fist speaks eloquently of the state of your archaic nation."

"My death will bring the full weight of the Jerhia military might down upon your ignoble band of brigands, demon," she rasped defiantly, evoking a gale of sardonic laughter from her captor.

"I suspect that your Tier Marshals will be fully occupied attempting to prevent Sygeanor from exterminating the Lamish scum from the face of the world; an Endeavour I sincerely hope grinds both nations to dust before it is done. When Jerhia and Metocan have essentially decimated each other, who will be left to deny Myrhia her rightful dominion of this land?"

Shaking her head in disgust, Melansa played her gambit in the hopes the sacrifice of her life would serve as a catalyst to Xhendyn's undoing. "For all of your bravado and subterfuge, you and your lot are pathetic geldings who attack the defenseless and then scurry back to your burrows like craven badgers, afraid to confront a trained adversary. For all of your ambitious posturing, you are little more than an annoying nuisance."

Xhendyn appeared to glower momentarily, but then threw back his head and laughed, a grotesque sound that caused the Jerhia to shudder. "Do you regard me as such a dullard that I would not discern your ploy? You wish me to strike you down in fury, thus drawing the Jerhia into the fray in the hopes of saving your enfeebled king."

"And do you believe that I am so obtuse as to hope that anything, but death awaits me come the first light of morning?" Melansa retorted crisply. In that moment, the Jerhia accepted the inevitability of her death, hoping only that it would not prove futile. Xhendyn stroked his chin pensively, his eerie red eyes never leaving hers. "Beneath your bravado, I detect that a challenge has been issued. You offer yourself through the ingrained desire to perish for the noble cause. So be it. I will afford you the opportunity to satiate that desire. Let the Jerhia come if they will, but they will fall to the emerald enchantress like wheat before the scythe...just as they did in the recent past when she rolled through your mountain keeps like a scouring wind."

Melansa did not respond. Instead, she steeled herself against what was to follow by offering prayers of contrition to the Jerhia Deities, asking for forgiveness for the arrogance that engineered her demise.

"Would you like me to prepare a special place for her?" the ShadowCaster inquired eagerly, privately wondering if events would allow for a few moments of pleasure before he consigned her to a private hell.

Xhendyn shook his head in negation. "No, I believe that a more public spectacle is in order for our recalcitrant intruder. I want Artumas and his band of followers to know in brutally candid terms that he is utterly vulnerable and that we can strike at the time and place of our choosing."

Joubert offered a slight nod and settle back against the wall. Recalling the sensation of her firm breast beneath his palm, he experienced a pang of disappointment that he could not plunder her flesh before it was reduced to carrion.

"The sigil, bring it here," Xhendyn barked gruffly as he spun about and gestured for one of his henchmen to come forward. As he stepped thus, Melansa was afforded a view of a brazier that held glowing embers. The masked henchman produced a set of iron tongs. Reaching into the midst of the coals, he drew out an emerald encrusted sigil that Melansa could not help but recognize as a replica of the one that adorned Xhendyn's breastplate.

The sigil of Myrhia, the emerald enchantress.

In the seconds it took Xhendyn's sycophant to cross the room, Melansa contemplated the moment of her impending death. The steel of the Jerhia culture fortified her resolve against the cold embrace of oblivion, but she could scarce help but feel a twinge of regret that she had not declared her suspicions concerning Dynok to Artumas. She inclined her head toward the Consul. He became aware of her scrutiny and turned his eyes to meet hers. "Whatever reward you anticipated through this monstrous betrayal; it will poison your traitorous soul. Such arrogance to think that you could cast your lot with a nest of vipers and not be stung by the very evil you helped facilitate."

Dynok stiffened and seemed about to reply, but then he reconsidered and averted his eyes. Xhendyn reached for the glowing sigil and the henchman opened the tongs and allowed it to drop into his upturned palm. Through the veil of her torment, Melansa inhaled sharply, fully expecting that the steaming metal would consume both leather and flesh alike. To her eternal wonder, it did not and Xhendyn held it as though it was as benign as a trinket snatched from a jeweler's shelf.

When he turned his attention to the enchained Jerhia, Xhendyn's malefic eyes gleamed with undisguised glee, informing Melansa the infliction of pain was a source of endless pleasure for this monster. "Your misguided ilk fought to deny Myrhia what was rightfully hers to possess and thus it is only fitting one of its own bears the brand that heralds her imminent return."

In one fluid motion, he surged forward and pressed the searing sigil into the exposed flesh of her abdomen, directly below her sternum. The night came alive with Melansa's strident howl of agony and though she was trained to stymie every expression of suffering, she could not help but give voice to the surging tide of misery that suffused her flesh. Her screams resonated through the warehouse, falling on the indifferent ears of creatures who regarded pity as an incomprehensible emotion. Waves of excruciating pain set her body to spasm as the hot metal bit deep into her yielding flesh, cauterizing the melting flesh as it went.

Xhendyn observed the process intently for a moment and then abruptly laid the flat of his hand over the sigil. As quickly as it had come, Melansa's pain vanished, giving way to a radiating numbness that chilled her body to the very marrow of her bones. Gazing down through the valley of her breasts, the Jerhia was horrified to discover Myrhia's intaglio melded with the flesh and sinew of her living body. The abomination of her disfigurement slammed down upon her like a mailed fist and before she could forestall them, tears began to spill over her lashes and onto her prominent cheekbones. In abjection, she hung her head in shame and began to weep.

The creature before her seized her hair and jerked her head back until her eyes were level with his. "You whine and blubber like a petulant child as if you have somehow been sullied and yet you carry a sigil whose magnitude dulls all others. No living Jerhia is worthy of this honor. You are no exception."

Still holding her head upright with his left fist, Xhendyn raised his right arm and drew a small throwing star across Melansa's exposed throat. The precisely honed weapon parted the flawless skin describing a perfect crimson arc in its wake. Even as Xhendyn spun away with the litheness of a dancer, life's blood began to issue forth from the wound in cascading sheets. A gurgling gasp escaped the Jerhia's lips accompanied by fine bubbles of the deepest red. Her eyes grew wide in shock and then fluttered as the last traces of awareness drained away along with precious blood that welled up from Xhendyn's mortal wound.

A complete and utter silence descended upon the warehouse as Melansa's lifeless corpse sagged against its restraints, broken only when Dynok expelled a ragged breath fraught with revulsion.

With a hint of disdain, Xhendyn chided, "Have you no appetite for the bloodier aspects of insurrection, Consul Dynok?"

Dynok grimaced and averted his gaze, unable to compel himself to look upon the ruined remains of the Jerhia Emissary. Xhendyn was correct in his assessment...Dynok deplored crude violence and this night's display was as horrid as any he had witnessed, making him suddenly wish he'd made a greater effort to evade the Jerhia's pursuit.

Xhendyn strode over to the hanging corpse and released both restraints, stepping back as Melansa's body collapsed to the filthy floor with a meaty thud. Turning to two of his henchmen, he instructed, "Take the body to the Royal Park. Take care to select a location where it will receive maximum notice."

The two came forward and gripping the body by either arm, began to drag it toward the entrance. Dynok observed how the woman's head rolled lifelessly to and froe and he struggled to restrain his urge to vomit. As the pair came abreast of Xhendyn, he imposed himself in their path and intoned darkly, "If you should be found out, be assured you will be joining her in the afterlife."

The identical expressions of terror that dawned on both of their faces made it eminently clear the henchmen understood the price of failure. When they had disappeared from sight, Myrhia's would-be emancipator turned to Dynok. "Now, my sensitive friend, perhaps you might disclose just what necessitated this bit of dark drama?"

Gathering his composure, Dynok informed his dark patron of the day's development in the High King's court.

Chapter Twelve

1

She burst through her chamber door like a tempest, the iron handle slamming into the glazed stone with a metallic crunch. The Lamish Queen strode into the center of her suite and delivered a savage kick to a delicate wood and marble end table that shattered into kindling from the force of the blow. Standing amidst the detritus of the decorative piece, Lorio allowed her chin to settle to her chest and closed her eyes, drawing deep, slow breaths to regain her composure.

Her famous temper had once again gotten the better of her, just as it had done on occasions too numerous to recall over the years. Her assault on the Matrium had been a startling and inexcusable breach of protocol. In truth, she was fortunate that Artumas had not ordered her shackled and confined to a cell. With a sigh, she drifted over to a bay window and settled into the drift of silk cushions scattered about the enclosure. Beyond the dappled glass, the Queen saw the night was every bit as turbulent as her own emotions.

As rivulets of rain distorted her view of the darkened harbor, Lorio contemplated the farcical nature of her reign as Queen of Lamia. If ever a people had been ill served by a Monarch, the Lamish were those unfortunate people. After centuries of prejudice and persecution, they finally secured a small swathe of land to call their own, only to be encumbered by a leader who was no more fit to govern than she was to be a mother.

The last thought tore open afresh a recollection that she had sealed in the deepest recesses of her memory and suddenly tears of sorrow and abjection burst forth like a deluge. Lorio buried her face in her hands and sobbed uncontrollably for the hundredth time since that vile bitch Myrhia planted the filthy seed of immortality in her heart in the shadow of Runesholm.

The hot tears streaming down her face were the intermingling of shame, sorrow, despair and rage. She had cried When Otaru Ree, Mistress of the dead, had pulled her unborn child from her womb in return for safe passage through the demesne of death for Islena and her party. She had cried when Islena decided to leave her and return to her own world after she had vanquished Myrhia. Now, however, she sobbed for all of these things and more...for every injustice she had endured since the time of her childhood.

Mostly, she cried at the prospect of the staggering emptiness of the future that lay before her.

Tears poured forth until her hands glistened with moisture. Inconsolable and weakened by misery, Lorio pitched forward onto the cushions and covered her head with her arms like a small child.

She had no concept of how long this outpouring of emotion went on, but when the outburst finally subsided, Lorio was left feeling hollow and consumed. She sat back on her haunches and gazed blearily about her lavishly appointed chamber. Despite possessing every amenity Nalosan had to offer, the room felt as empty as a tomb, serving as a stark microcosm of her sorry life.

The pale whispers of everyone who she had lost seemed to mock her from the cover of shadow. Islena, her father and the child who was taken from her before it could draw breath in the world: they capered in the darkness as if to mock her staggering solitude. In that moment of insufferable isolation and futility, Lorio wished she possessed the means to cut the immortal heart from her chest and cast it into the chamber's fireplace.

Sighing, she rose on unsteady legs and crossed over to the mantle, where she gazed into the dancing flames. It was pointless to deny that her irascible mood was attributable to the disappointment of learning Islena Doraux would not be the instrument chosen by fate to deliver the world from evil. The euphoria that accompanied the speaking demon's revelation dissipated, replaced by a staggering sense of loss and the fresh rending of old wounds. Evidently, fate again elected her to be the guardian of another purported savior, but Lorio suddenly found herself doubting her ability to fulfill the obligation.

"Would you deny the glaringly obvious truth of what must be done? What the situation so clearly requires?" Lorio blinked. She heard the words clearly, as if the speaker was standing beside her and yet when her gaze swept her suite, Lorio found that she was still very much alone. "Would you suffer a monstrous injustice to reprise its evil in your world a second time?"

Her head jerked back to the capering flames to find a pair of lustrous green eyes regarding her from the fiery depths. Her breath caught in her chest and she gasped, steadying herself on the stone mantle lest her legs betray her. Those eyes...she recognized them all too well. She had gazed into them in a thousand restless dreams.

The eyes of Islena Doraux stared back at her.

'And yet the voice does not belong to Islena,' her mind cautioned, though a mesmerized Lorio heard it the way one might hear a barely perceptible whisper along the length of a long corridor. She found herself powerless to drag her gaze from the exquisite emerald eyes. "Islena, is it truly you?"

"Artumas has been beguiled by this Matrium and her sisters," the voice declared, pointedly ignoring her query. "She has weaved an elaborate tapestry and even now it erodes his reason. Thus seduced, he will throw open the floodgates to these witches and Myrhia's successor will inevitably ascend to the throne of Emercia. With the three nations of power embroiled in open conflict, there will be naught to prevent her evil from undoing your world. Through the swirling mist of anarchy, only you have the presence of mind to discern what must be done."

Lorio's dark eyes narrowed, there was a maddeningly familiar aspect to this voice, a lilting, sweet timbre she should recognize, but simply could not place. The words flowed over her like honey, a palpable touch that elicited tiny tremors from her flesh. "Artumas cannot begin to comprehend all that you have endured, Lorio. Indeed, is there another who suffered the sting of the viper as incisively as you have? You have been placed at this juncture by fate to forestall a second coming of the usurper. Will you renounce this obligation or turn a blind eye to the threat hovering over your world?"

Involuntarily, Lorio shook her head in negation, understanding blooming in her mind with crystalline clarity.

She must kill the one called the Ascentrix.

If Artumas stubbornly refused to acknowledge the menace these witches posed, the burden of forestalling their vile aspirations must fall to her. She was compelled to act by her oath as Queen of Lamia; an oath she had broken too many times to credit. But no more. From this day forth, Lorio vowed to devote herself to the service of her people and acquit herself in a manner befitting of a Queen.

When she came back to herself, the exquisite emerald eyes had vanished, leaving Lorio with a newfound determination to make amends for the mockery she had made of her reign as Queen. She would defang the Sisters of Esotaria by eliminating their Ascentrix. There would be no second coming of Myrhia as long as she drew breath. Once she had dispatched the child, Lorio intended to return to Lamia and confront the Metocan.

Drawing a deep breath, Lorio set about preparing for her attack on the Ascentrix. The King had ordered the Sisters to be housed in the section of the palace reserved for large foreign retinues, an area with which Lorio was well acquainted. It should be a comparatively simple task to locate the child. Part of her mind balked at the prospect of killing the girl, but Lorio savagely silenced those objections. This persona was a clever disguise, conceived to hide the true nature of the creature dwelling within. Lorio need only conjure the image of Myrhia's delicate porcelain beauty to recall how deceiving appearances could be.

Driving all thought and moral reservations from her mind, Lorio emptied her simple pack, eschewing her staff for four small throwing daggers, the art of which she had mastered in the years following the end of the war. She carefully looped the dagger belt around her muscular right thigh and then tied a lace wrap about her generous hips to conceal the weapons. An assassin's calm descended on Lorio and she set out for the Ascentrix's quarters like an implacable engine of death.

In a twist of irony both women would never come to perceive, scant moments later the Jerhia Emissary would leave her quarters, unknowingly passing the Lamish Queen, who was sequestered in a shadowed alcove, quietly tracking Melansa's passing.

Neither woman was aware that they had set off on journeys from which there would be no return.

2

She had been mortal once, though never commonplace. Even as she lay in swaddling clothing in the temple of Ashira, it was evident this was no ordinary child. The nascent stirring of power without limit radiated from her newborn flesh, attracting the attention of the ever-watchful Sisters of Esotaria.

Now, the meandering river of fate had carried her to a troubled land veiled beneath iniquity's shadow.

"Does it pain you?" she inquired of Karosyn, who grimaced and absently stroked her swollen jaw. "It is tender, but I think I'll survive. That woman is a volatile creature and I pity anyone foolish enough to make her an enemy."

The Ascentrix nodded and gently lay her right hand on the Matrium's distended cheek, which felt hot to the touch. Karosyn's eyes widened slightly as a cooling sensation spread through the injured flesh, calming the pain and slowly mending the mandible that had been cracked by the force of Lorio's blow. Finally, Karosyn lightly gripped the Ascentrix's slender wrist and kissed her open palm. Grateful for the relief, the Matrium whispered, "Thank you."

Karosyn had served in the capacity of tutor and spiritual guide to the Ascentrix for most of her extended adult life. On many occasions, Karosyn was forced to remind herself this creature was over two hundred years old. An Ascentrix grew to womanhood in accordance with her spiritual ascension. An Ascension was achieved through a series of predestined interactions with fate that facilitated both her physical and spiritual journey to adulthood. The longer the process, the more powerful and sagacious the Ascentrix would prove to be. The Matrium was an authority on the subject of past holders of the holiest of mantles and knew there was never a journey to maturity as protracted as this child's was proving to be. Abruptly, Karosyn began to weep, her tears hot against the girl's cool flesh. She need only reflect on the grace and serenity with which this exquisite creature led the Sisters of Esotaria and the Matrium would find herself overcome by emotion. The privilege of serving one so blessed was more than Karosyn felt she deserved, but she was ineffably grateful for every day she spent in the child's presence.

The Ascentrix, who had been born Lissom, stroked the Matrium's cheek. Divining the undercurrent of conflicting emotion flowing through Karosyn's mind, she intoned softly, "If gratitude is warranted, that warrant must fall to me. It is your loyalty and unwavering love that has guided me to this moment in time."

The Matrium gazed up at her mistress, reluctantly drawing back from the comforting touch. "Is this truly necessary? This woman is a tempest bred in the womb of anarchy...there is no predicting her actions. If I have led you to this, I will never forgive myself."

Lissom favored her mentor with a smile aglow with placidity and unshakable faith. "I embarked upon this journey of my own free will, knowing full well that my making...or undoing would await me in the lands of the west. If the bane is to vanquish the ShadowCaster, this woman must ward him until the ebb and flow of events bring the two together. If she subscribes to the belief that I am a creature of Myrhia's ilk, Lorio will never set herself to the task of protecting the bane."

The limpid eyes did not flutter in the slightest, when Lissom spoke the words that evoked such dread in the Matrium's heart. "If we are to gain her compliance, I must convince her that our cause is noble and without guile. Failing this, she must take my life to assuage her fears. Capricious fate will decide which route Lorio is to take."

Karosyn inhaled sharply and began to weep afresh. To lose this most sacred of creatures to such a desperate gamble was an eventuality too horrible to contemplate. Lissom's smile broadened, radiating warmth like the sun. "Go Karosyn...as we've discussed, make certain that access to this chamber is free and unencumbered. I would implore you to keep Lyndsyn well in hand. She is an impetuous one and it would not serve if she were to attempt to stop Lorio. Matters must unfold as fate intended."

Karosyn regarded the Ascentrix for several long moments, searching the angelic face for even the slightest hint of fatalism. Seeing none, she rose and made her way to the chamber door, her heart weighing heavily in her chest like a millstone. "If I were to adjure you to reconsider, I suppose it would be for naught?"

Lissom's eyes twinkled with mirth. "Karosyn, whatever fate should befall me tonight, it is imperative that you not forget the importance of the Lamish Queen in fate's equation. Whatever personal feelings you might harbor, they must be subjugated in the name of the greater good...even if Lorio takes my life. Artumas is a good and noble king, but in the impending maelstrom it may well be he will lose his direction. If this was to transpire, the task of setting him on the virtuous path will fall to you."

Battling tears, the Matrium bowed formally and responded, "My life for you, child. As always, my life for you. I will not fail you in this."

Then she was gone, leaving Lissom to contemplate the imminent arrival of her would-be assassin. She moved gracefully to the bed, her feet scarcely touching the floor, and sat cross-legged on her narrow pallet. Closing her eyes, she commenced the ritual of Arysil which was the cleansing of the mind through controlled breathing and meditation. Even Karosyn, her oldest companion, had no real conception of exactly how powerful Lissom had become. The common thread of telepathy ran through every member of the Sisters from the greenest adept to the Ascentrix, but Lissom, alone possessed the ability to shield her every thought from her sisters should she wish. Merely by closing her eyes, the Ascentrix gained immediate access to the plane of energy that enveloped the world like a gossamer blanket so fine as to be imperceptible to all but a scant talented few. Hers was the power to discern the delicate ebb and flow of energy across this unseen plane as power was expended or absorbed by magic wielders throughout the land.

Like the fall of a feather, a tendril of energy infiltrated the castle and touched the Queen of Lamia, attempting to seduce Lorio into becoming a device of its purpose; a purpose Lissom grasped all too well. Its subtle resonation had come to Lissom more like the echo of a whisper than actual spoken words. Closing her eyes and opening her mind, the Ascentrix traced the intangible thread back through the tapestry of metaphysical energy, questing for the source. To her surprise and consternation, Lissom discovered this thread petered out into nothingness the way a fugitive's trail may vanish should he make his way into a river or stream. She frowned and laid an index finger across her cheek in a subconscious gesture of bemusement. It was virtually impossible to traverse the psychic plane without leaving a residue of sorts; an echo that might resemble the ripple in a pool of water that a stone might make.

Yet this was precisely what appeared to have happened.

In a crystalline burst of comprehension, Lissom suddenly realized the precarious nature of the situation into which she had willingly placed herself. She had thrown open the doors to a deadly predator who may have fallen under the thrall of an unseen enemy. Still, she was the Ascentrix and if it was the design of fate to position her thus, Lissom had no choice but to accept its wisdom.

A furtive stirring from the outer hall reached her ear, prompting Lissom to abandon the ritual of Arysil. She primly folded her small hands in her lap and opened her limpid eyes. Subjugating her anxiety, the Ascentrix opened her mind to the placating embrace of fate's messenger. She smiled serenely as the door to her chamber swung quietly open and a shadow stepped gracefully inside.

3

The darkened hallways of Kammlogran made stealthy passage an easy matter and Lorio managed to slip by the drowsy guard and into the foreign accommodations completely undetected.

'A skilled assassin could slit Artumas' throat and be halfway back to Redia before these dolts discovered his corpse,' Lorio thought contemptuously as she deftly glided by a pair of spear-wielding sentries. If events unfolded as she hoped, Lorio would eliminate the demon-spawn and be out of Nalosan and on her way back to Lamia before the blood had dried. If preventing a return to the horrors witnessed during the reign of Myrhia meant permanently alienating Artumas and severing ties with Emercia, Lorio was fully prepared to suffer the loss. The chance this Ascentrix was a creature cut from the same cloth as the Emerald Enchantress was a risk the world could scarcely afford to hazard.

As she silently negotiated the maze of Kammlogran's foreign section, the Lamish Queen was mildly surprised to find the shadowy passages were entirely deserted. Bounding lithely down a short section of hallway, she could not escape the disconcerting sense of being directed by unseen hands like a marionette dancing beneath invisible strings. Indeed, upon first entering the foreign quarter, Lorio had no idea where the girl's quarters might be located. Now, however, she felt herself being propelled forward with an eerie sense of certainty.

'Like a moth to a flame,' she thought and grimaced. That particular metaphor was one she did not at all care for, however appropriate it might feel under the given circumstances. Rounding a corner, Lorio found herself in an unfamiliar section of the palace that consisted of a circular atrium into which were set several sets of double oak doors. In sharp contrast to the rest of the darkened castle, dozens of burning braziers, each set on ornate marble shelves trimmed in filigreed gold, brilliantly lit the rotunda.

Incredibly, not a single guard was stationed to defend the door leading into the girl's quarters. Assessing this unlikely situation, Lorio drew one of two ominous conclusions; either the Ascentrix required no protection or the Sisters had anticipated Lorio's arrival and were prepared to meet it. The girl's dramatic entrance into Artumas' receiving hall lent credence to the first possibility, while the prospect of venturing into an elaborately laid trap did nothing to deter the intrepid Lamish beauty.

She could sense the Ascentrix lurking behind the nearest set of oaken doors and faltered, if only for a moment. It was impossible to predict precisely what this creature was and if she was indeed a monster of Myrhia's ilk, Lorio could well find herself hopelessly over-matched. That uncharacteristic hesitation lasted only a moment before the entrenched Lamish confidence propelled her forward. Stepping quickly into the flickering light, she crossed the carpeted floor, pausing briefly at the door to gauge what sound, if any, might come from within. Hearing nothing, she twisted the wrought iron handles and slipped soundlessly inside, hands moving instinctively to her throwing daggers.

4

After the glare of the rotunda, Lorio's eyes required several seconds to adjust to the muted light of the Ascentrix's private chambers. Lorio was shrewd enough in the ways of an effective ambush to know this brief moment of adjustment would be sufficient to execute a well-conceived attack. Yet, when she became accustomed to the dimly lit interior, she found the vast expanse of the room deserted save for her quarry. The child sat cross-legged on her narrow pallet, regarding the intruder with placid blue eyes that betrayed no hint of trepidation. Her lovely golden hair framed her face as if it were fine-spun gold.

Lorio closed the door and drew the bolt in one fluid motion, and then returned her attention to the Ascentrix. "You know why I've come, do you not?"

"You've come to assassinate me," Lissom replied with an eerie calm as though she spoke of some banal task scarcely worth discussion.

"And yet I find you unprotected," Lorio intoned. "Do I interpret this to mean you are capable of your own defense?"

The Ascentrix regarded the Lamish Queen in silence for a protracted moment and then replied carefully, "While it is true, I am more than capable of defending myself, this is not the reason I am unattended. May I ask why you injured the Matrium?"

Lorio inclined her head, her dark eyes narrowing speculatively. This juncture in time was quickly assuming an aspect of the surreal. "I struck her because her presumption annoyed me. Perhaps my action was rash but I'm often a product of my tempestuous nature."

Lissom absorbed this thoughtfully. "Karosyn is a loyal and gentle creature who is undeserving of your rough treatment. It saddens me that you have abused her thusly."

Lorio shook her head like a woman shaking off momentary confusion. Raising her daggers, she started toward the girl. 'Do not think of her as a child,' she reproached herself. 'It is but a guise to lull her enemies into a sense of false security. Think of Myrhia and do not allow emotion to stay your hand.'

Finally, Lorio stood before the Ascentrix, towering over the girl who had not stirred in the slightest. She raised the weapon, fully intending to strike the killing blow, but her hand paused at the apex of its arc. Impatient with her own hesitation, Lorio hissed, "Will you do nothing to defend yourself? Not even raise an arm?"

Those expressive blue eyes held Lorio's gaze unwaveringly, oblivious to the mortal danger poised to strike. In the arctic depth there shone a wisdom that belied the creature's apparent youth. "Fate has carried me to this moment of shared intimacy. If it has willed I meet my death at your hands, then I will do so with acceptance and dignity, content in the knowledge things are as they were intended," Lissom declared quietly. "You have been chosen as an instrument of destiny...to protect the bane in all of his mortal frailty. If I stand between you and the acceptance of this obligation, then I beseech you to take my life and go willingly to fate's service."

The hand brandishing the dagger began to tremble perceptibly. A recollection of her beloved Islena leapt to mind then. It was after their escape from the village where Islena had willingly subjected herself to a public whipping to spare a local woman. Before the party fled, Lorio killed the man who administered the brutal beating. She had angrily confronted Doraux then, demanding to know why such a powerful being would willingly suffer such degradation. Islena's reply contained the same tone of sanguine self-sacrifice that echoed in the Ascentrix's words now. Under Myrhia's thrall at the time, the response was incomprehensible to Lorio. A cry, part anguish and part fury, escaped her lips and she seized the girl's blonde hair and jerked her head back to expose her vulnerable throat.

An inarticulate wail of frustration escaped Lorio's lips and the hand holding the dagger opened seemingly of its own accord. The weapon fell harmlessly to the carpet. She glanced down at the lost weapon, an expression of incredulity playing at her full lips. In the next instant, the iron fibers in her thigh muscles turned to jelly, her knees unhinged, and she sagged to the carpeted floor before the Ascentrix. Gazing into those compassionate blue eyes, she demanded, "Have you done this to me?"

Lissom shook her head slowly. "No. Your own essential righteousness has stayed your hand."

The intrinsic truth of this resonated in Lorio's mind and she bowed her head, assailed by a sense of shame so keen as to be unbearable. In an instant before the tears came in a deluge, she whispered in a strangled voice, "I'm so sorry."

For the second time that night, Lorio, proud Queen of Lamia and daughter of the itinerant children of dust, surrendered to her emotions. She allowed her body to pitch forward and her face to settle into the cradle of the Ascentrix's legs. Lissom placed a delicate hand on Lorio's head and tenderly stroked her luxurious hair. In a soft, placating voice, she whispered, "No one will ever know what has passed between us this night, Lorio. When I first saw you, proud and defiant, in Artumas' throne room, I sensed the essence of your nature. The enormity of your pain was a palpable thing that touched my heart as keenly as your tears now fall on my skin. I was staggered by the vast emptiness in your immortal heart and the weight of the loss under which you labor so valiantly."

Lorio lifted her head and peered through tear-distorted eyes at the creature she had conspired to kill and before whom she now knelt like a supplicant. "I need forgiveness for so many things; deed so vile and cruel...actions for which I may never atone in a score of eternities."

With a small index finger, the Ascentrix traced the path of Lorio's tears and catching one on the pad of her finger, lifted it to her lips, tasting the salt of the other woman's essence on her tongue. "I have lived a span of years ten times the length of yours. I have embraced the path that fate has chosen for me willingly. You, however, never once petitioned the architects of destiny for the suffering and hard use you have endured. Do not condemn yourself, Lorio, for possessing human frailties. Only the Gods should have to carry the burden of perfection. Whatever else you and I might be, we are not deities."

Lorio attempted to avert her eyes by bowing her head, but Lissom caught her chin in a startlingly powerful grip and firmly raised her gaze. "You grieve the loss of your unborn child and you grieve the loss of Islena Doraux, both of whom you loved above all things. Unbidden, you have been granted the gift of immortality, yet for you, it is no boon. Your constant companion is loneliness and a sense of unfulfilled yearning that will give you no peace."

"Please stop!" Lorio implored. "Your words are every bit as keen as the daggers I intended for you."

Lissom let her hand fall away and Lorio bowed her head, fearful of the ease with which the Ascentrix had exposed the essence of her being. In a voice she scarcely recognized to be her own, the Lamish Queen heard herself ask, "Will you allow me to leave?"

"If you will, but I beg that you afford me just a few more moments. As I have vowed, what has passed between us will remain thus, but I also hope this sharing has built a bond between us. I am not Myrhia. My nature precludes that I could ever fall to her depth of corruption and evil. That she deceived us and ascended to the station of Ascentrix will forever be an indelible stain on the sisterhood's honor. We have come here only to ensure that your lands never again suffer her scourge." Lissom hesitated, weighing her words carefully, and then remarked grimly, "Lorio, do you not see it was the enchantress' voice that spoke to you in your chamber, trying to entice you into this murderous act?"

Lorio recoiled as though slapped, her lovely eyes widening in an expression that might have been comical in other less dire circumstances. Falling back onto her haunches, she began to tremble perceptibly. In a voice that was uncharacteristically high and fragile, she stammered, "That...that is not possible. She is encased in stone. I was there when Islena entombed her."

Lissom shook her head slowly, the flickering light lending her face a grave aspect. "Be this as it may, Myrhia is not without her means. Even from the depth of her confinement, she is able to reach out to her initiates."

Lorio balked, loathing the term and everything it implied. She began to protest, but the Ascentrix raised her hand to forestall her argument. "Through the enchantress came the gift of your immortality, and though Islena managed to attenuate that connection, there still exists a tether between you that may not be severed. When you are vulnerable, this connection is stronger still."

Again, the Lamish Queen thought to protest, but the words dried to dust on her tongue. The incontrovertible truth of Lissom's assertion lanced Lorio like a mortal wound. "I would rather have the heart cut from my chest than serve as her puppet again."

The Ascentrix rose gracefully and came to kneel beside her would-be assassin. "It will not come to this...if you guard diligently against the design she has over your mind and soul. Despite her immeasurable puissance, Myrhia is a creature of complexity and guile. The game she plays is deep and bewilderingly subtle. If you think on it from this perspective, it is not difficult to grasp the exigency of our need to take control of the remnant and remove her from your soil. If this Xhendyn or the ShadowCaster could concoct a method to break her imprisonment, Myrhia would extract a vengeance on this world that would be terrifying to behold. She may have misjudged the mettle of Islena Doraux, but it would be folly to believe she would commit the same misjudgment a second time."

Lorio considered this for a moment and shivered violently at the prospect of a Myrhia unleashed anew. As the incident in her chamber painfully demonstrated, the enchantress still held sway over the Lamish Queen. If Myrhia were to offer Islena as an inducement to bend Lorio to her needs...did she have the discipline to resist? The questioned terrified her and so she refused to entertain it, instead asking suspiciously, "How do I know it is not you who would beguile me?"

The Ascentrix reached across Lorio's outstretched legs, retrieved the forgotten dagger and offered it to the other woman. When she would not immediately accept the proffered weapon, Lissom gently but firmly pushed it into Lorio's palms and closed her fingers about the haft. "Should you elect, the tip of this weapon will disabuse you of the notion that I would ensnare you with enchantment. I offer my throat to your blade. Would Myrhia do the same?"

The dark beauty contemplated this for a long moment, her lovely face set in intense lines of concentration. In a voice hoarse with emotion, she whispered, "What would you have me do?"

"May I share your recollection of the encounter with the bone-whisperer?" Lissom asked gravely, her eyes shimmering like sapphires under the muted light of the mounted torches. Perplexed, Lorio frowned and the Ascentrix explained, "To the waking mind, memories are impure things, collared by emotion and the convoluting device of hindsight. The further removed one is from the event, the less the recounting resembles the truth of the matter. Our subconscious, however, records a precise, unembellished record of all that befalls us. If you grant me permission, I will delve into the waters of your true memory...prophecy is a many nuanced thing and it is imperative I gain a concise understanding of all the bone-whisperer conveyed."

Lorio regarded the girl as a weighty silence spun itself out. Finally, she nodded. The Ascentrix nodded and delicately placed the index and middle fingers of either hand into the hollows of the queen's temples. A pervasive warmth suffused Lorio's body, permeating every fiber of her being, while leaving her with a sense of absolute wellbeing. In a soft, melodic voice, Lissom instructed the Lamish Queen to focus her thoughts on the moments that immediately proceeded the appearance of the speaking demon.

Under the thrall of the massaging fingers, Lorio cleared her thoughts and summoned up an image of her graceful flight through the darkened forest. Naked and exuberant, she had led her hapless male pursuer on a wild chase toward the river...a chase that had been intended to end in a frenzy of passionate lovemaking. Lorio could feel herself blush as the vivid image of her naked sprint blossomed in her thoughts, but the Ascentrix's ministrations did not falter in the least. "It is well," she intoned quietly. "You are a passionate woman, after all, and the pleasures of the flesh should rouse no shame if they are granted willingly."

Nodding absently, she continued her attempt to concisely reconstruct the events of the fateful night in northern Lamia. Abruptly, a golden light blossomed in her mind's eye, cleansing all distraction and focusing her memory firmly on the dramatic appearance of the speaking demon. "Don't fret, Lorio," Lissom intoned in a lullaby whisper. "I have seized upon the thread of your memory and will now draw it forth from your subconscious. Allow it to resolve itself in your inner eye voluntarily."

The notion that the Ascentrix had supplanted her will discomfited Lorio, but she willed herself to be calm and comply. As the events leading up to and following the young man's gruesome death unfurled across the landscape of her inner thoughts, Lorio was unsettled by the idea of being relegated to the role of spectator in her own recollection. Still, she clearly realized that Lissom was correct; her subconscious had indelibly inscribed every nuanced word into the fabric of her memory. The Ascentrix absorbed these memories without comment, her gently probing fingers skillfully extracting every detail from the Lamish beauty's complaisant mind.

When the recounting reached its conclusion, Lissom sat back on her haunches and primly folded her small hands in her lap. Lorio watched the Ascentrix carefully while she struggled to regain some semblance of her own composure. This near proximity to such an extraordinary creature made the Lamish Queen feel both giddy and somehow inadequate in the face of such a compelling presence. If she was so inclined, Lorio had no doubt the Ascentrix could bend others to her will with an ease that was terrifying to ponder. More daunting still was the understanding that she, herself, was particularly susceptible to the seductive spell that truly powerful women seemed capable of weaving. A particular flaw of character placed Lorio under the thrall of women such as Islena, Myrhia or the Ascentrix. Be it physical, psychological or spiritual, she was seemingly incapable of resisting whatever manner of exploitation such women chose to employ against her.

'Then be vigilant, lest you find yourself a pawn yet again,' the statuesque beauty admonished herself, as she watched Lissom contemplate the implications of the bone-whisperer's augury. Finally, the girl sighed and settled her gaze on the woman who had sought her out with a mind to end her life. Leaning forward, the Ascentrix clasped Lorio's right wrist and gazed deeply into her eyes. "The bone-whisperer is unequivocal in its assertion that you must protect the bane. It is said that the flow of history is cyclical and thus it seems this burden of warding again falls to you. I entreat you to accept this obligation, Lorio."

The queen averted her eyes. "My own people need me. Sygeanor has vowed to exterminate the Lamish if I refuse to accede to her demand for my surrender. If I accept the burden to protect this bane, the children of dust will suffer the consequence of my abdication. Trust me when I tell you that history has dealt them a disproportionate share of abuse and shameful mistreatment. My first obligation is to my people. I see no way I can accommodate the conflicting tug of destiny on one hand and duty on the other. Do you not see this?"

Lorio's voice was fraught with raw anguish that verged on despair. Lissom felt overwhelmed by pity for a very mortal woman who had been shackled with the enormous millstone of immortality. "Lorio, perhaps there is a way that we can serve each other's needs. If you are amenable, perhaps we could meet with King Artumas and Adjutant Melansa of the Jerhia and reach a mutually agreeable accommodation. Perhaps the Sisters of Esotaria could assist Lamia in her struggle with this Metocan usurper."

Lorio gazed speculatively at the Ascentrix. "Karosyn would agree to this?"

"Karosyn will do what I would have her do. She is my mentor and the spokeswoman of our order, but the ultimate power within the Sisterhood rests with me." There was an unmistakable snap of iron in the child's voice, leaving Lorio with no reason to doubt her claim.

Quietly, she relented to the Ascentrix's request. "Very well, if we can devise a means by which I can fulfill this prophecy and still protect my people, you have my oath of cooperation."

Lissom flashed a grin of genuine pleasure and grasped Lorio's hands in hers, her limpid eyes alight with a genuine affection for the younger woman. "You have my eternal gratitude and my solemn vow that I will do everything within my power to prove your trust was not misplaced."

Lorio was about to respond when the Ascentrix abruptly stiffened and her blue eyes widened like twin moons. The hands gripping Lorio's wrists tightened like manacles. Lorio instinctively attempted to extricate herself from the child's grasp but found that the vice grip could not be broken. Now the girl's entire body went rigid and her spine began to curve backward, reminding a horrified Lorio of the way a skilled hunter would slowly draw back a bow.

The tension on the girl's spine continued to mount until it seemed inevitable that the bones, however pliable, would surely snap. As quickly as this bizarre attack of tetanus commenced, the Ascentrix's livid form went limp and she stumbled backward, falling onto her pallet in a boneless heap. Lorio rose to her feet and leaned over the girl, whose eyes rolled back in her head while her mouth lolled open and her limbs twitched violently.

'By the Gods, she's having some sort of seizure!" the queen realized, momentarily reduced to inaction by uncertainty. Just as she reached a tentative hand forward, the girl rolled onto her left side and pulled herself into a fetal position. This managed to shatter the grip of Lorio's indecision, propelling her into the rotunda in a sprint.

"Sisters! If you value the life of your Ascentrix, you'll come now," she bellowed in a voice that resonated along the hallways with power and authority. And come they did. Almost as if awaiting the summons, the Sisters of Esotaria emerged into the hall, racing toward Lorio with the Matrium and a scowling Lyndsyn leading the way.

Gesturing toward Lissom's chamber, the queen remarked, "Something has happened to the girl...it appears to be some sort of fit or seizure."

"We are aware," Karosyn responded calmly as she hurried by the bemused Lorio and disappeared into the Ascentrix's chamber. Lyndsyn followed hard on her superior's heels but swerved ever so slightly to deliver a glancing blow to the startled Lamish beauty with her right shoulder. Lorio staggered from the impact but managed to retain her balance. She glowered at the battle mage, who flashed back a predatory grin. It was impossible not to see the challenge in both the gesture of disdain and the mocking grin. Grinning back, Lorio nodded her tacit acceptance, knowing that the day would soon come when the pair would settle their issue.

After a moment's indecision, she followed the throng into the chamber and pushed her way through the Sisters to join the Matrium, who was gazing at the stricken girl with a measure of awe and concern.

'But not panic,' she thought to herself with a small degree of relief. 'Whatever has befallen the girl, these women understand it and are not alarmed by the process.'

Without turning toward the queen, Karosyn began to explain Lissom's condition as though she had divined Lorio's thoughts. "This is the commencement of her ascension. Whatever transpired between you, it has initiated what we refer to as a growth increment. An Ascentrix reaches her apotheosis through epiphany or by surmounting obstacles or meeting intense spiritual and emotional challenges."

Lorio gazed at the woman's lovely face in confusion as though Karosyn was speaking an unintelligible language. "I'm not entirely sure I understand...is she in danger?"

The Matrium flicked an impatient glance at the Lamish Queen. "Lissom gleaned the purpose of your visit tonight. She knew that she would have to risk her life to convince you that our purpose was noble in coming to Emercia. She was prepared to accept death at your hands if this was what was required for you to embrace the role destiny has scripted for you. These selfless acts of devotion to the idea of righteousness facilitate the maturing process of an Ascentrix."

Astounded, Lorio gaped at the Matrium. "Are you implying she knew I was coming to kill her this night?"

Karosyn considered the queen for a moment, and then remarked thoughtfully, "She was fully aware of your intent and prepared to meet her own death, if fate decreed that it must be so."

"And you allowed her to take this risk?" Lorio could not disguise the measure of disgust in her voice. "Were you not foresworn to ward the child?"

Again, the Matrium dragged her gaze away from the spectacle unfolding on the narrow pallet. When she spoke, it was with a subtle hint of impatience with Lorio's suggestion that she had been derelict in her duty to protect the child. "It was her wish that you be given free access to confront her in solitude. She is the unequivocal leader of the Sisters of Esotaria. It is not my role to question her judgment. Contrary to what her appearance might suggest, Lissom is most definitely not a child. Surely, you have spent enough time in her formidable presence to be disabused of this notion?"

Lorio was about to respond when an inarticulate gasp of what sounded like awe rose from the women gathered in the guest quarters. It suddenly occurred to the queen that none of her followers had come within three paces of the supine form of their leader. She inclined her head to allow a better view of the Ascentrix, who had not stirred since curling into the fetal position, and quickly deduced what had caused the commotion amongst the assembly.

As Lorio watched, an effulgent golden light appeared to coalesce out of thin air. Even from several paces away, she could feel its gentle warmth caress her face as tendrils of the golden light began to radiate outward from Lissom's supine body like strands of gossamer. Transfixed with rapt wonder, the sisters stood like pieces of statuary and an eerie silence descended upon the assembly. The light enveloping the capering strands grew in magnitude, gradually intertwining to form a pulsating cocoon that held the slumbering Ascentrix in a translucent pocket of warm golden energy.

As one, the Sisters of Esotaria bowed their heads in what Lorio assumed was silent prayer for their spiritual leader. After a deep and solemn silence, the Matrium raised her head and gesticulated with an intricate series of hand movements that were both hypnotic and beautiful to behold. Lorio correctly deduced that these movements were part of an elaborate ritual of evocation. In a voice made tremulous with awe, Karosyn intoned, "May Gyzarayne, the Goddess of all that is, bless your humble servant and illuminate the path of transcendence. May her grace guide our beloved Ascentrix that she may journey toward apotheosis with serenity and humility. May her conviction firm our hands and fortify our courage in the face of those who seek our death. Unworthy as we may be, the Sisters of Esotaria entreat you to hear our plea and grant us the boon of your wisdom that we may do your will in this strange and hostile land. Praise be to blessed Gyzarayne"

"Praise blessed Gyzarayne," the sisters echoed solemnly as Lorio stood with her head respectfully bowed. For her part, the Lamish Queen had always been an agnostic by nature, mistrustful of the concept of blind worship of unseen deities. She could not deny the existence of fate and destiny, having been the tool of both on more than one occasion, but the idea of religion grated on her pragmatic sensibilities. Still, in the presence of such unbridled devotion, Lorio could not help but feel attracted to the compelling power of faith and the possible existence of some ubiquitous entity overseeing the endlessly evolving drama of mortals.

After a long moment, Karosyn sighed, prompting Lorio to ask, "Is she in danger? How long will this...process take?"

The Matrium spoke quietly to Lyndsyn and then ushered the Lamish Queen into the rotunda, carefully closing the door as they exited the chamber. "You ask if Lissom is in danger and I would reply quite honestly that I simply do not know. The path of transcendence is one of the great mysteries of our order and, though it has been studied and chronicled by the greatest minds of each age, very little is actually known about the mechanics of ascension. Perhaps this is because each Ascentrix treads upon a unique path. Her growth is a reflection of the major experiences she has encountered and her reaction to those epiphanies. From the physical perspective, a rapid growth spurt is inherently painful, but the scholars claim that an Ascentrix matures in the womb of Gyzarayne where no ill may befall her. I suspect Lissom's willingness to offer her life in exchange for your acquiescence to ward the bane will induce a burst of growth unprecedented in the history of our order."

Lorio considered the implications of this and grimaced. In an incredibly short time, she had developed a deep affection for the spiritual leader of the Sisterhood. Only Islena Doraux ever managed to provoke such an intense emotional reaction from Lorio following the grim confrontation her own father had orchestrated what now seemed like a lifetime ago. She peered into the Matrium's face. Almost meekly, she reached out and grasped the Matrium's hand, sinking abeyant to her knees before Karosyn, who regarded the Queen with unconcealed surprise.

"I am entitled to no such boon, but I beg your forgiveness for assaulting you earlier. If there is some manner of recompense that you would require, I will gladly offer it as a token of my contrition."

She gazed up at the Matrium, her intense eyes offering an eloquent plea that Karosyn could not help but heed. "You have my forgiveness...and my offer of friendship if you will have it. Rise, Lorio. It is hardly fitting for a Queen to kneel before an ordinary woman and though you refuse to acknowledge your worthiness, acuity informs me that you are the very quintessence of a monarch."

Lorio turned her face into Karosyn's hand and tenderly placed a lingering kiss on the woman's palm, luxuriating in the scent and feel of her warm, smooth flesh. Then she rose on unsteady legs, suddenly overcome by a profound weariness. She wanted only to return to her chambers and commend herself to the numbing embrace of sleep but knew that she must first make amends with Artumas. "I will do what I can to help find the bane and ward him against his enemies."

The Matrium responded with a radiant smile. "If it already does not, this world will owe you an eternal debt of gratitude. Now, may I ask of you one boon?"

Lorio regarded the other woman closely and remarked, "Anything that is within my power to grant, you may ask."

Karosyn chewed her lip pensively for a moment and then made her plea. "The Sisters of Esotaria hold discipline sacred. We are of one mind connected to and an extension of the collective consciousness. If an edict is set forth, adherence is automatic. Yet, even within this unwavering sense of community, individuals of strong character will occasionally defy this collective will. The Ascentrix has decreed that no member of our order may raise a hand against you. She made me vow this even if you had taken her life." A shadow passed over her face then, its severity accentuated by her prominent cheekbones. "Lyndsyn is the first battle mage of our order and has served as my right hand for more than a decade. She is devoted and protective...overly so some would claim. I fear that she might feel compelled to extract a measure of revenge for your attack on me. If my fears are realized, I would adjure you to exercise all possible restraint if conflict is unavoidable. Protect yourself, as you have every right to do, but please do not take any action that would permanently harm her."

Lorio regarded the Matrium silently for several moments and then nodded solemnly. "You have my pledge that, if she and I find ourselves at odds, I will do only what is necessary to subdue her."

Karosyn's face brightened in gratitude and she offered Lorio a broad grin. "Thank you. She is precious to me and I harbor a private hope that she might succeed me as Matrium when I have outlived my usefulness. Now, if you'll excuse me, I must return to Lissom and keep vigil."

Lorio watched as the other woman made to return to the Ascentrix's chamber. As Karosyn gripped the handle, the Lamish Queen asked, "When this...rite of passage is complete, will you send a messenger?"

The Matrium nodded kindly. This woman had clearly been beguiled by Lissom; a common phenomenon with those who spent any amount of time in the extraordinary creature's presence. Karosyn managed to suppress a smile of triumph, knowing that Lorio would do whatever was required to protect the bane. "Of course."

Then she was gone, leaving Lorio alone to grapple with the turbulent emotional aftermath of the night's events. Though the hour was late, Lorio felt the sudden need to find King Artumas and repair the rift that her attack on Karosyn had opened between the pair. Regaining her customary sense of assurance, Lorio set out in search of the King of Emercia.

Chapter Thirteen

1

The heavy prison cart trundled along the badly rutted road, moving at a pace more suited to a stately funeral procession. The cart's sole occupant gritted his teeth and attempted to brace himself by gripping the bars of his iron cage, but when an iron-rimmed wheel plunged into a deep crater, Inos was propelled forward like a sack of grain. He landed heavily on the splintered wooden floor of the cart and uttered a rare curse of frustration.

The once powerful leader of the Metocan Inner Circle now found himself in a crude prison cart, hauled toward some unknown fate with less ceremony than would have been afforded a common thief. Still, Inos could not help but believe that he had earned every indignity, every ounce of humiliation that might follow. His refusal to acknowledge and deal with the threat Sygeanor posed to the stability of Metocan placed the world on the brink of an unprecedented war that would see the Cornerstone nations at each other's throat for the first time in recorded history. If the Gods were to delegate blame for this sorry circumstance, his portion would be every bit as large as the woman who had precipitated the conflict...perhaps larger as he was arguably sane.

An Ulgak escort road past the cart on a black charger. His small gray eyes fixed Inos with a glare of utter disdain and loathing. The Metocan returned his captor's gaze evenly, refusing to cower before creatures who he regarded as barely civilized. The black-clad guard abruptly reined his mount and slid off the animal in one fluid movement, adroitly drawing his strange forked weapon as he landed on the balls of his feet. If Inos had forgotten just how lithe these Ulgak were, he was quickly and painfully reacquainted with the fact. Before the Metocan could draw back to the opposite side of the cart, the escort thrust his weapon through the bars. A brilliant blue spark flared into life between the silver prongs of the weapon just as it made contact with Inos' arm at a point just above his left elbow. The pain was immediate and monstrous, jolting the Metocan against the bars of his cage and eliciting a howl of agony from the former grand mage.

Inos clutched his injured arm, only to find that the palm of his hand exploded in a similar sickening burst of agony. The forked weapon conducted a penetrating energy into its target that did not immediately dissipate. Instead, it festered in the flesh like an infection, spreading to other areas of the body upon contact. Like the Ulgak themselves, the weapon was both a nasty and highly efficient dispenser of misery.

"You'll learn humility, Metocan," the escort rasped in his strange, insectile voice. "Of this, you may rest assured. We have suffered the contempt of your kind for far too long, but those days are now at an end. The Ulgak will claim our rightful place on the world stage."

Inos smiled, his sharp teeth glinting in the dull light of Northern Metocan. "If your rightful place means assuming the role of Sygeanor's trained dogs, then Ulgak's rightful station will indeed be granted. I wonder how Sygeanor would respond to the knowledge that her dogs were abusing her prize captive for their own amusement?"

The escort's expression of disdain faltered, if only briefly. He poked the weapon half-heartedly in Inos' direction and spat on the ground. "I would not wager too heavily on your value, mage. We have agreed to be your keepers and promised to keep you alive. Beyond this, the treatment you receive is ours to decide. You will do well to remember this when you feel inclined to condescend to an Ulgak."

He spat on the ground once more and then spurred his mount forward, leaving Inos alone to reflect on the implications of his admonition.

After the Appraxis took Inos into custody, he was quickly escorted to the seldom-used detention center beneath the main state building. Here, he was quickly joined by a growing number of Inner Circle members who had also been caught up in Sygeanor's dragnet. Not all of the governing mages had been arrested, leading Inos to correctly surmise that some had raised no objection to Sygeanor's coup. Gradually but inevitably, each of the detainees had been dragged into the small interrogation chambers. The halls of the detention area resonated with horrifying cries of pain intermingled with desperate cries for mercy; cries that fell on deaf ears. When he could endure no more, the grand mage had covered his ears in a futile attempt to drown out the piteous wailing that threatened to snap his tenuous grip on sanity. After what seemed like an eternity, the detention area lapsed into a brooding silence.

Inos sat alone in his small cell, certain that his moment of suffering on the torture table was close at hand. Bells passed, and still no one came. Though he would have thought it impossible in light of all that had transpired, Inos eventually fell into a dreamless sleep. When he awoke, Sygeanor was standing before the bars of his cell, peering down on him from behind the face of her reviled enemy. Her expression was inscrutable but somehow more terrifying for its emptiness. After a protracted silence, she inquired, "You understand this moment was inevitable. From the first day I entered your office as a lowly serving girl your downfall was written in stone."

"Worse still, it was written in the blood of the innocent," Inos remarked glumly. The blood of every unfortunate who perished during the night of infamy would leave an indelible stain on his psyche. His inaction had killed them just as surely as the monster standing before him. "You took what you believed was yours to take, but why slaughter the Inner Circle members?"

Sygeanor shrugged to signify her utter indifference. "They were obstructions, albeit small ones, and I refuse...refuse to have anyone obstruct my vision for the New Metocan."

"If having your Appraxis murder everyone who does not share your ideas is any indication, I would argue that your vision for Metocan is more of a nightmare," Inos retorted quietly. Sygeanor stiffened but did not reply. When it was apparent that she would make no further comment, Inos posed the question that had plagued him through the long bells of the previous night. "Why keep me alive?"

She favored her captive with a wolfish grin. "Do you think me such an ingrate that I would kill the man who taught me how to rule?"

The grand mage shook his head in negation. "There is nothing in your conduct that could be rightfully attributed to my teaching or philosophy. The monstrous acts of evil you have committed and undoubtedly will commit are yours and yours alone."

Sygeanor threw back her head and laughed derisively. "Ah, the noble Inos. You have long been a man who hides his mediocrity and fear behind a façade of righteousness. No, I will not kill you. Rather, I will have you exiled to the cold keeping of the Ulgak while I transform Metocan into the glorious nation the gods intended it to be. When I have achieved this, I will recall you from exile with the promise of a role in forging our new destiny." Ominously, she added, "This is an offer I will extend only once to which I expect your unconditional acceptance."

"There is nothing you can do to me that would compel me to be a party to your insane machinations, Sygeanor," Inos vowed through clenched teeth.

Again, Sygeanor merely uttered her chilling laughter. "Time will tell. I suspect a sojourn in an Ulgak prison may cause you to re-evaluate your refusal to serve as my steward in the daily running of Metocan."

With this, she was gone, leaving Inos alone to ponder his future as a ward of the Ulgak. Before daylight drained from the fog-shrouded skies of Othgol, he found himself being jostled into this crude prison transport cart and consigned into the keeping of people he both feared and loathed.

The recollection evoked a shudder of revulsion that caused the Metocan to gasp in its intensity. If by some miracle, he survived his exile in the gray wastelands of Ulgak and returned to Othgol and the terrifying future Sygeanor would construct, Inos wondered what shape this new world would assume.

2

It had been three days since Stuart Macevey and Azidara left the village of Wraith's Hollow and began their trek toward Emercia and the city of Nalosan. In that time, Macevey's regard for his traveling companion had grown geometrically. He wondered if she was a woman of exceptional courage and resourcefulness or were there many others in this strange and antiquated world who possessed Azidara's mettle. Stuart marveled at the ease with which she'd accepted walking away from her life and its simple trappings of a home and livelihood almost on an impulse. While it was true that hers had been a life that was far from pleasant, Stuart correctly deduced that it was no worse than the life led by most of her world's inhabitants.

And yet, she had eschewed everything she'd ever known to aid a complete stranger on what could well be a fool's errand...or worse. In truth, when he stopped to ponder his own circumstances, he found himself thrust into virtually the same situation; the primary difference being that for Stuart there had been no choice in the matter.

Now as he stumbled after her, eyes fixed on her square shoulders or the beguiling sway of her full hips, Stuart could still not credit Azidara's decision to abandon her life and embark on this mystery-shrouded adventure with a man who could well be anyone...good or evil.

He quickened his pace and drew abreast of her. She greeted him with a sideways smile that simply made his heart flutter. Brilliant sunlight streamed through the canopy of trees that reached across the trail the pair was following, casting the blond beauty in golden shafts. Her wheaten curls framed her angular face like loom-spun threads of gold and provided a stunning contrast to her deep blue eyes. Next to Elizabeth Simpson, Azidara was the most exquisite creature Stuart had ever set eyes upon, making their unlikely flight through the forests of Fairmarch all the more surreal. "Is it likely that we are being followed?" Macevey inquired, breathless from the incessant trek. "I mean, it's been the better part of three days...is it safe to assume we're free and clear?"

Azidara's brow furrowed and she frowned. "It would be prudent not to let our guard down. If my estimation of Lethoras is even close to true, he will not be content to allow me to steal away. Dizar Kor sits astride the border with Emercia. Until we have gained the safety of the city, we would be wise to move as quickly as we are able."

This last remark had been fraught with inflection, but Stuart interpreted its meaning easily enough. The first two days of their flight were the most physically demanding Macevey had ever endured. He was, after all, a man of the city and thus accustomed to the creature comforts of a chair and a comfortable bed. Nor was he conditioned to suffer hours of walking on only a meager ration of food. By the end of the first day, his legs literally quivered, and the muscles of his back ached like rotten teeth. As bad as this had been, the second day proved infinitely worse. When Stuart rose from his blanket, the tendons in his exhausted thighs and calves protested like over-tuned guitar strings and his back was a misery of pain. By comparison, Azidara was a vessel of boundless energy and enthusiasm as though she was setting off on some epic adventure and not simply fleeing from the unwanted attention of a petty chauvinist.

As they marched in silence, Azidara seemed oblivious to Macevey's rapidly mounting discomfort. To his credit, Macevey suffered his torment in relative silence, struggling gallantly to keep pace with his companion, who seemed indefatigable.

Near midday, Stuart reached the point where his will was no longer condign to the task of keeping his pain-wracked body upright.

His left hamstring constricted into a white-hot knot of agony and he pitched to the pathway, clutching his leg. Azidara regarded her traveling companion, a tapered eyebrow arched inquisitively as Macevey frantically struggled to massage blood back into the effected area. After what seemed like an eternity, the pain abated enough to allow Stuart to climb back up to his feet. He stood in the center of the narrow path, bent over at the waist while he continued to massage his left leg. When he straightened, Azidara noticed his face was an ashen mask. He regarded the younger woman sheepishly and shrugged apologetically. "I'm sorry, but I just can't maintain this pace. My legs are cramping from exhaustion...I've got to rest."

Azidara shook her head in apparent frustration, an expression of bemused disgust rippling across her lovely face. Macevey interpreted the look and sighed wearily. "I just don't have your energy or conditioning. The truth is that I'm simply not accustomed to this sort of forced march."

Azidara's gaze shifted back over Stuart's shoulder along the path leading back to Wraiths Hollow. Now it was concern and not disdain, that shaped her expression. In that brief flicker of shadow, Stuart gleaned just how strongly this woman feared this Lethoras and his minion Veilguix. "Look, just give me a few moments to work some life back into my leg and we'll get moving again."

She considered this for a moment. Frowning in resignation, she gestured toward the trees. "Very well but let us move off of the path and rest deeper in the forest."

Stuart had nodded and though he managed to keep a neutral expression, he pushed his way through the brush with a tremendous sense of relief. True to his word, he had hauled himself upright after fifteen minutes or so and trudged back toward the path. For her part, Azidara had called for several short rest intervals during the remainder of the day. The fact that she would do so in the face of her own trepidation about being caught spoke volumes about the woman's considerate nature.

"You seem lost in thought, Stuart," she remarked, jolting him back into the present. He smiled, secretly delighted by the way his name sounded as it rolled off her tongue.

"I'm just thinking about how utterly amazing the last few days have been...and how bizarre," Stuart explained softly. "Not that long ago, I was alone in my office trying to come to terms with the mess I'd allowed my life to become. Not a week later, I find myself in a world that is so vastly different from my own I can scarcely begin to accept the reality of my situation. If that weren't enough, I'm traipsing through a forest in the company of the most beautiful woman I've ever set eyes upon to answer the summons of a mysterious group of women whose motivations for bringing me here I can't begin to imagine."

Azidara considered this for a moment, her disconcerting blue eyes never leaving his face. Finally, she enquired, "What exactly is an office?"

For a moment, he stared at her, a dumbfounded expression set on his face, and then he burst into a spate of hysterical laughter.

Her lovely face flushed, and she regarded him with a slightly hurt, quizzical expression for several moments. Something in Stuart's laughter was infectious and soon Azidara found herself braying laughter as well without entirely understanding why. When the laughter (and Macevey was genuinely sorry to see it go as mirth augmented Azidara's beauty tenfold) subsided, both lapsed into an awkward silence. Finally, Stuart decided to pose the question that had been troubling him since the pair departed Wraith's Hollow. "Azidara, why did you decide to come with me? It seems you've readily accepted my story and I have to be candid; if the situation were reversed, I would have gotten away from you as fast and as far as I could get."

She stopped in the middle of the path; her luminous blue eyes boring into him. "Have you heard the story of Islena Doraux?"

Stuart's jaw unhinged and he blinked, certain that he had misheard, or more precisely, heard only what his beleaguered mind wished to hear. Still, his heart began to hammer in his chest and when he asked her to repeat the question, it was in a voice made tremulous with excitement. Azidara's eyes narrowed speculatively and she repeated the question. "Islena Doraux...unless you are from another place, you would surely know who she is."

"I do know the name...but she is from the place I'm from...in fact, she lived in the very city I live in," Macevey stammered. Of course, he knew the story of Islena Doraux. She had been a prominent part of his paranormal obsession. As he recalled, the woman had vanished after a series of gruesome murders possibly committed by a psychotic serial killer named Elbert Watts. If memory served him correctly, the FBI agent investigating her disappearance had died under extremely bizarre circumstances. It had been widely held that Watts abducted and killed Doraux, but it was never discovered what actually had become of the missing woman or her youngest son, who was evidently abducted a short time after she had vanished. Macevey had read every scrap of print he could find, suspecting there was a great deal more to Islena Doraux's ordeal than simple kidnapping.

If his wits were not deceiving him, here was the truth behind the mystery.

As Azidara continued to watch the stranger, a speculative light gleamed in her eyes. Macevey thought he could see something else there as well; superstitious dread. Trying to remain calm, Macevey prompted, "Azidara, this may be a clue to why I've been brought here...tell me everything you know about Islena Doraux. Don't leave out even the smallest detail...no matter how outrageous it may seem."

The wheaten-haired beauty glanced up at the sky where the sun was slanting low over the towering trees. There were perhaps no more than two bells of sunlight left before nightfall. Despite her impatience to be as far away from Wraiths Hollow as her legs would carry her, Azidara discerned that this was a matter of critical importance to her traveling companion. Somehow, Islena Doraux, who was sometimes referred to as the reluctant Goddess, was an integral part of the stranger's tale. "Let's make camp for the night and I will tell you what I know. I must warn you that this tale comes second and third hand and has been exaggerated a hundred-fold as legends usually are."

"That's okay," Macevey replied urgently. "Tell me everything you've heard, however fantastical."

Azidara nodded gravely and the pair set about finding a spot to camp for the night. About thirty paces into the trees, they came upon a small stream and followed it southward until coming across an open expanse wide enough to make camp. Azidara removed her boots and plunged her feet into the cool water, sighing with relief. She patted the large rock and gestured for Macevey to join her, which he did with a smile. There was a youthful exuberance about the woman that Stuart found infectious. In many ways, she reminded him of Marika Chambers. She favored him with a dazzling smile and suggested, "Why not soak your feet? This story might take a while, so you might as well be comfortable."

Stuart grinned and removed his boots. As he gingerly dipped his feet into the flowing water, Macevey was forced to admit that she was right; the sensation was almost sinfully pleasurable. Leaning over she bumped his shoulder like a schoolgirl and laughed. "Feels wonderful, doesn't it. This is a hard world and one shouldn't miss the opportunity to indulge what simple pleasures it does have to offer."

Macevey nodded thoughtfully, wondering if there was a subtle innuendo couched in this last remark. The notion both confused and excited him, so he prompted, "About Islena Doraux?"

Holding his gaze in her unsettling way, she began to recount the legend of Islena Doraux, fragment by incredible fragment. Stuart allowed her to speak without interruption, his cop's mind laboring to separate the impossible from the unlikely and the credible. Azidara's narrative was even and precise and Stuart was impressed by the fact that she made a point of not interjecting her own opinion of the events she described. When she had concluded her tale, Stuart found himself overwhelmed by a sense of surrealism so strong that it was all he could do to stop himself from screaming.

Bowing his head, he closed his eyes and struggled to regain his composure while Azidara watched him closely. After a moment, he became cognizant of her scrutiny and sensed that his silence was making her intensely uneasy. When he looked at her, Azidara saw that he appeared shocked and bewildered by her tale. "I'm sorry," he murmured distantly. "This is all so much to absorb. Basically, you are telling me that Islena Doraux somehow came to this world and fought this powerful sorceress named Myrhia. By defeating Myrhia, Islena essentially saved your world."

"Succinctly put, yes...this is how the story goes. Islena Doraux located the three sacred Proclamations and used their magic to defeat the enchantress."

"Do you believe these stories?" Stuart inquired curiously.

Azidara offered him a crooked grin and for the first time Stuart thought he could detect a hint of cynicism in her tone. "It is commonly held that when Islena confronted Myrhia on the ramparts of Castle Kammlogran the surrounding sea boiled with fire and blood. With a simple embrace, Islena turned the power-hungry enchantress to stone. Shortly thereafter, the Goddess of Purgatory, Otaru Ree, returned Islena to her own world...or so the story goes."

"Do you believe in sorcery, Azidara?" Stuart persisted quietly. His own presence in this antiquated world made the existence of magic difficult to gainsay. She did not respond for several moments, not wishing to seem provincial or foolish.

Without knowing precisely why, she realized that his opinion of her was something she valued. "I have personally never witnessed anything that I would consider supernatural or otherworldly. It is said the Metocan are a nation of sorcerers dedicated to the propagation of all things magic...but I have never met a Metocan." She averted her glorious gaze and her strong voice faltered. Stuart correctly guessed that she was embarrassed by her self-perceived lack of worldliness. "I have lived my entire life in Central Fairmarch so I can supply you with nothing other than secondhand impressions of my own world."

Suddenly the mystery of Azidara's willingness to abandon her home and life at a whim resolved itself in a burst of crystalline clarity. She was fleeing not only from the unsolicited advances of an officious swine, but also escaping from what she regarded as a life-long imprisonment. Macevey fervently hoped that her impulsive decision did not cost her the very life she was hoping to discover. He placed his hand on her shoulder, which was firm and full to the touch, and raised her chin with an index finger. He was surprised to find tears glistening like diamonds on the bed of sooty lashes. In the days they had been together, this was the first time the woman had demonstrated even the slightest hint of vulnerability. Stuart smiled reassuringly, struggling against the nearly overwhelming compulsion to pull her into his arms and kiss her tears away. That would be disastrous of course. Emotional entanglement could only exacerbate his situation tenfold and so he resisted the urge...barely. Azidara seemed to recognize his struggle and offered Stuart a tentative smile. "I'm sorry I couldn't be more helpful."

Stuart shook his head. "Don't be sorry. You've given me the essential facts of the matter; this woman from my world found her way here and stopped Myrhia, who I assume was evil. More importantly, she found a way to return home and this gives me a glimmer of hope...however faint."

"Myrhia was evil. The Emercian army occupied Fairmarch and under her direction, they mercilessly repressed our people. Thankfully the Hollow was too small to garner much attention from her soldiers, but on the few occasions they did pass through the village there were always brutal rapes and beatings. I remember my mother would hide me in a small root cellar until the soldiers left. The cellar was dark and awful and stank of rotting potatoes. I endured this for seven years and came to loathe a woman I've never actually set eyes upon." She shuddered involuntarily and Stuart gleaned how profoundly she'd been affected by her forced confinement. "For the longest time, I despised my mother for shutting me away...until I witnessed the kind of brutality such men are capable of inflicting on women. Yes, Myrhia was unequivocally evil and our world owes Islena Doraux an immeasurable debt for having ended her reign of terror regardless of how that end was achieved."

Stuart nodded, his mind reeling under the weight of all he had learned. As he pondered the improbable tale, Macevey could see no plausible parallel between himself and Islena Doraux. The idea that he'd been summoned here to fill the role as a savior was ludicrous...he was, after all, an ordinary man. "Azidara, you're certain you've never heard of the Sisters of Esotaria?"

"Not a whisper. As I've mentioned, Wraiths Hollow is hardly a repository for news of the world so if they are an order...a secretive order, it is unlikely I would know of their existence."

Macevey frowned. Something else occurred to him and he asked, "Is there anything that would compare to Myrhia's evil carnage happening here now?"

Azidara's lovely eyes narrowed in perplexity and Stuart elaborated, "I mean to say is there anything of political consequence happening in your world...warfare or some other manner of intrigue?"

"I would have to say no. The years between Myrhia's fall and now have been relatively peaceful and quiet. The Jerhia have imposed a strong military presence upon the nations of the eastern continent to allow the ruling governments to rebuild their countries without fear of anarchy. With the restoration of Artumas to the throne, Emercia has regained its position of prominence." After a moment's consideration, Azidara amended, "Actually, over the past several months, there has been a thieves' guild aggressively raiding supply caravans all over Emercia. They've even destroyed several supply convoys bound north for Dizar Kor."

"Destroyed?" Stuart echoed, thinking she'd misspoken. "Do you mean the goods were stolen?"

An expression of puzzlement rippled over her face, followed by dawning astonishment. "No, Stuart, I'm certain that the supply caravans were destroyed. The wagons and their contents were actually burned. That makes no sense, does it?"

Macevey nodded thoughtfully. "Absolutely none. I was a policeman long enough to know that thieves steal for profit. If someone is attacking and destroying supply convoys, they're doing so for entirely different motives."

"Does this have any significance in terms of your being here?"

"I'm not sure, but it is a possibility worth considering," he replied softly. He turned to Azidara and gripped her firm shoulders. She stiffened slightly but made no move to disengage herself. "If we do manage to reach this Nalosan, we should try to find lodgings for you. While I make inquiries about these Sisters of Esotaria, it might be wise for you to keep your distance from me."

Her eyes narrowed suspiciously and then flared in anger. Sliding into the water, she brusquely slapped his hands away. "So, after offering you shelter and abandoning my life to lead you to another country, you intend to discard me?"

Stuart raised his hands in a gesture of placation. There was something thoroughly intoxicating about the flush of her cheeks and the flash of her exquisite blue eyes. An impassioned Azidara radiated a beauty that was well-near too intense to behold. "That isn't what I'm saying at all. Azidara, I have no clue why I've been brought here. I haven't the slightest notion whether the people responsible were motivated by good or evil. Until I find out who the Sisters of Esotaria are and what exactly they want from me, it might be best to assume that it isn't good. I've put you at enough risk already...I'm only suggesting that we be cautious."

Azidara stood in water up to her knees. Her full breasts heaved with emotion and her hands were clenched into fists at her side as she stared unflinchingly at the stranger before her, trying to gauge his intentions. "If you want to discreetly inquire about an order of women, who better to do it than a female?"

Her logic was infallible, and Stuart could only shrug helplessly. Not knowing how to respond to her open challenge, he conceded, "Your point is well taken. I'm sorry."

Azidara's face remained set and impassive, but she could not recall a man having ever apologized to her before...not even her husband. Without knowing her own intentions, she waded quickly through the water and gripped Macevey by the wrists, pulling him upright. In the next moment, Stuart found himself being kissed with a fervor that caused his knees to tremble. Pressing her firm breasts against his chest, she encircled his neck with her left arm, while her right arm found its way about his waist. Overwhelmed, Macevey found himself responding while a part of his mind questioned his sanity. She parted his lips with her warm tongue and pressed him back against the rock on which they had been sitting. His loins felt white hot and he could feel his manhood stiffen along his thigh. Azidara smiled and laughed even with her lips still pressed to his. She could feel the thundering of his heart and was intensely aware of his rigid member as it pressed against her inner thigh. Gripping his right wrist, she guided his hand to her left breast and molded his palm to its firm flesh. Stuart gasped and shuddered. To exacerbate his agitation, Azidara began to move her hips against his erection in slow, rhythmic circles. She wanted to tear the clothes from his body and have him on the rock, mildly surprised by how little guilt this evoked. There was a hollow craving deep within the core of her being that desperately needed satiating...but not just yet. The intensity of his response to her rough seduction informed her that his need rivaled hers.

As she wavered on the edge of control, Azidara reached down and delicately ran the flat of her palm over his throbbing member, delighting in the way his entire body quivered.

Stuart groaned...and then she was gone. Retreating several steps, Azidara glared at the bewildered Macevey. "Consider what you will forfeit should you decide I've outlived my usefulness." Then she waded toward the bank of the stream. Without looking back, she intoned huskily, "Gather up some kindling and I'll prepare the night's fire."

Macevey watched her until she vanished into the trees. Breathing heavily, he closed his eyes and rested his head on the cool stone until the thundering rush of blood in his head and loins calmed somewhat. He knew full well that emotional entanglement could only complicate an already incomprehensible situation, but the intoxicating scent of her hair and the warmth of her pliant flesh were firmly implanted in his thoughts and he doubted he would be able to banish these sensations from his mind any time soon.

After a few moments, Stuart hauled himself upright and set off along the west bank of the stream with the intention of collecting an arm full of driftwood for the evening's fire. Preoccupied as he was with the recollection of his traveling companion's not-so-subtle advances, Stuart never heard the exclamation of surprise that issued through the trees in the direction Azidara had so recently passed.

3

It took nearly ten minutes for Stuart to collect the required amount of kindling and in the interim, deep shadows had begun to pool in the hollows and ravines of Fairmarch's great southern forest. He followed the stream back through the descending twilight, concentrating on finding the rock on which Azidara had thrown him. It was with no small degree of relief that he finally located its hulking silhouette in the gloom. The prospect of being lost in a virtually uninhabited forest in a strange world was one he would rather not confront if possible.

He was considering how best to raise the subject of Azidara's impulsive kiss when the ringing report of steel on steel shattered the relative silence, followed by a spate of crude curses. In that moment, Stuart Macevey understood that he and his traveling companion had committed a grievous error. Just how grievous this misjudgment would prove to be was dependent upon how he would acquit himself in the next few moments.

Moving quietly, Stuart carefully placed the armful of kindling on the bank of the stream and instinctively drew his gun. Clicking off the safety, he began to pick his way toward what he perceived to be his first true test in his odyssey through the alien world into which he'd been unceremoniously cast.

4

Azidara left the profoundly aroused stranger trembling on the bank of the stream and strode back toward the forest path. Her own thoughts were a vibrant swirl of turbulent emotions (and admittedly, knee-weakening lust) that ranged from delight to self-contempt. She had thrown herself at this total stranger like a wanton harlot. Ah, but it had been such a long time and she always possessed a strong predilection for the pleasures of the flesh. And the stranger responded to her ministrations like a wildfire bursting to life at the height of a drought.

He was hers for the taking and she knew it. Normally, she would have found her lewd behavior shockingly salacious, but now she derived a great measure of private delight knowing that his manhood had danced like a marionette beneath her skilled hand.

The normally perceptive Azidara was distracted by the anomaly of her own actions and failed to notice the three shadowy figures standing silently on the path as she emerged from the trees. In the next instant, she found her legs swept from beneath her and landed in a crumpled heap on the hard dirt. The air exploded from her lungs in a painful burst just as a torch sparked to life above her and she found herself momentarily blinded by its intense light.

"Ah, now what have we found here?" someone declared from beyond the circle of light. "A bit of heaven fell to earth and ours is the good luck for having found it first." There was a malicious edge in the speaker's tone that evoked a shiver of disgust from Azidara, who understood the immediacy of the danger into which she had stumbled. Strong fingers gripped her forearms and she found herself being hauled roughly to her feet.

A torch was thrust perilously close to her face as one of her assailants leaned closer to examine their prize. The cloying stench of unwashed flesh accosted her nostrils as the unseen attacker drew her close until she could feel his rancid breath against her cheek, a sickening mix of rotting teeth and alcohol. Worse still was the awful sensation of his rapidly swelling penis as he thrust himself against the swell of her buttocks.

"Imrach, I think our fortune is about to change," he rasped and snaked his tongue along the aristocratic ridge of her right cheekbone. The one named Imrach loomed out of the darkness. His face was sallow and dominated by a hawkish nose. Azidara's gaze was drawn to his left cheek which was pitted by a raw and oozing rash that made her shudder in revulsion.

"Imrach, it isn't likely that a jewel such as this is out in the forest on her own," a third voice cautioned from off to her left. Something in his tone suggested that he was not as far down the road to reckless inebriation as his comrades...a fact that made him the most dangerous of the three.

'Stuart, where are you?' she pleaded silently as the repugnant Imrach reached a filthy paw for her enticing right breast.

"Then keep an eye out while me and Gadral have our bit of fun," he rasped indifferently, his tongue snaking over cracked lips as he relished the prospect of plucking the jewel before him.

"Bastard, just try and touch me!" Azidara spat venomously, her luminous blue eyes blazing beneath the torch light. Imrach laughed and thrust the torch perilously close to her face until she could feel the lick of the flames scorch the tips of her wheaten curls. In that moment, Azidara knew, with unequivocal certainty, these vermin intended not only to rape her, but to kill her once they took their liberties.

"Ah a feisty one, but a bit of fight makes the prize all the more pleasing," the vermin laughed drunkenly.

If anything separated Azidara from many of the women of her day and age it was her uncompromising refusal to subjugate herself to the will of a man, be he a king or a lout. It was probable that these miscreants would rape and kill her, but she would not cower or plead.

She would fight and they could plunder her corpse...if they were still capable.

'Struggling to hold this hellion is like trying to clutch a nest of vipers,' Gadral thought, trying to imagine what it would be like to labor within the gates of her womanhood. Abruptly, she went limp in his arms and settle back against him, the enticing swell of her firm buttocks pressing against his raging erection.

"I think she's coming around to our way of thinking," Gadral observed with a twisted grin. Azidara allowed her chin to settle to her chest, all the while gauging the distance between herself and Imrach, who was reaching for the top button of his filthy trousers even as he moved toward her. When she estimated he was within striking distance, Azidara struck with a fury that would have made even the fiercest of warriors envious. With the speed of an adder, she drove her head back into Gadral's face, deriving enormous delight from the sickening crunch of bone and cartilage and the howl of agony that followed. Gadral released his hold on her forearms and staggered backward, clutching his broken nose as blood spurted between his fingers. Before a startled Imrach could react, Azidara growled and delivered an uncannily accurate kick to his exposed groin. A whistling exhalation escaped his lips and he dropped to his knees even as he fumbled the torch onto the hard-packed dirt path. Snarling now, she surged forward and grasping Imrach's prominent ears jerked his head forward and drove her knee into his face. His eyes rolled back in their sockets and the would-be rapist collapsed onto the burning torch.

Breathing rapidly, Azidara spun away and simultaneously drew her dagger and short sword as she prepared to confront the one remaining assailant. The look of utter astonishment on Eamon's face would have been comical under other circumstances. In the span of a few seconds, this woman had disabled his two companions and was now brandishing two weapons with malicious intent. He took one step away and drew his own sword knowing that what had been intended as an amusing diversion had suddenly become a deadly struggle for survival. The woman's lithe movements spoke of a deadly competence and he understood that she would gladly spill his innards in the dirt if given the chance.

"Kill the harlot devil! Gouge out her eyes!" Gadral cried, though the free-flowing blood gave his words a shrill, distorted edge. Azidara glared at the fallen vermin and momentarily considered ending his wretched life then and there, but the third man was watching her, waiting patiently for an opening. Her initial assessment was correct; the reluctant attacker would prove the most dangerous. Extending the sword slightly, she began to circle to her left while moving her blade in an erratic, jerking motion she hoped would draw him into miscalculation. The pair continued to warily circle each other for what seemed to Azidara like an eternity until finally Eamon darted forward and brought his blade down in a savage arc with the intention of cleaving her skull.

Raising her sword and dagger in one fluid motion, she intercepted his thrust in the cross brace of her two weapons before nimbly gliding away from his follow-up attack. Eamon cursed under his breath, damning his two companions for embroiling him in this needless sideshow. Mustering his flagging anger, he charged forward, raining a series of chopping blows at his smaller opponent, who gracefully parried every attack even as she retreated along the path. Tiring badly, he understood that he would soon be vulnerable to a countering blow and decided to risk a sweeping attack aimed at her left thigh. To his consternation, the woman deftly stepped around the blow and struck him smartly across the left hamstring. Eamon managed to turn himself to face her just in time to deflect her second slash, but he could feel blood running freely down his leg and into his boot. He actually considered throwing aside his weapon and fleeing but knew this woman would easily run him down and impale him like a cur if he did.

For her part, the confrontation assumed a kind of poetic, yet deadly elegance. Even more amazing was the revelation that she found this deadly dance intensely exhilarating. With the understanding that she possessed superior skill to her opponent, a glacial calm descended over Azidara.

"I'm going to kill you," she declared flatly and the dispassionate tone in her voice caused Eamon to shiver in the darkness. He briskly wiped sweat from his brow and prepared to meet her attack, suddenly fearful that she would make good on her vow.

Forgotten behind the two combatants, Gadral managed to master his agony enough to draw his throwing dagger and stagger to his feet, steeling himself against the wave of pain issuing from his shattered nose. He had taken two shuffling steps forward and was in the process of raising the dagger, when a voice called out from behind him, "Drop the weapon now."

5

Stuart quickly drew his 9mm and assumed the position that had become as instinctive as drawing breath. With his right arm fully extended and his left hand supporting his right wrist, he stepped onto the path and inclined his head slightly to the right. To his absolute amazement (and thorough delight), he saw an apparently unconscious man lying in the middle of the path and another on his knees clutching his face and swearing profusely. Further along the narrow dirt track, Azidara was engaged in a sword fight with a third man and by the appearance of his tentative movements, she was getting the better of the exchange.

When the kneeling figure rose to his feet and drew what appeared to be a dagger, Macevey abruptly sprang forward. The sudden sound of his voice halted the would-be dagger wielder in mid-motion. He inclined his head toward the sound of the voice and saw a tall figure standing on the edge of the forest. Though the specifics were obscured by darkness, Gadral perceived the vague outline of some alien device in the man's hand. It was clearly not a crossbow or a throwing instrument, but an atavistic instinct for survival cautioned him not to do anything impulsive.

The man was speaking again even as he ventured closer. "Last warning, drop the weapon and get back down on your knees with your fingers locked behind your head."

Gadral could discern a sense of calm and competence about the man, deducing that he was familiar with this type of situation. Good sense compelled him to do as instructed and he let the dagger fall to the dirt with a muffled clatter, before dropping to his knees.

The sound of Stuart's voice resounded in Azidara's ears like a chime and she was suffused by a sense of relief so great that she proceeded to commit the only mistake of the confrontation. Taking her eyes from Eamon, she peered back over her shoulder and called his name. Desperate and bleeding, the highwayman could scarcely believe his good fortune when the banshee turned away. He was nearly a hundred feet from the shadow figure and had no way of grasping the nature of the threat the man posed.

Snarling, he thrust his blade directly at Azidara's exposed abdomen.

Stuart Macevey's years as a police officer had honed his instinct to a razor's edge and his time as a private detective had done little to dull this acuity. The minute Azidara uttered his name Macevey adjusted his stance in the direction of her voice and discerned the enormity of her blunder. Without the slightest hesitation he squeezed the trigger.

The report of the nine-millimeter was impossibly loud and seemed to fill the heavens like a cacophonous burst of thunder. Both Gadral and Azidara cried out in surprise, while the opportunistic Eamon tumbled backward in a sprawl of limbs and lay utterly still.

'I've just killed a man,' Macevey knew immediately, suddenly suffused by the dejection that always accompanied the firing of his weapon in anger. Then the true gravity of his deed struck him, and the revelation nearly caused him to fumble his weapon. 'That was the first gunshot ever fired here!'

He would have the ignoble distinction of committing this world's first murder with a handgun. He allowed his arms to fall to his side and merely stared at the fallen silhouette of the man whose life he'd just taken. Azidara glanced from Stuart to the dead man, her lovely face shifting between incredulity and relief. Then her eyes flared with murderous rage and she rounded on the kneeling Gadral, striding purposefully in his direction while raising her sword.

Both Macevey and Gadral deduced that she intended to execute the vanquished highwayman where he knelt. Deciding there had been a sufficient amount of needless bloodshed, Stuart quickly imposed himself between the pair. "Enough Azidara. They're beaten." Turning back to Gadral, he raised his gun and intoned, "You understand what this is capable of, so you would be wise not to take this warning lightly. You're going to rouse your friend and go back the way you came. If you look back...even a brief glimpse...you'll end up like he did. Do you understand?"

Gadral nodded slowly and began to crawl in the direction of Imrach who was only now beginning to stir. Without taking his eyes from the deadly object in the tall man's hand, he asked, "Are you a demon?"

The notion caused Stuart to laugh disdainfully. "I'm only a man, but this..." he brandished the gun, "this is more evil than you can begin to imagine. Now get back to whatever hole you crawled out of."

Gadral hauled a bleary-eyed Imrach to his feet and the pair began to stagger in a northerly direction, never once looking back. If either had any compunction about leaving their fallen companion, they gave no sign.

Minutes after they vanished into the night, Stuart replaced his weapon in its holster and sighed deeply. Azidara suddenly gripped his right arm and spun him to face her. Even in the gloom, he could see that her exquisite features were contorted with anger. "Why did you not kill them? Or let me do it, if you didn't have the stomach? They intended to rape me and then kill me...and very probably rape my corpse. Can you understand what that means, Stuart?"

Macevey contemplated this for a long moment and then replied quietly, "In my world, it is considered barbaric to kill an opponent who has fallen under your mercy. They were no longer a threat...I couldn't kill them in cold blood."

"This is not your world," she spat contemptuously as she released his arm. "You had best accept that...if you wish to survive here." With this she stalked over to the corpse of Eamon and as a mortified Macevey watched, proceeded to strip off his trousers and emasculate the dead man. He considered intervening, but as he watched her savagely slice off the man's penis and cast it into the forest, Stuart came to the realization that she was entitled to her outrage. After she had finished, Azidara wiped her blade on his tunic and climbed to her feet, spitting on Eamon's body as she did.

Stuart could not see her face in the darkness and for that he was genuinely grateful.

"Come over here and help me throw his body into the trees," she demanded impatiently. Feeling sick, he complied. Azidara administered one final kick to Eamon's corpse and then started southward, gesturing for Macevey to follow. "You have left your enemies alive and they will tell their tale to the first person they come across...we had best be in Dizar Kor before they do."

Then she was gone. After a moment, a befuddled Macevey set out after her.

Chapter Fourteen

1

Xhendyn listened silently while Dynok delivered his detailed account of the activities in Artumas' court over the last twenty-four hours. His pewter mask and inhuman red eyes made it difficult for the Consul to interpret just how his report was being received by his dark benefactor. The increasing rigidity of his posture, however, suggested that he was far from pleased with the tide of events. When Dynok finally concluded his brief, Xhendyn asked gruffly, "In your estimation is it likely that Artumas will accept their offer?"

"Artumas has been in a turbulent state of mind of late, but he did seem receptive to the notion. These women are...most impressive and if he can bring himself to trust their motivations for coming to Emercia, it is likely he will accept their offer of aid," Dynok replied flatly. Despite his professed certitude, the Consul was privately unsure how the king would react to the Matrium's offer. Nor did he entirely grasp why he elected to convey the impression that Artumas would respond positively to the Sisters' proposal. Xhendyn responded to Dynok's assessment by uttering a vile epithet and slamming his right fist into his gloved left palm. His eyes flared an unearthly crimson and steam issued through the eye holes of his mask with a strident hiss, evoking a shiver of revulsion from the Consul, who wondered, not for the first time, just what it was he had cast his lot with.

"Damnable bitches! Their presence complicates an already delicate situation. And the drifter Queen has confirmed their purported prophecy?"

"Yes, Lorio arrived with her own fantastic tale of bone-demons and someone she describes as the bane. This revelation may be the catalyst necessary to have the King accept the Sisters' pledge of aid and the conditions under which said aid may be gained," Dynok imparted evenly. He derived a certain measure of satisfaction from Xhendyn's bemused reaction to his recounting of the day's events. The ghoulish slaying of the Jerhia had touched a discordant nerve in the Consul's heart and though he possessed no love for Artumas, the savage slaughter of Melansa had been a needless act of unfathomable cruelty.

Xhendyn abruptly turned his back on Dynok and closed his eyes in consternation. He was so close to toppling the fragile regime of the impotent, doddering king and restoring the emerald enchantress to her rightful throne. He simply couldn't allow a coven of meddlesome witches to ruin his carefully laid schemes within arm's reach of fruition. He turned his intimidating gaze upon the ShadowCaster, who was leaning casually against a pillar in a way that suggested complete indifference to the urgency of the matter at hand. Despite the immensity of his power, Xhendyn was cognizant of the threat this creature posed to his machinations if he was not brought to heel and kept on a very short leash. With a subtle hint of derision, he intoned, "Well Joubert, I believe it is time to prove your worth."

Joubert nodded tightly and moved to join the pair. Since crossing into this antiquated world of treachery and incomprehensible violence, Alain had been content to follow his summoner and maintain a low profile, while trying to divine the mystery of why he had been brought here in the first place. His short sojourn in what he had come to refer to as his new reality had led the former policeman-turned-drug-lord to several startling conclusions. Xhendyn was obviously not a mortal man, but rather a sinister composite of unattenuated evil and mad ambition, evidently intent on freeing a depraved enchantress named Myrhia from the prison of her own mortified flesh. What he hoped to gain by this obvious act of lunacy was not readily apparent to Joubert, but he suspected that Xhendyn's motivations were driven by some manner of religious mania. It seemed that the creature deified this enchantress and hoped to curry her favor by devising a way to extricate her from her entrapment. Joubert did not relish the prospect of freeing a monster from its tomb, but wisely decided to allow events to carry him where they would until he became acclimatized to his new environment.

In the short time Joubert had been in the revolting quarter of this archaic city, he discovered two essential truths that were to his liking. Crossing the divide of two realities had imbued Alain with incredible power the limits of which he had yet to fully discover and this new world held limitless potential for an enterprising man unencumbered by morality and ethics...a man such as Alain Joubert.

As Alain was a naturally cautious man, he decided to explore the full spectrum of his newfound abilities and gain an understanding of how said abilities could best serve him in his new home. He would content himself in playing Xhendyn's lackey...for the time being.

As if intuiting Alain's thoughts, Xhendyn regarded the ShadowCaster closely for a long moment, but Joubert refused to flinch under the intense scrutiny. Composure was another faculty that kept Alain alive and prosperous over the years. After a long moment, Xhendyn averted his fiery gaze back to Dynok. "There is more?"

Dynok nodded gravely, his smooth brow furrowing as he swept his blonde hair back from his eyes in a rakish gesture that never failed to impress the ladies in Artumas' court. "I think I've discovered the location where Myrhia is being housed...or more precisely, the way by which she can be accessed."

"Explain," Xhendyn demanded impatiently.

"As I've divulged in the past, Kammlogran holds a section of chambers that only Artumas may access. The security of this forbidden area is maintained by an elite cadre of knights known as the Hand of the Way. These men are fanatically devoted to Artumas and would willingly die rather than divulge his secret. I have long speculated that Myrhia was entombed within this area, but it seems this assumption is erroneous. The Hand of the Way is charged with the protection of a portal and it is through this portal Artumas travels to be with his beloved living statue. It seems my king is still enamored with the woman who betrayed him and usurped his throne."

"A portal?" Xhendyn echoed. "How is it that a man reputed to revile all things magical would have such a device at his disposal?"

Dynok merely shrugged. "I would suspect the Metocan bestowed it upon the king upon his regaining the throne of Emercia. This topic is anathema in Artumas' court and simply never broached in his presence."

"Obviously, you have no knowledge of to where this portal leads," Xhendyn remarked rhetorically as the index finger of his left hand stroked the hollow of his pewter-covered temple. Wondering what portrait of horror lay hidden beneath that mask, Dynok again shook his head. "I was party to the conversation between Artumas and the Matrium of this sisterhood when he first divulged the existence of this portal. I judged it imprudent to ask pointed questions regarding the specifics of its function and construction. It is possible I will be able to learn more about the device and its end destination in the coming days."

Xhendyn shook his head, willing himself to subjugate his mounting excitement. At last, the enchantress was within his grasp...and it would be the ShadowCaster who would gain the prize on his behalf. "Events have come to a critical juncture and we do not have the luxury of time."

Reluctantly, Dynok divulged his final tidbit of information. "That may be truer than you would like to think. In return for their aid in ferreting out his enemy, the Matrium has demanded that he relinquish possession of Myrhia to them, claiming that she was once the leader of their order."

"What!" Xhendyn exploded furiously, his outrage manifesting itself in a burst of crimson flame that leapt through the eyeholes of his mask in blazing shafts. Dynok raised his arms to shield his face, narrowly avoiding being seared by the flames. When the monster's fury abated, Dynok hesitantly revealed the final detail of his report, knowing that it could well provoke a further outburst. "There is more, and it was this last disclosure that compelled me to defy Artumas' order that access to and from Kammlogran be closed to all. Sygeanor has usurped power in Metocan and demanded that the Queen of Lamia be delivered to Othgol so that she might stand trial for the murder of Sygeanor's father."

The seething Xhendyn regarded Dynok from behind his inscrutable pewter mask. "I fail to see what bearing this has on the situation here."

"The Metocan ambassador has left Nalosan along with her entire retinue. If that was not sufficient cause for concern, obviously Lorio is now in Emercia and Sygeanor has vowed to wage war against any nation that would harbor the Queen" After allowing the monster a moment to ponder the ramifications of this last observation, the Consul added "It is a safe presumption to conclude that the portal will be deactivated and the path to Myrhia irretrievably lost."

The tirade Dynok expected did not materialize. Instead Xhendyn absorbed this last development in a thoughtful silence. Finally, he placed a gloved hand on the Consul's shoulder in a gesture of comradeship. Dynok required every ounce of resolve not to shudder in revulsion beneath the touch of the inhuman creature. "You were correct to risk coming here. We would do well to make Artumas' enemy our ally. Queen Lorio contends that she is to ward the ShadowCaster's bane. If she was to become our captive, it would be mutually beneficial to consign the pretender-queen to Sygeanor's homicidal keeping. We would not only dispose of a threat to the ShadowCaster, but we would gain a powerful ally in the process."

Dynok inhaled deeply, staggered by the audacity of the game Xhendyn endeavored to play. "I needn't remind you that Lorio is no mere mortal. It would be no easy matter to abduct her under the most favorable of circumstances."

Xhendyn laughed then, a horrifying sound that reminded Dynok of boiling lava. "Neither am I, good Dynok. Neither am I."

"I must return to Kammlogran before first light. When Melansa's body is discovered a storm will descend upon Nalosan the likes of which has not been seen since the days of Myrhia," Dynok intoned gravely and turned toward the exit. He could feel the noose of circumstance begin to tighten around his erudite neck and wondered not for the first time how he had allowed himself to become embroiled in such dark madness. He had willingly aligned himself with iniquity and could now feel his own end rapidly converging upon him on cloven hooves.

As he reached the door, Xhendyn declared, "Dynok, prepare yourself, for the moment of Artumas' demise is at hand. Events are going to move quickly now, and your king's house of cards is about to crumble before the second coming of the one true queen."

Dynok responded with a tacit nod and stepped out into the falling rain and simmering corruption of Thieves Trough. When the Consul closed the door, Xhendyn returned his attention to Joubert, who inquired curiously, "Why do you suffer that posturing peacock? He is facile and pretentious and not someone I would care to trust."

Xhendyn shrugged with cavalier indifference. "He is all that and more, with loyalties and agendas of his own devising, not unlike many of those who follow in my wake." The creature's sardonic inference was not lost upon Joubert, who shifted his gaze to the shadowy recesses of the warehouse, wondering if his new sponsor could divine his thoughts. "Though he is all of those things you suggest, Dynok is also an invaluable pair of eyes in Artumas' inner court."

"What will you do now?"

"Somehow, this Sisterhood of Esotaria has divined my intention to revivify Myrhia. They have not only come to take possession of her body, but they have summoned an entity with the specific intention of destroying you, Joubert."

Alain blinked, dumbly echoing Xhendyn's disquieting revelation, "Destroy me...how are they even aware that I am here? I thought you said my presence could not be detected by those native to this world?"

"And so it should be, but this is not a world constrained by practical science. Here, the rules that govern what can and cannot be are more malleable...more nebulous. If Myrhia was indeed a member of their order, it is only logical they could track her whereabouts through the power of prescience alone."

"I don't understand," Joubert murmured, shaking his head in confusion. "You're saying that these women have the ability to know where each other might be at any given moment, but that still doesn't explain how they know I'm here."

Xhendyn extended his arms in a gesture of helplessness. "I have no definitive answer to that rather perplexing question. Irrespective of how they anticipated your coming, we must accept that your arrival is common knowledge amongst our enemies and measures have been taken to negate the threat you pose. Whoever they might be, these Sisters of Esotaria have seized the initiative and we must do whatever is necessary to take it back. We have two critical tasks before us. I will deal with Lorio and the bane she spoke of and you will infiltrate Kammlogran and locate the portal."

"And once I do?"

"If it is in working order, you are to go through and determine where Myrhia is being held. Once we have located the enchantress and determined the circumstances of her imprisonment, I will set to planning her liberation." Xhendyn's anger had dissipated, giving way to ebullience in its stead. Joubert understood how these radical swings in mood made his sponsor volatile and dangerous. He was reminded of many of the drug tsars he'd dealt with over the years. "When do you want me to make this sortie?"

"Now. The death of the Jerhia ambassador is sure to plunge Nalosan into chaos and you should be able to exploit the confusion. Remember, Joubert, for the moment, your greatest weapon is your anonymity...kill only if you must. In the meantime, I will lay the ground stones for depriving the Sisterhood of their bane and ensnaring the itinerant queen."

Joubert nodded and began to turn away, but a chilling uncertainty assailed him then and he turned back to the masked demon. "Considering they were able to unearth your schemes is it not possible these women might discern my presence in the castle?"

"It's a chance I'm willing to take, Joubert," Xhendyn replied with a trace of sardonic disdain. "Even I cannot accurately assess the extent and nature of the power you possess, ShadowCaster, but I suspect that time and experimentation will provide the answers."

Joubert considered this for a moment and sensing the inherent truth of Xhendyn's remark he nodded grimly and started for the door. Xhendyn had been deliberately evasive in his response to Joubert's concerns. He understood perfectly the extent and nature of the ShadowCaster's puissance; in this particular time and reality his power knew no bounds. Alain Joubert's only limitation was his rather stunted imagination and his ignorance of the governing realities of the universe. Xhendyn was wagering immense stakes on the hope that he would not discern the truth of what he was until after Myrhia could be rescued and reborn.

The door opened, seemingly of its own accord, and the ShadowCaster moved into the rainy gloom.

"Yes Alain, you have much to learn," Xhendyn murmured. Joubert's traditional exit demonstrated just how little he was aware of his own abilities which suited his sponsor just fine for the moment. Dismissing Joubert from his thoughts, the creature turned his attention to Lorio and the means by which he might entrap the formidable Lamish Queen. If he could find a way to exploit the current anarchy and political turmoil, it was possible that Xhendyn could obliterate Artumas and his newfound allies. Chaos was an invaluable tool and had served him well thus far and so it would again.

Standing at the center of the abandoned warehouse, Xhendyn drew a deep breath, relishing the pungent odor of decay and neglect. Since he had coalesced out of the miasma just two years before, places such as this had served as his home...but not for much longer. Soon he would sit at the right hand of the one true Queen, free to pursue the warped pleasures of his dark mind's contriving. Extending both arms, he raised his palms to the rafters and cupped his hands.

Accompanied by a strident hiss, tiny blue flames materialized in the bowl of his palms. Abruptly, the entity began to spin, gaining momentum with each successive turn. As he continued to turn in place, arcs of flame erupted from the cusp of his palms and shot out toward the walls and the stacks of moldering wooden crates. Soon the entire interior was engulfed in improbable blue flames. Xhendyn dropped his arms and looked on in satisfaction as the pyre consumed the aging structure like a rapacious beast. Soon the flames swept over the creature, but they could find no purchase on either his clothing or the flesh beneath. In a matter of minutes, the raging fire consumed the support beams and the roof collapsed with an unnerving scream. Flames shot toward the heavens as the intense heat ignited the surrounding structures like a torch to a pool of kerosene. Despite the heavy rain, the fire ran rampant over Thieves Trough.

Laughing with malefic delight, Xhendyn rose up through the towering flames and soared over the troubled city as the first alarm bells began to peel on the street below.

2

Lorio considered returning to her quarters after her aborted attempt to assassinate the Ascentrix but found that she feared solitude and the inevitable contemplation that being alone would bring. Her encounter with Lissom had propelled her to the edge of an epiphany, leaving her shaken and oddly diminished in its aftermath. The girl had laid Lorio's flaws and inadequacies bare, illuminating the dark hollows of her heart and the desolation of her existence.

Fearing the empty isolation of her chambers, Lorio sought out the only friend she had left, in the hopes he could find the kindness to forgive her wretched behavior.

It was well past midnight, but Lorio decided to seek out an audience with Artumas, hoping that he would grant her this one boon after her inexcusable tirade of earlier in the evening. She vowed never to impose upon his kindness again.

The quartet of guards stiffened and raised their glaives into combat positions as Lorio entered the hallway leading to the high king's suite of rooms. Recognizing the ethereal Queen of Lamia, the four relaxed slightly, but gave no sign of granting her access to the inner chambers. Lorio stopped and offered the guards a broad, disarming smile. "I would request an audience with King Artumas."

"Good Queen, the King has retired for the night, with strict orders that he not be disturbed until morning," the captain of the night watch informed Lorio.

She detected the slightest hint of reluctance in his voice and realized that her reputation for being intractable was common knowledge even here. "It is a matter of great urgency."

The captain shook his head adamantly. "I'm sorry but the king's instructions were clear. I will gladly convey your request the moment he rises."

The old Lorio would have simply brushed by the beleaguered guard and burst unannounced into Artumas' chamber, but she was beginning to grasp that such brazen disdain for protocol was costing an emotional currency that she could no longer afford to spend. She was about to turn away, when a soft voice issued out of the darkness along the corridor. "Allow her to pass."

There was a note of extreme weariness in the speaker's voice and she could scarcely recognize the speaker to be Artumas. If she was surprised by the intonations of exhaustion in the king's voice, she was utterly shock by his haggard appearance as he slid forth from the shadows and beckoned her to enter his chambers. His eyes were red-rimmed and the skin on his face seemed to have sagged perceptibly in the mere hours since their last meeting. Something in Artumas' uncharacteristic vulnerability touched Lorio profoundly. She swept forward and discreetly took his elbow and guided the aging king into his suite of chambers before his guards could notice his condition.

Inside, she closed the door with a deft sweep of her foot and ushered the king over to a lounging sofa. He accepted her assistance without complaint, settling his weight against her shoulder. For the first time, it became apparent to Lorio that this was a mortal man in the last years of his life. The thought was ineffably sad, and she brushed it savagely from her mind as she helped him sit on the sofa, bewildered by how light and frail he seemed. He grimaced in pain as he settled onto the plush cushions, leaning to his left to alleviate the flaring protest of his right hip. Lorio regarded him closely, her limpid brown eyes alive with concern. "Would you have me summon the court physicians?"

Artumas grimaced and shook his head. "Quacks either want to bleed me or medicate me into a stupor...states that I can ill afford at this juncture."

"Artumas, please allow me to help you...in some way," Lorio beseeched, and was rather dismayed to realize that she was perilously close to tears again. She was acutely aware that the old Lorio would have regarded this sudden emotional fragility with acerbic condemnation. As her erstwhile traveling companion Arminda would readily attest, the old Lorio harbored a deep contempt for the vulnerable and needy.

"It is well, Lorio. My hip pains me...especially during periods of rain and dampness. It comes and goes, and I have grown accustomed to it," Artumas remarked dismissively, though his gray complexion suggested that his was a pain to which one would not easily grow accustomed. To Lorio, for whom lingering physical pain did not exist, Artumas' plight was particularly heart wrenching. "Artumas, you are many things, but a particularly effective liar you are not. You need rest."

"Mayhap, but it is the one luxury that events will not allow." He favored Lorio with a wan smile and inquired softly, "So what brings you to my chamber in the forlorn hours of the night?"

Lorio hesitated as she tried to organize her thoughts. "Foremost is the need to cry your pardon. What I did earlier was inexcusable, and I beg your forgiveness. You have been a staunch ally and my truest friend, and I would be a fool to allow my tempestuous nature to destroy the bond between us. In truth, I am a wretched queen who has been blessed with your friendship but has eschewed the opportunity to learn from your example. I am unworthy of the honor bestowed upon me by the children of dust, but as I kneel before you, I vow never to sully their trust again...nor abuse the kindness of those who have given me friendship."

She bowed her head so that Artumas would not see the tears glistening like diamonds on her lashes. The king reached forward and stroked the aristocratic ridges of her cheek bones. "Lorio, there is little you could ask of me that I would not grant were it in my power to do so. If you could find it in your heart to look upon the Matrium and the Sisters of Esotaria with a measure of tolerance and open-mindedness, you would have my gratitude."

She glanced up and a tear traced a meandering path from the corner of her eye to her upper lip. Haltingly, she recounted the tale of her attempt to assassinate the Ascentrix and the humbling aftermath of her misadventure. Artumas absorbed the tale in thoughtful silence, staggered by the enormity of the risk the Sisters had taken in exposing their leader to Lorio's wrath. Lorio concluded her riveting tale by describing Lissom's fugue state and the cocoon of golden effulgence which had surrounded her as the Matrium had squired the Lamish Queen from the room.

"And they did not fear for her wellbeing?" Artumas asked incredulously.

"On the contrary, they were exuberant. Karosyn described this as part of her apotheosis...her ascension toward the ultimate state of being. By facing me alone, fully aware of the potential danger this entailed, the Ascentrix has surmounted a barrier on her journey to complete spiritual evolution. Each obstacle overcome makes her stronger...wiser. These junctures provide the catalyst for her growth," she elaborated while scarcely able to credit her own explanation.

"Perhaps the same can be said of you as well, Lorio. Have you not emerged from this experience with a keen need to re-appraise who you are and who you must become if you are ever to be worthy of the mantle of queen?"

Lorio gazed at her friend, her expression fraught with misery. "I have misgivings about ever being worthy. The long-suffering people of Lamia deserve better...someone of your stature."

Artumas uttered a spate of bitter laughter, fraught with self-disdain. "Lorio, the truth of who I am is a pale echo of the embellished legend. My failure to see beyond Myrhia's clever façade well near wrought the destruction of our world. I fear that my arrogant refusal to accept this failure may once again push us to the precipice."

Lorio blinked in confusion while absently wiping tears from her cheek. "I don't understand...in the years that we have been friends it seems you have excoriated yourself with the flail of your guilt. Remember, I was there when you recounted the tale of how Myrhia came to be your Queen. If you are guilty of arrogance it would be the arrogance of believing that you should not have been susceptible to her enchantment...to her boundless charm and staggering beauty."

"But I love her still, Lorio!" he rasped between teeth that were clenched with wretched self-contempt. "Despite the betrayal and the genocide and all of the insidious horror she loosed upon our world, I know that I would grant her forgiveness if she beseeched me to do so. In all candor this is why I have clung to possession of her remnant on the off chance that Myrhia might someday be restored to me, miraculously reborn and aglow with the promise she held on the day she first appeared in Nalosan. My love for her has become an obsession that occludes common sense and has blinded me to the peril my fixation has imposed upon the realm." Artumas fell silent, shaking his head in dismay. Lorio averted her eyes, staggered by the king's confession. When again he spoke, Artumas' voice was weak and melancholy. "I am old, Lorio and when the final chapter of my life is written, I do not want it to be a farce or a tragedy. This is why I intend to accept the Matrium's offer and have Myrhia's remnant taken far away from this place in the hopes that the span of an ocean may break the spell she has cast upon my soul."

He clutched her right hand in his and whispered, "Think upon this moment when you look to raise me on the pedestal of your admiration. How absurd and pathetic this must sound to you?"

She hung her head and murmured something that the king could not clearly hear. Taking her chin gently in his right hand, Artumas raised her face to his, astounded by the expression of misery that was seemingly etched into her lovely face. Her pain was a palpable thing that permeated his flesh and radiated along the bones of his arm. Its intensity lanced his heart and he demanded urgently, "Speak openly with me, Lorio. What has troubled you thus?"

Her lower lip trembled, and fresh tears welled up in her eyes, but she managed to reply. "She spoke to me, Artumas. She spoke to me. The woman who had me raped and impregnated...who killed my father and ultimately transformed me into a monster. Her words caressed my mind like velvet and silk over bare flesh. Despite every torment that vile bitch forced me to endure, I was beguiled. She is alive, Artumas. Islena managed to imprison Myrhia, but she did not kill her. Every intuition tells me that she grows stronger in her confinement and though she cannot extricate herself, she may enlist people who can...unwitting fools such as you and me. If I judge you as pathetic, then I must dress myself in the same jester's clothes."

For a long moment, the astounded king did not speak. During the countless hours spent in solitude with the remnant, never had Artumas intuited the slightest hint that even a trace of the enchantress remained within her inured tomb of flesh. "Can you say with unequivocal certainty that the voice in your mind was Myrhia's?"

"Yes. It was the Ascentrix who helped me recognize that the enchantress lay behind my attempt to kill her."

Artumas' eyes narrowed speculatively. "This implies that Myrhia is somehow cognizant of events in Nalosan and she wishes to prevent the Sisterhood from taking possession of her physical body. It also means that she may well be orchestrating the anarchy that has befallen Emercia of late."

The king's eyelids fluttered and then closed, leaving Lorio to believe that he'd fallen into a doze. She watched the slow rise and fall of his chest for a long moment, her heart suffused with affection for the man whom she had come to regard as a father during their desperate flight through the land of shades. She was about to leave when his breathing hitched, and his eyes opened abruptly. "I am weary and there is so much left undone. I must rest...can you help me to my bed?"

Lorio smiled fondly and gripping the king's elbow, she effortlessly hauled him to his feet and guided him over to the canopied bed. Steadying the king with one arm, Lorio pulled back the heavy comforter and sheets, before gently sitting Artumas on the edge of the bed. Gazing over the large expanse of empty bed, she suddenly wondered if the aging king suffered from moments of intense loneliness. It was common knowledge that he had no queen nor took no lovers despite the constant advances from the ladies of his court. He gently, but firmly rejected the many offers of marriage proposed by foreign kings who would link their nations to Emercia through the ties of the marriage bed. She knelt before him and deftly removed his boots as he laid a hand on her shoulder and squeezed affably. "What of you, Lorio? What will you do now?"

She glanced up and Artumas could sense the conflict and indecision warring behind her exquisite dark eyes. "I honestly don't know. Sygeanor has threatened to obliterate Lamia if I do not accede to her demand for my surrender and I am compelled to believe that she is sincere in her intention. Despite the exigent need of my people, it seems that fate has not entirely dispensed with its design upon me. Lissom was adamant in her insistence that it is I who must ward the bane. Should I choose to ignore the call of destiny the bane will die before he can stop this ShadowCaster which will inevitably lead to Myrhia's rebirth. Like chaff, the people of Lamia will be crushed between the millstones of destiny and an insane thirst for revenge. While I vacillate between duty to my country and the demands of destiny, I can hear derisive laughter mocking this sham crown I so undeservingly wear."

Artumas regarded Lorio through red-rimmed eyes that glistened wetly beneath the muted lamplight. He reached out and gently squeezed her right hand. "Lorio, you possess more courage and determination than anyone I've ever met with the possible exception of Islena Doraux. That Sygeanor would single you out as a mortal enemy is a testimony to the extent of her insanity. Like me, your errors have sprung from an obstinate refusal to let go of the past. I know how much you loved Islena, but she is gone. Only when you learn to accept that harsh reality will you find the wisdom and prudence to guide Lamia to its rightful status as a nation."

Lorio began to weep silently, knowing full well that Artumas spoke the bitter truth. "I am not afraid of pain and I've endured every adversity that fate could conjure, but for the first time in my life, I am at a complete loss as to how I should proceed from this moment forth. I am not oblivious to my vanity, but I desperately need your guidance now."

"Allow me a few hours rest. On the morrow we will meet with the Matrium and Melansa. Perhaps the four of us can concoct a way to extricate you from Sygeanor's cunning trap and still appease destiny. I have come to regard you as the daughter I've never had and I will do everything within my power to ease your burden," Artumas whispered softly. Lorio nodded, her face alight with gratitude, and brusquely wiped tears from her eyes with the edge of her hand.

She kept vigil beside the aging king until sleep at last drew him into a fitful embrace. Finally, she rose and made her way back to her own suite of rooms and the company of her own misgivings.

Chapter Fifteen

1

As the first pale light of dawn filtered through the gray clouds in the east, Nirras made what was probably his hundredth circle of his assigned section of the rampart on Kammlogran's south wall. Beleaguered by fatigue and discomfited by the sodden clothes that clung to his damp flesh, the guard looked forward to a hot bowl of porridge and a warm bed should this infernal night ever see an end. The incessant rain had not let up during his entire shift and now he was thoroughly soaked and miserable. 'I wager the damnable royalty and court dandies are sleeping just fine,' he thought irritably as another gust of sea wind drove cold mist into his face like silver needles as it blew across the upper ramparts. Nirras turned his back to the gust and leaned over one of the crenulated sections of the outer wall, peering out over the sprawl of Nalosan as it prepared to come awake for another day. The city was all looming shadow and menace beneath the inadequate predawn light. Even the majestic cathedrals that ringed the king's way appeared more like repositories of evil than places of worship.

"This city's slidin' to ruin," Nirras muttered, echoing a pessimistic sentiment that was shared by more and more of his fellow guards as days past. 'Like a man struggling to stay afloat on a turbulent ocean.' That was how many of the common folk had come to regard King Artumas as the shadow of Chaos deepened over Emercia. To exacerbate matters further, a coven of witches had come from over the sea and taken up residence in the royal castle. Rumors were rife that they had demanded a tribute from the king lest they reduce the entire city to ash and bone. Nirras had scoffed derisively at this superstitious babble when he'd first heard it, but beneath the driving rain and brooding darkness this speculation seemed far less implausible.

Apocalyptic rumors aside, it was hard to deny that events now appeared to be controlling the once mighty king and not the other way around. A sense of deep foreboding had permeated every stone and timber in Kammlogran. There were places in the majestic structure where many of the guards absolutely dreaded to venture...particularly those protected by the Hand of the Way. It was said that they protected a path leading deep into the bowels of the earth where the spirit of the evil sorceress cavorted with demons and legions of the undead. The pragmatic side of Nirras' nature understood that this was nonsense of course, but if anything could bring down the hordes of the shadow world upon the common folk it was the presumptuous arrogance of kings and queens. Nirras had witnessed such things with his own eyes when Myrhia's blue monstrosities had traversed Emercia like infernal engines of everything wicked, spreading fear and despair like a rampant infection.

If Artumas was to fall, what would become of Nalosan and Emercia? The king was the glue by which the fabric of the country was bound, and his demise would signify the end of the country's return to prosperity. Still, it was not economic adversity that kept Nirras on the biting edge of anxiety. He was a soldier and regardless of who held power in Kammlogran, there would always be a need for fighting men to protect the noble and the vile alike. No, what inspired his omnipresent feeling of terror had less to do with poverty than the inkling that the hand of doom was poised above the city waiting for cause to level Nalosan like a hammer on an anvil.

A sudden flare of blinding light burst against the backdrop of the heavens, washing the ramparts in an eerie blue glow and jolting Nirras out of his glum reverie. The blue light illuminated the lumbering thunderheads and for one awful moment, Nirras thought he could discern monstrous faces glaring down upon him with insatiable hunger. Somehow, he managed to suppress the cry of terror threatening to burst from his lungs and when he blinked, the befuddled guard realized he was seeing textured layers of gray and black clouds and not monolithic demons.

There followed a low rumbling sound and a series of deep vibrations shook the very stones of Kammlogran. This time Nirras did give voice to his terror just as another explosion of blue light lit the horizon. Shielding his eyes against the improbable glare, the guard swept his gaze over the cityscape until he located the source of the upheaval. Some distance to the southeast of the castle, a huge ball of blue flame erupted into the night sky. The massive force of the explosion sent another series of tremors reverberating through the stones of the castle.

"By the Gods, the city is burning!" Nirras exclaimed. As a disquieting counterpoint to the sudden appearance of the unlikely blue flames, the night sky abruptly opened up and the rain began to fall in great sweeping sheets. The deluge did not extinguish the flames, but instead created a super-heated steam that quickly obscured that section of the city in an impenetrable mist. Cursing, Nirras raced along the treacherously slippery ramparts to the nearest warning bell. The massive iron and bronze bells had been set into the upper ramparts at regular intervals and hung between stone columns. Nirras reached the nearest bell and gripped the hanging rope in both hands. Holding tightly onto the slippery rope, he lifted both feet horizontally and allowed his own body weight to pull the rope downward.

The clang of the bell tolled over the burning city like a harbinger of doom and was soon answered by the other bells of the watch until all of Nalosan was alerted to the potential conflagration facing the ancient city.

Nirras finally surrendered his grip on the rope and leaned against the crenulated stone, panting from a mix of exertion and dread. Squinting against the rain, he could only look on helplessly while the fate of his city was decided in the near distance.

2

"Now, listen carefully. I will ask the question one last time and you will answer. If I suspect you're deceiving me in the slightest...well," Veilguix whispered in Imrach's ear so close that he could feel the warm breath on his perspiration-lathered skin. Veilguix gestured with his dagger toward the butchered mass of flesh that had so recently been Imrach's companion Gadral. Imrach's terrified gaze fell on the ruined torso which Veilguix had meticulously peeled into two-inch ribbons. Those tendrils of bloody flesh fell around the corpse's waist like a perverse version of a lady's skirt. The captive could hear the maddening nattering of bugs buzzing about the bloody remains and he felt his stomach perform a series of nauseating rolls.

He had come across the pair as they fled north, their battered condition and fear-glazed eyes informing Veilguix that the two might just have information to divulge. Like the vermin he recognized them to be, Gadral and Imrach were easily plied by the flash of a coin. As they related their fantastical tale, Lethoras' man decided that he must divine truth from fiction, fact from embellishment and so he resorted to more extreme manners of persuasion. Overpowering the pair was almost piteously easy and Veilguix secured Imrach to a tree and set about interrogating the badly battered Gadral. After flaying two lengths of flesh from the man's back, Imrach allowed how he and his friend were bested by the woman...a revelation that filled Veilguix with private delight.

It was at this particular juncture in the dialogue where Imrach's narrative took a decided turn toward the surreal (and lamentably for the failed highwayman, prompted Veilguix to resume his cutting). The stranger had emerged from the trees, brandishing an object that Gadral had not recognized. He warned Gadral and Eamon to remain still, but when the latter refused to comply, a burst of fire erupted from the object along with a thunderous noise that the terrified bandit claimed had shook the heavens.

In the next instant, Eamon lay dead in the path, blood seeping languorously from a hole in the center of his forehead.

Veilguix could lend no credence to the account and so he set about carving truth from fiction out of Gadral's flesh, listening carefully for the tell-tale signs of deception between the harrowing screams and the pleas for mercy. To his last piteous gurgle, Gadral never altered his tale even as he drowned in his own blood. Still, Veilguix could not credit the notion that this stranger had killed a man employing a magical device.

"Now, are you going to answer my question truthfully?" he reiterated, his tone fraught with icy menace. A low moan issued from deep in Imrach's chest and he stole a brief glance at the repulsive ruin that had once been his fellow thief. "I never saw what killed Eamon...like Gadral said, I was unconscious. When he roused me and pulled me away, I was groggy and it was dark...the man was holding something, but I couldn't tell what."

Veilguix pondered this as he gently caressed the exposed flesh just below his captive's right collarbone. Sensing that his tormentor might be willing to heed his plea, Imrach quickly added, "I can swear by the love of my own life that whatever the man was holding, it frightened Gadral. He stunk of fear."

The horrible man remained silent for several long moments and then quickly sheathed his dagger after wiping the blood on Imrach's filthy shirt. He came to kneel before the sobbing brigand and clapped the man on the shoulders. With a chilling smile that turned Imrach's blood to ice water, he intoned blithely "I believe you, friend."

In one fluid movement, Veilguix stood and pivoted about. He stood stroking his jaw and peering into the impenetrable darkness, trying to decide what to do next. The man, who had once been a knight in the Royal Army of Fairmarch, was thoroughly indifferent to his patron's obsession with the exquisite Azidara, but he was intrigued by the stranger and the magical talisman he purportedly possessed. This assignment to find the woman and her mysterious suitor suddenly assumed darker, more consequential overtones and Veilguix was torn between his desire to find the pair and his perceived obligation to report this unexpected development to Lethoras.

"You...you won't leave me here, will you?" Imrach asked in a tremulous voice. The prospect of being bound to a tree while carrion rotted not ten paces away, calling tantalizingly to every predator in the forest, filled the highwayman with ineffable terror. Veilguix had entertained the thought of doing precisely that, but then realized that Imrach had been sufficiently cowed to help solve his dilemma. He drew his dagger again, eliciting a whimper from the highwayman. Squatting down next to Imrach, he carefully cut the rope and then helped the man to his feet, who regarded his captor warily.

The sun was rising steadily over the trees, providing Imrach with his first glimpse of the man who had killed his companion. His face was plain and angular, dominated by a shock of black curls and piercing dark eyes. The bandit knew all too well the cruelty that capered behind those eyes and was desperate to be away from the man, vowing that his days of indiscriminate looting were behind him even if it meant sweeping out coal boxes until he perished. Veilguix was speaking again and Imrach forced himself to focus on the man's every word. "I have no tolerance for common thieves, but I've decided to let you leave this place alive. In turn, you will perform a simple task."

"Anything!" Imrach gushed.

"You are going to follow this path back to Wraiths Hollow and tell your tale to Lord Lethoras. You will conclude by informing him that Veilguix has gone after them and they appear to be heading into Dizar Kor." Veilguix forced the brigand to repeat his instructions several times until he was thoroughly satisfied that the man knew exactly what was expected of him. Imrach bobbed his battered head like an obsequious dog. Veilguix detached a small bag of coins from his belt and handed them to the thief, who accepted them with a grin of pure avarice. "You may go."

Imrach pivoted about and was moving away, when Veilguix seized his hair and jerked his head back. In one graceful motion, he positioned the killing edge of his dagger against the man's throat just below his prominent Adam's apple. "Should you give any thought to simply taking this money and vanishing, know that I will hunt you down and find you no matter what hole you burrow into. When I do, I will take great pleasure in cutting the head from your shoulder...layer by layer. It is said I have a talent for prolonging such things...do you believe me?"

Imrach nodded slowly, his eyes popped wide in a comical expression of horror. To punctuate his point, Veilguix drew his blade deftly across the thief's throat. Blood cascaded from the shallow wound in a glistening sheet. The assassin pushed Imrach away. "Go and keep what I've said in mind. There is a great deal of money in that bag...and there is a good chance Lethoras will give you more."

Still clutching his wounded throat, Imrach nodded gravely and then turned on his heels and walked away. When he estimated the man could no longer see him, the thief began to run.

When the miscreant vanished through the trees Veilguix dismissed him from his thoughts. Making his way back to the path, he started south at a jog. Smiling as he went, the retainer thought to himself, 'Now, let us see what magic secret you're hiding.'

3

Sybian knelt behind the large basalt outcrop, face pressed into the cool stone, and absently wiped tears from her eyes as she watched the outrageous spectacle unfold some three hundred paces down the grassy slope. A trained and battle-hardened scout, Sybian had borne witness to many dark travesties in her years as a Jerhia reconnaissance officer, but few were as abhorrent as the horror playing itself out in this isolated hamlet in northern Lamia.

"Corrent," she whispered, closing her eyes and summoning the detailed mental image of the map she had committed to memory upon first crossing into Lamia some two weeks before. Hers was the task of gathering and assessing information on Metocan incursions into Lamia and communicating that information back to the Jerhia forces that would soon be making their way from the south to confront the invading forces.

A master of stealth and infiltration, the thirty-year-old Jerhia had spent four years in occupied Kornas after Myrhia's rampaging armies had evicted the Jerhia from the eastern continent. That occupation had spawned atrocities to be sure, but Myrhia's legions had for the most part regarded the locals with indifference...providing they remained docile. These masked creatures from Metocan, all gleaming pewter and black leather, were sprung from a far different ilk. She'd reclined quietly in the shadowy recesses of a drinking den, listening silently while Lamish villagers discussed the rumored events that purportedly had occurred in Glanox. Trying to distil truth from exaggeration, Sybian realized she was hearing a third hand account of a heinous act of genocide. If she was adhering strictly to the dictates of duty, she would have carried this appalling tale south to the advancing army, but a deeper instinct compelled her to venture north and observe matters with her own keen eyes.

Though assessing grand strategy was hardly in her bailiwick, Sybian understood that gathering concise and accurate information was critical to formulating a cohesive strategy. She could not rely on the frantic accounts of superstitious natives to provide the substance of her report and so she left the village and came north. What she now saw before her made her desperately wish she'd chosen to adhere to protocol.

The incessant wailing was both piteous and maddening.

From her point of concealment, the Jerhia scout could see that a group of thirty villagers, mostly the old and feeble had been herded to the approximate center of Corrent's ramshackle collection of huts. The raiders were dressed in a black leather garb that was studded with pewter. Their faces were concealed by shiny pewter masks that made them all the more inhuman and terrifying. The captives were forced to kneel in a semi-circle until a single figure strode into their midst and addressed them in a clear, ringing voice that resonated through the morning air like rolling thunder. Sybian could feel that awful voice vibrate through her viscera and for a terrifying moment, she feared she would begin to retch. Somehow, she managed to quell the urge, though the vibration continued to pulse in her organs and intestines like corruption.

"The Lamish are scum," the woman declared flatly and Sybian could feel the vitriol thrumming in her flesh. "You are a blight that has been suffered far too long. A blight must be purged by fire and this is precisely the means by which I will cleanse this world of your pernicious filth."

She nodded brusquely, her dark tresses blowing in the brisk morning breeze, and the raiders stepped forward in unison and placed the flats of their palms on the head of the kneeling captives. Sybian watched in perplexed silence and for a protracted moment nothing appeared to transpire.

And then the harrowing screams for the cold mercy of death tore the expectant silence as the Appraxis worked their vile magic on their Lamish victims. Even from this distance, Sybian could clearly see blistering flesh and the smoking hair as the blood of the unfortunate thirty began to boil. With a preternatural sharpness that only moments of intense terror can induce, Sybian could clearly hear the liquid pop of exploding eyeballs as the kneeling victims burst into flames like gruesome human torches. Limbs flailed and bodies contorted in a spastic dance of death as the white flames consumed flesh like candle wax. Though it seemed like an eternity, Sybian retained enough presence of mind to realize that the entire process took less than a minute before the Appraxis stepped away from thirty piles of fire-polished bones.

Once the elderly and infirmed had been dispensed with, the architect of their torment turned her attention to those remaining villagers that were forced to witness the unspeakable act of immolation. "If you wonder why you've been spared, do not think that your future holds a fate any less harsh. I will confer a small sliver of meaning upon your pathetic lives."

Another brusque nod and the Appraxis came forward and prodded the villagers into a rough line. Kneeling down, Sygeanor's drones affixed a copper ring around the right ankle of the remaining survivors. Once this copper ring had been secured to every villager, the Appraxis stepped back and bowed their heads slightly in a gesture of deference to their mistress. Sygeanor waved her right hand in an elaborate series of gestures and at once the acrid smell of burning ozone filled the morning air. A tendril of blue energy encircled the copper ring of the rear most villager, before leaping over to the ring of the next captive. This process repeated itself until the one hundred and fifty remaining villagers were connected by an effulgent blue tether. Sybian could see that every Lamish face was contorted by raw fear and paralyzing uncertainty. She, however, knew full well that those healthy enough to survive the journey back to Metocan were bound in a sorcerer's version of a slave chain.

As if to confirm the Jerhia's fear, Sygeanor commanded, "The chains that now bind you are stronger than any metal known to man. Should anyone be foolish enough to attempt an escape, the chain will consume you much as it has consumed your blood folk. You will march to Metocan where your blood will fuel the eradication of your wretched race. If you feel yourself incapable of making the journey, you need only look to the burnished bones of your kin to glimpse the fate that awaits the lot of you. Now March!"

Bowing their heads and averting their eyes, the villagers began to march in unison. Watching the sorrowful procession make its way over the first rise, Sybian was reminded of the last walk of the condemned making their way to the gallows. Like shadow knights of the netherworld, the Appraxis fell in beside the villagers and soon Corrent was deserted save for Sygeanor who remained stationary, her head inclined, and her eyes fixed on the western horizon. "There is no need to skulk in the shadows like an errant child afraid to take its punishment, Jerhia," Sygeanor intoned in a jovial tone joviality seemed so incongruent with the barbaric act of genocide that she had just orchestrated. Sybian's heart froze in her chest and she cast a quick glance over her left shoulder, frantically debating the merits of flight. Sybian turned toward the basalt outcrop and began to stroll toward the scout. "I've been cognizant of your presence since first entering the village and since I have no intention of harming you, why not come out and speak to me like one civilized woman to another."

Sybian cursed and drew a quavering breath to calm her nerves. There was something in the Metocan's amiable tone and leisurely stride that roused a feeling of utter dread in the normally unflappable Jerhia. Seeing little alternative, she found the wherewithal to emerge from her hiding place, willing herself to move toward the frighteningly deranged creature. The Jerhia had met Queen Lorio on several occasions and had she not known better, she would have sworn she was now standing before the Queen of Lamia, who smiled and declared, "Ah, so the Jerhia spiders are in the woodwork. Well that is well and good then because it spares me the necessity of using one of these savages as a messenger."

"How did you know I was here?" Sybian demanded trying to suppress the quaver in her voice.

Sygeanor merely smiled and shrugged noncommittally. "That is irrelevant. You will carry a message to the next village. If the Lamish do not surrender the murderous bitch they've elevated to Queen, I will sweep across this tiny swathe of land and efface them from the planet." She leaned closer until Sybian could feel her warm breath tickling her ear. "Tell your masters they can expect to share the same fate should they elect to interfere in my rightful retribution. Now go before the churlish aspect of my nature compels me to do something inhospitable."

Sybian turned on legs that could scarcely hold her upright and began to stumble away. When she had gone ten paces, she paused and turned back to Sygeanor. Raising her hand and pointing to the northwest, she inquired, "What do you intend to do with the villagers?"

The Metocan's smile back positively feral. "Why, if I was to tell you that, you would have to join them. Now go!"

To her eternal shame, Sybian swallowed hard and did as instructed, breaking into a frantic sprint the moment she was out of sight of the evil woman

4

Artumas was immersed in a wistful dream about the day Myrhia had first come to Nalosan when the urgent peeling of Kammlogran's alarm bells jolted him from his slumber. His chamber was dark and cold, and he found himself momentarily disoriented by the exigent metallic rumble of the great bells which had not sounded in the years since he'd regained the throne. He was groping clumsily through the darkness, when the door to his chamber burst open and a perceptibly shaken Redrick burst inside.

"My King, part of the city is ablaze," he announced in a shrill voice that caused the aging monarch to grimace.

"By the Gods, can we have some light in this damnable chamber!" Artumas barked irritably. Two torch wielding guards scurried to comply as the king waited for his military consul to regain his composure. The Consul provided his liege with a brief, scantly detailed account of what he knew thus far, by which time Artumas had gathered his cloak and thrown it over his rumpled clothes and was heading for the door.

Even as he made his meandering way through the private quarters to the nearest stairwell leading to the roof, the flare of pain in his hip informed him that the day had dawned wet and cold. As he reached the stairs and began the tiresome ascent to the upper ramparts, Artumas was joined by Lorio who looked remarkably fresh considering they had parted company only a few bells prior.

"What's precipitated the commotion?" she asked tightly.

"Fire...somewhere in the city," Artumas replied, grimacing at the grinding protest issuing from his hip with every step. At the top of the dimly lit stairs, a guard threw open the bulkhead doors and Artumas emerged onto the vast expanse of open stone. Two improbable realities greeted his entrance, informing the beleaguered king that this was no ordinary blaze. A steady rain fell upon the city of Nalosan, swept across the upper ramparts of the castle by a vigorous north wind. Despite conditions that were inimical to fire, the entire south-eastern skyline was alive with the grizzly dance of a massive wall of improbable blue flame. The grim spectacle momentarily stopped both Artumas and Lorio in their tracks. They stood rooted to the stones as the raging fire cavorted and danced like a living beast possessed of a malefic intelligence.

Artumas shook his head in negation. "This is not possible. No fire could burn this hot in these prevailing conditions." On the heels of this came a single snarled utterance. "Xhendyn!"

"What would you have me do, your majesty?" Redrick asked, ashen faced in the dull light of morning. The king need only glimpse at the towering wall of flame as it moved across his beloved city like an unrestrained juggernaut to know that an army of bucket men could never hope to douse the flames.

"Our first priority must be to evacuate the citizens as quickly as possible. Have messengers sent to each gate along the west and south walls with instructions to open the gate. Then dispatch cavalry units to ensure the evacuation is conducted in an orderly fashion. Once that is done, we can decide how best to contain this monster," Artumas instructed, struggling to impose a calm on his voice that he did not feel. Redrick nodded grimly and then turned and sprinted back into the castle. Artumas moved over to the parapet and swept his gaze over the eastern skyline of the city, trying to determine if there was any chance of salvaging a portion of his beloved city. His intimate familiarity with the city he had helped rebuild informed the king that the fire was raging in the impoverished quarter known as Thieves Trough. Artumas experienced a momentary sense of relief followed by an intense flash of shame. While it was true that the trough was a repository of the city's worst vermin, it was also home to the unfortunate and downtrodden and their lot would be made immeasurably worse by the calamity.

Summoning a mental map of the city, Artumas realized that the historic and affluent sections of the city were separated from the trough by a channeled tributary of the Emberum River which bisected the city from north to south. Due to the prevailing rains of the last month and the channel's considerable width, Artumas clung to a measure of hope that the blaze might be contained along the east riverbank.

He could sense Lorio hovering over his left shoulder and spun about to face her, possessed by the exigent need to do something of consequence. "Will you accompany me to assess the situation? By all rights, I should be requesting that you evacuate to safety, but I know you well enough to predict how that request would be received."

Lorio offered the king a grin that did not touch her intense brown eyes. "Of course,...and I concur with your supposition that Xhendyn is behind this vile act. No everyday flammable commodity would burn that way. Whoever this creature is, he grows more audacious by the hour."

Artumas scowled and nodded. Both he and Lorio, along with a cadre of castle guards hurried across the rain-swept ramparts, but before they could re-enter Kammlogran a grim-faced Matrium emerged to meet them along with her omnipresent battle mage, Lyndsyn. The Matrium glanced over the king's shoulder and her eyes widened at the intimidating spectacle of the massive blaze and then a look of dawning comprehension spread over her lovely face. When she addressed the king, it was in a tone fraught with an emotion that may well have been desperation. " King Artumas, I realize the urgency of the situation you face, but I have a matter that needs your immediate attention."

He regarded her with an expression of harried impatience, but there was an imploring aspect to her demeanor that he could not ignore. "Very well, but I ask that we speak as I make ready to go into the city."

She nodded and the group moved back into the castle and began to descend toward the main hall. "King Artumas, you may have heard that our Ascentrix is in the midst of Ascension. This essentially means that she is evolving both physically and spiritually toward her ultimate state of being."

Artumas nodded. "Queen Lorio apprised me of all that passed last night, though I confess I have only a rudimentary understanding of this process you've described. If you are concerned about the blaze reaching the castle, then I give you leave to evacuate your Sisters back to your vessels...in fact, I think it would be a prudent course of action."

The Matrium abruptly gripped Artumas' forearm in a surprisingly powerful grip and when his inquiring glance found hers, he could see that she was visibly distraught. He paused and regarded the woman questioningly. "Therein lies the gist of my problem. If we were to attempt to move the Ascentrix it would disrupt the process and likely prove fatal. While it is true, she is cocooned by a protective energy, it could not withstand exposure to the flames that now ravage Nalosan. Incidentally, this blaze is unnatural and must surely have its origins in Xhendyn's vile sorcery."

Artumas snorted in disgust and resumed his march through Kammlogran. "I suspected as much. I am not sure how I can help allay your fears over your Ascentrix other than vow I will do all I can to extinguish the blaze before it reaches the walls of Kammlogran."

The four reached the main courtyard in time to see the first wave of dispatch riders pass through the gates to carry the king's message to the gate keepers. A red-faced Redrick raced about the vast courtyard bellowing instructions at the cavalry as it prepared to take to the streets. Though every face bore identical expressions of agitation and concern, it heartened the king to realize that his soldiers were conducting themselves in an orderly and composed fashion befitting soldiers of the Emercian army.

"Artumas, you must listen!" Karosyn implored and though she was clearly agitated, she kept a tight rein on her composure. "You will not extinguish this blaze by conventional means. Your enemy has unleashed this rapacious beast with the intention of destroying your city...if you do not heed my advice, he will succeed in achieving precisely that end."

The king stopped and glowered at the Matrium, briefly pondering having her removed from his presence by force, but then Lorio leaned close and whispered into his ear. "Artumas, my instinct is telling me it would be wise to consider her offer. I understand and share your aversion to magic, but sorcery may well be our only salvation on this day."

Artumas fixed his friend with a sour glance, but when she held his gaze unflinchingly, he turned to the Matrium with a sigh and asked, "What would you have me do?"

Mindful of the exigency of the moment, Karosyn succinctly revealed the details of how the Sisters of Esotaria hoped to save what was left of Nalosan. When she concluded, Artumas shook his head in bewilderment and protested, "What you propose could well destroy the city as surely as the unrelenting march of the pyre!"

Karosyn shook her head vigorously. "If it is the will of Gyzarayne, your city and its people will live to see another morning. You must see that it is Nalosan's only chance of salvation."

As if to punctuate her entreaty, a low rumble tore through the earth as though the very fabric of the regal city was being torn asunder by an invisible giant's hands. Somewhere in the city, the intense heat had actually caused an entire row of stone buildings to explode. Despising the necessity of relying on magic to save the day, Artumas nonetheless saw little alternative and gave his consent with a tacit nod. Karosyn beamed with unadulterated relief as she bid Lyndsyn to commence preparations for the ritual she hoped would spare Nalosan from utter destruction. Before following her battle mage, she imparted one final instruction to the king. "It will take a few bells to prepare the ritual. In that time, it is imperative your troops evacuate as much of the population as possible. Your enemy has employed elemental magic against you. The Sisters of Esotaria will respond emphatically in kind."

With this she was gone, leaving a bemused Artumas staring after her. After a moment, Lorio placed a hand on his shoulder and gently urged him toward the gate.

Chapter Sixteen

1

The city of Nalosan had endured its share of adversity during the dark years of Myrhia's reign as Queen of Emercia. All of this paled in comparison to the sheer scope of the devastation unleashed by Xhendyn. Thieves Trough was a ramshackle collection of wood and plaster structures, some of which were hundreds of years old. Many of the buildings were abandoned and had fallen into a state of irreversible disrepair. Dry rot weakened many of these structures making them ideal fodder for fire. Xhendyn's unnaturally hot blaze consumed them like wax and within an bell most of the Trough was alight and burning out of control. Despite the incessant rain and the prevailing wind...a wind that by all logic should have blown the inferno back on itself. The conflagration continued to advance north by northwest through the city. The totality of its destruction was such that not a single trace of habitation could be found in its wake, only blackened earth.

As Artumas dismounted his horse, he immediately discerned that the Matrium had been unerringly correct in her assertion that no normal means could extinguish this blaze. It would devour Nalosan and spread into the surrounding forests burning the world like God's vengeance.

As he slid from his horse, which skittered and pranced nervously in the face of the advancing pyre, Artumas saw that even the normally unflappable Lorio was openly disconcerted by the wall of destruction marching toward her. "I hope your new allies are as capable as they claim to be," she intoned gravely. "If not, your city will be a charred husk by noon."

In the face of advancing death, the citizens of Nalosan fled like wild animals. Many had attempted to gather up their most precious possessions and were toting them in heavy canvas bags. The merchants were frantically loading their wares into wooden carts, while workers attempted to calm the terrified dray horses who wanted only to flee blindly from the encroaching blaze. Artumas felt a profound pain lance his heart at the sight of an older woman, who had simply sat down in the gutter and was clutching her head in her hands and praying rapidly to whatever god she hoped would heed her plea.

"We need order imposed on this throng or the streets will become a charnel house," he told Lorio even as he scanned the street for some sign of the Emercian army.

Even as he voiced this exigent concern, a squadron of the Royal Cavalry rounded the corner and came charging along the thoroughfare. Any sense of relief this may have evoked quickly dissipated the moment the warhorses caught their first glimpse of the towering pyre. The lead horses reared up and kicked at the air in absolute panic, spilling their mounts to the cobblestones where they were savagely trampled by the terrified beasts. The stunning deaths of the cavalrymen only added to the mounting sense of chaos and terror, ending any hope for an orderly evacuation in this quarter of the city. The pandemonium was further exacerbated when one of the dray horses broke away from its handlers and ploughed into the fleeing citizens with its massive wooden cart in tow. It trundled through the masses, cutting a swathe through the crowd and leaving scores of broken and bloody bodies in its wake. Soon the stones of the thoroughfare were slick with pulverized bone, blood and crushed viscera.

As if the dark twist of circumstances was not enough, the normally unflappable troopers seemed to lose their customary composure in unison. Drawing their swords, they began to hack indiscriminately at the throng. Bodies fell and the injured attempted to scurry away, but the crush of bodies made any prospect of retreat impossible. A chorus of curses and wails of agony added to the cacophony of misery reverberating along the crowded thoroughfare.

"Troopers...Cavalrymen of Emercia...I command you to sheath your weapons!" Artumas bellowed, but his cries were lost amidst the furor of the ugly drama unfolding before him. The beleaguered troopers finally managed to carve a small space out of the sea of flesh when a volley of arrows issued out of somewhere along the opposite side of the thoroughfare. They tumbled in unison from their horses before the mob pounced upon the dying and wounded soldiers like a savage pack of beasts.

Discerning the ugly new menace posed by the outrage of the crowd, Lorio tried to usher the king away, but he shook her off and stood on the edge of the avenue as rigid as a statue. Tears of outrage and grief poured down the king's dirt-smeared face as he gazed helplessly over the panorama of carnage. Lorio stole a brief glance toward the advancing wall of hellish blue flame. It seemed to be bearing down upon them like a sentient beast moving inexorably forward with an insatiable need to devour everything in its path.

As she looked on, a massive stone cathedral abruptly collapsed sending a cloud of choking black smoke belching out along the thoroughfare. Lorio quickly grabbed the nearest escort guard and spun him about to face her. His moon-eyed, slack-jawed expression spoke of an immobilizing dread and so the Lamish queen struck him sharply across the face until his eyes refocused. Pointing along an adjacent alley, she instructed, "The king is in grave danger. You will organize your men and clear a path through these alleys back to the palace. You will not allow anyone to interfere with our passage."

The guard gingerly rubbed his stinging jaw and scowled at Lorio, but his outrage at being struck quickly dissipated in the face of the intensity in her luminous dark eyes. He slowly nodded his head, conferred quickly with the other soldiers and then the escort set out along the alley at a jog with swords drawn.

Lorio turned her attention back to her friend who seemed hypnotized by the orgy of death and violence unfolding before him. If Lorio knew anything about human nature it was that the commoners were a fickle lot and if they recognized Artumas, they would likely vent their frustration and misery upon him, however much they may have loved him just yesterday. Refusing to be dissuaded, she gathered the older man up in a powerful bear hug and literally hoisted him off his feet. Outraged by her presumption, he struggled in her powerful grasp even as she set off after their escort.

"Set me down at once, Lorio," he roared. "We cannot stand by and allow these people to die!"

"The only thing that you can do here is join them in their demise...that, I will not allow," Lorio retorted evenly, though she did release him. He glowered at the immortal, but she merely encircled his right wrist and pulled him along. Knowing he lacked the wherewithal to resist, Artumas allowed himself to be led, though every step suffused the aging king with a sense of shame and abandonment. He ran like a terrified child while those he vowed to protect died in droves behind him.

As the small group raced through the twisting labyrinth of narrow lanes and alleys, they came upon groups of opportunistic thugs who were taking advantage of the anarchy to loot stores and warehouses. Lorio wanted desperately to throttle each and every one of these despicable brigands but she suppressed the compulsion in deference to the exigency of saving the king. After what seemed like an eternity, the group rounded a sharp corner and Lorio caught a glimpse of the royal plaza several hundred paces ahead.

Then she saw something that caused her to come to an abrupt halt. Three looters were viciously throttling a shopkeeper who had attempted to stop them from pillaging his small assortment of wares. He had fallen to his knees and still they rained savage blows across his exposed back and shoulders. To her consternation, the king's guards raced by the four oblivious to everything but their own imminent safety.

Lorio could feel fury rise up inside her like bile. She turned to Artumas who was watching the deplorable spectacle with a mixture of revulsion and horror. She noticed that he had neglected to bring weaponry in his hurry to assess the situation in the Trough. She gripped his shoulders and forced him to turn his full attention to her. "The royal plaza is just ahead...I'll need but a moment to deal with these brigands."

A feral smile had stolen onto her lovely face, one that did not touch her dark eyes and Artumas was suddenly grateful he was not one of the three looters who were about to fall victim to a tempest every bit as deadly as the one now ravaging his city. "Do to them as you will. This reprehensible behavior is better suited to jackals then men who merit being alive. Their fate is well deserved."

The predacious grin broadened, and she nodded before turning and stalking toward the assailants who continued to belabor the unfortunate shopkeeper, oblivious to their imminent peril. As Artumas watched Lorio approach the trio, a thread of disquiet wormed its way into the pit of his stomach. There was something decidedly contrived about this assault on the hapless shopkeeper and though Artumas could not immediately decipher its menacing riddle, instinct warned him that his initial impression of the situation was deceptively false.

As Lorio reached the first attacker, he turned to confront her and raised his truncheon with every intention of separating this would-be savior's head from her shoulders. He swung the weapon in a savage downward arc, but Lorio deflected the blow with the ease of someone swatting an irritating insect. The force of her blow shattered the brigand's forearm as the truncheon fell to the cobbles before clattering into the shadows. Even before he could fully give voice to his agony and shock, Lorio seized his head in both hands and jerked his neck sharply to the left and then to the right. She then took a graceful step back and allowed the lifeless shell to collapse in a boneless heap to the stones.

As Artumas watched Lorio dispatch the first assailant with devastating finality, his nagging sense of fundamental wrongness deepened, but still refused to resolve itself into a tangible concern.

'You're seeing what appears to be, but not what truly is,' he chastised himself even as he began to move toward the melee. Like an inexorable engine of destruction, Lorio swiftly turned her attention to the second truncheon-wielding thug, who was evidently so absorbed in his heinous act that he seemed oblivious to the end his comrade had just met. Ever inventive in the art of dealing death and violence, the Lamish Queen administered a brutally precise kick to the back of her next victim's left knee. The joint dislocated on impact, leaving the thief writhing in agony on the ground clutching his demolished knee. Lorio ground the heel of her foot into his wounded knee, deriving an undeniably dark pleasure from the shrewish wails of agony the tore from the thief's lips. The beaten male threw back his head, exposing his bulging throat, and keened like a wounded animal.

She cut those shrieks off forever by stomping her other heel squarely down on his exposed throat. A great glut of blood exploded from his mouth even as Artumas averted his eyes from the gruesome spectacle of ruthless extermination. He closed his eyes while the second attacker convulsed through his death throes and even as he did, Artumas' abstract sense that something was fundamentally wrong suddenly resolved itself, illuminating the vague corners of his shapeless fear. His gaze shifted to the shopkeeper, who was still on his hands and knees, head hung, and face turned slightly away from the king. The inconsistency of what was unfolding before him stopped the aging king in his tracks. Despite absorbing a frightful volley of blows from the hardwood truncheons, the shopkeeper had not collapsed to the cobbles, as one would reasonably expect. Nor had he made an attempt to escape the trio. Instead, he simply knelt there and endured the barrage in an improbable silence as if he was impervious to the bite of the hardwood clubs.

As the second thug lay dying in his own blood, the final attacker raised his head and regarded Lorio through glassy eyes that hinted at nearly total disconnection as if he had somehow been hypnotized. The queen merely nodded her head and invited him to strike the first blow. His eyes widened and shifted from the statuesque beauty to the truncheon. His expression conveyed the impression of confusion and dawning horror. Suddenly, he tossed the weapon at Lorio and fled blindly in the direction of the plaza. The truncheon struck her a glancing blow on the right shoulder and fell harmlessly to the litter strewn ground where she kicked it away with a curse of frustration. She briefly considered pursuing the fleeing thug, but the shopkeeper uttered a low, pain-wracked groan and she decided that his need took precedence over her blood lust.

She was in the process of bending forward to inquire after his condition when Artumas cried, "Lorio, leave him be. We've been deceived!"

The imploring tone in his voice prompted her to shift her gaze in his direction as her smooth brow furrowed in puzzlement.

Abruptly, a hand caught her left wrist in a powerful grasp that sent alternating waves of bone-chilling cold and burning heat racing up the length of her arm and jolting into her shoulder, which immediately went numb. Her head snapped back to the shopkeeper, but she now found herself confronted by a masked figure with burning red eyes that radiated malice in palpable waves. She tried to extricate her wrist from his grasp, but the numbness radiating through the left side of her body prevented her from doing so.

"Could it be that the immortal queen is vulnerable after all?" the figure inquired blithely. "What a shocking revelation this must be, bitch." In his left hand, he brandished a small metallic object that resembled a simple tuning fork. The two prongs were thrumming violently as a single spark of black energy arced back and forth accompanied by a sibilant hiss. Lorio's gaze shifted to the object, the nascent stirring of fear blooming in her mind. Had Islena Doraux been here she would have been able to identify the mysterious device as the weapon the Ulgak used to immobilize their victims, though this version was more evolved than the original prototype.

Debilitated by her partial paralysis, Lorio's reaction time was far slower than normal. The attacker snarled and thrust the weapon into her exposed abdomen, burying the forks to the hilt. Lorio stiffened and her entire body was suffused by a jolt of excruciating pain. Then the world dissolved into a fine emerald mist and a disembodied voice declared, "It seems that our paths are destined to cross. I suppose it is to be expected. It was I who bestowed immortality upon you so it is only fitting that the current of events would bring us together on occasion."

Lorio immediately recognized the melodious voice. It had plagued her nightmares often enough. From somewhere beyond the enveloping curtain of emerald mist she could hear herself begin to whimper like a frightened child. "In many respects, you are like a daughter to me," the unseen speaker continued and Lorio shook her head in frantic negation. "I declare dominion over your wanton soul, Lorio. Very soon I will come to reclaim it."

The Lamish queen threw back her head and bellowed an inarticulate wail of anguish. The creature gave the weapon a petulant twist and another bolt of agony consumed Lorio, burning into her synapses and permeating every fiber of her being. The malign energy contorted her lovely face, caused her sinewy muscles to spasm and her back to arch until she resembled a drawn bow.

Artumas froze in mid step as the figure drove the exotic weapon into Lorio's abdomen. Her body contorted as though struck by lightning. The impact of the blow propelled Lorio across the alley, where she slammed heavily into the opposite wall before slumping into unconsciousness. The king's gaze shifted from the fallen immortal to the figure that climbed lithely to his feet. Artumas required only one glance at the inhuman red eyes glowing behind the pewter mask to know he was finally facing his avowed enemy.

"So, you've finally come to make good your threat?" Artumas inquired of the converging Xhendyn even as he prepared to defend himself.

As the caped figure drew closer, Artumas' gaze crept to the complex emerald and gold intaglio emblazoned across the front of his onyx cuirass and he shuddered involuntarily. The elaborate design evoked a complex blend of emotions that ran the gamut from longing to rancor. Xhendyn noted the king's tumultuous reaction to the sigil he wore and laughed in disdain. "I have no intention of killing you. My sponsor has made it eminently clear that pleasure is to be hers alone. I have merely come to dispense of a nuisance and remind you of the futility of your situation in unequivocal terms. You need only gaze over your fair city to know you are as vulnerable as a newborn child in a den of wolves."

With this apocalyptic declaration, Xhendyn strode through Artumas as if he was no more substantial than a wraith. The king grimaced with revulsion as the entity passed through his flesh. The creature's malignant presence left him feeling filthy and violated to the very marrow of his bones. Artumas staggered drunkenly and clutched at a nearby crate to prevent from falling. Xhendyn continued up the alley growing less substantial as he went until finally, he simply faded entirely from view.

For a protracted moment, Artumas found that he was unable to move as if contact with the ineffably vile creature had inured his flesh. Whatever else Xhendyn might be, he was most definitely not human.

'He is a construct of Myrhia's evil.' This notion germinated in Artumas' mind and though he had no basis for this supposition, he knew it was the indisputable truth even as the thought took shape. Myrhia was incarcerated in a prison of her own flesh and ambition, yet she had devised a way to reach beyond these confines and weave her dark machinations in the living world. With this revelation he understood the exigency of allowing the Sisters to return Myrhia back to their homeland, correctly surmising that her ability to influence events was affected by proximity.

"What a selfish fool I've been," he groaned in disgust. Every tragic moment in the last six months could be laid squarely on his doorstep. His obstinate refusal to relinquish control of Myrhia had blazed a trail to the devastation now engulfing his precious city.

He might well have succumbed to utter despair were it not for the moans of confusion and pain that broke his paralysis. Lorio was stirring against the opposite wall of the alley and Artumas hurried over to his fallen friend whose normally limpid eyes were clouded with pain and confusion. He knelt beside her and took her hand in his, trying to assess the extent of her injuries. Xhendyn's exotic weapon burned away the fabric of Lorio's tunic and undergarment, but the flesh beneath displayed no sign of trauma. She had sustained not so much as a scratch, though Artumas had witnessed the tines of the device disappear up to the hilt. "Do you think you can stand?"

She looked at him with an uncertainty the king could not recall ever having seen on her exquisite face.

'The weapon inflicted no lasting physical damage, but she's been diminished nonetheless,' he discerned as he awaited her reply.

"I...I think so, but I may need your help." She uttered the last phrase as if the need for assistance filled her with intense shame. Artumas gripped her forearm and with some effort managed to pull the Lamish queen to her feet. She attempted to stand on her own but tottered badly. Artumas threw her arms about his shoulders and wrapped his arm around her tiny waist. She stiffened in indignation briefly but then sagged against him and whispered, "Thank you...I know you tried to warn me, but I refused to listen...I...I..."

The thought degenerated into an inarticulate wail of anguish that wrenched the old man's heart and he began to guide her toward the Plaza as she allowed her head to settle onto his shoulder. "That monster was Xhendyn?"

"Yes," Artumas replied simply laboring under the weight of Lorio's muscular body. For a moment, Lorio said nothing, but then she drew a deep, tremulous breath and revealed, "He's done something to me, Artumas...I can feel something repulsive and evil insinuating itself into every fiber in my body. It's...horrible."

"Everything will be fine, Lorio. We'll get you back to Kammlogran where you can rest," Artumas intoned softly trying to impart a confidence he did not feel. He was uncertain what had just transpired, but he was positive that it did not bode well for their cause. He stole a brief glance over his shoulder and his worst fears were confirmed...the bodies of Lorio's two victims had vanished.

The Lamish Queen abruptly gripped his forearm, the strength of her grasp causing Artumas to grimace, and came to a stumbling halt. When his gaze met hers, Lorio's face was a mask of trepidation. "Artumas, you don't understand...I am her creation...her child. When I was under her thrall, I committed unspeakably heinous acts...I nearly killed Islena and tortured Arminda for the sheer pleasure of it."

"Lorio, these things are in the past. Nothing is to be gained by dwelling upon them," Artumas insisted softly.

The pressure exerted on his forearm intensified and she rasped, "No! I am susceptible to her enchantment. There is a core of darkness around my heart that makes me vulnerable. She understands this and will exploit it and bend me to her will. You must listen to what I'm saying, Artumas!"

Her voice had become shrill with desperation that would not be assuaged by facile platitudes. Artumas tried to pry her fingers from his throbbing arm. "What is it you would have me do?"

She nodded frantically and released his arm, much to his eternal relief. "Promise me that you will do whatever is necessary to prevent me from falling under her thrall again. Swear it on all you hold sacred!"

Peering into the turbulent depths of her dark eyes, he realized only a solemn pledge would placate her anguish. He tried to imagine a situation in which he could destroy this extraordinary creature and found that he could not. Despising the lie forming on his lips, he replied, "However Xhendyn's evil might manifest itself, I will find the means to ward you against it."

Lorio gazed into the king's pale blue eyes, searching for some sign of deliberate deception. Evidently satisfied by what she did see in his impassive expression, she leaned her head on his shoulder and allowed him to guide her back to the plaza.

2

As the king emerged from the narrow confines of the alley, he was heartened to see that the deadly chaos near the canal had not spilled over into the vast expanse of the Royal Plaza. Though a sea of humanity had made its way into the square, the Emercian army succeeded in maintaining an orderly exodus through the west gate by forming lines of cavalry and channeling the citizens as they fled the burning city. As he scanned the thousands of faces, Artumas witnessed expressions of concern and smoldering despair, but none of the consuming panic that precipitated the carnage in the thoroughfare.

Rain continued to fall on the city of Nalosan, but now a thick layer of cloying black smoke occluded the clouds, irritating the eyes and making breathing a chore. It was impossible to estimate how many would perish before the day was over, but he suspected it would number in the hundreds...if not thousands.

'And you can attribute every single death to your selfish refusal to relinquish the past.' The thought had leapt, unbidden, to his mind and try as he might, Artumas could not banish it from his thoughts.

As he struggled to keep Lorio upright, his escort guards pushed their way through the milling crowd.

"My king, are you well?" inquired the soldier whom Lorio had struck earlier. "We did as the queen bid us to do, but when we entered the plaza, you were not behind us," he explained anxiously to insure that the king did not believe himself abandoned by those charged with seeing him safely to the plaza. Artumas regarded the group with burgeoning annoyance. "Did you not see the three thieves assaulting the shop keeper?"

The four exchanged quizzical glances, confirming his suspicion that both he and Lorio were the lone victims of an elaborate charade. For reasons that were not immediately clear it had been Lorio who was the intended target of Xhendyn's machinations. It was imperative this mystery be unraveled, but the fate of his city was now his most pressing concern. "We must find Consul Redrick."

"He is organizing the cavalry sorties from the foot of the ramp leading into Kammlogran," one of the four reported.

"Clear a path through the crowd," Artumas commanded. Recalling the fate that had befallen the cavalry on the thoroughfare, he added, "Take care to exercise restraint. These people are victims, not criminals."

Shouting to be heard above the general clamor of the exodus, the escort demanded that the common folk make way for the king. Tired and desperate faces turned their gaze upon their ruler as he forced his way back towards the castle with the ailing queen stumbling at his side. Once the initial shock of seeing Artumas at such close proximity wore off, the commoners began to petition the king to save them from the raging power as though he was possessed of some supernatural ability to douse the rampaging flames with the casual flick of a hand. In all his years as monarch, never had he felt so woefully inadequate to the task of leadership, knowing that the fate of Nalosan was in the hands of a sisterhood of women whose motives and allegiances were yet to be fully disclosed. He could no more halt the juggernaut of flames than he could take to the skies and fly.

When it seemed impossible to make progress through the throng of people, a cavalry captain recognized the king and ordered his squadron to clear a path, which they did in a crisp, yet courteous manner that forestalled a recurrence of the disaster of the thoroughfare. Seeing that Artumas was struggling beneath his burden, the captain dismounted his horse and helped Lorio into the saddle, steadying the queen with one hand while he led the beast back toward the castle.

Eventually, the king found himself standing next to his Consul who appeared on the verge of apoplexy. The veteran soldier's forehead was covered by a sheen of perspiration intermingled with black dust as he barked a steady stream of terse orders to the lines of cavalry that were flowing out of Kammlogran. Redrick greeted Artumas' appearance with a deep sigh of enormous relief, fearing that the king might have been injured or worse in the deadly tumult near the canal. That relief curdled to anxious concern when his gaze shifted to the Lamish Queen who was slumped forward on the Captain's horse with her thick black hair hanging limply in her face. He crossed the distance to the king in three fluid paces and fell in beside Artumas. "By the Gods, If Nalosan has seen a darker day, it was before my time," he declared gruffly. "Has the queen been...injured?"

"Attacked by Xhendyn in the alleyways near the south end of the plaza," Artumas explained flatly.

Redrick's eyes widened in shock and consternation. "Xhendyn is here in Nalosan?" he echoed, scarcely able to credit such audacity. "I will have the cavalry scour the alleys and tear up the paving stones until he is found."

Artumas offered his Consul a wan smile at the old man's futile bravado. "Don't bother. We could level the city and he would still evade capture. Your cavalry is needed to maintain an orderly exit."

Redrick could not take his eyes from the slumped form of Lorio. He had made the acquaintance of the enigmatic queen just after the fall of Myrhia and though her behavior often confused and exasperated the consul in equal measure, he harbored a deep affection for the tempestuous beauty. She was purported to be immortal and to see her thus reduced by the monstrous villain was both heart-rending and terrifying. Discerning the man's anxiety, Artumas clapped him on the shoulder and declared, "Don't fret, old friend. Lorio will be well...it will take more than a petty villain's trickery to inflict any lasting harm on this one. Still, she needs rest. Have an escort squire her back to my personal quarters and have two of the Hand of the Way watch over her until the fire is extinguished."

Even as Redrick scurried to comply, Artumas marveled that he could muster the impression of confidence and authority even now. At no time in his wretched life had he ever felt as vulnerable or inadequate as he did at this particular critical juncture in time. Taking Lorio's limp hand in his, he tenderly kissed her fingers and whispered, "Be well, daughter. Rest and I will join you soon."

She briefly raised her head and met his gaze. Her normally limpid eyes were clouded and fraught with dismay and perplexity. Artumas could not be entirely certain that she even recognized him. He watched in dismal silence as the Captain led her away.

He watched the pair make their way slowly up the steep incline for several moments and then turned back to his Consul. "Do we know precisely what is happening in the inner city?"

Redrick's grim nod informed the king that the situation was dire indeed. "As you predicted, the canal has momentarily halted the march of the flames, but the wind is swirling and threatens to help the fire leap over the natural barrier. If that happens, everything within the walls of Nalosan will be burnt to a cinder within a few bells."

"If the Sisters intend to intervene, it must be soon or there will be nothing left to save," Artumas intoned darkly. Just then, Dynok pushed his way through the milling sea of bodies and came to join the pair. His normally impeccable attire was rumpled and dirt-stained and his blond locks were pasted to his forehead by perspiration. "My king, you might consider personally withdrawing from the city until this fire can be brought under control."

The king scowled and shook his head adamantly, knowing that while protocol dictated that preservation of his rule should be the foremost priority, it would appear craven and unseemly to his subjects should he run while Nalosan struggled for its life. "I will be the last man through the gates...should it come to that. Nalosan is a symbol of every virtue Emercia represents and if it should fall, my monarchy will crumble with it. I will stay and share its fate."

Seeing that the king would not be dissuaded, Dynok relented with a shrug. "What can practically be done to halt a blaze of this magnitude?"

"The Sisters of Esotaria believe they can quell the flames. As there is a paucity of alternatives, I have afforded them the opportunity to prove their point," Artumas intoned with the slightest hint of impatience. Dynok said nothing, but his expression was rife with both surprise and skepticism.

Suddenly, the blare of horns filled the Plaza, drawing every eye to Kammlogran's main gate, where three lines of hooded figures had passed under the portcullis and were now starting to descend the long ramp. They were attired in gold robes trimmed with forest green and led by a veiled woman (who Artumas correctly surmised was the Matrium) carrying a ceremonial staff of highly polished red wood.

"They have a penchant for the theatrical, I will grant them that," Dynok muttered in disgust, though Artumas deliberately ignored his disdainful barb.

The procession came to a momentary halt when it came abreast of the ailing Lamish queen. Karosyn needed only a brief glimpse of Lorio's dull eyes and befuddled expression to know that she was infested by some manner of pernicious enchantment. She gently stroked Lorio's firm thigh, while exchanging a few words with her escort, who nodded dutifully and resumed his march up the ramp. The Matrium was deeply troubled by Lorio's condition but could not allow that concern to distract her from the daunting task of halting the march of Xhendyn's fire demon and so she banished the queen from her mind.

A profound silence had descended upon the Imperial Plaza as the throng turned in unison to watch the procession of robed figures. News of the Sisters' arrival had spread quickly through the city the previous night and the citizens of Nalosan naturally deduced the mysterious women were coming to their aid. As they reached the bottom of the ramp, the Matrium gestured for the Sisters to come to a halt and spying the king, quickly made her way over to Artumas. As he watched Karosyn approach, the king counted fifteen rows of women who would perform the complex ritual of elemental magic the Matrium claimed might save his city from total destruction. She stopped before the king and drew back her hood to reveal an exquisite face that clearly reflected the gravity of what was to come. At her breast, she wore the sigil of Gyzarayne whose cold countenance gazed back at Artumas, divine and inscrutable. Calmly, the Matrium declared, "We are ready to begin if I have your leave to do so."

Artumas bowed slightly and nodded. "You have both my leave and my blessing. I commend the fate of my city into your hands. Is there aught that I might do to assist you?"

"Pray...and continue to shepherd your people to safety beyond your walls. The monster has unleashed a powerful and rapacious demon and we will be fortunate to lay it low," the Matrium replied evenly, though her sapphire blue eyes betrayed the true extent of the daunting task before the Sisters.

Artumas abruptly grasped her forearm and leaned close. "After a night of earnest reflection, I have decided to accede to your demands...each and every one, without condition. I hope this knowledge may somehow fortify your resolve."

She favored her host with a radiant smile. "It does. We will speak again after the dragon has been slain."

With this, she rejoined her sisters and the procession resumed its march toward the canal. Artumas was concerned that the massive throng would hinder their progress, but his fears proved baseless. As the Sisters of Esotaria approached, the crowd parted like a receding tide induced to yield the way by a combination of apprehension, awe and reverence. Artumas uttered a sigh of relief and turned back to Redrick. "Remain here and see that these people are evacuated into the surrounding countryside. If events do not unfold, as we would hope, evacuate Kammlogran...by water if necessary. Dynok and I will follow the Sisters and offer what assistance we are able."

Redrick nodded, his normally dour face set in grim lines of determination. "Should it become evident that the city cannot be saved, I ask you remember that Emercia is more than Nalosan and will still require a sage hand to guide it."

The bitter irony of Redrick's exhortation caused Artumas to grin humorlessly. Renowned for his wisdom, Artumas seemed to be the only one to realize that his succession of misjudgments was responsible for the tribulations and miseries that had afflicted the world over the past decade. He wondered how much longer he could maintain the façade of a sagacious ruler in the face of such monumental blunders...or how long he wanted to. Knowing that now was not the time to ponder such matters he simply nodded and hurried after the sisters.

The procession wound deeper into the city as a steady stream of survivors fled in the opposite direction. As they passed by, some shouted encouragement and praise, while others merely marked their passing with hollow-eyed grief and shock. Artumas correctly deduced that these were the fortunate ones who managed to cross the canal before flames engulfed the entire east side of the city.

Finally, the Sisters came to within a block of the canal and the Matrium bid for them to halt their march. For several moments, no one moved or spoke, so compelling was the capering bank of blue-white flames that filled the eastern horizon. The heat that emanated from the blaze made breathing difficult as it scorched the gray stones of the buildings on the west side of the canal.

"They'll never make it to within a hundred paces of the river,' Artumas thought dejectedly as he watched the flames lick at the open space above the stone channel. The success of the Matrium's plan was contingent upon the Sisters reaching the river...a contingency that now seemed impossible by any stretch of hope or imagination.

Karosyn drew her gaze away from the living wall of flame and gracefully pivoted to face her Sisters. "This is a beast...a cognizant, willful beast and though its power is immense, it is not immeasurable. The Sisters of Esotaria will vanquish this abomination and send it back to the netherworld from which it was summoned."

Artumas could not help but admire the Matrium's regal bearing and serene composure as she addressed her order and resolutely prepared to enact a ritual that seemed doomed to failure. She inclined her head, swept her left hand along the front of her robe, and with a shrug of her shoulders, Karosyn stepped out of the loose garment. Without hesitation, the others followed her example and divested themselves of their robes.

Both Artumas and Dynok wore identical expressions of incredulity as they gaped at the assembly of now naked women who stood before them, clearly unabashed by their nudity. To a one, these women appeared as though they had been caste from the same mold of feminine perfection...statuesque and beautiful; they were every bit as lovely as the women of Suran, whose beauty was the stuff of legend. Not grasping the nature of Gyzarayne's Grace, Artumas could not help but wonder if this was a selection criteria for those who aspired to the Sisterhood.

Karosyn met Artumas' gaze and it was readily apparent that his bashful reaction to her nudity amused the Matrium. "We are able to insulate ourselves from the lethal kiss of the flames. The same cannot be said for our robes. Do not venture close once the ritual commences. If my assessment of the situation is correct, this is a sentient being," she informed the king as she gestured in the direction of the blaze. "It may well take measures to prevent us from enacting the ritual of relegation and it might be prudent if you would retreat back along the avenue to a safer vantage point."

Artumas nodded and averted his eyes from the formidable figure of the woman. Both he and Dynok began to back along the street, urging stragglers to expedite their flight from the city. Karosyn raised her arms, closed her eyes and began to recite the ancient passages from the book of warding. The Sisters did the same and soon the street began to thrum with invisible energy as unseen forces began to coalesce about the assembly of women. As the intonations grew more frenetic, so too did the swirling of energy until it appeared that the very air about the group had become thick and translucent.

Transfixed, Artumas and Dynok watched the ritual of evocation as a frigid blast of air rushed by the pair, causing both to shiver violently. The king gazed about in wonder to discover that a vortex of swirling snow had suddenly appeared in the middle of the stone roadway. Twisting snow devils whirled and capered in the street and ice crystals began to form on the uneven panes of glass in shop windows.

"By the Gods, can such a thing be possible?" the king heard himself exclaim over the shriek of the gusting wind.

The driving snow hurtled along the avenue and enshrouded the Sisters of Esotaria in its icy mantle. Karosyn and her battle mages each appeared to be encased in their own armor of ice and swirling snow. Silently, the Matrium lowered her long arms and nodded ever so slightly before pivoting gracefully and commencing along the street in the direction of the raging pyre. The Sisters responded without hesitation.

As the king watched, they marched forth to engage the monstrous blaze. Ice crystals began to form in his beard, hair and eye lashes. He wondered why the ice and snow found no purchase on their naked flesh and then concluded that this elemental armor did not actually lay against their skin so much as it enwrapped the women.

As the Matrium had predicted, the blaze did seem cognizant of their approach and appeared to react violently to the threat they posed to its destruction of the city. A tongue of flame leapt from the towering wall and lashed the procession. White hot steam rose from the group as ice clashed with fire. To their credit, not one of the sisters faltered even as tongues of blue flame lashed them like a flail.

"If they are to prevail, their elemental armor must sustain them through the duration of the ritual," Artumas observed to no one in particular. Dynok regarded the king quizzically, but said nothing, understanding perfectly the nature of the deadly struggle unfolding before him. The consul regarded this critical confrontation with total ambivalence. With his betrayal of Artumas, he had cast his lot with Xhendyn and thus it would be ideal if the meddlesome sisters suffered a fiery demise here and now. Conversely, he had been stunned and repulsed by Xhendyn's butchery of the Jerhia, Melansa, and could not help but wonder if he had been wrong to align himself with monsters capable of such savagery.

The unimaginable heat of the inferno gradually drove the temperature of the canal water to the boiling point as a curtain of super-heated steam rose into the air along the length of the channel. Despite the incessant barrage, the Sisters managed to reach the edge of the canal, but as they did, a massive sheet of boiling water sprang into the air and fell upon them like the hand of a belligerent giant.

An involuntary groan escaped the king's lips as one of the sisters began to flail wildly as her elemental ice armor splintered. She performed a protracted and grotesque death jig and even through the swirling steam, Artumas could clearly see her skin bubble and slough away from her bones like melting wax as the lashing flames excoriated her exposed flesh. The grim spectacle took a scant few seconds. To Artumas, however, it seemed to have lasted an interminable moment. He could scarcely imagine the pain she must have endured as Xhendyn's evil claimed her.

Perhaps it was the consequence of stress, but in his heightened sense of awareness, Artumas' nostrils were assailed by the high, eldritch stench of burning flesh even through the cloying miasma of the burning city.

Seemingly oblivious to the fate of one of their own, Karosyn and the sisters knelt down on the searing stones at the edge of the canal and plunged their hands into the boiling water.

"What madness is this?" Artumas heard Dynok exclaimed from over his shoulder. The roiling waters claimed another of the sisters who stiffened and then tumbled into the deadly waters, but still the others did not relent.

'They will all perish,' Artumas thought dejectedly as the hope for his city appeared to be dwindling along with the thinning ranks of the sisters.

He glanced over his shoulder at the churning vortex, which continued to draw ice and snow from the very stones of his city. Had it lost some of its intensity? Though Artumas could not say with unequivocal certainty, it seemed that its power had indeed diminished. Another writhing sheet of super-heated water rose into the air, hesitated briefly, and then toppled upon the line of mages. When it receded, the king noticed that at least four of Karosyn's cadre of battle mages had vanished.

With tears spilling down his snow-caked cheeks, Artumas turned to Dynok and gripped the Consul by his shoulders. "Hurry back to Redrick and tell him that the battle appears lost and he should begin evacuating Kammlogran at once."

"And what of you? Surely you don't intend to remain here any longer?" Dynok asked incredulously.

A shadow darkened the aging monarch's brow. He pointed in the direction of the canal and rasped, "These courageous women are dying to preserve a foreign city and its people to whom they have no obligations. I will remain here and bear witness to their valor and sacrifice until all has played out as it will. Now go!"

The recrimination in the king's tone unsettled Dynok who responded with a slight nod before spinning about and setting off at a jog, grateful to be away from the carnage unfolding on the edge of the canal.

As he watched Dynok retreat along the avenue, he was not entirely sure why the man roused such acrimony in him of late. Looking back at the whirling funnel of ice and snow, it was now evident that it was losing intensity as Karosyn's ranks dwindled in the face of the inferno. He began to call out to the Matrium, imploring her to forfeit the battle and withdraw back to the plaza, but his entreaty was lost in the din of the orgy of destruction.

He was pondering what to do next when an unbearably high-pitched whine tore through the air like an invisible scythe, causing him to clamp his hands over his ears. He could feel a deep vibration begin to build in the ground beneath his feet. The rumble escalated until it seemed inevitable that the entire world would shake itself asunder.

Artumas struggled to retain his balance as the violent tremors continued to rock Nalosan, a struggle he eventually lost, and he was thrown heavily onto his back in the doorway of a shop. Still the strident whine intensified. Beneath the assault on his senses, a single thought took shape in his bedazzled mind. 'Something is coming! Something endowed with vast and terrifying power.'

He could feel the incontrovertible truth of this in the marrow of his bones and along the synapses of his nerves, though whether this entity came to aid the sisters or end their futile struggle, he could not discern.

What transpired next provided some insight into the matter and he could feel elation suffuse his aging body even as he clung to the doorframe. As the mesmerized king looked on, the street ruptured in a hail of stone as a column of ice, gleaming blue and silver, seemingly exploded from the earth and rose into the blackened sky like the magnificent spire of an ice cathedral. It continued to swell, its growth tearing up the avenue in a direct line as it marched toward the beleaguered sisters and their relentless foe.

When it reached the edge of the canal, the boiling water immediately settled back and froze into a solid mass of ice that stretched from the south edge of the city to the mouth of the river as it reached the sea. Perhaps it was an illusion inspired by hope, but Artumas swore that the inferno bellowed an intelligible cry of negation and guttered in the face of the advancing ice titan. For a moment, the implausibility of what he appeared to be witnessing led the king to conclude that he might still be asleep and tossing fitfully in the grasp of the most lucid dream he had ever experienced.

"This is no dream," a placid voice declared mildly. "To deny the reality of what your eyes convey is to walk the path of the fool where delusion supplants reality and denial conquers perception."

Astounded, the king turned his gaze toward the speaker, a solitary figure who hovered above the gaping crevice in the ruined street. The magnitude of her beauty staggered the king and he subconsciously raised his right arm to shield his eyes from its radiance. Like the sisters, this creature was naked, though her nudity was partially concealed by a swirl of golden effulgence. There was an ethereal aspect to her beauty that hinted at otherworldliness and Artumas understood that he was face to face with the evolved Ascentrix of the Sisters of Esotaria.

As compelling as this breathtaking pulchritude proved to be, Artumas found the most riveting facet of this entity was the sublime majesty she exuded. Physically, she appeared no older than a young woman who was just out of her teens, but the king knew that if he ruled for centuries he could not carry himself with more dignity and grace.

Brushing back a lock of hair the color of golden honey, she regarded the fallen king with eyes as crystalline blue as the rarest sapphires. When she spoke, the dulcet intonation of her voice was sorrowful and apologetic. "It grieves me that I could not stop this abomination before so much of your lovely city was lost, but I assure you, this day, it will not claim another life."

In the blink of an eye, she was by him, converging on the inferno with a plume of golden energy trailing behind her. In her wake, the facades of the building turned white and silver under an encasement of ice and the king correctly surmised that the Ascentrix was absorbing heat from the air as she raced toward her foe. Artumas rose on unsteady legs and bracing himself against the nearby wall for support, carefully ventured as close to the canal as he dared.

The Matrium raised her head at the sound of the Ascentrix's rapid approach. A single glance was all she required to recognize the evolved Lissom and her heart soared with a combination of relief and elation, knowing that the sisters were perilously close to complete decimation under the relentless assault of the fire demon. Lissom's gaze briefly touched upon her Matrium who was once suffused by a sense of security. The furious assault of Xhendyn's monstrosity continued to rain fire down upon the sisters, but its onslaught had lost its efficacy.

"Stand down and focus your energy on warding against the beast," Lissom communicated silently while flashing a smile of reassurance. Then she spread her arms and lithely leapt into the air. As she hovered above the canal, her body began to spin like a dervish, her rotations gaining momentum until her body became a golden blur. The air began to whine and crackle. Like Artumas before them, the sisters involuntarily clamped their hands to their ears to block out the sibilant hiss as Lissom began to gather her power. A massive stone bridge that spanned the canal some thirty paces from where the sisters cowered suddenly exploded in a hail of black dust, pulverized by the intense vibration.

Discerning the threat posed by the unexpected appearance of the hovering woman, the fire demon refocused its assault on the Ascentrix. Wave after scorching wave of blue flame lashed out at the vortex of golden light without effect. The barrage persisted for several moments even as Lissom continued to spin at a speed that defied reason. The ferocity of her movement literally tore massive slabs of granite stone from the bed of the canal and flung them into the roiling heavens as though they were no more than child's playthings.

'This conflict will level the city,' Karosyn admonished in the sisters' silent mode of communication as fist-sized chunks of stone rained down around her. Even as she made this apocalyptic declaration, she grasped the Ascentrix's intent to absorb the fire demon's energy and allow it to expend itself in an attempt to destroy her. The strategy was a perilous one that was contingent on Lissom's capacity to absorb more magical energy than the fire demon could spend thus depleting the creature in the process. However, both the Ascentrix and the Matrium quickly realized that Nalosan would be reduced to a pile of smoldering rubble by the time the conflict resolved itself.

The ability to grasp the salient elements of every crisis was one of the primary measures of an Ascentrix's mettle and the newly ascended Lissom displayed her grasp of the salient exigency of the moment in emphatic terms. Without hesitation, the spinning golden orb hurtled across the canal and into the heart of the conflagration even as a mortified Karosyn uttered a horrified cry of negation.

For one harrowing moment, the inferno seemed to swell as though feasting on this unexpected morsel, but as the sisters looked on breathlessly, the inferno imploded. Karosyn and the others scrambled as the retreating flames created a vacuum that seemed to suck the very air out of the heavens. Debris of every shape and size was pulled along the avenue and out over the canal into the devastated section of the city. With Lyndsyn's assistance, the Matrium was able to regain her feet, absently wiping away the blood that flowed freely from an abrasion in her scalp where a splinter of window casing had buried itself. As she leaned against her first battle mage, Karosyn gaped in bemused wonder at the huge ball of flame that now hovered over the carnage some three hundred paces from where she stood. The surface of the perfectly spherical orb was awash with alternating shades of gold and blue-silver as the Ascentrix and the fire demon waged war for dominion over the compressed repository of pure energy.

With rapt wonder, Artumas picked his way through the detritus while he watched the massive spinning sphere wash the clouds in alternating shades of color. His trousers were mud caked and his thick cape had been reduced to tatters by the Ascentrix's tumultuous passing. The layer of black grime that covered his face bestowed a ghastly, surreal aspect to the king's visage that evoked images of a shambling lich scrabbling out of the grave still wearing the cerements of its entombment.

As he reached the ruined edge of the stone channel where the ice had already begun to melt, the Matrium pushed away from Lyndsyn and stumbled over to the king, her blue eyes beaming with a conflicted mixture of elation and trepidation. "Did you see her, Artumas? Did you see Lissom?" she cried in a voice fraught with emotion. "Our glorious Ascentrix has risen to save your city from malice."

She fell against Artumas and the weary king struggled to keep them both upright. The patina of black dust covering her face was streaked with tears and this, along with the coiled tension in her nubile body, conveyed the full extent of her agitation.

"What is she attempting to do?" he asked before recognizing that the question was rather vapid. She held his gaze silently for several moments and then they returned their attention to the desperate battle unfolding in the skies over Nalosan. The sphere began to vibrate madly and then wobble on its axis very much as a child's top will as it begins to lose momentum. There followed a guttural rumble which shook the city afresh and threw Artumas, Karosyn and the others to the stones of the canal promenade like ants being scattered beneath the boot of a petulant giant.

As Artumas landed heavily on his right side, abrading his forehead on the sharp stones that littered the broken ground, Karosyn's frantic cry reached his ears. "Her protective field is becoming unstable...should it explode over the city..."

The rest of her grim declaration remained unspoken, but Artumas required no further elaboration to understand that his precious capital was moments away from complete annihilation. Through his mask of gore and filth, he could see that the orb was losing its perfectly spherical shape as its surface became distended and misshapen by its struggle to contain the immeasurable power held within. A spider web of barely visible cracks began to spread over the transparent field that the Ascentrix had conjured to envelope the malefic energy of the fire demon. Already individual beams of pure effulgence were escaping their confinement, their radiant power setting buildings ablaze as they came to ground on the west side of the canal.

In a matter of mere seconds, Lissom's protective shield would fail and what remained of the venerable city of Nalosan would instantly be reduced to a smoldering pile of rubble. Inevitably, the failure of Lissom's warding magic would efface the Emercian capital from the world...or so it seemed, but when this tragic demise appeared imminent, the tottering orb stabilized. The alternating waves of blue and gold gave way and suddenly the beleaguered city was awash with blazing golden light that caused the onlookers to shield their eyes against its intensity as though the sun had abruptly descended from the heavens to hover majestically above the city streets.

When the blinding glare abated, Artumas opened his eyes to an empty sky, detecting a hint of rapid movement at the northern periphery of his vision. He craned his neck just as the orb sped over the northern wall that delineated the ocean, brilliant plumes of golden effulgence trailing out behind it as it raced away from the city. Artumas inclined his head toward an ashen-faced Karosyn as the Ascentrix bore the hurtling mass of deadly energy out over the bay, the sphere receding until it was nothing more than a speck on the distant horizon.

"What is happening...is it over?" he asked hopefully as the cloying stench of charcoal filled his lungs.

"She is attempting to save Nalosan by conducting the demon to a place where its destruction will do no harm..." she replied despondently, her body wracked by silent sobs. Her fraught tone drew Artumas' attention and it was only then that comprehension filtered through the pervasive sense of disconnection and shock. His gaze shifted from the misery wracked Matrium to the point of sight where the sea and sky converged. 'She's sacrificing herself to spare my city from total obliteration!'

As though to punctuate this astounding insight, a massive explosion backlit the brooding thunderheads in macabre shades of gold, silver and blue with a searing intensity that drew cries of pain and terror from those still waiting to flee the city. Scant seconds later, a low rumble swept over the city walls like a storm surge shaking the very foundations of Kammlogran itself. Artumas and the remaining sisters watched with rapt wonder as entire sections of the distant north wall crumbled and fell into the roiling ocean, churning up great plumes of black water.

Then a profound silence descended upon the city, its perfection sullied only by the gentle fall of the mid-morning rain. The high king of Emercia peered up into the falling rain, squinting against its sting, and attempted to discern some sign of activity on the distant horizon.

To his dismay and sorrow, he could see none.

Behind him, the Matrium sank to her knees and buried her grime-streaked face in her hands, her sobs serving as a sharp counterpoint to the eerie silence that now enveloped the city. Lyndsyn knelt beside her mentor and enfolded the older woman in her arms, gently stroking her matted hair while whispering hollow platitudes into her ear. The battle mage's blue eyes regarded Artumas with a disquieting resentment that perplexed the king until he gleaned that she held him accountable for what had befallen her Ascentrix. Karosyn's inconsolable wailing lanced his heart with a keen, yet unspoken recrimination that only added to his mounting toll of indictments all flowing back to the one fateful moment he had obdurately refused to relinquish control of the remnant. A subtle whisper on the periphery of his thoughts drew his gaze across the canal.

It was several moments before he realized that the anguished moans filling his ears were his own.

The sweeping panorama of devastation stretching before him was so absolute in its totality that it overwhelmed his capacity to absorb and comprehend its terrible scope. Xhendyn's desultory summoning of the fire demon had obliterated a third of Nalosan. Where once a teeming, complex labyrinth of shops, warehouses and hovels sat, there now could be found a vast sheet of lustrous scorched stone that gleamed like highly polished crystal. Across this vast field of destruction, no trace of human habitation remained save for the distant walls which delineated the site of the catastrophe.

Choking back tears of guilt and sorrow, Artumas, a man widely regarded as the eminent ruler of the age, was disabused of any illusion that he was deserving of a king's mantle. His failure was set before him like an indelible scar on the face of the kingdom he had presumed to govern. He had betrayed the people's blind faith as surely as Myrhia when she unleashed her campaign of conquest and subjugation. That, too, could rightly be attributed to his astonishing inability to distinguish between façade and sincerity, beguilement and genuine love.

"But never again!" he vowed fiercely. He slowly swept his gaze over the shining vista, committing every detail to memory so that he might conjure it forth should he ever succumb to the delusion that he was a worthy king.

"There! Karosyn...is it possible?" The animation in the battle mage's voice roused Artumas from his torpor of despair. Curiosity compelled his gaze skyward in time to see a brilliant streak of golden light flash across the heavens, converging directly upon the spot where the battered remnants of the Matrium's warders now huddled on the scrabble of broken paving stones.

The Matrium clambered to her feet, swaying unsteadily until Lyndsyn placed a long arm around her waist, and turned her face toward the approaching mass of swirling energy. As it came to within a hundred paces, it slowed, hovering in the air just over the canal. The Sisters of Esotaria looked on hopefully and their optimism was rewarded as the enveloping cloak of golden effulgence began to dissipate. When the final vestiges of the protective cocoon were gone, an unscathed Lissom gracefully descended to the rubble-strewn thoroughfare, her luminous blue eyes conveying nothing of the fierce battle from which she had just emerged.

In unison, the Sisters dropped abeyant to their knees before their Ascentrix, heads bowed in reverence as Lissom approached. Despite the bite of lethargy gripping Artumas' heart, the sight of the magnificent creature was enough to rouse him from his malaise. As he drank in the stunning depth of her pulchritude, the king was momentarily perplexed by the change in her appearance.

Gesturing for her followers to rise, she declared, "Stand and know that you need never bend a knee to me again. The courage you have displayed here this morning has placed you amongst the ranks of my equals. You are my peers...not my followers."

Slowly, the sisters glanced uncertainly toward the Matrium, who nodded silently and bid them to rise. They separated into two distinct lines, identical expressions of wonder and reverence brightening every weary face. When her placid gaze happened upon the king, a somber shadow fell over her lovely face and she glided over to Artumas.

She gazed into the king's pale blue eyes and laid a placating hand on his left shoulder. It was then that he recognized the change in her appearance. The creature who had raced by him on the thoroughfare was a girl in her late teens but standing before him was a woman in the full bloom of her feminine beauty.

Evidently unabashed by her nudity, Lissom searched his eyes for some indication of the toll the devastation of his city had taken upon the king and the shadow on her lovely face deepened perceptibly. Unexpectedly, she took his right hand in hers and dropped to one knee, bowing her head in deference. "I cry your pardon for failing to save your city in a timelier manner, King Artumas. In her transitional state, an Ascentrix is truly detached from the external world. As you well know, there are moments when fate renders each of us helpless to intervene in the face of tragedy however great the need for that intervention might prove to be."

"Please rise," Artumas stammered, unsettled by her proximity and the magnitude of her beauty. Her formidable presence made him feel woefully inadequate. He removed his tattered cape and offered it to Lissom, who accepted it as she rose with a smile of gratitude. Artumas detected the ghost of a smirk in her benign smile and surmised that she was cognizant of the unsettling affect her beauty had upon the aging king. "Were it not for your order, my city would have been utterly destroyed along with almost everyone who called it home. For this act of selfless heroism, the Sisters of Esotaria have earned the eternal gratitude of Emercia. For what it is worth, you have earned my trust and friendship. The women who sacrificed their lives to save the citizens of Nalosan will hold a sacred place in our history and memory."

Lissom's radiant smile flowed over Artumas like a balm. Linking his arm in hers, they began the long trek through the streets of Nalosan as the Matrium and the weary sisters fell in behind them. When the group came upon the spot where they had discarded their robes, a somber Karosyn gathered up the robes of the fallen sisters who had died at the hands of Xhendyn's fire demon. Tears coursed down her face in a steady stream, but she held her head high with dignity.

Lead elements of the palace cavalry came thundering up the thoroughfare with Redrick in the lead. He reined his horse before the king and dismounted with a grace that belied his age. He glanced over the king's shoulder and stopped abruptly, paralyzed by incredulity at the incomprehensible spectacle of devastation stretching from blackened wall to blackened wall like a malignant cancer.

"The God's have forsaken us this day," he whispered in a voice choked by emotion.

Clapping his disconsolate friend on the shoulder, Artumas offered the Consul what small comfort he could muster, "I think the worst is behind us...for the time being. We must tend to the injured and make preparation to feed and shelter those displaced by the fire."

Redrick nodded, though his troubled expression only deepened as the reality of what he was beholding took root in his mind. "Could one man truly have done this? I have borne witness to many terrible things, but nothing that compares to this."

Artumas stole a brief glance at the Ascentrix, who returned his gaze evenly and nodded as though in silent affirmation of his unspoken thoughts on the matter. The notion that this wondrous creature might be capable of divining his thoughts only served to heighten his discomfort...and stoke the nascent fire of his fascination. Struggling to gather his wits, he revealed, "Our enemy is not mortal. Whatever he might prove to be, Xhendyn is not human."

Redrick absorbed this disquieting notion thoughtfully but remained silent for which the king was grateful. He could feel weariness settle squarely upon his shoulders like an onerous millstone that he could not shrug off. A cavalry soldier offered the king his horse, but Artumas declined, despite the hounds of pain biting at his exhausted body. He and the Ascentrix would lead the Sisters of Esotaria back to the Royal Plaza where he would acknowledge them as the saviors of Nalosan. Then he would set about the daunting task of healing his ailing city, grateful that the worst of this wicked day was behind him.

Like many of his other assessments of late, this last judgment of matters would prove bitterly incorrect.

Chapter Seventeen

As he sat atop his charger and watched the seemingly endless procession of carts, cavalry, ballista and foot soldiers, make their way onto the eastern continent, Tier Marshal Gillian could not escape the certainty that all were venturing to their deaths. Despite the impressive array of weaponry and a collection of the finest combat troops that Jerhia had to offer, the veteran soldier suspected they were not equal to the daunting task set before them.

Cyzhel. He rolled the name on his tongue, though to speak the word left an unpleasant, rank taste in his mouth. In recorded history, every army and expeditionary force that crossed the great causeway connecting Jerhia to Kornas (now officially Lamia), whether traveling east or west, had incurred horrendous casualties. Every victory came at a price in human currency too high to warrant whatever gain the sacrifice demanded. Still, an unending wave of war-obsessed humanity traversed this narrow ribbon of stone to fill the bloody pages of history books where lessons were imparted, but never actually learned.

"And so, it is destined to be again," he muttered morosely as he watched ox herders struggle with the ungainly beasts that labored under the burden of the Jerhia war machine.

These plodding teams of oxen pulled the heavy elements of artillery into the staging areas just off the causeway, where they stood like massive sentinels on the edge of the great mother as they awaited a deployment to the north that Gillian knew would never come. The dichotomy of his nature was a source of endless consternation for the aging Jerhia sword master, one that offered little surcease from the endless conflict that buzzed in his mind like flies swarming over a fresh corpse. He had grown to abhor everything the Jerhia culture represented, yet he simply lacked the courage and conviction to turn away from his role in propagating its myth. When the decisive moment inevitably arrived, he would don the warrior's helm and throw himself into the fray with reckless abandon.

"I am being torn apart by the duality of my own nature," he lamented. Dismounting the charger, he handed the reins to his eager young adjutant, deliberately ignoring the subtle expression of disapproval that played at the edges of the young man's expression. This was to be the officer's first foray into combat, and he was aglow with the intoxication that came with years of inculcated instruction insisting there was glory and honor to be found on the battlefield. Gillian shifted his glance to the eager youth and experienced a twinge of pity and sorrow. His black uniform was impeccably maintained, its silver buttons glinting in the morning sunlight, but Gillian wondered how he would appear on the far side of the coming campaign.

'Dead, forgotten and moldering in an unmarked grave,' the Tier Marshal imagined morosely. As he made his way over to the artillery staging area, his worn leather boots kicking up yellow puffs of dust, Gillian swore a silent oath that he would never return to Jerhia. If he perished at the hands of the mad woman's legion of sorcerers, then he would do so with full acceptance. If by divine intervention, the Jerhia persevered and drove the spider back to her lair, Gillian would fade into the comforting embrace of anonymity, living out the rest of his days in one of the nameless villages in one of the smaller countries of the Eastern Continent. To the duty addicted Jerhia, this act of abandonment was inconceivable, but for a morally conflicted Gillian it was a beacon of light in the darkness of his own disillusionment.

The commander of Gillian's artillery arm snapped a rather lackadaisical salute at the Tier Marshal's approach earning a withering scowl from the young adjutant, which the artillery veteran pointedly ignored.

"How do you wish the force deployed?" he inquired, displaying none of the traditional deference normally shown to a Tier Marshal. Though Gillian's expression remained impassive, he smiled inside, pleased by his subordinate's not so subtle disdain. He spared a brief glance at his adjutant who seemed on the verge of apoplexy over the bombardier's scandalous breech of protocol. His tolerance of this lack of respect would diminish his esteem in the eyes of his adjutant but found himself unconcerned by the prospect. In an even voice, he instructed, "They are deployed exactly as I would have them, bombardier. I charge you with the task of insuring they are well-lubricated and ready to fire at the drop of a salute."

Now both the adjutant and the artillery commander (Akarian was his name, or so Gillian recalled, though memory for names was not his forte) regarded the Tier Marshal as though he had taken leave of his senses. Perhaps he had. Gillian's proposed strategy was unconventional certainly and quite possibly rooted more in the soil of utter madness than accepted military theory taught in the hallowed halls of the Summergaden Military Academy. Still, Gillian doubted that any of the great analytical minds had prepared for a scenario in which the Jerhia legions would face an army of insane, morally unencumbered Metocan mages. To his way of thinking, employing conventional tactics against this particular foe would lead to a quick and thorough annihilation of the Jerhia forces in Lamia. He guessed that Maroc and Arminda understood this as well, surmising that it was for this reason they had selected him to lead the expeditionary force into the East.

"You intend to leave the artillery stationed here?" Akarian sputtered certain that he had misconstrued Gillian's instruction. No prudent commander would venture into the field without the support of a powerful element of artillery.

Gillian grinned blithely. "I believe we understand each other because that is precisely what I intend. If I have you drag these wooden monstrosities into battle against Sygeanor and her Appraxis henchmen, she will ignite your toys like tinder at the height of a dry summer."

"Respectfully, I disagree," the artillery commander countered vehemently, drawing a slight nod of agreement from the bemused adjutant. "The Upper Tier designated an artillery element for good reason and..."

"They assigned an element to accompany my troops into Lamia," Gillian interjected mildly, though his eyes narrowed in a silent admonition that he had reached his capacity for argument. He glanced about and gestured with his right arm. "Well, you are here in Lamia and this is as far as you will go. The foe we will face is as elusive as the wind. Attempting to attack her with a hail of fire and rocks would be much like trying to kill a cloud of gnats in the same fashion...impossible. Thus, you will disperse your artillery in such a manner as to protect the approaches to Cyzhel should we fail to drive Sygeanor from Lamia."

Akarian glowered and fumed, but Gillian turned and dismissed him from his thoughts. Addressing his adjutant, he instructed, "As they arrive, have the legion commanders of the cavalry, scouting units and archers come to my command tent."

An expression of puzzlement dawned on the adjutant's face, "The command tent, Tier Marshal?"

Gillian feigned exasperation and pointed toward a clearing some two hundred paces distant. "Yes, the command tent that you will personally arrange to have erected just over there."

The adjutant's brow furrowed in obvious consternation, but he said nothing, instead bowing and moving to comply with his orders, leaving Gillian alone to return to his charger. He tracked back across the hardpan roadway, kicking up more clouds of yellow dust as he went, grappling with the formative stages of the strategy he intended to employ against the Metocan. As he was about to mount his horse, a rough voice hailed him from somewhere in the milling throng of infantry soldiers who had just come into Lamia. Irritated by the intrusion, he spun about to find a male officer hurrying toward him, with a female officer in tow. They wore disheveled and grime-caked uniforms of the Jerhia ranger core and Gillian immediately recognized the pair as scouts, a unit that would figure heavily in his plan to repel the Metocan from Lamia.

The Officer came to a halt some three paces from Gillian and executed a rather clumsy bow. When he stood upright, his thin face conveyed the startling extent of his exhaustion, an expression mirrored on the face of the accompanying female officer. "Tier Marshal Gillian, my name is Captain Zorus and this is First Scout Sybian. We are here from the 7th lead scout brigade. I would petition a moment of your time."

The officer's tone was fraught with exigency that hinged on desperation, compelling Gillian to gesture for the pair to follow him some distance away from the tide of humanity and equipment streaming across the causeway. They entered a small copse of trees and the Tier Marshal beckoned the two to sit on a small outcrop of stone. They both complied, gratitude reflecting on both faces as they settled onto the cool stone. The Tier Marshal stood before the pair and inquired, "Where is your brigade stationed, Captain?"

"In a small village named Katen's Gull, some twelve leagues north of the causeway into Natzurdan," Zorus responded thickly. Gillian wondered if weariness slurred the Captain's speech or perhaps something more sinister. "First Scout Sybian is one of our veteran rangers assigned to the northern reaches of Lamia."

Gillian turned his incredulous gaze upon the diminutive scout who appeared utterly gaunt with exhaustion, though her pale blue eyes gleamed with an implacable urgency and something the Tier Marshal recognized to be resounding horror. Her time in northern Lamia had left the scout with an indelible scar that could well hold the key to her presence some one hundred leagues from her assigned station.

"Why have you come, Captain Zorus?" Gillian inquired softly, his attention focused squarely upon the pair. The Captain drew a tremulous breath and replied, "I was instructed to guide the first scout directly to your presence. Our Commander deemed her report to merit your immediate attention."

"I see," Gillian said softly, his intense gaze shifting to Sybian, who appeared anxious despite the brooding shadow that hovered over her like a pall. "Then perhaps you would share what warranted traversing the length of a continent in one headlong rush."

Sybian licked her badly cracked lips and glanced uncertainly at her escort, who nodded for her to proceed. Haltingly at first and then with mounting animation, she began to recount the horror that had befallen the remote village of Corrent. When Sybian was a child, she had been designated to training as a scout and ranger mostly because of her ability to absorb and recall events with uncanny accuracy down to the minute detail. Years of intense training further augmented her power of observation until she required only a cursory glance to glean the salient truths and realities of anything falling within her line of vision. All of this Gillian understood as he listened raptly to the steady flow of richly detailed narrative flowing off Sybian's tongue. In accordance with his training, the Tier Marshal masked his own racing thoughts behind an impassive frown, though the information the Scout now conveyed would help define the ultimate structure of his strategy in Lamia. When she at last concluded her tale, Gillian realized what compelled her commander to send her on a headlong race to greet him as he crossed into Lamia.

An expectant silence descended upon the trio as Gillian grappled with the complex ramifications of her report while trying to rein in his thoughts that were racing rampant like stallions fleeing a burning barn. Finally, he seized on the first question that clamored for his attention. "You are certain this woman was Sygeanor and that she wore the face of Lorio, the Queen of Lamia?"

Sybian responded with an emphatic nod. "She spoke her name as if to embed it in my memory. On many occasions, I have found myself in the Queen's presence and the face this woman wore was identical to the smallest detail."

"Describe it to me," Gillian insisted urgently and Sybian did, constructing a precise verbal portrait of the striking Lamish beauty. Turning to Captain Zorus, he instructed, "The Lamish Regent is evidently somewhere in this encampment. Go to my adjutant and together, seek her out and request that she attend me here. Her name is Nayoro."

The Captain executed a graceful bow and then moved off in search of the adjutant. Only when he had vanished from sight did Gillian resume his debriefing. "Sybian, there is one point of critical consequence I need you to clarify. Take all the time you require before answering because I cannot overstate the importance of your assessment. Are you certain that Sygeanor was aware of your presence from the start? Try to recall...was there anything however slight you may have done to attract her attention?"

Sybian's pale blue eyes appeared to lose their focus for a protracted moment as she slowly replayed the moment in her mind. It was not an onerous task as her meeting with Sygeanor was indelibly etched in her memory like a demon that would never be exorcised. Haltingly, she replied, "I am a master of silent movement and though I was profoundly disturbed by what I witnessed, I can say in all confidence that I did nothing to reveal my presence." She glanced at Gillian with haunted eyes. "She knew she was being observed and knew that I was Jerhia. I think the scrutiny pleased her immensely as if the horrific spectacle was being staged for my benefit. I don't think this is entirely accurate, but I do believe she spared my life so I could carry her warning and the report of what had transpired back to my superiors."

The Tier Marshal drew a deep breath and ran his fingers through his perspiration-soaked hair, trying to place Sybian's report in the proper, constructive perspective. The success of Gillian's proposed strategy was predicated on the notion that light Jerhia forces would be able to strike lightening blows at the invading Metocan and fade into the landscape before the bewildered mages knew what had befallen them. A rapier succession of such blows would hopefully deter the Metocan from pursuing their campaign in Lamia. Watching Gillian's reaction to her report, Sybian felt an icy finger of dread trace a meandering path from her tailbone along the length of her spine. Clearly, her superior found her revelation deeply unsettling and that did not bode well for the fate of Lamia and the Jerhia army that sought to save it.

"When the Metocan attacked the first village, they allowed one individual to live to carry the message to Corrent. The rest of the villagers were incinerated by some sort of magic...is that correct?"

Sybian nodded slowly. She need only close her eyes to vividly recall the haunted expression on the girl's face as she related the tale of how her village had been thoroughly cleansed by the Metocan. Softly, she confirmed, "Every last one save the girl."

Gillian's eyes narrowed as he considered this thoughtfully. After a moment's contemplation, he remarked, "Yet in Corrent, by your own account, the old and the infirmed were culled, while the able-bodied were herded back presumably to Metocan."

The scout nodded vigorously. "First they were shackled by some type of energy and then directed to march. After the others were led away, Sygeanor remained behind. It was then she revealed her awareness of my presence and delivered her warning."

"What is your perspective on her motivation for seizing the villagers?"

Now Sybian was unable to conceal her surprise. That a Tier Marshal would solicit the speculation of a lowly scout was unheard of and yet this legendary figure was asking her to offer her personal opinion on a matter that he obviously deemed important. Turning her consideration to the question, she could find only two plausible explanations. "I assume she intends to use the villagers as leverage to entice Queen Lorio to surrender herself...or she will use them as slaves."

Gillian bit his lower lip and Sybian suspected he was dissatisfied with her explanations. Indeed, the Tier Marshal believed that both were incorrect. At a cursory glance, both seemed plausible enough, but carefully honed instinct informed him that the real reason behind the abduction was far more sinister. "Sybian, how long have you been stationed in northern Lamia?"

"I have spent the past five years traveling through the northern reaches of Lamia."

"And what are your trained disciplines...other than lead scout?"

"I am proficient with short swords, throwing implements and a master of the crossbow," she revealed, her voice resonating with an obvious pride.

'Ah, another Arminda in the making,' he thought and experienced a sudden, unaccountable twinge of sadness. This woman's extensive knowledge of the region along with her combat skills would prove invaluable in the coming conflict. "Lead scout Sybian, you are henceforth assigned directly to my command. I will have Captain Zorus carry your reassignment orders back to your commander."

Sybian felt a rush of confused emotion, certain that she had misconstrued his intention. She required only one glance at his open, earnest face to realize that she had not misheard. She blushed and stammered, embarrassed by her reaction but powerless to prevent it. "Tier Marshal, I don't know what to say, but I will do everything within my ability to justify your faith in me."

Gillian regarded the veteran scout gravely. "Sybian, do not rush to offer me thanks. You have stared into the cold and merciless eyes of the dragon and survived to tell the tale. In the not too distant future, I fully intend to thrust you back into its slathering jaws."

Her pale blue eyes widened for a moment, but discipline compelled her to bow and recite the deeply engrained mantra. "I give my life gladly for the honor and glory of Jerhia."

The mindless call to self-sacrifice made Gillian want to howl with outrage. Instead, he nodded tightly and said, "Find some nourishment and rest. In the coming weeks there will be a dearth of opportunities to do either."

She smiled and moved back toward the main body of the assembled army, leaving Gillian alone to wrestle with his turbulent thoughts and uncertainties.

Chapter Eighteen

A dull, ineffective light filtered through the room's only window, setting an infinite universe of dust motes ablaze. The single occupant watched absently as they tumbled and swirled, stirred by the capricious breath of the faint breeze that accompanied the light through the gap in the shutters. The room's interior was stiflingly hot as the sun crested its noon zenith and the occupant reclined on his narrow pallet, shirtless and bootless against the cloyingly humid air. His hands were crossed casually behind his head and sweat ran in rivulets along his torso, which glistened with perspiration. He was only distantly aware of the enervating heat, his thoughts preoccupied instead by the maddening itch and throb of the ghastly wound he had sustained to his face.

Beyond the window, the market town of Gamnon was alive with the bustle of vendors and shoppers who went about their business despite the unseasonably high temperatures. Even through the filter of his distraction, the man was vaguely aware of the high level of animation in the marketplace on this particular afternoon and wondered absently what had roused this surge of energy.

The itch in his face intensified banishing all thought of nattering market dwellers from his mind. Slowly, he swung his feet over the edge of the bed and sat up, drawing a deep breath and stubbornly resisting the compulsive urge to trace the jagged topography of his ruined face with his fingertips. Steeling himself against the anticipated wave of pain, the man inclined his head toward the tiny table that stood beside his bed and reached for the small rectangular mirror that sat face down on its surface. Holding the reflective glass in trembling fingers, he raised it to his face, trying to prepare against the horror reflected there.

A shrill hiss escaped his lips and he flung the mirror across the room, where it shattered into slivers against the far wall. He began to weep then and not for the first time since his disfigurement, the man wished he possessed the courage to kill himself.

By his own estimation, the man's horrible wound had transformed him into a grotesque parody of a human being. The jagged wound formed a livid x the intersection of which gouged a deep runnel in the bridge of his nose. The right side of his face was a jagged, ruined mass of bloody flesh that oozed perpetually, driving him to the edge of madness with its incessant itching. The itching was supposedly a sign that the wounds were healing properly, but the man derived little comfort in the fact.

Heal, they might, but his would be the face of a carnival horror...at least in his own eyes.

Reyfort's gaze happened on the twin scabbards that now leaned against the foot of his narrow pallet. Inside, his two prized Ihzrac, the ceremonial sword of the Suran, patiently awaited his command. The blades were forged obsidian inlaid with thin strips of emerald and honed to a razor sharpness that could severe a leg with the casual flick of a wrist. With his face irreversibly disfigured, they were now his most precious possessions.

Suran was a small country located at the south-eastern tip of the eastern continent. There, resided a people of eerie beauty and a natural proclivity toward all things artistic; an exotic land that produced generation after generation of skilled courtesans and inspiring thespians in equal measure. They were a nation of gentle pacifists who eschewed the violence that maddened the rest of the world in pursuit of the high virtues of art and philosophy. It was theorized that the ubiquitous beauty and artisan nature both sprang from the exotic land that was every bit as beguiling and lovely as the people who inhabited it.

Reyfort was a glaring exception to the standard. His artistry was born in the wielding of his blades and the ardor and passion with which he pursued the plunder of cunt and the accrual of gold. There were those detractors who regarded him as an amoral lout and privateer, but he preferred to think of himself as an amorous adventurer who saw no harm in separating the wealthy from their coin and chaste ladies from their virtue. These predilections had earned him the derision of his own people and at a young age, Reyfort found himself at odds with what passed for authority in Suran. Preferring freedom to incarceration, he had fled his home to find fortune and adventure in the dark, brooding aftermath of the post Myrhia world.

There followed years of debauchery and indulgence, time in which he employed both his beauty and blades with equal measure to construct a status in Suran and southern Emercia that was well near mythical in its proportion. As he slept beneath the vault of the heavens with a million stars twinkling on the black velvet of the universe, and often as not with a noble's innocent daughter enfolded in his arms for warmth, Reyfort could almost believe that he was a blessed immortal for whom time held no meaning.

"All of our hoarded illusions, like a house of playing cards, will crumble before the uncaring winds of fate," he murmured, reciting the old proverb that had once seemed so fatuous, but had of late assumed the grim shading of prophecy. With horrified amazement, he discovered that fate often bided its time, patiently awaiting the suitable moment to dispense its harsh punishment for the arrogant and the presumptuous.

His moment of divine retribution had come just three weeks earlier along a narrow cart path some six leagues to the south of Gamnon. He had fallen in with a small band of brigands despite his reservations that the lot were nothing more than ruthless cutthroats who enjoyed killing every bit as much as thievery. He had set out on the raid with a mind that this would be his last caper with the lot before heading north to Nalosan where he would spend more time conning and bedding the affluent than killing them.

The raid should have been a comparatively simple affair, the three wagons guarded by a small troop of local mercenaries who displayed little skill and even less finesse and imagination. A hail of crossbow bolts dispatched the escort, leaving the wagon ripe for the picking. Reyfort was in the midst of examining the rear wagon that held an assortment of carefully rapped porcelain items of obvious value, when he detected a furtive movement directly over his right shoulder. He only had time enough to incline his head, when a strident cry issued from somewhere nearby. "Thieving, murderous bastard, you'll not enjoy so much as a coin!"

A luminescent ball sailed by his head and exploded on the side of the wagon a mere hand span from his face. Glass shards and kerosene bit deep into his face as the person who had pitched the lantern cackled in triumphant glee. That glee gave way to a gurgle of shocked agony as one of Reyfort's cohorts emerged from the darkness to impale the woman with his rapier. Reyfort was only distantly aware of this as he toppled to the grass clutching his face. It felt as though the flesh had been excoriated from the bone as his palm closed on sharp bits of hot glass and he uttered a shrill cry of agony that shattered the night's silence.

Rough hands turned him over and someone rasped, "Gory, you're done for...now shut your bleeding hole before you bring a roving patrol down on our heads!"

An instant later, a heavy boot connected squarely with the side of his face, shattering his jaw and he fell into the merciful embrace of unconsciousness.

He awoke some bells later, and though darkness still held dominion over the sky, the eastern horizon was alight with the first pink herald of approaching morning. He was immediately cognizant of three things: his erstwhile companions had abandoned him, his face had suffered a wound too terrible to contemplate...and he was not alone.

Reyfort opened his eyes and even that simple action prompted a nauseating wave of agony. The throbbing in his face evoked memories of the final kick, informing him that his jaw was broken...and not cleanly.

"Ah, so the swash buckling adventurer has rejoined the living, though I suspect you wish this was not so," a voice declared from somewhere nearby. There was a note of mirth resonating in the speaker's voice, but this thin veil of levity did not deceive Reyfort. Beneath the speaker's casual tone there lurked a derision and utter indifference to his misery and suffering. It was not compassion that attracted his companion to Reyfort's side, but something far more self-serving and sinister.

As a shudder racked his body, causing him to whimper in pain, Reyfort discerned that he now found himself in the presence of unmitigated evil, though for what purpose, he could not imagine. The speaker came into view, his sudden appearance eliciting a scream of pain and anguish from the fallen brigand. The creature towered over Reyfort, a gleaming pewter mask concealing his features save for his eyes that burned an eerie, malefic crimson. "It seems that your period of uncanny grace has expired in very grim and emphatic terms."

"My face...how bad?" he managed, grimacing at the fresh waves of agony that washed over him as he spoke. The creature did not respond. Instead, he extended his arm toward Reyfort with his palm turn outward. The surface of his leather glove was highly reflective and backlit by eerie vermillion effulgence that provided a ghastly backdrop for the horror it revealed.

One glimpse of the nightmarish visage reflected on the out-thrust palm drew shriek after mortified shriek from the disfigured adventurer, who closed his eyes and attempted to slap the creature's hand away. Xhendyn shrugged indifferently and closed his fingers into a tight fist. "An unsettling sight indeed, further exacerbated by your ilk's obsession with superficial beauty I would think. As horrific as your wounds may be, they will not prove fatal and thus you are destined to become a denizen of the shadows, grateful for the concealment mother night confers upon her children. You will languish there and reflect upon all you have lost until grief and self-pity propels you to seek the dubious mercy of madness."

Tears spilled from Reyfort's eyes and though they stung his lacerated flesh, he was powerless to restrain them. Against his volition, his eyes opened to find the twin crimson eyes still hovering in the darkness above, a hellish apparition come to torment him in his dying moments. Only the searing, pervasive pain in his face stood between Reyfort and the false hope that this was a particularly lucid nightmare.

"Are you a demon sent to taunt me even while I perish like an abandoned dog on the edge of this nameless cart path?" the brigand croaked wretchedly. It occurred to him that this creature might well be an elaborate construction of his own conscience as he groped his way towards absolution. The specter's blithe response effectively banished the notion. "Quite the contrary, I have come to offer you a rather generous proposition...a proffered hand to a drowning man, if you will. Given your present circumstances, I would hazard that it would be in your best interest to entertain my offer carefully."

"Go on then," Reyfort intoned softly as the surrealism tightened its grip on his senses.

The floating crimson eyes flared in what the brigand surmised to be satisfaction. "My bargain is simple...your life in exchange for unquestioning fealty."

Despite the consuming pain, Reyfort mustered a spate of laughter fraught with bitterness at the prospect of living in his present state. "I'll take my chances on the other side, demon, and let the carrion birds feast on my flesh rather than live as a carnival oddity."

The specter seemed to ponder this for a moment and then nodded. Without speaking Xhendyn bent forward and moved his right hand in an elaborate series of gesticulations a hand's width from the fallen man's ruined face. There was a hypnotic rhythmic quality to these gestures and Reyfort soon found himself growing drowsy as he watched the complex dance of the gloved hand. Abruptly, the movement stopped and the black leather gloved hover just above his face, fingers turned in to form a cup. In the cusp of the demon's down-turned palm, an incandescent vermillion light blazed into life and began to blink like an obscene parody of an eye.

The blinking became more rapid and after a moment, Reyfort realized that its rhythm was syncopated to the accelerated beating of his own heart. Around him, he could feel a vast power coalescing out of the empty predawn air. The vermillion light grew in magnitude until he feared it might sear his eyeballs from their sockets. Moaning in apprehension, he attempted to avert his gaze, but found himself immobilized and unable to look away from the spectacle of sorcery unfolding before his bewildered eyes.

"Do not fear, my suspicious young adventurer, I mean merely to provide you with a small sample of the benefits to be had by swearing your fealty," Reyfort heard the stranger declare from somewhere beyond the vermillion luminescence. He relaxed somewhat, having detected no hint of deception in the thing's tone, and gazed unblinkingly as the vermillion energy began to elongate and spread. First, it assumed the general shape of a rectangle; a luminescent filter hovering just a hand span above his ruined face. Once it had grown to encompass his entire field of vision, it began to take on a definite topography of contours that he soon realized resembled his own face.

Then, with the alacrity of a striking adder, it clamped down upon his face, brutally suppressing the screech of agony that boiled from deep in his chest. The vermillion effulgence insinuated itself deep into the tattered flesh, but now the pain gave way to soothing warmth and then a numbing coolness, annealing his agony.

Wide-eyed with wonder, Reyfort breathed, "What have you done?"

Xhendyn shrugged modestly. "A simple cantrip, but one you will appreciate as much as those who must look upon your visage."

With this, he again held his reflective palm toward Reyfort, who exhaled sharply, unable to repress the cackle of delight that welcomed the sight of his restored face in all its male beauty. The demon wagged a cautionary finger at the brigand. "Lest elation lead you to think our arrangement unnecessary, I must inform you that what you are seeing is a clever, but rudimentary bit of illusion magic...one that I may quickly withdraw, should I feel so inclined. Beneath this perfect facade lurks the parody of humanity your night's misadventure has bestowed upon you. Should you agree to reciprocate my kindness with a pledge of unwavering loyalty and service, I will permanently restore your face to its former glory."

Intense fury flared up in Reyfort's mind as what he perceived to be a ruthless exploitation of his plight, but it quickly relented to a grim resignation. Though the idea of servitude was anathema to the fiercely independent adventurer, the concept of dwelling on the fringes of humanity was even less palatable. "I swear fealty."

With this three-word, muttered utterance, Reyfort ceded control of his soul to a creature whose motives he could not begin to fathom. As ambiguous as Xhendyn's purpose might be, the adventurer could harbor no doubt that he was a creature of unadulterated malice. Reyfort climbed slowly to his feet, never taking his gaze from the demon who waved his hand in a curt gesture of dismissal. "Go north to one of the town's near Nalosan. There you will reflect on the implications of our arrangement. In time, I will come to you with further instructions."

Then, with a lavish swirl of his black cape, the creature appeared to dematerialize into the predawn air.

Now, nearly a moon cycle later, Reyfort found himself in this squalid, sweltering room in the frenetic market town of Gamnon, anticipating his sponsor's arrival with no small measure of dread. Reyfort rose from his bed, light-headedness causing him to sway in the explosive heat, and lurched toward the window, where he drew back the shutters and gazed down upon the mass of humanity cramming the street below. He watched their frenetic scurry, trying to imagine what his life might have been like had he elected to lead a more conventional existence.

"A meaningless prison of insipid boredom," a voice declared from directly behind, raising the hair on the nape of his neck in great hackles. "They are pathetic ants engaged in a slow, repetitive crawl toward the blessed relief of death. Don't envy their mundane lives, Reyfort."

Reyfort spun about, his heart hammering in the boney confines of his chest as he came face to face with his sponsor, who regarded the adventurer through inhuman red eyes. An icy chill had descended upon the room causing Reyfort to shiver violently.

"It is time to earn your keep," Xhendyn declared in a tone that was deceptively light. "I trust you've used this respite to come to terms with the realities of your present situation?"

Reyfort merely nodded wanly, his hand straying of its own accord to his face concealed behind a mask every bit as real as the pewter device that hid Xhendyn's true countenance. In a voice dulled by resignation, he heard himself reply, "What would you have me do?"

"I have set for you a task that is well suited to your nature. You will travel to Nalosan and ingratiate yourself into the company of the legendary Lorio, Queen of the dust bitten Lamish. As she is a wanton harlot by nature and attracted to base charm, this should be a simple matter for a man of your...talents."

"May I ask to what end you would have me do this?" Reyfort enquired, not expecting an answer.

Xhendyn shrugged indifferently, "If you wish, though I won't bore you with the specifics. The protection of someone whose death would be of tremendous benefit to me has fallen to the inimitable Queen Lorio. I require that you win her confidence, become a fixture in her presence and when the fateful juncture presents itself, prevent her from fulfilling her charge."

Reyfort blinked in confusion. "How exactly will I prevent her from protecting this individual? If the rumors have any merit, she is reputed to be immortal. What you're suggesting sounds like a sure prescription for a coffin."

Xhendyn laughed in genuine amusement. "I'm not suggesting you draw steel against the legendary warrior queen. My purpose would be better suited if you could manage to impale her with the sword dangling between your legs, Reyfort. I have taken steps to compromise her invulnerability. I need you to exploit that instilled weakness at the critical moment."

"I still don't understand. If I don't physically prevent her from aiding this person, how do I stop her?"

Xhendyn held his right arm out and opened his palm. The very air of the room appeared to congeal about his fist, thickening like a transparent jelly that rapidly gained form and substance. As a mystified Reyfort peered at the open hand in bemused wonder, an emerald materialized in his sponsor's upturned palm. Xhendyn beckoned the adventurer forward with his left index finger.

The Suran cautiously ventured closer, never taking his eyes off the multi-faceted stone nestled on its bed of black leather. An odd luminescence surrounded the exquisite stone, but as Reyfort scrutinized it closer, he noticed vague shapes appeared to be swimming in the emerald's depth as if the gem possessed a liquid center. Something about those indistinct shapes filled him with a profound dread.

With startling speed, the demon abruptly pressed his palm against Reyfort's exposed forehead while seizing his hair in an unyielding grip that did not allow the terrified adventurer to pull away. The Suran grimaced as the sharp facets of the gemstone cut into the tender skin of his forehead. There followed a blinding explosion of emerald light and a searing burst of intense pain that cannonaded in the chamber of his skull until Reyfort felt certain his cranium would simply explode. As abruptly as this symphony of agony commenced, the thundering pain relented to a cooling numbness.

Xhendyn released the adventurer and stepped lithely away as Reyfort collapsed to the floor in a boneless, quivering heap. As cognizance returned and the trembling subsided, he became aware of an alien presence carefully picking its way through the thoroughfares and alleyways of his mind. Eyes wide with horror, he raised his gaze to the demon, who regarded him from behind the impenetrable veil of his mask. Of the gemstone, there was no trace.

As he probed the ruined contours of his face, Reyfort could sense an awful, invasive presence ensconcing itself inside his skull, a sensation that was immeasurably worse than the incessant itching of his wounded face.

"What have you done to me?" he croaked in a voice that grated in his ears like an over drawn bowstring.

Xhendyn shrugged blithely. "The artifact now residing in your skull is known as the gem of Zhiar. The tiny creatures that reside within serve as conduits, communicating information and energy rapidly and over incredible distances. Thus, you and I are now tethered. What you see, I see...should I choose. The gemstone will allow me to channel power through you and this in turn, will serve to debilitate good Queen Lorio at the most inopportune moment. Proximity is a critical element, and this is why you must become a fixture at her side."

"If I act as your proxy, you vow to restore my face...and remove this horrid parasite from my mind?" Reyfort demanded, struggling to subjugate the compulsive urge to tear and gouge at his face in an effort to extirpate the weed that had taken root in his brain.

The demon greeted this with a dismissive wave of his gloved hand. "Should you succeed in immobilizing Lorio at the critical juncture, the course of events will quickly progress far beyond your usefulness. Your debt will be forgiven, and you will be free to resume your pointless meander through life...beauty and free will restored."

Reyfort nodded grimly, reluctant to impart his trust to this monster, but lacking for any other course of action. As if to confirm this, Xhendyn leaned forward until his malefic eyes were a hand's width from the adventurer's haggard face and intoned darkly, "The Zhiar has many a useful function, Reyfort. Should you decide that the illusion of beauty is a tolerable substitute for the real article and feel the temptation to renege on our agreement, the entities with whom you now share your mind will quickly disabuse you of the notion."

The demon had no sooner uttered the threat than a flare of white agony bloomed in the chambers of Reyfort's skull. He toppled forward onto his face, clutching at his head while his feet beat a spastic rhythm on the scuffed floorboards. Xhendyn looked on impassively as the adventurer endured his moment of intense torment. When he decided that his minion had suffered sufficiently to permanently ingrain this object lesson in the very fiber of his flesh, the demon mouthed an ancient incantation and Reyfort's violent spasms abruptly ceased, leaving him gasping for breath on the dirty floor. A wave of nausea overcame the Suran and the contents of his stomach spewed out of his gaping mouth, furthering his misery as the stench of his own vomit assailed his nostrils. Above him, he could hear the ruffling of material, followed by the clinking of metal as the demon pulled a small sack of coins from his belt and threw them onto the bed. "As I trust we have an understanding, I will leave you to reflect on what has passed between us. Time is of the essence, Reyfort, so I would advise you to restore yourself to some measure of respectability and then make your way to Nalosan."

Rolling onto his back and wiping bile from his chin with the back of his hand, Reyfort managed to ask, "How will I communicate with you?"

Xhendyn paused at the door, and without glancing back, instructed, "Raise a clear, yet silent cry in the chamber of your thoughts and I will hear you."

With this rather cryptic declaration, the demon strode through the wooden door like a wraith, leaving Reyfort to find the wherewithal to rouse himself from his abjection. As he lay next to the steaming contents of his stomach, the smell of his humiliation hanging in the stifling air like a foul miasma, his eyes strayed to the twin Ihzrac still leaning at the foot of his pallet. They seemed to stare back at him with a mixture of disdain and contempt. He briefly contemplated seeking the cold comfort of the release they offered, but a sudden explosion of pain in his skull effectively banished all thoughts of suicide from his mind.

Feeling hopelessly ensnared by a cold vice of circumstance, Reyfort roused himself to his feet and dejectedly set about the process of preparing for his journey north. As he gathered up his few meager possessions and set them on the bed, he diverted his thoughts to the subject of his treacherous Endeavour.

"Lorio," he whispered the word as if the name was a sacred invocation capable of annealing his suffering. Like everyone else on the eastern continent, Reyfort had heard all of the incredible tales of her beauty, her prowess with a staff and her purported immortality. Legendary in stature, it was difficult to divine fact from embellishment, but Reyfort ardently hoped that, In Lorio, he would find the means to reclaim his freedom and his physical beauty.

Shackled as he was by his own self-absorption, it never once occurred to Reyfort that his present state of wretched abjection was well-deserved remuneration for the morally dissolute life he had chosen to live.

Instead, the Queen of Lamia beckoned to him like a glowing beacon of salvation.

Chapter Nineteen

1

The intensity of the heat made concentration an onerous task, but Queen Ynathreen redoubled her effort to focus on the matter at hand, trying to ignore the rivulets of sweat that ran through the deep valley of her breasts. Beneath her dove gray ring mail, perspiration ran freely into the cleft of her buttocks and along the muscular contours of her inner thighs. When her business concluded here, her first intention would be to strip off this accursed armor and plunge headlong into the icy waters of the first mountain stream she came across.

'And to think that men actually labor in these abominable conditions,' she thought, dismayed by the notion of having to endure such misery for the sake of a livelihood. Gazing about, she saw that everyone assembled in the chamber glistened with the sheen of perspiration. All about her, the vast chamber reverberated with the incisive ring of hammers and the dull metallic clatter of pickaxes as miners and smiths toiled in the enervating heat.

"This substance yields a metal the likes of which I have never seen," the chief blacksmith remarked, his voice fraught with wonder and something that may well have been apprehension. He tugged at his braided beard and added, "Believe me when I say that I've seen every type of ore these mountains have to offer, my Queen, but nothing that rivals this material."

Ynathreen nodded and wiped sweat from her brow before it could accost her eyes with daggers of salt. It was this assessment that had inspired her arduous journey to this remote mine in the northern reaches of Redia in the frigid depths of the Zargarist range. Braxys was a metallurgist and smith whose knowledge was the stuff of legend amongst the Redians who valued such skills only marginally less than they valued warriors. When he had sent word to Elderspire, the Redian Capital some 90 leagues distant, of what he described as a phenomenal discovery, the Queen had felt compelled to journey forth to see this wonder with her own eyes.

"Tell me again how you happened upon this marvel," she asked, eyes drawn back to the luminous red mass sitting on the anvil around which the group was gathered. Other than its incandescent glow, the malleable lump seemed devoid of any exceptional quality to warrant the commotion its discovery had roused. The pervasive heat and acrid smoke were making her light-headed and she inconspicuously leaned back to steady herself. Even the stonewalls of the great chamber felt clammy and unpleasantly warm against her slick flesh.

Despite her mounting discomfort, a keenly honed instinct informed Ynathreen that she had come to a critical juncture, not only in her fledgling rule as Queen, but in the checkered annals of Redian history as well. She inhaled deeply through her nose and held the breath for a moment, before exhaling slowly and was relieved to discover this lessened her dizziness if only marginally. Muragren materialized beside her as if out of the oppressive haze and offered the Queen a goblet of cool water. Ynathreen accepted the proffered goblet with a slight nod, though her limpid blue eyes flashed with pure gratitude. She drained the goblet in a single draught and then handed it back to her stalwart advisor, who accepted it and receded into the background with the casual grace of one who is accustomed to serving as an inconspicuous fixture. Regaining her composure, the Queen gestured for Braxys to continue, pointedly ignoring the expression of barely concealed disdain that had stolen onto his grizzled face as she stumbled beneath the cloying heat. The smith pursed his lips, tugged at his beard again and began to recount the history of the discovery. "A team of our most experienced miners were chasin' a rich vein of onyx in the deepest recess of the mine, when they inadvertently broke into a large, hollow pipe. Now, usually this would be a disastrous turn of events because this normally signifies the whereabouts of a lava pipe. I've seen many a good stope ruined by a flood of lava in my time and..."

"Save the dramatic digressions for the ale house, smith Braxys." Ynathreen interjected curtly, her customary patience melting in the heat. Clearly not accustomed to being spoken to in anything less than an indulgent tone, Braxys nodded brusquely and muttered an apology. "This time, the pipe was hollow...or so it seemed at first. There came a gurgling sound up from the black depths that reminded the miners of mud being set to a boil. Eventually, the pipe began to belch steam and this viscous jelly started to pump out of the opening, slowly filling the stope."

"I would like to say that I've never seen anything like it, but that wouldn't be precisely true." His expression darkened perceptibly as he leveled his flinty gaze upon the Queen. "That accursed blue clay the vile bitch used to make her monsters is a lot like this...in terms of texture and consistency."

Ynathreen's eyes flared at the reference to Myrhia. Even in the muted, flickering light of the chamber, Braxys could discern just how profoundly the mere mention of the enchantress effected the tempestuous Queen. In a low, menacing voice, she demanded, "But it isn't the same?"

Braxys shook his large head vehemently. "No. The other stuff was common enough. I've not seen the likes of this before."

Her gaze shifted to the misshapen lump. "What is it about this material that would warrant my traveling through the forbidding wilds of the Zargarists only to be shown a lump of what appears to be clay?"

The chief smith raised a heavily calloused finger in a request for indulgence. He then reached for a pair of tongs and delicately collected the mass, careful not to exert too much pressure as he lifted it from the anvil. He inclined his head toward an open forge where fire raged like the eye of a malefic demon and bid the queen to follow. Pausing to be sure that she was watching carefully, he dropped the lump into the open flame and hastily stepped back. Watching the flames hiss as they enveloped the inconsequential lump of clay, Ynathreen's discomfort gave way to intense curiosity.

Unexpectedly, the forge fire imploded with a sibilant hiss. A startled Ynathreen took an involuntary step backwards as the malleable lump appeared to absorb the fire's energy like a carnivorous beast. One instant the fire raged and then next it was simply gone. The totality of its absorption was so absolute that a thin skein of ice now covered the blackened forge. The improbability of what she had just witness staggered Ynathreen, who regarded magic with a mixture of awe and dread. The object sitting in the gullet of the icy forge bore no resemblance to the rather inconspicuous mass that it had been only moments before. Its highly reflective surface was blood red and perfectly smooth as though the fire had excoriated every imperfection and deformity. Turning her bemused gaze to her chief smith, she whispered, "What has just happened...is this some manner of sorcery?"

Braxys smiled, revealing a mouth full of cracked and broken teeth. There was no mistaking his excitement as he turned his gaze on the fire-tempered creation. When he spoke, his tone was shaded with a keen emotion that might have been anticipation...or avarice. "We have repeated this experiment on several occasions and invariably, this is the end result. In its natural state, this material is nothing more than nondescript clay, but when it is introduced to open flame, it is radically transformed into something...greater."

The smith lapsed into a contemplative silence for a moment and finally the queen prompted, "Which means what precisely?"

Now the smith's smile became feral as he settled his gaze on Ynathreen, who realized that the true purpose of his summons was about to be divulged. Reaching into a bucket of dirty water, he withdrew a large hammer and gestured for the queen to step back. Once she had moved to comply, Braxys raised the heavy tool and pausing at the apex of its arc, brought the hammer whistling down, landing squarely on the transmogrified lump. There followed a deafening metallic clatter and Ynathreen winced as shards of iron tore by her exposed face. The smith regarded her, his eyes ablaze with triumph, and held forth the headless hammer handle. It took her several moments to digest just what had transpired, but then she came to the incredible realization that the iron hammerhead had disintegrated into metal splinters upon impact. A closer inspection of the thing on the forge revealed that it had sustained not so much as a scratch. Turning to the chief smith, she demanded, "Is such a thing possible?"

Braxys uttered a gravelly laugh and confirmed, "Had I not seen it with my own eyes, I would have scoffed at the thought." Brandishing the hammer handle, he concluded, "Here is the proof. We have stumbled upon a substance that is virtually indestructible."

Ynathreen turned away, trying to regain her composure and come to terms with the implications of this discovery. Turning back to the forge, she snapped up the glittering material and was surprised to find that it weighed very little, despite giving the impression of having great density. In a burst of crystalline certitude, the queen realized that in the palm of her hand she held a mysterious substance that could radically shift the mercurial balance of power in this world. The magnitude of this revelation assailed her with a myriad of doubts that she could ill afford to demonstrate before the tumultuous horde over whom she ruled.

As though divining the course of her thoughts, the chief smith declared, "If the pipe yields enough of this material, I can forge weapons and armor the likes of which this world has never seen. We would be able to cut through armies on the battlefield the way a farmer levels fields of wheat. Nothing could stand before us. In your hand, My Queen, you hold the means by which we may reclaim the glory and honor of Redia!"

An expectant hush descended upon those assembled round the forge and the twenty-two-year-old queen could feel the immense weight of every gaze upon her perspiration soaked flesh. She understood precisely what was expected of her at this moment, just as she was cognizant of the tenuous nature of her improbable rule over this loutish mob of barbarians. As her gaze happened upon general Thenyr, she gleaned a hint of sly anticipation beneath his expression of inscrutable surliness and understood that he had been apprised of this miraculous discovery long before she had.

'You conniving bastards,' she thought venomously. 'Both of your heads will adorn the walls of my keep someday.' She stole a brief glance at Muragren. Like Thenyr, she wore an impassive expression, but the slight furrowing of her smooth brow conveyed the extent of her unease. Ynathreen offered her one trusted friend the ghost of a smile. 'Scheme as they will, but my will and intellect are a sharp and steadfast as any who have ever ascended to the throne of this glacial kingdom. My vision will be served.'

Holding the blood red metal aloft, she cried, "For the glory and honor of Redia, a gift from the gods!"

The others joined her exultant declarations, their cries thundering through the vaulted chamber. She seized the slightly larger Braxys by both brawny shoulders and shaking the startled smith, demanded exuberantly, "How long do you require to forge a sufficient quantity of weapons and armor to provide for an army of five thousand troops?"

"I...as you can see, the process of tempering the material is almost instantaneous," Braxys stammered, gazing uncertainly at Thenyr. It was evident that neither had expected her enthusiastic acceptance of their vision of how this metal could serve Redia. "Each weapon will require a special mold and that will be time consuming."

Ynathreen raised her hand in a gesture for silence and the chief smith closed his mouth with an audible plop. "I hereby decree that, from this day forth, every resource in this mine will be committed to mining and forging this metal." She appeared to ponder this for a moment and then added, "I dub this metal Ynathrite. Like the Queen who rules Redia, it is an infrangibly wrought gift from the Gods. My subjects know this to be true and soon, the rest of the world will as well, and they will know the wrath of an ascendant Redia."

Tossing the sample to Muragren for later inspection, she addressed her general, whose tenure as her commander she would abruptly terminate in the not too distant future. "Thenyr, you will remain here and oversee the production of whatever weaponry and armor you believe necessary for a lightening thrust into Fairmarch and Emercia. Furthermore, you will organize a security force whose duty it will be to protect the mine from unwanted attention. No one, who is not on Queen's business, will be permitted within ten leagues of these workings. This discovery will remain a secret on the pain of death...am I clear?"

Both Braxys and Thenyr responded with a tacit nod, doubtless that Ynathreen would not hesitate to make good on her threat should they ignore her direct edict. Her withering gaze continued to bore into the pair until their discomfiture became evident. Satisfied, she had sufficiently impressed upon them her need for total secrecy; she smiled disarmingly and declared grandly, "Today, fate has smiled upon Redia. This forge will craft the edge with which we will carve our rightful place in history."

With this, she spun gracefully about and strode from the chamber, gesturing for Muragren to follow, leaving her chief smith and general to wallow in their consternation.

2

"Was it painful to return to the mines?" Ynathreen inquired softly, her head lolling on her muscular shoulders and her blue eyes settling on her companion as Muragren slowly poured warm water over the Queen's heavy breasts. The sensation of cascading water on her erect nipples drew a deep sigh from the younger woman. She arched her back to revel in the contact as the other woman poured perfume-scented water over her naked body.

Outside, the strident howl of the frigid wind capered and tore through the collection of out buildings that stood near the entrance to the mine. The heavy timber structures seemed to cower beneath the incessant wind as though fearing it might uproot them and sweep them into the darkened valleys below.

Despite the drowsing effects of the bath, Ynathreen regarded her companion closely, her intense blue eyes searching the other woman's face for the slightest indication of a reaction. Cloaked in the armor of her own reticence, Muragren's only reaction was the slight flaring of her nostrils and a barely perceptible tremor in the hands holding the copper pitcher. Still, the Queen knew her constant companion well enough to discern that the experience of entering the mine had been well near excruciating. When she had drained the pitcher, Muragren set it aside and closed her eyes for a brief moment.

Ynathreen settled back into the steaming water and watched the other woman closely. Muragren was a slender woman of medium height with fine delicate features. She wore her iron gray hair in a heavy cable that hung down to the small of her back, secured by an inscribed copper ringlet...the only adornment the woman chose to wear.

Fifteen years prior, she had been captured, just south of Redia's rather nebulous border with Fairmarch, and forced into a life of drudgery and servitude. Ynathreen was well aware of the years she had spent toiling in a mine exactly like this one. That such a delicate, refined creature had managed to survive this ordeal was a testimony to her inner strength and perseverance. The Redian Queen could not forget the shameful fact that thousands had died in chains of slavery in the cruel mountain mines. Somehow, Muragren had survived the harrowing enslavement and had emerged back straight and quiet dignity intact. It had been her keen intellect that finally secured her release from the grueling physical tortures of the mines. Eventually, Ynathreen's father, who had engineered the academic's capture, had come, along with his daughter, to retrieve Muragren from the mine, where she had labored as a common toiling slave, and with a mind to tasking the academic with tutoring and caring for the future queen. Though that juncture had been one of tragedy and horror, it would also prove to be a meeting that the young woman decided was an act of providence.

In the intervening seven years, the older woman had been unrelenting in her devotion to the young woman, sharing her wisdom and knowledge with no hint of ulterior motivation or guile. She had attended Ynathreen through the savage, grueling process of Rizarchen, the brutal combat tournament through which the Queen had won her throne. The slave had tended to bruises and sutured cuts with the tenderness and compassion of the most loving of mothers. She had held and comforted the pain-wracked teenage girl when the effects of the merciless combat threatened to drive Ynathreen to renounce her quest for the throne as a fool's errand. In the end, the young woman had vanquished all comers and achieved the inconceivable feat of becoming the first female ruler in the violent, tumultuous history of Redia. Never once had the stalwart Muragren demonstrated the slightest hint of dereliction in her duty to serve the Redian. Despite this exemplary service, Ynathreen could not guess with any degree of certainty, if her companion's devotion sprung from a fundamental dedication to duty or a genuine affection for the woman she served. Like her personal pain, Muragren concealed her affections and emotions behind an impenetrable wall of reticence.

That a slave could feel anything beyond intense loathing for those who had enslaved them was far beyond Ynathreen's sensibilities.

Finally, Muragren opened her eyes and shifted her solemn gaze to her mistress. The usual detachment had vanished from their gray depths, replaced by an indecipherable emotion that Ynathreen could not interpret. "Like many other aspects of my life, I try not to dwell on thoughts of past tribulations...though I cannot deny they have played an integral role in shaping who I've become. Thanks to the gift of intellect I've been given, my suffering was minor when compared to many others who toiled alongside me...for them, the only deliverance was death."

Had there been an undertone of reproach in that last thought? Ynathreen thought that there had, but given her companion's subtle nature, she could not be certain.

"Join me...please." In the queen's voice, there was a tentative, almost pleading tone that only Muragren seemed capable of evoking. The older woman nodded dutifully and unclipped the clasp of her simple fur garment, allowing it to fall to the ground where it pooled about her slender ankles. She stood naked before the Queen with her sinewy arms hanging loosely at her side and her benign gaze fixed squarely upon her mistress. Ynathreen let her gaze drift slowly over the contours of the other woman's body. Despite being well past forty, Muragren's body was exquisitely proportioned. Something in her fragile beauty and her delicate construction attracted the younger woman like a moth to flame. 'This analogy is perilously apt,' a bemused Ynathreen thought as her eyes settled on the puckered white scars that crisscrossed the slave's tapered thighs, permanent reminders of her time in the mines. 'If I was to surrender to this attraction it would consume me.'

With some effort, she dragged her eyes away from Muragren's enticing flesh and moved forward, allowing her companion to nimbly step into the water and settle in behind her queen. Ynathreen then laid back against the other woman, who began to massage her mistress' muscular neck and shoulders. She closed her eyes and gave herself to the older woman's gentle ministrations, not bothering to conceal the sighs and soft moans the expert touch roused as the probing fingers released deep knots of tension in her muscles.

"Muragren, you understand that I would never deliberately cause you pain, or subject you to unnecessary torment," she murmured dreamily as she reached down and grasped her companion's ankles, pulling her legs tight about her own waist.

Carefully attuned to her mistress' needs, she began to exert a slow rhythmic pressure on Ynathreen's midsection. "Your insight...your counsel...may well be the most important advantages I possess in all I am endeavoring to achieve. You have taught me the value of instinct and my instinct suggested that what transpired in this Zargarist mine will impact greatly upon my vision of the future. I needed your guidance, Muragren. If that was not so, I would gladly have spared you from opening old wounds."

"I am yours to possess, my queen. If you have need of me, then it is my obligation to serve you as you ordain," Muragren responded simply, her placid acceptance of her subservience lancing the younger woman's heart. Reaching back, Ynathreen gently but firmly gripped her companion's left wrist and guided her hand to her full breast. The older woman immediately began to roll the queen's pink nipple between her fingers, quickly raising it into turgid electric knots of sensation. A throaty growl escaped the queen's parted lips and she allowed her head to drop back against her companion's shoulder. For several moments, the room plunged into a dreamy silence, broken by the slapping of water against the side of the tub and the rapid breathing and sighs of the Redian queen as she allowed her companion to compel her closer to total loss of control than she had ever before dared. To force herself back from the brink, she stilled Muragren's hand with no small degree of regret and inclined her head so she could peer into the other woman's eyes, which remained closed and inaccessible. "Do you despise me, Muragren?" she whispered. "Speak freely. It would be justified if you abhorred me with every fiber of your being...even after the years we've spent together...and all we've endured."

For a protracted moment, the slave did not respond, and the queen could sense an intense conflict raging behind those inscrutable gray eyes. Then, with startling swiftness, she laid her left hand against the side of Ynathreen's and pressed her lips against the queen's partially open mouth. The kiss was fraught with an intense passion and a stunning spontaneity that unleashed a current of long-repressed emotions within the younger woman. Despite her prodigious strength, Ynathreen found herself utterly helpless beneath the smaller woman's kiss as though her taut muscles had become every bit as malleable as the clay discovered in the mines below. Muragren lightly traced the ridges and contours of her mistress' face as her tongue darted between Ynathreen's teeth. The Queen felt a shiver of frenetic contractions building at the center of her being and marveled, 'She is bringing me with a mere kiss!'

When its earth-shattering release seemed inevitable, Muragren abruptly broke the kiss, leaving the younger woman trembling in her embrace. Ynathreen uttered an inarticulate groan of frustration as her body drew back from the precipice. Regaining a small measure of composure, she peered up into the familiar gray eyes and for the first time in their years together, the queen caught a glimpse of subtle intimations of the person who served her. Tenderly, stroking her mistress' flushed cheek, Muragren whispered, "For your countrymen, I can find no love. Their lust for conquest and combat has inured their souls and extirpated the very humanity from their hearts. When I was first taken from Fairmarch and forced into slave labor in the mines, I despaired of surviving a cycle of the moon. After all, I was a scholar and teacher and thus unaccustomed to the rigors of hard labor compounded by starvation and cruel treatment. Only an intense and immutable hatred sustained me through the suffering, the beating, the gnawing hunger and the madness that comes with being driven beyond the bounds of total exhaustion. As time passed, I came to the staggering realization that enmity and hatred were chains every bit as enslaving as my capture at the hands of your countrymen. I have since shrugged off the shackles of my hatred, leaving only a cold disdain in its place."

Once again, she bent forward and tenderly kissed the woman to whom she had devoted her life since the horrible juncture in Elderspire, the memory every bit as vivid and stark as it had been seven years ago. Gently catching Ynathreen's lower lip between her teeth, the slave bit the soft, pliable flesh there, pleased by the gasp of pleasure that this presumption evoked. "I hope that my lips can convey the depth of emotion my words have lost the power to communicate. When your father first brought you to me in that frozen hell, I gleaned an essential humanity within your heart that was so conspicuously absent in your fellow Redians. As we fled through the mountains in the wake of the attack, that impression was cultivated by the light of compassion in the dark cleft of your heart...especially the respect and love you eventually came to feel for Cauldanys. I cannot begin to articulate the sense of elation that flowed through my soul when you first confided your vision for what this country could one day become. Through you, I glimpsed your country's path to redemption and the notion that I have had a hand in laying the first paving stones on that path has made my own road of suffering and loss more bearable."

Ynathreen began to weep then, unable to restrain the warm tears that meandered over the high ridges of her cheekbones. In a voice that she scarcely recognized to be her own, she murmured, "If I were to grant you freedom along with the means to enjoy it in the place and fashion of your choosing...would you leave...return to your home in Fairmarch?"

Muragren blinked in dismay, her expression darkening slightly, clearly nonplussed by the offer of emancipation. The notion of having sovereignty over her own future was every bit as alien as the suggestion she could suddenly grow wings and take to the heavens. After a long hesitation, she stammered, "The Fairmarch I once knew has vanished as surely as the woman I was when I once lived there. Irrespective of how I came to be here, my life is here, in your service, and I am content that it is thus. Ynathreen, I would give my life for you without hesitation and without question."

Fearing that her composure would crumble completely, the queen savagely brushed the tears from her face with the heel of her hand and then pushing herself away from her companion, twisted in the tub until she was kneeling before the other woman. Gripping Muragren's shoulders firmly, a fierce light gleaming in her eyes like a primitive moon, Ynathreen vowed, "From this day forth, we are equals and you are free. If you choose to remain at my side, I swear this one inviolable pledge; the day will come when we will stand shoulder to shoulder on the highest balcony of distant Kammlogran and I will hail you as the foundation and strength behind my throne. In your name and honor, I will reconstruct Redia as a place of civility and enlightenment on the ashes of our culture of cruelty and barbarity. Muragren, I vow on my soul, that only death will force me to renege on this oath."

Muragren nodded tightly and averted her gaze, unable to endure the ferocity of Ynathreen's impassioned regard. The Queen brusquely reached forward and placing her finger under her former slave's chin, raised her head until their eyes locked in a moment of complete empathy. The older woman peered into the smoldering blue depths and intoned, "My Queen, I fear you have set yourself on a perilous path fraught with pitfalls the nature of which we cannot begin to imagine."

"With your guidance I will surmount every obstacle that fate conspires to impose in my path," Ynathreen replied, displaying the supreme confidence that had won her the throne of Redia in the first place. Then, in a voice made husky with passion, she breathed, "Now let me make a small gesture of atonement for all that you have suffered on my behalf."

With this, the powerful Redian grasped Muragren's hips and effortlessly lifted the smaller woman out of the steaming water, setting her down on the edge of the tub. Eyes wide with astonishment, the older woman was overwhelmed by a powerful wave of conflicted emotions that ran the gamut from incredulity to elation to shame. In those placid gray depths, Ynathreen glimpsed unattenuated emotion in her companion's eyes for the first time. Emboldened and determined to impart this one bold, egalitarian gift, she ran her powerful hand down the length of Muragren's thigh. Pushing her hands between the older woman's locked knees, she began to pry her legs apart.

"Milady, please...I'm your slave...I...you are a Queen," she protested, her voice slurred by distraction.

Ynathreen favored her with a predatory grin. "You are a slave no more...You have more than earned the mantle of my equal."

For a moment, the older woman attempted to resist the queen's advances, but she finally succumbed to the sensuality of the moment and allowed her legs to splay to the side and her chin to drop to her chest. Triumph blazing in her green eyes, the statuesque Redian moved forward and enfolded her companion in her arms, luxuriating in the sensation of their wet bodies as their breasts pressed together. Years of harsh reinforcement had inculcated a sense of role deep into the fibers of Muragren's being and she could not compel herself to actively respond to Ynathreen's seduction though the urge to do so was maddening. Instead, she gripped the edge of the copper tub with white-knuckled intensity and allowed the young beauty to weave her tapestry of carnal magic on her flesh.

Ynathreen could feel her natural aggression urging her to simply sweep this delicate creature into her arms and ravage her, but she willed herself to be calm and deliberate, instead savoring her charms like a delicacy. Kneeling, she slowly allowed her warm tongue to trace a meandering path from Muragren's breasts, along her taut stomach and around the enticing symmetry of her hips to the responsive insides of the older woman's knees. Quivering and rocking slightly, the slave could feel long dormant sensations stirring at her core...a nascent stirring she viewed with no small degree of dread.

Ynathreen paused, inclining her dreamy gaze to the woman who had served her through the bleakest years of her young life. Sensing her companion's reluctance, she implored, "Give yourself to me, Muragren. Completely. Hold nothing back!"

The older woman's glazed eyes found Ynathreen's and discerning the sincerity of her impassion entreaty, she nodded slightly and then reached back and slid the ringlet from her hair. She shook the heavy braid free, slowly rolling her head from side to side until her thick hair spilled over her shoulders. There was a decidedly brazen aspect in the simple gesture that caused a broad grin to spread over the queen's lovely face. Her wavering control evaporated when Muragren leaned backward and plunged her fingers into the queen's thick red tresses and firmly pushed her head down her clenching thighs.

Slowly and deliberately, the young beauty traced the ridges of Muragren's scars, the tip of her warm tongue applying a gentle pressure to the puckered flesh, drawing a steady stream of moans and sighs from the older woman. She moved inexorably upward, deftly alternating from one firm thigh to the next, taking great care to explore the length of each stark scar as though her tongue was capable of effacing not only the physical reality, but the lingering emotional torment as well.

Time slowed to a crawl as Ynathreen expertly orchestrated Muragren's climax. As she reached the top of the older woman's thighs, she looped her arms under her legs, draped her firm legs over her shoulders and lifted the slave into the air. Muragren uttered a startled cry, still gripping the edge of the tub as her legs hung over the queen's broad shoulders. Ynathreen allowed her to hover there on the quivering edge of anticipation, before plunging her tongue into the folds of Muragren's womanhood. The older woman arched her back and tightened her thighs, a guttural groan escaping her clenched jaws.

They remained this way for several moments, Ynathreen holding her smaller lover aloft while tenderly exploring every fold and contour of her passion, and Muragren moaning softly and writhing while electric waves of pleasure coursed through her body like the breaking of waves on a shore.

When Ynathreen finally allowed the older woman to reach the apex of her passion, Muragren's sinewy body went taught, her thighs clamping around the queen's head like a vice. Abruptly, she went limp in the younger woman's power full arms. Ynathreen lovingly lowered her into the water and then moved forward, drawing Muragren's slack face into the warm valley of her full breasts. She held her there until the last of her former slave's tremors had subsided, relishing every shudder and quake. Finally, she drew back and took Muragren's face in her hand. "Now we are equals."

Then she stepped from the warm water in one fluid motion and cloaked herself in a heavy robe with the crest of Redia emblazoned over her heart, which continued to pound a thunderous rhythm of need in her chest.

She assisted the rubbery-legged Muragren from the tub and knelt before her, toweling the water from her body in an ironic reversal of roles, the implications of which were not lost on either woman.

Standing, Ynathreen smiled broadly and said, "Now let us discuss what passed in the mines this day."

Muragren shook her head adamantly. "We can think on these matters on the morrow." Then, tugging on the sash of the Queen's robe, she peeled back the folds and pushed the robe to the cold tiles. "If we are equals, then I will have my turn to make you moan and tremble."

Laying her hands on Ynathreen's full breasts, she resolutely ushered the young monarch back onto the large feather bed, where she fell upon the beauty's glorious body and set about making good on her promise.

Chapter Twenty

1

Noxious black smoke hung over Nalosan's Imperial Plaza like a funeral shroud, as everywhere the clamor of anarchy rang through the congested streets and thoroughfares of the beleaguered city. Plaintive cries of loss and frustration tore along the avenues, intermingling with piteous wails of the grief that rose to the rooftops in a cacophony of death and despair. A deluge of survivors poured into the vast plaza in a frantic effort to flee the burning city as the beleaguered city watch and royal cavalry struggled to bestow some semblance of order on the panicked mob.

Unseen, Alain Joubert leaned casually against the wall of a gem merchant's abandoned shop and observed the pandemonium with a mixture of amusement and indifference. He harbored little doubt that his malefic sponsor's hand was behind the desperate drama unfolding in the Emercian Capital, recalling that Xhendyn had promised a suitable distraction for his attempt to infiltrate Kammlogran. While the wanton destruction of half of the city could hardly be termed a distraction, Joubert could appreciate the creature's wicked sense of theatrical efficiency. Inclining his head slightly, the ShadowCaster was afforded a clear glimpse of the wide approach to the castle, looming atop the towering sea cliffs on the opposite side of the plaza.

A satisfied grin spread over his thin lips as he noted how the steep incline was virtually deserted, save for a handful of soldiers who paced restlessly back and forth, in obvious agitation, near the raised gate.

For a man of his unique abilities, entering Kammlogran would be as simple as walking through the front gate. The aptness of his analogy elicited a spate of cracked laughter, prompting a rakishly thin man on the adjacent stoop to turn his head in Joubert's direction. Seeing nothing, the man frowned and shook his head in bewilderment. Observing this, the ShadowCaster pushed away from his station and began the tedious process of threading his way through the teeming sea of humanity in the great plaza.

'He heard my voice,' Joubert realized with no small degree of consternation. The significance of this was not lost upon the shrewd Joubert and he turned his thoughts to the precise nature of his present situation and his place in this antiquated world. Xhendyn had been far from forthcoming in divulging the exact nature of Joubert's unique abilities or the anticipated role he would be expected to play in liberating the demon's mistress from her bondage. Joubert had spent many a solitary hour attempting to fathom the motivation for the demon's reluctance to fully enlighten him but found that he could produce no rational explanation. Whatever his motivations might be, Alain decided it was best to assume they would be to Xhendyn's benefit...and thus to Joubert's disadvantage.

One thing was undeniably evident...his abduction into this world had endowed him with an arsenal of unique talents the potential applications for which he had not yet fully grasped. His brutal confrontation with the Jerhia woman had been most enlightening. In this world, he existed on two distinct dimensional planes, the tangible and the ephemeral.

'That's not quite correct,' he amended upon further consideration as he literally passed through the body of a corpulent nobleman like a wraith passing through stone. 'It would be more accurate to theorize that I truly exist on neither of the two planes. Consequently, I can move from one to the other effortlessly and without detection.'

The deduction seemed reasonable and pleased Joubert in a way he could not fully articulate until he recalled the exact nature of what had transpired with the Jerhia. Falling on the unsuspecting woman, Joubert had drawn her into something he could only describe as an alternate reality...or perhaps a purgatorial space between the realities. She had been able to inflict pain upon him there, but that pain had been superficial...more the intimation of pain than actual pain itself. The salient truth of the matter was that he had been able to drag her from the world of the tactile into the domain of the specter. He possessed the power to become insubstantial and, if he chose to do so, the power to make those he touched insubstantial as well. With a simple grasp, his was the ability to literally efface a person or tangible object from the fabric of reality with the casual ease of a pupil erasing a misprint.

The ShadowCaster came to an abrupt halt, stupefied by the staggering ramifications of this revelation. While the scope of his puissance remained undefined, Joubert was beginning to gain a better comprehension of its specific form. A notion germinated in his mind then, like the birth of a malignant cancer, and he pivoted about, searching for the obese pig of a nobleman through whom he had just passed. Gliding up to the man, who was sweating profusely and mopping at his perspiration slicked brow, Alain extended his right arm with his fingers drawn back like the talons of a predatory bird. With a malicious grin dawning on his thin face, Joubert plunged his hand deep into the man's chest. The man stiffened abruptly, his eyes flying open in shock as something cold and incisive passed through flesh, muscle and bone, settling around his galloping heart like a frigid band of cold metal.

As a strangled gasp escaped the man's twisted, bulbous lips, Alain willed his hand into solidity and contracted his fingers around the beating organ like a vice. The man began to thrash in terror with one hand while clutching his chest with the other. With dark, primitive pleasure, Joubert exerted a relentless, remorseless pressure on the heart until it finally burst. A great glut of dark blood spewed from the dead man's mouth, spattering everyone around him with a repulsive red mist, and he collapsed to the cobbles in a convulsing heap.

Driven by fear and revulsion, those in the immediate area began to strain and push in a frantic effort to distance themselves from the still twitching corpse. While the effects of his heinous deed rippled through the crowd like a swelling wave, a thoughtful Joubert drew back into his warren and resumed his march toward Kammlogran.

He had gained a vital insight into the form of his power. That he had killed a man with the casual ease of someone crushing an insect to obtain this understanding had little impact on the morally unencumbered Joubert. On the contrary, Alain Joubert knew that this lack of compunction about the taking of life would only augment the powers he was only now beginning to fathom.

As cursing troopers pushed their way through the mob to determine the newest source of chaos, the ShadowCaster slipped away from his heinous misdeed without so much as a backwards glance. His spontaneous murder of the nobleman set his mind ablaze with a plethora of incredible possibilities, each more fantastical than the last. In his own world, Joubert derived his power from a carefully concocted recipe of money, intimidation and evil cunning. His skilled manipulation of those who served him, and those he served, provided the former cop with the needed advantage to thrive in the unscrupulous, ruthless drug subculture. Be it fate, chance or good fortune, something had seen fit to bestow Joubert with an array of abilities that could best be described as god-like. His shrewd, calculating nature would serve him well as he deciphered the riddle of how to put them to best use in the violent, mysterious world into which he had been drawn.

'Ah, but the man heard your laughter, Alain,' a sober voice cautioned in his mind, tempering his exuberance and causing Joubert to pause just as he emerged from the mob. He stood at the foot of the great stone thoroughfare leading up to Kammlogran's massive gate, staring ponderously at the raised portcullis. Though he hovered in the warren between realities when the laughter had escaped his lips, somehow the man had discerned the ShadowCaster's unseen presence.

How was this possible?

Joubert could not say but was astute enough to realize that it was a matter of consequence. Defining his limitations was every bit as important as discovering his abilities...from the perspective of survival, perhaps even more so.

Shaking his head in consternation, he began to ascend the ramp, surprised by the actual steepness of the incline now that he was actually climbing it.

Alain Joubert was above all else a pragmatist. Logic, however perverse, guided his every thought and action. He did not subscribe to the supernatural or the paranormal and he was most definitely not a spiritualist however liberal a definition one might choose to apply to the cop-turned-miscreant. Here, in the world of the arcane, where a creature of uncertain origin could conjure fire with the casual wave of a hand, Joubert would be forced to re-evaluate the very foundations of his pragmatism. The very fact that he was here at all essentially decimated his very perception of reality and its limits.

Joubert knew enough about human nature to understand that there were different degrees of perception...of consciousness. Just as certain people were endowed with an extraordinary sense of smell or vision, it stood to reason there were also those blessed with a preternatural cognitive acuity. Those with purported paranormal abilities could sense the presence of ghosts and lost spirits, though Joubert was the first to denounce these unsubstantiated claims as utter nonsense.

'Attuned to the presence of ghosts?' he thought with sudden alarm. 'Could I be dead?'

He entertained this horrifying notion briefly and then discounted it. Recalling the almost visceral arousal he had felt when grappling with the pretty Jerhia woman, Alain had no doubt that he was very much alive.

The ShadowCaster was nearly halfway up the incline when something burst through the gates of Kammlogran in a corona of blinding golden light the magnitude of which rivaled the summer sun at its zenith. Even the seasoned guards fell back with startled cries of confusion and trepidation as the figure streaked down the wide approach, plumes of golden effulgence trailing behind it liked the tail of a comet. When it came abreast of the cowering Joubert, the entity paused for a fraction of a second. Through the cocoon of enveloping energy, Alain could make out a vaguely feminine shape, though specific features were obscured by swirling curtains of pure energy. Still, Joubert could feel its incisive gaze settle upon him with a palpable weight that froze his heart and suffused his phantom flesh with terror.

Immobilized by fear, he could only watch as the entity continued on its blazing path down the perilous incline. Every eye in the plaza was drawn to the energy-swaddled creature as it descended upon the sea of humanity. Near the foot of the great approach, terror-stricken peasants began to shriek and throw their bodies into the ranks behind in hopes of escaping what they feared might be another malefic presence.

Rather than collide with the scurrying masses, the entity spread its arms and took to the air, soaring over the plaza and disappearing into one of the thoroughfares that led toward the canal. For several moments, a profound hush fell over the roiling mass of humanity as the throng attempted to digest what they had just witnessed.

Then a single voice rose from somewhere in the throng, its strident declaration echoing over the plaza with a volume and clarity that seemed beyond the faculty of a normal human voice. "God's warrior...sent to save us on this evil day!"

There arose a great cheer as the crowd readily embraced the speaker's exuberant interpretation of what had just transpired.

The ShadowCaster was not certain if the entity had been a warrior of whatever God these filthy peasants worshipped, but he knew unequivocally that it had marked his presence as it passed. In that brief moment of interaction, a vast and immeasurable puissance had brushed over Joubert, effectively disabusing him of the notion that he might well be invulnerable much less a deity.

Profoundly unsettled by what he had just witnessed, Joubert resumed his upward climb, his thoughts turning to the disquieting contemplation of the enemies arrayed against Xhendyn and the dangers of the battle into which he had been unwillingly conscripted.

2

"Stuart, I'm sorry."

Macevey blinked, dragging himself from the pursuit of his own convoluted thoughts. The voice had been so soft and tentative that Stuart could not be entirely certain he'd not simply imagined it. He turned a questioning glance on Azidara who was gazing at him with her disconcertingly blue eyes. With a measure of relief, he saw that her expression was neither sullen, nor angry; the two emotions which marred her lovely face since the deadly confrontation on the path to Dizar Kor two nights previous.

Stuart had attempted to engage Azidara all through that long night and most of the previous day, but she had resisted his efforts, retreating behind a baleful wall of silence. Behind her outrage, Stuart sensed an intense trepidation that found its source not only in her near rape at the hands of the brigands, but in her immutable fear of this man, Veilguix as well. Macevey correctly deduced that, in this world, trepidation was often concealed behind an insurmountable wall of fury and hatred and so he gave up the effort of trying to reason with his angry companion.

At Azidara's frantic insistence, the pair had eschewed the relatively smooth marching of the forest path for a more arduous parallel trek through the woods. Sweating profusely and skirting the edges of exhaustion, Stuart had indulged her fear as he struggled through the thick underbrush. At one point, he'd blithely stumbled into a foul-smelling bog, sinking up to his waist in the span of a heartbeat. Before he could succumb to panic, start thrashing and only hasten his demise, surprisingly strong arms reached under his armpits and pulled him free of the mire. Pulling him a safe distanced from the edge, Azidara dumped Macevey unceremoniously on firm ground and strode around him. Casting an impatient glance over her left shoulder, she advised, "You'd do well to follow in my footsteps as closely as possible."

The rest of the afternoon passed in relative silence with Azidara beating an unerring path through the thick foliage, moving through the forest with the effortless grace of a gazelle, while Stuart traipsed clumsily after her and fatigue closed around him like a vice.

When the sun finally slipped beneath the trees and deep shadows began to pool and eddy on the forest floor, Azidara grasped Stuart's tunic and guided him back toward the path. As they emerged from the trees, a cool breeze coursed down the path, causing a thoroughly sweat-drenched Macevey to shiver with delight. Stealing a furtive glimpse at his companion, he noticed that even the indefatigable Azidara appeared weary from her march through the underbrush.

They came to a point on the trail where a set of rough-hewn planks had been set into the ground to ford a small stream and it was here that Azidara called a halt to their flight for the night. A grateful Macevey stumbled toward the stream and collapsed onto the sandy bank, staring blankly up at the celestial vault where innumerable suns turned their indifferent gaze on his cryptic plight. As he tried to calm his galloping heart and regulate his breathing, Stuart was distantly aware that Azidara had settled beside him.

Several moments passed and a brooding silence descended on the pair, disrupted unexpectedly by Azidara's hesitant apology. Stuart regarded the wheaten-haired beauty, marveling how neither exhaustion nor the fading light were equal to the task of dampening her pulchritude. Her incisive gaze bore into him in an open and earnest way that was at once compelling and unsettling and it was evident that she desired a resolution to the discord between them. "Azidara, you don't owe me an apology. I can't imagine what it must have been like to be confronted by three wretched bastards intent on rape and robbery. You were right in saying that this is a very different world from the one I live in, but you have to understand that it isn't easy to defy your conscience and personal philosophy. To kill an unarmed man is anathema to everything I believe...every value that has ever been instilled in my character. What those men attempted to do to you is deplorable and I was willing to kill them to prevent them from harming you. Once they posed no further threat, I simply couldn't kill in cold blood...not for revenge and certainly not for the inconvenience that they might tell their tale to someone else. It may be contrary to how people think here, but can you understand my perspective at all?"

She continued to gaze steadily at Macevey, though now her expression became pensive. When it appeared that Azidara would not respond, she murmured, "It's very difficult for me to conceive of a place where acts of mercy are the rule and not a rarity. You saved my life and I had no right to be angry...with you. It's imprudent to show weakness here, but I was afraid. I've never been involved in a situation so blatantly ugly...so primitive. I vented my frustration on you and for that I'm genuinely sorry."

Stuart waved his right hand dismissively. "As I mentioned, you have nothing to be sorry for. I have been exposed to a great deal of ugliness and I understand the impact that violence can have on its victims. What you did back on that trail is one of the bravest acts I've ever witnessed. You confronted three armed men who had absolutely no compunction about harming a solitary woman and you not only survived, but you gave the lot of them a decisive beating. Frankly, I may have killed one, but I suspect I may have actually saved the other two."

A radiant smile spread across her lovely face, but her blue eyes were cold and lethal in the waning light. "When the three came out of the trees I was frightened. When that vile pig pawed my breast, I could smell his foul breath and I was afraid...but I was never paralyzed by fear. I refused to be victimized by such scum and took action to defend myself, capitalizing on their certainty that I was a timid flower. Stuart, when I crossed steel with the third, my body was suffused by a sense of elation that I can't adequately describe. When it became evident that I was his superior with a blade, I could smell his fear and it affected me like the finest of wines. Had you not intervened, I would have killed him...and the others as well...unarmed or not. My husband once told me that the taking of life is a grave and sobering thing not to be undertaken lightly. Last night taught me that while this may be true, rage goes a long way towards making the taking of life a good deal easier."

Azidara lapsed into a contemplative silence, her intense gaze shifting off to the gurgling stream and the purple shadows on the opposite bank. Macevey considered warning her about the dark allure of bloodshed and the false promise it conveyed but elected to hold his tongue. He correctly deduced that the concepts of mercy and clemency were well beyond the sensibilities of many who inhabited the strange world into which he had been drawn. He could only pray that the course of events would not carry him to a place where he would ponder violence and murder with the kind of fervor that now shone in his companion's limpid eyes.

After a protracted silence, she sighed and laid her right hand on Macevey's left forearm, her long, elegant fingers absently stroking his skin. Stuart struggled to suppress a shudder as his heart quickened in his chest and a long dormant excitement stirred in his loins. Her soft touch was feathery light and electric on his skin, rife with a complex danger that he could not begin to define.

'Foolish man, another Marika Chambers to fuel the fires of your regrets,' his mind declared contemptuously. There was every indication that this exquisite beauty was his for the taking and yet he would hold her at an emotional distance in the name of prudence. Yet his name flowed from her tongue like liquid amber and honey, exotic and intoxicating. As his manhood stiffened against the course fabric of his trousers, Stuart was intensely grateful for the coming darkness. Azidara appeared oblivious to his squirming discomfort or the way his flesh grew hot beneath her delicate caress. "By mid-day tomorrow, we should reach the outskirts of Dizar Kor. It is a border city and like any city town, it is fraught with people...and rumors, some of which are empty and some of which hold a kernel of truth. If this sisterhood exists, we should be able to glean something of it there."

"Would it not be best to simply rest in this Dizar Kor and press on toward Nalosan without risking drawing attention to ourselves?" Macevey asked, trying to master the distraction of her touch and the throb of his erection.

"When we cross into Emercia, I will be out of my element. Even Dizar Kor will be strange enough, but my husband traveled there often and described the city in great detail. He was not a man prone to embellishment and so I should be able to make my way easily enough. It would be best to know something of these sisters before venturing into Nalosan...especially if their intentions toward you are not benevolent." Azidara's tone was cool and casual, but he sensed turbulence and disquiet beneath her façade of calmness.

'She's apprehensive and trying to hide it beneath a veil of caution,' Macevey suspected.

When Stuart did not reply, Azidara interpreted this as a sign of concurrence. "Once we do reach Dizar, I'm going to ask that you trust me...that you defer to my judgment. Even with the clothes, it will take a simpleton but a few words to deduce that you are not from Fairmarch or Nalosan. Glowering suspicion is a reality of life in my world and there are many who regard strangers as either a menace or someone to take advantage of."

"What would you have me do?" a perplexed Macevey asked, ever cognizant of her fingertips.

She offered him a decidedly wicked grin. "Play the hen-pecked husband and speak only when necessary. Let me arrange the lodgings...perhaps it would be best if we played the role of newlywed villagers come to the town for a bit of dalliance...if you could stand the task of passing each night in my bed of course."

"I think I could manage," Stuart stammered, not at all certain that he could marshal the strength to resist the temptations that proximity and her nubile flesh would offer.

Azidara laughed gaily, her full breasts rising and falling fetchingly beneath her thin blouse. "Once we have found suitable lodging, I will make a few subtle inquiries about this Sisterhood while you maintain a low profile as much as possible. As I've said, Dizar Kor is a border city and if there is information to be had, we should find it easily enough."

"Will the inquiries not raise suspicion?" Stuart ventured. As a police officer and especially as a private detective, Macevey learned that a stranger posing questions created a fast-moving ripple of wagging tongues. Azidara seemed unconcerned by this prospect and shrugged indifferently. "A woman seeking information on a Sisterhood should rouse no undue attention." She arched an eyebrow and added, "A man making similar inquiries would be an entirely different affair."

Stuart absorbed this pearl of wisdom with a thoughtful nod and while he conceded the point, he could not help but notice how she constantly sought to emphasize her indispensability. Distantly, he heard himself ask, "Why are you doing this...going to such lengths to help a man you barely know?"

She shook her head as though perplexed by the question, and abruptly withdrew her hand in a way that signaled her displeasure. "Why do you feel a constant need to question my motivations, Stuart?"

"Earlier you spoke of being out of your element, well I'm as far out of my element as it is possible to be," Macevey began tentatively. "You've asked me to impart my absolute trust to you and I am willing to do so...not just because I see little alternative, but because I believe that you are an extraordinary woman who genuinely means to help me. Still, I need to understand why you are willing to take such extravagant risks on my behalf. I've lived long enough to know that people don't give up everything they own for the sake of desperate strangers."

She looked away for a moment and Stuart could see that she was struggling to retain her composure.

'Stuart, are you really such an ungrateful bastard?' a thin, sardonic voice whispered in his mind, its tone at once derisive and surprised.

Before he could express his regret, Azidara turned back to him, her eyes blazing defiantly.

"I've judged you for a perceptive, sensitive man...perhaps I was mistaken," she seethed and while her tone was frigid, her beguiling blue eyes blazed. She abruptly leapt to her feet and stalked off along the bank of the stream. Macevey watched her go and then hung his head in dismay, wondering dejectedly if his self-imposed isolation had robbed him of the simple social graces of courtesy and gratitude. He climbed to his feet with a heavy sigh and moved after his traveling companion.

He found her some forty paces along the bank of the meandering stream, standing with her back to him and her arms crossed under her breasts. The first light of moon rise cast her silhouette in compelling hues of gold and purple though her rigid posture spoke eloquently of her outrage at his constant suspicion. She became aware of his presence, but made no move to face him, so Macevey ventured over to where she stood and after a moment's hesitation, placed a hand on her shoulder. "Azidara, I'm so sorry. I have no right to question your reasons for wanting to help me. I..."

Before Macevey could utter another word, she whirled about and placing both hands on his chest, pushed him away with a snarl. Despite being several inches shorter and sixty pounds lighter, Azidara was possessed of a surprising strength. Stuart pin wheeled his arms in a struggle for balance, ultimately succumbing to inertia and landing on his posterior in a great splash of water. Before a sputtering and blinking Macevey could fully grasp that he was sitting in the shallows of the stream, a snarling Azidara was upon him. She straddled the startled Macevey, pinning his thighs to the streambed, and plunged her hands into his hair. Before he could react, she jerked his head back and pressed something against his exposed throat. The sensation of cold steel against his flesh informed him that he was feeling the finely-honed edge of her dirk and he went very still.

For a long moment, they remained this way and he could feel her fury emanating from her body in palpable waves. Stuart wondered if there was naught, he could say to appease her anger and then correctly surmised that he would be wise to simply listen to her grievance. She deftly moved the blade against his throat and in his state of heightened awareness, he could hear the blade scrape the stubble from his skin.

When she spoke, her voice was husky with scorn. "Is this what you anticipated, Stuart? Am I helping you simply to lift your purse?" She paused and inclined her head in a posture of feigned contemplation. "Perchance could it be that you haven't a copper to your name and every coin is mine?"

She punctuated this rhetorical question by shaking his head slightly and all the while, her dirk remained poised at his throat...its keen blade a constant menace. "Could it be that I'm a slick opportunist, beguiling you so that I might lead you down the garden path to Dizar Kor where my unsavory friends might ransom you to this mysterious sisterhood? Are these the kind of thoughts that inspire you to such baffling mistrust?"

Abruptly, she allowed the dagger to fall away from his throat. Her head dropped forward and she covered her face with her hand, sobbing softly. A wave of self-contempt overcame Macevey, causing him to shudder. "Azidara, I honestly don't know what to say. If you walked away and left me here to perish, it would be a well-deserved fate."

She raised her head and took his face roughly in her right hand, her nails digging painfully into the flesh of his cheeks. "And just where would I go, Stuart? I am a small village woman who has been driven from the only home she's ever known and there is no going back. Coincidence or providence has thrust us together and you and I are in precisely the same situation...both of us have no true place in this world. Perhaps I am a naïve romantic, but I would prefer to believe that your appearance in my yard was a device of fate...a deliverance from a remorseless life of drudgery and slow decay. If it is folly to believe so, then I am willing to succumb to its allure...can you not do the same?"

Azidara began to cry in earnest then, her firm body wracked by waves of shuddering sobs. It had been a long time since Stuart had the occasion to console another living being, save for the hollow platitudes he used to give comfort to a betrayed spouse. For a painfully protracted moment, he could only sit and wallow in his sense of inadequacy, while the exquisite creature exposed her vulnerability and fear. Finally, he gripped her shoulders and shook her firmly, drawing her tear-distorted gaze to meet his. "I've been alone for a very long time, and I've lost the fundamental ability to impart trust easily...even when it is plainly evident that it is well-deserved. In my vocation, suspicion and mistrust are survival mechanisms. They are valuable tools, but they are not without their inherent dangers. Eventually, you come to regard everyone through a filter of mistrust that occludes every good human quality. I honestly didn't believe I'd reached that point...but perhaps I have."

The obvious confusion in her limpid eyes suggested that she could not entirely grasp the point he was trying to convey, but that she was willing to listen at all was encouraging in itself. "I'm trying to say that I've conditioned myself to believe that everyone has an ulterior motive for every action and gesture, some self-serving motivation that capers behind every act of kindness. These are trenchant prejudices that are going to take a while to overcome...but I swear that I will. You have offered me your unconditional help and kindness...and I vow to accept it just as unconditionally. The issue of trust will never come up again. I'm not sure I accept the notion of fate...but I do subscribe to the idea of luck. Trying to steal clothes from your line is the luckiest break I've ever had. My years in law enforcement helped me develop a keen instinct for character," he began, but his mind interjected with malicious glee, 'Really? Then how would you explain Alain Joubert?' The internal distraction caused him to falter momentarily, but then he concluded, "When I look at you, I see a beautiful woman who is courageous and fiercely determined to master her own life as much as circumstances allow. I admit that I'm terribly confused and more than a little apprehensive, but I'll defer to your judgment from this point forward...if you can forgive me?"

Gradually, the flow of her tears abated as his words of reassurance appeared to assuage her anger. She regarded him silently for several moments, and though her features were partially obscured by the descending darkness, Macevey could sense her intense gaze seeking affirmation in his eyes. Finally, she emitted a long sigh and placed her palm on his cheek, though now her caress was gentle. "If I think on the matter, I admit that your doubt is warranted. In turn, you must understand that I have eschewed an existence...not a life. Your coming and my subsequent decision to help you find these Sisters of Esotaria has opened my eyes to a world of possibilities, where before there was only the grim prospect of slow decay. I did not relish the prospect of squandering the rest of my time in this world slaving over soiled linens while concocting ways to avoid Lethoras' slobbering advances. I will not deny that the uncertainty of our future fills me with no small degree of apprehension, but I would rather a host of uncertainties beset me than drown in the mire of hopelessness that was Wraiths Hollow. Can you grasp any of this, Stuart Macevey?"

Recalling the unrelenting desolation of the life he left behind, Macevey could commiserate completely and simply nodded. Azidara smiled by way of response, though this time, her smile was rather fey...a ghost of its customary brilliance. "So, you see, Stuart, in many respects it is you who have helped me escape a sentence of interminable desperation and boredom that my husband's death conferred upon me. I can pledge my solemn oath never to betray the trust you've imparted...if you will allow me to accompany you on whatever road fate has carved for you in this world...and not set me aside because it seems expedient to do so. Can you do that for me, Stuart Macevey?"

"I will," he pledged thickly, shivering with the electric tension that had woven its way into the fabric of the moment. Azidara continued to scrutinize his face for several long moments, while Macevey struggled not to fidget and squirm beneath her incisive gaze, knowing it was imperative he not seem disingenuous. As her compelling blue eyes regarded him unblinkingly, she intoned, "There is something else that I might give you...something that covetous swine, Lethoras, would readily agree is priceless."

With this, she slowly crossed her long arms over her head and pulled the wet, clinging blouse off, casting it toward the shore without a glance. An incredulous Macevey watched the discarded garment land in the branch of a thicket, before returning his wide-eyed gaze to Azidara's full breasts and the turgid pink nipples that stood proudly forth atop them. She stood in one fluid movement, and never taking her gaze from his, slowly unfastened the buckle of her belt and drew her rough spun trousers and underclothes down her long legs in a slow, smooth movement conceived to afford Macevey an appetizing view of her beautifully proportioned legs.

To Stuart's surprise, her womanhood had been shorn in the style of women from his world. The trousers soon joined the blouse on the shore, and Azidara hovered over a mesmerized Macevey. Standing with hands on hip and one leg bent slightly at the knee, she peered down the length of her magnificent body, honed by a lifetime of hard labor and a private vanity. Without exchanging a word, she extended her right hand and pulled a breathless Macevey to his feet, a satisfied grin spreading over her face at the sight of his tented trousers. She made a great show of divesting him of his clothing, removing each piece, while brushing her distended nipples across his exposed flesh in a subtle, yet deliberate way that made his vision blur.

As she removed each piece of clothing, she would carry it to the bank and fold it carefully, knowing that the enticing sway of her hips and the curved perfection of her buttocks and long legs were driving him to distraction. Stuart suffered her sweet seduction like a man in the depth of a torrid dream. When the last of his clothing had been removed, a self-conscious Macevey stood before his glorious companion, his up-thrust penis swaying before him like a pendulum. Azidara dropped to her knees and held his manhood against her cheek, savoring its heat and hardness with closed eyes. They remained this way for a long time, Azidara kneeling before him cradling his engorged penis against her warm cheek, while Stuart struggled to delay the imminent explosion building in his loins. Around them, the night was alive with the sound of its creatures...birds, insects and the nocturnal hunters who stalked the darkness. The stream in which Azidara carefully choreographed her thorough conquest of her fated stranger babbled softly on its course to the distant ocean.

Macevey heard none of this, the somnolent whispers lost beneath the thundering of his galloping heart and the strident rush of blood in his ears.

With a throaty growl, the wheaten beauty inclined her head and ran the tip of her tongue along the smooth underside of his manhood. Every muscle in Stuart's sinewy body contracted as his back arched and his hips thrust furiously forward. A guttural groan accompanied his release as his seed arced out over the stream. Azidara implored him onward as her hand moved in a frenetic blur, her voice a fierce whisper. The fiber in his thighs turned abruptly to jelly and he remained upright thanks only to the deceptively strong arm encircling his waist.

When he was thoroughly spent, Azidara withdrew her hand, allowing him to collapse on all fours in the stream where he remained with his head hung, gasping from the power of his climax. She stood and strode quickly to the bank, retrieving her dirk from her pack before padding back to the stream. Kneeling beside a glassy-eyed Macevey, she unflinchingly pricked the tip of each finger on her left hand. She held the hand before her as drops of crimson welled up from the tiny wounds until rivulets of blood began to twist their way around her long fingers.

Suddenly, she plunged the hand into the stream and closed her eyes, hissing at the flare of pain. As a mystified Macevey looked on in rapt wonder, Azidara, who was once heralded by another name, declared,

"Mother of water, who grants all of creation sweet life,

take this seed and blood as a token of gratitude and

thanks for your blessed gift of providence. I humbly

entreat you!"

In all that would follow this poignant, gripping moment, Macevey would often question the authenticity of what he next witnessed, but kneeling in the warm, shallow waters of the nameless stream and watching his companion raise a supplicant's plea to the heavens, it appeared that a blue effulgence engulfed Azidara. It enveloped the enigmatic woman in a cocoon of diffuse blue light, and as it enwrapped her in its protective mantle, a triumphant smile emblazoned her lovely face. From Stuart's perspective, she seemed like a Goddess in that moment, with her limpid eyes ablaze and her golden mane trailing blue light like the tail of a streaking comet. Watching her perform this impassioned ritual, Stuart was overcome by an atavistic lust and his erection returned with a fury. As the blue corona of light dissipated, Azidara turned her gaze on Macevey with a wanton's grin adorning her sensuous lips. She stalked to the edge of the stream with a panther's grace and lay down so that her lower body remained submerged in the warm water while her torso reclined on the grassy bank.

Azidara crossed her long arms, pulling her firm breasts to their most enticing angle, and let her left leg splay to one side. Her smoldering gaze was at once an exhortation and an irresistible command...one that Macevey heeded without thought or hesitation. Like a primitive beast, he crawled through the water and went into her open arms, marveling at the heat radiating from her pliable flesh. He entered her in long languid strokes, exercising as much restraint as years of denial and soaring lust would allow. For her part, Azidara implored him onward, locking him to her will in a vice of strong arms and long, powerful legs and scoring the flesh of his back with her nails.

They reached their climax with Stuart's face buried in the crook of her neck while Azidara muffled her cries by biting deep into the flesh of his shoulder. In the intermingling of ecstasy and incisive pain, Stuart experienced a moment of undiluted empathy and perfect union with the exquisite creature beneath him. In that rarest of moments, he could accept her vision that theirs was a meeting of destiny...that they were true kindred spirits in the midst of an obscure but momentous drama. When the last shudder had subsided, Stuart gazed down upon Azidara to discover that she was searching his face for some profound insight. With a solemn nod, she intoned, "Now you see the truth of what I've proclaimed."

Stuart kissed her, his tongue tracing the full pillows of her lips, and nodded. In the next moment, a startled Macevey found himself being rolled over in a tangle of limbs, coming to rest peering up into Azidara's luminous blue eyes and the star-smattered heavens beyond. A wicked grin twisted her lovely face as she whispered, "The night is young, and my craving is far from sated."

Later, as they lay naked beneath a blanket, her head nestled on his shoulder, Stuart gazed up into the night sky, pondering the capricious nature of the creature called fate. Azidara claimed that fate had led him stumbling into her yard. As he luxuriated in the rise and fall of her firm breasts against his bare chest, he fervently prayed that she would not come to rue the day fate turned its jester's gaze upon them.

Chapter Twenty-One

1

By the time King Artumas stumbled back into the Imperial Plaza, weariness had closed upon him like cruel pincers and his legs felt leaden and painful. He stumbled once, but the extraordinary creature that had saved his city, deftly caught his elbow and held him upright. He offered Lissom a smile of gratitude and quickly averted his eyes, finding it difficult to look upon her ethereal visage for more than a few seconds. He felt somehow dirty and unworthy in her presence, as though his proximity would sully her perfection. Behind him came the remaining Sisters of Esotaria, led by their Matrium. To a one, they wore identical expressions of grim determination intermingled with sorrow and Artumas vowed that the name of every fallen sister would be emblazoned on the walls of the city in gold.

He was numbed by the sheer scope of the devastation that had befallen his beloved city and could not begin to contemplate the loss of life that had resulted from Xhendyn's savage attack. Many of the dead were small people of little consequence, whose passing would not be mourned and whose lives would soon be forgotten. This struck Artumas as the most tragic aspect of what would surely become one of the grimmest moments in Emercia's long history.

Slowly, the Royal Cavalry and the City Watch were managing to impose some sense of order on the confused, grief-stricken and angry citizens crammed into the confines of the sprawling Plaza. Like a writhing snake, the throng was slowly, inexorably winding its way out of Nalosan via the west gate and onto the open plain that had been carved out of the great forest to facilitate the defense of the city.

"My sisters will help treat and heal the wounded...and console the dying," Lissom intoned calmly. "As will I."

He stole a brief glance in her direction and murmured, "You have my thanks, though nothing I could say or give you would be sufficient compensation for all you have done for my city."

"We are but the daughters of Gyzarayne. We serve her will...her divine blessing is our compensation," Lissom responded softly, her serene blue eyes turning briefly skyward. "It is our obligation to bring solace and comfort to those in need, and enlightenment to those from whom oppression has occluded the light and wisdom of her countenance. Still, your sincere gratitude is appreciated."

There was something unsettling about her serenity in the face of so much carnage and death. It occurred to Artumas that this woman was a divine being and as such, the workings of her mind were unfathomable riddles that he lacked the requisite intellectual dexterity to solve. All around him, there flowed a sea of frightened, sodden and disheveled survivors of a hellish ordeal, struggling to come to terms with the calamity that had descended upon their lives like a maelstrom. Even the other Sisters of Esotaria, despite their noble bearing and dignity, displayed poignant reminders of the ordeal they had just endured. The battle with Xhendyn's fire demon had left the Sisters battered, bloody and filthy. Every eye reflected the profound pain of loss and the emotional toll of the deadly conflict that had taken five of their sisters to whatever after world this Gyzarayne might offer.

'And yet, this Ascentrix displays no outward sign of loss or grieving,' Artumas observed. Even the mind-boggling tableau of destruction around them seemed to have no effect on the creature who glided beside him as though on a carpet of wind. In the deep recesses of his exhausted mind, a shrill voice attempted to deliver an exigent admonition, but he deliberately cut it short. In his present state, he was incapable of facing the inevitable comparison between Lissom and Myrhia.

The Ascentrix must have sensed something of his disquiet because she placed a hand on his shoulder and as if divining his thoughts, remarked quietly, "Grief is a luxury that I cannot afford, good king. Surely, circumstances have imparted this harsh lesson to you over the years. My sisters look to me for guidance and wisdom...I must be a source of strength and comfort. I must subjugate my pain to better fulfill my obligation to those who would draw strength from me. If I falter and crumble in the face of adversity and loss, can I rightfully expect better from those who follow me? As a king of good merit, you know this to be true."

Trying to conceal his shock, Artumas merely nodded, not fully trusting himself to speak, lest he pose the deluge of questions forming on his tongue. Her point was well taken, despite her unnerving ability to discern his thoughts as if he had spoken them aloud. In moments of dark crisis, a king's first obligation was to stand as an unflagging pillar of strength and reassurance for those he ruled, conveying the impression (however false) that he could master any and all threats to his rule and realm.

'Never has that charade been thinner than it is at this moment,' he thought disdainfully. 'I am a vessel that is all but empty and if they look to me as their source of sustenance then I fear they shall be bitterly disappointed.'

Lissom was speaking again, and Artumas inclined his head in her direction to discover that she was indeed enveloped by a subtle golden corona, there but barely perceptible in the brooding mid-afternoon gloom. "The ferocity and effectiveness of this attack further demonstrates the need for urgent action," she was saying, her warm hand caressing his injured shoulder as she spoke. "You must allow the sisters to take possession of the remnant and remove it from your shores."

For the first time since her ascension, the king observed a sense of anxiety in Lissom's voice and though the logic of her argument was irrefutable in light of all that had befallen his city, the old stubbornness would not easily relinquish its claim on his heart.

"We will speak of this once I have attended to the needs of my city," he replied almost curtly, noting how her tapered eyebrows arched in response to his deliberate evasion. The Ascentrix elected not to pursue the issue for the moment, though she was clearly perplexed by his reluctance to agree. When Artumas stumbled for a second time, a grimace contorting his features, she quickly steadied the faltering king and guided him over to the wall of a nearby shop.

'Even with his city decimated, he hesitates to relinquish control of the remnant,' Karosyn observed, communicating empathically with her Ascentrix, though the Matrium's face remained impassive.

As the Ascentrix stepped in front of Artumas, she responded silently, 'This only confirms my suspicion that they are both transcendent souls. This makes gaining possession of Myrhia and removing her from these shores all the more critical. It must be delicately done.'

The reference to transcendent souls did provoke a reaction from Karosyn, however slight. Her eyes widened slightly, and her mouth tightened, but in his state of distraction, the Emercian King did not notice. His eyes were transfixed upon the mesmerizing Lissom as she gently, but firmly compelled him to sit on a crumbling step. Then she knelt gracefully before him and studied his grime-smeared face. "Good king, you are perilously close to collapse...it would be prudent to rest and allow your sworn men to attend to the needs of your city."

Her observation, though unerringly accurate, was nonetheless stinging. He offered her a humorless grin and reminded her, "As you have so recently observed, a true king is not afforded the luxury of weakness in the face of peril. The people of Nalosan need to see that their king has not forsaken them. Tonight, I will take my repose in comfort while many will sleep on sodden grass."

The Ascentrix smiled and for an instant, Artumas thought he could detect a measure of fondness in her serene smile. "Just so. Then allow me to provide you with the means to meet their needs."

Reaching out, she placed the flat of her palm on his left breast. His eyes widened as his body was immediately suffused by a deep, comforting warmth that quickly stilled the throbbing in his aging joints and banished his weariness. He looked at her questioningly and she explained, "I have infused your body with a measure of my arcane energy...it will fortify your flesh for a time, but the effect is temporary and when it expires, weariness will fall upon you like a mallet. Karosyn will provide you with a sleeping-draught that will serve you well, good king."

She withdrew her hand and stood, but Artumas could feel the effects of her magic lingering in the fibers of his muscles and the marrow of his bones. It had been years since he had experienced such a pervasive sense of wellbeing.

'This is what it means to be young again,' he realized with no small measure of wonder. He glanced up to find Lissom gazing down upon him with her mesmerizing blue eyes. "Thank you," he said simply and after a moment's consideration, added, "You have already done so much on my behalf, but if I could impose upon you for one last boon..."

"Artumas, it is my fervent hope that you and I will build the closest of friendships. If it is within my power to grant, you need only ask," she intoned softly.

"Queen Lorio confided what had transpired between the two of you last night. She is an impulsive woman, but I cannot begin to describe the torture and torment she endured under Myrhia's cruel hand...perhaps greater suffering than any unfortunate enough to fall within the enchantress' shadow. If you could find it in yourself to forgive her rash action..."

"There is naught to forgive. She allowed me to share her anguish...to experience her pain vicariously. I have allayed her misgivings...just as I hope to allay yours. All is well between us."

Artumas nodded, genuinely relieved that there would be no festering animosity between the pair. He then recounted what had befallen Lorio in the alleyway as she attempted to stop the apparent robbery. Lissom listened intently, her flawless brow furrowing slightly as the king described Xhendyn's attack on the Lamish Queen and the effect it had upon the immortal. "If you could attend to her..."

Suddenly overcome by emotion, His voice trailed off and he averted his eyes to the Royal Plaza. Ever perceptive, Lissom touched his shoulder and assured him, "I will do all that is within my power to ameliorate her condition. She is important to you."

The last remark had been phrased as an observation, so Artumas merely nodded. "She is the daughter I longed to have...wild and tempestuous. I need to know exactly how Xhendyn has afflicted her."

'As do we all,' the Ascentrix thought, cognizant of the role Lorio was intended to play in the apocalyptic conflict to come. "I will go to her now. I warn you that it may not be easy to discern the nature of the cantrip that Xhendyn has inculcated into the Queen. Very often, such devices will remain dormant until such time as they might achieve their desired effect."

Artumas grimaced but nodded tightly as the Ascentrix gave voice to his greatest fear. Seeing his dismay, she favored him with a brilliant smile and intoned, "Xhendyn may well be a master of the dark arts, but I assure you that I am more than his equal. I will find a way to exorcise his demon from her flesh."

Having said this, Lissom turned on heel and headed in the direction of Kammlogran, with her entourage of battle-weary sisters trailing after her. A bemused Artumas watched her go, at once leery and fascinated by the complex puzzle she represented. There had been a measure of supreme confidence in her last vow, one that seemed incongruent with her mantle of humility. For Lorio's sake, the King of Emercia prayed that hers was the wherewithal to make good on her boast.

2

Over the next few bells, Artumas threw himself into the daunting task of attending to his grievously wounded city. He was privately staggered by the immensity of the need left in the wake of the demon's fiendish attack. To his Military Consul Redrick, he assigned the task of establishing an orderly sub-city in the shadow of Nalosan's west wall where the displaced would be housed until the damage to the surviving parts of the city could be assessed.

Calamity always bred the worst in certain segments of humanity and so the king commanded the master of the city watch to have his men patrol the streets against looters. Artumas had long prided himself on his refusal to succumb to heavy-handedness, but he could ill afford to have his city's torment further aggravated by rampant looting and so he instructed Rymaxis to slay looters and have their bodies hung from the battlements of Kammlogran. He hoped that a few such ghoulish displays would be sufficient to discourage the unscrupulous opportunists who might have survived the destruction of the Trough.

Next, Artumas summoned Tygon, his Consul for trade, and Serran, his Master of the Royal Purse, from Kammlogran, where they stood guard over the treasury as though it contained their own personal fortune. Tygon's penchant for the dramatic and Serran's dour lamentations concerning impending bankruptcy of the realm were irksome at the best of times, but set against the backdrop of calamity, today Artumas found them to be insufferable. He curtly overrode their dire warnings concerning free flowing treasury funds and instructed them to purchase whatever provisions Redrick deemed necessary to adequately house those displaced by the conflagration. The pair had stalked off together, grumbling about what they viewed as flagrant squander. He marked their exit with no small degree of bewilderment, shocked that they could not overcome their callous parsimony even in the face of unspeakable tragedy. During the long and arduous journey through the Land of Shades, he and Islena Doraux had passed many hours in discussion of governance. He had questioned her at length about the ways in which the people of her world were ruled and was shocked to learn of the importance afforded to even the most unfortunate of individuals in her society. He privately harbored the dream that some of these concepts of compassion and dignity would become enshrined in the legacy he intended to leave behind for Emercia.

On dark days such as this one, it was impossible to foresee this as being anything more than a particularly capricious pipe dream...not as long as men such as Tygon and Serran helped guide the realm.

'And creatures such as Xhendyn sought to destroy it,' his mind added dismally. Refusing to succumb to the mire of pessimism, he turned his attention back to the immediate needs of his subjects.

Finally, Artumas summoned Royal Quartermaster Symund and instructed him to open the royal larder so that the people of Nalosan would be adequately provided with grain and dried meats until supplies could be commandeered from surrounding towns and villages. The taciturn Symund listened closely and bowing, took his leave without comment. Once these tasks had been assigned, the king and his escort pushed their way through the west gate, where he spent the remainder of the afternoon intermingling with the displaced, offering what comfort he could to those who had been injured or lost loved ones in the pyre.

His words of commiseration rang hollow to his own ears, even as they rolled off his tongue with facile grace. 'Hollow platitudes,' he thought with no small measure of self-contempt. 'Your inane refusal to surrender control of Myrhia is as much responsible for their misery as is Xhendyn's fire demon.' As he circulated throughout the field, he was aware of the Sisters of Esotaria, who ministered tirelessly to the sick and dying. There was a certain grace and dignity to each and every one of the mysterious women and as he watched them surreptitiously, he observed that all of the woman were shockingly similar, both in deportment and physical appearance. Statuesque and lovely, the women appeared to have sprung from a similar mold. Artumas wondered if this was mere coincidence or if something in their esoteric indoctrination engineered the physical changes.

He was pondering the improbability of this aberration, when Redrick and the Master of the City Watch came galloping through the milling common folk, scattering them like ravens. Artumas frowned, but his ire over their reckless approach quickly dissipated as the two men slid from their horses, wearing expressions that were as dark as the black smoke that still hovered over the city like a funeral shroud.

As Redrick made his way toward his king, Artumas could not help but notice the tentative nature of his step, so unlike his usual purposeful stride. Even the way he deliberately averted his eyes hinted that something extremely grave had transpired. Artumas could feel cold sweat beading on the nape of his neck as he watched the men approach.

"I would ask if we've been cursed with more ill fortune, but your grim expressions tell me all I need to know, save the particulars," the king ventured, still dreading the news his Consul would disclose.

Redrick finally turned his gaze directly upon the king, revealing the full extent of his anguish. Artumas was shocked to discover that there were tears glistening in the hard man's eyes. 'Lorio! Something has happened to Lorio,' was his first thought and he could feel himself stumbling closer to the precipice of utter despair.

The Consul groped for the words to explain what had transpired and found that he was unequal to the task. He turned away and waved a hand for the Master of the Watch to speak in his stead. Artumas saw that his old friend was shaking perceptibly, and his unease grew geometrically as he waited for the captain to begin.

"Your majesty, we've discovered a body on the Royal Green," the younger man began with a grimace as though fearing this revelation might poison his soul.

Artumas eyed the disquieted man questioningly, sensing that his faltering world was about to take yet another heart wrenching plunge deeper into the chasm of utter despair. "This is a day of discovering bodies, I would think. The very fact that you have personally brought me news of this specific discovery tells me that this is someone of consequence?"

Redrick swallowed with an audible groan, but recovered his composure sufficiently to intone, "We've found the Jerhia Emissary, my king...Lady Melansa has been...savaged!"

3

As he slogged across the sodden grass of the Royal green, a single thought kept resonating in the confines of his skull like the mordant clanging of a death bell. 'This charade is over...from this day forth, I am a king in name only until Arminda comes to lay this mummer's farce to rest.'

He could feel cold water seeping through his soft felt boots, driving a deep and painful chill into his arthritic bones. There was no genuine sorrow in this persistent realization, rather only a burgeoning sense of relief that he could at last jettison the burden of pretense that his disastrous rule required.

'Melansa, by all that is holy, please let it not be Melansa!' he implored the tumultuous heavens, despite his long prevailing certainty that there was no one to heed his desperate plea.

He could sense his retinue plodding dutifully behind him...could glean their revulsion and knew unequivocally that his most strident entreaty could never undo the reality that awaited him over the next rise.

Still, nothing could have adequately prepared him for the horror revealed as he crested a long slope and came face to face with the detritus that had not so long ago been a dear and respected friend.

A deep groan escaped his lips and the world swam violently in and out of focus as his beleaguered mind rebelled against the atrocity his watery eyes conveyed. Redrick attempted to steady the swaying king, but Artumas brusquely jerked his arm away from the other man's grasp.

'Everything he holds sacred will soon be taken from him,' Xhendyn's dire vow rose unbidden to his mind then. Confronted by the horror hanging before him, Artumas could scarcely deny that the monster was only small increments from making good on his threat. Nalosan was in ruins. Lorio was stricken by his evil and now lovely Melansa had been murdered and left to hang like a barbaric ornamentation heralding the utter ruination of everything that Artumas had aspired to construct.

"Take her down!" he croaked at no one in particular, averting his eyes from the abomination, though the horrific image was indelibly burned into the fabric of his psyche. As he searched the faces of those who accompanied him, Artumas noted similar expressions of shivering revulsion on each. Many of these troops were battle-hardened veterans who had witnessed their share of bloody carnage, but the fundamental wrongness of the Jerhia's death and subsequent mutilation was difficult to suffer.

Artumas stole one final glance at her ruined body and shuddered. Melansa's assailants had stripped her naked and hung her upside down from the branch of an oak tree. Her knees were draped over the heavy limb and rusted iron spikes had been driven through the muscles of her thighs to secure her in place.

The protruding ends of the iron spikes were speckled with blood.

Her ruined torso had been eviscerated with all the skill of an incompetent butcher; the muscles of her abdominal cavity peeled back to reveal an empty vessel. Both of her breasts had been sliced away. In their place, the glittering intaglio of the Emerald Enchantress winked obscenely in the dull light. Countless flies buzzed frantically, feasting on the rapidly desiccating flesh and dried blood. Their maddening natter resounded in Artumas' head until he feared it would drive him mad.

As the horror-numbed assembly looked on, a brazen raven landed on Melansa's chin and began to pluck at her glazed eyeballs. Bellowing a cry of disgust, one of the Royal Troopers raised his crossbow and loosed a bolt, impaling the squawking bird with uncanny accuracy. It fell to the sodden grass and thrashed about for several seconds before falling forever silent.

A pasty-faced Redrick ordered that cavalrymen retrieve ladders from the castle to facilitate Melansa's extrication from the oak tree. The cavalrymen wheeled their horses about and thundered away, relieved to be away from the ghastly display.

Artumas stood on the grassy common, head bowed slightly, and realized that for the first time in his long tenure as ruler of Emercia, he hadn't the slightest notion of how to proceed from this moment forth. He could feel total exhaustion bearing down upon him and recalled the Ascentrix's admonition that her spell was a temporary reprieve.

'Let it come then,' he thought bitterly, understanding that the cold embrace of unconsciousness would be preferable to the nightmare of this precise juncture in time where a lovely young woman could serve as a monster's declaration of contempt and invulnerability.

His gaze was drawn to the back of the assembled troopers, where ranks of cavalry were tentatively parting to make way for the approach of Lissom, Karosyn and a dozen other Sisters of Esotaria. Artumas tracked their approach closely and saw identical expressions of dawning horror and revulsion blossom on each and every face at the first glimpse of Melansa's brutalized remains.

Only the Ascentrix displayed no outward sign of emotion, her reaction to the atrocity concealed behind a seemingly unflappable mask of serenity. Her placid visage roused an intense ire in the king, but an inner voice cautioned against rushing to hasty judgment. In truth, this creature's arcane nature was every bit as mysterious and incomprehensible as the magic she so effortlessly wielded. She came to a halt before the king, her gaze shifting briefly to the suspended body before settling on the king's haggard face. Her eyes narrowed ever so slightly and Artumas could feel something tickling the fringes of his consciousness.

'She's divining my thoughts,' he realized, both amazed and irked by the presumption.

"I'm sorry, good king," she intoned, the dulcet strains of her voice flooding his mind like a soothing balm. "Both for your loss...and my intrusion. It is an ability I tend to wield too readily. You cared for her deeply."

The flat declaration of his sentiment made Artumas uncomfortable and he was profoundly aware of the eyes of his subordinates grimly watching the exchange.

"I did," he replied tersely. "She was a fine emissary of her nation and this is an ineffably cruel end. Is it within your power to restore her...to some degree of normalcy...to undo some of her mutilation?"

He faltered then, tears lurking perilously close to the surface, and Lissom placed a placating hand on his shoulder, suffusing his body with the same flood of invigorating effulgence, banishing his tears and calming his turbulent mind. "Good king, remove your men from this place and allow us to tend to this woman's body. It is within the Sisters' power to grant her the dignity she deserves."

He started to move away and then hesitated, peering into her ethereal face. "Could you remove that obscenity from her flesh?"

Lissom shifted her gaze to the suspended corpse, her eyes settling on the emerald intaglio that had been fused into the very bones of Melansa's violated body and for the first time, a shadow rippled across her placid face. "Artumas, the creature who did this intended to demonstrate his flagrant disregard for precious human life and at the same time, it was meant to illustrate just how vulnerable you are."

Artumas nodded, his lips pressed into a bloodless slash. He knew all too well precisely what Xhendyn sought to impart both with this gruesome murder and his attack on the seemingly impervious Lorio. Abruptly, the Ascentrix reached out and gripped the king's wrist with surprisingly powerful fingers, her limpid blue eyes suddenly ablaze. "Rest assured that this monster did not anticipate my sudden appearance and if he believes that he can assail your kingdom with impunity, he will quickly discover that he has made an immense error in judgment...one that will prove ultimately fatal."

Though her words were delivered in a barely audible voice, their ferocity resonated through Artumas' aging body and he could almost rouse a tiny measure of pity for Myrhia's henchman. That pity dissipated into seething fury when his eyes happened upon Melansa's ravaged remains. "I owe you a debt of gratitude that I probably lack the currency to repay. Indeed, all of Emercia is in your eternal debt, Milady."

She relaxed her grip on his wrist and leaned closer until her firm right breast pressed against his arm, sending a different kind of sensation coursing through his body. "Your friendship is the only recompense I ask, Artumas. That, and your acceptance that the Sisters of Esotaria are benevolent in their intentions toward your country. Now, if it pleases you, perhaps we could return to the castle and examine Queen Lorio while the Matrium attends to Emissary Melansa."

Artumas found himself led away from the unsettling spectacle of his friend's demise the way a child might be shepherded from a disturbing sight by a matron. He was forced to remind himself that the creature who now guided him was two hundred years his senior.

As the Ascentrix squired the king in the direction of Kammlogran and Karosyn and the others set about removing Melansa from her perch, Dynok absorbed the spectacle with a barely concealed measure of disdain.

'He is falling under her thrall,' he thought ruefully, disgusted by the ease with which these new players in this epic drama had inculcated themselves into the king's good graces. Before these damnable sisters had made their unexpected appearance, throwing his lot in with Xhendyn and his mistress seemed a prudent choice. Drinking in the poetry of Lissom's swaying hips as she crested a sloping rise, it occurred to Dynok that fate may well have turned its capricious and disapproving gaze squarely upon his treachery. Still, Dynok was shrewd enough to understand that his fate was now inexorably tied to Xhendyn and the success of his machinations. Despite his mounting distaste for his sponsor and his methods, the Consul realized that his own survival was dependent upon the success of the demon's schemes. He turned to Redrick, whose complexion now resembled curdled milk, and intoned sardonically, "Our good king seems smitten with this creature. I wonder if he is remotely aware of the similarities between this Lissom and the deceiver who once betrayed him. What do you suppose she is, Redrick...beneath that façade of exquisite beauty?"

The military consul eyed the younger man with barely concealed distaste. The enmity between the two was long standing, though, in truth, Dynok enjoyed goading the older man more than he actually disliked the consul. "At this moment, she is the savior of Nalosan. It would be difficult to perceive judging her in any other light."

Dynok responded with a sour glare and flipping a lock of blond hair back from his brow, declared darkly, "Then let us hope that our new savior doesn't lead us all into the pits of damnation."

Without awaiting a reply, he wheeled about and stalked off, leaving a bemused Redrick staring after him.

4

As Artumas and the Ascentrix entered the Royal Plaza and began to hurry in the direction of Kammlogran's access ramp, the king was heartened to see that some semblance of order was returning to the sprawling square. A steady stream of provisions was being hauled down the steep incline and funneled out into the makeshift tent city that was well on its way to being established just beyond the west gate.

"I'm impressed by the efficiency of your military, King Artumas," the Ascentrix remarked as they stopped to allow a train of creaking wagons to pass toward the main gate. "Their response to the earlier chaos probably saved thousands of lives just here on the common."

Artumas recalled the conduct of the cavalrymen near the canal and grimaced. Overall, the performance of his soldiers and city watch was commendable. "They have been held to a high standard of professionalism. Nor is it easy for them to escape the shameful recollection that they once were Myrhia's pawns in her campaign of oppression and conquest. I suspect this memory may serve as an added incentive to excel...to efface that stain."

He stopped...stunned by this revelation made to a woman who was not only a complete stranger, but whose nature he could not begin to comprehend. He was reluctant to speak of Myrhia, much less comment on the manner in which she had scarred his country. In Lissom's presence, he could feel a compelling desire to lay bare every harbored pain and frustration as if she was capable of ameliorating every wound, however deep.

'Who is to say...perhaps she is?' While not without its inherent attractions, the question drew the automatic comparison to another woman and Artumas could feel a cold sweat break out on the nape of his neck. He shivered, distantly aware that she was watching him in that unsettlingly frank way of hers.

An indecipherable emotion flared in those unsettling blue eyes and she declared softly, "Artumas, I sense your disquiet in my presence...and I grasp some of its essence, though I will not intrude deeper on your thoughts. You view me with a degree of ambivalence that finds its origins in the betrayal suffered at the hands of the defiler. While the circumstances of our coming may be disturbingly similar, all resemblance to Myrhia ends there...I am a true Ascentrix and chosen servant of Gyzarayne, while she was a devious impostor."

"Intellectually, I accept this given the sacrifices of this dark day, but my emotions will not surrender their uncertainties so readily," Artumas allowed quietly, seeing little point in evasion.

Lissom continued to scrutinize the aging king for several seconds and then a brilliant smile broke over her lovely face like the dawning of the sun. "Caution is a prudent quality for a king, especially in times such as these. I will labor tirelessly to earn your trust Artumas." Her expression darkened perceptibly, and she intoned, "In the dark days to come, events will afford many opportunities to demonstrate my sincerity...and value."

They resumed their march in silence, the expression of inscrutable serenity stealing over the Ascentrix's face once again. As Artumas trudged wearily over the water-slicked paving stones, he entertained the notion of sharing his intention to relinquish power in Emercia to the Jerhia, but elected to remain silent, not certain how the seemingly benevolent Ascentrix might react to what they were sure to perceive as a complication. They began the arduous climb up the approach ramp but stopped when Artumas caught sight of a single man hurrying quickly down the steep incline, his boiled leather soles ringing stridently on the treacherously slick stone. Artumas stopped abruptly, his jaw dropping in shock and dismay.

Sensing his dismay, Lissom swiftly raised her right arm and a golden effulgence took shape in the cusp of her palm, crackling with unrestrained power. Deducing that she perceived the approaching man as a threat, Artumas hastily declared, "Lissom, all is well...he is the Captain of the Hand of the Way."

Her gaze shifted from the man to the king questioningly and she closed her fist, abruptly cutting off the golden light. The Captain came to a skidding halt before his king, a bewildered expression etched into the lean, angular features of his handsome face. That expression, combined with the black dust that caked the normally immaculate white enameled armor he wore, informed Artumas that fate's bleak design for Emercia was still unfolding. Captain Esuruban dropped lithely to one knee and bowed his head, his long blond hair falling lankly about is face, revealing a bloody jagged wound that traversed the length of his scalp. Artumas saw that it was not perspiration that plastered his hair to his face, but blood. Extending his hand, the king pulled the tottering warrior to his feet and inquired urgently, "Is the portal secure? How did you come by your wound?"

Before Esuruban could respond, the Ascentrix stepped forward and placing a delicate hand on his pauldron, firmly pushed him back to his knees. The captain gazed questioningly at the stranger but did not resist as his knees folded as though of their own accord. "I will bind your wound, lest it fester," she informed the startled Captain, her voice soft yet irresistible. "There will be a sensation of warmth, but it is necessary to prevent infection."

As a fascinated Artumas looked on, Lissom placed the palm of her hand on the Captain's gore-slicked head. Immediately, a golden glow enveloped her hand and the smell of boiling blood assailed the king's nostrils. Esuruban hissed and stiffened but made no move to pull away. After a moment the searing pain relented to a pervasive warmth and when the Ascentrix removed her hand, the gaping wound had been bound, replaced by a thin scar of puckered white flesh. The Captain tentatively traced the outline of the scar with a jagged, dirty nail, regarding Lissom with eyes as wide as gold coins. The Ascentrix smiled and bid the Captain to rise. "The wound has been cauterized and will not fester...in time, your hair will conceal the scar."

"Captain Esuruban , perhaps you'd care to share what has compelled you to leave your post," Artumas interjected, his tone conveying both impatience and anxiety. The Captain rose to his feet and bowed deeply, before haltingly delivering his dire news.

"The portal gate has been destroyed!" he reported gravely, the frank declaration compelling Artumas to recoil in horror.

"How?" the king demanded, perceptibly shaken by the report. Lissom's gaze shifted rapidly from the Hand of the Way Captain to the king, her customary placidity giving way to burgeoning concern.

Esuruban ran his mailed fingers through his blood-soaked hair, grimacing as they grated over his still tender scar. "A deep rumble shook the castle...surely it was felt throughout the city...and the portal chamber ceiling simply collapsed. The stone fractured like dried kindling, coming down in massive slabs of granite. Two of the hand keepers were killed and the portal device crushed beneath the rubble."

Artumas and Lissom exchanged knowing glances, both discerning that the rumble that apparently destroyed the portal was the aftershock created by the Ascentrix's destruction of the fire demon. "That was bells ago!" the king fumed. "Why was I not informed immediately?"

Esuruban grimaced, sensing his liege's displeasure. "The fault is mine. I ordered that the word not be passed until the exact nature and extent of the damage to the portal was determined. It has taken us most of the day to remove the debris and stone. This entire section of Kammlogran is unstable."

Artumas managed to suppress the caustic rejoinder knowing that it would serve little purpose under the circumstance. In the chaotic aftermath of Xhendyn's attack, it was fortunate that anyone could still function on even the most basic level. Ever cognizant of his own shortcomings, Artumas was the first to recognize this essential truth.

'What's more, the immediacy of being apprised of the gate's destruction would have done nothing to change the fact,' he thought with a sigh of resignation.

Lissom gently but firmly gripped the sleeve of the king's tattered tunic, her eyes narrowing slightly. "What is this portal of which he speaks?"

Along with the intense exigency in her tone, there was the clear expectation of an answer. Knowing that her prescience could glean the answer if she so chose, Artumas was nonetheless compelled to disclose only half the answer to her query. "The portal is a magic warren that provides immediate access to the compound where the remnant of Myrhia is held. It is a gateway powered by Metocan magic."

"And now it is destroyed?" she inquired of Esuruban with an uncharacteristic ferocity.

The Captain nodded grimly. "Pulverized by tons of stone and timber."

Lissom contemplated the ramifications of this for several seconds. "Artumas, I must see this gate and determine if something can be done to repair the damage. Where is the destination gate of this warren?"

Artumas had anticipated this question and admitted sheepishly, "In truth, I do not know. The compound and receiver gate were fashion by the Metocan and I was never apprised of its location in accordance with the armistice that ended the war."

Lissom's uncharacteristically sour frown indicated that she was mightily perturbed by his response, but she elected not to pursue the matter for which the king was genuinely grateful. "Perhaps the residual energy of the warren will help me trace its path. Let us hurry then."

Without awaiting his acquiescence, she spun about and resumed her hurried ascent up the great ramp. Artumas made to follow the enigmatic beauty, but Esuruban made one final revelation in a soft, furtive voice, "My king, there is more. In addition to the two hands who died in the collapse, one of my men was found just outside of the antechamber...his throat had been slashed from ear to ear and his sword and daggers were still in their scabbards."

Artumas' pale blue eyes widened, immediately staggered by the significance of that final detail. Those selected to serve as hands of the way were the elite of the Emercian army, the pinnacle of a thousand years of military tradition second only to the Jerhia. That someone could possess the stealth and skill to murder a hand without him even having the opportunity to draw his weapon was unsettling in the extreme.

"How is that possible?"

Esuruban peered directly into Artumas' eyes, his gaze reflecting the extent of his own unease. "I have no explanation my king. As you well know, there is only one solitary approach to the antechamber, and it was deliberately constructed without alcoves so that a stealth approach would not be possible. Nizaric was posted just before the main doors and it was here that he was found."

"Could it be possible that his murderer was known to him? Familiarity might afford sufficient opportunity to get close enough to deliver a surprise attack," Artumas offered, though darker explanations dismissed this even as he uttered the thought.

The Captain shook his head vigorously. "Other than another hand or yourself, we are trained to assume that everyone approaching the doors might well have hostile intentions. I can personally testify that my men are never lax in this procedure. They understand intrinsically what it is they protect."

Artumas contemplated this for a moment, verifying the truth of it through his own personal observations over the last six years. One other explanation presented itself, but it seemed too implausible to grant serious consideration; perhaps one of the Hand of the Way had murdered their own. When Lissom realized that the two men had not moved to follow her, she quickly descended the ramp, gazing questioningly at the king.

"Someone...or something has infiltrated the castle and murdered one of the portal guards," Artumas explained flatly and bid the Captain to recount his disclosure to the Ascentrix, whose reaction to the news was surprisingly animated.

Divining the direction of her thoughts, Artumas' brow furrowed, and he exclaimed, "Xhendyn!"

The Ascentrix turned her luminous blue eyes upon the aging king and shook her head in vehement refutation, "Not Xhendyn...the ShadowCaster!"

Before Artumas could digest what he had been told, Lissom wheeled lithely about and raced up the incline. After a moment, both the king and Esuruban set off after her, each wondering what they might find should they be confronted by the phantom menace.

Chapter Twenty-Two

1

As Joubert moved unseen through the main gates of Kammlogran, he glanced up at the massive raised portcullis, its iron spike appearing deadly in the dull afternoon light. He crossed the great courtyard at a casual stroll, secure in the certainty that his presence was virtually undetectable. The apprehension that had accompanied his encounter with the creature on the ramp was receding quickly, giving way to a sense of invulnerability as he strolled past ranks of milling soldiers, who were discussing the events unfolding in the heart of the city with a shrill mix of excitement and unease.

Glancing back toward the main entrance into the castle proper, Alain found himself confronted by a rapidly approaching porter who was naturally oblivious to his spectral presence.

Joubert flinched, fully anticipating a collision that never came. Instead, the harried porter passed through the stationary intruder as if he was a ghost, unaware that he had shivered perceptibly despite the heat and humidity that hung over the courtyard like an oppressive shroud.

He paused for a moment at the foot of the multi-tiered marble and basalt entrance, sweeping his keen gaze over the hulking structure that loomed over him like a recumbent beast, stretching for hundreds of paces in either direction. He tried to imagine the time, labor and material that had been invested in erecting this monstrosity and found that he could not...correctly surmising that it was an undertaking on par with the raising of the ancient pyramids of his own world.

At the top of the raised entrance, the ShadowCaster hesitated, his assessing gaze sweeping over the great courtyard one last time before plunging into the castle's interior. Even as he slipped through the open door as a flood of servants made a hasty exit from the castle, Joubert could not help but feel that he stood on the edge of an epiphany. Inside, he would come to some great moment of illumination that would shed light on the mystery of this world and the role he would play in the dark drama unfolding upon its stage.

It required several moments for his eyes to adjust to the pervasive gloom of Kammlogran's cavernous interior, but when detail began to emerge from capering shadow, Alain gained some sense of the daunting task Xhendyn had set for him. Despite his invisibility, he felt vulnerable and exposed as he stood surveying the sweeping expanse of the main entrance area. Despite the ornate beauty of the marble and granite columns and tiles, Kammlogran's entrance struck Joubert as stark and surprisingly empty. A few scattered benches, side tables and a smattering of velvet tapestries were the only furnishing to be found on the otherwise empty expanse of floor and walls. Not a single picture or portrait adorned the bare walls of the tiers of promenades that rose into the impenetrable gloom of the vaulted ceiling. The dearth of ostentatious furnishing declared the castle's master to be a man for whom the trappings of wealth held virtually no meaning. The lack of portraits and other intimate objects of art suggested that there was a strange disconnection between the magnificent structure and the man who held court within its walls.

'Ah, but somewhere in this desolate pit lies his great secret,' Joubert thought, his thin lips twisting in a humorless grin. Alain understood that harbored secrets spoke more eloquently about a man's true character...and weakness...than a warehouse of accrued chattel ever could.

Abruptly, Joubert shook his head in disgust as though attempting to banish a specter intent on distracting him from his purpose. There was much work to be done and the creature he had encountered on the ramp could return at any moment, a prospect the ever-cautious Joubert did not relish, though his apprehension was nebulous.

Though sparsely appointed, the vast entrance was awash with castle staff and guards, all evidently awaiting some signal to evacuate Kammlogran should the situation in the city require. The entrance was obviously a confluence for the central section of the castle. There were literally dozens of hallways and staircases leading off deeper into the structure's interior...all clogged with anxious, despondent courtiers and servants.

Joubert's gaze crept slowly over the profusion of access points, trying to sense which one to follow, before cursing in silent frustration when none offered a clear invitation to follow its path.

'Be calm, Alain!' he admonished himself, knowing that impatience would avail him nothing. 'If you were to conceal something of value in a place such as this, where would it be?'

He turned his attention to the question, falling naturally back on the deductive logic that had kept him alive in a world of violent, impulsive Neanderthals for so many years. The natural progression of this contemplation led him to conclude that he would want to sequester anything of value in the bowels of a monster with the enormous scope of a Kammlogran. Still, this conclusion left perhaps a dozen visible descending stairways leading out of the vast, circular chamber. Further inspection revealed that only one of the stairways was guarded by a pair of anxious troopers in full battle gear, their silver breastplates glittering brightly in the relative dullness of the entrance. Joubert nodded resolutely and set out across the tiled floor, still unsure precisely what it was he was expected to discover, though certain it would make itself apparent when he finally came upon it.

As he strode through the milling throng, waves of emotion washed over him like breakers on a shore, ranging from confusion to undiluted terror. It was glaringly obvious that the inhabitants of this mighty fortress had believed themselves to be invulnerable, but Xhendyn had disabused them of this vapid notion with ruthless efficiency. They milled about the great common area like penned sheep surrounded by rapidly encroaching fire.

'And that's precisely what they are,' the ShadowCaster realized and uttered a spate of razor-edged laughter.

He passed between the pair of skitterish guards like a gentle breeze through an open window and made his way deeper into the bowels of Kammlogran in search of whatever mystery that might lie hidden there.

The two men exchanged nervous glances as a deep chill assailed their flesh, but then another low rumble shook the stone beneath their feet and the sensation subsided.

"I hope they give the evacuation order soon," one remarked, his voice a thin croak. "This place has taken on the feel of a crypt."

"Don't hold your breath, Bekanor," the other rejoined gruffly. "The old man would rather see the whole wretched place come down around our ears than abandon whatever's down there."

The guard named Bekanor nodded curtly and snapped his gaze away, hoping that the other man's characteristic cynicism was for once misplaced.

2

In the shadowed interior of the Royal guest chamber, Queen Lorio writhed and twisted on the tangled sheets of her great bed. Her luxuriant black hair was pasted to her skull and her exposed abdomen was bathed in sweat. Heat radiated from her body in palpable waves though the chamber's brazier had burned down to smoldering embers that were no longer condign to the task of heating its lavish interior.

Despite the pervasive dampness that had crept into the suite, Lorio's body burned as though under the thrall of infection.

Those assigned to escort her safely back to her quarters had simply dropped her on the sprawling bed and rushed back to the canal, though one paused briefly to add kindling to the fire before leaving the ailing Lamish beauty alone with her infirmity.

The long hours of the black afternoon crawled by with excruciating slowness as Lorio struggled and groped back toward consciousness, but despite her tenacity and fierce determination, she could not break the surface back into the waking world. A cacophony of voices rumbled in the chamber of her skull like the strident buzzing of hornets, though she could draw no meaning from the steady stream of gibberish. They capered in the ubiquitous darkness, mocking her infirmity and the arrogance that had made her believe herself to be invulnerable.

She attempted to scream...to banish them with her fury, but the faculty of speech had deserted her, and she could only lay there in fevered frustration and endure their tirade. Were these Xhendyn's minions then...taunting her in the shackles of unconsciousness?

Beyond this maddening natter, Lorio could feel his invasive filth inculcating itself deeper into her flesh...the meat of her organs and the very marrow of her bones. Though its exact nature remained elusive, the device's inherent evil assailed the exquisite immortal, leaving little doubt that it would fester in her being until the demon saw fit to unleash its awful sorcery.

Where was Artumas? Why had he abandoned her in her greatest hour of need? She could feel fresh anger welling in her mind until a mocking voice suggested, 'Perhaps he is dead.'

The prospect was too intolerable to contemplate, and she exiled it from her thoughts with a savage exertion of will.

She was distantly cognizant of the occasional rumbles that reverberated through the floor beneath her and the muffled crack of leather on stone issuing from outside her chamber door, as people raced by oblivious to her desperate plight and silent struggle.

'This is what it is like to be entombed alive,' She realized, and her sweat-soaked body shuddered involuntarily. She briefly entertained the notion that this might well be the desired effect of Xhendyn's cantrip. She quickly dismissed this thought, correctly suspecting that his design would be far more nefarious. The implanted device slumbered in the deepest recesses of her body but would spring to life at a critical juncture in events yet to be written.

'But to what purpose?' the query rose unbidden in her mind but spoke eloquently to the heart of the conundrum. The astonishment that had accompanied Xhendyn's audacious attack now gave way to a burgeoning terror...an atavistic dread born not from fear of losing her own life, but the dawning suspicion that her future actions might somehow help resurrect her reviled enemy and one of the two living beings she seemed powerless to resist. That Xhendyn had elected to attack her confirmed the exigency of the role she was to play in the resolution of fate's design. Struggling valiantly to ignore the cacophony of taunting voices, Lorio attempted to follow the progression of logic interwoven into Xhendyn's machination. Xhendyn was a powerful sycophant of the enchantress. Fate had proclaimed Lorio the protector of the bane. The bane, a creature of mortal frailty, would somehow thwart the ShadowCaster. The ShadowCaster was a creature whose purpose and nature remained obscured by shadow, though reason suggested this purpose involved the drawing of the remnant's dormant power or the outright release of the imprisoned Myrhia. Somehow, the bane possessed the ability to thwart the ShadowCaster's efforts.

Xhendyn sought to fracture this chain of progression by preventing her from fulfilling her role as protector of the bane. The means of that prevention was now insinuated in the very fabric of her being.

The elusive quality of his cantrip drew a shrill cry of frustration from her cracked lips, her struggles becoming more frantic as she twisted and squirmed beneath its repulsive spell.

Abruptly, an incisive sound pierced the fog of her misery, tearing the swirl of denigrating voices to shreds like mist before a rising wind as it cannonaded about the confines of her beleaguered mind. The sound rose to a crescendo like the shriek of a mythical banshee and while its alien bray was completely unfamiliar, instinct warned the frazzled Lorio that it was deadly in the extreme. A vision bloomed in the soil of her thoughts, resonating like a memory slowly rippling out from its source.

Her body stiffened as in intense pain germinated in her skull, causing her back to arch like an overdrawn bowstring. The tendons in her neck stood out in sharp relief as something blasted into her brain, parting flesh and bone with the ease of a stone falling into a pool. Then she was falling, collapsing to the earth of a nameless dirt tract in a boneless sprawl. She correctly deduced that she had just played the intimate witness to the extinction of a life, though whose and by what means, she could not say.

Then, with a crystalline burst of clarity so much like the moment of augury that had spurred her along this path, she heard a man's voice issue from out of the darkness, speaking in an emphatic, accented voice that was as unfamiliar as the sound that had declared the onset of this vision.

She went utterly still both in her vision and on the sweat-sodden sheets of her bed.

It was him! The bane.

Lorio knew this with an unequivocal certainty that found its origins in an instinct far older than logic or reason. She could feel her affinity for him thrumming through her bones with unfathomable power. There had been danger, but somehow that danger was averted by whatever puissance had killed the man whose mind she had briefly shared.

In her heightened state of empathy, Lorio could sense a greater menace hover about the bane and though that menace was still distant, it was converging upon him with inexorable purpose. Lorio attempted to articulate this warning and found, with no small measure of frustration, that hers was merely the role of observer.

"Why did you not kill them? Or let me do it, if you didn't have the stomach?" a livid female voice demanded, her tone fraught with a deadly blend of rage and fear.

As quickly as it had come, the empathetic tether dissolved and Lorio's taut body settled back on the bed, though the aftershock of the intense sharing continued to spasm through the lean muscles of her body. Again, she found herself being drawn deeper into the malaise, but the voices remained silent and for that small mercy, the Lamish beauty was genuinely grateful.

A veritable storm of emotions engulfed her mind as she grappled with the baffling mystery of what had just transpired. She had just witnessed a confrontation between the bane and a pack of robber vermin, one of whose death she had just experienced in the most intimate context. A natural empathy had been established between the pair and it would be this tether that would allow her to locate the bane when the moment came.

'Yes but was it precisely this eventuality that Xhendyn had anticipated and taken measures to prevent?' a voice, thin with derision, suggested, causing her to utter a low, throaty moan of helpless frustration. She did not know...could not know, until the precise nature of the device, now slumbering within her flesh, revealed itself.

'Get up, Lorio!' she reproached herself, clawing tenaciously toward consciousness that seemed maddeningly close, yet oddly unobtainable. She had to find Artumas and the sage-child, Lissom...had to recount this experience to them...to unravel its meaning.

Body shaking with effort, it seemed she was within seconds of opening her eyes, when a wave of dark puissance rolled through her belabored flesh like wild thunder traversing the heavens, battering everything in its wake. A dark shape flew past on the periphery of her vision. A living contradiction of tangible flesh and ephemeral energy, it moved with a furtive creep that hinted at malign purpose...seeking what?

She did not know, but she knew with an unaccountable certitude that its objective was connected to Xhendyn and by extension, Myrhia. It moved past clusters of guards and servants who remained oblivious to its presence, though at times it appeared to pass right through them.

'It seeks the gateway to your maker,' a voice informed her in a low, urgent tone fraught with burgeoning anxiety. 'Only you are aware of this incursion. The ShadowCaster's mantle of darkness has begun to spread across the world...death's penumbra welling up from the ancient burial mosques of vanquished demons. Should it locate the portal, Myrhia's resurrection is all but assured.'

The voice fell silent, its dire admonition punctuated by the shrill cry of negation that escaped Lorio's cracked and swollen lips, resounding unheeded in an empty chamber.

The ShadowCaster was here, traipsing the halls of Kammlogran, undetected by all except her, who lay ensnared by her own damnable arrogance. The irony of fate's cruel jape filled her head with braying, derisive laughter. She had come to Nalosan to serve as a harbinger carrying a warning against disaster and the means by which to avert its cruel scheming. Instead, she was reduced to paralysis and forced to bear witness to Xhendyn's ultimate triumph.

With one titanic flexing of her indomitable will, Lorio forced herself upright, her lithe body jerking out of the bed as if she was a marionette forced upright by a petulant puppeteer. A pungent door assailed her nostrils, thick and disgusting in its intensity, and it took a moment before she realized it was her own sweat-soaked flesh. Rivers of oily perspiration dripped from her chin and ran into the deep valley of her cleavage. She managed a few tottering steps in the general direction of the chamber door before Xhendyn's devilry reasserted itself and her legs became entangled, pitching her face first to the carpeted floor.

Lorio attempted to rise, but the last of her defiance was gone. Her last conscious thought was that the next face she might well see would be that of her sworn enemy.

3

Joubert wandered aimlessly within the bowels of sprawling Kammlogran for what seemed like hours. The castle was a twisting labyrinth of corridors and staircases that quickly degenerated into an indistinct blur of dark woods, slate gray stone and polished marble. After what he judged to be forty minutes of fruitless searching, Alain was forced to concede that he was hopelessly lost. He paused near a set of red teak doors that rose a full span over his head and closed his eyes, attempting to ascertain a way out of the maze. After a moment, he cursed and opened his eyes, settling against the cool hardwood. Whatever his undisclosed powers might be, apparently, they did not include any kind of heightened perception or sense of direction.

If Xhendyn had sent him into the enemy fortress as a test of his abilities, it was a test that Alain was destined to fail miserably. He could not conjure a mental image of the castle's interior, nor could he glean the presence of any unique source of power. Thus far, his only extraordinary endowments seemed to be the ability to fade in and out of the tangible here and now, and the faculty to pull inhabitants of this world into a sort of netherworld.

'Then these are the talents you'll have to employ to help you find what you've been sent to discover,' he chided himself, disgusted by his uncharacteristic lack of resolve. To continue to search the castle randomly was futile and possibly even dangerous, as evinced by his encounter with the entity on the ramp. If he were to unearth the secret contained within these massive walls, he would require specific information that could only be provided by either a servant or a guard. Still uncertain about his own physical vulnerabilities and mindful of his confrontation with the unfortunate woman in the warehouse, the ShadowCaster opted for the former.

He had descended countless stairways and correctly deduced that he was presently several levels below the main floor of Kammlogran. To reach this particular location, Joubert had passed scores of servants hurrying in the opposite direction, their faces sporting identical expressions of agitation as they prepared for possible evacuation. The lower levels of the castle were now virtually deserted, save for the resonating echoes of the age-old ghosts who still dwelt within its walls. Doubting that he would find a source of enlightenment there, Joubert sought out the nearest ascending staircase and began to climb two risers at a time. As he did, Alain experienced a surge of exhilaration...a sense of wellbeing that he could not precisely define. Xhendyn had abducted him from his Vancouver home perhaps a week before and in that time, he had taken neither food nor drink. Nor had he slept. How he had not noticed this prior to this moment was utterly astounding and caused him to come to an abrupt stop between floors.

Despite a week of thorough deprivation, Alain Joubert felt as strong and vigorous as he ever had. With this startling realization came the astounding illumination that he had transcended the finite limits of mortality...and humanity. He would no longer have to concern himself with sating simple appetites and this would afford him with a tremendous advantage over anyone who unwisely chose to call the ShadowCaster an enemy. More to the point, by shedding the tiresome burden of attending to primitive mortal needs, Alain was now free to focus all of his considerable energy on the task of discovering the extent and nature of his newfound power.

For the second time since entering the cavernous interior of the castle, Alain closed his eyes and allowed his mind to roam free in search of the concealed source of energy Xhendyn insisted could be found within the massive stone walls. At first, his efforts were met with the same muted frustration that had thwarted his first attempt. A black pall hung over his mind's eye, slyly concealing the hulking structure's secrets.

Alain redoubled his concentration, beads of sweat forming in the furrows of his forehead and running into the corners of his eyes which remained tightly closed as he stood on the wide stone riser like a piece of statuary eternally captured in the act of climbing. When it seemed that Kammlogran would still shroud its secrets, the internal darkness began to lighten incrementally.

"Now, you stone bitch, reveal yourself to me," Joubert rasped triumphantly, and gradually the ancient structure complied. It took several moments before Alain discerned the precise nature of what was now unfolding on the fabric of his mind. Small points of light, each of varying magnitude, began to appear in the velvet darkness. After a moment, the incredulous ShadowCaster came to understand that what he was seeing was in effect a three-dimensional hologram of the castle's sprawling interior, defined by heat, light and residual energy.

The tiny pinpricks of light were scurrying humans who moved across his internal field of vision like the inconsequential ants they were. The stationary sources of light he determined to be fireplaces and suspended torches that delineated the long hallways as efficiently as any blueprint. This new aspect of his power sent a shiver of pure delight coursing through his body, a visceral sensation that rivaled any emotion he had ever before experienced. The potential uses of this burgeoning skill were too vast to fully digest and again he could not help but wonder if his sponsor was cognizant of what Joubert was slowly becoming.

Saving the speculation for a more appropriate moment, Alain resumed his inspection of the hologram, not precisely sure what he was looking for, but correctly surmising that he would recognize it when his objective revealed itself.

Slowly, he began to pivot in place. Carefully, he examined each point of light for some extraordinary characteristic that would distinguish it from the literally thousands of energy sources burning within Kammlogran's impregnable walls. His elation guttered somewhat when he saw this would be an onerous and time-consuming task.

And then he saw it, barely perceptible against the glare of a hundred burning torches. Unlike the other individual lights that either moved or flickered in intensity, this light pulsed in slow syncopation like the beating of a heart. There was a subtle, incandescent quality to this particular nodule of light, burning white and then blue, and Joubert could not help but be reminded of some vastly powerful engine, dormant and waiting...patiently waiting.

He began to move again, bounding up the wide stairs with renewed conviction, delighted to discover that he could hold the hologram in his mind's eye, while moving lithely through the tangible world.

'Not a huge achievement considering that you're rooted in neither,' a voice intoned with a hint of sarcasm, prompting Alain to grimace. 'You've become a ghost Joubert...an insignificant shade who has no place in this world or any other.'

That voice...that loathsome voice belonged to Macevey...a man who had come to personify everything that Joubert despised.

"The day is fast approaching when we'll see just who buries who, you miserable fuck!" Joubert blurted, inadvertently spewing the epithet as he reached the top of the stairwell.

A solitary figure was standing in the center of the hall, and though her features remained lost in the gloom, Joubert could see that it was a young woman who was staring fixedly in his direction. Directed by sudden impulse and a towering rage that only Stuart Macevey could inspire, the ShadowCaster glided toward the girl, a malevolent scowl distorting his features.

Aisen was a serving girl of seventeen years whose family had been in the employ of kings and queens since time out of mind. She privately abhorred the drudgery of a servant's life, though she would not dare utter this opinion in front of her parents, who both seemed to regard servitude as some manner of high honor. Pretty and intelligent in an absent way, she had long since mastered the dubious art of blending with shadows, subscribing to the notion that one could gain the purest form of liberation simply by becoming utterly inconspicuous.

On this day, she would encounter a creature who had achieved the highest level of mastery over this particular skill.

A disembodied voice startled the girl, though her gaze fell on empty space at the point where the sound had apparently originated. Her heart skidded painfully in her chest and she very nearly fumbled the wicker basket of fine linens she had been dispatched to retrieve from the castle's lower storage area, a section of the castle she detested and privately feared.

At once, an argent light flared blindingly and a shape surged toward her, hunched forward in a posture of aggressive menace. Aisen cried out in terror and now she did drop the basket, the delicate fabrics spilling out on the carpeted stairs in a shiny drift. Instinctively, she raised her arms to defend herself against her attacker, only to have both wrists seized in a crushing vice that made her grimace and cry out in pain.

Even as he launched himself toward the girl, Alain had no clear notion of what he intended to do once he subdued her. Impulse and obsessive anger compelled him to embark on a diversion that was both needless and a waste of precious time. Still, there was something intoxicating about the sensation of her nubile, firm body struggling and writhing against his that banished all logical thought. Even as his right arm snaked about her throat, his left hand found the pliable flesh of her full right breast, mauling it roughly through the thin cotton fabric of her bodice.

Before she could begin to scream in earnest, Joubert pulled Aisen out of the tangible reality of the stairwell and into the oddly distorted netherworld where her cries could echo unheeded in the infinite emptiness.

'You've left yourself with no alternative but to kill her, Alain,' he chastised himself in a tone of disgusted impatience. The ShadowCaster was neither appalled nor hesitant at the prospect. Still, perhaps she could prove a source of valuable information before he disposed of her.

The instant Joubert pulled Aisen into his demesne, the girl's struggles abruptly ceased, relenting to a dawning horror and paralyzing incredulity. She could still see the stairwell and the carpeted hall as it trailed off in either direction, but it now appeared that she was separated from the world by some manner of translucent filter.

'This is what it must be like to be a ghost,' her mind suggested, a thought that did nothing to alleviate her paralyzing terror. She was distantly aware of a hand taking rough liberty with her breast and someone's ragged breathing in her left ear, but these sensations seemed both remote and oddly inconsequential.

Only this strange state of disconnection...or removal from the concrete world seemed to matter.

Then her assailant began to speak in a soft, dispassionate voice and the immediacy of her peril crashed back down upon her like the fall of a war hammer. "There is little point in screaming...no one can hear you. Even if they were standing directly in front of you, you could holler until your lungs burst and your cries would fall on deaf ears. If you don't believe me, feel free to indulge yourself."

Joubert loosened his grip on her throat, though he did not relinquish the mauling hold on her compelling breast. Aisen did not cry out as he expected. The alien atmosphere of this tiny rift in space confirmed his every word to be true. The girl was keen enough to glean that if she were to survive this sudden lurching into the macabre, it would be at her attacker's behest.

"I won't scream...and I won't try to struggle," she said meekly. "Please don't hurt me...I'm nothing more than a serving girl." Though she despised the display of weakness, Aisen was powerless to suppress the flow of tears that sprang from her lovely blue eyes or prevent the involuntary shudders that quaked through her flesh. She could feel his hardness pressing against the firm swell of her buttocks and understood that her trepidation both pleased and aroused him.

"A sensible girl," he whispered softly, as though attempting to placate her welling fear. The sound echoed in her ear like the sibilant hiss of a snake. "Now I'm going to ask you a few basic questions about this place and if I'm satisfied that you've answered truthfully, then you will be free to go. If, however, I suspect you've deceived me or been anything less than totally forthcoming, I'll take immense delight in slowly carving the flesh from your bones...starting with your face, I think. Do you believe me?"

Aisen could only nod, her terror reducing her to a paralyzed, quivering silence. Joubert was rather surprised by the unexpected degree of satisfaction the girl's stark terror roused. In his past vocation, he intentionally avoided the physical violence and intimidation, viewing these things as crude but necessary tools best left in the hands of brutes and thugs. Feeling the girl's trembling flesh against his, Alain gained a keen insight into the visceral thrill of employing these tools on an intimate basis.

"There is an area of the castle that is off limits to all, but a few select castle staff," Joubert began. Sensing that this was a statement and not a question, Aisen merely nodded, intensely aware of the blade that was now mapping the hollow of her throat.

"Do you know why this area is restricted?" he inquired, his tone all the more frightening for its cool patience.

Aisen hesitated, fearful that her response would displease her assailant. When the blade exerted a little more pressure on her smooth skin, she blurted, "I swear that I don't know. Tis a secret that none would dare divulge."

"But surely you've heard whispers...speculation?"

Again, the girl reluctantly remarked, "It is said that whatever secret is hidden within this section of Kammlogran somehow involves the king's dead wife...Myrhia, though it is forbidden to utter her name within these walls. Beyond this, I know nothing."

Joubert intuited that she was being truthful, but deliberately drew the moment out, further exacerbating her fear. The internal hologram continued to shimmer in his mind, the luminous points of energy flickering like beacons, but he needed a verbal confirmation to shore up his grasp of the area he would soon infiltrate. "How is this restricted area protected?"

"The Hand of the Way is tasked with keeping prying eyes out of this section of the castle. It is said that they are the elite of the Emercian military and fanatically devoted to King Artumas. Their white enameled armor distinguishes them from the regular castle guard, and they answer only to the king."

The ShadowCaster absorbed this pearl of insight thoughtfully. That a special cadre was specifically created to secure this secret spoke volumes about its value in the eyes of the Emercian King. The degree of fanaticism could only mean that the object protected was an item of inestimable power and worth...and one certainly worth acquiring.

The Hand of the Way. As these words echoed in his thoughts, it suddenly occurred to Joubert that this rather cryptic moniker held some clues as to what its members sought to protect. This realization roused a burgeoning sense of excitement in Alain, who was suddenly anxious to be done with this diversion.

The cloistered section of this mighty palace did not hold the remnant...rather, it contained the means through which one could gain access to the imprisoned queen.

'The way is the path and these men are thus the protectors of the path.'

Aisen shuddered against him, her firm buttocks pressing against his raging erection, and uttered a strangled cry. Only then did he see that, in his preoccupation, he had pressed the blade deeper into her flesh. The wound was only superficial, but it drew forth blood in a crimson wash that set a most erotic contrast with her pale skin.

Joubert withdrew the blade and whispered in her ear, his tone commiserating, "You're doing very well. Now, one final question...how many access points lead into this section of the castle?"

"Only one," came the immediate response, though Aisen's voice was tremulous with terror and pain. "There were once four main halls leading into this area, but a year after King Artumas regained his throne, three of these were sealed. The remaining hallway is long and wide. It is here that the Hand of the Way have been stationed protecting the forbidden chamber and whatever is held within."

"How are these troops dispersed?"

"At a point halfway down the hall, an iron gate has been erected. Two men guard the gate from inside at all bells of the day. There may be others, but I am not sure. Castle staff are not to linger needlessly in this area. Questions or discussions pertaining to the Hand or what they might be protecting are frowned upon."

Alain absorbed this information in silence, deducing that he would gain no further germane information from the serving girl. With a twinge of regret, he relinquished his grip on her full breast and stepped away. She took several steps away from her assailant and turned to face him, her right hand instinctively drifting up to probe the wound at her throat. To her surprise, the man before her in no way resembled the portrait she had mentally constructed as he held her captive. He was short, thin and essentially nondescript with the exception of small, dark eyes that shone with malefic intelligence.

Joubert bowed slightly and offered the young girl a sardonic grin. "I promised that I would release you if you told me what I needed to know. You have and so I will maintain my end of the bargain."

"You are free to go," he declared with a dismissive wave of his right hand.

Relief flooded her face as she cast a longing glance over her left shoulder. When she returned her gaze to her attacker, she was startled to discover that he was already gone, presumably in pursuit of whatever object waited behind the doors of the restricted area.

'Ill fortune, you bastard!' she thought savagely. 'I hope the Hand spills your guts all over the stones of Kammlogran.'

As her gaze fell upon the blood glistening wetly upon her fingers, the notion of his violent death filled her with a surging elation. Only when her gaze shifted back to the beckoning length of corridor did that elation dissipate, giving way to an atavistic dread that reduced her to utter immobility.

A naturally perceptive girl, Aisen quickly grasped what many of her fellow servants would have groped to realize...her attacker had left her trapped within the confines of an inescapable purgatory like an ensnared ghost.

She began to scream then, her outrage and despair bursting from her lungs with all the energy she could muster. She bellowed until it seemed inevitable that her vocal cords would explode with the effort, but eventually the futility of her cries impressed itself on her beleaguered consciousness and she sank to her knees, collapsing to the carpet and burying her face in the crook of her elbow. Even in the extreme of her distress, she could sense that her relationship with the tangible world had become oddly disconnected to a point where the tactile sensations were barely accessible as though experience vicariously.

In the days that would follow Joubert's chance encounter with the unfortunate serving girl, many of the castle staff would complain that the lower levels of Kammlogran reverberated with the chilling wails of a distraught female shade.

4

Alain Joubert did not linger to admire his random and casual work of cruelty, though the girl's pathetic cries trailed after him even as he sprinted through the echoing gloom. Nor did he stop to reflect on the nature of his newly discovered ability, though he would utilize it extensively in the weeks of anarchy that were to follow. Though he was oblivious at the moment, Joubert's consignment of the innocent serving girl to an eternal purgatory signified his final surrender of the last vestiges of moral encumbrance and remorse.

Xhendyn would have been immensely pleased by the episode had he been present to witness it unfold.

Consulting the mental hologram of the castle's sprawling layout, the ShadowCaster negotiated his way through the twisting labyrinth of darkened corridors. As he cut an unseen trail through a legion of soldiers making their way back toward the main entrance, Joubert sought to formulate a course of action. His ambivalence over his desire to serve as Xhendyn's proxy was quickly giving way to a mounting excitement. He sensed his proximity to a puissance too vast to quantify though it now lay dormant behind a cloister of stone and steel.

As he ascended the last flight of stairs that would deliver him to what he perceived to be the gateway to the remnant, a titanic, guttural rumble shook the stones of mighty Kammlogran. Alain skidded to a halt, alarmed to see the clouds of black, fine mortar that wafted down from the cracks between the massive basalt blocks above him. The ebony powder billowed around him like a gently settling shroud as if to declare that the events in Nalosan were rapidly approaching their climax.

There followed a second resounding shock wave, the effects of which were immediate and terrifying. Joubert instinctively retreated several steps as one of the enormous ceiling blocks cracked and shifted, now protruding a full hand span below the adjacent stones.

'This entire place is going to crumble like a house of cards in the wind.' The chilling thought bloomed in Alain's mind, accompanied by the unwanted image of his slender body being crushed beneath hundreds of tons of cold stone. His gaze slid back in the general direction of the entrance, contemplating the prudence of fleeing and allowing the castle to die along with whatever secret it concealed.

He had actually resolved himself to do precisely that and pivoted to go, when a voice declared calmly, 'There is no reason for flight as there is nothing here that can cause you harm. You, Alain, are essentially invulnerable to the perils of this world and it is for this reason I have selected you to be my liberator.'

Alain froze, though the apprehension that had threatened to launch him into a panicked retreat dissipated like a morning mist before the sun's first kiss. Though this was the voice of a stranger, Alain instinctively gleaned that it belonged to the woman whom he had been dispatched to emancipate from the prison of her own inured flesh. Lilting and distant, as though heard along the length of an infinite corridor, Alain Joubert knew that he was hearing the voice of the emerald enchantress, Myrhia. Melodious and soft, it washed over Alain like the warm, healing waters of a magical sea, banishing his misgivings as if they were harmless shades.

With his senses enthralled by the husky timbre, Joubert murmured, "What would you have me do?"

'The pathway to my prison of flesh lies open to you, but it is a tangible thing and may soon fall victim to the conflict presently raging beyond Kammlogran's walls,' the speaker disclosed. 'You must find and activate the portal before it is destroyed. When you have joined me, I will provide you with the knowledge and guidance required to revivify my flesh. Rest assured, ShadowCaster, that your recompense will be beyond your wildest imagining.' Again, these instructions were delivered in a lulling, placating tone, but beneath this apparent tranquility, Joubert could discern a burgeoning exigency. It was this sense of urgency that propelled him in the direction of the restricted zone. Alain correctly surmised that Myrhia would neither brook failure nor suffer disappointment with grace.

As another upheaval resounded through the walls of the castle, eliciting a painful cry from the ancient stone, Alain began to sprint in the direction of what was now confirmed to be some manner of portal.

With the upheaval and potential failure of Kammlogran's structural integrity, all vestiges of discipline and order evaporated amongst the staff and soldiers alike. Joubert raced past a group of porters who were straining under a load of dry goods from one of the castle's numerous larders. The tortured scream of grating stone prompted the group to simply cast aside their burden and flee headlong in the direction of the nearest point of egress. As a thin, hawkish man looked on in dismay, one of the containers ruptured on impact sending rare and precious spices billowing towards the ceiling in fawn colored plumes.

The man, clearly the designated leader of the group, continued to regard the ruined cargo and bellow curses and vile epithets against his derelict charges until another eerie rumble surmounted his sense of duty and propelled him after his fellow servants. This particular scene was being enacted all throughout Kammlogran's sprawling interior. As wave after wave of unrestrained puissance assailed the castle's mighty battlements, soldiers and servants alike surrendered to the atavistic instinct for survival and sought to reach the relative safety of open air.

The ShadowCaster was oblivious to the escalating tide of panic and confusion surging about him as he focused his every effort on reaching the hidden portal. His only imperative was reaching and passing through the portal before the entire structure came crashing down around him. Beyond this, he cared not if Kammlogran crumbled like an ant hill beneath the boot of a petulant giant.

As he at last entered the restricted area, his own metaphor drew a thin-lipped smile to his face. The restricted section of Kammlogran was distinguished by the conspicuous absence of any form of adornment or ornamentation. Even the ubiquitous runner carpet bearing the royal crest was nowhere to be seen, having given way to a bare, black glazed stone that seemed both sterile and uninviting. It occurred to Joubert that even a thin-soled boot would echo loudly down the vast expanses of the empty corridor, giving the Hand of the Way ample notice of an approaching intruder.

Alain Joubert was not subject to the prevailing laws of the tangible world and furtively glided towards the portal chamber like a spider.

A darkened archway loomed up on his right, its presence indicated by an inadequate patch of flickering yellow light cast by a single torch that had been recessed deep into the stone wall. Here, the ShadowCaster took the redundant precaution of kneeling down and peering around the edge of the arch, a triumphant grin spread over his thin face as he absorbed the details of the approach.

Aisen had been unerringly accurate in her description of the approach to the antechamber in which the portal was housed. Every detail, down to the position of the gate and the deployment of the guards proved truthful. Alain experienced a brief flicker of remorse for not having granted the girl the cold mercy of his dagger's edge.

The ShadowCaster emerged from his place of concealment and began to make his way along the length of the hall. The gate had been mortared deep into the basalt and its glazed black bars were as thick as a man's forearms. Again, the lighting in this area was unequal to the task, shedding pallid yellow circles along the length of the bare stone. Behind the barrier, two members of the Hand stood vigil over the empty expanse of corridor, their enameled white armor glittering despite the oppressive gloom. Joubert observed that the armor bore neither crest nor insignia to declare the wearer's loyalty...informing him that their loyalty was sworn to one man alone.

As he approached the gates, the ShadowCaster became attuned to the storm of emotions that accosted the pair...a raging war between obligation and self-preservation. In their distress, neither could have guessed that the secret they were oath-bound to protect was moments away from being compromised. Joubert passed through the gate, his eyes sliding to the weapons worn by the Hand. The tempered steel had been honed to a killing edge, glazed with highly polished silver and inlaid with slender strips of mother of pearl. The effect bestowed a deceptively ornamental appearance on the weapons, but Joubert harbored little illusion that a single blow from the blade would severe limbs and shatter bones. As he glided by the pair, Joubert thought that their ramrod postures and lithe, sinewy frames bespoke a lethal proficiency and he was grateful that he would not have occasion to test their abilities.

The sentiment had no sooner taken shape in his mind when another titanic wave of energy crashed into the castle like a tidal wave. Though he had no way of knowing it, this rolling bank of pure power signified the Ascentrix's final triumph over Xhendyn's fire demon.

The aftershock fell upon Kammlogran like the wrathful fist of a vengeful god infuriated by vulgar displays of mortal power. It reverberated not only through the thick stone walls, but also through Alain Joubert's many spectral warrens, catching the unsuspecting ShadowCaster off guard, casting him out of the world of the spectral and into the world of steel and stone. Joubert uttered a strangled cry of shock and dismay as he landed headlong on the corridor's floor.

The two members of the Hand pivoted as one, their faces twisted in similar expressions of absolute incredulity as they came to realize that a man had materialized behind them as if out of thin air.

"Sorcery!" the nearest cried even as he drew his blade and converged on the prone figure before him.

"It matters not...he must never see the other side of that chamber door!" bellowed the other as he drew his long sword and moved to follow his companion, shifting his weapon into the classic strike position for a downed opponent.

The ShadowCaster registered all of this in a surreal slow motion...the two guards drawing their weapons with the casual grace of well-trained killers accustomed to dispensing death at the first intimation of need. He discerned that the second Hand had reacted a fraction of a second slower than the first and as Joubert's gaze was pulled to the section of archway immediately above the guard's head, he gleaned that this marginal hesitation would prove fatal.

The stone arch virtually crumpled like dry kindling and a single block, perhaps an arm span in width, broke away from its companions, falling on the trailing guard like a mallet.

A thin cry of negation escaped his lips along with a thick glut of blood and mucus as his arms beat a spastic tattoo of agony on the stone. His discarded weapon clattered along the corridor, coming to rest within arm's reach of the fallen Joubert. The remaining Hand cast a backwards glance over his shoulder, immediately grasping the one salient truth of his fallen comrade's condition...with his lower body reduced to a gruesome concoction of pulverized bone and minced flesh, the man was already within the cold embrace of death and thus far beyond any comfort the still standing guard could offer.

The instant the Hand inclined his head in the direction of his fallen comrade, Joubert snatched up his weapon and retreated into his warren. Driven by a sense of exigency and the awareness of a distant presence watching him from the recesses of his own mind, Alain sprang lithely to his feet and converged on the remaining Hand. The sword lay cumbersome and unfamiliar in his grip, but despite his misgivings at his inability to actually kill another living being in such an intimate manner, Joubert brandished the blade and readied to strike a death blow at the thoroughly perplexed guard.

The remaining Hand returned his attention to the downed intruder, determined to fulfill his obligation to protect the king's secret despite the present irrelevance of that mandate. Fanatical devotion to duty had been relentlessly pounded into the collective psyche of the Hand and that consuming sense of obligation was too deeply inculcated to be ignored even when the destruction of Kammlogran seemed inevitable.

Turning back to the place where the interloper should have been, the guard was startled to discover that the dust-choked length of hall between his position and the reinforced doors to the portal antechamber was deserted.

'He's reached the antechamber!' he thought with seeds of panic germinating at the notion, but then a second consideration caused him to dismiss the thought. The oak doors were braced by heavy iron strapping and triple bolted from within. Two additional members of the Hand were stationed within and they would only open the door in response to a precise sequence of knocks delivered by the brass knocker that was affixed to the hallway side of the door. The fact that they had not even opened the door in response to even this extraordinary cataclysm was testimony to their exceptional discipline.

'Be that as it may, he has found his way through the gates.' As inexplicable as that might be, it was the only plausible explanation for the interloper's sudden vanishing. The Hand stood in the center of the hallway with his sword lowered slightly, momentarily paralyzed by indecision.

Clearly the intruder had employed some means of infernal magic to bypass the gates.

Was he lurking somewhere along the length of darkened corridor or had he already passed into the portal chamber? The Hand could not be certain, and that uncertainty served to dull his perception...if only marginally. That slight lapse would ultimately prove fatal as the ShadowCaster surged forward to exploit his adversary's confusion.

The guard detected the movement on the periphery of his vision, instinctively raising his right arm and deflecting Joubert's clumsy thrust a fraction of a second before it could find home in the side of his throat. The curving weapon was designed more for slashing offence than rapier piercing strikes, but the tip was still sufficiently sharp to strike the Hand on his exposed expanse of forehead just above his right eye and below the raised visor of his helm. The blade bit deep into flesh and grated along bone, sending a gout of blood spewing across the corridor in a great fan.

The Hand staggered backwards in surprise and pain, raising a mailed fist to the wound where severed flesh hung in a bloody flap. A wave of blood washed over his face, casting his features in a garish crimson mask and occluding the vision in his right eye, but still he retained the presence of mind to raise his sword and parry Joubert's second blow. As he did this, the Hand instinctively thrust his left fist in his attacker's general direction, the riveted knuckles connecting squarely in the center of Alain's unprotected chest. The force of the blow staggered Joubert and sent him reeling into the stone wall on the opposite side of the corridor. Miraculously, Alain managed to retain both his balance and his grip on his weapon.

The sight of the guard's wound, shredded flesh and blood-spattered armor evoked images of some fiendish apparition, causing Joubert to shudder in revulsion. The combatants faced each other across the confines of the bloody corridor as the very air about them seemed to seethe with violence and destruction.

Another tremor shook Kammlogran and several more massive blocks slid ominously from their moorings. Halfway along the corridor, a section of wall buckled sending a rush of fine black mortar powder belching along the hallway, extinguishing the torches and plunging the area into an eerie, brooding darkness.

"I may well die here, but it will not be alone," the wounded Hand raged, a shower of bloody spittle punctuating his vow, and lunged forward in an attempt to bury his sword in his tormentor's abdomen. Caught flat-footed, Alain did not react even as the length of tempered steel pierced his abdominal wall. He cried out in shock, though felt no agony as indeed his wounding evoked no response from his flesh as though he was experiencing the trauma vicariously.

'What have I become?' he marveled even as the blade passed through him and struck the unyielding stone, raising a shower of dull orange sparks. With a triumphant grin emblazoning his bloody face, the guard jerked the blade up and to the left, before twisting it violently in an attempt to inflict maximum internal havoc on nearby organs.

Still the impaled intruder uttered not so much as a whimper, raising alarm klaxons in the Hand's beleaguered mind. The ShadowCaster abruptly seized the bloodied soldier's right wrist and jerked the larger man forward in a surprising display of strength. In the next instant, the veteran guard found himself on a barren plain overlooked by a brooding gray sky above and sterile gray dirt below. More perplexing yet was the man standing before him. The hand's sword was still lodged in his intestines with the pommel guard pressed tightly against the fabric of his black tunic...but not a single drop of blood had issued from what should have been a mortal wound.

"What are you?" the Hand croaked, his voice fraught with both dread and despair.

"For you friend, I am the angel of death," Joubert replied thoughtfully through a thin-lipped smile. With the speed of a striking adder, the ShadowCaster's right hand flashed out and his blade cut a bloody swathe across the hand's exposed throat. The startled soldier reeled backwards as his hand pressed against his throat in a futile effort to staunch the flow of life blood.

Amused by the Hand's grim struggle, Alain watched as the man emitted a strangled gasp and pitched forward onto his face. The sterile earth of the netherworld lapped hungrily at the dying man's cooling blood.

After spending a quiet moment considering what he had just achieved, the ShadowCaster exited the warren, allowing the embedded sword to simply fall from his undamaged flesh. It clattered to the ground, where it raised small clouds of lifeless dust.

With the ShadowCaster's departure, an eternal silence descended upon the tiny enclave he'd created. It would be a score of millennia before the exquisite ornamental weapon decayed to blend with the shifting sea of gray dust.

The ShadowCaster's venture into the desolate warren had lasted no longer than three minutes, but in that brief span of seconds, the situation in the access corridor had deteriorated dramatically. One glance at the twisted iron and splintered timber of the doors leading into the portal antechamber informed Alain Joubert that he had failed. Thick clouds of dust and an oppressive silence were the only things issuing from the chamber's darkened interior.

Alain traversed the length of the debris cluttered corridor at a trot, unmindful of the massive basalt blocks that were pitched at impossible angles and poised to collapse. One glance within the chamber confirmed his worst suspicions...the chamber's ceiling had finally succumbed to the cataclysmic shock, crushing everything within. He could see the shattered remains of what had moments before been some type of circular structure and correctly deduced that it had once been the exterior frame of the portal. The cryptic symbols etched into the blue stone were indecipherable to Joubert, but he committed them to memory in the event that they would be of some value to Xhendyn.

Joubert's incisive gaze traced the curving edges of the shattered segments and his mind conjured a surprisingly accurate image of an archway that might have been two arm spans high and one and a half spans across. As the ShadowCaster contemplated the nature of the ruined teleportation device, a part of his mind marveled at the ease and speed with which he'd accepted the existence and governing realities of magic.

'Not all that startling,' he murmured softly 'considering that I'm living proof that it does exist.' A feral grin spread over Joubert's lean face like oil over water. Seeing that little would be achieved by lingering and recalling the wraith who had passed him on the stairs earlier, the ShadowCaster exited the antechamber and made his way back toward the royal plaza. He floated through the dust, gloom and pervasive tension of Kammlogran with the unhurried stride of a man who is confident of his own invulnerability. His sortie into the castle had been most illuminating indeed and though he had failed to gain direct access to the emerald enchantress, the experience had imparted a wealth of invaluable insight into the nature of the beast he had become.

The plaza was a seething wellspring of anxiety and immutable grief. Something about this staggering concentration of human misery aroused a sense of keen satisfaction in Joubert. Encloaked in this new sense of comfort with the apparent role fate had bestowed upon him, the ShadowCaster set out to make his report to his benefactor.

Chapter Twenty-Three

1

Artumas struggled to keep pace with the Ascentrix and Esuruban, the Captain of the Hand of the Way, his exhaustion pushing him to the precipice of total collapse. As he stumbled after the robust soldier and the nimble creature, the king could imagine the tapestries of his world unraveling thread by precious thread, revealing the hollow sham of his monarchy. As they raced through the maze of hallways, he became aware of the extent to which mighty Kammlogran had been decimated by the aftershock of Lissom's desperate battle with the fire demon. He had once considered the castle to be virtually impregnable, but now discerned that the structural damage would leave large sections of the castle uninhabitable for years, perhaps decades to come.

As they converged upon the portal chamber, it became evident that this section of the castle had sustained the most severe damage, though its position in the overall layout of the castle made this difficult to fathom. Several sections of wall had given way in a random sprawl of massive blocks. To a dazed Artumas, they very much resembled a giant's toys suddenly abandoned at play. Support columns, some the girth of an obscenely fat man's waist, had snapped like dry kindling or were pitched at impossible angles. The king hazarded a glance at the ceiling and flinched at the number of blocks that had come partially dislodged.

'Perhaps the fates are admonishing against relinquishing guardianship of the remnant,' a voice whispered coyly in his beleaguered mind and though the extent of the improbable damage made the notion seem plausible, Artumas refused to succumb to its temptation. It was the obstinate belief that only he should hold ownership of Myrhia's inured remains that had led Nalosan to this tragic and unnecessary juncture. He was determined not to repeat the same blunder by clinging to this arrogant line of reasoning.

'Then let us pray that you do not again fall prey to the beguiling beauty beneath which lurks the heart of a viper,' the strange voice sniffed with the smallest trace of disdain in a clear allusion to the Ascentrix. This single unwelcome thought undid his most resolved efforts to ignore the disquieting similarities between Lissom and his traitorous wife.

The unsettling swirl of images brought the aging king to a dead halt. He bent over, bracing himself with his hands on his knees. He struggled to remain upright as a dizzying wave of nausea rolled over him. Artumas sank to his knees, managing a feeble cry, "A moment for an old man!"

Esuruban scrambled back down the pile of debris, coming to kneel beside his faltering king. Lissom reluctantly came to a halt as an expression of frustration rippled over her lovely visage very much like a dark cloud scudding across the face of the sun. She cast a sideways glance in the direction of the portal chamber, but then gracefully drifted back to tend to the ailing Artumas.

"I must get the king away from here!" the Captain exclaimed frantically. "This section of the castle is clearly unstable, and my first priority must be insuring my liege's safety." There was an exigency in Esuruban's voice that clearly transcended a simple sense of duty or loyalty, instead speaking eloquently of the genuine affection those who served Artumas harbored for their venerable king.

Peering closely at the weary man kneeling before her, the Ascentrix could clearly see that Artumas was completely enervated and perilously close to utter collapse. He wore the haggard expression of a man who had tested the limits of his stamina and must now capitulate to his exhaustion or risk his very life as the price for his continuing reckless defiance of his natural limitations. She laid the flat of her palm against his chest and was alarmed by the frantic gallop of his heart. The palpitating muscle was in close proximity to failure.

"Your heart is taxed to its limits, good king," she intoned softly, her voice soothing and calm. "I warned you in the plaza that this moment was inevitable should you choose to stubbornly ignore your mounting weariness."

Artumas shrugged his shoulders and offered her a wan smile, though the network of wrinkles around his eyes was all the more prominent for his pain. "It seems that, on this dark day, circumstances were hardly inclined to cooperate."

Lissom pursed her lips and lashed the king with a disapproving frown, clearly not amused by his flippancy. "If your people cannot spare you for a few hours, even in the depth of their most dire need, it is unlikely that they could afford to lose you for an eternity."

The tired smile vanished from Artumas' grime-smeared face, replaced by an appropriately chastened expression that appeared to satisfy Lissom that he was regarding the situation with the proper degree of gravity. She shifted her imposing gaze to Esuruban. The Captain of the Hand was a seasoned battle veteran and a dedicated, noble man by any measure, but it was all he could do not to flinch and avert his eyes beneath the weight of her stare. "Captain Esuruban, your king is unwell, and though he is obdurate in his refusal to admit it, his heart is ailing."

Esuruban's blue eyes widened in alarm, but as he peered closely at Artumas' perspiration-soaked face, the truth of her dire prognosis was readily apparent. Lissom grasped his wrist in a grip that was shockingly powerful. "There is no time for debate. You must retrieve a stretcher and sufficient men to convey your king to his chamber."

Artumas started to object, but Lissom placed a silencing finger on his lips. The apoplectic expression that spread over Esuruban's angular face at this perceived gesture of presumption caused Artumas to grin despite the pain and weariness that threatened to overwhelm him. He raised his right hand in a weak gesture of concurrence. The captain lingered for a moment longer and then was gone with a liquid flexing of muscle, sprinting back through the sagging blocks and broken timbers, pursued by the horrifying notion that the man he idolized was truly mortal.

When he had vanished from sight, the Ascentrix gripped the king's shoulders and assisted him into a sitting position. Artumas allowed his head to settle back against the cold stone walls of Kammlogran, imagining that he could feel its pain reverberating through his increasingly brittle bones. He recalled a time when both he and the majestic castle had stood tall and proud. It lanced his ailing heart to think that both had been so dramatically reduced by the passing of years and the turning of events. He wiped perspiration from his brow and muttered, "I have come to the end of my value...an ignoble end befitting the pride and arrogance that have governed my every action in the last days of my rule."

"What nonsense you blather, Artumas," Lissom intoned with an echo of disdain framing her words. He peered into the depths of her riveting blue eyes, staggered by the enormity of the power lurking beneath the amethyst surface. "You are infirmed, true, but both this world and the capricious machinations of fate have designs upon you yet."

Artumas croaked a spate of humorless laughter. "If so, both will find their pawn to be woefully lacking."

She placed the flat of her palm on his left breast and gave voice to an ancient invocation of power. Almost instantly, a soothing warmth suffused his body, banishing the pain and regulating his galloping heart. "Maudlin self-pity does not become you, Artumas and I will hear no more of it. You must learn to subjugate your ego and accept an extended hand of goodwill."

"As you say," the old man murmured softly, wondering if she was cognizant of the profound reinvention of his nature this willingness would require. Lissom glanced over her shoulder, along the darkened corridor where the antechamber of the portal apparently lay in ruins. Eagerness to reach the antechamber radiated from her golden flesh in palpable waves and Artumas realized that an effulgence enveloped the woman...a muted corona of golden light which he correctly suspected served to ward the Ascentrix against physical danger.

"Artumas," she began, still staring fixedly into the inky darkness, "I beg you please give me leave to investigate the portal chamber. If a trace of its magic remains, it would be sufficient to allow me to determine the location of its sister portal. What's more, I will be able to determine whether the ShadowCaster was able to access the portal."

The king's gaze shifted to the jumbled obstruction of heaved stone and splintered heavy timber. To his weary eyes, the obstruction appeared impassable. "Lissom, it hardly seems wise to venture any further. If Esuruban states that the portal is destroyed, you may take him at his word."

The Ascentrix regarded him silently as the ghost of a smile played at the corners of her full lips. "Good king, I can assure you that there is nothing here that can cause me harm. As for the reliability of your good captain, I would not suggest anything to the contrary. Still, my faculties of observation are considerably more refined. Gyzarayne has endowed me with the power to see things that others could not."

Artumas considered her response for a moment, his weary face drawn down in deep creases of consternation. "I suspect that you would not heed me even if I forbade you to proceed."

Lissom's smile broadened. "There are junctures in the inexorable flow of time when even the dictates of mighty kings must be subjugated by the exigent needs of fate...or the greater good, if you will." When the old man arched an eyebrow, Lissom placed a placating hand on his wrist and speaking in a voice that was uncharacteristically somber, explained, "Myrhia's evil must never again be allowed to run rampant. With every new incarnation, she grows more powerful and on the occasion of her next rising, hers may well be a puissance that has no equal."

"So, if I refuse to relinquish control of her body, you would feel compelled to take it?" Artumas inquired softly, though he knew well enough what her response would be. With this knowledge, a frigid wind began to howl in the hollow chambers of his ailing heart.

"I would do what is necessary to insure that Myrhia remains imprisoned. It is why Gyzarayne has chosen me to be her emissary," Lissom replied candidly, her gaze never faltering. After a moment, she stood and vanished into the deeper gloom, the subdued golden nimbus marking her passage.

Artumas watched her go as the disturbing echo of her parting words swirled in his mind. As he waited for assistance to come, it occurred to him that Lissom might well be the light reflection of Myrhia's darkness. Both women would drive inexorably toward their objectives and aspirations with a single-minded sense of purpose that would brook neither interference nor opposition. The only question that begged an answer was how far the Ascentrix would go to serve the will of her goddess.

2

Lissom returned a short time later just as Esuruban appeared at a run with two stretcher-bearing soldiers in tow. Slowly, Artumas climbed to his feet, privately shocked by the leaden sensation that had taken hold of his limbs. Ignoring the slow pulse of dizziness that rolled over him in languid waves, the king gestured toward the stretcher and growled, "That won't be necessary. Castle staff has endured enough without having to suffer the sorry spectacle of witnessing their king being borne about like an ailing grandmother."

There was a snap of iron in the king's tone that precluded argument. Esuruban bowed and ordered that the stretcher be set aside, privately relieved that his liege was displaying some of his customary strength and fire. Lissom, who was clearly displeased by what she perceived as his flagrant disregard for his wellbeing, nonetheless held her tongue when his challenging gaze met hers. When it became apparent that no objection would be forthcoming, Artumas pushed himself away from the wall, accepting Esuruban's offered arm with a smile of gratitude.

To the Ascentrix, Artumas inquired, "What of the antechamber...is the portal truly destroyed?"

"Thoroughly and beyond any hope of restoration," Lissom reported quietly, her lovely face inscrutable behind a seemingly unflappable mask of serenity.

'This, more than anything else, is a testimony to her alien nature,' a bemused Artumas reflected as he searched her angelic countenance for the slightest indication that she had been affected by anything that had befallen her during this dark, wretched day. He could discern not the slightest inkling of sorrow or loss and could not help but wonder if her role as a Goddess' emissary precluded the capacity to grieve or show emotion in the face of nearly unbearable tragedy.

"The ShadowCaster has been here and there are indications that his passing was not without violence," the Ascentrix revealed. "Good fortune smiled upon us after a fashion as the portal was destroyed before he could access the gateway."

"How could you possibly know this?" Artumas blurted, grimacing at how curt and foolish the question echoed even as it left his lips.

She regarded her host for a moment and a protracted silence spun itself out between them, but then a radiant smile lit her face, conjuring images of spring's first redolent bloom. Lissom linked her right arm in his and began to guide the aging king, who accepted her assistance without protest or affront, away from the ruins of the portal chamber. "A fair enough question and one that merits a concise explanation, though I must warn you that the answer springs from the metaphysical workings of our world and may conflict with the sensibilities of a man who defines reality through the five tactile senses."

"I have never concealed my disdain for magic and metaphysics," the king allowed as they slowly made their way back to the more functional sections of Kammlogran. "Nor have I ever doubted its existence or the terrible scope of its power. Today stands as testimony to both...and serves as an indictment against its use."

Lissom nodded distantly but did not rise to the implied criticism of those who could wield the power to level entire cities should they feel so inclined. "King Artumas, the average individual perceives only what their five senses convey, but imagine, if you will, a deeper realm of perception where magical energy translates into light. The color and magnitude of this light is determined both by the specific school of magic and the extent of the wielder's power. This realm of reality could be compared to the heavens as seen at the deepest hour of night. Every time magic energy is expended in this world, a point of light flares in the corresponding reality."

"I'm not entirely sure I understand," Artumas admitted, fascinated despite his customary aversion to the topic. Then again, he had never had a creature as exotic and compelling as the Ascentrix philosophize on the nature of magic.

"Think of it as an echo resonating along the twisting course of a deep valley. The louder one shouts, the longer the echo persists. The ShadowCaster employed a rare and powerful sorcery in his effort to infiltrate Kammlogran. His passing blazes across the fabric of this deeper reality like a comet, fading slowly with the passing of time."

"How can you be certain that he did not access the portal before it was demolished?" he inquired, drawing a knowing smile from the ethereal creature, who clutched his arm tighter as the group made its way back into the unscathed section of the castle. He could feel the side swell of her full breast against his arm and drew a tremulous breath.

She was speaking again...evidently unaware of the intoxicating affect her physical presence was having upon him. "It is said that power draws power and this is unequivocally true. The most brilliant and enduring points in this alternate heaven occur when two sources of magical energy intersect...or collide. If you could view Nalosan through my eyes, you would see a golden corona that was well near blinding in magnitude. It hangs over your city and may not gutter for decades to come...if not centuries. Had the ShadowCaster accessed an active portal, it would have created one such point of magical confluence...the absence of which bespeaks his failure."

Artumas' profound sense of relief was etched deeply on his lined and haggard face, though it was difficult to fully assimilate the terrifying implications of the ShadowCaster's apparent power. The five proceeded beneath a weighty silence for several moments, until they came to a congested corridor, where porters, servants and soldiers milled about, all clearly confused and frightened by the devastation that had befallen the supposedly impregnable Kammlogran. Here, Esuruban took charge, clearing a swathe through the throng with a spate of barked epithets that caused the staffers to shirk back like scolded children.

Lacking the wherewithal to offer any meaningful words of solace or reassurance, Artumas averted his gaze to the floor and allowed himself to be led meekly back to his chambers.

After what seemed like an eternity, the king found himself standing before the two heavy, inlaid oak doors that led to his private quarters. He could feel Lissom's incisive gaze on the side of his face and willed himself to meet it unblinkingly. Her limpid blue eyes were narrowed in an expression of genuine concern, evoking the troubling image of scudding thunderclouds reflecting on the surface of pristine ocean waters. "Good king, we have averted a catastrophe this night by the barest of margins. If anything, our narrow escape only emphasizes the need for immediate action. You have said that you have no knowledge of where the receiver portal is located?"

He could sense the exigency that had prompted this question, just as he could discern her burgeoning impatience lurking ever closer to the surface of her placid façade. "True...my not knowing was a provision of the armistice that ended the war and allowed me to regain my throne. The construction of the portal was conditional to my never knowing where Myrhia's body was being sequestered."

"The keepers of this knowledge must be convinced to divulge the whereabouts of the receiver portal in short order. They must be made to understand that the continued existence of their world is contingent upon this disclosure," the Ascentrix declared gravely. "You must undertake to obtain this disclosure with all possible alacrity, king Artumas."

Lissom allowed the urgent plea to trail off into a charged silence and sensed her entreaty collide with the walls of his unfathomable reluctance to relinquish possession of the woman who had betrayed him. Subjugating her mounting irritation, she laid the flat of her palm on his shoulder and released a small wave of soothing energy, privately delighted by his wide-eyed reaction as her life force rolled through the alleyways and corridors of his enervated flesh. "We will think on these matters on the morrow...tonight you must rest."

He regarded her skeptically, doubting that sleep was even remotely possible after the dark and tragic events of the day. Lissom smiled her beguiling smile and leaned closer until her full lips brushed his ear lobe, whispering in a language the aging king did not recognize. All awareness left him then, consciousness dissolving like mist before the wind. His thin lids drew down like shutters and his chin slumped to his chest and his body was kept effortlessly aloft by the Ascentrix's long, elegant fingers.

Esuruban regarded the slumbering king with a mixture of dread and confusion, before eyeing the Ascentrix with thinly disguised suspicion. The ever-perceptive Lissom noted how his right hand commenced its instinctive journey towards the hand guard of his longsword. "Fear not for your king, good captain," she intoned, turning the full weight of her formidable gaze upon the veteran. "He is under a minor enchantment that will grant him the peaceful rest that he so desperately requires. If you love him well...and I glean that you do...you will guide him to his bed and ward him against disturbance until the spell runs its course."

His will evaporated in the face of her compelling beauty and irresistible presence and he accepted the burden of the aging king's weight with a slight nod. As he prepared to carry the king back to his bed, Esuruban paused and spoke without glancing back. "We of the hand are oath-sworn to protect unto death...and so we shall on the honor of our fathers."

Then he vanished into the darkened interior of the king's chamber, his bravely uttered and thinly veiled threat not lost upon the creature for whom it had been intended. Lissom stood in the silence of the corridor and as she lingered, the golden aura warding her guttered ever so slightly. She experienced a rare moment of uncertainty then, her misgivings springing from the unexpected intensity of the affection she found herself developing for the flawed man now slumbering in the embrace of her simple cantrip.

Closing her eyes, she offered a murmured plea to her mistress, "Gyzarayne, guide my hand and keep me true to your path."

She heard the subtle whisper of movement in the corridor and felt her corona flare anew. With a smile of relief playing at her lips, she went in search of Karosyn.

3

"Summon Issidris."

Karosyn arched an exquisitely tapered eyebrow in response to the Ascentrix's atypically curt instruction she offered by way of greeting as she entered the quarters where her sisters of Esotaria had been housed. Amazingly, this section of Kammlogran had sustained little damage and could continue to provide shelter for the sisters who were still engaged in works of healing and mercy amongst the wounded and dying of Nalosan.

"Events now warrant drawing Issidris into the open?" The Matrium ventured, cautiously phrasing her question so as not to imply judgment on the Ascentrix's decision, painfully aware that their relationship had irrevocably changed. She watched this beautiful creature converge upon her, intense and suddenly terrifying in the newly obtained apex of her power and Karosyn was abruptly swept back along the sepia-colored corridor of memories to the distant time when she held an angelic baby to her breast, a soothing lullaby rolling from her lips.

So, it was chronicled in the ageless book of Sycallie that when the world was still fresh from its birthing, Gyzarayne, female aspect of the one divinity gazed down upon the fledgling tribe of mortals. As she peered through the primordial mists, tears of intense sorrow sprang to her eyes, filling the hollow places and filling the great oceans of these modern times. She witnessed her beloved daughters oppressed and neglected by men, who held it to be their deity-ordained right to treat women thusly. Though she was an immortal Goddess and thus beyond the dominion of physical pain, she possessed such a keen love for her daughters that she willingly opened herself to their misery and degradation. In doing so, Gyzarayne experienced the humiliation of rape, the incisive sting and tear of the lash and the heavy fall of the drunken fist. Though this horrific, savage abuse, far too common to contemplate, evoked an unspeakable anguish in the Goddess, even this paled in comparison to the crushing despair and utter sense of inescapable futility that were the constant companions of most women in the world of men.

Stricken by the wretched state of her daughters, the Goddess sought to level the balance of power between men and women, constrained by the sworn oath never to directly interfere in the affairs of the mortal world, referred to by the divines as the firmament of judgment. Gyzarayne created a female child with a measure of her own immortal power.

Thus, was born Perservya, first Ascentrix of what was to become the Sisterhood of Esotaria. Gyzarayne decided that this child would not mature with the simple passing of years, but rather by the grace and wisdom with which she confronted the obstacles and tribulations that the capricious fates imposed in her path.

Then did Gyzarayne, with the angelic Perservya at her breast, undertake a long and arduous journey through the firmament of judgment. Long did she seek out a woman to nurture and give sanctuary to her blessed child. At times, she despaired of ever finding one who was condign to the enormous burden of mentoring the future liberator of the enshackled female spirit, so forlorn and thoroughly defeated were the women of the age.

Deep in the shadowed, forbidding forest of Xhaxus, the goddess came upon a wizen hag who was known to the forest's few inhabitants as Matra. Long years of deprivation in the inimical forest had left Matra's temple of flesh bent...her bones brittle, but her spirit remained pure and infrangible. She had eschewed the hollow security of a man's bed for the rugged splendor and freedom of the untamed wilds. There, she learned the skills of survival and healing, talents she would eventually use to benefit the other forest dwellers. More importantly, Matra became attuned to the life pulse of the sprawling forest and the valiant struggle of the many creatures who dwelled within its midst. In Matra, Gyzarayne found a single woman who had not been corrupted by hatred, remorse and cynicism...who epitomized the very qualities of the feminine psyche that the goddess sought to engender in her own child.

In a grove of towering oak, the goddess entrusted her Perservya into Matra's keeping. As recompense for this daunting task, Gyzarayne had banished all of Matra's infirmities and bestowed upon her a beauty the magnitude of which had never been beheld in the mortal world. In addition to this, she granted Matra a span of years sufficient to guide Perservya to full ascension. Thus came to be the first Ascentrix and Matrium...two women whose intermingling of spirit achieved an empathic bond of profound depth for which there was no parallel in all existence.

Only when an Ascentrix reached the zenith of her potential did this connection of kindred being and united purpose finally come asunder. It was the inviolable law of nature that every mother must face the moment when she must release her daughter into the river of life to face the current of everyday existence...be they wild and cruel or calm and soothing. Then, each mother must find solace in the hope that they had instilled a measure of grace and wisdom in their children adequate to endure the dark tides of life's journey yet to be written.

It had been so for every pairing of Ascentrix and Matrium down through the twisting, turbulent millennia and for Lissom and Karosyn there could be no exception.

Like a lance through her heart, Karosyn suddenly gleamed that Lissom, she in whom the realization of Gyzarayne's vision was unrivalled in the annals of the sisterhood, had finally come to this inevitable moment of release. Karosyn found herself paralyzed by a sense of acute loss and struggled mightily to suppress the fall of tears that were threatening to burst forth like an earthen dam before a surging tide.

'My beautiful child has grown beyond the need of me,' she realized and was nearly overwhelmed by the conflicting emotions of sorrow and pride.

The Ascentrix seemed to discern her Matrium's inner turmoil for she stepped closer and gently laid a placating hand on Karosyn's shoulder, "Do not mourn for my coming to this moment of transcendence...you will be eternally precious to me and though the dictates of tradition would decree that an Ascentrix would now set her Matrium aside and thread a solitary path into whatever future Gyzarayne has set before her, you will discover that this Ascentrix will never be constrained by the rigid dictates of tradition."

With this, she bent forward and bestowed a tender and lingering kiss on her mentor's cheek and then fell abeyant to her knees while clasping the Matrium's right hand. She gazed up at the startled Matrium, her intense blue eyes alight with unrestrained love. Before this startling and unprecedented egalitarian gesture, Karosyn found herself incapable of restraining her tears. They fell like the tumble of diamonds over the ridges of her cheekbones. Unbridled emotion shook her tight flesh as she peered down on the exotic creature to whom she had devoted her life.

Lissom laid her cheek against her mentor's hand, her limpid blue eyes never leaving the other woman's face. "Gyzarayne's love is unremitting and perfect in its conception, yet we mortals are often inadequate to the task of manifesting that wisdom in the tangible world. The goddess entrusted her precious Perservya to Matra in the greatest gesture of trust a deity could bestow upon a mortal. Somewhere through the languid flow of time and history, the sisterhood has corrupted that vision of perfect and absolute trust so that the Matrium is cast aside like unwanted chattel once she has ushered the Ascentrix through her moments of transcendence."

A glint of Lissom's personal ferocity stole into her eyes as she intoned, "That monumental injustice stands as one of the great indictments against our sisterhood...and it will meet its emphatic end with me...and with you. I kneel before you in heartfelt tribute to the devotion and love that you have extended to me over these past centuries. I vow unequivocally that you will stand at my right hand so long as I carry the mantle of Ascentrix. You will offer your guidance and serve as my regent when our order's path winds along divergent roads. Karosyn, Matrium of the Sisters of Esotaria, you will neither age nor fall beneath the tide of irrelevance that has claimed Matriums before. I swear on our mother's sacred name, when I am called home, you shall accompany me...until then, the bond that connects us will never be torn asunder."

Lissom's soft voice grew husky. "Open your mind to me, Karosyn...let every barrier between us fall. To ward against the ravages of age, I bestow upon you a measure of my life-force."

Karosyn moaned as every fiber of her being was suffused by a torrent of golden energy. It eradicated all resistance and coursed through the Matrium's body, filling it with a warmth and pleasure that was well near intoxicating in its intensity.

The Matrium's eyes closed and her head rolled back on the stalk of her long neck. Her back arched and her full breasts thrust forward, the nipples rising into turgid knots of electric sensation. The Ascentrix's life-force filled her womanhood, moving into her and through her with gentle insistence until Karosyn's firm thighs trembled like saplings in the wind. With a guttural, inarticulate cry of pleasure, she collapsed into Lissom's strong embrace, where she shivered uncontrollably until that intoxicating wave of pleasure subsided into a pervasive sense of wellbeing.

Lissom stroked Karosyn's hair for a time and finally pushed the other woman to arm's length. The Matrium, single-minded in her devotion to the Ascentrix, who had never once lain with a man, despite her extraordinary beauty and gentle nature, radiated the glow of the deepest intimacy imaginable. More astounding still, she had come closer than any Matrium before her to experiencing the physical reality of what it meant to be an Ascentrix.

"Thank you!" she whispered hoarsely, robbed of the faculty of speech by humility and wonder.

'To be so blessed,' she thought, and her tears began to fall.

"When you again feel the nascent stirring of age, come to me and I will drive it from your flesh. As you have pledged your life for me, I will give of my life for you. Now please, find Issidris and bring her to me," Lissom instructed.

Karosyn turned on unsteady legs and began to float towards the chamber door, feeling as though a massive weight had been lifted from her shoulders...a burden of years that she had not been cognizant of only moments before.

Lissom watched her Matrium go with her customary serene smile set on her lovely face, but the instant the chamber door closed and the Ascentrix was alone, that smile gave way to a rare expression of bemusement.

'Is it through hubris that I have forsaken tradition?' she wondered, momentarily assailed by an uncharacteristic twinge of self-doubt. Though she had kept the notion sequestered deep in the recesses of her complex mind, Lissom had long harbored the promise that she would be an Ascentrix like no other who had come before her. It was possible that she would come to regret this conceit as time had a nasty penchant for making a mockery of the most noble and well-meant ambitions. Still, Karosyn was precious to her and if not discarding her risked incurring the disdainful wrath of the capricious fates...so be it. It was a risk she was willing to take.

She turned her consideration to the delicate matter of King Artumas and his clinging infatuation with the remnant. It was evident that he may have lied to her when he claimed to have no knowledge of the location of the receiver portal. It would be a simple matter to obtain that knowledge forcibly...to tear it from the depths of his mind the way a carrion bird might strip bits of flesh from a corpse. The thought of employing such vulgar means on the noble Artumas was anathema to Lissom, and she would only resort to it as an extreme final measure.

The consequences of this forced extraction were cataclysmic and would plunge the aging king into irreversible, gibbering madness. This would destroy any chance of realizing her fervent desire to see the sisterhood gain universal acceptance in this new and antiquated land. She correctly gleaned that his possible lie had been motivated by both a mistrust of the sisterhood and an intractable refusal to relinquish possession of what remained of the woman he had once loved...even if that love had been based on an elaborate fabrication.

"And still does," Lissom whispered to the emptiness.

With this realization, the objectives set before her resolved themselves in her mind with resounding clarity...like the tolling of a bell. She must do everything within her considerable power to demonstrate that Artumas could place his absolute and unwavering trust in the Sisters of Esotaria. If the aging king's love for Myrhia occluded his ability to see reason, then Lissom would supplant that love with an even greater passion...a consuming passion for her.

She drifted over to an ornate full-length mirror that sat in one corner of her private chamber. Standing before the mirror, she pulled the robe over her head and gazed at her naked reflection in the muted light. Lissom could not forestall the smile that broke over her exquisite face in response to the perfection of the image reflected there...the very embodiment of Gyzarayne's vision of feminine beauty. She ran her fingertips over the sweeping curve of her firm thighs, along the expanse of her flat belly and over the swell of her full breasts to the prominent peaks of their pink nipples. The gentle touch of her questing fingers evoked a wave of alien emotions that both intrigued and delighted the Ascentrix. Like Karosyn, she had yet to experience the intimate pleasure that came with lying with another, but she understood perfectly the effect her formidable beauty could have on everyone around her.

She would utilize Gyzarayne's gift of perfection until she and by extension, the Sisters of Esotaria, became the very sun in the legendary king's eyes.

This renewed clarity banished her self-doubt, but not her sense of dire exigency. Sweeping up her simple garb and pulling it over her head in one fluid gesture, she crossed over to her narrow pallet and settled down to await Issidris.

Chapter Twenty-Four

1

The first sensations to greet her return to consciousness were a bone-deep chill and a dizzying sense of disorientation. Gasping for air, Lorio abruptly sat up, barely suppressing the cry that strained at her lips. As a sense of awareness gradually gained dominion over disorientation, the events of the day came flooding back to her in a torrent.

Panic, enormous and consuming, seized her then as she recalled how that bastard, Xhendyn, had driven his arcane weapon into her abdomen...implanting his mysterious evil in the fiber of her immortal flesh. She could feel its malign presence inside of her, lingering there with some unfathomable purpose...and she knew it would take a gargantuan exertion of self-control not to snap up the first dirk she came across and gouge her flesh to ribbons attempting to cut it out.

'Be calm, you obtuse bitch!' she castigated herself. 'You are alive...and to begin with, that is all that matters.' Lorio began to draw slow, deep breaths until she had mastered her anxiety. As she regained mastery over her emotions, it occurred to her that, whatever Xhendyn's intended purpose had been in assailing her in the alleyway, it had not been to kill (indeed, it was common knowledge that she was immortal). Nor had it been to debilitate her permanently. The monster's intentions were far more insidious...far more subtle.

"Artumas!" The recollection of how she had been squiring the ailing king back to relative safety blossomed in her mind's eye...the association with this disquieting image and Xhendyn's furtive purpose was decidedly keen. He had disable Lorio so that he might dispose of the high king.

Her vision had grown accustomed to the near total darkness of her chamber and she rose on unsteady legs and made her way unerringly to the heavy oak doors which led to the corridor beyond. While in the chaotic embrace of unconsciousness, Lorio had been touched by another vision...a series of swirling images of profound consequence that had finally resolved themselves into a face and a specific location...a point of confluence where both she and the man she was intended to ward would both be brought together. Had there not been the intimation of imminent danger hovering around the man like a penumbra? She was certain that this prevailing sense of pending disaster was not a product of her traumatized mind, but if this point of intersection had not rang false in her vision, then she was in no position to offer him immediate aid.

For the moment at least, the bane's survival was in the unpredictable hands of fate.

Throwing open the double doors, Lorio was greeted by an empty, darkened hall...an improbable sight that declared eloquently that something dire had befallen Kammlogran and the city of Nalosan. The aura of catastrophe and its omnipresent companion, despair, hung in the air like a cloying miasma. Desperate for news, Lorio sprinted into the deserted halls in search of answers, unmindful of her wild, disheveled appearance.

2

"And the portal was destroyed beyond salvage?" Xhendyn inquired and though his tone was guardedly neutral, Joubert could discern a hint of disquiet in the creature's deep-timbred voice.

Alain shrugged, his thin frame reclining against a large outcrop of basalt that thrust skyward from the forest floor as if the earth was attempting to expel something ineffably vile. With a certain measure of private satisfaction, he repeated, "The ceiling of the chamber collapsed directly onto the structure, effectively grinding it to bits."

A charged, contemplative silence descended upon the pair as Xhendyn absorbed what was clearly unwelcome news. After the ShadowCaster realized that no further purpose was served by remaining in Kammlogran, he had traced his steps back to the entrance and out into the royal plaza, where after several moments of uncertainty, he decided it might be prudent to exit the city. His unsettling encounter with the creature he had passed as he mounted the ramp into Kammlogran was still fresh in his thoughts. He was perceptive enough to realize that he had avoided potential discovery only because of Xhendyn's fiery diversion...a diversion that had indirectly led to the destruction of the device in the chamber. The implications of these developments were far-reaching and profound...exposing a fallibility of both Xhendyn and Joubert himself.

It suddenly occurred to the cautious Joubert that he was very much like a man adrift on an alien and inimical sea. In his old life, he had developed and acute understanding of the dangers and the governing realities that drove the criminal underworld, thus endowing him with the knowledge to navigate its many hazards and pitfalls. Of this world, he knew virtually nothing and as he had discovered on the ramps leading into Kammlogran, this ignorance could prove fatal. His natural inclination towards distrust made him initially reluctant to share the details of his encounter with his demonic sponsor, but his well-honed instinct for self-preservation warned him that this would be a grave mistake.

"Something happened as I was entering the king's castle," the ShadowCaster began, his tone conveying both perplexity and disquiet. Xhendyn inclined his head towards Joubert and the ghastly red pits that served as the demon's eyes flared briefly. Slowly, Joubert began to recount details of his encounter with the creature on the ramp. As Xhendyn listened, his displeasure became a palpable thing, radiating from his body just as heat now radiated from the campfire that burned between the pair.

When at last Joubert concluded his tale, Xhendyn drew a deep breath and confessed, "The coming of these witches was a variable that I had not foreseen...and they present a dangerous complication that could well prove the ruin of the elaborate scheme I have labored so long to construct."

"And what exactly would this scheme of yours be?" Joubert interjected, deciding that the moment was right to be more assertive...to demand a forthright explanation as to why he'd been summoned. Pushing away from the outcrop, Joubert closed the distance between the pair and stood gazing up at the taller entity. "Instinct tells me that my presence here is critical to whatever devilry you're up to...I think that warrants total candor, at the very least. Whatever that thing was on the ramp today, I'm guessing it would have easily killed me if the city hadn't been on the verge of total destruction. Am I correct?"

The inhuman red eyes flared menacingly and for a brief instant, Joubert feared that he had over-estimated his value. Instead, the kinetic violence gradually drained from Xhendyn's posture and he shrugged. "I'm quite frankly uncertain if she would have been able to kill you or not...and that uncertainty stems from the fact that I neither understand what manner of creature this was nor can I claim to know the final shape and extent of your power."

Joubert's jaw unhinged in response to Xhendyn's revelation. The creature uttered a mirthless chuckle that closely resembled claws scuttling over headstones. "Why the expression of astonishment...were you of the impression that I was somehow omniscient? If so, you would do well to disabuse yourself of that rather infantile notion at once. The concept of fate is both grossly misrepresented and woefully misunderstood, ShadowCaster. The course of history...the incessant flow of time; these things do not adhere to the rigid dictates of one man's will. Even a God can but nudge the course of events towards a desired eventuality. Time does not lend itself to rigid constraints and the notion that an individual can impose his or her will on its confluences is not only fatuous...it is extremely dangerous. Even our benefactress, who is an ascendant being, has learned this to her own consternation and pain. Destiny is more comparable to a flux than it is a malleable, dynamic entity. Even the most carefully crafted machinations can crumble to dust with the interjection of one unanticipated variable. Consider it, ShadowCaster...if fate is held to be inexorable, would not all forward momentum come to a complete halt with grinding finality?"

He paused and gazed up at the star-strewn heavens where innumerable dramas were being enacted even as he pontificated on the nature of the forces that governed them. "You've asked why I've summoned you to this antiquated world...a legitimate inquiry that deserves and answer. Fate has decreed that you are the one entity capable of emancipating the emerald enchantress from her prison. Why you have been selected in particular, while fascinating to contemplate, is beyond the pall of comprehension and consequently of little value to me. Fate has selected you and so I have drawn you into this world and set you to your purpose."

Joubert's mind was abuzz with a thousand burning questions, but he subjugated the urge to pose them, asking simply, "But there's more to the equation?"

"Naturally...if there is one universal maxim that holds true it is that nature will struggle relentlessly to achieve a balance in all things. At any given juncture in time, a chosen player will rise to the mantle of supreme power...without apparent challenge to that supremacy. In time, another opposing force will rise to supplant this once invincible ascendant and the entire process will begin anew. Thus, Gods are toppled and mighty empires crumble and are consigned to the dust bin of history. This may be the one prevailing truth of universal existence."

Xhendyn leveled a leather-clad finger at the ShadowCaster. "You are a creature the manner of which has never before strode this world. You have the unique ability to shift reality...the full ramifications of this will reveal themselves with the passing of time. Even I can only guess at the wondrous things you might be capable of achieving."

"But despite this unseen potential, I'm still vulnerable?" Joubert offered, though his guarded tone concealed his disquiet.

"Yes...another has been summoned into this world. I now suspect that he has come at the behest of the meddlesome whores that have now infested Nalosan. Fate has held that this man will serve the role of your bane. What, in practical terms, does this mean, ShadowCaster? Let us dispense with the endless philosophical musing this could inspire and cut to the salient quick of the matter...because the bane possesses the means to destroy you, it does not automatically follow that he will achieve your destruction."

Xhendyn's point was well taken and this managed to allay some of Joubert's anxiety...if only incrementally. The demonic entity drew the edge of his right hand across the palm of his left. "This unwinding of events will see your destinies collide at some crucial juncture in the future...that much is a virtual certainty. It is the result of that fateful collision that is yet to be determined. I will go to any lengths to mold the shape of that moment...to tilt the element of chance in our favor. I have worked assiduously to provide you with the advantage needed to vanquish this bane. If events unfold as I anticipate, we will be left with an unobstructed path to the enchantress."

"So, you're saying that if this bane, as you call him, is killed...there is no one else in this world with the means to kill me?" Joubert asked, scarcely able to digest the notion that he was one person removed from invincibility.

"Effectively, yes," Xhendyn confirmed, "but before this revelation inspires a false sense of invulnerability, let's make it explicitly clear that you...and by extension, my design, can still be undone."

Joubert posed his query by way of an arched eyebrow. The demonic entity merely shook his head in feigned disappointment. "Perhaps you are not half as clever as I first imagined, Joubert...do you really believe that invulnerability automatically translates into unstoppability? If so, you are destined for a rude and painful awakening in this world, ShadowCaster. You need only ponder the fate that befell the emerald enchantress when last she walked this world. She is an ascendant being...among other things...this means that her life force can never be extinguished. If her physical body is destroyed, her life force is reborn in another vessel and her pursuit of absolute dominance can begin anew. Whatever else you may turn out to be, ShadowCaster, you are not Myrhia...a cogent fact you would do well never to forget, lest hubris lead to your undoing."

"Basically, you're telling me that, while I can't be killed outright, it's possible that I could be somehow imprisoned or otherwise ensnared by some sort of magic?" Joubert inquired somberly and his mind conjured the image of the serving girl from Kammlogran...Aisen had been her name...and his body was wracked by a violent shudder.

"These whores possess a potent magic the essence of which is still beyond my understanding. The creature I unleashed in Nalosan should have reduced the city to smoldering cinders. Its defeat at the hands of this sorceress clearly declares the full extent of her substantial power. Until I gain some insight into the exact nature of the magic she wields, we cannot risk having you anywhere within the vicinity of Nalosan. You are simply too valuable."

"Valuable how, Xhendyn?" Joubert demanded insistently. "You've abducted me and dragged me into this antiquated world and keep telling me that I have this momentous role to play, but you seem reluctant to divulge just what this role might be."

"In light of what has transpired in the last few days, I will grant that your plaintive whining is not unwarranted," the entity hissed, clearly unaccustomed to being challenged by those he considered subordinates. After a moment, his irritation relented with an exasperated sigh. "Specifically, you have been summoned to locate what her keepers refer to as the remnant. During her final confrontation with another ascendant...that meddlesome, traitorous bitch, Islena Doraux...Myrhia was turned to stone."

"Turned to stone?" Joubert echoed dumbly, unable to conceive how pliable human flesh could be petrified like a piece of statuary.

Xhendyn then described the final moments of Islena and Myrhia's now legendary battle, briefly explaining the mechanics of the process that had inured the emerald enchantress. "The volume of the power being focused through Islena Doraux far exceeded Myrhia's capacity for absorption and as a consequence, her flesh was rendered inert. The molecules of her body became totally stationary. The physical manifestation of this was that her body essentially turned to stone."

"But you're going to suggest that she's still cognizant...still aware of her own existence and the world around her?" Joubert asked, unable to fully conceal his own burgeoning sense of horror that this notion evoked. The prospect of being entombed within your own flesh was too terrible to contemplate...like being buried alive without even the cold mercy of eventual death to relieve the torment. "How can you be certain that she is still alive?"

"It is the nature of an ascendant being. If Myrhia's life force had been completely purged from her flesh, she would have simply re-spawned in another reality at some other juncture in the eternal unfolding of time. There, she would simply await the inevitable coming of the other two ascendant beings with whom she is locked in an eternal struggle. More to the point, the enchantress is a creature of indomitable will. Despite her harsh binding, she has still found the wherewithal to reach out and summon me and, by extension, you. Together, we shall end her incarceration and stand witness to her terrible vengeance."

The two fell silent for a protracted moment and finally the demonic entity disclosed, "If my fundamental understanding of your ability is accurate, you alone have the capacity to breech the walls of Myrhia's prison and communicate directly with the enchantress."

Joubert digested this disclosure for a moment, wondering what it would be like to venture into the complex labyrinth of a deity's mind. Turning to his sponsor with a speculative light gleaming in his incisive brown eyes, Joubert inquired, "Tell me Xhendyn, am I correct in surmising that by petrifying Myrhia and not destroying her outright, Islena Doraux was fully cognizant of this eternal cycle and saw this course of action as a way of bringing it to a permanent halt?"

"If I was inclined to speculate on the matter, I would say yes," the entity allowed. "The two things the meddlesome whore did not anticipate were Myrhia's inexorable will to endure...and you." The entity inclined his head to one side and then waved his left hand in a gesture of impatience. "Enough palaver. The sudden appearance of these damnable sorceresses and the subsequent destruction of Nalosan have made our situation immeasurably more delicate and complex. I have always danced several steps ahead of the doddering king and his allies and I must take immediate action if we are to remain positioned thusly."

Seething with frustration that he was effectively being dismissed without first having obtain the answers he sought, Joubert rasped, "And what would you have me do now?"

Xhendyn regarded the ShadowCaster, his eyes flaring like malefic dying suns. "Nothing, I cannot risk exposing you to these witches in Nalosan. A day's walk north of here there is a small village named Tollevan...find your way there and await my appearance. I would suggest that you use the respite to explore the limits of your new abilities. You will have to put them to use soon enough. Once I've discovered the location of the receiver portal, events will begin to unfold with bewildering speed."

This said, Xhendyn strode off into the darkness without awaiting a bemused Joubert's reply. As the ShadowCaster watched the darkness swallow the demonic entity, he wondered if he had strayed far out of his element by being drawn into this game of deities.

Chapter Twenty-Five

1

"And where, dare I ask, is your legendary queen?" Tier marshal Gillian demanded, his tone dripping sarcasm like a viper's venom. "Is she blithely unaware of the threat hovering over Lamia...or perchance she has engaged herself in more pressing matters than the potential annihilation of her entire people?"

Nayoro winced in reaction to the last several words which were delivered with an indignant snarl that fully conveyed Gillian's disgust with Lorio's continuing absence. The statuesque Lamish regent drew herself to her full height as her limpid eyes blazed from her lean angular face that was fetching despite the perpetual severity that shaped its features. Serious, focused and purpose driven, Nayoro was atypical of her people and seemingly the diametric opposite of the impulsive monarch she served. She absently brushed the short, black hair away from her left temple and quickly swept her gaze over those assembled around the large wooden map table that dominated the Jerhia command tent.

To a one, every Jerhia and Lamish face wore an expression of guarded neutrality, but the gleam in every eye made it clear that a candid and substantial answer was fully expected by all present. 'Lorio, damn your impulsiveness,' Nayoro thought bitterly, growing weary of her role of dealing with her Queen's apparent refusal to take her position as Lamia's ruler seriously. 'An irrelevant ruler for an irrelevant people,' the regent realized, wondering for the thousandth time how she had allowed herself to become embroiled in this utterly absurd charade of governance. 'Because you understand that the Lamish have to become something more than a collection of morally deficient, shiftless itinerants if they are ever to amount to anything as a people...if Lamia is ever to be regarded as more than a farce as a nation...and I should be its queen!'

Nayoro became cognizant of the tier marshal's intense scrutiny. Gathering her composure, she met his icy gaze across the polished expanse of wood and vellum. "The queen departed for Nalosan prior to the first attack. She did not disclose the specific details and purpose of her visit, saying only that she had a matter of critical importance to discuss with the Emercian King. A messenger has been dispatched to Nalosan conveying an urgent request that she return immediately to Lamia...no doubt, she will return with all possible haste."

"No doubt," Gillian echoed, shaking his head in obvious disgust.

Nayoro bristled and retorted, "Sir, your manner is both rude and intolerably inappropriate...I will suffer it no further...I demand that you exercise due courtesy."

Gillian snorted and slammed the flat of his palm down on the map table, causing all assembled to flinch, save for Nayoro, who continued to glare at the tier marshal. "Woman, I don't give a fiddler's fuck if my conduct is an affront to your nation's dignity or your queen's personal honor. Men and women of the Jerhia military are preparing to risk their lives in an attempt to protect this sliver of land you refer to as a country. As they are to take the field against a powerful adversary who will do whatever is necessary to achieve their goals...I expect that a good many of those men and women will perish. If there is any hope of saving this wretched country, I need someone here who has the absolute authority to impose the measures I deem necessary to succeed."

A stunned and uncomfortable silence descended upon the group. Sybian, the newly appointed adjutant of the Jerhia reconnaissance element, averted her gaze to her hands. The thick and unexpected miasma of tension in the room caused her stomach to roll queasily.

Nayoro stiffened in the face of Gillian's flagrant disregard for basic protocol, while her entourage howled their protest. She cut their plaintive cries short with a savage chopping gesture. Then she was around the table in three swift strides, halting a pace from the Jerhia tier marshal, who turned to meet her with an inscrutable expression set on his thin face. Nayoro was half a head taller than the Jerhia and her slender form and ramrod posture bestowed upon her a regal aspect of nobility. Her jaw muscles bunched in sharp relief as she spoke through clenched teeth. "I am Lorio's regent...in her absence, I have absolute authority in all matters on this soil, you insufferably arrogant little man. If you care to challenge that authority or continue to heap your disdain on my country, perhaps we can clear this tent and do so in private."

The regent leaned forward until their noses were nearly touching. The others looked on as though in the thrall of an immobilizing cantrip, spectators who could only observe this unexpected drama with horrified fascination. Though her next utterance was delivered in a whisper, it resonated in every ear as if she had brayed it at the top of her lungs, "Consider yourself fortunate, swordsman, that a sense of decorum is deeply engrained in my nature, If Queen Lorio was here, you would find yourself hurtling towards the floor of the great mother."

She glared down at the Jerhia while the air of tension and imminent violence became palpable. After a prolonged silence, Gillian clapped the regent on the left shoulder and offered the incredulous woman an amused grin. "No doubt I would, my good woman. If we are to have any hope of surviving what is to come, this is precisely the type of passion and fire we will all have to draw on."

Still smiling, Gillian turned away from Nayoro and unfurling a detailed cloth map of Lamia, remarked, "Now Regent Nayoro, I will provide you with an overview of my preliminary strategy for meeting the Metocan threat. Keeping in mind that the situation is fluid and the planning is in its formative stage, this will illustrate what is required of the Lamish citizenry...and of you."

Livid with anger, Nayoro continued to glare at the side of Gillian's face. Through the swirling vortex of emotions raging in her mind, it suddenly occurred to her, 'this tirade was purely theatrical...this bastard deliberately baited me.'

On the heels of that startling revelation came the inevitable question...why?

By an exertion of her customary discipline Nayoro subdued her anger and forced herself to concentrate on the cloth rendering of her beleaguered country. Even as Gillian disclosed the details of his plausible and unconventional strategy, a single thought resonated in Nayoro's frazzled mind. 'You will answer that question Jerhia. On my very honor, you will tell me why I had to endure your petty charade.'

2

With a name such as the Pitted Blade, it would not be an unreasonable assumption to suspect that this alehouse could be a gathering spot of choice for Nalosan's violent and unsavory elements. With the fiery destruction of the trough, the Pitted Blade became the chief beneficiary of the carnage that had incinerated the city east of the canal. Pity and empathy were scarce commodities amongst the denizens of the Blade and on this night of dark tragedy and nearly universal grieving, this grimy ale house was one of the few places where the sounds of laughter still resonated as though its occupants were immune to misery and disaster.

If indeed those gathered in the Pitted Blade believed that they were somehow exempt from the cruel ravages of random fate, to a one...they were about to be disabused of that notion with stunning and deadly effect.

The Pitted Blade was located at the end of a narrow, twisting street in the shadow of the city's southern wall. Though the environs of the ale house could hardly be described as affluent, the local residence still retained some measure of civic pride and basic human decency. These residents viewed the Pitted Blade as a blight on their neighborhood and took great pains to avoid the establishment. This policy of sufferance and avoidance was a fortuitous state of affairs for the Blade's regulars, who could conduct their shadowy commerce without fear of undue scrutiny.

A driving rain had descended upon the ailing city with the coming of night and on the turn of the witching hour, the Pitted Blade was jammed to capacity with the regulars as well as those displaced from the Trough, who had come in search of a possible new base of operations. The infusion of new blood stirred both suspicion and territorial resentment and the sense of impending violence that permeated the very air of the Pitted Blade was more pronounced than usual.

The city bell had just tolled a single chime, when the heavy wooden door opened and a solitary figure entered the ale house, swept in by a rain-soaked draft. Every entry was greeted by the surreptitious scrutiny of each inhabitant in the crowded common room...searching for the slightest hint of threat...or opportunity.

This latest entrant was diminutive and attired from head to toe in a tight, form-fitting uniform, the tunic of which was hooded and sleeveless, despite the cold and rain that now enveloped the city. The figure closed the door and performed a strange, but subtle gesticulation over the locking mechanism. The emphatic cracking that followed was lost in the general din of the common room. Turning back to the hearth, the figure slowly drew down her hood and stood surveying the patrons, the intensity of her gaze intimating that she had come to the Blade in search of something very specific.

The woman was short in stature and she might have been described as nondescript had she been attired differently. As her gaze swept the room, every face turned away from the coal black eyes that shone with an unsettling intensity from a blunt face that would never have been described as lovely especially when one considered the menace that shaped its features. That aura of belligerence was further augmented by leanly muscled shoulders and arms that were covered by a network of cross-hatched scars. One need only inspect those scars more closely to see that the pattern's precision...its spacing and consistency...was far too exact to be anything but self-inflicted. The black leather handles of the two deadly hook blades were cross strapped to the woman's back. The hafts framed her face and conveyed the impression of a woman who would wield the terrible blades with deadly proficiency.

After surveying the crowded room, the woman's daunting gaze settled on the badly scarred wooden bar which ran along the entire length of the north wall. Her lips twisted in something that might have been a grin and she began to move toward the spot where a morbidly obese barkeep polished glasses with a repulsively dirty cloth.

As she approached, the barkeep glanced in her direction. There was a leonine and decidedly deadly aspect to her movements that caused the barkeep's watery eyes to widen. With a perceptible shudder of disquiet, he averted his eyes to his task, but seconds later he became cognizant of someone standing directly before him and that aura of menace was now more pronounced than ever.

He flicked his gaze up to meet those intense black eyes and that sense of unease welled into apprehension. The barkeep (whose name was Asrod) had seen an endless stream of hard men and women flow through his ale house over the years, but none had affected him as profoundly as the diminutive woman now standing before him. Her eyes shone like twin portals to a hell where unconstrained violence and brutality held dominion and mercy was a meaningless concept without definition.

"Will you be wantin' ale then?" he managed...almost, but not quite succeeding in mastering the slight quaver in his voice.

She leaned forward slightly and spoke in a low, grating voice that rang in Asrod's hair-choked ears like lost hope. "I'm looking for the man in the pewter mask...the one with the whore's symbol on his chest."

The barkeep blinked and shook his head in an oddly bovine gesture of confusion, but as comprehension filtered through, his eyes widened in abject terror. "Don't know anybody like that," he whispered. "Now, if you ain't here for the ale, perhaps you'd best be..."

Asrod was not afforded the opportunity to articulate just what it was that the stranger might best be doing. There was a blur of motion, followed by an incisive pain and the barkeep was suddenly staggering backwards...a black-handled dirk protruding from the waddle of fat that encircled his lower mandible. Asrod staggered into the crude wooden shelf of steins and tankards as blood spewed from his mouth in a crimson glut. He collapsed to the floor, his blood spreading out in a fan over the dirty planks, and his fleshy body did one spastic jig before going utterly still.

As cries of shock and alarm echoed about her, the woman admired her lethal handiwork for a fraction of a second, before bending at the knee and executing a vertical leap. Twisting gracefully in mid-flight, she landed on the balls of her feet atop the bar...now facing the common room. The deadly stranger squatted on her haunches and drew her hooked short swords, driving them into the dull wood on either side of her thighs.

Asrod's blood had spattered her face and as she smiled, it bestowed a terrifying measure of lunacy on her countenance. When she spoke, her voice reverberated through the room like the roar of a cannon. "I'm looking for the man in the pewter mask!"

A brooding silence, rife with impending horror, descended upon the room just before the moment exploded in an orgy of bewildering violence.

3

One bell prior to the stranger's entry into the Pitted Blade, Issidris Il strode into the Ascentrix's antechamber, followed closely by the Matrium and First Battle Mage, Lyndsyn.

At her first glance of Lissom, Issidris' eyes widened slightly. When she had last been in the company of the Ascentrix, Lissom appeared to be a child of no more than seven years of age. The ethereal creature standing before Issidris appeared to be a woman in her mid-twenties and possessed of a beauty that was simply stunning in its magnitude. Issidris, for whom there had been a dearth of beautiful things in a life characterized by brutal violence and deprivation, could scarcely contain the urge to reach out and touch the tumble of loose golden curls that fell to a point at the small of Lissom's back. Had she not possessed a rudimentary understanding of the esoteric workings of the sisterhood that had adopted her, Issidris would have sworn that the vision before her was a stranger.

Only the beguiling, limpid blue eyes disabused Issidris of the notion. They were, after all, the eyes that had inspired the epiphanous moment that had changed her destiny.

Three years before, Issidris had been a recalcitrant creature of violence, who had devoted her life to terror and intimidation. After fleeing the family farm and the incestuous father and brothers who had long abused her, Issidris had become a homeless young girl on the grimy streets of bleak Ciprite. Always a perceptive child, Issidris had gleaned that she would have to master martial and combat arts if she had any hope of aspiring to be more than a common street prostitute. Having been hard used by a father and older brother, Issidris Il came to despise men and that instilled loathing made the prospect of prostitution more unpalatable than death. Dedicating herself to mastering the art of combat, Issidris discovered two inherent truths that would define the creature she was destined to become...she was an extremely proficient fighter (a proficiency that extended to both armed and unarmed combat) and she possessed a core of nearly limitless savagery that only served to augment her formidable martial skills.

By the age of sixteen, Issidris had fought her way through the echelons of the nameless town's street thug hierarchy. With this dubious ascension came the inevitable progression into darkness and soon Il became involved in a host of illicit endeavors that earned her the grudging respect of the island's outlaw guilds and the fear of the law-abiding citizenry.

Ciprite was just one impoverished island in an impoverished archipelago state that possessed no army and very little constabulary to speak of. When Issidris and her shadow colleagues grew more brazen in their efforts to subjugate the island's population, authorities turned to outside sources for assistance. It was widely known that the Sisters of Esotaria were a powerful group of female mages and warriors, devoted to the worship of the Goddess Gyzarayne and the general empowerment of women. As a disproportionate number of the shadow guild's victims were women, the Sisters willingly accepted the task of rooting the miscreants out.

The Sisters of Esotaria descended upon the isle of Ciprite like the very retribution of the Goddess they worshipped, efficiently decimating Issidris' guild of miscreants in a storm of elemental magic that left most dead and the rest fleeing for their very survival. The Sisters were terrifyingly relentless in their pursuit, eventually trapping the last elements of the guild in a shallow ravine not far from the nameless town where Issidris had taken her initial steps toward this fateful juncture.

In the end, a bewildered and bloodied Issidris found herself with her back to a damp rock face, defiantly holding her two hook swords at the ready...waiting for the cadre of mages to unleash their damnable magic and end her wretched life. Standing in the damp, stale morning air, trembling from the combined effects of blood loss and exhaustion, Issidris realized that she found solace in the prospect of her impending death.

Moments passed and the anticipated release of deadly sorcery did not come. Finally, the ranks of battle mages parted in apparent response to an unspoken command, and a small child, flanked by two beautiful women, strode into the space between Issidris and her would-be executioners. The girl raised her right hand and her two escorts came to an abrupt halt, identical expressions of dismay twisting their exquisite features.

The girl moved purposefully forward until she had come to within striking distance of Issidris' deadly blades. There, the child came to a halt, regarding Issidris intently with her arms held casually at her sides...as though invulnerable to anything the cornered brigand might attempt.

Issidris snarled and brandished her weapons menacingly, but her mind was suddenly beset by immobilizing confusion.

"Relinquish your weapons, Issidris Il," the girl instructed and though the timbre of her voice was that of a child's, her words resonated with an ageless wisdom. She raised her arms in a baffling gesture of welcome. "Come into my embrace, lost one. I bid you welcome to the Sisters of Esotaria...I bid you welcome home."

Startled by the girl's temerity, an incredulous Issidris turned her wary gaze to the girl's escorts, whose expressions of disbelief mirrored her own. If she lived for an eternity, Issidris would never fully comprehend the forces that compelled her into her next sequence of actions. A subtle, yet irresistible presence forced its way into the dark labyrinth of her thoughts then, surmounting the natural barriers of Issidris' vitiated reticence with astonishing ease.

As would be the case with the immortal Queen of Lamia some three years hence, the girl known as Lissom absorbed the entire essence of Issidris' being in the mere span of seconds. The blood-spattered warrior stiffened as a seemingly boundless power surged through the long-darkened corridors of her mind, its golden effulgence illuminating every recess in which was buried the horrific memory of every evil, both suffered and inflicted, in lightless chambers that she had long since forgotten. The sheer enormity and weight of these transgressions revealed by Lissom's unflinching light compelled Issidris to drop her weapons and sag to her knees.

As unexpected as this absolute capitulation was, it paled in comparison to the unlikely flow of tears that suddenly began to spill from Il's dark eyes. Her head snapped up and she wailed, "What have you done to me...what enchantment is this?"

"I have granted you a partial absolution for every act you've ever authored, and I have offered you a way through which your rage...your immutable fury...can be given meaningful outlet," Lissom disclosed. "In return, I ask only that you embrace me with an unwavering pledge of fealty." Slender arms extended, the girl who was not a girl, waggled her elegant fingers in a gesture of summoning. Unable to resist, a sobbing Issidris crawled over the sodden grass and came to kneel before the Ascentrix, who enfolded her into a comforting embrace and tenderly kissed Il's bloody brow.

That golden effulgence enveloped Issidris Il and all conscious thought spun away.

4

As Issidris stood before the achingly beautiful stranger with the eerily familiar blue eyes, it occurred to her that she had never once expressed contrition for her long catalogue of heinous misdeeds...nor had such a gesture ever been demanded.

Nor had she been offered Gyzarayne's Grace that served as the catalyst for the beauty and serenity that epitomized every sister in the order. It was entirely probable that Issidris would have declined the offer even if it had been forthcoming. Still, Il savagely forced any contemplation from her mind as to why the rite had never been offered. Any explanation would have carried with it dark implications that the prosaic Il did not wish to contemplate.

"Issidris, has Lyndsyn provided you with an account of the situation here in Nalosan?" the Ascentrix inquired, her knowing gaze shifting briefly to the First Battle Mage, who had forged an improbable friendship with the assassin. As Issidris was not gifted with the faculty of communal empathy, she was reliant upon Lyndsyn to keep her apprised of the Sisterhood's complex machinations.

"She has," Issidris allowed in her usual taciturn fashion.

"Then you can grasp the delicate nature of my current situation. It is absolutely imperative that we recover the remnant and thwart this Xhendyn's vile ambition," Lissom declared, an atypical gravity shaping both her tone and expression. "Against this exigent need, I must be ever mindful that the Sisters take no overt action that would appear even slightly disrespectful to King Artumas' authority." After a moment's pause, the Ascentrix added, "And this is where you will be set to task."

"I am yours to command," Issidris responded dutifully with a deferential bow of her head.

"Xhendyn is a demonic construct and his undoing will come at my hands alone. Still, I have no doubt that he employs a network of mortal bondsmen to perform his menial tasks and provide him with a steady flow of information. You will seek out the places where creatures of this ilk gather, and you will obliterate them. This message to those who serve this miscreant will be unequivocal...align yourself with Myrhia's dog and your recompense will be annihilation. Xhendyn is confident that he can conduct his seditious business right under the nose of the high king. After this night, he will be painfully disabused of this notion."

Issidris' only response was the ghost of a smile and a slight flaring of her coal-black eyes...a clear indication that the unrepentant assassin found the prospect pleasing. Again, she performed a deeper bow and was readying to take her leave, when to the surprise of all present, the Ascentrix glided forward and dug the delicate fingers of her right hand into the dense muscle of Il's left bicep. Il felt her entire body stiffen to utter immobility as Lissom's vast power usurped control of Issidris' flesh. The expression on Lissom's face conjured images of black mountain stone and the glacial ice that adorned it and was so thoroughly alien to her customary visage of serenity that both the Matrium and the First Battle Mage exchanged startled glances of concern.

"Issidris, there is no allowance for error in this matter," the Ascentrix admonished harshly. "If you should locate the infestation of this entity's vermin, they must be extirpated to a one." The Ascentrix leaned closer and her gripping fingers seemed to sink ever deeper into Il's taut flesh. The intensity radiating from Lissom's normally placid blue eyes was terrifying to behold. "Should you come upon his minions in the places where the disreputable gather, then their lives too shall be forfeit. There must be none left living to bear witness to your sanction...are my instructions clear?"

Lissom released her retainer and stepped back. With her composure badly shaken, an ashen-faced Issidris nodded briskly. A brilliant smile supplanted the Ascentrix's fierce gaze and she turned her attention to her First Battle Mage. "You will accompany Issidris under a mantle of shadow. Once Issidris has located the targets, you will be tasked with providing a repelling cantrip that will provide her with sufficient time to discharge her task. Lyndsyn, should Issidris fail, you will be left with the unenviable task of effacing any and all traces of her failure."

Lyndsyn bowed and conveyed her understanding with a tight nod, and though she was generally prone to displays of emotion, the First Battle Mage to suppress her dismay over Lissom's harsh directives. That the Ascentrix possessed this vein of pragmatic ruthlessness was profoundly disturbing to the mage. It was glaringly obvious that Lissom regarded Issidris as little more than an expendable pawn...a lethal tool to be utilized in her deadly game of strike and counterstrike with Myrhia's minion. The concept was morally repugnant to the passionate Lyndsyn and even as she placed a hand on her friend's elbow and ushered her from the Ascentrix's chamber, she decided that she would discuss the matter with the Matrium once this murderous endeavor was done.

Karosyn had remained utterly silent during Lissom's extraordinary discourse with the uninitiated...as she had long considered the deadly Issidris. Beneath this stoic mantle, however, her mind was beset by a storm of turbulent emotions. In the two hundred years that she had served as mentor to this latest incarnation of Gyzarayne's chosen, the Matrium had never gleaned that Lissom was capable of such cold and ruthless cunning. The revelation badly unsettled the gentle Karosyn and worse yet, drew an automatic comparison with black memories of a past dark specter. She banished this comparison from her mind with emphatic negation. 'Not Lissom...by the Goddess most holy, not Lissom!'

The Ascentrix spoke then, startling the Matrium back into the present. Lissom was gazing fixedly into the stone hearth and the waning fire it held with a pensive expression playing at her lovely features that was every bit as unusual as the obsidian-edged glare that had shaped them only moments prior.

"You are troubled, Karosyn...by the course that I now chart for the sisterhood," Lissom stated and it was clear to Karosyn that equivocation was pointless as the Ascentrix had laid bare the tone of her thoughts.

"Perhaps my concern is rooted more in execution than intent, most holy," Karosyn allowed, addressing her mistress by the reverent title that was normally reserved for the most formal and solemn of occasions. Lissom arched an eyebrow in response to this stiff formality, but still did not meet her Matrium's inquisitive gaze.

"You view my method in this matter as unjustifiably ruthless," the Ascentrix observed in a tone that was subdued and oddly fey. "Karosyn, it is your tenuous comparison between me and this order's greatest shame that rouses an incisive pain in my heart and confirms my essential humanity...a humanity which I can assure you that Myrhia never possessed." When Lissom turned to face a mortified Karosyn, the Matrium was shocked to discover that tears glistened on her sooty lashes like liquid diamonds. That she had so grievously wounded her beloved Ascentrix caused Karosyn's heart to flutter and the breath to congeal in her lungs. As an intense flush of shame spread over her countenance, Karosyn rushed to the Ascentrix and prostrated herself before the creature whose nature she could never truly comprehend, reaching trembling fingers out to lightly rest on Lissom's slippered right foot. Her own tears came in a deluge, horrified that her private thoughts had given such scurrilous offence to the one person to whom she had devoted her entire life.

"I cry your pardon, Most Holy!" she breathed in a desperation-shaded voice.

Lissom peered down on the prone figure of the woman at her feet and wondered at the providence of Gyzarayne that she should bestow such power and influence on any living being; a power that would compel such a gentle, graceful creature as the Matrium to abase herself in such a manner.

"I know perfectly well the indelible scars that vile Myrhia has inflicted on the psyche of those who would pledge themselves to the Goddess," Lissom intoned thoughtfully, while assisting the Matrium to her feet. "Her heinous actions have implanted the dark seeds of doubt and suspicion in the fertile soil of our collective soul. It may be centuries before those germinating weeds can be extirpated from our minds...if ever. Rise Karosyn and I will disclose my thoughts on this evolving situation. In the name of brevity, it is often necessary to forego grace and subtlety...and it is in this critical situation where we now find ourselves. I will share my thoughts and hear your counsel...and hopefully placate your disquiet in the process."

Face glistening with drying tears and shining with adoration and pride, Karosyn accepted her mistress' hand and allowed Lissom to lead her to a chair by the hearth.

5

Asrod's brutal demise provoked a moment of stunned silence from the Pitted Blade's patrons, many of whom had been tempered in the fires of swift and brutal violence. Pandemonium held sway next as the same patrons fled toward the door and the perceived safety beyond, while others bellowed hoarse cries of challenge and drew steel against the blood-spattered woman, who sat perched atop the bar like a carrion bird. A ghastly smile bloomed on Issidris' gore-slicked face as she stood with a liquid flexing of thigh muscles and snatched up her deadly blades.

In the next instant, the seedy tavern was transformed into a dark cathedral in which Issidris Il conducted a masterful symphony of death...a soaring aria of bloody mayhem, where the spray of blood, the severing of limbs and the unfurling of viscera defined the movements, set against the cascading cries of agony and pleas for mercy that fell upon deaf ears.

Issidris orchestrated this systematic slaughter in a blur of steel and finely conditioned muscle, her every movement an instantly imagined, but skillfully choreographed step in a lethal ballet that Il had been born to perform.

Within minutes, the cloying stench of blood, excrement and urine filled the confines of the Pitted Blade. After Issidris had disposed of the patrons who were willing to give opposition to her deadly juggernaut, only a small group of men and women remained huddled in terror around the exit door that had been sealed by Lyndsyn's sorcery.

Without compunction or hesitation, Issidris Il waded into the group in a methodical dervish of spinning blades that cut off the pleas for mercy with stark, brutal finality, leaving a profusion of ruined bodies scattered across the blood-soaked planks.

In the eerie silence that followed, Issidris stood at the center of the killing ground, surveying her lethal handiwork with only a mild degree of satisfaction. None of these pathetic wretches had been truly skilled with a blade and thus there was no genuine satisfaction to be had in their defeat.

The purpose of this night's grim labor revisited her then and Issidris set about examining the corpses for any sign of association with Myrhia's demonic henchman. A humorless grin spread across her severe face when she located the first sign...a tattoo of Myrhia's infamous sigil located on the inner forearm of a headless corpse. She severed the arm just above the elbow and carried it over to the bar.

When her thorough examination of the bodies was complete, seven similarly embossed arms were arranged along the length of the bar...an unequivocal message for any who would discover them.

6

The agreed upon signal came at last and a hooded Lyndsyn quickly undid the sorcery that had sealed the Pitted Blade's exit. She took a quick step back as the door swung open and for a terrible span of seconds, she failed to recognize the awful, crimson-slicked visage that floated over the threshold. Every inch of Issidris' exposed skin and clothing were coated in glistening blood. Of its own accord, Lyndsyn's right hand drifted to her mouth as if to stifle the cry of negation welling up in her tightened throat.

'By the Goddess, Lissom...look what you've done to her,' the battle mage raged even as her gaze fell on the repulsive clumps of brain matter that clung to the assassin's clothing.

"It's done, Lyndsyn," Issidris murmured in a strangely distant voice. "May I return to the ship...I am weary." This request was delivered in a tone that was bereft of life and echoed in the battle mage's ears like a chilled wind through a crypt. Not trusting herself to speak, lest her voice betray her misery, Lyndsyn merely nodded.

The battle mage averted her gaze to the deserted street. She vowed that there would come a moment of atonement. Someday, everyone who had a hand in this monstrous mistreatment of this tortured soul would have to stand before the Goddess and provide an explanation for why Issidris Il had been abused thusly. Lyndsyn wondered if she would be amongst their number. This time, she could not fully contain the bitter hiss of shame that escaped her lips.

Issidris suddenly reached out and caught hold of Lyndsyn's right wrist between her thumb and index finger

'How delicate...how fragile it seems,' Issidris marveled as the battle mage turned her startled gaze upon the assassin.

"Don't fret, Lyndsyn," Issidris murmured, her gore-smeared face sporting a rare grin that did not touch her dark eyes. "It seems that by the will of fate, I was born to this purpose. To lament fate's design is a futile exercise in self-pity. Believe me when I tell you that I have squandered much time in the endeavor over the course of my life." After a slight pause, she added tentatively, "Will you take tea with me later?"

"I will," the battle mage promised enthusiastically and was rewarded with another genuine smile that appeared to transform Issidris' hard face despite the ghoulish defilement of drying human blood. Without further word or hesitation, the assassin strode over to the edge of the canal and plunged into the cold water. She did not resurface for a considerable length of time, but as Lyndsyn experienced the first stirring of alarm, the assassin broke the surface of the foul water and began to swim northward with powerful, efficient strokes that carried her quickly from view.

Lyndsyn continued to peer along the length of the river for several moments. Now that she was alone, the battle mage, who had witnessed an inordinate amount of the world's cruelty in her long tenure with the sisterhood, allowed her façade of composure to collapse and hot tears of remorse to flow freely over the prominent ridges of her high cheek bones. They fell in grief for the unlikely friend whom she had come to love no less fiercely than she did the Matrium.

Through the watery filter of those tears came the nascent stirring of loathing that she had come to harbor toward the emissary, whose calculating actions would banish the last traces of her friend's humanity in the name of cold expedience.

Chapter Twenty-Six

1

"And of this lot, how many will make passably competent warriors?"

Brechzun turned his dour, heavy-browed gaze from the small training yard, where fourteen pairs of women, all clad in leather armor and equipped with all manner of hardwood training weapons, sweated and strained in simulated, but intense combat. The master weapons trainer, who had once been vanquished by the very woman he now served, during the second to last round of the Rizarchen tournament, could glean from the Queen's intense and expectant gaze that Ynathreen desired an honest accounting of the skills and abilities of the women who had been selected to guard her. The hulking Redian could never be characterized as a man prone to embellishment, so he delivered his assessment in total candor.

He waved a heavily muscled arm in the direction of the training field. "Four of these women pose no particular threat to anyone while wielding a weapon...save perhaps themselves. They are more suited to hefting tankards in an ale house than broadswords or battleaxes."

The Queen frowned and shifted her gaze briefly to Muragren, whose lean face remained impassive. "Very well, provide me with their names and send them to me. I will find suitable positions in my retinue to offer them by way of compensation. As for the rest?"

"Another dozen are plodders at best. If the Queen's person was in direct danger, they could stand as fodder and perhaps provide you with sufficient time to escape the threat," the weapon master declared in a harsh, throaty rumble. "Seven are passably good fighters, who would pose a challenge to all but the most skilled assailants. Four others are not only proficient weapon wielders, but they also demonstrate a deeper grasp of tactics and the fundamental elements of fighting effectively in unison. I would recommend that your majesty assign them to positions in immediate proximity to your person." Brechzun then fell silent, his attention transfixed on a particular spot on the field below.

Ynathreen was contemplating all that she had been told when a disparity with his account struck her. "By my count, you have provided me with an assessment of twenty-seven women. What is your estimate of the remaining woman?"

It was with apparent effort that the training master dragged his gaze from the field and when he focused his attention on Ynathreen, she was shocked to see genuine delight radiating from his dark eyes...an expression that she had never witnessed on his craggy visage. 'Ah, but that is not quite true,' her mind corrected, evoking a recollection of a similar expression of unbridled delight that he had sported as he had capitulated to the future queen after their intense and prolonged battle in the crowning tournament.

"Her name is Esamot, your highness...and she is a true wonder."

Ynathreen arched a fire-hued eyebrow, now truly amazed by her weapon master's uncharacteristically effusive praise. Leaning over the stone parapet, her gaze swept the expanse of yellow grass and dirt in search of the source of this praise. "And which is this wonder, Brechzun?"

The towering Redian stepped closer to his queen and pointed in the direction of a pair of warriors who were sparring with wooden shields and long swords near the north-west corner of the training yard. "Esamot is the shorter woman with the long blond braid."

Ynathreen nodded absently, her keen eye of appraisal riveted squarely upon Brechzun's wonder. It took but a moment's observation to realize that there wasn't the slightest hint of exaggeration in her weapon master's appraisal of this Esamot's martial talent. She was clearly belaboring her over-matched opponent with a complex series of feints, skillful parries and thrusts. There was a natural grace and fluidity about the warrior that roused a smile on Ynathreen's full lips.

As they gazed on in rapt attention, Esamot feigned an over-balanced misstep, but when the much larger opponent raised her sword to deliver a telling downward slash, the blond bound lithely forward. She dropped her shield while pivoting on the ball of her right foot and intercepting the descending forearm, promptly tossed the heavier woman over her hip.

She landed in a sprawl of leather skirts and limbs and lay there in a pose that was well near salacious. When Esamot tapped her opponent's rump with the flat of her long sword, the Redian Queen clapped her hands and laughed in unfettered delight.

The rich and throaty peel of Ynathreen's laughter rolled over the courtyard and momentarily drew Esamot's gaze. She glanced up at her queen, an indecipherable expression playing at the corners of her limpid blue eyes. She then extended a hand to her fallen opponent, who allowed herself to be pulled to her feet with a sheepish nod of gratitude. Esamot threw an arm around the taller woman's broad shoulders and began to speak to her in the low urgent tones of elucidation.

"Your highness, it is my place to train your warriors and not offer my opinion on how you might conduct the affairs of your kingdom," Brechzun began, speaking from somewhere over her right shoulder, but Ynathreen could simply not drag her regard from Esamot, who was now demonstrating to her opponent the mechanics she had employed to best the larger woman. It was clear in the way that the vanquished warrior was listening and intently following Esamot's every gesture that the smaller woman's guidance was both respected and welcomed. Behind the enthralled Ynathreen, the weapons master continued to deliver his impassioned plea. "If I could be forgiven this one exception, I would strongly recommend that you promote Esamot to the role of Captain of the Gray Doves. Not only is she a warrior who may well be without equal..."

This exuberant declaration of Esamot's unparalleled skill drew the Queen's incisive gaze. Baring her teeth in a humorless grin, she inquired, "Without equal, you say?"

The weapons master did not falter under that blue-eyed withering gaze. "My Queen, not only does she possess inimitable aptitude as a warrior, she has the rare ability to impart that knowledge to those around her...to make herself loved and admired by her cohorts; the kind of love that can inspire soldiers to lay down their lives on her behalf." He stopped then...as though embarrassed by this seeming hyperbole. Averting his eyes to the training ground, he concluded, "Esamot would make an excellent captain and a champion befitting your majesty."

Ynathreen glanced briefly at a bemused Muragren and crossing her muscular arms beneath her full breasts, inquired sweetly, "Do you feel that I am in need of a champion, weapon master?"

A momentary shadow sailed across Brechzun's heavy brow and he offered, "Am I remiss in thinking that this was the point of this entire exercise?"

The Queen's throaty laugh filled the tilt yard for a second time, and she clapped the larger man on the shoulder. "Ah, there is a deft mind behind that forbidding mug of yours. Very well, I will defer to your judgment in this matter. Instruct your wonder to come to my private audience chamber in one bell's time. She is to wear only a robe and I will present her with new attire befitting her station, though that particular detail should not be shared with Esamot."

Brechzun smiled broadly, offered the queen a deep bow and quickly departed to convey her wishes to his pupil. Ynathreen drifted over to where the ever watchful Muragren waited. She began to trace the gold torques that encircled the former slave's slender right arm and declared her much-despised elevation to the rank of Regent. Ynathreen had seen fit not to share with Muragren her prime motivation in forming the Gray Doves. If time revealed that this Esamot could be trusted, she would become the only living person to know that the Gray Doves would exist for the sole purpose of protecting Muragren, whom the young queen had come to hold precious. Leaning forward, she bestowed a tender kiss on the older woman's smooth brow. "Events are beginning to unfold precisely as planned," she whispered. "After I have met with this walking wonder of Brechzun's, I believe that the time has come to settle the issue of the conniving General Thenyr.

2

'On the name of your mother, calm yourself and stop this pointless fretting,' Sybian admonished herself, though her keen gaze swept over the village common like a questing hawk, searching for the one minute detail she might have neglected to consider...the one tiny oversight that would undo them all. She could find nothing. Her comprehensive preparations had been thorough, and everything stood at the ready...the trap had been set and all that remained was for the deadly quarry to appear so that it could be sprung.

And still the newly appointed adjutant could not placate her anxiety...the niggling certainty that she had failed to perceive a serious flaw in the Jerhia's carefully concocted plan for the defense of Thasron.

It had been twelve days since the contentious strategy session where Tier Marshall Gillian had first revealed his unconventional approach to answering Sygeanor's brutal raids into Northern Lamia (grievously offending the Lamish Regent, Nayoro, in the process). Sybian had been present at the session and had vividly recalled how her insides had twisted into knots as the aging Jerhia had deliberately goaded the Regent. That tension had multiplied geometrically when the Tier Marshall had revealed his audacious plan...a bold gambit in which Sybian would play the pivotal role. Even now, she could feel the formidable weight of his ice-blue gaze upon her as he'd disclosed the tactics that Sybian would be expected to execute.

'Is it the wisdom of his methods that you question?' an inner voice demanded with a cutting sneer. 'Or do you doubt your ability to make Gillian's bold strategy succeed?' The adjutant's pretty face tightened into an exasperated frown. Shaking her head, Sybian gazed across the village common for perhaps the twentieth time today. There was little point in denying that she had been routinely beset by self-doubt over the course of the past week (though she had been vigilant about displaying only total and unflinching confidence in the presence of those she was expected to lead). It was only natural, she supposed, to experience some degree of uncertainty as this was, after all, her first command assignment. That this assignment just happened to be the opening salvo in history's first ever war between CornerStone Nations amplified her disquiet to near insufferable levels and so she thrust such considerations from her thoughts. Instead, she focused her concentration on reviewing elements of Gillian's plan...trying to visualize how such a plan must unfold if it was to have any measure of success.

The preparatory work had been undertaken entirely under the cover of darkness, the soldiers laboring to dig the dozens of shallow pits in the dead of night. By morning, all traces of their efforts had been thoroughly effaced. The soldiers had effectively stripped the sod that had once covered the shallow pits, carefully setting the pieces aside so that they could be pegged to the hide and wood framed covers that had been constructed to conceal these hollows...hollows that would house Jerhia crossbow wielders.

Sybian could not accurately estimate how much time she had spent perched on the distant rise that overlooked the small village, scanning the expanse of cropped grass for the slightest blemish that might indicate the presence of something unnatural. Despite straining her eyes until her head had throbbed dully, the adjutant had been unable to discern the tiniest hint that the nondescript Lamish village was anything other than what it appeared to be. Likewise, the Jerhia who had been integrated into the village populous were blending in well with the Lamish and she could see nothing that would distinguish them from the actual villagers.

Over the last two nights, Sybian had managed to convince the irascible elder that his people would be well served by evacuating Thasron. Though reluctant to comply at first, he had eventually relented to her patient and logical arguments and had organized the elderly, women and children into small groups that would slip away under the relative cover of the moonless nights.

All of this should have gone a long way towards assuaging the adjutant's nagging doubt, but still the veteran scout could not repress the terrible certainty that, despite the meticulous planning and preparation, something of critical importance had been either trivialized or neglected entirely.

Thasron was the northern most village still occupied by Lamish citizens. Dryfan was a full two days ride to the south so there could be little doubt that this remote collection of shanties would be the next to incur mad Sygeanor's wrath.

As her incisive gaze fell upon a crude wooden cistern where children would normally congregate to play, the source of her disquiet resolved itself in her mind with a resounding clatter.

'She knew I was there!' The unequivocal truth of this roused a tiny whimper from the normally unflappable Sybian and though the Tier Marshall had elected to ignore this salient bit of knowledge, it could not be wished away by the keenest of optimism. 'And just as she knew that you were hiding like a frightened child, she will know that a trap has been laid and she will spring it back on those who would ensnare her.'

This unwelcome bit of prophecy set the muscles in her lean thighs to trembling. Sybian stumbled back down the slope on unsteady legs, trying to conceal her new-found conviction that the lives of everyone in Thasron were forfeit and ready to be taken at the insane sorceress' leisure.

3

"I must see the king at once and if you are not prepared to stop me by force, then I would advise that you remove yourselves from my path," Lorio demanded icily, though her frigid tone was decried by the wild light raging in her dark eyes.

The two beleaguered guards exchanged harried, uncertain glances, torn between relenting to this mad woman's demand and the strict orders that had been issued by Esuruban that absolutely no one be granted admittance into the king's chamber.

"Your Highness..." one of the guards began, but then Lorio's gaze snapped to his and the towering madness capering in the storm of her dark eyes, caused him to close his mouth with an audible smack of pursed lips. When it seemed inevitable that the moment would decay into violence that could only lead to two badly throttled guards, the creature, who had saved the city of Nalosan from total incineration, appeared to spare the pair from this indignity.

"Lorio, calm yourself! You have lost sight of the fact that you are a queen and these fits of temper are...unseemly," Lissom commanded in a low voice that shattered the tension like the crack of a whip. The Lamish Queen spun about to confront the shorter woman, who displayed not the slightest hint of trepidation in the face of the tempestuous beauty's agitation. "The High King slumbers in the embrace of my cantrip...and he will continue to do so until it has run its course."

"You've ensorcelled Artumas?" an incredulous Lorio exclaimed as the unwelcome image of Myrhia leapt unbidden to her mind.

Lissom ventured closer and placed a placating hand on Lorio's right wrist. The Queen's flesh was immediately penetrated by a burgeoning warmth that suffused every corner of her being with the speed and efficacy of a flash flood. Even as she felt her anxiety evaporate before the onslaught, Lorio gleaned the enormous potential danger this creature posed to all of them should her benevolence prove false. 'If she is a deceiver, then we shall all be reduced to dust in the face of her tempest.'

"You must calm your hysterics and heed me. The High King is no longer a young man. The travails of this dark day have left him perilously close to complete exhaustion...perhaps worse. I have merely granted him the much-needed sanctuary of restful sleep. In the morning, he will awaken...refreshed and restored. After our intimate moment of sharing...I would think that you would be the last to see my every action as sinister."

Those limpid blue eyes regarded Lorio unblinkingly and finally the Lamish Queen dropped her gaze and drew a quavering sigh. Lissom gently ushered Lorio back in the direction of her own suites. The immortal allowed herself to be led and as she moved away from the guards, she dropped her voice and revealed, "I've had a dream of the bane."

Lissom greeted this fraught disclosure with a quizzical arch of a finely tapered eyebrow. "You are speaking of a vision?"

Lorio nodded urgently. Lissom absorbed this disclosure thoughtfully, wondering if any knowledge obtained while under the pall of Xhendyn's dark magic could ever be deemed trustworthy. Still, she found herself helpless to resist the compulsion to pose the inevitable question. "Where?"

"Dizar Kor!" the immortal returned and when the uncomprehending expression on the Ascentrix's face made it clear that the name held no meaning for her, Lorio elaborated. "Dizar Kor is the Capital city of the neighboring country of Fairmarch. It is a port city that lies directly across the Bay of Imerlac from Nalosan. The coastal road skirts the shore of the bay and is perhaps five full days ride to the north."

"And in this vision, you clearly recognized the bane...and this city of Dizar Kor?" Lissom demanded with an intensity that even Lorio found unsettling.

"Yes...it is where he and I will meet, but I sense that he is being...pursued."

The Ascentrix came to an abrupt halt and pushed the nonplused queen against the wall, digging her shockingly powerful fingers into the firm flesh of Lorio's shoulders. "Pursued...by Xhendyn or his agents?"

The Lamish beauty shook her head. "Nothing so malign...but dangerous, nonetheless. This would-be savior seems startlingly frail...and unimposing. Imminent danger hovered about him like a dark cloud."

Lissom released her grip on Lorio's shoulders and instead seized her left hand and literally began to haul the taller immortal toward the Queen's chambers. "Perhaps you now grasp the magnitude of the role that fate has bestowed upon you. When we are in the privacy of your chamber, will you allow me to share your vision as we did yesterday?"

Lorio consented, though not without a surprising degree of reluctance. The depth of this intimacy made sex seem like a pale imitation by contrast...the granting of unconditional access to one's very soul. The pair wound their way through the darkened corridors of wounded Kammlogran like two wraiths floating over an alien, deserted landscape in the predawn gloom; two ordinary women who were no longer mortal, although the nature of their individual immortality varied greatly, and on whose shoulders the immeasurable weight of the world was slowly settling.

They finally reached the doors leading into Lorio's suite of rooms, where Lissom paused and regarded the Lamish Queen with a speculative expression that was unnerving. "You were correct in stating that this bane...this man...is frail; vulnerable to the blade of any inconsequential brigand that would do him harm in the name of a few coins. Still, it would be impossible to exaggerate his importance in the unfurling of events to come. If this man dies, the ShadowCaster will free Myrhia from her prison. If you believe nothing else I tell you, believe this. By providence in the form of Islena Doraux, this world survived the last storm of Myrhia's ambition...but I can tell you without equivocation...it will not survive the fury of her vengeance."

With this dire pronouncement delivered, the Ascentrix led Lorio into the darkness of her chamber.

4

There came a firm knock on the heavy oak doors of Ynathreen's private audience chamber. Like everything else in the castle that served as the Redian monarch's seat of power, the massive black doors were functional but otherwise unadorned. Redia's first female ruler cared nothing for ornamentation and this indifference was reflected not only in the massive block and stone castle, but throughout the city of Elderspire.

Ynathreen nodded to Muragren, who quickly assumed her customary position to the right and slightly behind her liege...and lover.

"Enter!" the Queen commanded, and the doors swung open as Brechzun ushered a black robed Esamot into the Queen's imposing presence. The weapon's trainer gestured his prize pupil forward with a nod of encouragement. He then bowed and withdrew, leaving the three women alone.

Esamot moved unhurriedly toward her Queen, her sparkling blue eyes fixed upon the woman who would command her. Ynathreen tracked her approach behind an expression of imperious neutrality that Muragren recognized all too well. It was an intimidating stare that could wither even the hardest of men, but the Regent was rather surprised to see that Esamot was neither awestruck nor intimidated by the woman who had summoned her. Moving with the leonine grace of a natural predator, the girl's lovely face radiated an open mirth and good humor that belied of formidable martial prowess. Muragren shifted her incisive gaze to the Queen's impassive face and recognized the burgeoning excitement that lurked behind the glacially regal mask.

'She has taken this young woman's measure and is clearly impressed by what she sees,' the Regent realized and was clearly bemused by the sharp twinge of jealousy this realization evoked...just one of a number of confusing emotions thoughts of her extraordinary queen seemed to evoke.

When the Redian had come within six paces of her Queen, Esamot dropped to one knee and bowed her head, crossing her left forearm over her right knee in the standard gesture of deference to a Redian Monarch. "I am yours to command, your Highness."

Ynathreen allowed the warrior to linger on bended knee for longer than was strictly necessary and then bid her to rise. "My weapon's master informs me that you are a rare and precious commodity; a natural warrior the likes of which he has never previously encountered. Do you see this as an accurate and fair assessment of your abilities Esamot?"

The smaller woman gazed steadily at her queen with a decidedly impish twinkle alight in her limpid blue eyes. "Master Brechzun is given to fits of effusive praise, your Highness...but I have been blessed with a certain measure of natural skill..."

'The hell he is!' Ynathreen thought to herself, knowing that her weapon's master was as parsimonious with a compliment as a miser might be with a coin. To the girl, she inquired, "Where are you from, Esamot and how did you come to be in Elderspire...training as a Gray Dove?"

A shadow darkened the girl's smooth brow then, a subtle intimation of the way in which she perceived the place of her birth. "I was born and lived in Jagendzul until a recruiter arrived in the village late in the fall of last year."

"Jagendzul," Ynathreen echoed thoughtfully...an icy, inhospitable hamlet on the northern extreme of Redia, where everyday life was unrelentingly bleak and arduous.

After a momentary pause, Esamot continued, "I've always been exceptionally strong and fast and naturally athletic. When the recruiter revealed that he was seeking not men, but women for the purpose of protecting and serving your Highness, I could not resist the opportunity. I have been in Elderspire these past moon cycles, training diligently with master Brechzun in the hope that I would be deemed ready and worthy to protect Redia's warrior queen."

"You've certainly succeeded in making a profound impression on surly Brechzun...so much so that he has recommended that I name you Captain of the Gray Doves," the Queen disclosed quietly, her blue-eyed gaze continuing to bore into the clearly nonplused Esamot. "He implored me to bestow upon you the duty to train the remainder of the squad in every aspect of combat and battle tactics. How old are you, Esamot?"

"Nineteen," the girl stammered. Ynathreen exchanged a knowing glance with Muragren. The Queen had been of an even younger age when she had won the throne. Despite her shock at this disclosure, the girl made no attempt to protest her unworthiness for the position under consideration; a sign of confidence that sufficed to convince Ynathreen that this provincial youth would make an excellent choice to command the elite cadre of guards she wished to build.

Ynathreen straightened to her full height and raised her strong chin. "Esamot of Jagendzul, I formally offer you the position of Captain of my personal guard...the Gray Doves. Will you accept this offer and thus pledge your unwavering fealty...not to Redia, but to its rightful queen?"

Again, Esamot dropped into a deep and formal bow and when she spoke, her voice reflected the appropriate gravitas of the moment. "I accept this highest of honors, your Highness and pledge my eternal loyalty. I swear to defend you with my life and devote my every effort to the preservation of your monarchy."

"Rise!" the Queen commanded and signaled to Muragren, who returned to the rear of the audience chamber, her purposeful stride causing the material of her clinging gray dress to shimmer fetchingly. She returned pushing a wheeled wooden table, on top of which rested an ornate wooden box, the lacquered surface of which was inlaid with intertwined thin strands of silver and gold. The beveled edges of the box were studded with a dazzling array of precious gems. The construct was an uncharacteristically ostentatious display of wealth that one would not have expected from Ynathreen, who was renowned for her indifference to finery and ostentation.

Ynathreen abruptly turned to Muragren and instructed, "Regent, would you please allow my new Captain and myself a private moment...perhaps you could inform General Thenyr's adjutant that the general's presence is expected in my private office promptly at the next bell."

An expression of bemusement rippled across the older woman's angular face, there and gone in the blink of an eye. Muragren offered her liege a deferential bow and then strode purposefully from the chamber. Ynathreen watched her make her exit with an affectionate grin playing at the corners of her generous mouth, but when she returned her attention to Esamot, the young woman's distaste was apparent in the rueful set of her firm jaw. Ynathreen experienced a keen flare of anger then and scarcely resisted the compulsion to smash the woman's face.

Instead, she stepped forward until the two were pressed tightly together and glared down at the shorter woman from over the prominent ridges of her high cheekbones. "Do you truly understand what is required of you, Esamot?"

Gleaning the sudden coldness that had stolen over the queen's mood, Esamot stammered, "I feel confident that I do, your majesty."

Ynathreen abruptly grasped the appointee's square shoulders, privately delighted that her fingers barely made an impression on the shorter woman's granite hard flesh beneath the robe. Inclining her head until her lips brushed Esamot's right ear, she rasped, "I can say most assuredly that you do not! What's more, if that particular expression of contempt ever surfaces when your gaze is fixed upon Regent Muragren, I will smash it from your face with my bare fists. Have I made myself clear, Captain Esamot?"

For a protracted moment, a dumbfounded Esamot could only stare at her queen in gape-jawed shock, stunned to silence by both Ynathreen's overt threat of violence and the acuity of her perception.

"I'm sorry if I've given offence," she managed when it became apparent that some response was required. The young warrior hesitated, clearly reluctant to elaborate on the emotions that had provoked her disapproving response towards the Regent.

"I give you leave to speak your mind. If you harbor some particular enmity towards Muragren, I would hear it now," the queen demanded and though her tone was glacial, the invitation to candor seemed genuinely given. "If you are to be the Captain of my personal guard, our feelings towards my Regent must be clear and unequivocal. Now speak!"

Stepping back, Ynathreen crossed her arms beneath her full breasts and waited with her attention riveted squarely upon the young woman before her.

"Your majesty, I sincerely meant no disrespect," Esamot began haltingly, mastering her desire to fidget beneath Ynathreen's intense scrutiny. "I swear on my mother's life that I harbor no special enmity towards the Regent."

"And yet your expression clearly declares that you find her place by my side unseemly...is this not so?" Ynathreen observed, the sharpness of her deduction causing Esamot's discomfort to swell geometrically, knowing that she had strayed unwittingly into a critical juncture which would profoundly affect the rest of her life. It occurred to her then that fate had imposed this crucial test upon her and though nothing in her nineteen years had prepared her for this trial, she suddenly summoned the strength to confront it.

"You've asked that I speak candidly, my queen...and so I shall and accept whatever consequences my candor warrants. Everyone, myself included, wonders why you have chosen a Fairmarch slave to serve as your Regent. They see it as a grievous insult to every loyal and capable Redian who might have served in her stead." Esamot fell silent, refusing to divert her gaze from Ynathreen's handsome face. The queen stared back at the younger woman for several moments, her gaze unblinking and inscrutable.

When she at last spoke, the Redian Queen's voice was low and fierce, providing Esamot with a glimpse of the immutable passion that blazed beneath Ynathreen's aloof and often arrogant exterior. Esamot could feel her tight flesh rising into hackles in response to the inherent power couched in the Queen's words. "There is no one in Redia fit to serve in the role of Regent because the Redia they would endeavor to serve is dead. I know this because I am the one who killed it."

A startled gasp reached Esamot's ears and it was a moment before she realized that it had slipped from her lips. Shaken and perplexed, she managed, "I'm sorry, your majesty, but I don't understand."

"Then you'd best listen carefully, for if you are to fulfill the duties I intend to set before you, it is imperative that you grasp the essence of my intent...if not the actual details. Redia can no longer exist in the same fashion that it has since time out of mind. We must aspire to become more than a barbarous horde whose only purpose seems to be to terrorize and plunder our neighbors...who regard us as little more than mindless and cruel savages. While we perceive ourselves to be proud and fierce warriors, who thrive through the code of the axe and the sword, the rest of the civilized world views Redia as a land of wild animals that must be culled for the greater good...an ignoble reputation, but one of which we are deserving." Ynathreen paused to allow the young Esamot time to absorb this philosophical evaluation of Redia's place in the world.

"Redia is blessed with the largest natural resource base in the known world and yet these resources remain largely unexploited...unless some military application can be found for them. That is a travesty that I have every intention of rectifying. For all of our bluster about our incomparable battle prowess, what has Redia actually achieved in its long and inglorious history? We find ourselves marginalized and relegated to the frigid edges of civilization with our borders sealed by Jerhia and Emercian troops who tend us like caged animals and while the proud men of Redia rail against this outrage and plot and scheme over the great war to destroy these hated enemies, I say that we are the unequivocal masters of our own misfortune and this is precisely the fate that we have earned. I intend to drag Redia, kicking and screaming if need be, into a new age of prosperity and enlightenment. Regent Muragren Eb Tamen is a woman of infinite grace and wisdom, who has helped me draft the blueprint for this transition. If you cannot see past your natural Redian prejudice when you look upon her, then you have no place in my service."

Again, the queen moved closer to the befuddled Esamot, a provincial girl from the bedraggled village of Jagendzul, who was staring at the monarch she had come to idolize as if she had suddenly transmogrified into a demon. In a voice fraught with the gravity of the moment, she demanded, "Now, Esamot of Jagendzul, who would be Captain of the Gray Doves, can you completely, unwaveringly subjugate your will and life to me and my vision for the future of Redia?"

Esamot met her queen's scorching gaze as a cry of disavowal danced on the tip of her tongue. She wanted to scream her emphatic repudiation of Ynathreen's calumny and her vile assertion that Redia was but a holding pen for barbarians and mindless brutes. Yet even as the scathing denial took shape in her mind, Esamot was cognizant of a nebulous force that robbed it of its scalding indignation. Beneath Ynathreen's expectant gaze, Esamot came to realize that this nebulous force was actually the voice of cold logic and dispassionate reason and though she wanted to denounce her liege's grim appraisal of Redia and reject the captaincy of the Gray Doves, when she opened her mouth all that issued forth was a pledge of unwavering acceptance. "I do so swear, my Queen!"

Ynathreen beamed a broad smile of genuine delight and clapped her newly appointed captain vigorously on the shoulder. "You will bear witness to great and momentous events during the course of your service, Esamot. I intend to usher Redia into a new age of civility and prosperity...as improbable as that may now seem. The Gray Doves will serve as my shield and when need be...my fist."

The Queen turned to the large case that lay forgotten on the table. She lifted the lid with a flourish and stood back, gesturing for Esamot to join her, though her eyes never left the case's contents.

As Esamot came to stand beside the taller woman and peer into the case's shadowy interior, she found herself powerless to suppress the exclamation of wonder that the items contained within evoked.

"What you are seeing is the first proto-type of the armor that will be worn by my Gray Doves." Reaching into the case, the Queen withdrew an enameled gray helm and with an air of great ceremony, placed the exquisitely fashioned piece of armor on a dazzled Esamot's head. Then, in a charged silence, the Queen deftly undid the sash of Esamot's robe and pushed the course material over the woman's muscular shoulders, allowing the garment to fall to the floor and pool around the mystified woman's ankles.

Ynathreen allowed herself a prolonged moment to luxuriate in the perfection of Esamot's nubile body with its intoxicating blend of finely tuned muscle and curving femininity. Esamot fielded the Queen's intense scrutiny cleanly, standing proudly before the intimate inspection. After a moment that seemed to draw itself out for an eternity, Ynathreen shook her head slightly and began to draw pieces of armor from the ornamental case. Then she proceeded to dress her newly appointed captain in what was to become the regalia of her personal guard.

First came the skirts, which fell to mid-thigh and were composed of a series of overlapping, flattened panels. Ynathreen knelt before a startled Esamot and bid the woman to step into the skirts before pulling them up her tapered legs and cinching them around her tiny waist with the aid of an articulating belt that was fashioned with the same metal as the skirts. Next came the breastplate and shoulder pauldrons. Esamot astutely noted how the breastplate had been designed so that two hinged panels covered the seams that ran the length of the torso under each arm, thus eliminating any vulnerable spots that would have left the wearer susceptible to pin-point short sword or dagger thrusts. The uniform was completed by vambraces, gloves, thigh guards with hinged knee protectors and fitted boots that swept over the calves and shins to a point just below the kneecaps.

As Ynathreen had affixed the gray enameled armor to Esamot's taut limbs and torso, the girl's initial thought was that the armor would be extremely heavy, rendering the wearer ungainly, thus robbing them of the mobility she so highly valued.

To her eternal amazement, the full set of armor seemed to weigh little more than a similar garb fashioned from boiled leather and light chain mail. Gripping Esamot's wrist, Ynathreen led the girl over to a chevalier that served as the audience chamber's only ornamentation. The two women admired the beautifully crafted armor in rapt silence for several moments.

Esamot's eyes were drawn to the stylized ornamental dove that was perched atop the helm and regarded her with ruby eyes that blazed with a clear and unapologetic challenge. The gaze, that was in truth a glare, bestowed a frankly menacing aspect upon the bird that normally symbolized peace. From there, the Captain's eyes were drawn to the complex intaglio that dominated the contoured metal of the breastplate. The elaborate design (which an astounded Esamot would later discover had been fashioned from a blend of platinum and gold) was an amalgam of the flag of Redia, overlaid by Ynathreen's personal coat of arms. The significance of the device was not lost upon the native daughter of distant Jagendzul, who was keenly perceptive despite her youth and provincial upbringing.

Ynathreen slowly traced the swirling intricacy of the design with a long index finger, giving voice to the implicit meaning it conveyed. "The wearer of this uniform swears fealty to her monarch above all things and should the nation and the queen appear to be at cross purposes...the wearer of this uniform will lay down her life without hesitation in defense of her queen. That is what this intaglio declares to all who set eyes upon it. You, Esamot, will build a cadre of women for whom this one simple and unequivocal message will serve as the single purpose and inspiration for their very existence. That is my task for you, Esamot of Jagendzul."

"I swear that I will be equal to that task on the name of my mother," the newly appointed captain vowed solemnly, her ardor evoking a bitter-tinged smile from the young queen. The zeal of youth had eternally served as fuel for humanity's sacrificial pyres and every tyrant had exploited that passion to his or her own end because the consuming passion of youth invariably lacked the wisdom of years to provide balance and perspective. 'Ah and this profound philosophical insight is uttered by one opining from the lofty perspective of twenty-three years of worldly experience,' Ynathreen thought, scoffing at the arrogance of her own pretensions of wisdom. When the inevitable moment of epiphany arrived...that defining juncture when she held the fate of Esamot and all of those like her in the palm of her hand...would Ynathreen stop to ponder the gravity of that position of power and the grave responsibility that came with being the arbiter of another's fate? Or would she succumb to the temptation that had afflicted every tyrant before her to view Esamot and her ilk as nothing more than tools to be exploited in the name of her great and glorious vision for Redian Ascension.

On the name of her dead parents, Cauldanys and her beloved Muragren, Queen Ynathreen of Redia offered a fervent prayer that she would surmount that dark snare and that compassion would govern her every action...her every decree.

She became cognizant of Esamot's bright-eyed scrutiny and offered the captain a wan smile. Beneath the fervent gleam in the younger woman's gaze, Ynathreen discerned that something was troubling Esamot, though she seemed reluctant to give it voice.

"Do I detect a measure of concern furrowing that smooth brow of yours, Captain?" Ynathreen inquired lightly in a tone that implied forbearance. "Never fear to give your misgivings voice when we are alone."

The girl remained reluctant, but after a moment's further hesitation, she reluctantly revealed the source of her disquiet. "This armor, it is breathtakingly beautiful, but..."

"But?" Ynathreen prompted and though her tone was stern, she could barely contain the gushing grin playing at her lips.

"It hardly seems functional. I mean to say that it is thin and lighter than leather. Even a glancing blow seems likely to pierce or rend this metal," Esamot blurted in a rush, not wanting to seem ungrateful, but still genuinely dismayed by the obvious uselessness of the armor she now wore. "Am I to assume that this will be the formal, ceremonial regalia of the Gray Doves?"

"You can assume no such thing. This metal will be the standard material from which all future armor and weaponry will be forged," Ynathreen declared flatly, but upon seeing how Esamot's dismay became a grimace of consternation, the queen could no longer suppress her delight. "I could spend the remainder of the day describing the miraculous properties of Ynathrite, but I think a demonstration would drive home the point far more eloquently than words ever could. Come!"

A bemused Esamot followed the queen out of the private audience chamber and through a labyrinthine series of dimly lit corridors, to the quartermaster's wing. The pair came to a halt before a re-enforced wooden door, where a pair of imposing guards had been stationed. Ynathreen nodded brusquely and the senior guard bowed before hurrying to open the door and admit the pair into the windowless chamber that served as the castle's armory. The chamber's interior was cavernous and lit by a dozen torches that blazed from recessed sconces that had been set at regular intervals along the length of all four walls.

The chamber held row upon row of iron triangular racks, upon which were housed literally thousands of weapons of every possible type. One could hack, bludgeon, cleave and skewer for an eternity with the arsenal that was contained in the Redian armory. The Redian predilection for violent mayhem was never more readily apparent than it was in this particular room.

Esamot's moon-eyed gaze swept over the rows of axes, swords, maces and glaives very much like a child who has discovered a hidden cache of sweets. Ynathreen ushered the Captain inside and then closed and bolted the door behind her. When she spoke, it was with a tone of utmost gravity. "What I'm about to show you is a matter of the highest secrecy. To divulge any of what you are about to see...even the most seemingly innocuous detail...I would consider an act of treason punishable by death."

Esamot swallowed and nodded gravely, her elation at this unexpected revelation vanishing in an instant, supplanted by the sense of exigency that had stolen into the moment. Ynathreen strode purposefully to a nearby rack of long swords and after a moment's consideration, selected a weapon of some composite metal that Esamot did not recognize. Nonetheless, there could be no mistaking the weapon's quality. The finely-honed edge gleamed wickedly in the flickering yellow light. The queen effortlessly hefted the well-crafted sword and proffered it for her Captain's examination, while elaborating, "This is a standard issue long sword that has been crafted from the finest alloys Redian smiths can presently produce...plain enough, but deadly in capable hands. You can clearly see that there are no discernable flaws in the blade."

Esamot nodded her concurrence and Ynathreen proceeded, seeing that her retainer was thoroughly intrigued by this discourse. "A clean blow from this weapon would easily cleave all but the heaviest of armor. Now, assume a defensive stance and raise both arms above your head."

Though Esamot complied without hesitation, she did eye the weapon with obvious anxiety as she began to glean something of her sovereign's intention.

"What I'm about to show you will radically and irreversibly alter the course of history...and the way in which Redia is perceived as a nation," Ynathreen declared in a voice made slightly tremulous by the enormity of the moment. Without further warning, she reared back and swung the long sword without restraint, delivering a titanic, two-handed blow that struck the startled Esamot square across the chest.

The force of the blow lifted the smaller woman from her feet and hurled her backward. Esamot landed in a sprawl of muscular limbs with the thunderous report of metal on metal still ringing loudly in her ears. She lay utterly still for several moments, afraid to breathe, lest the simple act of breathing confirm that her queen had parted ways with her sanity and delivered a killing blow to her unarmed Captain.

Gradually, against all logic and reason, Esamot gleaned the astounding fact that she had somehow survived the blow unscathed. Drawing a quavering breath that was part sob and part sigh of relief, she slowly lifted her head to find the queen towering over her, holding the hilt of the shattered long sword before her for Esamot's inspection. Of the original blade, only a hand's span of jagged steel remained. Esamot's mystified gaze sought out and located the remainder of the shattered pieces that were scattered all about the armory's stone floor. The queen extended a muscular arm and effortlessly hauled a thoroughly baffled Esamot to her feet. "As you can see, the finest quality steel is incapable of so much as scratching the surface of Ynathrite armor. The armor has been tested against every type of weaponry and the end result has been the same without the slightest variation."

"What manner of magic has created this?" Esamot inquired, her tone fraught with burgeoning excitement as her disbelieving eyes scanned the surface of her cuirass to find that it was indeed unscratched.

The Queen nodded, pleased by her new Captain's grasp of the salient questions surrounding this miraculous discovery. "More analysis is required, but initial tests indicate that neither fire nor ice have any impact on the metal's integrity. What is more astounding is that Ynathrite possesses an insulating quality that will protect the wearer against the ravages of elemental magic."

Esamot's eyes widened as she digested the ramifications of this last bit of information. "My Queen...this would mean..."

Ynathreen nodded as she led the young warrior back to the full-length mirror. "What this would mean, good Captain, is that a force equipped with weapons and armor forged with Ynathrite, trained and led by a warrior of unparalleled ability, would be virtually invincible." As the two women peered raptly at the reflected countenance of the Ynathrite-clad Captain Esamot of Jagendzul, the queen declared, "I will provide you with every type of armor and weapon that your heart desires...all forged from Ynathrite. You, in turn, will provide me with the mailed fist I require to forge a new Redia."

Chapter Twenty-Seven

1

As Azidara had estimated the night prior, the pair did, indeed, reach the Fairmarch Capital of Dizar Kor just as the sun reached its zenith in the mid-day sky. One bell prior, Azidara had decided that it would be best to rejoin traffic on the main road that led into the city, reasoning that the volume of city bound traffic would be sufficiently high to ensure their relative safety. The north-south road was, in fact, heavily congested and though progress was slow, steady streams of wagon and foot travelers moved in both directions like inexorable tides.

Upon awakening, Azidara's mood had been ebullient. She had kissed Stuart passionately, making his head spin with a giddiness he'd never before experienced. As she glided about their modest campsite, making preparations to depart, Macevey was again struck by the magnitude of her beauty, tempered by the certainty that he was leading her into the embrace of some formless peril that she did not deserve.

'Ah, Stuart, but who precisely is leading whom?' a voice whispered softly in his mind and he quickly recognized the poser of this astute query to be none other than Elizabeth Simpson...just as he discerned that her question intimated at hints of a predestination that he had no desire to ponder.

Yet, as the pair grew ever closer to the first way station on their journey to Nalosan, Stuart became cognizant of a furtive change that stole over his travel companion. Azidara seemed to draw deeper into a reticent silence and there was a rigidity to her posture that hinted at intense...disquiet.

'She's clearly afraid, Stuart,' the voice of his newly surfaced adviser declared. 'Everything you see is a sign of her burgeoning fear and her apprehension grows more intense with each step she takes closer to the city. It is imperative that you come to understand why.'

Watching the normally fluid Azidara lock step forward, it was difficult to gainsay the observation that she was terrified and that every step forward required a monumental act of courage. Perplexed, Macevey grappled with the possible source of this trepidation and it occurred to him that he knew virtually nothing about the woman who had taken him under her wing...and into her bed.

And then the pair passed through the trees and out onto the open plain that delineated the approach to the city, affording Stuart his first glimpse of the Fairmarch capital. Macevey came to a stumbling halt and gaped in slack-jawed wonder at the improbable panoramic vista that now revealed itself and all contemplation of Azidara and the source of her anxiety temporarily vanished.

Azidara had also come to a skidding halt, her lovely face set in an inscrutable mask. Firmly grasping Macevey's left wrist, she led the astounded stranger to the edge of the cobbled roadway, where the pair stood motionless, lost in their own private contemplation of the city that sprawled before them. Stuart's first glimpse of one of this alien world's cities hammered home the mind-bending surrealism of the situation in which he now found himself with a resounding clatter. The black walls of Dizar Kor rose from the soil like a leviathan some thousand paces distant from the tree line from which the pair had just emerged. The trees had been cleared and the earth had been flattened so that nothing could escape notice of the city guard, making the stealthy approach of an invading army virtually impossible with such an expanse of open terrain standing between the forest and the city's outer walls.

Even from this distance, Stuart could make out what he assumed were the vibrant colors of Fairmarch's national flag snapping in the crisp breeze that blew with incessant vigor off what he would later learn was the Bay of Imerlac. The omnipresent wind carried the tang of salt to his nostrils with an acuity that Macevey could scarcely credit.

Placed at regular intervals atop the entire length of the high walls, Macevey could clearly see the hulking shapes of ballistae, catapults and trebuchets. It was immediately evident that the walls were in no way ornamental. Dizar Kor was a city seriously committed to its own defense and the defenders were fully prepared to repel whatever land bound threat might come their way.

The Fairmarch military also cast its imposing shadow over the highway traffic winding its way toward the distant city gates. Mounted soldiers roved up and down the length of the shuffling column, brandishing wooden cudgels and scowling at anyone with the temerity to attempt to disrupt the natural order of the admittance process. Despite the dizzying sense of dislocation preoccupying his thoughts, Stuart's police-honed power of observation did not entirely desert him. He noticed how, upon seeing the Fairmarch cavalry approach, Azidara drew a long scarf from her bag and wound it around her head and shoulders in a fashion that completely concealed her hair and obscured most of her face.

'She's afraid of being recognized,' Macevey realized and was again assailed by doubt regarding the nature of the woman to whom he'd entrusted himself. On the heels of this disturbing bit of insight came the inevitable question...why?

Azidara seemed to perceive Macevey's disquiet because she offered him a wan smile and with a dismissive wave, declared, "Harsh sunlight is the enemy of youth, Stuart. Now let's forge ahead to the gate. Judging by the number of soldiers on the road, the military is being especially vigilant in monitoring those seeking to gain access to the city."

"Any reason come to mind as to why?" Stuart inquired, his inquisitive gaze shifting to the nearest mounted cavalryman. Nothing in the soldier's behavior suggested that he was searching for a specific individual. On the contrary, he seemed to be conducting himself like a man forced into the tedious task of crowd control, whose boredom was inspiring a surly disdain for those he was meant to oversee.

"Nothing specific," Azidara replied, "but in this world, Stuart, you will quickly learn that oppression requires very little by the way of justification. To that end, remember your oath...let me speak when we reach the gates. If you are spoken to directly, play the simpleton and answer with as few words as possible."

"I will," Macevey agreed if only to placate the pleading edge in her tone.

The trek to the gate was a torturously slow affair, made worse by clouds of midges and other biting insects and the swiftly intensifying heat. Azidara lapsed into an uncommunicative silence and Macevey bided his time by absorbing every minute detail of his surroundings, attempting to garner a deeper insight into the world into which he'd been drawn. In his former life, Macevey had only been peripherally aware of his world's history, so deeply was he absorbed in the here and now of police work. Drawing from his limited knowledge of history's progress, Stuart deduced that this world's technological development would be comparable to his own world at the time of the crusades...possibly even earlier. If Stuart's estimate was even moderately accurate, he could expect a dearth of compassion, mercy and even fundamental reason during his time here.

When they reached the halfway point between the forest's edge and the main portcullis, Stuart and Azidara crossed a massive stone and timber bridge that spanned a deep moat some fifty paces across. The stagnant water of the moat was a reddish-brown that exuded a malodorous reek that reminded Macevey of putrescent flesh. He shuddered at the notion of the diseases that might inhabit the water of the moat, but correctly deduced that this was but another crude, but effective defensive mechanism.

Before they finally reached the gate, it was necessary to cross two similar moats that formed three concentric rings around the city, broken only by the Bay of Imerlac.

Something occurred to Stuart and he roused Azidara from her silence by asking, "Has Dizar Kor ever fallen or been besieged?"

This query provoked a startled reaction from the blond beauty, who arched a tapered eyebrow and demanded, "What inspired that particular question?"

Macevey stroked the stubble of his chin and with an encompassing sweep of his right arm, declared, "Everything about this place suggests that the city is poised for imminent invasion. Perhaps this is typical of cities in your country, but I expect a barbarian horde to come pouring out of the trees, faces painted and battleaxes waving."

This last remark was greeted by a smile that never touched her eyes. "The only barbarians that pose a tangible threat to Fairmarch are the cursed Redians and those bastards have been driven deep into their mountain holes by Jerhia and Emercian cavalry. In answer to your question, only once in its history has Dizar Kor fallen and that occurred nine years ago when Myrhia unleashed her infernal sorcery on the city. She did this by raising demonic entities that surmounted the city's defenses and then slaughtered the defenders to a one."

Stuart absorbed this in a thoughtful silence, still struggling with the concept of demonic entities and sorcery. Azidara frowned and the pair resumed their shuffling crawl toward the inspection point. A short time later, Stuart was afforded his first glimpse of what passed for justice in Azidara's world.

A guttural groan tore involuntarily from Stuart's lips as he fought to master his fast-rising stomach. Chained and suspended from every second crenellation of the city's battlements there hung a series of corpses in varying states of desiccation...adorning the walls of Dizar Kor for as far as the eye could see in both directions. The stench of desiccation assailed Stuart's nostrils, stealing his breath and forcing him to avert his eyes from this ghoulish spectacle.

Azidara placed a hand on the nape of his neck and gently stroked the perspiration-soaked flesh with strong fingers. "It is said that king Saremond is a just and equitable monarch, but as this vulgar obscenity clearly indicates, his justice is as hard and cold as steel in winter."

Stuart turned to her, his revulsion written large in his dark eyes. "What type of crime would warrant this?"

"These men would have been murderers, serial rapists or child molesters...men who, in truth, deserve little pity or mercy," Azidara speculated. "Is this a fitting answer to their crimes? Many would argue that this is precisely what they deserve."

Macevey shook his head and forced himself to consider the nearest suspended horror. He grimaced as a large rook landed on the corpse's lolling head and began to peck at the rancid flesh. "Even if they warranted execution, why would a nation's capital want to present this particular face to the world?"

Azidara frowned in response to her traveling companion's revulsion. "This declares rather succinctly that miscreants and their vile deeds will not be suffered here."

Macevey started to protest, but then the vivid image of Azidara emasculating the corpse of one of her would-be rapists exploded in his mind's eye and he closed his mouth with an audible plop. "Though this might seem to be fitting justice, each corpse on that wall is a paving stone along a roadway that will inevitably lead to tyranny. Irrespective of any declared intention...any facile rationalization...intimidation and terror are a tyrant's tools."

Azidara pondered this complex utterance for a protracted moment, her blue eyes glinting in the late afternoon sunlight. "As I've said, you are in a very different world now, Stuart Macevey." She pointed to the nearest suspended horror and declared, "That is your new reality, Stuart and pretty speeches will not do a whit to change it. If you wish to find your Sisters of Esotaria, you had better embrace that new reality with open arms. Once we pass through the gates, there will be no shortage of desperate wretches who will slit your throat for a single copper coin."

She stepped closer until he could feel the intoxicating press of her full breasts on his forearm. Reaching inside his rough-spun jacket, she clutched the gun through the thin fabric of his shirt and whispered, "If even the slightest inkling of this came to light, I'm not sure even a king's army could protect you from the avarice of those who would have it for their own."

Macevey pursed his lips and offered Azidara a tight grin, unnerved by the woman's complex blend of pragmatism, grace and beauty. She suddenly stood on her toes and kissed him passionately on the lips, plunging her fingers into his thick hair. When she finally disengaged, she began to tug him in the direction of the nearest inspection table. "Let's get into the city. I'm anxious to find a suitable inn where I can have a hot meal and a hot bath." Throwing a brazen glance over her shoulder, she growled, "When I make love to you tonight...I want to have you in a soft bed with clean sheets."

As promised, Stuart spoke only when questioned, delivering his replies in the terse mumble of a man for whom conversation held little joy. Azidara played the role of giddy newly wed to perfection and after a cursory inspection, the pair passed through the massive stone and steel gates where they were quickly swallowed by the teeming mass of humanity within.

2

Asked to describe the vast, sprawling nation of Galloway...a country that spanned nearly the entire southern portion of the Eastern Continent...from Emercia to distant Lamia...most of the continent's dwellers would have proven incondign to the task. There were many complex reasons for this inability...but they were as varied and nebulous as the country they sought to describe.

From the ubiquitous rolling plains in the north, through the dense, mostly impenetrable forest belt that traversed the nation's center, to the jagged cliffs and marshlands that dominated its ocean coast, Galloway was a nation of extremes that spanned the full spectrum of cultural and geographic realities. The diminutive and leanly muscled horsemen of the plains tribes were the polar opposite of the large, rugged fishermen and seafarers who called the coastal areas home. These two groups shared little in common, both from a physical and cultural perspective, with the tall, sinewy men and women who inhabited the daunting forests...drifting through the perpetual gloom like wraiths.

Yet, despite the intrinsic extremes that existed within Galloway's far flung borders, the nation had never experienced any significant civil strife or factional discord...despite the profound cultural and philosophical differences that characterized the three disparate groups. This model of harmonious co-habitation should have stood as a glittering example for the rest of the war-ravaged continent...save for one deeply engrained national trait; intractable reticence. This reticence seemed to be rooted deep in the heart of everyone born on Galloway soil...irrespective of which region they hailed from.

Oddly enough, it was this reticence and unflinchingly inward-focused vision that was responsible for the country's enduring tranquility...more so than any measure of tolerance or universal acceptance. The three primary components of Galloway were concerned exclusively for themselves and the events and prevailing conditions of their own geographical regions in which they happened to live. For the rest of the country, each region harbored neither ambition, envy nor interest beyond those motivated by mutually beneficial commerce.

And for the world beyond its borders...Galloway remained both indifferent and oblivious to the ever-shifting winds of fortune that blew through the rest of the Eastern Continent.

This introspective apathy birthed several different consequences, the foremost of which was that the rest of the known world came to regard Galloway with precisely the same measure of indifference. As a result of this selective indifference, the nation of Galloway became effectively invisible in the eyes of even its immediate neighbors. There was the obligatory desire to develop and foster profitable economic relationships to be sure, but Galloway's general stoic people and culture remained a mystery that lacked the requisite degree of fascination to invite interest or engagement.

So, as the storm clouds of chaos and bloody conflict began to coalesce over the skies of the Eastern Continent, Galloway remained a cloistered, self-absorbed nation comprised of three totally polarized regions whose sensibilities and perceptions did not extend beyond the boundaries of their distinct environments.

Even during those dark years when Myrhia's voracious engine of conquest had laid waste to the entire continent, Galloway had managed to escape virtually unscathed. Grasping that resistance would be a futile expenditure of life that was inevitably doomed to failure, the leaders of the day had prudently capitulated. After the initial traumatic period of occupation and adjustment, Myrhia quickly lost interest in her easily won prize. In her pre-occupation with destroying the CornerStone Nations and capturing Islena Doraux, the enchantress essentially abandoned the large, yet nondescript country, where life quickly returned to what it had been prior to the invasion.

When Islena Doraux vanquished the enchantress on the ramparts of castle Kammlogran, much of the Eastern Continent was left scarred and wounded by years of savage warfare. Only Galloway displayed not the slightest hint that the most brutal and bloody conflict in recorded history had come to a conclusion around it and thus the great chameleon emerged from the conflict unchanged and unscathed...save for the small sliver of land it had willingly ceded to the fledgling nation of Lamia.

On a night that would begin like the endless succession of nights that had proceeded it, all of this would change, and Galloway's mantle of anonymity and self-proclaimed isolationism would come to an emphatic and cataclysmic end.

3

A comforting warmth permeated the harbormaster's office...a stone and heavy timber building that sat atop the quay at the center of Garendal's sprawling expanse of jutting timber docks. The office's single occupant continued to labor over his ledgers, oblivious to the fact that night had descended over the ocean just beyond the large bank of crude windows that dominated the building's southern exposure.

For aging harbormaster Aryon Mar, the rhythmic scratch of the quill and the endless march of journal entries and ciphers across the thick pages were a source of hypnotic comfort. So, too, was the incessant slap of waves on the creosote pilings and the accompanying forlorn cry of the ever-circling seagulls over the wooden expanse of the docklands. Aryon closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his aquiline nose and set his quill aside, careful not to allow any excess ink to dribble onto his cherished wooden desk. He had been Garendal's harbormaster for the past fifteen years and had served as assistant to the previous harbormaster, Drys Tarn, until Tarn had died while working at this very desk one winter's night.

'A fate that lingers in your not-too-distant future as well, Aryon,' his deceased wife's voice whispered. Aryon folded his hands on his considerable paunch and leaned back in his chair. He gazed around the office with its familiar trappings and its small stone corner fireplace, where dancing flames crackled and popped while serving as a ward against the pervasive dampness. That fireplace was the one indulgent luxury that he had allowed himself during his tenure as Garendal's port overseer.

Aryon inhaled deeply, luxuriating in the rich, redolent aromas of leather, parchment and ink, counter pointed by the tang of sea salt and wood smoke. In reflection, he decided that...even if he was to share Drys Tarn's fate and die in this very chair, it would not be an unwelcome end. For the vast majority of his adult life, this humble office had been as much his home as anywhere else...especially in the years following his beloved Elaise's passing into the afterlife.

Along the entire west wall of this office stood a bank of crude wooden bookshelves and from floor to ceiling, it held hundreds of leather-bound journals, most scribed lovingly by his own hand.

"Therein can be found the history of Garendal," Aryon mused thoughtfully. To survive the biting loneliness that had accompanied his wife's death and threatened to propel him into the embrace of melancholy and despair, he would linger in the office long after his assistant had gone home to his life, and read all of the past entries that had been meticulously recorded in the day's current log. To divert his thoughts from the enormity of all he had lost with Elaise's passing, he had randomly selected a journal from decades past and had begun to peruse its entries. At first, he had done this as an exercise in catharsis...a purging of the depressive emotions of loss that would give him no respite in his now empty home.

Eventually, however, the old ledgers and journals had provided an astounded Aryon Mar with an incredible epiphany and led him to regard these volumes in a new and exciting light.

Captured with painstaking and loving detail was the true history of Garendal, stripped of distortion and embellishment that invariably accompanied the efforts of scholars and academic historians. These harbor masters' journals concisely captured the true ebb and flow of the nation's lifeblood...coursing incessantly through the country's veins in the form of trade...the unfettered movement of goods that insured prosperity for Galloway's far-flung citizenry. It preserved the triumphs...and the rare moments of heart-wrenching tragedy such as the unprecedented loss of forty-eight merchant vessels that the unpredictable ocean seemed to have swallowed in the blink of a tear-stained eye, just three knots from the port some one hundred and seventy years past. The harbor master of the day had gone to extraordinary lengths to record the name of every known sailor lost on that godless morning...their sacrifice preserved for eternity in the pages of these journals that Mar considered to be more precious than gold or diamonds.

Aryon had come across hundreds of other equally compelling vignettes and even the pragmatic and dispassionate recounting of these gripping tales of Galloway's history could not rob them of their drama. Through Aryon's watery eyes, his harbor master's humble office was transformed into a repository and he had been entrusted with the sacred duty of preserving the past and recording the present for posterity. It was gratifying to think that some years in the distant future, another Garendal harbor master might casually peruse one of his precious journals and find his own moment of epiphany in Aryon's narrative.

It was his unflagging dedication to this sense of duty that had spared Aryon from being drawn into a vortex of melancholy and had provided him with the wherewithal to endure solitude...the pervasive loneliness of life without his beloved wife.

Again, he reflected that, dying here, amidst his cherished journals and ledgers, could probably be the kindest end capricious fate could bestow upon Aryon Mar. He was reluctantly considering returning home for the night, when the door burst open and Albreth Korum was borne in on a current of damp air and gusting wind.

The Captain of Garendal's dock watch came to a stumbling halt directly before Aryon's desk, unintentionally spraying droplets of rain over the desktop like a wayward mongrel. Aryon closed his journal with a snap and regarded the captain with an exasperated sigh. That sigh deepened to a groan of wary consternation when Korum breathlessly disclosed the reason for this water-drenched intrusion. "They're back, Aryon...and this time there can be no denying it, so don't go dismissing me with another pretty speech or accusing me of being into the grog again. I seen 'em...as did the other constables."

Aryon regarded Albreth with a mixture of disdain and impatience, having been subjected to this fatuous refrain about enormous ghost ships, that glided through the fog like shadow-shrouded leviathans, for the better part of a year now. These gigantic vessels would appear only during nights of heavy fog, passing silently through the swirling pearlescent mist just beyond the headlands.

"Captain Korum, on a night such as this, there are any number of illicit undertakings being transacted. Illegal off-loading alone increases geometrically in inimical weather and shop-worn relics the likes of us know this all too well. Is the Captain of the dock watch out and about diligently questing to foil said illegal ventures? No, instead he's dripping all over my paperwork, haranguing me with patently ridiculous tales of phantom ships...just as he's done every night the fogs have swept in for the past year." Mar shook his head and feigned disappointment. "What am I to make of this dereliction of duty, Captain?"

Korum, a dour, practical man by nature, lacked the sensibilities to detect the chiding sarcasm that was carefully couched in Aryon's reproof. He scowled indignantly and stroked the thicket that covered the lower half of his face. When he finally mastered that indignation and again trusted himself to speak without venting his frustration on the officious curmudgeon seated across from him, the Captain insisted, "This time is different!"

Aryon raised a cynical eyebrow. "How so?"

Korum glanced briefly to the sea-facing bank of windows, beyond which his beloved ocean was obscured by heavy fog. "The other times there was only a single ship gliding out beyond the headlands."

The Captain lapsed into a ponderous silence as if he lacked the faculties to properly express what had made tonight's phantom visitation so unique. Aryon was about to deliver yet another mildly acerbic barb, but the glint in Korum's dark brown eyes was so pointedly alien that it prompted Mar's witticism to dry up in his throat before it could pass his thin lips. Aryon recognized the visage of genuine terror in those dark depths...an emotion of which he would have thought the watch captain incapable prior to this conversation. In reaction to this improbable turn of events, the aging harbor master felt the inchoate stirring of dread uncoiling like a viper in the pit of his stomach. "By the gods, man...what did you see tonight?"

"This time, they made it inside the harbor wall...great hulking vessels the likes of which I've never set eyes upon before...black, monstrous ships that made no sound and employed no guiding lights. Aryon, you must come and see! Someone must be warned...someone must..."

Korum's entreaty degenerated into an inarticulate moan that rumbled through his chest and caused the big man to tremble. Dismayed, Aryon rose quickly and came around the desk in three brisk strides, retrieving his wide-brimmed hat and oiled coat from a mounted hook near the door. "You'd best take me there, Albreth. Once I've seen these ghost vessels of yours firsthand...we can decide on a course of action from there."

Korum nodded, relief intermingled with trepidation flashing briefly across his face as he started toward the door.

Outside, the weather conditions had deteriorated significantly as the temperature plummeted and a cold rain began to fall in rain-swept sheets. Consequently, the fog began to dissipate, only to reveal a dark, brooding night that provided little by way of visibility. Aryon struggled to keep pace with the hulking dock captain, who traversed the treacherous expanse of wharves in great strides that soon had the harbor master wheezing and gasping for breath. A part of Aryon's mind regarded this nocturnal expedition with vexed incredulity, scarcely able to credit that he was racing through this horrid, rain-soaked night in pursuit of fantastical shadow ships. Yet the pervasive dread in Korum's expression had been too genuine...too visceral for a perfunctory dismissal.

After what seemed like an interminable trek over endless expanses of hazardously slippery wooden docklands, Korum came to an abrupt halt and turned to face Aryon, who stood before the taller man, trembling from the bone-deep chill that had permeated his aging bones despite the heavy oiled coat he wore.

"We'll have to climb down yon ladder and make our way to the far end of the floating dock to be afforded the best view. Mind me, old man, the ladder rungs are apt to be perilously slippery and these waves are pummeling the docks something fierce. The moment your feet hit the dock, grab hold of the restraining rope and cling to it all the way out. If the waves should catch you flush and wash you into the swell, there'll be a new harbor master groping those precious journals of yours come morning."

Aryon eyed the wooden ladder with an equal measure of doubt and anxiety. No longer a young man and far from being hale and fit, Mar correctly recognized that Korum had spoken true. If a surging wave delivered him into the ocean's cold embrace, he would never survive. Shouting to be heard above the pounding waves and gusting wind, the apprehensive harbor master cried, "This is madness, Albreth!"

Korum nodded his concurrence that this venture was indeed mad folly. "Maybe it is, Aryon, but someone has to bear witness to what is concealed by this evil fog...someone who is considered credible and can carry a warning to those in authority with the reasonable expectation that this warning will be heeded."

Aryon started to object, but then realized that the dour man had just bestowed a stunning declaration of respect upon him and though Mar wasn't certain that his assessment of his status with those in authority was valid, he suddenly felt compelled to see this dreary misadventure to its conclusion. Drawing an anxiety laden breath, he moved to the head of the ladder and peered down. What he saw there gave him little cause for comfort. The floating dock was a wooden construct comprised of several linked, articulating sections that had been designed to bend to and thus resist the unrelenting assault of the ocean tides. It now pitched and heaved with such violence that Mar found it inconceivable that anyone could remain upright on its slick, rolling surface...much less traverse its length.

Aryon lashed Korum with another reproachful glance, but Albreth merely pointed to the guide cable and reiterated, "Remember, grab the line and try to walk with your knees bent to absorb the impact...we've got to make it to the end before this fog completely departs. They always vanish with the leaving of the fog."

And so Aryon gripped the ladder runners and with fingers that were nearly numb with the bite of the dampness, he began his tentative descent. The journey across the roiling expanse of treacherous dock was perhaps the most terrifying experience of Aryon Mar's long life.

There were several harrowing moments when he felt certain he would lose his tenuous grip on the rope and be thrown to his watery demise. Once he fell to one knee and swung out over the churning waters. When it seemed inevitable that he would be swallowed by the ocean, a huge hand clamped down on his right arm and pulled him upright.

After what must have been an eternity, Aryon reached the end of the convulsing dock and wrapped his arms around the terminal pole to which was secured the far end of the guide rope. He clung weakly to the pole and drew in great gulps of salt-tanged air, refusing to open his eyes until his heart settled back into a more or less normal rhythm. When he had regained his composure sufficiently to speak, he turned to face Captain Korum, who gripped the cable with one hand while peering intently off into the impenetrable darkness. The man rode the upheavals with the casual ease of a veteran sailor and though his eyes were alight with unmistakable trepidation, it was roused more by whatever lay concealed by the darkness than the very real perils of unstable footing.

Mar squinted against the driving rain and attempted to follow Korum's unblinking gaze. The all-consuming darkness seemed to devour what little light there was to be had and Aryon could distil neither detail nor variation of shading from the darkness. The harbor master uttered a rare epithet and shook his head in disgust that was directed primarily at his own gullibility for having quite literally risked his life to indulge Albreth Korum's obsessive idiocy.

"What manner of madness has taken you, man? There is nothing here but black, empty water and two blithering fools," Aryon rasped, sweeping the horizon with an encompassing wave of his left arm. Korum regarded the harbor master with a speculative expression set on his blunt face as if uncertain whether the smaller man was being disingenuous or if he truly could not see the dark wonder floating before his very eyes.

As a bemused Aryon tracked his movements, Korum slowly extended his arm, gnarled index finger pointing insistently into the darkness and began to lift it toward the heavens. There was a mechanical, yet hypnotic aspect to the gesture that left Mar thoroughly transfixed. The inimical weather was quickly forgotten as was his fear of clinging to the precariously rolling dock and Aryon tracked the Captain's rising arm with helpless fascination.

At first, the utter darkness defied Aryon and he hurled another annoyed glance at the larger man, but the raised hand continued to point implacably toward the southern horizon. Grunting in disgust, Mar resumed his scrutiny of the harbor with his eyes narrowed into protective slits against the relentless rain.

And then he saw it, the darkness surrendering its secret with a barely perceptible flicker of light.

Aryon gasped in horrified wonder, the hazards of his trek and the inimical weather forgotten in a heartbeat.

There, hovering some fifteen man-heights above his head, a lamplight flickered and suddenly flared to unveil a length of polished wooden railing. In a dizzying instant, the seemingly empty harbor came ablaze with innumerable points of flickering light, spanning east to west as far as Aryon's astonished gaze could see. Ships of a size that Mar simply could not credit, filled his harbor like gargantuan monstrosities that had silently arisen from the ocean's depths.

Mar shook his head in an unconscious gesture of negation as though his mind was struggling to repudiate the reality his eyes conveyed.

"Do you see them, Aryon? Now, do you see!" Korum demanded in a voice rife with an incongruent blend of vindication and dread.

The harbor master's amazement had momentarily robbed him of his faculty of speech and his next coherent thought was the contemplation of just how many people such a mammoth vessel might carry.

'If it carries people at all,' his frazzled mind remarked and Aryon shuddered at the implications of this troubling notion.

Suddenly, as though at the behest of some unseen signal, the ghost ships began to move with a swiftness that defied all logic. One by one, their lights guttered and then were extinguished, and the harbor was again plunged into a brooding, pervasive darkness. The wind began to abate, though the rain continued to fall in a slow, steady rhythm that was oddly soothing.

Aryon was suffused by a keen impression of vacancy and knew instinctively that the spectral vessels had left the harbor, cutting lithely through the black water as they retreated beyond the headland.

As rain streamed down his face, the harbor master's mind began to function again, reeling under the surging assault of a hundred questions, each demanding his urgent consideration. Korum tugged at Aryon's shoulder and gestured toward the ladder leading back to the main dock. Mar nodded and the two men set out across the precarious floating dock, though in his preoccupation with the ghost ships, the harbor master's return passage seemed far less harrowing.

Back in the relatively safe confines of his office, Aryon peeled off his perspiration-soaked oil coat and slumped into the wooden embrace of his blessedly familiar chair, waiting for his wildly palpitating heart to settle back to some semblance of normalcy. He was cognizant of Korum's unblinking scrutiny but refused to meet its demands until he had recovered some measure of his equilibrium. Drawing a tremulous breath, he turned to the Captain and remarked quietly, "It seems I owe you an apology, Albreth...your phantom vessels are real indeed...though some deeper instinct for self-preservation tells me that their purpose here is anything but benevolent."

"What do you intend to do now, Aryon?" Captain Korum inquired in a subdued voice that was so unlike his usual guttural rumble that issued from deep in his chest whenever he spoke. This timid whisper spoke eloquently of the degree to which the Dock Captain had been affected by the unsettling appearance of these nocturnal ghost ships.

"What we will do now," Aryon began, making it clear that the burden of informing the higher authorities of this troubling development would not rest on him alone, "is visit the mayor first thing in the morning. We both know that he is a preening, self-possessed bumbler, but what he elects to do with our revelation will be up to him. Hopefully, he will conjure the common sense to see these ghost ships for the menace they are and dispatch word of this to the capital and the other port cities. Should he elect to dismiss our tale as the delusional ravings of two old men on the brink of babbling senility...and I think he will be inclined to do precisely that...then there is little we can do in the matter."

Korum began to protest, but Aryon forestalled him with a raised hand. Exhaustion was quickly enfolding him into its comforting embrace, impairing his ability to think in a clear and rational manner and he wanted nothing more than the soft comfort of falling into his own bed, though he thought that the prospects for restful sleep were dismally remote. "What I can do is order a routine patrol of the harbor at night. If nothing else, we can perhaps garner something more of who these ghostly seafarers might be and their purpose for skulking about our harbor in the dead of night."

Korum considered this and signaled his concurrence with a thoughtful nod. "As you say, Aryon. I'll come by your house and collect you in the morning. You've always been blessed with the gift of persuasion and I pray that you find the turn of phrase to make our good mayor listen...and act. Whatever these ships might be and wherever they're from, I agree that their purpose is not likely to be a friendly one."

With this, he donned his sodden cap and strode to the door, departing into the rainy night without so much as a goodbye.

It was a long time before Aryon mustered the energy to commence the journey back to his empty house...more than sufficient time for the first seed of dread to take root and germinate in the cleft of his heart.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

1

'As if by your hand, the face of the nation has been indelibly scarred...its disfigurement as much a consequence of your obsessive stupidity as it is Xhendyn's evil,' the high king of Emercia castigated himself with a measure of self- contempt.

Standing near the crenulated battlements of wounded Kammlogran's eastern ramparts, Artumas found himself incapable of averting his unblinking gaze from the glittering obscenity that spanned the entire eastern third of the walled city of Nalosan. The heat generated by the fire demon's wrath had been so intense that it had reduced every standing structure east of the canal to dust and had scorched the earth until it was a glazed, monochrome black. From this perspective, it reminded Artumas of a massive obsidian eye...a demon's eye.

The high king grimaced at this depressingly fitting metaphor and in his moment of solitary, incisive pain and self-condemnation, he decided that nothing would ever stand upon this shining expanse of ruined earth again. He would decree that a wall would be erected along the eastern bank of the canal and that all access points into the area from the outer wall would be permanently sealed.

As long as Nalosan stood, this portion of the old city would serve as a testimony...an empty shrine devoted to human fallibility and every future king could stand on this precise spot and be reminded that their edicts and decrees all carried the potential for disaster.

It was a small and hopelessly inadequate tribute to those who lost their lives as a result of his unwillingness to fully purge Myrhia's memory from his heart. Though he would never divulge this to another living soul, Artumas was forced to confess, if only to himself, that he was still reluctant to relinquish stewardship over the remnant...a loathsome term he deplored.

He sighed and glanced up at the pristine perfection of the azure dawn sky and in that instant, the legendary king of Emercia was visited by an epiphany...a revelation so unsettling that it very nearly drove him to his knees.

'While Myrhia...the specter of Myrhia...remains on the Eastern Continent, I am not fit to be king!' The thought detonated in his mind like the fulminating rumble of a god whose existence he so stubbornly refused to acknowledge. His love for this iniquitous creature had so distorted his judgment that he could no longer serve the people of Emercia for their benefit. For the protection of the realm he so dearly loved, his only option was to abdicate...at least until Myrhia's looming menace could be removed.

He was pondering the complex mechanics of abdication when the soft whisper of movement reached his ears, so subtle as to be nearly undetectable. Artumas sighed heavily, his ire rising in his chest like hot bile. He had issued specific instructions with the castle guards that no one was to be granted access to the ramparts until he returned to the castle's interior...without exception.

Artumas spun about, preparing to unleash a rare spate of imperious venom, but upon seeing the improbable specter standing before him...near the very spot where he had last seen her alive and in the flesh...the High King's vitriol turned to dust on his tongue.

Myrhia stood before him, as disarmingly beautiful as she had been on the first day she had arrived on that mysterious ship, gliding into the harbor like a wraith. She regarded him from behind those unfathomable, limpid brown eyes. After all of the years and accrued sorrows, they had lost none of their efficacy to rob him of his ability to think clearly. He tried to speak...to conjure some acerbic turn of phrase that might be appropriate, but her improbable appearance had robbed him of that faculty.

They continued to regard each other from beneath a charged and cloying silence. When she at last spoke, it was in a voice that had roused in him such joy and inflicted such misery. "When you look upon me, good king, is this what you see?"

At once, the image of Myrhia dissolved, giving way to the equally beguiling countenance of Lissom, whose wheaten-haired, fair-skinned, blue-eyed pulchritude was the diametric opposite of his former Queen's dark beauty. Artumas gasped, sagging back against the battlements and groping for the cold stone for support. "How dare you...such cruelty!"

His outrage degenerated into an inarticulate, strangled moan as the ethereal Ascentrix glided closer and placed a long-fingered hand on his sleeve. "Artumas, I mean no offence, but if this world is to be spared from annihilation, you and I must reach an accord."

"How could you know what she looked and sounded like...your enchantment, it was chillingly precise?" he stammered.

Lissom leaned closer until the full swell of her breast pressed against his right arm and her long honey-blond tresses spilled over her hunter green cloak. "I extracted this image from your mind, where it burns as brightly as the noon day sun...especially on this exact spot where your long conflict came to an emphatic end...or so it seemed on that day. Is it not her shadow that hovers over me whenever your gaze happens upon me? We are alone and thus there can be total candor between us."

"Yes," Artumas admitted simply and Lissom's only reaction was a slight pursing of her full lips.

"I understand the source of your reluctance, Artumas...your hesitation to impart trust to a woman you fear might be spun from the same cloth as the creature who so egregiously deceived you," Lissom began, her tone caressing his ears like silk on bare flesh. "Yet, on an atavistic level, you know that Myrhia was never a true Ascentrix of the Sisters of Esotaria...just as we both know that yours is no ordinary soul, despite the obvious mortality of the body you now occupy."

Artumas' brow furrowed in consternation. "Therein lies the essence of our problem. While you possess the means to access and draw out my most closely guarded thoughts and memories, I have no such faculty. The workings of your mind are as arcane and inaccessible as the stones of this ancient castle. Such a disadvantage is hardly conducive to fostering trust."

"But it is precisely the trust you must yield to me if this world is to have any hope of evading the fate that now stalks it," Lissom retorted passionately. "If time was not at a premium, I would gladly labor to be worthy of your faith in my fundamental integrity, but it is a luxury that I...we do not enjoy. If Xhendyn and the ShadowCaster free Myrhia...or if they find and slay the bane...this world will know her terrible wrath!"

Artumas grimaced, envisioning the monumental, towering rage that an emancipated Myrhia would certainly harbor. A thought occurred to him and he inquired, "But even if she was reanimated, could you not vanquish her?"

Lissom frowned and Artumas noticed how her tapered brows furrowed in the most fetching manner on the rare occasions when this expression crossed her face. "That is an exceedingly complex question and, in all candor, good king, it is one to which even I do not have a definitive answer. Myrhia is an ascendant being, whose power is vast and terrifying, but history has repeatedly demonstrated that her power is not infinite. As Islena Doraux predicted, she was unable to absorb the recumbent power of the three Proclamations...nor was she able to surmount the barriers that separate the existing realities. Yet, even with these constraints, the scope of her power is horrifying to contemplate. I have been granted a measure of the Goddess Gyzarayne's might so that I can serve in the capacity of Ascentrix. That power, too, is defined and constrained. I am neither a deity nor an immortal. Cognizant of these unknowns and variables, I cannot say with any degree of certainty that I could vanquish the dark harlot in a vulgar contest of arcane power."

Artumas considered Lissom's assessment thoughtfully, deliberately ignoring the degrading reference to the woman who had been his queen. 'Myrhia has earned every drop of venom...every aspersion that is heaped upon her.'

After a moment, the Ascentrix resumed her plea for the Emercian King's understanding. "King Artumas, I cannot overstate the importance of your willingness to grasp and fully accept that, if your nation's citizens and indeed the citizens of all nations on this continent are to avoid utter annihilation, our only true recourse is to prevent Xhendyn from freeing Myrhia from her inured state. You have asked if I am capable of vanquishing Myrhia, but I must impress upon you that this query is not merely an academic exercise...it is dangerously misleading."

Artumas' brow furrowed but as he peered into the infinite depths of those limpid blue eyes, he understood that the Ascentrix was preparing to impart a critical insight into the fundamental nature of the menace hovering over his kingdom. "I must confess, good lady, that I am not following the thread of your thoughts here."

Lissom's normally serene expression intensified and she began to elaborate in a tone fraught with the gravity of their situation. "Irrespective of the eventual winner, any conflict between myself and Myrhia would reduce huge expanses of your world to a barren husk. To understand why, it is first necessary to grasp the fundamental laws that govern the practice of magic. I sense that you harbor a deeply ingrained aversion to all things magical...a perspective wholly justified by the suffering you've witnessed as a consequence of its practice. Regrettably, my explanation of its mechanics will do little to allay your misgivings. I ask only that you consider what I am about to tell you with an open mind."

"I will, but I won't deny that I do regard all things magical with a wary eye," the high king allowed.

Lissom met this comment by flashing her most beguiling smile. "Imagine the metaphysical dimension as a void of total darkness and then imagine that every living being is a point of light in that darkness. The variation in magnitude of these individual points of light is a measure of personal power and vitality...the energy that one exudes. When a practitioner of the mystic arts employs the craft, their individual point of light will flare...the more powerful the wielder, the more powerful the corresponding flare will be. Every Sister of Esotaria has the ability to conjure an internal image of this metaphysical dimension. It was in this way that we finally located Myrhia seven years ago...when Islena Doraux infused the enchantress with the residual power of the Proclamations. It burst upon the metaphysical dimension like an exploding sun. As abruptly as this eruption began, it ceased..."

"At the precise moment that Myrhia was transmogrified to stone," Artumas interjected excitedly and Lissom nodded with a smile.

"When Xhendyn coalesced out of the residue of Myrhia's evil, the Sisters decided that we could no longer disassociate ourselves from the events that were unfolding here," Lissom concluded, providing an explanation for the riddle of what had drawn the Sisters to Emercia at this precise juncture.

Something occurred to the aging king then and he inquired, "How were you able to ascertain that Xhendyn's aura was evil...or that it was associated with Myrhia?"

Lissom offered the king a wry grin. "These points of light are hued in colors that reflect the essence of the entities they represent. Most points on the field are a simple white light or a rather benign yellow. Myrhia's arcane energy was a rather disconcerting claret...while Xhendyn's is an unpleasant vermillion; a diluted version of the mistress he serves."

Artumas stole a brief glance at the onyx scar on the opposite side of the canal and posed the inevitable question, "And if I possessed the ability to look into this metaphysical dimension and see your light...what color would I see, Ascentrix?"

The Ascentrix grimaced...her full lips pulling down into an expression that was incongruent with her beauty. In her limpid blue eyes, there flared an anguish that was difficult for Artumas to endure...there and gone in the drawing of a breath. In an uncharacteristically somber voice, Lissom disclosed, "You strike true to the crux of the matter, good king."

A pensive silence fell over the Ascentrix and for a moment, Artumas thought she might elect not to elaborate. At last, she turned her gaze to meet his, her luminous blue eyes afire with an intensity that was difficult to behold. "It is my unwavering belief that you and I stand at a pivotal juncture in the history of this world...perhaps all worlds. More significantly, it is my conviction that we hold the fate of those worlds in our palms."

Artumas' brow furrowed. Even for a creature of Lissom's indecipherable ilk, this declaration seemed absurdly grandiose. Lissom gleaned his skepticism, but this only served to fuel her determination. "You think I embellish the gravity of this moment, good king? I assure you that it would be impossible to exaggerate the need for us to reach an accord here...to come to a common understanding on how we will answer Myrhia's threat."

"And I must ask why?" Artumas countered. "If I am to impart my unconditional trust to a woman whose sensibilities are beyond my ability to comprehend, I must know why reaching an accord and committing to a single course of action is so critical."

She leaned closer, until their faces were nearly touching. He could feel her sweet breath and her smoldering gaze on his skin. "If Xhendyn succeeds in emancipating Myrhia, I will be obligated to try to destroy her...a battle in which my emergence as the victor is in no way assured. What you must understand and accept without reservation...is that it is not Myrhia's magic that will eradicate all life from these lands of yours. It is mine!"

"Yours?" he echoed as a pervasive chill bit deep into his aging bones.

Lissom nodded solemnly and abruptly spun away, crossing her arms beneath her substantial bosom and bowing her head until her golden mane obscured her face. When she spoke, her voice was distant and brittle. "I wish to be your friend, Artumas...and to be an ally in whom you place your unquestioning trust and so I will share an insight into the essence of an Ascentrix that not even her Matrium is privileged to know. You asked what color my magic would exude if you could glimpse it on the metaphysical tapestry. The answer is...none."

Artumas frowned and his disquiet deepened, leaving him with the unnerving sense that he had blithely blundered into alien and possibly even hostile territory. "Again Lissom...my grasp of the mystic arts is rudimentary at best. I sense that you are attempting to convey some critically important insight, but..."

He trailed off and the Ascentrix nodded, the slightest hint of impatience flaring in her eyes. "Gyzarayne has endowed her Ascentrix with a rather small portion of her power...and yet it is sufficient to efface cities and even nations from the face of the world. She understands the danger of investing such puissance in a mortal vessel and took two stringent precautions to prevent abuse of her gift. The first of these precautions was that the power of an Ascentrix would evolve in direct proportion to the wisdom and mettle she demonstrated as she confronted the obstacles and tribulations in her path to spiritual ascendancy. You have witnessed this firsthand. I first came to you as a small girl, yet mere days later, I stand before you as a young woman."

Artumas nodded thoughtfully and offered, "Your growth was inspired by your adroit handling of the fire demon."

"Yes, that and the way I dealt with Queen Lorio's attempt to assassinate me," Lissom confirmed, cognizant of the pain the mention of the contentious Queen evoked in the noble king. Not wanting to be distracted from the issue at hand, the Ascentrix forged ahead. "It is the second of the goddess' precautionary measures that is at issue. An Ascentrix is imbued with a form of magic that derives its power from the life force of every living thing around her. The greater the expenditure of magic, the deeper the drain on the collective life force that is required to generate it."

Artumas gazed at her blankly for a moment and then his eyes widened in dawning horror as the implications of this revelation resolved in his mind. "Then, by its nature, your magic is...parasitic?"

The high king's particular choice of qualifiers evoked a sharp inhalation from the Ascentrix, and she quickly dropped her eyes lest he see how deeply his remark had wounded her. Stiffly, she replied, "Yes...as I warned, my explanation will do little to allay your aversion to magic. Still, the concept is far less nefarious than it would at first seem. The heat of the sun and the life force of every blade of grass and each tree can sustain even a large expenditure of magic...without causing lasting harm to the source. Even when vanquishing Xhendyn's conjuration, I drew energy from the environment and even from the entity, itself."

"Essentially turning its own power against it?"

"As you can see, I did not have to access the life force of the city's citizenry at all and the fire demon was a formidable enemy."

"So, under most circumstances, you could unleash your goddess' magic and not cause significant or irreparable harm to those around you?" Artumas inquired, placated, if only marginally, by the notion.

"Fundamentally, yes," Lissom confirmed.

"I take it that you're now telling me that Myrhia would be the exception?" Artumas mused, though his query was more rhetorical than interrogative.

"If my assessment of Myrhia's capability as a sorceress is even remotely accurate, the outlay of magical energy required to vanquish her would be exponentially greater than what was expended to destroy Xhendyn's fire demon. Even if I was to defeat Myrhia, much of your continent would be reduced to a lifeless, sterile barrens," Lissom concluded grimly. "This does not even factor in the damage that Myrhia would inflict on the environment during the course of our conflict. This is why it is absolutely imperative that we stop Xhendyn and the ShadowCaster before they gain possession of the remnant. It is the only acceptable outcome, good king!"

Artumas pursed his lips and averted his eyes in the face of her vehemence. His gaze fell upon the glittering abomination that had only yesterday been eastern Nalosan and a vivid image took shape in his mind. Like an eagle, he soared above the world...a world that was a gray, empty ruin from horizon to horizon in every direction. From somewhere below, there arose the strident crackle and hiss of wild sorcery as two maddened women were locked in a desperate and unending battle to destroy the other.

Abruptly, a subtle, yet invasive force suffused his body, followed by an intense draining sensation.

Then he was falling out of the gray firmament, plummeting toward the dead earth even as his life force ebbed away to darkness.

"Artumas!"

The king blinked to find Lissom studying his face, her incisive gaze a mix of concern and something that might well have been suspicion. He offered the Ascentrix a wan smile that only served to accentuate his age in the unforgiving light of dawn. "Lissom, I will accept your offer of aid and will accede to your request to establish your Sisterhood in Emercia...on the provision that you do nothing to subvert the rightful rule of the nation or interfere with those who wish to maintain and practice their own beliefs."

The smile that lit Lissom's face was inexpressibly radiant. At once, she clasped Artumas' right hand in hers and sank to her knees. Pressing her forehead against his right wrist in a gesture of absolute abeyance, she intoned, "Thank you, good king. Your gesture of trust, good will and forbearance will resonate through the pages of history as a testimony to your wisdom. I vow on the holy name of my goddess that I will prove worthy of your faith."

"Please, Ascentrix...rise," Artumas stammered, discomfited by this embarrassing display of deference. This was the emissary of a goddess, who possessed incomprehensible power that was terrifying to ponder. That she would kneel before him like the humblest of supplicants was shocking and unseemly. Yet, with this simple act of deference, Lissom had proven beyond all rational doubt that she was not spun from the same cloth as Myrhia...who would rather have died than suffer the perceived indignity of bending the knee before another living creature...even a deity.

Lissom rose gracefully, an inscrutable emotion playing in the blue depths of her luminous eyes. "Artumas...if you know where the receiver portal is located, then I adjure you to reveal the location to me so that I might dispatch Sisters to secure the remnant."

"I spoke truthfully, Lissom...the location of Myrhia's prison was not revealed to me as a precaution," Artumas persisted.

"Then who would possess this knowledge?" Lissom demanded.

A grimace of acute anguish rippled across the aging king's face as he returned, "The Jerhia observer, Melansa, had been apprised of its location, but..." His voice trailed off as the appalling image of her mutilated, hanging body assailed his senses. "The Natzurdan and Metocan have withdrawn their representatives from the city."

Lissom's brow furrowed and she frowned, a rare display of dismay for the normally unflappable Sister of Esotaria. Something occurred to Artumas then and before he could measure the prudence of sharing it, he blurted, "Lorio...Lorio voted on the conclave to grant me unconditional stewardship. She would know where the receiver portal was erected."

"Excellent!" Lissom exclaimed, clapping her hands in exuberance.

Now it was Artumas' turn to frown in bemusement. "Lorio is in the grip of Xhendyn's cantrip."

"No longer, good king," Lissom corrected solemnly. "She awoke in the hours before dawn and as good fortune would have it, she was visited by a premonition of where we might find the ShadowCaster's bane."

"Lorio is well?" Artumas demanded in a cracked voice, fraught with emotion.

"Physically, she is unharmed," Lissom reported, "though I must caution that Xhendyn has afflicted her with an arcane cantrip. It is quiescent now, but I have not had the opportunity to attempt to divine the mystery of its purpose. Artumas, I assure you that I will do everything to ward the queen against Xhendyn's dark arts, but we have seized the initiative and we must exploit it!"

Artumas nodded distantly, his reservations crumbling before the juggernaut of her resolve. "Very well, I will call for a meeting of my Inner Council and there, I will announce the news of our alliance. I will also entreat the Lamish Queen to disclose the location of the receiver portal and we can formulate a course of action. We can convene in the great hall in two bells time."

On impulse, Lissom leaned forward and shattered protocol by kissing the startled king on the mouth. After a lingering moment, she drew back and whispered, "The Goddess willing, perhaps I will be your recompense for the treachery and injustice Myrhia has inflicted upon you...over the course of your many lives."

And then she was gone in a swirl of skirts and golden hair. He watched her swaying hips as she glided gracefully across the ramparts and tried to grapple with the turbulent storm of emotions her parting words had roused in his thundering heart.

2

Beyond the distorted glass, twilight had descended over the frenetic madness that held seemingly permanent sway over the streets of Dizar Kor. Though the stalls had been closed and the various street hawkers had ceased their incessant patter, the general din that radiated from the cities congested byways had diminished only marginally. Even in the darkness, and the potential menace its shadows concealed, the tide of humanity surged along the boulevards and thoroughfares with an apparent randomness that left the room's single occupant feeling overwhelmed and disoriented.

Stuart Macevey reclined on the queen-sized bed and stared absently at the ceiling, which was barely perceptible in the gloom. Off to his left, the dying embers of the neglected fire crackled and hissed listlessly in the hearth, but Stuart lacked the energy to rise and feed more kindling to the fire. He knew that this indolence would earn a baleful glare from Azidara upon her return, but even this daunting prospect lacked sufficient motivation to rouse him from his torpor.

It had been five days since Stuart and Azidara had passed through the main gates of Dizar Kor and in those intervening days, the pair had undergone rather astounding individual transformations. Azidara had been affected like a radiantly beautiful flower that had been transplanted into a rich and fertile soil and had bloomed accordingly...more stunning and vibrant than ever. She seemed to thrive on Dizar Kor's primal vitality and it, in turn, had infected her with a zeal and industriousness that was wondrous to behold. Within mere bells of their arrival, she had negotiated her way through the teeming streets with the instincts of a veteran traveler. Macevey noticed that her hooded robe remained drawn up until she fixed upon someone from whom she would solicit directions and information. Only then would she push back her hood and unleash the full weight of her enormous presence on the passer-by, who would invariably and eagerly impart the information she sought. Azidara would then reward them with a brilliant smile, draw up her hood and carry on, dragging Stuart by the hand like a child who is apt to wander off if not kept firmly in tow.

The art with which Azidara employed this tactic spoke eloquently of her awareness of her own formidable beauty and the subtle power it could bestow if used to good effect. Her need to remain concealed, despite the oppressive heat, bespoke something far more complex and perhaps darker...sinister in ways that Macevey had no real desire to contemplate.

Within three bells of their arrival, the pair found themselves ensconced in a spacious and tidy set of rooms in the Monarch's Jewels Inn. As Azidara had carefully doled out the lodging fee, she had conversed and laughed gaily with the innkeeper, procuring employment as a serving woman in the inn's dining hall before the conversation had ended. As promised, Stuart deferred to Azidara in dealing with strangers, playing the role of stoic, if not decidedly thick husband to perfection.

Over the four days since, Azidara had labored in the dining hall and then passed the remainder of her waking hours diligently constructing an illusion of normalcy...of contrived marital bliss that Stuart suspected she had craved since the brutal murder of her husband.

Browsing through the local vendor stalls, she had selected clothing that was deliberately unadorned...nondescript in a way that would allow Stuart to wander amongst the locals with no fear that his attire would set him apart...make him especially conspicuous.

Each night, she would return to their suite of rooms and though she was clearly exhausted from hauling platters, ale tankards and even the smaller kegs of mead, Azidara was quite obviously happy with their new arrangement.

Not once did she broach the topic of the Sisters of Esotaria. Nor did she discuss preparations to depart for Nalosan. Sensing that Azidara was basking in a moment of unprecedented joy in a life that likely had scant few of such moments to boast, Stuart did not press the issue, though he could sense the exigency of his situation pressing at the edges of his conscious thoughts like a maddening itch.

Conversely, the changes that had overcome Macevey during the past few days were far more unsettling. During the long hours when Azidara was off laboring in the Monarch's Jewels dining room, Stuart was left to his own devices. He would venture forth under Azidara's caveat that he not engage in unnecessary discourse with the citizens or wander off the main thoroughfares and into the considerably more dangerous side streets and alleyways, where a dirk between the ribs and a lifted purse were all too common occurrences. He had suffered this patronizing lecture in silence and plunged into the sea of humanity, fully unprepared for the effect Dizar Kor would exert over him as he wandered aimlessly through its ancient streets.

His mind was assailed by an overwhelming flood of sensory input, the worst of which was the dizzying reek of innumerable smells that intermingled to form a miasma that hung over the congested streets like an invisible fog. The heat generated by the sheer press of humanity was no less intolerable and on that first day of wandering, there were times when Stuart found himself close to claustrophobic panic. He was grateful that he was several inches taller than most of the citizens of Nalosan as his stature afforded him the opportunity to lift his face to the sunlight and close his eyes whenever the feeling of unbearable confinement threatened to undo him.

Probing, grasping fingers accosted him perpetually during the entire time Stuart spent on Dizar Kor's streets. He clamped his hand over his concealed holster until he began to lose sensation in his hand and his left bicep and forearm began to cramp painfully. Macevey pondered concealing the weapon in his room on the second day, but a deeper instinct vehemently advised against separating himself from the weapon.

Despite the ordeal posed by traversing the streets, Stuart found that he was drawn back to them each morning, surrendering to an attraction that he was powerless to resist.

This was humanity at its most distilled...its most vital, and for all of the squalor and baseness, so too were there wonder and primitive beauty. Craftsmen, artists and tradesmen of every ilk all plied their wares and vocations with an enthusiasm that spoke of a genuine lust and passion for living. Unlike the pervasive aura of exhausted despair that held sway over the streets of Seattle, Dizar Kor, for all of its course and crude character, still exuded vitality and an irrepressible sense of hope and optimism. It was this that compelled Stuart to leave the relative quiet and isolation of his room each morning, despite the toll his daily adventure extracted...not only on his body, but on this wavering sense of reality.

As Macevey floated through the days, ostensibly listening for any snippet of conversation that carried mention of Nalosan or the mysterious sisterhood, he came to feel increasingly disconnected...and worse still, oddly insubstantial. There were moments when it seemed that he had become spectral...that his sense of self-awareness was being eroded with every passing day that he did not move south.

It was during one such moment that Stuart Macevey gleaned the precarious nature of his situation. He had been sitting in a street bistro, where he had retreated to escape the glare of the mid-afternoon sun, and sipping a delicious herbal tea, when he had experienced another odd moment of disconnection. During these episodes, the crowd would suddenly become distant and when his gaze would settle upon a specific individual, they would appear indistinct and oddly out of focus. Even the pervasive din of the streets would fade to a whisper.

Now, he paused with the teacup halfway to his lips and his hand trembling slightly. The sense of dislocation was more pronounced than ever before, and Stuart was staggered by the realization that each successive occurrence was more intense and longer in duration than the one before.

In the frazzled chambers of his mind, a voice spoke to him then...and though the message it contained was fraught with menace, the serene voice of Elizabeth Simpson washed over him like a balm, bringing him to the edge of tears. 'You've lost your way, Stuart. Danger is your constant companion in this dark place. If you do not heed the summons that brought you here...you risk being lost in the fog of madness...and worse.'

The cup tumbled from his fingers and shattered on the bistro's dirty cobbles, drawing an angry epithet from the shop's owner. Macevey had pressed a handful of Azidara's coins into his meaty hands and fled into the crowd. The portly man stared at the collection of coins...enough to purchase every cup and plate he owned...and then looked up at the tall stranger only to discover that he had vanished into the tide of humanity flowing past his bistro. The owner grinned and pressed the coins into the pocket of his stained apron. Thanking the creator for his good fortune, he kicked the shards of the broken cup into the street.

3

Azidara trudged wearily to the stairs of the Monarch's Jewels Inn, grateful for the end of another day in the dining hall. The clinking of the king's coins deep in the pockets of her long black skirts was a tangible reminder of just how popular she had become with the inn's clientele and though the amorous advances of some of the inn's patrons could be vexing at times, it paled in comparison to the lechery of a corpulent swine like Lethoras.

Work in the dining hall was tiring after a time, but a far sight better than the sheer drudgery of a washer woman's labor and as the clatter of coins reminded her...far more lucrative as well.

As she strode along the length of the carpeted hall, Azidara deftly removed the pearl combs and shook her lustrous blond tresses free. She was scarcely able to credit the change that had swept through her life in the last week. Less than a fortnight ago, hers had been a desolate life mired in drudgery, with no visible prospect for improvement. Now, she found herself in Dizar Kor, Fairmarch's largest and most vibrant city, sharing her bed with a handsome stranger around whom the light of predestination blazed like a corona.

'Ah, but the sweetest illusions are always the most fleeting, Azidara,' her mother's voice cautioned. Azidara's lustrous eyes narrowed in the flickering candlelight of the upper hall

'Isn't that just the saddest truth,' she thought as she paused outside the suite of rooms she shared with Stuart.

She reached for the door's cut glass and inlaid pearl handle and hesitated for a moment, her heart suddenly galloping in her chest. In that moment of total lucidity, Azidara reflected upon how the last seven years of her life had been lived in the shadow of illusion...illusions that she clung to so fiercely that there were occasions when she'd lost perspective on the true nature of whom and what she was. Scarcely cognizant of her action, she reached two fingers into the deep valley of her lush breasts. The tips of her fingers brushed against the cool metal of the sigil that hung on a thin chain that was nestled near her heart.

She continued to stroke its curving surface for several seconds as though drawing some measure of solace from the precious metal.

She had taken great pains to conceal the sigil from prying eyes...and especially from Stuart, who might logically pose questions about the symbol's origins and significance. Azidara knew that this sigil...the one tenuous link to a rarefied past that she had willingly eschewed...was the one thing about which she could concoct no viable prevarication.

The last few days had brought with them a comforting routine that had been enormously pleasing to the blond beauty, but as she paused at the threshold of the rooms she shared with Stuart, Azidara knew that this interlude was fated to be fleeting. Stuart Macevey was a man shackled by the inexorable pull of destiny and she was a woman whose past precluded any possibility of a normal life within the walls of the city she had fled some six years before.

She drew a deep, quavering breath to forestall the fall of imminent tears and resolved that she would bask in this happy moment for as long as she could. Azidara...once Zarida Saremond...entered her suite smiling brightly.

Outside, the twin hounds of destiny and her inescapable past closed in upon her.

4

As was typical, Azidara entered the room in a blaze of light and energy, casting a withering glance at Stuart for leaving the candles unlit and allowing the fire to burn down in the hearth.

With a graceful efficiency, she quickly moved to rectify the situation, adding kindling to the dying embers and lighting the candles that were arrayed around the room, until every shadow was banished by the dancing yellow light.

Her gaze settled on Stuart for the first time and she came to an abrupt halt, her blue eyes narrowing into speculative slits. Perhaps it was a trick of the eddying candlelight, but for a brief instant, Stuart appeared oddly translucent...insubstantial, as if he was a specter fading with the light. Azidara willed herself forward and gripped his chin, relieved to find that his flesh was still firm and tangible. "Stuart, are you ill?"

He offered her a wan grin that never touched his eyes. "No, at least, not yet, but I've learned something about my situation here."

He lifted his gaze to meet hers and could see that she was clearly perplexed. Fetching a weary sigh and trying to organize his thoughts into a coherent explanation, Macevey dispassionately recounted some of the things he'd experienced over the last few days. As Azidara absorbed this fantastical tale, her brow furrowed, and that sense of contentment dissipated like a ground mist before the rising wind. "So, it is your belief that, were you to linger in Dizar Kor or choose to ignore this summons completely...you would simply vanish?"'

"It sounds ludicrous when spoken aloud," he admitted, "but yes, I think that is exactly what would happen."

Azidara settled onto the bed beside him and the pair lapsed into a pensive silence. In that moment of clarity, she came to grasp that her life from this moment forth would be characterized by impermanence...by incessant flux and uncertainty.

"Were you able to gather any information on Nalosan or this sisterhood?" Stuart inquired quietly, drawing Azidara out of her unsettling reverie.

"Actually, I have. Of this mysterious order of women, I've heard nothing, but something terrible has befallen the city of Nalosan."

Stuart sprang to his feet, his senses suddenly keen and focused. That Nalosan would fall victim to some manner of calamity could not be simple coincidence. "Azidara, was there anything more specific?"

She shook her head, suddenly infected by his exigency. "The dining hall was abuzz today with talk of a tragic event...even claims that the city was totally destroyed. Other accounts claim that only part of the city was demolished. The one common ingredient in every tale was that thousands of citizens perished."

Macevey uttered a rare curse. In his world, news of a tragic event on such an epic scale would have been immediately accessible...the gruesome details played out endlessly on cable news and the internet. Here, in this antiquated world, news spread mostly by word of mouth with a speed and accuracy that left much to be desired.

Something occurred to him then and he asked, "Do you have any idea when this might have happened?"

"From what I can gather, maybe three days ago," Azidara returned. Ever perceptive, she gleaned the nature of his agitation and inquired, "Stuart, are you of a mind that this incident is related to why you've been brought here...and these Sisters of Esotaria?"

Macevey hesitated for a long moment before responding. "It certainly isn't beyond the realm of possibility. Frankly Azidara, the cities of your world are ideal locations for every sort of random disaster." When Azidara's brow furrowed in the face of this implicit criticism, Macevey elaborated, "These urban...or rather, town and city areas...have too many people crammed too tightly into unsanitary conditions, which makes them the perfect breeding grounds for rampant disease. Again, in light of the number of improperly spaced wooden houses that I've seen in Dizar Kor, it is not hard to imagine how an overturned candle could ignite a conflagration that could, under the right conditions, destroy the city."

"Yet, in this case, you are not so certain that this is a random disaster as you call it?" the blond beauty observed astutely.

Stuart drew a deep breath and ran his fingers over his stubbled cheeks. "Instinct is telling me that whatever happened in Nalosan is related to my being here, though I have no concrete foundation for this certainty. Azidara. I know that you're happy here, but I won't rouse your anger by suggesting that you stay behind and wait for me while I make my way to Nalosan, but I have to leave as soon as possible."

Azidara tossed her blond mane as her luminous eyes flashed. "You're right, Stuart...you're wise not to rouse my anger and you're also correct in saying that I've experienced a measure of contentment since arriving in Dizar Kor. The labors of a dining hall are blissful compared to the drudgery of a washing tub and I've forgotten how pleasant it is to have a man to come home to at the end of the working day...especially a good man such as I believe you to be, Stuart Macevey."

She abruptly rose and drifted over to the hearth, where she gazed into the dancing flames for several moments. Stuart watched her, puzzled by the essence of the attraction she'd developed toward a total stranger. When she spoke, her voice was soft and reflective. "I've not lost sight of my promise to guide you to Nalosan...and so I shall, but our departure will be delayed for another few days."

Macevey rose with a start, clearly agitated by the prospect of languishing in Dizar Kor while the weave of events was being spun to the south. Nor did he relish the thought of suffering through more of this sense of dissipation that had plagued him over the last few days.

"But Azidara, I can't afford..." Macevey began, but she spun and raised a hand.

"We have no recourse in the matter. The Emercian military has closed the borders with Fairmarch until the crisis in Nalosan is resolved. Yes, there are detours, but they would delay our arrival by weeks and are rife with peril. It is probable that Emercia will have closed all roads leading into the country, so we are better served by remaining where we are and exercising a measure of patience."

Stuart was about to object, but his objection crumbled beneath the implacable weight of his logic and he nodded dejectedly. Azidara floated gracefully over to Macevey and laid her palms along the sides of his face. "Stuart, let us go out and find something sinful to eat. When we return, we can share a hot bath and I can rid your face of this stubble. I prefer your face smooth...less abrasive." With a lascivious wink, she concluded, "I believe I can concoct an engaging distraction or two to pass the time until the King's Highway is re-opened."

Chapter Twenty-Nine

1

As she descended into the darkness, the sound of Sygeanor's metallic heels rang through the hollow of the stone-lined shaft that had once housed the great oracular crystal of Thamius. During a fit of pique, inspired by Metocan interference in her machinations, Myrhia had destroyed the legendary crystal during the emerald enchantress war. Over the course of Inos' tepid post war tenure as Grand Mage of Metocan's Inner Circle, the stone channel, across which had once spanned the magnificent crystal, had remained vacant, like a repository for lost glories.

'Ah, but no longer,' Sygeanor mused as she continued to make her way down the precarious stairway that spiraled around the walls of the circular shaft. Those stairs were composed of slabs of obsidian, set on protruding tongues of forged steel that had been fused with the stone walls by means of sorcery. Each stair was perhaps a tall man's arm in length, the open end of which gave way to the empty air.

Sygeanor had specifically decreed that no safety rail would be provided with the intent of unnerving those who made the vertigo-inducing descent. More to the point, for all save the Ulgak overseers, those who made the spiraling journey would never make the return trip to the light. It was a simple matter to compare the imposing stone shaft to the gullet of a great beast...a creature of insatiable hunger.

Pushing back the hood of her cloak and shaking out her raven tresses, the Grand Mage of Metocan reflected on the appropriateness of this metaphor. 'When the labors below reach their culmination, that is precisely what this sanctum will become...a stone beast whose hunger would know no bounds.'

"We have succeeded in creating the ideal conditions to preserve the blood's vitality, mistress," a voice informed her from the darkness behind and slightly above her left shoulder. Vrezgroth, a gray skinned Ulgak, who had been selected to serve as the overseer of her Appraxis, followed his mistress along the winding decline, his voice insectile in the darkness. "As you predicted, the steam from the bore hole has proven sufficient to heat the orb to the necessary levels."

Sygeanor beamed her counterfeit smile, immensely pleased by the speed with which her plans were coming to fruition. "Do we have a sufficient number of subjects necessary to commence the ritual?"

Vrezgroth, a necromancer who had been the most sought-after fugitive in Metocan...until Sygeanor had seized power, hesitated briefly. Desperate to ingratiate himself with his savior and mistress, the Ulgak was reluctant to admit anything that might be perceived as inadequacy. Still, waffling or deceit would be a fatal error before this frighteningly perceptive creature. "Mistress, the numbers are not sufficient. A number many times greater than what we've accrued would be required if we wish to fill the orb to capacity. If those harvested could be sustained...even by means of forced feeding...then we could continue to draw from them at a carefully controlled rate."

"That is a luxury I do not have!" Sygeanor snapped irritably and the necromancer fell silent. "The Jerhia have crossed into Lamia and are deploying northward even now...with the obvious intention of opposing me. It is apparent that the craven bitch will not comply with my demand and thus a more assiduous demonstration of my resolve is necessary."

She stopped abruptly and turned to face the torch-bearing Ulgak, her purloined dark eyes ablaze in the flickering light. "I assume that you are supremely confident that the Appraxis can enact this ritual on the scale I require...and that the infection will take hold and flourish?"

"I am, mistress," the necromancer responded without hesitation. "When the orb has been filled to capacity, I will initiate the ritual of inculcation. This strain is virulent, guaranteeing a voracious hunger and yielding a tide of corruption that will sweep every living thing from the soil of Lamia."

"Leaving it a footnote in the pages of a forgotten history text," Sygeanor concluded, "a footnote of which I was the gleeful author. Very well, arrange for another excursion into Lamia."

"Your will be served, mistress," the Ulgak replied with a deep, deferential bow.

They resumed their descent and for a time, neither spoke, but then the Grand Mage remarked in a deceptively casual tone, "Should you succeed in this, I will grant you leave and resources to pursue your darkest imaginings, but should you fail me, Vrezgroth...your flesh will be fodder for your successor's perversions and your blood will help fill the orb your failure would leave empty."

"I...I will not fail, mistress," the necromancer stammered, harboring no illusions about the consequences should his confidence prove to be unfounded.

As the pair wound ever downward, the darkness began to relent, giving way to an opalescent vermillion light and finally, a sickly orange glow that was provided by a combination of evenly spaced torches and the molten glow that emanated from the central bore hole. When Sygeanor had usurped Inos' position, her first priority (other than ruthlessly purging the Inner Circle) was the reclamation of the crystal chamber. Part of this carefully conceived scheme entailed having a team of elite elementalists create a borehole that would tap into the world's inner energy, which Sygeanor surmised must be contained somewhere within the earth's core. Her initial supposition had proven correct and even though the first eruption of the molten lava had incinerated her elementalists and filled the shaft, the outpouring had subsided and now served as a conduit for an inexhaustible supply of energy.

The loss of Metocan's foremost elementalists, while inconvenient, did not trouble the Grand Mage. The pursuit of knowledge required sacrifice and if a leader lacked the fortitude...lacked the mettle to make the necessary sacrifices, then they were unworthy of the mantle of leadership.

Sygeanor was unencumbered by any such frailty of character and under her unwavering hand, Metocan's star would burn bright in the firmament.

"Once the matter of my vengeance has been settled," she murmured, drawing a perplexed glance from Vrezgroth.

At last, the interminable descent reached its end and the Grand Mage found herself standing at the northerly edge of a circular area that spanned over three hundred paces. As she gazed across the open expanse of stone, an exuberant grin spread over her lovely face, but the glint in her great dark eyes bestowed an aspect of lunacy upon the expression. What spread before her was vile and odious beyond description, but despite the perversity of its evil, Sygeanor's construct was nefarious in its simplicity and effectiveness.

The salvaged shards of the great crystal of Thamius had been gathered and set into the stones of the shaft. Infused with magic, they now provided a source of both heat and light, illuminating the hellish panorama that was encircled by the indifferent stone. At the precise diametric center of the shaft's floor, Sygeanor's bore hole reached deep into the molten core of the world, providing the critically important heat and energy, while casting a malefic orange beam that rose up into the darkness.

The beam focused on the underside of a floating transparent orb, the surface of which rippled like lake water being stirred by a gentle summer breeze. The huge hovering aberration was perhaps eighty paces in diameter and would have been virtually invisible were it not for the constant welling and eddying of its surface.

Eyes blazing triumphantly, Sygeanor strode across the basalt floor and laid her palms on the orb's curving surface. The tactile sensation of contact was very similar to the feel of touching living flesh. "So, you have succeeded in stabilizing the temperature to the precise level?"

"Yes," Vrezgroth confirmed eagerly. "There is a slight fluctuation when the bore hole occasionally releases steam-heated gas, but the increase poses no threat to the contents."

Sygeanor nodded distantly, mesmerized by the orb or more specifically, by the magical construct's contents...blood, deep and vibrant red, churned perpetually within the transparent vessel. Maintained at the exact temperature of the human body and infused with life-sustaining oxygen by means of an arcane billows device that had been affixed to the top of the vessel, Sygeanor's blood bounty continued to grow.

With a grimace of disgust and contempt, the Grand Mage of Metocan shifted her regard to the grim spectacle that proved to be the true source of horror in this small enclave of hell she'd created.

Some ten spans above the blood repository, a massive circular steel cage had been suspended via hundreds of steel rods that had been driven deep into the bedrock. Hundreds of leather harnesses had been affixed to the vertical bars of the cage at regular intervals, but as Sygeanor peered up at her monstrous apparatus, only a few dozen of these harnesses were presently occupied.

It was here, in the bowels of this ineffably evil place, that the mysterious purpose of the mass abductions of the Lamish people was revealed.

Her pitiless eyes fell upon a particular victim, a male who hung limply in his restraints, his body naked and horribly emaciated. Only the fashioned leather harness prevented him from slumping forward, though the tightly bound leather had bitten deeply into his ravaged flesh. A silver needle had been inserted into an arterial vein in his inner thigh. The segment that protruded from the blue-tinged flesh winked obscenely in the gloom. From the needle, a thin tube, composed of the same transparent material as the orb, connected the siphon to the blood repository. As she watched in dark fascination, blood trickled along the tube in a languid stream. This indolent flow declared the victim's close proximity to the cold mercy of death.

Watching the slow rain of droplets within the orb, Sygeanor understood that she would have to accelerate her collection activities in Northern Lamia if her experiment was to reach its culmination in time to forestall the inevitable Jerhia offensive into Northern Lamia.

Her eyes slowly traced a path from one dying Lamish abductee to the next, mentally calculating the harvest she could reasonably expect to extract from her current crop of victims. At present, the blood repository was less than a fifth full and Sygeanor quickly calculated that it would require the capture of nearly every living soul in Northern Lamia to fill the orb to full capacity. Even if she possessed the requisite patience to undertake an extended campaign of cleansing, the meddling Jerhia would never allow her the opportunity and thus a more radical approach was required.

Sygeanor had honed a keen sense of prescience during her trying time in Redia and Fairmarch during those last harrowing days of Myrhia's rule. Hers was an eerie instinct for the manner in which the great loom of destiny would weave its mysterious pattern. This instinct had always served her well and had now led her to the cusp of omnipotence. This prescience urgently advised that she must act now...that vacillation would see her carefully constructed machinations crumble like a precariously erected house of playing cards.

Turning her back on the suspended atrocity that her mad quest for vengeance had wrought, Sygeanor regarded Vrezgroth with a gaze like an assassin's dagger and the necromancer understood that he was about to be tasked with a daunting undertaking at which he must succeed...or die should he fail.

"Vrezgroth, how soon could the orb be ready for transport?"

The Ulgak's eyes widened as sinking horror bit deep into his iniquitous heart. Vacantly, he murmured, "Transport, Grand Mage?"

"Yes, you simpering idiot, transport...how long will it require to levitate the orb from this chamber and transport it to the location where the inculcation ritual could be performed?" Sygeanor demanded in a voice that evoked images of rusting razors and cold tomb markers. The necromancer had witnessed enough of the Grand Mage's fits of explosive temper to know that he was in real and imminent peril should he not provide an answer that was to her liking. Still, he was shrewd enough to know that candor might be his best option in these dire circumstances and so he told the daunting creature the truth.

"Grand Mage, that is a question that I can't answer with any degree of certainty. The process of levitation is still in the formative stage of planning," Vrezgroth admitted, expelling each word as though its utterance might cause him to burst into flames. "We still have not managed to develop a device that could convey the orb to the Blighted Lands while sustaining the blood within."

Abruptly the Ulgak found that he was being plucked from the stone floor as Sygeanor arched a finely tapered eyebrow. His back then arched as if the necromancer was a living bow being drawn by the powerful hands of an unseen giant. He attempted to cry out...to offer a blubbering entreaty for mercy, but a constricting pressure sealed the words in his throat. He hovered in the throes of agony for an interminable moment, and when it seemed certain that his awkwardly contorted spine would snap and end his torment, Sygeanor waved her hand in a perfunctory gesture of release.

Vrezgroth fell heavily to the damp stone, where he lay twitching like an impaled insect as he fought to draw air into his lungs in ragged gasps. Sygeanor regarded his plight with cold indifference, believing that the imparting of such harsh object lessons was an obligation that a leader could not avoid if they wished to surround themselves with minions of any value. With a leisurely sway of enticing hips, she drifted over to the writhing Ulgak and pressed the leather sole of her boot onto his oddly shaped head.

At once, Vrezgroth went utterly still, his small gray eyes straining to fix on the cruel benefactress he had been cursed to serve. Patiently, as if to a mentally enfeebled child, she explained, "When the conveyance vehicle is prepared, I will raise the orb. Your task will be to ensure that the contagion and the blood host survive the journey to the ritual site and I would strongly recommend that you apply yourself to the undertaking as though your very life depended upon its success."

She lashed the necromancer with a truculent glare before withdrawing her boot and spinning in the direction of the spiral stairs.

Vrezgroth raised himself on one thin arm and called after Sygeanor's retreating back, "Mistress, have you decided on a suitable location to enact the ritual?"

The Grand Mage came to an abrupt halt and tilted her head to one side. Even in profile, the Grand mage offered a clear view of the sinister smile that adorned her lovely face like a malevolent sun.

"As it stands that we do not possess an unlimited quantity of blood and thus the ritual will require a soil that is rich in dark vitality if the contagion is to take root and flourish...a place of resonating evil. Runesholm Abbey in the Blighted Lands is just such a place, Vrezgroth...just such a place."

2

Kammlogran's main audience chamber had played host to many a fractious session over the years that Artumas had ruled Emercia. Not a monarch who adhered to stiff formality and protocol normally associated with a sovereign, Artumas granted his advisers and consuls an unprecedented degree of latitude in expressing their opinions and views on matters of state...even if those views and opinions were diametrically opposed to his own.

Indeed, if there was one manner of courtier he could not suffer, it was the head-wagging sycophant. Yet, on this day, as the High King silently watched those whom he had summoned to this emergency conclave make their way to their designated seats, Artumas wondered if head-wagging sycophants would have been preferable to the vociferous objections he could expect when he divulged his decision to accept Lissom's conditions for aid. Though he both dreaded and loathed the notion, he was forced to accept the fact that Myrhia's specter would be raised this day, just as he was cognizant of her ubiquitous presence still hovering over his wounded kingdom seven years after her defeat.

'As you sow, so shall you reap,' he thought with a measure of grim fatalism. His own actions had led him to this grim juncture and so he would suffer whatever tribulation and indignity might lie ahead, knowing that he had earned whatever inimical wind came his way.

The central doors to the audience chamber swung open, admitting the Queen of Lamia. All eyes were set upon her as Lorio made her way to her seat at the opposite end of the great table, a courtesy extended to all monarchs who were guests of the Emercian Court. Artumas tracked her ponderous movements with a welling sense of alarm. Lorio's signature liquid grace was nowhere in evidence, replaced by a tentative shuffled that suggested severe and prolonged infirmity. Her great dark eyes were normally ablaze with animation, but they now appeared dull and listless, ringed by dark, brooding circles that gave the queen a frail and weary appearance.

Islena Doraux had once told Artumas that, of all the heroes who had stood against Myrhia, Lorio was the one who had suffered the most...who would bear the deepest scars. That dire forecast had come before her abandonment of the woman who loved her so unremittingly...when Doraux had returned to her own world after vanquishing Myrhia atop the walls of Kammlogran. That abandonment had eviscerated the immortal. It was evident that Xhendyn's violation had inflicted a fresh, albeit nebulous wound on her already fractured spirit. Artumas held no illusions that he carried an equal measure of guilt for this latest cruel injustice as did Myrhia's henchman.

As she slumped into her seat, Lorio offered her host a wan smile and then, after flicking her gaze briefly to the Ascentrix, she averted her eyes to her slightly trembling hands. Artumas sighed and lifted his own gaze to the vaulted ceiling where great wooden arches intersected with massive support beams that had been raised more than a thousand years prior. Like the man who held dominion here, the great chamber held very little adornment or ostentation. Artumas had always eschewed style in favor of functionality. Upon his ascension to the throne, Artumas had ordered that all of the hanging tapestries be removed. In their place, he had commissioned a painting of a chamber spanning mural...a meticulous reproduction of a cartographer's map of the Eastern Continent. This mural was a true living document, undergoing constant amendment to match the dynamic landscape of continental politics.

The only other ornamentation in the chamber was a fresco which completely delineated the upper hall and bore the likeness of every ruler who had held power in Emercia since the country had been founded some thirty-seven centuries before. Nothing could be allowed to violate this sacrosanct preservation of the nation's chronology of rule and thus...even Myrhia's ethereal countenance could be found near the terminus of the chain, though it had taken several years before Artumas had acceded to his master of record's plea not to have it effaced.

'In the not too distant future, I will be inscribed next to her and we will pass eternity in the harmony we could not achieve in real life,' he mused and drew a quavering breath. Shaking his head, the aging king frowned and thought doggedly, 'Enough maudlin introspection...time to begin this ordeal.'

The length of table to his left was occupied by his myriad of Consuls, while the Sisters of Esotaria were seated along the length of the massive table to Artumas' right. There was something in this natural arrangement that suddenly struck the high king as adversarial, perhaps a presage to the tumult that Artumas felt certain was to follow.

"Fellow Emercians, your Highness and honored guests, let us begin this conclave," Artumas commenced, his sweeping gaze bringing an expectant silence to the assembly. "Today, we must formulate a response to the craven, heinous act of terrorism that has befallen our beloved Nalosan. First Consul Redrick, I trust that those displaced and injured are being housed, fed and treated?"

"They are, your majesty," the Military Consul began in a clearly weary voice. His haggard face and slightly disheveled uniform bespoke his personal supervision of the process of restoring some measure of order in the fractured city. "As you've instructed, the royal larders have been opened and the displaced are being fed and clothed. The rough outline for the erection of a long-term tent city has also begun. It will stand several hundred paces southwest of the western gates. Once it has been completed, we will relocate the displaced citizenry there until the construction of permanent quarters can be completed. Our healers and physicians are working tirelessly to treat the injured, but in this effort, it is our guests who deserve the lion's share of the credit for alleviating the suffering of the victims."

Redrick's regard shifted briefly to the Ascentrix, who inclined her chin slightly and offered the consul a beguiling smile. The aging Consul's color deepened to scarlet and he quickly averted his eyes.

"A commendable effort as always, Consul," Artumas remarked. "Did the night pass without further incident?"

"Nothing of note, sire," Redrick reported, but then a frown contorted his features and he amended, "Just prior to entering this meeting, I was apprised of an incident that involves a rather unsavory tavern located near the south wall of the city, adjacent to the canal. I have no specific details at the moment, but I've dispatched Captain Esuruban to investigate the situation."

Artumas stole a quick glance at Lorio, whose posture had stiffened at the mention of the Captain's name...a keen animation stealing briefly into her dull eyes. Artumas pursed his lips and absently stroked his beard, unaccountably troubled by the vague report. With attention focused squarely upon the Military Consul, none present noticed the momentary intensity that stole into Lissom's normally placid expression...there and gone like a shadow beneath the surface of a calm lake.

The High King consider this disclosure for a moment and then nodded without offering a comment. After a moment, he declared, "Then let us turn our attention to the critical matter at hand. Darkness has fallen over Emercia. In total candor, our nation finds itself in dire peril this day...a peril that could well grow to threaten every nation in the civilized world. Nalosan, a city that has stood proud and defiant for centuries was, yesterday, well-nigh destroyed by a casual act of evil perpetrated by a vile creature we now know as Xhendyn...just as we know that this abomination is a minion of Myrhia. Hers is an evil under the pall of which we have all languished in years not so far past."

Artumas paused and swept his gaze over every rapt face in the chamber. "Though it is not an easy thing for a ruler to admit...we are, by the very nature of the throne upon which we sit, falsely armored in the certitude that we are infallible. Have no doubt...I am responsible for the ill fortune that has befallen this city."

This admission was met with howls of vehement protest from his consuls and guarded incredulity from Lorio and the Sisters of Esotaria. The king raised his hand for silence. "At the very least, I am complicit in bringing us to this terrible juncture because I refused to relinquish control of Myrhia's remains. That single action has brought us full circle to a moment when her deep shadow is poised to fall over us again."

He fell silent then, allowing the assembly to digest the ramifications of what he had just declared. Finally, it was unflaggingly loyal Redrick who spoke, his manner ponderous even as he offered the expected denial of his monarch's culpability. "How can this be, my king? Myrhia is dead...now only a thing of cold stone."

"Not dead, Consul," Artumas corrected gently, "merely imprisoned within the confines of her own inured flesh. Even so, she has somehow enlisted this Xhendyn...this powerful construct of dark sorcery...to facilitate her emancipation from this prison. As Xhendyn now seeks to take possession of Myrhia's petrified body, we can only surmise that he has the wherewithal to achieve this end and loose her upon the world yet again."

This revelation was followed by yet another profound silence. The tension in the chamber was like a miasma, so thick and noxious that those assembled found the simple act of drawing breath an onerous task.

"As yesterday's events so savagely demonstrated, Emercia is inadequate to the challenge of defending itself against sorcery of this magnitude," Artumas continued, his voice somber. "It is for this reason that I have decided to agree to the terms put forth by the Ascentrix as conditions under which they will lend us aid in our struggle against Xhendyn."

The cacophonous howl of objection that erupted from the ranks of consuls was very probably unprecedented in the long history of the venerable chamber and visibly shook both the Sisters of Esotaria and the Lamish Queen. Artumas allowed the ruckus to continue for several moments, his expression inscrutable, and then rose in one swift movement and slammed his fist on the highly polished table.

"Silence!" he roared, and the Consuls complied without hesitation or exception. "I have always allowed you to give unconstrained voice to your opinions, but you will conduct yourself like honorable, intelligent men and not uncouth rabble." When he was satisfied that the Consuls were sufficiently chastened, Artumas resumed delivery of his decree. "Our situation is dire. Who here can deny that we were spared total immolation only through the Ascentrix's heroic intervention? Nalosan, though indelibly scarred, lives today only because she elected to come to our aid. Islena Doraux will not return to save us from Myrhia's wrath. I can also assure you that there is not a single man here today who can better conceive of the ferocity of that wrath should Xhendyn succeed in freeing her."

His gaze bore into the men on the left side of the great table as if he could surmount their skepticism by the sheer force of his conviction. At last, it was the Military Consul who rose to his feet. There was a discernible note of reluctance in his voice when he spoke. "Sire, would not Metocan rally to our aid at the prospect of Myrhia unleashed anew in this world?"

"Sygeanor has seized control in Othgol and has demanded that Queen Lorio surrender herself to answer for the charge of murdering the Grand Mage's father. She has vowed to make war against any nation that offers aid to Lamia or its queen. Jerhia has already declared its intention to stand in defense of Lamia...and so shall we. Obviously, there will be no aid forthcoming from Metocan," Artumas disclosed, his tone harsh and emphatic.

Redrick absorbed this grim assessment and seemed about to respond, but an expression of consternation bloomed on his face and he merely nodded and settled back into his seat.

"That is the salient nature of our plight laid plain and bare," the king continued quietly. "We are left alone to face an enemy that we are simply not equipped to fight. We need the Sisters of Esotaria and their sorcery if we are to persevere. The alternative is to cling to bitter distrust and endure more of the horror we suffered yesterday."

"My King, may I be given leave to speak?" It was Dynok who rose now and Artumas barely managed to suppress a grimace. If anyone could eloquently put forth well-reasoned, but nonetheless sophist arguments as to why an alliance with the Ascentrix was imprudent, it would be the clever Foreign Affairs Consul. Still, Artumas had long prided himself on his willingness to entertain every perspective...to give every man a chance to voice his opinion. His conscience would not allow him to abandon his principles to expedience...even now. "You have leave, Dynok...but brevity would be appreciated."

Dynok nodded, appearing resplendent in his fine green tunic with its ornamental gold buttons and fashionable lace collar. There was a sardonic gleam in his incisive blue eyes and a condescending grin that seemed to hover perpetually at the corners of his generous mouth. The High King had developed a strong aversion to his Foreign Affairs Consul as of late, though there could be no questioning the man's competence in matters of state. Dynok possessed an easy, facile charm that seemed to hint at ulterior motives and hidden agendas that Artumas suspected were not necessarily aligned with Emercia.

"My liege, there is no disputing that Emercia now finds itself in dire need of aid," Dynok began evenly. "The foul murder and mutilation of the Jerhia observer and the incomprehensible destruction inflicted upon this great city...these things speak of a need most exigent...of unspeakable circumstances most dire. My concern lies not in the declaration of need, but rather in the manner in which you intend to address that need. As your loyal consul, it is my sworn duty to provide your majesty with advice gleaned from diligent observation and thoughtful deliberation over all available intelligence. As our great nation finds itself in a struggle for its very survival, I must, in all good conscience, implore you to reconsider your decision to lay our desperate need in the hands of this strange fraternity of women...about whom we know virtually nothing."

"You question my fundamental judgment in this matter, Consul?" Artumas inquired quietly, though his furrowed brow and narrowed eyes warned that an eruption of temper lurked just beneath this neutral façade.

"Not as such, my king," Dynok amended hastily. "Given the circumstances in which Emercia now finds itself, turning to these...foreigners' offer of aid would appear to be the only logical recourse available."

"And yet, despite this evident dearth of options, you would advise against acceding to their conditions?" the king intoned gruffly.

"I would only recommend that we make a closer examination of this sudden dependence...and the nature of these dire circumstances that have necessitated that dependence." A pervasive silence had descended over the great hall and every eye was fastened upon Dynok. He met the Ascentrix's unblinking regard and voiced his blunt challenge. "As I've contested, we know virtually nothing of these women...of their motivations and agendas. We do know that they were once led by the very monster that again looms over the world like a tempest. We know that in the scant few days since their arrival, the Jerhia observer to this court has been brutally slaughtered like a common farm animal...a vile act which, I fear, will not be without terrible repercussions. We also know that nearly a third of the city was reduced to cinders by a demonic entity."

Karosyn started to rise, her normally serene face twisted into a mask of indignant fury, but the Ascentrix clamped a hand down on her wrist and forced her back into her seat. Lissom rose slowly, her eyes never leaving the Consul's smug, angular face. "Your words carry the stinging implications of an accusation, good sir," she declared softly. "I will remind you that five of my sisters lie dead in your king's cold storage, awaiting consignment to our goddess...sisters who gave their lives in defense of this city."

Dynok met her cold regard unflinchingly, displaying no hint that he was intimidated by the self-proclaimed emissary of a goddess. "I imply nothing, but I will state it overtly; who can contest, with unequivocal certainty, that this fire demon was not a construct of your making...or that the creatures in the king's storage were ever truly alive? Could it be that you have come here to achieve what Myrhia, through fate's intervention, could not?"

With an indignant howl, Lyndsyn surged to her feet as the hiss and crackle of elemental sorcery reverberated throughout the chamber and the harsh glare of arcane energy gathered in her palms. Before the battle mage could unleash the sorcery that would have excoriated the flesh from Dynok's bones, the Ascentrix gesticulated and Lyndsyn was flung across the chamber, landing with a guttural grunt that was both a mixture of pain and shock.

Turning to a mortified Matrium, Lissom hissed, "Take her to my chamber and await my return. She will remain there...abeyant, until I return to deliver my judgment."

Karosyn's eyes widened. In the years she had served Lissom, she had never seen the Ascentrix in such close proximity to open fury. It was a terrifying sight that evoked a bone deep chill in the Matrium. Karosyn rose quickly and scurried across the ornate tiles to assist a dazed Lyndsyn to her feet, while the rest of the assembly gazed on in bewilderment. Once she had regained her feet, the First Battle Mage glared balefully at Dynok, but the Matrium imposed herself between the pair and began to usher Lyndsyn to the nearest exit, speaking to the younger woman in a low, urgent voice.

The two nonplused guards stood back and allowed the two foreign women to exit the chamber unhindered, their postures indicating that they fully expected violence with every step the women took.

The palpable tension in the air had reached an excruciating level that was painful to endure. When the hall's great doors closed with a reverberating bang, Lissom spun about to confront the consul, her exquisite eyes blazing with terrifying fury. "You, sir, are a reprehensible knave...if it were not for the respect I harbor for your king, I would excoriate the flesh from your miserable bones right here and now."

Dynok's eyes widened and he spread his long arms in a theatrical gesture of incredulity. "You dare threaten a King's Consul...in his seat of power...on Emercian soil? Sire, I believe this outrageous threat illustrates the validity of my concern."

"Silence, Dynok...I believe you have far exceeded my leave to speak your mind," the king commanded in a strangely distracted voice. The Consul's eyes narrowed slightly, and it seemed that he would say more, but something in the High King's gaze silenced the Consul and he settled back into his seat.

Lissom strode briskly to stand at the King's right arm and in her livid regard, the king was offered a glimpse of the inner ferocity that had allowed her to vanquish Xhendyn's fire demon. He also correctly discerned that it would be unwise to provoke this creature's ire.

"Good King," the Ascentrix began in the tone of one who had reached the razor's edge of her patience, "the Sisters of Esotaria have journeyed to this land in good faith and with benevolent purpose. We have taken up your defense, ministered to your wounded and even died to save your city and our recompense seems to be preposterous and scurrilous accusations of evil and treachery. I have given you my personal oath that the Sisters will protect Emercia and the other countries of this continent from Myrhia's evil. In return, I have asked only for your friendship and tolerance...and that you permit me to remove Myrhia's menace from your shores."

Leaning over Artumas in a posture that elicited a gasp from the Consuls for its temerity and disregard for protocol, Lissom growled, "If you do not publicly and unequivocally refute this odious man's vile allegations, I will abrogate this pledge of protection and the Sisters will abandon Emercia to its fate. We will seek out the remnant alone and woe be to anyone who would think to hinder my effort. The time has come to declare yourself, good king...will you stand as an ally with the Sisters of Esotaria or will you allow the fear and prejudice of shallow men to occlude your good judgment?"

Again, a charged silence descended over the great hall. After an interminable moment, Artumas dragged his gaze from Lissom's unblinking regard and rose slowly to his feet, though he could still feel the palpable heat of her outrage against his skin. In a deceptively calm voice, he decreed, "My decision has been rendered and will not be subject to further discussion. This Conclave is at an end. I would ask that the Ascentrix, Consul Redrick and Queen Lorio remain. As for the rest...remove yourself from my presence before I lose sight of the fact that I am a benevolent king."

Chapter Thirty

1

Artumas remained stationary until the last of the functionaries and guards had made their exit from the great hall, many sporting the expression of a dog that is fully aware that it has displeased its master. The metallic clatter of the chamber doors was especially loud in the silence left behind by the courtiers' departure.

Still, the High King refused to meet Lissom's glowering stare, instead turning his attention to the pallid Lorio. "I can't tell you how relieved I am to see you up and about...to see you're well."

The Lamish Queen offered Artumas a wan smile. "Up and about, yes...as to being well...of that, I am not so certain." Her smile faltered then and she mumbled, "I can feel his corruption inside of me, like a smoldering infection...it's indescribably vile."

Artumas turned to the Ascentrix, the raw misery Lorio's disclosure had evoked twisting his features. His eyes widened in response to the towering rage that capered in Lissom's blue eyes. Still he felt compelled to make his plea. "Milady, can you offer any insight into the affliction that troubles the Queen?"

"I can offer you nothing," she seethed, her glacial tone chilling the air in the great hall, "until you and I have resolved the matter of your dishonorable consul and his ugly defamation."

"Good Ascentrix, I have made it abundantly clear that I welcome your offer of aid and unconditionally accept your terms for having offered it."

"It is not enough!" the Ascentrix roared, causing the other three to flinch before her fury. As they watched, Lissom's body was suffused by a golden glow as if a powerful energy was coalescing around her...a force that would consume everything in its proximity should she elect to unleash it. Artumas need only conjure a vivid image of her destruction of Xhendyn's fire demon to know that this was an eventuality he could not allow to come to pass. As he watched this golden effulgence gather around the angered Ascentrix like a corona, another truth impressed itself upon the aging king...Dynok's observation had been correct; he knew virtually nothing of this creature...and that glaring ignorance could prove lethal.

Lissom surged forward and gripped Artumas' left wrist while raising her other hand to forestall Redrick or Lorio's objection. He could feel the poised energy beneath her grasp and deduced that she could have crushed his bones to dust had she so chosen. "I need to hear you repudiate his allegations in clear and unequivocal terms. If I glean even the slightest intimation that you believe there is but a glimmer of credence to the notion that I've engineered the tragedy in Nalosan...or that Xhendyn is my creature, I will gather my sisters and leave Emercia. You and your Consuls can confront Myrhia alone...perhaps they can deliver a mortal blow with their acrimonious words."

Artumas met her piercing gaze unblinkingly and when he spoke, his voice resonated with the strength that had won him such wide regard. "Then I will say to you that I reject Consul Dynok's allegations utterly and vehemently. I condemn them as false and dishonorable and a grievous insult to a new friend and ally whose kindness and compassion have saved my city from utter destruction." Artumas paused for a moment, relieved to see that the corona surrounding the Ascentrix had guttered slightly, and then concluded, "I am the sovereign King of Emercia, but I am not a tyrant. In this court, my consuls have leave to voice their concerns and thoughts...short of outright sedition. Though I find Consul Dynok's statement to be reprehensible...I will neither censure nor punish him for having voiced it. Though Emercia's need is dire, if this does not suffice, then I express my deep gratitude for the sacrifice and aid you have already given...and wish you well on your journey home."

Lissom's eyes widened and her firm jaw clenched perceptibly, but Artumas refused to avert his gaze as the tension drew itself out. The three present were cognizant of the fact that the fate of perhaps the very world pivoted on the fulcrum of the Ascentrix's reaction.

The Ascentrix whispered something that was inaudible to the other three and abruptly spun away from the High King, marching to the opposite end of the great hall...her purposeful stride causing her hips to sway in a fetching manner that did not fail to attract Artumas' attention despite the gravity of the moment.

Lorio and Artumas exchanged puzzled glances, but both discerned that the intimidating corona of power had completely vanished. As the trio watched in rapt silence, the outrage that had seemed so implacable only moments ago appeared to disappear like water through a grate. When the Ascentrix turned back to the others, her customary expression of serene composure again adorned her lovely face. As she crossed the hall, the specter of a tentative smile played at the corners of her full lips.

When she had rejoined the trio, Lissom reached for the bemused king's hand. She fell to a knee before the startled monarch and bestowed a lingering kiss on the back of his hand. When she broke the kiss, Lissom peered up at the nonplused king, who was relieved to see that her terrifying agitation and its accompanying threat of carnage, had dissipated. "Forgive me, Artumas...by the standards of my ilk, I am young and subject to fits of ill-temper in the face of shock and outrage. Consul Dynok's accusations were...unexpected, even if resistance to my offer of aid was not. I vow that I will never allow my temper to surmount my sense of protocol in the future."

Artumas stole a quick glance at Lorio and Redrick, who were also clearly unsettled by the Ascentrix's oscillation from anger to submissive deference. "All is well, good Ascentrix. Dynok's outlandish charges were unfounded and unwarranted. Let us turn our attention to developing a course of action...as both allies and friends."

Lissom rose to her feet with a liquid grace and bowed to Lorio and Redrick. If this gesture of humility had been offered in the currency of battered ego, it did not reflect on her lovely face. "I must also apologize for the aggression threatened by my first battle mage. The Sisters who perished before the fire demon were under her command and she perceived their loss to be a personal failure...as does my Matrium. Still, her actions were inexcusable, and she will be dealt with accordingly."

Artumas arched an eyebrow, wondering precisely what this discipline might entail. "Milady, I would ask that a measure of leniency be extended to your daughter. Dynok's remarks were deliberately inflammatory and an angry response was to be expected. Let us move past this and focus on our common purpose."

Lissom offered her host a noncommittal nod. "As you would have it, good king. As you have acquiesced to my conditions for aid, I would like to send a number of sisters out from Nalosan to begin educating your citizens on the nature and purpose of our order. I would also request permission to summon more of my sisters from our homeland with a mind to bolstering Emercia's military capability. I can assure you that my stealth rangers are a match for any conventional force a potential enemy could muster and a contingent of the Sisterhood's battle mages will insure Emercian supremacy on the battlefield."

Artumas barely managed to suppress a grimace, knowing all too well the response that the presence of a sizable foreign military power would provoke amongst not only his advisors, but the general population as well. His Military Consul had managed to remain impassive upon hearing this request, which was a testimony to his personal discipline. Artumas appeared to ponder this request for several moments, though prudence dictated that he was hardly in a position to eschew any offer of aid. Nalosan could not survive another assault by Xhendyn or one of his sorcerous constructs...and if Nalosan fell, the utter collapse of the rest of the country would quickly follow.

"I will welcome your aid under the provision that it is given with the understanding that the Sisters will take no aggressive military action without my express permission while on Emercian soil," the High King intoned sternly.

"You have my solemn vow that the Sisters of Esotaria will act only at your direction and all assigned units will come under Emercian command," Lissom vowed solemnly. Artumas slid his gaze to Redrick, who signaled his reluctant acceptance with a tacit nod.

"As to the matter of sending Sisters out to educate the general public...I will accept this with but a single caveat...a caveat that constrains every religious order in Emercia; your order must be respectful and tolerant of other religious perspectives...even if those perspectives are contrary to your own. I will not abide persecution or sectarian violence on Emercian soil," the High King concluded, his tone succinctly conveying his opinion regarding the value of religion in Emercian society.

The Ascentrix bowed. "I pledge my oath to respect the prevailing religious and cultural foundations of Emercia. It is the Sisterhood's wish only to help women recognize and realize their potential and worth as set forth by the divine goddess, Gyzarayne."

"That goal alone will set the Sisterhood at odds with many factions of Emercian society," Artumas observed dryly. "You embark on a journey along a path that will be fraught with many obstacles and you may anticipate fierce resistance...some violent, but I assure you that I will lend my voice and authority to your cause...if not in support of your goddess, at least in the desire to improve the collective lot of women in my kingdom."

Lissom smiled warmly and inclined her chin. "You have my gratitude, Good King. The Sisters of Esotaria will conduct themselves in a manner that will give you no cause to regret the boon you have granted. Now that we are of a common mind, I ask that we turn our consideration to the crisis at hand." She turned to Lorio, who had watched the two leaders strike their accord with an expression of visible bemusement. "Good Queen, if you would relate to Artumas what you shared with me this past night..."

As Lorio turned to her old friend, he gleaned that her normally animated brown eyes had lost a measure of their customary luster. "While struggling to escape Xhendyn's trap, I had a vision...a glimpse of this...bane. I can tell you that this bane is a man." Here, Lorio's brow furrowed in consternation. "He is...vulnerable. I'm not certain why I know this, but my vision conveyed this in particularly strong terms. As you've said...Islena is not returning to save us."

The bitter grimace that twisted Lorio's features spoke eloquently of the disappointment this realization had evoked in Doraux's closest friend. Artumas absorbed this disclosure thoughtfully and then asked, "Did you gain a general sense of where he might be?"

Lorio's expression intensified and a genuine smile surfaced on her lovely face for the first time since regaining consciousness. "Not only a general sense, but a very specific one, Artumas. He is in Dizar Kor...though he is not alone."

Lissom frowned in response to this particular disclosure...a detail Lorio had neglected to relate the night prior. "You are saying that the bane travels with a companion?"

Lorio fixed the Ascentrix with a measured gaze. "Yes, though this is something I sense, but did not actually see...this presence is guiding this man and has led him to Fairmarch's capital."

The Ascentrix pursed her full lips and though she appeared otherwise calm, Artumas could discern that Lorio's revelation had caused Lissom no small amount of consternation. "This news seems to trouble you, Ascentrix. That the bane has found someone to guide him to us would seem like a positive development, would it not?"

"Perhaps, but it is not without its troubling aspect as well," Lissom remarked distantly. When it became evident that Artumas did not immediately grasp her concern, she elaborated, "The Sisters of Esotaria drew the bane into this world specifically because he possessed the ability to seek out and destroy this ShadowCaster."

"Then you possess the ability to surmount the boundaries between worlds...between realities?" Artumas interjected incredulously.

"We do," the Ascentrix admitted flatly, "but it is imperative that I impress upon you that to do so is an extremely hazardous undertaking, fraught with peril...and one to which we would resort only in the most dire of circumstances and only in response to Xhendyn's violation of the governing laws."

"Then you were aware of my augury even before I shared it with you in my chamber?" Lorio demanded in a tone that was rife with both ire and suspicion.

"We perceived a portion of the augury, but your vision served to bring many of the vague elements into sharper focus," the Ascentrix clarified, wishing to placate Lorio's displeasure.

"But how did you learn of this ShadowCaster's existence in the first place?" Consul Redrick inquired, speaking for the first time.

"As I explained to King Artumas, magic resonates in palpable waves of light," Lissom elaborated patiently as if to a small child. "It is how we first learned of Myrhia's whereabouts...when her energy coalesced to create her minion, Xhendyn. That act of Genesis unleashed a flare of arcane energy. Xhendyn expended an even greater burst of energy in bringing the ShadowCaster into this world and it was this violation of the governing laws that drew us to Emercia."

"What ilk of creature is this ShadowCaster," Lorio asked quietly. "Is he a...man?"

"I would be a liar if I tried to explain the nature of his existence. What little we know about this other world would suggest that he is mortal...or more precisely, that he was when he dwelled there," Lissom offered, displaying a rare degree of uncertainty. "This is purely conjecture on my part, but I suspect that this creature now exists in the spaces between the realities...the intangible dimension that separates worlds."

"The spaces in between?" Artumas echoed, finding the concept unsettling while not entirely grasping its implications.

Lissom gave an elaborate toss of her golden mane. "I will suggest that the ShadowCaster has the ability to not only make himself invisible...but intangible as well. This would make him impervious to both magic and physical damage. It would also mean that he could penetrate any defense or surmount any ward...just as he did yesterday when he entered Kammlogran in search of the portal. It is probable that he has other abilities arrayed at his disposal, but these alone suffice to make the ShadowCaster a formidable foe."

Now it was the Lamish Queen who appeared visibly perplexed. "In my vision, this man gave the impression of being quite ordinary...vulnerable, in fact. Whereas Islena Doraux exuded capability and power like heat from a flame, this would-be savior looks like he could be easily dispatched. That a man such as this would be fate's choice in giving opposition to this ShadowCaster would seem to be a cruel jape."

Lissom nodded her empathy, her smooth brow furrowing as she spoke. "I've spent many long bells deliberating over exactly this question and have reached the conclusion that the bane will see the ShadowCaster...will recognize him for what he is and will have the capability to destroy him. Whatever flaws and vulnerabilities this man may possess...it is this one talent that makes him the single most important being on this planet."

The four fell silent and reflected on the grave implications of this assessment.

Artumas ran his fingers through his graying beard, perturbed by the constant allusions to fate and predestination. These mercurial concepts were contrary to his belief in the right of freedom for all living, thinking beings. "Would you surmise that Xhendyn is aware of the bane's threat to this ShadowCaster?"

Lissom shifted her gaze to Lorio and spoke in a calm, dispassionate voice. "In light of Xhendyn's attack on the Queen and the role she is fated to play in this dark drama, I would say that his foreknowledge of the bane is a virtual certainty."

Lorio grimaced and Artumas inhaled sharply in response to this grim assessment. Reluctantly, Lorio divulged yet another aspect of her vision. "The man is in danger...someone is stalking him and though I didn't have the impression that this menace was immediate, I awoke with little doubt that our savior had stumbled into someone's crosshairs and was in need of rescuing."

"Then our path is clearly set. We must locate this man at once and bring him under our mantle of protection," Artumas observed resolutely.

"I concur," Lissom agreed, "but we must achieve this with as little notoriety as possible."

"Dizar Kor...indeed, all of Fairmarch...is a tightly regulated kingdom. King Saremond would not take kindly to the notion that a contingent from Emercia suddenly materialized in his capital and plucked someone from Fairmarch soil," Artumas informed his fellow plotters.

"Then I must go alone!" Lorio insisted with her customary impulsive vehemence...despite her obvious exhaustion and the lingering effects of Xhendyn's assault. "I can cover more ground alone than I certainly could with a formal delegation. I can be to Dizar Kor and back in less than a week...with this bane in tow."

Both monarchs were surprised by the vehemence of Lissom's reaction to the proposed solo incursion. "Absolutely not!" she protested in a tone that made it unmistakably evident that she would brook no contradiction. "You cannot and will not seek the bane alone."

"But I am well, Lissom...I..." Lorio began and then fell suddenly silent, her protest quelled by the realization that the Ascentrix's grave concern was not for her questionable health. Lorio's posture grew livid with indignation and her firm jaw tightened as dawning comprehension set her great dark eyes ablaze. "So, it is your suspicion that I might be a direct threat to the bane...as a consequence of Xhendyn's attack?"

Artumas regarded both women with an expression of genuine confusion, though the Ascentrix's unflinching gaze remained squarely on the perturbed Lorio and she admitted, "You have the way of it, good Queen. Xhendyn singled you out specifically...and with very specific purpose. As he is Myrhia's creature, he would know that you are an immortal creation of her dark sorcery and thus could not be physically harmed. That he chose to attack you nonetheless could only mean that he intended to inculcate something...some arcane device...into the fibers of your being." She paused to allowed the others to digest the ramifications of this and then added, "In light of all that is at stake in this conflict, it would be monstrously irresponsible to assume that this device is not intended to harm the bane in some oblique fashion."

Lorio's contentiousness wilted in the face of this irrefutable logic and as she spun away, her shoulders sagged perceptibly before she stalked a short distance away from the others.

Artumas shook his head in bemusement. "I'm not grasping what just happened here...you are now saying that Queen Lorio may pose a menace to the very man she is supposedly destined to protect?"

"Succinctly put, good King...yes," Lissom replied flatly.

Artumas drew a deep breath and ran his fingers through his graying hair. "How can you be certain of this?"

Lissom arched a tapered eyebrow, mildly vexed by his tentative skepticism. "The manifestation of this device radiates from her physical core in a manner similar to the arcane energy I described during our earlier discussion on how I came to locate the remnant here in Nalosan. It resides in her flesh and though it is dormant now..."

Lissom allowed the remainder of this thought to hang in the air like a brooding miasma. Grimacing, Artumas demanded, "Then why do you not simply remove it?"

"I could, but not without the severe risk of actually killing the Queen...or more precisely, destroying her mind," Lissom explained, her tone somber. "Xhendyn has played a most skillful gambit. Lorio must protect the bane. If she fails to do so, the bane will inevitably perish, leaving us with no means to foil the ShadowCaster. If Lorio does seek to ward the bane, Xhendyn's mysterious cantrip may well facilitate the same outcome, leading to the same dire end. Thus, we find ourselves confronted with a delicate conundrum."

Lorio spun about and then strode back to the trio. When she spoke, her tone was truculent, but the uncharacteristic quaver in her voice betrayed her disquiet. "I came to Emercia to fulfill my obligation to protect this bane. If you now believe that I am no longer capable of fulfilling that obligation, then I see no reason to remain in Nalosan a moment longer. Mad Sygeanor has threatened Lamia and it is the protection of my people where my true duty lies."

The statuesque beauty turned to leave, but Lissom reached out and snagged her forearm. "Lorio, I beg you not to take offense...or misconstrue my meaning. Only you can find and ward this...this man, who is fragile and yet invaluable to our cause. You must seek him out...but you must not do so alone."

The Ascentrix shifted her gaze to the aging king. "I propose that Lorio goes forth to seek the bane in Dizar Kor...accompanied by Karosyn and another sister. A small group will be less conspicuous and if fortune smiles upon our endeavor, perhaps they can locate this man and usher him back to safety without notice."

Artumas pursed his lips, vaguely troubled by the ease with which Lissom had taken command of the flow of events in his kingdom. Still, her logic was infallible, and his objection could only be construed as petty. "I concur and, in the event, that stealth fails, I will quickly draft a letter to King Saremond, explaining the situation and requesting his aid in locating the bane and escorting him back to Nalosan." Artumas turned his attention to the Lamish Queen and inquired, "Is this course of action acceptable to you, Good Queen?"

Though clearly dejected by the unwelcome prospect of traveling under the watchful eye of Lissom's minions, the Lamish Queen acquiesced nonetheless. Through clenched jaws, she retorted, "With your permission, I will take my leave and prepare to depart. I would like to be on the road to Dizar Kor before the fourth bell this afternoon." With syrupy sweetness, she added, "If this allows the Ascentrix ample time to arrange my escort."

Lissom merely returned a flat stare and then Lorio offered the pair a formal bow, before turning on heel and stalking from the great hall. Sighing wearily, Artumas turned his attention to an openly bewildered Redrick. The consul was a man firmly rooted in the hard soil of military pragmatism...a trait that he shared with the man to whom he had pledged his fealty. Confronted with the daunting specter of sorcery, Redrick was very much like a child who awakens to find himself in an alien landscape with no point of reference and no recollection of how he might have come to be there. There could be little doubt that his proximity to a mysterious creature such as the Ascentrix only served to aggravate that sense of dislocation. "Redrick, if you would oversee the arrangements for horses and provisions for the Queen and her escorts."

Redrick nodded grateful for something practical to occupy his time and efforts. "At once, sire."

The Consul turned to leave, but Artumas called him back. "Let us take supper tonight, old friend. I have made some formative decisions regarding Emercia's future, but I would like to discuss them with you before divulging them to the rest of the Consuls. On the seventh bell, join me in my private chambers."

Redrick offered his monarch a formal bow and withdrew, leaving Artumas alone with the formidable Ascentrix, whose incisive regard he could feel on the nape of his neck. She gently laid her right hand on his forearm and inquired, "Artumas, are you well? You appear rested, but..."

She let the unspecified concern hang unspoken between them. Artumas managed to meet those beguiling eyes evenly. "I'm well and you have my thanks for all you've done, both for my wounded kingdom and for me, personally. If you and I are to be allies, then our agendas and actions must be transparent."

"I have stated my objectives as succinctly and plainly as words will allow, good King," Lissom interjected, her sudden stiff formality perhaps hinting that she'd taken offense to his implicit criticism. "I think that you'll also agree that I've been unequivocal in stating my determination to take possession of the remnant and the lengths to which I am willing to go to do so." In a decidedly softer tone, she added, "If you have doubts that I may banish, you need only ask."

He searched her exquisite face then, correctly surmising that he would never know this woman or the sensibilities that moved her...even if they spent centuries in each other's company. 'Ah, but the same could not be said of the gentle Karosyn, who seems to radiate open serenity like warmth from a summer sun.' Artumas understood that this was a particularly dangerous thought to entertain and to the Ascentrix, remarked, "Lissom, I would know your mind on the matter of Lorio...she is precious to me like a daughter. I will not have her abused again as fate's pawn...irrespective of the stakes that might hang in the balance."

Lissom offered the aging king a warm smile of reassurance. "Artumas, we are, all of us, fate's pawns. Other than Myrhia, you should have a fuller understanding of this than anyone dwelling on the face of this world. Still, I will not be deliberately evasive. Xhendyn has inculcated some manner of infection into the fabric of Lorio's being...one that cannot be expunged without destroying the host. Obdurate it may sound, but my primary concern for the Lamish Queen is derived from her role of warding the bane. I have no doubt that a juncture will come when she will save the bane and thus preventing her from being near him is simply not an option. When this man is located, Lorio must be his constant companion...his veritable shadow. Now, I am confronted with the possibility that she, herself, might do him harm...hardly an enviable dilemma."

"So, you theorize that this is the nature of his machination...to infect her with some manner of cantrip that will ultimately prove harmful to the bane?" Artumas inquired, a horrified gleam flickering to life in his blue eyes. "That would imply that Xhendyn was cognizant of your presence even as he unleashed his fire demon."

"Yes...and yes, Artumas," Lissom intoned gravely. "You have articulated my theory exactly and Xhendyn's actions speak eloquently of prescience...among other things. I have no intention of harming Lorio, but she must be watched...closely and constantly when in the bane's presence. Karosyn and others have the means necessary to bind Lorio should Xhendyn's sorcery manifest when the bane is found. You have my personal assurance that Lorio will not be harmed if this is what proves to be required."

Artumas frowned, finding the notion that Lorio might be subject to further abjection than she had already suffered, during the last period of darkness, ineffable. Despite his aversion to the idea, he could not dispute the justification. Not trusting himself to speak lest he betray his anguish, Artumas merely nodded.

Lissom searched his face in that disconcerting fashion of hers and apparently satisfied that he had acceded to her intended course of action, remarked, "With your permission, I will take my leave, good King and select Lorio's retinue. There are other matters of grave consequence that we must discuss but let us set this mission to Dizar Kor in motion first and speak again later this day."

"Of course," Artumas murmured softly. The Ascentrix offered the aging king a dazzling smile and then strode away. Despite his best intention not to do so, Artumas could not compel his gaze away from the enticing sway of her hips or the bounce of her honey blond mane.

As the great door closed, a thought germinated in his mind, blaring in the confines of his skull like the very clarion of destiny. 'There, with the majesty of a goddess, goes the future Queen of Emercia.'

The cry escaped Artumas' dry lips before he could suppress it...a mocking echo that rose to the rafters in the silence of the cavernous hall. Lest he tumble to the parquet floor, the high king stumbled blindly and sagged into his chair. Gazing around the empty expanse of the great hall, it occurred to Artumas that he had presided over numerous sessions here...had distilled consensus from chaos and order from discord.

Now, with the echo of Myrhia behind him and the blinding glare of Lissom possibly blazing in his future, Artumas suddenly gleaned that the days of his reign were rapidly drawing to an end.

Chapter Thirty-One

1

A comparative calm had settled over the Monarch's Jewels as shadow descended to hold sway over the port city of Dizar Kor. As he watched from the depth of the concealing darkness at the entrance to a narrow, litter-strewn lane, Veilguix could clearly see the silhouettes of cavorting patrons behind the drawn curtains of the Inn's common room. The faint sounds of their merriment drifted out over the deserted and darkened streets, where two members of the city watch paused in a swathe of yellow light directly before the emblazoned window. One muttered something that Veilguix could not distinguish, which drew a spate of harsh laughter from his comrade before the pair resumed their patrol trek.

A liquid groan issued from somewhere in the impenetrable darkness just over Veilguix's left shoulder. Mouthing a vile epithet against his uncustomary carelessness, he slid back into the inky darkness with the grace and speed of one who has laid the foundation of his life on swift and brutal violence. He clamped a hand over the corpulent merchant's fleshy mouth and deftly withdrew his dirk, which he ran across the writhing man's exposed throat in one fluid, unhesitating motion. When the unfortunate merchant's final death throes had played themselves out, Veilguix released his grip with a small moue of disgust twisting his angular features. The man's repulsively jowly face had reminded him of Lethoras, a man whom he had served loyally enough for the past five years...even though he privately regarded his benefactor as a lecherous, insufferable swine.

Veilguix had long ago learned to subjugate his aversions in the name of self-interest, just as he intrinsically understood exactly where he belonged in the greater scheme of good and evil. He knew without delusion that he was merely a tool, honed to lethal competence to serve those who were ethically bankrupt and unencumbered by anything beyond their own corrupt ambition. He was this...and nothing more.

And yet...there had been a compelling allure to the tale spun by the forest brigand...a seductive whisper that had entice the normally dispassionate Veilguix from his cloister of robotic servitude. It was not the woman who intrigued him to be sure. Oh, she was indeed fetching, with her exquisite face and nubile body that had set fat Lethoras to drooling like a randy teenager. Veilguix had long ago disciplined himself to forego the pleasures of the flesh which could only lead one down a perilous path where good judgment was occluded by blind lust. That Lethoras would risk his small niche in the world in reckless pursuit of a pert bottom and firm breasts spoke eloquently of these perils. The king of Fairmarch did not tolerate moral bankruptcy from those who served him...even one as inconsequential as Lethoras.

The stranger and his incredible dispenser of death...it had been this scarcely credible detail of the brigand's story that had induced the bondsman to continue his pursuit of the fugitives. The stranger's presence and his circumstances in Wraiths Hollow had been enough of an enticing anomaly to pique Veilguix interest. A stranger in the Hollow was a rarity in itself and those who did stray into the secluded village quickly saw it for the dismal hovel it was and soon departed. The fire stick...the mysterious weapon that could be held in the palm of one's hand and dispense death with the finality of a deity's judgment...was a temptation that the former mercenary could not resist.

Thus, his inexorable pursuit of the pair became more about finding this mysterious stranger and discerning his secrets then about dragging the comely washer wench back to Lethoras.

The trail had been a simple matter to follow, albeit a meandering one that occasionally crossed road and foot path but followed neither for any duration. When it became obvious that the pair was destined for Dizar Kor, Veilguix had slowed his pace, deciding that it would be easier to find them within the city walls.

Upon arrival in the capital, Veilguix quickly realized that his decision to allow his quarry to reach the city may have been an erroneous one. He discovered that Dizar Kor was perhaps the most assiduously policed city he had ever visited. The gruesome displays on the city walls made it emphatically clear that the city guard had no tolerance for miscreants.

Not a man to surrender to defeatism, Veilguix spent the next several days exploring the town, asking a casual question here and buying a stranger a tankard of ale there. Azidara's considerable beauty would not go unnoticed, the bondsman reasoned and when Veilguix heard tales of how the border with Emercia had been sealed just a week prior, he smiled at his good fortune. Dizar Kor was an expensive city for travelers and if the washer wench and her companion were to remain in the city, they would require a steady flow of coin. Logic dictated that the task of procuring said coin would fall to the woman and since she couldn't ply her trade as a washer woman, it followed that she would look to exploit her beauty in a tavern or inn as a server.

The city was immense by standards of the antiquated world and the number of inns and taverns it boasted made the prospect of such a search a daunting task. Only the image of this arcane fire stick prevented Veilguix from relenting and returning to Lethoras empty-handed. Over a period of three nights, Veilguix had conducted a systematic reconnaissance of the city, speaking to bleary-eyed and inebriated patrons...especially the regulars who frequented the ale houses and inn common rooms. In a circumspect manner, he would maneuver the topic of conversation to memorable serving wenches and their pliable charms, asking casually if they had perchance noticed a new girl matching Azidara's description. Despite the repeated flash of silver coin or a flagon of wine, Veilguix's efforts had garnered not the slightest whisper of the woman he pursued.

By the dawn of the second morning, the bondsman was again pondering giving up the search and returning to the hollow. He would have done precisely that, but a deeper, atavistic intuition adjured him to remain in Dizar Kor for at least another night.

It was upon the very next evening that the dogged Veilguix had come upon the Monarch's Jewels Inn and the unfortunate merchant, whose chilling flesh lay recessed in the shadows not a stone's throw from where the bondsman now stood. It had been that incisive gaze of appraisal that had decided the issue and signed the corpulent merchant's death warrant. Even as he had nodded and informed Veilguix that there was an extraordinarily lovely woman who matched this description serving in the common room of this very inn, the bondsman could feel the merchant's incisive gaze committing every detail of his questioner's face to memory for later consideration. This was something that Veilguix's well-honed sense of self-preservation simply would not allow. Should the situation with the woman and the fire stick wielding stranger require drastic action, Veilguix did not want a particular merchant spreading tales of a man who had been asking questions about a serving wench to the city watch.

"Ah, but I have you now, you devious bitch," Veilguix whispered, a rare smile twisting his harsh features into something malign as he stared fixedly at the darkened windows of the Inn's upper floors. Yet, in locating his quarry, Veilguix came to the startling realization that he had no specific notion of what to do next. Did he intend to abduct Azidara and return her to that loathsome wretch, Lethoras...or were his intentions leaning more toward the mysterious stranger and his fascinating weapon? Though still uncertain, Veilguix was unconcerned by this uncharacteristic indecision.

He had located the pair and being a man possessed of a limitless amount of patience, Veilguix would play inevitably to his strength...remaining sequestered in the shadows and allowing opportunity to present itself.

When that moment of opportunity finally arrived, Veilguix would allow its shape and circumstances to dictate the path he would follow.

He need only wait.

2

As she strode through the stone and mortar halls of wounded Kammlogran, Lissom was oblivious to the frenetic level of activity that flowed around her like a raging river. Everywhere around the Ascentrix, maids, porters and castle staff strained and toiled at the task of relocating critical goods from the badly damaged eastern section of the royal palace to the western end that had escaped the seismic upheaval essentially unscathed. Stonecutters, masons and carpenters roved the halls in droves, trying to determine what temporary measures might be required to shore up areas where the impact of the aftershock had inflicted only minor damage.

Peering down one darkened side hall, Lissom noticed that several stone blocks had slid forth from the walls and now leaned against each other like intoxicated sailors. It was immediately apparent to the diminutive beauty that it could well be years before the venerable structure was returned to its former state of Spartan glory.

She entered the section of the west wing that had been allocated to house the Sisters of Esotaria. As Lissom strode purposefully past, her daughters dropped to their knees, offering their mistress a deep, deferential bow, which she acknowledged with a cursory wave of a delicate right hand. Though her outward expression was one of serene composure, the Ascentrix's thoughts were every bit as turbulent as a roiling ocean.

As she made her way to her personal chambers to deal with Lyndsyn's stupefying breach of protocol, Lissom was obliquely aware of the internal war of conflicting emotions that preyed on the thoughts of many of her daughters. Many of these women would soon be dispatched throughout this foreign and alien country where they were likely to encounter many who would be...disinclined to accept Gyzarayne's divine blessing and creed. That it had always been thus for the Sisters of Esotaria, who had invariably persevered in the end, did little to assuage the anxiety of this latest group.

'The task of setting their minds to ease is rightfully yours, Lissom' she chided herself and that was undeniably true, but the frenetic pace with which events were unfolding in Emercia would not allow her the luxury of placating the burgeoning worries of every novice sister. Beyond this, there was the matter of Gyzarayne's five fallen daughters to consider. They lay now in Kammlogran's moratorium, encased in sorcery-sustained ice and though their flesh was warded against the ravages of decomposition, it was the essence of their spirit that was in desperate need of release. If they were not soon granted that release and their spirit energy not absorbed into the communal spirit flow, their essence...their every memory, experience and accrued knowledge...would dissipate and vanish like the flame of a dampened candle. This would be an unforgivable dereliction of duty in the eyes of the Goddess she served. She resolved that she would approach Artumas and solicit his permission to evoke the ritual of consignment on this very night.

She turned into the short hallway that led to the double doors of her personal accommodations, preparing herself to discipline her First Battle Mage. The stealth ranger and battle mage who had been assigned the task of protecting her personal chamber offered the Ascentrix a deep bow and quickly opened the heavy oak doors. Lissom swept into her chamber like a fast-breaking tempest and the doors banged shut behind her.

The Matrium and First Battle Mage both reacted to Lissom's whirlwind entrance with identical expressions of startled bewilderment. As per the Ascentrix's instruction, Lyndsyn knelt abeyant in the center of the room, while Karosyn stood to her right side with two long, elegant fingers resting on the battle mage's shoulder in a gesture that might have been one of restraint or protection.

Lyndsyn immediately averted her gaze to the tiled floor, her limpid eyes ablaze with an incongruent mixture of defiance and trepidation.

Karosyn attempted to speak, but Lissom forestalled her inevitable pleas for calm with an abrupt chopping gesture. Karosyn's expressive blue eyes widened in surprise over Lissom's curtness, but she fell obediently silent.

Lissom came to a halt a short distance from the kneeling battle mage. In a voice rimmed with ice and iron, she commanded, "Look at me!"

Reluctantly, Lyndsyn raised her head and met the Ascentrix's daunting glare with her chin thrust defiantly forward. Lissom leaned forward until Lyndsyn could feel her warm breath on her face. Lissom leaned further forward until the two women's faces were nearly touching. The Matrium managed to stifle a gasp, having never before seen Lissom in such dangerous proximity to open fury...though she understood the severity of the First Battle Mage's transgression in the great hall. Through clenched jaws, Lissom demanded, "You will explain your baffling actions, First Battle Mage!"

The raw anguish and fury burst from Lyndsyn's lungs like lava. "They were my sisters...the Goddess' children. To hear their memories reviled by that odious man...it...I..."

Unexpectedly, Lissom plunged her left hand into the thick mass of the kneeling woman's auburn hair and drawing back her right arm, delivered a resounding slap across the startled Lyndsyn's upturned face. The sharp report of flesh on flesh was a counterpoint to Karosyn's cry of anguish. Lyndsyn tumbled back onto her right elbow, where she stared up at her spiritual leader with a comical, moon-eyed expression of incredulity while gingerly massaging her reddened cheek.

"With one mindless act of vapid aggression, you very nearly destroyed the accord I had forged with the Emercian King," Lissom declared tightly, her words lashing the fallen woman like a flail. "Did it never occur to you that conjuring offensive magic in the court of a foreign king might reasonably be construed as an act of aggression against that king...possibly even a declaration of war?"

Lyndsyn's eyes narrowed but her lovely face remained twisted by an expression of sullen defiance. Lissom continued to berate her First Battle Mage while the Matrium peered on in open bewilderment. "If even one of the High King's guards had reacted with the same unthinking, emotional idiocy you displayed, it may well have spawned a tide of bloodshed and destruction...the irretrievable loss of the fragile alliance I am attempting to forge. With that loss would go this world's one slim hope of averting the maelstrom that will surely accompany Myrhia's reanimation...all because you could not control your temper in the face of a glaringly obvious provocation."

Lissom shifted her smoldering regard to Karosyn and intoned, "Fortunately, King Artumas' guards demonstrated a level of discipline and training that has never apparently been imparted to Gyzarayne's daughters."

Karosyn flinched in the face of that stinging recrimination that had been all too obviously intended for her. The Ascentrix was well aware of the deep bond of friendship that existed between her Matrium and First Battle Mage. Now it was clear that Lissom was also of the opinion that Karosyn had allowed her personal affection to interfere in fulfilling her role as the Sisterhood's chief disciplinarian. The Matrium accepted this rather unfair reproof with a humble bow of deference.

"I submit myself to your judgment, Ascentrix and will accept the will of the Goddess in this matter," Lyndsyn declared with stiff formality that failed to conceal the quaver in her voice.

Lissom stared at the kneeling woman balefully for a protracted moment, her internal conflict a palpable thing in the chamber's tense silence. After a moment, her luminous blue eyes narrowed, and it was clear that the Ascentrix had reached a resolution to the matter of her First Battle Mage's impulsive breech of protocol. "It would be well warranted if I elected to expel you from the Sisters and divest you of Gyzarayne's blessing...return you to the Etorian crossroads hovel where we first found you. The only thing preventing me from doing precisely that is the absolute certainty that your mindless actions in the hall were motivated by sorrow for the loss of your sisters for whom you have such a profound love." Lissom paused thoughtfully and added, "That and the fact that you are possibly the most talented First Battle Mage to hold the position in the Sisters' long history."

Lyndsyn raised her head and peered at the Ascentrix, her amber eyes wide with genuine surprise at having been paid such an effusive compliment. Lissom smiled warmly and gripping the taller woman's right wrist, helped the First Battle Mage to her feet. "Lyndsyn, your actions in the assembly hall, while misguided and ill-advised, were understandable. If you promise to temper your passion with a measure of cool logic during the remainder of our time here, I am willing to forgive this incident...but there is another concession I will require as well."

The First Battle Mage's eyes narrowed, and her expression became guarded, but she mouthed the obligatory response, "I am yours to command, Ascentrix."

The Ascentrix pursed her lips in response to Lyndsyn's obvious reticence and then gently cupped the other woman's face in delicate hands. The battle mage was clearly nonplused by this overtly tactile overture, but she made no attempt to extricate herself from Lissom's grasp. "I have sensed your displeasure with me, Lyndsyn...your acrimony...and I would know its cause. An Ascentrix must be of one harmonious mind with her First Battle Mage. I cannot allow this festering discord to persist, so I would have you speak freely now and without fear of reprisal."

Lissom tenderly caressed the aristocratic edge of Lyndsyn's right cheek for a moment and then dropped her hand, waiting for the younger woman to speak. The First Battle Mage hesitated, stealing a quick glance at Karosyn, who offered the often-contentious woman a slight nod of encouragement. Lyndsyn drew a deep breath and turned to her mistress. Surmounting her natural reluctance to disclose her feelings to a woman whose mind seemed both inaccessible and frighteningly alien, she found the wherewithal to blurt, "Why have you not granted Issidris the Goddess's Grace? Why have you denied her the ritual of inner pulchritude which is offered to any woman who accepts the Goddess?"

Lissom's expression became oddly sorrowful and she quickly pivoted about before marching to the opposite side of her private chambers. As the Matrium observed the Ascentrix, she could sense in Lissom a reluctance that she could never recall seeing in the more than two hundred years they had shared together. Lissom remained in this posture of pensive silence for several moments, while a livid Lyndsyn glared at her back, her statuesque body trembling with raw emotion. In a low, somber voice, Lissom finally responded, "There are some questions, First Battle Mage, that are best left unanswered. I can tell you that you will find no comfort in the answer to this one."

"I would hear it nonetheless!" Lyndsyn persisted, her words spat forth with raw anguish and an unbearable torment that dwarfed the very concept of physical pain. "You have denied her the grace and employed her in ways that are reprehensible. What you directed her to do at that wretched alehouse was unconscionable. To force her to commit this heinous act is inhumane...inhuman!"

"Lyndsyn, please!" the Matrium exclaimed, striding intently across the room and imposing herself before the woman for whom she harbored such a deep affection and regarded as a daughter. "You presume too much. It is not your place to question the Ascentrix concerning the path she has chosen for Gyzarayne's children!"

"Gyzarayne would not condone the monstrous acts that were committed last night!" Lyndsyn contradicted passionately, her large eyes ablaze with indignation. Directing her plea to Karosyn, she insisted, "We have lost our way, Mother. She has forfeited the path of righteousness and honor in the name of need and expedience!"

Karosyn's beautiful face pinched in consternation and she began to reply, but Lissom forestalled her with a single word that rang with the steel of absolute authority. "Enough!"

In three graceful strides, she crossed the floor and imposed herself between the two women. The glacial tone in the Ascentrix's voice seemed to cause the temperature to plummet in the room like a stone sinking in a lake in the dead of winter. "You've accused me of inhumanity...of compelling Issidris to commit monstrous acts in the name of exigency? I am the embodiment of the Goddess upon this earth...a veritable extension of her will. I am a dispassionate arbiter of justice, empowered to serve the greater good and rescue a tottering civilization from the precipice. If this requires the obliteration of a handful of miscreants, then I will sanction it without hesitation or remorse."

Lyndsyn attempted to avert her eyes, but invisible fingers inexorably dragged her gaze back to Lissom's glacial blue eyes. "What's more, I will use every means at my disposal to insure that Myrhia remains inured. Issidris was ideally suited for the task...a keen blade honed to a lethal edge. Unlike yourself, Issidris is fully cognizant of her purpose...and her place in destiny's grand weave."

Despite her best effort to staunch them, hot tears of outrage and indignation sprang to the battle mage's eyes and began to course over the prominent ridges of her cheekbones. After several moments, Lissom continued, though the harsh edge had evaporated from her tone, relenting to a melodious lilt that could be so beguiling when she elected to bring it to bear. Her expression of frigid authority had also reverted to her customary gaze of placid grace, which Lyndsyn now suspected was but a mask...a façade that concealed a soul the nature of which eluded any possible comprehension.

"You first asked why I did not grant Issidris Il Gyzarayne's grace and I responded that this was a question for which the answer would bring you no comfort. I responded thus not with a mind to evasion, but to spare you the pain this disclosure would bring, Lyndsyn. Still, in the face of your obvious torment, I now see that I erred in this matter and exacerbated your misery needlessly. When the Goddess' Grace is bestowed upon a woman, the essence of Gyzarayne's grace permeates the recipient's soul and seeks out the fundamental beauty that has been woven into the fabric of her being. It then takes that weave and augments it to its fullest potential, while effacing the things that have marred its development: the effects of abuse, poverty or chronic despair. The physical changes that a woman experiences during the ritual are a manifestation of that process...an externalization of that inner transformation."

Lissom paused then, a shadow slipping across her lovely face...an expression of perplexity so pronounced that even Lyndsyn could not doubt its sincerity. "When I first laid my hands upon Issidris, there was nothing...not the slightest inkling of her birthday inner beauty and innocence remained. Her humanity had been scoured from her soul by the harsh and remorseless grind of the life she had been forced to live. What remained was a rare creature of undiluted darkness upon whose soul Gyzarayne's Grace could find no purchase."

Lyndsyn turned her incredulous gaze to Karosyn, who nodded in affirmation and remarked, "I, too, have sensed only a void in Issidris Il. It is this unflinching core of darkness that has led the other sisters to give her a wide berth. Lyndsyn, your compassion and inherent goodness burns brighter than most...perhaps it is this that has blinded you to the truth of this woman's nature."

Lyndsyn bowed her head as silent tears began to fall anew. Karosyn ventured closer and placed a hand on the battle mage's right shoulder. The Ascentrix continued to speak softly and candidly on the essence of the woman that Lyndsyn had come to hold dear. "When she fell under my hand on Ciprite, the Goddess presented me with two choices in resolving the matter of Issidris' fate...destroy her as irredeemable or turn her dark talents to the cause of light. I chose to bind her to the Sisters, knowing full well that she would never attain the Goddess' Grace. In retrospect, perhaps my decision was not as compassionate as I'd first imagined."

Lyndsyn drew herself to her full height and inhaled sharply, briskly drying her tears with the sleeve of her robe. Meeting Lissom's piercing regard unflinchingly, she declared, "Though it may be considered blasphemous, I fervently hope that, in the matter of Issidris and her incorrigible nature, both the Goddess and her emissary are proven wrong."

Lissom offered the taller woman a warm smile. "As do I. I wish for there to be no enmity between us. In the harrowing days to come, I will need your unwavering loyalty to our cause. As a gesture of my benevolence and desire to set aside all enmity that might fester between us, I assign Issidris to your care and bestow upon her the rank of Hand of the First Battle Mage. From this day forth, she will be your charge and you may utilize her as your judgment and conscience decrees."

Lyndsyn's astonishment was clearly reflected on her lovely, angular face, but she retained enough of her sense of decorum to thank the Ascentrix and offer Lissom a deep bow of genuine gratitude. Lissom smiled and laid her right hand on Lyndsyn's brow. "Let this issue be closed and forgotten. I would have the two of you accompany Queen Lorio to this Dizar Kor. Lyndsyn, you will instruct Issidris to join you when you are well away from Nalosan."

The ghost of a frown shadowed the battle mage's brow, but she nonetheless nodded dutifully.

"Xhendyn has proven himself to be a shrewd adversary," the Ascentrix continued, "and his gambit has placed us in an extremely delicate position. Ostensibly, you are tasked with protecting Queen Lorio and the bane, once he has been located, but if my suspicions regarding the Queen are proven correct, it may be necessary to protect the bane from Queen Lorio...or more precisely, the device that the demon has inculcated into the fiber of her flesh."

"Ascentrix, may I ask...why has this creature taken this decidedly circuitous approach to assailing the bane?" Lyndsyn inquired, her furrowed brow demonstrating the degree to which the issue both perturbed and confounded her. "Why would the entity not elect to strike directly at the bane?"

Lissom nodded as if acknowledging the validity of the query. "I can offer two possible explanations and though both are mere speculation, I suspect that there is a measure of truth in each. As is the case of the ShadowCaster with us, it may well be that Xhendyn is blind to the bane. If we allow that he is cognizant of the prophecy, then selecting Queen Lorio...the fate-decreed protector of the bane...as an instrument to strike is arguably a measure of evil genius. Also, I suspect that Xhendyn is partially motivated by a desire to unnerve us...to turn our focus on threats from within. In this endeavor, he has succeeded as you will now have to watch Lorio as diligently as you must ward her against unknown threats."

She allowed her two minions several moments to contemplate the grave ramifications of this last remark and then instructed, "Let us kneel and open ourselves to empathy's embrace. I will teach you a powerful binding spell. Should it become necessary, you will employ this spell to restrain Lorio...should she display even the slightest inclination to harm the bane."

"This spell will not harm the Queen?" the Matrium inquired. A healer by nature, the Matrium was averse to the use of offensive magic.

"She will suffer no lasting effects and will be rendered immobile until the caster releases the binding," Lissom replied with the slightest hint of impatience.

The three women knelt in unison and linked hands. Bowing her head, the Ascentrix opened an aperture in her mind and allowed the Goddess' power to flow into the two women in a regulated stream that she estimated would not overwhelm either. Despite this precaution, the two women simultaneously went rigid...their bodies becoming as livid as a piece of statuary. With eyes stretched impossibly wide and heads inclined to the chamber ceiling, both women emitted a sharp gasp intermingled with the nascent stirring of terror.

Seeing her daughters' distress and knowing that mortal flesh and bone were hardly the ideal receptacles for such power, Lissom quickly curtailed the flow and gradually the two unsettle women began to relax...the lividity leaving their flesh. When the current of power dampened to bearable levels, Lissom whispered, "Let us begin. Cleanse your thoughts and allow Gyzarayne's wisdom to suffuse your mind and this spell of binding shall be yours to utilize should the need arise."

Lissom then began to channel both the knowledge and the requisite arcane energy needed to enact the binding. As the silence in the chamber spun itself out, the trio was engulfed by a muted golden effulgence.

3

The fourth bell past high sun had just peeled its daily refrain as Lorio led her high-spirited ebony charger from Kammlogran's royal stables. Attired in her customary uniform of black, rough-spun sleeveless tunic, black trousers and knee-high leather boots, Lorio nonetheless cut a fetching, comely figure. Heavy black hair hung to the center of her lower back, arranged in a thick cable that was secured by interwoven silver loops. The style served to augment the angular perfection of her face and long, elegant neck. Ever disdainful of what she perceived as the vain adornment favored by most women who held her station and had been endowed with her beauty, the only ornamentation Lorio chose to wear were the crude silver torcs that encircled her defined upper arms. The torcs had been given to her by her father, Grigor, and were all that she had left to remember him by. He had perished in Myrhia's dungeons in Perdwick during what had come to be known as the Emerald Enchantress War.

He had betrayed Islena Doraux...and by extension, his own daughter...and thus, the fate he had suffered in the terrible dungeons had been well-deserved. Still, he was her father and he had once loved her well enough and so she wore these simple torcs to honor his memory...and as a constant reminder that the bond of love is tenuous and does not preclude betrayal and deceit.

This recollection made her grimace and so she pushed it from her mind, though not without considerable effort, and led her horse toward the raised portcullis...where she would await her escort.

She would much rather have preferred to make the journey to Dizar Kor on foot...and alone. She was an indefatigable runner and though it was considered imprudent and unbecoming for a queen to travel in this fashion, Lorio was coming to regard herself as less of a queen with every passing day. The Ascentrix, however, had vehemently insisted that she be escorted and Lissom's desires had come to carry undeniable authority in Nalosan virtually overnight.

Lorio harbored no illusions regarding Lissom's reasons for insisting on an escort, any more than she could deny that her reasons were inarguably valid. She could feel the root cause of that justification pulsing in the core of her being, like a low-grade infection or a dormant seed waiting for just the right stimuli to generate. Lissom and Artumas believed that her proximity to the bane might well be the catalyst to enact this cantrip...and he would be the target of whatever evil that cantrip contained.

As she crossed the vast stone expanse of Kammlogran's forecourt, with the metallic clatter of horse shoes ringing on the ancient stones, Lorio was accosted by a surge of desolate loneliness so intense that it was all she could do to suppress the strangled cry of misery welling up in her throat.

She briefly entertained the absurdly wistful notion of simply mounting her horse and galloping away to find a place where solitude and nature's beasts would be her only companions...to a place where the insistent, grasping hands of fate could find no purchase on her tired immortal heart.

Then, she spied the High King and the Ascentrix emerging from the castle's main entrance and the thought fled like the childish folly it was. She considered Lissom's reaction to her declaration that she would simply ride away and refuse to be fate's pawn. She sincerely doubted that such a course of action would be met with a casual shrug of acceptance.

"We've all become Lissom's unwitting pawns," she whispered, suddenly perplexed by what had precipitated this unpleasant thought. With shocking clarity, the stark image of Lorio looming over the child version of the formidable Lissom, poised to deliver a killing blow to the child, sprang, unbidden, to her mind. Now, as she watched the unfathomable creature converge upon her...all seductive grace and serenity...Lorio wondered if her failure to strike that lethal blow would eventually plunge her world into cold shadow and horror.

Artumas raised a hand in greeting and Lorio returned the gesture along with a wan smile. Trailing behind the pair were the Matrium and the grim-faced First Battle Mage...Lyndsyn had been her name. It appeared that the pair had been conscripted into being her minders.

The five came together at the top of the ramp and the High King came forward and embraced the Lamish Queen the way a father might embrace a beloved daughter, who is preparing to embark on a long and difficult journey. After a moment, he stepped back and produced two letters from his robe. He handed the first to the Lamish Queen, an aged parchment sealed with red wax and embossed with what Lorio recognized to be the royal seal of Emercia. "If there should prove to be difficulty while in Dizar Kor, simply present this letter to the city watch," Artumas advised. "King Saremond is a dour man with no tolerance for perceived subterfuge, but he can be made to see reason. This letter should ensure that you are granted a free hand to fulfill your purpose in Fairmarch."

"Still, good queen, it would suit our purpose to far greater effect if it did not become necessary to utilize this letter," Lissom interjected flatly. "It is impossible to predict where Xhendyn might have ears and eyes and it would be far better to remain inconspicuous if at all possible."

Lorio frowned but acknowledged the wisdom of this suggestion with a tacit nod. Artumas handed her the second scroll and explained, "Due to the situation here, I have dispatched instructions to close our border with Fairmarch. Until some measure of order is restored in Nalosan, it is prudent to reduce the flow of traffic through the city. This scroll will allow the party to exit Emercia and return once you have secured the bane."

Lorio accepted this second scroll and deftly tucked it into her saddlebag, along with the letter to King Saremond, a missive she intended never to use. On impulse, she turned back to Artumas and gripping his right forearm, implored, "Walk with me a moment..."

The King appeared rather surprised but nodded his consent and Lorio ushered her aging friend several paces away from the others. Stealing a glance at the obviously bemused Lissom, Lorio leaned closer and whispered urgently, "Be wary, old friend...I beg you!"

She then pulled away and Artumas regarded her intently for several moments, his expression quizzical and his eyes narrowed into speculative slits. After a moment that speculative gaze gave way to one of understanding as he grasped Lorio's inference. He offered the immortal a brisk nod. They walked back to the horses and Lorio deftly mounted her stallion, drawing up her hood despite the closeness of the afternoon. Artumas took note of the famed ironwood staff, that had become a trademark of the Lamish warrior queen, that was now strapped across the stallion's muscular flanks. The sight roused a smile from the aging king, knowing that anyone foolish enough to accost a staff wielding Lorio would quickly come to rue their decision.

Lorio turned her attention to Karosyn and Lyndsyn, who were both attired in simple tunics and split skirts for riding, and declared with a sardonic grin, "Well then, gaolers, let us be off, but remember that I have little patience for laggards, so be sure to keep pace."

Karosyn accepted this barb with her usual humility, while Lyndsyn scowled and glanced away. Lorio cast one mischievous wink at the High King and was preparing to set off when Lissom suddenly seized her right wrist, peering up at the Lamish Queen with an intensity that was frightening to behold.

"Good Queen, on your formidable shoulders, you carry the fate of the world. If the bane falls, so, too, does endless night. I only ask that you allow this one salient thought to govern your every action."

With this grave reminder delivered, the Ascentrix stepped back and offered the Lamish Queen a formal bow. Lorio swallowed hard, unsettled by the dark gravity of the moment and the stark realization...now laid naked by Lissom's reminder...of the immense burden that fate had again imposed upon her. She conjured a thin smile for the Emercian King and set off down the ramp at a controlled canter with the Sisters of Esotaria setting off after her.

"The blessed protection of Gyzarayne go with you," Lissom murmured thoughtfully and without a parting word to her host, strode briskly toward the castle's main entrance.

Artumas stood staring after her long after she vanished from sight, shivering perceptibly as a disquieting chill danced mockingly along the length of his spine.

As she disappeared from view...a sense of renewed clarity...suffused Artumas as though her mere proximity somehow dampened his customary perceptiveness.

"Not a comforting thought, especially if it is an effect caused by design," he murmured. Something else occurred to him then as he stood framed in slanting sunlight and an all-too-rare moment of solitude...a realization that was utterly astounding for all it implied. In the tumult of the council session and its emotion-fraught aftermath, the Ascentrix had neglected to question Lorio on the location of the receiver portal.

The High King shook his head in amazement. That the Ascentrix would actually fail to pursue a matter that she, herself, had declared to be of paramount importance was incomprehensible and spoke of a surprising fallibility of which he would have thought the astute Lissom incapable. Artumas was pondering this astounding improbability and its implicit meaning, when Consul Redrick and Captain Esuruban came hurrying up the ramp, pushing their mounts to an ill-advised gallop on the often-treacherous ramp.

The pair reached Artumas without incident and quickly dismounted their horses, which were clearly winded by their race up the steep incline. Both approached the bemused king, sporting identical expressions of profound disquiet.

When they reached the king, he intoned dryly, "I can only imagine that something of consequence has transpired to warrant risking life and limb...not to mention, a perfectly good pair of horses...in a mad dash to bring me the news."

Redrick blinked in response to this atypically flippant remark, but then shook his head and declared gravely, "I'm all too aware of the burden you carry, my liege, and I would normally have the city watch deal with a situation of this sort, but I believe that the circumstances surrounding the watch's gruesome discovery at an unsavory ale house...the Pitted Blade...may require your personal attention."

Artumas frowned, intuiting how profoundly the Consul had been unsettled by whatever had been discovered at this ale house. Haltingly, Redrick described the grim spectacle of slaughter, concluding with the pile of severed arms that were embossed with Myrhia's intaglio.

"It appears as though someone has taken the matter of retribution into their own hands," Redrick concluded. "The Pitted Blade has long been an irksome thorn in the City Watch's side."

Artumas glanced at the Consul sharply and shook his head in a deliberate manner that clearly communicated his displeasure. "This is not the way of Emercia. We have a code of justice here and it extends to even the vilest of miscreants. I will not abide with arbitrary rules of vigilante justice. Those who would flaunt the nation's laws and dispense slaughter and carnage in the name of the greater good will be dealt with in the harshest fashion my laws provide. This must be made clear to the citizens of Nalosan in terms that leave no room for equivocation."

Turning to the stalwart Esuruban, Artumas instructed, "Captain, have fresh horses saddled. I would see this atrocity for myself."

The noble Captain, who had once provided a source of comfort to the future Lamish Queen, bowed and prepared to comply, but Artumas summoned him back. "Also, seek out the Ascentrix and escort her to the Pitted Blade. Esuruban, be courteous, but make it clear to our guest that this is not a request. It is a royal summons and her presence is expected before the next bell has sounded."

The Captain's eyes widened in response to this atypically blunt tone, but he offered the king a deep bow and hurried toward Kammlogran to deliver the summons.

Left alone with his Military Consul and closest friend. "It would seem that a sea of dark clouds is converging upon us, my friend. Pray that we have the mettle to stand our ground when the tempest breaks."

Chapter Thirty-Two

1

Much of the formative history of the CornerStone Nations remains shrouded in mystery...a continuing source of endless discussion and academic conjecture. Slowly, yet inexorably, the three great cultures had evolved along the lines of dedicated study and the pursuit of three great disciplines: the science of warfare in Jerhia, the devotion of earth-lore in Natzurdan and finally, the practice of arcane arts in mist-shrouded Jerhia.

Through this long process of cultural and societal evolution, the three great nations had managed not only to avoid conflict but had sought to develop close relationships based upon cooperation and an embracing of mutually beneficial goals. This coalition, though never formalized by treaties, came to be known as the CornerStone Nations.

While the fledgling nations of the Eastern Continent grew to national adulthood in a fractured environment, fraught with interminably petty conflict and near constant warfare through the endless centuries, the three nations of the Western Continent stood as bastions of reason and stability.

What rare disputes did arise between the three were resolved with amicable dialogue, built on mutual respect for the philosophical differences that existed between the three. Recorded history would show that, at every major juncture and in the face of every grave threat, the CornerStone Nations stood united with one mind and one purpose.

Even during the nadir of the Emerald Enchantress Wars, when Myrhia's ascension seemed a virtual certainty, the resolve of the alliance never wavered. Yet, it was at this grim conflict's darkest moment that the first subtle cracks in the previously unassailable alliance would appear.

Some seven years after that conflict's end, in the isolated Northern village of Thasron, that seemingly inviolable accord would shatter like moldering bones.

2

From her place of concealment along the north wall of the single-room wooden hovel, Sybian was afforded a clear view of the open grass land that ringed the small Lamish village of Thasron. The bare boards had been shaved to allow the Jerhia Adjutant to maintain her tedious vigil, but not so much as to have the narrow opening be discernable from the slope's crest. Similar watch stations had been established in houses all along the circumference of the village perimeter to ensure that the enemy's approach could be detected from every point of the horizon.

This surreptitious vigil had been maintained both day and night for the last eight days and Sybian was all too aware that the strain was beginning to reflect clearly on the faces of the members of her scouting element.

"Where are you, bitch?" Sybian whispered in a rare display of frustration and dragged the back of her hand across her dry and weary blue eyes. Patience was one of the most integral virtues of an effective scout and Sybian had always demonstrated patience in inexhaustible measure...but even she was not without her limits. Sybian was all too aware that boredom was a soldier's greatest enemy...a corrosive, insidious force that could dull the sharpest blade and cause the most determined focus to wander.

As the sun began to descend and the forest became dappled in the diffuse golden light of pre-dusk, Sybian's thoughts turned to the matter of Sygeanor's continuing absence. Could it be that the Metocan had detected the Jerhia's furtive plan to drive a mailed fist into the teeth of her deranged ambition? The possibility could not be discounted as the capabilities and limitations of the arcane society remained shrouded in mystery...thanks to the inherently secretive nature of the mages, who were very much like the prevailing mists that concealed Metocan itself.

If the Jerhia adjutant allowed that Sygeanor's foreknowledge of this poised trap was possible, this concession spawned a host of equally disquieting questions...the most salient of which being how long Sybian should maintain this charade of village normalcy? This contingent of scouts assigned to the Thasron ruse was the finest in the Jerhia intelligence gathering arsenal. If the ploy had indeed been detected...by means conventional or otherwise...it should be abandoned, and the scouts dispatched to the north with the task of attempting to determine what form the Grand Mage's next dark overture might assume.

As prudent as this option seemed to be, it was at this juncture where Sybian collided with her own intrinsic sense of inadequacy and self-doubt. Tier Marshal Gillian had imparted his complete trust to a woman who had a proven history as an effective, inspired scout, but lacked even the slightest hint of leadership credentials. Yet, she had been assigned the primary role in a ruse that could well forestall a war the consequences of which were simply too horrific to contemplate. Even during the formative sessions where the foundations of this particular strategy had been laid, the Tier Marshal had insisted that not only should she be present, but that she take an active role in devising the trap that would hopefully ensnare the Appraxis. There had been a surreal aspect to these strategy sessions, and even as she had voiced her considered opinion on specific tactics, there had been a derisive part of her mind that scoffed at her audacity...her unfounded presumption of competence.

What possible right did she have to stand shoulder to shoulder with these veteran strategists and attempt to influence the specifics of the Jerhia response to Sygeanor's depraved quest for vengeance? Yet, as she'd offered her assessment of ambush mechanics, the Tier Marshal would nod, a half-smile of encouragement playing at his lips, and Sybian would feel her misgivings evaporate in the face of his perplexing confidence. Now, as she grappled with the prospect of reneging on this particular stratagem and questing north...with no particular authority to do so, Sybian found herself immobilized by the tetanus of indecision.

"I fear that your faith may well have been unfounded," she rasped through clenched jaws, excoriating herself with the lash of her own self-contempt. Through all of the long and exhaustive sessions that had preceded her deployment to Thasron, the one contingency that the Jerhia had not allowed for was Sygeanor's sudden abandonment of her campaign of systematic cleansing.

As if to deepen her personal sense of inadequacy, tears began to brim in the corners of her pale blue eyes, distorting her vision as she glanced up the slope into the setting sun. Through the refractive lens of her welling tears, the diffuse sunlight appeared to bloom in a coruscating burst.

It was a moment before Sygeanor realized that this sudden eruption of silver light was caused by a slanting sun beam glinting off polished studs.

Her heart began to race as the adjutant dragged the heel of her right hand across her tear-stained eyes, all thoughts of personal inadequacy forgotten. Squinting against the glare, Sybian could now clearly discern the leather, stud-bedecked uniforms of the Appraxis as they emerged from the trees.

Sygeanor's deadly scourge had arrived in Thasron.

3

As the trio raced along the King's road, toward the border with Fairmarch, the Queen of distant Lamia was beset by a plethora of worrisome concerns. They swarmed through her frantic thoughts like a cloud of enraged hornets and their strident buzz would allow her no reprieve.

Though Lorio had never met the Jerhia adjutant, Sybian and though they were separated by the width of a continent, both were kindred sisters in so much as they were assailed by pernicious self-doubt. As she charged along the cobbled road to fulfill her obligation as fate's reluctant pawn, Lorio came to glean that her appointed role as Lamia's Queen had never been more of a preposterous charade as it was at this precise moment.

Being elevated to the station of monarch, simply on the basis of having trailed in the shadow of history's greatest heroine, was a farcical jape. That tragedy was made all the more poignant because she had been chosen to rule over those who were in dire need of a capable and fiercely determined leader, who possessed the mettle required to give her shiftless people the direction necessary to be worthy of the state of nationhood.

"Someone like Nayoro," she whispered, the thought blooming in her mind for perhaps the hundredth time since the onset of this latest crisis. In truth, elevating the eminently qualified Nayoro to the position of regent had been the one prudent decision that Lorio had made during her absurd tenure as Queen.

While Lorio had sought to fill the void left by Islena Doraux's cruel departure by wallowing in decadence and debauchery, Nayoro labored to lay the foundations for national legitimacy that the Lamish people required. In the seven years of her ludicrous reign, Lorio had afforded little thought or encouragement to Nayoro's efforts. Instead, undermining them with her wanton behavior that did little to repudiate the prejudices and aspersions that were constantly cast at the Lamish people.

'Still, when the crown was offered, with the faces of all in attendance beaming in adulation for the great Lamish heroine of the quest, your hubris would not allow you to refuse,' Lorio thought, contemptuous of her own monumental arrogance. It was an all too common fault in her species...a flagrant and reckless disregard for personal limitations and hopeless inadequacies. These things were easily brushed aside in a head long charge toward validation. This conceit would be laughable...the stuff of great comedy, if it did not frequently spawn tragedy and human misery. The more grandiose the delusion, the more widespread and profound that misery became.

Lorio was despondent to realize that she was a living testimony to this sorry truth. 'Ah, but after all that I've been forced to endure...the torment and suffering...wasn't it only natural to crave a measure of acknowledgement?'

She recognized this as the facile rationalization that it was, and the culmination of this lamentable truth could be seen in the threat of extermination now looming over the fledgling nation of Lamia. Even Sygeanor's insane menace could be laid squarely at Lorio's feet...her culpability germinating from the soil of her trenchant refusal to acknowledge the severity of the danger that this mad Metocan bitch posed.

She recalled the one occasion when she had come face to face with Sygeanor as vividly as if it had occurred only yesterday. It had happened during the year immediately following Myrhia's defeat...on the day that Lamia had been granted the status of independent nationhood.

A series of modest, hastily erected pavilions had played host to the great event as the new nation of Lamia could not lay claim to a settlement with a population exceeding more than fifty people. Rulers of all the continental nations...including those who had reluctantly ceded land so that the nation of Lamia could be born...had journeyed from their respective capitals to attend the ceremony.

Lorio could clearly recall feeling utterly preposterous in her formal finery which contrasted so radically from the rough trousers and sleeveless tunic that she habitually wore. The heads of state had filed by...a procession of rulers concealed behind facades of benevolence, and each had offered the obligatory congratulations and platitudes that had rung hollow, even to a neophyte queen, who was unschooled in the ways of diplomacy.

Maroc, the Maxim Tier Marshal of Jerhia, had bestowed a most demure kiss on her right cheek and vowed that Lamia would always have a friend and protector in Jerhia. Then Inos had stepped before her, his oddly translucent skin and elongated facial features conveying the impression of both extreme delicacy and formidable intellect. Though the Metocan's appearance never failed to unnerve the new Lamish Queen, Lorio concealed this with a beguiling smile. The noble Grand Mage had pledged that the nation of magic wielders would assist Lamia through its formative years in any way it could.

And then had come Sygeanor.

This particular memory...though six years distant...still evoked an intense shiver in the immortal. By this time, the half-Ulgak had been a constant fixture at Inos' side...commonly referred to as his gray shadow, though never within earshot of the woman who had single-handedly destroyed one of Myrhia's odious clay mines in Redia. After achieving that particular feat, she had struck out for Nalosan and something...a very nebulous and mysterious something had befallen the half-Ulgak. When she reappeared in Othgol some months after the conclusion of the Emerald Enchantress wars, it was said that she no longer resembled the comparatively plain woman who had left on the audacious strike into Redia.

As the Metocan came to a halt before Lorio, a glacial wind seemed to descend upon the pair, despite the midsummer afternoon warmth. Lorio's first impression of Sygeanor was that she was certainly not typical of her race's blunt gray physiology. Physically, she was statuesque and buxom...beautiful in a way that could rouse the most improper of thoughts. Her face was an amalgam of perfectly proportioned and positioned features that appeared to have been conceived by deliberate design...an observation that was truer than Lorio could ever have imagined. Her body was a lush temple of carnal splendor...nubile perfection intended to traduce. Her chosen garb was definitely not in keeping with traditional Metocan attire. While members of Inos' Inner Circle wore loose-fitting robes of neutral color with little or no adornment, Sygeanor was regaled in a carmine red gown that clung to her exquisite body with a plunging décolletage that revealed a scandalous amount of enticing bosom.

Despite this alluring bounty, it was those limpid eyes that had riveted Lorio's attention on this particular afternoon. They blazed at the Lamish Queen with an unaccountable enmity that was frightening in its intensity. Nonetheless, Sygeanor had grasped Lorio's right hand and offered a perfect curtsey as protocol demanded.

"I am Sygeanor," she had announced around a brilliant smile that never touched the gray turbulence in her eyes. Swiftly, her gripped tightened on a startled Lorio's hand and she leaned closer until her full lips had brushed the Lamish Queen's earlobe. "I am Sygeanor...daughter of Kyros. Wallow in your pathetic moment of glory but know that the day will inevitably come when I will crush your whore's heart in my fist!"

With this sinister vow delivered, she had promptly released Lorio's hand and moved away, leaving the unsettled queen to stare after her in open bewilderment. Quickly, the immortal recovered her equilibrium and greeted the remainder of the dignitaries' procession with a feigned smile, but that dire threat had been indelibly branded into the fabric of her memory. Lorio had surreptitiously watched Sygeanor through the remainder of the ceremony and not once had the half-Ulgak cast a single glance in her direction. Ever perceptive, Artumas seemed to have gleaned Lorio's disquiet, but when he inquired about its source, the Lamish Queen had remained taciturn.

She had never shared the tale of this chilling encounter with another living soul, nor had she ever been lulled into believing that Sygeanor was anything other than a fanatically resolved zealot in seeing her avowed threat come to pass.

Six years later, Sygeanor had usurped the title of Grand Mage and now held the nation of mages and sorcerers in her iron thrall. In that intervening six years, her immutable hatred had vitrified into something ineffably ugly and merciless. Now, Lamia stood in the center of her venomous crosshairs.

"While I ride about in search of a specter," she muttered, her voice fraught with self-disdain. 'And I do so at the behest of a creature whose unfathomable nature makes her every bit as dangerous as the monster she claims to oppose.'

Cloistered in the turbulence of her own troubled thoughts, she failed to notice that Karosyn had drawn even with her and was regarding the Lamish Queen with an openly speculative expression of concern.

"You seem beset by worry, Good Queen?" she inquired in a gentle voice and Lorio could glean that this was a genuinely compassionate and humble soul. Lorio experienced a sharp stab of regret and guilt at the lamentable recollection of having struck this placid creature. There was a forthright honesty about the Matrium's beautiful face...an aspect of serenity and kindness that seemed to invite a baring of long-sequestered emotions and secrets.

Feeling particularly vulnerable, Lorio could feel herself wanting to succumb to that subtle invitation. She slowed her pace to a canter and asked bluntly, "Karosyn, do you have no reservations about this woman whom you serve?"

Even in the descending gloom, Lorio could clearly discern a flicker in those great blue eyes. The notion of casting doubt on her Ascentrix was clearly beyond this unflaggingly loyal woman's sensibilities and still it was a protracted moment before the Matrium responded to Lorio's fraught inquiry, each word coming in a carefully considered fashion when she finally did elect to reply. "Lissom was given over to my care just days after her birth. For two hundred years, I have nurtured her and given my life to guiding her growth and helping her ascend into the role that Gyzarayne has mandated she must fill. In that time, I have come to love her unremittingly and I have never once questioned her inherent goodness. I will not claim to fathom every nuance of the path she has chosen to follow, but I can state unequivocally that the Goddess has imposed a burden upon this particular Ascentrix that is without precedent in the august history of the sisters...far greater than those who have come before her have ever been tasked to bear."

Lorio absorbed this in silence and when Karosyn saw that the Lamish Queen did not intend to offer comment, the Matrium continued, "Good Queen, when you held the blade over Lissom and she willingly submitted to your judgment, did you discern even the slightest hint of evil in her soul?"

Lorio pondered this for several seconds and finally shook her head. Peering into those luminous blue eyes had been like peering into the depths of a bottomless ocean...to plunge in would be to surrender all claim to your own individuality...your own identity. Karosyn beamed that placid smile. "Lissom's one desire...her single obligation in this world...is to spare it the suffering and enduring misery that would accompany Myrhia's emancipation from her prison. If Lissom is capable of any perceived cruelty, it will come in the form of expedience to serving this cause, because she will make whatever sacrifices she deems necessary to achieve that end. In all candor, Lorio...has this not always been the way of deities? Lissom, first and foremost, is Gyzarayne's emissary."

Lorio averted her eyes to the roadway ahead as the logic of Karosyn's solemn words warred with the Lamish Queen's natural aversion to the notion that people were simply pawns to be sacrificed in fate's games if required. Without glancing at the Matrium, she rasped through clenched jaws, "Cruel indifference is cruel indifference, irrespective of what might inspire it. I have no doubt that you are a kind and virtuous woman, Karosyn, and it shames me to know that I've raised my hand against you. I will tell you frankly, I will not be fate's sacrificial pawn. Once I've reached Dizar Kor and have located the bane, any obligation I have to saving the world from Myrhia's wrath is discharged. Surely, a creature with Lissom's power can devise a method to safeguard a single man? Lamia sits squarely in Sygeanor's crosshairs because of my past actions. My primary obligation...my only obligation...is to see that its people do not fall victim to anyone's madness. Be forewarned, if anyone attempts to prevent me from leaving Nalosan once the bane has been delivered. I will regard that person as an enemy. Karosyn, if you are inclined to believe nothing else I say, believe this; I am an enemy to be feared!"

Karosyn and Lyndsyn exchanged glances and a silence descended upon the trio. The Lamish Queen snapped her reins, dug her heels into her mount's flanks and left the pair of sisters behind.

"She will prove to be problematic," the battle mage predicted, her lips twisting in a sour grimace.

Karosyn eyed her friend and then remarked with a rare note of irritation, "She is a woman ensnared by the diametric pull of conflicting obligations, knowing full well that there will be an exorbitant price to be paid...irrespective of which path she chooses to follow. It would be unkind to pass judgment, Lyndsyn."

The First Battle Mage inhaled sharply and gazed away, rather nonplused by Karosyn's mild rebuke. The Matrium sighed and spurred her mount in an effort to catch up with the Lamish Queen. After a moment's pause, the battle mage followed suit.

The trio rode in silence for the next bell. Lorio was deciding if she should push on to Luxiter or camp by the side of the road for the night, when the group negotiated a sharp curve in the road only to find a solitary figure standing in the center of the cobbled highway.

The figure's specific features were veiled in shadow, but there could be no mistaking the cross-sheathed hafts that framed its cloaked head like a lethal X. As Lorio reined in her stallion and reached for her ironwood staff, she scrutinized the figure, whose only reaction to the trio's arrival was to incline its head slightly to the heavens. Something about the slight spread stance and the casually clasped hands intimated a deadly grace and a frightening competence with those two weapons...and an even more unsettling suggestion of unflappable patience and composure.

Lorio shifted her keen gaze to both sides of the highway, but the tree line was shrouded in deep shadow. In his desire to maintain highway safety, the king had decreed that all highways would be cut some three highway widths back from the traveled portion, thus reducing the chance of sudden ambush...if only marginally.

Sliding nimbly from her horse, Lorio brandished her staff and started toward the figure. Xhendyn's treacherous attack had instilled a measure of newfound caution in the Lamish Queen and she was prepared to take violent and drastic action should the figure display even the slightest hint of hostility.

Lorio leveled the killing end of her staff at the figure. "The King's Highways have become hazardous places in Emercia now. Unless your intention is to victimize travelers, it is unwise to block the roadway."

Behind the statuesque Lamish beauty, hooves clattered on the cobbles as the two sisters reined in their horses beside the queen. The two women dismounted lithely and Lyndsyn raced past Lorio, sparing the Lamish Queen a baffling scowl before embracing the shadow figure.

A thoroughly disconcerted Lorio glanced up at the Matrium, who merely shrugged and allowed, "This is Issidris Il...the Hand to the First Battle Mage."

Lorio nodded absently and returned her attention to the pair. The woman known as Issidris had pushed back her deep hood and was being led by the hand over to where the pair stood by an openly ebullient Lyndsyn. The battle mage's customary surliness had given way to a giddy good cheer, revealing the full extent of the auburn-haired woman's regal beauty.

'Will wonders never cease?' Lorio thought with a bemused grin. 'The ice maiden actually loves this Issidris.'

"You actually ran this entire distance...and beat us to this spot with only a quarter bell's head start?" Lyndsyn marveled, her keen admiration for the diminutive woman blazing like stars in the firmament.

Issidris shrugged as if to suggest that this was in no way a noteworthy achievement. Lorio's first glimpse of Issidris Il's plain, blunt face confirmed her impression that this was a diamond hard creature that life had honed to a lethally competent edge. Her brown eyes were almost black and radiated a darkness that reminded Lorio of shards of broken glass. Her short, blunt cut hair framed a face that was inscrutable...devoid of discernable emotion...the face of a warrior who would deliver the killing blow without hesitation or compunction over to whom that blow might be dealt.

Lorio's gaze of appraisal swept over Issidris' leanly muscled arms and shoulders, noting that her arms were adorned with a network of intricate, scrolling scars as if they were a language she could not identify, before finally settling on the hafts of her two cross-sheathed weapons.

More than even the intimidating aura she exuded; the protruding hafts were a tangible affirmation of this woman's credential with killing tools. Otherwise unadorned, the hafts were wrapped in badly abraded leather and ended in two wrist loops that would make it virtually impossible to dislodge the weapons from her grip.

'Short of severing her hand from her wrist,' Lorio thought with a malefic delight. It was impossible to ignore the spark of an intense, but obscure emotion that flared to life deep in the core of her vitiated being...one that was inspired by this diminutive engine of carnage. Turning to the Matrium, the immortal arched an eyebrow and inquired, "This...woman certainly doesn't seem to fit the image of Gyzarayne's Sisterhood?"

"Issidris is not a sister," Karosyn confirmed and Lorio could not help but discern the note of subtle reluctance in her voice. "She is a retainer, assigned to the personal protection of the First Battle Mage."

Lorio eyed Lyndsyn as a sardonic grin twisted her full lips, "So my combative friend has her own personal viper."

The First Battle Mage overheard the remarked and glowering, was about to respond, but a shake of the Matrium's head forestalled her retort, knowing that the festering acrimony between the pair was going to prove problematic at some point in the near future.

'It will fall to you to insure that this inevitable confrontation does not come at the most inopportune of moments,' Karosyn chided herself, deciding that she would remind the Lamish Queen of the vow she had given her as soon as an opportunity presented itself.

Ignoring the fuming Sister, Lorio came to stand directly before Issidris, fixing the diminutive woman with an intense gaze that would have set most people to fidgeting and averting their eyes. Issidris' expression remained impassive as she met the Lamish Queen's penetrating gaze unblinkingly. In that moment, a current of undiluted empathy passed between the two diametrically opposite women and Lorio knew, without the slightest hint of doubt or equivocation, that Issidris Il was destined to play a pivotal and enduring role in her future. Issidris must have gleaned very much the same peculiar thing because her eyes widened slightly, and she pursed her thin lips in puzzlement. To disguise how profoundly she'd been shaken by this bizarre episode, Lorio laughed and clapped the former rogue on the muscular right shoulder. "Now you, I like. When time allows, perhaps we can indulge in a friendly bout of sparring...to see how well you use those rather wicked looking weapons of yours."

The ghost of a grin played at the corners of Issidris' lips and she nodded slightly, clearly amenable to the notion.

Lorio continued to stare fixedly for a moment, wondering what it was about this daunting, yet otherwise nondescript creature that she found so unsettling...and at the same time, so undeniably arousing.

'It's that compulsive sense of challenge, Lorio,' that heart-breakingly lovely voice whispered, drawing across the fabric of her mind like silk drawing seductively over bare flesh. Islena's voice echoed in her thoughts, evoking a storm of emotion that always culminated in a brutal ripping open of those old wounds of loss. That incisive pain caused Lorio to inhale sharply and turn quickly away from Issidris, lest her anguish be laid bare before this diamond hard paragon of violence...a possible weakness to be exploited when their inevitable moment of confrontation finally arrived.

Still, the sweet specter continued to flail her. 'Is this not the same sensation you experienced the first instant you set eyes upon me...that irrepressible need to challenge and dominate. It is an integral part of who you are and there is nothing to be gained by denial or avoidance.' After a moment of apparent consideration, this shade added slyly, 'And yet...I discern that there may be something more to this attraction...that perhaps you recognize something in those inscrutable eyes...an intimation that this woman may come to play a pivotal role in determining the course of your life.'

Having delivered this vague augury, the ghostly voice fell silent. Recalling the first brutal occasion that Islena Doraux had entered her life, radically altering her destiny, Lorio could not contest that the specter had succinctly captured the nature of her reaction to Issidris Il. Lorio also knew that the lingering pain of this horrendous loss would continue to beleaguer her immortal heart...even in the distant reaches of whatever future awaited her.

As was customary, Lorio resorted to masking her grief with surliness, the Lamish beauty nimbly swung up onto her horse and rasped, "Now that your reunion has been played out, let us move." After a moment's hesitation, she added, "I want one thing to be utterly clear; once we cross the border into Fairmarch, you will do exactly what I tell you. King Saremond is not Artumas and he will not view abduction with indulgence. You will defer to my lead in all things and follow my instructions to the letter. If you are unwilling or unable to honor these conditions, then you can locate the bane yourselves and I will return home to Lamia where I rightfully belong. I want your oath."

Lyndsyn scowled, but the Matrium bowed her head deferentially and intoned, "You have our solemn oath, Good Queen, that we will follow your lead in all things."

The battle mage averted her eyes in obvious disgust and Lorio was overwhelmed by an irascible compulsion to goad the volatile sister. "I would have your word as well, battle mage, that your pet will keep her fangs and claws retracted."

"She is not a dog!" Lyndsyn retorted hotly, "I will not have you address her as such no matter who you believe yourself to be."

Issidris placed a placating hand on Lyndsyn's forearm and merely shook her head. Something in this simple entreaty touched Lorio and she experienced a flare of intense shame for her provocative behavior. "I know she isn't...and I'm sorry for giving offense, Issidris." Suddenly weary, she sighed and explained, "Dizar Kor is an intensely policed city...oppressively so. If we are to find and extract this bane without incident, we must remain especially inconspicuous. Instinct is telling me that we must find this man soon and we have tarried enough."

Without further word, the four set off as night descended to hold sway over the troubled kingdom.

4

The moment drew itself out and Sybian felt as if time had suspended its eternal crawl in anticipation of the mayhem to come. The Jerhia scout was suddenly cognizant of her body's sympathetic functions...could hear the rush of blood in her veins and her rapid breathing as she waited for the precise moment to spring the Jerhia ambush.

As she tracked the Appraxis as they emerged from the surrounding stand of trees, it occurred to Sybian that this was to be her first actual battle. Though she had lived much of her adult life in combat zones, many of those years in the territory of the enemy, hers had been the role of the wraith...the elusive recorder and fleeting shadow. Those persistent doubts attempted to reassert themselves and subvert her sense of worth at the most inopportune of junctures, but the Jerhia's ingrained commitment to the exigent need of the moment banished these misgivings.

"Duty above all else," she whispered the mantra that every Jerhia child had been taught from almost the very first moment they learned to speak. The ancient refrain soothed her anxiety and a glacial calm descended upon her roiling thoughts.

Time resumed its inexorable march.

She could distinguish their features clearly now, despite the long, slanting shadows that rolled out before them like heralds of despair. They descended the slope at an unhurried pace, evidently confident that the villagers posed no threat and would docilely submit to their collective fate.

"On this day, your arrogance will prove fatal, bastards," she whispered with a rancor that was most atypical of a Jerhia. Then she emitted an ululating shriek that tore through the expectant silence like a scythe.

In unison, the concealment caps popped into the air, tossing end over end like tossed saucers, and the Jerhia scouts exploded from their holes. They had practiced this maneuver repeatedly to allow for the effects of stiffness that came with prolonged confinement in a cramped space and the adjustment to the brighter ambient light. That practice paid immediate dividends as the Jerhia scouts quickly located their targets in the late afternoon gloom. Within seconds, they fired a volley of crossbow bolts that struck home with deadly precision.

The instant Sybian had brayed her cry of attack, she retrieved her crossbow and exited the ramshackle hut at a dead sprint. Even as she rounded the corner of the clapboard hovel, it was immediately apparent to the Jerhia that the battle was, for all intents and purposes, effectively over.

As she scanned the slope above her, Sybian quickly tallied eight downed Appraxis. Some lay utterly motionless, while others twisted and writhed in raw torment with snub Jerhia bolts protruding through their leather cuirasses.

Harrowing, oddly insectile cries arose from the wounded, causing the scout's stomach to execute a slow, deliberate roll...a stark reminder that being a veteran of subterfuge and intense combat were hardly one and the same.

The momentary distraction nearly proved fatal.

The acrid stench of elemental sorcery reached her nostrils an instant before she caught a peripheral glimpse of a streaking argent flame from the corner of her eye.

The transition from perception to evasion was instantaneous. Sybian hurled herself to her left just as the argent ball shot past and set the hovel, from which she had just emerged, ablaze.

As she tumbled to the trampled pitch, Sybian twisted and leveled her crossbow at the Appraxis, who, upon seeing that his sorcery had missed the mark, had turned and was racing for the safety of the trees.

The Jerhia paused briefly, her trigger finger stilled momentarily by her culture's natural repugnance toward shooting a fleeing combatant in the back.

Still, she understood that she could not risk the Appraxis reaching the concealing sanctuary of the trees. Even a single sorcerer could employ elemental magic to inflict massive damage on conventional soldiers and she simply refused to permit that sorry turn of events to occur by losing the initiative.

'What's more, you need to take one of Sygeanor's henchmen captive,' she recalled, even as she set her aversion aside and depressed the crossbow trigger. 'We have to learn why the madwoman is abducting Lamish villagers!'

Sybian's bolt flew true and several paces before the trees, the Appraxis pitched forward onto his face, a bolt buried deep in the flesh of his upper left hamstring.

The Jerhia grimaced at the piteous cries that issued from the fallen Ulgak's twisted lips, but then a flicked glance at the burning hovel reminded her that the tortured wails could just have easily been her own.

She started up the slope, but then paused after being hailed from somewhere near the center of the village common. Sybian turned to find Ashern, her tall adjutant, trotting up the slope, his crossbow poised in his right hand.

'My Adjutant!' she thought with no small degree of self-conscious incredulity. The notion was still surreal, and she briefly wondered how long it would require before she grew accustomed to her new role in this awful, unprecedented war.

When he came abreast of his superior, Ashern offered Sybian a stiff salute and stood in silence, waiting to be given leave to speak. Sybian found this strict adherence to formal protocol both antiquated and decidedly annoying.

"Report, Adjutant," she snapped, more curtly than she'd intended.

The tall man's eyes widened slightly, and he nodded. "The fighting is at an end. These Appraxis are dead or dying. It would appear that our trap was sprung to near perfection. With the exception of the one individual, Sygeanor's henchmen were unable to unleash any offensive strikes."

Ashern cast a disapproving glance at the downed Appraxis, who had ceased his thrashing and now lay utterly still and ominously silent. The implicit criticism was not lost upon Sybian, though she elected to accept it without rejoinder. By her own assessment, she had hesitated at a critical juncture and was fortunate to be standing here. "How large was the Appraxis party, Adjutant?"

The adjutant pursed his lips. "I don't have an exact count...but I would say no more than fifteen as none of the scouts were required to fire a second bolt."

Sybian frowned. There was something vaguely disturbing about this particular disclosure. "Very well...take an exact tally of the Appraxis numbers. Allocate a hut for the wounded and see that they are treated. Send a pair of scouts to move this one into the village."

Ashern again nodded and executed a textbook perfect salute, before lithely spinning about and moving off to comply with her orders.

"Adjutant, dispatch a team to extinguish that fire before it reduces Thasron to cinders," Sybian called, staring at the raging fire in open consternation. The Adjutant spun gracefully and offered his superior a bow of acknowledgement and then resumed his race down the slope.

Sybian fetched a sigh and then turned back to the wounded Appraxis. She should have been jubilant, basking in the afterglow of a nearly perfect ambush. Instead, Sybian found that she was beset by a tide of vague misgivings.

'Only fifteen...and Sygeanor nowhere to be found.' This unsettling summation germinated in her turbulent thoughts, gradually eroding the rigid battlements of her composure. Something was drastically wrong with this particular set of details, though the specific shape of this fundamental wrongness remained mockingly elusive.

Finally, she remembered that she was still standing over the fallen Appraxis, disconcerted to realize that she had not actually moved to follow her Adjutant. The man had removed his pewter mask and was regarding her with a disconcertingly smug expression. The flesh on his misshapen head was the unnerving gray of a wasp's nest and appeared somehow grotesque and alien in the rapidly fading afternoon light.

'An Ulgak!' Sybian observed and struggled to subdue the shiver of revulsion she experienced whenever her thoughts turned to the savage sub-species that occupied the mists of Northern Metocan.

Repressing that revulsion, she demanded, "Where is Sygeanor?"

The Appraxis regarded her with glaring contempt for a moment and then peeled back his thin lips in a revolting parody of a grin. It obliquely occurred to her that the Ulgak might still pose a grave threat despite having been wounded. Then he began to speak and all regard for her personal safety was quickly forgotten.

"The Grand Mage is like the wind...ubiquitous," the Appraxis declared with a broad, sweeping gesture of his thin right arm. "You think to outwit her with crude ploys? Like a cat watching a mouse that believes it is being clever, she anticipates your every move."

"What do you mean?" Sybian snapped, despising the note of petulance in her voice, but powerless to repress it.

Again, the Ulgak spat a burst of grating, derisive laughter. "Your doubt is written large in those repulsive blue eyes and resonates through your piteous questions like an admission of defeat. No doubt you have asked yourself why there are so few Appraxis here today...even as you dread the answer."

Sybian struggled to maintain an impassive countenance, but the Appraxis was not deceived. "We have drawn you out and ensnared you in your own trap. Even as this hollow victory unravels, Sygeanor's Appraxis have struck three villages to the south and east of Thasron, effectively leaving Lamia empty of Lamish scum north of the River Tynan."

"You lie, Ulgak!" Sybian exclaimed, knowing that her strident denial was pointless even as it left her lips. "Why would you willingly walk into this ambush?"

The Appraxis grinned, bloody froth bubbling from its thin lips. "Those who came here today came here willingly, knowing that our recompense will be well worth the sacrifice...even in death."

"You volunteered to be slaughtered?" the Jerhia demanded, her tone incredulous.

"We will serve the Grand Mage in death just as we have in life. I look forward to feasting upon your flesh with keen anticipation."

Suddenly livid, Sybian pressed the heel of her boot down on his wounded thigh, grinding his leg with every bit of malice she could muster. Even as she did this, the part of her spirit that had been instilled with the Jerhia's inherent sense of honor brayed a vehement condemnation. Abuse of a captured or wounded foe was regarded as reprehensible. Still, Sybian continued to apply a grating pressure to the Appraxis' wounded leg even as the Ulgak's howls echoed through the village.

Gazing back down the slope, Sybian saw that a group of Jerhia, Ashern amongst them, had congregated at the center of the village and were staring up at her with unconcealed disapproval. Ignoring them, she returned her attention to the writhing Ulgak and rasped truculently, "What does the witch intend? What is she doing with the people she's abducted?"

To punctuate her expectation that an answer would be forthcoming, she stamped her boot viciously down on his thigh. His answering cry resounded through the darkening sky like thunder. When his agony subsided, he managed, "It would seem that you Jerhia, for all of your professed virtue, are not so different from the Ulgak after all."

Sybian's lean face flushed with shame, though his barb was not a sufficient inducement to have her remove her foot. "You will tell me what I want to know or your particular sacrifice will be a long and unpleasant one!"

Something in her unwavering gaze informed the Ulgak that this particular Jerhia would honor this vow most obsessively. "The Grand Mage was aware of this shallow ruse from the first moment that the Lamish scum evacuated the village. If the Lamish whore-queen does not present herself for punishment within the prescribed time...or if the Jerhia continues to mount this feeble opposition...Sygeanor will unleash upon both a dark plague the likes of which this world has never witnessed."

Ashern had ventured closer and Sybian raised a slender arm to forestall any objection he might raise to her rough treatment of the prisoner. Of the Ulgak, she demanded, "And to raise this dark plague she requires the Lamish abductees?"

The Ulgak's only response was a grating spate of laughter. "You Jerhia were fools to presume that you could stand in opposition to Sygeanor. Had she desired it, we would have incinerated Thasron, while you cowered in the ground like frightened burrowing animals. If your rabble army possessed even a shred of prudence, they would desist and beg for her forgiveness. If Myrhia did not fully divest Jerhia of its delusion of invincibility, the Grand Mage most assuredly will. If you require further elaboration, you will have to seek it from the Grand Mage, herself. This is all that I have to say to you...reflect upon it wisely."

Sybian's eyes narrowed in suspicion as the wounded Ulgak performed an elaborate series of gesticulations over his torso. While his right hand made this intricate series of passes, the Appraxis silently mouthed an incantation.

The Jerhia sensed the imminent unleashing of elemental sorcery, though had not Ashern seized a handful of her tunic and roughly jerked Sybian back, the Jerhia would not have escaped the subsequent eruption. With the diminutive lead scout wrapped tightly against his chest, Ashern instinctively pulled the pair into a rolling tumble. As they rolled in a tangled sprawl, back down the slope and into the village common, the rivets of the Ulgak's leather cuirass flared a blinding argent and the Ulgak was consumed in a ball of intense silver flame.

The pair of Jerhia scouts had come to a dust-raising halt at the base of the slope and now Sybian peered owlishly around the village perimeter, her face twisting into a rictus of horror and revulsion.

Every single Appraxis...wounded or dead...was engulfed in a wildly churning argent pyre. The acrid smell of burning leather and the eldritch reek of burning flesh combined to fill the lungs of the Jerhia, sending each into a paroxysm of coughing in a desperate bid for breathable air.

Above this gruesome scene of self-immolation there arose the harrowing shrieks of the dying, cut mercifully short by the ferocity of the raging argent flames. To Sybian's mind, this sickening drama of collective suicide seemed to go on for an eternity, but in truth, all evidence of the vanquished Appraxis was effaced from the world in a matter of mere moments.

A moon-eyed Sybian climbed unsteadily to her feet and very nearly stumbled...would have toppled had it not been for a stabilizing hand from her adjutant. When she finally felt stable enough to stand on her own, she pushed away from Ashern and stood with her arms dangling at her sides, trying to digest the improbable tableau that spread before her.

Every trace of the Appraxis had vanished. A fan pattern of charred grass was the only evidence that they had ever been present in Thasron...along with the residual smells of burnt leather and flesh that hung in the air.

Sybian turned her gaze to her adjutant, whose blue eyes reflected her own bewilderment and burgeoning sense of disquiet. "This was truly all staged?" Ashern inquired thickly, "a sacrificial charade to demonstrate...what?"

Sybian considered this for a moment and then replied, "To demonstrate how incondign we are to the task of giving her opposition...or perhaps to demonstrate her omniscience. Who can say for certain? She is mad, after all...and all the more dangerous for her insanity."

The pair lapsed into a contemplative silence for a protracted moment and finally, Sybian turned her excited gaze on her Jerhia Adjutant. "Have the horses brought from the holding pens. Designate two riders to carry an urgent message back to Tier Marshal Gillian. Have the remainder of the squad gather sufficient weapons and provisions for a two-day foray. I will draft the message to carry back to the Tier Marshal, while you oversee the preparations."

"May I enquire as to your intentions, Captain?" Ashern asked with no small degree of reluctance.

Sybian fixed the adjutant with an intransigent gaze...all intimations of inadequacy and self-doubt gone. Her blistering regard was shaped by an unnerving mixture of grim resolve and recklessness born of desperation. It was the latter emotion that Ashern discerned and which suffused him with the nascent stirring of disquiet.

"Sygeanor's Appraxis are moving Lamish abductees back to Metocan. The Grand Mage gleaned this trap by some means and has mocked us with our own device. Now, however, we find ourselves with an opportunity of striking a blow that she did not anticipate, and I have every intention of doing precisely that."

Ashern nodded stiffly and hurried away to oversee the preparations, suspecting that this impromptu venture could be suicidal folly.

Sybian watched him go and after a time, she started for her quarters, grappling with the precise message she would dispatch to the Tier Marshal who had demonstrated such faith in her abilities.

Chapter Thirty-Three

1

The High King of Emercia stood at the center of the gore-spattered common room of the Pitted Blade. The seedy alehouse had become an abattoir, another stark reminder that Nalosan...his Nalosan...had become perhaps the most dangerous city in the land. He attempted to focus on the details of the slaughter...a tapestry of unspeakable carnage painted in severed limbs, spilled viscera and blood...but found that his roiling stomach was inadequate to the task.

Instead, Artumas turned his attention to the grizzly arrangement of severed arms that now sat atop the bar of the alehouse.

'That accursed symbol will give me no peace!' he thought dejectedly as a grimace of disgust twisted his mouth into a severed frown. He was cognizant of the others standing a short distance away, awaiting his reaction to this latest incident of ineffable horror. It occurred to him that he had not uttered a single word since entering this impromptu crypt and he knew that some expression of regret and dismay, tempered by a carefully measured dose of determined optimism, was expected...indeed, was required. Yet, if he was duty-bound to provide solace to those who served him in the face of this unspeakable act of evil, they were to be disappointed.

Myrhia's sigil mocked him like a stylized representation of his every inadequacy...his every failing. It stood as a symbol of contempt for everything he had once aspired to be...and failed to achieve.

When the silence became a palpable thing...too cloying to endure further, Consul Redrick asked of no one in particular. "Who could have done such a heinous thing? Many of these people had no obvious means of defending themselves and they were simply butchered as they'd attempted to flee."

As coincidence would have it, Redrick posed his question that the precise instant the Ascentrix entered the Pitted Blade, accompanied by the towering Sandalayne, First Stealth Ranger of the order.

The High King's unblinking gaze shifted from the severed array of arms to Lissom, who stood near the entrance surveying the carnage. Artumas searched her beautiful visage for the slightest hint of revulsion...or even a faint glimmer of compassion for the wayward souls who had lost their lives in this orgy of bloodletting. The Ascentrix absorbed the details of the massacre with no outward display of emotion. If this senseless expenditure of life possessed the power to touch her at all, it was not reflected in her expression, which remained inscrutable.

'Remember Artumas, this woman saved your city from total obliteration only yesterday,' he reminded himself, trying to master his mounting fury in the face of what he perceived to be her callous indifference. Then her gaze met his and Artumas could discern not the slightest intimation of empathy in those limpid blue depths. The fact that he could divine not the slightest trace of culpability either did little to placate his anger.

He strode over to where she stood, unmindful of the viscous pools of blood through which he traipsed and came to stand before her. In a voice made hoarse with barely constrained anger, the High King of Emercia demanded, "I require your personal assurance that no member of your Sisterhood had a hand in this vile act of butchery."

Lissom's facial expression remained benign in the face of this provocative demand. Behind the Ascentrix, Sandalayne stiffened and hissed, but when it appeared that she might give voice to her objection to Artumas' affront, she abruptly jerked her gaze skyward and clamped her jaws shut. Artumas correctly deduced that Lissom had silenced her stealth ranger in the Sisters' unspoken mode of communication...probably enhanced by sorcery.

'Yet another advantage she holds,' he thought with no small degree of consternation as his gaze slipped briefly to Sandalayne, who now stood as rigid as statuary.

Lissom regarded Artumas from behind her unassailable mantle of serenity and when she deigned to reply, her voice was dispassionate and even. "You have my personal assurance, good king, that the sisters of my order had no hand in what befell these unfortunate citizens."

They continued to regard each other as Artumas searched her face for the slightest hint of prevarication.

Seeing none, he averted his gaze to the floor, where it happened upon the corpse of a gray-haired woman, whose face was lined by a lifetime of toil and deprivation. Even in the cold repose of death, the misery of her existence was etched indelibly into her lined face.

'And only to suffer a deplorable end such as this,' Artumas reflected, tottering on the edge of dejection. Instead of succumbing to its debilitating pull, he seized on grim resolve. Stepping closer to the diminutive Ascentrix, he leaned closer until his mouth was a mere hand's width from her left ear, and whispered softly, "I pray that is so, good lady. Should it come to light that you have deceived me on this matter, I swear a solemn vow, by all that I hold sacred, that I will drive you and your followers out of Nalosan. No matter the power you wield or the deity you serve, I will find the means to drive you from the shores of Emercia."

The High King fell silent and the pair remained in this position, while the tension in the room welled to unbearable levels. When it became evident that the Ascentrix would not respond, Artumas stalked from the alehouse. After a moment, the ashen-faced Redrick and the Emercian guards followed, leaving the Ascentrix and Sandalayne alone with the human detritus of the mayhem Lissom had sanctioned.

2

Peering down into the slightly rippling surface of the dark ale at the bottom of the tankard, Reyfort marveled at the precision of the illusion Xhendyn had crafted. If the rogue indulged in this narcissism long enough, he could almost convince himself that the image reflected reality and was not a sorcerous façade that hid the truth of his gruesome disfigurement. Yes, if he succumbed to the illusion, Reyfort would rise from his seat and stride resolutely from this grim tavern like a man unencumbered by any terrifying obligation to a demon. Once through those rough-hewn doors, he could resume his pointless (but nonetheless pleasing) life as a highwayman and seducer of beautiful women.

Ah, but despite the natural inclination of his Suran heritage toward the whimsical and capricious, Reyfort was a pragmatist. His masculine beauty was every bit as illusory as the fatuous notion that he retained any volition over the course of his life.

He fetched a deep sigh and pushed the tankard away, knowing that the enticing image reflected in the dregs of his ale was really a slave's chain and his was a master most cruel.

"This role of maudlin brooder is hardly one that suits you, Reyfort," a deep voice intoned from nearby.

Reyfort's head jerked up to find Xhendyn seated across the scarred wooden table, his ineffably horrible red eyes watching his vassal from the depth of that hood. Malice radiated from the demonic entity in palpable waves and Reyfort wondered how the other patrons could remain oblivious to the terrible presence that had come into their midst. He surveyed the crowded room, fully expecting to see every eye trained intently upon them, but the tavern's bleary-eyed denizens appeared to take no notice of the monster that was seated on the opposite side of his table. The rogue shivered and returned his attention to Xhendyn whose mouth was twisted in what appeared to be a sardonic smirk. "You're wondering why this collection of rabble has not responded to my enchanting presence?"

"Yes?" Reyfort admitted reluctantly.

Xhendyn laughed, a deep, grating rumble that reminded the Suran rogue of grinding bones. "I would had thought that the answer would have been readily apparent...in the tangible sense, I'm not really here. I am, in essence, an apparition that only you have the privilege of seeing."

Reyfort's eyes widened as dawning comprehension filtered in. He scanned the common room to find the other patron's stealing furtive glances in his direction to see the deranged man muttering over his cups as if conversing with a specter. The Suran rogue immediately averted his gaze to his folded hands. 'A rather unsettling insight into the special nature of our relationship, I'm sure you would agree. You and I are tethered and there is nowhere you can hide from me. Only death or my acquiescence can severe the link between us, Reyfort. You would be well advised never to lose sight of that fact.'

"What do you want?" Reyfort growled, though his surly air lacked conviction.

'I want you to stop indulging your pathetic self-pity to begin with,' the entity erupted, its unsettling vermillion eyes flaring from the depths of its hood. 'Your lot are renowned for their thespian abilities and it's time for you to assume the role of a lifetime...from shiftless ne'er-do-well to seducer of royalty and consort to a queen...even if it is only the queen of whores.'

"And if I do this...you will honor your end of the bargain...remove the thing implanted in me and permanently restore my face?" Reyfort demanded in a tight whisper.

Xhendyn pressed his left palm to his chest as if affronted by the very suggestion that he might renege on his bargain. "As promised, you will be restored and freed from any further obligation.

Reyfort nodded and the demonic construct was pleased to see the nascent flare of avarice flicker to life in the rogue's piercing blue eyes. 'Remember, Reyfort...the gem of Zhiar, which now resides in your skull, requires proximity for the desired effect. This is why you must become a fixture at the Queen's side. There will come the inevitable moment when the one she is intended to ward will become vulnerable. You must recognize this moment and convey it to me on a simple current of thought. The gem of Zhiar and I will take care of the rest. The warded one will meet his end and you will be free to take up the threads of your old life...as pointless as that life may have been.'

"I take it that something has happened?" Reyfort inquired, ignoring the entity's barb about the frivolity of his life...a life he would gladly resume once this horrible interlude was put to rest.

'The Queen has departed Nalosan, headed north to Dizar Kor. The hurried nature of her departure suggests that the one she is to ward has been located. You will depart at once and intercept her en route.' Xhendyn leaned closer, his malefic eyes flaring a blinding orange. 'If you fail to ingratiate yourself with the Lamish harlot, my cantrip will vanish and you will be left to wander the world as a disfigured sideshow grotesquerie...unless you can marshal the courage to take your own wretched life.'

Somehow, the rogue marshaled the courage to hold the entity's withering gaze as some remnant of the incorrigible seducer flickered into life. "Have no worry, monster...I'll win a spot in her good graces...and her bed not long after."

Xhendyn continued to peer at the rogue for a painfully long moment and then abruptly threw back his head, uttering a peel of genuinely amused laughter. 'I believe you will at that, Reyfort.'

With that, he stood and strode toward the alehouse's single exit, passing through the heavy wooden door as if it was no more substantial than the air itself.

The rogue watched the unnerving entity depart, while gripping the edge of the table with white-knuckled intensity. He was keenly aware of the furtive regard of the other patrons, who surely considered him to be a lunatic lost in his cups. Reyfort was indifferent to their judgment. He need only perform this one small service to regain control of his life and reclaim the rugged masculine beauty that random chance had stolen from him. He refused to turn his thoughts to contemplation of exactly what he had just become party to...or the possible consequences of throwing his lot in with an obvious engine of evil. He had never been given to bouts of philosophical musing on the state of good and evil in the greater world. Reyfort saw no need to take up the practice now...not with his own need so dire.

Reyfort saw Xhendyn as his only path to normalcy and even if that path was set with stones of unadulterated evil, he would traverse it and allow others to incur the cost.

With this in mind, he rose and staggered toward the door, where he paused and turned back to the patrons, who marked his passage with hooded, mistrustful eyes.

"The lot of you be damned," he spat contemptuously. He then pushed out into the dust-choked street and set out for his fateful appointment with the wandering queen.

3

The very air above the city shimmered and rippled in the mind-numbing heat, creating odd distortions in size and distance...weaving a constant stream of ever-shifting illusions. It was said that she-demon's danced and capered in the haze, tempting travelers with liquid seductions that could lead even the devout into madness should they stare too long. The empty desert expanses were worse, of course. The vast, shifting sea of sun-bleached sand seemed to augment the allure of the harlot's haze exponentially. Travelers far too numerous to be counted had succumbed to the siren's song and wandered off the way tracts in pursuit of some ineffably beautiful hallucination...only to find slow, blistering death in the featureless sand sea.

In the holy city of El-Sharom, Capital of the great and glorious nation of Majeer, that siren song was but a sibilant, yet incessant whisper. It was commonly held that, if one had unwavering faith and devotion to Thaz Ekai, divine creator of all that is, the she-demons of the haze could be faced with impunity.

In the most holy of cities, the unrelenting heat appeared to have bleached every last vestige of color from the world. The sand, the cobblestone roadways, the mortar, kiln-baked brick and even the wooden molding that adorned the grander structures of El-Sharom: all these were the unvarying white of sun-dried bones.

Only those familiar with the cultural and religious realities that governed Majeer would be aware that this uniformity was the consequence of design and not the effect of perpetual exposure to the remorseless glare of the sun. It had been Ekaz Azeer, Thaz Ekai's exalted prophet, chosen by the divine creator of all that is to wear the argent robe, who had issued the edict forbidding the use of any color other than white in the construction of buildings within the holy city. Various shades of white were permitted, and architects often strove to blend these shades to achieve maximum possible contrast when erecting the stunningly beautiful edifices that adorned the city. Inevitably, these efforts were defeated by the unblinking glare of the desert sun and now, every standing structure was colored a monotone, lusterless white.

Despite this bland uniformity, the city of El-Sharom was a majestic, breath-taking repository of life amidst one of the most inimical environments on the face of the world. The city, itself, was a sprawling, radial metropolis, arrayed in a precise concentric pattern, dominated by wide, cobbled thoroughfares and avenues at the center of which stood Enom-Zhar. This magnificent temple had been erected some four thousand years earlier and had served as a home for the long succession of prophets and apostles, whose mandate it was to enforce Thaz Ekai's law throughout the divine kingdom. Many claimed that Thaz Ekai would, on occasion, descend into his temple to palaver with his earthly minions on matters of temple doctrine.

This great temple stood at the confluence point of two great thoroughfares that ran along north-south and east-west tangents. At the four locations where these thoroughfares reached the soaring city walls, smaller, exact replicas of Enom-Zhar had been erected to stand as symbols of Thaz Ekai's dominion over all four points of the compass. Each temple had been given over as a home to each of the four canons, who served in the capacity of advisor to Ekaz Azeer. Each canon was responsible for conveying a different aspect of church law to the masses and also to ensure that these laws would be adhered to without even the tiniest deviation.

These four canons worked diligently to ruthlessly crush any and all deviation from the path set forth by the prophet and it was said that the piteous wailing of accused heretics resonated through the halls of the four canons' temples in the wee bells of any given night. These pleading entreaties for mercy...or, at least, the cold mercy of an expeditious death...fell on the deaf ears of zealous torturers.

If King Artumas, who was blithely unaware of the existence of the nation of Majeer, was in an expansive frame of mind...and if he was inclined to opine on the subject of religion, he could have succinctly summarized the state of affairs in a country of which he had no prior knowledge. The Emercian King subscribed (rather cynically, it might be said) to the disquieting notion that just as every religion must conjure a deity upon which to focus its ardor, so too must religion conjure its great, malefic demon.

In the deserts of Southern Majeer, where heat, wind and shifting sand seemed to mock the very concept of life, Ekaz Azeer had found his religion's great antagonist. The aspiring prophet had stridden forth into the maze of box canyons and narrow stone defiles, where howling winds raised sheets of sand that could excoriate the exposed flesh from the bones of those foolish enough to venture there. He had entered these scoured stone alleyways with a single leather canteen of water and a satchel of bread, searching for the mythical argent robe...an article purported to belong to Thaz Ekai himself.

Ekaz Azeer wandered amidst the featureless landscape, assailed by the remorseless glare of the killing sun by day and beset by the bone-deep chill that accompanied the arrival of nightfall. In the time that Azeer wandered through the purgatorial wastes, he encountered neither bird, nor animal. Even the ubiquitous biting and stinging insects, that plagued the rest of Majeer, were nowhere in evidence. In this sun-scourged purgatory, Azeer became hopelessly lost in the sprawling wasteland...ravaged by searing heat and deprivation. After a time, Azeer began to relinquish his hold on reality. In time, he could no longer distinguish the demarcation between the tangible hell in which he was mired and the abstract, yet terrifying hallucinations that shimmered in the haze on every horizon.

In his state of harried disorientation, thrice he would be tempted: first by a golden-haired beauty offering water, second by a fire-haired vision of female perfection, offering food and finally, by a raven-haired creature whose beauty defied reason. She had offered deliverance and rejuvenation in the luxuriant and pliable splendor of her sweet flesh.

Fortified by his faith in Thaz Ekai, thrice Ekaz Azeer had refused these sly temptations.

A short time later, Azeer had literally stumbled upon the argent robe and was transformed from the wayward son of a tyrant into the prophet of the one true god.

As the puissance of Thaz Ekai suffused his ravaged flesh, bestowing upon Azeer both physical perfection and an astounding clarity of purpose, Ekaz was struck by a profound epiphany.

Evil was not some nebulous current that assumed a multitude of forms...rather, true evil flowed from one source, corrupting everything it encountered with its traducing touch.

If man was the rendering of Thaz Ekai's physical being in the tangible world, did it not stand to reason that the great despoiler would have a physical manifestation in the world as well? Ekaz Azeer concluded that it was, indeed, logical...irrefutable.

Women, he now divined, were the one true source of wickedness and sly corruption in the world. The more beautiful the woman, the more potent their corrupting influence. Did his encounter with the three harlots not serve as irrefutable validation of this great singular truth?

Thus, Thaz Ekai's prophet and his followers found a focus and purpose for their dysfunctional faith...to extirpate the rank weed of female corruption from the world and restore man to his state of spiritual purity.

The plight of women in the holy kingdom of Majeer was further compounded by the fact that its citizens seemed genetically inclined toward great physical beauty.

When the prophet, Ekaz Azeer, returned from the wilderness, cloaked in the argent robe of legend, the persecution and subjugation of women throughout Majeer began in earnest.

Women across the land...especially those women whose beauty was exceptional, even in a race of beautiful women...were systematically abused, debased and excluded.

Yet, even for the vilest of creatures, there must exist the hope for redemption.

4

Before the Grand Temple of Enom-Zhar, a great cobbled square had been designed to accommodate the vast multitude of pilgrims who braved the way tracts to stand in the exalted presence of Ekaz Azeer. At the north end of the square the promenade of the divine swept grandly toward the north gate.

When the prophet stood on the high balcony of the temple, the polished stone of the promenade shimmered a brilliant white like the stairway his god promised to all righteous men.

As Ekaz Azeer descended the steps of Enom-Zhar on this glorious morning, the great square was still virtually deserted. He crossed the open expanse at a brisk stride, his four canons trailing after him like wraiths. As he jogged up the steps of the reviewing dais, the argent robe shimmered with the divine's infused power.

Azeer stood a head taller than most men and was possessed of a masculine beauty that had caused the women of his father's court to swoon...before he'd found the true path...before he had ascended.

Now, those same women, who had parted their silken thighs at a glance from the prince, would quail in terror if his gaze had happened upon them.

'If any of them were still alive,' he thought distantly as he reached the platform where the rite of abjection was about to be performed.

Even the review dais was an astounding tribute to the grandeur and ingenuity of Majeer. It was comprised of a single piece of alabaster that had been quarried from the distant pits of Har-qa and could accommodate a gathering ten rows deep and one hundred men wide. It had taken two years and thousands of men and beasts (many of whom had perished in the effort) to drag the slab across the sprawling sand sea. While some might construe this cost to be exorbitant, Azeer understood that the dais stood as a symbol of the enactment of Thaz Ekai's will.

As the glorious prophet reached the designated spot from which he would view the forthcoming rite, he saw a single figure standing patiently at the center of the massive expanse of alabaster.

Clad in carmine red, tall, leonine and utterly beguiling, Shan-en Naroon, Matron of the Rha-Sheem, stood ramrod straight, staring fixedly at the man to whom she devoted every breath she drew...or so Ekaz Azeer believed.

Chapter Thirty-Four

1

Upon seeing the beautiful visage of the prophet, Shan marched across the dais as all conscious thought fled into the sanctuary of her inner mind...the place where the proud, defiant Shan-En Naroon lived still. She had mastered this exercise as a means of making these constant gestures of obeisance palatable.

As she came to a halt before the man to whom she had pledged her eternal loyalty (and whom she'd vowed to see dead by her hand), Shan sank to her knees.

"Favor of the divine be upon Ekaz Azeer...now and eternally." The words flowed from her tongue like liquid honey, yet echoed through the chambers of her skull in clanging knells of despair. Then, she leaned forward and pressed her full lips to the leather of the prophet's right sandal, holding this submissive pose until he gave her leave to rise.

She rose with a liquid flexing of lean thigh muscles that could be seen clearly through the translucent gauze of her loose leggings. Shan stared unblinkingly into the eyes of Ekaz Azeer, something that even the canons would have been reluctant to do.

'Ah, but if it is Thaz Ekai's will that you be given dominion over the lands beyond the great sea, it is my Rha-Sheem that will secure them for you,' she thought bitterly, 'and both they and you know it. This is why you allow me these small acts of defiance.'

The Rha-Sheem was an ever-growing army of female warriors (of which Shan-En Naroon was the commander) and was also known as the legion of the redeemed. In the years since Ekaz Azeer had returned from the wilderness to bestow a new doctrine upon Thaz Ekai's children, women had been systematically taken into custody. That many of these women had been accused of colluding with the despoiler by their family members...husbands, sons and fathers...was perhaps the cruelest aspect of the new reality that governed the lives of women in Majeer. Once in custody, these women had been subjected to an intense examination to determine the spiritual integrity of their souls. This examination consisted of relentless questioning, combined with extreme physical duress and deprivation.

The clerics who served the divine proved most creative in seeking out earthly agents of the despoiler...women whose only crimes were beauty and an independent spirit that did not yield easily to subservience. In dark, stone enclaves of hell beneath temples of faith in every corner of Majeer, women were broken and humiliated in their tens of thousands.

Many perished, their wretched deaths held forth as proof of their complicity with the despoiler. Yet, many women persevered, and made of sterner stuff, these women survived to become Rha-Sheem...women such as Shan-En Naroon.

2

As she stood waiting for the commencement of this latest iniquitous Rite of Abjection, Shan's thoughts turned back to her own torturous journey to the service of Thaz Ekai...and her soul-sworn oath to personally kill the deity's chosen prophet.

3

Even as a small child, growing up in the sedate village of Faz-Shal, along the remote southern coast of Majeer, Shan-En Naroon had been cognizant of her exceptional beauty.

How often had the girl overheard her mother's friends heap effusive praise on Shan? "You are blessed by the divine creator, Kasande. Your daughter is truly one of Thaz Ekai's gifts to the world."

Growing up on her father's expansive date and olive grove plantation, Shan believed that the divine loved his daughters as he did his sons and her beauty was an expression of that love.

Years later, she would be painfully disabused of that fatuous notion. Ekaz Azeer would declare that female beauty was the despoiler's tool, an instrument honed to sow chaos and discord in the world of men. Yet, with the shadow of this terrible revelation still years distant, Shan grew to womanhood, secure in the certainty that her beauty was proof of her god's favor and benevolence.

On her fourteenth name day, Shan had stood in the grand dining hall of the Naroon estate, while her father, Tazir, had offered a toast in honor of her name day. As he'd lifted his goblet of Naseen...an olive-accented liquor favored by the nobility of Southern Majeer...tears had glistened in his dark eyes. "In all humility and gratitude, I offer a toast of thanks to Thaz Ekai for blessing me with this daughter, Shan-En Naroon, now come to womanhood on this, her fourteenth name day."

Gesturing toward his wife, Tazir had further remarked, "It has been said that my beloved wife, Kasande Naroon, is the Emerald of Majeer, but even she will agree that our precious daughter must surely be the diamond of Majeer...a diamond whose radiance and magnitude are without equal beneath the divine's blessed sky."

The guests had stood to applaud the young beauty, raising a lusty cry that evoked a chill in Shan, who was abruptly struck by the first of the harrowing epiphanies that would come to define her life. She could feel the collective weight of every eye upon her. Even her own father regarded her with eyes that were glazed with avarice.

For all of her enormous beauty...or more succinctly, because of it...Shan-En Naroon was nothing more than an object...a commodity to be coveted or jealously possessed. Who she was...the inherent soul that resided within her temple of exquisitely crafted flesh...was of no more consequence than the nature of a breeding stallion. Less perhaps.

She would be sought after, not for the sharpness of her intellect or the appeal of her wit and charm, but rather for the pleasing amalgam of features. Her worth would be measured much in the way one would appraise the value of a decorative vase, a finely crafted table or an expensive rug.

And while this epiphany brought with it the enormous and incisive pain of disillusionment, it did not possess the faculty to shatter Shan-En Naroon's spirit.

'I am made of sterner stuff!' Shan told herself then...a mantra that she would utter all too frequently in the coming years; an incantation to ward the beauty against the pervasive evil that would assail her.

Thus, Shan raised her chin and drew back her shoulders and shook out her mass of red hair that fell in layered waves to a point at the center of her lower back and shimmered like polished fire. She raised her slender arms...long and well-fashioned...in acknowledgement of this new reality that would govern her life. Her already prominent breasts stood proudly forth, and her turgid nipples poked at the thin fabric of her midnight blue translucent silk blouse. She beamed a beguiling smile that made her dark green eyes glitter like peridots.

Sweeping her gaze about the room, Shan discerned how those frank gazes of appraisal grew all the more incisive with her provocative display.

'Let the dazzling object you see before you blind you to the truth of who I am...and what I desire,' she thought defiantly...a powerful assertion that would come to define the woman she would become.

Less than three months after her fourteenth name day, Tazir Naroon informed Shan that she was betrothed to Izak Musan, governor of Southern Majeer and one of the wealthiest men beneath Thaz Ekai's infinite sky. Shan recalled how she had listened dispassionately while her father had enthusiastically described the prestige and influence the Naroon name would garner through this union with a man whom Shan had never met...a man, she would soon discover, who was thirty-five years her senior.

Shan had not shed a single tear on the morning she was ushered into the carriage that Izak Musan had dispatched to collect his new bride. The carriage would lead a procession of four carts that would convey Shan's dowry, along with a dozen heavily armed guards...an intimidating escort dispatched to protect Musan's new treasure.

Kasande Naroon's piteous wailing had filled the courtyard, rising like a plea to the pristine blue sky...only to fall on deaf ears. Shan had risked one quick glance through the rear window of the carriage as it had gathered speed along the cobbled drive.

Kasande's lovely face was buried in her hands and her body shook in response to her unrestrained sobbing.

Tazir stood off to one side, oblivious to his wife's consuming grief and though it may have been a figment of her imagination, it seemed that her father's dark eyes were alight in anticipation of the wealth this transaction would surely generate.

Shan had then turned her eyes forward and had not looked back...that final image of grief juxtaposed against greed would be the last one she would ever have of her parents upon whom she would never set eyes again.

During the three-day journey to Musan's isolated coastal estate, Shan had stared fixedly at the seemingly endless expanse of green ocean. Though never a capricious girl by nature, Shan could not help but wonder what lay beyond the distant horizon or what it would be like to be a gull, free to sail on the thermal currents, unconstrained by proprietary demands that accompanied being a beautiful object.

Where once Tazir Naroon's plantation had seemed lavish, Shan now realized that it was positively dowdy when juxtaposed against the opulent grandeur of Izak Musan's sprawling cliff top estate. The grounds of the governor's estate were simply breathtaking...a tasteful blend of sandstone fountains, manicured trees and paths lined with highly polished white stone. Through all of this flowed a series of channeled streams...as if there was no particular dearth of water beyond the walls of this estate.

When the carriage finally rolled to a halt, a footman, attired in dun-colored, sleeveless tunic and loose trousers, ushered Shan into the courtyard. Before Shan had the opportunity to view the façade and exterior grounds around the front of the building, a tall woman, veiled in a royal blue tendra, gripped her left wrist and gently but firmly whisked her through the huge arched doors.

The interior of Musan's estate was dimly lit and blessedly cool; a relief from the cloyingly oppressive heat of the carriage. Shan quickly became disoriented as her escort silently led her through a labyrinth of halls and staircases, past a seemingly endless succession of rooms that were stunningly appointed, but unoccupied...as if human presence might somehow compromise their grandeur.

The whirlwind abruptly ended as the escort led Shan into a plant and frond choked atrium, dominated by a massive fountain adorned by a bronze sea nymph, who gushed streams of water from her nipples and womanhood. Shan gaped openly at this lascivious rendering, but the statuesque escort guided her to an ornate wooden bench and bid her to be seated. "Wait here. Master Musan has been informed of your arrival and will attend you shortly."

With this, the escort moved to withdraw, but paused by the entrance to the atrium and inclined her chin in Shan's direction. "You truly are a beautiful creature." After a momentary pause, she added, "and a fitting replacement."

Then she was gone in a flutter of billowing robes, leaving a perplexed Shan staring after her, mystified by her final remark.

Mere moments later, Izak Musan entered the atrium, his leather sandals slapping loudly on the tiled floor. Musan was a corpulent man on the verge of turning fifty, who appeared soft and frangible...from his gout-twisted toes to the swaying jowls of his multiple chins. His head was large and bulbous, crowned by a ring of white, wispy hair. Sweat glistened on his bald pate, in the hollows of his eyes and along his pouting upper lip. Shan's nose detected the slight undercurrent of sour sweat, masked, but not fully banished, by the cloying perfume he wore.

'You are betrothed to this swine of a man,' Shan realized with welling horror, 'and he will have you in his bed.'

Dread panic seized her then and for the first time since she'd experienced the epiphany on her name day, Shan-En Naroon's composure came close to fracturing. She was within a heartbeat of open and foolhardy flight when her eyes found his.

Izak Musan's eyes were not those of a fat, indolent man who had succumbed to his every excess. They were the diamond hard eyes of a ruthless viper. They were the cold eyes of a creature who would have absolutely no tolerance for perceived slight or insult.

If Shan fled...and if by the grace of some improbable miracle, she managed to actually escape...she could be unequivocally certain that Musan would crush house Naroon to bloody flecks of dust for the affront to his reputation.

'But should I even care?' she wondered briefly. After all, it had been her own father who had condemned her to this fate. Then, that final glimpse of a wailing, inconsolable Kasande Naroon bloomed in her mind's eye...a mother who had loved her unremittingly. Shan's defiance would sign her mother's death warrant and so a glacial calm descended on the girl and she embraced it willingly...even managing a deferential bow.

Izak began to circle his new acquisition, his eyes slowly traversing the enticing topography of her nubile body. As inexperienced as she was, Shan could still discern that Musan's gaze was devoid of lust...the cold regard of a pragmatist assessing his latest prize.

"Disrobe." The single imperative was delivered in a tone that made it explicitly clear that total compliance was fully expected.

'Remember, Shan...you are an ornate vase...a finely-crafted table. A commodity to be examined for defects,' she reminded herself and quickly removed her clothing. She stood with her back straight and her chin raised slightly for his consideration; her expression inscrutable as he poked, squeezed and hefted her flesh.

After what seemed like an eternity, he stepped back with the smallest hint of a smile playing at his lips. "Your father is an obsequious, preening goat, but even he did not do full justice to your splendor. You may put your clothes on."

Suppressing a sigh of relief, Shan quickly complied, while Musan stood watching her with those disconcertingly frank eyes. "As my future wife, you would do well to know that there are three things I fully expect of you: respect, loyalty and obedience. Should you fail to meet my expectations in any of these areas, your failure will be met with harsh and immediate consequences."

Even years later, Shan would never know how she had mustered the temerity to reply, "And, as my future husband, can I expect the same from you?"

The pronounced report of flesh on flesh rang in the chambers of her skull like a clanging bell. Musan was deceptively quick for a man of his considerable girth and the sharp blow rocked her head back on the thin stalk of her neck. Shan tottered, but she steadfastly refused to fall or give Musan the satisfaction of seeing her raise a hand to her stinging cheek. Instead, they stood with their gazes locked like duelists until finally, Musan uttered an amused chuckle. "I see you have spirit...a good quality in measured portion. To a certain extent, you can dictate the type of life you live while under my roof. Meet my clearly defined expectations and you may live like a pampered queen. Defy me and you will swiftly come to envy the most abject beggar."

Conjuring her most deferential smile, Shan bowed to her future husband. "Nyra will escort you to your quarters, where you may rest. Later, she will help you prepare for this evening's meal. Over supper, you and I will speak of the future nuptials. I have assigned Nyra to your service. Your desire will be her duty...within reason."

"Nyra is...a slave, then?" Shan inquired tentatively, disquieted by the idea that she would be attended to by a woman who had lost her fundamental freedom.

Izak Musan's eyes narrowed, his expression growing as hard and cold as an assassin's razor. "Actually, she is my wife, though as of this moment, Nyra is to be your personal servant...tasked with help preparing you to assume her role."

"Your...wife?" Shan managed, though her voice was a papery exhalation, resonating with bewilderment and dismay. Musan merely watched her, a twinkle of wry amusement capering in those abhorrent eyes.

As though summoned by thought alone, Nyra Musan materialized like a wraith and knelt, abeyant, next to her new mistress. Shan's incredulous gaze shifted from the abject woman at her feet to the man who was to be her husband...though slave master would have been a far more fitting title.

The second of Shan-En Naroon's great epiphanies struck her then...a will-leeching portrait of her distant future. When years in the service of this repulsively obese swine had consumed the last vestiges of her youthful beauty, she, too, would be set aside like a used-up slattern and given over to serve another wretched creature whose youthful charms were more enticing.

4

"Matron?" the single word roused her from her reverie, banishing the old reminiscences like a thin mist in a gale. Shan frowned, perturbed for having allowed the ancient and pointless memories to have distracted her.

"Matron?" the voice spoke again, this time with the stirring of impatient ire.

The Matron of Thaz Ekai's Rha-Sheem offered Ekaz Azeer a deep, deferential bow. "I apologize, most blessed...I was distracted."

Azeer's eyes narrowed as he gazed at his matron, a speculative expression set on his handsome face. Shan forced herself to meet that measured regard...her own expression a portrait of impassivity. Revealing one's emotions before the prophet was never a prudent thing.

"Are today's lot ready to repent?" Azeer inquired softly.

'As ready as any woman facing permanent disfigurement can be,' Shan thought bitterly, but instead replied, "They are prepared and eager to accept the divine's generous mercy."

The prophet smiled and signaled for the Rite of Abjection to begin.

A single trumpeter stood next to the far end of the long dais. Upon a sign from Shan, he raised the long, slender instrument to his lips and sounded one single note. The mournful tone rose and echoed across the sprawling expanse and an instant later, the first of the day's chosen began to file through a narrow door that was recessed deep into the foundation of Enom-Zhar. Shan knew all too well that the door led down into the darkened cells and interrogation chambers of the great edifice.

Slowly, the procession of women (there would be seventy three in all, Shan knew) made their way across the sun-bleached cobbles, squinting against the harsh glare that was made all the more intense by weeks spent in near total darkness. The women wore identical, rough-spun gray robes, tattered and soiled with bodily waste and dried blood. Even from this distance, Shan's nostrils flared in reaction to the stench of unwashed flesh intermingled with a deeper reek of intense fear.

She shifted her gaze slightly to the spot where the four canons and their prophet stood, watching the procession approach. Each sported identical expressions of smug condescension and disdain for the shambling human wreckage, causing Shan's hatred to flare like a black flame, though her expression remained impassive.

The women began to totter up the steps and form a line along the dais, facing north. Shan could clearly see some measure of apprehension in every eye, along with the stigma of shame that comes with prolonged abjection. These women had suffered every conceivable humiliation before finally confessing to their collusion with the despoiler, thus accepting this bitter chance at absolution.

The Matron also understood that...for every shell of a woman who stood on this platform, perhaps ten had succumbed to the ravages of Enom-Zhar.

Now, a sizable crowd of men had assembled to witness this spectacle of humiliation...adorned in the false vestments of sacred ritual.

Ekaz Azeer stepped forward and raised his muscular arms, resplendent in the silver robe that appeared to produce an argent glow beneath the desert sun. An immediate hush descended upon the gathering and Thaz Ekai's prophet began to speak. "These women stand humbly before the divine, having confessed their grievous sins with sincere contrition. They had asked the maker of all things to lead them from beneath the despoiler's foul shadow and into his blessed light. Their transgressions are great, but so too is the divine's capacity to forgive...if the desire to repent is genuine."

Azeer swept an arm in the direction of the women and every male eye turned to consider the wretched creatures who stood awaiting this charade of deliverance.

Though Azeer's voice resonated through the great square with an undeniable power, it was possessed of a serenity that could calm the multitudes, yet enthrall them, nonetheless. That apparent contradiction was mesmerizing, even to Shan, who was all too cognizant of the hollow evil echoing through the deranged prophet's words.

"These women have accepted their guilt and begged Thaz Ekai for absolution and that wish has been granted with this opportunity to join his warrior daughters...the Rha-Sheem...to cast off their iniquitous past and scour the despoiler's corruption from the world."

Suddenly, he produced an ornate dagger with a curving, triangular blade that swept to a wicked tip. The blade had been designed to produce a furrow in anything that fell beneath its edge. The appearance of the blade evoked a collective sigh from those gathered about the dais...as if they truly were witnessing a divine act and not an atrocity.

He moved purposefully across the dais, the argent robe shimmering like a diamond, and extended the blade toward Shan. She extended her leanly muscled right arm without hesitation, biting back on the wave of nausea that accosted her each and every time she accepted this vile instrument. Azeer was the divine prophet, after all, and it was inconceivable that he would sully his hands with this vulgar task. Thus, this most odious of tasks was left to her...a perverse cruelty so depraved that Shan could scarcely fathom the mind that contrived it.

Still, she was the Matron of the Rha-Sheem, mother of the wayward and reclaimed. This part of the accursed ritual was hers to enact.

Shan moved briskly to the center of the line; the dagger clutched tightly in her right hand. There, she came to an abrupt halt, her green eyes sweeping along the line of broken, terrified women, many of whom had begun to weep openly. The Matron's own disfigured face reflected none of her inner turmoil...only a cold and remorseless implacability. Again, she vowed that these would be the last eyes that Azeer would peer into on the day she took her vengeance for the evil he had wrought upon the women of Majeer!

"Remove your robes!" Shan instructed, her toneless voice ringing across the vast square. "Strip off the filthy vestments of your past lives and be reborn into divine Thaz Ekai's service."

The women lethargically pulled the filthy bits of clothing over their heads and dropped them at their feet, standing naked before the leering crowd. Each bore the deep bruises and bloody scars of their time beneath Enom-Zhar.

Another brisk gesture from the matron and a line of robed and hooded figures seemed to materialize out of the shimmering heat, each bearing a two handled earthen jug. Moving quickly and efficiently, despite their burden, one of the figures came to stand directly behind each of the naked women.

"You have accepted Thaz Ekai's mercy...now be cleansed in the purifying waters and washed clean of all past transgressions," Shan declared in a voice devoid of any discernable emotion.

With this, the robed figures upended the contents of their jugs over the heads of the trembling women, the warm, soapy water sluicing away grime and sweat as a metaphor for the washing clean of purported sins.

The women then stood awaiting the final terrible act of this dark drama, dripping water pooling around their feet as the very air around the dais thickened with expectant fear. Shan's thoughts were inevitably drawn back to the moment of intense terror she had experienced when she face the looming prospect of her own disfigurement. Though that awful juncture was indelibly carved into her memory, it lacked the requisite power to still her hand now. There was not the slightest intimation of a quaver in Shan's voice as she spoke the last harrowing phrases of this evil rite.

"Thaz Ekai is a forgiving god, but even forgiveness must be had at a price...a gesture to bestow value and meaning upon its granting. To come into the light, you must first willingly set aside the tools of darkness. As you stand on the edge of glorious rebirth, will you set aside these dark instruments?"

With no small measure of reluctance, seventy-two voices croaked their acceptance. Near the far end of the dais, a single woman did not speak, and Shan felt her heart plummet in her chest.

With the fluid grace of one who has no compunction about spilling blood, the robe figure assigned to this particular woman drew a small dirk. Stepping lithely forward, the figure plunged its left hand into the woman's hair and jerked her head back to expose her bulging throat. One swift pass of the lethal blade and a gout of blood spewed across the pristine surface of the dais in a shockingly brilliant crimson fan.

The thick, gurgling cry of negation that issued from the woman's cracked, scab-covered lips was impossibly loud in the expectant silence.

Before she could collapse to the alabaster floor, the robed figure tugged her upright and then disdainfully cast her still twitching body to the cobbles at the base of the dais.

Cries and hoots of derision arose from the mob as many of the closest members spit on the corpse. Shan watched in horrified fascination as one man sprang forward, lifted his robe and urinated copiously on the naked woman...his repulsive act of desecration greeted with enthusiastic cheers.

Shan averted her eyes from the grim spectacle to see Azeer and his four canons nodding their simultaneous approval.

Shan-En Naroon had endured every manner of degradation in the years since leaving her home and she had conditioned herself to suffer her abasement with stoic dignity. She even fortified herself against the soul-scarring process of systematically disfiguring thousands of women (62,321 to be precise). Yet, watching this uncouth swine urinate on a murdered woman, while the country's self-proclaimed religious elite gazed on in smiling approval, came perilously close to shattering her mantle of composure.

She was supremely confident that she could slaughter the four loathsome canons in a fluid dervish before the guards could even grasp what was transpiring. Yet, while opening their throats would be an exquisite pleasure, this impulsive act would ultimately be self-destructive and futile as Azeer was invulnerable while he wore the argent robe.

To still her hand, she bit the inside of her cheek hard enough to draw blood. The pain was immense, but it succeeded in banishing her desire to strike. To kill Azeer, she would first have to devise a means of separating him from his devil's armor. If she died before ending his miserable life, she would never be absolved of her culpability for his monstrous acts of evil...and her eternal torment would be unthinkable.

The piteous creature was already forgotten as Azeer strode briskly to the center of the dais and addressed his eager rabble. "Before these wretched creatures can wear the uniform of the Rha-Sheem, they must eschew the guise of the despoiler. Matron Shan-En Naroon's resolute and unfaltering hand will guide these women on the final steps to redemption."

Azeer inclined his handsome face in her direction, his radiant smile a signal that her role in this dark charade was at hand.

Shan nodded and made her way quickly to the far end of the line, her peridot eyes conveying nothing of the churning revulsion and self-abhorrence boiling in her stomach like bile.

She came to stand before a statuesque, winsome woman, whose eyes were ablaze with a roiling storm of conflicting emotions: terror, resignation and finally, defiant enmity. Shan met that gaze unblinkingly, her own regard bereft of any discernable emotions.

"Here begins your passage to redemption. Do you, of your own volition, accept his most generous gift, daughter?" Shan demanded, her voice cold and mechanical.

"I do!" the woman replied adamantly, playing her role in this cruel farce, though her eyes made it eminently clear that she would gladly tear Shan's throat out with her teeth.

'This one's spirit is smoldering hate and black flame...and it shall endure,' Shan thought, but managed to stifle the ugly grin that wanted to twist her generous mouth.

"Then Thaz Ekai grants you merciful absolution," Shan intoned solemnly and nodded to the robed figure who stood directly behind the initiate. The figure proffered a small earthen bowl that contained a black, viscous liquid that shimmered beneath the harsh Majeeri sun. Carefully, Shan submerged the triangular blade in the liquid.

A local apothecary had created Mgellinum specifically for this dark ritual. Shan understood that...had it not such a heinous purpose...this concoction would have been a truly miraculous substance. The indelible black dye also possessed anesthetic properties and warded the flesh against infection. It had been Shan who had implored Azeer to allow this concoction to be utilized in the ritual. To her surprise, he had concurred, though this rare display of compassion did virtually nothing to attenuate her black hatred for the monster. He was, after all, doing nothing more than protecting his lethal tools.

Still, the women who had undergone the ritual since Shan had won her concession, did not suffer the intense physical pain that the Matron, herself, had endured when her beauty had been defaced.

Again, Shan nodded, and the figure gathered the initiate's wet hair into a bunch and pulled it away from her face, exposing a visage that was structurally perfect. The woman's flawless olive skin appeared to glow beneath the harsh glare of the sun, despite her prolonged period of abjection.

Deftly raising the blade, Shan placed the curving tip on the pliable skin at a point where the woman's left cheek bone met the top of her ear lobe.

The woman stiffened, a wounded hiss escaping her full lips. Shan hesitated and peered at the initiate, whose shallow respiration was now coming in ragged bursts. Her deep green eyes were fraught with terror. Inclining her mouth toward the frightened woman's ear, Shan intoned softly, "Thaz Ekai's strength be with you. There will be no pain, daughter. This I vow on my life."

Both the initiate and her shadow reacted to this oath with wide-eyed surprise. Shan glared balefully at the robed figure, who quickly bowed his head. Fear continued to radiate from the statuesque beauty, but the cadence of her breathing had settled...if only marginally.

Pleased with this minute gesture of solace, Shan set about the distasteful task of mutilation. The skin parted with little resistance, but only a single droplet of blood fell to the dais floor as the Mgellinum swiftly worked its magic.

Deftly, with an unwavering hand, The Matron scribed a stylized, curving arc that ran from the ear to a point near the bridge of the nose, before curving away to terminate at the hinge of the jaw. She then repeated the process, creating the reverse mirror image on the opposite side of the initiate's face.

Dipping the blade once again, Shan completed this black work of art by inscribing a slightly shallower line that bisected the curve, running from the corner of each eye to a point along the jaw line.

Struggling to quell her roiling stomach, Shan stepped back to consider her efforts, which were geometrically precise. Apparently, the hand wielding the blade did not share her mind's aversion to the art of disfigurement...a tiny mercy for the long procession of women who fell under that hand.

The brand stretched across the beautiful initiate's face in runnels that were a narrow finger width deep and almost as wide. The dye had set before the final flourish was complete...a stark black against the vital olive skin.

Later, when the women (those who would survive the brutally rigorous training that loomed before them) reached the rarified height of elite blade wielder, they would be allowed to dye those scars the color of their choosing.

Shan-En Naroon had dyed the curving segments the deepest red of heart's blood. Each time she glanced in the mirror, she would be reminded of her unwavering vow to bury her blade in Azeer's diabolical heart.

The tall initiate trembled like a sapling before a biting wind and fearing that she would simply collapse, thus earning the prophet's lethal scorn, Shan embraced the woman in powerful arms that kept her upright. She held her for what seemed like an eternity, until the woman regained enough of her shattered equilibrium to stand on her own.

Shan quickly retreated two paces and mouthed the final segment of the rite. "You are now a daughter of the Rha-Sheem...Thaz Ekai's poised blade. I welcome you back into the light, daughter. Don these vestments and become a living vessel of his glory."

The robed figure then produced the leather boots and uniform of an accepted daughter, which the newly elevated woman received with trembling hands.

As Shan watched the woman don the reviled uniform of systematic degradation, she stole a brief glance at Azeer. The prophet's amber brown eyes were fixed squarely upon her and were narrowed into speculative slits. His four canons wore dutifully similar expressions of disapproval.

'Your moment of perceived weakness has been duly noted and will be called into question,' she discerned, chastising herself for allowing the mantle to slip...however slightly.

Shan repeated the vile process seventy one times over the course of the dreadful afternoon. Not once did her delicate touch falter, nor was there a single recurrence of an outward expression of compassion or empathy. In the end, seventy two more women entered the ranks of the Rha-Sheem...where they would be honed to a lethal edge, the very tip of Thaz Ekai's spear of judgment.

'Or rather, the killing edge of the dagger that shall open Ekaz Azeer's throat when the opportunity allows,' Shan thought with a malice that did not touch her impassive face.

As the ceremony of infamy ended and the crowd dispersed, Shan watched as the new daughters marched toward the training compound that would be their new home. Many cast furtive, baleful glances at Enom-Zhar, grateful that they had survived their time in the edifice of evil. Though their futures would not be without misery or tribulation, their status as Rha-Sheem would grant them a level of privilege and respect that no other woman in Majeer would hope to attain.

'Is this the lie you tell yourself to assuage your guilt for your culpability in this enduring nightmare?' Shan grimaced, recognizing the reproachful voice of Kasande Naroon. How she missed her mother and wondered if she yet lived or had she, too, fallen victim to the pernicious scourge that had seen so many Majeeri women to their graves. Shan gave thanks that Kasande had never witnessed how her only daughter had fallen so low.

"Matron." The voice was soft and deceptively placid. Shan allowed her mask of deference to fall back into place as she turned to face the prophet.

He was striding across the dais with his canons trailing after him like a legion of shadows. Dutifully, she fell to one knee and bowed her head. When he came to a halt before her, she automatically bent and kissed the sandal of his right foot. After a moment, he gave her leave to stand. "Matron, you will attend a conclave of the generals tonight. I would have your thoughts on the preparedness of the Rha-Sheem."

Her only reaction was a slight widening of her dark green eyes and a flaring of her nostrils. Internally, however, her mind was a turbulent storm of speculation.

'Is he truly ready to export his perverse brand of faith to these foreign shores?' she wondered, conflicted by the prospect. Shan had a vow that Azeer would never again set foot on the sands of Majeer if he ever ventured forth to spread his diseased religion.

Azeer bent forward and gripping her leanly muscled shoulders, brought his mouth to her ear and whispered, "Bathe and rest this afternoon, Shan. I would have you in my bed tonight...once the conclave is concluded."

Shan nodded and even managed to muster a fawning smile of gratitude. He laid a hand on her upturned forehead in the manner of a deity bestowing a blessing on the wayward. Then, he turned and strode away, leaving his kneeling matron to linger. When the five had vanished into Enom-Zhar, Shan rose and gazed blearily about El-Sharom's now deserted square.

Only then did she allow a malefic grin to rise to her generous mouth. Azeer had no idea that he was allowing a deadly viper to share his bed.

As she strode toward the Rha-Sheem training compound, Shan chuckled softly. If she could concoct a way to divest Azeer of that damnable robe, she could perhaps forestall an insane war that would see the violent death of so many of her sisters.

If so, her forthcoming debasement would be well worth the cost.

Chapter Thirty-Five

1

"This grows tedious," Lorio muttered sourly as Karosyn and the battle mage drew abreast of the Lamish Queen and reined their horses to a halt. Lorio noticed that the reins of Issidris' horse were now tied to the pommel of the battle mage's saddle. Undoubtedly, the deadly Il had slipped into the forest with the intention of surprising the figure now obstructing the road, should violence erupt. Seeing this Issidris Il unleashed was a prospect that Lorio anticipated with great relish.

She returned her attention to the man now obstructing their path. He sat on a black charger in the middle of the King's road, casually leaning forward with his forearm on the pommel of his saddle. His dark blond hair flowed over the collar of his tunic like spun gold, framing a face that was quite possibly the most beautiful male countenance that the Lamish Queen had ever set eyes upon...with the possible exception of her Captain Esuruban. His piercing blue eyes were locked upon hers in a brazen manner that bordered on impudence. That challenging gaze ignited the darker, wanton fires of her tempestuous nature and she suddenly found that she wanted to drag him from his saddle and wipe that insolent smirk from his face.

'He must be of Suran birth,' she told herself, fascinated by the beautiful stranger, despite the annoyance of his arrogant presumption. Suran produced men and women of eerie beauty, but most were artisans of some manner. This fellow's demeanor...not to mention the crossed hilts at his shoulders...declared him to be a practitioner of an altogether different form of art.

In a voice dripping with ire and menace, Lorio demanded, "Remove yourself from our path at once."

The man's infuriating grin broadened, and he straightened in his saddle, while spreading his arms in a gesture of placation. Ten paces to his rear, Issidris stepped onto the cobbled roadway, with her hood pulled back and her wicked hooked swords drawn.

"He is alone," she declared flatly, her gaze fixed squarely upon the solitary rider.

The stranger glanced over his shoulder and upon seeing the woman poised to deliver lethal violence, his grin faltered slightly.

"By the Land of Shades, what a fearsome beast. Woe to the poor fellow who tries to steal a kiss from that wench."

Behind Lorio, Lyndsyn snarled, but the Matrium placed a restraining hand on her shoulder. Despite her best intentions, Lorio felt a grin spread across her face. "She is every bit as deadly as her appearance suggests. I will ask you again...remove yourself from our path lest you wish to find yourself a gelding."

An aggrieved expression pained the stranger's handsome face, but he coaxed his charger over to the east side of the roadway. "You misconstrue my purpose, good lady...or should I say, your majesty."

Lorio tensed and she demanded tightly, "You know who I am?"

The stranger slid lithely from his horse and took three steps toward Lorio. His foot had yet to fall for a fourth when he felt the incisive press of steel against his neck. He stopped abruptly, his body growing rigid. Somehow the woman had closed the distance between them without stirring even the slightest whisper of sound. He allowed his hands to settle to his sides even as beads of perspiration bloomed on his forehead.

Despite the immediacy of his peril, the stranger managed to maintain an air of calm when he spoke. "You are the legendary Lorio, Lamia's warrior queen...and I am Reyfort, a humble man who has traveled the length of Emercia to offer my oath of fealty and pledge myself to your service."

"Judging by your arrogant smirk, I would doubt that you have even a passing familiarity with the concept of humility," Lorio intoned sardonically. "As you've been shown, I have no need of protection and so you may go on your way."

She nodded to Issidris, who removed blades from Reyfort's neck and retreated a pace. Reyfort glanced uneasily at Il before turning his attention back to the exotic beauty and with mounting panic he saw that she might well reject his offer of service and had little illusion about how Xhendyn would react to his failure. "My Queen, because your viper took advantage of my benevolent nature, do not construe that to signify a lack of competence with my blades. Besides which, there are many ways in which I might serve you."

The mischievous twinkle in his blue eyes prompted Lorio to gracefully slide from her saddle. Her painful encounter with Xhendyn had cautioned her against over-confidence and she retrieved her quarterstaff before crossing over to Reyfort. "Even if I was inclined to allow you to accompany us, how precisely would you serve me, Reyfort?"

"For one, I am a gregarious fellow, jovial by nature and blessed with a keen wit...certainly more engaging than this dour lot with whom you now keep company," Reyfort boasted with a confident grin. "I have other talents that I am certain you would find immensely pleasing."

After a weighty pause, he shifted that arrogant regard to the two mounted sisters and intoned, "I see these two are comely wenches...perchance they serve the needs of flesh as well?"

Karosyn reacted with an indignant frown of distaste, while the volatile Lyndsyn leapt from her horse and raised her right hand as a crackling ball of blue flame coalesced in her cupped palm.

Unexpectedly, the battle mage's face contorted into a mask of shock and surprise and the burgeoning flame was abruptly extinguished. As she shook her hand, Lyndsyn's head snapped back toward the Matrium, who was regarding her with an uncharacteristically withering frown. An obvious moment of unspoken communication passed between the pair and Lyndsyn meekly bowed her head and returned to her horse, but not before casting a baleful glare at an amused Reyfort.

'She looks very much like a spoiled brat who has been chastised by a normally doting parent,' Lorio thought, wondering why she derived so much pleasure from the notion. She returned her attention to Reyfort, unable to suppress the radiant grin that his unexpected wry sense of humor evoked. "I'll have you know that Karosyn is a woman of unassailable virtue, who would never debase herself by reveling in the pleasures of the flesh. As to the other combative sister...if your cock found its way into her glacial cavern...it would likely blacken and fall off."

She glanced back over her shoulder to see Karosyn regarding her with open consternation while a scarlet-faced battle mage appeared on the verge of apoplexy. A quick glance at Issidris, who stood inscrutable and unmoving, as if divorced from the melodrama of the moment, revealed a sad truth that withered Lorio's spiteful mirth.

'She cares nothing for Lyndsyn...who is merely the voice who commands her,' Lorio gleaned, feeling an unexpected eruption of intense pity for the sister. 'She views her the way a tool might view the man who wields it.'

"You amuse me, Reyfort...and there have been scant few occasions for amusement in my life of late. You may accompany me," she declared in a sudden somber voice. Her gaze drank in his masculine beauty from head to toe and she quipped, "Perhaps I could contrive a way that you might be of service to me."

"Good Queen, a private word if you would," Karosyn intoned even as she dismounted her horse and strode several paces back along the rough cobbles. Lorio offered Reyfort a conspiratorial wink and gestured him back to his charger before moving to follow the Matrium.

Turning away, she did not see the expression of intense relief that rippled across Reyfort's pleasing features. As he returned back to his horse, his gaze fell upon the daunting Issidris Il and that expression of relief congealed into a moue of distaste.

'Just what exactly have I allowed myself to become embroiled in?' the rogue wondered dismally as he mounted his charger.

When Karosyn felt certain that she was out of earshot of the others, she pivoted to confront the approaching Lamish Queen. Normally patient to a fault, if the Ascentrix was to be believed, the Matrium found herself both vexed and bewildered by the volatile queen's erratic and salacious behavior.

Lorio offered the tall blond a thin, discerning smile, cognizant of the other woman's radiating displeasure. "I take it that I've earned your disapproval?"

"On the night that you attempted to assassinate my Ascentrix, you swore a solemn oath that you would not deliberately harm or provoke Lyndsyn. Am I to take it that your vow holds no currency?" Karosyn rasped in a low, urgent voice, informing Lorio that the woman was, indeed, livid.

Lorio fetched a deep sigh and shook her head before offering the Matrium a contrite half-smile. "Your anger is justified, and I apologize. If you spend enough time in my company, you will have many occasions to learn that I am seriously flawed. Still, in the matter of Lyndsyn, I will strive to honor my vow from this moment forth." After a moment's hesitation, she added, "You do realize that Issidris Il will shatter Lyndsyn's fragile heart, don't you, Karosyn...a blow from which she may not recover?"

Karosyn frowned and shifted her concerned gaze back to the complex battle mage. Distantly, she remarked, "That is the one eventuality that I cannot ward her against. She is drawn to Issidris' dark flame and nothing can dissuade her."

The Matrium shook her head in an unconscious gesture of regret before her concern for Lorio's own erratic behavior stole into those lovely blue eyes. "You cannot seriously be considering allowing this wretched man to accompany us?"

Lorio arched a finely tapered eyebrow. "Oh, but I am. The diversion from this incessant grimness will be welcome." She leaned closer and offered the Matrium a lewd wink. "He is a gorgeous creature who I have every intention of mounting at the next inn we come upon."

Karosyn grimaced, clearly shocked and offended by Lorio's vulgar manner. Lorio laughed wickedly and inquired, "Come now, you are a beautiful woman that most men would kill to possess. Surely you must crave strong arms and a hard cock with which to pass the night on occasion?"

"You are a queen and yet you conduct yourself like a common slattern!" Karosyn breathed disdainfully.

"I am no more a queen than yon Issidris...probably less so because I have no shame overindulging the wanton aspect of my nature. Have you not noticed the way that King Artumas peers at you, Karosyn? He would gladly take you to his bed if you gave him even the slightest sign that you are amenable," Lorio observed...uttering a contention that would prove to be prophetic.

Karosyn started to respond, but fell silent and her complexion deepened to a hectic shade of red. She averted her gaze to her hands and mumbled, "A sister may find her way into the king's bed and heart, but it will not be me."

In this blunt admission, Lorio discerned an echo of wistful regret in Karosyn's voice. She scowled ruefully as the terrible implications of this disclosure resolved in her mind.

'She means it to be Lissom, as if it was her preordained intention,' Lorio realized with no small degree of apprehension at the prospect.

Karosyn shook her head and frowned as if castigating herself for entertaining such whimsical notions. "I implore you to reconsider, Lorio. We know nothing of this man or his motivation for imposing himself in our path. He has an unsavory look that I dislike. Do you not realize that we are riding with the hopes of the world on our shoulders? That you would complicate matters over...over a sordid coupling is both incomprehensible and irresponsible." After a moment, her expression hardened and she declared, "I will not permit you to take such a needless risk."

Lorio's large dark eyes narrowed and her expression assumed that obdurate cast for which she was renowned. "Even as a young girl, I refused to suffer uncompromising imperatives. Islena Doraux, herself, could not beat that particular trait out of me." She leaned closer and brushed Karosyn's honey blond hair away from her right ear and whispered, "I offer you a simple choice...accept Reyfort without your tiresome contention or we part ways here and now. I can return to my rightful place in Lamia and you can slink back to Lissom. It is not unthinkable that she might see your perspective and forgive your failure."

Lorio drew back a pace and offered the clearly exasperated Matrium a thin, humorless grin. A part of the Lamish Queen experienced a measure of shame over coercing the noble Karosyn, but not sufficiently so to sway her actions. Sensing the dark beauty's intransigence and knowing that she would make good on her threat to walk away, Karosyn was left with little alternative but to accede to her demands. "This is odious and shameful, but as the advantage is yours, I have no choice but to defer to your decision. If ill fortune should befall us as a consequence of your folly, I swear that I will see you held accountable."

Lorio clapped Karosyn on the right shoulder and with a disdainful smirk, remarked, "My newfound plaything will not impact upon our task...unless, of course, you would like to partake...in which case, I will find a bed that will accommodate the three of us."

With this, Lorio turned and strode away, leaving a thoroughly bewildered Karosyn gaping in her wake. Shaking her head in consternation, Karosyn started back toward her horse.

"She is a petulant child who will be our undoing, mother," Lyndsyn growled through their wordless tether and beneath the enmity, Karosyn could discern the echo of deep concern...which she shared entirely.

"We must be vigilant, daughter," Karosyn returned in an uncharacteristically pensive tone.

In moments, the party gathered and resumed their journey to Dizar Kor. Lorio and Reyfort took the lead, engrossed in light-hearted, decidedly suggestive banter, while the three women followed, their faces identical portraits of inscrutable stone.

2

The indolent crackle of slowly burning kindling was the only sound to be heard in the king's Spartan personal chamber. The mildly hypnotic effect was broken only by the scratch of a quill on paper as Artumas scribbled notes pertaining to the account ledger he presently labored over.

There was something vaguely soothing in the mundane task of reviewing royal ledgers. It bespoke a certain normalcy that had been conspicuously absent over the last six moon cycles. In light of the present situation...the dark shadow poised over Emercia like a killing blade...that sense of normalcy was purely illusory. Still, the beset and weary king would cling to these brief interludes of artificial tranquility while he could.

Reviewing crown expenditures was hardly a glamorous, kingly endeavor, but it did serve to keep the minders of the realm's coin scrupulously honest. Yet, as he applied himself to the review, Artumas would find his eye drawn to the communiqué that sat on the far corner of his writing desk. The single sheet of paper seemed to glare up at him...like a silent condemnation of failure.

Sighing, Artumas snatched up the sheet and read it for perhaps the tenth time since Consul Redrick had delivered it some two bells prior. The Tier Marshal's cold fury seemed to blaze up from the page, beneath which lay the immutable pain that came with learning to live with the fact that her only living relative had been slaughtered in such a deplorable fashion...while under his protection.

Arminda was coming to Nalosan...though it would have been more accurate to say that she was descending upon his capital...along with three cadres of Jerhia cavalry, two cadres of infantry and a cadre of mounted archers. Once in Nalosan, she would enact the articles of the armistice and assume provisional command of the country until the current crisis was resolved to her satisfaction. Her missive also made it explicitly clear that she expected Artumas to provide a full explanation for how Melansa had been murdered so vilely while under his protection.

Artumas allowed the sheet to slip through his fingers as he stroked his graying beard with his left hand. Though it was perfectly within Jerhia's right to do as proscribed by the articles of the armistice and though he had specifically requested the enactment, Artumas was fully aware that many in Emercia would be vociferously opposed to what would widely be construed as an occupation of Emercian soil.

He had knowingly initiated a delicate situation that could potentially explode into violence and chaos if not deftly handled. Tomorrow, he would lay the foundations for a smooth transition. The Jerhia force was still a week away from crossing into Emercia and he would have to use that time wisely to ensure that the arrival and transition occurred without incident.

'And just how do you suppose the Ascentrix will react to the news that an occupying force will soon take up the reins of power in Nalosan?'

The unwelcome thought germinated in his mind like a weed laden with nasty thorns, causing the aging king to grimace. He suddenly pictured himself as a tumbler, walking a thin rope over a lake of fire in a high wind...except, if he should fall, he would not burn alone.

It had been three days since his exchange with Lissom at the Pitted Blade. In that time, he had avoided any contact with the Ascentrix or her Sisters of Esotaria. She had dispatched the daunting Sandalayne to request an audience just yesterday, which  
Artumas had pointedly declined, though precisely why, he could not say with any degree of coherence. He simply needed time away from her enormous, formidable presence.

He was grappling with the complex emotions that had led him to ostracize his sworn ally, when the door to his chamber burst open with a resounding crack.

Startled, heart palpitating wildly in his chest, Artumas leapt to his feet just as Lissom marched across the threshold into his chamber. In the instant before she slammed the door (without actually touching it), Artumas caught a brief glimpse of the two Hands of the Way who had been assigned to guard his chamber. Both stared fixedly into the hall, their faces both impassive and oblivious to the Ascentrix' presence and her dramatic entrance...further testimony to the terrifying sorcerous power the living enigma possessed.

"Even for you, this is an unpardonable presumption," Artumas snarled, but his fury quickly evaporated when his gaze locked on Lissom's deep blue eyes. He saw that she was swathed in the same intense golden corona that had first manifested itself in the audience hall, after Dynok's scurrilous attack on the Sisters' integrity. Something in her demeanor reminded Artumas of a breaking storm at dusk...deadly beauty poised on the edge of lethal violence.

She seemed to float to the desk, her honey blond mane billowing behind her as if stirred by a wind which Artumas could not detect. She wore a silver-gray robe cinched at her tiny waist by an ornate golden chain, the excess of which terminated in a gold and pearl intaglio which depicted the Sisterhood's goddess. Artumas gleaned that the particularly simple vestment nonetheless represented the order's formal regalia.

"I have taken you for a noble king and an honorable man, but I see now that I was sorely mistaken."

Artumas willed himself to remain calm in the face of her monumental fury. He raised his hand in a gesture of appeasement and asked evenly, "Lissom, clearly you are distraught, and I would ask you to tell me why?"

"I am the Ascentrix of the Sisters of Esotaria, Gyzarayne's earthly emissary...and you will address me as such," she erupted, her normally placid voice skirting the edges of hysteria. "Lissom is a name reserved for those who trust and respect me...which clearly you do not."

"Very well...Ascentrix, I will ask again what I have done to rouse you to such flagrant discourtesy."

Lissom glared daggers at the king and that encompassing golden corona flared menacingly. Artumas managed to maintain a mask of neutrality, but the hair at the nape of his neck stood up in response to the frenetic crackle of power that coalesced around the Ascentrix.

"I have just come from consigning five of my daughters into the embrace of their Goddess," she rasped through clenched jaws. "Not one single Emercian was present to bear witness to this solemn rite. Most conspicuously absent was the king of the country they died attempting to defend!"

The flush of shame that spread across Artumas' lined face was both pronounced and genuinely felt, but he managed to not further disgrace himself by averting his gaze. Gravely, he intoned, "I...I was unaware."

Her eyes narrowed and that golden refulgence only grew in magnitude. "I dispatched Sandalayne with an invitation to the ceremony, but for some inexplicable reason, you would not even grant her the courtesy of an audience."

This time the aging king did shift his gaze to his desk, not able to confront the intensity of the accusatory fire in Lissom's blue eyes. "I'm genuinely ashamed and regretful, Ascentrix and you are justly entitled to your indignation. On this issue, I vow that I will make amends. If you will provide me with the names of the five fallen sisters...I will have my masons and stone carvers erect a memorial on the hallowed site of their sacrifice. Their names...and yours, will become a permanent golden thread in the weave of Emercian history."

"A noble gesture," Lissom intoned sharply, though her words echoed with sardonic disdain. Still, Artumas was relieved to see that the surrounding golden energy guttered perceptibly. "The past is beyond retrieval, but if it placates your conscience to erect your memorial, then do so. I have come to inform you of my decision to remove the Sisters of Esotaria from Emercian soil. I have recalled those sisters already dispatched beyond Nalosan. I have also ordered the Sisters, who are helping in the city's recovery, to return to our ships. When the last of those beyond Nalosan's walls return, the Sisters will return to Dortizirian. Karosyn and I will remain in Nalosan until Lorio returns with the bane. She will then divulge the location of the receiver portal and the three of us will set forth to recover the remnant. Once it is in our possession, I will return the bane to his world and Lorio will be free to return to her old life."

"You speak as if neither has any volition in the matter," Artumas observed, wary of her suggestion of heavy-handed intimidation.

"They do not!" Lissom replied, her tone as glacial as her blue eyes, which spoke of ferocious intransigence. "If Lorio will not willingly reveal the location of the portal, I will forcibly extract it from her mind. I derive no pleasure from having to resort to such harsh extremes, but whatever she has suffered, the Queen has been bound by the shackle of fate and must serve its implacable needs. The fate of the world hangs in the balance and the severity of its need will not grant me the luxury of allowing ethical scruples and delicate sensibilities to deter me from rising to its defense."

"That is a lamentable perspective, Ascentrix...and the sorry rhetoric of tyrants throughout the ages," Artumas retorted evenly. "Despicable acts committed in pursuit of the greater good whittle away at moral foundations until the difference between evil and those who would oppose it is so slim as to be indistinguishable. I don't believe this is a path you truly wish to travel. I can tell you, unequivocally, approaching Lorio with a heavy hand will gain you naught."

Lissom greeted this counsel with obvious displeasure and turned away. "The sage offering of an ascendant soul...yet even those words cannot fully encompass the truth of what you are." She turned back to Artumas and her expression had become inscrutable, though that corona of imminent violence had entirely dissipated. "If anyone can speak with authority of iniquitous actions taken in the name of the greater good...none is more qualified than you."

Artumas stiffened, his shoulders growing rigid as his breathing hitched in his chest. Had this unfathomable creature fully divined his true nature...his most carefully harbored secret. Her next utterance was an irrefutable affirmation that she had. "When you and the creature named Islena Doraux conspired to entrap Myrhia in a static prison of her own flesh...confined for eternity, but fully sentient, did you not consign her to a fate of unimaginable cruelty...justified by the remorseless imperative of the greater good?"

A thousand scathing rejoinders flashed through Artumas' mind, but the truth of her contention was inexorable, and he merely fell silent. After a protracted and excruciating silence, he remarked, "I would have you recant your edict, Lissom...and remain in Emercia. I would call you friend and solicit your forgiveness for the grievous insult of not attending your daughters' rite of passage."

Lissom averted her eyes as a fierce scowl furrowed her smooth brow. Artumas rose and came around the table to stand before her. In close proximity, her aura washed over him, with its intimation of power that defied his ability to grasp. Yet, how vulnerable and fragile she appeared as she peered up at him, like a porcelain figurine whose beauty and delicacy were blinding in its magnitude. Despite the compelling desire to take it in his grasp, his hand was stayed by the fear that he might shatter her in his ardor.

'Very much like Myrhia,' Islena's dauntless voice observed. Artumas grimaced and involuntarily retreated a pace. Thus, he came to the inevitable line of demarcation that something in his nature...some intrinsic flaw...would not allow him to cross.

"Please, Lissom, take supper with me and let us labor to see this discord between us be resolved," he offered quietly. She regarded him silently for a protracted moment, her expression guarded and inaccessible. Finally, she nodded and slipped gracefully into the seat across from his. Artumas smiled and went to instruct his guards to have dinner brought to his quarters.

When he returned to his seat, he found the Ascentrix perusing Arminda's communiqué, her exquisite face set in stern lines of disapproval. She glanced up at him questioningly and he shrugged. "There is much that we should discuss, Lissom."

She shifted her gaze to the page and inquired in a deceptively placid voice, "Do you require my protection in this matter, King Artumas. Despite our differences, I will not allow your throne to be usurped."

"All is well, Lissom...the Tier Marshal is well within her right to invoke the articles of the armistice." He hesitated briefly and then added, "What's more, it is I who asked her to invoke those articles."

Lissom reacted to this disclosure with a hiss of incredulity. "Why would you resort to such a drastic action....and at such an inopportune moment?'

Artumas nodded tightly, knowing that, under present circumstances, this was a reasonable query. For the next bell, he shared his reasoning with the Ascentrix, who listened intently and without comment. In conclusion, he declared, "So you see, Lissom, it has been my every intention to accede to your demands from the first moment you revealed yourself. I intend to temporarily set aside my crown and accompany you on your search for Myrhia...if only to rectify the errors of my past misjudgments."

Lissom absorbed this explanation while she absently stroked a prominent cheekbone and in a pensive tone, inquired, "Yet, still you harbor profound misgivings and reservations that I cannot assuage?"

Artumas signified his admission with a sour frown. "Yes. Lissom, you discerned the terrible truth of my nature, but in each life lived I am still a creature of mortal flesh, diminished by its failings and foolish conceits. In this incarnation, Myrhia's betrayal has left an indelible scar on the fiber of this living vessel...a blight that is resistant to all reason. When I look at you...plunge into your unflappable composure and delicate beauty, I discern faint hints of Myrhia capering in the shadows. In your honest and forthright declaration of intentions, I can still hear whispers of ulterior motives and hostile ambitions. I fear, Lissom, that I may never manage to extricate myself from this snare of suspicion and mistrust."

"Even as you are cognizant that these misgivings are baseless?" she asked quietly. Artumas merely nodded, realizing how flagrantly unfair this was. Lissom allowed her chin to settle to her chest as if to conceal the incisive sting this revelation roused.

After a moment, the Ascentrix rose from her seat and crossed over to the large stone fireplace. Standing before its dying embers, she remarked distantly, "A chill has permeated your chamber, good king."

As a transfixed Artumas looked on, Lissom gesticulated and several pieces of kindling rose from their basket and floated into the fireplace. A second gesture and the dry wood erupted into flame with a strident hiss. The dance of firelight on her face lent a wistful aspect to her beguiling beauty, making it a remarkably simple matter to lose sight of the boundless puissance contained within this seemingly vulnerable vessel of flesh.

After several moments, Lissom turned away from the hypnotic dance of the flames. With her gaze fixed squarely on the mesmerized king, she slowly crossed the large chamber, coming to a halt before his bed. "I will recant on my decision and call the sisters back to their duties in your city. I accept your apology, Artumas. Without reservation, I know that you would never deliberately dishonor the fallen. I have done all that I can to earn your trust...to placate your concerns that my objectives may be hostile or detrimental to your country. I have never once misrepresented my purpose or my absolute commitment to doing whatever is necessary to see it served. Still, it has proven insufficient to surmount your mistrust...and for that failing, I am deeply saddened."

Artumas began to interject, but Lissom forestalled him with a raised hand. As a speculative gleam bled into those limpid blue eyes, she intoned, "I have demonstrated that I am unwavering in my duty to avoid this catastrophe that stands poised at the throat of the world, like a brigand's blade. I have also shown that I will stand in the defense of Emercia whenever she is threatened."

She paused for a moment, and with great gravitas, slowly removed the belt that held Gyzarayne's seal. Holding it out to arm's length, she allowed it to slip through her delicate fingers. Artumas watched with hitched breath as it clattered to the stone like a discarded promise. In a voice rife with emotion, Lissom explained, "I said before that I have done all that I could to earn your trust, but perhaps I have spoken in haste. I have not done all that I might to demonstrate the extent of my commitment to you, Artumas. I once told you that perhaps I could be your recompense for the pain you suffered at Myrhia's hands. Perhaps the time for circumspection is passed and a more...assiduous approach is required."

In a graceful flourish, Lissom loosened the bindings that held her robe at the shoulders. Crossing her arms at her full breasts, she deftly pushed the straps over her shoulders.

Artumas was distinctly aware of the gasp of shock and wonder that escaped his gaping lips as the robe slid along her nubile body and pooled around her slender ankles.

Artumas' reaction was a visceral gasp in the face of Lissom's astounding beauty. Indeed, the aging king lacked the faculties of speech necessary to articulate the totality of the woman's physical perfection. Lissom was, in truth, the living embodiment of her goddess' feminine ideal.

Here, she stood naked before him, unabashed by her nudity. She extended her right arm in invitation and beckoned him to come to her.

"I'm...I'm old," Artumas mumbled, yet he rose and moved to join her even as he offered this half-hearted protest.

"In my arms, perhaps you shall discover your lost youth," she suggested with a decidedly lascivious twinkle sparkling in her great blue eyes.

She firmly grasped his right hand and led him around the bed, where, in silence, she divested him of his clothing. Though discipline against indulgence had prevented him from running to fat, he nonetheless experienced a twinge of embarrassment as if he was a lump of coal, juxtaposed against a flawless diamond. Atop her full breasts, Lissom's pink nipples had grown turgid and evoked an intense shiver from Artumas as she pressed her exquisite body against him and drew him into a tight embrace.

At once, his manhood grew rigid, a prominent piece of statuary pressed against her flat belly. She leaned back slightly, gazing along their torsos. Smiling in apparent satisfaction, she murmured, "Ah, perhaps not so old after all, good king."

She laughed then...the sound a dulcet blend of mirth and wanton passion that was both wildly arousing and shocking. Pulling back the duvet of his bed, she guided the king onto the sheets, before lithely mounting his upper thighs. Placing the flat of her palms on his chest, she whispered, "I can give you this."

Artumas abruptly stiffened as a rush of warmth and energy transfused his flesh. In a brief span of seconds, he felt the cumulative effects of the years tumble from his body like millstones.

She laughed softly in response to his wide-eyed, questioning glance. In his bedazzled mind, a distant bell began to toll, a strident admonition against this further entanglement, but it was an ineffectual thing...lacking the urgency to have him desist.

Lissom moved to engulf him with an intoxicating liquid flexing of hips. She absorbed his length in a single movement and with her palms still flat on his chest and her blazing blue eyes locked firmly on his, the Goddess' emissary began to undulate her hips in a gentle, indolent rhythm that threatened to drive the aging king to distraction

Being enveloped in Lissom's warmth was very much like plunging into a midnight sea at the height of summer.

The warning bell continued to toll; its message lost in the consuming glow of Lissom's carnal sorcery.

Chapter Thirty-Six

1

The restrained rapping at her private audience chamber door informed Ynathreen that Muragren had returned with general Thenyr in tow.

'Even her knock, so unlike the heavy-fisted presumption of a Redian, is delicate and unobtrusive,' the Queen thought, the former Fairmarch slave...now her Seneschal and lover...had come to consume her every thought.

'What have you made me in our years together, Muragren? How have you subtly molded me beneath your tender hand? Was this your intention when you first set eyes upon me in the mines...to shape me into the living clay of your own reformist ambition? If I fall completely under your gentle thrall, what will I eventually become? What will savage Redia become?' These contemplative musings flashed through her mind like the precise strike of a rapier but did not resonate in her gruff voice. "Enter."

The door swung open and Muragren glided lightly into the chamber, moving to the side and offering the general a deferential bow...which he pointedly ignored.

This slight vexed Ynathreen to no end, but she willed herself to remain impassive...for the moment. "Thank you, Seneschal. Will you instruct the quartermaster to oversee the provision of Ynathrite armor to the Gray Doves?"

Muragren nodded dutifully and sparing a quick, worried glance at the general, withdrew, closing the chamber door behind her.

Ynathreen tilted her chair and crossed her long, heavily muscled legs atop the large work desk, mindless to how her heavy Ynathrite greaves gouged the polished oak. Her deep blue eyes twinkled with mischief and an impish grin spread across her face, giving her expression a playful aspect of youth.

The general regarded her exposed thighs with a stern expression of disapproval. His eyes then slid to the long sword that sat on the desk...silent and lethal...near the Queen's feet. A cameo of gold and pearl had been set into the otherwise unadorned haft. Thenyr recognized the likeness of the woman before him and his expression became guarded.

Ynathreen followed his gaze, her own grin intensifying in direct proportion to his mounting discomfort. "What you are seeing is the first sword ever forged of Ynathrite. The likeness smacks of self-aggrandizement, but it is only fitting as I am Redia's rightful Queen, after all...would you not agree, General Thenyr?"

His broad, craggy features contracted into a knot and he replied without enthusiasm, "As you would have it, my Queen."

Ynathreen snorted and rose lithely to her feet. Her form-fitting red leather cuirass was adorned with silver studs that had been polished to a gloss. As she came around the desk, the muscles in her broad back and shoulders danced, the deeply striated muscle rippling beneath the taut flesh. Thenyr noted how she moved lightly on the balls of her feet, like a stalking predator, and suddenly felt a tickle of disquiet over this impromptu summons.

Shackled by millennia old prejudices, it was easy to forget that this devil spawn had left more than a dozen of the most savage and dangerous men in Redia lying dead at her feet to win her throne.

As she moved to slowly and deliberately lock her chamber door, he raised a beetled eyebrow questioningly. When she turned to face him, any hint of youthful innocence had vanished. In its stead, Ynathreen's expression was one of towering, yet glacial anger. "Do you take me for a fool, Thenyr...or perhaps a jape that male sufferance alone keeps on the throne?"

"I really have no idea what you're suggesting," he replied, his voice a bass rumble and then recalling to whom he was speaking, added, "Your Majesty?"

She circled the bemused general like a giant cat, all fangs, claws and lethal competence, and retrieved her long sword. There was a feral light burning in her eyes that was both lovely and daunting in its primitive intensity. She raised her long sword and pointed at the massive, studded mace that hung from a loop on his belt. "It is well that you came into my presence armed, even though to do so is a crime punishable by dismemberment."

He glanced down at the mace, his eyes widening in astonishment which quickly turned to genuine dismay. "This was not my intention," he stammered uncertainly. "When your Seneschal summoned me, I was in the training yard. She bid me to attend you at once."

Ynathreen had circled behind the general and now smiled at the obvious disquiet in his voice. "It matters not, Thenyr because there are three ways you will leave this chamber, the first way of which is a bloody, mangled corpse with the dark honor of being the first to perish on my new blade."

He turned to face her, his broad features set in an incongruent blend of rage and confusion. "I have no idea what has warranted this ill-treatment, but your anger is misplaced."

Continuing to circle, sword held down and slightly to the side, Ynathreen pointedly ignored his objection. "The second means by which you may leave this chamber is with my chilling corpse over your shoulder, in which case you can then claim the throne...if such is the shape of your ambition."

Thenyr simply shook his large head and in his dark brown eyes, Ynathreen was surprised not to glean the slightest hint of avarice. Stopping before him, she pointed the tip of her polished sword to the floor and intoned softly, "Finally, you may bend a knee to me and swear unequivocal fealty to your Queen. We are alone, so there need be no sense of humiliation as this will stay between us."

His eyes widened in outrage. "I have devoted my entire life to Redia. Even you have no right to question my love or loyalty."

"I question your loyalty to Redia's Queen by right...and it is to me that I demand your personal oath of fealty...in exchange for your life."

Thenyr started to object, but his words were strangled by his anger and incomprehension. Ynathreen noticed that his hand never strayed near his weapon. When he could again manage to speak, he inquired stiffly, "Will you at least tell me what I've done to rouse your displeasure?"

There was such earnest perplexity in his voice that Ynathreen paused, thinking that there might be a chance that violence would not have to resolve the situation she'd intentionally provoked. "Do you deny that the master smith reported the discovery of Ynathrite to you first...or that you have taken it upon yourself to vet what does and does not reach my ear in matters of governance?"

To his credit, Thenyr's gaze did not falter and when he spoke, it was with no hint of evasion. "I will not deny that certain matters of state are filtered through me, but it is not as you portray it...a deliberate attempt to keep you ignorant or broaden my influence. They come to me because I have their trust. If they have something of value to convey, then I immediately bring it to your attention...as I did with this miracle clay."

"You would style yourself as the arbiter of what is of value to Redia then?" she growled, her tone all ice and steel. "Tell me, Thenyr...why do you serve me?"

He seemed to ponder this for a protracted moment as though startled by his own actions. Finally, he allowed, "You are Redia's Queen by sacred rite of Rizarchen."

Ynathreen shook her head vehemently, her large blue eyes flaring dangerously. "Not sufficient. I have no use for a man who serves me only out of a misguided loyalty to an idiotic, primitive tradition. The man who would command my armies must serve me, inspired by the belief that I am the best suited to rule. No other perspective is acceptable."

He stared at the impassioned Queen in open consternation, aghast over her blasphemous denigration of Redia's most sacred tradition. His brow furrowed and a speculative light dawned in his eyes. In a voice made ponderous with incredulity, he ventured, "You demand that I serve, not only out of duty, but faith?"

"Now you have the way of it. I want you to serve me because you subscribe to the belief that there is none better suited to lead Redia into the future. Again, no other reason will suffice," she insisted harshly. Thenyr only continued to stare at Ynathreen as if he suddenly found himself in the presence of an alien creature, whose inaccessible nature defied his ability to fathom.

She raised her sword and with a single deft stroke, shockingly swift and precise, severed the leather loop that held his mace. It clattered to the stone, raising a shower of sparks on impact.

"No doubt you think I have dishonored the sacred tradition of Rizarchen, but unlike the other narrow-minded dullards, who won the throne by its rite, I will not rest on its laurels. I will not spend the remainder of my days swilling ale and whoring...growing fat and insufferably arrogant, while leading Redia to another humiliating defeat. During my reign, the rite of Rizarchen remains open to all who would challenge my rule!"

She gestured with her sword. "Now pick up the mace and do what your damnable manly pride insists that you should...crush my skull in defense of Redia's great tradition."

Thenyr regarded the mace, his countenance bleak. Abruptly, he swept the weapon away with a brush of his right boot, before spreading his arms wide in a gesture of invitation. "I will not raise a hand against my Queen. If your vanity demands that you take my life, it is yours...but I will not dishonor my name."

Ynathreen's implacable expression faltered as Thenyr revealed himself to be cut from far nobler cloth than she first credited him.

'How many others have you judged harshly, Ynathreen? From the lofty certainty of youth, how black and white the world appears.' It was the voice of Muragren who offered this mild rebuke...sage Muragren who was well aware of Ynathreen's conceits and vanities. Still, she had not survived the death of her father and mother...had not won the throne by being timid or ambivalent. Her ferocious pride would allow her to offer no apology to a man she'd so grievously misjudged. "I do not believe you are craven, General Thenyr." Once again gesturing to the cold stone tiles, she instructed, "Kneel before me and kiss my sword as a gesture of fealty and faith."

He stared at her unblinkingly for several moments as if trying to assess the ultimate cost of this exorbitant gesture of capitulation. Face inscrutable, he slowly sank to his knees before his queen and gingerly took hold of the lethal blade.

She peered down upon him, her handsome face as cold and imperious as the majestic mountains that ringed the horizon of Elderspire. Without averting his eyes, Thenyr kissed the sword and swore a personal oath of fealty to Ynathreen.

In the next instant, her impervious demeanor relented to an expression of pure ebullience that bestowed the missing element of beauty upon her face. She casually tossed the Ynathrite sword aside and easily hauled the bigger Thenyr to his feet and into a powerful bear hug. When it seemed inevitable that his ribcage would crack beneath this powerful embrace, she held the disconcerted general to arm's length and declared, "Thank you, General...I vow that your faith will not prove misplaced."

She clapped him on the left shoulder, kissed both of his bearded cheeks and gestured toward a chair. "Now, sit general and allow me to share the vision in which you've just invested your faith."

2

While Queen Lorio amused herself by antagonizing her prim and prude traveling companions, on the opposite side of the continent, her fuming regent strode purposefully through the precisely organized encampment of the Jerhia expeditionary force. Tall and dignified, serious and normally reserved, the slender Nayoro was the diametric opposite of the free-spirited, impulsive woman she served.

There had been occasions, too many to account, when the noble regent suspected that Lorio's puzzling actions were inspired by pure spite...that her bewilderingly inappropriate behavior was specifically intended to drive Nayoro to distraction. In the grip of this festering resentment and forced to clean up the detritus left behind by her Queen's scandalous improprieties, she had often considered abandoning the impetuous Lorio to the consequences of her folly.

Yet, she chose to remain, knowing that, should Lorio fall, the fledgling nation of Lamia would tumble with her. Her fear of the calamitous impact this would have upon Lamia was not the only factor that prevented Nayoro from simply turning her back on her Queen. In the six years she'd served the irreverent, exasperating immortal, Nayoro had been afforded rare, but heart-rendingly poignant glimpses of the tortured soul that languished beneath the erratic façade. She had heard resonating echoes of the vast, pervasive void of loneliness that no wanton excess of flesh could ever hope to fill. The betrayal and loss of her one great love, the willing surrender of her humanity and the use of her unborn child as the price of passage through purgatory: these things had twisted Lorio's already flawed soul into a grotesque rendering of loss and misery. That she had survived this accrued torment with even a thread of her sanity intact was a testimony to her mettle.

Thus, Nayoro endured Lorio's sardonic rejoinders concerning her prudish nature and her humorless disposition. She suffered the seething outrage of those the queen had unwittingly offended because she could not bear to leave yet another indelible scar on Lorio's mangled soul.

As she marched across the encampment, the intrusive smell of beasts and humans assailing her nostrils, Nayoro glance down at the scroll she carried with a vexed frown.

She could predict all too well how the insufferable ass, who commanded the Jerhia forces, would react to the scroll's contents. The odious little man took every opportunity to heap his derision on the country he'd been dispatched to defend. His verbal condemnation of the woman who ruled Lamia bordered on open provocation. Of late, Nayoro had perceived that these scurrilous attacks were meant to goad her...though why the Tier Marshal would wish to do so was beyond her comprehension.

"Knave!" she spat in a rare outward display of ill-temper. The message inscribed on the parchment was profoundly disturbing enough, without having to endure another of this wretch's denigrating tirades. Drawing a deep breath to calm herself, the Lamish Regent drew herself erect and plunged into the Jerhia command tent.

The Tier Marshal and his staff were huddled over a large map table, each sporting identical expressions of grave concern. Upon her brisk entrance, the group spun in unison to face the Regent. From youth, Jerhia were conditioned to hide their emotions behind a mask of rigid impassivity, but tonight the extent of their disquiet was reflected clearly on every face.

Even Gillian's irreverent half-grin was nowhere in evidence, having given way to a tight frown that did not bode well for the course of the discussion to follow.

Yet, as always, a broad and perplexing smile spread over his lean face upon seeing her. As had also become tradition, he lashed her with a mordant barb. "Ah, Regent Nayoro...have you come with the welcome news that your mighty queen has returned and will challenge the vile Sygeanor to individual combat to the death? No? Unfortunate, as it would certainly avert further bloodshed and suffering."

Nayoro stiffened but managed to maintain her composure and avoid unleashing the profanity-laden tirade that was poised on her tongue. Through grinding teeth, she rasped, "I would speak to you privately...at once!"

Gillian arched an eyebrow at her peremptory tone and replied, "We are in the middle of a crucial strategy session. There have been significant developments north of the River Tynan and we must formulate a response."

Nayoro's pulse began to race in reaction to this disclosure, but she did not relent. This festering acrimony could not be permitted to go unaddressed a moment further. "Still, I would have a private audience."

Gillian's lined brow furrowed, and he fetched a harried sigh. Inclining his head toward the tent exit, he announced, "I will speak with the Regent. Take supper and we will reconvene in a bell's time."

Nayoro turned her back on the Tier Marshal and watched in livid silence as his staff filed dutifully from the command tent. When the last of the officers had filed through the weighted flaps, the Regent spun about and stormed over to Gillian, who was leaning casually against the map table with his arms folded.

With that infuriating grin twisting his full lips, he observed, "You really are quite fetching when you're furious, Regent Nayoro."

Perhaps it was the mocking gleam in those pale blue eyes or quite possibly, it was the sardonic twist of his generous mouth...Nayoro could not be entirely certain. Whatever the provocative element might have been, the normally unflappable Regent completely surrendered her iron grip on composure for the first time in her adult life.

The report of flesh on flesh was intensely satisfying, even as a part of her mind was mortified by this shocking breech of decorum. The open-handed blow caused Gillian to stumble slightly and his eyes widened in a comical expression of surprise that Nayoro also found immensely pleasing. With a grimace of distaste, she thrust the communiqué into his hands and growled, "This will explain my Queen's continuing absence. Perhaps you might find further fodder for your twisted humor in this grim text."

She abruptly spun on heel and marched toward the tent's exit, but before she could throw back the flap, the Tier Marshal called softly, "Regent Nayoro, please stay."

She ground to a halt near the exit, but did not turn to face the Jerhia, who offered simply, "There are urgent matters that you and I must discuss."

Slowly, she turned back to the source of her recent consternation to find that he was again reading the communiqué, his angular countenance contorted and grim. When he had finished reading the bleak message, Gillian laid the scroll on the map table and Nayoro noticed the slight tremor of disquiet that shook his body as he turned to face her. "I always feared that this foul bitch's shadow would fall over us again. Why we did not vehemently insist that the damnable remnant be tossed into the Hiberas is beyond my comprehension."

He fetched a deep sigh of exasperation and beckoned her over to the map table. He seemed to act as if she had not just struck him, though her handprint was still a livid mark on his left cheek. Pursing her lips, she gravitated slowly back to the map table, while he regarded her with his disconcertingly frank gaze of appraisal that made her feel naked.

When she came to stand beside him, they both turned their attention to the large cartographer's map. Gillian swept an all-encompassing arm over the narrow expanse of Lamia and intoned, "The obvious consequence of your communiqué is that the dire situation here in Lamia has been consigned to the status of sideshow."

"Which means what, in your opinion?" Nayoro demanded stiffly, bristling at the odious notion that Lamia's plight would be viewed as having little consequence.

He peered directly into her eyes; his gaze unwavering. "What this means...precisely, is that we will be entirely on our own to resolve this situation with Sygeanor."

Nayoro's large gray eyes narrowed into speculative slits as she considered the narrow finger of land that stretched along the eastern edge of the Great Mother.

"How appropriate it is that the children of dust cling to the edge of a great precipice," she uttered, her tone distant and oddly fey. She shook her head as if such doleful thoughts were vapid and pointless, and then she inquired, "Tier Marshal, in light of this grave threat, is it conceivable that Sygeanor might relent in her campaign of vengeance? Would it not be reasonable to expect that she might even join us to provide opposition to this Xhendyn and his ShadowCaster...if we were to apprise her of the menace?"

Gillian turned to face the Regent, clearly surprised by not only the query posed but the notion that Nayoro would find the idea of an allegiance with Sygeanor even remotely palatable. He said as much and Sygeanor's expression became somber. "The Lamish are like children who cannot hope to defend against Metocan aggression. If an alliance to oppose Myrhia spares my people further bloodshed, then yes...I would set my personal aversion aside and agree."

Gillian reacted to the startling disclosure with a slight nod and an indecipherable half-smile. "The tale of Sygeanor destroying that mine in Redia is common knowledge...as is the ruthlessness with which she achieved that destruction, which spared no one...slaves and overlords alike. Still, it is my considered opinion that her actions were, at least, inspired by some sense of brutal pragmatism...paving stones along the path to ultimate power in Othgol. Her hatred of your Queen is fueled by intense and irrational emotion...and I sincerely doubt that anything will compel her to set it aside."

Nayoro averted her ashen gaze to the map. "When I first entered the tent, the somber mood that hung over staff seemed to intimate that something inopportune had transpired."

Gillian nodded, his mood darkening perceptibly. Pointing to a specific spot on the map, he explained, "As we predicted, the Appraxis descended upon Thasron. Captain Sybian sprung her trap to perfection and the attackers were slain to a one."

Nayoro frowned, not immediately grasping the source of his grim mood in the face of Jerhia success. "Should this news not be cause for celebration...after all, it seems that Sygeanor has been rebuffed for the first time?"

Gillian merely shook his head gravely and revealed, "Before he died, one of Sygeanor's henchmen disclosed that the Appraxis had struck at three other undefended villages simultaneously...to the south and the east of Thasron. He further claimed that Sygeanor had been aware of our ruse and elected to employ it as a diversion to strike the undefended settlements."

"Do you believe he speaks truthfully?" Nayoro asked, her tone conveying her skepticism in the matter.

"Sybian believes he did, and I trust her judgment implicitly," the Tier Marshal replied evenly.

Nayoro bent forward and examined the map, her eyes widening in dismay. "By the Gods, this would mean that Sygeanor has cleansed Lamia north of the Tynan!"

"Yes," Gillian confirmed simply and though his face conveyed no visible sign of emotion, the sight of Nayoro's agonized reaction pierced his heart.

She straightened, that mantle of implacable dignity and composure slipping back over her regal face. "What can be done to prevent Sygeanor from fording the Tynan?"

"As you have said, Sygeanor has effectively cleansed Lamia north of the River Tynan and it is here that we must stop her Appraxis because this river is the most defensible position in the country. I have already dispatched two teams of sappers to destroy Lamia's two wooden bridges. Tomorrow, Jerhia's main force will deploy to prevent the Appraxis from crossing the river. In the meantime, I would advise that you employ your considerable gift of persuasion to convince your people to continue moving south...into the refugee camps in Jerhia if need be."

Nayoro grimaced at the prospect of this mass displacement, but nonetheless nodded her concurrence. If anyone in the wretched world was suited to a life of perpetual flight, it was the children of dust. "Then I will take my leave, Tier Marshal and dispatch riders to the outlying villages with the decree that all citizens should quit their homes and begin moving south."

She turned and was commencing toward the exit, when Gillian blurted, "Nayoro, would it be forward if I ask that you take supper with me on the nights that events allow?"

Flummoxed, Nayoro turned back to the Jerhia, who was regarding her with a shy and deferential grin, expressions of which she would have judged him incapable. She drifted slowly back to Gillian, who tracked her approach with nervous expectation. "I'm not quite sure how to perceive this overture, Tier Marshal. You take every opportunity to publicly make me the butt of your caustic witticisms and now you ask me to dine with you as if we were the oldest of friends."

"Admittedly confusing," he agreed, suddenly averting his gaze to his polished leather boots. "On the first matter, I am genuinely sorry and vow to stop this deplorable behavior. As to the matter of friendship...I truly wish it could be so."

Nayoro came to stand directly before him, though deliberately closer than she normally would. He stiffened perceptibly and though clearly unsettled by her proximity, he met her limpid gray eyes.

Something in his discomfort pleased her for reasons that were vague and complex. Then, with the swiftness of a fast-breaking sun through thin clouds, the dynamics of their situation suddenly resolved in her incredulous mind. 'By the Great Mother, this man is actually smitten with me! He taunts me like a young boy who is too immature to articulate his true feelings in any other manner.'

This startling realization made her want to burst into a fit of laughter. Instead, she made her tone deliberately grave and demanded, "Why do you go to such great lengths to antagonize me? If you desire my forgiveness and friendship, you will speak plainly and truthfully."

Gillian stared at her silently for several moments, his face alight with a conflicting storm of turbulent emotions. He wanted desperately to kiss those pliable lips and lose himself in the depths of those lovely expressive gray eyes. "I have never been renown for my tact or delicacy and so I will speak plainly, as you've asked."

He lapsed into a vexing silence, but when he did speak, his utterance shattered Nayoro's equilibrium. "If this world was founded on even the most basic precept of justice, you would be the Queen of Lamia!"

Nayoro started to raise the obligatory objection, but the faculty of speech seemed to have deserted her. Gillian's provocative words continued to fall in an impassioned tumble. "Lorio is a courageous warrior and perhaps the most ferocious woman ever to be born into this world, but she is no more fit to be the Queen of Lamia than I am to be the Maxim Tier Marshal of Jerhia. Worse still, I fear that there resides an inherent aspect of darkness in her nature that can never be expunged. You, conversely, are dignified and honorable, blessed with brilliant logic and intellectual wherewithal. You have the character to win the respect and admiration of your countrymen. Lamia needs your firm guiding hand if it is ever to achieve legitimacy as a nation."

He gripped the regent's firm shoulders, not even cognizant of the fact that he was shaking her slightly to emphasize the passion of his conviction. "Just a single word...or a simple nod of acquiescence and I will see Lorio deposed and you installed upon the throne with the full blessing of Jerhia at your back."

Gillian again fell silent, watching Nayoro with intense expectation. Slowly, she gripped his wrist and pushed his hands away from her shoulders. In a stern, intractable tone, she rasped, "I would rather die than betray Lorio and you shall never utter such calumny in my presence again."

Gillian appeared to deflate in the face of her adamant rejection of his proposal but nodded glumly even as she averted her eyes. Nayoro reached forward and firmly raised his chin with her right index finger. "I will, however, join you in your tent for supper tonight...and every convenient night thereafter." She favored the Jerhia with a beautiful smile of blinding magnitude and added, "If, during the course of our meal, you should wish to elaborate on why you find me fetching...I would not be overly displeased."

She then turned and strode from the tent, leaving Gillian feeling an oddly discordant blend of disappointment and elation.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

1

He glanced down as the listless wave broke over the toes of his gray leather boots, before falling back into the gentle surf like an admission of defeat.

Brannok Dur grimaced and raised his gaze to the distant horizon where the monochrome gray heavens met the monochrome gray waters, though the distinction between the two was so subtle as to be virtually indistinguishable. He swept his keen gaze along the horizon, but his attempt to trace the line of demarcation between the sky and water was made all the more difficult by the sporadic clusters of mist that floated lazily over the water like ghosts.

Brannok sighed and turned away, his lean, handsome face set in lines of inscrutability that reflected nothing of his inner turmoil. He glanced up over the narrow strand of listless gray sand to the darker gray escarpment that rose, silent and monolithic, into the low-lying gray clouds.

Brannok had been here, in this unrelentingly bleak place, where the only variation to be seen came in the shading of obligatory gray that colored the demesne of the lost, since the day he'd been pulled from his mother's womb.

As he stood, absently contemplating the precipitous rock face, Brannok Dur found it difficult to accept that he had only been here for seven years. Upon a casual glance, one might assume that he was a young man in his mid-twenties. His lean, handsome face was dominated by prominent dark brown eyes, a generous mouth and a shock of coal black hair that he wore swept away from his smooth brow.

His raven hair and olive skin were, in truth, the only genuine contrast to be found in Otaru Ree's realm...her remorseless repository for lost souls. Brannok Dur was the only living being to dwell beneath the gray pall of despair that served as the sky here. Otaru Ree, the eternal queen of the demesne, was an entity who defied comprehension...perhaps alive, perhaps not. Brannok had no way of knowing for certain.

Then there were the other inhabitants of this abysmal place.

The mere thought of these aimlessly wandering, diaphanous creatures evoked an intense shudder from the normally reserved Dur...though whether inspired by revulsion or pity, again, he could not discern. His gaze tracked along the strand to where a cluster of the lost souls drifted, their spectral faces slack and their lifeless eyes vacuous.

He wondered if the emotion these piteous creatures evoked was actually intense dread...the immobilizing fear that he might become just like them if he remained here long enough.

The only occasion when these shambling amalgams of despair demonstrated even the slightest hint of animation came on the rare instances when Otaru deigned to leave her massive keep and walk amongst her children. Then their faces shone with an emotion the disbelieving Dur recognized as reverence.

He intentionally averted his gaze and started quickly toward the base of the stone stairs that had been cut into the vertical face eons before. They were carved into the rock and traversed the face, rising into the clouds at a forty-five-degree angle. When he had been younger, Brannok had constantly attempted to engage the specters...to befriend them, but those efforts had proven futile. Now, he did all he could to avoid them, though they were totally oblivious to his presence and thus posed no harm to the only living being in the realm of wither.

As Brannok commenced the dizzying ascent to the upper lands, his thoughts turned to his purpose and his heart began to thump in his chest.

'What if she rejects your request out of hand...dismisses your plea with a casual wave of those long, elegant fingers? What will you do then...defy her will? Is the notion of defiance even possible here? Or will you meekly accept her edict and strive to banish these dreams and relentless memories from your mind? If you did decide to tread on this path, would you eventually succumb to the same mindlessness that seems to permeate everything here?'

Indefatigable, Dur ascended the tiring steps two at a time, oblivious to the constant tide of specters that flowed around him like mist. He need only brush the edges of the thought and the recollection would immediately germinate in the fertile soil of is imagination. These images were so vivid...so vivacious...that Brannok could not be entirely certain that they were genuine memories.

'Perhaps they are but a contrivance to prevent you from sinking into a malaise of utter numbness,' he speculated, but then chastised himself for surrendering to the concept that could only lead to the very thing it had been intended to avoid.

This memory had to be real. No other alternative was acceptable...palatable.

The recollection was always precisely the same, without even the slightest variation. He gazed up at the world with wide-eyed innocence of a newborn. Suddenly, two large, impossibly dark eyes seemed to fill the very world, tears glistening like diamonds on the sooty beds of long lashes. As he peered into those limpid eyes, a single tear tumbled from one of the lashes. In the strange mechanics of memory, it appeared to fall in slow motion, landing on his lips. It felt warm and tasted sweet on his infant's tongue, but he suspected that this could well be an embellishment stirred by keen desire.

Then the heart-rending screams of negation had begun, so fraught with pain that he shivered violently and was forced to cling to the rock wall to prevent from plummeting over the edge. When he recovered sufficiently to continue, Dur resumed his climb.

This memory had plagued him day and night for as long as he could remember. Still, it had not lost its efficacy to disturb his inner peace and shake him to the core of his being with a need that nothing could sate.

Otaru Ree had grudgingly disclosed that this was the memory of the woman who had carried him in her womb. The woman had willingly surrendered Brannok to Otaru in order to earn safe passage through the Queen's purgatory. Dur recalled how he had frowned in perplexity upon learning this and had asked if the woman was his mother.

This seemingly innocuous query had roused a rare fit of ill-temper in the normally serene Otaru Ree.

With stunning swiftness, she had grasped young Brannok's wrist and jerked him aloft until their eyes were level. She had held him in this position effortlessly and in her normally inscrutable gaze, he was confronted with terrifying anger. Finally, she had seethed, "I am your mother, Brannok Dur...and you would be wise never to forget it."

With this, she had simply allowed the boy to fall to the stone floor, where his ankle had snapped like dry kindling. He had screamed and writhed in acute agony, rolling and thrashing as she had peered down upon his extreme torment with glacial indifference.

"You will heal," she had informed him coldly and then had marched away, leaving Brannok to endure his suffering in solitude.

As she had promised, his fractured ankle had miraculously knitted itself...his excruciating pain gradually relenting until it had vanished entirely.

In hindsight, Brannok realized that Otaru had imparted two salient truths that day; it was extremely imprudent to raise her ire and by definition of the word, she was his mother.

As a babe, he had suckled at her breast and when Brannok grew older, Otaru would simply hug him. In her embrace, the boy had grown rapidly as her mysterious energy suffused his living flesh, providing him with an arcane sustenance that compelled his body to grow at an incredibly accelerated rate, until, by his fifth year, Brannok Dur possessed the body of a full grown man...a beautiful construct of masculine perfection.

Not long after, she had come to him...naked and beautiful beyond the capacity of words to capture and express. She had taken him then, teaching young Brannok every subtle nuance of the ecstasy to be found in the intermingling of flesh. Buried deep inside her, with his face pressed against a firm breast and his tongue upon a turgid nipple, Brannok was not disturbed by the incestuous evolution of his relationship with Otaru Ree. Such narrow moralistic sensibilities were simply beyond his understanding...his concept of right and wrong.

Succumbing utterly to the addictive joys of Otaru's carnal sorcery, Brannok came to grasp two further illuminating truths. The first of these truths was rooted in the pragmatic soil of survival. It was through the intermingling with Ree's flesh that Brannok was sustained by the immortal entity's life force. By giving freely of her body, Otaru imparted not only indescribable pleasure, but life itself.

It was in the second of these revelatory truths that Brannok discovered the most profound epiphany...it was precisely for this reason that Otaru had demanded the nameless woman's unborn child as price of passage. Even now, this disturbing insight evoked a storm of emotions that left the normally placid Dur feeling unsettled.

Otaru had nurtured him to manhood and taken him as a consort...a living conduit through which she could experience a measure of humanity. Of all the emotions this realization evoked, intense pity stood foremost amongst them. This creature...a veritable goddess, if Brannok had not misconstrued her nature...was as much a prisoner in this desolate purgatory as the specters over whom she ruled.

Otaru, unlike those shambling ghosts, was fully cognizant...all too aware of the unbearable sterility of the realm over which she'd been given dominion.

'How long has she been relegated to this dreadful place?' he wondered, as he reached the top of the dizzying staircase and began the inland trek to the Queen's keep. ''By what force was she consigned here...or did she come here of her own volition?'

Something in her remote and inaccessible demeanor intimated a timelessness that was simply beyond his limited comprehension. It further occurred to Brannok that his Queen might no longer be entirely sane by any conventional definition of the word. Worse still, perhaps Otaru Ree clung to her fleeting sanity only by the most tenuous of grips...her relationship with her living consort.

This harrowing thought struck him in mid stride, and he came to a stumbling halt, lifeless gray dust billowing up around him.

If this last supposition was correct, it was highly improbable that Otaru would grant him leave to pursue his brown-eyed specter. He drew a shallow, quavering breath and then resumed his determined march, knowing that he had no alternative but to try, lest this memory plague him into the embrace of madness.

If nothing else came of the forthcoming dialogue, perhaps Otaru could help him understand the power this single memory exercised over his thoughts.

He wound his way through the sterile, gray landscape, finally coming to the long promontory at the end of which stood Otaru-Ree's keep. Overlooking the ocean, it seemed to rise, massive and imposing, as if it had not been constructed, but rather raised by sorcery out of the very bedrock of this terrible place.

The profusion of specters that crowded the headland always unsettled the normally composed Dur. They seemed drawn to her by a nebulous need to be close to the woman who ruled over them, though, in truth, Otaru seemed almost oblivious to her spectral subjects. Perhaps the specters were drawn to her because they clung to the delusion that Otaru might decide to end their eternal torment.

As he bound up the risers to the massive stone doors that stood some three times taller than the height of a normal man, Brannok understood that there was no way of knowing...nor did he particularly care.

2

She stood with her back to the door and did not turn as Brannok strode resolutely into the throne room. The flat of her right hand rested lightly on the stone casement as Otaru gazed fixedly through the tall window, focused on a point on the indistinct horizon and as Brannok came abreast of the beautiful queen, he was surprised to discover that there was a wistful, yearning aspect to her unblinking stare.

'Are you every bit the exile here as the rest of us, Otaru?' he inquired silently. He stood at her shoulder and peered up at Otaru, who stood a full head taller than Brannok, though Dur was considerably taller than the average man.

She shifted her regard to meet his gaze and her long fingers tenderly stroked his prominent cheekbone. Smiling fondly, she intoned quietly, "You have not come to me in some time, Brannok Dur. Do you now find the specters company more agreeable than mine?"

Brannok blinked and frowned in earnest confusion in response to this implied rebuke. He had lain with her just the previous day...had he not? Brannok found the notion of this odd dislocation of time to be deeply disturbing, but time was a mercurial commodity in a place where there existed no yardstick against which to measure its passage.

"I've been...distracted," he mumbled, averting his eyes to hide the extent of his disquiet. "I apologize, my Queen."

"There is no need, Brannok," she replied softly and bent to gently kiss his lips. "I have sensed your inner turbulence but elected to allow you to bring its cause to me in your own time."

Brannok nodded, suppressing a shudder, and wondered about the extent of her intuition's reach. Oblivious to the art of circumspection, he plunged forward. "I have come to request a boon, my Queen...though I fear that you will be displeased by what I would ask of you."

The Queen of Purgatory regarded her beautiful man-child thoughtfully. Behind her luminous gray eyes, he could sense vast, ever-shifting tides of emotion, though if he passed a thousand lifetimes in her company, Brannok doubted that he would ever grasp the exact shape of her thoughts. "Brannok, there is nothing that you would ask of me that I would not sincerely consider...and grant if it is within my power. You have been my son, you are now my lover and soul bound. We have shared a common essence...an intermingling of natures that is without precedent and can never be sundered. Tell me what you would have of me, so that I may grant it to you...if I am able."

Despite her seemingly earnest invitation, Brannok was still reluctant to give voice to his request. Otaru smiled encouragingly and drew him to her with one long, leanly muscled arm. At last, he inhaled deeply and forged ahead. "As long as I can remember, I have been beset by a fractured memory of the woman who gave birth to me," Brannok began cautiously, careful not to use the inflammatory word mother. "Of late, it has assailed me without surcease, plaguing me both in dreams and in waking hours."

Taking Brannok by the hand, she led her consort over to two stone benches that had been arranged around a tall, narrow bank of windows. When seated, Otaru prompted, "Describe your dream to me...spare no detail, however small or inconsequential it might seem."

Brannok complied, trying to conjure the appropriate words to convey the degree to which this apparent memory disturbed and haunted him. Otaru listened silently, her limpid eyes becoming inscrutable. When he had concluded his narrative, she declared flatly, "You have come to ask that I grant you leave to seek her out."

Not trusting himself to speak, Brannok merely nodded. Otaru reached out and ran her long fingers through his thick hair and Brannok was shocked to see tears glistening in her gray eyes. "As you grew, I tried to mold you into my personal vision of masculine perfection...yet your hair and skin resisted my every effort. Eventually, I abandoned the effort, reasoning that these traits were stubbornly inculcated into the fabric of your being. In time, they became precious to me beyond all measure. I always feared that there were other less tangible qualities which she imprinted upon your soul. Now I see that she has left you with an irrepressible need that even the love of a Goddess cannot expunge."

Brannok was astonished beyond words when this repository of unimaginable power knelt before him and buried her face in his lap. Her powerful body was wracked by convulsive sobs. He tentatively laid his right hand on the back of her neck and tenderly stroked her long pewter colored hair. They remained in this unlikely position for a long time...until Otaru had expended the last of her tears. She sat back on her haunches and regarded him solemnly. As she allowed her left hand to settle onto his thigh, absently stroking his manhood through his trousers with her thumb, she inquired, "If I permit you to leave...to seek this woman out, Brannok...what is it you hope to find?"

Brannok's dark eyes appeared to cloud in confusion as he was forced to ponder the very question he'd struggled so long to avoid. "I want to stand before her and peer into her eyes and see if she has endured the same sorrow...the same hollow longing that has plagued me since I was old enough to recognize it for what it is."

An anguished sigh escaped her full lips and she drew him into a deep kiss, even as she continued to caress his now erect manhood. "Brannok Dur, I hold you precious above all things. I have lived a life beyond all reckoning and, in that time, I have witnessed every variation of longing that the sentient heart can conceive...and every form of misery and disappointment when that longing proved baseless or false. That you might suffer this same bitter disillusionment fills me with a pain that is unbearable."

She paused to bestow another lingering kiss on his pliable lips. After breaking the dizzying kiss, she whispered, "The woman who carried you...Lorio is her name...is an immortal, just as you are, Brannok."

Brannok's eyes grew comically wide and he stammered, "An...an immortal...you mean like you?"

Otaru shook her head and her expression became rueful. "I am an eternal force, Brannok and while you may well share eternity with me, you are not immune to pain or death. Once you pass out of the Land of Shades and into the realm of the living, I cannot ward you against those who would do you harm. Do you still wish to leave this place?"

Like many things, the prospect of physical vulnerability had simply never occurred to the ingenuous Dur, but those compelling dark eyes would not allow him to be daunted. Simply, he responded, "I do."

Otaru nodded even as a single tear tracked over the aristocratic edge of her right cheekbone. "Nor can I protect you from the keener pain that comes with human interaction. As I drew you from her womb, I discerned the deep mysteries of this creature's nature. She is a living tempest and a deep and immutable shadow lies across her heart. I fear that you will find only pain and despair if you should seek her out.'

Now it was Brannok who lightly cupped the Queen's chin and kissed her full lips. "Then I will return to you and allow you to assuage my pain and help banish these restive memories...to lay them to permanent rest."

"And if you should see your own poignant longing mirrored in her eyes, what then?" she asked and Brannok could feel a terrible apprehension lurking beneath the surface of this complex query.

"Then I will talk with her of the life she has lived...in the time before she surrendered me and the time since. Then, I will forgive her and return to you, Otaru. Irrespective of what I might discover in the world beyond this place...be it bitter disillusionment or soaring euphoria...I will return to you. Otaru Ree, you are my queen. You once told me of a sun...this mysterious ball of light in the heavens that provides light and warmth to the world. Otaru, you are my sun and I would perish without you."

"Then why go, Brannok?" she cried, her normally husky, melodious voice now shrill and jagged.

Brannok leaned forward and laid his hands along the angular sides of her face, her beauty augmented by the unexpected spill of warm tears. "Otaru, you spoke of eternity, and I would gladly pass it with you, but if I cannot set this memory to rest, I will never truly know contentment. Neither of us deserves to languish in this state."

Otaru bowed her head as a solitary convulsive sob escaped her lips. Then she rose and drew herself to her full imposing height, peering down upon Brannok, aloof and imperious. "Brannok Dur, I grant you passage from my realm with the condition that you return to me once your affairs in the land of the living have been concluded."

Brannok offered the towering Otaru a beaming smile of pure gratitude and pressed his lips to the back of her right hand. Again, Otaru ran her fingers through his thick black hair. "Tonight, you will express your gratitude in my bed," she commanded gravely, though the grin that sprang to her lips was playfully wicked. "Tomorrow, I will escort you to the edge of the Land of Shades. There, I will ward you against the ravages of the Hiberas, but once you enter the land of men, I will be unable to protect you further."

Brannok nodded, even as he realized that he was completely ignorant of the ramifications of leaving the umbrella of her protection and the hazards that departure might entail.

'Just as you know nothing of the world of the living,' he reminded himself, experiencing a momentary tremor of unease at the prospect of delving blindly into the sea of humanity.

"Now come, Brannok," she instructed, her gray eyes burning with an atavistic hunger he recognized all too well. "This talk of separation has roused my appetite."

3

She led him along the dimly lit halls and corridor of the massive brooding structure that served as her home, teasingly divesting the thoroughly enthralled Dur of his clothing as they went.

As Otaru led him by the hand, Brannok gaped in mystified fascination as the clinging vari-shaded gray gown she wore was liquefied and absorbed into her taut flesh. A mesmerized grin broke across his handsome face as he lost himself in the poetic sway of her full hips, the fluid undulation of her up-thrust ass and the erotic dance of the long muscles in her thighs.

When they finally reached the inner chamber. Otaru waved her left hand and the heavy doors burst open with a resounding crash of metal striking stone. Otaru laughed exuberantly and threw herself on the large bed. Raising her long arms above her head, she allowed one leg to splay to the side. Peering up at him through the deep valley of her breasts, her limpid gray eyes twinkling mischievously, she growled, "Now, I believe I mentioned an expression of gratitude."

Brannok went to her then...moving into her...not out of a sense of dutiful need to please, but rather out of genuine love for a woman who had laid her love and vulnerability bare for him to see. He took her with an ardor and passion that caused the eternal creature to cry out, writhing and twisting in response to the intense pleasure his unbridled lovemaking aroused.

Even as he lost himself in the intoxicating warmth and solidity of her flesh, Brannok could scarcely credit that this magnificent being loved him, wholeheartedly and without reservation. In his euphoria, it never occurred to Brannok that Otaru had deliberately tailored him to fit the complex parameters of her ideal eternal mate. Being who he was, that realization would not have blunted his joy even if he had been aware of its inherent truth.

Later, when Brannok had finally exhausted himself, Otaru laced her long fingers around his neck and drew his mouth to an erect nipple. She wrapped her long left leg around his lower back and drew him deeper into her.

"Nourish yourself, my love," she encouraged. "Your journey will be arduous, and I would not see you hungry." He closed his eyes and allowed her life essence to fortify him for what was to follow, those sorrowful brown eyes momentarily forgotten.

4

Basking in the languid afterglow of their coupling, Brannok stared in contented silence at Otaru's naked silhouette as she gazed out of the chamber's window. Something in her posture suggested a melancholy that lanced Dur's young heart, knowing that it was inspired by his impending departure.

On impulse, he inquired softly, "Otaru, have you always been here in this place...or did something bring you here?"

She stiffened and turned slowly to face him and for the briefest instant, Brannok thought that she'd been perturbed by his question. She crossed her arms beneath her heavy breasts and leaned against the stone wall, her expression grave. "When I was young...not a great deal older than you are now...I was a brash, impetuous creature, who allowed her ambition to occlude reason. Every action has a consequence, Brannok...and perpetual life in this place is mine."

She swept her arm about the chamber in a broad, expansive gesture. "You have been my deliverance, Brannok Dur. If I was to lose you as a consequence of my acquiescence to your need, it would be insufferable beyond my ability to endure."

Her expression became restive and then contemplative. After a moment, she declared fiercely, "I said earlier that I could not ward you once you crossed the Hiberas. I was hasty in that declaration."

As she crossed to the center of her large bed chamber, an unaccountable aspect of defiance crept into her expression. Brannok could feel the hair at the nape of his neck stand forth in response to the air of expectant tension that had suddenly crept into the room. Spreading her long arms wide, Otaru allowed her head to loll back as she closed her eyes.

Brannok inhaled sharply as an unseen energy began to coalesce around the naked queen. All at once, her back arched and her flesh began to radiate an intense light that bathed the chamber in blinding argent. As this silver gleam enveloped Otaru, her powerful seven foot body began to lift from the stones, until she hovered in the air as if she was no more substantial than a wraith.

Brannok attempted to scramble toward her, but an invisible force swatted him down and held him in place. He watched in helpless horror while Otaru's eyes sprang open like broken shutters and she loosed a harrowing cry of negation and agony that seemed to shake the very stones of her castle.

Slowly, a thin section of roughly rectangular flesh began to rise out of the topography of Otaru's torso and right leg. From Brannok's transfixed perspective, it appeared as if something was being forcibly expelled from her body like a hideous birth.

Otaru screamed until it seemed certain that her throat would burst and every muscle in her powerful body stood prominently forth as if she'd been petrified.

The vertical column of gray flesh continued to extrude from Otaru's body, until it finally broke free and hovered in the air. This gelatinous mass began to spin until it became a silver blur that washed the chamber's interior in coruscating waves of blinding light. Brannok shielded his eyes with a grimace as Otaru collapsed to the stone in a spastic heap.

Continuing to spin like a wild dervish, the extruded flesh underwent a rapid transformation, quickly assuming a discernable shape that drew a startled gasp from Brannok's twisted lips. As the mass began to slow its hectic rotation, it revealed itself to be a perfectly honed lethal blade that was unlike anything Dur had ever set eyes upon. Long and slightly curved, the lethal edge was simple perfection. Otaru had risen to her knees and was panting and hugging her naked torso, which appeared to have been gouged by the traumatic process.

"Take up the sword, Brannok," she prompted urgently. "You must claim it before it can return to its source."

Grasping the implications of her desperate entreaty, Brannok surged forward and wrapped his fingers around the beautifully forged haft...a perfect likeness of the goddess who had created it. The sword's reaction to his touch was instantaneous and so shockingly intense that Dur nearly fumbled the weapon. Brannok's body was suffused by a rush of pristine energy, similar in nature to the infusions he felt when in Otaru's embrace...only infinitely more powerful.

Otaru had managed to climb unsteadily to her feet, where she swayed slightly while regarding her consort with a blazing grin of triumph. "Open yourself to its power, Brannok. It is my essence made manifest...given tangible form and purpose!"

Brannok nodded dutifully and opened his mind to the weapon's intrinsic power. It rolled through his flesh like a juggernaut, surmounting all resistance and banishing misgivings like an inexorable tide.

'Is this how it feels to be her?' Brannok wondered incredulously as her life-force rolled through his loins, raising his manhood into a piece of throbbing iron that swayed along his abdomen like an inverted pendulum.

She came to stand beside him, gently laying her right hand on his shoulder. Brannok shifted his wide-eyed gaze to Otaru, noting that the gouged flesh had already begun to repair itself, though the light in her normally limpid eyes was perceptibly subdued. Whatever sorcery she had employed to conjure this exquisite weapon had come at an extravagant price.

"Otaru, I...I have no aptitude in the wielding of such a weapon," he mumbled apologetically, feeling overwhelmed by the sacrifice she'd made on his behalf.

The eternal creature slipped nimbly behind Brannok and encircling his waist, placed her right hand atop his wrist, while her long arm drew him against her. "I have inculcated my very essence into the forging of this weapon. If you are threatened, open your mind to its quiescent energy. This blade will invest you with a martial prowess without parallel or precedent."

He cast a questioning glance over his right shoulder and Otaru nodded encouragingly. She placed a delicate kiss on the angle of his neck and whispered, "In this blade, there resides the complete chronology of who and what I am. It is my intimate gift to you, Brannok Dur...my chosen and eternal love. In the quiet moments, hold the blade and open your mind to the vast repository of memory that is my life. I would have you know me, Brannok Dur...not just the nuanced topography of my flesh, but every dark recess of my soul."

"Thank you, Otaru!" he choked and faltered beneath the weight of pure, unfettered emotion that this gift evoked.

She spun him about to face her and the expression she wore became imperious and daunting. "If you should ever find yourself in a situation where the blade's might is insufficient to see you clear, conjure my image in your mind's eye. I will appear and rip the souls of any who would harm you from their flesh and drag them here...where they will know eternal torment under the hand of the Queen of the lost and wayward."

Brannok nodded dutifully even as one of her instilled memories flashed through his mind, informing him that there were few fates crueler than falling under the hand of an enraged Otaru Ree.

As quickly as it had surfaced, this expression of extreme menace vanished, giving way to that now familiar look of primal hunger that made his heart gallop. Arching a tapered eyebrow at his curving erection, she rasped gruffly, "Now that my essence is within you, you share my voracious hunger...a hunger I would gladly endeavor to sate before you depart."

Wrapping her powerful fingers around his unyielding erection, Otaru pulled him toward her bed, intent on delaying his departure if only for a euphoric moment of pleasure.

With the sword of her flesh lying next to them, Otaru Ree and Brannok Dur made love, coming together like the warm waters of two converging seas.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

1

"Then you'll help?" Lorio asked with feign casualness, though the intense light burning in her dark brown eyes decried any pretense of cursory interest.

"I will," Issidris replied flatly, her closed, inscrutable expression betraying nothing of how she might perceive the taller woman's request. She then reached into a scarred and worn leather pouch at her belt and drew out two lengths of thick, cracked leather. As Lorio watched in silent fascination, the lethal assassin began to wind one of the strips around the knuckles of her right hand. She tied the ends off in her palm and deftly repeated the process on her left hand.

The two women stood in the darkened, narrow hallway behind the kitchen of the perplexingly named Laughing Widows Inn. The party had elected to stop in the small village of Hamlen and rest for the night, before proceeding on to Dizar Kor come first light. Lorio had required only one glimpse at Issidris' flattened, scarred knuckles to know that her fists would strike with the force of an iron mallet. The leather wraps would protect the hands while making each blow all the more punishing.

Watching the diminutive Il prepare to unleash brutal violence, Lorio could sense neither anticipation nor ambivalence. This was a cold, methodical engine of violence and Lorio suddenly began to wonder if this was an impulsive mistake. She reached out and gripped Issidris' shoulder. The hard muscles felt like an iron ball beneath Lorio's grip. "Issidris, it is not my intention to kill or maim him...only to glean his true purpose."

She glanced up at the Lamish Queen, her indecipherable gaze reminding Lorio of iron filings and ground glass. "I will do to him only what you instruct...nothing more."

Lorio studied Il's remorseless face for several seconds and then nodded, "All right then. I'll go and collect our rogue and we'll see if we can determine the shape of his intentions."

Lorio began to turn away, but before she could take a step, Issidris' right hand flashed out and snagged her wrist in a startlingly powerful grasp. When Lorio's perturbed gaze snapped back to the smaller woman, Il's gaze was fixed on the crude floorboards at their feet. Lorio could glean that the other woman was tensed like a predatory cat poised to strike. Between clenched jaws, she rasped, "In payment for this...service, I would ask you to cease your incessant torment of Lyndsyn."

Lorio regarded the deadly creature for a moment, knowing that this terse request was probably as close as the stoic Il could come to expressing genuine concern for another living being. "I will, Issidris. I have already promised Karosyn as much and for you, I'll honor that promise." After a moment's hesitation, she added, "Issidris, this woman cares deeply for you. Can you not discern the depths of her feelings?"

Issidris' head jerked up and for a brief instant, her mantle of dispassionate, glacial reticence wavered, affording Lorio a heart-rending glimpse of the tortured soul that hid behind this armor of cold detachment. In a guttural growl, she insisted, "I know what she would have of me, but it is something I simply lack the capacity to give. It has been scoured from my soul."

"Still, Issidris, what harm would it be to succumb to her...to let her kiss and hold you if that is what she desires? Would it truly be that terrible to be enveloped in this love she seems to hold for you?" Lorio inquired softly, knowing that she had far exceeded her bounds.

The question provoked a violent shudder in the shorter woman, who brusquely brushed Lorio's hand from her shoulder. "You know nothing of what I've endured."

Seeing the irrefutable truth of this contention, Lorio simply nodded. It occurred to Lorio that the savage request she had made of this piteous woman would further isolate her from her lost humanity.

'Ah, but therein lurks the terrible reality of your own black soul, because even knowing this, you would have her do it anyway.' Undeterred by this incisive observation, Lorio stalked away, leaving Issidris to her preparations.

She passed into the gloomy common room, sparing a fleeting glimpse at the corner table where Karosyn and Lyndsyn now shared a simple supper of bread and cheese.

'You both perceive me as an impetuous wanton who would foolishly allow a pretty face to occlude my common sense,' she thought irritably, 'but I'm not entirely the oblivious fool you think me to be.'

She quietly mounted the stairs to the upper floor and paused before the door to Reyfort's room. The oaf had appeared thoroughly devastated when he discovered that he would not be sharing a room...and by extension, a bed with the Lamish Queen. 'If you plan to spend time in my company, pretty man, you can look forward to a steady diet of surprises. Some, like the one I've prepared for you tonight, you may not find so pleasing.'

Without knocking, she threw open his door and stepped into the confines of his small room. Startled, a bare-chested Reyfort leapt to his feet, drawing a dirk from his belt as he did. Recognizing his visitor, Reyfort smiled and sheathed his weapon. "Bursting into a man's room could have tragic consequences, your highness...especially in an unsavory, backwater establishment such as this."

A humorless grin split Lorio's lovely face, never touching her great dark eyes. "You don't find the lodgings I've selected to your liking?"

Reyfort shrugged as if the matter held little interest to him. "A bed is a bed and it does seem to be vermin free. I do confess that I had hoped you might choose to occupy it."

"You'll find that presumption is a hazardous undertaking in my presence, Reyfort," Lorio admonished evenly.

"Ah, but you are here now, and the night is young with naught else to occupy our time," the Suran teased as he sat on his bed and patted the mattress suggestively.

Lorio uttered a mirthless chuckle. "Perhaps another time. I've planned another diversion to occupy our evening. Now, dress and follow me and oh yes, bring along those fancy swords. I'd like you to demonstrate that they are not simply ornamental...like everything else from Suran."

Reyfort's smirk faltered briefly at Lorio's deliberate barb, but he recovered quickly and replied, "As your highness would have it."

Lorio leaned against the wall next to the door, with her arms crossed, privately enjoying Reyfort's lithe movements as he pulled a shirt over his head and retrieved his two swords.

He followed her down the stairs and through the narrow, cluttered hallway that led to the rear exit.

Curiosity piqued, the Suran inquired, "So you and I are to engage in a contest of swords then? If so, then it is only fair that I warn you...I will not go lightly just because you are a Queen...or a woman."

Lorio struggled mightily to repress the urge to beat his chauvinistic face bloody, instead responding, "Think of what is to come as a test of integrity, Reyfort."

Reyfort raised a quizzical eyebrow at this cryptic reply, just as Lorio pushed through the rear door and stepped out into the near total darkness of the rear yard. The pungent stench of decay assailed his nostrils as the rear door closed behind him, extinguishing the muted spill of sickly yellow light. Struggling to adjust to the darkness, Reyfort detected the sly suggestion of movement, but too late to avoid the knee that Issidris drove into his exposed groin.

Reyfort collapsed with an airy exhalation, but before he struck the filthy slabs, Il drove her leather-wrapped fists into his liver and then both kidneys. Lorio grimaced at the meaty thud of her heavy blows, while the surprised Reyfort uttered a guttural grunt.

Despite the horrendous pain that ravaged his groin, side and lower back, the Suran attempted to roll away from his attacker. The agile Il pursued the fallen man, administering two savage kicks to his thigh that caused the Suran to howl.

"That braying won't do, Issidris," Lorio observed coldly. "We don't want to draw the local watch."

Issidris nodded slightly and stomped her left boot down on the center of Reyfort's back, forcing the air from his lungs and effectively pinning him to the sodden slabs. Quickly, she pulled another leather strip from her pouch and wound it around his pain-contorted face. She tied it off behind his head and the rough leather edges of the gag abraded his contorted lips.

"Don't harm his face, Issidris...it is much too pleasing to be marred," Lorio cautioned and again Il signified her understanding with a tacit nod.

'She was born to this kind of dark work,' Lorio thought as she watched the deadly Il go about her business. She knelt with her left shin across Reyfort's neck and used yet another strip to bind his wrists. Once his hands were secured, Issidris unleashed two clubbing blows to the side of his head and then dragged his battered body over to the nearest wall.

She glanced up to discover that an iron hook had been hammered into the wall. Reaching down, she hefted the dazed and moaning man to his feet, handling him effortlessly, despite being a head shorter and much lighter. She braced him against the rough planks, while driving another knee into his groin as she did, and then slipped his bound wrists over the jutting rod. Groaning, his handsome face contorted in agony, Reyfort's legs refused to hold him and he sagged with his chin settling against his chest.

Issidris stepped back and glanced at Lorio, who nodded for her to proceed. Spreading her legs slightly, Issidris unleashed a ferocious barrage of punches that struck the helpless Suran like a mallet tenderizing meat. Lorio listened impassively to the meaty thuds and the muffled screams that followed in their wake. Il battered the suspended man with an indefatigable precision that was both horrifying and blackly fascinating to behold.

"Enough, Issidris," Lorio commanded gruffly and Il halted in mid-swing. She stepped forward and with a surprising degree of tenderness, freed Reyfort's trembling arms and carefully laid him on his back. She then undid the gag and the bindings at his wrist, stowing the leather strips in her pouch in the event that they might again be required.

Rising, she observed, "I believe he's pissed himself, though I was careful not to strike directly at his organs. If you have no further need of me, I will go."

"I thank you, Issidris," Lorio replied.

Il started in the direction of the door, removing her hand wraps, but stopped and inquired tightly, "You will honor our agreement regarding Lyndsyn?"

"I will," Lorio assured the engine of carnage, "and Issidris, consider what we discussed earlier."

Without comment, Issidris opened the door and vanished into the Inn's interior, leaving Lorio alone with her badly battered would-be bondsman.

'So, this is what you've become, Lorio,' a clearly repulsed Islena Doraux inquired from the dark cloister of her mind, 'a vicious brute who resorts to this level of ugly violence to serve her purposes?'

"I have become only what you have made me, Islena," the Lamish beauty murmured softly as she gazed down on Reyfort's ravaged body. At the far corner of the building there sat a wooden stave barrel that had been positioned to collect rainwater. Retrieving a foul-smelling bucket that had been left by the rear step, Lorio strode over to the barrel and collected a bucket of brackish water. Returning to the unmoving Suran, she slowly upended the bucket's contents over the Suran's slack face.

Sputtering and choking, Reyfort jerked back into awareness. Rolling onto his right side, he curled into a whimpering ball, groaning haltingly and cradling his battered torso. Lorio squatted down beside him and he peered up at her through slitted eyes that were ablaze with pain and recrimination.

"Why?" he croaked, gasping at the effort of drawing a shallow breath.

"As I said earlier; a test of your integrity, Reyfort," Lorio intoned, her voice ice and iron. "You now find that you are at a juncture in the road, gazing along paths that lead into two very different futures. If you have sought me out to fulfill some hidden and hostile agenda, then you would be well advised to rise from this moment of humiliation and skulk back to whatever burrow you came from...and consider yourself fortunate that I have left you alive."

She paused, allowing him a moment to absorb this advice and then added, "If, however, you are truly sincere in your stated desire to serve me, then you can return to your lodgings and be prepared to depart for Dizar Kor in the morning." She gripped his chin in fingers like steel pincers. "Reflect on what happened here tonight, Reyfort and select your path wisely. If I find that you've deceived me, you will wish that it was Issidris who was hurting you."

With this warning delivered, she rose and left the brutalized Reyfort alone with his suffering and the contemplation of the warning she'd delivered.

He remained in this fetal position for a long time, not stirring even when a heavy rain began to fall. In a span of moments, Reyfort was soaked to the skin. He rolled onto his back with an agonized groan and closed his eyes, allowing the warm rain to wash over his pain-contorted face.

The throbbing pain was a visceral thing that seemed to consume the entire limits of his perception. A burgeoning hatred, as black as the sky that now poured its contempt down upon him, clutched Reyfort's heart.

His long-cultivated sense of self-preservation urged him to flee...to fade into the darkness and put as much space between him and the she-demons as the geographical limits of this world would allow.

As enticing as this idea was, Reyfort knew it was nothing more than wistful fancy. Xhendyn would never allow him to simply skulk away like a craven. The intractable truth of his predicament resolved in his pain-addled mind like the tolling of a funeral bell. He was hopelessly caught between two infernal millstones that were destined to collide. Inevitably, inextricably, he would be crushed between their conflicting purposes.

Conjuring Lorio's hateful visage, Reyfort croaked to an indifferent night sky, "I may well die...but not before I've witnessed your suffering, bitch!"

Steeling himself against the anticipated explosion of pain that caused his head to spin, Reyfort turned onto his hands and knees. He drew several ragged breaths and waited for the pain to abate slightly before crawling over to the nearest wall and dragging himself into an upright position. The eruption of pain in his groin and kidneys was monstrous, but he managed to stay upright.

He caught a glimpse of his two swords lying where the black-hearted bitch had left them. He stumbled over to the weapons and clutched them to his throbbing chest. Hot tears of shame and humiliation suddenly burst from his eyes and he stood in the rainy darkness for a long while, beset by the acidic concoction of self-pity and self-loathing.

Only one thought granted him the wherewithal to stumble back to his room...he would be there to bear witness when Xhendyn unleashed his black sorcery on the hateful Lamish whore.

2

Azidara moved through the crowded common room of the Monarch's Jewels with an agile grace of a master swordsman, deftly stepping out of range of grasping fingers and clumsy patrons alike. She wore a distracted frown on her lovely face as she effortlessly danced this casually choreographed ballet of service. Where normally the wheaten haired beauty was a radiant burst of scintillating smiles and attentiveness, on this night, Azidara struggled to remain focused on the patrons and their seemingly endless plethora of vexing needs.

Her anxious gaze kept slipping to the tall man who occupied a table in the far corner of the room. Those troubled glances were inspired by fear and concern...and the seemingly consuming need to confirm his presence...his continuing tangibility. When Stuart had first divulged his experience...or perhaps, episode would be a better descriptor...in the market quarter, Azidara had been certain that the notion of his becoming insubstantial was hyperbole; the frantic exaggeration of a seriously over-wrought mind. If she accepted his tale (and even now, there remained a fragment of her mind that was highly skeptical), he had been abducted from another world...conscripted to serve some great and mysterious purpose of an esoteric sisterhood of mages and warriors. If this experience was genuine...and Stuart obviously believed that it was...a profound addling of the senses was to be expected.

Her mantle of skeptical certitude had crumbled to dust just the evening prior. He'd been sitting in a chair near the hearth, absently nursing a mug of local mead and oblivious to the press of raucous patrons around him. A smiling Azidara had glanced over at the man with whom she'd fallen in love with such stunning swiftness...and had very nearly fumbled her tray.

As staggering and inconceivable as the notion seemed, Azidara saw the flicker of distorted firelight...right through Stuart's suddenly translucent flesh. She had continued to watch him for several moments, horrified by the manner in which his body continued to flicker and wane like phantom fire.

She had rushed over to him and he had smiled up at her, his angular face set in that vague and distant cast that had become his customary expression of late. In that slightly vacuous expression, Azidara gleaned the affirmation of everything Stuart had claimed. If he did not soon find his way to the Sisters of Esotaria and discover the purpose of his summons, he would simply vanish from this world, like a candle being snuffed out by a damper.

'And would that truly be an inimical turn of events if it did come to pass, Azidara?' the voice of Bahlor, her sweet, murdered husband, had inquired gravely. 'This man has set you adrift on a raging river that, I fear, may well lead to your undoing.'

Hearing that beloved voice...a voice that had lain silent for four years...had nearly shattered Azidara's resolve. She could feel the cold breath of fate playing lightly over the nape of her neck. Now, as she stole furtive glances at Stuart, she was revisited by the disconcerting premonition that to follow in the wake of this apparent pawn of destiny would spell her own demise.

'Unless you procrastinate and allow him to fade like a bitter-sweet memory.' the contemptible voice of self-preservation allowed and the part of her she abhorred might have been content to do precisely that had it not been for two disturbing incidents from the past two days.

Two days earlier, she'd been casually browsing through the crowded market district, hoping to purchase a variety of fresh fruit for the evening's meal. The day had been warm, and she'd been wearing a cinnamon colored dress with a snug bodice and a plunging décolletage that had exposed a generous amount of enticing cleavage. Her long blond hair had been pulled back and held by two copper clips and shone like spun gold beneath the late afternoon sun. She recalled feeling a strong sense of contentment as she'd wondered through the narrow streets, casually perusing vendors' wares, while privately enjoying the appreciative glances her beauty garnered.

In her time in Dizar Kor, Azidara had been careful not to stray into the upper town...the section of the city occupied by men and women of breeding and polite society. In the lower markets, it was extremely rare that a noble would sully themselves by intermingling with the dirty, foul-smelling commoners of the lower city. Even her choice of employment at the Monarch's Jewels had been made with a mind to avoiding chance contact with elements of the nobility...especially those who would frequent the royal palace and the court of King Saremond.

'What a simpering fool you were to risk coming here,' she thought ruefully, castigating herself for ever believing she could build a normal life in the very shadow of the royal palace.

Cloaked in a false sense of anonymity, Azidara had stopped to examine a display of trinkets that had caught her eye. After a time, she became cognizant of the palpable touch of someone's regard on the side of her face. Suddenly alert, she had cast a sideways glance to find that a man was watching her closely from a position several stalls over. He was impeccably attired, and his silver hair and beard were neatly trimmed in the current style popular with the Fairmarch nobility. There was an intense aspect to his regard that hinted at confusion and more terrifying yet, the suggestion of recognition.

Heart hammering in her chest, Azidara had averted her gaze and had quickly lost herself in the milling crowd. She had taken a deliberately circuitous route back to the Inn, knowing that her illusions of normalcy were exactly that...foolish and dangerous fantasies.

That encounter had been harrowing enough, but it had been something that had transpired yesterday, not far from where she now stood fretting, that had thoroughly disabused her of all hope that she could remain in the city...or anywhere in Fairmarch beyond.

It had been mid-afternoon and Azidara had been lingering near the Inn's main entrance, absently watching the tide of humanity flow around her. She had dispatched Stuart to the market and was enjoying the summer sunshine prior to commencing her evening duties in the common room when an inkling of menace had prickled her skin, raising her flesh into great hackles.

Her anxious gaze had swept over the surging human river, certain that she was the object of malicious scrutiny. At first, Azidara saw nothing, only a sea of faces, each preoccupied with the banal concerns of their own lives. Still, that sense of being watched persisted like an inaccessible itch. There came a slight gap in the flow and Azidara's keen blue eyes fastened on a figure recessed in the shadows of a narrow alley just across the cobbled street.

Her breath had hitched, and her heart had frozen in her chest. Those eyes, black as coal and every bit as hard and unfeeling, were known to her. They had haunted her nightmares often enough. They were the cold, dispassionate eyes of Lethoras' brutal dog, Veilguix.

Azidara had promptly averted her eyes and when she'd again risked looking up, the shadowy figure was gone. As much as she wished to persuade herself that he had been a figment of her turbulent imagination, the wheaten-haired beauty knew that this was a delusion she could ill afford to harbor.

Now, as her troubled gaze was drawn inexorably back to the enigmatic man to whom she had tied her fate, Azidara could no longer deny that her life was caught between twin pincers of her past. Her past had become very much like the lethal jaws of a preying mantis...two very distinct paths that, should they ever converge, would crush her between their rapacious needs. As terrifying as Stuart's unknown destiny might prove to be, it was the only valid path forward that might extricate her from the shackles of her past.

Never one to cling to wistful fancy, like a vapid character in a mummer's farce, Azidara immediately discarded the false promise that Dizar Kor represented with a determined nod. She made her way over to the table where he sat and slid into the seat opposite Macevey, unmindful of the Inn keeper's disapproving frown.

Stuart's smile of greeting quickly faded when he saw the intense expression that shaped her lovely face. "Is something wrong?"

"We're leaving for Nalosan tomorrow," Azidara disclosed bluntly, her flat whisper conveying little of the angst that had inspired her spontaneous decision.

Macevey blinked. "Tomorrow? I thought the road into Emercia was closed...has it been re-opened?"

Azidara shook her head. "No...but there are other ways into Emercia...a circuitous route that will take more time and one that is not without its hazards. I was hoping to avoid the detour, but it seems that the stories of this mysterious disaster in Nalosan are more than rumor, so it is likely that the highway will remain closed for the foreseeable future."

Stuart did not respond at once, but continued to regard Azidara in silence, studying her lovely face as if for some hint of deception. Finally, he ventured, "Azidara, has something happened?"

A glint of vexation shone in her limpid blue eyes as she reminded him, "The night before we entered Dizar Kor, you promised that you would trust and follow my judgment in guiding you to Nalosan. I'm asking you to honor that vow. There are reasons that I've decided we should depart tomorrow, but they are complicated and rooted in instinct as much as anything practical. Will you simply trust me in this matter, Stuart?"

Her incisive gaze bore into him as she reached across the table and gently squeezed his forearm. Stuart could discern the presence of something furtive lurking just behind her penetrating gaze...a revelatory truth that would expose a secret he suspected the mysterious creature harbored like a miser might hoard a cache of gold. As desperately as he might wish to pursue the issue...to drag it kicking and cursing into the light...Stuart succumbed to her plea in the face of her exigent need. Still, he felt compelled to observe, "I know you've been happy here, Azidara...in this place...in this city."

He lapsed into an uneasy silence, knowing that he was straying perilously close to a subject that would rouse the tempestuous side of her nature. Conjuring her most fetching smile, she intoned teasingly, "Wherever we may be, I'll be happy...as long as we're together, Stuart. I would have thought you would understand that by now?"

Stuart blinked at this comparatively mild rebuke and simply nodded. "All right, we'll leave tomorrow."

Azidara's smile brightened and she rose, coming around the table to bestow a passionate kiss on a startled Macevey's slightly parted lips. Bringing her mouth closer to his left ear, she whispered, "Arrange for a hot bath. It might be some time before we can enjoy that particular luxury. We won't set out until the noon bell and so we can spend the rest of the night enjoying other pleasures as well."

She drew back and fixed him with a particularly lascivious wink that caused him to blush like an inexperienced stable boy. Delighted by the thoroughly disconcerted expression on his handsome face, she collected her serving tray and nimbly spun away.

She could ascribe no specific reason for her decision not to share her fears concerning Veilguix with Stuart. Instinct cautioned her that it would be preferable to keep her misgivings and menacing specters to herself.

Azidara, who had begun her life as Zarida Saremond, was a woman whose faith in her instincts was inviolable.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

1

Artumas came awake with a start and gazed, bleary-eyed, around his private chambers. That sleep-addled murkiness vanished in a flash when his regard fell upon a very naked and ineffably beautiful Lissom leaning against a window casement, staring out into the bright morning sunshine.

The sight of the Ascentrix provoked a torrent of sensual recollections, the heat of which stirred his manhood to full readiness even as they caused him to frown in consternation.

Upon hearing Artumas stir, Lissom turned and crossed over to the bed, unabashed by her nudity or her presence in his chamber at the coming of dawn. Sensing his concern, she uttered a melodic laugh and assured him, "Good King, you need not concern yourself that my presence in your bed chamber will cause the scullery maids to wag their tongues in a frenzy of gossip. As far as your vigilant guards are concerned, I left your chamber well before the chiming of a bell that would be considered scandalous."

She gracefully crawled onto the bed and knelt before him. Crossing her arms on his knees, she leaned against his folded legs and peered down at the sheets, which were tented prominently by his enthusiastic erection. With a slight smile playing at her lips, she met his gaze and murmured, "I see you are well rested, good king, despite your ardent efforts last evening. You're not nearly so old as you believe yourself to be, Artumas."

Artumas shifted his unsettled gaze from the beauty before him to the chamber door. "Are you suggesting that my guards are completely unaware of your presence here?"

Her answering grin was one of mischievous satisfaction. "The power to enchant is a glorious gift and it is not idle boasting when I claim that there are none more adept at weaving an enchantment with such art and potency."

Appalled by the ramifications of this stunning disclosure, Artumas' eyes narrowed in dismay. Lissom's tone grew sober and she adjured, "Do not conjure dark purpose in this revelation, Artumas. Instead, consider my power as a gift...a means by which I can come to you discreetly and bestow upon you comfort and warmth, succor and solace when you have need of me...a none will be the wiser."

Artumas gently gripped her wrist and searching those heart-breakingly beautiful blue eyes, he could discern only sincerity and the earnest need to please. 'Ah, but Artumas, in the years before her shocking betrayal, can you honestly claim that you gleaned the presence of the coiled viper behind Myrhia's façade of loving wife and devoted Queen? Even from the perspective of bitter hindsight, can you seriously claim that you noticed even a fleeting intimation of her true nature?'

"Lissom, you are a woman whose exquisite beauty defies the ability of mere words to adequately describe. I also sense in you an inner beauty...a gentle grace and serenity to rival your physical perfection. A man could gratefully lose himself in your radiance and spend eternity there without a glimmer of regret, but I have a duty and obligation to the people of Emercia, who bore the horrible brunt of my failure to perceive Myrhia's true nature."

Lissom's smooth brow furrowed and her expression darkened at the mention of his personal demon, but he gently shook her arm and assured her, "I know, beyond any equivocation, that you and she are creatures fashion from very different cloth...that you are the pristine light to her absolute darkness. Yet, the people...over whom I rule and am obligated to serve in turn...will probably never accept our union. The scars which the enchantress inflicted upon the soul of Emercia are indelible. I am very fortunate that they have forgiven me for selecting her to be their queen, but I would be a fool to think they've forgotten or that they would tolerate a second perceived error in judgment."

"Though my sisterhood was also the victim of her treacherous deceit, I am to be damned for bearing the same title?" Lissom demanded indignantly.

Artumas gently caressed her satiny forearm as if to diminish the blunt edge of his declaration. "Yes, as flagrantly unfair as that may be...you have the right of it."

Lissom sat back on her haunches and bowed her head. The trembling of her folded hands informed him that she'd been profoundly wounded by his prediction. He dearly wanted to offer some meaningful words of consolation, but the inaccessibility of her nature left him feeling incondign to the task. Instead, he simply watched her grapple with the incisive pain this misdirected prejudice had inflicted upon her.

Eventually, she spun away without meeting his regard and after dismounting his bed, briskly marched over to the dressing table where she had neatly folded her robe the previous evening. Artumas was dismally certain that it was her intention to dress and leave his chamber in very much the same frame of mind in which she'd entered it the previous evening. Instead, she collected the gold chain that was adorned with the cameo of her goddess. Still naked, she carried it back over to the bed, her gaze disconcertingly purposeful, but otherwise inscrutable.

Artumas regarded her approach warily, the way one might consider a fast-breaking thunderstorm. She again knelt before the aging king and with a deliberate air of ceremony, dropped the surprisingly heavy belt into Artumas' lap. He glanced down to the belt and looked back to the Ascentrix, raising a quizzical eyebrow.

"I accept that your people may not countenance my presence at your side, but I will also tell you that mine is the will and tenacity of spirit to surmount the most formidable...and obstinate of barriers."

She reached down and touched Gyzarayne's likeness with one finely boned index finger. "This is not a mere ornamentation, Artumas. It is a binding symbol of my eternal devotion to my goddess and by wearing it, I proclaim her proprietorship over my soul...my being. By consigning this to your keeping and through your acceptance of this offering, you have become her intermediary. I surrender myself to your keeping...unconditionally and without reservation."

"I don't understand, Lissom," Artumas stammered, flabbergasted by the enormity of what she seemed to be suggesting. She gripped his forearm and he stiffened as an argent glow appeared to coalesce around her.

"By willingly ceding possession of this belt to your keeping, I have become yours to command. If you would have me kneel abeyant at your feet before your people, I would do so. If you would have me destroy those who would do you harm, I would reduce them to dust and cinders." A Mischievous gleam flared in her blue eyes as she leaned forward and gently caressed his erect manhood. "Should you command me to come to your bed and fulfill your every desire and ward you against the insidious scourge of loneliness, that I would do gladly. Only if you command me to do that which would offend Gyzarayne or contravene her teachings would I reject your command. In all other things, I am yours to command as you see fit. My gesture of fealty is unprecedented in the long history of Gyzarayne's order, Artumas. Surely this would suffice as a testimony to my unequivocal devotion to you?"

He glanced down at the chain belt and then tentatively grasped it in fingers that shook ever so slightly. Quietly, he inquired, "Why would you ever be willing to go to such extravagant lengths to prove the depth of your affection and devotion to me? I may have been proclaimed a king, but I am still a man for all of that...and a flawed one, all delusions aside. As you, yourself, pointed out earlier, nothing can truly oppose you, should you elect to seek out the remnant alone. For that matter, we both know that you could reduce me to dust with a casual wave of your hand. So why would you subject yourself to subservience...the very idea defies all human reason and every prevailing perception of power?"

Her grip on his member became uncomfortably constricting and she growled, "I would not harm you because I am not a miscreant, Artumas."

Then her tone softened, and her expression became solemn and oddly wistful. "From the first instant I set eyes upon you, Artumas...Champion of Light...I divined your true essence. In you there resonates a poignant eternal sorrow that no living entity has ever been forced to endure. I knew at once that, if I was not to be crushed beneath the eternal weight of your burden, I must devote my existence to helping you carry it...and to devise a means that would allow you to set it aside and, at last, know true peace. Understanding my intention, Artumas, I exhort you to accept my chain."

Artumas searched Lissom's face for a protracted moment, grasping that, should he accept stewardship of this symbol, he would embroil himself in a complex entanglement from which he...and by extension, Emercia...might never escape. Thoughtfully, he collected the belt and replied, "I will accept this magnanimous gift, but not as a symbol of your submission, Lissom, because a woman of your ilk should be subservient to no living thing in this world. Instead, I say that this will signify the integrity of the bond between us...a bond that none may tear asunder. I ask only for your discretion, Lissom, knowing the delicacy of the situation in which we now find ourselves."

Lissom's toothsome smile was blinding in magnitude as she closed his hand around the Goddess' ceremonial adornment. She then pulled the sheet away in one fluid movement and pushing the aging king back onto his pillows, pressed herself against him. In a voice made husky with need, she purred, "Then may I recommend that you take a small space of time to intimately familiarize yourself with this body over which you have been given dominion."

2

Sometime later, Artumas watched as Lissom deftly pulled the robe over her body and slipped on her soft sandals. A question came to him then and he inquired, "Will your sisters not notice your missing belt?"

Lissom turned her gaze on the Emercian King with the ghost of a smile playing at those full, pliable lips. "It is not for my daughters to question the path I choose to follow, my King...only to heed and obey."

Artumas arched an eyebrow in response to the phrase my king, fearing that she might make a similar misstep within earshot of others.

Seeing his concern, Lissom threw back her head and laughed gaily. "No need to look so dour, Artumas...it simply amuses me to tease you. Though I have proclaimed that you are my king, before the eyes of the world I will remain a paragon of virtue...until such time as you believe it might be acceptable to have me behave otherwise."

She paused, privately delighted by the ease with which she could unnerve the man to whom she had pledged fealty. For his part, Artumas still struggled to assimilate the notion that arguably the most powerful creature in this world had willingly subjugated herself to a mere mortal. He tried to envision Myrhia or Islena Doraux making this particular concession and had to restrain himself from braying hysterical laughter at the preposterous thought.

"I would never have guessed that you possessed such a devious sense of humor, Ascentrix," he observed ruefully.

"Over the long years I hope to spend in your company, I think that you will find that there are many things about me that are pleasantly surprising...not the least of which is the thoroughly addictive need for my companionship." Again, she uttered a mirthful chuckle that made Artumas feel like a giddy schoolboy. When her laughter subsided, Lissom disclosed, "Karosyn has informed me that the party will reach Dizar Kor this afternoon...and that our Queen Lorio is being the uncooperative brat she is inclined to be when the mood moves her."

Artumas reacted to this news with a visible start, still unaccustomed to the incredible mode of silent communication that existed between the Sisters of Esotaria. Gruffly, he demanded, "When exactly did you learn of this?"

The Ascentrix gravitated over to where he sat and placing her right hand on his shoulder with a wry smile, she revealed, "While we were making love, of course. I would have informed you then, but you seemed fully preoccupied by the matter at hand."

"Lissom!" he exclaimed, shocked and bemused by her rather scandalous attitude toward intimacy.

She stepped lithely away and remarked pertly, "If I've displeased you, you may chastise me at your design and leisure later. For now, if you will grant me leave, my King, I will go to assist my daughters in providing aid and succor to your displaced citizens."

He nodded, pleased that she had agreed to resume healing of the thousands who had been injured by the fire demon's deadly attack on the city.

'Seeing her in their midst, ministering to the wounded and suffering, the people cannot help but be enchanted by her compassion and humanity," he thought and in its wake came the startling revelation that he craved his subjects' acceptance of this enigmatic beauty...that he, indeed, wanted her to stand beside him as queen. Artumas shook his head in dismay, wondering how this exquisite creature had so effortlessly surmounted the bastions of his self-imposed isolation and inculcated herself into his badly scarified heart. To hide his turmoil, he declared stiffly, "I will meet with Consul Redrick to discuss his regency in my absence."

"That is well, Artumas. With your consent, I would have Karosyn remain in Nalosan, while we journey to collect the remnant. The Matrium is a wise and calming presence, who can be of tremendous value to your regent. She will also command the Sisters, should the need to defend your city arise during our absence," Lissom recommended, all teasing levity gone from her voice.

Again, Artumas could not help but think that Lissom would make a most formidable queen. 'As was Myrhia...before she grew tired of deferring to your authority.'

The aging king grimaced, cursing his confounding inability to repress his subconscious need to draw this odious comparison. 'Ah but is this not the permanent legacy of betrayal...the enduring erosion of one's capacity to trust. For all of your interminable existence, betrayal has been your one constant companion.'

"Yes, Karosyn impresses me as a woman whose serenity and wisdom would be a boon to anyone who would aspire to rule. Still, you must remember, Lissom, that ultimate authority in Emercia will rest with Tier Marshal Arminda once she arrives to evoke the articles of the armistice."

Lissom scowled, clearly displeased by this unpredictable complication. "As you are now my king, I will defer to your wisdom in this matter. Still, the Sisters of Esotaria could easily have warded Emercia from any threat, making this measure redundant."

Her expression darkened perceptibly, but then she shook her head and that radiant smile burst forth like a rapidly ascending sun. "I will leave you to your affairs. As the castle will likely be abuzz with activity and I am at your command...a pillar of discretion...I will make my exit in a more eclectic fashion." As she met his quizzical gaze, her limpid blue eyes flashed with excitement. "Even my Matrium is unaware that I possess the ability I will reveal to you now. It will be yet another intimate secret we share."

With this cryptic declaration offered, Lissom threw back her head and spread her lean arms in a graceful flourish. As a mesmerized Artumas bore fascinated witness, a golden glow quickly enveloped the Ascentrix. He could not be certain if it was an illusion created by the distorting effect of the golden effulgence, but Lissom's tangible flesh appeared to become translucent. Her entire body was seized by a series of violent gyrations and in the next instant, Lissom appeared to literally break apart...swiftly reduced to a series of refulgent golden orbs roughly the size of a small bird's egg.

Artumas gasped and rose quickly from the bed, uncertain how he could intervene or if his intervention was even necessary. At once, a voice issued from somewhere within the effulgent sphere. "Rest easy, my king. While this transformation may be unsettling to witness...it is actually very pleasant to undergo...liberating, as it were. I will come to you later this day."

Reassurance delivered, the oscillating orbs abruptly floated through the open window before spiraling up into the early morning sky.

After Lissom's spectacular departure, the king remained stationary for a long while, trying to reach an accommodation with the frenetic events of the past night. In the end, he concluded that, while he could not claim to discern the shape of the future, his final years (and he fervently prayed that this would be his last living incarnation) would see wonders, both dark and beautiful, the nature of which would be beyond all imagining.

Sighing, he retrieved Lissom's belt and carried it over to a short section of stone wall. He pressed three of the ancient stones in specific sequence and stepped back as a concealed panel sprang open. The small enclosure held a single item, but it was his most precious possession...distilled from the accrued trappings of countless lifetimes. That single folded sheet was a letter that Islena Doraux had left for him before returning to her own world...a letter, the existence and contents of which, were known only to him. Artumas carefully placed Lissom's belt next to the letter, his fingertips lightly grazing the yellowing page as he did.

The aging king then pressed the compartment door shut and stood staring vacantly at the highly polished stone wall. After a time, he buried his lined face in his hands and struggled not to weep.

3

The first rays of sunshine were slanting through the small windows of the Laughing Widows Inn as the sleepy stable boy led the five horses around the front of the inn. Lorio and the three other women stood near the foot of the stone steps, all anxious to commence the final leg of their journey to Dizar Kor.

"Where is your traveling companion?" Karosyn inquired evenly as she systematically checked her saddle's bindings. In her tone, Lorio could sense no derision, though the Matrium had made no attempt to conceal her displeasure at Reyfort's presence.

"I believe our would-be friend has decided that our company is not as enchanting as he expected it to be and has moved on in search of a more engaging adventure," Lorio allowed with a shrug of pointed indifference. Privately, she was uncertain if she found Reyfort's departure to be a disappointment or a relief. "He was a truly pretty man though."

"Come now, your highness, I would never renege on my offer of service," a voice called from the entrance. The four women spun as one to find Reyfort making his way gingerly down the stairs, his ceremonial Ihzrac protruding from over the shoulders of his long riding cloak.

There were distinct dark smudges beneath those enticing blue eyes that evoked images of storm clouds. The skin of his face held a pale, sickly tinge that spoke of a man in extreme and incessant discomfort. As he crossed over to join his female companions, his gait was halting and tentative as if he was walking on eggshells. Despite this obvious discomfort, when Reyfort spoke, his voice was modulated and jovial. "I must say...I'm anxious to set off on this great adventure."

Discerning the man's evident discomfort, the compassionate Karosyn inquired, "Are you certain you are fit for travel...you are moving like a man who is ailing badly?"

"It is a six hour ride to Dizar Kor and it is my intention to be in the city come the first bell after high noon. I will not be slowed by a laggard, so if you cannot maintain our pace, you will be left behind," Lorio interjected harshly.

Reyfort shifted his gaze to meet hers for the first time since emerging from the inn. He mustered a smile and quipped, "I must admit to being guilty of over-indulgence last evening, but I will be at your back like a shadow...of that you can be assured, your highness."

Lorio regarded him flatly for a moment that seemed to draw itself out in the early morning light. Finally, she nodded and snapped brusquely, "Very well, then let us be off."

Reyfort managed to lever himself into his saddle without crying out in pain only by conjuring a vivid image of his burying a dirk in Lorio's full left breast and then urinating on her chilling corpse.

This satisfying image roused a smile that quickly evaporated when he lifted his gaze to find the viper Issidris watching him with those ineffably terrible dark eyes. "A good day to you, lady Issidris," Reyfort managed affably. "I trust you passed an uneventful evening?"

The ghost of a knowing smile played quickly across the savage bitch's thin lips and then she urged her mount after the others. His feigned smile curdled like cream beneath a hot summer sun, leaving only festering hatred.

Perhaps he would defecate on her corpse.

The village of Hamlen was still and silent as the party cantered over the cobbles of its main street. The early summer sky was a deep, unbroken blue that held the promise of enervating heat as the day wore on. Taking stock of his physical condition, Reyfort realized that the six hour gallop to Dizar Kor (the purpose of which he remained unapprised) would prove to be a hellish ordeal that he would be fortunate to survive.

His torso was an aching mass of bruised flesh where Issidris' cruel fists had devastated him. Still, it was the deep, emasculating pain in his groin and kidneys that presently caused him the worst grief...a grief that would be compounded exponentially by a journey on horseback.

Leaving the village, the terrain opened to a long stretch of open fields, where countless generations of farmers had provided the primary food staples for much of Southern Fairmarch and Northern Emercia. Lorio allowed her horse to drop back beside Reyfort's charger, regarding the Suran with a hard and unflinching gaze of appraisal. Finally, she remarked, "So, you've decided to remain in my company?"

"I have," Reyfort allowed simply. "I trust that my ill treatment last night has satisfied your personal paranoia?"

"If you're soliciting an apology, Reyfort, I can assure you that none will be forthcoming. Should you come to know me better, you'll realize that trust is a commodity that I do not easily impart."

"Fair enough," he allowed and grimaced as a rut in the road ignited an argent flare of pain throughout his torso and groin.

Lorio viewed his misery dispassionately, wondering if the increment between herself and a creature such as Issidris Il had worn thin. She inclined her head toward the square-shouldered dispenser of violent mayhem and advised, "If you are inclined to seek retribution against Issidris, I would strongly recommend you reconsider for your own wellbeing. She is a perfect instrument of violence who will see you to your grave without batting a lash."

Reyfort offered the Lamish Queen a sour grin. "The thought of reprisal never crossed my mind. As you say, she is an instrument. I would be foolish to harbor a grudge against a sword rather than the hand that wields it. I can assure you, good queen...yours is a hand I would much rather kiss."

The incorrigible remark caused Lorio to laugh despite her intention to remain cold and aloof in her dealings with the Suran. Reaching across, she gently squeezed his left shoulder and intoned, "Perhaps I'll grant you the opportunity to do precisely that before too long."

She spurred her horse forward, leaving Reyfort alone with his pain and fantasies of vengeance.

4

Reyfort's intuition proved correct, though on a scale far worse than he'd envisioned. Two hours along the cobbled highway to Dizar Kor, the Suran rogue found that his condition had deteriorated to the point where he could scarcely remain upright in his saddle. Each of the horse's hoof falls sent a coruscating wave of agony rippling through his badly battered body. His suffering was further exacerbated by the stifling heat which had clamped down upon Southern Fairmarch like an oily vice. Perspiration, slick and hot, rolled freely down the Suran's pallid face, causing his head to swim as he slumped forth in his saddle.

Sensing its riders flagging lack of concentration, the Suran's charger abruptly stopped, pitching the barely coherent Reyfort forward. He relinquished his tentative grip on his reins, and he slid to the cobbles in a boneless sprawl.

Karosyn, who had surreptitiously been observing the flagging Suran for some time, called out to the others and spurred her horse back to the downed Reyfort.

By the time that Lorio and the two other women had reached the fallen Suran, Karosyn had rolled him onto his back and was cradling his head in her lap. She glanced up at Lorio, her limpid blue eyes alight with concern that came so automatically to the compassionate woman. "He seems to be suffering from heat prostration and delirium. We must get him out of the sun and hydrated at once."

Cursing in frustration, Lorio nonetheless gestured to Issidris and together, the pair hoisted Reyfort from the cobbles and carried him into the shade of the trees that now delineated the King's Highway. They set the ailing rogue down in the shade of a large oak. Karosyn unwound a light scarf from her golden hair and then upended the contents of a water skin onto the makeshift compress. When it was thoroughly saturated, she held it to her lips, closed her eyes and blew onto the cloth. While a thoroughly fascinated Lorio looked on, ice crystals began to form on the cloth, continuing to coalesce until it had become a block of ice. Glancing up at Lorio, the Matrium instructed brusquely, "Remove those swords and that damnably heavy coat. Fashion the coat as a pillow for his neck."

Lorio complied, tilting Reyfort into a seated position so she could divest him of his weapons and his black coat. The Suran uttered a guttural grunt and began to moan deliriously as Lorio levered him forward to drag the garment from his body. Karosyn's brow furrowed in suspicion and handing the impromptu compress to the Lamish Queen, she instructed, "Press this to his brow for thirty count intervals and then remove it for the same duration lest his flesh be bitten by ice."

Lorio pursed her lips at being commanded, but nonetheless gently pressed the compress to Reyfort's perspiration-slicked forehead. Karosyn gingerly grasped the bottom of Reyfort's shirt and carefully raised it to his chin, gasping in horror at what was revealed beneath the sweat-soaked material.

"By the Goddess' mercy...what vile work is this?" she hissed, gaping at the brutalized topography of Reyfort's torso. Massive bruises, livid red and midnight black, sprawled across the muscular flesh of the Suran's lean body. Angry and swollen, they rose like mountains that had been ravaged by dark sorcery. Leaning forward, the Matrium laid a cool hand on the Suran's forehead and demanded, "Who has committed this foul act, Reyfort?"

The Suran's eyes lolled open and his fevered gaze slid to the left until it settled upon an impassive Issidris, who made no attempt to avert her gaze. Karosyn followed the beaten man's gaze, her lovely blue eyes widening in dismay and then the nascent stirring of rare anger. Rising and pointing down at Reyfort's battered torso, Karosyn demanded, "Issidris, are you responsible for this deplorable act of savagery?"

For the first time since Lorio had met her, Issidris displayed emotion in the form of extreme discomfort beneath that accusatory gaze. "Karosyn, it was I who exhorted Issidris to assault Reyfort, which she did in exchange for my not goading Lyndsyn further."

Karosyn spun about, her beautiful face livid with anger. "That you would actually conscript Issidris into this disgusting act of ugly violence is deplorable...even for a creature who seems totally devoid of any moral compass. To think that fate has actually selected you to serve as its instrument is a cruel jape at humanity's expense."

Lorio stiffened indignantly and started to rise, but Karosyn merely glared at the Lamish Queen. "Will you strike me again to satisfy your arrogance...your incomprehensible hubris?"

The Lamish beauty averted her sullen gaze to the ground, the incisive barb suffusing her with shame. Karosyn returned her attention to Issidris and pointing back toward the road, commanded, "Go...we will speak of this matter privately."

Issidris nodded, her countenance grim and obediently headed for the road. Before following, the normally serene Karosyn rasped, "Ice his wounds as I've instructed. I will heal him once I've dealt with the consequences of your stupidity."

Lyndsyn, whose fury had silently smoldered through Karosyn's reproof of the Lamish Queen, attempted to forestall Issidris' punishment, or at the very least, deflect it to its rightful target. In the many decades she'd served under Karosyn, she had never seen the Matrium in such close proximity to open fury. "Please, Matrium...Issidris has been manipulated by this odious woman. I..."

"Silence," Karosyn roared, stunning the First Battle Mage into gaping compliance, before turning and striding after the diminutive assassin.

Lorio shook her head miserably as she began to apply the ice compress to the worst of Reyfort's bruising. Quietly, she allowed, "Karosyn, your stinging words are true...I am a piteous excuse for a queen and perhaps for a woman as well."

Reyfort shifted his pain-distorted gaze to the tall, robed figure of Lyndsyn just in time to see a shimmering aberration coalesce around her closed fists. Her lovely face was contorted into a mask of immutable rage and her blue eyes were pinched and focused squarely upon Lorio's exposed back. The Suran applauded silently and smiled up into the Lamish whore's face in the instant before Lyndsyn's sorcery slammed into the unsuspecting immortal.

A powerful force swept the immortal up, twisting and jerking her to and fro as if she'd been ensnared in the massive fist of an invisible giant. In the next instant, she found that she was being flung across the small clearing before colliding with the unyielding trunk of an oak. The air was punched from her lungs as she sprawled to the leaf-strewn grass in a tangle of long limbs. She lifted her head in time to see the First Battle Mage stride over to stand beside the cowering Reyfort, who regarded her warily as if she'd taken complete leave of her senses. Lyndsyn's face was twisted by a paroxysm of rage and Lorio discerned that she'd have to break the oath she'd sworn to Issidris before this confrontation was over.

Lyndsyn gesticulated...a short, chopping wave of both hands that raised a hail of loose pebbles from the soft earth. They slammed into Lorio's flesh as if flung from a slingshot, causing her to cry out in shock more than genuine pain. She threw herself to her left in time to partially avoid a clubbing blow, delivered by the thick branch of the towering oak against which she'd been so rudely tossed. The force of the blow was still sufficient to again send her face first into the mercifully soft soil of the clearing.

Lyndsyn waved her arms furiously, her amber eyes alive with the refulgent glow of unconstrained sorcery. Lorio attempted to regain her feet but found that she was beset by a myriad of roots that had torn free from the surrounding earth. Flexible, yet cruelly biting, they lashed Lorio's flesh like a flail, scoring her long legs, buttocks and lean, muscular arms.

Eyes wide with incredulity and heart ablaze with elation in reaction to the Lamish bitch's abject beating, Reyfort glanced up to see Lyndsyn braying laughter like a demented mad woman...even as tears spilled freely down her cheeks.

While the malicious, abused part of his mind was perfectly content to allow the battle mage to belabor the Lamish whore into a quivering mass of bruised and abraded flesh, the prosaic aspect of his nature saw this as an opportunity to ingratiate himself with the volatile queen. Steeling himself against the anticipated eruption of pain, Reyfort quickly sat up and wrapped his right arm around Lyndsyn's thighs before driving his fist into her exposed sternum with as much force as his battered condition would allow. The ungainly blow nonetheless landed with sufficient impact to punch the air from the unsuspecting battle mage's lungs.

Lyndsyn collapsed to one knee, clutching her midriff...her large eyes bulging prominently as she struggled to draw breath. With his head swimming from the effort of the rather craven strike, Reyfort clutched her arms and cried, "Queen Lorio, now!"

5

"Do you have even the slightest inkling of the odiousness of your actions, Issidris?" Karosyn demanded coldly as she loomed over the diminutive bondswoman, who seemed genuinely nonplused by the Matrium's unprecedented anger. "You are now the Hand of the First Battle Mage of the Sisters of Esotaria and yet you have conducted yourself like a common thug...and all at the behest of a woman to whom you owe absolutely no allegiance. Why?"

Reluctantly, Issidris met Karosyn's incisive blue eyes. "I sensed your displeasure with this man's presence, Matrium...I apologize if I've given offense."

Karosyn sighed and gently squeezed Issidris' firm right shoulder, her anger attenuated by recollections of what the Ascentrix had required of Issidris prior to their departure from Nalosan. "Issidris, for all of your terrifying martial prowess and hardened exterior, you are a disingenuous creature. Be wary of Lorio. Her mercurial spirit is beset by shadow. Your only obligation is to serve the First Battle Mage."

Issidris suddenly reached forward and gripped Karosyn's right forearm, her fingers digging painfully into the Matrium's smooth skin. In a voice made tremulous by desperation born of misery, she adjured, "Please Matrium! Can you not relive me of this obligation! Use me in whatever capacity you see fit and I will serve the sisterhood unquestioningly...but not like this!"

A thoroughly flummoxed Karosyn shook her head in bewilderment when she saw that tears had welled up at the corners of Issidris' eyes. Before she could conjure a response, the electric crackle of burgeoning sorcery prickled her skin and a blinding yellow light flared in her mind's eye...an indication that offensive magic was being released in the near proximity.

"Lyndsyn!" she exclaimed, the name springing from her lips along with a groan of despair. Castigating herself as an unthinking fool, she raced back to the spot where she'd left her volatile battle mage in the company of a woman she so thoroughly detested.

6

Lorio managed to push herself to her hands and knees just as the relentless assault of limbs and branches ceased and Reyfort bellowed her name. She lifted her dizzy gaze to see the Suran struggling to retain a gasping Lyndsyn and staring at her with imploring eyes. Lyndsyn snarled like an enraged animal and jerked her head toward Reyfort.

An invisible force slapped the Suran down, releasing her from his grasp. There was a sickening crack as he smacked his head on the bole of the oak tree and he lapsed into unconsciousness.

Lorio, ever composed in battle, did not hesitate to capitalize on Lyndsyn's momentary distraction. She covered the distance between herself and the still gasping battle mage and drove her right shoulder into Lyndsyn's already battered stomach, propelling the battle mage into the same tree that had caused Reyfort grief only moments earlier.

The battle mage uttered an inarticulate grunt of pain and dismay. Unrelenting, Lorio tossed the stunned battle mage over her hip and quickly straddled the prone woman's chest. She raised her right fist, fully intending to pulverize the woman's beautiful face, but a measure of reason asserted itself then. Her fist opened in mid-descent and Lorio delivered two open-handed blows that shook the struggling woman, bringing a cascade of blood from her nose and mouth.

"Stop this, you contentious bitch, before I'm left with no choice but to really hurt you," Lorio admonished as her left hand closed about Lyndsyn's throat. She managed to express her infinite scorn by spitting a glut of bloody saliva in Lorio's contorted face.

In the next instant, the Queen of Lamia was unceremoniously tossed across the clearing and into a thorn-riddle briar patch. She climbed to her feet in time to see Lyndsyn's hands erupt into balls of blue flame.

'This woman doesn't just want to punish you,' Lorio realized as her wary gaze shifted from the dancing flame to Lyndsyn's scowling face, 'she wants to excoriate the flesh from your bones...even if it means burning down half the march to do it.'

Even as the dire ramifications of this thought manifested in Lorio's frantic mind, those imposing blue flames were abruptly extinguished. Lyndsyn began to howl like a wounded beast as constricting bands of yellow light materialized around her torso, clamping her arms tightly to her sides. As a totally immobilized battle mage cursed and raged in mindless fury, Karosyn strode into the clearing with a nonplused Issidris Il hard at her heels.

"You will stop this petulant lunacy at once, Lyndsyn...before this idiocy takes a tragic turn," Karosyn growled, her voice low and fraught with a shocking degree of cold menace.

"The despicable exploitation of Issidris cannot go unpunished, Matrium," Lyndsyn snapped back bitterly, her voice distorted by tears of outrage. "This wretched bitch has treated Issidris like an attack dog...has scarred her with ugly violence. This cannot go unanswered."

Before Karosyn could respond, Issidris surged past the Matrium. She gripped the bound mage by the shoulders and shook her briskly. "Stop this, Lyndsyn...please!"

Then, to the absolute amazement of all, Il planted her feet and shoved the battle mage backwards. The Sister of Esotaria landed heavily on her posterior, her head snapping back on the thin stalk of her neck. She remained on the leaf strewn ground, gaping up at Il in silent shock. Issidris loomed over the fallen woman, her eyes ablaze with raw anguish. "I am a tool and the queen has used me accordingly...just as your Ascentrix has done before her. Open your childish eyes and see what truly stands before you! I am a weapon and nothing more. It is the full extent of what I am, and it is what I am perfectly content to be. It is you who has abused me, Lyndsyn...you who would suffocate me beneath the weight of your accursed expectations. I am not your personal reclamation project, who you would redeem out of some misguided sense of compassion...or even worse; a perverse attraction that will go eternally unrequited. Whatever unfulfilled need fuels your desire; I beg you to look elsewhere to satisfy its demands."

As a stunned Lorio looked on, immobilized by this taut drama...this brutal deconstruction of Lyndsyn's well-meaning concern, Issidris drew forth one of her swords and dropped it on the mage's heaving chest. "If you cannot find the pity in your heart to desist, then I would ask the Matrium to release you from your oaths so that you might strike my head from my shoulders. It would be a far less cruel fate than being bludgeoned by the hammer of your unwanted affection."

Eyes alight with agony, Lyndsyn's lovely face held an oddly feral quality that could not fully conceal the devastating effect of Issidris' scathing rejection. In a quavering voice, the First Battle Mage pleaded, "Issidris, I...I care for you. My only desire has always been to protect you from those who would mistreat you. Please, I..."

Lyndsyn's voice deteriorated into a strangled groan of despair. Il bent closer to the stricken mage and intoned fiercely, "If you truly care for me, then you will leave me alone."

With this remorselessly brutal blow delivered, Il snapped up her sword and literally sprinted into the forest. As she raced past, the Lamish Queen was surprised to see that the vitiated creature was weeping silently.

A heart-wrenching wail of pain tore from Lyndsyn's bloody lips. She rolled onto her right side and pressed her face into the trampled grass. The Matrium and Lorio looked on in helpless discomfort as the thoroughly devastated woman's body was wracked by muffled sobs.

7

It was a bell before the party had recovered sufficiently to continue on to Dizar Kor. Karosyn knelt to console Lyndsyn, whispering to the distraught woman while stroking her rich brown hair. Eventually, she assisted the battle mage to her feet, but Lorio need only one glance into Lyndsyn's dull brown eyes to glean that a critical measure of the woman's vital essence had been extinguished by Issidris' harsh rejection.

"I'm finished as First Battle Mage, aren't I?" she inquired of Karosyn and though the Matrium had regarded her in uncomfortable silence, something in her expression seemed to confirm Lyndsyn's fear. She nodded glumly, the light in her eyes guttering by a further increment. Karosyn, sensing that she would serve little purpose in Dizar Kor in her current state, instructed the broken woman to return to Hamlen and await them at the Laughing Widow Inn. The First Battle Mage accepted this dismissal with a nod, gathered up her meager possessions and rode away. Watching her go, Karosyn had no premonition that she'd just committed a blunder that would haunt her for the remainder of her long life.

When Lyndsyn was well out of sight, Issidris Il strode back through the trees, her face now its customary cold and inscrutable mask. She sat, cross-legged and head bowed, away from the others, awaiting instruction to depart.

Shaking her head in consternation, the Matrium then applied herself to ministering to Reyfort's injuries. Her impassive expression reflected nothing of her inner turmoil as she contemplated how the Ascentrix would react to news of this debacle...for which Karosyn must ultimately be held accountable. By the time she'd finished her remarkable healing regime, the landscape of bruises was a faded shadow of its former self. A wide-eyed Reyfort gaped at the regal beauty in open wonder. In an incredulous voice, he declared, "The pain is gone."

Karosyn's gaze was severe as she admonished, "The blow to the back of your head was traumatic enough...and may have lingering effects. Should you feel nauseous, inform me at once. Also, this type of injury can be exacerbated by sleep...so it might be best if you force yourself to stay awake for the next night."

Reyfort's eyes narrowed in alarm, but Lorio extended her right hand, which the Suran accepted, startled by the ease with which she hoisted him to his feet. Leaning closer, she intoned softly, "Perhaps I can concoct a pleasurable diversion to help hold sleep at bay."

He raised a wary eyebrow, eliciting a gale of hearty laughter from the Lamish Queen. "Fear not, Reyfort. You have proven yourself here today. If it was your intention to ingratiate yourself into my company, then you've succeeded. Now, let us get back on the road. We have squandered too much precious time as it is."

When Reyfort and Issidris had started back toward the highway, Karosyn gripped Lorio's right wrist and spun the statuesque queen to face her. "Have you ever taken even the shortest moment to reflect upon the toll your episodes of vapid self-indulgence extracts upon everyone unfortunate enough to be caught in your wake? Do you feel even the slightest responsibility or remorse for the human lives you've reduced to detritus here today?"

Lorio snapped her hand free but offered no rebuttal in her own defense. Karosyn scowled, a rare baleful expression, and rasped, "It is said that you are a hero of legend, but I see only a shallow creature whose sense of worth begins and ends with herself."

Then she, too, was gone, leaving the Lamish Queen alone with her burgeoning sense of shame and inadequacy. It was beneath this pall of discord that Lorio would come to Dizar Kor, find the bane, while forging unexpected ties with the second living creature she would genuinely love.

Chapter Forty

1

"My liege, will not the people of Emercia perceive this as an abdication...an abandonment in a time of extreme crisis?" Consul Redrick protested as he ran his hands through his thick white hair, clearly distressed by his king's proposed course of action.

"Perhaps," Artumas allowed calmly, "but it will be our task to reassure the populace and make it exceedingly clear that the Jerhia occupation and your regency are temporary measures. To that effect, we will dispatch messengers immediately and they will carry a proclamation to every village and town in the country, explaining the measures I have decreed. One of your primary functions as regent will be to forestall any conflict between our citizenry and the Jerhia military."

"I fear that such a conflict might prove inevitable," Redrick predicted, his thick brows beetling at the prospect of civil strife. "Emercians are a proud lot who will not readily accept subjugation."

Artumas stroked his beard thoughtfully and reiterated, "That is why it is imperative that we stifle any hint of chaos before it can ignite...not through repression, but through enlightenment."

Redrick averted his gaze to his hands, which were the calloused, scarred hands of a man whose life had been devoted to warfare. When Myrhia had usurped the king's throne and revealed the terrible shape of her wicked ambition, Redrick, then a colonel in the Emercian cavalry, had deserted. Over the eight long years of Myrhia's odious reign, Redrick and a group of fellow cavalrymen had mounted a resistance that had plagued the Queen's conventional forces over the length and breadth of the entire continent. Now, however, his disquiet was a palpable thing. "My liege, I am a military man...not an administrator. I'm not certain that I am equal to the formidable task you've set before me. Surely, there are others amongst your advisors who would be better suited to the position of regent?"

Artumas shook his head adamantly. "You do yourself an injustice with this harsh evaluation of your capability, old friend. Besides which, you possess the one quality I value above all others...loyalty."

Redrick's eyes widened at this effusive praise, which he considered the highest honor a king could bestow upon those who served him. Artumas continued to placate his old friend's anxiety. "What's more, Arminda is a masterful administrator and a wise and prudent leader. She will do everything within her considerable power to guarantee that tensions are kept to a minimum...a task made considerably easier by Jerhia's vaunted discipline. The Matrium has generously offered Karosyn, her Matrium, to serve as your aide and advisor in my absence. She will be a tremendous asset in administering the day to day affairs of Nalosan, especially regarding the pressing needs of our displaced citizenry."

Redrick nodded gravely, but Artumas could clearly sense his Consul's relief at having the highly capable Sister of Esotaria at his disposal. Finally, the old man sighed and remarked solemnly, "It seems that strange times have come upon us. In the span of a generation, women have become ascendant in our world. The time may well come to pass when women surpass us in all things and men may serve little purpose other than to fight their wars and serve as dray animals in the world they fashion."

Artumas shifted his gaze to the bank of narrow windows that ringed the upper reaches of his audience hall, disconcerted by Redrick's rare sortie into speculative philosophy. "Perhaps it has always been thus, and we men merely deluded ourselves into thinking that we held the true reins of power in the world. Women have always been skilled in the art of manipulation...the craft of bending a man's will to their purpose. Women long ago discovered what we men are now only learning...there are other paths to power beyond brute force and a mailed fist."

"True," Redrick conceded, "but it seems that many of this new generation of women can play the old game with a ferocity to rival the most brutal of men."

"You speak truthfully, old friend. I, for one, would not relish the prospect of wagering my life in a contest of weapons against Queen Lorio. Engaging in open warfare with the Ascentrix and the Sisters would likely prove fatal for the greatest of armies."'

Redrick pursed his lips, clearly discomfited by the image of facing legions of sorcery wielding women. The two men lapsed into a companionable silence, both contemplating the realities of a lost age, their reverie disrupted by an insistent knock on the door.

"Come!" Artumas called and a Hand of the Way opened the door to grant Consuls Dynok and Tygon entry. As the two men strode briskly along the royal blue runner carpet, Artumas studied their faces, surprised to see that each wore an identical expression of perplexity. As always, Dynok's expression was shaped by a vaguely sardonic slant that made reading his true sentiments difficult. Still, he was plainly puzzled or bemused by whatever had inspired him to seek an audience with the king. The parsimonious Tygon's visage conveyed an even deeper sense of confusion and it was he who spoke first. "My liege, I apologize for the interruption, but a matter has arisen that I believe warrants your attention." His frown deepened and he added, "though, in all candor, I am uncertain of the proper context in which to relate the matter...it is so incredible as to be surreal."

"Clarity and plain speech are often the best approach in moments of doubt," Artumas suggested rather tartly.

Tygon's fleshy face colored at this mild rebuke, but he forged ahead, though his tone conveyed that he could scarcely credit what he was about to convey. "Your majesty, a man named Kradzan has appeared in Nalosan. He carries a document bearing the royal seal of Queen Ynathreen of Redia and claims to be an emissary, dispatched to Emercia on his queen's business. He has requested an audience with your majesty."

"His Queen's business?" Artumas echoed.

"The only official business an Emercian would have with a Redian would be conducted at sword point," Redrick grumbled, appalled by the very notion.

"Did he state the nature of his business?" Artumas asked both intrigued and immediately suspicious.

"Indeed. As improbable as it might seem, he was dispatched here with the idea of laying the groundwork for a mutually reciprocal trade pact. It seems that Queen Ynathreen wishes to visit Nalosan before the coming winter for the purpose of signing a formal trade agreement between our two countries. This Kradzan allowed that an emissary has also been dispatched to Dizar Kor with a similar offer."

"The poor wretch will be lucky not to find his head on a pike. King Saremond despises Redia...and with good reason," Redrick observed with a spate of scornful laughter.

Artumas shook his head, baffled to stupefied wonder by this improbable overture from the rogue nation. The idea that Redia would enter into an honorable, benevolent treaty with another nation was as implausible as a second sun appearing in the sky. He held out his hand for the Queen's communiqué. Breaking open the wax seal, Artumas carefully read Ynathreen's proposal. He was surprised to find that it had been composed in a respectful, eloquent manner commensurate with the importance of its content. The Queen's elegant script conveyed her desire to forge an accord that would prove mutually beneficial to both signatories. In a logical, concise manner, she detailed several ways in which this agreement would benefit both nations. Artumas was duly impressed by the Queen's grasp of governing trade principles. She concluded her letter by expressing her eagerness to meet with the legendary King Artumas and her sincere hope that they could develop an amicable personal rapport, thus reversing centuries of unproductive enmity that had existed between the two countries.

Artumas drew a long, thoughtful breath and set the letter on the desk before him, trying to assimilate the far-reaching ramifications of what this rather anonymous queen was proposing. Turning to his Foreign Affairs Consul, Artumas inquired, "Consul Dynok, what is known of Redia's fledgling queen?"

"Honestly, very little, my liege," Dynok confessed, clearly uneasy with this rare admission of ignorance. "She ascended to the throne four years ago, after actually winning Redia's barbaric rite of succession. She is twenty-two years of age and seems to have establish a firm hold on power in a country renowned for its misogyny."

"By the gods, you're saying that she was just a teenage girl when she fought her way through Redia's blood-spattered circus...against the type of monsters who normally wield power in that mountainous hell?" Redrick interjected, his tone incredulous.

"Ynathreen remains a veritable mystery even after four years on the throne. It has been reported that, should you be so unfortunate to face her on a field of battle, you're likely to find yourself separated from your head and your manhood in short order," Dynok disclosed, a grin of private amusement playing at his lips.

"Yet another virago," Artumas mused distantly, recalling the term Islena Doraux had once used to describe women of exceptional combat ferocity and prowess. The remark garnered puzzled glances from the others, which the aging king chose to ignore, instead asking, "And so, Consul Dynok, how do we make the progression from man-slaying she-demon to a Queen who wields a pen like a bard and proposes economic cooperation treaties with her long standing enemies?"

Dynok pursed his lips. "An astute query, my liege, but one for which I can offer no salient insight...save for one other piece of information pertaining to Redia's first female ruler. It is said that Queen Ynathreen has raised a former Fairmarch slave...a woman named Muragren...to serve as her Seneschal and closest advisor. Given what we know of the Redian psyche, one can scarcely conceive of the courage required to take such a brave and bold step."

Artumas' eyes widened, and he stroked his graying beard pensively, trying to envision the probable reaction such a bold appointment would rouse in a nation renowned for both misogyny and xenophobia. "What is your advice in regard to this proposed treaty, Consul Dynok?"

"As always, any dealing with Redia should be undertaken with a liberal measure of suspicion. That being said, I would recommend that you not reject these overtures out of hand. May I suggest that you offer this Kradzan a token gesture to demonstrate your potential receptiveness to the proposals...but do not grant him an audience. Allow me to meet with him in your stead. This will allow me the opportunity to divine the nature of Queen Ynathreen's purpose without giving her serious affront should it seem that her desire for an accord is sincere."

An expectant silence descended on the audience chamber as Artumas considered Dynok's admittedly prudent advice. He shifted his gaze to the parchment. Perhaps he had imagined a couched innuendo, but beneath the formal language of international courtship, Artumas thought he had perceived a personal appeal...an intimate invitation. That was utterly absurd, of course. He knew absolutely nothing of this woman...other than she was the current ruler of Emercia's most persistent enemy. Yet, he could not repress the idea that she was reaching out to him personally. Every instinct admonished Artumas that, should he reject this bold olive branch, the unforeseen consequences could be severe for both countries. Shaking his head in bemusement, the king brusquely pushed the communiqué aside. His instincts had led him astray as often as not of late and on this strange occasion, he would allow situational prudence to dictate his actions. "Very well, Consul Dynok, I will heed your advice. Tygon, you will inform the Redian Emissary that, due to pressing matters, I will be unable to meet with him at this time. Inform him that, when circumstances are more amenable, Emercia will be more than happy to consider a trade alliance between the two nations."

Consul Tygon wagged his jowly head gravely and turned to depart to do his king's bidding, but Artumas added, "Consul, extend this emissary every possible courtesy, but see him on his way in an expeditious fashion. Disclose nothing of the current crisis in Nalosan. As Consul Dynok has so sagely observed, we must be eternally wary of Redian intent. It would not be wise to have them think that Emercia is in any way vulnerable."

The man nodded his understanding and hurried away to comply. Turning back to the other man, Artumas announced, "Come sit, Dynok...there is much to discuss."

In dismissing Ynathreen from his thoughts, Artumas had no way of knowing that Redia would help save the world from total obliteration in the not too distant future.

2

The day's final golden rays of sunshine slanted through the room's narrow windows, illuminating motes of dust in the dying light of day. As the fast-descending ball of reddish-gold fire began to sink beneath the western horizon, Lyndsyn, who until this very morning had held the impressive rank of First Battle Mage in Gyzarayne's sisterhood, emerged from her torpor. The others had yet to return from Dizar Kor and the statuesque beauty wondered obliquely if ill fortune had befallen the group. In the end, she concluded, it didn't really matter as she had been consigned to a place where the events of the world had lost their efficacy to influence what was left of her life.

Still, it would not do to have the group return before she had fulfilled her intention. She could simply not bear to face Issidris...to bear the palpable weight of her loathing.

Still she tarried, mesmerized by the hypnotic spectacle of the daylight draining slowly from the heavens, relenting to the grand celestial dance of an infinite number of stars in the black velvet firmament.

'How did you allow yourself to plummet so low?' she wondered bleakly. She closed her eyes and conjured a vivid image of the small, starving waif the Sisters of Esotaria had rescued from abandonment and misery so many years before. As Karosyn had swept that frightened, hungry child into her warm embrace, Lyndsyn had been suffused by a sense of hope and love...of belonging; commodities that had seemed incomprehensible to her before the sisters had come upon her. Thereafter, the world had come alive with a vast array of wondrous possibilities too numerous to contemplate.

Yet here, after all that had been arrayed before her, Lyndsyn found that she was stumbling to the edge of the abyss, brought to the razor's edge of ruin by an unfathomable desire to love what could not be loved...to protect that which could not be protected.

With the inability to grasp this one salient truth, Lyndsyn, once lauded as the Sisterhood's most promising battle mage, had been shattered beyond any hope of repair or reclamation.

All that remained was the rendering of the final judgment. Better that she levy that judgment upon herself than submit to Lissom's glacially cold adjudication.

Below her, Lyndsyn could hear the boisterous sounds of the nightly revelry cycling up in the common room of the Laughing Widow Inn. Trembling slightly, she resolved to be done with the dark deed of self-immolation before either the group returned or her flagging courage failed.

Briskly crossing over to the room's chest of drawers that sat next to her narrow bed, she pulled the dun-colored robe over her head and removed the silver insignia of her rank from the rough spun material. She then neatly folded the robe and laid it lovingly on the dresser, momentarily caressing the material. Then she placed the sigil on the robe, struggling desperately to contain the spill of tears that would surely undo her purpose. Naked, she padded across the room and retrieved the stool and length of stout rope.

A winsome smile had enticed the simple stable boy to collect these items for her. Hopelessly slow-witted, he had been unable to discern their glaringly obvious purpose.

Moving with her customary lissome grace, Lyndsyn positioned the tall stool directly beneath the room's central beam. She tied one end to the oak frame of the heavy bed. The other end, she fashioned into a sliding noose, which she looped around her neck before nimbly mounting the stool.

She stood utterly still for several moments, listening distantly to the muffled sounds of laughter issuing up through the floorboards and wondering how her life might have unfolded had the sisters not found her all those years before.

'Probably badly,' she thought dejectedly. 'Perhaps it is nature's intention that some things end in despair and tears.' She then whispered two names; one belonging to a woman she detested and the other, to one she loved.

"Lorio...Issidris."

Then she unleashed what would prove to be her final act of sorcery. The chair shot out from beneath her and she plummeted...her thin neck snapping cleanly. Lyndsyn continued to sway gently long after her broken heart had stopped beating.

3

The hamlet of Natur, in Western Galloway, was apt to give travelers the unsettling impression that it was under siege by the surrounding forest. Towering stands of oak and ash pressed in upon the edges of the hamlet as if willfully intent upon crushing the modest collection of structures to kindling. Even the single road that led through the isolated village was a narrow dirt construct which the overarching canopy of branches had left mired in gloom and shadow. It was virtually impossible not to be assailed by the unnerving sensation that the wild tangle of undergrowth, which delineated the glorified cart path, concealed impending menace...a dirk between the shoulder blades or a keen blade across the throat.

This impression of sinister purpose and isolation was further exacerbated by the fact that Natur had sprung to life at the base of a massive up thrust fault. This looming escarpment snaked its way across Western Galloway and steeped the entire hamlet in brooding shadow for a good portion of the daylight bells.

Xhendyn and the ShadowCaster stood atop this escarpment, peering down upon the humble collection of ramshackle houses. To Joubert's cold eye, they appeared piteously small and inconsequential when viewed from this lofty perspective.

'It appears as if I could obliterate this sorry bump in the road by dropping a fist-sized stone down upon it,' Joubert thought, amused by his own petulant malice. Turning to the pewter masked entity who stood next to him, he inquired, "So, why have you brought me to this charming backwater. I can't imagine that there would be anything of value in this wretched place."

Xhendyn uttered a rumbling laugh, a sound that reminded Joubert of rusty iron being dragged over a piece of slate. The entity swept his right arm over the tableau of huddled houses in an encompassing, oddly proprietary gesture. "This is your playground...an inconsequential fly speck, populated by people of even less significance than nattering insects."

Joubert shook his head, his dark eyes squinting in confusion. "My playground...I'm not sure I follow?"

Xhendyn leaned closer, those ineffably terrible red eyes flaring menacingly. "You are a ShadowCaster...a daunting moniker that intimates a dark and sinister purpose. Most impressive, but what truly does it mean?"

Again, Joubert confessed his lack of understanding, which elicited another spate of derisive laughter from Myrhia's demonic henchman. "This is to be an exercise in self-awareness and these sorrowful excuses for humanity will serve as fodder for your excursion into the murky depths of your own mysterious nature."

"And you feel this exercise is necessary because..." Joubert asked, growing wary of cryptic riddles.

Xhendyn's voice grew suddenly glacial. "It is necessary because...as you are now, you are little more than a poorly forged tool...though within you lies the dormant potential to be one of the most lethal weapons ever forged on the dark anvil of sorcery. You are the ShadowCaster and within that supercilious soul of yours there resides abilities the likes of which this world has never known. Still, as many of those powers are in the formative stage or are completely quiescent, you remain vulnerable. You can be killed by sorcery or undone by a blade or crossbow bolt. This is why I have had to remove you from Nalosan."

The demon gestured toward the unsuspecting hamlet. "Here, you will be free to experiment with and hone your skills...to realize the full scope of your nearly limitless potential."

"How exactly do I go about activating this...dormant power?" Joubert asked distantly, though his tone held a plaintive edge. "Before you dragged me into this antiquated back water, I thought that magic and sorcery were a fantasy of the delusional, so I'm having a difficult time wrapping my head around some of these concepts as ideas that I should take seriously."

"Which would make you an incredibly thick-witted fool as you have experienced them firsthand for yourself. Only a dullard would choose to repudiate what his viscera insists is true," Xhendyn snarled scornfully as if speaking to an impertinent schoolboy. Joubert glowered but remained prudently silent. Xhendyn uttered a ghastly sigh. "Very well, let me try to explain these complex mechanics in rudimentary terms. You exist in the spaces between the realities, which means that you can move freely between tangible and ephemeral states. While this ability confers a vast amount of power and advantage upon its wielder, it is not without its limitations."

"Like being vulnerable when I'm in what you call the tangible state?" Joubert inquired thoughtfully.

"Precisely!" Xhendyn confirmed approvingly. "A stray arrow could end your life. To avoid that undesirable turn of events, you could simply choose to remain in those in between spaces, stepping into this particular reality only long enough to serve a very specific purpose."

Joubert grimaced at this uninviting prospect. "I can't say I relish that fucking thought. These spaces are bleak and perhaps not as empty as you might think. The prospect of having to spend all of my time there doesn't exactly fill me with delight. While we're on the topic, you've fed me an endless diet proclaiming how limitless my potential might prove to be and how I can be of service to this mythical queen of yours, but I've heard scant little about what I might expect by way of compensation. Being able to walk through walls and turn on and off like a light bulb in a windowless room is hardly sufficient trade for everything I've given up."

Xhendyn laughed his harrowing laugh, rousing an involuntary shudder in Joubert. "Never a man to lose sight of his own self-interest. To be venal is an admirable trait to be sure. If you can facilitate Myrhia's emancipation, I can assure you that your recompense will be vast beyond the limits of your short-sighted avarice. Once you discover what you truly are, I doubt material trappings will satiate your appetites."

Raising his leather-gloved hand to the hamlet, he instructed, "Now, I want you to occupy your next few days by laying waste to this sorry repository for the pointless. Slaughter them to a one, but before you do, experiment with the various facets of your power. Remember, your imagination may be the greatest limitation imposed upon the gifts you've been granted. I would recommend that you start by trying to understand the proportional relationship between the distance traveled in this world and the adjacent empty space. Are those distances equal or are they consistently proportional? If there is a variation, can it be predicted with any degree of accuracy? You know that you can physically pull a person into this nether space and then leave them there, as you did with the castle serving girl. You can also pull them back into this reality, as you did with the Jerhia bitch. This power would be immeasurably valuable if it extends to conveying a large group over great distances. Those are but two examples of how you can strive to discover the diverse applications of your abilities."

Joubert greeted this with a speculative nod, his devious mind loping along a hundred different tangents as he tried to envision new ways that just these two concepts alone could be employed to evil effect.

"And while I'm enhancing my skills, where will you be?" Joubert inquired, not particularly delighted by the thought of being left alone in the middle of nowhere.

"Though none are as valuable as you, ShadowCaster...I have other tools that are in play," Xhendyn allowed evasively. "While you bide your time in a blood drenched orgy of self-discovery, I will ensure that they are committed to fulfilling their purpose."

With this, the entity gesticulated and a swirling, circular curtain of purple mist materialized out of the humid air. With a flourish of his long cloak, Xhendyn stepped through and was gone. Alone, Joubert turned his attention to Natur...a ghost town in the making.

Chapter Forty-One

1

Lorio and her escort reached the gates of Dizar Kor after four bells of riding in dismal silence. Neither Issidris or Karosyn had uttered a word since the wretched incident in the forest and Reyfort now seemed sufficiently attuned to her prevailing mood to wisely remain quiet.

As she rode, Lorio found herself reeling under an incessant barrage of mordant recriminations and aspersions delivered by the voices of those who had once populated her life. Everyone from her traitorous father to her beloved Islena took their turn heaping their contempt on the beset Lamish Queen. Yet, Lorio was self-aware enough to realize that this legion of dead specters was merely a device that her conscience utilized to flog her with her well-earned guilt and shame. Lorio made no attempt to silence this litany, knowing that it was fitting remuneration for the debacle she'd unwittingly engineered back in the clearing.

The long road that stretched toward the city's main gate was, as always, a seething river of humanity and Lorio immediately deduced that ingress would prove to be a long and arduous process.

Especially in this dog-spawned heat,' she thought irritably as her nostrils flared with the cloying mix of animal excrement and dust. She briefly entertained the idea of simply riding to the main gate, identifying herself and demanding to be presented to King Saremond. Recalling that both Artumas and the Ascentrix had stressed the need for secrecy, unless no other alternative remained, she reluctantly discarded this notion.

A protracted discourse with the irascible king was not something she keenly relished, but it was not this unpleasant prospect that stayed her hand. An hour before the party had reached Dizar Kor, Lorio had begun to experience a low buzzing sensation at the base of her skull. The annoying hum had grown in frequency and volume until it required all of her concentration to remain on her horse.

Her first instinct was to ascribe this alarming development to a manifestation of Xhendyn's inculcated sorcery. She considered approaching Karosyn with her fears, but a deeper intuition advised her against soliciting aid from the Matrium. She correctly surmised that this disclosure might lead to an ugly confrontation. Karosyn and Lyndsyn had been dispatched as her escorts for only one purpose...to protect the bane from whatever cantrip Xhendyn had buried in Lorio's immortal flesh. Compassionate and serene Karosyn might be, but she would not hesitate to subject Lorio to a sorcerous binding at the first inkling of a perceived threat.

'Would that really be such an undesirable course of events,' Lorio wondered as the damnable buzzing intensified with each passing stride. 'If within you slumbers the potential to kill the one man who could prevent Myrhia's rebirth, would it not be prudent to take measures to prevent that disastrous eventuality?'

On the surface, binding Lorio would seem to be irrefutably sage, but it was the voice of Islena Doraux that decried it as facile advice, fraught with its own peril. 'Lorio, the sensation you are now experiencing is merely destiny's touch, informing you that you are growing ever closer to the man you are fated to ward. Rather than fight or question the sensation, throw open your mind and allow it to be your guide.'

By the time they had reached the open plain that surrounded the city, the buzzing in her head had become strident, jangling Lorio's nerves to the point of distraction.

"Are you well, Lorio?" Karosyn inquired sharply, speaking for the first time since leaving the clearing. The conspicuous absence of a proper address for a queen was not lost upon Lorio, but Karosyn's expression of disdain was well warranted and so she decided to ignore the affront. In truth, the absurd notion that she was a queen was a delusion that was becoming increasingly difficult to sustain...even for her.

"Simply anxious to get through those damnable gates and begin the search," she muttered gruffly. "The sooner we collect the bane and depart this city, the better. King Saremond's uninviting city has always left me feeling uneasy."

Karosyn's acute gaze swept the battlements and she grimaced in pronounced revulsion at the gruesome spectacle of the rotting bodies that adorned Dizar Kor's walls. Distantly, she remarked, "Have we made our way to the kingdom of a ruthless tyrant?"

Lorio shook her head. "Saremond is a bitter man with a particularly harsh view of law breakers. It is said that his heart has been twisted by the path of his life, but he is not inherently evil in the way of Myrhia or Xhendyn."

'Or me,' she thought but did not say.

2

Stuart leaned against the wall of the Monarch's Jewels Inn, grateful for the cover of shade which the building provided in the cloying heat. He waited for Azidara to say her goodbyes to the Inn owner, who had been sorrowful to see her go, and scanned the busy street. He had awoken this morning with a vivid premonition that something of great consequence was about to befall him today. That made very little sense of course, but the feeling had persisted even as Azidara had made love to him and grew more intense afterwards as they had gathered their scant belongings and prepared to depart. This inner voice informed him that, by the time the sun had dropped below the horizon, he would have gained a clearer grasp of why he had been summoned here and by whom.

He had been taken by surprise by Azidara's sudden and emphatic decision to leave Dizar Kor. Stuart had been a cop long enough to realize that her stated reason for this unexpected and swift departure was a mere pretext. Beneath her assured demeanor, Macevey could detect the presence of a cold shadow that closely resembled fear. Something had transpired that had badly frightened the virtually fearless beauty out of her willingness to simply bide her time in the vibrant city and wait for the road to Nalosan to reopen.

That same finely-honed police instinct warned him that a profound and potentially terrible truth lay couched in her true motivation for their sudden flight. Instead, Stuart had elected to let the matter rest, recalling his given oath that he would defer to her judgment.

At that moment, the door to the Monarch's Jewels opened and Azidara danced lithely down the stairs. She was attired in a long, green summer skirt and a blouse of some light fabric that would protect her from the sun but would not prove so suffocating in the draining heat. She had fashioned a long silk scarf into a hood that fully covered her long blond hair. On her feet, she wore the same thick-soled boots that had served her so well on the pair's flight from Wraith's Hollow. Only the bedroll and the rapier at her hip decried the impression that she was anything other than a woman embarking on a casual stroll through the woods surrounding the city.

Stuart pushed away from the wall and Azidara stood on her tows and favored him with a lingering kiss. "Let's be off then. There is a small village some ten leagues south of the city. Mandelus claims there is an inn there with beds that are not bug infested and with luck, we can be there before the sun sets." She patted her hip softly and Stuart heard the muffled clink of coins. "We have the means to sleep in a proper bed when the opportunity allows, and I have every intention of taking full advantage when we can."

Taking his hand in hers, she gently pulled him into the busy street, and they set off in the direction of the west gate through which they had enter just eight days prior.

Wearing an insufferably warm cloak and a broad-brimmed hat, Veilguix slid forth from the shadows of the alley where he had watched the two prepare to leave.

Careful not to lose sight of the tall man, he trailed after the pair like the cold and deadly predator he was.

3

By the time Lorio and the others had been processed and granted entry through the western gates, Lorio's mood had darkened like a brooding summer sky. The congestion in the plaza did little to lift her spirits. The crowded and sun baked expanse of cobbles sweltered beneath the merciless gaze of the mid-afternoon sun.

The braying in her skull had risen to a shrill pitch that reminded her of the anxious cry of an eagle or the strident shriek of a raven.

The bane was close...she could feel his close proximity reverberating in her viscera and the taut muscles of her thighs.

"Finding a single man in this sea of humanity will be no easy matter," Reyfort observed quietly as he surveyed the congested plaza. Lorio had elected to apprise him of their purpose as the group had made their vexing crawl toward the gate, deciding that his intervention in the clearing had earned her trust. Now, he glanced at the woman he'd vowed to serve and added with a sardonic smirk, "Especially when we haven't the faintest clue what he looks like."

Lorio glowered and leaned closer until her mouth was close to his ear. "I'm in a particularly foul mood, Reyfort. It would be advisable to keep that in mind the next time you decide to fling vapid witticisms."

She drew back and with no small measure of satisfaction, noticed that his smirk had withered like a dead flower. She signaled for the others to gather around and then disclosed, "The man we seek is close. My instincts are telling me that I will recognize him upon sight...like he will somehow stand forth like the sun in the sky above us. There is a boarding stable at the north end of this square and we will quarter our horses there. I will remain on horseback for a better perspective, while you surround me on foot. If I should spot him, then we must gather him to us and escort him from the city as discreetly as possible." Turning to Karosyn, she inquired, "Matrium, if I actually do manage to spot him, is there something you can do to ensure that he does not resist or attract undo attention?"

"I have means," Karosyn allowed gravely. "You have said that he travels in the company of another. If it should happen that he is not alone when we locate him, what action should we take in regard to his companion?"

Lorio cast a meaningful glance at Issidris and replied flatly, "It would be best if we escort the bane from Dizar Kor...sans companion."

Karosyn's eyes widened in shock, but she voiced no objection, while Issidris merely nodded her understanding.

4

By the time the pair had reached the edge of the western plaza, Stuart was perspiring freely, and he grimaced at the length of the line for those awaiting egress from the city.

Azidara smiled up at Stuart, but even her normally infectious exuberance could not allay his disquiet. Now, along with the gnawing certainty that something significant was about to befall the pair, Macevey could not shake the impression that they were being furtively scrutinized. He had turned back several times, and scanning the crowd, could discern no sign of anyone paying them special attention.

Finally, Azidara had gleaned something of his worried distraction because she had turned to him and demanded, "Is something wrong, Stuart? Why do you keep looking behind you?"

Had there been a note of knowing concern beneath her impatience? Macevey thought there had but decided that now was hardly the time to engage in a dialogue about her unspoken fears. Instead, he had offered her a sheepish shrug. "I'm just feeling a bit claustrophobic, I guess. I'm anxious to be out of this ocean of people."

She had scrutinized him closely for a moment and then smiled encouragingly. "We'll be out in the open soon enough, Stuart...let's press on."

Stuart nodded dutifully and the pair pushed into the tangle of humanity with Azidara leading and tightly clutching Macevey's right hand. They had progressed a third of the way across the congested square, when Macevey stiffened and came to an abrupt halt. There...perhaps fifty paces away...sat an indescribably beautiful woman, attired completely in black despite the stifling heat and sitting astride a black horse. She was leaning forward and appeared to be surveying the crowd intently as if searching for someone specific.

At the periphery of his awareness, Stuart realized that he had suddenly surrendered his grip of Azidara's hand and stepped away from his guide. Then the woman's intense gaze had settled on him and a corona of golden effulgence had flared around her. As Stuart looked on as though transfixed, she raised a long, leanly muscled arm and cried...

5

"There!" Lorio cried suddenly, her gaze locked on the tall, brown-haired man, who stood a full head taller than anyone around him. "Fifty or so paces directly east of us...Reyfort and Issidris, move toward him and I will guide you. Karosyn, let me pull you up behind me."

Without averting her eyes from the man, she bent slightly to the right, extending her arms and easily hauled the statuesque blond up behind her.

Issidris had automatically complied with Lorio's command and had already pushed her way forward, indifferent to the indignant curses her rough handling roused from those in her way. Reyfort trailed close behind, briefly entertaining a notion of burying a dirk in the frightening bitch's liver...a satisfying act of retribution that would be masked by the protests of the angry crowd. He prudently dismissed the notion but still harbored the hope that one of the citizens that Il was rough handling would retaliate and spare him the trouble later.

Lorio attempted to maneuver her mount through the heavy crowd, but found her progress stymied by the press of milling bodies. Cursing in frustration, she stood tall in her stirrups and roared, "Stay where you are...I'll come to you!"

The tall man nodded his understanding as every eye in the vicinity was drawn to the raven-haired beauty who had cried out. From every quarter, fingers were pointed at the two exceptionally lovely women on horseback.

"It's the heroine queen of Lamia!" someone shouted and to Lorio's alarm and dismay, the crowd actually began to surge toward the pair.

Veilguix was perhaps two arm's lengths behind Macevey and Azidara, when he first noticed the beautiful woman astride the black horse. He came to a halt, startled to discover that he was seeing the legendary Queen Lorio in the middle of the living throng as if she was nothing more than a simple peasant. More astounding still was the realization that her transfixed gaze was focused squarely upon his intended target.

Veilguix's keenly honed survivor's instinct warned him that he had inadvertently wandered into a situation that far exceeded his station in the grand scheme of things. In response to this admonition, the hired blade immediately dismissed the mysterious stranger from his mind and focused on fulfilling Lethoras' mandate.

The stranger relinquished his grip on the slattern's hand and in that moment of distraction, Veilguix struck. He stepped lithely around the person in front of him and reached for Azidara even as he raised the cry alerting the square to Lorio's unlikely presence.

He intended to clamp his hand over her mouth, thus preventing her from crying out, but someone brushed against him, deflecting his reaching hand around her shoulders instead.

Veilguix quickly recovered and jerked his calloused hand tightly over her mouth, but not before she could scream a single word, "Stuart!"

Lorio struggled to keep her gaze fixed on the bane while grasping hands reached for her from all sides. She could see that Issidris and Reyfort were only ten paces from the bane's position.

In the next instant, a single panicked shout arose over the din. "Stuart!"

The bane's head snapped to the right and then he was fighting his way through the crush of humanity, bellowing a single name as he went. "Azidara!"

Lorio quickly gleaned the potentially catastrophic nature of what had just happened. Stuart had been in the company of a mysterious woman...evidently, a woman named Azidara...and something had just befallen that companion at the most inopportune of moments. Now the bane, presumably named Stuart, was rushing to her aid, sending an already delicate situation careening out of control.

"Karosyn, can you clear a path through this mob?" Lorio snapped desperately.

"Not without attracting the attention of the city watch," Karosyn warned gravely, bewildered by the pace at which the situation was unraveling.

"We're well past that particular concern!" Lorio growled impatiently. "Just do it!"

Lorio felt a massive invisible force brush past her and seconds later, a razor straight curtain of golden light materialized out of the very cobbles. It rose a full man length above the filthy stones, cleanly dividing the people who stood between the two women and Stuart Macevey who seemed unaware of the undulating wall of sorcerous energy that was bearing down upon him.

With the dramatic appearance of this luminous translucent curtain, pandemonium descended upon the vast western plaza...with disastrous effect. The rather random form of order degenerated into deadly chaos. Fearing that this sudden sorcerous manifestation was malign, the occupants of the square began to frantically push and claw to escape the threat. In their blind panic to flee, the crowded citizenry transformed into a mindless mob. Like a large stone plummeting into a tranquil lake, this animal panic rippled out in a lethal wave of crushed and broken bodies. The intermingled cries of panic, pain and anger filled the afternoon air.

Mortified by the carnage that she'd unwittingly unleashed, Karosyn immediately extinguished her outpouring and the translucent curtain abruptly vanished. Clutching Lorio's hips tightly, she surveyed the litter of broken, moaning bodies...many of whom were children and older men and women...and tears burst from her kind blue eyes in a deluge. "Gyzarayne's mercy, what have we done?"

Some engines, once unleashed, cannot be easily brought to heal and so it was with this ill-conceived ploy. Lorio glanced quickly back at the Matrium to see that she'd been rendered immobile by the dire consequences of her actions. Around the pair, a swath had opened as people fled blindly in every direction.

"Azidara!" Macevey screamed in mounting desperation as he saw her colorful scarf disappearing into the shadow of an alleyway off the north end of the square. One of the fleeing locals collided with Macevey from behind and sent him sprawling to the cobbles, where he might well have been trampled had it not been for the intervention of the glacially composed Issidris Il. Seeing that the man was in serious danger of being trampled, Il lowered her muscular shoulder and ploughed into the group of citizens, sending them sprawling in every direction. Reaching down and gripping Stuart's left arm, she dragged the dazed bane to his feet and began to drag him towards Lorio. Shaking his head in absolute dismay, a bloodied Macevey cried, "Azidara, she's been dragged into the alley at the north end of the plaza. She's wearing a green dress and white head wrap. I won't leave without her!"

Sensing that this man's intransigence was something that the party could ill afford at this juncture, Il flicked a glance at Reyfort and commanded, "Go after her...I'll be close behind."

Reyfort glowered at Il's presumption of authority, but nonetheless moved to comply.

Lorio grimaced as she watched the bane be thrown to the cobbles. She risked a quick glance at the nearest guard tower and was troubled to see a half dozen crossbow-wielding sentries had their weapons leveled and were searching intently for the culprit who had incited this mayhem.

Sliding from her horse, Lorio roughly hauled Karosyn from the saddle. As she dragged the Matrium along, she intoned fiercely. "Matrium, we have to get out of this square. I need you to bind his hands...do you understand?"

"Yes!" Karosyn wailed in a voice fraught with misery as she stepped over the body of a small girl dressed in now bloody rags.

Finally, Lorio stood before the man whom she was fate-selected to ward. He was tall, with a lean, handsome face and kind, intelligent eyes that spoke eloquently of a man possessed of strong character and compassion.

'Traits that are of little currency in this world,' Lorio thought sourly, believing that Islena's self-absorbed intransigence was far better suited to survival in this brutal place. Coldly, she announced, "We are part of the group who summoned you here...though we have no time for introductions. You will accompany us out of the city now."

Stuart shifted his dumbfounded gaze to the woman, whose beautiful, yet terrifyingly cold visage reminded him of Elizabeth Simpson's companion, to the bodies strewn across the rapidly emptying square.

"You're responsible for this...this madness?" he inquired, clearly repulsed by the spectacle of seemingly needless carnage.

"Not intentionally!" Lorio spat impatiently. "Now move!" She dug her fingers into his forearm and began to pull him in the direction of the eastern edge of the plaza.

"I'm not going anywhere until I've found Azidara!" Macevey snarled and attempted to jerk his arm free of her grasp...without success.

Lorio pulled him closer until her eyes seemed to fill the range of his vision like burning suns. "You'll come with me now even if I have to toss you over my shoulder and carry you like a fucking sack of grain."

To Lorio's utter astonishment, Macevey slammed his forehead into her face with sufficient force to dislodge her grip and send her stumbling back into Karosyn. Before Stuart could capitalize on his particularly nasty gambit, Issidris stepped forward and calmly delivered a short blow to the base of his skull. The impact drove Stuart into Lorio, and the pair went down in a tangle of limbs. Cursing vilely, Lorio jerked Stuart's head back, fully intending to reciprocate, only to find that he was unconscious."

Issidris knelt next to Lorio and spoke in a controlled but urgent tone. "Reyfort has gone off in search of the woman and her abductor. This is as good an escape route as any. I will go after them and await you ahead...if I have your leave."

"You do," Lorio returned and though her tone had been curt, Lorio was duly impressed by the degree of composure that Il had demonstrated in the face of total chaos and the shocking speed with which their plan had unraveled.

As Issidris raced ahead, Lorio hauled Macevey to his feet, while a bemused Karosyn gripped his other arm to keep him upright. Lorio noticed that the first group of city watch were pushing their way through the panicked masses, clearing a path with truculence and truncheons...an approach that seemed sadly unvarying for the vocation. Knowing that they could ill afford to be detained by the city watch, the pair began to drag Macevey toward the mouth of the alley.

"Karosyn, can you conjure a mist or smoke?" Lorio rasped, her tone exigent. The Matrium recoiled from the suggestion of employing sorcery further as if she'd been physically struck.

"Karosyn, we have to get clear of this bloody square or we can all anticipate an extended stay in King Saremond's dungeon...a prospect, I can assure you, that you will not enjoy," Lorio hissed.

A rare sour expression rippled across the lovely blonde's face, but she turned her head, narrowed her eyes and mouthed a terse incantation. Thirty paces behind the trio, a thick mist sprang from the cobbles and quickly spread to engulf most of the plaza. Within seconds, the western plaza was engulfed in dense smoke that effectively reduced visibility to a few paces.

A rapid temperature plunge accompanied this sorcerous contrivance and the braying of alarm bells further added to the complete confusion. Despite the disorienting effect created by the swirling smoke, the Matrium unerringly guided the trio to the mouth of the alley down which Reyfort and Issidris had so recently vanished. Karosyn paused and cast a haunted glance back at the square where dozens of people had lost their lives as a consequence of the party's inept handling of the bane's retrieval. Mercifully, the roiling fog spared the compassionate Matrium from the horrific sight, but she could still clearly hear the piteous wails of the wounded resounding through the mist...their tortured cries sounding like a condemnation of her soul.

6

As Reyfort charged into the alley, which reeked of excrement, both human and beast's, and moldering garbage, he quickly realized that he had just entered a confusing and dangerous maze. Narrow walkways branched off in every direction, their shadowy recesses providing a myriad of niches where someone might hide to elude pursuit.

'Or lay in wait to spring the perfect ambush...as you would have done before you got waylaid into this madness,' Reyfort thought as he came to a group of men dicing near a stack of wooden crates. They all fixed him with hard, baleful glares and some reached for dirks, thinking he might be an easy target and an unexpected source of coin.

Smiling brightly, Reyfort casually drew the Ihzrac from over his shoulders in a flourish. "Sorry to interrupt your pass time, but did anyone happen to notice a woman in a green dress being dragged along...rather hurriedly...by a man?"

A stringy haired ruffian with a puckered hole where his left eye should have been, pointed up the alley with a badly pitted dagger and grumbled, "Saw 'im carrying the wench...and took the next turn to the left, he did."

Reyfort eyed the forbidding passage warily, not caring at all for how thick its shadows appeared. Distantly, he heard himself inquire, "Where does it lead?"

The man offered Reyfort a repulsive, gap-toothed grin. "Like most of these passages...nowhere at all. The only way in is the only way out."

Reyfort reached into his pouch and tossed a silver coin to the ruffian. "My gratitude, friend. A small, but frightening woman should be along in a moment. Perhaps you could spin her the same tale."

"Two tales, two coins, friend," the man demanded, avarice gleaming in his watery eyes. Sighing, Reyfort tossed the man another coin.

"Maybe will just keep her for our own sport," an obscenely fat man in a disgustingly filthy waist coat quipped and the group brayed crude laughter.

"Not if you value your cocks, you won't," Reyfort retorted and spinning away, raced up the alley, with the pleasing image of Issidris dissecting the entire lot vivid in his mind.

He hesitated briefly at the mouth of the narrow passage, which was little more than a narrow gap between two multi-story buildings. It appeared to open into a rear storage area...though how one would convey goods from the area was not immediately discernable.

'The only way in is the only way out,' the ruffian had claimed, in which case Reyfort would be wise to await his savage companion rather than venture into a hazardous situation about which he knew virtually nothing.

'And if he lied, whoever abducted the woman would be long gone and you'd be left trying to explain to Lorio why you cowered at the head of this alley like a child frightened of dark places.' Cursing his wretched fate, Reyfort pushed into the brooding shadow.

When he reached the angle of the wall, the rogue remained sequestered in the shadows, listening for the slightest whisper of sound that would betray the presence of someone lurking in the open space beyond. Reyfort remained in this posture for several moments and when still no sound came from the loading area, he drew his swords and ventured out.

The open area was littered with sacks, stave barrels and various sized crates. A cobbled alley leading north was barred by a stout wooden gate. The heavy double doors leading to the warehouse were also closed. As Reyfort came abreast of a line of crates, that had been meticulously piled in ascending tiers, he spotted the unconscious form of a woman lying face down on several sacks of grain.

"Azidara?" Reyfort called softly, recognizing the green dress and head scarf the man had described.

"I'm afraid she's indisposed," a flat voice declared. Reyfort turned to see a lean, dark-haired man push away from the loading platform where he had been leaning casually. In his right hand, he brandished a long sword and in the other, a three-tiered sword breaker. His lithe, graceful movements informed Reyfort that the man would possess a lethal prowess in the use of both.

The man's face was composed of hard lines and angles, but it was the small dark eyes, that so closely resembled a boar's...that eloquently spoke of a man who possessed neither mercy nor compassion.

"You picked the wrong occasion for heroism, my friend," the menacing stranger intoned harshly and with a swiftness that startled Reyfort, leapt to the attack. The long sword flashed in a short, chopping sweep that was intended to cleave Reyfort's skull, even as the sword breaker jabbed at the Suran's abdomen.

Reyfort blocked the thrust and stepped back from Veilguix's attack. From the very first attack, the Suran gleaned two things that did not bode well for his odds of surviving this fight in a vertical position; this man (a long-time mercenary, he surmised) was an exceptionally gifted swordsman and despite Karosyn's healing, Reyfort was still feeling the ill-effects of Issidris' savage beating.

Knowing that his best chance for survival would be found in fighting defensively and looking to capitalize on an error he hoped his opponent might commit. Reyfort began to circle to his left, keeping a wary eye on the distracting sword breaker.

Again, Veilguix leapt forward in a flurry of efficient slashing strikes, punctuated by feints and jabs of the sword breaker. Reyfort parried the economical cuts, ever watchful for an opportunity for an offensive thrust...which to his mounting dismay, simply did not come. His opponent's technique was pristine.

Veilguix sprang forward, long sword flashing in a frenetic blur, which Reyfort managed to counter efficiently enough even as he was forced to give ground.

Sparks flew in the gloom and slowly but inexorably, Reyfort found himself yielding ground to Veilguix's relentless attack. Finally, the bondsman unleashed a short, tight cut with the intention of cleanly separating the Suran's head from his shoulders. The Suran quickly leaned back and the cut missed his throat by less than two fingers' width. Before he could thrust his left hand sword into Veilguix's exposed ribs, the bondsman's sword breaker snagged the out-thrust weapon and wrenched it from Reyfort's grasp.

The Suran watched in shocked horror as the weapon clattered across the cobbles and vanished into the shadows like fleeting hope. That feeling of sinking despair was compounded exponentially when Reyfort retreated a pace to find his back against the row of stacked crates he had noticed upon first entering the alley.

Veilguix then proceeded to commit a small, yet grievous error born of the implacable ego of a natural warrior. He lowered his weapons to waist level and offered Reyfort a thin-lipped, humorless grin of triumph.

The Suran perceived a whisper of movement an instant before a shadowy form sailed over his head...evoking images of a pouncing wolf.

Veilguix's head jerked up in confusion, but before he could muster a defense, Issidris' right foot slammed into his nose, shattering the bone and spraying blood in a fan.

The bondsman stumbled backwards as Issidris landed lightly on the balls of her feet. She immediately launched herself forward, driving her right fist into Veilguix's gore-spattered face in a rapid succession of blows that shattered several of his front teeth.

Watching her then drive her left foot into her opponent's exposed groin, Reyfort was forced to concede a grudging admiration of her aptitude for destruction. This was not a creature who had been schooled in the noble discipline of swordsmanship, but the far more brutal art of survival...where no action, however savage, was deemed unacceptable.

Veilguix sagged to his knees. Bloody and panting, he raised his disbelieving gazed to this demon who had reduced him to a bloody, beaten mass in a short span of seconds...without having even drawn the ugly weapons that jutted over her shoulders like the wings of a death angel.

Issidris swiftly crossed her arms and drew the two hooked blades, advancing on the beaten bondsman in the way a predatory cat might approach its dying quarry.

"Drop your weapons or I'll remove both of your hands at the wrist," she warned, her voice an unquestionable promise that left no latitude for doubt. Veilguix needed only one glimpse into those inscrutable obsidian eyes to know that this woman had both the skill and the requisite degree of ruthlessness to make good on that threat. He allowed his weapons to clatter to the grime-encrusted stones, where Issidris swept them under the wooden loading dock with her foot. Without removing her gaze from the wounded viper, she instructed, "Reyfort, take the woman back to the Queen...I will join you shortly."

"As you would have it, good lady," Reyfort replied in a voice that dripped with honey and sarcasm in equal measure. He nonetheless moved to comply after retrieving his lost Ihzrac. He gently lifted the woman (whom he'd noticed was exceedingly fetching) onto his shoulder, but before he could begin the trek back to rejoin the other, Issidris spoke. "Pretty man, I saved your life today...a pale atonement for the slight I did you back in the village. Heed my warning and allow the scales to be balanced between us. You would be well advised to spend less time admiring your reflection and more time practicing with those lovely blades of yours. Perhaps I could help you when time allows."

Reyfort's handsome face colored to an alarming shade of scarlet, but somehow, he managed to repress his fury. As the winds of black hatred scoured his heart, he vowed that he would see this vile whore-spawned bitch dead.

"Perhaps I will take you up on that generous offer, lady Issidris," he rasped between clenched jaws and hurried away before his vanity and bruised ego instigated him to an act he would not live to regret.

When Reyfort had hurried away, Issidris addressed the bloodied bondsman, an indecipherable emotion shaping her blunt features. With careful deliberation, she placed the tip of one of her hooked swords against his pulsing jugular. "Place your right hand on the cobbles before you with the palm down."

His small dark eyes flickered with what might well have been trepidation, but in a calm, even voice, he insisted, "I will not beg you for my life."

"Nor would I expect you to," she returned before adding, "just as we both know that it would avail you nothing if my intention truly was to leave you dead."

Veilguix continued to stare up at the terrible she-demon for a protracted moment, until he felt a slight increase in the sword's pressure against his jugular. Tentatively, he leaned forward and felt the tip prick his skin as he pressed the flat of his hands to the wet stone. Issidris deftly stepped forward and the bondsman hissed as her heel bore down on the vulnerable bones of his hand. Sheathing her weapons, she squatted down and the pressure on his hand intensified until he feared the bones would surely pulverize beneath her surprisingly substantial weight.

Issidris gripped his chin, her short fingers digging into his bloody face like iron spikes as she studied him intently. "I discern that you are a creature very much like me. You came for this woman at the behest of your master, didn't you?"

Veilguix merely nodded, blood gurgling from his mouth in a thick glut. Issidris leaned closer, the shift in weight causing the bondsman to hiss like a kettle at full boil. "I'm going to allow you to live on the promise that you leave this place once your wounds are tended. You will set aside your sword and never again serve as some evil bastard's hound. You will seek another way of making your way in this wretched fucking world and no longer debase yourself by performing the despicable deeds of those who do not have the courage to wallow in their own filth. There is your choice; renege on your oath as a sell sword...or die in this filthy alley."

Veilguix peered into the black depths of those remorseless eyes, trying to conjure an image of how his life might appear should he actually muster the courage to set aside the sword. He briefly entertained the notion of telling her exactly what she wished to hear, but instinct cautioned him that she would glean his self-serving deception and kill him where he knelt. Finally, he nodded slightly and rasped, "I will accept your...generous offer."

An expression surfaced on Issidris' lean face that was made all the more terrible by its passing resemblance to a smile. Slowly, almost ponderously, she re-sheathed her weapons and withdrew a black-handled dirk from her belt. Leaning back without taking her unblinking gaze from his face, Issidris positioned the blade between the splayed ring and middle fingers of Veilguix's pinned right hand.

The bondsman's eyes widened, thinking that her magnanimous offer had been nothing but a cruel jape.

"This will ensure that you do not recant on your oath," she intoned softly. In one swift movement, she pressed the keen blade down on the vulnerable ring and pinky fingers, before savagely stomping her boot down on the dirk's hand guard.

Veilguix's scream, fraught with agony and negation, resounded down the maze of alleys and passageways.

Chapter Forty-Two

1

The banging on his chamber door drew a bleary Artumas up from a restless sleep, reverberating in his sleep-addled mind like thunder. He sat up, his heart skidding painfully in his chest in the near total darkness.

"Enter and stop that damnable pounding!" he cried in a hoarse, irritable voice.

The chamber door swung open and Captain Esuruban stood in the opening, his handsome face framed by the glare of the corridor torches. Over his shoulder, the aging king could see the statuesque, imposing Sandalayne hovering over the captain like a stone gargoyle. Even cast in shadow, Artumas could glean that the normally inscrutable stealth ranger was distressed.

"Light the brazier near the door, Captain," Artumas commanded and then lamented, "By the light of all that is good, is a decent night's sleep beyond the reach of even a king? What time is it?"

Just past the eleventh bell, my king," the captain replied urgently. Sensing the extent of the normally unflappable Esuruban's disquiet, Artumas thrust aside his irritation and dressed quickly while the captain lit the indicated brazier and main hearth. As he moved deftly through the chamber's gloom, Esuruban revealed the disturbing purpose of his intrusion. "Lady Sandalayne requests that you attend the Ascentrix in her chamber at once."

Artumas shifted his gaze to the First Stealth Ranger, who stood anxiously just inside the threshold of his chamber. "What would warrant such a summons...is there news from the north?"

The enquiry seemed to aggravate the sister's disquiet. Haltingly, she disclosed, "I...I am uncertain, your highness. My Ascentrix is in a state of...of extreme agitation. In my years of service, I have never seen her in such a temper...so openly distraught. I must confess that I cannot comprehend much of her raving, but she has uttered your name repeatedly. I urge you to attend her in all haste. I fear..."

Sandalayne did not give voice to the nature of her fear, but rather fell silent, her pale blue eyes alight with misery. Artumas exchanged concerned glances with Esuruban and then he remarked, "If you will allow me a brief moment to dress, I will accompany you at once."

The statuesque blonde's relief was palpable, and she moved out into the hall, closing the door behind her. As Artumas dressed, he enquired of his loyal captain, whom he had once thought would become the Lamish Queen's companion, "Do you have any sense of what has transpired, Esuruban?"

A grim-faced captain nodded. "There have been sounds like detonations issuing from the quarters which were assigned to the Sisters. I have ordered the approaching corridors sealed and the surrounding chambers evacuated. The First Stealth Ranger assured me that the situation poses no threat to Kammlogran. Still, in light of what transpired earlier, I fear for the structural integrity of the entire castle should this persist."

The captain and his king exchanged worried glances and Artumas nodded gravely. He tried to imagine what could rouse the seemingly unflappable Ascentrix to such a state of agitation and could muster only the terrifying possibility that the bane had met his end. 'Even then, I doubt the formidable Lissom would lose her composure to the point of apoplexy. Something else has happened...something ineffably terrible and intensely personal.'

'Karosyn!' The name and the accompanying exquisite portrait it evoked, roused an incisive pain in the aging king that lanced his heart and very nearly drove him to his knees. The possibility that the wheaten-haired beauty, with her gentle disposition and mesmerizing blue eyes like deep pools of pure water, might have perished was simply unbearable.

'Because this woman will be your salvation,' a voice assured him, though, in light of the fact that he scarcely knew the serene woman, this seemed rather ludicrous. Still, he was stunned by the unexpected degree to which his fear for her wellbeing had shaken him and he donned his boots and robe with a new sense of urgency.

He motioned for his captain to follow and the pair joined Sandalayne in the hall. In the flickering torchlight, Artumas could clearly discern the degree to which the daunting woman's equilibrium had been shattered. She managed to conjure a thin grin of relief and gratitude and the trio set off for the Ascentrix's quarters.

2

Stuart snapped back to consciousness with a start, only to be greeted by a throbbing pain at the base of his skull that drove him to the brink of nausea. He closed his eyes and rolled onto his knees, inhaling slowly through his nose until the sensation subsided, but still the throbbing pain in his skull persisted.

"You may have delivered the blow with more vigor than was strictly necessary," a voice chided lightly.

"The situation required a quick resolution and did not leave an allowance for delicacy," a toneless voice returned.

Stuart felt an arm encircle his shoulders and fingers gently probe his skull where the blow had been struck, apparently by one of the speakers. A kindly voice spoke softly near his left ear. "Be still while I quiet your pain."

All at once, soothing coolness suffused his head, assuaging his pain just as the speaker had promised. He opened one eye experimentally to find a radiantly beautiful blond woman watching him intently, her disarming face set in a frown of concern. Then, the recollection of how he had sustained the injury came back to him in a vivid burst and he scrambled away, gazing owlishly about the small clearing.

"Where is Azidara?" he demanded, relieved to still feel the reassuring weight of his weapon against his chest.

"Your companion is quite well and is resting in the shade of yon tree. She suffered a similar blow to your own, delivered by the man who attempted to abduct her, but I have attended to her discomfort and set her to rest. I am named Karosyn...Matrium of the Sisters of Esotaria. It is my order that has brought you to this world," the blond woman disclosed and extended a long-fingered, finely boned hand. "Might I know your name?"

"Stuart Macevey," he allowed simply. There was a forthright, benevolent aspect to the woman's lovely face that seemed to invite candor and trust. The same, however, could not be said of her three traveling companions. The diminutive woman with the chiseled features and otherwise nondescript face appeared every bit as hard and unyielding as granite. The tall woman, whom he had confronted in the square, was breathtakingly lovely, but was regarding him with a cold, baleful glare that bespoke a nearly irrepressible itch to do him bodily harm. He recalled his last seconds of consciousness in the square and that expression seemed less perplexing.

Embarrassed over having struck a woman in such an underhanded manner, Stuart flushed and averted his gaze to the final stranger. He was a handsome man with a smug, disingenuous expression that raised alarm klaxons in Macevey's mind. He had encountered this exact type of individual all too often...on street corners and in interrogation rooms, wearing their sardonic and disdainful smirks like a perverse badge of honor.

'This is a man who bears watching,' Macevey thought, wondering about the incongruent pairing of this obvious thug and a gentle creature such as the Matrium seemed to be. 'Ah but looks can be deceiving...it will prove deadly to lose sight of that in this world.'

"That is Reyfort...a fellow traveler," Karosyn declared, her voice conveying the slightest hint of disapproval. Gesturing toward the other frightening woman, the Matrium reported, "This is Issidris Il...my personal protector. It was she who rescued your companion."

"You have my thanks," Stuart offered solemnly to which the reticent Il merely inclined her chin.

"The tall woman presently glaring daggers at you would be..."

"Lorio," the raven-haired beauty interjected brusquely, swiftly coming forward with her arm extended like a jousting lance.

Stuart hesitantly accepted her hand and in the next instant found himself being hauled up into her driving knee, which buried itself in his abdomen and drove the air from his lungs in a massive burst. Gasping, he fell onto his hands and knees, but Lorio dealt him a clubbing blow across the back that drove him onto his face.

"Your dirty blow was no way to treat a woman, especially a queen! Consider us even, knave!" she spat and stormed away.

Bewildered, Karosyn moaned, "Lorio, is there no end to your impetuous ability to complicate our lives. You know all too well how important this man is and still you would abuse him thusly?"

Stuart had managed to push himself to his hands and knees, staggered by the power and ferocity of her attack. Shaking his head and wincing at the discomfort this roused, Stuart mumbled, "I may well have deserved that, Karosyn. What I did back in the square was pretty despicable."

"At least he has the good grace to admit his misdeeds," Lorio seethed, her arms folded beneath her full breasts.

Stuart rose on unsteady legs and crossed the clearing to stand over the dormant Azidara. With her eyes closed and her lush lashes lying against her golden skin, she appeared peaceful and indescribably lovely. He castigated himself for having allowed her to become embroiled in this web, the exact shape of which remained shrouded in dangerous mystery. Distantly, he heard himself remark. "Azidara has sacrificed much on my behalf, showing me kindness and aid that is rare in my world...and even more so here, I suspect. To see her come to harm as a consequence would be...unbearable."

He fell silent for a moment and when no one offered a comment, he asked in a bemused tone, "How did we come to be here?" He wrinkled his nose at the foul odor that hung over the lot like a miasma and asked, "Why do we all smell so horrible?"

Karosyn offered Macevey a humorless grin. "It seems that we'd exhausted our welcome in Dizar Kor. We were forced to escape through an abandoned sewage channel to evade the city watch. Issidris was able to collect our horses without being detained or our situation would have become far more pungent than it stands now. As to where we are and our intended destination; we are three bells south of the capital. After this brief respite, we will ride to the village of Hamlen, where we can spend the remainder of the night recovering from this ordeal. Tomorrow morning, we will begin the journey to Nalosan, which lies in the nation of Emercia

He moved closer and Karosyn was afforded a glimpse of the profound confusion that churned behind his earnest eyes. "Can you tell me why I've been brought here?" He posed this query with no hint of the bitter resentment that one would have normally expected to accompany his circumstances. "Why have I been torn from my own world...my own life? What possible purpose could I serve in a world about which I know literally nothing?"

Karosyn favored him with her heart-rendingly beautiful smile. "Though I know it is not easily granted, Stuart Macevey, I would beg your forbearance until we reach Nalosan. My mistress will provide you with answers to all of your questions. I will, however, divulge this; the world to which you've been brought is beset by perils too numerous to tally. Shadows are gathering in every corner of this beleaguered world. Yet, there is one menace in particular that stands prominently above all others. Fate can often seem to be an arbitrary force and its complex machinations are far beyond our ability to fathom. Yet, it is an inexorable force that will not be denied."

Stuart frowned and shook his head in consternation. "I really don't understand what you're trying to tell me. Fate? Fate is an interesting literary device, but surely, you're not telling me that my being brought here is somehow predestined. The notion is...preposterous."

"Yet, this is precisely what I am telling you, Stuart Macevey," Karosyn returned mildly. "You will be the hinge upon which the fate of the world must turn. Your willingness to accept and embrace the role that fate has decreed you must play could well mean the difference between life and obliteration for the occupants of this woe-ridden world."

Macevey again shook his head in bewildered incredulity. Though the woman seemed lucid enough, these wild declarations of grandiose and momentous destinies had to be utter nonsense. The Matrium gripped his arm and in a low, urgent voice, implored, "My Ascentrix will provide you with a detailed explanation of why you have been brought here. I only ask that you maintain an open mind and don't succumb to the intransigence of cynicism. There is simply too much at stake to allow the rigid constraints of prejudice to blind you to the truth."

Stuart need only conjure the images of Elizabeth Simpson and her daunting protector to know that he had long ago slipped those particular shackles. "I promise that I will listen to your Ascentrix with an open mind."

Karosyn's answering grin of appreciation was radiant. "I will impart this one last unequivocal truth. The Sisters of Esotaria...to a one...would lay down their lives for you without hesitation, as would the three women here. Such is the strength of our conviction...of our belief in the grave importance of your purpose."

Stuart greeted this with a noncommittal nod, not certain how else to respond in the face of such a zealous declaration of self-sacrifice.

'Whoever she thinks you are and whatever worth she thinks you possess, it is clear that she believes it without reservation,' he thought. The notion left him appalled, humbled and unsettled all at once.

"Stuart?" a tentative voice called weakly and it was a moment before Macevey recognized the tremulous timbre as Azidara's. He was beside her in a moment, helping her into a sitting position, while she gazed at the four strangers with a blend of suspicion and apprehension. "Where are we and who are these people?"

Macevey spent the next several moments recounting the vicarious tale of what had befallen them in the time since they'd first entered the Western Plaza of Dizar Kor. His tale evidently did little to appease her mistrust or anxiety and she still regarded her new companions with barely concealed enmity.

"It was Veilguix who took me, wasn't it?" she inquired, shaking violently at the mere mention of Lethoras' dog.

"Yes," Stuart confirmed simply, "but Issidris rescued you." He informed her, gesturing toward the daunting Il.

The iron-eyed assassin stepped forward and declared dispassionately, "You have my personal assurance that neither he, nor his master, will cause you further grief."

"Very good...now that the two of you have rejoined the land of the living, let us be back on the road. I require a hot bath and clean clothes," the one named Lorio declared peevishly, her tone indicating that the authority over this group was hers...a fact that did precious little to placate Azidara. "Stuart can ride with me...and his companion can cling to Issidris."

She shifted a decidedly hostile gaze to Azidara and declared caustically, "Ah yes, my introduction was rather incomplete. My name is Lorio...Queen of Lamia. You would do well to remember this, Macevey. Should your hands decide to wander during our ride, you'll end up face down in the dirt with my quarterstaff buried in your ass...bane or not."

With this stupefying belligerent warning delivered, the raven-haired beauty stormed over to her mount, leaving an utterly dumbfounded Macevey gaping after her. He shifted his gaze to Azidara to find that she was staring intently at the virago with an expression that Stuart recognized as a disturbing mixture of shock, anger and the green-eyed monster of jealousy.

He was pondering just how this rancor between the two volatile women might manifest to complicate matters further, when the woman named Karosyn clutched the sides of her head and collapsed, panting, to her knees, as the others watched in helpless horror. The regal blond arched her back and loosed a single cry, fraught with horror and negation.

"Lyndsyn!" The harrowing shriek rose up into the night sky like the sum total of all despair

3

Entering the section of Kammlogran that had been assigned to house the Sisters of Esotaria, Artumas immediately grasped the essence of Esuruban's fears for the ancient castle's structural integrity. Two ashen-faced guards pushed open the two arched doors and stood back to grant the king entry.

The air within this section of the castle was alive with coruscating waves of arcane energy that caused Artumas' skin to prickle and his thick hair to stand straight away from his skull. He turned his wide-eyed regard on a pallid Sandalayne and demanded, "What manner of madness is this...what is the source of this monstrous outpouring?"

The stealth ranger shrugged helplessly and croaked, "As I've said, good king, I truly do not know. This...this is without precedent."

A strangled, inarticulate wail of raw anguish tore down the corridor, followed by a blinding burst of golden lightening that struck the walls and ceiling but appeared to damage neither.

Artumas started forward, but Esuruban protectively gripped his left forearm and rasped, "My King, surely it is not your intention to venture into that Maelstrom?"

"That is exactly my intention, Captain," Artumas growled and roughly extricated his arm from the other man's grasp. "You will seal these doors and grant no one entry. If I have not returned within a half bell, or should the situation deteriorate further, I charge you with the task of seeing Kammlogran evacuated."

Shaken, Esuruban nodded his understanding and withdrew with obvious reluctance, drawing the re-enforced doors closed in his wake.

As Artumas set out down the corridor, along which the Sisters of Esotaria were pressed rigidly against the stone walls, the king's thoughts turned automatically to his still nascent feelings for the enigmatic Lissom.

She had swept into his life (and his bed) like a dervish, decimating his defenses and reservations like a juggernaut. Inexorably, his frazzled mind drew the comparison with Myrhia's unexpected coming, but it was a cautionary juxtaposition that had lost much of its efficacy the instant that Lissom had consigned Gyzarayne's chain to his keeping. Though there had been one single instant to suggest the contrary, generally speaking, Myrhia would rather have died a thousand deaths than extend a symbolic gesture of subjugation...informing him that Lissom was an altogether different creature.

Despite wielding a power so vast as to be well near inconceivable, Lissom still possessed a discernable degree of humility...humility that could easily have been banished by the arrogance that normally accompanies such power.

'Yes, that is all fine and well, but for all of her exotic beauty and her many wondrous qualities, could you ever envision yourself coming to love her?' Islena's voice inquired, her tone intimating serious skepticism. 'Is it even possible to love a creature of Lissom's ilk or must your flawed love be invariably pulverized to dust in the crucible of her perfection, giving way to either bitter resentment or fawning subservience?'

The staggering thought caused Artumas to falter mid-stride. How could one possibly love such a woman on an intimate and equal level, when the disparity in stature between them was so incomprehensibly vast? Could any mortal be condign to the daunting task of loving Lissom...a Goddess' daughter, if the truth be stated flatly?

Yet even this confounding query was not the most troublesome aspect of his complex feeling for Gyzarayne's emissary. Whenever Artumas attempted to consider Lissom in a romantic context, it was the honey haired, blue-eyed Karosyn whose pleasing visage would materialize in his mind's eye. Serene and graceful, it was Karosyn who had captivated Artumas' thoughts.

'A fact that I would keep well concealed from Lissom,' Islena advised urgently. 'I will tell you plainly...this is a woman who will not graciously accept being spurned.' Years later, long after Artumas' death, the truth of this cogent advice would shake the world like apocalyptic thunder.

These seemingly irrelevant contemplations were driven from Artumas' mind the instant Sandalayne led the King into Lissom's chamber, quickly giving way to horrified incredulity.

Lissom knelt on her narrow, humble pallet, her entire body encapsulated in a translucent sphere of gleaming golden light. Her head was thrown back and her large blue eyes bulged, while her exquisite face was contorted by what appeared to be seething fury or raw misery...which, Artumas could not immediately distinguish. Lissom's slender arms were extended toward the chamber ceiling, while her small, delicate hands were hooked into claws that raked and slashed at the air as if at an unseen adversary.

Bolts of argent lightening ripped from the curving sphere, blinding in magnitude, but otherwise harmless. Artumas turned to a pallid Sandalayne, who had been reduced to transfixed immobility by the heartrending spectacle of her mistress' torment. "She seems incapable of controlling the outpouring of sorcery. Could it be that the sphere is intended to serve as a buffer, absorbing the majority of the energy and protecting everything beyond?"

Sandalayne's eyes narrowed into speculative slits as she considered the sphere as if truly seeing it for the first time. After a moment's consideration, she allowed, "My understanding of sorcery is rudimentary, but what you have posited is not implausible."

"Which would mean that she is trying to protect us from whatever assails her and thus she remains cognizant of her surroundings," Artumas further postulated and wondered if this assault could be the vile work of Xhendyn.

"Artumas!" The shriek tore through the chamber, a blood-curdling howl fraught with despair and pain. The king grimaced and jerked his regard to the Ascentrix, who had extended her left hand in his direction, like a penitent seeking absolution. He moved toward her without hesitation.

Seeing his approach, her eyes (which had turned an iridescent silver) widened and she hissed, "Stay back...break the plane of the barrier sphere and you will be reduced to ash."

Artumas came to an abrupt halt, for the first time noticing that Lissom's robe had been ripped and torn to tatters. Tendrils of smoke coiled from the fabric, which seemed poised to burst into flames. Struggling to modulate his voice, he inquired evenly, "Lissom, can you tell me what assails you...what can be done to aid you?"

Her throat bulged alarmingly, and her mouth stretched as if lacking the bore to give voice to the sheer enormity of her torment. "MY DAUGHTER HAS DIED...HER LIFE EXTINGUISHED BY HER OWN HAND!"

The enormity of Lissom's pain reverberated in Artumas' viscera and his first horrified thought was for Karosyn, but the Ascentrix threw back her head and keened, "LYNDSYN...WHY? HOW HAVE I FAILED YOU SO UTTERLY?"

To the High King's extreme dismay, he saw the barrier sphere gutter marginally and correctly deduced that...should it fail...Kammlogran and perhaps all of Nalosan would be reduced to cinders by Lissom's immutable grief.

Drawing a deep breath, he stepped forward, peripherally thinking that here was yet another reason why no living being should wield this level of power. "Lissom, you must cease these hysterics at once. You run the risk of destroying everything around you. This reckless behavior denigrates your lost daughter's memory." His gaze slid to Sandalayne, whose ferocious scowl conveyed her displeasure with his curt chastisement of her mistress. "You will stop this pathetic mewling at once...as your master, I command it!"

Sandalayne gasped and started toward the aging king with malicious intent blazing in her ice blue eyes. Lissom's face had congealed into a livid knot and Artumas momentarily feared that she would excoriate the flesh from his bones where he stood.

The First Stealth Ranger grasped Artumas' shoulder and spun the smaller man to face her, raising a fist that reminded the startled king of a mallet. Before she could punish Artumas for his perceived affront, Lissom gesticulated sharply and Sandalayne collapsed to the floor as if crushed beneath the boot of an invisible giant.

"Go...leave us now!" Lissom's voice was harsh and flat. Sandalayne rose on unsteady legs and glancing obliquely at her Ascentrix, stumbled toward the door. Before she could make her exit, Lissom issued an unsettling warning. "I understand that you acted to defend my honor and thus I will forgive you on this one occasion, but should you ever presume to raise a hand against this man again, I will incinerate you where you stand."

The statuesque warrior stiffened, nodded her understanding and strode briskly from the chamber. Disconcerted by the Ascentrix's cold promise, Artumas turned his troubled gaze back to Lissom. The protective sphere had dissipated as had the roiling cloud or arcane energy it had contained, for which Artumas was eternally grateful. Lissom's head was bowed and her slumped posture seemed to suggest total debilitating defeat. The trembling of her shoulders informed him that she was weeping silently.

For a moment, the aging king remained utterly still, immobilized by inadequacy, wondering how he could hope to console a creature he could never truly understand. After a moment, she lifted her gaze to him and her normally limpid eyes appeared listless and red. She offered Artumas a sour grin and remarked, "Even in the grasp of rampant emotion, I've demonstrated that I can be dutifully complaisant. Does this please you, my king?"

Not knowing how to respond to the bewildering array of emotions couched in this nuanced remark, Artumas chose to deliberately ignore it, instead asking, "Lissom, can you tell me what's happened to provoke you to this state?"

Her pouting lower lip trembled slightly, and she extended her slender right hand to him, her eyes communicating a silent plea for comfort. Artumas went to her, unable to deny the need in those enticing blue depths.

'How easy it is to forget that even a creature such as this requires solace...needs to be warded against the unbearable emptiness of grief and loss,' he thought, knowing that his speculation had no basis in fact as Lissom was a woman well beyond his comprehension. Still, he drew her to him and pressed her face into his shoulder. "Lissom, how can you be so certain that Lyndsyn has died...by her own hand?"

She pushed away from him and peering intently into his lined face, explained. "I once told you that all sisters appear as golden lights on a deepest field of black. When a daughter dies, her light becomes muted until her essence can be absorbed into the collective consciousness by the ritual of consignment."

Here, the Ascentrix paused and shuddered violently, as if what she was about to convey was too abhorrent to utter. "When a sister takes her own life, her force is eradicated...her soul extinguished beyond any prospect of redemption. Gyzarayne has no sufferance for self-immolation amongst her children. Lyndsyn is damned...as am I for having failed her."

With this doleful pronouncement, Lissom hung her head and began to sob. Artumas shook his head, bewildered by the inexplicable delicacy of this sudden turn of affairs. A hysterical Lissom was a grave threat to everything around her, but Artumas knew that her grief could not be assuaged by the mouthing of hollow platitudes. It suddenly occurred to him that, despite her irrefutable goodness, this woman was a living justification of his contention that sorcery and magic had no place in the world...even in the hands of one who would never intentionally abuse its power.

Distantly, he heard himself offer, "Lissom, I have no real understanding of the implications of faith. I have never held much stock in religion or the worship of gods. I have even less grasp of what it might mean to be the living embodiment of a goddess. I do, however, know something of the ways of leadership...enough to know that you cannot hold yourself personally accountable for each and every follower's death. Even you could not reasonably hope to carry that burden. If it is true that Lyndsyn perished by her own hand, how could you possibly be expected to know what private demons plagued her heart?" His tone hardened then and he chastised, "Is this goddess you serve so obdurate that she would judge her children's pain so harshly?"

"To speak thusly is blasphemous, good king...and I will not suffer it!" Lissom warned, her tone and countenance becoming glacial. Artumas held her gaze unblinkingly and at last, she sighed and dragged the heel of her hand across her reddened eyes. "Rarely in the annals of our Sisterhood has an Ascentrix lost a daughter to suicide...and never one who has risen so high in Gyzarayne's service. The blessing that comes with being accepted into our Goddess' service should exorcise such demons."

"And yet, in the case of Lyndsyn, it did not?" Artumas inquired gently, grimacing at having stated the obvious.

"With Lyndsyn, it did not," Lissom echoed mournfully, her voice tremulous with sorrow.

"Still, Lissom, you cannot hold yourself accountable for this tragic death," Artumas persisted firmly.

Lissom shook her head in contradiction, her expression fraught with an emotion that might have been self-loathing or unflinching acceptance. Artumas could not be certain. "Oh, but I can, my king. I was all too aware that Lyndsyn had faltered...that she had been drawn into a dark and desolate place and yet I still obdurately set her to my purpose...indifferent to her pain. In my ruthless obsession with finding the remnant, I failed her and, in her displeasure,, Gyzarayne's guiding voice has suddenly fallen silent in my heart."

Again, Artumas winced, wondering what grave implications this disclosure would have on an increasingly troubled future. Some response seemed required and so he offered, "Perhaps your Goddess grieves in her own way...in her own space."

Lissom greeted this with a wan smile and gently caressed his right cheek. "You are a compassionate and good man, Artumas. It is why I have given you my oath chain and surrendered myself to your keeping."

Somewhere in the lightless recesses of his mind, he could hear Myrhia laughing scornfully and he experienced a twinge of guilt and shame, both of which dissipated like mist before a gale at Lissom's next declaration. "This will destroy Karosyn...utterly and beyond any hope of reclamation."

Artumas could feel his heart seize in his chest, but he somehow managed to moderate his tone when he asked, "I'm not sure I understand...they were particularly close?"

Lissom nodded morosely and explained, "Karosyn is my Matrium. She raised me from infancy and loved me steadfastly...just has she has within her the rare capacity to love everything...everyone...even those who do not deserve to be loved. Still, I believe that her love for me was born of obligation and devotion to our Goddess. Lyndsyn, Karosyn loves as a mother would love a daughter of her own flesh...unconditionally and boundlessly. Lyndsyn was an innately flawed creature, but one possessed of sorcerous power that was without parallel in all but a few. I wonder if, as she so selfishly succumbed to her own weakness, Lyndsyn considered that her act of self-immolation was also destroying the kindest, most noble woman that ever lived in the bargain."

'Please, if there is any justice left in this world, let it not be so,' he thought, bemused by the strength of his feelings for the statuesque blond who had privately and effortlessly beguiled his heart...even as he gave his flesh to her mistress.

Lissom sighed and climbed heavily from the bed. "I would beg that you grant me a moment's privacy, my king. I must collect myself and gather my daughters to commence the mourning process."

"Of course," Artumas said at once, grateful and relieved for the opportunity to return to the solitude of his chambers. He turned and moved toward the door on stiff, unresponsive legs.

"My King...I am sworn to Gyzarayne...and to you...by sacred oath, but I would have you know this; if I discover that Lyndsyn was driven to this tragic act through cruel provocation, I will make those responsible rue the day they were born...oaths or not."

Artumas remained stationary, with his hand on the door handle, for a long moment. After a time, he opened the door and left without remark.

Chapter Forty-Three

1

The group clustered around the kneeling Karosyn, who peered about the descending gloom, eyes wide and clutching the sides of her head as if she feared it might explode. Indeed, to an alarmed Lorio, it did seem that the Matrium's flesh was being subjected to an excruciating internal pressure. Her blue eyes bulged, and the cords of her neck stood out in prominent relief.

Surprisingly, it was the normally reticent Issidris who knelt beside the tormented woman and placed an arm about her shoulders. "Matrium, what has caused your distress?" she inquired and with an unmistakable apprehension, she added, "You spoke of Lyndsyn..."

Karosyn's head swiveled toward her retainer, her expression fraught and verging on apoplexy. "We must return to Hamlen now...and with all haste!"

Without disclosing more, she pushed a startled Issidris away and sprang to her feet. Bounding over to her skittering horse, she cried, "I have erred...Gyzarayne, be merciful...I have erred."

Before anyone could intervene or question further, the distraught Matrium leapt onto her mount and dug her heels into its flank. The beast issued a plaintive whine but sprang away. Karosyn snapped her reins as the horse raced out of the clearing, turning south along the King's Highway.

A thoroughly flummoxed Lorio exchanged puzzled glances with Issidris, further staggered by the emotion that burned in those inscrutable dark eyes; naked horror.

Then Issidris was on her own horse in three brisk strides and racing after her mistress in the darkness. Lorio cursed and returned her gaze to the other three, who were regarding her with identical expressions of nervous confusion. Shaking her head in consternation, she rasped. "It seems that we're off. Reyfort, you will ride with Stuart's companion."

Reyfort offered the wheaten-haired beauty a deep bow and decidedly lecherous grin. "I would suggest that you cling tight, good lady...this is apt to be a wild ride."

Azidara glowered, but perhaps sensing the exigency of the moment, moved quickly to comply. In mere moments, the two pairs were galloping through the descending nightfall in pursuit of their companions.

2

The headlong charge through the Fairmarch night was a wild and frenetic blur, just as Reyfort had predicted it would be. As the party charged into Hamlen, shattering the village's peaceful silence in a cacophony of pounding horseshoes on the cobbles, Lorio realized that they were fortunate to have arrived without serious mishap.

As Karosyn had guided her exhausted horse into the small courtyard of the Laughing Widow Inn, the Innkeeper and his wife both emerged, carrying torches. Rurhic Zan was a short, stout man with mutton chop sideburns, who wore an expression of perpetual dismay. Standing in the courtyard of his inn in the dead of this sultry summer night, that dismay had given way to unmanning trepidation.

Wringing his hands in agitation, he warily approached the statuesque blond, whose blue eyes blazed like balefire in the torch light. His agitation grew geometrically when the other five came thundering into the courtyard.

"Milady, I'm so sorry, the stable boy...he's a simple lad. He..." Rurhic got no further, his tearful explanation abruptly terminated when the normally placid Karosyn made a short, sharp gesture with her left hand. In response, Zan was picked from his feet and tossed unceremoniously into the darkness, where he landed with a muffled grunt and went utterly still.

"Matrium, please!" Issidris cried wretchedly as she slid from her horse and hurried to join the other woman. The Innkeeper's reed thin wife shrieked and scurried out of Karosyn's path as she strode into the Inn's darkened interior.

Lorio had reached the base of the stairs that led up to the lodgings, when a harrowing shriek of utter negation tore through the inky darkness. She pounded up the stairs, along the short hall and through the only open doorway in time to see a wailing Karosyn collapse and begin to crawl across the threadbare carpet on her hands and knees.

The moonlight through the open window was sufficient to cast Lyndsyn's suspended corpse in a ghastly luminous silver.

A low, guttural moan of utter despair reached Lorio's ears and it required a moment before she realized that it had issued from her own twisted lips. 'This is your doing. Yet another indelible scar on your black soul...inflicted by your seemingly endless capacity for arbitrary acts of malicious, petty cruelty. How truly and irredeemably wretched you are!'

It had been Islena who had delivered this seething condemnation, her voice remorseless and glacially cold. Sickened by her continuing existence, Lorio could only gaze on in black horror as Karosyn's trembling fingers gripped Lyndsyn's ankles and she pressed her lips against the chilling feet, entreating the dead woman for absolution. "Please, by Gyzarayne's Grace, my beautiful daughter...forgive me...my beautiful child!"

Lorio became aware of someone standing livid at her shoulder and turned to see a moon eyed Issidris Il's right hand flutter to the bloodless slash of her mouth. A wounded sound escaped her lips and she fled like a shadow. The expression in those normally inscrutable dark eyes succinctly declared her intentions.

Lorio spared a final glance at Karosyn, who continued to bestow tender kisses on Lyndsyn's feet and offer her heart-rending plea for the dead woman's forgiveness. It required only this fleeting glance to corroborate Lissom's grim pronouncement to Artumas...the ugly spectacle of Lyndsyn's death would also destroy Karosyn.

'This too you may add to your long list of indictments,' she thought, flailing herself with the enormity of her culpability in the needless tragedy. Turning away from the gentle Matrium's piteous moment of grief, Lorio set out in pursuit of Issidris, determined that the emotional maelstrom she'd unleashed through her casual petulance would claim no further victims.

Reyfort, the man called Stuart and his irksome companion milled about at the bottom of the stairs, appearing miserable and wretchedly uncertain. Lorio stopped before the man, whom she'd had Issidris assault just nights prior, and instructed, "The idiotic bitch has hung herself. Find a suitable shroud and cut her down. Karosyn is devastated to the point of distraction. Allow her a space to grieve...but do not allow her to harm herself. Be wary, she is benevolent, but also a powerful sorceress who is under extreme duress. Which way did Issidris go?"

Reyfort scowled in revulsion but pointed down the short hallway which led to the rear courtyard where he had suffered his own moment of emasculating abjection. Lorio nodded and raced away as Reyfort frowned and gestured for the other two to follow him up the stairs.

Macevey and Azidara exchanged troubled glances and started up after him, both wondering what manner of insanity they'd been drawn into.

3

With deliberate stealth, Lorio moved down the short hallway to find the door at its end had been thrown open.

Issidris knelt in the rear courtyard, swathed in a cone of golden moonlight. Lorio could see that she held a dirk pressed just beneath her breastbone. The assassin was weeping silently and the hands that held the blade were trembling violently.

Stepping into the shadowy courtyard, the immortal growled, "You craven little bitch! You lack the courage to face the consequences of brutally rejecting the only person who ever loved you in your miserable fucking life. Now, you intended to follow her into death as if that would be sufficient to atone for crushing her soul beneath your boot."

"Stay away!" Issidris brayed in a grief-stricken voice that was scarcely recognizable. "Have the decency to let me do what the Sisters should have done when they captured me."

"Therein lies the rub," Lorio retorted. "I have no decency...no shame...no guilt. While you and that soft-hearted imbecile wallow in self-pity and flail yourself with ultimately pointless guilt, it was me who goaded her and provoked her mercilessly, pushing her into a corner from which there was only one way out. While she hangs up there, rotting...I have only contempt for your precious Lyndsyn...and for you because you are too obtuse to see the person responsible for her death is standing right in front of you...mocking your sorrow."

Issidris slowly shifted her gaze toward Lorio, her hard, angular face becoming a portrait of incredulity...and dawning fury. With a liquid flexing of her lean thigh muscles, Il sprang to her feet.

Lorio smiled disdainfully. "Ah, you've found that meager reserve of courage...of outrage, have you? Come then...gouge my eyes from my head...tear my face off with your teeth. Hold me accountable for that vapid cow's death. You know that you want to...just as I've wanted to beat you to a quivering pulp since I first set eyes upon that disagreeable face in Emercia. Come then...let us see who bathes in whose blood."

Issidris advanced, her short fingers clenching and unclenching into fists and her blunt features contorting with indignant outrage. Then, she suddenly stopped and shaking her head, turned away from a perplexed Lorio. "I know precisely what you're trying to do, and I won't be manipulated anymore. Leave me to my misery."

Lorio started after her, but the diminutive assassin whirled about, drawing her dual swords in one fluid motion as she pivoted. The Lamish Queen found her neck caught in a lethal scissors of incisive steel. Il's expression was lost in the gloom of the rear courtyard, but her tone was gruff with deadly promise. "You may be a Queen and an immortal, or so I've been told, but I doubt either can survive without a head. Go back inside and attend to the Matrium. You and I deserve every misery that life heaps upon us, but she is a gentle soul who never should have been made to suffer thus."

Lorio slowly raised her arms in a gesture of capitulation. Issidris allowed the pressure on the queen's neck to ease and Lorio retreated a pace. The diminutive engine of carnage then sheathed her weapons and started to turn away. Before she had made a quarter turn, Lorio's fist crashed into her right cheek like the fall of a mace. The brutal impact drove Issidris to her knees, but before she could collapse onto her face, Lorio surged forward and drove a savage knee into the side of Il's head.

Lorio swept up the unconscious assassin in her left arm, while stripping away her swords and flinging them into the darkness with her right hand. She hauled Il to her feet and then tore her dirk from her belt, casting it into the darkness after the other two weapons. She then bestowed a gentle kiss on Issidris' rapidly swelling face.

Peering about the darkened courtyard, her gaze fell upon the wooden stave barrel that had been set to collect rainwater. She dragged Il over to the barrel, surprised by how hard...how astoundingly substantial she felt. "You will not harm yourself, Issidris," she whispered fiercely. "You may come to despise me with the last spark of life in your heart, but I will never permit your act of self-destruction."

With this vow delivered, she plunged Il's head into the tepid water, holding her under until the diminutive woman began to flail and thrash wildly. Lorio roughly jerked the other woman's head out of the water and as Issidris coughed and sputtered, the immortal delivered three vicious blows to her heaving abdomen and a knee between her slightly parted legs. She then drove Issidris' face beneath the water and leaned her full weight against the shorter woman for maximum leverage. Il's frantic struggles were ferocious, but after a moment, her leanly muscled arms went slack and hung loosely at her sides.

Lorio snarled and pulled the slack-faced assassin's head out of the barrel before slamming her unceremoniously to the dirty cobbles. Issidris' head bounced off the stone with a disturbing thud and she lay staring up at the star-spattered firmament, gasping silently like a fish out of water.

For a terrible moment, Lorio feared that her exuberance may have inflicted permanent harm on the fierce warrior.

Still, the Lamish Queen stood over the fallen woman for several moments and then she reached down and snagging the lapels of her tunic, jerked Issidris to her knees. Lorio then sank to her own knees and gripped the battered woman by the sides of her head. "Issidris, you will swear an oath to me, here and now, that you will not attempt to harm yourself...or I will beat you bloody all the way back to Nalosan!"

Il regarded Lorio through flat, still glazed eyes, but remained obdurately silent, suggesting that she might view this prospect as some perverse, but well-deserved penance. Lorio placed her right hand about Issidris' neck and drew her closer until their foreheads touched. "Please, Issidris...I'm begging you...don't harm yourself. Promise me that you won't!"

"What right do you have to ask this of me?" Issidris demanded indignantly, her voice fraught by a misery that transcended the physical pain that she had just suffered at the hands of her tormentor.

"I have no right!" Lorio moaned and now her own tears of self-loathing burst forth. "But I will beg it of you anyway. Please, Issidris, I have stained my soul with blackness to the point where I can no longer recognize what it once might have been. Neither it nor I can survive another scar, so I implore you...turn your blades on me if your pain deems it necessary, but don't compound this crime I've committed against Lyndsyn...and Karosyn, by taking your own life."

Issidris' eyes widened in response to this desperate entreaty. She grimaced and clutched Lorio's throat in her right hand, her powerful fingers digging into the soft flesh there. Lorio inclined her head and encouraged, "Do it, Issidris! Make me the receptacle for every indignity...every act of cruelty you've ever suffered. If you feel the need to be scourged for Lyndsyn's death, then let my suffering serve as a vicarious expiation of your guilt."

Issidris scowled and squeezed Lorio's throat, if only to silence her. "I will not raise my hand to you...never! You are a Queen...everything I dreamed of being as a child...before my father's and brothers' cocks and fists disabused me of such foolish nonsense. As you say...I have destroyed the only living person who has ever shown me compassion and kindness...all out of a mindless fear of normal human emotion. Despite this, you ask me not to bring a merciful end to my pointless torment. I would then ask you to give me a reason why I should not. Set me to a purpose that will sustain me through this storm that assails me. Do that...and I vow that my life will not end by my hand."

Sobbing like a distraught child, Lorio sagged onto her haunches as Issidris released her and fell silent, regarding the Lamish Queen expectantly. Lorio willed herself to meet that daunting regard. As she peered into the black pit of Issidris Il's soul, Lorio glimpsed a piteous creature who had been ripped asunder and fractured into razor sharp fragments by this world's seemingly Infinite capacity for cruel invention. Those fragments had been hastily reassembled, the incongruent, biting edges ground together to create a being that could only receive and dispense pain. For Issidris, the capacity to experience the gentler facets of human emotion had long ago been extirpated from her scarified heart. In that understanding, Lorio...a woman whose own twisted soul had been subjected to very much the same remorseless pressures, divined the one purpose that might save Issidris.

She dragged the heel of her right hand across her eyes, leaving livid red marks in its wake. "You ask for a purpose and then I will give it to you. From this moment forth, you are mine and the Sisters hold over you is broken. You will stand as my constant Royal Protector...my ubiquitous shadow. You will devote the rest of your life to me...and me alone."

"A slave then?" Issidris suggested, the light of hopeful expectation guttering in her eyes.

In the near darkness, Lorio seized Issidris' hands and shook them vigorously. With grim ferocity, she replied, "No...not a slave, Issidris! I would have you serve as my conscience."

The assassin blinked and shook her head in confusion and Lorio pulled her closer still. "You will serve as the remorseless judge of my soul, who will hold my every action, my every uttered word up to the harsh light of introspection. When my residing ugliness rears its head, it will fall to you to flail it from my heart. Issidris, you understand the dark stain better than anyone...you recognize it's every hateful visage. I give you unfettered leave to scourge this perverse need to lash out...this damnable darkness from my heart. We can both see that I'm being drawn toward the abyss...you've witnessed it firsthand...with Reyfort and Lyndsyn. I can tell you that there have been others too numerous to tally. Yet, my every instinct is telling me that you can save me, Issidris."

"Why...why would you ever believe such a thing?" Issidris demanded, her voice fraught and incredulous.

"Because you possess an inured heart that will neither ignore, nor excuse my cruelty and spite, while retaining just enough of your fading humanity to help me change...even if it is with a heavy fist," Lorio insisted vehemently.

Issidris inhaled deeply and bowed her head, still unable to readily accept that this imperious, arrogant and yet blazingly glorious creature would willingly subject herself to the judgment of an inconsequential wretch that she perceived herself to be.

With clear skepticism, she heard herself inquire, "If I agree to serve as the arbiter of your words and deeds, you would have me reprimand you...chastise you?"

"Without reservation...and as severely as you see fit," Lorio confirmed without hesitation. "I would beg that you never renege on your vow to raise a hand to me if that is what was required."

A tense silence descended on the pair then. Slowly, Issidris raised her right hand to Lorio's face and with an index finger, collected a warm tear as it fell from the Queen's long lashes. As a transfixed Lorio gazed on in fascination, Il raised the finger to her parted lips and tasted Lorio's essence.

The salty sweetness exploded on her tongue, underscored by a sharp tang of bitterness. Issidris' dark eyes widened in response to the unexpected intensity of these sensations. In that single gesture, Issidris confirmed the veracity of all that Lorio had laid bare before her. Reaching for the Lamish Queen's right hand, she pressed her lips to the warm flesh and then offered her solemn oath of fealty. "I renounce my vow to the Sisters of Esotaria...and pledge my life and service to you, Lorio, Queen of Lamia."

Lorio laughed exuberantly, her relief palpable, and drew Issidris into a tight embrace. She pressed her lips into Issidris' wet hair and murmured ardently, "Thank you, Issidris."

Rising, she hauled a bemused assassin to her feet, drew her into another prolonged, fervent embrace and murmured, "Let us go collect those weapons of yours. We are, each of us, better served if my conscience has fangs."

The pair went out into the lane to collect Issidris' swords and dirk...neither knowing that they had just forged a bond that would last until Issidris Il's life had run its natural course...many decades into the future.

4

When Lorio led Issidris up the stairs and into the upper hall, an uneasy calm had descended upon the Laughing Widow Inn. As instructed, Reyfort and Macevey had removed Lyndsyn from the noose. The two men stood uncomfortably against the wall while Karosyn and the woman known as Azidara washed the battle mage's chilling flesh with rose-scented water.

Rurhic Zan had regained his senses and with the aid of his wife, had collected candles and a shroud in the form of a linen tablecloth and a basin of rose water. Now, he stood near the room's open window, his pudgy face set in an expression of grim sorrow, nuanced by trepidation and pain. Recalling how he had been sorely abused by Karosyn upon the party's return, Lorio made his way over to the innkeeper and whispered contritely, "You will be well compensated for the kindness you've shown here, Master Zan. I am heartily sorry for the treatment you received earlier. This is Karosyn's daughter and she is understandably distraught."

Zan's watery eyes widened, the disclosure adding a new dimension to this tragedy that had occurred in his beloved inn. Rurhic nodded gravely and quietly ushered his wife from the room, sparing one final sorrowful glance at the beautiful woman who had ended her own life.

Lorio came to stand on the opposite side of the bed, while the two women went about their grim task. She peered down at Lyndsyn, her gaze settling on the rope burns that were livid and ghastly in the flickering candlelight.

'If I had but the power and courage to trade places with you,' she told the dead woman silently, understanding how utterly bereft of meaning this sentiment was even as it bloomed in her mind. She raised her regard to the Matrium, whose beautiful face was as empty as the vessel over which she now labored. "Karosyn, I have no words to express how sorry I am."

The Matrium lifted her head and then stared at Lorio as if genuinely surprised by her presence. Then she rose slowly to her feet, her sapphire blue eyes alight with an indecipherable emotion. "You will speak no further words to me. You have forsaken the oath given to me of your own free will and here lies the consequence of that disavowal. Like your heart, your words of commiseration and sympathy are hollow, and you will not utter them in my presence."

This keen rebuke tore savagely at Lorio's heart, but she bore it with a stoic nod of acceptance, knowing that she had earned every cutting word. "Then I will leave you to your grief."

With this, she averted her gaze to the scuffed wooden floorboards and hurried from the room. Karosyn turned her regard to the other four occupants, all of whom wore identical expressions of extreme discomfort. "I thank you all for the kindness you've extended tonight," Karosyn declared in a voice that was mechanical and listless. "I would ask that you allow me a space of bells to pray for my daughter and prepare her for the journey to Nalosan."

Each quickly offered the Matrium their condolences and then fled the room. As Azidara closed the door behind her, she saw a disconsolate Matrium sink to her knees and press her forehead against Lyndsyn's hip.

5

"I'm frightened, Stuart," Azidara blurted as she stood a pace back from the open window of their shared quarters. It required only one glance at her lovely profile to discern how deeply disturbed she was. "These people...they terrify me in ways I can't begin to explain."

"How so?" Macevey inquired as he drank in the perfection of her naked body, which was bathed in a spill of silver moonlight as she sought refuge from the prevailing heat of the small room on the cool breeze that swept through the open window.

Azidara hugged her shoulders and shivered perceptibly. When she spoke, it was in a voice that bore only a passing resemblance to her normal dulcet tone. "About these people, I sense the swirl of immense destiny...like a raging maelstrom that will drag everything around it into the vortex." She turned to him and her limpid eyes were wide with both awe and dread. "If you are not careful, they will consume you, Stuart Macevey. You will be ground to dust on the millstones of their need...as will I."

She shuddered again and then shook her head as though emerging from a torpor that had left her feeling vaguely uneasy and disoriented. Stuart was stretched out on the bed they shared, bare-chested and weary. Azidara's cryptic pronouncement echoed in his skull like the direst of auguries, causing the flesh on his torso to pebble as if a frigid wind had swept through the room.

'As will I.' This utterance in particular had evoked a shiver of grim fatalism in Stuart's heart as if it was the undeniable voice of foreshadowing. He rose quickly and went to her, drawing her into a tight embrace to which she surrendered gladly. As he enfolded her, his body responded naturally to the erotic crush of her firm breasts against his bare chest. Azidara pressed her face into the crook of his neck. Possessed of a healthy carnal appetite and ever cognizant of the impact her nubile body seemed to have on Stuart, she indolently caressed his stirring manhood through his rough spun trousers.

"That woman's pain, Stuart...the one called Karosyn...it was unbearable in its magnitude," she murmured as she roused him. "It was heart rending. What have we been drawn into?"

"I don't know." He reluctantly disentangled himself from her grasp and held her to arm's length. "The one called Lorio...you seemed to have recognized her name?"

"Yes," Azidara admitted, her smooth brow furrowing in clear displeasure. "She is the Queen of the fledgling nation of Lamia on the western edge of this continent. She is also a heroine of the Emerald Enchantress War and Lamia was created as a dispensation for her efforts in helping defeat Myrhia."

"I sense a certain disapproval in your tone," Stuart ventured cautiously.

She glanced at him sharply and then turned away, the rigid set of her shoulders declaring her inexplicable displeasure with this query. "Hers is a country of shiftless itinerants. Thieves, cut purses and charlatans...perhaps worse...often worse. They are unscrupulous rabble that no civilized country wanted within their borders. Now they've been granted their own sliver of land, clinging to the edge of the continent like scavengers!"

As Stuart listened to her bucolic assessment of this group of wanderers, he was surprised by the degree of acrimony she seemed to harbor toward Lamia. As she delivered this rancorous condemnation, Macevey was left with the distinct impression that Azidara was substantially more worldly than a simple village washer woman. He pondered voicing this observation, but instead asked, "Perhaps I'm mistaken, but I get the distinct impression that your dislike of the Lamish also extends to the woman who rules them?"

Azidara swiftly spun about, and even in the silver moonlight, there could be no mistaking her anger. "For that pretentious strumpet, I have nothing but utter contempt!" She spat with venomous disdain. "If what is held about her is true...and I need only one look in those harlot's eyes to see that it is...she has never come upon a pretty face that she wouldn't part her legs for."

Nonplused, Stuart posed the comment before he could weigh its prudence. "And you readily accept those kind of stories...knowing how malicious gossip can be?"

She advanced upon him, eyes narrowing in suspicion. "Do you think her beautiful?"

Knowing that he had maladroitly strayed into a tiger trap from which there would be no graceful escape, he offered cautiously, "To suggest that she is not would be an insult to your intelligence, I think. So yes, I think the Queen is a beautiful woman."

"More beautiful than me?" She demanded and in her flat tone, Stuart could not gauge the gravity of her query.

He stepped forward and drew her into another embrace, which she accepted stiffly, but made no attempt to escape. "Azidara, I can say without reservation that I doubt it is possible for a woman to be more beautiful than you are."

This seemed to please her for she hugged him tightly and giggled, "That is good then. If she tries to play the wanton with you, I swear that I will gouge her eyes out. See how the Lamish like a blind Queen!"

Stuart blinked, uncertain if this threat had been offered in jest. "I sincerely doubt that will be an issue, Azidara."

When she pulled back and eyed him quizzically, he recounted his first encounter with Lorio in the square in Dizar Kor, along with her subsequent retaliation along the roadside.

"That miserable bitch!" Azidara spat caustically, but beneath her eruption, Macevey could sense there lurked both satisfaction and relief. As quickly as it had manifested, her ire with the abrasive Lorio vanished. Taking his hand, she led him over to the window, where two basins of cool water and an assortment of towels and cloths had been left by Rurhic Zan. Kneeling before him, she deftly undid his belt and slowly drew his trousers down his legs. As he stepped out of the rough spun pants that had once belonged to her husband, Azidara dipped a cloth into one of the basins, rung off the excess water and applied herself to the task of bathing a thoroughly abashed Macevey. He inhaled sharply at the initial shock of the cold water, but soon her gentle and languorous efforts had him breathing deeply and raggedly, even as his curving erection stood prominently forth in the moonlight.

"Stuart, I suspect these people, whatever they might require of you, will attempt to separate us," she murmured somberly as she slowly guided the cloth from his right knee up the inside of his thigh. "I want you to give me your oath that you will not allow them to banish me from your side. During the course of my life, I have experienced the bitter sting of disappointment and the soul-rending pain of loss. Somehow, I mustered the strength... the wherewithal to carry on, but if you were to set me aside...or if I was to be driven away by those who would bend me to your purpose...that would be the one weight of cumulative sorrow that would see me broken."

Stuart bent forward and caressed her upturned cheek. "Azidara, I'm honest enough to realize that, without your help, I would probably be dead now. You've risked everything for me and though I still have no idea what these people want of me, I can promise that they will never have it if they refuse to accept us as a package. I'll promise you this as well...as long as you would have me and tolerate this madness that has enveloped my life...I'm yours."

Even in the barely condign silver light, Stuart saw that her eyes were glistening wetly. He bent down and kissed her slightly parted lips and she returned his kiss ardently, swirling her tongue over his teeth. Reluctantly, she broke the kiss and pushed him to arm's length before her palms settled against the flat of his upper thighs.

"Then I would have from you one final oath," She insisted and while her tone had been soft, it resonated with both desperation and intransigence. Warily, Stuart nodded. Azidara inhaled and dug her nails into the flesh of his thighs. "Stuart, there are things about myself that I have not shared with you...aspects of my past that I have concealed from the light for so long that I can scarcely recognize them for what they once were. My intuition tells me that you are an especially perceptive soul and that you have already come to suspect as much."

Macevey merely nodded, which drew a rather doleful smile from the wheaten-haired beauty. "I have not concealed these truths out of mistrust, Stuart. It should be readily apparent that I trust you with my life. I have not shared my past with you because it is simply too painful for me to give it voice. In your presence, that pain and reluctance has diminished...if only marginally and if you can be patient, I will lay my soul bare before you without reservation." She offered him a wicked grin and added, "Just as I have done with my body."

"Azidara, I have no right to impose any demands upon you...everything will come in its own proper time," Stuart assured her quietly, trying to remind himself that he had known her for only a few short weeks...when it seemed that he had passed an eternity in her company.

Her answering smile was one of unadulterated gratitude and joy. Closing her eyes, she bent forward and brushed his cheek against his erect manhood, causing Stuart to utter a guttural groan. Laughing, Azidara leaned back. "Be patient for a moment longer. Stuart, I have hinted at my past because it has afforded me a broader view than the limited life of a village washerwoman. This Karosyn spoke of fate and I will tell you unequivocally that her contention is not false. Still, I beseech you to listen to what I am about to impart...and heed its wisdom. Fate is an infernal engine that will crush you to dust to serve its purpose. It is remorseless and inexorable. We are mere pawns to be moved and sacrificed as its needs demand. About you, I glean a swirl of destiny that is too vast and sweeping to grasp."

Stuart tried to interject, to voice his objection to this baffling concept, but Azidara pressed a long index finger to his lips. "Stuart, obstinate denial will be the undoing of both of us. I would ask that you swear this one solemn vow; if it comes to pass that the destiny, which this group of women would impose upon you, requires that you sacrifice yourself for its fulfillment, you and I will vanish like shades before the winds of midnight."

She fixed him with a grave, incisive gaze and lapsed into an expectant silence. Stuart frowned slightly. These constant allusions to fate and destiny were difficult to digest for the pragmatist in Macevey, who struggled to lend them any credence. Yet here, in this Antiquated World, the notion of fate and destiny were as readily accepted as the rising and setting of the sun.

"Azidara, I was not brought here of my own volition...quite the contrary, in fact. I have no intention of dying for a cause for which I was conscripted by force. So yes, you have my assurance that, if it becomes apparent that I'm a sacrificial pawn in a grand game, you and I will disappear."

Placated, Azidara murmured, "Now, bathe me and then make love to me. I want to sink into sleep in the company of thoughts other than sorrow and fear."

Dutifully, Stuart complied, but even as he entered her, his mind kept insisting that his fate would rest with the contentious Lamish Queen...not the mysterious beauty to whom he had pledged his oath.

Chapter Forty-Four

1

As she ascended the marble steps of Enom-Zhar...the great temple that symbolized the very essence of Thaz Ekai's misogynist theology, Shan-En Naroon shuddered, her golden skin rising into great hackles. She had despised this insidious structure...reviled it's every stone as if it was a living entity, bred to devour the souls of women, who had been dragged, often kicking and screaming, into its foul depths. As she passed through the two massive arched doors, Shan recalled the first occasion she'd been brought here.

In shackles and filthy rags, reeking of her own urine and excrement, she had been led up these stairs by two vulgar brutes, who had spit upon her and belabored her with switches as they went. This torment had occurred shortly after she had been dragged, again in chains, from her governor husband's estate. She had served him in all ways and had even helped him to cultivate his wealth far beyond what it had been before her father had bartered her into his servitude. Her reward for her subservience had been humiliation and eventually, public disavowal...accused of colluding with demons against the glorious Thaz Ekai.

Her punishment for this unsubstantiated transgression had been confinement in Enom-Zhar here in El Sharom...ostensibly for the purpose of repentance. For the majority of the women hauled through these massive doors, this had meant a slow and torturous descent into utter despair, from which death was a cold and merciful escape.

Shan-En Naroon was ferociously determined to be one of the exceptions. She had not cried or whimpered as they had marched her into the terrible edifice. She had refused to flinch when they had switched her firm buttocks and bare legs. She had not given them the satisfaction of seeing her cringe when they had spit in her face or attempted to terrify her with the harrowing tales of what awaited her in this abominable place.

She displayed no outward hint of defiance, but something in her reticent, implacable manner seemed to incite her jailers. In her first month of captivity, Shan had been subjected to every form of abject degradation conceivable (with the one surprising exception of rape, which was punishable by death without exception). She had been urinated upon...cast into a pit of excrement...all in the effort to break her defiant spirit. She had endured this humiliation stoically, sustained by the conviction that she would have a hand in destroying this deplorable monolith and scattering its vile dust to the desert winds.

Eventually, her refusal to be broken had become common knowledge with the men who held court in Enom-Zhar. In the wildest of tales, Shan was said to be the living personification of the Mother of she-devils and her body was immune to the instruments of persuasion that led to redemption. Ultimately, these stories had even reached the ear of the exalted prophet. Intrigued by this tale of perseverance in the face of all manners of duress and torment, Ekaz Azeer had ordered that this she-demon be brought into his divine presence.

Shan had been awakened one morning and two jailers she had never before seen had come to collect her. Resplendent in spotless, flowing white robes, they had led her not into the penitent chambers, but up several flights of stairs and along well-lit, carpeted halls. Finally, they had squired her into a bathing chamber with gilded columns of exquisite pink marble that ringed a large marble bathing pool. Steam wafted up from the scented water, the surface of which was afloat with a dozen varieties of desert blooms.

Two beautiful, statuesque women stood near the steps that led down into the water, their eyes downcast and their postures deferential.

"She is to be made ready for an audience with the prophet," one of her escorts had declared and though his tone was glacially imperious, it carried none of the biting contempt to which Shan had grown accustomed. Nor had they punctuated their sentences with the derogatory slurs that she had come to expect when being spoken to by a male.

The two women bowed, their veiled faces inscrutable and gestured Shan forward as the men departed. Once the three women were alone. The two women had removed their veils and Shan had uttered a horrified gasp. Their beautiful faces were branded with a series of triangular grooves that spread across the exquisite topography in flourishes of carmine red and black. She attempted to drag her transfixed gaze away but found that she could not...so mesmerized was she by that flow of the scars that were at once hideous and beautiful.

'These women are the Rha-Sheem,' she realized; tangible affirmations of the incredible rumor that had persisted in the dungeons. Select groups of women would be taken away...never to return. It was held that they had pledged themselves to Thaz Ekai's service...divesting themselves of their beauty in return for admittance into an elite holy order of women.

Shan had privately scoffed at these fatuous notions, instead theorizing that these women were desiccating in mass graves after being subjected to a final public humiliation. Still, hope, however miniscule and fleeting, was preferable to bleak despair and so tales of the mythical Rha-Sheem persisted.

Yet, here they stood before her, sleek and leonine...ineffably lovely despite their dramatic disfigurement.

Silently, they had divested her of her filthy clothing and led her by the hands, over to a spot where a drain hole had been set into the floor. Here, they poured earthen jugs of warm water over her head. Shan closed her eyes and lifted her face to the spill of the blessedly clean water, shivering in delight as it sluiced the encrusted dirt from her filthy, pallid flesh. Shan was then led into the bath, where the two Rha-Sheem removed their robes to reveal long, leanly muscled bodies that were bursting with feminine splendor.

'These two have not known hunger, fear or abuse for some time,' Shan marveled as they drew her into the bath and bid her to kneel at its center. It was evident from their physical condition that they had been redeemed in the eyes of Thaz Ekai.

'Or more correctly, in the eyes of Ekaz Azeer,' she amended for whom she was presently being groomed. The two women labored over the thoroughly bemused Shan. One washed her hair while the other diligently scrubbed the most persistent grime from her body. At first, she blushed, abashed as the persistent sponge found its way into the most intimate places. Eventually, she surrendered herself to the sheer pleasure of the experience, realizing that the last time she had been pampered in this fashion was as a young girl living beneath her father's roof.

It was with great sorrow that she allowed herself to be led from the bath. While one of the women gently brushed out her still lustrous black hair, the other toweled the excess moisture from her flesh. Standing naked before a chevalier and studying her reflection, Shan discerned that her time in the dungeon had divested her of her soft femininity. While not precisely gaunt, the reflection in the mirror was a composite of sharp angles and hard lines. What was conspicuously absent to Shan's eye was any hint of gentleness or humanity. While still beautiful, Shan-En Naroon's time in the bowels of Enom-Zhar had vitiated both her body and her heart. The creature gazing back at her was as hard as a diamond and perhaps every bit as cold and unfeeling.

As the two Rha-Sheem massaged fragrant Jasmine oil into her skin until she glittered like a gemstone, Shan surreptitiously studied the two women. In their faces...beauty made exotic by the art of cruel disfigurement...she could glean nothing of their thoughts or natures. It was as if these women had learned to erect insurmountable barriers...impermeable walls around their souls, through which nothing was allowed through, not even the tiniest inkling of how they might perceive the world or who they might once have been.

Peering into those inscrutable faces, Shan-En Naroon allowed herself a rare smile for they were truly the most terrifying visages she had ever set eyes upon.

When her preparations were complete, the Rha-Sheem again donned their veils and robes. One rapped briskly at the door and the two white-robed escorts entered. One stood slightly back with his hands folded before him while the other affixed a jewel-encrusted collar about Shan's neck, to which he attached a long length of delicate gold chain. Stepping back, he gestured for Shan to move. Glittering like rare treasure, she glided toward the door. As she passed over the threshold, Shan turned her head and smiled at the two women, whose impassive faces remained unchanged as they watched her be led away.

Being led through the opulent, twisting labyrinth that was Enom-Zhar, Shan was surprised by how little anxiety the prospect of being led before the great prophet roused in her soul.

'I am made of sterner stuff!' she told herself, invoking the mantra that had sustained her through years of objection...a mantra that had proven to be more than boastful wind.

Finally, their meandering trek led to a set of doors that stood the height of four tall men. Two spearmen bowed to her escort and then opened the two doors to grant the trio entrance.

Tazir Naroon and been a wealthy man and Izak Musan (the traitorous swine of a husband who had allowed her to be consigned to this enclave of hell) had been a governor and wealthier still. Shan had been raised in luxury and was familiar with lavish excess that vast wealth could bestow. Irrespective of this exposure, nothing could have prepared her for the opulent grandeur of Enom-Zhar's central hall. Fluted columns rose to the edges of a great dome that had been delineated with a band of pure gold and set with an array of rare crystals. A circle of windows ringed the structure just beneath the bottom of this dome. The natural sunlight set the crystals ablaze, creating the illusion of brightly shining stars in the firmament, while the floor was comprised of white marble, inlaid with strips of jade. Directly beneath the dome, Shan's disbelieving eyes fell upon a circular floor of rich, highly polished wood. Had she not witnessed it with her own eyes, Shan would have doubted that so much precious timber could be found in all of Majeer.

A subtle snap of the leash jolted Shan out of her reverie. In her pre-occupation with this staggering display of extravagance, Shan had not realized that she had come to a complete halt. Her guide was regarding her ruefully and Shan hurried forward.

To her surprise, a large gathering of men awaited her arrival. Arrayed in a half circle, these men (who, she would later learn, were the most powerful and influential in all of Majeer), watched her approach with expressions that ranged from disdain to something that might well have been trepidation...as absurd as that seemed.

She could not be certain of the later but found that the notion pleased her immensely.

And then her eyes fell upon the man who stood apart from the others at the center of the semi-circle, and her heart began to thunder in her chest.

Tall, erudite, beautiful: these adjectives lacked sufficient scope to capture the impact of the scintillating figure standing before her. His clear, deep brown eyes were fastened directly upon her and Shan experienced a rush of something akin to primal lust...despite the powerful aversion she had developed to all men...which nearly caused her knees to fold and spill her to the marble floor. The argent robe that the prophet wore surrounded Ekaz Azeer in silver effulgence...lending credence to the contention that he was the divine emissary of Thaz Ekai.

He circled her slowly, his frank gaze of appraisal reminding Shan of how the obese swine, Musan, had inspected her upon her arrival at his villa. As had been the case then, she did not meekly bow her head and withdraw into herself. Instead, she stood with her shoulders square, her head held high and her unapologetic gaze focused straight ahead. Her refusal to cower in the presence of the most revered prophet drew sharp hisses of disapproval from the assembly, but Shan had endured too much to fall to fawning now.

After completing several circles, Ekaz Azeer halted directly before her and when he spoke, his voice reminded Shan of rich, golden honey being poured slowly from a pitcher. "It is said that you are a she-devil?"

Shan shifted her flat gaze to meet his. "I am only what you see before you...a woman of flesh and bone...and pain."

Beneath the odd serenity that often came with extreme zealotry, Shan saw something flicker briefly in those brown depths. It was there for an instant, quickly giving way to the inscrutable mask, but it had been unmistakable. Shan's remark had touched this monster's last small vestige of humanity. On that unexpected undercurrent of empathy that had passed between them, Shan-En Naroon understood that her days of degradation were nearly over.

Interpreting Shan's response as a display of impertinence, one of her escorts produced a dreaded bamboo switch and moved to strike Shan. Before the blow could fall, Azeer raised two fingers of his right hand and forestalled her punishment.

"Do you contend that you have been treated unjustly during your time in Enom-Zhar?" The prophet inquired mildly, his even tone suggesting curiosity. "You may speak without fear of reprisal."

"I am devout in my love for the divine as any man present," Shan declared fiercely, drawing strident howls of protest from the assembly. Again, the prophet raised his fingers to quell the outcry.

"Would you demonstrate this devotion by giving up your formidable beauty as a testament to your sincerity?" He demanded, his tone suddenly sharp and mordant.

If it had been his intention to instill fear or rouse doubt in Shan, he was to be disappointed. Her gaze was unremitting and her words unequivocal when she replied, "I would do so without hesitation...if it was taken by your hand and your hand alone...and in a place where every eye in El Sharom may bear witness."

The temerity of her request plunged the great hall into steeped silence fraught with palpable tension. To a man, the assembly regarded Shan as if they expected Thaz Ekai to manifest before them and smite this impudent she-demon with a bolt of celestial lightening.

Shan was indifferent to this swirling outrage. Her gaze was set squarely upon Ekaz Azeer, whose eyes had widened in incredulity. Despite this potentially lethal display of audacity, Shan remained glacially composed. After a protracted moment, Ekaz pivoted to face his minions and raising his arms, declared with an exuberant laughter, "I believe I've just found the Matron of Thaz Ekai's Rha-Sheem."

The assembly applauded dutifully, but on every face, Shan could discern carefully couched loathing. The prophet came to stand directly before her. "What is your name?"

"Shan-En Naroon," she replied, deliberately enunciating every syllable as if to brand it in his thoughts. Slowly, his eyes drank in the glory of her glistening body and in that lust-fueled gaze, Shan knew that, despite his proclaimed piety, he wanted her. 'You shall have me, you odious wretch,' she thought with a malicious glee that never touched her inscrutable countenance, 'and by your own obsessive weakness, I shall be your undoing.'

As she'd earlier speculated, Shan was not returned to the dungeons and a short while later, she was subjected to the ritual disfigurement and thus redeemed by the prophet's own hand. She had offered a fervent prayer of gratitude to whatever gods there were (of which Thaz Ekai was not one) that Ekaz Azeer was gifted with a deft touch. Her scarring had been embossed with an elegant flourish. The carmine red and black dyes had bestowed a ferocious aspect upon Shan's beauty. Despite the excruciating pain that the blade had ignited as it had slit her flesh, not once did Shan flinch or give voice to her pain...further unsettling her master.

Kneeling naked before him on the massive dais, surrounded by a multitude of hateful misogynists, who were eager to give witness to the first ever public marring, she had stared directly into his eyes as he had divested her of her flawless beauty. Though his hand had never wavered, it became readily apparent to Shan that her indomitable spirit and courage were exerting a powerful effect on the divine emissary...declared emphatically by the prominent tent at the front of the argent robe.

As he had decreed, Shan had been elevated to the position of Matron of the Rha-Sheem and would be responsible for the training of the ferocious sect of female holy warriors. At Ekaz Azeer's direction, she would lead them into battle to deliver righteous punishment to Thaz Ekai's foolish foes.

As she trained these exquisite creatures to deadly purpose and watched as they were honed to vitrified vessels of black hatred, Shan wondered how the men of Majeer could possibly sleep with this growing number of lethal claws and fangs poised at their backs.

Shan embraced the role of Matron with a ceaseless passion, bolstered by the conviction that she was fashioning the very weapon that would eventually topple this house of misogynist tyrants.

It also came to pass that he had taken her to his bed, and she had went willingly, reasoning that their every torrid coupling drew him deeper under her subtle enchantment and another step further along the path to his personal demise.

Now, as Shan strode through the halls of the loathsome edifice, she realized that her moment of retribution might well be close at hand.

With a terrifying grin emblazoning her face, Shan-En Naroon, Matron of the Rha-Sheem and the prophet's cherished lover, entered the conclave hall.

2

"What is known of the troop dispositions of these various armies?" Shan asked as her gaze swept slowly over the massive stone table, the top of which had been meticulously painted in the form of a scale map. The map depicted the continent that lay across the great sea to the north of Majeer.

Shan's head reeled at the sheer scale and improbability of the continent, which Ekaz Azeer had named Bachnaz Kazel...meaning land of the unclean. If this map was at all accurate, this land was a writhing mass of vegetation...trees and green fields spanning the horizon in every direction. The notion of so much thriving greenery...so much teeming and vital nature...defied Shan's sensibilities. Her perception of the world was defined by endless leagues of shifting sand around the fringes of which life clung tenaciously. The desert possessed a sort of remorseless beauty, but that fragile, yet suddenly lethal beauty quickly lost its luster when juxtaposed against so much greenery...so much water.

The prophet shifted his gaze to Shan, as did the cadre of generals and admirals, who regarded her presence as a scarcely tolerable necessity and burden.

"Troop dispositions?" The prophet echoed as if the concept was frivolous and barely warranted consideration.

Shan's brow furrowed and she flicked a brief glance at the table map to conceal her bemusement. "Yes, divine prophet...are we familiar with the type of opposition we can expect to encounter when we land on their shores?"

"The particulars are not something you should concern yourself with, Matron." It had been the gruff General Egur Bhgaz who had offered this reproof in a tone dripping with contempt. "These are matters best left to those who are qualified to address them."

Internally, Shan seethed, but managed to restrain her ire, knowing that this groups sufferance was a fragile thing that could easily be withdrawn. Still, with slowly dawning horror, Shan came to suspect that Ekaz Azeer's proposed cleansing was a spontaneous act...to be embarked upon with very little consideration for the extreme challenges that might await the holy crusaders on these distant shores. This went beyond cavalier arrogance and disdain to suicidal folly. Shan harbored no illusion that she held any currency with the divine prophet merely because she shared his bed. In his twisted, misogynist's heart, Shan-En Naroon was chattel to be used as he saw fit...and disposed of should she no longer satisfy his needs. Still, the enormity of what she feared was about to be propagated compelled her to risk his displeasure. "Divine prophet...may I be given free leave to speak?"

"You may," Azeer returned with the air of one granting an astoundingly egalitarian gesture.

"Most divine...have you not declared that the Rha-Sheem are the keen and lethal tips of Thaz Ekai's spear?" Shan inquired, heart thumping at her temerity.

"I have," the prophet allowed, his voice modulated and inscrutable.

"Then I would know of the disposition of the forces arrayed against us so that the tip of the spear is not blunted against unanticipated obstacles," Shan declared, displaying rare animation.

"Do you suggest that the Rha-Sheem are not prepared to overcome whatever feeble opposition we might encounter in Bachnaz Kazel?" Azeer inquired and though his tone remained even, there was a glint in those beautiful brown eyes that cautioned Shan that she was straying into the perilous proximity of impertinence.

Rather than fall back on the expected posture of fawning obsequiousness, Shan drew herself erect and with her deep green eyes flashing resolutely, insisted, "I would contest that the Rha-Sheem would swiftly decimate any force aligned against it...without exception."

Turning a gaze of open challenge on the generals, she further declared, "I would gladly test the veracity of my claim against whatever force would take the field against my Rha-Sheem."

"Such insufferable presumption!" The general declared indignantly, his oiled black hair glistening as he shook his head.

"Hers is not the voice of presumption, but rather...it is a call for common sense," Trakaz, the venerable, white-maned Admiral of the Majeeri navy contradicted. "This woman's contentions and concerns are legitimate, and I would strongly advise that we pay heed to her astute observations, divine."

Ekaz Azeer's gaze shifted between the bitter rivals and Shan was privately shocked to discern a subtle hint of amusement in his mild expression.

"Very well, Matron...you have leave to freely express your concerns."

Drawing a deep breath, Shan strode purposefully to join him at the other end of the map table. "The campaign you propose entails the conquest of an area three times the size of Majeer. This would be a daunting prospect in itself, made all the more so by the unfamiliar terrain which will require our armies to wage war in environments to which we have never been exposed. If, in addition to this considerable disadvantage, we also face an enemy of which we are totally ignorant, I fear this campaign will be appallingly expensive. If, however, I am familiar with the type and quality of opposition the Rha-Sheem will face, I can prepare my daughters for those specific tactical challenges...and I can promise that the enemies of Thaz Ekai will drown in oceans of their own blood."

Ekaz Azeer seemed to float about the marble floor like a wraith and then moved over to the circular expanse of polished wood as he regarded the cartographer's beautiful art thoughtfully for a protracted moment and then swept his long arm over the sprawling continent in an expansive gesture that caused his argent robe to shimmer. In this close proximity, subtle emanations of puissance poured forth from his blessed garment, playing repulsively over Shan's olive skin and making her feel sullied. Finally, he allowed, "It was not I who dubbed this wild tangle Bachnaz Kazel, but rather the glorious Thaz Ekai himself. When our god first raised me up from the base, profligate creature I once was, he told me that I was destined to face a great trial that would define not only Ekaz Azeer, his humble servant, but all of the blessed children of Majeer. Though I was flawed by mortal curiosity, it was not his divine will that I be shown the shape this trial would assume. I knew only that I must fortify myself and prepare the children of Majeer for its coming."

In a sudden dervish, the prophet spun and raised his arms to the dome, where the myriad of crystals had set the late afternoon light ablaze. "The time of the great trial has come at last. The viper has slithered forth from the pit...and a legion of female demons has come to ground. Sorcery and pleasures of the flesh are their weapons. They would spread their wickedness and corruption into the soil of this pagan place, where it will become so deeply engrained that only Thaz Ekai's blessed flame can purge it. When they have polluted everything of value in Bachnaz Kazel, they will turn their leprous gaze upon Majeer."

He turned his regard squarely upon Shan-En Naroon and she could see the blazing light of zealous lunacy, affording her an unsettling glimpse of the full extent of this beast's madness. "You spoke of conquest of this foul place, where the great whore has spread her legs and brought forth a tide of living, writhing filth. There can be no conquest here...only the purification that comes with Thaz Ekai's wrath. When we are finished in Bachnaz Kazel, all that will remain are ash, burnt bones and scorched rock. So, Mother of the Redeemed, this issue of troop disposition is irrelevant. Of the children of Majeer, Thaz Ekai has demanded that the demon harlot...named Gyzarayne by the hordes that spread her stain...be torn down and cast into the flames. His will shall be served."

With this bombastic declaration delivered, Ekaz Azeer strode toward the exit of the great chamber, something in his rigid posture suggesting vexation. Upon reaching the towering doors, he turned back to his gathering of military leaders and decreed, "I expect that this nation's military will be fully mobilized by the end of this moon cycle. Admiral Trakaz, you will oversee movement of troops and provisions from coastal cities to the Port of Kharjen, which will serve as our primary staging area for the invasion of Bachnaz Kazel. General Bhgaz, your commission will be to prepare the interior cities to mobilize and converge upon Kharjen. I expect to see a specific plan within a half cycle of the moon."

He fixed his scorching regard squarely upon Shan, who met its penetrating weight unflinchingly. "Matron, your Rha-Sheen will be the spearhead of this invasion and they will be expected to obliterate anything that stands in their path."

Shan nodded solemnly, though her heart wrenched painfully at the thought of how many daughters would fall to serve this madman's vision of depraved religious purification. Before he swept through the doors in an argent swirl, the prophet issued a final instruction that evoked sardonic smirks from the generals and a slight frown from Shan. "When your business is concluded here, Matron...you will attend me in my chambers."

Then he was gone, leaving Shan alone to face this latest abjection in the company of men, most of whom detested and resented her. As she returned to the stone map table, Shan's strident thoughts were drawn back to the prophet's astounding revelation...the existence of a powerful society of women who served a female deity...Gyzarayne had been her name.

She repeated the alien name in her mind, enjoying the way it resonated through her beleaguered thoughts like a soothing breeze.

'If I offer a fervent prayer to this Goddess, would she hear my despairing wail?' she wondered. Standing beside Admiral Trakaz and peering down at the stone depiction of this inconceivable Land, Shan-En Naroon decided that nothing could be lost by trying.

Chapter Forty-Five

1

Alain Joubert squatted on his haunches with the tips of his toes protruding out over the edge of the escarpment, gazing down over the fly speck hamlet of Natur. He had been in this position for the better part of a bell, peering down on the sorry collection of wood and thatch-roofed hovels that huddled at the base of the towering vertical face of what he recognized as an up thrust fault.

"Permanently mired in shadow," Joubert murmured distantly as he contemplated the haphazard arrangement of buildings far below. In his own world, a goodly segment of the population merely existed, toiling through each day in a joyless and ultimately pointless struggle to see the next dawn. In this deprived, inconceivably antiquated world this woeful state of existence was virtually universal. Seen from this lofty perspective, the villagers scurried about like ants, mindlessly complying with the ingrained survival imperative. Lacking any meaningful aspirations and devoid of hope, they were very much like ants...enduring the onerous demands of existence until the arbitrary boot of fate stamped down to crush their lives like the bugs they were.

Joubert shook his head in disgust, having absolutely no sympathy for anyone who allowed their lives to be dictated by everyone and everything around them. He regarded this as the craven's way of abdicating responsibility for one's own life...of embracing the sniveling role of perpetual victim.

'But have you really become so different, Alain?' a voice inquired and Joubert gritted his teeth, recognizing the hateful voice of his former partner, Stuart Macevey, who his subconscious had elevated to the role of personal nemesis. Antipathy aside, Alain was forced to concede that there were uncomfortable similarities between his present circumstances and the lives of the pathetic villagers below.

Upon being drawn into this world, Joubert had somehow lost his initiative...that precious control over his own fate. He found himself at the center of a conflict between unfathomable powerful forces about which he understood virtually nothing.

Xhendyn had asked him what the moniker, ShadowCaster truly meant and after hours of solitary consideration, Joubert came to realize that this really was the salient question. The ramifications of that question went beyond merely ascertaining the scope of these powers he purportedly possessed. The pivotal consideration came in understanding just where these powers would land him in the hierarchy that held sway in the primitive world...once this conflict was resolved.

"Knowing one's place," Joubert whispered, a crooked grin twisting his lean features into something malicious and conniving. 'Yes, if you could determine exactly where you sat in the grand power structure and by extension, understood the latitude this position conferred upon you, it was possible to carve out a most pleasant niche for yourself. If one is blessed with the faculty of patience (and Alain most assuredly was) it was possible to gravitate steadily upward as opportunity inevitably presented itself.'

This was exactly how Alain had risen from humble beat cop to millionaire businessman.

The emphasis made him chuckle. Xhendyn had set him to the task of divining his hidden abilities and he had spent the afternoon doing as instructed. To his utter astonishment, Alain discerned that his present existence contravened every known law of physics...laws that he once would have proclaimed to be inviolable. He could simply fade in and out of reality with a thought. More astounding still, he did not just become invisible or less substantial when he turned this neat trick...he actually stepped out of this reality completely.

The entity had encouraged him to experiment with the concept of spatial displacement and again, Joubert had complied. In the end, Alain had discovered that any distance traveled in the spaces between the realities was equivalent to distances traveled in the tangible world. While this was amazing, it had been another accidental discovery that had truly shattered the limits of Joubert's perception. If he constructed a vivid mental image of a location within sight while in the tangible world, Alain could fade into the nether spaces and displace instantaneously to that location.

As Xhendyn had so astutely observed, his imagination might well be the defining factor in establishing the limits of his newfound abilities.

"ShadowCaster," Alain Joubert spoke the title he'd been given in tones of newfound reverence and gravitas. He smiled, but that sense of satisfaction was tempered by the realization that his comprehension of the other governing forces in this world was still woefully lacking. Joubert was shrewd enough to grasp that his ignorance could see him dead in short order if he grew complacent.

These women...these Sisters of Esotaria...appeared dauntingly formidable. Xhendyn wielded power, the essence of which Joubert simply couldn't internalize and yet the malefic entity was clearly wary...even fearful...of the one called Ascentrix.

It was still difficult to accept the existence of magic in real and practical terms...even though he had now been witness to its devastating efficacy on numerous occasions.

More to the point, he was a living affirmation of its existence.

When he had infiltrated Kammlogran in search of this portal, he had briefly crossed paths with this Ascentrix. In that small space of time, there could be no denying that she had gleaned his presence. Alain had been brushed by the immeasurable enormity of her power and had she not been preoccupied with Xhendyn's lethal distraction, she might well have obliterated him like a vexing bug.

It was for this very reason that Xhendyn had removed him from Nalosan...keeping him out of her proximity until he could serve his purpose.

"But what, exactly, is this great purpose?" he inquired of himself. "And once it has been fulfilled, what then? Do you become an expendable pawn to be swept from the board because you are no longer relevant?"

These two questions were perhaps the most germane to a man with such a strong sense of self-preservation...the only consideration to which Joubert held any true allegiance. All along, Xhendyn has been deliberately evasive...annoyingly ambiguous in providing specifics in just what purpose Alain was expected to serve. Yes, he had been conscripted to emancipate this Myrhia...a sorceress whose powers were without rival...or so her demonic henchman had naturally claimed. How he was to achieve this particular feat remained shrouded in mystery and when he succeeded in liberating this fearsome creature from her incarceration...what would be his recompense?

That really was the fulcrum upon which his future would hinge. Joubert harbored absolutely no illusion that Xhendyn or his benefactress would allow Alain to return to his old world. His unique abilities were simply too valuable to be squandered. Alain was too astute not to understand that the ruthless and power-inebriated did not sit idly by while their assets simply waltzed away. They, instead, guarded their possessions with a jealousy that could turn lethal at the slightest hint of threat.

'Let's face it, Alain, you're here for the duration,' he told himself acceptingly as purple shadows of dusk gathered about him. 'This is your world now and you had better learn the governing rules and immutable realities if you want to be anything but another ant.'

Rising and stepping back from the precipice, the ShadowCaster wrung his hands and drew a deep breath. Below him, the Hamlet of Natur slowly blazed into weak light, torches lit to ward against the menaces that lurked in the darkness.

"There is a new menace in the world, my friends," Joubert declared, his tone sanguine. "And you would do well to be afraid."

With this, the ShadowCaster stepped out into the empty darkness, but before he could begin to plummet, he vanished into the space between realities.

2

Thomas Nier was one half of what constituted government authority in the Hamlet of Natur...his brother Jhiel being the other half. Neither brother had been gifted with an exceptional amount of courage or mental adroitness. Fortunately for both (not to mention Natur, itself), these deficiencies were of considerably less consequence than they might have been had they held the position of watch in more populated and less isolated communities.

The most perilous hazard that either of the Nier brothers had ever been face with, during their years as watch guard, had been three starving wolves. The brothers had survived this harrowing encounter by waving their torches and thrusting their swords at the pitiful beasts, while the other villagers had pelted the animals with stones until they had fled.

Natur had nothing that would attract brigands and Galloway was generally a law-abiding and peaceful country by disposition. Thus, the position of watch guard was mostly cursory in nature and provided the brothers with sufficient pittance to keep a roof over their heads and a steady flow of wine and mead to keep the monotony of their lives manageable.

That the other occupants of the hamlet, woodcutters and their hairy-legged wives primarily, regarded the pair as indolent japes was immaterial to the brothers as long as the supply of government coin kept coming.

On this rather sultry night, Thomas was sitting with his back to the wall of the baker's shop. His watch torch was set into an iron sconce next to the shop's door. His long sword and crossbow were propped against the wall of the building, but Thomas had neglected to sharpen or oil either weapon and it was unlikely that they would serve any meaningful purpose against armed opponents.

Thomas gazed absently along the rutted road that ran through the hamlet and came to an abrupt halt at the base of the escarpment. A dullard Thomas Nier might be, but even he possessed sufficient reasoning skills to question the sanity of whoever had elected this location as an appropriate place for a village. The guard shook his head and uttered a spate of disdainful laughter at the folly of the hamlet's forefathers.

It was at this exact moment that his bleary gaze fell upon the hulking silhouette of the grain silo. The wooden structure stood at the opposite end of the hamlet and was easily its tallest structure, dwarfed only by the imposing rock face immediately behind it. Something on the dome of the silo, barely perceptible in the gloom, drew his attention.

Thomas shook his head and squinted, and the various layers of shadow resolved into the vague shape of a person. Nier began to rise, but then set back down, nearly toppling his chair in his incredulity. Standing atop the dome of the wooden structure, stood a single figure, mantled in shadow, though Thomas knew that there was no way to actually gain access to the top of the smooth wooden structure...the wooden ladder of which had been removed for extensive repair.

Retrieving his torch from its iron holder, Nier warily descended the steps of the bakery and started toward the silo. In his puzzlement, he had neglected to collect either his sword or crossbow. His bemusement deepened to the inchoate stirring of dread when the figure abruptly vanished.

Nier then came to a halt, ponderously gazing up the length of deserted, shadow-draped roadway.

The perimeter of the hamlet had been delineated with a ring of torches that surrounded Natur in a flickering cordon of light. It was one of Thomas' responsibilities to ensure that these torches were all lit as dusk descended and remained lit during the course of the long night.

Now, as an increasingly uneasy Nier approached the double doors to the silo, the torch on his left...and then the one on his right...were extinguished in rapid succession. On closer examination, Thomas realized that his initial observation had been erroneous. The torches had not been extinguished...they had vanished entirely.

Nier regarded the two empty iron sconces for a protracted moment as a superstitious dread built in the pit of his guts. He cast a longing glance over his shoulder to the spot where his forgotten weapons leaned against the baker's shop.

A distinct cracking sound issued from somewhere in the immediate darkness. Thomas' head whipped about and he correctly deduced that it had issued from the interior of the silo...where the town's entire grain supply was stored.

As the portly guard spun about a single terrifying thought blossomed in his frantic mind...fire!

As if in affirmation of this potentially disastrous possibility, acrid smoke began to churn through the gaps in the door frame. Thomas opened his mouth to bray a cry of alarm, but before the admonition could issue forth, a figure materialized out of the very air...not three paces from where he stood.

His cry of alarm seemed to congeal on his tongue, and he gasped in stupefied incredulity as the thin man raised his index finger to his lips in a request for silence.

Joubert regarded the profusely perspiring guard with amused disdain. Surging forward, he gripped the man's meaty shoulders and drew him into the nether space. While within the space, the exterior world assumed a gauzy, diaphanous appearance that was thoroughly disconcerting, even when one knew what to expect.

And disorienting terror when one did not.

Back in the tangible world, the ShadowCaster could see that the stored grain was ablaze through the now translucent boards of the silo. With a malevolent grin, he leaned closer to the cowering guard and whispered, "I don't think you're particularly going to enjoy this."

Then he displaced into the center of the silo and propelled the blubbering Thomas Nier back into the tangible world...and the center of the raging inferno. The guard had mere seconds to internalize what had befallen him before agony and flames consumed him. Joubert allowed a moment to savor the unfortunate man's satisfying screams of torment from the safety of the nether world before displacing out of the silo.

Once outside, the ShadowCaster's gaze swept the hamlet, settling on each of the remaining torches. The silence had been shattered by the insatiable roar of rampant flames against which Thomas's death wails rose to the indifferent heavens...only to be emphatically extinguished seconds later.

Joubert was rather surprised by how quickly the pyre consumed the wooden silo and its contents. Red and orange light created a mesmerizing ballet on the backdrop of rising stone.

All throughout the hamlet, villagers were emerging from their hovels, drawn by the roar of the flames and the guard's dying cries. Now cries of alarm and terror reverberated through the night air. Half-dressed and sleep-addled, men and women raced toward their burning food cache, though the silo was well past the point of salvation...even if the villagers had the proper means to oppose the flames.

Against this backdrop of disaster and chaos, Alain Joubert set about weaving his dark tapestry of nightmares. As black smoke churned and roiled, rising up into the heavens and obscuring the stars like a funeral shroud, one by one, the tinder dry hovels mysteriously burst into flames.

As frantic villagers milled about in confusion, made all the more debilitating by emasculating dread and panic, men and women would suddenly blink out of existence as if snatched away by the hand of darkness itself...only to plummet from the escarpment mere seconds later.

Isolated and provincial the people of Natur might be, but it did not take long for them to grasp the intrinsic truth of their situation...something iniquitous was ravaging their secluded hamlet. This willful evil was something they could not see and against which they could not defend themselves.

As Xhendyn had instructed, the ShadowCaster conducted his grim symphony, devising a catalogue of inventive devices with which he could dispense death.

When the sun finally crested the horizon, Alain Joubert again stood atop the escarpment, peering down on the blighted landscape that had once been Natur. Charred and smoldering wood now littered the blackened ground, along with the remains of the hamlet's slaughtered inhabitants. Some had been consumed by fire and others had been murdered by the hand of the monster that now gazed down upon the detritus of their lives with utter indifference.

As he perceived it, Joubert believed that there was a beautiful symmetry to this vista...of a predator looking down on the fly-ravaged, moldering remains of those who had lacked the temerity to confront the life they'd been given.

"Victims!" He spat, as if expelling something ineffably vile and in that moment, Alain Joubert was displaced by the ShadowCaster...a remorseless engine of carnage.

3

Sybian Pushed her mount as fast as the heavily treed, uneven terrain would allow, bearing northeast along a tangent that would hopefully allow her scouts to intercept the Appraxis and their Lamish prisoners.

A part of her mind...the part that had been thoroughly indoctrinated in the Jerhia's rigid adherence to structure and discipline...tried to admonish her that this mad excursion was folly.

'The ambush in Thasron had been a perfectly executed rout," it insisted. She would be wise to rest on her laurels, follow protocol and report to the Tier Marshal.

That would all be well and good...perfectly logical in fact, had it not been for her understanding that the Jerhia victory in Thasron was a hollow misdirection. Sygeanor had anticipated the Jerhia stratagem and had tossed her enemies a handful of sacrificial crumbs...a diversion of flesh, bone and blood against which she could execute her ominous campaign of ethnic cleansing.

'Without the element of surprise, do you truly believe that a score of scouts can defeat a contingent of battle mages,' the irritating voice, which Sybian knew to be the voice of reason, persisted doggedly.

Sybian bent forward, gritting her teeth and scowling at this unwanted internal dialogue. The natural Jerhia propensity for prudence and protocol was all fine and well, but there came a moment in every conflict for seizing the initiative...boldly and decisively. As a veteran scout, who had survived on her own in enemy occupied territory during the majority of the Emerald Enchantress War, Sybian knew this all too well.

Sygeanor had not unleashed indiscriminate slaughter on Lamia...her purpose was far more nefarious. If Sybian could intercept one of these convoys of abductees, she could discover that purpose and while risk of obliteration at the hands of Sygeanor's Battle Mages seemed exorbitant, Sybian deemed that risk acceptable.

The Jerhia spurred her tiring horse, cognizant of Ashern's disapproving presence over her left shoulder. He and the other members of this impromptu interception party would likely regard her decision to pursue the Appraxis as foolhardy and reckless. Nonetheless, they would comply with her orders even if she raced them head long over the edge of the great Mother...so deeply ingrained was their undeviating adherence to the Jerhia creed of discipline.

It was less than five leagues from the village of Thasron to Lamia's eastern border with neighboring Glywith...seven to eight leagues on the bearing her party was presently following. The heavy forest began to thin perceptibly this far north of the River Tynan, giving way to rocky, rolling grasslands and isolated copses of trees. There were no real roadways in this remote corner of the continent...only meandering footpaths and cart trails. As afternoon gave way to early evening, heavy clouds scudded out of the west and the ambient temperature plunged precipitously.

Sybian understood that her party was rapidly approaching Lamia's northern border, beyond which awaited the unpredictable wastes of the Blighted Lands.

The intercepting party descended a steep slope, kicking up great clouds of anemic yellowing grass, and then veered sharply onto a cart path, the earth of which had been deeply churned by passing cart traffic.

Sybian reined in her horse and raised her right fist, bringing her scouts to a skidding halt. Sliding lithely from her horse, she knelt down and examined the ruts. The runnels were at least a hand span deep. Running her fingers along the inside of the rut, the tips came away moist. She became cognizant of a presence over her shoulder and knew that her Adjutant had come to join her.

"These tracks are comparatively fresh," she declared without looking up at the handsome blonde's stern countenance. She crawled slowly along the roadway, while Ashern tracked her methodical progress with a frown of consternation. Sybian stopped occasionally for a close inspection of a flattened bush or broken weeds. Finally, she stood and briskly brushed dirt from the knees of her uniform. "There are five, perhaps even six carts...fully burdened and oxen drawn. They are no more than six hours ahead of us but moving slowly enough that we should be able to overtake them before dawn. My guess would be that the carts are carrying the old and the children, but the adults may not be able to maintain even this slow pace, which means that we may come upon them sooner."

Ashern's incisive gaze swept the trampled and broken ground, his frown deepening into an expression of grave concern. "Can you estimate the size of the accompanying contingent of Appraxis?"

Sybian fixed the taller Jerhia with an unblinking stare. "Forty, but it may be likely that they have posted outriders to shadow their flanks."

To his credit, the young adjutant's only perceptible reaction was a slight flaring of the nostrils. He shifted his regard northward along the badly rutted path. The wind was rising quickly, and the surrounding landscape was mired in dense shadow.

Softly, so as not to be overheard by the milling scouts, the Adjutant inquired, "May I ask if your intention is to pursue the Appraxis into the Blighted Lands?"

Sybian drew herself erect and came to stand directly before him...their ice blue eyes locking in a moment of total empathy. She realized that his handsome angular face was almost a reflection of her own. A totally irrelevant thought manifested in her mind then...one that spoke eloquently of the sterile place she had allowed her life to become. 'This handsome man could easily be my brother and I'm about to command him to what is likely to be his death...with nothing tangible to justify the risk.'

As grim and stark as this realization might be, it lacked the efficacy to prevent her from responding coldly, "That is precisely my intention. If you have specific concerns, as my advisor, you may voice them now."

Before the Adjutant could give voice to his myriad of concerns, a calm voice spoke from somewhere behind Sybian. "Pursuing the Appraxis would be rash to the point of flagrant irresponsibility...not something I would normally associate with the meticulously logical and disciplined Jerhia character."

Sybian spun about, simultaneously bringing her readied crossbow to bear on the chest of the nearest of the two hooded figures who now stood in the centre of the cart path...some twenty paces to the north of where the two Jerhia stood.

They had suddenly and silently appeared as if they had coalesced out of the brooding evening air. Sybian, whose environmental awareness was normally preternatural was shocked that the two had managed to come this close to a group of Jerhia scouts without detection.

Lowering her weapon slightly, she demanded gruffly, "Lower your hoods and declare yourselves."

The two figures raised their hands slowly to signify their willingness to comply. They then drew back their hoods.

"Metocan!" Sybian intoned, clearly confused by their appearance.

"I am Jerrod, and this is Kevlan and we ask for sanctuary," the Metocan on the right entreated, his soft, erudite voice rife with sorrow.

"Jerrod...of the Inner Circle?" Sybian inquired, exchanging a brief glance with Ashern, who nodded in affirmation.

"Yes," the gray eyed sage confirmed as Sybian drank in his saddened and dirt-stained robes, "though it would be more precise to say that I am a former member of the Inner Circle...now seeking asylum from the fist of a tyrant."

"What of the other council members...what has befallen them?" The Jerhia asked, though she surmised she knew the answer all too well.

"Dead...murdered by Sygeanor's Appraxis when she finally decided to depose Inos. I, too, would have been amongst the ranks of the dead had Kevlan not sequestered me out of Metocan."

"And Inos...is he dead as well?" Sybian asked softly, grasping the ugly state of affairs that held sway in Metocan.

A cloud of what might have been pity rippled across Jerrod's oddly translucent brow and his expressive gray eyes narrowed. "It might well be a mercy if that was the case, but in the matter of Inos, Sygeanor has proven far more insidious. He was her mentor, after all, and had spent years grooming her for the seat of Grand Mage. Apparently, she holds herself to some perverse ethical standard and has decided that it would be a monumental act of ingratitude to simply murder her mentor. Instead, she has elected to keep him as a pet...to witness her black symphony of triumph and retribution. In short...she has exiled the Elder to Ulgak, where he is to remain until she has settled her grievance with Queen Lorio."

Sybian shook her head. A moue of pity and disgust shaping her generous mouth. "How could he allow himself to be deceived by this creature?" Thinking of the legendary King Artumas and his treacherous Queen, she inquired, "Did he...love Sygeanor?"

Jerrod and Kevlan exchanged bemused glances and the senior Metocan uttered a mirthless chuckle. "Inos was not beguiled...quite the opposite, in fact. I've come to suspect that, from the very beginning, the Grand Mage was perfectly aware of Sygeanor's dark and vulnerable soul. If Inos is guilty of harboring any delusions, it would come in the form of his conviction that he could moderate the darker proclivities of that vile witch's nature. To a lesser extent, every member of the Metocan Inner Circle was guilty of the same transgression."

"You're saying that every member of the entire Inner Circle has long been cognizant of the potential menace Sygeanor posed...but elected to do nothing?" Sybian demanded, her tone at once indignant and incredulous.

Jerrod offered an apologetic grin and a shrug of helplessness. "You must understand that ultimate power in Othgol has been Sygeanor's for the taking since the end of the Emerald Enchantress War. With the single exception of Myrhia, herself, Sygeanor is the most powerful sorcerer on the face of this world. It was Inos' hope that his mentoring could instill a sense of virtue and moral obligation in the Ulgak, but his estimate of his ability to influence Sygeanor proved woefully incorrect...as we are all learning to our pain and consternation, Captain..."

"Sybian, and this is my Adjutant, Ashern," she replied, raising a hand toward her constant shadow, who bowed respectfully.

Jerrod responded in kind and explained, "This is why we have fled to the east...to tell the other nations that this is not a Metocan conflict. Sovereignty of our nation has been usurped by Sygeanor and her Ulgak henchmen. I lack the faculty of speech necessary to convey the extent of this madwoman's obsession for vengeance upon the Lamish Queen. It is imperative that the other nations understand that she will not be appeased or deterred. She would see the entire Eastern Continent aflame and awash with blood rather than renege on her vow of retribution."

Jerrod fell silent and a thoroughly disconcerted Sybian shuddered. It was a rarity to see a Metocan display such animation, but her one brief encounter with Sygeanor was sufficient to confirm the veracity of his contention.

"You have mentioned that you intend to pursue the Appraxis and their Lamish abductees into the Blighted Lands. May I ask what purpose finds you this far north of the Tynan?" It was the one named Kevlan who had posed this question and in his tone, Sybian could clearly hear the weariness in his placid voice.

Sybian spared Ashern a brief glance and then recounted the events that had occurred in Thasron earlier in the day. As she went on to describe the prevailing atmosphere of terror and fear that had fallen over Northern Lamia, the Metocans' expressions grew somber. When she concluded her account, she then asked, "Do you have a specific idea why Sygeanor would want to abduct the entire population of these villages?"

The two Metocan exchanged glances and Jerrod nodded, evidently conveying permission for Kevlan to answer her query.

'Even in abject exile, the old order of rank and station holds true,' Sybian thought as she awaited a reply, reflecting on the need of sentient beings to cling to protocol and structure, even when the inimical tide of events have reduced this structure to dust.

Kevlan ventured closer, his smooth brow furrowing with concern. "I can offer nothing but speculation... conjecture that will do nothing to alleviate your disquiet."

"Still, I would hear it nonetheless," Sybian demanded tightly.

"We have spent these last two weeks making our way south. Our progress has been slow and halting because Sygeanor's Appraxis roam the ground between here and the causeway in clusters. During the course of this fitful flight, we've witnessed the passage of several of these abductee caravans." Kevlan then fell silent, his troubled expression intensifying as he recalled the ghastly images of exhausted, frightened Lamish being remorselessly herded along by the pewter masked Appraxis. "The first two such caravans crossed into Metocan, but the last several groups have remained on this side of the Great Mother...near the edge of the Blighted Lands."

Kevlan shuddered at this disclosure, his thin frame shaking perceptibly, and he finally disclosed, "The Appraxis have occupied the remains of Runesholm and it is there that the abductees are being detained."

Sybian spat a vile curse and rasped, "Runesholm is like an immedicable wound that seemingly nothing can efface from history."

Jerrod came forward and observed, "Kevlan and I have decided that we must carry something of value to the east...a humble symbol of atonement for what Sygeanor is perpetrating in the name of her mad obsession with avenging her father. When we first encountered the abductee trains, we decided that determining their purpose would be that symbolic gesture. Eventually, our meandering flight led us to the moldering corpse of Runesholm. There is probably no one alive who is more intimately familiar with the Blighted Lands or that evil edifice than Kevlan. That familiarity allowed us to linger near the abbey, remaining undetected while caravans of supplies arrive daily."

Sybian shook her head in consternation. "Why would Sygeanor wish to provision the abbey...unless she intends to use it as a staging area for a full-scale invasion of Lamia."

"It would seem that she could have selected a far less inimical site south of the Blighted Lands...if the establishment of a staging area had been her purpose," Ashern interjected, drawing a rueful frown from his Captain, who grudgingly had to concede that his observation was probably correct.

Kevlan took up the thread of Jerrod's last supposition. "The Appraxis have erected wooden palisades around the Abbey grounds and have done what they could to restore the structure to livable conditions. Thanks to concealment wards and my knowledge of the extensive tunnels that run beneath Runesholm, we were able to determine that the abductees were actually being fairly well treated."

Sybian greeted this disclosure with an expression of genuine dismay. "Well treated...how so?"

"They are confined, but in areas that are relatively clean. More astounding still, they are well fed and warded against the ravages of the cold. We are all worldly enough to realize that...for prisoners in this harsh world, these are beyond extraordinary circumstances," Kevlan explained, his tone echoing Sybian's nascent suspicion.

"Which raises the natural question...why would the Appraxis go to such lengths to provide for the abductees' needs. I can tell you from firsthand experience that Sygeanor detests the Lamish people every bit as roundly as she detests the queen who rules them," Sybian commented, clearly disconcerted by this posture of leniency with the abductees.

"Perhaps it is her intention to employ them as leverage to compel the Queen to surrender herself?" Ashern suggested, but something in his voice intimated that he doubted the likelihood of his own supposition.

Jerrod shook his head. "I can tell you that Sygeanor is devoid of compassion or mercy. From her depraved perspective, all around her are either a resource to be exploited in service of her grand design or a potential enemy. The higher emotions of the sentient spirit are beyond her sensibilities. If she is going to these lengths to ensure that the abductees remain healthy, it can only be for a dark and sinister purpose...one that will facilitate her obsession with destroying Queen Lorio."

"Dark and sinister purpose...what exactly are you suggesting?" Sybian asked as a nebulous dread clamped down on her rapidly palpitating heart.

Jerrod's expression became grave and he seemed both uncomfortable and reluctant to raise the dark specter that had troubled his country since its founding. "There are certain disciplines and studies of sorcery that are strictly prohibited in Metocan. Inos and the Grand Mage before him would not tolerate the pursuit of these disciplines even from a strictly academic perspective...the fear being that the temptation to turn theory into applied practice would simply be too great. Sygeanor, however, is unencumbered by such moral qualms and has advocated and endorsed the pursuit of these dark disciplines. Sadly, there is no shortage of vipers who would slither from their burrows to heed her call."

Sybian glanced down at her forearm to find that the flesh there had risen into great hackles. Distantly, she heard herself pose the query...the answer to which mortified her. "When you speak of dark disciplines...what precisely does this entail?"

"There are many forms of vile arcana, but two in particular come to mind...blood magic and necromancy," Jerrod returned in a tone reserved for giving voice to something ineffably foul. "Blood magic draws its efficacy from potent, warm blood of the living, while necromancy reanimates the dead...among other things. Obviously, there is a natural synergy between these two odious disciplines. It is to this end that Sygeanor is abducting the Lamish, or so we have come to fear...and that would explain why she is going to such lengths to maintain the abductees in a healthy state. We believe that she intends to employ their blood as a catalyst for a massive ritual of reanimation."

Sybian attempted to speak, but no sound would issue forth from her constricted throat, so harrowing...so enormously unconscionable was the scenario that Jerrod had just proposed. After and excruciating silence, she stammered, "You are saying that Sygeanor means to raise legions of undead, using blood of the Lamish to achieve this lunacy?"

Kevlan nodded and remarked quietly, "Seen from this perspective, her choice of Runesholm as a ritual site is logical. The abbey is an edifice of pure evil and it's very soil is corrupted and sour...as is the vast majority of the Blighted Lands."

Sybian could feel herself growing frantic, her disquiet inspired by the desperate sense of exigency this disclosure evoked. "Then we must strike Runesholm and liberate the Lamish at once!"

Jerrod stepped briskly forward and gripped Sybian's muscular shoulders, shaking her gently for emphasis. "Captain, I implore you not to persist in this rash pursuit. A force this size would easily be obliterated by a roving band of Appraxis. There is neither glory nor nobility to be found in suicide and your death will have done nothing to alleviate the plight of the Lamish."

Sybian's eyes widened at his presumption and she snapped truculently, "Then what would you have me do...sit idly by while this defenseless people are bled like livestock?"

Ignoring her combative tone, Jerrod spoke in a reasoned, placid voice that belied his own disquiet. "I would recommend that we return to Thasron. I would then request that your scouts escort me to your Tier Marshal, where I may apprise him of the situation both in Metocan and Runesholm Abbey. I would further recommend that, once you have been provisioned, you allow Kevlan to lead your best scout back to the Abbey. Further reconnaissance might reveal the exact shape of Sygeanor's intentions."

Seething with frustration and the irrepressible need to strike a definitive blow against Sygeanor's ghastly machinations, Sybian longed to rejected Jerrod's advice. After and intense internal struggle, her years of Jerhia indoctrination asserted itself and she growled, "Very well, I will defer to your judgment, but I will be the one to accompany Kevlan to Runesholm, while Adjutant Ashern and the others escort you back to the main Jerhia encampment."

"Captain, I must protest...this is a flagrant breech of protocol and an unwarranted insult to the scouts under your command!" Ashern insisted and though his voice had been low and even, his handsome countenance was stiff with indignation.

Sybian glowered as she gripped his forearm and literally dragged the startled Jerhia several paces away from the others. When she spoke, it was from between teeth that were clenched in scarcely constrained fury. "The next occasion you choose to gainsay my decision, I will have you arrested for insubordination. Do I make myself exceedingly clear, Adjutant?"

He recoiled as if slapped but offered his superior a formal bow. "My sincere apologies, Captain. It is my only wish to serve you to the best of my abilities and it has always been thus."

"Constantly undermining my authority is hardly exemplary service," she rasped, her blistering gaze seemingly holding the potential to set him ablaze.

He lifted his gaze and drew himself to his full height, the quintessential product of a lifetime of Jerhia discipline. "May I be given leave to speak freely, Captain?"

"This once and with haste, Adjutant," Sybian intoned peevishly.

"I was honored to be assigned to your command. You are a legend amongst the younger scouts. That we would return to safety while you, our commanding officer, would go forth and risk her life alone...would be regarded as shamefully dishonorable. Any of our lives are expendable, but you are too valuable to be lost to what might be a fool's errand. I implore you to allow me to go in your stead."

Surprised by the effusive praise couched in her adjutant's plea, Sybian's tone softened perceptibly. "You speak of shame and dishonor, Ashern and by your own admission, my skills as a scout are without parallel. If I was to allow another scout to go in my stead, would that not be the very definition of shameful?"

Ashern started to speak...to raise the standard arguments of protocol and procedure, but those arguments devolved in the face of Sybian's unflinching determination. He could see that this woman, perhaps as a consequence of her hellish ordeal during the Emerald Enchantress War, was an enigma...impulsive to the point of recklessness, but there was much that she could teach him. "Then I pray that good fortune goes with you and that I be granted another opportunity to serve under your command in the future."

Clapping a startled Ashern on the shoulder, Sybian returned to the two Metocan and declared eagerly, "Let us return to Thasron and organize for our respective journeys. Perhaps we can extirpate Sygeanor's foul seed before it can germinate."

4

As shadows gathered on every horizon, a nebulous, yet undeniable anxiety crept furtively into the psyche of the Antiquated Lands. That mounting dread was conveyed...tended and propagated in alehouses and parlors...at vendors stalls and on street corners...all across the eastern continent; fearful whispers of a ghost that would not stay dead. Yet even as this disquiet continued to grow, there was only a small handful of men and women who recognized the shape of the impending peril...and only one who understood precisely what form these approaching menaces would assume when they elected to emerge from the shadow.

To the misfortune of the Antiquated Lands, she was disinclined to share her knowledge.

Thus ends book one of this Antiquated Land tale...which will be concluded in the forthcoming novel...The Beckoning Abyss.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

I presently divide my time between Northern Ontario and Quebec City with my wife Louise and our family of dogs and a few cats for good measure. If anything distinguishes my approach to creative fiction it would be my perspective on crafting a work of fiction. I labor in the fantasy and horror genres, but I subscribe to the notion that writing fiction within a genre yields a superior product in contrast to writing genre fiction. I have tried to let humanity and empathy serve as the foundation upon which my novels are written...and though I still scrupulously respect the mechanics of both genres, it is my first and foremost ambition to weave a tale that is written as much by the character as the situation in which those characters find themselves. The difference may seem nothing more than a semantic distinction, but for me...it is the essence of writing...the attraction that bestows poignancy and meaning upon a story.

