 
JOURNEY THROUGH THE LAND OF SHADES

By

GEORGE STRAATMAN

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2010 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.com and purchase 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

ACKNOWLEDGMENT

I would like to express my sincere gratitude to Steve Efondo of Sefdesign for his work in provinding the stunning cover graphic for this novel. The cover design for this novel is particularly beautiful. I dedicate this novel to my wife Louise who has had to live with my creative angst over the many years it's taken to bring this story to fruition.

For a detailed map of **The Antiquated Lands** visit www.georgestraatman.com

Prologue

The afternoon sky was pregnant, swollen to bursting with heavy, lumbering clouds. Even these adjectives could not sufficiently convey the sense of foreboding that hung in the air like a heavy mist. The winds were high and alive, propelling slate gray clouds across the heavens as if they were celestial battle engines on route to some distant apocalyptic conflict. The mountains and trees of Washington's Olympic National Park appeared to cringe in anticipation of the imminent fury, but still the rains did not fall. Blades of grass, so strikingly green that to stare at them for protracted periods of time hurt the eye, bent flat to the ground as if to prostrate themselves before the storm in a desperate plea for mercy that would never be granted.

Fall loomed upon the horizon of the seasons and everywhere there were glowing ambers and blazing reds. Dying leaves fell from the trees and were swept high into the air, only to fall unwillingly back to earth whenever the driving winds would momentarily abate. As if to herald the commencement of hostilities, chain lightening cracked the sky in a white arc of near blinding magnitude. Its passing was announced by a deafening roar of thunder that reverberated through the gloom like the fall of a deity's hammer.

The storm had begun in earnest.

The high winds forestalled the rain if only for a time. The forest in this part of the state was especially dense, making passage arduous and slow. In the deepest recess of the forest, far from the fitness and nature trails that crisscrossed the park like scars, there stood a small clearing. The clearing was roughly circular with a diameter of no more than two hundred feet. Though the significance of the moment would be lost in the swirling mists of destiny, it was in this clearing that Islena Doraux's first step in her journey through the land of shades was taken.

2

The fury of the storm intensified, driving everything to ground. It seemed that the storm would continue to gain momentum until it at last eradicated the flimsy layer of life that clung tenaciously to the fragile skin of the world. The thunder reached the climax of its violent symphony and rain began to fall in solid sheets. Directly above the clearing, a gap appeared in the clouds and an unnatural bolt of emerald green lightening ripped through the orifice. As quickly as the gap had materialized, it vanished. The green bolt slanted downward, bathing the clouds in ghostly green effulgence. Even after the bolt passed, the clouds retained some of this green glow as if the passing lightening carried with it a taint of some sort. After a time this glow faded and the clouds reverted to their normal color; the blackish-purple of a deep and ugly bruise.

As if precisely aimed, the bolt came to ground at the heart of the clearing, pounding into the earth with a titanic roar that sent loose dirt scattering in all directions. The displaced earth flew a full thirty feet in the air and came to ground like miniature meteorites...charred and still smoking like spent coals. The dust and smoke settled to reveal a perfectly circular pit of about twenty feet in diameter and fifteen feet in depth.

A luminous blue mass lay at the bottom of the pit. Shapeless and gelatinous, it emitted a dull glow in the storm-dampened light. Radiating a tremendous heat, the blob transformed rain to steam upon contact with the sibilant hiss of a cornered viper.

And still the storm raged on, unrelenting in its mindless assault on the cowering earth. As the last of the dull light bled from the sky the heavy rains began to abate, settling back to a steady drizzle. The iridescent blue mass pulsed on, oblivious to the uneasy truce that had been struck between the elements. There was a syncopated rhythm to the pulse that was entirely too precise to be random...like a beating heart fraught with keen anticipation.

Time passed and nothing happened, yet that sense of imminence grew with every tick of the invisible clock. Had someone been present to bear witness to this extraordinary moment of genesis, they might have felt that expectancy prickle their skin like a low level electric current.

Abruptly it happened...the catalyst that started the process moving again. On the face of it, what did happen seemed so simple, but without this humble beginning all that transpired after would not have been possible...just as a single pebble may dislodge an avalanche that lays waste to an entire city. A small deer...wet and still trembling in storm-induced terror...picked its way gingerly through the underbrush before coming to the edge of the improbable clearing. An alien acrid aroma drifted to its nostrils proclaiming the presence of something foreign and perhaps sinister. The deer grew anxious and skittered back towards the underbrush, ready to bolt should instinct demand a frantic retreat. When it did not, the animal ventured a little further out into the clearing. As it came forward a lilting, melodious hum rose from the interior of the pit. Startled, the deer's eyes whirled and twirled madly and though instinct advised retreat, there was a placating, hypnotic aspect to the sound that subjugated the creature's survival mechanism.

Rather than surrender to panic, it inclined its head to one side and succumbed to the beguiling hum. It began to relax as the tension and cold drained from its muscles. Drowsiness drifted over it in languid waves. The dulcet hum had lulled away the animal's usual caution and it made its way to the center of the clearing. Near the rim of the crater it turned its muzzle to the wind once more. This close the acrid aroma was even more abrasive. The pitch of the hum became higher, more exigent. There was something at the bottom of the pit, but it possessed no discernable shape that the deer had come to associate with its natural enemies. Curious, it merely stood at the rim of the pit, gazing down at the pulsing mass of jelly.

Suddenly, a low rumble reverberated through the earth and the ground beneath the deer's feet sloughed away, sending it tumbling down the steep slope into the heart of the blue substance. Belatedly, panic clutched at its heart as the deer attempted to scramble up the banks, but found that it could get no traction on the mud-slicked dirt. The more frantically it scrambled the more fruitless its efforts became. Beneath it, the gelatinous mass had begun to undergo some sort of metamorphosis. The mass's blue effulgence flared and ebbed while the consistency of the material thickened until it more closely resembled tar or industrial glue.

Caught in this viscous embrace, the deer thrashed and screamed wildly, but the alien grip was unbreakable. Slowly, inexorably, the mass crept along the animal's legs and over its torso. A high, eldritch smell filled the air then...a cloying blend of burning fur and flesh. The deer's cries became a braying litany of agony and terror, but as the blue mass engulfed it, its struggles lessened and finally ceased altogether. The creature vanished from sight and the viscous mass settled back to a uniform level.

Silence descended upon the clearing and the air of expectancy returned, stronger than ever.

The deer had been completely absorbed, synthesized into the mass of the alien substance and broken down into small genetic units. Within the mass, a network of alleyways and a series of definable shapes began to appear. The genetic fabric of the deer was being restructured within the body of its destroyer. The center of the blob erupted with a sharp crackle and a solid block of congealed blue tar thrust up through the more gelatinous material around it. As the luminescent blue glow guttered the tar slowly resolved itself into something that loosely resembled the head of a deer. The macabre transformation ran its arcane course, making constant adjustments and refinements based upon the genetic information that it had absorbed.

The process reached its culmination and after an interminable amount of time, the reconstructed deer stood at the edge of the small pit. All traces of the luminescent mass of jelly had vanished. The deer gazed about the clearing with eyes that were incisive and keenly aware. It sat back on its haunches and sprang forward, leaping out of the pit with the ease and fluidity of a jaguar. It surveyed the clearing with the studied deliberation of one who is searching for something very specific. Everything about its manner suggested an intelligence that was totally alien to a beast of its ilk. The wind, smooth and seductive as silk, gusted and the deer raised its eyes to the heavens. The gentle breezed sighed and abated in a discernible pattern, conveying cryptic messages that only the deer's ears could decipher. The mutant raised and lowered its muzzle three times in rapid succession. Apparently satisfied, it began to trot towards the south end of the clearing. Upon casual inspection this deer would have appeared in no way extraordinary. Only its eyes betrayed the fact that it had undergone some radical metamorphosis. Whereas once they had been a mild brown, now they were tainted by an oddly luminescent blue tint. As the deer moved out of the clearing and into the underbrush, those eyes blazed like twin beacons, hinting at a strong sense of deadly purpose.

Chapter One

1

If there was one intrinsic truth that could be spoken of Islena Doraux, it would be this...she was an extraordinary woman living a comparatively normal life. Yet, on this day, fate's hammer would fall upon her world and shatter these shackles of normalcy...compelling her to embark upon a desperate journey through the land of shades.

2

Golden sunshine streamed through the bedroom window in a warm current, touching her sleeping face like a tender kiss. It played softly over her skin, caressing her gently towards waking.

'Just a little longer,' she pleaded silently, but on the heels of that came the discordant braying of the digital alarm clock. Her eyes flew open like broken shutters and she lashed out at the alarm button with the speed of a striking cobra, cutting the grating sound off in mid screech. She allowed herself the luxury of lying still for just a moment longer, relishing the languid flow in which awareness filtered through the muscles in her body. That first moment had always been a private delight for Islena as her senses renewed acquaintance with that intense sensation of capability and well-being. Drawing a deep breath she pushed back the covers and swung her feet onto the carpeted floor.

Her husband, Benjamin, grumbled some unintelligible protest, but otherwise made no effort to rouse himself. Islena watched his sleeping form for a moment and felt a twinge of guilt mingled with a sense of relief. She would allow him to sleep until she had completed her morning ritual, thus avoiding the prospect of unwanted discussion at least until breakfast.

She stood, padded over to the foot of the bed, knelt down and commenced her morning stretching exercises. Upon reflection, it was appropriate that she had considered this a ritual. It had been a part of her life for over sixteen years; as indispensable as breathing or eating. For the next ten minutes Islena engaged in a series of stretches that would have roused the envy of all but the most skilled contortionist. She concluded by extending both legs into the air and bringing them slowly down until her knees touched her lips and her toes found the carpet just above her head.

She held this position for the next thirty seconds, stretching the muscles in her lower back until the last remnants of sleep-induced stiffness had been banished. In a fluid explosion of muscle, she swung her legs back over her body and sprang to her feet, displaying as much grace as she had in her high school gymnastics days.

'Well almost as much,' she amended.

Moving in the direction of the shower, she spared Ben one final troubled glance. The sight evoked memories...a rebirth of the previous night's angry argument. Despite her best efforts to suppress them, the unwelcome storm of emotions crept back into her thoughts like an insidious poison. She was bemused and shaken by the intensity of the vitriol and anger that had erupted between them like pus from a suppurating sore. Rummaging through the sepia-toned hallways of recollection, Islena attempted to isolate the exact moment when passion had cooled and the slow process of alienation had crept into their marriage. To her chagrin, she found herself incapable of pinpointing any one juncture that had inspired the smoldering degradation of what had once been a genuinely passionate love. For years they had drifted apart, each letting their anger and sense of alienation accumulate, holding it for private consideration deep in some internal chamber. Inevitably, the strain had begun to show around the edges of their marriage and last night that strain had erupted with the primal intensity of emotion that had been repressed for far too long. Like a snake in the grass, it had struck last night, after she had declared her intentions to begin competing again. Then all hell had broken loose very much like a storm that materializes from a clear blue sky.

Turning the faucet to hot, Islena waited for the glass shower cubicle to steam. She peeled off her indigo satin pajamas and neatly folded and placed them on a chair. She was a meticulous woman by nature, though some might consider her fastidious in her fanatical devotion to detail. Still, structure and order pleased her immensely and she vehemently refused to apologize for her fundamental nature. Friends and family often regarded this unflinching rigidity with a mixture of emotions that ranged from mild exasperation to aggravation, but Islena Doraux was not a woman who would compromise herself for the benefit of others.

The shower was near scalding now, sending billows of steam wafting through the room. Stepping into the spray, Islena shuddered with pleasure, relishing the penetrating effect as the heat probed and massaged the knots from her powerful body. Water washed over her upturned face, evoking a sigh of contentment. Still, even the pleasure of her morning ritual of cleansing could not forestall the thoughts of last night's bitter argument from intruding on her peace of mind. Disgusted, she jerked the faucet to the off position and stalked out of the cubicle.

Dripping wet, she reached for a towel and caught a brief glimpse of her reflection in the full length mirror. The sight pleased her and she couldn't resist the temptation of indulging in her vanity. Standing before the mirror, she extended her left leg to one side, raised her arms and flexed into a double bicep pose.

There was a veritable explosion as her finely proportioned muscles jumped out in sharp relief. Raising her chin and turning her head slightly to one side added the final element...that smoldering glare of total self-confidence. She smiled and then dropped the pose.

'Pretty good,' she mused. 'Not as good as it's going to get, but pretty good all the same.'

She had been granted the natural gifts of perfect symmetry and the indomitable will of a lioness.

Even as a child, Islena had been attracted to and compelled by the notion of physical strength and as a young teenage girl, she had discovered the ideal outlet for the attraction in the sport of bodybuilding. Naturally athletic, Islena's physical attributes and fanatical dedication combined to hone grace and raw power into a blend that was simply dazzling to behold. This structural perfection of form was further augmented by a natural beauty that had long characterized the Doraux line. Hers was a flawless face that featured finely-crafted cheekbones, large emerald green eyes and a tumbling mass of red hair that captured and reflected light like living flame. She possessed a deep pride in her body and a strong sense of gratitude for the gift of her natural beauty. Much of what she had achieved in her life had been born of both.

She toweled herself dry and wrapped a robe around her shoulders, then moved back into the bedroom. She trembled as if the room had become a chilly repository for asperity and frustration. Her gaze fell upon her husband and Ben's words echoed maddeningly in her head, "You're a study in vanity, Islena...so bloody self-absorbed that it's a wonder you can still see anything or anyone around you."

"Maybe...or maybe you're just too fat and indolent to be anything but jealous of someone who demonstrates a little motivation to excel or pride in themselves," she had retorted automatically. The barb had come too quickly, too easily and though she had regretted it immediately, the damage had been done. She wondered if the subconscious stored bitterness like ammunition to be unleashed at the first convenient opportunity. That caustic jab had been the opening salvo in what had quickly degenerated into a venom-laden verbal brawl without the slightest measure of restraint or consideration. He had attacked her on the level of her pride and she had countered by accosting him where she knew she could inflict the most damage. It had been cruel and bitter exchange, laying bare just how much repressed acrimony existed between them.

It was undeniable that she harbored a tremendous pride in her body, but it was an unfair distortion to characterize that pride as shallow vanity. She had invested thousands of hours in the arduous task of building her body, sacrificing many of the things she loved in a grueling quest for physical perfection.

He, of all people, had no right to suggest that she was vain. It was the nature of the sport to focus upon one's self. In bodybuilding the struggle was won and lost on the battlefield of the mind. On those days when she was sore, tired or desperately hungry, it was deep in the recesses of her mind that she found the wherewithal to persevere. He had been with her through that gauntlet and thus his attack was a betrayal of the worst kind.

"No, it's not that simple," he had insisted hotly. "Look at yourself. Can you honestly say that you're the same person I married...who had my children?" She had merely glared back at him...this sullen, sluggish man who was already going to fat. Like a consummate swordsman, she had turned his own barb against him. When they had first been married, eight years ago, Ben had been the epitome of the confident, pragmatic man that had always attracted her but over the intervening years he had decayed just as surely as she had grown. Her assiduous nature had made it difficult to excuse his gradual capitulation to listless mediocrity.

Before the birth of her first child, Donald, she had been in the early stages of promising amateur bodybuilding career. Over the course of three years she had placed first in four local and regional shows. She had been in the midst of preparation for the State Championships when she had discovered she was pregnant. In those early years...years which now seemed like dim and distant memories of another life...Ben had always been there to give her moral support during the difficult moments in contest preparation. She had felt loved and had loved him as steadfastly as anything in her life. A career of limitless potential seemed a virtual certainty in those days. The pregnancy had put an end to all of those aspirations with devastating and emphatic swiftness. Islena had willingly sacrificed her aspirations for the sake of being a better mother. Eighteen months after delivering the first, she had given birth to a second son, Allan and though the dream of a professional career faded, it did not die. Maintaining her rigorous training regime as much as the demands of childrearing allowed, Islena had went about raising her sons with the same degree of competence with which she had attacked everything else. Inside, she never lost the fire or the dream of reaching for her ambition.

Now, five years after the birth of her second son and with both in school, she was ready to resume her quest despite the prime years lost in the name of responsible motherhood. That need had been building deep within her like the consuming thirst of a woman lost in the desert and that thirst would no longer be denied.

What did she want? Everything. The pinnacle. She had been visited by vivid and breathtaking dreams of a Miss Olympia Crowning. She had felt the fan's adulatory radiating over her much like heat from a fire in the dead of winter.

She donned her traditional work uniform of a silver spandex training suit, trimmed with stylish gold piping on the arms and legs, and a pair of Reebok cross trainers. The unpleasantries had reached a sorry nadir when Ben had raged, "Have you ever stopped to consider how all of this competition stuff will affect me? I'm at a fairly sensitive period in my own career. If you haven't bothered to think about that, then perhaps you can think about how it will impact on Allan and Don. Are you going to have any time for them?" He had paused briefly before delivering the final incisive dagger. "Or is that even a consideration anymore?"

Her self-control had dissolved in a boil of fury. She had come very close to striking him then. Her hands had curled into fists and her right arm coiled like a loaded spring. Her large green eyes had narrowed into slits and her mouth had pursed into an angry bloodless slash. Ben had seen that look and correctly interpreted its meaning. He had actually flinched before its intensity and even though he was five inches taller and forty pounds heavier, he had taken two steps backward, his face contorted by an expression of absolute shock and dismay.

Beneath that almost comical expression of shock, Islena glimpsed another emotion that had quickly defused her anger. There, in the depths of the blue eyes that had once made her knees go weak, there flashed a confused fear...like a child who had just discovered that his beloved pet had grown vicious. Their gazes had locked and a current of raw emotion had passed between them...anger, regret, sorrow, love, hate, bitterness and ultimately, profound bewilderment.

Ben had mouthed some words that she could not make out and then turned on his heels and stalked from the room. Islena had remained motionless for a very long time after the closing of the door, waiting for the tension to drain from her locked muscles. The two salient truths of their encounter chased each other in frantic circles through her thoughts...she had very nearly struck him and he had been afraid of her. It was as if he had been afforded a quick glimpse beneath the mask of civility to something savage and terrifying. Had she glanced into the mirror at that exact moment, what alien countenance would she have seen looking back at her? She had always deplored physical violence and intimidation. Islena demanded respect but never fear. Contrary to popular belief the two were not one in the same. Now, watching him sleep, it shocked her to realize just how profoundly they both had changed. The man who she had married never would have flinched like that and the idealistic, fiercely determined young woman she had once been would never have come so close to striking someone out of anger. "What's happened to us, Ben?" she inquired of his sleeping back. Crossing to the bedroom door, she turned back towards the bed and called out loudly, "Ben, get up or you'll be late for work."

He came awake with a start, gazing about the room with the dislocated expression of a man who has no idea where he is or what he's been doing. Without awaiting a response, she left, closing the door behind her. Pausing briefly in the upper hall, Islena had been bemused by the glacial edge in her tone and wondered if last night's argument had inflicted an indelible scar on their marriage.

3

She was preparing breakfast for the boys when Ben finally made his way into the kitchen. He entered and seated himself at the kitchen table without speaking or glancing in her direction and she watched him discreetly, noting his sullen expression and the petulant hunch of his shoulders. The rifling of pages declared that he had immersed himself in the morning paper. Without turning away from her task, she called over her shoulder, "I'm sorry about what happened at the end. No matter the reason, that wasn't justified and I'm sorry."

He remained silent and she stole a glance over her shoulder. He had folded the paper and was watching her through eyes that were red from the lack of sleep. His expression of raw misery caused the cold cloud around her heart to thaw if only marginally. His pain was genuine and his grief over things lost radiated like fire. She set her spatula into the batter and crossed over to the kitchen table. Sitting down beside him, Islena placed a hand upon his forearm. It felt soft and frangible under her firm grip. "We'll talk again tonight. We have a lot to talk about, but we can work through this if we really want to. Should it turn out that there's no compromise to be had...then we can deal with that like the mature, intelligent adults we should both be."

She had not intended the last bit, but once uttered, it could not be called back. Ben blinked and the lines of misery appeared to etch themselves even deeper into his flesh. The implications were clear...separation or divorce.

'Oh please don't let it come to that,' she thought. Once that thin façade of normalcy had been breeched to reveal the cancer of alienation lurking beneath, utter chaos descended like a preying hawk to sweep away every remaining vestige of long-harbored illusion. Quietly, Ben nodded, "Okay Islena, we'll talk again tonight."

Then the kids had come in and being dutiful parents, she and Ben had pretended that all was well. Islena had doubted that either of the children was fooled for a moment.

4

The Gym was her world...a well-equipped, well-lit requiem that was Islena Doraux's natural environment. She was the manager of the Iron Works Gym in Seattle and had been for the past six years. When Islena had landed the job, she viewed the position as a heaven sent opportunity. The Gym's success could be attributed to Islena's incessant drive to excel. She was devoted to the sport and that devotion reflected in the way she worked with her struggling Gym patrons. This personal attention was appreciated and had attracted the new clients in droves. With the success had come greater latitude to manage the operation as she saw fit and subsequently, it became very easy for her to regard the Gym as her own private domain.

Within the sanctuary of its walls, Islena felt more in touch with herself and the defining emotions that shaped her personality. She had never given consideration to the rather unfortunate aspects of this, nor would she have grasped the inherent sadness even if she had been given to such introspection. When Islena closed the door behind her, the world shrank to the confines of the gym's interior, effectively exiling her problems to the other side. This day was somehow different and walking into the gym's foyer did nothing to alleviate that beleaguered feeling. The incessant tug of regret stabbed deep into the workings of her chest and Islena was disheartened to realize that this pain was one of guilt and accusation. She had allowed her marriage to deteriorate for years, either not noticing the crumbling foundations or deliberately choosing to ignore them. In some perverse way it was all rather laughable. She was a successful businesswoman, now standing on the brink of resuming the pursuit of her life's dream and thus she should have been content, but with her marriage tottering on the precipice, she was anything but happy.

Feeling despondent, Islena crossed the lobby to the central reception desk. Marla Holmes looked up from her ledgers and smiled. "Morning Izzy girl, how...Good God honey, what's eating at you?"

Islena seemed oblivious to the fact that Marla had even spoken and when she finally glanced at Marla, she saw the puzzled expression on the Marla's ebony face. "I'm sorry Marla, what were you saying?"

Ever perceptive to Islena's mood, Marla glanced sharply at her friend, eyes narrowing into slits of concern. She had worked with Doraux for the past four years and could not recall seeing this particular expression of dejection.

"You look like your favorite dog just got run over in the road, girl?" Behind the drawl of hip-hop colloquialisms, Islena could discern the genuine concern in her friend's voice.

'Are my feelings so transparent then?' she wondered and smiled in spite of her somber mood. She genuinely liked Marla. It was impossible to remain maudlin in the face of Marla's infectious good humor. Like Islena, Marla was a dedicated bodybuilder. The pair had trained together for the past three years and though Islena's level far exceeded Marla's, the other woman pushed Islena to challenge her own limits. More valuable still, Marla had demonstrated her trustworthiness repeatedly. Doraux saw little point in trying to conceal her emotions from Marla and so she said, "I must admit that things have been better."

Marla reached across the desk and placed her hand on Islena's wrist. When she spoke again the tone was sober and unaffected. "Izzy, what's wrong? You look thoroughly miserable?"

"It's nothing I can't deal with, Marla. I've been having a few minor problems at home and they've come to a head. I'm okay, really." Islena tried to illustrate just how okay she was by producing a grin of shark-like proportions. Marla's concerned expression changed not an iota and Islena relented with a sigh. "Ben doesn't want me to compete again. He was fairly adamant about that. We started to argue and all sorts of hidden resentments came out. It got fairly ugly and hurtful."

The deep lines etched into Islena's face served to confirm that it had gotten ugly indeed. "Honey, it's so damned unfair that he'd try to prevent you from competing again. Men can be so bloody insensitive and selfish when they put their minds to it. Izzy girl, I've never seen anyone display so much heart and guts on a training floor. You can make it in this sport. Don't let anyone stand in your way."

Islena looked directly into Marla's amber eyes. There was something decidedly beautiful and primitive in those eyes, especially when she spoke with conviction. That passion touched a raw nerve and Islena responded in a tremulous whispered, "It's not always that easy."

Marla grimaced in the face of the self-doubt that gnawed at Doraux's normally unassailable confidence. Marla had long harbored a special enmity for Ben Richards, whom she regarded as a living impediment to Islena's limitless potential.

'Jesus, this thing's eating her up. Ben you miserable bastard.' Softly, she inquired, "What are you gonna do honey?"

"I don't know. I just don't know," Islena replied softly and then averted her face before Marla could see the first fall of tears.

She walked out onto the main floor of the Gym, which was deserted save for two or three of the regulars. The crowd would not begin to arrive until around nine O'clock. She moved towards the area that had been set aside for the exercise cycles. There were eight of the conventional cycles and four of the high tech Life Cycles which were used on a reserve basis only. Islena selected one of the conventional cycles and programmed the timer for forty minutes. She switched on her hip-mounted I-pod and fitted her headphones into her ears. As she began to pedal, the opening keyboard run of `Tarot Woman' filled her ears. Though she had fairly eclectic musical tastes, she liked to exercise to music with a primal beat and had been surprised to discover that certain types of heavy metal drove her to the ragged edges of her endurance. She tried to push herself until her heartbeat became syncopated with the drum and bass beat. Today she hoped to pedal fast enough to actually outdistance the myriad of problems that now plagued her. Still, as an unflinching pragmatist, she understood that life was in some ways comparable to a stationary bike ride...you could pedal until you were worn to a frazzle, but finish exactly where you started. There was no evading your problems and if you were foolish enough to ignore them, they grew into monsters with ravenous appetites that could only be satiated by misery and absolute disillusionment.

So, as she commenced the now ritualistic process of raising her heart rate, Islena Doraux made a valiant attempt to turn the brutally harsh light of introspection on herself. He had accused her of insufferable vanity, but to her mind, this particular allegation was the standard defensive mechanism of those whose own lack of personal pride and motivation was a source of private shame.

'People like Ben,' her mind offered and couched in that mental barb capered the dark viper that Doraux struggled incessantly to subjugate...a seething contempt for those who showed flagrant disregard for their own bodies...a contempt that extended to Ben Richards if she was being entirely candid. To temper that attitude would require a major restructuring of her basic system of beliefs.

'So if the world doesn't live up to your lofty ideals then to hell with it, right Islena?' The sudden appearance of that inner voice troubled Islena as did this sudden manifestation of self-doubt. Now she felt beleaguered by a tide of misgivings and was dismayed to discover that self-confidence was really such a fragile commodity.

The perspiration began to build on her brow, coursing down her cheeks in hot rivers and she could feel her heart rate increasing rapidly. The stimulation of strenuous physical exertion was like a potent drug to Islena. She monitored her speed increase and then settled into a steady pace that she would try to maintain for the next thirty minutes. The final ten would be an all out sprint to exhaustion.

She focused all of her concentration on the inner regions of her mind, where the essential Islena Doraux lived but was assailed by a barrage of images that tore at her concentration...some pleasant, some not. Battling these distractions, she set about the task of unbiased self-analysis, searching for her culpability in her marital decay. As she grappled with her own preconceptions, an alien forced whispered across the fabric of her mind. She blinked, thinking that someone had actually touched her, yet she was alone at the end of the large Gym floor.

Her heart began to hammer violently, provoked not by exertion but by a sudden burst of inexplicable anxiety. She attempted to quell that anxiety and resume her cycling but found that she could not regain her rhythm. An intense pressure began to build, not on her skull, but in the depths of her mind's interior as if invisible forces were trying to channel her thoughts in some abstract direction. Her feet faltered and slipped from the stirrups, causing her to bark her shin on the spinning pedals. She winced in pain and surprise and when she opened her eyes the familiar gym had vanished. The terror of what she was seeing nearly caused her to cry aloud, but she closed her mouth with a snap. An aberration had taken shape in the center of the room like a porthole on a cruise ship that provided her with a dizzying perspective of an incredible vista. The majesty and verdant splendor of the landscape below literally stole her breath away, momentarily allaying her fears.

She gazed through the portal, down upon a stretch of beach and a startlingly green ocean. She could clearly see whitecaps crashing upon the thin strand of sand. More disconcerting still, she could actually hear them. The ocean's waters were as pure as any that she had ever seen. Islena hovered, gazing down upon the earth below from an eagle's perspective and then without warning, she began to descend at a frightening rate, plummeting from the heavens like a falling stone. As she fell, Islena could not determine if the emotion overwhelming her was elation or terror.

'This couldn't be real, could it?' Yet how could she ignore the exhilarating sensation of the wind rushing through her hair and the pressure of the descent tugging upon her tight skin of her cheeks or her fiery red hair billowing out behind her like a vapor trail.

'There's someone down there,' her new inner companion informed her, its tone giddy like a schoolgirl's. She squinted to see a tiny figure standing in the middle of a field that appeared to have been tilled for planting. The figure appeared to be glancing up, monitoring her rapid descent. She tried to drag her eyes from the portal but found herself powerless to avert her gaze. The rapid dive was giving her a terrible case of vertigo. She forced her eyes closed, but much to her dismay, the disconcerting hallucination persisted. She could see the man now and clearly distinguish his gray-brown hair and a similarly-flecked beard.

He might have been handsome at one time, but the years had evidently been harsh and that masculine beauty was now but a shadow. He seemed neither surprised nor disturbed by her rocketing approach, remaining stationary and watching her descend through placid blue eyes.

When it seemed certain that she would simply crash into the earth like a meteorite, she reversed directions and began to rocket back towards the heavens. Her mind conjured a rather cryptic notion then, disclosing, "This is a place not of your world, but that man is yours."

She shook her head in negation and attempted to force her eyes open. What she saw terrified her more than she thought that it was possible to be terrified. Islena gazed up through the portal, eyes locked upon her abandoned body as she sat petrified upon her exercise cycle. Islena ripped through the portal and slammed back into the dazzled confines of her own mind with a resounding impact that reverberated through her flesh like the tolling of an enormous bell. Abruptly, the world swam out of focus and she slipped off of her cycle, staggering about the cycle area like a man in the last stages of ambulatory inebriation.

5

Marla tried vainly to apply herself to the onerous task of updating gym books and appointment schedules, but her attention frequently strayed back to Islena's predicament and her careworn face. Marla was dismayed by her friend's emotional turmoil and angered by Ben's infantile attitude towards Izzy's career. Marla had never particularly liked Ben, regarding Richards as a mediocre, clinging creature, who would ultimately stand as an impediment to everything Islena Doraux aspired to achieve. Marla had always harbored the hope that Izzy would eventually reach the same conclusion and divest herself of that needless obstacle.

Marla did not allow herself to linger upon such wistful fancies, knowing that to do so would reap nothing other than emotional frustration. She turned her thoughts instead to her work, but found herself constantly stealing furtive glances through the glass doors to the cycle area, where Islena labored through her morning miles. Something about the woman's erratic rhythm raised the whisper of alarm in Marla's mind. A pained expression marred the lovely lines of Islena's face as she labored to establish a smooth pedaling motion.

The telephone rang and Marla snatched it up, automatically settling into her usual professional voice that conveyed none of her burgeoning agitation.

"Good morning, Iron Works Gym," she announced absently. A man made a reservation for one of the life cycles. Marla took his name and penned it into the appropriate slot on the chart. She shot a quick glance at Izzy and that agitation welled-up geometrically. Her boss had abruptly stopped pedaling and was sitting bolt upright on the cycle, staring fixedly at something near the rear of the Gym. Something about her transfixed expression raised an icy chill in the pit of Marla's stomach. She leaned over her desk, trying to see what had evoked Islena's apoplectic reaction.

"What's gotten into that girl?" she murmured in exasperation. There was nothing unusual about the goings-on in the rear of the building, but Islena continued to stare fixedly as if she was bearing witness to a grand, yet apocalyptic spectacle that only she could see.

'Perhaps she is,' her instincts warned her. Marla knew that there were instances when Islena's concentration drew her so deep inside of herself that she actually appeared robotic. This trance-like level of concentration was instrumental in her drive to excel but nothing about those states resembled this odd distraction and Marla's terror grew with every second that Islena remained in this disquieting state of rigid fixation.

Watching Islena suffer through this protracted moment of dislocation, Marla found herself shackled by a sense of uncertainty that reduced her to utter immobility. She wanted to run to Islena and shake her briskly back to cognizance, but something about Doraux's catatonic gaze and statue-like posture filled Marla with a paralyzing dread. For Marla Holmes, the older Islena had become a grounding point...a paragon of stolid determination and indomitable spirit on whom Marla could focus her inherent need to channel her boundless devotion. Islena Doraux had come to represent the sister she had always craved and the family she no longer had.

Marla was perceptive enough to grasp that it would be easy to misconstrue the depth and nature of her feelings for Islena...to pervert this unconditional devotion into something dark and tawdry. She saw Islena as an extension of her own faltering hopes and dreams...someone who possessed the wherewithal to make them a reality. These complex emotional needs terrified Marla and the very thought of conveying them to Islena propelled the seemingly unflappable Holmes to the brink of panic.

This thought was cut off with abrupt finality as Marla saw Islena slide from the bike and stagger drunkenly around the cycle area.

Marla was around her desk and through the glass doors in the blink of an eye...too late, however, to prevent Islena from stumbling into a cycle and collapsing heavily onto her left shoulder. Frantic, Marla cried out, "Izzy! Jesus Izzy, are you all right?"

Islena lay prostrate on her face, gasping heavily and making no effort to regain her feet. If she had even heard Marla's cries she made no response. Marla bent forward and gingerly extricated Islena's muscular leg from the toppled cycle. The morning occupants had gravitated over to the spot where Islena had toppled and they stood watching the two women, all wearing identical expressions of concern and dismay.

"Are you okay, Izzy honey?" Marla whispered. Doraux had not moved since she had fallen and her body had gone rigid, the heavy muscles contracting into painful knots. Marla suppressed her mounting panic and gently turned Izzy over. Her eyes, though open, were glazed and stared vacantly at the ceiling.

'My God, she's comatose,' was Marla's first dismal reaction, but then Islena blinked and her eyes came into focus. Drawing a deep breath, she inclined her head towards Marla, who returned a tentative smile. Gazing about, Islena's reactions appeared sluggish and disconnected. "What happened, Marla?"

"I was hoping that you would be able to tell me. You were riding the cycle and then you just fell off and started to stagger around as if you were drunk. Then you collapsed. You scared the hell out of me. I hope you know that," Marla said feigning exasperation while struggling to forestall tears of relief.

"I'm sorry Marla," Islena whispered. Then, almost as though she were ashamed of displaying weakness, she asked, "Could you help me up please."

"Are you sure that you're able to get up honey? Maybe we should think about having someone look at you," Marla ventured cautiously.

Islena shook her head adamantly and offered Marla a broad reassuring grin. "No, I'm fine, Marla. I've been playing games with my calorie intake. It's just caught up to me I guess. I'll be okay if I can only sit down for a minute in my office."

Marla remained skeptical. The unsteady glaze in Izzy's eyes decried the pretext of simple calorie deficiency. Something profound had befallen the woman and it had nothing to do with dietary irregularities. Still, it seemed that Izzy was okay now and Marla decided not press the issue. "Okay honey, let's get you up."

As Marla hauled Islena to her feet, Doraux gritted her teeth and winced as the shoulder issued a strident protest. Marla, ever perceptive when it came to her friend, noted that gasp and asked, "It's your shoulder, isn't it?"

"Yes, but it's just a cramp. Come on Marla, don't be such a mother hen. I'm hardly made of china. It would take a lot more than a little fall to put me out of commission. I feel perfectly fine," Islena insisted brusquely and physically, she did feel fine, other than a slight burning in her shoulder. Emotionally, however, Islena felt disoriented and unaccountably beleaguered. What had she seen just before she had blacked out? Some type of stress-induced illusion possibly? It was a facile explanation on the face of things, but her instincts admonished her that this episode would not be so easily rationalized away. That place...the disconcertingly familiar man...these things had been very vivid and strangely familiar, right down to the sensation of the wind rushing through her hair. She could not shake the disturbing notion that this vision was not simply a waking dream perhaps precipitated by stress. Though surely ludicrous, Islena had the distinct impression that she had seen those pale blue eyes before. Even more perplexing was the certainty that this man had been immeasurably dear to her at some point in time. It was all nonsense and it made her head ache to consider it, so she thrust it from her thoughts, though it was not easily banished.

Leaning against Marla for support, she turned to the circle of bystanders and quipped, "Look people, I know that some guys will do anything for a break, but I think that you should all get back to it before you start to sag."

She favored them with a brilliant smile and gradually they all drifted back to their training. Marla then ushered her to the office which was located directly behind the reception desk. Still supporting Islena, she withdrew a key and opened the door. Inside, she squired her boss over to the sofa and had her sit, while she pulled down a spandex shoulder strap and examined the injured shoulder. "It looks like you've got yourself a pretty nasty abrasion there, honey."

Islena waved this off with a dismissive nod and murmured, "It's just a scratch Marla."

"Okay, but I'm still going to put a touch of Polysporin on it, just to stop the burning." Marla stood and went in search of the ointment and Islena watched her go, smiling affectionately. The black lady was her closest friend. She was unselfish and supportive, qualities not easily found in the sport...nor in the greater world beyond. Marla returned with a small white case and set it on the desk. The Polysporin burned at first, but then Marla's gentle fingers began to massage away the burning sensation. Marla hesitated briefly and then asked, "Izzy, what really happened back there?"

Islena wavered, reluctant to re-open this particular topic so soon after her incident. She had been about to recite her tale of dietary imbalances, but the somber tone in Marla's voice made it obvious that she would not be deceived by such a shallow excuse. As a friend, she deserved better, so Islena told her as much of the truth as she dared. "Honestly Marla, I don't know. Whatever it was, it's gone now and I'll be fine. I've been under a lot of stress and I guess that last night's fight with Ben was the catalyst for whatever happened this morning. I'm just going to rest here for an hour. Could you cover for me Marla? I'd sure appreciate it."

"Of course, honey," Marla replied automatically. After a slight pause, she added, "but at lunch time, there is something that I want you to do for me."

"And what might that be?" Islena ventured, discerning the devious twinkle in Marla's amber eyes. She suspected that Marla would insist that she see a doctor, so she was taken by complete surprise when Marla voiced her request. "Izzy, at lunch I'd like you to come for a reading at Mrs. Normandy's." Seeing Islena's startled reaction, she added hastily, "Please, don't be so close-minded."

Islena rolled her eyes in exasperation. "God Marla, you're not going to start on this metaphysical mumbo-jumbo again? I hardly need a witch doctor to treat a bruised shoulder."

Marla Holmes was completely obsessed with and enamored by all things psychic and paranormal. She accepted the concepts of fate and predestination as readily she accepted the existence of steel and concrete. Over the years that Islena had known her, Marla had drifted through periods of experimentation with runes and tarot cards, searching, almost desperately, for a mystical insight into the workings of her world. She had attempted to draw Doraux into her obsession, but Doraux had politely but firmly resisted her best efforts. Eventually, Marla had given up on converting her friend, but she had never stopped trying to find a key to the metaphysical world she felt certain must exist beyond the thin veil of tangible reality. Three months earlier, Marla had confided to Islena that she had finally stumbled upon a legitimate psychic. Mrs. Normandy, she had insisted, was a Tarot reader who could interpret the cards with uncanny accuracy. Apparently, Marla had consulted the reader to insure that the tides of her life were still maintaining a happy and harmonious ebb and flow.

Izzy had viewed Marla's fixation with a mixture of tolerance and bewilderment. She privately found it difficult to believe that an otherwise intelligent, pragmatic woman could be so enthralled by such gibberish. Nonetheless, she knew that everyone had their odd little proclivities. Now, something in the intense way Marla was watching her made Islena feel distinctly uneasy. In that moment, a subtle undercurrent passed between the pair...an intimation that this rather absurd exchange might actually be a juncture of great consequence...one that made the hairs at the base of her neck stand on end. Again, the imploring tone came. "Please Islena, humor me, but come to Mrs. Normandy's."

She was inclined to dismiss the suggestion, but Marla's lovely eyes had grown flinty and distant, assuming the intractable slant that was decidedly foreign to the normally placid Holmes.

'My God, what's gotten into her,' she wondered. 'Islena? She never calls me by that name.' Despite her customary aversion to the topic, Doraux felt inexplicably compelled to accede to her friend's request.

"All right Marla, we'll go during lunch," she conceded quietly. The flinty glaze evaporated, replaced by Marla's normal radiant smile. Islena found herself wondering what might have happened had she staunchly refused to see this Mrs. Normandy. The thought did little to banish her unease. "That's great. Prepare yourself to be amazed. This woman is something special."

Doraux smiled and remained diplomatically silent. Marla shrugged. "I'll get back to my desk now. You just stay here and rest honey."

"Thanks Marla. Sometimes I wonder just what I'd do without you."

Marla smiled warmly but she was alarmed to feel tears welling in her eyes. Islena had not been the only one to experience the odd sensation of destiny threading its way through their conversation. "You'd go crazy, girl. What else could you do?"

With this, Marla turned and fled the room before her roiling emotions could get the better of her. Outside, she leaned against the wall and lowered her head, afraid to walk back to her desk...afraid that she might fall. Her legs, which were normally cut, ebony towers of granite, felt weak and insubstantial.

"What the hell am I doing?" she murmured. Knowing her friends aversion to anything even remotely connected to the paranormal, extending an invitation to consult a tarot reader was the last thing she would suggest. The request seemed to have found its origins elsewhere and she had merely served as a medium through which it had been communicated. Such things happened, she knew, more frequently than most people could ever imagine...or would ever want to imagine.

"This is getting to be too much," she told herself in a weak voice. Then a shadow fell over her and she nearly cried out. Glancing up, she saw Eric Chambers hovering over her. He watched her from behind his sleepy brown eyes and though he appeared to be the embodiment of the plate-headed Neanderthal, Marla thought of him as both sweet and handsome. Like just about everyone else in the gym, he was captivated by Islena. When he spoke, his voice echoed that sentiment. "Is Islena going to be all right, Marla?"

"She's going to be fine," Marla assured him. Eric greeted the news with a broad grin. Together, he and Marla turned and walked back to the common area.

6

After Marla had gone, Islena rose and crossed the room to switch off the lights. In the ensuing darkness, she found her way back to the sofa and lay down, grateful for the respite from the disquieting, inexplicable visions. Almost immediately she could feel her body drifting into the void of sleep. 'What a strange day...first a...a vision and now a date with a soothsayer. What next, wizards and demons?' She had intended the thought to have been flippant, but instead it resonated through her dreams like a harbinger of some great and terrible prophecy. She carried the image of that smile and those hauntingly familiar blue eyes down into the sea of sleep.

Chapter Two

His fingers trembled and the pen slipped, sending black ink spewing over the Mylar. He threw the pen down in disgust, having been plagued by uncharacteristic clumsiness all morning. Try as he might, he couldn't focus his concentration upon his work as his mind strayed back to the morning's conversation, inexorably drawn back to her dismal final words; "Should it turn out that there's no compromise to be had...then we can deal with that like the mature, intelligent adults we should both be."

Those words lanced his heart and yet, she had spoken them with such ostensible ease, as though she had been discussing some mundane triviality. It frightened him and infuriated him at the same time.

'Goddamnit, but that's how life is, isn't it? You give a woman everything, believe that you know and understand her and one day you find yourself confronted by a complete, even hostile stranger.' He stopped. Self-pity aside, it really wasn't as simple as that. Ben stood before the harsh judgment of the bathroom mirror each and every morning. There, he came face to face with a man who he barely recognized. Islena had been painfully accurate in delivering that particular barb. He had let himself run to fat, almost in counter-reaction to her exquisite beauty. Without being aware of it, he had come to resent his own wife and despise her meticulous, perfectionist's nature. It hurt him to think that he was so petty as to let himself decay expressly to spite his own wife.

He carefully placed the erasing shield over the line and removed the spreading blotch of ink. This done, he willed his mind back to the McCambridge project. He had risen to the level of junior partner in one of Seattle's largest Architectural firms, Johnson and Nasion. This had been his first major assignment since that promotion and the pressure to justify the faith that the senior partners had placed in him was intense.

He correctly surmised that this pressure had been instrumental in provoking his explosion at Islena's intention to resume competition. Her timing couldn't have been worse. He had supported her through her career and now he needed her to reciprocate. Instead, she intended to resume the all-consuming drive toward her own aspiration. Was she really so self-centered as to be totally oblivious as to how this decision would impact on their marriage...on him? He had never doubted that Islena was constructed of sterner stuff than he...that she possessed a mettle that he could never possibly match. She seemed either unwilling or unable to make accommodations for the fact that others could not always match her strength or her drive and that inflexible disdain for the alienation that had grown between them.

Ben had been long since disabused of the notion that he could match Islena's personal power. In her shadow, he had grown bitter and resentful and Islena, in her pursuit of perfection, was oblivious to his discontentment.

'But is it really her fault, Ben?' his relentless tormentor demanded. 'Maybe not, but shouldn't she still be there for me when I need her?' Ben thought that she should.

Grimly, he saw that it had come to this...two people who were nothing more than alienated strangers after nearly ten years of marriage and could no longer ignore that painful and inconvenient truth. The two people who had nearly come to blows last night bore only a passing resemblance to the people that they had once been. All of this reflection came down to one salient question...did they still love each other? He couldn't speak for her, but Ben found that he did still love his wife. Sadly, that love had been corrupted by other less admirable emotions such as resentment and even envy.

He was drawn back to the nights of her first bodybuilding triumph. When she had been declared the winner and her hand had been raised in victory, he had shared her elation as though they were the same person. She had kissed her competitors and with tears streaming down her cheeks, had jumped off of the stage and ran to Ben. He was reminded of the feel of her powerful body as she had leapt into his arms. The highlighting oil had ruined his suit, but he had kept it in commemoration of her first victory. He had loved her then and she had loved him. They had celebrated in a local bakery shop and then had made love for hours, at last falling asleep in each others arms. The world had been theirs for the taking and the future was full of promise. That promise had proven to be hollow and the future appeared as bleak as November flowers desiccating on a tombstone.

Ben replaced the pen in its holder and dropped his head to his hands, struggling to come to terms with this catastrophic implosion that had overwhelmed his life. All of those years, surely they had to count for something? Was it possible to piss everything away so frivolously? He understood that, if he wished to salvage his marriage, the burden of change and concession would fall primarily on his shoulders. If she could allow some minor concessions then perhaps there was a glimmer of hope and it was not unreasonable to believe that he might be able to redeem some of his self-respect in the process. Last night's eruption may have been the one thing which could save their floundering marriage from a protracted and painful death. He had seen it before, the marriages that on the surface appeared perfectly healthy and one day collapsed like a tooth that had decayed from the inside out. A person could only pretend for so long, but eventually inexorable reality blew all of these trite illusions to hell. When it reached that stage, things were usually far beyond any hope for reclamation. The acrimony and resentment had reached toxic and fatal levels. Ben hoped to God that things had not come to that point between Islena and himself. In harboring that one hope he gleaned just how deeply he still loved his wife.

Abruptly, Ben reached for the phone. He was suddenly desperate to talk to her, to test the waters. He would make the first move as perhaps he should. He dialed the Iron Works Gym and seconds later, a voice he recognized as Liza's answered the phone. "Hi Liza, I'd like to have a word with Islena if she's available."

Liza hesitated for a protracted moment. Ben could almost hear the circuits firing in her rather ponderous brain. Ben had only met Liza on a few occasions but knew that she always seemed to be off on some strange mental tangent. She was a twenty-six year old woman with the attention span of a five year old. Finally, she found the reply that she'd been groping for. "Oh listen, Mr. Richards, Islena and Marla have already went off to lunch. They should be back around 1:15. Shall I tell her that you called?"

"No, that's all right, Liza, I'll see her at home. Thanks Liza," Ben concluded and rang off.

'Gone to lunch.' Inexplicably, he found that this left him feeling unaccountably apprehensive. Though he did not know how he knew, Ben felt certain that things were about to go drastically wrong, if they had not already. A pall of impending catastrophe settled over him like a funeral shroud. In the weeks to come the recollection of this disconcerting presentiment would bedevil him like a belligerent specter.

Chapter Three

1

When Islena came awake, she stretched languorously and peered at her desk clock, bemused to discover that it was just past ten. Marla had allowed her to sleep for a full hour and a half. It was impossible to feel any irritation because the nap had served to revitalize her. Switching on the lights, she worked through an abbreviated version of her stretching routine and then returned to the main floor. Marla saw her emerge and her eyes narrowed speculatively. Islena recognized that look and offered her friend a reassuring grin.

"Better?"

"Much. I think that I'll give the cycle another try. Thanks Marla...you're a good friend."

The black woman smiled. "That's what we hirelings are for ma'am."

Islena shook her head and laughed. Returning to the cycle, she experienced brief shiver of trepidation. She half expected the portal to open again, but mercifully reality prevailed. To turn her thoughts away from the unnerving incident, she attacked her cycling as if by sweating heavily, she could purge the episode from her system...and from her heart and mind. Forty minutes later, she dismounted the bike suffused by the seemingly irreconcilable sensations of exhaustion and elation. Her heart thundered, her lungs screamed for quarter and her leg muscles shook from exertion. When she touched her quadriceps, it pulsed and twitched but that feeling of happy exhaustion never failed to make her feel so visceral and alive. For Islena, there existed an arcane relationship between physical exhaustion and heightened mental acuity as though taxing her flesh to the limit freed her mind of all encumbrances. Through her weariness everything seemed to fall into the proper perspective. Even her situation with Ben seemed a little less dismal.

At the head of the stair that led down into the changing area, Marla intercepted Islena. That intense expression had re-ignited in her amber eyes. "You look much better."

"I feel a lot better. The rest really did me a great deal of good."

Marla greeted this with an indecipherable smile that Doraux found decidedly perplexing. "Now, shower up because we have an appointment with Mrs. Normandy. We were very lucky. She is heavily booked but she agreed to take us at lunch. This woman is one of the most extraordinary people you'll ever meet."

Islena sighed, resigned to this ridiculous excursion into Marla's twilight obsession. Nonetheless, she felt obligated to make one final attempt to extricate herself from this nonsense. "Marla I'm not sure that this is such a good idea. You know how I feel about this occult stuff. If she is perceptive as you say, my contempt just might come through and I don't want to offend your friend."

Marla appeared crestfallen. "It's not occult. Mrs. Normandy is a genuine clairvoyant. And besides, you promised that you would."

Islena fetched a deep sigh. It was true, she had given her word. "All right already. I'll shower and change, and then we'll go."

Marla laughed and clapped her hands together in a disaffecting gesture that was somehow childlike.

'What's got into this woman?' Islena wondered. "Marla would you let Liza know that we'll both be out and make sure that she's clear on what she has to do."

Marla gave her boss a knowing nod and then went off to find Liza. As Islena watched her go, that sense of disquiet returned...now more pronounced than ever. Shaking her head, she descended into the changing area to ready herself for her appointment with the Tarot Woman.

2

The two women drove across town in Marla's Mustang Cobra. Next to her body, the car was Marla's prized possession. Marla chattered idly, but Islena lapsed into reticence. Since the moment that she had emerged from the change room, she had been nagged by a whispering voice. The voice insisted that she was about to set into motion a catastrophic process that would forever alter her life. The closer that they came to this Mrs. Normandy, the more strident that this voice became.

They drove along highway 5 and then turned right onto highway twenty. Exiting the highway, they drove across Union Bay and headed north. Mrs. Normandy's home was not at all what Islena had expected. Her office, or reading parlor, was a well-maintained brick side split. A small, discreet sign was suspended by chains on an ornate L-post. The ornamental lettering had been fashioned in wrought iron and declared: Mrs. D. Normandy...Parapsychologist and psychic consultant.

Marla steered the Cobra into the drive and when she spoke, there was a discernible quaver in her voice. "Well, this is it. Normally she only sees clients on a private basis, but she'll see us together because this is your first time...if that's okay with you, of course."

Islena nodded her agreement, deciding that since she was here, she might as well resign herself suffer the full melodramatic experience. Marla led the way to the front door and rang the bell, barely able to suppress the tension churning in her stomach. She had tried to conceal it beneath a steady stream of light banter. Islena noticed Marla's muscles bulging in sharp relief and suddenly reached forward and seized Marla's forearm, digging her nails into the solid flesh. Marla twisted around, eyes bulging with surprise. "Izzy, ouch, you're digging into my arm."

"Marla, why did you bring me here?" Doraux demanded quietly, not releasing her grip on the bigger woman's arm. Marla grimaced as a sly, furtive expression spread over her face and her mouth began to work soundlessly. She seemed about to speak when the door swung open and spared her the discomfort of an explanation she would have been unable to deliver.

If the house had been contrary to Islena's preconceived notion then Mrs. Normandy proved to be the diametric opposite of Islena's prejudicial image of a psychic. Doraux had half expected an obese woman attired in garish peasant's clothing, with a kerchief upon her head and large gold hoop earrings in her ears. Dominique Normandy was the antithesis of the caricature Gypsy seer. Islena immediately felt the imposing strength of the woman's presence. She wore a dove gray skirt and blazer and her demeanor was reserved, if not austere. Her white hair was styled in a shoulder length simple wave. Her pale blue eyes were accentuated by high cheekbones and a keen intelligence shone in the depths of those eyes...an insinuation of prescience...of knowledge this woman shouldn't rightfully possess.

"Hello Mrs. Normandy. This is Islena Doraux. She's come for a consultation," Marla announced in an absurdly formal voice. All signs of her normal street-wise patois had vanished. Mrs. Normandy nodded curtly, never taking her penetrating gaze from Islena's face...an incisive gaze under which it was very difficult to resist the compulsion to squirm or glance away.

"Come in Ladies," Mrs. Normandy led the two women inside to an office that was more suited to a therapist than a psychic. She gestured for the pair to be seated in matching leather wingbacks and then moved to the opposite side of the desk. For several seconds the tarot woman remained silent and when the seer spoke it was in a calm, almost subdued voice. "So you've come for a consultation. What precisely motivated you to come here, Ms. Doraux?"

Islena flashed a quick glance in Marla's direction. Marla nodded encouragement and Doraux replied honestly, "I really don't know. I'm not familiar with this...with what it is that you do here."

Mrs. Normandy pursed her lips and frowned, casting Marla a rather sour glance. "Would it be fair to say that you're somewhat skeptical about the whole idea of percipience?"

"Yes. I have my doubts. There's little point in denying that."

"No, there isn't," Mrs. Normandy replied with an ironic grin. Without warning, the seer reached across the desk and wrapped her fingers around Islena's forearm. Slowly, she began to knead the solid muscles there as if they were dough. Marla had actually uttered a small cry of surprise, but neither of the two women appeared to have noticed. Their gazes were locked together like two warriors preparing to face each other in mortal combat. Islena was distinctly aware of the seer's fingers pressing deep into her flesh arousing an odd drawing sensation at the point of contact. "You're a very strong woman, though not because of these muscles. They are only superficial manifestations of your true inner strength. You're also a very beautiful woman...a fact of which you are acutely aware, no doubt."

There was no hint of flattery in the woman's voice as she delivered this assessment with the emotional detachment of a machine. Islena wanted to pull her arms away, but her flesh had lost the resolve to do her mind's bidding. "You doubt because you view the world in intractable and extremely narrow terms. Before we proceed, I must dispel your doubts...disabuse you of those prejudices. Open your eyes, Islena. You see yourself and the tangible things around you and nothing more. Perhaps this is the true essence of your husband's anger and festering resentment."

Islena flinched as if she had been struck by an actual blow and then turned an accusatory, bitter glance at Marla who appeared totally bewildered. Her expression spoke of astonishment not duplicity. On consideration, Doraux realized that she had not mentioned Ben's specific accusations to Marla earlier. Returning her attention to Mrs. Normandy, she demanded truculently, "How could you possibly know this?"

The seer smiled sagely. "I know a great deal about you and what you are. Your nature is defined in every muscle, in every fiber of your body. Not just here." She reached across the table and lightly touched Islena's temple. "I need only touch you and your soul opens to me like a book. Only those who do not know their own mind may harbor secrets from me...cowering behind the pathetic armor of self-delusion."

As she spoke, her fingers resumed their relentless probing. "It is folly to suppose that the powers of the human mind could be confined to the five physical senses. You may liken our minds to a vault. When closed, the structure is dark and inviolable, but the treasure held within may be brought into the light by those who have the ability to open that vault and lay its contents bare. All that is required is the proper code, the proper combination, if you will."

'This isn't real. It's just a carnival trick. It has to be,' Islena told herself. The seer's pale blue eyes twinkled like sea ice. "Still you do not believe, but I will provide you with further proof. Like me, your roots were sewn in France. Your father was a dock worker and your mother was a school teacher. They immigrated to the United States in 1968 when you were only eight years old. They were both tragically killed in a car accident in 1992. A drunk veered across the center line and struck them head-on. You were cleaning your basement when the telephone call came."

Islena's eyes bulged and her jaw dropped open with an audible plop in response to the unerringly accurate and irrefutable truth detailed in Mrs. Normandy's disclosure. Islena gazed at the seer as if she were seeing her for the first time, her cynicism relenting to complete acceptance. She felt as though the carpet of stability had been ripped from beneath her feet, leaving her tumbling on a sea of confusion. Her mind drew the automatic association between this image and her plummeting fall towards the stranger on the beach. The image erupted in her mind's eye with the intensity of a sunburst. Mrs. Normandy emitted a gasp fraught with pain and released her grip on Doraux's forearm.

"What's wrong Mrs. Normandy?" Marla demanded, half rising from her seat.

"Nothing, be calm Marla," the seer snapped and returned her attention to Islena. As she began to explain the nuances of what had just transpired, her tone became defensive...if not overtly churlish, but beneath this inexplicable irritation, Islena could discern genuine fear. "At times, exceptionally strong people, such as yourself, can radiate telepathic bursts of abnormal intensity. These bursts can be both startling and painful to those who receive them."

Islena nodded absently. She had shared the sensation and knew that the psychic had been just as profoundly shaken. The moment her mind had conjured images of her bizarre fall, the woman had disengaged as though she had been struck by invisible lightening.

'She saw!' Doraux realized. 'She actually shared my vision and for some reason, it scared the hell out of her.' It did not occur to her how quickly this cryptic sharing had disabused her of the long-held cynicism towards the paranormal.

The seer had indeed glimpsed a brief but vivid flash of Islena's image. However, the image that she received was radically different from the one that Doraux's mind had inadvertently projected. In a burst of unprecedented clairvoyance, a panoramic view of a nightmare battlefield had opened on the dark screen of the tarot woman's mind. Dead warriors littered the battlefield and the grass, which had once been a vital green, was now muddy with blood and entrails. All of the warriors were dead, save for two. They fought through the heavy rain, both exhausted and desperate for victory or the release of death. The image was too stark...too viscerally primal and Dominique had been forced to relinquish her grip on Islena's forearm, thus abruptly terminating the vision. This vividly depressing vista of carnage was vaguely familiar and though Dominique tried to summon the memory, the specifics eluded her. For motives that she could not entirely understand, Dominique chose to conceal this from the other women.

"Islena, when people come to me for their first consultation, I normally recommend that they begin with a standard reading. Unless you have further reservations, then I think we should begin." The seer fell silent, though not before Islena perceived a subtle shift in her demeanor. Islena recognized that change. She had come here only to humor Marla, but the encounter had assumed on an unaccountable air of urgency. A reading? Was she really sitting with a fortune teller, expecting to be shown the future? To her eternal consternation, she found that she was...a prospect that struck the pragmatic Doraux as both disturbing and abstractly terrifying. Without derision, she whispered, "Very well, Mrs. Normandy, show me the future."

3

The seer ushered the two women from her office into the reading room...an interior chamber with no windows and only one door. The furnishing was Spartan. A single table and four chairs had been arranged below a shaded light. The walls and ceiling were covered with a perforated sack cloth. Upon entering, the seer switched on the lamp and an intense light cast a circular patch upon the table. Beyond the table, the remainder of the room was lost in a thick, brooding shadow. Mrs. Normandy stood behind a plush chair and indicated that this was where Islena was to sit. She then slid Marla's chair back into the gloom, so that she would be positioned in the shadows immediately behind her friend.

Once the three had taken their respective seats, Dominique explained, "This is my reading room. I have had it specifically designed to be sound proof and free of all superficial distractions. If a reading is to be successful and accurate, the questioner must be cleansed of all irrelevant thoughts. Her mind must channel only the matter upon which she wishes to focus. Do you understand why this is imperative, Islena?"

"I do," she murmured dutifully.

"If you so desire, I am about to divine a portion of your future with the aid of the Tarot. Are you familiar with the Tarot deck?"

"Only vaguely...I mean that I've heard about them, but I've never actually seen a deck." Actually, Marla had gone into great detail when describing the Tarot, but Izzy had paid little attention to her friend's rambling.

"The Tarot has been popularized by many occult writers and film makers in recent years. This popularity has been derisive more than anything else. People have dismissed the Tarot as nothing more than an amusing party diversion...an interesting deck of game cards. In the hands of amateurs, this is precisely what they are. In the hands of an individual blessed with the gift of divination, they are a powerful oracular tool. However, the success of any given divination is predicated entirely on the willingness of the questioner to approach the reading with an open and honest mind. If they close their mind to the diviner, the reading is condemned to failure. You must be willing to accept the possibility that the cards might grant insight into one possible future. Do you possess the open-mindedness to do this, Islena Doraux?"

Islena considered this seriously and confessed, "Before I came here, I admit that I found this whole notion ludicrous but in all candor, you are far from what I expected a self-professed psychic to be. I am willing to undergo this...process with a measure of open-mindedness. You've divulged things about my back ground that I've never shared with Marla. As I can produce no other plausible explanation as to how you might have come by this knowledge, I can only assume that you absorbed them from my memory. That being true, I have to assume that you may have other unconventional gifts."

"That will suffice. There are those who are unwilling to accept anything beyond the reach of their five senses. For whatever reason, they would place concrete limits on the bounds of knowledge. To my mind, they are ignorant fools." Dominique's expression darkened as she spoke. "They have attempted to discredit me, Islena. To dismiss me as another Charlatan, but they have always failed. When I was very young, I came to grasp the true nature of our reality. You may liken it to this room if you will. This circle of light represents all traditional knowledge and conscious thought. The sum of this knowledge is small when compared to the truths that remain concealed by the darkness. The diviner is able to focus tiny beams of light into this darkness and illuminate small, otherwise elusive bits of wisdom and truth. The past and the present are normally bathed in varying degrees of light, while the future is submerged in darkness...usually, but not always. On occasion, the path into the future can reveal itself with a brilliant flash of prescience that can be most...disconcerting."

Mrs. Normandy reached under the table and an instant later, there was a soft, mechanical hum as two panels slid open beneath the glass desktop to reveal dozens of decks of Tarot Cards arranged on a bed of black velvet. Doraux inspected the decks, fascinated by the array of diverse and vaguely disturbing images there.

"I had no idea that there were so many different decks," she remarked.

"There are more than 250 known Tarot decks. These are forty eight of the more popular decks. The Tarot could be thousands of years old, possibly having its origins in ancient Egypt, though it has only been written about since the Fourteenth Century. I allow my questioners to select the deck that appeals most to them. Peruse each deck carefully and select the one which calls out to you...that touches your senses."

Obediently, Islena bent forward, sensing that the two others were doing the same. She scanned the decks carefully, examining each. She paused, attracted to one particular image. The face card depicted a woman with long raven hair, sitting on a stool. In her left hand, she held a thin staff. Bolts of what could have been lightening or electricity shot from the tip of the staff. There was a definite air of puissance about the mysterious woman. Without pausing to consider the nature of her attraction to this image, Islena indicated that this was the deck that she wanted.

"A most interesting choice," the seer commented, her tone inscrutable. Slowly, she reached beneath the glass top and withdrew the Tarot of The Witches.

Chapter Four

The seer reached into the case and retrieved the selected deck, handed the box to Islena and instructed, "Remove the wrapper and slowly shuffle the deck. As you do, close your eyes and try to cleanse your mind of all superficial thoughts. Concentrate specifically upon the questions that you wish to pose. Visualize that question as you shuffle the deck. Visualization is an integral element in conveying the currents of your essential life force to the diviner."

"Thoughts carry a tangible weight and power of their own," she explained. "The power of the thought may be subtle and intangible, but it has been demonstrated that they gain strength by purity and conceptual clarity and in turn, this will allow you to establish an empathy with the deck, from which I may glean threads of the past, present and possibly the future.

Islena required no sermon on the powers of concentration...a tool she employed daily to push herself past the debilitating effects of pain and exhaustion. Closing her eyes, she began to shuffle the deck, cutting the cards in a smooth, languid rhythm while sweeping aside the tangle of images in her mind and turning her thoughts to the prospect of a reading. She was surprised to find that the idea of a Tarot reading no longer struck her as fatuous, but she had no concept of what to expect once the process commenced. When she had satisfied herself that the cards were well shuffled, she handed the deck to the seer.

Mrs. Normandy accepted the deck solemnly and then laid it on the table face up. Spreading the cards in a fan, she began to remove the twenty two cards of the Major Arcana. These she arranged in numerical order, placing the unnumbered card, The Fool, at the beginning of the condensed deck. Again, she handed the deck to Islena and bid her to shuffle this deck. "Since this is your first reading, we will confine ourselves to the cards of the Major Arcana, put forth in a classic ten card spread. Should you wish a future reading, we may utilize the other cards to pinpoint specific emotions and events that have defined your present reality. For now, these cards will suffice. Islena Doraux, what do you wish to inquire of the Tarot?"

There was a stiff formality in the woman's tone and it was evident that Dominique Normandy regarded the tarot with the same reverence and solemnity that Islena conferred upon her own quest for physical perfection. Islena found herself wanting to smirk, but dared not. The other two women had grown suddenly tense, leaning towards her expectantly. Islena groped for an appropriate question and seized upon the obvious. "Will the resumption of my career lead to my goal of being a champion?"

Mrs. Normandy smiled. The expression was pointedly sardonic. In a neutral tone, the seer responded, "A most prudent question...ambition is a compelling force."

Then she began to arrange the cards in the prescribed pattern, explaining the layout as she did, "The ten card spread is the simplest arrangement of the Tarot. The first six cards represent the Magick Circle of Solomon. This sacred circle symbolizes worship and enlightenment. Within this circle, the chain links of destiny are forged."

As both women watched, Mrs. Normandy quickly laid the cards in their appropriate position. When the last of the cards had been drawn and placed, Dominique stiffened perceptibly. Behind Doraux, Marla's face contorted and she drew a harsh, startled breath. Islena glanced sharply at her friend, who wore an expression of unconcealed dismay.

"What is it?" Islena demanded, feeling a cold wave of unease creep along her spine. Marla seemed about to reply, when Mrs. Normandy silenced her with a severe frown. Hastily, she interjected, "There are times when the readings are inexplicably distorted. This spread suggests a future that defies all reason. In such circumstances, it is common practice to reshuffle and begin again. This aberration is best left unexplored."

Quickly collecting the cards, she handed the deck back to Islena. Insistently, she reiterated, "Remember, it is necessary to cleanse your mind of all distractions and emotions that do not bear directly upon the question you have posed."

Reluctantly, Doraux accepted the cards and again repeated the shuffling process, though she was suddenly anxious to bring this fiasco to a conclusion. Mrs. Normandy regarded the proffered deck with a palpable measure of trepidation. Islena wondered what it was that she had seen in the first spread...some harbinger of apocalyptic doom no doubt. Whatever it had been, the woman had been profoundly disturbed by its arcane message and Marla had also been disturbed by the layout. Though Islena knew nothing of the Tarot's esoteric meaning, she had noticed that several of the cards bore images that were disturbing, in a primal way that she could not have explained in succinct, rational terms. As she took the deck, Dominique's hands shook perceptibly. The seer shuffled the deck with deft fingers and then turned over the top six cards in rapid succession. When she had finished, a shocked silence descended upon the three.

'This has to be a trick; a slight of hand,' Doraux thought. And her mind's entreaty to terminate this unpleasant melodrama became strident.

To the last card, the second spread was identical to the first; right down to the order of each card.

This time, Marla could not restrain a small, weak cry which she attempted to hide with weak laughter. This time the psychic did not frown upon her outburst. Her face had gone a bloodless white and her lips had drawn into a tight line. She laid the remaining cards aside and folded her hands to conceal their trembling. She could not, however, keep the quaver from her voice. "It would seem that this is your intended arrangement of cards. Despite my reservations, I cannot impose my bias upon your fortune. If you wish to discontinue this reading, I would understand."

"I'm here now, so let's just read the damned cards and be done with it," Islena snapped, becoming impatient with all of the theatrics. She was suddenly furious; angry with Marla for having dragged her here and even angrier with herself for agreeing to come. Instead of an indignant reply, Dominique eyes found Islena's. There was naked fear in those blue depths, a fear that rapidly quelled Izzy's mounting anger.

"Please, what is it that you see?" Islena prompted more gently this time.

Dominique drew a breath and tried to find some way to regain her usual composure. To some degree she succeeded, but could not shake the sense that something ineffably terrible was about to descend upon the room. "Very well, the cards insist that this reading be given and so it shall, but I must forewarn you that this pattern is most disturbing. It would not be an exaggeration to label this configuration as ominous."

Islena nodded and gestured for her to proceed. Mrs. Normandy exchanged a brief glance with Marla, and then began to explain the implications of the arrangement and though her voice remained professional and dispassionate, only her eyes hinted at the degree to which the revelations contained within the esoteric arrangement filled her with dread.

"The first card represents the questioner and the emotional state in which she presently finds herself. Most appropriately, your card is one of strength. It is a reflection of your character; courage, energy, conviction and physical strength. These are the defining characteristics that have become measures of your personality. You are a formidable woman who can face and surmount great obstacles."

Mrs. Normandy paused to allow Islena a moment to reflect on the fundamental truth of this. With a tentative quiver, Dominique laid a finger on the second card. It was entitled The Devil, and depicted a horned demon, sitting atop a stone block, encircled by a curtain of raging fire. "This second card crosses the questioner and indicates the obstacles that may lie ahead of you. I don't think I need explain that this is a card of extreme ill-fortune. It is a portent of violence and ubiquitous chaos, implying that the face of darkness will fall across your path. Though the specifics are vague, the presence of this card as an obstacle would suggest that some evil force may bring violence against you, perhaps to bend you to its will."

The psychic shuddered and then flipped the card face down as though she could no longer suffer the sight of it. She turned her attention to the card at the top of the circle. "This card located at the head of the questioner indicates the ultimate destiny that the questioner can expect. In light of the power of the first two cards, your own physical and spiritual strength in opposition to the imposing obstacles which await you, it is not surprising that this card would appear. It predicts that a catastrophic upheaval or confrontation lies ahead of you. Regardless of the eventual outcome of your impending struggle, you may face misery and adversity enough to test the mettle of the most valiant of hearts."

Mrs. Normandy lapsed into a contemplative silence, trying to collect her thoughts. Peering into Islena's lovely green eyes, the seer realized that the woman did not grasp the grave implications of this arrangement. She still regarded the tarot as nothing more than a mildly amusing diversion. Suffused by the cold electricity of her own stark terror, Dominique wished that she could occasionally be granted the hollow luxury of skepticism. Never, since she had first discovered her gift of divination, had she witnessed such an intense aura of predestination...of destiny manifest on a truly epic scale and a collision of fates the magnitude of which could well alter the course of history. About this woman, there burned a blinding corona of light but the seer feared that the solid walls of pragmatism would defeat her best efforts to make Islena accept the gravity of this grim spread of cards.

Islena only continued to watch her evenly, giving no sign of either concern or comprehension. The seer fetched a tremulous sigh and forged ahead. "The forth card represents the distant past foundations upon which the present has been constructed. This card, The Lovers, is rather perplexing in association with the others. It suggests that your life has been shaped and profoundly influenced by an intense and harmonious love in your distant past. It will provide you with a source of security and fortitude from which you will draw strength to confront the adversity that stands before you."

Islena recalled the pale blue eyes of the achingly familiar stranger but she shook her head in an unconscious gesture of denial.

Perceptive as always, the seer noticed Doraux's quizzical reaction and inquired, "Does this have special association for you?"

"No!" Islena replied adamantly. She had no desire to recount her morning episode with this woman. For her part, Dominique was not deceived, but again elected not to press the issue...at least, not for the time being. "The Chariot speaks of the environment in which you currently find yourself. The Chariot is a card of turmoil and complexity. In this spread, we see that your present life is in transition, possibly even disarray. It is possible that a deep-seated conflict has reached a climax between yourself and one who is close to you?"

There was an interrogative aspect to the tarot woman's statement and Islena nodded her head in affirmation. Thinking of her previous night's verbal warfare with Ben, she averted her gaze to her slightly trembling hands. The seer allowed herself a small, satisfied smile. "In conjunction with the severity of the other cards, the Chariot may foretell of a journey, no, perhaps a flight would be more precise...a flight from chaos or perhaps an intolerable reality. This sixth card is the fabled Hanged Man. This is the card of future influences. In your immediate future there lurks the ugly specter of surrender and renunciation of principles. It is entirely possible that the future direction of your life may force you to abandon your long held convictions and ambitions."

Islena winced as if she had been physically struck. Her head was flooded with notions of abandoning her career and sinking into a morass of quiet despair and mediocrity. Angrily, she vowed, 'Never. I'll never let anyone steal my dreams. Not Ben. Not anyone.'

"What exactly does this mean? This is all very ominous, but in the most nebulous and general context that could mean virtually anything," she asked distantly, suddenly wanting this to be over, wanting to go back to the gym and delve into her work.

"Be patient. There are four more cards yet to be drawn. The cards within this circle are oracular but they are subject to attenuation by the greater ebb and flow of forces of a more universal nature," the tarot reader declared, trying to master her own disquiet in the face of the grim augury contained within the ten card spread arranged before her. From Dominique's perspective, there was nothing nebulous about this vain woman's fortune. The specter of calamity was poised to fall upon her shallow life like a deity's hammer and the subsequent misery and suffering would not be confined to her alone.

Picking up the remainder of the cards from the Major Arcana, Mrs. Normandy laid four cards face down beside the Magick Circle. Turning over the card at the bottom of the column, the seer commenced the final portion of the reading. "This next card evaluates the frame of mind with which the questioner views her present circumstance. In its upright position, The Magician speaks of an indomitable willpower, confidence and strength of character. It is an affirmation of your card at the heart of the Arcana. You are depicted as a woman of nearly limitless fortitude and capability. One need only look at you to know that the two cards have epitomized you with an uncanny accuracy.

Once flipped, the seventh card depicted a crescent moon that shone down upon a treed hill. All of the trees appeared to be dead and conveyed the impression of pervasive desolation and oppressive despair. Large ravens were perched in the upper branches of each tree. The dramatic appearance of this particular card elicited a bitter frown from the seer and even Islena winced despite her purported disbelief. With every card, Doraux's vexation continued to grow. Weren't first fortunes supposed to be benign or optimistic? Sure, there must be the obligatory minor travails thrown in for the sake of dramatic effect, but surely not this gloom and doom scenario. Traces of that irritation echoed clearly in her voice as she snapped, "Is this another apocalyptic card?"

Dominique pointedly ignored the question, trying to wither Islena with a sober glance. "This card is a measure of the way in which the questioner will influence or be influenced by the environment around them. In this position, the card admonishes against future betrayal from one who will employ friendship and trust as instruments with which to deceive you. Never forget that the smiling tiger may still bite, Islena."

Without awaiting further comment, the seer turned over the ninth and next to last card in the spread. Marla virtually whimpered and Islena barely suppressed the urge to respond in kind. She needed no interpretation for this card. Death could be nothing other than the harbinger of ill-tidings. Mrs. Normandy laid the card flat with a petulant snap and she snatched her hand away from the card as if it was capable of visiting evil upon her like a virulent plague. She desperately wanted to call a halt to this reading, but knew that cessation would be of no value. Processes had been set in motion and could not be halted by wishful thinking. Still, it would be so good if this self-possessed shrew would simply go taking her aura of despair and apocalyptic fatalism with her. These cards virtually thrummed with a cold electricity of titanic destiny that stung the seer at the touch. She had tried to suppress her dismay at the surfacing of the exact same spread. A second shuffle might have produced a similar portrait of the questioner, but not an exact duplication. It was as though an unknown entity had imposed its will upon the cards...shaping their arrangement for its own insidious motives...esoteric motives that were focused upon the woman now sitting across the table from Dominique, though the psychic doubted that Islena possessed the perceptiveness to discern the aura of disaster hovering around her. The cards presented an irrefutable proof of sorts, but the woman's eyes were closed to their warning. Dominique could sense the vague outline of approaching calamity, but not its precise form or specific intention.

For her part, Islena's oblivious countenance was a mere façade and she stared fixedly at the death card, its stark image burned itself into the fabric of her mind's eye. The skeletal reaper stood over a barren hell. Holding a sickle, cloaked in the rotting vestments of the grave, the thing beamed a hollow grin as a serpent twined its way through its empty eye sockets, as if the artist had personified the full spectrum of despair and utter futility in one horrific image.

'You don't really believe any of this, do you Islena?' she chastised herself. 'Whatever the cards say, you simply will not believe any of this nonsense.' Yet, when she spoke, unequivocal acceptance echoed in the tense strains of her own voice. "Tell me."

With Marla's rapid breathing serving as punctuation, Mrs. Normandy elaborated on the role and the implications of the ninth card. "This card attempts to divine the emotions that will govern your thoughts and actions as you confront the obstacles defined in the earlier segment of this reading. It is unusual for this particular card to appear in this position. It implies that death will weigh heavily on your state of mind. Its grim siblings, failure and despair, will follow in its shadows. You must steel yourself against the ravages of these predatory emotions."

Islena nodded tightly and glanced to the final card that had yet to be revealed. After a brief hesitation, the seer flipped the card to reveal The Fool. Both Marla and Islena watched expectantly as a quizzical expression spread over the seer's face. "When the tide of fortune reaches its crest, you will stand upon the extreme edge of all possibilities. Within you there exists the seed of Genesis. You may come to fashion a new world, though the nature of that world is lost behind a wall of tangled and unresolved events. Ultimately, you alone will hold the answers to the manner in which your future reaches resolution and closure."

Dominique turned her attention to the final card, the clouds of confusion still distorting her features. Islena stole a brief glance at Marla, whose full, placid features were contorted and apoplectic. She seemed distraught beyond all reason as if the cards had just passed an incontrovertible death sentence on all of them. Islena regarded her questioningly, but Marla only averted her teary eyes to her hands.

It became evident that Mrs. Normandy expected Islena to react in some way and just wanting this ludicrous interlude to be over, she said, "So this fortune implies that my personal goals will never be met. I mean, I'm never going to achieve the success I dream of in my sport?"

Surprisingly, the Tarot woman began to laugh then.... a biting, derisive laughter that grated on Doraux like nails on slate. "Are you really so blind or self-absorbed that you are incapable of seeing beyond the narrow limits of your own self-interest? Do you actually believe that the dire portents foretold by these cards are merely a judgment of your childish vanity play? Can you truly be that obtuse?"

Islena recoiled as if she had been physically struck. Mrs. Normandy's recrimination had been painfully close to Ben's. Feeling her own anger begin to boil like lava, she demanded, "What the hell do you mean by that?"

The seer watched as an obdurate glint of anger crept into Islena's gaze like the drawing of a shade that would preclude all rational argument. It was imperative that she make this woman see the potential danger that awaited her, though her intransigent nature would make that task extremely difficult. The woman's intransigence made Dominique feel inadequate and helpless. Groping for the proper words, she set about the formidable task of tearing down Islena's walls of disbelief. "Islena you must make an effort to realize that these cards care little about your aspirations, nor your personal goals and motives. If they had dealt with your career this arrangement would have been considerably more benign."

She paused and leaned closer, as if proximity could help convey her own sense of exigency. She became cognizant of the thickening of tension that enveloped the three. It was not difficult to imagine that there were unseen legions of ears and eyes trained upon the trio, hanging breathlessly upon every word. The seer shivered and forged ahead.

"Islena your fortune is not nearly as mundane as that. It intimates that you may soon be the target of a pernicious and relentless evil that will seek to bend you to its own will. It will achieve this through coercion or deception at first, but will seek to break you by whatever means are necessary. There is a certain power residing within you. It is dormant for the most part, but I don't need the cards to show me that it is there. Something is going to subvert that strength and turn it against you. If you refuse to heed this dire warning, you risk the corruption of everything that you hold sacred," The seer abruptly fell silent, her impassioned plea having drained her and left her on the tottering edge of hysteria. Sensing that impending loss of control and fearing the direction this fiasco would take should she allow herself to be subjected to it Islena rose from her chair and readied to leave.

"No! You dare not be so arrogant as to turn your back on this warning," the seer rasped, rising to prevent the other's departure.

She waved her arms about in a wild gesture of encompassment. "Can you not feel its presence in this room? Do you not feel its foul breath upon your skin? A sentient force has controlled the cards. It is mocking you with your own impending failure. Only a fool could disregard from such an overt threat."

Doraux shook her head in slow negation. Deliberately, emphatically, she shunned her own misgivings and declared flatly, "I see that it's time for me to leave. Thank you, Mrs. Normandy. It's been an...experience."

With the last sentiment still hanging in the air like an acrid mist, Islena turned to leave. Dominique faltered. This woman clearly did not intend to heed the tarot's admonition. The walls of her prejudice and the boundaries of her belief were iron clad. It was incumbent upon the seer to surmount those barriers and force her to feel the full weight of the warning which the cards had conveyed. There was a way, though it was particularly brutal and could indelibly traumatize both women. When she had first touched Islena, there had been a powerful reaction. Islena had felt it as well and had been frightened by the experience. Perhaps an encore would make this damnably stubborn woman a little more pliable. Ignoring her own fears, Dominique reached across the table and caught the other woman by the wrists in a grip made powerful by desperation.

Deciding that the seer's thin veneer of sanity had worn away, Doraux had dismissed the woman as a lunatic and had turned away. The woman's lunge across the table caught her completely off guard. Eyes wide, she turned back to the older woman, enraged by the presumption of physical contact. Upon seeing the psychic's expression, that anger rapidly turned to alarm. Horrified by the speed with which this seemingly casual meeting had turned sour, Marla raised one hand to her mouth and started to back in the direction of the door. Islena try to pull away and cried, "Have you lost your mind? Let go of me."

She tried to disengage herself from the woman's grip, but although she was infinitely stronger, the psychic's hands held her fast as if they were steel manacles. Islena began to tug ineffectually, but Dominique's body had grown as rigid as stone. Abruptly, Doraux's struggles ceased as the psychic's thoughts became entangled with her own in a violent explosion of images and sounds.

The room vanished into darkness as Islena's eyes rolled backward and her head lolled back on her shoulders to reveal a throat that worked frantically. Both women were swept away by a series of convulsive shudders. Marla uttered a confused screech of terror as the two women stood locked together like belligerent statues. She could almost hear the thunder as the seer absorbed her friend's sequestered memories and emotions and reflected them back at the younger woman with a magnified clarity and intensity that threatened to unhinge Islena's sanity.

The unremitting barrage dwarfed each woman, exceeding their capacities to absorb and assimilate the terrible collage of sensations and sounds that beat frantically at the fabric of their frazzled minds. Terror-stricken, each gazed on helplessly as a lumbering juggernaut ran rampant through a landscape washed crimson by free-flowing blood. The giant's eyes glowed cold, malignant green and threw off waves of destructive energy which leveled mammoth trees and reduced stone to dust. It stamped mindlessly down on the hordes of terrified people who fled before it and the air reeked with the cloying stench of freshly-expended life.

Above the cries of death, torment and unheeded entreaties for mercy, came the satisfied roll of a rich, throaty laughter. Poised on the shoulder of the giant there stood a shadow figure, who derived immense pleasure from this spectacle of wanton destruction.

Through the carnage, a single figure bravely strode forth to challenge this colossus of destruction. His approach caused the shadow figure to fall to hysterical gales of derisive laughter. At a signal, the giant bent down and clutched the man in its massive fists. It then stood erect and drew him closer to its emerald eyes. The shadow figure taunted the captive, mocking him in his futile struggle. For his part, he refused to acknowledge the tormentor, instead staring stubbornly at the emerald-eyed behemoth and upon his face reflected an entire range of emotions...despair, betrayal, torment, disillusionment and most perplexing of all, recognition.

From the depths of her stone-like trance, Islena recoiled before the sight of those eyes...his eyes, pale blue and disturbingly familiar. They were the eyes of the man whom she had glimpsed through the portal. Marla had unconsciously backed herself into a corner, where she cowered against the wall and whimpered in a steady stream. She actually flinched when Islena forced her mouth opened and howled, "No! You don't dare. You don't."

Marla's instinctive concern for her friend surmounted her terror and forced her to move towards the pair. As she extended her hand towards Doraux, a brilliant green flash leapt from Islena's eyes and flung the muscular black woman across the room like chaff before a driving wind. She crashed into the wall with a meaty thud, her knees unhinged and she slid groggily to the carpeted floor. As she peered up through the fog of her pain and confusion, Marla realized that the two women were enveloped in a luminous green bubble. Mrs. Normandy had been correct...some unseen force had invaded the room...a malign presence that had some insidious design on Islena Doraux.

Stricken by her friend's torment and her own impotence, Marla lowered her head to her arms and began to cry.

At the direction of the shadowy figure, the behemoth closed its fist around the tiny figure. There followed faint echoes of a muffled scream and then blood began to run in rivers through the clutched fingers. Islena laid back her head and began to howl wretchedly.

As a counterpoint to her agony came the infuriating sound of laughter. Bulging with the maddening need to retaliate, Islena attempted to focus her eyes upon the silhouette. Her ears were scathed by a piercing shriek and then the vision dissolved into bloody fragments. She blinked to feel herself being propelled across the seer's parlor.

She hit the wall some five feet from the spot where Marla had fallen, but she managed to retain her balance, dimly aware that the seer had toppled to the floor behind the desk. She lay babbling, like a woman stricken by a raging fever. Islena glanced down at Marla, who appeared unwilling or unable to meet her gaze.

"Jesus," she muttered shakily, with the image of rich life's blood still fresh in her mind. Grabbing the leg of the anchored table, the Tarot woman pulled herself upright and though she managed to regain her feet, Dominique was forced to lean on the table to prevent collapsing. Her normally unflappable composure had deserted her completely. In a high, tremulous voice, she wailed, "It's you! The threat I've perceived since you first walked in, it's not a threat to you. I've seen that clearly. It burns in your flesh like an infection. You pose a threat to everyone around you...everything!"

Islena stood motionless and stared in open bewilderment as the woman continued her tirade. Marla hoisted herself to her feet and imposed herself between the two women as if to shield her friend from the oracle's lunatic accusations.

Mrs. Normandy came around the desk, barking her shin on the corner of the unyielding desk. The impact produced a muffled thud, but she appeared oblivious to the pain.

'She'll feel that tomorrow,' Islena thought absently. The entire episode had assumed the disjointed air of a confused dream. It occurred to her that she might still be dozing fitfully on the office couch and that Mrs. Normandy was nothing more than a fraught tormentor conjured by an over-burdened mind. The woman's eyes blazed with a lunatic gleam that reminded Islena of religious zealot's unseeing gaze...the kind of fanatic who pilots car bombs in the name of a loving God.

"Stay away from me," Doraux cautioned tightly, raising her hands defensively.

The seer stopped, her eyes settling upon Islena's face like a physical touch. "There are forces in motion that are beyond your ability to comprehend and they will destroy you if you should be so arrogant as to ignore them. Blindness will only augment their strength. You must arm yourself against this menace."

Reaching out, she again took a hold of Islena's right forearm. The younger woman flinched. Her natural abhorrence to unsolicited physical touch was augmented by the reptilian quality of the woman's touch. Grunting, she pulled her arm away with a savage jerk that caused the older woman to stumble.

"Don't touch me, you lunatic!" Islena bellowed, now within close proximity of losing her composure.

"Please Mrs. Normandy, that's enough now," Marla pleaded in a low miserable voice as she began to shepherd her friend in the general direction of the door. The old woman turned her eyes on Holmes. "Stay away from her, Marla. If she will not heed this warning, you risk being consumed by the maelstrom that will soon claim her."

Marla shook her head and moaned softly in negation as tears of indecision glistened in her amber eyes. Even through her anger and resentment, Islena could sense that Marla was petrified by what had transpired. Marla had clearly succumbed to the tarot woman's carnie histrionics and now shared the madwoman's conviction that the shadow of imminent disaster was now poised to fall upon Islena. She found herself suddenly furious with her long-time friend. With a shiver of disgust, she turned her back on the pair and stormed towards the door.

"Your disbelief will be expensive," Mrs. Normandy called from over her shoulder. Looking about desperately, she moved to the table and swept up the Tarot cards and then pursued Islena into the outer office. She intercepted Doraux at the door and thrust the cards into her face. "These have forewarned of an imminent evil. Should you eschew that warning the toll of suffering will be immeasurable. You can't deny what your own subconscious has declared to be the incontrovertible truth."

"Fuck the cards!" Islena spat venomously. She swung her left hand in a savage arc, striking Normandy's left hand and sending the cards spraying in every direction. For the second time in as many days, Islena came within a fraction of striking another person. Part of her, the part that was not in the thrall of her fury, was shocked and distressed by how quickly she appeared willing to resort to physical violence. As had happened the previous night, her anger quickly dissipated. Turning on unsteady legs, she virtually fled into the afternoon sunshine where she stood on the walk breathing heavily like a woman who had just struggled up from deep water.

The seer would still not be deterred. She followed the younger woman out onto the front porch. "Go, if your damnable vanity says that you must. You will be back! When the shadow falls over you, you will come back and beg for my council."

The urbane voice had risen to a shrill cackle that drilled into Islena's skull like a driven nail and she was seized by the compulsion to clamp her hands over her ears to block out the awful sound. She ran to the Cobra, ducked in and slammed the door behind her, abruptly cutting off the tirade.

She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply in an attempt to calm her jangled nerves. Eventually, she glanced back to the porch. Marla stood with both hands on the other woman's shoulders, engaged in an intense, animated conversation with Dominique Normandy. After a few moments, the old woman began to nod dejectedly, in evident agreement with whatever Marla might have been telling her. Watching the pair, Islena was suffused by a profound anger towards her friend. This whole lamentable incident suddenly assumed a conspiratorial cast, causing Islena to again wonder why her friend had insisted she come to this madwoman.

Even as she sat smoldering with anger, a few salient truths filtered through the occluding fog of fury. She was frightened. Beneath her superficial rage and indignation, Islena Doraux was terrified of the cryptic portents revealed by the tarot cards.

More unnerving still was the instinctive certainty that Mrs. Normandy had been correct. She would be back.

Chapter Five

1

The ride back to the gym was fraught with a painful tension that had never previously existed between the two women. Marla maneuvered the Cobra through the heavy traffic, occasionally stealing furtive glances over at her brooding passenger. For her part, Islena stared fixedly through the window, not trusting herself to speak. She appeared a rigid as a coiled spring as though her anger was gradually transmogrifying her into stone. Marla desperately wanted to brooch the subject of the reading, but rightly surmised that Islena's present state of mind precluded any possibility of rational discussion of the reading. In the years that she had known Islena, Marla had never seen her friend so openly livid. Irrespective of the consequences, Marla would have to devise some way of drawing Islena into a frank discussion of what had transpired during the reading. Marla had to find a way to make her friend confront the grave implications of the reading. From the first instant that the cards had been spread, Marla had been assailed by a presage of apocalyptic suffering and destruction. She also had sensed the approach of an undefined personal peril. As forbidding as the task would prove to be, she had to make Islena cognizant of this menace but damnit, the woman could be as obstinate as a mule when she saw fit. Marla had seen that particular flinty glint in those lovely green eyes and understood its implicit warning...talk all that you wish, but I've made up my mind and this issue is closed.

When she was so inclined, Marla knew that Islena could erect barriers that were all but insurmountable. This time these barriers might well collapse and crush her beneath the rubble of her own inflexibility.

Islena was oblivious to Marla's inner turmoil. Her head was afire with a storm of conflicting emotions. Pique with Marla for drawing her into her personal fixation dominated that storm and warred with astonishment over the seer's unbalanced behavior in the face of Islena's cynicism. She also felt a certain degree of self-contempt for allowing herself to be cajoled into such nonsense. She flashed Marla a quick, sour scowl and resumed her study of the passing traffic.

There was another element in all of her emotional turbulence, but she steadfastly refused to admit its presence or ponder its meaning. Yet, despite her best efforts, it tickled at her conscious thought displaying all indications that it would grow into a maddening itch. Like the shadow of a grotesque figure caught from the corner of one's eye, Islena could feel a burgeoning fear wanting to ensnare her in its paralyzing grasp. She had vehemently denounced Mrs. Normandy as a fraudulent lunatic and she had refused to consider the seer's nonsense as if to do so would bestow upon it a sort of legitimacy.

Despite all of her adamant denials, she could not escape the trepidation in the cleft of her heart. More than anything else, it was this growing fear that infuriated Islena. Fear was an irrational and weak emotion and she despised the part of herself that allowed it to gain any leverage over her thoughts. She was a self-affirmed pragmatist...a woman of concrete and fluorescent lighting, who regarded anomalies such as Mrs. Normandy as the final vestiges of a dark age...an age that had sickened during the age of enlightenment and would die with the progress of the technological age.

People could not foretell the future because the future was a liquid and dynamic commodity. Tarot cards were childish diversions designed for the amusement and exploitation of the weak-willed, who served as an endless source of fodder for remorseless victimizers who preyed on the pathetic fantasies of the chronically delusional. Whatever else she might be, Islena prided herself that she was not susceptible to such silly cons.

Still, she could not allay that atavistic fear. The seer had touched a sensitive spot, exposed something that both appalled and frightened Islena. She had only to close her eyes to conjure the image of the rampaging juggernaut and its shadow-veiled master. Somewhere, deep in the recesses of her subconscious there dwelt a concise explanation for the things that had and were still occurring. She need only dig through the clay of her memory to unearth these arcana in all their dreadful detail. Oh God, but she didn't want to because should she choose to exhume those spectral memories, Islena feared that her life would be irreversibly altered.

'Damn you Marla, why couldn't you leave well enough alone,' she thought petulantly. That was unfair of course. Marla had in no way been responsible for this morning's debacle, but Doraux seemed to need a target upon whom to vent her anger. Almost as if she had read the sentiment, Marla whispered, "Oh Izzy, I'm so sorry. I never thought that anything like this would happen. I just wanted you to...to"

"Really Marla, just what was it that you were thinking when you dragged me to this madwoman? I think that I've got enough practical problems without being subjected to gloom and doom predictions from a carnival seer." Doraux was surprised by the depth of the rancor in her rebuke, but felt powerless to prevent its release.

Marla's face crumpled and her hands began to shake upon the wheel. Dismayed, Islena could see the other woman's throat begin to work, as tears began to course over her coffee-color cheeks in a steady flow.

"Oh listen Marla, I didn't mean to..." Doraux offered, alarmed by Marla's tears. For all of her immense physical strength, Marla Holmes was an overtly emotional, sensitive woman who could not easily mask her thoughts or feelings. This heart-on-her-sleeve approach to life often left her to be easily bruised. Islena felt a momentary shame at preying upon her friend's weakness. Marla waved off the apology. Without explanation, she pulled into a quiet side street and parked the vehicle until she could recover a measure of composure.

Marla covered her face with both hands, wiped tears from her face and inhaled deeply. Then she turned to face her friend and only then did the full extent of Marla's dismay become obvious. Her lips were a thin white slash of tension and her eyes appeared haunted, too large for their sockets. "I didn't mean for this to happen. I'll be damned if I know why I made you come along to Mrs. Normandy's. Before this morning, the thought hadn't even crossed my mind, knowing how you feel about the paranormal. This morning I saw you, and the way that you looked, and the idea simply popped into my head. One moment I was concerned about your fall and the next instant I was trying to convince you to set up a Tarot reading. Seeing you lying on the ground in a disoriented stupor, it suddenly became imperative that you see her as quickly as possible. I can produce no rational explanation for how or why I reached the conclusion that your collapse made it critical that you consult Mrs. Normandy, but the notion was so strong...so intense that it was nearly painful to endure."

Islena sighed, her irritation melting like ice. Marla did seem genuinely perplexed by her own actions. It was impossible to remain angry in the face of honest concern, even if it had been misguided. "It's all right Marla. It was certainly an experience. Let's just forget it okay?"

Unexpectedly, Marla stiffened, jerking upright as if she'd been stricken. "No, Izzy!" she exclaimed. There was an impassioned and desperate edge to her voice that startled Islena. "You can't just forget it. That would be a horrible mistake and that's not what I meant at all. The things that Mrs. Normandy warned you about are very real. The atmosphere in that room was poisonous...vile. When she touched you...something happened....something ineffably horrible. That was the term Dominique used."

"I didn't feel anything," Islena retorted hotly, not entirely certain what motivated her to offer a denial that was such a blatantly obvious lie.

Marla could feel her heart sink in the face of Doraux's obstinate denial. She had never tested the limit of her friend's patience before. When you encountered a stone wall with Islena it was prudent to turn back or find another way around the barrier. Although one of the dearest and most precious women Marla had ever met, there was a core of obduracy within Islena's heart...a core that was invulnerable to anything but her own reasoning and sensibilities. It could not be bent and it would make no accommodations or compromises.

Marla was perceptive enough to realize that any attempt to surmount or overwhelm Islena's defensive barrier would be met with tenacious resistance. Over the years, Marla had learned to detect these barriers and steer well clear of them. Such intransigence was not an especially endearing characteristic, but she was incisive enough to deduce that it was this unyielding obstinacy upon which Islena had perhaps unknowingly constructed the foundations of her identity. Fortunately, that intractability only came to the surface on rare occasions.

Now, that peculiar flinty expression had stolen across her face like a thundercloud, effacing her normal ebullience. When her lovely green eyes glazed in that particular manner, she appeared sullen and inaccessible. Marla realized that an open confrontation could cause irreparable damage to their relationship, but exigency prompted her to take the risk. "You did feel something. When Mrs. Normandy touched you arm, you reacted as if you'd brushed a live wire. The both of you did. You shared a vision and it terrified both of you."

Still clinging to denial, Islena shook her head in negation. "Nothing terrified me, Marla. That woman touched me. Do you understand...she touched me? You know how I feel about being touched by strangers...It's always repelled me...made me feel violated and jumpy. That's the only reason that I reacted like I did."

Marla scowled dubiously and shook her head slightly, but understood that this approach would yield nothing and so she switched tactics. "Fine, if that's what you say than I'll have to accept that. You can't deny that the seer reacted. Touching you nearly caused her to jump out of her skin. For a minute there, I was afraid the woman was going having a coronary. And the things that she knew about you, how could she possibly have known those things?"

She fixed Marla with a sly, derisive grin. "It isn't possible that you may have mentioned something about me...is it Marla?"

Marla faltered and lowered her gaze to her hands which were folded primly upon her lap. Doraux nodded sourly. "I thought as much."

"I doubt that you'll believe me, but I never mentioned any of those things," she protested weakly. "Hell, she told you things that I didn't even know."

"She told me things that would easily have been found out, Marla."

"That's crazy, not to mention more than just a little paranoid. She had no prior notice that you were coming this morning. Why would she go to such elaborate lengths to put on a show for your benefit?" Marla countered immediately. She was beginning to lose her temper and understood just how detrimental this would be to any hope of bringing Islena around. Izzy was going to absurd lengths to avoid admitting that Mrs. Normandy's insights had been genuine examples of clairvoyance. Why? Simple enough...Doraux was frightened for reasons that she refused to divulge.

The smaller woman flushed with anger. The resentment over this fiasco was bad enough, but this further insistence that she lend any credence to the seer's raving was infuriating. "Marla, I've tolerated your ridiculous fixation with this Occult gibberish for years, though how or why you can't see through this nonsense is beyond me. If you feel that you must put your faith in that woman, who is either a lunatic or a charlatan if not both, that is your concern. I warn you now; you're jeopardizing our friendship if you keep trying to force these beliefs upon me. If you value that friendship, you'll drop this subject now and forever. Do you understand?"

Marla winced at the unflinching absolute in her voice. Islena's hard, stern set left no doubt that the woman was sincere and that she would brook no further discussion. Marla averted her eyes to the street. The pools of sunlight seemed unaccountably dull and listless. In a strained, tear-choked voice, she whispered, "All right Izzy, if that's the way that you want it."

"That's the way that I want it," Doraux growled, privately relieved that Marla had desisted. "Now let's get going. We have a business to run."

Marla nodded, still unable to look the other woman in the eye. She put the car into gear, pulled into traffic and headed back towards the gym.

'You're a coward,' she lashed herself with the three words like a flail, feeling miserable and inadequate.

2

The deer picked its way out of the underbrush and onto the white-baked asphalt surface of Highway 101. Traffic along this particular stretch, between Neilton and a small town with the unlikely name of Humptulips, was at a dearth. The deer crossed to the center of the highway and stood straddling the white line where it raised its muzzle and sniffed at the air. For all appearances it was an ordinary deer that would most probably bolt at the first hint of an approaching vehicle. Only the bluish tint that glazed its soft and placid brown eyes, gave any indication that this was an extraordinary creature. Even its stance was not that of an animal poised on the edge of panic and flight.

It inclined its head to one side as if compelled by a specific sense of purpose...a cognizance that went far beyond the faculties of mere animal instinct.

Its posture suggested that it was listening...waiting.

Since its metamorphosis in the pit, the deer had traveled directly south, through the heart of Olympic National Park. It had stopped for neither food nor sleep, instead running incessantly through the difficult terrain. Its transformation had led to a sort of an apotheosis, raising it far above the bounds of its normal physical restrictions and it had become both indefatigable and fearless. It would continue moving forward until its purpose had been served.

Standing in the early afternoon sunshine, it listened intently for direction. The soft sigh of the wind stole through the trees like a secret spirit. There, couched in that velvety whisper, the deer could hear the voice of its master. It listened and then nodded its head twice, as if to indicate its understanding. Swiftly, the small creature scurried back into the underbrush and settled down to wait.

Sooooon, the wind had promised. Soon. The sibilant whisper repeated itself over and over again, seductive and soothing. The deer tossed its head responsively. It appeared to be smiling.

3

By the time that they had reached the Gym, Islena had regained some of her equilibrium. Her vexation with Marla had turned to mild guilt over her abruptness with her friend. For her part, Marla had withdrawn into a sullen silence. Still, Islena felt that her friend had to be made to see that her views were best kept to herself, not to mention her eccentric obsessions. Hopefully that much would come of this sorry episode.

Later, perhaps before she left for the day, she would take Marla aside and apologize for being curt. The apology would be accompanied by a gentle, yet firm, suggestion that this matter be forever closed between them. Though she tried to ignore it, Islena was plagued by a deep and irrepressible itch demanding her attention. She fought to stave it off, to preoccupy her thoughts with other things, knowing that it would prompt the questions and excruciating self-analysis that she so badly wanted to avoid. Ferociously, she shut it out, compartmentalizing it until she was better prepared to deal with what she had seen and felt when the seer had touched her.

'And just what did you see, Islena?' She winced. Her traitorous subconscious would just not let the matter rest. Savagely, she resisted the urge to submit to the question.

'Something scared the hell out of you,' this time it was Marla, her tone fraught with reproach. Had she been scared? No, not precisely scared, but certainly a little apprehensive. 'And just why am I thinking about this anyway?' Leaving Marla at the central reception desk, Islena moved out onto the main floor.

The building was divided into three main sections. The main floor housed most of the free weights and machines. The west wall of the weight area was lined with full length mirrors. Twelve benches had been bolted to the floor directly in front of the mirrors. Islena was privately pleased to note that every bench was occupied even during what was traditionally the slowest period of the day. The building was a converted warehouse which had provided a wealth of floor space; an attractive commodity for any good facility.

Though she employed a full compliment of floor instructors, Doraux liked to spend a good portion of each day circulating amongst the members, offering assistance where she could. There was a certain intangible, indescribable comfort that she derived from the ambiance of this place that she had been selected to manage. She loved the aromatic blend of perspiration and chalk dust. A friend of hers, Cynthia Gillan, had once described it as the collective smell of vanity and ego. Cynthia was a striking beauty in the conventional sense...feminine and curvaceous. She viewed muscle mania as egomaniacal nonsense, especially where women were concerned. Islena had suffered that particular comment without reply and though she and Cynthia had remained friends, the remark had opened an unbreechable gulf between the pair.

Islena had grown indifferent to the shallow perception that the training regimen was motivated by vanity. As she listened to the resounding clang of metal on metal or watched members struggle valiantly for that extra rep, Doraux discerned a commitment that transcended simple vanity...a desire to overcome limits and boundaries that often shackled people in the bonds of mediocrity...to find in themselves the wherewithal to resist the prevailing urge to surrender to slow decay. How often had she witnessed flabby, dispirited people step through these doors in search of some kind of deliverance? Beneath the lethargy and self-contempt existed a real person waiting to be released from the trap of their own excesses and insecurities.

It was precisely this kind of client that Islena would take under her wing...slowly working them through programs and nurturing their confidence. One need only follow one such transformation to its culmination to realize this was not the shallow vanity fair that it was perceived to be. These people could look at themselves and feel a quiet pride and confidence in what they had achieved. Theirs was a rebirth, not only of the body, but of the mind and spirit as well and their successes contributed to her personal sense of fulfillment.

Near three O'clock, Islena left the floor to her other instructors and returned to her office. She noticed that a pink message slip had been taped to her lamp shade. Ben had called but he had not left any specific message. Islena sighed and crumpled the slip into a ball, then threw it into the trash basket. She considered returning the call but decided against it. There would be plenty of time for facing the realities of her dreary marital union tonight.

Instead, she delved into the ledgers, spending the next forty minutes going over the gym books and detailing chores for the night cleaning crew. Submerging herself in the minutiae of gym operations always helped her to regain a sense of perspective. That persistent itch was still lurking, but Islena had succeeded in subjugating it to tolerable levels, knowing that the moment would inevitably come when she would have to give it audience...but not now...not now.

Paper work completed, Islena changed into her lifting gear and took to the floor. Marla was waiting for her near the front desk and as Izzy approached, Marla offered her a tentative smile. She returned the smile and an expression of pure gratitude flashed across Marla's face.

"Izzy, I'm...I'm sorry about everything," Marla murmured, though her eyes were distant and inscrutable.

Doraux laid a hand upon the other woman's shoulder. "No. I'm the one who's sorry. I had no right to snap at you the way that I did. What do you say that we forget the whole thing? Friends?"

Islena extended her hands with mock solemnity. Marla giggled and pumped the offered hand vigorously. "Friends, girl."

"All right then...what's say we get this battle started?" Marla nodded and the two women set about training. The fainting episode had disrupted their normal split routine. Under normal circumstances, the pair would have trained two separate body parts per day, one early in the morning and the other late in the afternoon. Experts theorized that a shorter, more intense workout would be of greater benefit than a protracted workout involving multiple body parts. To Doraux, it was reasonable to assume that one could work at a higher intensity level for shorter periods. Both women subscribed to a standard training cycle of three days of training and one day of rest.

Strictness of form and intensity were the cornerstones of successful training. Islena matched these requisites like a well-fitted glove. One could almost hear the impact as her will clashed with the forged steel that tried to oppose it. In the murky recesses of her mind, there lived the engine that drove Islena. Proportions changed there. Her perceptions changed, assuming an inclination towards the lunatic. The weight was no longer an indifferent piece of lifeless steel. On her mental battlefield it assumed a vague yet monstrous form. No longer inanimate, it exercised a conscious effort to defeat her, to break and humiliate her. It taunted her, laughed derisively at her weakness and belittled her triumphs. She came to despise her tormentor.

And therein lay the fuel that moved Islena's consuming passion, there in the inviolable inner sanctum of her psyche, where no other living being had been granted access, one dark flower flourished...hatred. She concealed this intrinsic truth. Not out of shame, but because that dark bloom was her secret soul. Every woman carried one, like a morsel of food that a starving woman will horde during a famine, taking it out in the dead hours of a long, sleepless night, examining it with a mixture of awe and dread.

Though she was careful to disguise it, Islena had discovered at a relatively early age, that there was a pocket of frigid coldness deep in the cleft of her heart. She was too pragmatic to dwell on the origins of that coldness. Such a venture invited the opening of an emotional Pandora's Box. As she attacked her chest routine like a woman possessed, Islena wondered if that dark hunger would ever be satiated. It was chilling to think that her success might be based on undirected acrimony and darkness.

Perhaps it was this pocket of darkness that the seer had divined. She imagined that probing into that core might be likened to thrusting one's hand into a nest of writhing snakes.

'If I let this demon rise to the surface, what exactly would I see?' Someone unrecognizable and frightening she supposed.

During her final set of decline presses, she experienced another odd moment of disorientation.

"Kay," she breathed and Marla helped her lift the 225 pound barbell off of the rack. Doraux accepted the weight and lowered it slowly to her breastbone, pausing at the bottom for a fraction of a second to maximize the resistance.

Eyes closed, awareness focused inwards, she was shocked to discover that a pair of disembodied blue eyes had opened in the darkness. Halfway through the up motion, the weight faltered. Marla automatically reached for the bar.

"Don't touch it!" She hissed from between clenched teeth. Marla gaped. Though Islena had not even opened her eyes, she had sensed that her spotter had been about to intervene.

As she struggled, the blue eyes continued to regard her...inscrutable without a face to give them expression. Doraux struggled to ignore them, but found herself mesmerized nonetheless and she could feel her concentration start to falter.

"No Goddamnit. Get out of my head!" she railed soundlessly. Still the placid eyes continued to watch her. With one titanic thrust, the bar rose up to full extension and dropped back to the rack. Desperate for light and sanity, she attempted to open her eyes, but found that she could not. Terrified, she watched as the pale blue eyes deepened to a compelling brown. Islena could feel a scream welling up in her throat, but managed to contain the urge. As quickly as they had appeared, the odd disembodied eyes vanished to the sound of scornful laughter.

"You have peered into the eyes of your enemy," a somber voice informed her, and then her eyes opened to find an anxious Marla looming over her.

Marla could sense that something had gone awry with her friend. Though she had managed to drop the bar back onto the rack, Islena seemed unable to release her grip on the silver steel. Then her eyes sprung open, gazing at Marla with the frantic expression of a woman who is drowning.

"Izzy, Jesus, what's going on?" she whispered discreetly, remembering the morning's chaos. Doraux clutched at invisible hands, eventually grasping one of Marla's muscular forearms. There was no sign of recognition in those green eyes, only a naked, unnerving fear. Her nails dug crescent moons into Marla's flesh and she struggled back towards coherence.

"Come on honey, you're scaring the hell out of me," Marla pleaded, fast approaching panic herself. Then Islena's grip relented and her hand dropped away. Drawing a deep breath, Doraux sprung lithely to her feet. "Are you going to give this a go Marla?" she inquired evenly. "I stiffened up so I think I'll try it again."

Marla searched Doraux's face for some sign of deliberate evasion. There was none to be found.

'My God, she doesn't even know what's happened,' Marla realized. She had read that a person was capable of blocking out traumatic experiences...at least on the conscious level. Something had just happened, that was irrefutable, but Islena seemed entirely oblivious to it. Then the green eyes found Marla's and that impression evaporated. Though unspoken, her expression challenged, 'Go ahead and make an issue of this but I'll never admit to anything.'

Marla, who had already raised Doraux's ire once that day, prudently elected to let it go. They continued their training and to the relief of both, there were no further instances of dislocation.

4

Elbert Watts stared fixedly through the small bullet-proof window, patiently awaiting the moment of intervention that he felt confident was imminent. He displayed a remarkable calm for a man in his acute predicament. In fact, he seemed totally oblivious to the fact that he was now on the first leg of a journey that would ultimately lead him to a Nevada courtroom. Things there would only be a formality and soon he would be riding the lightning courtesy of the Nevada State Penal system.

If asked to chronicle his life over the past three years it would have been unlikely that he could lucidly recall much of the campaign of murder and mayhem that he had orchestrated in that time. There had been a smattering of lucid moments amongst the general fog of disconnection. He could recall, in stereo sound and vivid detail, the first of the killings in his tri-state spree. The sky had been a monochrome cobalt blue over the pissant town of Trago. He had told the old woman to raise her hands and she had complied without thought or hesitation. Something about her sheepish docility had infuriated him and he had given her both barrels of the Remington. Her head had been vaporized in a mist of gore and bone. Hot blood hit the wall behind the counter with a liquid splat.

Seeing her fall, Elbert had felt a surge of joy that approached euphoria. In the spirit of that delirious happiness, he had wasted the first person that he had come upon after stepping through the liquor store doors. The man had been crossing the well-maintained parking lot when the shotgun blast had caught him in the chest, throwing him a full ten feet in the direction from which he had come.

"Have a nice day." Elbert had offered mildly. The dark crimson blood glistened wetly beneath the blue sky of the Nevada desert. The stark contrast between the two colors had inspired a sense of wonder and well-being in Elbert. The drying blood had been an ideogram, promising Watts's infinite reward and protection.

Through the thick fog of madness, Elbert's mind had been cognizant of being directed for some unknowable purpose. He had lit out of Nevada and headed into Northern California without having any specific notion of where he was going or why.

'No worry,' he assured himself. 'It'll come.' If he could be sure of nothing else, he was certain of that.

And indeed it had. With each successive killing, the pictures in the bloody ideogram had begun to resolve themselves. He had killed three people in Altoros. He had left a family of four dead along highway 139, in the Modoc National Forest. The killing spree had continued through the state of Oregon. By the time that Watts had reached the Oregon-Washington border, he had claimed fifteen victims.

In the state of Washington his compulsive desire to kill had mysteriously and abruptly vanished. He had drifted steadily north. As he did, his conviction that he was about to undergo a profound apotheosis grew stronger. There were times when he felt as jittery as a crow on a high voltage wire. Eventually his meandering path drew him into a small town named Quinsett. Something about Quinsett frightened Elbert Watts. He could ascribe no precise form or definition to his fear and that made the terror all the more acute. Instinctively, he had felt that there was something drastically wrong in Quinsett. Even under his invisible protective umbrella, Elbert felt threatened by an old and potent evil.

Irrespective of this fear, Elbert remained in Quinsett doing his best to remain inconspicuous. Time Passed. Elbert waited. Something would happen and three nights ago, his patience was rewarded, though not in the way that he had hoped. The door to his derelict room burst open and in had burst seven of the local's finest. At first, Elbert had felt both frightened and forsaken. In the jailhouse while awaiting extradition, he became convinced that he had been misguided, that his mantle of invulnerability had been illusory. During the night, an angel's voice had come to Elbert, washing over him like the warm waters of a purifying stream. It had detailed its plans for him, promising him glorious remuneration in return for one small sacrifice. What service, he had asked. The specifics would be revealed when the situation required, but until then he could take solace in the knowledge that he was protected.

Three days had passed and now he was in the process of being transferred from Quinsett to Seattle. The certitude of deliverance had sustained Elbert all through the intense questioning and harassment that had seemed as if it would never end. In the end, his interrogators had given up in disgust. Before he had been put into the truck, the chief had provided him with a graphic description of just what he could expect. "When they fry you Elbert, your whole fucking head turns purple; just like a goddamned eggplant. The juice is gonna cook your brains in your fuckin' skull. I just figured that you might like to know that. It gives you something to think about on the ride back to Nevada."

Elbert Watts had just gone on smiling his placid smile and said nothing. There was no real need to be inflammatory. His time of deliverance was coming.

The truck had just passed through the tiny burg of Neilton when the first rain hit. It came out of the south in a near solid wall of wind driven water. Wilbur Radkey, the driver, had worked for the State Correctional Service for the past twenty-seven years. In that time he had been granted the dubious honor of transporting some of the most dangerous and evil men that this state had ever produced. Facing them from his position of superiority, he could honestly proclaim that he had never been intimidated. After all, he was the one with the gun and if any of those sick bastards had tried any of that shit with him, he would have blown their head off and have felt mighty fine for having done it.

Elbert Watts was the one exception.

Though he wouldn't say precisely what, there was something about Elbert Watts that loosened his bowels and turned his bones to jelly. It wasn't that the man was saturated with hatred...Wilbur had seen many cut from that vile cloth. It wasn't that he was more of an extreme lunatic than any of the others. No, it was not precisely either of those facts. Though he lacked the means to articulate his disquiet, Wilbur viewed this Watts as a concrete projection of some greater, more abstract evil. He imagined that he could feel the man's reptilian gaze upon his neck while he drove. Watts conveyed the impression of a monster that could not be restrained by steel plating and could not be repelled by mere bullets.

All in all, Radkey couldn't wait to deliver this bastard to Seattle and be shut of him. As if to exacerbate his discomfiture, a sudden rain broke across the highway like a blanket. Wilbur winced and flipped the wipers onto high. They beat out a monotonous tattoo, trying to repel the driving rain. As frantic as they beat, driving visibility was now reduced to less than one hundred feet.

Beside him Ron Matlin droned on and on, in his shrill, insistent tone. "Wilbur, I'll tell ya'. The hooters on that broad. Jesus man, they were as big and firm as melons. And the ass! Christ I can't even talk about the ass without gettin' hard."

Radkey sighed wearily and muttered beneath his breath. Matlin didn't seem to notice and went on with his narrative. In the rear, Elbert Watts' face split into a snake's grin. He had just experienced a moment of connection, a plugging in to an invisible field of immense energy. It would be soon. The air thickened until his lungs labored like over-taxed engines just to draw a breath.

Squinting through the downpour, Radkey could feel the rapid onset of a pounding headache. Stealing a quick glance down at his forearms, he realized that his flesh had risen into great hackles. He too had become attuned to the sense of gathering menace, readying to pounce upon him like a giant cat. He attributed the feeling to the pain in his head and the treacherous weather.

His peripheral vision detected a flash of movement from the tree line. He turned to his left just in time to see a small shape dart over the shoulder and up onto the pavement.

Feeling a muffled groan rise to his throat, Radkey instinctively wrenched the wheel hard to the right. As he did this, he understood that he had made a critical error. Matlin broke off his monologue, his face twisting into a comical mask of terror. The usually perfect traction of the vehicle took a vacation at the most inopportune of moments. The truck made a B line for the opposite side of the highway. Debilitated by panic, Radkey turned the wheel hard to the right and over went the truck in reaction to the pull of conflicting forces. Now on its side, the truck skidded along the wet pavement, raising sparks in a vermillion shower.

Wilbur was pitched forward onto the steering wheel and then into the shatterproof windshield. For his disdain of seatbelts, he was awarded with a mercifully quick death. The steering column crushed his ribcage and mashed his organs, spewing blood from his mouth in a crimson jet.

Ron was stunned when the now dead Radkey rebounded into him. Their skulls clashed with a meaty thunk. Matlin's vision glazed red as a wave of blood streamed down his face in sheets. Then the world swam out of focus and he passed into the lightless void.

The truck gradually began to lose momentum, but not until it had skidded from the road and into the drainage ditch. There was one final tortured scream as the metal crumpled against the rock outcrop. Then there was only silence except for the gentle fall of the rain. In the rear, Elbert Watts shook his head to clear the effects of the collision. Then he crawled to the front of the vehicle and peered through the mesh which connected the cab to the holding area. Beholding the carnage, Watts burst into a peel of satisfied laughter. The cab had become an abattoir.

Fresh blood covered the dash, the seats and the remains of the shattered wind screen. The things in the front seat were pulped and barely recognizable as humans. Each looked like an abstract done by a sculptor who had more imagination than actual talent.

Still laughing, Watts crawled to the rear doors. His laughter quickly curdled in his throat when he discovered that the doors would not budge an inch. In frustration, Watts threw his shoulder into the door, only to be rewarded by a bolt of white hot pain which sprang along his arm and into his skull.

He backed away from the door and ran his hands through his hair. The first seeds of an incipient panic began to bloom in the pit of his guts.

"You promised," he whined like a petulant child who had just been denied a much-coveted toy. It was so unfair. Had he not done everything that was required of him, without hesitation or personal consideration? Was this how he was to be rewarded...trapped in a metal box with freedom so tantalizingly close that he could taste it? The inequity of it wanted to make him scream until his lungs burst.

"You have not been forsaken," a small voice declared, the dulcet tones immediately calming his agitation. Elbert's heart hitched and he peered about, expecting to come face to face with his protector. He was still alone. His only company was the incessant fall of rain and the rising stench of drying blood.

"Don't leave me here, please," he blubbered, tears beginning to spill down his stubbly cheeks.

A thud, like the fall of a giant's mallet, reverberated through the metal box. Elbert shrieked and whirled back to face the doors. A massive crimp had folded the thick metal. Astounded, Watts gaped in awe at the display of might. He had no desire to contemplate the nature of something that was capable of such destruction. As he continued to watch the door, the gray paint began to blister and run. The exposed metal appeared to liquefy and then crumple under its own weight. Soon the doors had been reduced to a hissing viscous pool.

Immobilized by fear, Watts could only wait for his savoir to be revealed.

A thick, luminescent mass of blue-green jelly covered the opening. In a distorted, liquid trill it announced, "I have come."

Overwhelmed, laughing and crying at once, Watts fell to his knees in supplication. In response, the formless mass fell upon him.

Chapter Six

1

By day's end, Islena had managed to surmount her anxiety. She had managed to work the trick of compartmentalizing the two odd episodes, keeping them bottled up until she felt thoroughly prepared to better examine them. Surprisingly, Marla had not persisted in pressing the issue of her last blackout. For that, she had been genuinely grateful.

When 4:30 came, she dallied about the reception area, issuing orders to the night staff and going over the reservation books. Nearby, Marla was also readying to leave and Islena decided that it would be an apt moment to offer some type of apology for her earlier outburst. Almost sheepish, she moved over to Marla. The black woman looked to her friend questioningly.

"Marla, look...about what happened in the car..." she began, but then faltered into an uncomfortable silence. Apologies had never come easy for Doraux. Unconsciously, she had always interpreted an apology as an admission of weakness and doubt. Marla glanced briefly at her friend and waved away the unspoken words. "It's really all right. Like you said earlier, let's just forget the whole thing."

Not bothering to wait for a reaction, Marla slung her gym bag over her left shoulder and pushed through the doors. Doraux watched her go, rather disconcerted by her friend's uncharacteristic curtness. Walking to the double doors, Islena tracked her movements as she made her way to her car. In the bright afternoon sunlight, Marla appeared preoccupied and strangely scornful, like a solitary cloud in an otherwise perfect sky.

"I really am sorry," she murmured after her and then turned back to the reception desk. When she still had not left some fifteen minutes later, Islena could no longer avoid the admission that she was reluctant to leave and was clutching to any shallow pretext that would delay her departure. Loitering about the gym would only delay the inevitable. Still, the thought of going home caused her stomach to churn in anticipation of the possible discord that awaited her there. On top of all that had happened today, a repetition of last night's hostilities would be insufferable.

'You can't hide here forever,' a little voice observed. That was true and it prompted her to wonder what had happened to the old, resolute Islena, who doggedly confronted her problems head on. She was responsible for skirting her marital decay the way a child would detour around a vicious dog on a leash. Sighing, she retrieved her own gym bag and wearily began the trip home. There were things that had to be said and decisions that could no longer be avoided. Last night's ugly exchange had insured that there could be no return to the status quo in their marriage. She wondered how long it would be before her life regained some of its lost harmony.

With gleeful malice, a traitorous voice predicted that it would be a long time indeed.

2

Marla parked her Cobra in the shadow of a venerable redwood tree that stood opposite Mrs. Normandy's house. After she had left the gym, a strong impulse had compelled her into coming here, though she was not precisely certain why she had succumbed to follow it. She did know that since the divination had taken shape on the seer's table, she had been tormented by the faint beating of dark wings and the acrid stench of charnel pits...the rapid approach of pervasive evil.

This newly awakened percipience warned her that Islena was blindly sailing into perilous straits. As the day had progress, this apocalyptic presage had grown more exigent, casting a shadow of impending disaster over everything around her. As strong as this sense of impending catastrophe proved to be, it remained without form or source. If anyone possessed the ability to pierce this obscuring fog and reveal the exact nature of the peril converging upon Islena, it would be the seer. After the way the morning session had resolved itself, it was inconceivable that she would be able to drag her friend back into the tarot woman's presence. Doraux's intransigence was a stumbling block over or around which there could be no movement, but if she refused to look after her best interests, then she left Marla with no alternative but to take up the gauntlet on her behalf. She loathed being devious, but every instinct declared that inaction would come at a price too exorbitant to contemplate.

Marla opened her door and marched resolutely across the deserted street, pausing at the wrought iron gate. There was something vaguely foreboding about the ornamental dragons that decorated the six foot fence. Despite her one hundred and seventy-five pounds of muscle, Marla suddenly felt very small and woefully incondign. The simple act of mounting the steps and ringing the bell required a monumental exertion of courage and willpower. She had knocked several times and was about to give up and return to her car, when she heard a low, furtive sound issue from the other side of the door. Frowning, she renewed her knocking with more insistence. "Mrs. Normandy, it's Marla Holmes. I can hear you in there and I want you to open this door. We have to discuss this morning's reading."

There was a distinct hesitation, followed by a faint click and the door swung open. The psychic pushed her face through the opening, but her posture clearly indicated that she had no intention of allowing Marla in. "You may have questions, but I have no intention of providing you with answers. The reading was Islena's and only she can request any further interpretation, though she may remain disinclined to do so."

The old woman gave Marla a dismissive nod and began to close the door. Marla's left hand shot out, slapping the wood with the flat of her palm. With a flexing of powerful muscles, she forced the door open and imposed herself into the opening.

"You have no right!" the seer blustered, involuntarily retreating three steps. Marla was able to see the woman clearly for the first time and was shocked and dismayed by what this first glimpse revealed. Her hair suddenly appeared thin and wispy and there were deep lines of anxiety etched into her scowling mask of severity. Ignoring the woman's howl of protest, Marla stepped over the threshold and firmly closed the door behind her.

"I need answers. There's little point in trying to deny that you experienced something when you touched Islena. You also know the woman is just too damned stubborn to ever admit that she shared the same intense experience. So you've got to tell me exactly what it was that you saw. Islena is incredibly stubborn and prone to concealing any feelings that might expose her vulnerability. You insisted that she is in imminent danger, but I require specific details, if for no other reason than to try to protect her," Marla demanded. Her amber eyes were cold and uncompromising. Slowly, the psychic began to wilt before Marla's imposing size and new-found truculence. Marla could see as much and forced the issue. "I'm not leaving here until I'm satisfied that you've told me everything that you know and there really isn't a thing you can do about it, Mrs. Normandy."

The seer offered Marla a baleful glare, but turned and strode off in the direction of the parlor. Marla drew a tremulous breath and followed. Despite a sudden reluctance to learn the specifics of the fate that loomed over Islena, Marla correctly gleaned that she, herself, might easily be consumed in the coming maelstrom.

"All right, if you're determined to entangle yourself in this woman's dark drama, then I'll try to explain some of what I've seen, if only for your own protection." As Marla stepped back into the parlor, she could almost taste the faint residue of the morning's bitter encounter.

In the unforgiving fluorescent light, Mrs. Normandy not only appeared old, she appeared somehow haggard and diminished. The shattering of her mantle of icy composure had shown Marla that she was far from infallible. The divination had extracted a frightful toll on the tarot reader as if, by peering into Islena's inner spirit, Dominique had contracted a virulent infection that was rapidly laying waste to her flesh and bone.

"Tell me...spare no detail," Marla prompted, not wanting to dwell on the disturbing changes in the other woman. The seer considered Marla thoughtfully for several seconds as if trying to gauge her capacity to accept the truth. Her eyes narrowed into speculative slits. "Your feelings for this woman go beyond mere friendship...don't they?"

Marla struggled to maintain guarded neutrality, but saw that there was little point in trying to be evasive. Even without the faculty of clairvoyance, Dominique was incisive enough to discern the intensity of the affection that Marla harbored for her egocentric friend and Marla, in turn, was all too aware that she had never developed a talent for concealing her emotions. Still, she had never admitted her passion to anyone, keeping it locked in her heart like a perverse secret.

"Yes, they do," Marla whispered. She felt a brief flash of shame and then anger with herself for feeling that way. The psychic nodded, apparently neither shocked nor offended by the notion. Suddenly, she reached across the table and clutched Marla's wrist with a white-knuckled intensity that startled Marla with its surprising strength. Speaking in a low and urgent voice, she launched into a diatribe that reminded Marla of her manic outburst of that morning. "Then the danger to you is raised tenfold. This woman is a menace to everyone in her proximity...especially those who truly love her. Marla, Islena is a creature who unflinchingly serves her own interests and is oblivious and indifferent to the needs and desires of those around her. Have you ever wondered why she has no sense of your true feelings towards her...they are less discreet than you might imagine. For your own sake, I would advise you to distance yourself from Islena Doraux."

Marla shook her head vehemently. "That's not possible. Again, what did you see?"

The psychic sighed and was suddenly loathe to recount the horrifying and vivid collage of images that had accosted her reason like a black madness. Looking into the grim determination of the other woman's need, she understood that she would be left with no choice. Deferring to Marla's exigency, Dominique forged ahead. "An immensely powerful force of darkness intends to take possession of your friend and bend her to subservience. As to who or what that force might be, I cannot say. Either by fact or design, it has chosen not to reveal itself. I can offer you little more other than to say that it wields unimaginable power."

"Why would something like that want Izzy?" Marla asked dubiously. For her, there was never a question of gainsaying the validity of the psychic's soothe. She had always accepted the seer's pronouncement as gospel.

"The specifics are unclear, Marla. They are like vague shadows that can only hint at flinty possibilities. The divination implied that your friend is a virtual wellspring of physical and mental puissance. Though she is unaware of its existence, this woman is within grasping distance of virtual omnipotence. I can only surmise that it is this power or the potential for power that has attracted this dark force."

Marla frowned; clearly confounded by the concept of other-worldly, sinister forces seeking to exert an insidious influence on her friend. "So basically, someone is going to try to make her do something bad?"

"That would be a gross over-simplification, but essentially correct nonetheless. Marla, ours is not the three dimensional world that most people perceive it to be. The augury did not concern something as mundane as a career failure or a business ambush. The thing that I felt was indescribably powerful, like a virulent cancer running rampant. And Marla...I don't have the faculties to begin to describe just how evil it is. As terrible as that is, that is not the worst."

Marla stifled a groan. "Not the worst?"

"Marla, it is imperative that you come to the realization that your friend is the most dangerous element in this arcane equation. Her rigidity...her refusal to accept even the possibility that she might be in danger, increases the likelihood that this hidden enemy's design will be successful. If she is to stand any chance of warding herself, she must accept that she is the object of dark machinations designed to enslave her."

"Damnit, what the hell did you see when you touched her?" Marla growled, finding that anger was the only way to combat her growing anxiety. In punctuation, she slammed her fist down on the table causing Dominique to flinch and recoil as if she thought that Marla might choose to vent her frustration upon the messenger.

"I saw an open field. Over the entire length of that field lay an innumerable mass of broken, ravaged bodies. The air was rank with the stench of decay and freshly-spilled blood. Islena strode across this vast plain like a juggernaut. Everything that crossed her path, she killed. Her face was devoid of all emotion...a barren landscape where the prospect of mercy was an unfulfilled promise. Perched on her shoulder, there sat a shadowy figure, directing the carnage as a skilled puppeteer might control a marionette. There's a great deal of latitude for interpretation of course, but the general intimation was that someone will enslave your friend and utilize her as a weapon of destruction. Though directed at whom and for what purpose, I cannot say."

The seer lapsed into a contemplative silence. Marla watched the psychic closely, wondering if she was being entirely forthcoming. "What can I do to help her?"

Dominique averted her eyes. Marla was an ingenuous, naive woman, who would never see this Islena Doraux for the egocentric creature that she was. She doubted that there was anything that Marla could do to spare the obstinate bitch her imminent ordeal. Worse still, it was probable that Marla's attempted intervention would affect her own demise. This was her initial reaction, but she elected to leave it unspoken. "You must find a way to convince her that the augury is real. That is her only hope. Marla, I would be dishonest if I pretended not to be pessimistic. When I held her arm, I encountered more resistance and intractability than I had ever thought possible in an intelligent human being. This obdurate aspect of Islena's nature is the flawed cornerstone upon which she builds her identity. Marla, if your friend cannot summon the fortitude to transcend this intrinsic flaw on this occasion, it will prove to be her undoing."

"No matter what happens, I'll find a way to make her believe," Marla vowed. Mrs. Normandy continued to regard Marla from behind a mask of neutrality. "Marla, I wish that I could share your certitude, but in all candor, I do not. Ultimately, she is going to have to fight this battle by herself."

"You're saying that there is nothing that I can do...that it's futile to try?"

"I will not attempt to dissuade you, Marla, knowing that your affection for this woman will never allow you to abandon her. By forewarning you of the risk she poses to your very life, I have fulfilled my obligation to the tarot. However you may choose to proceed from this moment, it will be of your own volition and full knowledge that you do so at your own peril."

Suddenly Marla could suffer no more of this dismal rhetoric. She pushed back her chair and rose to her feet, oblivious to the fact that she had sent the chair crashing to the floor. Her mind reeled beneath the oppressive burden of all that she had learned. She wished that this menace would have a face as if physical form would somehow make it easier to confront. As she stumbled towards the door, Mrs. Normandy moved to follow her and Marla was reminded of the chaotic conclusion of her last visit.

'Now she'll follow me out onto the porch and start raving while I run to the car.' Instead, the seer placed a restraining hand upon Marla's shoulder. When she spoke, her voice was calm and her words considered. "Marla, there is a thirst in your friend, a ravenous hunger that cannot be satiated by something as banal as a trophy and a hollow championship. That hunger is awful in its proportion and it terrifies me. When this abyss opens, I fear that this hunger will know no bounds and make no distinctions. It is imperative that I make you see this. Try to help her if you feel so compelled, but when you've exhausted all hope, get away from her. For your own sake, think of yourself and let her be."

Marla's responded to the entreaty will a noncommittal nod and then she was gone. The psychic stood alone in the descending twilight, shivering as her mounting fear enveloped her like an icy mantle.

3

Ben glanced at the digital clock on the mantle place and then resumed his restless pacing. It was twenty minutes to six and still Islena hadn't returned home. The afternoon had crawled by like slow torture during which Ben had been forced into a brutally frank examination of both himself and his crumbling marriage. He had been made to squirm like a bug under a magnifying glass.

Through all of the incisive self-analysis, he had come to the realization that only drastic measures would save their failing marriage. With no small amount of bitterness, Ben also understood that it would fall to him to make all of the major concessions that would rescue their union.

His position was simple...capitulate or run the very real risk of losing Islena. She was the one loss that he could never suffer. Perhaps he would be regarded as a pitiable relic in today's world of fierce independence, but Ben Richards knew that should he lose Islena; an integral aspect of himself would be lost as well. From the moment he had first seen her, he had willingly surrendered this piece of himself. Much to his consternation, time had perverted that need, corrupting it into a poisonous resentment. From there, he had slid into a morass of personal decay and his wounded vanity had nearly provoked him into squandering the one the one thing that he valued above all else...his wife. The resentment, his personal dissolution...all these things were manifestations of his inability to live in the shadows of his dynamic wife.

Ben had been staggered by the scope of his inadequacy. It was mystifying and bewildering that a man could change by slow degrees without any inkling of the process. One day, that man would gaze into the mirror and confront a shadowy facsimile of the man that he had once been.

Ben glanced at the digital again, his anxiety mounting with every passing moment of Islena's absence. Was there any hope that he might be able to salvage something of the mess that he had unwittingly made?

4

As she came up the walk a shadow fell across Doraux, plunging the yard into an eerie gray twilight. Surprised, she glanced up to see that a solitary cloud had managed to cast a temporary damper upon what had been a splendid day. The shadow touched Islena in ways too profound and complicated to consider. Trudging heavily up the front steps, she opened the front door and went in to confront the most pressing of her problems.

The house was unusually still for this time of the day. Bereft of the smells of cooking and the frenetic activity of the boys, it was easy to imagine this place as a repository for long-held resentments and failures. The anxieties of the past few days fell upon her like a mallet. On the heels of that came the irresistible compulsion to examine the other macabre events of earlier in the day. She wanted to flee...to turn and run before these onerous burdens suffocated the very life out of her. Closing her eyes, she leaned heavily against the hall closet and waited for the sensation to pass.

"Islena?" The voice startled her and she uttered a strangled cry. It was a poignant indication of just how deeply her unease had affected her. In the gloom of the hall, someone was watching her with luminous blue eyes, hulking over her like a colossus. Its expression was inscrutable, but its posture promised violence. She extended a hand in a warding off gesture and began to retreat along the hallway towards the door.

"Islena?" The voice came again, this time fraught with a distinct note of concern. She blinked and the menacing hulk was gone. Ben stood in the middle of the hallway, obviously perplexed and concerned. She shrugged off her momentary disorientation and told him that he had startled her. She was relieved to note that her voice never wavered.

Trying to forestall any question, she hurriedly asked, "Where are the boys?"

He looked down at his feet almost sheepishly. "I dropped them off at my mother's. I told them that we'd be by for them around eight."

"I see," she commented and then lapsed into a heavy silence, deciding to allow him to make the opening overture.

Haltingly, he began, "Islena, we have to talk about what is happening between us. Putting it off won't help. We've done that for far too long now and it's only contributed to the problems we're facing."

"No, you're right. The kind of hostility that surfaced last night is pernicious. You were right to try to protect the kids from this. They're not blind, but there's no need to subject them to episodes fuelled by that degree of acrimony." Surprisingly, she felt relieved to talk about something tangible, something that she could understand, even if it was poignant and painful. Anything that could be defined in concrete terms was preferable to abstruse visions and prophecies. Contemplating such madness was like peering at some vague shape under dark waters...one really didn't want to look too closely because it was impossible to predict just what might be glimpsed beneath.

Ben turned and led the way into the family room. His shoulders appeared more stooped and defeated than ever. He sat on the leather sofa while she took a seat on a patterned wingback near the opposite side of the room. The open space stretched between them like a mined no-man's land. Ben wondered if it was still possible to bridge that space with words alone. Such a little thing, her sitting on the other side of the room, but the implication was clear and cutting and the message was succinct...these are negotiations and not necessarily amicable ones. Talk Ben, but it had better be what I want to hear.

"Islena, I'd like to start by saying that I'm truly sorry for what I said last night. I over-reacted, but my words were inexcusable and I genuinely regret them."

She accepted this with a tacit nod, as if to agree that he had indeed over-reacted and Ben was forced to remind himself what was at stake here. "I did as well. What we both said had to be said, but could have been said with more tact and less venom."

He nodded, feeling wretched. Impassioned rancor aside, her view of him had not changed an iota. She still considered him to be sluggish and indolent shadow of the man she'd first married. "Izzy, I never thought that I'd ever speak to you the way that I did last night. I would have scoffed at the notion that I could ever harbor that kind of resentment against anyone, never mind my own wife. The things that we said to each other were vile and despicable. After a storm like that you can only sit there and wonder what the hell hit you. It's amazing that we could live with that stuff building inside of us...or that we were willing to let it fester."

Again she signaled her agreement with a nod. "This has been building for a long time and we've both been guilty of ignoring it. My wanting to compete again only brought everything to a boil. Our problems are a lot more complex. We've become so...different and moved in such diametrically opposite directions."

Ben winced at her particular choice of words. In the end estrangement was always the most prolific killer of relationships. People could live together, but move in different directions, becoming familiar strangers under the cover of sedate boredom. Islena had long been able to cut to the salient heart of any matter, sometime with the delicacy of a surgeon and other times with all of the gentleness of a butcher.

"Izzy, I spent most of the day going over and over last night. I was determined to be honest with myself...brutally honest. I came to a conclusion or two, but they all boil down to the same thing...I was wrong and you were right." He paused and she searched his face suspiciously. She found nothing other than the disingenuous, pained expression of a man who had swallowed a particularly bitter pill. The sight softened her heart and gave her a faint glimmer of hope that the situation could be salvaged.

"I have no right to try to prevent you from competing. I just took me by surprise, though I suppose I should have expected it, because the sport is a fundamental part of who you are."

"Ben, it's just got to be now. I have a handful of premium years left if I'm going to have a realistic chance of succeeding it just has too be now. I could never live the rest of my life with that hollow feeling, wondering how much I might have accomplished. I see these young girls making such progress. They look to me as a role model and that should make me proud. Instead, I feel a bitter kind of envy for their youth and the progress that their making. I hate myself for feeling that way, but it's the competitor coming out and I can't make that envy go away. If I don't succeed, or at least try, I'll despise myself and resent everyone around me. I know how awful that must sound, but I'm being perfectly candid."

Ben rose and crossed the room, trying to bridge that void. "I never meant to take that from you and I realized there would be no way that I could. As selfish as it may sound, our lifestyle has become so comfortable and I guess that I'm afraid of losing you to a sport that I can't hope to compete with."

Islena shook her head in vigorous denial. "Ben that just couldn't happen. I can juggle things. You know I'm not lacking for energy or drive."

'Can you really?' Ben thought skeptically. "Think about it. You would be trying to juggle a marriage, a career and the management of the gym. That's an imposing task...even for you."

"I can do it," she insisted, the first hint of that characteristic stubbornness rising to the fore. Ben regarded her thoughtfully for a moment and then said, "I believe that you just might be able to and for my part, I'll support you just as I did in the old days. Maybe that's exactly the tonic that our marriage needs...a kind of rekindling. I'm offering my help and support...If you still need or want it"

"Ben, there isn't any more that I could ask for. I promise that there'll be as little disruption as possible around here. Remember that there's a definite advantage to my job. Most of the training will be done on business hours, just as it has been all along. Only the posing and the choreography will be an added burden on my time. I'll minimize the effects on you and the children."

Ben favored his wife with a neutral smile, but in the back of his mind he suspected that all of her projections were grossly prejudiced and impossibly optimistic. What's more, if she was to succeed (and he had little doubt that she would) there would be no way that their lives could not be radically altered. Ah, but that frigidity had vanished from her voice and he didn't dare contradict her. They were communicating like two mature adults...possibly for the first time in recent memory.

"Islena, there is a lot of truth in what you said about how I've changed. Somehow, I've lost something...some measure of vitality. If I had to explain why, I don't think that I could do it in coherent terms. The reasons are complicated and kind of frightening. It's not easy trying to live in such a deep shadow like yours. Without careful nurturing, things can become gnarled and twisted."

"Is that how you feel then...as if you're living in my shadow?" she asked, feeling a mixture of pity and exasperation for a man that she could scarcely recognize.

"At times." He averted his eyes and began to fidget with his hands. This discussion was coming uncomfortably close to exhuming feelings that were better left buried. It wrung Islena's heart to see him so hesitant...so weak and vulnerable. "Without really meaning to be, you're an imposing woman. There are times when I don't feel adequate to the task of being Mr. Islena Doraux."

"Ben, that's just not fair," Izzy began to protest, but he waved her off with a flourish.

"You're right. It's damned unfair and irrational besides, but it's an honest reflection of how I feel. When you told me that you intended to resume competing, I was struck by this vision of being permanently relegated to your shadow. Your world frightens me because everything there is predicated upon appearance and image...an area that I have serious problems with. I'm terrified that I might lose you to that lifestyle. That glitter. It took last night's eruption to see just how deeply inculcated that fear has become. I want to see you do this because it's important to you and you're important to me. In addition to everything else that I've done wrong, I made the mistake of giving you no credit for having personal integrity. I don't know if you can forgive a person for something like that, but I'm asking you to try."

He gazed at her expectantly, his face alight with a whole spectrum of naked emotions that spoke more eloquently of his misery than words ever could. The thing that she needed to see the most was some hint of love and sincerity. It was there, deep beneath the mask of pain and personal shame. She smiled warmly and went to him. They held each other as diffuse sunlight streamed through the family room window. Ben experienced a moment of intense relief followed by a flaring of that skulking resentment. She had forgiven him, but only after he had offered total capitulation.

For her part, Doraux was grateful for the comparatively easy way that he had acquiesced to her desire. She had been prepared for trenchant refusal to compromise and the subsequent hostility that this would have provoked. That relief was tempered by a formless anxiety. The episodes of the day were demanding her attention like a hungry and unpleasant beast. The aberration that she had seen in the entrance could be written off to hysteria and stress perhaps, but there was the matter of the tarot woman. There could be no perfunctory explanation for her percipience which had been disconcertingly precise.

Ben held her at arms length and offered her a rather quizzical smile. "I guess that I'll drive over and collect the kids."

He started for the door, but Islena moved quickly after him and laid a hand on his shoulder. She suddenly wanted to avoid being left alone with her mounting anxieties and tangled thoughts. "Ben, I think that I'll come along. Maybe we can take the kids for supper. It'll be a nice treat for them." He was watching her closely and she turned away from that scrutiny, fearing that he might catch a glimpse of her inner turmoil. "Things have a good chance of getting better, Ben. If we can talk, openly and honestly, then I know we can survive any storm."

He bent forward and kissed her forehead tenderly and then went out to the Blazer, leaving Islena to lock up the house. Her hands trembled as she fumbled with the lock. The house had become enemy terrain and she could not face the prospect of being left alone here. It was all that she could do to keep from sprinting to the Blazer.

5

There were many interesting facets of Dominique Normandy that Islena didn't know. Indeed, the knowledge would have done little to alleviate Doraux's growing disquiet or allow her to continue her self-deception. Dominique had first discovered her ability at the age of thirteen. There had been periods during the next several years when she feared that the constant barrage of unsolicited visions and voices would drive her mad. Only when she learned to control and direct the current of information did she come to perceive her talent as something other than a curse.

In a field populated by crooks and charlatans of every conceivable manner, Mrs. Normandy's high ethical sensibility was all too rare. She had persistently rejected scores of offers to become a celebrity seer for the supermarket tabloids. Never did she resort to anything that would demean or besmirch the great and profound gravity of her gift.

Islena would have been shaken to know that Dominique had been the subject of a 1983 Scientific American investigation into the Paranormal and Psychic Phenomena. After two months of continuous and intense observation, the researchers produced the following documented conclusions: After a thorough investigation, we have found that it is not possible to dismiss or discredit the woman's claim of clairvoyance. In test after test, Dominique Normandy displayed abilities that far exceed the accepted bounds of the five normal senses. Though it is not the practice of this magazine to promote augury or parapsychology, we are forced to concede that nothing in our testing procedure can repudiate this woman's claim of psychic faculties.

Sitting at the kitchen table on the night of Islena's reading, Dominique was once again entertaining the notion that her talent was really a curse. There had been many occasions when people had sought her out in the desperate hope that she could assuage whatever misery plagued them. As often as not, she had been able to provide some small degree of comfort. Still, there had been occasions when she had been confronted by an impenetrable stone wall through which her oracular vision could not see. There was no apparent reason for these failures and she had been forced to accept her limitations as painful and humiliating reminder of her fallibility. On this night, in the wake of Marla's frantic visit, she wished that her gift was not nearly as incisive as it was.

"Why did you have to come here, you wretched bitch?" she spat to the indifferent walls. "Why?"

She wanted no part of this woman and the dark penumbra that hung about her. The very touch of this Doraux precipitated an explosion of dreadfully vivid images. Nothing she had said to Marla could have conveyed the primordial terror that the psychic had experienced when she had delved into that damnable woman.

The hiss of the kettle dragged the seer out of her brooding reverie. She jumped and emitted a strangled cry, "Jesus, you foolish old woman, get a grip on yourself."

Shaking her head disdainfully, Dominique took her cup and crossed to the counter. The reading? How could she possibly try to interpret the grave implications of the reading? It was as complex and convoluted as a hieroglyph and even more ominous because of its lack of clarity. Through the confusion, Dominique could discern a looming catastrophe of apocalyptic proportion. Had she been able to prolong the final contact, she might just have succeeded in bestowing an exact form on this nebulous menace, but she had been unable to sustain the contact lest it drive her into the cold comfort of raving lunacy.

It hadn't mattered. Unformed as they were, Dominique had witnessed all that was required to reach the only salient truth that mattered. Something terrible was going to happen and this woman was the lens through which this grim eventuality would be focused. There was an intrinsic flaw in her fabric that made Doraux as dangerous as a critical mass reactor. Beneath that exquisite veneer there churned a dark and powerful engine with a design and purpose entirely its own. Dominique wanted nothing more than to forget everything that had transpired in her parlor, but she was tormented by the certainty that her role in Islena's odyssey had yet to be concluded.

Beyond the window, the strident ravings of a crow drew the seer's gaze. The dark night had congealed into brooding pools of deep shadows giving the back yard a hostile and dangerous appearance. Fast moving clouds scudded through the night sky, effacing both the stars and the moon in their wake. In the reassuring warmth of her kitchen, an icy shiver assailed Dominique and she clutched her shoulders and hugged herself tightly to ward off the chill.

The sounds of shattering glass and toppling furniture issued from somewhere within the depths of the house. Dominique managed to stifle a scream only by slapping a palm across her gaping mouth. She glanced quickly in the direction of the kitchen door, weighing the prudence of escaping into the backyard. Outside, the darkness mocked her as if daring her to plunge into its uninviting depth. Suddenly the night had become a sentient entity...a knowing presence that was all claws and fangs and malevolence.

Stepping to the connecting door between the kitchen and the main hall, she placed her ear against the wood and strained to isolate the source of the commotion. She could hear a muffled sound that might have been the riffling of pages or the shuffling of cards.

Someone was in her reading parlor.

'Or something,' her mind amended with unaccountable glee.

Mustering her failing courage, the psychic pushed open the swinging door and started silently along the carpeted hall. Her heart pounded frantically and seemed to have risen into the back of her throat, but still, she willed herself to venture forward, though she was prepared to flee at the slightest hint of menace. Every instinct, even the thundering of her blood, advised her to flee, but somehow she mastered her terror and pushed deeper into the interior.

There was definitely an intruder in the reading parlor. She could discern the clatter of furniture being indiscriminately kicked about as if the intruder's aim was not to rob, but to vandalize. The outrage propelled her past her fear and into the parlor. The room had been pitched into a chaotic wash of light and shadow. Out of the boards of the floor had risen a gyre which ripped carpeting and furniture from their places and spun them about like a child's top. Cards flew in every direction as if a demented seer was randomly casting off an augury of misery and devastation.

With a sickening, tearing scream, the carpeting was slowly pulled from its rubber backing and sucked into the vortex. The screaming protest of the floor boards gave testimony to the sheer power of the improbable gyre. Dominique's knees unhinged and she stumbled against the wall, bewildered by the magnitude of this vulgar display of power. She could not decide if the spectacle had been intended to terrify or impress. Irrespective of the intention, it had achieved both.

The pressure of the dervish grew until it threatened to suck the air from her lungs. She turned on her knees and began to crawl towards the door, but as she came to within arm's length of the handle, the force of the gyre increased tenfold. With a groan of wood and a tortured scream of metal, the heavy oak door was ripped from its hinges and spun across the room, striking the seer a glancing blow to the forehead as it went.

Dominique collapsed in a heap, hitting the point of her chin on the bare wood. Blood cascaded down her face in sheets. Her eyes were stung shut and the blindness amplified her terror. Whimpering now, she scampered sightlessly towards the doorway. The irresistible force began to tug at her with invisible but insistent fingers. She wasted no effort in attempting to climb back to her feet. Instead, she scrambled and clawed her way forward, at every second fearing that she would be hauled back into the vortex. Planting her hands on the door frame, the seer managed to pull herself around the angle of the wall. In the relative safety of the hall Dominique could only lay panting and weeping, while the fury raged on behind her without surcease.

She fought to comprehend what was happening to her and why. The vortex had been meant to be a display the purpose of which she could not grasp. She had not escaped...rather she had been allowed to escape. Staggering to her feet, she darted past the doorway, sparing a quick glance over her shoulder. Inside, the strapping was being torn from the crossbeams and snapped like toothpicks.

She intended to run down the short hall and out into the front yard, reasoning that the street would still be busy this early in the evening and she would be able to raise an alarm for help. Yet as she began to run, the front door began to retreat as if her hallway had become a telescope with a limitless capacity for extension. Glancing down, she was horrified to discover that her feet were sinking into the carpet that had suddenly transmogrified into a red, sucking mud.

In that awful instant she knew that she would never reach the door...that her invisible assailant did not want her to leave the house. Panic threatened to undo her then. She swung about and bolted back down the hallway. She refused to look through the ruined doorway, but could not escape the horrifying sounds of wanton destruction. In her confusion, the seer failed to notice that the carpet had reverted to its original solidity once more. She slammed through the kitchen door with the intentions of getting out at all costs. The high screech that pierced her ears sounded like the cumulative wail of every braying cry of despair and suffering ever uttered.

The kettle sat forgotten on the kitchen counter, howling indignantly at having been neglected. Steam rose like silver clouds of anger...a hissing, spitting mist bloated with venom and malice. Dominique stared dumbly at its polished surface as if considering the merits of unplugging it before she made her escape.

There was something particularly compelling about its high, piercing siren. The sound had a definite cadence that was almost, but not quite intelligible.

'It's trying to hypnotize me,' she realized in astonishment and as absurd as this seemed, it was true nonetheless.

Dragging her eyes from the braying kettle required a monumental effort of willpower. The door between the kitchen and the night-shrouded backyard beckoned like the path to salvation. She crossed the kitchen at a run and her heels beat out a desperate counterpoint to the whistling kettle.

She had to reach the fresh, open air...whatever the cost. As she groped for the door handle, its scrolled metal surface flared into a blinding argent glare. Dominique recoiled, throwing up her hand before her eyes to shield them from the harsh light.

"Damn you!" she raged at the improbable gleaming handle as tears of frustration welled up at the corners of her gray eyes. It took only one glance around the kitchen to discern the grim reality of her situation. There was no egress to be found. She was trapped, helpless and at the mercy of whatever entity had violated her home. With a wide-eyes gasp of perfect comprehension, Dominique realized that all of this was the doing of that little bitch. In the agonizing beat of a heart, the seer saw that the obstinate cunt had brought this nightmare down upon her.

Crying in earnest now, Mrs. Normandy scrabbled backed into the angle of her kitchen counters and slid to the floor. She drew her knees to her chest and hugged herself as if attempting to vanish.

On the counter, the screeching kettle droned on, filling the silence with its inexhaustible outrage.

The air became hot and fraught with an expectant tension. The coppery taste of fear soured the spit in Dominique's mouth. Her tongue seemed to swell in her throat until it felt as though she would suffocate on her own terror.

There came the first of the thunderous roars. It reverberated through the house like the angry rumble of a giant's bass drum. Its echo swelled like an emphatic herald of majestic and inexorable doom. Something was coming for her and she could do nothing other than cower and await its arrival. Dominique's screaming senses implored her to run, to ignore the phosphorescent glow and burst through the door if need be. Despite the prudence of this urgent entreaty, she found herself transfixed by a terrible fascination. Her body was lashed to the floor by the manacles of trepidation.

The pounding droned on incessantly, until it had assumed the rhythm of a beating heart. The ornate cupboard doors flew open and priceless Waterford crystal and china tumbled from the shelves. The window above the kitchen sink blew inward in a shower of glittering glass. Dominique shrieked and pressed her face into the wood of the counter.

The house sounded as if it were on the verge of shaking itself apart like a toy being beleaguered by a petulant child.

'Someone outside has got to hear this,' she told herself hopefully and then realized how foolish this notion was. No one would come to her aid. Even if someone was foolhardy enough to stumble into this tumult, they would be vulnerable against such unrestrained power. Through the maelstrom, a soft sigh reached her ears.

The sound came again...a giggle which so closely resembled that of a child at play that Dominique briefly entertained the desperately optimistic notion that she was dreaming the entire episode. She was disabused of that folly almost as quickly as it had come. With a sharp and somehow baleful hiss, the kettle commenced to belch an emerald mist that rapidly thickened into an impenetrable fog as it spread across the width and the height of the kitchen, completely obscuring the opposite wall.

Beyond the curtain of emerald swirl, Dominique could distinctly make out the staccato clattering of approaching footsteps. As frantically as she wanted to cry out for help, Dominique found herself incapable of uttering a sound. It was as if fear had congealed the very breath in her chest. Through the roiling mist she could discern a vaguely human shape. Mrs. Normandy tensed, half expecting an emissary of Satan himself to step through the veil of nightmares.

The first and most noticeable thing about the figure that stepped through the curtain was her beguiling smile. It drew the eyes with a radiance that was well near blinding in its magnitude. The second thing that struck Dominique was the woman's extraordinary beauty; a beauty so pronounced and striking that it was well near painful to behold. The intruder chuckled at the seer's reaction as if it were both natural and fully expected.

The woman was comparatively short - perhaps no taller than five feet, three inches - but she possessed a certain regal air despite her diminutive stature. As she crossed to the center of the room, her heralding mist dissolved behind her.

"Does my entrance impress you?" she inquired in a mirthful tone that matched her impish grin. "It is such a simple matter really, but one that never fails to astound the uninitiated, who are cowered by the simplest of parlor tricks."

The dark brown eyes twinkled like untamed stars beneath the fluorescent lights. The masses of raven hair that fell over the woman's shoulders in an ebony flood, only served to accentuate the depth and mystery of those compelling eyes.

'It's like gazing into a river,' the astounded seer realized. 'Anything could be below the surface...anything.' If the eyes were truly the windows of the soul, this woman's were drawn, the workings of her soul obscured to the world.

"Who are you?" was all that Dominique could think to ask. She made no move to regain to her feet. Something about the woman was deceptively disarming. On the surface she appeared as harmless as a lamb. The woman waved her arm in a lavish sweep that caused her belled burgundy sleeves to rustle in a whisper of velvet. The gown, Mrs. Normandy realized, was an anachronism. People had not dressed in such costumes since the dark ages.

The woman shook her head in feigned disappointment. "You do not recognize the inhabitants of your own visions? Perhaps I have misjudged your ability, seer."

The implied rebuke touched a cold nerve in Dominique's heart and she shook her head in an unconscious gesture of denial. The woman chuckled her wind chime laughter and set about examining the room. She glanced curiously about the kitchen, eyes darting from one electrical appliance to the next. She seemed oddly fascinated by the mundane things that people took entirely fore granted. Everything about her, from her dress to her curiosity about commonplace household items, hinted that she was a creature from another age...an atavistic, primitive age. The thought had no sooner taken shape in the psychic's mind, when the intruder laughed and declared, "Very perceptive, Dominique. These things are indeed strange to me...trappings of false comfort and indolence."

As if to emphasize her lack of familiarity with her surroundings, the woman strolled over to the coffee maker, which hung on a bracket beneath the cupboard. Bending forward, she examined the device with an expression akin to awe. "What is the purpose of this vessel?"

"It...it is used to blend water and coffee. It's a pleasant drink," the seer replied, feeling less threatened, as if the woman's fascination with electrical devices made her less of a menace. As she watched the diminutive beauty, the ghost of a smile rippled across the lovely lips. In a sudden liquid motion, the intruder laid the palms of her hand upon the bowl of the pot. Dominique winced, anticipating the woman's scream of pain. Through the transparent glass, Dominique could see the liquid boiling vigorously.

The woman turned her gaze on her fallen host. Those inscrutable brown eyes seemed to mock Dominique in some complex and unfathomable way. "Your kind has always required that all things have labels. You feel a certain hollow security with names and titles...with hollow classifications. It is your way of rendering all mysteries trite as if categorization strips them of their power."

As she spoke, the boiling of the coffee became frenzied but the hands never faltered upon the glass. "I am a dark light which casts a deep shadow, Dominique."

Now a hissing could be heard clearly as pressure within the glass reached a critical level.

'She's doing that,' Dominique marveled. With this realization came the return of her animal terror. "I am the shadowy mirror that reflects all time and space. For me, the ages are but paving stones to immortality...to inevitable, inexorable dominion over all things."

The plastic top blew off of the pot in a rush of scalding steam. The intruder's eyes grew impossibly bright. "You may call me infinity, for my power spans the arch of time and my demesne shall extend from the fringes of the universe through the farthest reaches of all realities. Fear radiates from you like a palpable stench. How can you help but tremble in the presence of such omnipotence?"

There was an explosion of glass that far exceeded the pot's capacity for shattering. Shards flew in all directions, embedding themselves in the walls like silver darts. In the seconds before she cried out and turned her face to the wall, Dominique caught a flicker of the impossible. The shards passed through the woman's body as if she were no more substantial than the mist from which she had emerged. Scant heartbeats later, Mrs. Normandy felt a gentle hand fall upon her shoulder. She could not muster the fortitude to turn and face her tormentor. Breathe, as fresh as an ocean breeze, tickled her cheek. "Come Dominique. We must speak, for there is much that I would have you do."

The imperative in that melodious voice was irresistible and Dominique found that she could do nothing other than turn and heed the words of her new master.

Chapter Seven

1

Leaving the house on the morning following her reconciliation with Ben, Islena was reminded of the old adage: What a difference a day makes. As she had left the kitchen, Ben had wished her a pleasant day and kissed her warmly on the mouth. She was even more astounded when he had given her buttocks a firm squeeze (discreetly out of the view of the children of course).

'How long had it been since he had done something like that?' she mused. It was rather startling and sad to realize how the little gestures of endearment could vanish from a marriage without notice.

Climbing into her Buick Lesabre, Islena reflected on how her mood had swung nearly a hundred and eighty degrees since the previous morning. Perhaps that somber, dispirited woman had been nothing more than an aberration. The same could be said about her childish reaction to yesterday's oddities, as she now referred to them. In her emotional turmoil, she had experienced a rare moment of unprecedented vulnerability that accounted for her equally bewildering susceptibility to Dominique Normandy's bizarre brand of lunacy. Ben had offered a complete reversal on his position of not having her compete. He had even gone so far as to promise his support just as he had done in the early days. The sensation of being freed from a disheartening burden of conflict had filled her with a soaring euphoria. As was often the case with such moments of reconciliation that delight had been translated into passion and the two had sought to cement the terms through lovemaking...another sorry rarity of late.

If Ben had harbored any resentment towards his submission, he had managed to keep it well concealed. Only his lovemaking had given any indication that his change of heart had cost him a measure of pride. He had pounded in and out of her like a man in desperate pursuit of validation. The effect had been wildly intoxicating and both had struggled to keep the outcries to a dull roar.

Her fainting episode, and the odd vision that had accompanied it, were almost forgotten as she maneuvered her car through the heavy uptown traffic. Even the traumatic encounter with that demented old woman (what had her name been?) was now reduced to nothing more than an unpleasant memory. Recalling some of the psychic's antics caused Islena to smile as she pulled her car into the space designated Manager of Operations an admittedly ostentatious title that nonetheless filled her with private delight.

As she walked towards the doorway, Islena paused and gazed up at the early morning sunshine. The day had all of the blooming of a late northwest summer classic. Islena inhaled deeply as if the air was an elixir which could assuage all old wounds and anxieties. Finding it nearly impossible to suppress the grin that had been playing at her lips since she had first opened her eyes, she entered her little world. She was bolstered by the certainty that today was going to be as good as yesterday had been bad.

2

Her sense of contentment managed to survive less than a minute after stepping through the double doors.

Marla Holmes was in her customary place behind the reception desk, working through the daily booking ledgers as if the task were a talisman against all evils. Upon seeing her friend, Marla's expression became at once confused, desperate and unaccountably resentful. An instant later, a mask of Neutrality clamped down over the lovely features like a drawn shade.

"Good morning Marl," Islena ventured tentatively.

Marla managed to summon a wan smile. Her night had been long and fitful, her sleep plagued by a constant stream of grotesque and terrifying nightmares. She had to find some way to reach her friend, to convince her that she was in real, though formless, danger. Despite this sense of agonizing exigency, Marla could not conjure the words to begin. While cursing her inadequacy, she sighed, "Morning girl. How are tricks?"

"Actually, things are great. Ben and I hashed out a lot of our problems last night. We still have a lot of work to do, but I see the desire there and I think the two of us can do it. He's backed off of not wanting me to compete."

Marla Nodded skeptically. Islena caught the look and felt the need to elaborate without knowing precisely why. "No, seriously Marla, he apologized for being so selfish. He'll stand behind me and that's a big concession for him."

Marla nodded with uncharacteristic indifference. Now it was Doraux's turn to register perplexity. Marla's attitude towards Ben had long puzzled Islena. For no discernable reason, her friend had always harbored a special enmity towards her husband. She had long been curious about the reasons for that animosity, but had instinct had warned her to let the subject lie. Something about the fixed way in which Marla was staring at the desk top, stubbornly refusing to meet Izzy's eyes, rekindled that old curiosity, but again she chose not to pursue the matter.

Suddenly, she found herself wanting to be away from her friend, away from the vague anxiety which radiated from Marla like a palpable heat.

'She's just embarrassed over what happened yesterday,' Islena told herself without conviction.

That sounded entirely plausible, but equally false. Whatever troubled Marla went beyond simple embarrassment. They had been friends too long for that. Islena discovered that she had no great desire to explore the possible causes of Marla's frivolous moodiness.

"Selfish," Ben's voice echoed in her head. Suddenly angry, Islena blocked the voice out and started for her office. As she moved away, Marla called out from behind her, "Oh, I almost forgot. You have a visitor."

She turned back and eyed Marla warily. The crooked grin upon Marla's face confirmed her worst fears. "Not him?"

Marla merely nodded her head and Doraux uttered an exaggerated groan of consternation that was no less heartfelt for the theatrics. Hunching her shoulders, she pretended to stumble in the direction of her office, grinning at Marla's gale of laughter.

The moment she opened her door that levity vanished as if it were snow in July. James Richler had the ability to drop a room's temperature into the frigid zones through his very presence. A short, bespectacled man, rapidly approaching baldness, Richler had a reptilian aspect about him. He impressed Islena as a repulsive cross between a lizard and a bug.

She could not have concocted a more perfect nemesis or a more disruptive presence in her otherwise perfect refuge.

She could feel her skin crawl beneath the almost physical touch of his leering gaze. Being in his presence made her feel naked and she struggled mightily to restrain herself from running from the room.

All in all, Islena found Richler to be officious and insufferable but suffer him she did because James Richler was her immediate superior. As she entered her office, she found him seated behind her desk, pouring through the various ledgers and enrolment lists. He gestured for her to sit without even glancing up, a habit which vexed Islena to no end. Richler continued to scrutinize the books, while she could only sit by, feeling like an errant schoolgirl waiting to be chastised by an especially harsh schoolmaster.

For his part, Richler took his leisure with his examination, though Islena's summary page had provided him with a thorough overview of the operation's status. He derived a great deal of private satisfaction from seeing his underlings squirm and none more so than Islena Doraux. Richler had opposed the corporation's acquisition of the Gym facility. From a monetary perspective, Richler considered fitness galleries to be a minimal return at best. If managed poorly, such a place would gobble money like a stock car gobbles gasoline.

There were more complex reasons for Richler's dislike of Gyms and the self-possessed, preening peacocks that frequented them. If the ego-maniacal men weren't enough, these places now spawned legions of aggressive, muscle-bound amazons as well. Across the desk sat the embodiment of everything he so despised. Yet her beauty fascinated him and that fascination only aggravated his irritation all the more.

"These figures indicate a marginal increase in membership," Richler commented evenly, fully aware of how this would provoke the temperamental Doraux. Islena blinked. The previous month, she had submitted a detailed plan for a membership drive aiming at an eight percent increase. The final increase had turned out to be just over ten percent. Islena had proudly regarded the drive as a resounding success. Richler's comments were nothing more than a barely concealed, disdainful slap in the face. "I would think that the figures would indicate something more than a marginal success, Mr. Richler. They more than reach our objectives for the first half. More than half of those new members have taken out secondary bookings on the tanning beds and the Lifecycles."

"That's all fine and well, Ms. Doraux, but the operation's profit margin will still only increase marginally. Before you engage in self-congratulatory back slapping, you might consider a few sobering facts. Our lease on this building terminates this fiscal year. We anticipate a rate increase of fifteen percent. Add to this a potential utilities increase of four percent and it becomes evident that we are going to end up deep in the red." Richler sat back and offered Doraux a crooked grin. Islena set her jaw, cutting off the scathing reply that wanted to leap from her tongue like a poison dart. The veneer of civility that existed between the two had never been so thin or tenuous.

Fighting to maintain a reasoned voice, she began, "Firstly, the owner of the building is a close personal friend of mine. Before we took up the lease, this place sat vacant for over two years. He's not going to display his gratitude by demanding a fifteen percent lease increase. I'm confident that I can have the rate held to a maximum of four percent...especially if we're willing to commit to a longer term."

Richler shook his head and smiled sadly. "Islena, perhaps you know your clients and no doubt, you know your sport, but you've just demonstrated your business naiveté. We are here and have invested a great deal of money in modifying this facility to suit the particular needs of a spa. Like any astute businessman, the owner will see that we are not in any position to relocate and he will capitalize on that fact. It would be presumptuous and foolish to think that he will not."

She gripped the arm of her chair, feeling the inclination towards violence open in her heart like a dark bloom. The echo of far off laughter came to her ears like the wind-borne sound of a glass chime. The sound startled her out of her anger and she actually glanced over her shoulder. Her head snapped quickly back to Richler, who had evidently failed to notice her abrupt change in expression. As was common, his eyes were exploring the enticing swell of her spandex-covered breasts.

"Mr. Richler, even if what you say is true, which I am not willing to concede, it can only support my assertion that we should acquire this building outright."

Richler could no longer contain his amusement. Behind his wired spectacles, his pale blue eyes twinkled with derision. This woman had overstepped her bounds and was about to receive the attitude over-haul that he had so desperately desired to give her. "Ms. Doraux, I really think that it's time that you and I speak frankly about your position with the corporation. You are a hireling. You manage this facility. You do not own it. You job is to administer the policies that have been set down by your superiors. You have no mandate to dictate corporate policy. Is that clear, Ms. Doraux. Your input is neither desired nor appreciated."

Only a slight flaring of the nostrils conveyed the extent of Islena's outrage. This officious, leering little man was deliberately trying to humiliate her. "Yes. I understand."

The satisfied grin spread over Richler's face once again, goading her perilously close to wringing his scrawny neck. She subdued the urge and forced herself to listen. It was then she noticed the subtle change that was affecting the lighting within the room. Pools of shadow had formed in all of the corners. Everything, save for the pompous ass sitting across from her had grown indistinct. It was as if a filter was slyly being insinuated over the room's lights.

Something was about to happen. Something that was very similar to the bizarre episodes of the previous day. Richler seemed oblivious to these subtle changes. He continued to drone on in his usual condescending monotone. Islena forced herself to concentrate upon his diatribe. "In anticipation of these overhead increases, the corporation has decided to implement the following rise in membership and goods cost. They will be put into effect immediately."

The word 'increase' jolted Islena out of her distraction. Richler reached across the desk and dropped a carbon flimsy before her. Livid, she snapped up the single page and quickly scanned the revised price index. Her lovely face first reflected disbelief, then anger and finally dawning comprehension.

"This is your idea," she rasped in an accusatory tone.

"Yes, it is," Richler replied with savage vehemence.

Islena couldn't suppress the urge to shred the flimsy and throw the scraps on the desk. Richler merely shrugged and removed several copies from his briefcase. He placed them upon the desk, now well out of Islena's reach. "Come, Ms. Doraux, I would expect some degree of professionalism. Though, I would think that such displays are typical of your lot...an unfortunate side-effect of the drugs perhaps?"

Islena refused to be bated into a personal mud slinging contest. "I can't believe that you would allow personal animosity to ruin a perfectly viable business. These rates are financial suicide. They drive the members away in droves."

For the first time, Richler displayed some sign of losing his own composure. "I neither want, nor particularly care about, your opinion. These proposals have been approved and you'll damn well implement them or find yourself seeking another situation."

Islena was about to retaliate, but something decidedly odd forestalled her retort. A deep shadow fell across the light, dragging her attention to the frosted glass just above Richler's head. The window opened upon a service alley that ran parallel to the rear of the gym. Islena found that no effort of will could avert her gaze from the translucent pane. A chill began to radiate along the base of her spine, spreading up into the center of her brain. Richler droned on, intent upon thoroughly humiliating his nemesis and he was too absorbed to notice that her attention was now diverted elsewhere.

As she continued to watch with morbid fascination, a shadow darted back and forth. There was something furtive and vaguely menacing about its rapid movements, yet the silhouette was small and childlike.

'Oh please, not again,' she silently pleaded. She could feel herself want to whimper. Only Richler's presence repressed the wail of despair that was building inside. She would rather die than give him the satisfaction of thinking that he had broken her. In the distance, there again came that faint chime of high, sweet laughter. Islena was reminded of the lilting strains of a boy's choir. She glanced to Richler to see if he was cognizant of any of this.

What she saw caused her heart to palpitate and freeze in mid beat.

Richler sat bolt upright in his chair, fingers gripping the arm rests with bloodless intensity. His eyes had rolled back in their sockets and his mouth lolled open in a soundless scream of terror. As she recoiled, Islena overbalanced and toppled her chair. It rattled off of the tiled floor with a metallic clatter. Her first thought was that Richler might be having some type of coronary.

As her initial fear subsided, she darted around her desk. Richler's sightless eyes tracked her movements. With her senses wound to preternatural levels, she could hear the creaking of tendons as loud as rusted springs as his head swiveled on the thin stalk of his neck. Without warning, the demon began to divulge its obscure messages of madness. It spoke in a voice that bore no resemblance to that of the officious little executive. This was the embodiment of approaching decrepitude...of age beyond comprehension.

"Mark me woman," the voice rasped. The voice was severe, though without any hint of belligerence. Despite her fear, Islena forced herself to concentrate on every uttered word. "A deep and ominous shadow is poised to slip across the face of your world and all worlds of the line. Soon all of the boundaries may be effaced and there will be no controlling the vile tide that will surge up from the sea of corruption. Know this...you are the fjord through which this tide will be channeled. Consequently, if it is to be stemmed, it must be through you."

Islena shook her head and extended her palms forward in a gesture of negation. Her shoulders sagged beneath an imaginary burden. This was not the lunatic ramblings of a demented old woman. It struck her as blackly ironic that she would be approached through the vessel of her earthly nemesis. She could rationalize this incident to fit whatever belief she could best accommodate, but could not escape its horrible suggestion of her own illness. Her mind, her sanity was becoming unhinged. The other alternative was simply too horrible to consider.

The thing regarded her in a brooding silence, allowing her a span of seconds to digest its cryptic message. Islena's flesh had tightened into painful sensory clusters. Her mind could fabricate anything that suited it, but her body had viscerally accepted the fact that something alien had entered this room.

Was the presence malign? 'Damnit, the whole thing is in your head. Let it go!'

"Open your eyes to the world, you obstinate woman!" the thing bellowed. "Don't make a sanctuary out of stupid denial. You are needed!"

"YOU ARE NOT REAL!" she exploded, her voice a hysterical shriek.

"You are a foolish, intractable woman," the thing countered with a sigh. It shook its head and frowned in an expression that could have been one of pity or consternation. "Your refusal to believe is incidental. You have been fated to play the lead role in this dark drama. You may play it at your own volition and assume some control of your destiny or you may choose to ignore all that has befallen you, but events will overcome you nonetheless. The Philistine shall fall into the eternal pit of darkness and cause all of the worlds to follow."

"Tell me what you've come to say and then leave me in peace," she muttered, seeing no other way to escape the speaking demon and its apocalyptic proclamations.

The thing's harsh tone softened perceptibly. "Child, I have witnessed the cresting of the dark tides in times past. This time it swells with an unprecedented virulence, powered by the most nefarious symbol of evil that has ever risen from the cesspool of iniquity. It is unfortunate that men and women of integrity and righteousness are so rudely drawn into the vortex. It seldom comes to pass that virtue may select the time and venue where it will make its stand against the incarnations of evil. Islena Doraux, this grave responsibility has fallen to you."

"What is this about? What am I expected to do? Why me specifically? I am an ordinary woman." Hidden deep in the barrage of questions were the first unconscious seeds of acceptance. The Richler thing offered her a thin, sagacious smile.

"These are questions for which I can provide no answer. You label yourself as ordinary and that is a gross misrepresentation of who you are. Within the fiber of your being there exists a timeless spark. Everything good and noble, every great thing that has ever been achieved has come from that one minute flame. It must suffice to say that the key to success or failure lies in the foundations of your own character. You must seek out that spark and ignite it until it grows to a pyre that will consume each and every miscreant that comes forth to corrupt you."

"Tell me more. Can you not be more precise?" she demanded, her ire roused by her own willingness to listen, as if to listen were to grant partial acceptance. The thing merely nodded and offered a sad smile of regret. "Ward yourself against the cresting storm, woman. Do not be deceived by superficial appearances. Do not fall prey to hasty conclusions and rash judgment. Nothing is what it appears...there is a practiced art to this creature's evil."

There was a subtle shifting in the air and suddenly the presence...whether real or imagined, was gone. The office light brightened to its original intensity, leaving Islena to wonder if the tether of her sanity had finally snapped. Richler stirred with a trembling exhalation of mint-freshened breath. He sat blinking, his mouth moving in a silent protest against the indignity of the violation. He glanced to Izzy and their eyes locked in a moment of perfect synchronicity. For one hopeful moment, she thought that he was going to speak, that he would acknowledge the momentary seizure of his faculties. She desperately needed Richler to demand to know what the hell had happened, but he only fixed her with a truculent scowl and stood.

"I trust that we understand where things stand," he challenged. He tried to wilt her with his glare and tone, but both came out shaky and feeble. Islena nodded silently and averted her eyes. Suddenly, she knew that membership rates and leasing agreements would come to hold very little significance in her immediate future. Richler nodded curtly and quickly gathered up his files. His haste suggested that he was anxious to be gone from this place and this damnable woman who the corporation had appointed against his vociferous objections. Without saying another word, he left the office. He had wanted to humiliate Doraux, to goad her into outright insubordination and give him just the excuse he needed to terminate her employment. Instead, he was trying to get away as if he was fleeing from a rabid dog.

Islena watched him go numbly, incapable of neither movement nor speech. Everything had deserted her save for the capacity to be thoroughly terrified.

These visions...these fatalistic admonitions, could not be rationalized by anything as banal as stress. She had probably been cognizant of that unavoidable truth from the first moment the portal had opened the morning prior. These things were too graphic, too meticulous in their attention to detail, to be anything less than tangibly real.

What did they want of her?

Their obscure message carried overtones of the apocalypse. Worse still, they echoed the dire tones of the lunatic psychic's ravings of the previous day. Events seemed to be trying to thrust some awful obligation onto her shoulders. She wanted no part of it, but understood that she could not endure many more of these encounters with her reason in tact.

There was only one solution. She required answers...had to understand more of the situation into which she had been thrust. The specter was gone and she had no means by which to summon it back. She had no one to turn to...except...Dominique Normandy.

As loathe as she was to go near that crazy woman, if there were answers to be found, the tarot woman would be the one to provide them.

3

Marla found herself distracted by the tension that gnawed relentlessly at her insides until she wanted to scream. Every meeting between Islena and Richler carried with it potential for disaster. The officious little bastard couldn't even be bothered concealing his contempt for both the facility and its manager. Marla was torn between the hope that Izzy would tell Richler precisely what he could do with his smug, superior attitude and the fear that enmity would take the place of good sense and he would let a tremendous asset go.

There was something distinctly unpleasant hanging over the gym this morning like a pall. Marla had felt it from the first moment that she had opened the main doors. Then Richler had appeared like a harbinger of all things wicked. She could not escape the nagging certainty that a storm was about to break over the comparatively calm lives like a destructive hurricane manifested out of clear air turbulence. Richler, yesterday's argument with Islena and the episode with Mrs. Normandy...all of these things were just precursors to the approaching tempest. Unlike Izzy, Marla had embraced the incredible without question. There was no ambivalence, only a burgeoning anxiety that would give her no peace.

And Marla was frightened...frightened for her friend...and frightened for herself.

Just then, Richler emerged from the office. He glanced at Marla with a quizzical expression. Without uttering a word, he pushed through the front doors and into the early morning sunshine, giving the impression of one who feels an urgent need to flee their immediate environment at all costs.

Marla glanced toward the door, anxious to learn what had transpired between the pair. Normally she would have simply went in and asked, but yesterday's argument had imposed unspoken barriers between the pair that could well take years to surmount. Much to her relief, the desk buzzer rang and Islena summoned her into the inner office. She depressed the intercom button and was greeted with the weak and oddly timid voice of her old friend. That voice sounded impossibly distant as if the pair was separated by dimensions and not mere feet. "Marla, could you come in here please."

Inside, the room's lights had all been turned off, plunging the room into a brooding shadow. Islena sat facing the window. Though she could not she her face, Marla could hear the hitched breathing and knew that Islena had been weeping.

Feeling the first seeds of alarm germinating in that cold place in her guts, Marla demanded, "Izzy, what's wrong?"

For a moment, there was only silence and Marla thought that there would be no reply. There followed a piteous wail, so unlike the normal pillar of strength that Marla had come to know. Doraux uttered the most difficult confession of her entire life...one that went against the grain of everything that she believed herself to be. "Marla, I think I'm in trouble. I...I need help!"

Chapter Eight

1

He stood surveying the rising slope, which ascended into the darkness of the eastern horizon. They would come soon. He could sense their malign presence somewhere over the crest of the hill. When the wind gusted, he imagined that he could smell the stench of their corruption. Off to his rear lay that great gaping chasm that the peoples of the land had named 'The Great Mother.' Twenty miles, certainly no more, and he would be able to stand upon its eastern rim and gaze down into infinity. What would he see there...Perhaps hell or perhaps some sterile void that would offer the cold comfort of nothingness?

Gazing down into death!

"The preparations have all been finalized, Tier Master." Rygore turned to his young adjutant, who returned his gaze through anxious eyes. The harsh reality of those meager twenty miles was reflected in the grim set of the young man's jaw. There was also an unmistakable apprehension to be seen in the limpid blue depths. Rygore could not recall ever having seen that particular emotion in an adjutant's expression. Ah, but the times had indeed changed. There were a plethora of fears to be had in this world. Plenty to spare, even for Masters of the Tier. He wished that he could have imparted some word of reassurance to allay that fear, but his nature had rendered him incapable of a knowing deception. There was some comfort in action, so he instructed, "Very well. Have the lead scouts light the torches."

The adjutant continued to watch his superior for several seconds and then turned and trotted off into the darkness. Rygore sighed wearily and resumed his scrutiny of the upper ridge. He cursed his positional disadvantage. They would sweep down upon his defenses and he would be forced to meet their thrust at the height of its momentum.

To pass the time, he ran a mental check of his preparations, trying to assess his readiness, searching for any overlooked weakness. He could find none. He had done all that could be done with the limited resources at his disposal. His circumstances were dire, but he would do what he could as was the inculcated nature of his creed.

At once, the slope blazed into a fiery life as the scouts lit the large, planted torches. The flames danced their vermilion dance, casting long shadows over the rolling green. In that second of illumination, Rygore, Master of the Upper Tier and Councilor to the chamber of the Jerhia, was visited by a presentiment of looming death...his own as well as those of all around him. Myrhia mocked him from the pooled shadows, promising that his best-laid efforts would be met with futile and bloody failure...an orgy of slaughter and a feast for the scavengers.

The lead scouts waved their mounts away from the torches. Rygore could hear the horses' hooves thundering over the grasslands. He mounted his own charger and directed it back to the fortified lines. As was the Jerhia custom, the field of battle had been addressed by a fiery line of pickets. Very often, such a brazen challenge angered the enemy into doing something impulsive and strategically foolish. The challenge thus issued, there remained nothing to be done but to await the enemy onslaught.

He crossed the temporary wooden bridge which spanned the thirty foot mote. The mote traversed the bottom of the slope for its entire width. It had been dug thirty feet wide and ten feet deep. Rygore had intuited that his defense of the Eastern continent would come to this and had ordered several of these lines dug. They had been driven past each without the opportunity to defend a single one...until now. For Rygore, this stand would be the crucial juncture in a grueling, horrible war that may well have reached its tragic end. Following their commander, the scouts crossed the bridge and took up positions behind the defensive fortifications.

"Very well then...destroy the bridges. Do it quickly!" The Tier master instructed. In response, the designated teams rushed to the support ropes, hacking at the heavy lines with their swords. As they labored, Rygore studied the faces of the men upon whom the future of freedom would depend. They were comprised of farmers, millers, blacksmiths and itinerants of all sorts...five thousand men in all, supported by fifteen hundred of the Jerhia's elite horse-mounted troops. In every eye he saw the conflict between grim determination and debilitating trepidation.

Seven years of incessant and bitter warfare had robbed the simple men of their hope. They had seen themselves relentlessly pushed over eleven hundred miles, dying in droves as they gave ground. Eventually they had reached the place were there would be no more territory to yield in a desperate exchange for time. They wore the perpetual expression of the chronically abused...people for whom war and fortune cared nothing.

Since early childhood Rygore had been disciplined to subjugate his emotions and to view all warfare from a detached strategic and tactical perspective. Through forty years of exemplary service he had succeeded. Now, as he watched this collection of brave men prepare to meet with almost certain death, Rygore was accosted by the faint stirrings of pity and regret.

"Someone comes!" cried a voice off to his left. A murmur ran through the ranks like an autumn chill. Rygore demanded silence. It was a fatal mistake to display emotion before a superior enemy. A single rider crested the rise and began to descend at a casual pace that spoke of total self-assurance. Rygore tensed, recognizing the blazing intaglio that was set into the black breastplate. The emeralds captured the sparse light and reflected it back like a green sun's proud corona. The horse, the now infamous black stallion, cantered down to edge of the flaming pickets.

Some of the less disciplined men began to jeer and curse the figure, though the Jerhia only looked on impassively. Behind the defiance, Rygore could detect only fear and awe. Even he was not unaffected by the dramatic appearance of the enemy. Myrhia demonstrated her supreme confidence and her conviction that she was invulnerable to those who would stand against her. The night was sultry, but beneath his Marshal's amour, Rygore felt as cold as death. This was the bane of every higher virtue of human nature and it was carried closer by every step of that dreaded horse.

The rider brought the beast to an easy halt.

"Look, the beast's eyes are truly blue," one of the farmers marveled. The others began to chatter and Rygore could sense their growing panic. They were perilously close to bolting.

"Silence!" he demanded, trying to put the full weight of authority into his voice. If they panicked and fled, the entire lot would be slaughtered like sheep. Nor could he forget the causeway which stood twenty scant miles to the rear.

In the ghostly flame of the pickets, she did indeed cut a figure of mythical proportions. Her chained amour gleamed. Upon her head, Myrhia wore a gold net, set with countless splendid emeralds. Even these magnificent jewels paled in comparison to the angelic beauty of her eyes. They were large and dark brown, tapering like a mischievous feline. Each man could feel the weight of her gaze upon his skin, as if her words were intended only for him. Then Myrhia, Queen of the Emercia and would be conqueror of all lands, began to speak.

The battlefield spanned nearly a mile, yet her voice reached each ear as clear as crystal. Her tone was light, almost whimsical. "I see that you have decided to spurn my offer of requiem. Instead, you will audaciously stand to block my path to the causeway. If the prospect of sure death delights you, then you shall not be disappointed."

She stopped and glanced along the length of the line, still wearing her impish grin. "To the men of Kornas I say that you look to sacrifice your lives to no end. You are farmers, not warriors. This defense will avail you nothing. Only the Jerhia will benefit. Should you still insist on dying, go to your graves knowing that I shall have your women and children. The old I shall kill. The healthy I shall enslave. Those of beauty will merit a privileged place in my realm for they shall service the manly needs of my warriors."

This was followed by a thunder of howling protests and expletives. Rygore heard the sharp twang of a bow string and knew that some fool had unleashed an arrow. It sailed through the air in a deadly arc. With an uncanny acuity, Myrhia's gaze scanned the night sky and settled on the deadly projectile. Her face became utterly blank as she raised her hand with the palm extended towards the oncoming arrow. Its iron tip sliced through her hand between the middle and index finger. Myrhia stiffened but made no exclamation of pain.

The night reverberated with savage cries of delight which quickly curdled to cries of disbelief. The solitary woman continued to hold her hand aloft. Like a spark on flint, the shaft of the arrow ignited, burning white hot. The wooden shaft was consumed within the space of seconds. The jagged tip began to fall, but was snatched up by a darting palm. An uneasy hush descended upon the incredulous defenders.

Contemptuously, she threw the bit of iron to the ground. "You've had your play. Now, mark me well men of the Jerhia. Know that your time for this world may be measured in days, if not hours. After I have disposed of this slipshod army, the path to the causeway will be clear. Your homeland will fall under my fist. Your people will be broken and their proud heritage will be the subject of ridicule."

She paused, giving the warriors time to consider a future under her rule. "I would have you carry a message to your war council, The Natzurdan and The Metocan. Should each nation bring forth their icon and commend it into my hands, I will grant you continued autonomy over your lands. The choice remains yours to make...a sign of fealty in exchange for independence, or absolute obliteration. Give careful consideration to my offer, but reach a decision with haste."

She punctuated her ultimatum with a light laughter, so very child-like, and then pulled the stallion's reins. The horse pivoted in place and began to move up the slope. It had gone only a few paces when she bridled it to a halt. Turning back to the battle line, she declared, "I love the night...cherish its majesty and splendor. Your puny light sullies its beauty."

The sorceress raised an elegant hand to her mouth and exhaled like a romantic scattering petals to a wishing wind. As a capful of wind grows to become a raging hurricane, the warm sweet breath escalated into a raging gale. First the flames were extinguished and then the poles were cut down like blades of grass.

"Be still! Are you all to be swayed by the slightest display of glammer?" Rygore bellowed. This time no display of authority could suffice to still the terror of some of the men on the line. Dropping their swords and pikes, several fled blindly into the darkness. They were followed by the scornful cries of their comrades. Rygore remained silent and motionless.

It was impossible not to be thoroughly unnerved by such an awesome exhibition of sorcery. From somewhere in the blackness, Myrhia laughed and admonished, "You may count what life remains to you in minutes."

Then she was gone, whisked away on the wings of chaos and trepidation.

2

Several seconds had lapsed before Tier Marshal Rygore again spoke to his troops. It had been her intention to strike terror into the hearts of his men and in that she had succeeded. Though they wore their usual impassive masks, even the Jerhia had been affected by such vulgar antics. Rygore could rely upon his troops to fight to the last man, but the majority of his men were peasants of a simple farming nation and their will to fight was as liquid as mercury. If they broke quickly, the battle would be over in minutes. If they fought valiantly, it would be possible to defend this road for days. This would afford the Jerhia the opportunity to destroy the causeway, or at least render it impassable for the mass movement of troops. The dubious ethics of sacrificing thousands of Kornas peasants in the name of preserving the integrity of Jerhia's borders was beyond the Tier Marshal's sensibilities.

"Adjutant Amrand!" Rygore summoned. A tall, blond man, with massive shoulders, came bounding up to the Tier Marshal. His piercing blue eyes shone with admiration for the man whom he had served for the better part of his promising career. About him, there was an alacrity that could not be daunted by reality of impossible odds. It would be men such as Amrand who would stop Myrhia's juggernaut. Rygore decided that such a man could not be squandered in a hopeless battle like this one must inevitably prove to be.

"Amrand, I must speak to you candidly. Our situation is dire. The very fact that I am addressing you in such a fashion should convey the hopelessness of our position. There is something that I would have you do. It is imperative that you succeed because the very existence of the Jerhia may depend upon it. Indeed, the fate of this world may hang in the balance." Rygore began.

The adjutant beamed with a fierce determination that was the one hope of this beleaguered world. Rygore warmed inside. This man would succeed...if time could be won for him to complete his task.

"Whatever you require, I will do, or die in the effort," the adjutant replied confidently from the shadows. Rygore allowed himself a bitter-sweet smile. How many of his countrymen had solemnly uttered precisely such words over the bloody course of the centuries. There had been a time when the Tier Marshal had found a certain romantic nobility and honor in sacrifice. Now he saw death as a malefic spoiler that consumed the most precious resource that this world had to offer. Death was death and there could be no dignity in senseless slaughter. He had taken pains to keep his philosophy to himself, doubting that his superiors would understand such liberal thinking.

"Amrand, things have grown grim in the extreme. We will lose this battle just as surely as the sun will rise come dawn."

"No, Tier Marshal, there must be some measures that we may take," Amrand protested, aggrieved by his superiors' concession of defeat. Rygore did not chasten Amrand for his contradictory outburst. Youth did not accommodate defeat easily. Rygore placed a silencing hand on the tall man's shoulder. "Adjutant, we cannot win, but our defeat may yet be transformed into an eventual victory."

"What will you have me do, Tier Marshal?" Amrand asked gravely.

"This pass must be held as long as possible. There are but twenty miles between us and the causeway to our homeland. Should we be swept under, Myrhia will be free to strike a telling blow into our heartland. This is why we must hold this line to the last man. I am dispatching you to lead the women and children of Kornas to safety and to alert the Upper Tier of Myrhia's impending attack. You must impress upon them the urgent need for the immediate destruction of the causeway."

"You want me to leave my cavalry?" The adjutant stammered, unable to master his astonishment and outrage.

"Yes. Your cavalry has fought valiantly, but they will have no place in this coming battle. You must see that clearly as I do...should you think with your head and not your heart." The adjutant stiffened and then sagged. "When should I leave?"

"At once and with all possible speed. We will provide you with all of the time that our hearts and bodies will allow, but you must shepherd the refugees to the causeway with sufficient haste as to allow for its destruction."

Amrand nodded and raised his right arm in the traditional Jerhia salute. Rygore returned the salute and dismissed the Adjutant with a rare smile. "God speed, you carry the hope of our country upon your capable shoulders."

Amrand pivoted about and disappeared into the darkness, leaving the Tier Marshal alone with the immense problems of the coming battle. Rygore traversed the entire length of the perimeter, issuing terse commands, hoping that the men would find some encouragement in his professionalism. He instructed his second to move the four catapults into position.

At last all preparations were finalized and there remained nothing left to be done except count the final tense moments and reflect upon the events that had moved history to this horrible juncture. There had been several such moments over the past three years since Rygore had first been dispatched to the Eastern shore. His strategy and tactics had been examples of flawless military doctrine. Even the execution had been above reproach and yet there had always come the inevitable defeat. True, his troops had inflicted terrible losses upon Myrhia's hordes, but that had only served to delay the inevitable. He had been herded across the entire continent, watching thousands die to satisfy a tyrant's insatiable lust for conquest. Now, he hovered upon the brink of utter defeat. He prayed that he would avail himself with a dignity which would lend some value to all of those who had died before him.

3

Just as Rygore had forecast, the attack displayed little imagination. Myrhia's army seemed incapable of anything more innovative than a direct frontal assault. The thunder of thousands of hooves and the savage cry of promised havoc shredded the heavy silence. The mounted cavalry came charging down the grade, lances thrust out before them.

"Archers at the ready!" Rygore roared above the approaching thunder. He was relieved that the waiting had come to an end. Now action would speak and the dice of fate would be rolled. Two hundred men nocked arrows and lifted bows to fire. When the Tier Marshal judged the attacking cavalry to be within range, he commanded, "Fire!"

From behind the piled bales of straw came a hail of flying death projectiles. The majority of the Jerhia arrows found home. One hundred and sixty men fell from their horses, but the charging rank did not appear to break.

A second volley of arrows flew. A third. A fourth. On came the invaders as though the specter of death meant nothing to them. Excited now, Rygore cried, "Foot soldiers stand to!"

The men of Kornas stood and prepared to meet the brunt of the charge. Along the line, thirty men paid no immediate attention to the developing battle. Each was intent upon their commander. When the front rank had come to within ten yards of the moat the thirty men heaved flaming torches into the river of oil.

Though they attempted to stop, many of the horsemen plunged screaming into the flames. The cries of man and horse combined into a horrible symphony of death. Rygore steeled himself against the screams, but he could clearly see the expressions of revulsion imprinted upon the faces of the Kornas peasants.

The rich stench of burning flesh assailed lungs and sent stomachs rolling. Horses reared, spilling riders onto the ground, and came stamping down to trample their unseated riders. Confusion reigned over the carnage. Encouraged by the apparent stymieing of the charge, the men behind the barricade began to heap verbal abuse upon the struggling wounded. The disciplined troops of the Jerhia remained silent, watching the awful spectacle with their usual impassivity.

They understood that there was no real cause for celebration.

The charge broke as the mounted troops scrambled back up the slope, leaving their wounded to the mercy of the defenders. Their flight was traced by a flurry of arrows and more men fell. Here and there, blood soiled the emerald splendor of the mid-summer grass. Though Rygore had neither the opportunity nor the inclination to count, the first assault had cost Myrhia four hundred and sixty men.

Not a single defender had fallen.

"We've won! They've fled!" The outcry of the Kornians arose in a wave of joy and relief. Rygore lacked the heart to begrudge them of this single moment of fleeting triumph.

Quietly, he summoned his captains for consultation. They had no sooner gathered when ten flaming balls arched over the ridge with an accuracy that was uncanny. The fireballs landed directly into the midst of the ranks. The initial jubilation melted like butter to flame. Several men ran about like brilliant human torches in the night sky...frantic dancing shadows that fell mercifully silent.

Myrhia's archers advanced to the crest of the ridge and let loose a volley of flaming arrows. They aimed not for the men, but for the straw bails before them. Wild-eyed with fear, the farmers backed away from the barricades, only to be struck down by the second sortie of arrows. The fortunate died quickly, while others fell with piteous screams, rolling and twisting in a spastic fit of agony.

"Shield the barricades!" Rygore shouted, realizing the potential for disaster which this new threat represented. The night was alive with the sounds of war and the usually alert Jerhia were slow to respond. Using cavalry shields, the warriors ran to the barricades and attempted to deflect the rain of arrows.

All through the barrage rocks continued to fly from the unseen catapults, crushing carts and men like a giant swatting down flies. Rygore was astounded by the tactic being displayed by Myrhia's horde. Other than the foolish initial charge, their assault had all of the refinement and finesse of a Jerhia strike. As if to punctuate this notion, several groups of mounted lancers appeared through the smoke. They came forward slowly under an avalanche of archer's arrows.

The situation was precariously close to being lost. Rygore had desperately wished to fight this battle from behind static lines, but now the lines were in danger of crumbling.

Time...he had to give Amrand more time. If he failed here, then Amrand and the women and children of Kornas would be exposed to this madwoman's wrath. The west would be laid bare and ultimate failure would fall squarely upon him.

"Azar, prepare the cavalry for a sortie."

The adjutant's second beamed. No cavalryman cared to be relegated to a static, holding position while other did the brunt of the fighting. In less than ninety seconds, a four hundred strong cavalry cohort was prepared to take the offensive. Upon the drop of a hand, the four hundred jumped the barricades and raced to confront the enemy. The sight of the charging cavalry rallied the Kornians, who conquered their panic and rushed back to watch the Jerhia go about their work.

From Rygore's perspective, the cavalry moved into battle with an elaborate and deadly precision, breaking off into smaller groups which operated in perfect harmony. The attackers broke off into pursuit and were systematically cut to pieces by the elusive Jerhia. Men fell bleeding from saddles, only to be overrun by the raging battle. In a matter of minutes, the attackers were repelled. The battlefield had assumed the appearance of a surrealists' nightmare; gore, piercing shrieks and flashing spark.

Blood stained the grass. Thick black smoke twisted and eddied on the wind and above all of this echoed the wrenching cries of the wounded. Rygore began to view the battle with a cautious optimism. Surely an hour had passed, possibly even two, and his line still held. It was possible that this sacrifice may yet prove to have some value.

4

The attackers renewed their charge a third time and then a fourth. Each successive charge grew more desperate and more futile. As light crept over the eastern horizon it seemed that Myrhia's quest to reach the causeway would be blunted with her goal in sight.

5

Hollow-eyed with exhaustion, the men of Kornas greeted the dawn with a battered pride and satisfaction. They had been baptized in the blood fire of battle and had survived. Their initial fear had given way to a quiet kind of euphoria. These simple men had discovered an indomitable core that most would have doubted they even possessed...a tenacity to defend what was theirs in the face of impossible odds.

After a sixth routed assault upon the line a hush descended over the field. In the brooding, gray light of dawn, Myrhia rode over the crest of the slope. Her arrival was greeted not with a cascade of derisive cries, but a grim, determined silence. Her ebony breastplate, with its emerald intaglio, seemed to have lost some of its previous luster. The queen's wicked majesty was somehow diminished by daylight.

She guided her horse down the slope, unmindful of the bodies that were trampled in her path. She was totally oblivious to the sickening crunch of breaking bone. It was her failure, not the gruesome detritus of failure, which had effaced the levity from her expression. She brought her horse right to the eastern edge of the moat. There was none of the previous night's malicious mirth in her lovely eyes. When she spoke, it was in a voice of frustration and controlled fury. "Are you comforted by your little act of defiance? Do you feel that you've won some small measure of victory?"

Her stallion neighed and reared, kicking high into the air. Its luminous blue eyes rolled and its nostrils flared. "All of you will die! That is my solemn oath to every man here. Rygore, hear me. Before the sun has reached its zenith, I shall drag your body behind my stallion."

The horse reared again and then the sorceress was racing back up the slope. When she was gone, Rygore stepped to the fore and raised his hand in a gesture for attention. Every eye looked anxiously to the Tier Marshal. "Brave men of Kornas and loyal soldiers of the Jerhia, You have availed yourself in the admirable tradition of history's finest warriors. Through the ages men such as you have defended truth and justice against infamy. Now, you must dig a little deeper and summon every last ounce of strength to turn back the next onslaught. This next charge will be the final desperate surge. Myrhia will make every effort to break your spirit, but if you find it in your heart to withstand this one last surge, it will be the forces of darkness which will be laid to ruin. Perhaps the deluge of evil may be reversed as a consequence of our heroic defiance of tyranny. The day may yet dawn when our precious land may be proclaimed as free and peaceful."

He raised his hand in the classic salute to the Jerhia God of War, and to Euronia, the Mother of Earth. The troops responded with a resounding shout. Abruptly, the wind rose out of the east like a howling banshee as though to mock their bravado. It escalated into a wild gale of derisive laughter. The cries of determination perished beneath the din. As one, the men pivoted to face the east. As they looked on in incredulity, the thousands of scattered corpses which littered the slope burst into flames. Thousands of argent pyres blinded the onlookers. Momentarily sightless, the defenders staggered about in raw panic.

"Sorcery! She brings sorcery against us," Someone howled, giving voice to the general fear. Shielding his eyes against the glare, Rygore sprinted towards the Adjutant's second. He had witnessed Myrhia's demonstrations of power on previous occasions, but never had they been so flagrant...or so effective.

The blowing wind carried the smoke directly into the barricades. Eyes burned and lungs cried for oxygen. The battlefield became enveloped by an impenetrable black miasma. Rygore attempted to issue a series of commands, but the thick smoke reduced him to a series of harsh, retching coughs. As he sagged to his knees, Rygore could hear that his line had fallen into utter disarray. Amidst the chaos, screaming, choking men ran aimlessly about.

When the choking subsided, the Tier Marshal gazed up towards the top of the slope which was obscured by the thick cloud, but half way down the grade, the choking curtain dissipated to reveal several dark shapes. Through burning eyes, Rygore discerned that the group was converging upon his broken lines. With growing despair, he saw that the figures were glowing unearthly blue. Whatever these entities might be, these things were not human.

"Archers at the ready! Arrows aflame!" The Jerhia had regained their composure and moved quickly to comply. Seconds later, a volley of arrows ripped through the acrid air. The mounted cavalry again dashed to the offence. Rygore watched breathlessly as his men charged to confront this unknown threat. His eyes fastened upon one knight who thundered towards one of the figures. Even at this distance, Rygore could see that the creatures were massive. Lance extended, the Jerhia drove headlong into the monstrosity. His lance ran the thing through at the core.

Rygore tensed expectantly. The thing had snatched the trooper up in its massive arms, oblivious to the lance which now protruded from its back. It was perhaps two hundred yards from where Rygore stood to the spot where the trooper had been snared, but heightened perception seemed to reduce the distance to an arm span. The trooper began to flail and thrash ineffectually. His mouth stretched into a soundless scream and then drew down into a rictus of agony. A huge gout of blood spewed from his mouth and ears. The beast continued to apply a tremendous pressure for a few seconds longer and then the ill-fated trooper burst into flames. Like Myrhia's fallen soldiers, the Jerhia burned brilliant argent. The body was entirely consumed with bewildering speed and ferocity.

Rygore heard himself moan from deep in his chest. The arrival of these luminous blue horrors signaled the end of his valiant stand. Rygore could only hope to spare as many as his troops as possible. "Adjutant, sound the general retreat...at once!"

Horns blared mournful death knells of failure. To shield the retreating Kornians, the Jerhia troopers attacked without consideration for their own safety, but quickly fell to the advancing abominations. Silver death pyres lit the field as the wave advanced relentlessly.

Within mere minutes the defense of the Eastern continent degenerated into a chaotic route.

Men dropped their weapons and fled blindly to the west. Six assaults withstood and now they were to be undone by sorcery. When it became evident that the battle was well in hand, Myrhia's army swarmed over the hill, hoping to share in the merciless execution of the remaining defenders. Bypassing the beleaguered cavalry, they blitzed through the abandoned barriers. Archers' arrows brought them down by the score, but they were intoxicated by the prospect of total victory and refused to retreat.

A fearful slaughter ensued as mounted attackers rode down and butchered the fleeing Kornians. Hacked limbs and disembodied heads littered the battlefield. Escorted by her commanders, Queen Myrhia rode down to claim the field of battle. Indifferent to the carnage, she crossed the mote and drew her sword; a tempered ebony blade with a jewel encrusted haft.

From among the confusion, there came a single man brandishing a short sword. He fought his way through several of her escort guard. Her natural percipience alerted the Queen to the assailant's approach and she swung about to face him, her eyes twinkling with amusement. "Ah, a would-be hero. Allow him clear passage."

Obediently, the guard stood back, giving the attacker an open path to the Queen. He charged, screaming insanely as he neared the enchantress. She laid her own blade flat across her palms and proffered it to the roiling heavens as though making an offering to the God of War. Murmuring solemnly, she suddenly drew her hands away from the blade. It did not fall.

Instead, it began to spin in mid air.

The attacker stopped in his tracks, his rage giving way to a transfixed dread. His eyes were fixed warily on the ebony blade, which was now little more than a hovering blur that emitted a high, sibilant hiss as it spun.

Abruptly, it stopped, its lethal tip pointing directly at the horrified man. He made to move, but before he could take a single terror-driven step, the sword streaked through the air and buried itself between his unbelieving eyes.

"Struck dead with wonder," Myrhia quipped and then began to giggle in her school girlish way. Her guard dutifully joined in. She gestured and the sword drew out of the still-twitching corpse with a grating whine and came to land gently to her out-stretched hand.

"Ynthrax!" she demanded, her tone becoming ominously stiff. Moments later, her general appeared through the cluster of personal guards.

"My Queen?" he inquired cautiously. He was a huge man, a man of violence and war who knew no fear and had led the Queen's armies through the years of continuous combat. Yet in the presence of this enigmatic woman, who strongly resembled a porcelain doll with all of its beauty and fragility, Ynthrax found himself diminished by dread. He was cowered by her predatory grin and her infinite capacity for cruelty.

"What remains to be done?" she inquired with a snap of impatience.

"We have broken the Jerhia. They have fled to the west in disarray. The men of Kornas have scattered blindly to the four horizons. The path to the causeway is clear, my Queen," he declared, allowing himself a slight smile.

"You assume too quickly, Ynthrax," she retorted hotly, her anger cracking like the snap of a whip. Ynthrax quickly averted his eyes to the muddy ground. "You will dispatch a squadron of cavalry. They are to scour the woods and seek out the farmers. Slaughter them all, save for a score. They will satiate the Mother's appetite for a sacrifice. The surviving Jerhia must not be allowed to cross the Chasm. They will set traps and harass our troops as we approach. Prepare for that contingency."

"Yes, my Queen." Ynthrax bowed, wondering if it was clairvoyance or natural intelligence which had endowed her with such a keen understanding of battle matters.

"I will leave you to this task, but Ynthrax, heed my warning." His eyes were drawn involuntarily to hers. Her gaze was sharp and terrifying and he found himself wondering how such lovely eyes could evoke such trepidation. "Your failure has forced me to tip my hand today. If one man should reach the west with the story of my Morticants, your life will be of less value than the ash ruins of all of these scattered corpses. Am I clear?"

Ynthrax responded with a timid nod, knowing that his mistress was not inclined to utter empty threats or hollow promises. Her usual playful expression returned to her face. "I must go. There are arrangements to be made. This world is to receive a most esteemed visitor."

She moved her lips soundlessly and the hulking blue monsters, which she had referred to as the Morticants, materialized beside her. Like Ynthrax, all of the others instinctively drew away from the inhuman beasts. Nothing about their inscrutable, featureless faces suggested the presence of any kind of humanity. Their blue flesh cast an eerie glow on everything about them. No one knew precisely what these things were or what act of diabolical magic had forged them, but all understood that they were something to be feared.

"My children," Myrhia intoned affectionately and spread her arms to receive them in a gesture which was both maternal and oddly repulsive. The things gave no sign that they had understood or even heard her, but they followed when she set off to the east.

"When will you return, Milady?" Ynthrax called after her.

"When events require me, I shall appear," she replied before vanishing into the drifting smoke.

Chapter Nine

1

Marla stopped, stunned by the uncharacteristic strain of vulnerability that echoed in the other woman's voice. Islena was a paragon of self-assurance who never showed any signs of stress under pressure and while Richler was an officious, condescending son of a bitch, Marla doubted that he was capable of reducing Islena to such a distraught state.

In the dark there came the soft sound of weeping that only increased Marla's anxiety. Perhaps the damned shit had allowed personal animosity to get the better of him and had actually fired Izzy. That would have been a disastrous miscalculation that would only cause everyone to suffer. "Honey, what's wrong? What did that bastard say?"

Doraux shook her head and frantically waved her hand at the folder on her desk. Marla crossed the room, heart skidding in her chest and picked up the thin brief. Scanning the first few lines, she winced at the grim directive. Marla would never have claimed to be a financial genius, but she'd been around gyms long enough to realize that Richler's price schedule was a prescription for sure operational suicide.

"That bloody idiot," Marla spat disgustedly. "Izzy, you can't let him to get away with this. Surely you can convince one of his superiors that this is a sure ticket to closure." She stopped, still fuming, waiting for Islena to give some indication that she intended to fight this deliberate attempt to scuttle a viable business.

"Richler isn't an idiot. He knows precisely what he's doing. He wants this place to sink and he's not particularly concerned that the company stands to take a beating in the bargain," Islena mumbled distantly. "Anyway, that really doesn't matter. None of it does."

The black woman recoiled as if she had been slapped. She gaped at her friend as if she had uttered some vile blasphemy.

"What do you mean it doesn't matter? You're probably the only person who has a chance to have the corporation overturn this. They respect your judgment. If you go to them I'm certain..."

"You're not listening!" Doraux exploded, slamming her fist down upon the desk. "It doesn't matter. Nothing matters." Her anger dissipated into a sullen sigh. Marla stopped, suddenly feeling as if she'd blundered into uncharted and dangerous waters. Islena suddenly groped for the bigger woman and Marla caught her in her arms. Still Marla could only wait, uncertain as to how to console her friend. Gradually, in fits and starts, Doraux began to recount some of the bizarre occurrences that had plagued her over the past two days. "Marla, the old woman, that psychic, she was right. Something is happening to me. I can't explain what or why, but I feel as though I've stepped into invisible quicksand. The more I struggle to regain my equilibrium, the deeper down I sink. I'm...I'm so frightened."

Marla gripped Islena's shoulders firmly and gave her a gentle shake. "Describe exactly what's happened? How did these...occurrences first start?"

"Richler and I were in the middle of an argument over his proposed schedule of increases. I was this close to losing it, Marla. I almost had to sit on my hands to keep myself from throttling the officious little prick. I could sense that he was deliberately trying to provoke me into doing just that. You know how it is between us."

Marla nodded. Islena's acrimonious feud with Richler was nearly legendary amongst the staff.

Doraux resumed her narrative, evidently regaining some of her shattered self-control as she did. "Suddenly the light in the room dimmed. I looked at Richler and for a brief second, I thought that he was having a coronary. His face had turned pasty white and his body had constricted into a tight knot. I was about to try to do something when he spoke. Only it wasn't Richler. The voice was ancient and feeble and the things that it said to me, Marla."

"What?" Marla prompted, though with a measure of reluctance. Islena glanced up then, her contorted features conveying just how profoundly this episode had shaken her.

"It told me that I've been chosen to do something...to face something, I don't know just what...and that something is scheming to destroy me. It's all so damned crazy. Marla, I think that I'm losing my mind." Islena lapsed into a gloomy silence. She could face anything, overcome any tribulation, but she was not equipped to deal with the possibility that she might be going mad. Hallucinating was something that crazy people or drug addicts did, not inherently stable women who were firmly rooted in the soil of pragmatism.

"Islena, don't you see, this is just what Mrs. Normandy was trying to tell you. It's what she explained to me last night." Marla grimaced and clamped her mouth shut, but the damage had been done, the words irretrievable.

"You went back to that woman and discussed me after what I said to you yesterday." There could be no mistaking the glacial fury in that tone. Marla knew that she had committed a grievous transgression but already committed, she decided that nothing further could be lost by forging ahead. "As matter of fact, I did. I wanted to know why she had behaved the way that she did. She was acting like a lunatic and I was worried about you."

Doraux scowled and glanced away, not attempting to conceal her displeasure. Normally unflappable, Marla finally lost her composure. "Damn, but you're one stubborn woman. I'm your friend and I want to help you. Don't you see how much it hurts me to see you in this state? Why is it necessary to make me feel like I'm involved in a conspiracy or that my motives are anything but benevolent?"

"Listen Marla, I don't need a fortune-teller huddling with my friend to decide how I should live my life," Islena replied tightly, though her voice lacked the usual uncompromising conviction that typically accompanied her bouts of obduracy.

"Well girl, you sure as hell need something because sitting in the dark and crying like a child really isn't a sign of someone who's got it all together." The moment the sardonic barb had left her lips, Marla wished that she could have taken it back.

"You presume too much on our friendship, Marla," Doraux warned quietly. "I'm getting tired of people passing judgment on my behavior."

"I think that it's high time that you started to listen," Marla snapped, understanding that things had gone too far, but powerless to rein her ire. This was Islena at her intractable, insufferable worst and Marla had reached the limit of her patience. On some more rational tangent, Marla realized that there would be no return to the status quo between the pair. No matter what was to follow, their special relationship would be irretrievably lost. Foregoing all restraint, she blurted, "If you weren't so self-possessed, you'd realize that neither Dominique nor myself are you enemies. You're so busy congratulating yourself on your pragmatism, while casting paranoid accusations at your friends, that you can't...or won't see the shadow hovering over you. Maybe Ben's assessment of you character wasn't so far off."

Incensed, Islena leapt to her feet and lashed out before reason could prevail. The slap was sharp and powerful. Marla staggered but her powerful legs did not fold. Her amber eyes flared, but she made no move to retaliate. Islena raised her hand to her mouth and backed away, tears of bewilderment and regret welling up from her emerald eyes.

Marla gazed at the other woman as though she were truly seeing her for the first time. She placed her palm on the side of her face and began to gently message her cheek as time slowed to a crawl. Unable to endure the silence, Islena reached out to Marla who promptly slapped her hand away.

"Please, Marla. I'm so sorry. I don't know what's come over me lately," she pleaded, her hand still slightly extended forward. Marla shook her head coolly, clearly not accepting any intended apology. "No Izzy, don't be sorry and don't be especially surprised. There's always been an aggressive side to your nature...a simmering anger. In the past you've always managed to master that anger, to channel it into something productive." She stopped and considered her friend for a moment. "You're no longer able to do that, are you? That fury...it's boiling closer to the surface"

Islena only continued to watch Marla silently, knowing that she had earned whatever contempt that Marla decided to dispense.

"Are you?" Marla barked causing Islena to flinch. Doraux shook her head and closed her eyes. She had never mastered the art of apology, just as she lacked the faculty of admitting to her own faults. Marla nodded knowingly. "You've become dangerous. Mrs. Normandy had predicted that your rage would turn and she was right."

When it became evident that Islena still would not respond...would instead adhere to her customary pattern of staunch denial, Marla turned and strode to the door. Islena watched her go, beset by a painful mixture of shame and anxiety. She had managed to squander years of precious friendship in one moment of thoughtlessness. Marla opened the door but did not step through. Without looking back, she remarked, "I've learned something about you today. I suppose that part of me has always known that, but friendship is often blind. So is love. There's a hard streak in you, girl. Something has triggered the darker side of your personality. It scares me and if you're wise, it'll scare you as well."

Then she was gone, leaving Islena to her solitary weeping in the bitter darkness as a sense of growing isolation clamped down upon her like a shackle.

2

Islena had no conception of how long she lingered in the dark, staring aimlessly through the window which opened onto the service alley. In that time, she subjected herself to a merciless soul searching, trying to find a rational explanation for her 'episodes' and her recent behavioral anomalies. Her sudden and seemingly random bursts of anger and physical violence perplexed and distressed her more than any other aspect of her personality changes.

She had never resorted to violence before. In truth, she had viewed violence as the last resort of the feeble-minded...those incapable of communicating in a more civilized manner. There had only been one instance in her life when she had felt a nearly irrepressible need to lash out...to inflict pain as a way to assuage her own grief and outrage. The need had been terrifying in its intensity. The fight to restrain that urge had been one of the most difficult battles of her entire life.

When the seer had spoken of that black day, her recounting had been chillingly precise. She had indeed been working in the basement when the call had come. Her life had been a happy, well organized place one moment and a wreckage of sheer devastation and misery the next. The driver of the other van had been drunk when he had veered across the center line. The investigating officer had told her that the man had been barely coherent and it was amazing that he had been conscious, never mind being able to operate a motor vehicle. She had long wondered if this had been meant as some sort of perverse consolation.

In truth, nothing could have ameliorated her grief. No words could ever anneal her pain and anguish. Her beloved parents...both gone in the blink of an eye...taken away by one man's reckless disregard for anything but his own indulgence. Sitting in the courtroom and watching him, with his slightly befuddled expression, Islena had wanted to leap over the railing and tear his throat out with her teeth. He had dared to look at her once. His pathetic expression seemed to suggest that he was somehow the victim. Her green eyes had been ablaze as if she were attempting to will him dead with the acrimony of her gaze. His eyes had grown impossibly wide and his head had snapped back to the front.

Her sentence had been two years incarceration and a subsequent three years of parole. Islena had been outraged and indignant. His had been a scant penalty to pay in exchange for the two human lives that he had erased.

Long after the funeral, long after the trial, that anger had lingered on, flaring at the slightest provocation. There seemed no way to control or release it or to dampen the low flame. Only when she learned to channel her anger into her training did the smoldering fury abate. The experience had provided her with an astounding insight into her own character. She had revered her parents and their cruel deaths had left a vast void in her life. There are many ways to fill such an emotional chasm. The weak of character looked to misery and deep depression as a source of bitter consolation. Islena had filled that void with a bitter determination to survive...to ascend.

In the months following the accident, she had looked to assuage her suffering through black anger and obsessive hatred. When she had finally learned to subjugate that black rage, Islena had vowed that it would never usurp control of her nature again.

Now, that penchant for violence had reappeared and she could not ignore how easily she seemed to succumb to its savage appeal. These eruptions concerned her because they seemed utterly random. She was angry and that anger was making her volatile. By why was she angry? She could produce no viable explanation and that was perhaps the most troublesome aspect of all that had happened in the past few days.

"You're being honed, Islena. You're being steeled for the trials that lie ahead." She sat upright and blinked. The voice had been undeniably her own, the tone and pitch pure Islena, but there had also been an alien quality. Her subconscious had spoken to her with a certitude which suggested total and unqualified acceptance of everything that the psychic and the specter had claimed. A small part of her had already accepted that she was being pulled into a horrible vortex of events. She could make all of the adamant, facile denials that she pleased, but a part of her was preparing for the coming ordeal...for the unavoidable confrontation.

It seemed perfectly logical to assume that an unseen keeper had switched on a vast and silent internal engine. This engine would continue to drive until she could no longer maintain the facade of disbelief.

"You're losing your mind," she berated herself, wanting desperately to cling to her old sensibilities. The vision on the bike yesterday and Richler, those were things which were symptomatic of...of something that was not right with her...more the result of burgeoning instability than portents and cryptic warnings.

'But what about that woman? What about Mrs. Normandy? How did she know all of those things about your life?' the devil's advocate persisted. She frowned. That was something that could not be so easily discredited. Despite the histrionics at the end, the extent and accuracy of her knowledge was an inescapable fact. Nor could she deny the truth that something had happened each time that the two women had made physical contact. Islena need only recall that eerie drowning sensation and her blood would turn to ice water in her veins...the trepidation returning in a torrent.

The seer had reacted as though she had been given an unexpected and painful jolt of electricity. What was it that she had seen? Islena had no way of knowing, partially because she had so vehemently refused to listen to the proffered explanation.

"Go if your vanity says that you must...you'll be back." The old woman had spit this baleful prediction just as Islena had bolted to her car. She buried her head in her hands and moaned softly. The seer had answers...answers that she would require if she was to have any hope of deciphering the riddles of the past two days. To obtain these answers would mean enduring abjection before the old woman. It would not be unfair to say that she deserved the crow feast, but her ego and pride would not accept such a bitter pill so easily.

Marla could have helped her, would have helped her willingly, but Islena's outburst of temper had killed the prospect of Marla's acting as an intermediary.

"What have you done, Islena?" she murmured and began to weep again, unable to shed the image of Marla's hurt expression as she raised her hand to her injured cheek.

"So is love," Marla had said that, though Doraux was rather perplexed by the implications of that one remark. By what insane twist of mind could she ever have allowed herself to alienate Marla? She wanted to call the other woman back and beg her for forgiveness if that was what was required, but some sixth sense told her that things had gone beyond reconciliation. Marla still had some role to play in Islena's future, but that role was occluded by vague menace, though this last thought was both disconcerting and confusing.

At last, the bitter tears subsided and she drew a deep, unsteady breath. She loathed this sudden loss of control. The notion that she had unwillingly relinquished direction over her actions both outraged and terrified Islena. Mindless subservience was anathema to a woman who prided herself upon her ability to maintain a level-headed guidance over every aspect of her life. If she wished to wrestle back that control, she would have to produce solutions to some of these nagging conundrums. The seer was her only real recourse.

Fishing the phone directory out of her desk, she flipped through the pages until she found the tarot woman's number. Reluctantly, she dialed the number and waited nervously while the phone rang and rang. The monotonous drone only exacerbated her unease. She was just about to replace the receiver in the cradle, when she heard a soft click. She listened, but there was no greeting...only a heavy brooding silence.

"Yes?" The voice was low and unaccountably suspicious. Islena tried to speak, but found that she had no idea what to say. Could she tell this woman that she had been assailed by more disquieting visions? Or that she had heard voices speaking of approaching calamity and personal disaster? These things were the seer's forte, not hers. She was on the verge of hanging up when Dominique spoke, "I told you that our paths would cross again."

"How, how did you know that it was me?" she stammered. All of these displays of percipience only served to augment Islena's deepening terror and facilitate an acceptance of the impossible that she so desperately wanted to deny.

The seer responded with a humorless, papery chuckle. "I've been waiting. Inevitably, circumstances would force you from your position of intransigence and you would come crawling back to me for insight."

The seer was making no effort to disguise her smug satisfaction. Islena bit back her anger, knowing that she could scarcely afford to alienate the only woman who could provide her with an explanation of sorts.

"We have to talk, Mrs. Normandy. I've seen things and I've heard things," she groped, despising that note of utter helplessness in her voice. "I don't understand what's happening to me."

The seer remained obstinately silent, taking a dark pleasure in Islena's distress. Finally, she spoke. "Not over the phone. You must crawl to me in person...but not now."

"Why not now?" Doraux demanded in a shrill voice, her frazzled nerves surmounting her need for deference. "I have to know what this madness is all about. You told me that you saw something; that I was responsible or dangerous in some way. That's what you told Marla. I need you to elaborate." Her voice had risen through the octaves until it had become shrill with desperation. "You have to."

"I have to do nothing!" The psychic retorted hotly. "The insight is mine. The power is mine. You denounced me and rejected my council. Now it is you who must come to me. The service is mine to give and the price of purchase will be your humiliation."

Islena closed her eyes and gripped the phone until her knuckles had gone white. "All right," she whispered. "Tell what you want of me."

"Wait. When events have reached that crucial juncture, we will be thrust together by the tide of fate. It's something that I'm looking forward to with immense pleasure," she concluded coyly and hung up before Doraux had the opportunity to renew her entreaty.

'It's something that I'm looking forward to with immense pleasure.' There was something disquieting in that simple phrase, something that went beyond a spiteful desire to humble. The seer had answers, but did Islena really want them after all?

'The woman understands more than she did yesterday.' The conclusion caught her unaware, jolting her mind onto another tangent which could only cause further anxiety.

'She already knows about Richler's possession.'

Surely that was ludicrous in the extreme, but then so was the notion of speaking demons who conveyed abstract messages of the apocalypse through the living. The time for tunnel vision was past. If Dominique Normandy had acquired some new insight into Islena's 'situation' then it would be expedient to play the game by whatever rules the old woman might demand.

The realization that she was vulnerable and powerless devastated Islena. She wore her independence like an impregnable suit of amour. Now she felt naked in the face of her own exigent need.

Confronted by the shapeless, faceless enemy, and at the mercy of a borderline lunatic, she could do nothing but await the next revelation.

Chapter Ten

1

A solitary figure squatted on the rich almond colored sand about ten feet above the water line. The golden sun gleamed off of the emerald waves like the very embodiment of earthly beauty. The man rose and stretched with an audible popping of joints...the first sign of rapidly approaching old age. There were other signs as well, such as the net of deep lines around the eyes and the profusion of gray in the once sandy brown beard.

Scanning the western horizon, the man wondered just how long he had been here. On those rare occasions when he felt almost maudlin and such matters touched him as meaningful, he had spent many a frustrating hour attempting to measure his exile against the yardstick of time. His efforts had always been met with implacable failure. In this place of natural splendor there seemed little to be gained by keeping an accurate measure of time. He had been here for...for a long time and this little enclave of beauty had not changed an iota. Only he had changed, demonstrating that impermanence still ruled the realm of man.

Some day he would simply die and return to dust and this place would revert back to what it had been before his arrival and just as it had been since time out of mind. High above him, a gull screeched as it wheeled through the cobalt blue sky. He squinted and attempted to trace its flight but it was lost in the glare of the sun. The man sighed and started up the beach towards his beloved fields. It was nearly noon according to the sun's position in the sky and there remained much work yet to be done.

He dragged his attention away from the spectacular green ocean with some reluctance. He wondered what lay beyond the point where the horizon and the ocean converged to become one. No one knew for certain. Even the point of land upon which he now stood had been virginal when he had first been abandoned here. No human being had ever stood on the western rim of the great continent and contemplated the majesty of the distant horizon.

Though he had forgotten it, the man had been in this place for seven and a half years. In that time he had not exchanged a single word with another human being, nor had he seen another living creature. In fact he had come close to losing the faculty of speech altogether at one point during the first few years of his stay. Now he made a conscious point of voicing his thoughts aloud and singing while he labored over his crops. Still his voice sounded like a rusty wire being dragged over an iron plate.

There was something distinctly beguiling about this location with its fertile rich soil and its towering stand of redwood trees. The soft sigh of the wind and the crash of breakers upon the shore had a way of inducing a dreamlike euphoria. The tranquility could leech all will and ambition from the most determined of men. He often wondered if she had known of these things before she had exiled him here. Perhaps, or perhaps not. She was too mercurial to ever be understood. His demise had been a living testimony to that fact.

There came a high, piercing shriek from somewhere in the forests beyond the bluffs. He scarcely noticed the savage cries now, though they had once turned his blood to ice. The bluffs were his line of demarcation and he was safe within is fields and along the evidently infinite stretch of beach. Should he venture into the forest, he would undoubtedly fall prey to whatever horrors inhabited the high ground. She had warned him of as much.

On that matter, he had taken her at her word.

He came up onto the grassy plain and began to walk in the direction of his hut. When he had first been left here, he had only a crude sword, one change of clothing and a small cache of food. All of his current possessions had been accumulated through improvisation. He had risked the edge of the Devil's forest where he had chopped down small trees. From these he had fashioned rough implements and although less successfully, had even managed to put together fishing poles and a workable type of net.

Now he took one of these tools, an impromptu hoe, and set about hoeing his rows of beans and lettuce. In truth, the crops were already well weeded and the rows properly maintained, but the activity helped occupy his time, if not his thoughts.

The constancy and the isolation of this place could easily drive a man to madness if he was not careful. He had organized his little world against just such a contingency. Even death was preferable to raging lunacy on the forgotten edge of nowhere.

Perhaps he was already mad.

The possibility stopped him in his tracks. He straightened up and glanced questioningly towards the ocean. Was it so improbable to believe that insanity had snuck up on him, furtively overtaking him by degrees until he was hopelessly deranged? He had no standard against which to gauge his behavior. Taking quick stock of himself, the man realized that he had not altered his lifestyle or his routine over the past few years. Maybe obsessive routine was a kind of insanity in itself. If so, it was one with which he could make an accommodation.

Satisfied, he bent back to his work. The pliable soil did everything that he wanted it to. No, nothing had changed. He had grown older, but that was all. Then his thoughts turned to the oddity of the other morning. Though he could not swear with any degree of confidence, he would allow that the episode had been real and not merely a waking dream. There were times when it was difficult to distinguish between waking and dreaming because this place was dreamlike by its very essence.

Aberration or not, the incident had shaken him profoundly. He had been attending to his garden, when a shadow had fallen across his face, startling him out of his labor. A cloud had appeared to mar the flawless blue sky. The man blinked. In his time here, the sky had been unremittingly, uncannily clear. The weather had never deviated from day after monotonous day of gorgeous sky and placid temperatures. If the rain did fall, it must have done so only when he slept. This ideal climate evoked memories of another such place and time, but he could not bring them into focus as though they might be vicarious recollections...memories collected third hand.

Upon closer inspection, the man realized that the thing was not a cloud, but a fast-falling object. He had heard that things occasionally tumbled from the heavens, but he had never personally witnessed the spectacle. He had watched as it plummeted earthward at an alarming rate and judged that it was falling towards the exact spot where he stood. Inexplicably, he found himself transfixed by its fall. He understood that it was imperative that he remain motionless, though he had no idea how he had come by that certainty.

It was essential that he see whatever it was that was falling from the sky.

When the thing had come close enough for specific features to be distinguishable, the man was astonished to find himself confronted by a distinctly female form. His first impression was one of great beauty and the second was that she had come to end both his exile and the hollow existence that had come to be his life.

He quickly discerned that his second impression had been incorrect. Those eyes were as green and beguiling as the ocean to the west. The cheekbones were high, arrogant ridges which suggested a capacity for either cruelty or wildness. Yet this splendid face was contorted into a mask of terror and incomprehension.

The man suddenly wanted to run before the spectral thing from the heavens, but his body defied his will. He stood unflinching, summoning old half memories to steady him against the fear.

The thing came to within several feet of where he stood. He beheld a creature of angelic beauty which mocked description. It spoke to him but its words were lost in the gusting wind. Then it was receding, snapped back as if it was on an invisible tether. Motionless, he continued to watch until it had faded from sight.

As he relived that strange moment, the man's heart began to hammer and thin beads of perspiration popped out on his brow. He could not decide whether he should view the incident with terror or elation.

Had the visitation been a portent? If so, what had it been meant to signify? He suspected that it might herald some impending change. He gazed about his little requiem, not certain how he felt about the notion of any great upheaval. He had grown accustomed to the tranquility and solitude...to the lack of responsibility. He grimaced, not wishing to think about what he had once been or the burdens that he had carried.

Still, he was incapable of ignoring the desperate plea in those ethereal emerald eyes. The man uttered a deep groan. He lacked the means to answer that call. Anything that he might have been able to offer had been stripped from him long ago. He could feel old dreams assaulting the doors of his memory. He savagely slammed the door shut and drew the bolt.

No, this place was preferable to anything that the other world could provide. Better to concentrate on the task of hoeing than to ponder the implications of his mysterious visitor.

He turned his attention back to the soil, struggling doggedly to keep his mind in neutral. Despite his best efforts, those emerald eyes keep imposing themselves upon his thoughts.

2

All through the day Ben had felt as though he was floating after casting aside years of repressed anger and resentment. Almost overnight that pervasive tension had vanished. Islena had seemed bright and joyous and that, more than anything else, had rolled the weight off of his heart. Rancor was a wearisome thing to harbor and he was glad to be shut of it.

As he went about the task of preparing supper, he actually caught himself whistling and smiled.

Perhaps this was why he was so surprised and dismayed by Islena's sullen and reticent mood. She blew through the kitchen with a trail of heavy clouds at her back. She dropped her gym bag by the door and slumped onto one of the bar stools that stood near the counter. Her posture and expression were so uncharacteristic that Ben was temporarily struck speechless.

"Things went that well, did they?" he ventured, hoping that their new detente had not somehow fallen to ashes. Seeing her dismay, he switched tones and tried again. "Did something go wrong at work today?"

She sighed and pushed back her chair. As she spoke, Islena paced about the kitchen and Ben had the impression that she was deliberately avoiding eye contact. "The day was a total disaster. It started off ugly and got scarier as it progressed, or should I say, degenerated."

"Tell me, Islena," he prompted gently. Ben couldn't conceive of a work-related situation that his wife would not be equal to.

"I got there this morning and Richler was waiting in my office, that officious little prick." Ben winced at that. He couldn't recall her ever having used that particular epithet before. She was not a woman who was given to vulgarities. As she went on, Islena grew increasingly agitated, like a mounting storm. "I detest that man. He's deliberately trying to ruin the gym to satisfy his personal animosity toward people like me."

"Islena, would he really go that far? I mean, the man is a pompous ass, but he's also an astute business man. He has to see the potential for profit the place has if tended properly."

"Well he doesn't!" Islena flared...slamming her fist down on the counter. Ben recoiled and lapsed into an uncomfortable silence. Her outburst had been too much like the one of two nights ago. As he watched, his wife stiffened. She glared at him from beneath the fluorescent lights. Then her face twisted and she began to sob wretchedly. "Oh God Ben, I'm sorry. Everything went so wrong today. Marla and I, we had an argument."

She was bawling in earnest now and Ben suspected that this was closer to the source of her distress. She and Marla had always behaved like sisters. If they had exchanged words, then things had gone bad indeed.

"Ben, I hit her. I actually hit Marla and there's nothing I can do to take it back." She was hysterical now. Stumbling blindly, she reached out to him and he went to her. Even as he held her, feeling her spasm of misery against his chest, Ben couldn't shake his own feeling of confused, dreamy terror. He consoled her, soothing her with his hands and whispers, but his thoughts were racing towards a dark realm of shadows where he did not want them to go.

His wife was undergoing a radical metamorphosis, rapidly becoming something which he neither recognized nor particularly cared for. In the calm rational light of the kitchen, Ben could hear the beating, vulturous wings of disaster. Something terrible and focused lay beneath her seemingly random episodes of violence and he was very close to catching a glimpse of that something if only he had the courage to drag it into the light. He wanted to dig in his heels and confront her, but he found himself mouthing cheap, hollow platitudes about stress and anxiety.

She cried and he continued to hold her until her grief had exhausted itself. Finally, she straightened up and tried to regain herself. With tear-stained eyes, she gazed at Ben. She seemed sheepish, as if embarrassed by her display of weakness. For his part, Ben offered her a feeble nod and an almost apologetic smile before turning away. Behind him, Islena gathered her bag and went upstairs to change, leaving him alone to confront his craven inadequacy.

3

The super table was shrouded with a painful silence. The clicking of eating utensils was impossibly loud as the four suffered through the meal, each waiting for an opportunity to escape the tension. Islena listlessly pushed her chicken about the plate, while Ben attacked his food with a determination born out of angst. Both boys stole the occasional glance at their parents, each fearing that the mornings' apparent good humor had only been a deceptive charade.

The silence dragged on until, unable to endure any more, Islena made an attempt at conversation. "Allan, Donald, why don't you tell us how school went today."

The whole question sounded so preposterously artificial that Islena's voice trailed off to nothing. The pair exchanged an uncomfortable glance and as if by silent agreement, Donald began to speak, "Well, you know mom, same old kind of stuff."

"Come on, something interesting must have happened over the whole day," she persisted desperately. It was obvious that she was groping, but she didn't care. She needed to hear something mundane, to be told about the hassles of homework. About what was cool and what wasn't in the daylight serious universe of the second grade. She craved that normalcy as an addict craves that heavenly fix. Oh, she could tell them an interesting tale all right...one that was bound to give them the screaming horrors and make Ben start to wonder about how to initiate committal procedures. The thought slammed her with the full extent of her isolation and she winced.

Donald noticed that grimace and wondered if he had somehow made his mother angry. Dutifully, he rummaged for something worth mentioning. "Mrs. Beringer's gym class really grossed me out."

"Oh, Why?"

"We had to dance all of these stupid old dances. Worse than that, she even forced us to dance with girls." His remark was accompanied by a comical expression of distaste. Allan punctuated his older brother's tale with a gagging sound as if he couldn't conceive of a more terrible fate.

Islena frowned in disapproval, but shot a quick grin in Ben's direction. What she saw curdled that grin like sour milk. Ben wore a blank, catatonic expression. His skin had taken on the pallor of old cheese.

As she watched her husband, a droplet of blood crossed her vision, splattering loudly on the glass table top. She was oblivious to the soft sigh which escaped her lips as there followed a second drop and then a third.

She didn't want to look up...had no desire to discover the source or form this latest assault upon her sanity would assume. She cut her attention from Ben and looked to Donald and Allan, but they had also fallen into the same insensate state that had afflicted their father.

"Allan! Donald!" she cried, hoping that fervent denial would halt the onset of this waking nightmare. "Ben, please don't let me go through this alone again."

In the cupboards, plates began to rattle. Cups shook and spilled their liquid contents onto the floor and table. She tried to rise, but found herself immobilized by invisible restraints. Like a saw through wood, a high-pitched squeal ripped through the air. In the rarefied atmosphere of the kitchen, Islena's lungs began to swell until suffocation seemed a virtual certainty.

About her, the kitchen was being transformed into a grotesque abattoir. Blood and gore erupted from the plastered ceiling, coating her husband and sons. For no discernable reason, she remained untouched. Blood spewed out of the sink's drain and faucets, filling the basin with a rich luxuriant red the texture of velvet.

Across the table, Ben's body was rocked by a series of violent spasms that threatened to rip him to pieces before her very eyes. Islena began to whimper as the veins in his face and neck bulged out in sharp relief, achieving an impossible prominence. She could feel an intense pressure building in the confines of her skull.

"What do you want? What do you want?" she bellowed hoarsely, but the offending spirits showed no inclination to communicate. The kitchen cupboards tore free from the wall in a synchronized shower of china and crystal, wood and glass.

As before, Islena was miraculously unscathed by the shrapnel burst, but the three males were not so fortunate. Jagged shards tore into the three. Fragments protruded from lipless, bloodless wounds. A piece of Waterford, the approximate shape of a lightening bolt, had embedded itself into Allan's left eye. A thick yellow fluid trickled lazily from either side of the horrible wound. Allan did nothing to acknowledge the damage, despite the excruciating pain that it must have caused. His unmoving good eye had gone to the wall.

Islena attempted to go to her son's aid, but the invisible shackles refused to surrender their grip. She struggled like a trapped wolverine but could manage nothing other than tears of frustration and despair.

Ben groaned. It was an awful, inarticulate rumble; the sound that a condemned building makes when it finally bows to the forces of gravity. Islena's eyes snapped back to her husband, praying that he was emerging from his torpor.

'Good God, something is ripping him apart,' she realized. This impression was confirmed as his distorted head split open in a repulsive vertical slash. The skin and bone peeled away in huge flaps and the cranial fluids gushed out in nauseating torrents.

The void beckoned invitingly and she fell into its waiting embrace.

4

When it seemed safe to return to the realm of conscious light, Islena surfaced to a very different reality than the one from which she had fled.

Mercifully, the ruined visage of her husband was nowhere to be seen. Donald and Allan remained in their seats, still entombed in whatever ensorcelled held them. Her kitchen was a shambles of broken glass and twisted, ruined wood. The only sound was the monotonous pinging of some liquid as it fell into a large crystal bowl which stood at the center of the table. She reflected that it was incredible that the bowl had managed to escape the carnage unscathed. Islena gazed dumbly down at her fingers. The ends of each were scarlet where the nails had been savagely ripped from the flesh. In her anxiety, she had actually managed to gouge them from their nail beds. She experienced neither pain nor discomfort; only a sense of muted incredulity. There should have been an immense, unbearable pain and its absence baffled her.

"There are many different types of pain, woman," a harsh voice rasped impatiently.

Startled, Doraux looked up and gasped. Where Ben had once sat, there now stood a tall, hawkish man, regaled in a black cloak and ebony breast plate. He cut an imposing figure whose malign presence radiated menace in the way a raging infection radiates heat. She needed only one glance to know that he was responsible for all of the misery that had befallen her life. With a primal howl, she lashed out at the intruder, lunging blindly across the table.

Before her powerful fingers could clutch his throat an invisible hand slapped her down. She tumbled backwards, landing upon the tiled floor with a grunt. A gale of derisive laughter marked her fall.

"Ah, but you will have much to learn," the man chided. "Perhaps the prophets have been wrong. You seem unworthy of the mantle that you are purported to wear."

"Why have you done this to me...to my family?" Islena howled. She climbed unsteadily to her feet, never taking her eyes from the man. Through his mask of severity he appeared to sneer at her vulnerability.

"Because you stand between me and all that I desire," he snarled, spittle flying in all directions. In him, she sensed a nearly uncontrollable rage that closely resembled her own. Despite this apparent volatility, Islena found that she did not fear for her own safety. Her sanity might be in jeopardy, but this intruder posed no immediate threat to her physical body. Through some newly emerged percipience, she understood that all of this had been arranged as a display of power for her benefit. She recalled the seer's hysterical assertions. "It will attempt to bend you to its will."

This man intended to cow her with this deplorable and vulgar exhibition of pure puissance. She found this knowledge strangely reassuring, suspecting that she had never been meant to gain this little jewel of insight. Nodding, she cracked a tight smile. "Who are you and what is it that you think I can give you?"

The man's dark brown eyes narrowed into speculative slits. If he had been expecting fear, then her reaction must have proven a disappointment. As the legend had foretold, this woman was spirited and dauntless. Her molding would not be an easy matter. Choosing to ignore her question, he challenged, "Woman, will you be my bane on the ladder to my apotheosis? Only time will reveal the answer, but I shall spare no resource to secure my rightful place in this world...and all worlds."

He stood and began to casually stroll about the kitchen. He came to a halt directly behind Allan and laid a gloved hand upon the boy's shoulder. Doraux flinched in anticipation of his imminent savagery.

The man observed her reaction and brayed satisfied laughter. It was a hard sound, like the trail of a razor over rough glass. "As I thought," he mused as he continued to stroke the boy's cheek. There where metal rivets on the knuckles and they left red dimples in the pure white flesh. The image evoked images of rape and corruption of innocence. "All creatures, both big and small, have a weakness, a specific vulnerability. This sentimentality, no matter how small, exposes them in ways that personal danger never would."

He suddenly seized Allan's red hair and jerked it back. The boy emitted a dull, listless grunt and fell silent. Islena cried out, but made not effort to intervene. "Why the fuck are you doing this?" she wailed frantically. "I don't even know you. I don't know any of you?"

The man flashed his predacious grin. "I see that I've captured your undivided attention. There are things that I must possess. They are mine by right, but the inopportune caprice of fortune has denied them to me. I cannot retrieve them by my own hand." he paused. "But you can...and by whatever compulsion is necessary, you will."

Islena shook her head in a gesture of absent denial and dazzled incomprehension. Seething tears of long-repressed frustration spilled as she pressed for elaboration. "What things? I don't have anything that could possibly be of value to you."

"Stop your idiotic babbling, bitch!" the man roared. He strode over to her and clutched her by the throat. Stiffening, she felt that old revulsion coming over her. Beneath his masculine scent, she could smell the overpowering reek of corruption.

"I'm going to humiliate you, bitch. I will reduce you to a groveling sycophant who will pander to my every whim. Your splendid beauty will be a most welcome piece of chattel." He looked to her two sons. "I know the things by which you may be manipulated and shaped. And ultimately broken to my will and service."

Islena made no reply. Her jaw tightened and her muscles strained beneath the thin sheath of spandex. The new predilection towards violence came upon her like a dirty, ravenous addiction. Through pursed lips, she hissed, "Tell me what you want."

He glared balefully for a moment longer and when she refused to avert her eyes, he released her and stepped back. "For the time being, I only require that you wait for the moment when you are summoned to my service. Your wait will not be a long one. In the interim, consider this...everyone whom you hold precious is a captive to my desire and your willingness to cooperate. For them, I am already like the God that I intend to become. I may grant them a prolonged life or I may take it away."

With bewildering speed, the thing man snatched up a piece of jagged crystal and plunged it into the side of Donald's throat. A thick jet of crimson spattered the far wall. The boy's eyes popped wide and his small hands flew to his throat. They worked frantically there, as if trying to staunch the flow. There could be no restraint in the face of such depravity. Islena flung herself forward...and pounced upon a pocket of cold air. The thin man's scornful laughter and her own strident wail of anguish followed her back into the mindless wastes.

5

It had happened in the blink of an eye. Was it conceivable that so much terror could be compressed into a mere fraction of a second? None of the three had even noticed her side flight into absolute, all-consuming horror.

"Next, we're going to learn a waltz," Donald went on. She glanced at him and then flicked her eyes in Ben's direction. He was eating with the studied concentration of a man cutting diamonds.

Had it happened? She wanted to scream, to beg for deliverance from a nightmare that kept bouncing her from the edge of madness to the intolerable limits of lucidity. Her stomach rolled miserably and she knew that she was going to be sick. Pushing back her chair, she mumbled an excuse and fled the room.

She barely made it into the bathroom when her stomach rebelled and heaved up its contents in a bilious rush, as she knelt on the ceramic tile. Seconds later, a sharp knock came at the door. In a concerned voice, Ben inquired, "Izzy, are you okay?"

For a terrible moment, she feared that she would be unable to reply, that she would kneel there staring wretchedly at her own digestive juices. At that moment, she felt as though she had sunk below the limits of humanity. There, in the depth of her humiliation, Doraux regained touch with her essential core. Up until this moment, she had been driven. She had been beleaguered and very nearly broken by a conspiracy of forces and circumstances beyond her control or comprehension.

This thin man, he was the source of her misery. He was the one who had joyfully inflicted the suffering upon her and the ones that she loved. True, there were other factors in this convoluted equation; ones for which she could produce no plausible explanation, but the man's unexpected appearance had finally given her something upon which to focus. She had been subjected to indignation and injustice and she had responded like a witless schoolgirl. Her father had always been contemptuous of those who whined about the injustices of fate, while doing nothing to extricate themselves from whatever trap it had led them into.

"Islena, you're a special person," her father had told her once. "Every father has probably told his daughter that at least once, but what I'm saying goes beyond pride. If ever you've been dealt a particularly harsh hand, you must find it within yourself to turn that hand in your favor. You need only look and like magic, you will find a quality that will help you persevere."

Searching herself, she isolated that one quality now, glowing like a volcanic pool...her burgeoning fury. She could feel its compelling rush as it coursed through her veins...a smoldering, volatile mix of passion and outrage. Initially, her anger had a source of bewilderment and dismay, but now she saw it as a means to deliverance...a viable defense to protect her from future terror. The thin man had spoke of vulnerability. He had also hinted at a consuming ambition which drove him to these extremes. Perhaps he did not see that to need, to covet, was also to become vulnerable to one's own obsession.

There was a sharp tug at the door handle and Ben's voice came again, this time more anxious. "Islena, honey, are you okay? Open the door."

Steeling herself against the queasiness, she rose and called out, "It's all right Ben. My stomach's upset. Just give me a few minutes."

Before he could respond, she flushed away the evidence of her shame. There was a ponderous silence and then she could hear him retreating down the hall. She filled the sink with cold water and thrust her face into the basin, holding it there until her lungs pleaded for oxygen. Then she stood and inspected herself in the mirror above the vanity. Her face was a portrait of beauty beset. Dark circles ringed her eyes and tiny lines had formed a complex intaglio on either side of her mouth.

Abruptly, she slammed her fist down upon the vanity and uttered a rare curse. She vowed never to allow herself to slide into the role of passive victim. There were answers to be found and she would have them even if she had to extract them like blood from the proverbial stone.

Dominique Normandy, she was the first step down her road to the thin man. Tomorrow she would confront the seer and have the explanations she required. Tonight a gauntlet had been thrown down and her family had been threatened. Islena would never be bowed by intimidation. There was a storm gathering in the cleft of her heart. She welcomed its eruption, ushering it forth with all of the physical power that her being could marshal. Somewhere, there were those who believed that Islena Doraux could be made to dance to some insidious melody of personal ambition.

They had failed to anticipate the tempest that was about to be released. God help anyone who was caught in its path: Mrs. Normandy or the thin man...especially the thin man. Cracking a razor blade grin, Islena went down stairs to be with her family.

Chapter Eleven

1

Marius Lockland had seen a lot in his time. There had been incidents of which he could barely speak, except on those rare occasions in which his beloved Irish whiskey prompted him into a more expansive frame of mind. Those occasions were becoming less and less isolated as the years went by, but that was something that he was in no mood to ponder as every man had his dirty, little addiction and there was little to be gained by holding it up to the naked, unforgiving light for pointless examination.

Heavy clouds drifted lazily from west to east, obscuring the sun but doing little to relieve the maddening heat and humidity. It wasn't even ten O'clock and he could already feel his shirt sticking to the skin beneath his arms and lower back. The oppressiveness only compounded the ugliness of what confronted him. He stole a quick glance in the direction of the truck and then quickly averted his eyes.

What he saw there was insufferably gruesome, but it was inconceivable by any standards that Lockland understood. It should never have existed, except in the stormy depths of some alcohol-induced night terror. There anything was possible as he could readily attest.

But not here. Not in the civilized light of day.

He kicked his feet at the dirt and turned back towards the road. State Police cars had been set to cordon off the south bound lane and the resulting traffic congestion only contributed to the prevailing atmosphere of confusion. Curious drivers kept prodding the sweating troopers for information, driving on only under the threat of incarceration. Not that Lockland could begrudge them their curiosity. It was not everyday that one came across tons of twisted, charred metal that looked as though it had been submersed in an acid bath and then set ablaze. It was a strange spectacle to happen upon on a secondary highway...one that drove ice daggers deep into Lockland's guts. His mind kept stubbornly insisting that what his eyes were seeing simply couldn't be real. No force of nature could have reduced the truck to that state.

Someone spoke. He turned to them and shook his head to indicate that he had not heard. The man offered Lockland a thin, nervous smile and repeated his comment. "There are skid marks, but they're not that long. The rain could have a lot to do with that, I guess."

"Other tracks?" Lockland inquired softly and without much hope.

"None. If another vehicle was involved the guy didn't even bother to stop."

Lockland grunted. He could reconstruct some of what had transpired. The truck had swerved (though he had no idea what had induced it to do so) and had lost control on the wet pavement. From there, it had skidded into the ditch and slammed into the rock cut. Beyond that, Lockland could produce no plausible explanation for what had occurred next or the improbable present state of the vehicle.

"What could have done it?" Bailey asked to no one in particular, echoing Lockland's own nagging question to the letter. Lockland shrugged, his left eye twitching imperceptibly. Bailey was too consumed by his own disbelief to recognize the inspector's desire to avoid any contemplation of the improbability of what lay before them. Mindless of his superior's pinched expression, Bailey forged ahead, "Christ that amour plating was at least half an inch thick. Whatever that blue shit is melted the steel as though it were butter. I've heard whispers that there were such solvents, but who could ever get their hands on them." He shook his head in utter amazement. "Shit, this is like something out of an Ian Fleming novel."

Lockland remained silent, knowing that Bailey was often given to these side trips into the wonderful world of literature. Bailey would have much rather been James Bond than Edgar Hoover. He could probably see a Communist skulking behind every Redwood. Lockland was too afraid to examine his own feelings on the subject. They were too grotesque, too close to something that might be birthed out of a bottle in the miserable, slow hours that preceded dawn.

Sighing, he crossed the dirt shoulder and descended into the ditch. He grimaced as the cold, dirty water flowed over the top of his leather shoes. The stench was nearly unbearable this close to the wreckage. Perhaps the reek came from the melted steel, or perhaps it came from the viscous blue, gelatinous mass which coated the metal's surface. Lockland could not be certain. He only knew that it was pushing him perilously close to losing the greasy breakfast that he had reluctantly ate while driving up to this God forsaken little backwater. Steeling himself against the smell, he walked to within five feet of the wreckage and examined the ruined vehicle. Bailey had followed Lockland, resuming his running commentary. "The rear doors took the brunt of this stuff. They've been melted away to nothing. Evidently, this is how access was gained into the vehicle."

Lockland nodded absently and bent to peer through the misshapen opening. The inside was also thickly coated with the same blue slime. The crash had occurred as much as twelve hours before, but a low level heat still radiated from the foreign substance much in the way that infected flesh will give off heat. Marius could not tell if the stuff was organic, nor did he have any great desire to touch it to find out, but its incandescent glow spoke of some internal energy source.

Shaking his head in bafflement, he stood and went around to the front of the van. This was the moment that he had been dreading since he had first been dispatched. He had never grown accustomed to the face of death, or to its smell or feel. All of the years of police work had not totally inured him against the stark realization that life had been irretrievably squandered, whether by accident or intent.

Three troopers stood near the cab, each wearing identical expressions of revulsion and incredulity. Seeing Lockland approach, they drew back to allow him a clear view.

God, but he didn't want to look.

Drawing a shallow, raspy breath, he leaned through the cab window. Indeed, he had seen a lot of things, but none had prepared him for the sight that greeted him when he peered through the glassless window. The bodies had been reduced to mere skeletal remains, every inch of exposed bone blackened by extreme heat. Lockland stood gape-jawed. If the condition of the body was mystifying, then the uniforms were truly astonishing.

The clothing was exactly as it had been when the guards had put them on the previous morning. Neither thread nor fiber had suffered the cataclysmic decomposition which had overtaken the flesh beneath. For an instant, Lockland simply couldn't breathe. As bad as the van had been, this was far worse. Finally, he spun away from the carnage and gulped a few deep breaths of fresh air. He glanced at the men around him and discovered that, to a man, they had been as profoundly shaken as he had. Their sweat-soaked faces and curdled milk pallor had nothing to do with the day's cloying heat.

'They're all frightened,' he correctly perceived. 'And so am I,'

Bailey had taken his first glimpse of the bodies. When he spoke, his voice quavered. He was subdued, even somber; a condition that was as rare as a full solar eclipse. "What the hell are we up against, Lockland? Nothing could do that to a person. I mean you can't burn someone to a fucking cinder, but leave the bloody uniforms in mint condition."

Bailey's outrage at the improbabilities of the corpses masked his apprehension. Lockland merely nodded his agreement, but made no comment. After a moment he instructed, "Let's not prolong this. I don't want anyone around that van who doesn't have a police credential. Have the pictures taken and the bodies bagged. If word of this gets out, we're going to be dealing with a media horror show, so have the package boys do their jobs as quickly and discreetly as possible. The lab might be able to tell us what the fuck happened here."

Bailey shrugged his shoulders without much conviction and then went off to get the clean-up process moving along. Lockland felt an acidic rumble deep in his gut and regretted having the extra cup of coffee at breakfast. He had lied. He didn't believe for a moment that the lab would be able to produce a logical explanation for what had happened to the state guards. He recalled reading an article about spontaneous combustion and remembered thinking that it was the biggest crock of shit that he had ever heard. Now it was difficult to cling to that cynicism. 'But two people at once? That didn't happen, did it?'

The State's senior man drifted over to where Lockland stood. He sported the same glazed expression as the others. "I knew those two men," he offered. "What a horrible way to die."

Again, Lockland could offer no words of consolation, so he turned to the concrete details of the long, arduous investigation that now faced the both of them. "I'm putting a priority one on the coroner's examination. Something might come of it, but I have to confess that I'm not optimistic. There are a couple of things that we should do. The couple that found the van should be given a thorough going over. In a situation like this any little detail could prove helpful. A comprehensive debriefing can do wonders to jar a few memories."

The Trooper nodded his agreement. Lockland drew a handkerchief from his coat pocket and mopped at his brow. "We've got to post a priority alert on Watts."

The Trooper shot Lockland a startled look. "Why? Nothing could have survived in the back of that van. Whatever caused this did the Country a big favor."

"Maybe? Probably," Lockland amended, "but there's no trace of him anywhere and until we understand exactly what it is that we're dealing with here, it might be prudent to be cautious. If this particular miscreant is loose, it won't take long for the bodies to start popping up like spring flowers."

The state man still looked dubious, but chose not to debate the point. He said his goodbyes and drifted over to join his men. Lockland sighed. The heat beat down like the fall of a mallet.

Something inexplicable and terrible had transpired on this lonely stretch of highway and long-honed instinct informed him that things were going to get a damned sight worse before they got better. He was as certain of that as he was that this new nightmare would come to clam him, driving him to seek cold refuge in the hellish embrace of the Scotch bottle.

After a time, even misery could become predictable.

2

Marla waited for a break in the traffic and then pulled the Cobra into the Gym's parking lot, unaware of the events that were unfolding on a deserted stretch of highway miles to the north. Her mood was uncharacteristically somber, even morose. She could not recall a time when the prospect of coming to work felt so onerous and unappealing. The night had been dreary and had given her no respite from the memory of her fight with Islena. She thought of her as Islena now and that, more than anything else, symbolized just how much damage had been done to their friendship. She could still feel the sting of Doraux's palm upon her face as though she had been branded by the blow.

She was wondering just how long she would be able to remain at the gym with this hostility festering between the pair, when she first noticed the rear service doors.

"What the hell?" she muttered and crossed over to the doors. She was mildly surprised to find that her heart was pounding like a hammer as she approached the metal doors. The door was slightly ajar. The handle and lock looked as though they had been melted by a torch. Marla glanced around to find the area was deserted.

The service lane was predictably empty and this only magnified her disquiet.

Suddenly gripped by indecision, she stood in the center of the lane trying to compose herself. Obviously the gym had been broken into, but were the burglars still there? Moving away from the door, she circled back to the front of the building and peered along the street. There was nothing parked within two hundred yards in either direction. If the place was in the process of being robbed, then the burglar was on foot.

"What are you going to do, girl?" she demanded of herself. It would be expedient to simply call the police from another phone and let them handle the whole thing. Marla started up the street, intending to make the call from the diner further up the block. She had not gone three steps when a small voice suddenly spoke to her. The voice was unmistakably her own, but the tone and underlying attitude were decidedly alien. "This is something that you should handle on your own."

The weight and logic of the statement stopped her in her tracks. Indeed, what help did she need? Someone had broken into the place where she worked. Chances were that they had already left and if not, it was likely that the thief was some desperate freak looking for fix money. Was she going to flee in terror from something like that? She became aware of the reassuring tightness of her one hundred and seventy pound body. A sense of capability suffused her body like a jolt of electricity. There were few men that she couldn't tear apart if it came right down to that. In this alien frame of mind, Marla never stopped to consider the possibility that the intruder might be armed.

"Wouldn't Izzy be grateful if you managed to stop the robbery? Wouldn't she be impressed?" the voice enquired. Instinct told her to distrust that voice, but the prospect of impressing Doraux caressed her like a velvet glove as a way to expunge the alienation that now existed between the pair.

Without further contemplating the matter, Marla ran around the building to the back doors. She paused for a moment, trying to listen for any sound of movement within. Then she threw open the door and plunged in.

The first thing she noticed was the smell, high and eldritch like the reek of decaying vegetables. It hung in the air in a palpable cloud. There was an intrinsic wrongness to that stench. It spoke of death and evil. She desperately wanted to run, but that damnable voice refused to be quiet and implored her to go forward.

A dull light filtered through the drawn blinds, but it was sufficient to see that there was no one on the main floor. Near the front of the building, the office door was closed and the room was lightless. That was where the cash and checks were kept and it had apparently not been broken into.

Nonetheless, there was something here. She could sense that in the way that her flesh had begun to crawl on her arms and back...rising into great hackles

She ventured in another six steps and noticed that the door that led down to the pool and sauna area was thrown wide open. Whoever had broken in had gone into the basement, but had left the main office untouched. Marla knew that there was nothing of immediate, portable value down there and found this perplexing oddity vaguely ominous.

"I don't want to go down there," she whispered, and stole a longing glance at the still open doors. 'Think of Islena. Think of her reaction to your heroism.' Marla felt pleasantly warm. The heat emanated from her core, delightful and calming at the same time. She started forward again, carefully threading her way through the benches and machines with as much stealth as her heavily-muscled frame would allow.

Standing at the top of the stairwell and gazing down into the darkness was like peering down into a crypt, or perhaps the labyrinth which led down into hell. Abruptly, a dull blue glow sparked into life from somewhere down below. It provided her with ample light to make her way down the steps. Halfway down, she realized that she had not bothered to arm herself and cursed. She would have done well to have carried a weight or a forty-five pound Olympic bar. Unaccountably, she thought that it was too late to turn back.

Marla found the intruder in the pool room. He was standing motionless, with his back to her, staring fixedly into the clear, blue water of the pool. Something about his posture filled her with an elemental dread.

'Drug addict,' was her first thought. 'Crack or maybe PCP.'

He was a small man and Marla estimated that he weighed no more than one hundred and fifty pounds. He was also considerably shorter and evidently unarmed. Marla felt the knot in her chest loosen somewhat and that odd sensation of supreme confidence and invulnerability reassert itself. She could subdue him...she could crack him like an egg if she had to. The anticipation of physically overwhelming the man affected her like sexual arousal.

Throwing open the door the pool area, she barked, "All right freak, just what the hell are you doing here?"

The man slowly turned to face her. His face was veiled by shadow, but the way he moved suggested an indifference to being discovered as though he'd been expecting her. He made no move to run. Nor did he speak. He simply stood and watched her from the masking depths of the shadows.

"You better start talking, or you and I are going to have a coming to," Marla admonished. Part of her was hoping that he would actually do something aggressive. A part of her knew that her behavior was irrational and inconsistent with her personality, but Marla was beyond the influence of logic now.

The man spread his arms wide in a gesture of invitation. The implicit arrogance of the action infuriated Marla and she charged forward and ducked her shoulder, slamming into the intruder's midsection. Her forward momentum carried the pair into the pool. Seconds later, she broke the water and dragged him to the surface, her powerful hands firmly around his throat.

"I gave you a chance and now you're going to pay," she rasped with a maniacal glee, now succumbing to the compelling impulse to crush and rip. With a flex of powerful biceps, she plunged the man into the water, submerging his head and squeezing his throat at the same time. In the raging tempest of her mind's eye she was a tigress or a primitive warrior queen. Even sex in its wildest moments of abandon could not compare to what she was feeling as she slowly strangled the life out of the hapless intruder.

In the next moment she was being hoisted out of the water and thrown through the air as if she weighed no more than a sack of grain. Marla slammed into the brick wall with a grunt and slid to the floor in a boneless sprawl. As she lay whimpering in bewilderment and pain all of the lights in the pool area blazed into life. She raised her head and peered through blurry eyes at the thing in the pool.

The man emerged from the pool at the same unconcerned, unhurried pace with which he had first turned to face her. The door to the pool area abruptly slammed shut. There was a distinct click as the lock fell into place.

When Marla saw his face she began to scream. Her throat bulged until it seemed certain that it must burst from the strain.

Where once there had been eyes, now empty sockets shone a luminous indigo. The lips had been torn away to reveal silver teeth as sharp as darning needles protruding from black gums. When the thing moved its teeth ground together with a metallic clatter. It came up the steps and onto the tiled floor, water dripping from its tattered clothes. Never once did the eyeless sockets leave Marla's face.

Using her massive thighs, she began to push herself along the floor, knowing that she had been unwittingly trapped...Knowing that her secret passion for Islena had finally led her into the dire straits that she had always suspect it would. She stumbled to her feet and tore the fire extinguisher from its metal holding bracket. Brandishing it in front of her like a shield, she cried, "Stay back or I swear to Christ I'll crack your fucking skull if you touch me!"

The thing's step never faltered. As it lurched forward, its lower face contorted in an awful parody of a grin. Eventually, it backed Marla into the angel of a corner. She winced when she felt the clammy tile against her perspiration-soaked skin.

With deceptive speed, the thing darted forward and raised its hands to her throat. Marla swung the extinguisher blindly, trying to communicate every ounce of strength into the blow. The rounded end struck the man on the crown of his skull, peeling away flesh and hair in a bloody gout.

The thing hesitated for the blink of an eye and Marla swung the extinguisher for a second time. On this occasion its reaction was considerably quicker. It caught her forearms in both hands and applied a pressure which was both excruciating and inconceivably powerful.

Marla groaned and surrendered her grip on the impromptu weapon.

It fell to the tiles with a clatter and rolled into the pool. She pistoned her knee into the thing's groin, but, although the blow was heavy and true, the creature seemed immune to pain. It was at that precise instant Marla Holmes realized that she was about to die.

As if to corroborate that fear, the thing nodded and bent her arms back. There was a nauseating crunch as the bone shattered. The thing released Marla and stood back. She collapsed to the floor, clutching her arms to her chest and wailing in agony. That sense of invulnerability had long since deserted her and she saw that she had been beguiled into this deadly folly.

The entity glanced up and inclined its head to one side, then grabbed a fistful of thick black hair and began to drag Marla in the direction of the door. Whimpering and pleading, Marla struggled to free herself to no effect. When the thing had come to a preserver, it slammed the black woman's head heavily into the wall. Marla watched through a pain-induced haze as the thing tore the wire preserver hanger from the concrete.

In answer to Marla's inarticulate plea for mercy, the monstrosity wound the length of wire around her neck and jerked her to her feet. She uttered a thin hiss and began to kick and rake at the man with her ruined hands. The thing absorbed the blows impassively, pulling the wire ever tighter.

It continued to pull until Marla's chiseled body went limp. It continued to pull until head and body parted ways and fell separately to the blood-spattered floor. Then it stood back and considered its work while listening for unspoken instructions.

Gathering up the remains of its victim, the abomination set about preparing for the next part of its task.

3

As Islena drove to work she could not escape the premonition that this was going to be a day of resolution. No, that was not precisely right. Not resolution, but a day of initiation. She was going to regain control of her life by seizing the initiative away from those who would terrorize her. She was going to do that by being her naturally assertive self.

Dealing with Marla was going to be the first and perhaps the most difficult thing that she must do. She would apologize and ask for her forgiveness, openly and honestly. From that point on, the onus of acceptance would be upon Marla's shoulders. If she chose to harbor a smoldering grudge, then so be it. Islena had other concerns that were more immediate and pressing. She knew that this was perhaps a cold and obdurate perspective considering how she had been responsible for the rift and how long the pair had been friends, but it was all of the concession that she was able or prepared to make under the circumstances.

After she had dispensed with that little bit of unpleasantness, Islena would turn her attention to Mrs. Normandy. She was going to extract answers from that crazy woman and would not be put off until Dominique yielded them.

Her first intimation that something had gone wrong came when she saw the 'Sorry. We're closed' sign still hanging in the window. The building within appeared as dark and uninviting as a tomb. Marla's Cobra sat in the lot like a restive, brooding beast. Islena pulled her car next to the other woman's and sat considering the Mustang for a few seconds.

'Marla is always punctual,' she thought. And on the heels of that, 'Something must have gone awfully wrong for her not to open the Gym on time.'

And as a logical progression, 'the thin man!'

Doraux leapt from her car and moved to the front of the building on a dead run. A few of the dedicated early birds had gathered around the front doors and were preparing to complain, but when they saw Islena's anxious expression, they decided to hold their protests. She stopped and faced the group. "There's been a problem with the plumbing and hydro. We're going to have to keep the place closed for a few hours. I'm really sorry about the inconvenience."

The group nodded as one, clearly disappointed by the disruption to their schedule, but to a person, they all respected Islena and understood that any delay must be genuinely unavoidable. They milled about for several seconds and gradually drifted off. She waited nervously for the group to disperse, understanding how the fanatics were loath to deviate from their routine. When at last they had all disappeared from sight, she fished her keys out of her gym bag and ventured inside. Her natural tendency towards self-reliance precluded the possibility that she would solicit help...irrespective of the swirl of dark and sinister insanity that had descended upon her life over the last two days.

The gagging stench confirmed her worst fears. Something horrible had happened. She was about to retreat from the gym and call the police, when she discerned movement off to her left. The blow came like the flash of a rapier, connecting squarely with her lower back. She was propelled into the reception area, striking the back wall headlong.

She rolled to her left with a low grunt, only fractions of a second before something slammed into the wall where her head had been. Plaster fell to the floor in a chalky shower.

She came to her feet and was confronted by a single assailant who had imposed himself between her and the exit. His face was hidden in the shadow, but his posture was purely predatory. The attacker darted forward and swung a roundhouse blow at her head. Islena ducked and his fist went through the glass divider, sending tiny diamonds of plate glass showering in a twenty foot radius. Several landed in the luxuriant nest of Islena's red tresses, shining there like jewels.

"Is this all that you wanted...to kill me?" she demanded shrilly. The man was stoic in his attack and only crept closer. He lunged for her, but his hands closed on thin air. Unlike Marla, Doraux possessed a natural agility that was uncanny. Before the attacker could register the fact that it had missed, Islena had taken three bounding steps and was into her darkened office, slamming and locking the door behind her.

Fumbling for the light switch, she tried to decide on a course of action. The man had tried to kill her and that was not at all consistent with the things that had been revealed by the visions or the thin man. What did the sudden change imply? In her distraction, she could produce no logical explanation. She only knew that she had to find away out of this place in the next few moments of the contemplations of the whys and wherefores would become academic.

A flick of the switch shed light upon the very depth of everything that was dark and perverse in the human soul. Her cry rose through the octaves until it seemed certain that her throat must burst from the strain. A ravaged, headless corpse laid spread eagle upon her desk. The exquisite muscles structure now slack in death, told her that human wreckage had once been Marla Holmes.

Guilt, huge and paralyzing, welled up in Islena like poisonous lava. Her Knees buckled and she fell before the corpse like a supplicant. Had her stupidity, had her monumental insensitivity driven Marla to this? Shamefully, she thought that it had.

"Oh, Marla, how will I live with this? How can I take it back?" she exhorted wretchedly. Marla Holmes did not respond.

Behind her, the attacker hit the door with a thunderous jolt. The wood shook and quivered upon its hinges. Despite her grief, Doraux's well-developed sense of self-preservation pulled her to her feet and got her searching for a means of escape.

To her dismay and panic, there was none. The only window was barred with half inch diameter steel bars. That left the door and whatever waited on the other side. The attacker was formidable...the fact that he had done this to Marla was testimony to that. If she could only surprise him, perhaps her speed and strength would give her enough of an opportunity to get out of the building and onto the relative safety of the street.

A low hiss caught her attention. Her head jerked to the door. The wood near the door's center had begun to bubble. As she watched in horrified fascination, the wood was pushed inward, suddenly made elastic by some dark magic.

Islena howled in outrage and revulsion as a hand thrust Marla Holmes' disembodied head through the opening. She dug her nails into the hollows of her cheeks and dragged them along the skin, leaving angry red marks in their wake.

Then Marla Holmes opened her eyes. They were not that gorgeous amber, but a wicked, gleaming argent. Islena averted her eyes and the horror spoke, "Look at me, you egocentric bitch."

Doraux flinched and snapped her eyes back to Marla's. The face was twisted into a snarl and the voice was venomous with loathing. "Are you pleased, Islena?" the thing rasped. "Don't worry, my moment of retribution will come."

The voice was fraught with such animosity and perverse glee that Islena trembled. "Marla, whoever did this to you is going to pay."

"You did this to me, you obtuse cunt!" Marla roared furiously. Doraux moaned and broke into convulsive sobs. There was an aspect of truth to Marla's accusations that stung her heart. "Your tears are meaningless. The Seer is waiting and the thin man grows impatient."

Islena's heart thudded at the mention of the thin man. Marla smiled an unfathomable smile. "I was your friend and I am dead, but your family still lives."

Horrified, she started to protest, but was shoved roughly from behind. She stumbled towards the door, but retained her balance.

There was movement from behind her.

She knew what she would see, should she look around. The hands would be extended, blindly groping for that which had been taken from it. It was a sight she could not endure. It would drive her into the realm of madness. She refused to look.

One tentative step. And then another. She waited breathlessly for the fall of a hand upon her shoulder.

Marla's head vanished back through the opening and the door swung open. Without looking back, she bolted through the office door.

4

Perspiring heavily, she stood in the reception area and listened for the attacker's presence. She could no longer seek refuge in the misguided belief that all of this was a mere illusion or the by-product of her own infirmed mind. Marla Holmes was dead (though somewhat more spry than the average corpse). In seeing Marla's headless corpse splayed over her desk, Islena came to unconditionally accept everything that she had vehemently scorned.

From somewhere in the depth of the main floor there came a low, respiratory hiss. When she peered into the gloom, she could see two luminous blue dots hovering in midair. "I shall be watching," the thing cautioned. "The seer waits to receive you. Go to her and heed her words. Should you try to contact anyone, anyone at all, other than the old woman, you will have signed that person's death warrant."

Islena nodded silently. Seeing Marla's ravaged body in her mind's eye, she had no doubt that this savage would make good on his threat. Without taking her eyes from that point in the darkness, she began to inch her way toward the main exit. Outside, she could see people moving on the sidewalk, going about the everyday business of their daily lives. She wondered how long it would be before her life would remotely resemble what it had been only a few days previous. Something told her that it would be a very long time...if ever. At the door, she paused and glanced back over her shoulder. When she spoke, her voice was low and fraught with emotion. "Tell your master that I know his face. There is going to be a day of reckoning for what he did to Marla. I'm going to kill him with my own two hands."

The thing in the shadows responded by tossing Marla's disembodied head into the reception area. It hit the floor with a muffled thud and rolled towards Doraux. She screeched with revulsion and fled into the bright morning sunshine and her appointed meeting with the tarot woman.

Chapter Twelve

1

The drive to Mrs. Normandy's passed in a blurred frenzy. Perhaps it was only divine intervention that allowed her to reach the psychic's without major mishap. Her thoughts came doubling back to the horribly vivid image of beautiful Marla's ruined body and the thin man's promise to harm her family. With her concentration only half on the task of driving, she bobbed and weaved her way through traffic with the precision and confidence of a road rally driver.

Should she call Ben? Did she not owe him some explanation for what had happened and for what might happen yet? If nothing else, it would seem that a warning would be in order, but how could she deliver such a warning in cogent, rational terms.

'Try to contact anyone and you will have signed that person's death warrant.' The voice had been dispassionate and the message resoundingly emphatic, leaving no doubt that it would not hesitate to punish any perceived disobedience.

'But still, how would he know, Islena?' she challenged. He would know. His vulgar displays hinted at a power the limits of which she could not even imagine. She could feel his scrutiny upon her flesh like a polluting slime, making her want to squirm in her seat.

A car slowed to turn right up head and she changed into the next lane without looking into her side or rear-view mirrors. The sedan swerved into the lane, missing the trailing car's bumper by less than a foot. The startled driver laid on the horn with both hands and cursed at the crazy woman in front of him. She did nothing to acknowledge him, only kept on accelerating and looking for an opportunity to switch back into the other lane. The man shook his head in disgust and slowed to give her a wide berth.

Islena turned into Dominique's street and parked in the exact spot where Marla had parked only two days earlier. She gave a brief consideration to the extent of the change that had overcome her life in those scant forty-eight hours. Irreversible engines had been set in motion and she correctly deduced that much of her old life's innocence and sweetness had been forever stolen from her. Marla's death was proof of that purchase...her indelible stain of shame.

"All right old woman, let's hear what you've got to tell me," Islena muttered and crossed the street to the porch where the seer had predicted her return. She rang the bell and stood back, drawing a deep, calming breath.

No one came to answer the door.

She placed her ear to the door and rang a second time. She could hear the chime filter through the wood, but there was no other sign of movement within. Impatiently, she hammered on the front door with the flat of her palm. Not caring about disturbing the neighbors, she screamed. "Open up, old woman. I've been sent to see you and here I am. Now open this Goddamn door before I rip it off its hinges!!"

Silence. Islena's frustration turned to anger. She was preparing to slam her shoulder into the door, when the lock clicked and the door swung inward. The creak of the hinges was impossibly loud and ominous.

The house was submerged in a brooding gloom and uncomfortably warm. A musky, pungent odor hung in the air, reminding her of a house that had been closed up for weeks if not months or years. It was suffocating...forbidding as a Pharaoh's sarcophagus. Steeling herself, she stepped over the threshold and swung the door closed behind her.

"Good Christ!" she gasped when her eyes had finally adjusted to the dull light. The room had been reduced to a shambles. It appeared as though a cyclone had blown throw the front door and demolished everything, leaving only kindling and glass bits in its wake. For a moment she feared that the old woman might be as dead as Marla had been. What then?

"Come," echoed a single word spoken from somewhere deeper into the house. This was followed by a faint stirring as something moved in one of the other rooms. Mustering her courage against her burgeoning fear, Islena gingerly picked her way through the wood shards and the bits of broken crystal. Though flight was not an option, nonetheless Islena struggled with the nearly irresistible urge to turn heel and flee back into the comforting light of day.

A mysterious blue light issued through one of the doorways off to her left. She could see the ruined door lying in the hallway that led to the back of the house. It had been split down the middle as though constructed from paper Mache. She distinctly remembered this room where Dominique had subjected her to that apocalyptic reading. As harrowing as that experience had been, she knew that this was going to be incomparably worse. The thin man had arranged this meeting as a juncture...a starting point or an ending point. She had no way of foretelling what intent capered behind his action, what motive moved him to such brutal extremes, but this was where some intimation of his intent would be revealed, at least in part.

Her pulse began to thunder in her temples. Again, every instinct advised her to flee, but she knew that flight was not and perhaps had never been, a viable alternative. Biting back her apprehension, she stepped through the opening.

Dominique Normandy sat at a table, shuffling card as if she were in a somnambulist's trance. Islena watched in fascination as the cards slid from one hand to the next. Other than the table and two chairs, everything in the room had been destroyed. Tarot cards lay scattered everywhere. The walls had evidently been subjected to the same fury that had demolished the door for they were split open from ceiling to floor.

The seer kept shuffling, oblivious to the devastation around her. She gave no indication that she was aware of Islena's presence. The room suddenly assumed a vulturous posture, hunching towards the pair as if in anticipation of some imminent treachery. Islena studied the woman. Dominique had undergone an astounding transition since last the pair had met. She looked haggard as though she had neither slept nor ate in the past two days. Her skin was sallow and drawn tight over thin cheekbones. Only her eyes gave any indication of vitality. They were hard like the glint of a razor and twice as cold.

"Do you find my appearance unsettling?" she inquired unexpectedly. She had been aware of the other woman's presence all along, but had deliberately chosen to ignore it. "Come and sit. We have much to discuss."

Doraux walked slowly across the litter strewn room and settled into the seat across from the seer. Close-up, the woman looked more than haggard, she looked positively demented. "What happened to your house...to you?"

The seer smiled bitterly. "You did."

"What the hell does that mean?" Doraux retorted harshly, sickening of the steady diet of riddle and abstraction. The seer shrugged indifferently. "I have been selected to act as an intermediary. Some higher power has deemed you important and I have been conscripted to bring the two of you together."

"You're talking about the thin man. Who is he? Where does he come from?" The deluge of questions came in a torrent fuelled by fear and desperation. She was to have answers at last. The psychic raised her hand and gestured for silence. "The thin man is but one player on a vast and complex game board. He is your antagonist, yes, but he is not the only one who has designs upon you."

Islena shook her head, momentarily confused. Then recollection of the man with the pale blue eyes and the beard came unbidden to her mind. The man's face had seemed hauntingly familiar. "Are you talking about the other man?"

The psychic blinked, clearly surprised by Islena's response.

'She has no idea who I'm talking about,' she realized at once. The seer's ignorance seemed vastly significant, though Islena could not discern precisely why.

"I know of no other man," Normandy replied flatly, trying to conceal her confusion with surly impatience. "You have been visited by your adversary. He has demonstrated his ruthlessness sufficiently, I trust?"

"Marla, you know about what's happened to Marla?" Islena demanded, growing furious at the thought.

Again, Normandy offered a thin smile, ripe with derision. "I attempted to warn her. I told her that she was in grave danger because of you. Her love for you clouded her judgment," the seer concluded sullenly. "She has become the first casualty in what will rapidly become a long procession of sacrificial victims along your path to destiny."

Tears sprang to her eyes and Islena began to sob unreservedly. She could not suppress the grief. It welled up, hot and stinging, running down her cheeks like an admission of guilt. Seeing Islena's dismay, the seer lashed her mercilessly. "She loved you and sought to protect you, but you chose to disregard her pleas and so abandoned her to the thin man. Responsibility for her death falls squarely upon her shoulders. I despair to think how many others shall die in your name before this conflict is resolved."

"Why is this happening to me?" Islena wailed miserably "You keep talking about conflicts and destinies, but I have no idea what the fuck any of you are talking about. I'm just an ordinary woman." Normandy nodded in feigned sympathy, though she was clearly pleased by the other woman's wretched despair. "The thin man is named Ryalla. He is the high lord Imperator of the Jerhia. It is his consuming ambition to conquer his world, and all worlds beyond his own."

Doraux shook her head in abnegation. This talk of worlds was ludicrous. "Make sense, old woman. There are no other worlds."

"Just as disembodied heads cannot speak and officious businessmen cannot convey messages of dire warning," Dominique countered with sardonic glee. Islena recoiled. The extent of this woman's knowledge was unnerving.

'Yes, but why didn't she know about the man with the pale blue eyes?' That question seemed irrelevant at the moment and she chose to ignore it. "What does he want of me?

"You have it within yourself to help him achieve all that he desires. He will strive to forge you in his shadow and help him realize his wicked ambition."

"How? I've seen what he is, what he is capable of. Nothing could compel to serve such a monster."

"Could you stand to see your husband butchered in the same fashion as Marla...or your children?" Normandy snapped, cutting to the very heart of Islena's terror. Islena said nothing, sickened by the vivid images that accompanied this gruesome threat.

Dominique sat back in her chair, an air of smugness twisting her haggard features. "The thin man believes that you need not be coerced. There are aspects to your personality that even you may not suspect exist. Some of that was hinted at during the reading which you so stubbornly scorned. You are driven by a consuming ambition that is not without its dark and frightening dimension...a side that may prove predacious and cruel. He is in a position to tempt you with the most exotic trappings of wealth and power imaginable. You are not entirely immune to such excess, Islena Doraux. It would be a fatal blunder to assume that you are beyond corruption, but I suspect that you are cognizant of this already."

Islena wiped her cheek with the back of her hand and remained silent. While disturbing, these thoughts were not entirely new. They were only more drastic echoes of things that she, herself, had always suspected. "You spoke of another person who had designs upon me.

"Yessss." The seer drew the word out in a soft, sibilant hiss. There was a tone in the old woman's voice that intimated reverence. "Ryalla is the Lord of the Warrior Jerhia. He seeks to plunder the continent and pillage and rape the other cultures of his world. You are the weapon through which he intends to facilitate that aspiration."

"There is another who knows of your secret power...your potential for apocalyptic devastation. Her name is Myrhia. She is the High Queen of Emercia and the sole obstacle to Ryalla's wicked machinations. She too wishes to unlock and channel your hidden potential. In her mind, she sees you as his bane and ultimate undoing."

"What is it about me? What do these people think that I am capable of, that they would go to such extremes to make me do their bidding?" Islena murmured, mystified in spite of herself.

"I cannot answer that," the seer replied flatly

"You can't...or won't?" Doraux challenged. She perceived that the later was closer to the truth. It was imperative that she not forget that this woman was not necessarily friendly and perhaps not all of what she said was the absolute and incontrovertible truth.

"As you wish," the seer answered with an indifferent shrug. "Every answer that you require is sequestered deep within here and here." She pointed to her head and then to her heart. "Only you can unlock those secrets and only you can decide how best to employ the power that shall be released. Ultimately, it will be this decision that will prove to be your true test...a trial that will declare your moral character."

"What am I to do?" Islena asked, simply and flatly, finally submitting to the seemingly inevitable dictates of fate. Dominique frowned and made an odd little gesture that Doraux did not understand. Seconds later, the room temperature dropped perceptibly as a chilling breeze eddied through the doorway. Something stirred in the hall. Alarmed, Islena pushed back her chair and stepped away from the desk.

A shadow fell across the opening and before Islena could further back away, Mrs. Normandy caught hold of her wrist.

'This is just like last time,' she thought in horror. 'Now she's going to start raving about prophecy and warning me to beware of unseen devils.'

But the seer did not launch into a diatribe. Instead she held Islena in a vice grip as a man sprang lithely through the doorway and stood studying the pair. Its eyes glowed brilliantly. Its teeth resembled stainless steel darning needles in the incondign light of the reading room.

It was the entity that had slaughtered Marla Holmes.

Islena redoubled her efforts to be free of the seer, suddenly livid with the need to extract revenge. Dominique fought desperately to retain her grip. "Don't be a fool, woman. You have no concept of what it is that you are attempting to assault."

"That...monstrous bastard killed Marla, do you understand. It killed her," she railed at the old woman, thought she could not extricate herself from the seer's bony grasp.

"It will kill us both if you don't listen, you stupid bitch," the seer shrieked frantically. The thing took a menacing step forward, hands coming up as it did. Doraux stopped struggling and regarded the seer quizzically. Dominique began to speak in a low, frantic voice. "You say that you seek answers and it is through this entity that you will find them." She pointed toward the thing that had fallen stationary and now seemed indifferent to their presence. "The hinge of destiny is waiting to turn upon your actions. Forget your old world and your old life. They are as inaccessible to you as if you had been sealed in your grave. Until you heed the call to which you were destined nothing can ever be as it was. You must forget all of the affectations of this world and go willingly into the waters of this new one. There, you must find your true self and only at the culmination of this journey of self-discovery will you have any hope of regaining that which has been taken from you."

Islena's glance shifted from Normandy to the nightmare countenance of the thing near the door. As she watched, it began to undergo a rapid transformation. Its sinewy limbs began to sag, the flesh running like candle wax and spreading over the floor in a pool. In the span of a few breaths, the entire body dissolved into that pool, which grew to a certain size but spread no further.

"God in heaven, what is that stuff?" Doraux breathed shakily, at once repulsed and fascinated by the spectacle.

"It is the substance of evil itself," Dominique remarked and then began to shepherd the other woman towards the viscous blue jelly. Islena wanted to throw the seer off, but found that she lacked the resolve to resist. Her body felt impossibly weak and incapable and she was reduced to simply shaking her head in negation and horror.

"You must go. You cannot evade your destiny. If you do not go to it willingly, then it will come and seek you out. Think of what has befallen Marla...what may yet befall your own blood, if you attempt to evade this summons."

The mention of Marla and her family banished whatever reluctance she might have felt. With a sharp push, Mrs. Normandy propelled Islena forward, falling to the carpet as she did. Doraux's legs buckled and she toppled towards the pool. She pin wheeled her arms wildly but could not recover her balance and with an inarticulate wail, she toppled into the luminous blue mass.

She screamed and tried to scramble out, but the viscous jelly clutched at her with a thousand hands, slowly but inexorably pulling her ever downward. The seer watched her struggles impassively, not moving from the spot where she had fallen and making no attempt to intervene as a malevolent grin contorted her features into a hideous mask.

Doraux's last thought, before she tumbled into unconsciousness, was that she had been betrayed. Then an unseen forced wrenched her under and light and cognizance were washed away.

2

When Islena Doraux had vanished into the hellish depths, Dominique breathed a deep sigh of relief, then pitched forward onto her face and lay motionless. She experienced a moment of revulsion and self-loathing so profound that she feared she might simply explode. For the first time in her life, she had manufactured a reading and deliberately deceived another human being. She had made herself a party to a heinous injustice; one that went beyond merely misdirecting that vainglorious woman into the arms of her enemy. In light of the things that she had seen during yesterday's reading, the scope and magnitude of Dominique's betrayal was too staggering to comprehend.

Footsteps, as soft and delicate as the fall of a pin on the lush forest green, stilled her convulsive shuddering.

Quivering, Dominique raised her head and watched as the woman drew nearer. She marveled at the impossibly slender ankles and the way in which those feet appeared to float across the floor. She would have been not at all surprised if this woman did, in fact, float. Dominique suspected that this was a creature that would derive an infinite amount of pleasure from mocking gravity and nature.

"You were simply fabulous, my Dominique. The finest thespians from the troops of Icarileen could have produced no finer a performance. Ah, the irony of it all. You have enlightened our Lovely Islena with darkness. Most convincing. How shall I reward you, my Dominique?" Myrhia inquired sweetly. The lovely strains and pitch of her voice spoke of an inviolable innocence and gentleness, as though she were incapable of guile or misdeed.

Hearing that tone, Dominique grimaced and squinted up to her tormentor. It was impossible not to be smitten with the woman's indescribable beauty. The emerald green skirts hung to a point just above the ankle. Ornate bands of red velvet, shot with skeins of gold thread, woven through the material in a pattern that was strangely serpentine. She wore a tight fitting jacket that had been trimmed with intricate arrangements of hanging pearls. She truly resembled the omnipotent queen that she aspired to become.

Smiling her bewitching smile, Myrhia inclined her head and held out her hand to the psychic. "Come, my Dominique, I can dispense pleasure as well as suffering."

The woman's attraction was irresistible, magnetic. The older woman crawled through the detritus which had once been her life and knelt before Myrhia. The sorceress laid a long-fingered, elegant hand upon Dominique's cheek. That impish twinkle had gone from her eyes.

"The years have not been kind, have they Dominique?" Myrhia observed. Dominique could see an unfathomable emotion playing deep in those impossibly dark eyes. It frightened her but she was powerless to pull away from the tender caress. "The tribulations that you were forced to endure. Your gift has brought you no joy. The cynics...the curiosity seekers, they have allowed you no peace..."

Dominique began to weep bitterly. All of those years of isolation and loneliness through which time had crawled like slow death. She had become emotionally destitute, for who could love a person who could divine every thought at a touch...or even a casual glance. Then the pain had come to keep her company; a nagging companion that would allow her no respite. The weeping turned to spasms of sobbing for the bitter, empty shell of her existence. Myrhia stroked her hair and whispered. "This is a world that has no place for our kind. It is a hard, cold world of carefully structured realities. We will never thrive here. The best we may do is to subsist as a carnival attraction...a morbid curiosity."

There was a white hot explosion of pain in Dominique's wasted joints. She grimaced and laid her head upon Myrhia's thigh. "I can relieve your pain, my Dominique. I can assuage all of your suffering with but a touch."

Dominique gazed up at Myrhia through tear-blurred eyes, searching the exquisite face for some hint of deceitfulness. Then she pleaded, "Please, if you can take away the pain..."

Myrhia smiled indulgently and then knelt in front of the seer and placed the flat of her hand upon Mrs. Normandy's forehead. She closed her eyes and began to hum softly. Warmth swept through the seer's bones, quelling the raging fires of pain that had enslaved her for so many years. That feeling of well-being continued to grow until it suffused every fiber of her tired flesh, exorcising the demon of incessant pain. She opened her eyes and was about to bray her gratitude, when the heat intensified.

She cried out, more perplexed than alarmed, and looked questioningly to Myrhia. The smile was gone, as was the mask of false empathy. In its place was an expression of such contempt and unadulterated hatred that Mrs. Normandy screamed.

"Why?" Dominique pleaded breathlessly.

""Your ilk has always disgusted me. Performing children's parlor tricks for the amusement of the multitude of imbeciles. It is conjurers such as you who have reduced the art of divination to something tawdry and contemptible. I have vowed to personally exterminate your kind if for no other reason but for the fact that you offend me."

Dominique's eyes flew open like broken shutters and she attempted to pull away, but Myrhia seized her by the throat. Her strength was totally out of proportion to her diminutive stature. "The fires of agony burn inside of your bones but I shall show you pain beyond imagining."

The hand that lay upon Mrs. Normandy's forehead, burst into flames. An argent gleam, like the flame of a welder's torch, burned the old woman's retinas to a cinder, leaving her to face her moment of torment in total darkness.

As her wispy hair was consumed in an instant Dominique staggered to her feet and flailed blindly at her burning head. Myrhia stood and clapped her hands together, delighted and amused by the seer's death dance.

The old woman's screams of pain irritated the diminutive beauty, prompting Myrhia to shake her head in disgust. "You bleat like a sheep, old woman."

Then she darted forward and clamped her flaming hand over Dominique's mouth, fusing her lips together. The woman thrashed frantically, stumbled into walls and tumbled into pieces of demolished furniture.

Myrhia stood at room's center, finding the whole matter uproariously funny.

When the internal pressure built to critical levels, Dominique Normandy burst apart like an overripe melon. The skeleton remained erect for a moment and then tumbled to the carpet in a puff of grayish white dust.

Myrhia regarded the powdered remains for a moment and then waved her hand in a complete circle above her head. The walls of the room erupted in solid sheets of white flame. Over the roar and crackle of the dying house, Myrhia whispered, "Now, my sweet Islena let us begin our deadly game."

Unconcerned by collapsing plaster and timber, she strode to the pool and followed her prey into the unknown.

Chapter Thirteen

1

Ynthrax watched from the concealment of the underbrush, waiting nervously to give the signal. He was not sure what to expect because Myrhia did not see fit to apprise him of the details of her machinations. He was a trained dog, subservient to her every whim, though in candor, he knew that he would have served her even if he had been rewarded only with table scraps. He was bound to her by a humiliating, debilitating fear that held him on a tight leash as it did for all who labored under her yoke.

A hand fell upon his shoulder and he started. Whirling about, he gazed down at his queen.

"My queen?" he stammered. "We did not expect your return so soon."

Myrhia offered him a sardonic grin. "Uncertainty keeps the mind alert and the eyes sharp, Ynthrax. I trust that the preparations have been made?"

Though her tone sounded casual, Ynthrax thought that he could detect an uncharacteristic hint of anxiety beneath the mantle of glacial calm. He suspected that this visitor would be instrumental to the culmination of Myrhia's blueprint for unfettered conquest. He privately prayed that she had not miscalculated because he did not relish the prospect of leading his armies into battle against the Cornerstone Nations on their own soil. The cost in human terms would be too horrendous to contemplate, even for an incorrigible mercenary such as he had once believed himself to be.

"Do you have misgivings, Ynthrax?" Myrhia asked suddenly, startling her battle commander. Her eyes bore into him with that hard stare of appraisal that made him want to seek refuge under the nearest rock.

"No, milady," he swore solemnly, and then quickly averted his gaze to the ground. She regarded him for a second longer and then turned her attention upon the clearing.

"She must be extended every courtesy. And she must be made to think that we are beleaguered yet valiant defenders of integrity and justice. That means that your rabble must conduct themselves accordingly. This woman is precious to me, Ynthrax, and even I cannot conceive the extent of my fury should she somehow be alienated by indiscretion."

Ynthrax nodded silently. His charge was a horde of undisciplined lunatics who followed Myrhia out of greed and the opportunity to vent their perverse desire for blood and plunder. Controlling the lot was not an easy feat. Fortunately, the entire lot shared a common terror of the woman who led them.

Myrhia uttered an anxious laugh. Beside her, the flesh on Ynthrax's arm rose in great hackles. The sky had gone as black as the proverbial sack cloth. One moment it had been clear and unblemished by cloud. The next, thick thunderheads congealed in the sky and blinding bolts of lightening spewed from the clouds. The heavens reverberated and the air was suffused with electric anticipation.

All about the Queen, men cried out in superstitious dread and scrambled for safety. Engrossed by the majestic display of power, Myrhia held her arms out to the heavens in a gesture that could have been one of supplication or welcome. As if from the throes of passion, Myrhia exclaimed, "Come, my sweet Islena!"

2

They had congregated around the sacred stone in anticipation of the foretold one's imminent arrival. The crystal of Thamius glowed with a greater magnitude than any of the elder would ever have thought possible and it was difficult for those assembled not to avert their eyes from the blinding glare. The seven elders gathered expectantly about the circular stone which spanned more than eighteen hands in diameter. The vast chamber was illuminated only by the glowing crystal.

It had spoken to them...foretelling of the impending catastrophe set to befall their unsuspecting world.

It had warned them that Myrhia had again violated the sanctity of the seal. She had crossed the forbidden barrier and was on the verge of bringing the foretold one into this world.

'She must not succeed,' Inos, chief elder of Metocan, remarked adamantly. This was greeted by a round of grim agreement from the other six.

'We must be prepared to sacrifice everything to forestall this travesty,' Inos declared. 'Even our lives, if that is what is required. That vile creature must not be allowed to gain possession of the sacred one.'

Again there was the murmur of exigent assent, though no sound had been uttered during the entire exchange. The faculty of speech had long since become redundant for the people of Metocan, who had developed telepathic powers that enabled them to communicate without uttering a word. Many of the elders feared that the younger generations would lose the ability to speak entirely since theirs was a closed society that traditionally eschewed contact with the outside world. In recent years they had even saw fit to curtail their contact with the other Cornerstone nations.

Now, Myrhia's reign of terror had forced them to abandon their policy of isolation. If she was to be thwarted, every nation would have to stand united to oppose her.

Even this would not suffice if she were to lay claim to the foretold one. Myrhia would be within reach of seizing the Proclamations. Once in possession of the Proclamations, even Euronia would be forced to pledge fealty to the Demon-Queen and the constraints of space and time would dissolve into nothingness before the juggernaut of her limitless ambition.

'We must act, Inos. She has been summoned. The gates have been brushed aside.' One of the other elders advised. Despite his reluctance, Inos nodded and lay his hands upon the cool surface of the blazing stone. An abrupt surge of power suffused the elder's translucent flesh, setting sinew and bone aglow.

The others drew back, momentarily surprised by the ferocity of the reaction.

'Join me. I lack the power to command the stone alone,' he exhorted urgently. The six rushed forward in unison and placed the flats of their palms on the sacred crystal. At a signal from Inos, they began to recite the ancient incantation that would activate the stone's power. The brilliance and innate power of the stone swelled, until the group could feel the earth vibrate beneath their feet.

Inos was assailed by apprehension then. Never had the council unleashed the full power of Thamius. Small bits of rock began to fall from the chamber ceiling. The elder prayed that the awakening of the giant would not bring the destruction of the master chamber.

Abruptly, the blinding light guttered and then a bolt of brilliant blue lightening broke the surface of the crystal and arced up toward the ceiling of the chamber. It did not shatter the seventy feet of solid rock as Inos had feared it might. Instead, it passed through the ceiling as if the bedrock was nothing more than a permeable membrane.

The group continued to gaze unblinkingly into the roiling depths of the oracular crystal, stunned into silence by the unprecedented spectacle.

"Look!" Jerrod, the junior elder, exclaimed while pointing to the now dormant stone. The surface had gone completely black. As the mystified group watched, another blue bolt tore across the concave surface of the crystal.

It rose ever upward, seeking out its appointed target. The aberration came into view, eliciting a rush of excited clamor from the council.

"May Euronia protect us," Inos muttered. There, like a wrinkle in the fabric of reality, was a jagged portal that had been ripped into the pliable fabric of the barrier between adjacent realities. A small breech had been torn in the barrier of time. Myrhia's insidious magic had achieved what the sages and ancients had insisted was impossible... she had forged a passage into a parallel reality. Gazing at the rift, Inos was reminded of monstrous birthing canal.

"We must not fail," he whispered beneath his breath. The Metocan bolt converged on the gap at incredible speed and it seemed a virtual certainty that they would succeed in cauterizing the breech. In a disheartening instant, they understood that their optimism was premature as another smaller trail of light ripped through the opening in a blinding eruption of argent light.

Behind Inos, one of the elders had begun to whimper. He turned a baleful eye upon her and she fell silent. "We must pray that our offering strikes Myrhia's."

"But that would mean the destruction of the foretold one!" Jerrod protested, regarding Inos' suggestion as near sacrilege. "Considering the scale of Myrhia's monstrous violation of the very laws governing existence itself, this would be the best possible outcome one could expect," Inos hissed. "Now be silent."

He returned his attention to the drama being enacted upon the surface of the ancient crystal. They held their collective breath as the two bolts converged and in passing, the two struck each other a glancing blow that ignited the heavens in a fiery burst. Though diverted from its original course, Myrhia's comet continued to descend towards their world. The other bolt slammed into the opening and sealed the offending breech, though too late to thwart Myrhia's pernicious scheme to violate the universal precept of separation.

A chorus of mournful wails filled the elders chamber, each more fervent in their prediction of doom. Inos raised his hand and cut them off with a savage gesture. "There is no time for this pitiful bleating. Though the spell did not succeed in closing the tear or destroying the foretold one, it has managed to alter its course."

"What difference will it make?" one of the others moaned. In an uncharacteristic fit of pique, Inos responded gruffly. "No doubt Myrhia will have taken steps to ensure that the one will be taken into her custody from the moment of her arrival. She will have arranged an elaborate welcome to show her benevolence if I judge her intentions correctly. Our efforts have sabotaged that plan. The one will land where fate wills it and Myrhia will be forced to seek her out.

"It is imperative that we locate her first." Inos' assessment evoked a flurry of excited debate from the other elders. If the one could be found, then it was still possible that Myrhia's wicked machinations could be foiled. Had not the one been foretold to be her bane?

"We must dispatch an emissary to alert the other Cornerstone Nations of what has transpired. All resources must be poured into the search for the one." Inos turned to Jerrod, who gazed back in quiet astonishment. "Jerrod, the task of carrying our message will fall to you. Make preparations and depart with all haste. You must impress upon them the gravity of the situation. This moment has become a critical juncture and all else pales in comparison to the exigent need to locate and shelter the one. Should we fail, it will mean the eventual obliteration of light and goodness...not only in our world, but in every world. This is the gravity that you must impress upon our allies, Jerrod!"

The others turned to Inos questioningly. He understood their concern. Jerrod was a junior member of the inner council and inexperienced in the ways of the outside world. It was indeed risky to place so much responsibility upon his shoulders. Still, the situation left Inos with little alternative. If there was any chance that the one could be found, it lay on the astral plane and not in a physical search, no matter how massive. Of the seven, Jerrod's puissance was the least developed and thus he could be spared as emissary. Inos conveyed this thought on a level of silent communication that was beyond Jerrod's ability. One by one, the other five reluctantly concurred.

Inos turned and placed his hands on the young elder's shoulder. In a voice that was rusty with misuse, he spoke, "Yours is a grave and noble undertaking. If Myrhia finds the one and subverts her will, all hope will be lost. Tell them that the council of Metocan requests a conclave as soon as circumstances will allow. Request that this conference be held in Natzurdan for the convenience of all involved."

"If they inquire as to what you wish to discuss?" Jerrod asked. He literally shook with an anxious sort of pride, attenuated by personal misgivings and self-doubt.

"Tell them that the high council of Metocan wishes to discuss strategy to protect against Myrhia's invasion...that we desire to form a concerted front to oppose the tyrant Queen. Tell them that we have acquired delicate information that will reverse the tide of this conflict."

Jerrod nodded, and was gone on the eddying breeze. Inos fetched a deep sigh and turned back to the others. Laying his hand upon the crystal, he said aloud, "There is much that we must do. Let's begin."

The faculty of speech felt clumsy to his tongue and his words sounded hollow and fraught with false hope.

3

Ynthrax gleaned his first intimation that something had gone awry with Myrhia's plan when the sorceress dropped her arms and regarded the heavens quizzically. The fury of the tempest abated and then faded to nothing, the thunderheads dissolving as quickly as they had come.

Myrhia uttered a vile curse that was lost on the wind. The soldiers knew instinctively that something had gone wrong and they would be best served by making themselves as inconspicuous as possible. They gradually started to fade back into the trees as if a slight change in proximity would be sufficient to spare them from Myrhia's wrath, should she decide to vent it upon them.

"Not one step further!" Myrhia shrieked. All movement ceased abruptly. When she turned to face her legions, her expression was absolutely livid with frustration and immutable rage.

"Ynthrax, come here at once." She pointed to the ground before her as if she were summoning an errant schoolboy or a dog. He shuffled hesitantly over to where she stood. Her eyes, usually so limpid and deceptively innocuous, were pinched with rage. It radiated from her like heat from gangrenous flesh.

"I've been cheated," she declared furiously as her sensuous mouth twisted in a scowl.

He made no response, deciding that silence was preferable to offering the wrong remark. She caught his forearm in a surprisingly powerful grip. "Someone has dared to interfere, but she has come through nonetheless. I can sense her presence as if she were an extension of my own flesh. She has come through on the east side of the Mother."

Ynthrax nodded uncomfortably. Her percipience frightened him as did all manners of sorcery. "She must be found and brought to me, do you understand?"

He nodded, flinching when she smashed her fist on her ebony breastplate. She appeared on the verge of hysterics and that would prove fatal for all in the vicinity. In the years that the Redian mercenary had served the tyrant, he had never seen her so close to openly losing her composure.

"I've been cheated!" she flared without warning and then spinning in a complete circle, waved her arms in an intricate gesture of invocation. All about the clearing, trees fell as though they were wheat before the scythe and boulders leapt from the earth and came crashing down in a hail of dirt. Soldiers fled in all direction, though some were not fortunate enough to avoid being crushed by the tempest. She continued to spin like a dervish, mindless of the destruction that her tantrum wrought or the carnage she was unleashing on her own troops.

'Earth Mother preserve us, she's gone mad,' Ynthrax thought, divining the true extent of her fury in that moment. Never had he considered that anyone or anything could pose such a threat to the very existence of everything that lived and breathed. Up until that moment he had believed that she was a ruthless despot with limitless ambition, but a villain who could be served and in whose service, one could prosper. Now he caught a vivid flash of her true nature...the annihilator. She did not mean to subjugate this world...she meant to destroy it...to eradicate it from existence. What ever else he might be, Ynthrax did not wish to be a party to pernicious evil of such scope.

For a brief instant, he contemplated drawing his sword and putting an end to the madness, but then the outburst ended and his fleeting moment of courage vanished with the dervish.

She gazed about with an odd vacant expression. Her cheeks were flushed and her breathing came in ragged bursts. She blinked and the true Myrhia vanished behind her customary angelic facade. "Find her, Ynthrax. Scour every knoll and ravine between here and the Chasm. Leave no stone unturned and no hovel standing."

He nodded and turned away. He had gone but three steps when she called him back. "Have all of Rygore's men been rounded up?"

"The majority has, my liege, but a small handful has managed to elude us including the adjutant, Amrand, and his charge of peasant women and children. We will have them before they can reach the causeway."

Myrhia scowled. "Pass the word among the locals: for every day that Islena remains free, a score of their people shall die but if she is brought to me unharmed, the people of that village shall be rewarded handsomely."

Ynthrax grimaced, knowing the perils of such terror tactics. People forced to such extremes often became unpredictable and dangerous. Hoping to dissuade her, he offered, "My queen, what of our drive to the causeway and the invasion of the west?"

"Find Islena and the conquest of the west shall take care of itself," she snapped, clearly irked by his audacity. Then, in a burst of smoke, she vanished as if she were a dweller from the fabled land of shades. Ynthrax shook his head dejectedly and went to pacify his panicked soldiers.

Chapter Fourteen

1

Islena came to the realization that she had found her way to an alien world long before she opened her eyes. The first inhalation spoke of a planet that had not been subjected to the ravages and abuses of the glorious age of technology. The scent of pine and honeysuckle, more stunningly pronounced than she would have thought possible, flooded her nostrils with their sweet aroma. She chanced opening her eyes and was rewarded with a dizzying view of an infinite cobalt sky. Here and there, ivory clouds floated like saturated puffs of cotton. The rich smell of undisturbed nature was heady and intoxicating. Transfixed by the towering stands of redwood and pine which surrounded her on every side, Islena momentarily forgot how she had come to be in this wondrous place.

Then recollection returned like the breaking of a tidal wave on a rocky shore.

An inarticulate wail tore from her lips and rose up to the heavens...a keening shriek of outrage that fell on an indifferent sky. After outrage came panic. Where was she? How would she get back home? And what of her family...now that she had capitulated to the thin man's duress, would they be safe?

'Forget your old world and your old life. They are inaccessible to you now, as if you have been sealed in your grave,' the old woman had advised with unconcealed pleasure. Gazing about the alien terrain, the truth of that declaration came crashing down upon Islena with brutal finality. In the wake of that terrible epiphany there followed black despair. She turned onto her stomach, pushed her face into the springy cushion of dried leaves and began to cry. Spasms of grief wracked her powerful body. Choking, she called out the names of those that she had lost: Ben, Allan, Donald and Marla, who had perished as a sacrifice to Islena's intransigence.

Lying with her face buried in the crook of her elbow, she pounded her fist into the indifferent earth, feeling as though she had been savagely raped and abandoned to die in a barbaric backwoods. The thin man had not only stripped her of all dignity... he had taken her very identity and left her to wallow in the mire of self-loathing.

The blows grew heavier and more frantic, driven by a towering, terrifying rage. As the anger mounted, the tears abated. After an interminable time, Islena pushed herself to her knees and wiped her face with the back of her hand. Other than the buzz of insects and the stirring of the gentle breeze, she was utterly alone. She had come into this world as a newborn, with neither food nor water, nor the necessary skills to seek those things out. She had no concept of where she was or how she should proceed from this small clearing in the middle of a dense forest. This was another world. Who could say what manner of beast might inhabit this forest? The notion did nothing to placate her growing sense of disquiet.

"Stop it, you foolish bitch," she scolded herself. She could hear the clattering wings of pervasive, thought-occluding panic beating near by. She had to keep her composure recognizing that it was one of the few resources that she had. In a forest so rich there was bound to be a profusion of food and water. It was ludicrous to waste time worrying about filling her stomach.

Somewhat placated, Islena stood and brushed leaves from her spandex body suit. Her body felt like forged steel beneath the thin material. Running her fingers over the exquisite contours helped her to regain her equilibrium and calm her frazzled nerves. She was equipped with everything that she needed to survive...her physical body, her indomitable will and a sense of inexorable purpose.

"You'll never break me," she vowed fiercely, conjuring the thin man's vile visage in her mind.

Pondering her situation, she realized that her most pressing concern must be gaining some sense of what she had been drawn into. The thin man was her enemy and this queen, this Myrhia, was perhaps her ally, but she would not be made a pawn in whatever game it was that the two were playing. She refused to align herself with anyone until it was clear just what was at stake. The thing of paramount importance was finding her way back to her world and her family. Anyone who stood between her and that objective was her enemy, regardless of what they might stand for.

'You've got to move, Islena,' her instinct cautioned and that was inarguably true. Nothing would be gained by remaining here. She had been abducted and the thin man was bound to come to collect his prize. A part of her was rather surprised that her arrival had not been met with a welcoming delegation of sorts, but speculation on the reasons for why she had not been received was pointless.

'Worry about your own actions, Izzy. Take the initiative, don't react.' That logic of this advice could not be gainsaid. She glanced around, selected a direction, and started off into the unknown.

2

She wasn't sure exactly how long she'd been traipsing through the unending forest, but she was positive that it had been several hours. In that time, she had glimpsed no trace of another living creature. Even the ever present drone of the insects failed to produce a single bug to go with the maddening sound.

'This is what the earth must have been like before man laid his claim to it,' she marveled. She retained no illusions about the reality of this place. Even the most complex and detailed of delusions could not match the vitality and grandeur of this verdant wilderness. This land had a majesty that the earth had not seen in perhaps tens of thousands of years. Islena thought that someone from her world would lack the faculties to conceive of something so magnificently vital. Other, more painful events had convinced her that all of this was very real, but she shut them out, knowing that to give them audience would precipitate a return of the incapacitating despair which she had felt when she had first arrived here.

She walked steadily for another forty five minutes, heading in what she judged to be a south-westerly direction. Her stomach had begun to rumble and she was considering scouring the area for something that looked edible, when a subtle sound came from somewhere off to her left.

Islena instinctively dropped to one knee and scrambled for the cover a nearby Redwood. There, she listened intently and moments later, the sound came a second time, barely audible over the usual noises of the forest.

Her ear identified the sound as a low, but distinct snap, the breaking of a twig, or the crunching of a dried leaf. Islena squinted into the gloom of the trees, trying to isolate the direction of the sound.

The third time she succeeded. She had been descending a gradual slope when the noise had first reached her ears. Now she caught sight of a single man kneeling behind an outcrop of granite about thirty yards down the slope. Had she not discerned the tiny noise, Islena would have in all probability walked right past the man's position. As she watched him, it became clear that he was unaware of her presence. He appeared totally absorbed by something further down the slope that was not within her immediate line of sight.

The man stood and bent forward, as if trying to gain a better perspective while remaining concealed. From this distance, she could see that he was a tall, svelte man with broad shoulders and blonde hair. Her attention was drawn to his clothing. He wore a black tight-fitting tunic and black trousers that were adorned by scarlet red piping. The uniform had a distinct military flavor and touched her as vaguely familiar.

Then it came to her.

The thin man had worn a more extravagant version of this same uniform when he had invaded her home and terrorized her family.

All prudent thought of remaining inconspicuous evaporated, supplanted by a wasp buzz of uncontrollable fury. This man in the archaic military uniform represented something upon which she could vent all of her indignation and outrage. When she was convinced that he was alone, she scanned the forest floor. Seeing what she needed, Islena smiled a predator's grin and crawled over to the thick branch. She thought back to the promise that she had made to herself only the night before while standing in her bathroom. Her fury, her inexhaustible well of anger, would be her weapon.

With this thought in mind, Islena picked her way down the slope, eyes fastened upon the man behind the outcrop.

3

Totally preoccupied with the dirt track, Amrand had no intimation of the danger that was furtively descending upon him like a tornado from a clear blue sky.

He glanced to the east and then to the west. The dirt road rose to a crest some five hundred yards from where he knelt. From there, he knew, it would plunge steadily downward for over a mile, eventually terminating at the eastern edge of the great chasm.

And the open causeway to Jerhia.

Amrand prayed that his countrymen had succeeded in rendering the causeway impassable. By destroying the natural ribbon of rock, the people of the west would have conceded the eastern continent to the sorceress queen, but at least they would be safe from her armies and her boundless greed...for the time being.

The past fifteen hours had been the most trying of the young adjutant's life. First he had been forced to leave his beloved cavalry only moments prior to the commencement of the pivotal battle in Kornas. Riding out, he had felt like a deserter; flight had always been considered craven by the time-honored tradition of his people. Ah, but the noble Jerhia traditions had crumbled, one after the other, over the past few years. He had tasted one bitter defeat after the other during the disastrous campaign and the taste had left Amrand disillusioned and his country divested of its mantle of invincibility.

Worse than the constant failure was the realization that Rygore was, in all probability, dead...fallen to the monster that he had so desperately attempted to vanquish. Amrand could barely suppress the intense anguish that rose at the very thought of his mentor's name. Rygore had been a man of unwavering honor and dignity...a true man of the Jerhia culture. He had taken Amrand under his wing and had imparted to the young cavalry commander, all of his experience and invaluable knowledge on warfare and life in general.

Now he was most likely dead while Amrand remained alive and cowering behind a boulder. Amrand suspected that his commander had intentionally chosen to spare his young protégé, ostensibly to lead the fight another day but part of Amrand was convinced that the old commander had been swayed by affection and this made Rygore's death all that much more difficult to suffer.

Nor did it help to know that he had failed the Tier Marshal. He had been assigned to warn the watchers of the causeway that Myrhia stood poised to strike at the natural bridges. In this, he had succeeded. Yet, he had also been charged with squiring the women and children of Kornas to safety in Jerhia and in this he had failed wretchedly.

The women had not wanted to desert their husbands (for which he could not blame them), and he had expended valuable time trying to convince them of the prudence of departure. When they had finally decided to move, Amrand realized that many of the unfortunate souls were in no shape to make the twenty mile trek under forced march conditions. Many were malnourished and several did not even have shoes on their feet. The ravages of protracted warfare had gradually used up most of what resources these simple people had managed to squirrel away and penury had forced them to the limits of their endurance.

Carrying children and what possessions they could gather, many of the women had succumbed to exhaustion in the first few miles. Torn between exigency and heart-wrenching pity, Amrand had forced the pace as much as he dared. When it became evident that the procession of refugees would never reach the causeway in less than two days, he had dispatched one of his men to ride ahead and tell causeway keepers of the imminent invasion. The other, he had sent to the rear in search of some news of what had transpired on the battle field.

Seven hours later, the scout had returned with the news that the battle was over and Myrhia's troops were engaging in a wholesale slaughter of the fleeing farmers. The imperial elite were massing for a direct thrust at the causeway. Amrand had mourned both his lost commander and his hopeless situation. He would never be able to bring these women and children to the safe haven of the west. Seeing no other alternative, he decided that the group should flee into the forest and try to melt into the vast wooded expanses in the hope that the imperial army would be too preoccupied with thoughts of invasion to bother hunting them down.

Looking at the deserted dirt track, Amrand recalled Myrhia's promise for surviving women and children, and he shivered violently. He had instructed Garoth to lead the group into the forest, angling towards the north-west. When they reached a point where the forest gave way to the descending slope, the group was to halt and await Amrand's return. Then he had raced his horse along the road to wait for some sign of the approaching invaders.

He was still waiting when Islena Doraux descended upon him like an enraged beast.

4

Even as she approached the man, Islena was not sure of her specific intention. Did she mean to kill the man? Would it not be better to incapacitate him and then force him to reveal whatever he knew about the thin man? She did not know, but found that simply acting made her feel immeasurably better as if through simple action she had managed to regain the initiative.

Summoning all of her speed and strength, she raised the branch and surged forward, bringing the tree limb down in a savage arc.

Amrand perceived the threat a fraction of a second before the blow landed and cursed his stupidity in the instant before the assailant landed the clubbing blow.

She swung the heavy tree limb with a cry of primal pleasure. It struck Amrand in the thighs, just above his knees. He grunted and started to crumble, but was struck across the kidneys with a subsequent blow even before he hit the ground.

Despite the dark blooms of excruciating pain, Amrand retained the presence of mind to raise his right arm and deflect the third blow just enough to prevent it from smashing his face. It struck his arm, skidded up and clipped his head just below the hairline. Red blood spurted and Amrand sagged against the rock with a grunt...fully expecting that he was about to be bludgeoned to death.

Islena had again raised the bloody limb to deliver the crushing final blow, when some semblance of civility imposed itself upon her frenzy. What was to be gained by beating this man to death? She had to find the thin man and a corpse would be of no use to her.

"Who are you?" she raved, her voice quavering on the edge of hysteria and shattering the prevailing silence.

Amrand peered up through a mask of blood as the world swam in and out of view in bleary double vision. When things had at last resolved themselves into one image, Amrand was certain that the force of the blows had deprived him of his reason.

Looking down at him was the most strikingly beautiful woman that he had ever seen. Her emerald eyes were ablaze with daunting fury like the eyes of a huge, predatory cat.

But it was the body that drew his attention. It was perfectly proportional, framed with heavy, magnificently defined muscles that must surely have been carved from blocks of granite. The shape was decidedly feminine, with full breasts and sweeping curves, but she could have been a female incarnation of a mythological God. She was dressed in a shiny silver material that clung obscenely to display every cut and crevice. This fantastical woman and her improbable dress made Amrand think that Myrhia had summoned some new form of demon from the Land of Shades and loosed it upon the unsuspecting eastern forests.

"I asked you a question and I won't ask again," she bellowed, brandishing the club threateningly.

"My name is first adjutant Amrand of the Jerhia Cavalry," The man replied with as much dignity as his situation would allow. He was at a clear disadvantage to this improbable creature, but he refused to succumb to debilitating fear.

"Jerhia!" The mad beauty hissed, and her eyes narrowed menacingly. "Where is the thin man?"

Amrand blinked and wiped away a stream of blood. This woman was insane and extremely dangerous and so he ventured hesitantly, "I know of no thin man."

"Don't lie, you bastard. It won't take much to provoke me to kill you." To emphasize how little might be required, she swung the limb and her blow scored true on his injured thigh. He grimaced and clutched his injured leg, but refused to give voice to his pain.

"I tell you, I have no idea what you're talking about," he wheezed. Islena snarled and moved to strike again, but something in his expression stopped her. She lowered the club slightly. There was an earnest confusion in his eyes. Perhaps the moniker confused him. "I want to know where I can find Ryalla."

Amrand winced. Almost quietly, he replied, "I...I know of no man named Ryalla."

"Ryalla is the Imperator of the Jerhia," she countered, but seeds of confusion were budding in her mind, with the shadow of sinking dejection lingering not far behind.

This confirmed Amrand's suspicions that this woman was indeed deranged. He tried to measure the odds of drawing his short sword before she could strike him another blow. Her reflexes were astounding and his pain was evidence of her power. "There is no Ryalla. Jerhia is governed by a tribunal and Maxim Tier Marshal and not an Imperator."

Islena seethed with frustration and impatience. This was a useless expenditure of her time. This man was not lying, but perhaps he was a dolt. She tried another approach. "And what of the Queen Myrhia? I suppose that she doesn't exist either?"

At the mention of the sorceress's name, the blond man's expression darkened. His brows knitted and he regarded Islena with a new suspicion. "Were that she had never existed. Perhaps the world might be free of the pervasive misery that her coming has wrought."

"What are you saying?" she demanded sullenly. Did she really want to hear this? Did she really want to be told that the dreaded thin man was a conjured deception and that this queen was wicked? Had she finally come to terms with all that she had suffered through, reconciling herself to even the most fantastical elements of this nightmare, only to find herself the victim of a devious hoax? Where, precisely, would such a revelation leave her?

"I am saying that, if you are an ally of Myrhia's, then you would be best served by killing me while you have the opportunity." Despite his disadvantage, the man glared at her defiantly. His jaw was set and though his eyes were muddied by pain, he displayed no fear. The mention of Myrhia's name had roused this man's ire and mettle.

Doraux sighed and stepped back, dropping the club slightly. "Stand up and throw that sword away."

The man complied, climbing heavily to his feet, wincing at the pain but making no sound. When he was erect, Amrand leaned against the rock for support and absently wiped blood from his forehead. "I would prefer to give you my sword than simply throw it away. These are perilous times. A person without a weapon is like a sheep in an untended pasture."

He began to draw the sword from its sheath, but Islena bound forward and raised the club, sensing some kind of trick.

"Touch that handle and I'll break your arm," she growled. Amrand rolled his eyes, but did not touch the haft.

"Put the thing on the rock and step over there," Islena commanded, gesturing off to the left. He complied and she picked up his weapon, casting aside the tree branch. She was mildly surprised to find how natural it felt to her grip. He watched her in a contemplative silence. Then he said. "You have injured me, though I have no idea who you are, and you have taken my weapon. Perhaps you could afford me the courtesy of telling me your name and why you've done this to me."

She hesitated. The man was large and powerfully built. He was even handsome in a crude sort of a way. He appeared guileless...not at all like the sneering monster that she had imagined all Jerhia to be. "Who I am doesn't matter. I have to find Ryalla. You say that he doesn't exist, so I'll have to settle for Queen Myrhia."

Amrand scowled. Islena reached an impulsive decision then. "I want you to take me to her."

Amrand regarded her with unconcealed astonishment. "You want me to take you to that witch? Woman, you must truly be deprived of your wits. I am a sworn enemy of that tyrant and would sacrifice my life for the chance to strangle her with my bare hands. If you have business with her, then I can only conclude that you are cut from the same cloth. Seek her out if you must, but you lack the means to compel me to escort you to her."

Before Islena could respond, the deafening thunder of hooves pounding dirt filled the air. Instinctively, Islena pressed herself to the rock and Amrand did the same. Looking to the road, she saw a countless ranks of heavily armed riders come charging out of the east. They rode with breakneck speed, focused exclusively on the narrow ribbon of road ahead of them.

Amrand suddenly leaned close. "If you seek Myrhia, there are the people who could escort you to her."

Lithely, he swept the feet from under her. Islena fell hard and relinquished her grip on the sword. Amrand retrieved the weapon before setting off into the forest at a dead run, sparing Islena one final glance.

Doraux cursed in disgust. If she was to survive, she would have to anticipate, to prepare for treachery at every turn.

'Yes, but he didn't kill you. He could have cut your throat, but he left you unharmed,' That stopped her in her tracks. She glanced to the road, where the mounted soldiers continued to storm by and something about their headlong urgency suggested a lust for depredation. She looked back to Amrand, who had reached the crest of the wooded hill.

On impulse, she rose and set out after the lone Jerhia.

Chapter Fifteen

1

Amrand had run for over a mile before he became cognizant of being pursued. The pain in his legs and lower back was hampering his ability to move freely and he was rapidly beginning to tire. He sprinted up a steep slope and settled into a copse of stunted pines, hoping that his pursuer would simply pass him by. To his infinite amazement and consternation, he saw the red-haired woman sprinting effortlessly up the steep slope. It took but a glance to see that she was alone. Amrand watched her, fascinated by the erotic dance of her powerful muscles beneath their thin sheath of silver and her effortless stride as she moved to avoid clumps of underbrush and protruding roots.

"Have I so offended the Gods that they have afflicted me with this?" he whispered wearily. She was dangerous, tenacious and incredibly powerful, but he felt certain that she was not evil. Sure that he would come to regret his decision, Amrand stepped into the opening. She saw him and came to a stop several feet from where he stood. He saw that she was breathing comfortably and that her skin was sheathed by a thin layer of perspiration. Again he was struck by the formidable weight of her physical beauty.

Drawing his sword, he remarked, "Now it is I who holds the advantage. Why do you hound me woman?"

She measured him intently. "I have to find Myrhia," she insisted. "I want you to bring her to me."

Amrand shook his head in disbelief. "Woman, you are as stubborn as a Jerhia war hound. Have you heard nothing that I've said? I will not take you to the witch. Even if I was foolish enough to agree, I could never come within ten leagues of that monster."

"Then at least tell me where I may find her," she implored. "I will go alone."

Amrand raised his arms in a sweeping motion. "Like a plague, she is everywhere." Then he turned and stalked away. Islena watched him go, suddenly feeling abandoned and suffused by hopelessness. Unexpectedly, tears sprang to her eyes.

"I only want to go home," she called after his retreating back. Hearing the incongruous note of vulnerability in her voice, Amrand turned back and regarded her quizzically. Tears coursed over her exquisite cheek bones and her massive shoulders trembled. Something in this unexpected display of vulnerability was profoundly touching to the Jerhia. She was a woman after all, different from any woman that he had ever encountered, but a woman nonetheless. He could not abandon her to the fortunes of the forest...especially now that the forest had fallen under the penumbra of the witch Queen.

"How did you come to be here?" He inquired softly, sheathing his weapon in a gesture of good faith. Gazing at him, Islena could discern no sign of guile...only a genuine desire to understand. She had always been slow to impart trust, but under the circumstances, she saw little alternative and so she set about recounting the tale of how she had come to be lost in this forest.

She told him most of what had befallen her in the past three days, but for some inexplicable reason, she excluded any mention of the man with the beard and the hauntingly familiar blue eyes. Amrand listened, growing more somber as her tale unfolded. When she concluded, he mused, "So she has resorted to violating the sanctity of time and space. Can such blasphemy even be possible?"

This incredible creature was tangible proof that it was, though the implications of this extraordinary woman's presence were beyond the warrior's capacity to comprehend.

Like any Jerhia, Amrand harbored and cultivated a deeply ingrained mistrust of all things mystical. He was a man of strategy and pragmatism who had come to view magic as the devil's art. There was a furtive, cunning aspect to magic that made the Jerhia inherently wary of its practitioners...even those practitioners who were ancient allies of the Jerhia cause, such as the Natzurdan and the Metocan. Still, it would be impolitic to share this view with a total stranger. "Do you have any notion of why she has sought you out?"

Islena shook her head miserably. The implications of her presence were too immense for Amrand to even ponder but if Myrhia was behind her summons then it was imperative that she not fall into the sorceress's hands. In that moment, Amrand decided that he would do everything necessary to ensure this one eventuality did not come to pass. She was watching him expectantly and it pained him to know that he could provide her with no insight into her plight. "If Myrhia has brought you from another world, then you must fit into her grand design for conquest. That's a rather broad conclusion...and one that is not particularly helpful, but it is the best I can offer at the moment."

"How? I'm no warrior. What possible use could I be to her?"

"There is no way of telling." At this, she shook her head and covered her face with her hands. Intrigued by the spill of her lustrous red hair over her face, he found himself scarcely able to endure the sight of her grief. "We must leave this place. No doubt, the imperial troopers will be searching for you even now."

Islena glanced up sharply, tears giving way to suspicion. "Where will we go?"

"I have no choice but to find the women and children of Kornas and squire them to the causeway. You find yourself in the midst of a war that has ravaged the land without surcease for the last seven years. Myrhia's infernal engine of conquest is presently poised to drive the forces allied against her out of the eastern continent. The west now lies open to her juggernaut unless my countrymen can destroy the stone causeway that serves as a bridge between the two land masses. I must lead the women and children to safety before we are trapped against the Mother." She looked at him uncertainly and he could detect her reluctance. Hoping to avoid an ugly confrontation, he offered, "You can't stay here."

"But can I afford to follow you? I have only your word that this Myrhia is the evil architect of this nightmare," she challenged, suspicion molding her expression.

"I understand the source of your skepticism. In your situation, I would have the same misgivings. Come and hear out all that has befallen these wretched women. Then decide where to lay your trust." He held his breath while she considered his offer. Then she signaled her tacit concurrence with a slight nod. Smiling, he turned and set off towards the northwest.

2

They ran for several hours, he in the lead and she following like a shadow. Darkness crept into the eastern sky and the sunlight bled from the western horizon in a blaze of vermilion glory. He marveled at her endurance as she matched him stride for laborious stride. In truth, he was beginning to falter, being more accustom to spending his days on a horse.

"How much further?" she inquired, as they descended a gentle slope.

"We are coming within sight of the Great Mother. Can you feel the gathering breeze?" She could. Its touch cooled and soothed her skin as it blew through the trees. "What is this great mother?"

"The Great Mother is a Chasm that separates the two continents. It spans more than two leagues in places. It is broached by three stone causeways that connect the two land masses. The chasm is incredibly deep. There are those who say that a molten river runs through its depths and that it is passageway to the under world, but I put little stock in such superstitious prattle."

The sound of whinnying horses reached their ears and Amrand signaled for her to take cover. He threaded his way down the slope and concealed himself behind a large rock outcrop. She waited for a moment and then moved to join him. "What's wrong?"

Stricken speechless, Amrand could only gesture to the panorama of horror that stretched before them.

The night was alight with a series of disjointed and confusing images which assaulted her reason with freight train speed. A group of more than fifty mounted soldiers threatened a group of women and children. A single man with a drawn sword stood between the two groups.

"That is Garoth," Amrand explained haltingly. The intense anguish was raw misery in his voice. "The troopers have found the women and children of Kornas."

The Imperial Troopers made obscene gestures towards the woman and mocked the lone Jerhia. A pair of horsemen sped forward and converged upon the soldier. One veered to the left, drawing Garoth's attention while the other came straight in and drew his sword across the Jerhia's unprotected shoulder. Amrand recoiled, as though he himself had been struck. "He is a cavalry man and not adept at infantry combat. Ah Garoth."

Sickened by the spectacle of deadly cat and mouse blood sport, Islena whispered fiercely, "We must do something to help him?"

Amrand wheeled upon her angrily. "And what do you suggest, woman?"

Then he returned his attention to the sorry mismatch. The pecking attacks went on for what seemed like an eternity before a large, bearded man burst out of the pack. He held a battle axe and raised it above his head as he bore down on the wounded man. Garoth valiantly struggled to raise his long sword, but his blood spattered arms lacked the power to do his will. The killing blow was delivered with deadly accuracy. Garoth's headless body remained upright for several seconds, blood spurting into the night sky like a crimson fountain, and then it folded slowly to the ground in a puff of yellow dust.

Amrand hissed and made soft moaning sound in his chest. Islena closed her eyes and bit her tongue to fight back the nausea that threatened to overwhelm her. It occurred to her that this was her first real experience with the black side of life; a poignant indoctrination into the bitter realities that faced two thirds of her own world's population every day. There, she had been able to avoid them, simply by changing channels and putting the relentless tide of human misery conveniently out of mind. Here she would be afforded no such electronic requiem from the harsh realities of this world. Thus confronted, Islena gained an insight into the shallowness of many of the things that she had long considered important. In the face of violence and death, the pursuit of trophies and championships appeared petty and pathetically self-indulgent.

"You wished a taste of Myrhia's true nature? Now you shall have it," Amrand intoned with a harsh resentment that she could not entirely fathom.

Ynthrax watched Garoth's final fall with an unexpected measure of revulsion. Witnessing Myrhia's violent tirade, with its indiscriminate taking of life, had evoked a subtle but nonetheless profound change in the Queen's commander. The fact that this woman, this Islena, had failed to materialize had given birth to an entire brood of misgivings in his mind. Though Myrhia appeared both infallible and invincible, Ynthrax had been touched by the unnerving impression that the tides of fate were about to shift unfavorably...ironically, these doubts flourished on the very night that Myrhia had achieved mastery over the Eastern Continent. Still, Ynthrax could not suppress that persistent and ever-growing sense that things had somehow gone irreversibly wrong...that his tempestuous benefactress had committed a monumental miscalculation...one that would signal the onset of events leading inexorably to her demise.

He contemplated the sprawled form of the dead man and wondered how long it would be before someone gazed down upon him in exactly the same position.

Turning his attention to the throng of frightened women and children, Ynthrax declared, "Upon order of her majesty Myrhia, High Queen of Emercia and protector of the Eastern nations, I command you to accompany the Imperial escort back to your home villages. There, you shall be tried under the charges of conspiracy to commit sedition."

As he delivered his order, a single woman shouldered her way to the front of the wretched group. She was a fairly large woman, dressed in mud-spattered and torn rags, whose face told a tale of unending drudgery and poverty. Only her eyes displayed any sign of life as they glowered defiantly from their bed of doughy flesh.

She strode into the clearing as if she intended to protect the others single-handedly. She regarded the mounted horsemen with scorn and demanded, "Who is this queen that we should be beholding to her orders?"

"You speak of the High Queen, peasant," Ynthrax growled.

The woman spat and uttered the Kornas epithet which had become synonymous with Myrhia. "She is not our Queen. She is the Devil's bitch."

From her place of concealment, Doraux felt herself tense. This woman, for all of her wretchedness, was undaunted by the armed hooligans. It was spirit such as this from which she had evolved. With that admiration came a feeling of personal cowardice. While this woman stood up to armed soldiers, she cowered behind a rock, craven and incondign. Clutching Amrand shoulder tightly, she whispered, "Amrand, we can't let this happen."

He shook his head helplessly, but gave no reply and she realized that he was sharing her own feelings of frustration and impotence.

"You killed our men and stole our lands. What more do you want of us?" the woman spat bitterly. She ushered a small child out from behind her skirts. Islena's heart wrenched at the sight of the filthy, malnourished boy. His age could have ranged from five to ten years, but his state of degradation made it impossible to estimate with any degree of certainty. She held him before her with the immeasurable pride of one proffering the most exquisite and rarest of jewels. Around him, Ynthrax felt his troopers stir uneasily. What was unfolding before them, defied their sensibilities that were defined in terms of plunder and unrestrained excess. "There is nothing left to take but my body and my child, and she won't be takin' either one."

As the stunned trooper's stood rooted on in utter astonishment, the woman wheeled about and ran toward the waiting maw of the chasm. The women parted before her, a fierce light dawning in every eye. The boy stumbled mutely along after his mother, bearing the fact of his imminent end with seeming indifference. Islena tensed and then the pair was gone, silently consigning themselves to the mercy of whatever fate awaited them in the after world. Feeling as though she had been bulldozed by an avalanche, Islena sagged against the boulder. When she looked to Amrand, she was appalled to find that he was smiling slightly. His eyes blazed with something that might have been either triumph or private vindication.

"Foolish wench," Ynthrax muttered sourly, and to his Troopers, he instructed, "Let's not prolong this folly. Round them up."

The troopers moved to comply, but before they could reach the first of the women, the group turned as one and sprinted for the cold comfort of self-immolation. Some cried out as they leapt into the void, while others hesitated, but in the end, every single peasant woman and child chose death over a continued existence of torture and abasement.

Islena found herself weeping uncontrollably and shaking with outrage. Sensing the extent of her anguish, Amrand declared. "This is a cold world, Islena. You will come to discover that they have selected wisely. The fate that would have awaited them at the hands of Myrhia would have made quick death seem like the greatest of mercies."

The Imperial troopers milled about aimlessly, clearly disconcerted by the strange act of defiance. Ynthrax cursed internally, knowing how this would sit with Myrhia. This was but another ill wind in what was rapidly becoming a tempest of changing fortunes.

"All right...what's done is done and let's not dwell upon it," he barked irritably. "Let's turn our attention to finding the woman."

"But what of the causeway? Have we come this far only to abandon it when it is within our very sight?" Ynthrax hoped to avert an uproar by withering the insubordinate trooper with a hard glare, but the question hung in the humid night air like a coiled snake. Soon, another added his objection to the first. "Yes, soon the Jerhia will find ways to block that roadway. Then everything will have been for nothing."

"Are you that anxious to face the Jerhia upon their home soil? When we cross the causeway, it is a virtual certainty that many of you will be joining your fallen brothers in the hereafter." He paused to allow his derision to sober their rush to fight. "The Queen has decided that the search for this woman must take precedence over the invasion of Jerhia."

He paused and surveyed the lot. "Perhaps there are those among you who would care to express their misgivings and objections to the Queen personally."

As he had anticipated, every single trooper averted their eyes...better to face a Jerhia pike than a wrathful Myrhia.

"How will we know her?" one asked timidly.

"The Queen has said that she will stand forth as if she were a score of suns," Ynthrax revealed, not entirely certain about the metaphor's reference.

Behind the boulder, Amrand was lost in a torrent of thought. He could sense Islena's imposing presence at his shoulder. 'To think that the sorceress would call a halt to her invasion, and all for the sake of this exotic creature. Who is she?' he wondered. 'And why is she of such vital importance to the Queen that she would risk losing the initiative in her war with the west?'

Amrand did not know, nor was he willing to hazard a guess. He did not care to venture into the complex labyrinth of Myrhia's iniquitous mind. He did know that he must do everything necessary to prevent this woman from falling into Myrhia's hands. If that required preventing her forcibly, then he would do so though the lingering pain in his kidneys reminded him that this was not a prospect to be relished.

The troopers milled about for several moments longer and then Ynthrax dispatched them to search for Islena. One group, he sent speeding to the north, while the other troopers thundered towards the causeway.

Amrand watched them recede from view and did not come out of shelter until the last echo of pounding hooves had died away. Heavy clouds had drifted in from the west, promising rain while plunging the chasm into a brooding darkness. Amrand crept forward, bent low to the ground, and stood over Garoth's ruined body. Steeling himself against the tactile sensation of sagging death, the Jerhia reached down and lifted his friend into his arms. Garoth had been a determined and fiercely loyal soldier. Now he was a lifeless pile of clay upon which the worms would find sustenance...his death little more than a futile gesture.

Crossing over to the edge of the great chasm, Amrand intoned the prayer for the dead and released Garoth's body to the void. Then he returned for the head. He threw it after the body and vowed softly, "Blood for blood."

Islena had not moved from the rock. When Amrand returned, he found her with her face cradled in the crook of her elbow. Though he had the desire, Amrand lacked the appropriate words to console her. The women and children of Kornas had achieved a small measure of victory in death...one which they had so desperately sought, but had failed to find in life. They had also avoided slavery and every indignity that this most awful of institutions entailed.

"We must go," he prompted gently. She glanced up at him, her exquisite green eyes vacant. "Those men will be searching for us and we'd be well served by moving as far away from this place as possible."

Perhaps he had anticipated some type of argument. Instead she nodded distantly and climbed to her feet. Allowing himself a grin of relief, he turned and set off to the north.

Seconds later, he heard her footsteps moving steadily behind him.

3

The pair progressed as quickly as the moonless night would allow. He led and she followed, negotiating the unfamiliar slopes and declines with her usual fluid grace. The final lemming charge of the peasant women and children kept replaying itself in her fevered mind with sickening vividness that would give her no peace.

The relentless question ate at her insides, until able to endure it no longer, Islena finally blurted out, "Why Amrand? Why did they do it? Kill themselves, I mean...and those poor children...how could they simply drag them to their deaths?"

Amrand came to a skidding halt and bent forward, rapidly approaching the limits of his endurance, though exigency would not allow him the luxury of rest. He drank in the great gulps of air and wiped the stinging perspiration from his eyes. She was watching him patiently but insistently, seemingly unaffected by their midnight run.

"Do you not tire, Islena?" he inquired breathlessly. Stopping to consider the matter, she was rather surprised to discover that...no...she did not feel fatigued in the least. In fact, she found her body to be oddly rejuvenated. She felt neither thirst nor hunger, though she had not had food nor drink for over twenty-four hours.

Perhaps it was the purity of air, but in this place, she felt indefatigable. Something in his weary voice prompted her to lie. "Yes. A rest wouldn't hurt."

He nodded with obvious relief and turned his attention to finding a sheltered place to rest. "We've put a few miles between ourselves and the Queen's dogs. As you say, a rest wouldn't hurt."

Amrand turned away, but a strong hand clamped down on his wrist like a manacle. Though he could not see her face in the gloom, the Jerhia could almost picture the tenacious expression that would shape her exquisite features. He sighed and gestured towards a large ironwood. "If you must hear it, at least let us sit."

He sagged to the ground and she settle beside him, he legs tucked beneath her like a cat. Exhaustion made it difficult to organize his thought into coherent, intelligible narrative. "Explaining why those women decided to end their lives is no easy matter. To fully comprehend and appreciate the gesture, it would first be necessary to gain a certain perspective on this world."

"You have found your way to us in the midst of the most ignoble age that has ever fallen upon this land. The shadow of evil is long and deep and I would predict that our plight will worsen before it improves. With the collapse of Kornas, the sorceress has laid claim to the entire eastern continent." He held his hands up in the lightless night. "Everyone and everything has been washed in hot and tainted blood...by her insatiable appetite for conquest."

Islena listened intently. Amrand, if he was indeed a reflection of all that had beset this land, spoke of constant turmoil and grief. "In the seven years that I have served away from my home, the life's blood of thousands of my comrades has been lapped up by foreign soil, and there has been no real honor to be gained from their sacrifice; just a slow churning of a great and inexorable process. Myrhia has placed a stain upon the complexion of things. Where once there was a certain honor and nobility in battle, now there is only a needless squandering of precious life...or perhaps it is that her savage flood of violence has merely exposed the empty rhetoric that is often associated with war for what it is...platitudes mouthed to lend meaning to the horrible sacrifices of precious human life."

He paused, lapsing into a contemplative silence. A thousand questions clamored for asking, but Islena held her tongue. It was some minutes before he shook off his reverie. "That is why those women chose the end that they did. Better a quick death than Myrhia's bestial brand of prolonged, systematic degradation. They managed what so many of us have failed to find...a death with honor."

"There is no such thing as a death with honor, Amrand," she retorted, momentarily angry that someone could still subscribe to such an inane notion. Then she remembered where she was and who she was speaking to. "In my world, we dispensed with the belief that death was honorable or heroic. We were once very much...like you." she faltered, finding herself on the verge of a significant insight. It flittered into focus, mocked her, and then was gone. She tried to recapture it, but it was gone like the whisper of an elusive memory...or perhaps a dream. "In the world where I live, warfare is considered a primitive and futile...though sometimes necessary evil."

Amrand nodded thoughtfully. There were those who would view her philosophy as not only naive, but blasphemous. For the longest time, he had been an ardent believer in the power of the sword and the crossbow. He had been spawned by a people who thrived on the conviction that warfare was a noble blend of art and science...a crucible in which kings and legends were forged. In the face of the carnage which he had witnessed, Amrand would testify that war was indeed an inglorious but often necessary evil.

"Perhaps you're right," he murmured softly.

"Is this about revolution?"

He shook his head. "No, not precisely rebellion. The countries that Myrhia has conquered, such as Kornas, were all autonomous states. Myrhia is the High Queen of Emercia, which is the largest and most affluent of the Eastern countries. It's very difficult to gain any perspective over what has transpired here unless you understand something of the prevailing climate which preceded Myrhia's rise to power."

"Artumas was the King of Emercia. Compared to this waking nightmare, life was then as night is to day. He was a visionary and a legend...born to be a natural leader and a man of compassion and justice. Before he came to the throne, the entire eastern continent was home to every imaginable brand of miscreant and cutthroat. Rogue states, such as Redia, preyed upon their weaker neighbors, and the incessant bickering between petty kings plunged the region into utter chaos. The cornerstone nations closed the three causeways and disassociated themselves from the entire petty spectacle.

"The world was a wilder place then," He concluded, falling silent to allow her an opportunity to pose a question. When it became apparent that she would not speak, he forged ahead. "Artumas single-handedly changed all of that. Legends grow, as legends will do with time, and embellishments paint brighter portraits than reality, but this was said to be a man of unfaltering integrity and courage. The rogue nations, he punished. The impoverished Countries, Artumas befriended and helped. By simple acts of kindness, he bestowed dignity upon people whose only lot had been abject misery. Artumas elevated the worth of the single human being and that was his greatest achievement."

Listening to Amrand's impassioned tale, Islena experienced a bizarre moment of disconnection. Was she really hearing any of this? Could she be sitting with this enigmatic stranger in a place and time that her own world had not seen in several centuries?

"What became of this Artumas?" she heard herself ask, as if down a long corridor. Tinted by such a hue of unreality, this entire conversation seemed almost... amusing.

"He first became the king. All of the nations of the eastern continent paid fealty to Artumas. In return, he provided them with protection and open access to Emercia's vast store of wealth and knowledge. He even reached an accord with the Cornerstone Nations and convinced them to engage the eastern continent from which they had remained aloof and inaccessible for so long."

"You keep referring to these Cornerstone Nations. What are they?" she interrupted. She had vowed not to become involved in the workings of this place, but found herself intrigued in spite of that promise. Amrand feigned a groan and held up his hands. "Please, milady that is a complicated tale and the hour grows late."

"All right," she agreed somewhat reluctantly. "You were telling me about Artumas."

"Artumas had reached the pinnacle and pulled the rest of the world up with him. For an all too brief time, he fashioned a paradise of sorts. Goodwill and dignity were more than just philosopher's platitudes then."

He stopped abruptly and Islena was cognizant of his darkening mood. "And then she came."

"Myrhia!" she exclaimed, feeling a major segment of the puzzle fall into place with a resounding crack.

"Yes," Amrand replied somberly. He seemed about to choke on the word, as if muttering the foulest of obscenities. "His wife...the High Queen of Emercia. They reigned together for eight years and suddenly he vanished without a trace. Naturally there were suspicions of treachery, but no one had the courage to raise the allegations. Indeed, up until the moment of his disappearance, Myrhia's performance as queen had been exemplary. With her charm and dazzling beauty, it is likely that anyone with the temerity to question her virtue would have met a quick and nasty end...she was that popular with the court's inner circle."

"Ah, but how she quickly dispensed with that facade once she found herself ensconced upon the high throne." Amrand spat these words with the venom of resentment for those who had sat by idly while she had consolidated her power. "Her first move was to solidify and formalize her position as protector of the Eastern nations...an arrangement that had been mostly casual and honorary. Fiercely independent, these small countries fought fanatically to resist Myrhia, but she swept them under with impunity. When her intentions became clear, the Cornerstone Nations decided to intervene. We've been embroiled in bitter warfare ever since...a war we've been losing by slow, relentless degrees."

"Who is Myrhia, and what is it that she wants?" Islena asked. She had already begun to construct a mental image of a cold, manipulative woman, tall and beautiful in an aristocratic fashion with eyes of glacial blue that were bereft of compassion. This would be a woman unencumbered by moral restraint. One who could pursue her ends with the ruthlessness of a shark.

"Who she is and where she comes from remains a mystery. As to what she wants..." Islena could detect the suggestion of movement in the dark and knew that he had shrugged his broad shoulders. "There are many who subscribe to the belief that Myrhia is moved by simple avarice. Rygore, my commander, cautioned that this was a gross and dangerous oversimplification. The enchantress is too mercurial and complex to be easily categorized. I know only that her hunger for violence and her capacity to inflict suffering is boundless, but her overall objective remains shrouded in mystery."

He paused, trying to convey the full gravity of his fear, and said, "I also see now that she has some surreptitious design upon you."

Posed so bluntly, the notion gave Islena a start. She could almost see Amrand's pale blue eyes glistening, but she refused to be bated. Knowing that he had shaken her, the Jerhia forged ahead. "After seven years of constant and vicious fighting, the High Queen has decided to forego her invasion of the west, so that you might be found. The idea is not only incomprehensible, but it is fraught with arcane yet terrifying implications. I can't even begin to guess how you must fit into her grand scheme for absolute omnipotence."

Islena leapt to her feet in agitation, shaking her head in vehement denial. "That's crazy, Amrand. What do I know about armies and warfare? I can't help her, and wouldn't even if I could." An idea occurred to her. She seized on the notion and spat it out. "Perhaps she's made a mistake...has confused me with someone else."

Amrand grunted...a sardonic gesture that suddenly infuriated Islena. "Whatever else may be said of Myrhia, rest assured she does not make mistakes of this magnitude. If she has summoned you here, it is for a well-conceived purpose. The very fact that she would turn her resources and energy to finding you illustrates just how consequential and wicked that purpose must be."

"And thus she must not find you," Amrand concluded grimly.

"Then what do you suggest I do?" she challenged angrily. She didn't give a damned about aspirations and tyrants. She wanted her home and family and the life that had been stolen from her. If going to this Myrhia meant that she could regain those things, then that was exactly what she would do. She told him this in terms that allowed no room for equivocation.

Amrand winced. He spied a glimpse of the trenchant core of selfishness that fuelled much of Islena's action. It was an unpleasant, ugly thing...like a monster lurking below still water. Diplomacy had never been his forte, but he would have to tread carefully if he was to convince her that her own interest would be best served by remaining with him and escaping to the west. "Islena, I'm going to be frank. Your presence is a total mystery to me. I can't offer plausible answers to any of your questions, but there are those who may be able to...scholars and, yes, other enchanters. They may be able to help you unravel the mystery of your abduction. I don't want to instill any false hope, but it is not unthinkable that they might even be able to find a way to send you home. I won't deceive you by suggesting that their motivations for doing so would be entirely selfless. Even if they cannot ascertain Myrhia's purpose for abducting you, logic dictates that our mutual best interests would be served by depriving her of whatever benefits your possession might offer."

Amrand was glad for the cover of night. He was not a particularly skilled liar and understood that his facial expression would most certainly have betrayed his deception. He had no faith in magicians. Nor did he believe that this woman's best interests would be served by escorting her to the west. Still, the lie was one of necessity and he told it without hesitation, ignoring the sour taste that it left in his mouth.

"Where are these people?"

"To the north and in the west. We have to find a way to cross the causeway and bring you to safety. To keep you clear of the sorceress. Please trust me, Islena," he pleaded. If he could bring her back to the councils, perhaps he could redeem his failure with the victims of the Kornas massacre. She remained silent for a long moment, her mind fraught with indecision. Could she afford to place her trust in a man whom she barely knew? The alternative was to strike out alone and attempt to confront her enemy in a land of which she understood virtually nothing. "Very well, I'll come with you."

Amrand sighed and closed his eyes, grateful that he would not have to compel her with force. "We should rest here and set out in the morning. It is a long and grueling journey to the next causeway."

"Amrand, I'm going to trust you because I see no other choice." her hand suddenly flashed out and gripped his shoulder. He flinched as she dug her nails deep into his flesh. It was impossible not to be awed by her physical strength. "Just remember that I could have killed you near the road. If I find that you've lied to me, I won't hesitate to finish what I started."

"That's fair," He replied thickly. The vice tightened and then her hand dropped and she settled down to rest. He stood for a long time, wondering just what kind of force Myrhia had unleashed on his unsuspecting world.

Chapter Sixteen

1

The encampment was perfectly still, save for the occasional uneasy stirring which accompanies too much indulgence. As she glided unnoticed through their midst, a faint moue of disgust twisted her perfectly-rendered lips. Seen through her eyes, they were bestial and base to a man...a repugnant tool that will have soon outlived its usefulness.

A single guard had been posted at the entrance to Ynthrax's tent. She moved towards him, and then through him. The guard shivered and pulled his cloak about him as if he had been touched by a cold wind, though the night was oppressively hot and humid.

Ynthrax heard a soft sigh of fabric and glanced up from his maps, which were crude renderings of the geography of the western continent. He saw nothing. He blinked and then she stood before him; a nightmarish amalgam of beauty and terror.

His trepidation was obvious and she forced him to suffer a prolonged moment of anxiety, relishing the fear that her very presence inspired. Then she demanded, "Has she been found?"

"No," he replied simply and dropped his eyes to the table, expecting a reproachful tirade. Instead, she asked, "I trust that the search goes on even as we speak?"

"Yes, Milady." He hesitated and then added, "I would caution against expecting immediate results. The forest is dense and a thorough search of even a limited area is a long and arduous undertaking."

She nodded thoughtfully. "Yes, I suppose that it would be akin to rummaging through the proverbial haystack."

She allowed her image to ripple briefly and smiled at the way his eyes widened in response. Had he the audacity to actually touch her, Ynthrax would have been met with the most profound shock of his life. She had always possessed the ability to project her image. As a child, it had served as an amusing diversion from the unrelenting, hellish terror of the caves. Now it was but another tool in a limitless arsenal of weaponry.

"Fear not Ynthrax, there are other, less demanding ways of seeking one out. Turn your attention to the taking of the causeway. I will deal with the matter of locating our missing Islena." Ynthrax started to interject, but she cut him short. "Yes, I am aware that the causeway has been rendered impassable, but the damage is of a superficial nature only. There is nothing that they can do that I cannot undo. Never lose sight of who I am, Ynthrax...or impose unfounded limits on the extent of my power."

"I never do, Milady," he murmured distantly and glanced down at his callused hands. The nuanced remark provoked an incisive glare from the enchantress. Sensing his distraction, she inquired, "You seem plagued by misgiving. What is it that troubles you?"

He shook his head, reluctant to give voice to his thoughts. In Myrhia's presence, it was expedient to guard one's thoughts like a shameful sin. The way that she watched him made it clear that she would not afford him the luxury of remaining silent. Hesitantly, he ventured, "I sometime wonder what it is that you hope to gain by this campaign of incessant warfare."

Her eyes narrowed speculatively. Thus committed, he found the courage to proceed. "With our victory in Kornas the entire eastern continent is lying at your feet. Every manner of wealth is yours for the taking, and yet we move to conquer the western continent and the Cornerstone nations."

"I care nothing for the accumulated trappings of wealth, Ynthrax." She gesticulated and a large diamond materialized on the delicate cup of her tiny palm. It was as exquisite as any that Ynthrax had ever seen and there had been a time when it would have set him to salivating. She closed her fist about it and squeezed. Smoke drifted through her fingers and when she again opened her palm, the diamond had been transformed into a lump of common brown coal. Her deep brown eyes were hard and inscrutable in the shifting light of the lantern. Though he wished to stop, Ynthrax was powerless to hold back the accrued weight of his long-harbored doubts. "Then why make war with the west? The cost of vanquishing the Cornerstone Nations is too staggering to adequately contemplate. We will not be facing an unorganized collection of farmers and millers. We will be facing the collective might of the three most powerful civilizations on this world."

"Do not presume to patronize me, dolt!" she snapped dangerously. "I know full well what the cost of defeating the west will be and I am fully prepared to pay it. I am most surprised that you've suddenly developed such humanitarian inclinations. This was not a facet of your personality that revealed itself when I rescued you from an executioner's chopping block."

"A kindness for which I am eternally grateful. It is the reason that I have pledged myself to a lifetime in your service. I ask only to be apprised of your intentions, my Queen."

She watched him intently as if debating whether or not to divulge some of the esoteric complexities of her purpose. For his part, Ynthrax was astounded by his own temerity. After a time, she began, "I am not concerned by the material gains of power, rather only by the realities of power itself. Have you never wondered what it would be like to hold and wield immeasurable power? Imagine the sheer ecstasy of destroying an entire world or holding millions of lives captive to the capricious twists of your own volatile mood. I seek the rapture of that experience, Ynthrax. I aspire to the mantle of Deity. I can find contentment only in absolute omnipotence that will extend to every corner of every reality."

"But there is not a soul on this earth who does not dwell in the shadow you cast, my Queen?" Ynthrax observed, staggered by such boundless ego.

"I'm not speaking of simple fear, you unimaginative dullard," she flared. Ynthrax again sought to escape the probing eyes by looking down at his scattering of maps. She arched a brow and a single line of flame erupted along the edge of the paper. A thin column of smoke drifted up into the greasy light as the parchment turned brown and curled to nothing.

"How could I not help but become bored when the most rudimentary of parlor tricks can mortify both the meek and the mighty?" As she spoke, Myrhia's mouth had drawn into a thin, tight line, and her elegant hands had curled into fists. "No, if my goal had been simply to terrorize, then as you say, I could rest on my laurels even now." Here, she deliberately stopped and offered him a cryptic, devious grin. Her twinkling eyes invited him to pose the inevitable question.

"Then what is it you seek?" he croaked, as if the words had been dragged from his head by magic.

"Even in the wilds of Redian, I would imagine that there were whispers of the fabled three proclamations." Ynthrax winced. Yes, he had heard tales about the diabolical achievements of the ancients. Like just about everyone else in Redian, he had dismissed them out of hand. To the predacious outlaw breed, they were the stuff of mythology and children's bedtime stories.

"No, not bedtime stories, but the most deadly and extensive icons of power ever forged by man," she corrected, dazzling him with her percipience. "Though the ancients lived mainly in ignorance, they somehow developed the Three Proclamations...the sum of all known power and knowledge. When the ancients considered what they had wrought, they grew apprehensive like the cowards they were," she scoffed contemptuously and then added, "They lacked the fortitude to put their creation to use and attempted to destroy them, but once set in motion, some forces cannot be undone. Instead, the fools decided to hide them and place a lien of sorts upon their use...what they construed to be an impossible caveat."

"Have you never read the sacred book, Ynthrax?" she chided, not bothering to conceal her disdain for her commanding officer. He shook his head, not caring for the things that his questions had unearthed. She went on, indifferent to his growing disquiet. "All of this has been foretold, albeit in vague terms, in the sacred book. The Three Proclamations of lore do exist somewhere. I would offer that they have been hidden in the west...one in each of the Cornerstone Nations, the cradles of their creation.

She turned her penetrating gaze upon Ynthrax and he felt himself shiver in reaction to its incisive touch. Other than her tirade in the clearing, she had never demonstrated such candor. Her expression hinted at an obsession that would know no limits. "I intend to have the Three Proclamations, Ynthrax...even if that requires spilling the blood of every man, woman and child on this wretched planet."

Ynthrax was appalled by the extent of her lunacy. Her manner of madness was implacable and would never be satiated by simple conquest of nations and plunder.

"Does all of this shock you?" she inquired coyly. He was revolted by the way that her impish smile and her harlequin beauty could disguise her true nature. He shook his head numbly. "There is another question that torments you," she prompted. "Give it breath and be done with it."

"This woman, why is she of such great consequence?"

An odd thing happened then, something which prompted Ynthrax to blink in unfettered astonishment...the fires of genuine affection flared in Myrhia's gorgeous eyes. The commander would have sworn that she was incapable of that particular emotion. This unexpected display of affection was all the more unsettling for its improbability.

"Ah, sweet Islena." The enchantress spoke the name as if she were drinking down the sweetest drought of wine. "She is the key that will unlock all of the gates that bar my way to absolute dominion. Without her, the scope of all that I seek to accomplish would be drastically limited to this wretched world." As Ynthrax listened to Myrhia describe the woman's importance, he became cognizant of the flush of excitement which colored her cheeks.

"I'd mentioned the ancient's lien. There are times when I almost suspect that the imbeciles had anticipated my coming. Not anyone can wield the power of the Three Proclamations. When their misguided attempts to destroy the Proclamations failed, they conceived of a method of rendering them virtually useless. In a manner of speaking, they divested the icons of their innate power by rendering that power inaccessible to all who would covet it...all except Islena." The sorceress shook her head in disgust, while a befuddled Ynthrax could only blink. She was speaking the incomprehensible gibberish of mysticism of which he had not even the most rudimentary understandings. She noticed his vacant expression and chuckled, "All of this holds no meaning for you, does it?"

He shook his head. She nodded, the net of emeralds shimmering in their rich bedding of raven tresses. "The Three Proclamations are basically worthless, unless a person who possesses certain inherent qualities can activate their recumbent power. The coming of this extraordinary one has been prophesied in the Sacred Book." At this, the Queen began to recite the passage which she had long ago committed to memory, and which had been pivotal in forging the shape of her ambition. "A pall shall fall over the land, and the miscreant shall hold dominion over the kingdom of the sun. Demons shall stalk the earth and fertile pastures shall fall to weed and dust. The Queen of Iniquity shall ride forth on the wings of pestilence and depredation. She shall push land and sky to tremble on the brink of the yawning abyss."

"The passage proceeds with a tedious and sanctimonious account of life in the shadow of evil and how sinful pursuits shall facilitate the rise of her season of wither." She hesitated as if to heighten the drama, if only for herself. "And then it relates her coming: When the chains of despair appear unbreakable, the One will appear, though as a devil or a savior it remains to be written. Squarely upon the One's shoulder shall fall the burden of judgment for all mankind."

She stopped, her full bosom rising and falling in unconstrained excitement. To Ynthrax's incredulous eye, the Queen appeared to have succumbed to one of her own enchantments.

"And Islena is this one?" Ynthrax asked dubiously. Surely Myrhia had not pinned their future upon something so pointedly obscure...a superstitious legend.

"Yes," she responded adamantly. "She is the product of circumstances that you could not begin to grasp. Visualize fate as a river fraught with unforeseeable perils. Islena is destined to be my stepping stone. Through seduction, or coercion if need be, she will do my bidding. I will compel her to go forth and gather up the Three Proclamations and unlock their dormant power. Once active, she shall channel this power at my direction. Then, this world, and all worlds beyond, shall be mine. Imagine Ynthrax, an infinite number of universes and dimensions to conquer and power without bounds to accrue."

Ynthrax struggled mightily to keep his face impassive, though Myrhia was too preoccupied by her notions of grandeur to have noticed his agitation.

'By the Gods, what have I helped bring about?' he demanded of himself, as he watched the woman who had stayed his execution and enlisted him as her commander just before the fall of the noble King Artumas.

"But does the prophecy not imply that she has come to stop you," he ventured, clearly bewildered by the audacity of her gamble. Myrhia leaned back, clapped her hands together and emitted a light-hearted laughter. "You are priceless, Ynthrax. Prophecy is not a precise science. If it were, what would be the purpose of this wretched life? They could not predict the One's nature. She is an explosive, volatile creature." Her ethereal brown eyes turned hard and cold. "In the deepest reaches of their worst nightmare, the ancients could never have conceived of anyone such as me."

Ynthrax nodded his head in silent acquiescence. She touched her lips with a long-nailed finger, and then waved her hand in a brusque gesture that signaled the end of her discourse. "Enough idle chatter. The two of us have much to attend to. I will deal with Islena and you will turn your energies to the invasion of Jerhia. Arrange to have adequate provisions brought into the staging area. The villages are bound to have food and other necessary goods. When this has been done, await my instructions. I will set the stage for your crossing and insure that your initial thrust into Jerhia comes at a relatively low cost."

She made as if to leave, but then turned and regarded her commander sharply. "And Ynthrax, there is one other thing." He glanced up at the enchantress. Though the hint of a smile danced about her lips, her eyes were capable of cutting diamonds. "When one shares another's secret, they may find themselves in a precarious position. Should I be given any reason to suspect that you might not keep my secret in confidence, you would become a most dangerous liability. I trust that I make myself clear?"

The commander nodded sullenly and quickly averted his eyes. Myrhia pulled back her image then. Her form shimmered and then spiraled into the dirt floor. Ynthrax gaped as the sound of tinkling laughter lingered in his tent long after she had vanished.

He settled heavily onto his pallet and turned his thoughts to the matter of extricating himself from this nightmare...if such recourse was still even remotely possible.

2

Even the clink of the ice cubes sounded morose as he swirled the scotch around in his glass. The Jim Beam bottle sat patiently on a nearby Cherry wood side table. Ben shot the bottle a bleary glance and realized that it was leaving a water stain on the expensive wood. Just days ago, that would have earned him a severe look of disapproval from Islena, but Islena wasn't here, was she?

Just where she was? Ben could not hazard a guess.

He blinked, dismayed to find that he was close to tears again, and took a deep swallow of Scotch. When he reached bottom, Ben groped for the bottle. Pouring the smooth liquid unsteadily into his glass, it quickly became apparent that he had long since passed the state of comforting numbness into the realm of total inebriation. It was mercifully silent in the upstairs bedrooms. The last of the crying had subsided just over an hour ago.

Thinking back on his ponderous and ineffective attempt to comfort his children made him grimace. Like many other burdens, that particular responsibility had fallen upon Islena's massive and capable shoulders in the past.

"Shit!" he exclaimed thickly, scarcely recognizing the despairing sound of his own voice. When you came right down to it, to the place where you dispensed of the window dressing and the self-delusions, he was one woefully inadequate and sorry son-of-a-bitch. It would have probably not surprised Islena to know that he had reached for the bottle as a means of escaping the storm that had descended on his now fractured life.

He glanced at the movement clock on the mantle piece. When the ornate hands finally swam into focus, he saw that it was just past two in the morning.

An ideal time for misery and the posing of the inevitable, but ultimately pointless question...why?

Marla Holmes was dead...her body horribly mutilated. Her head had been left on Islena's office desk like a gruesome paperweight. Marla, so the police had theorized, had been killed in the pool area, but the foyer showed signs of a violent struggle.

The dire implications had been horrible enough. The rest had been ineffable.

There had been a fire in the residential district. A brick house had been burned to the ground and its owner incinerated. The elderly owner's name had been Dominique Normandy. Ben had remembered frowning when the police detective had informed him that the woman had been a Parapsychologist. That expression had curdled into one of unadulterated horror when he learned that Islena's car had been found parked across from the house, her purse and gym bag left unattended on the front seat.

Everything beyond that point was open to speculation and the story only grew more macabre as more details had been unearthed. Marla Holmes had been a steady client of Dominique Normandy's practice. That was not necessarily astounding, since Marla had always exhibited a penchant for all things paranormal. What was not so conceivable was the revelation that Islena had been seen at the seer's only two days before. According to the neighbors, the pair had been involved in a heated exchange in the psychic's front yard.

Ben shook his head in consternation. If there was a more pragmatic woman in the world than Islena Doraux, Ben had yet to meet her. He could not foresee of a circumstance that would bring this unlikely pair together, yet together they had been. Why?

Looking back at the long, dreary afternoon, through a maudlin, alcohol-fuelled haze of self-pity, Ben had been most perturbed and perplexed by the slant of the Police questioning. After he had recovered from his initial shock and was satisfied that Islena was not among the immediate dead, Ben had sensed a subtle shifting in the tone of the questioning.

Had there been recent problems at the gym?

What had been the nature of her argument with Dominique Normandy?

Why, would Ben speculate, had she returned to see the woman in light of the overt hostility of their initial meeting?

There was an accusatory undertone to their persistent repetition of the same questions...one that had infuriated Ben. He had completely lost his temper when they had asked where he thought she might be.

"How the hell should I know?" he had exploded angrily. "Isn't finding her supposed to be your job? Isn't it fucking obvious that something horrible has happened to her?"

If nothing else, his outburst seemed to satisfy them that he did not know of her whereabouts. Then they had left him alone to face his children and the anguished flood of his own questions...questions that would not be dissuaded by anger or inebriation.

He had fought to hold the questions at bay with an exertion of will and a steady flow of Scotch, but they had pursued him assiduously and had inevitably cornered him in the dead hours of night.

The entire affair was shrouded in confusion. Only yesterday, Islena had quarreled with Marla, and had actually struck her friend. Now Marla was dead. It was ludicrous, Ben knew, to believe that Islena could have been responsible for her friend's death. He was certain that his wife was incapable of harming another living person and the notion that she would actually murder and then mutilate another living being was too absurd to contemplate. That certainty was tempered by the recollection of her furious expression on the night that they had argued. In the last few days an air of violent tension had seemed to hover over Islena like a storm cloud.

And what of this Dominique Normandy? Another enigma and another person who had suffered a particularly horrible death. The police had attributed the fire to arson, though they could not explain how a brick house had been reduced to rubble through the intensity generated by a typical house fire.

He attempted to pour another glass of Scotch, selected the wrong glass of the three swirling before him, and allowed the bottle to slip from his numb fingers. Ben watched indifferently as the Scotch spilled onto the champagne-colored rug.

"Islena," he muttered, and then began to weep miserably. If he was being entirely candid (and on this occasion he was) Ben would have readily admitted that he didn't give a good Goddamned about Marla or the other woman. He knew only that he missed his wife. Not knowing where she was or even if she was alive or dead tore at Ben's heart and filled him with a debilitating sense of desperation and loss that was well near paralyzing.

He needed her here...needed to feel the firmness of her flesh and the reassuring security of her strength and passion. She was a woman who did not simply live her life; she attacked it with a zeal that was infectious. Oh, there had been moments of self-serving folly when he had clearly visualized a parting of the ways. In the thrall of such delusions, Ben had convinced himself that Islena was not indispensable, that he could survive the trauma of a break and even make a fresh start, emerging stronger than ever.

Now she was gone and her leaving had opened a void in his heart that was too vast and dark to even begin to contemplate how it might possibly be filled.

"Oh please let her be safe," he implored the brooding shadows. Without Islena, he and his two sons were anchorless in the storm. Ben twisted on the sofa and turned his face into his elbow. Her face swam in and out of focus...now breathtakingly beautiful... now repulsively ugly as if a traitorous part of his subconscious readily accepted that she did indeed possess the capacity for such atrocities.

The conflicting images followed him into unconsciousness. In his wife, there existed a duality of person; a living paradox of good and evil. In his dream, Ben discovered that her return would depend upon which face she wore, where ever she might be.

3

Had Myrhia chosen to eavesdrop on Ben in his moment of anguish, it was likely that she would have delighted in his suffering. Instead, her thoughts were preoccupied with the task of locating Islena. Though she had displayed supreme confidence before Ynthrax, the woman's continued absence had alarmed the typically unflappable Myrhia. Should she manage to escape to the west, all of the enchantress' careful planning would have proven futile. More disquieting still was the possibility, however remote, that her enemies might learn of her intentions and turn Doraux against her to the same end...to forge the perfect weapon.

The last thought evoked a disdainful smile. The fools lacked the conviction to dare tamper with the Proclamations. The prospect of releasing such unbridled power would terrify them even more than the frigid winter of despair that she would visit upon them.

It was not impossible that Islena might manage to slip to the West by blind chance, but the Cornerstone nations would never condone awakening the Proclamations and entrusting them to her. Encumbered by such inane concepts as moral obligation and compassion, they would undoubtedly falter at the crucial juncture of decision. Thus disadvantaged, they insured that her ultimate triumph was inevitable, while she had no such compunctions about using every resource at her disposal to have her moment of glory.

She shook her head disapprovingly and looked to the assortment of bowls and jars arrayed on the wooden bench. Of late, too much time had been expended on daydreaming.

The collection of fire-baked clay pots contained a mixture of foul smelling liquids and pastes. One large bowl held a mass of ochre. Myrhia rose and took stock of her material and once satisfied that she had all of the requisite tools, turned her attention to the pit.

The vitally important task of locating Islena could not be left to the bumbling incompetence of the Imperial Troopers. She had long ago learned that the night was not without its keen eyes. If one labored to appease the guardians, the darkness was not disinclined to share its secrets.

She crossed the marble floor and peered down into the depth of a pit that had been constructed to resemble a well, though its dimensions were more than ten times the size of an average well. Stone steps had been set into the walls of the well and after retrieving the bowl of ochre, Myrhia descended into the cool hollow.

A boy of fifteen lay bound to a stone altar, restrained by shackles and heavy iron chains. He was naked and had been gagged, though there was no one to here his screams in this forsaken place. She admired the fine supple lines of his young body, as she arranged her tools at the foot of the altar. He had been captured during the campaign in Suran, a country renowned for its eerily beautiful men and women, all of whom were gifted with a proclivity for the arts.

He twisted to watch her, eyes alive with raw terror. She smiled comfortingly and moved beside him. "You'll never appreciate the honor that I am about to bestow upon you, boy."

Her deep brown eyes twinkled in the torchlight as she began to undo the jeweled buttons that held her purple satin gown in place. Her fingers moved with a languid grace to reveal a treasure of classic feminine beauty. The cool air of the chamber beckoned delicate pink nipples to stand proudly as Myrhia's breasts were freed from their snug confinement and the boy's fear abated, giving way to a tentative hunger.

The pretty boy's eyes widened and then narrowed as he drank in the intoxicating splendor of her body. Naked, Myrhia emanated an overwhelming sexuality. She had always derived a great deal of pleasure and contemptuous amusement from the effect that her body had upon others. Its allure cast an enchantment that few had been able to resist and one that had served her exceedingly well over the course of her many incarnations.

As he watched breathlessly, she thrust her hand into the bowl of reddish ochre and began to spread the clay over her satiny skin. A muffled sigh filled the pit as the boy watched her hand exert a gentle pressure upon each nipple. She moved with a deliberate slowness, covering the flat of her abdomen and the intoxicating sweep of her firm thighs. Once upon Myrhia's skin, the clay seemed to gain an odd effulgence and her flesh was soon alight with a vermillion glow.

Viewing this carefully contrived display of sensuality, the boy's flaccid penis stirred along his thigh, rising like a penitent before the glory of Myrhia's body. When she was completely coated, the sorceress positioned the bowl next to the boy's chest. Then she dipped her hands into the bowl and began to apply the viscous substance to his body He trembled like a leaf as her delicate hands caressed his supple flesh, eliciting soft sighs and moans as they moved over his skin.

"Be still child. We are about to birth a wonder, you and I," she cooed reassuringly. He glanced at her longingly and then his eyes and face contorted into a knot as wave after wave of excruciating pleasure shook his body. She ran her nails along his sensitive, slender inner thighs, laughing softly as the muscles contracted wildly in the wake of her touch.

Myrhia paid particular attention to the responsive area on the arch of his feet. When she had satisfied herself that the pair had been adequately covered in the ochre, the enchantress floated to the head of the table and mounted the stone platform, kneeling near the boy's left hip. Ever so slowly, she wrapped her palm around his throbbing penis, slightly surprised by its rigidity. The extent of his agitation made it obvious that he had never before experienced the delight of sexual release. Excellent! This would lend a special flavor to an already sacred ritual, endowing her creation with augmented power.

She snuggled next to the man-child, her erect nipples blazing electric trails over his chest, and began to whisper in his ear. Eyes glazed, he strained to face her.

"Did they tell you that I was evil?" she purred teasingly.

He nodded reluctantly, as if he feared that she might stop her tender ministrations.

"And against the pillow of my breasts, do I feel like the mother of iniquity?" He shook his head vigorously and thrust his pelvis forward in a frantic attempt to prolong contact. She chuckled and allowed her fingers to slip from his shaft.

He groaned loudly and thrashed on the table. She settled her hand onto his sex and resumed the maddeningly languid rhythm.

'What manner of heavenly torment must this boy be enduring?' she wondered. The cool clay created a series of delicious paradoxes; White pulsing heat and a languid coolness, lubrication and the gritty friction of the clay.

His chest began to rise and fall in syncopation to her strokes which grew more urgent. To accentuate the effect, she draped a thigh across his legs and held him fast.

The intensity of the volcano building in his loins emanated through her small hands and along her forearms. "Very soon now, my man child," she crooned softly, "your seed for a queen."

Then she bit his earlobe and snaked the tip of her tiny tongue into his ear. When she closed her fist over the head of his manhood and grated a finger over the length of his erection, the boy succumbed to her expertise with a guttural grunt. His seed burst forth like water through an earthen dam. It spilled copiously onto his abdomen, chest and legs. His body shuddered and convulsed, while Myrhia whispered words of encouragement. After an interminable moment, the flood abated, but the boy's body continued to shake. His entire torso was drenched in his seed. With the subtlest hint of derision, the sorceress applauded the boy's outpouring. "Done like a true champion."

She regarded his penis, which stood proud and undiminished by its labor. "Evidently, you've acquired a healthy appetite for the pleasures of the flesh."

His eyes finally opened and he regarded her with a new understanding. Myrhia relished this loss of innocence. "You desire more?"

He nodded eagerly, imploring her to divulge further secrets of the lustful art. She favored him with an inscrutable smile and then straddled his lower torso. Bending forwards, she lowered her breasts, until the nipples just grazed his clay-smeared skin.

Her eyes blazed wickedly as she began to move up and down; first stretching out with her breasts resting upon the ridges of his cheeks, and then back on her haunches so that her silky down tickled his erection, which had returned with a vengeance.

He strained mightily against his bonds, instinctively seeking to penetrate the enchantress.

"You strive to enter the most sacred of domains," she taunted, surreptitiously withdrawing a small vile of clear fluid that had been set into a ridge which ran along the edge of the table. Ever the temptress, she demanded, "Would you denounce your beloved Suran for the pleasure of my shrine or your very mother for the pleasure of sheathing your sword in the velvet heat of my scabbard?"

She titillated his manhood with her folds and he nodded furiously. Yes, he would renounce Suran, heaven, earth, and the creator himself, if only she would assuage his torment.

"Close your eyes little man." He complied eagerly, discarding his fear in the face of his need. Myrhia popped the cork on the vile and poured a few drops of the liquid into her palm. This, she slowly massaged into the drying semen on his torso.

A streak of pure malice took her then and she savagely jerked the gag from his mouth. Startled, he gaped at the Queen, who promptly replaced the gag with an erect nipple. As content as a baby at its mother's breast, he again closed his eyes and began to suck greedily.

Moments later, he experienced a painful tug and then a stupefying sensation of envelopment as Myrhia descended to take him. He opened his eyes to express his sheer gratitude, but before he could utter a word, the jaws snapped closed upon his exposed throat. The thing upon him was the hideous marriage of a wolf and a reptile. He gaped dumbly as a thick jet of crimson spattered his torso, the beast astride him and the stone walls of the pit.

With weakening fingers, the boy scrabbled at the thing atop him but his fingers would find no purchase on the flesh. Myrhia raised her arms to the heavens, threw back her head, and cried out with wild abandon. "Eyes of night shine forth. Provide me with thine guidance through the dark shadows."

Below her, the boy twitched away the final seconds of his life, eyes glazing over as blood pumped sluggishly from the gaping wound at his throat. Myrhia waited for his moment of transition as a signal to perform an elaborate gesture of evocation.

A flame sprang to life from the depth of the bloody maw, burning blue and then gleaming argent. The enchantress uttered a piercing shriek as the white flame engulfed the entire pit. The secret preserving power of the ochre shielded her from its fury.

"Through the giving of Blood! Through the giving of seed! Through the giving of flesh, I proclaim myself your master!" she exclaimed. The pit began to reverberate with a series of low frequency vibration that rumbled through the surrounding earth. Here and there, scatterings of white dust drifted from between the stone lining. "Appear to me now!"

Two malevolent eyes opened in the sheet of argent flame. They regarded Myrhia with a flat, disconcerting gaze.

"Who summons this minion of the darkness?" the thing demanded. Not intimidated by its imposing presence, Myrhia stood upon the stone altar and retorted, "I, Myrhia, Queen of Emercia and Conqueror of the eastern world. I have paid the prescribed fee, now I bid you to do my will."

There was a moment of tension-fraught silence as the two regarded each other; one a creation of iniquity, the other a master of its art. "What form would you have me take?"

"The animal that is unfettered by gravity and calls the night its home."

The chamber shook with a series of strident crackles, pops and hisses as the thing assumed a recognizable form. Myrhia smiled with satisfaction as a fire bat danced before her. "Perfect," she commended. Then she raised her palm and extended it towards the creature. Where once there had been a delicate crisscrossing of lines, now there appeared a reflective surface like a still lake on a windless day. "This is the one I seek. If others travel in her company, they are yours, but she must remain unharmed."

The fire bat folded in an indication of affirmation. Then it twisted into itself and spiraled upwards. Myrhia watched it blaze a trail through the night sky like a shooting star. The simile was most appropriate for if the shooting star was a harbinger of luck, then she had engineered her own destiny.

"The night is mine. You are naked to me now, Islena," she whispered, and then mounted the steps in search of a servant to clean up the detritus of her ritual.

Chapter Seventeen

1

He came back through the trees to the place where they had stopped for the night. A dense fog hung in the hollows, lending a forlorn and ghostly quality to the pre-dawn sky. The coolness of the air was a refreshing change from the previous days cloying humidity. It would rain, he reckoned, but was there enough rain in the heavens to wash away the clinging filth of the bitter defeat that his people had suffered? Amrand did not know, and in the final analysis, he understood that it didn't particularly matter. The past was carved in stone and no amount of bitter reflection could undo what had been done, though perhaps something of the future could still be salvaged if fortune could smile upon his efforts.

The foraging had gone well. As Islena had surmised, the forest was a veritable storehouse of edible berries and nuts. Anticipating some of the rigors yet to be face, Amrand had spent over an hour searching for a wealth of these natural treasures. He had even located a Nemora tree, the fruit of which was tangy and bursting with energy. He had torn a piece from his tunic and fashioned it into a sack in which to carry their food supply.

Coming back through the trees, Amrand had stopped in his tracks. Something led him to move to cover behind a large ironwood tree. When he had left, Islena had still been sound asleep. Looking down upon her sleeping form, curled into a tight ball, it was easy to forget that she was not simply an ordinary woman. The structural perfection of her face and the exquisite beauty of her body had moved him profoundly and he had left hurriedly, wanting to detach himself from the nascent stirring of any emotion beyond a general regard for her safety.

Now she was awake and engaged in a most unusual activity. Her back was to him and she sat upon the ground with her legs splayed out in what surely must be the most painful position that Amrand could possibly imagine. With her legs spread thus, she touched her chin to one knee and then the next, holding that pose for several seconds before moving. He watched intently as she went through several variations of similar movements...all of which struck him as sensual if not overtly salacious.

In that moment, Amrand knew that this Islena was dangerous to him in ways that were ineffable. There was a uniqueness to her that drew him to her like a moth to a flame. He watched the poetic ripple of muscle and grace until he began to feel uncomfortable and unseemly like a pervert peeping into a woman's bath house.

Emerging out from behind his concealment, he coughed into his hand and laid the bundle of berries on a rock. She threw a glance over her shoulder and smiled brightly. "Good morning. Don't mind me. This is just something that I do to stay limber. I feel the need to cling tenaciously to a ritual that helps me stay grounded."

She continued to work, bending over backwards and inadvertently providing him with a breathtaking view of her firm breasts. He forced himself to look away, not caring for the thread of sexual tension that had wormed its way into his thoughts.

"We have a long way to go, Islena," he murmured remotely. There was so much at stake and unwanted emotion could only exacerbate an already complicated situation. She concluded her stretching and sprang to her feet. "This place has a climate much like my home. Is it always so humid?"

Amrand nodded. "Travelers are well advised not to venture into Kornas unless they're partial to plenty of rain. The climate is ideal for the soil, but not so good for the people. There is sun and rain in equal measure." He gestured toward the thick stands of towering trees. "The results speak for themselves. The land is fertile...an excellent provider for those who tend it."

He noticed that Islena was eyeing the sack hungrily, and remembered that she had not eaten in the sixteen hours they had been together. He laid the cloth upon the ground, unfurled it and then bid her to eat. Islena tried to restrain herself but her hunger was overwhelming. Not caring what it was that she was eating, she bit into the blue fruit that reminded her of a plum. The heady juices filled her with warmth that suffused her entire body alleviating the deep chill that had gripped her through the night. She was a finely conditioned athlete but even that did not fully prepare her for the rigors of headlong flight through rugged terrain or sleeping rugged in the forest.

"Good God, what is this? It's fantastic," she exclaimed, feeling her energy return in a sugar-fuelled rush

Amrand laughed. "Just one of the little treasures that the forest provides for its weary travelers. We are fortunate for the woods are deep and food is plentiful. If fate wills it, the chances are good that we may reach the next causeway undiscovered."

Sensing the urgency in his voice, Islena motioned for him to lead the way. She knew that she was eating like a proper pig...juices smearing her chin...but the fruit was irresistible and etiquette seemed of little value in this primitive place. Handing her several more of the wonderful fruits, he gathered up the rest and together they set off to the north.

2

The sun came out from above the ground fog at some point during the morning, and the day warmed, but not to a point that made walking uncomfortable. The two fugitives settled into a rhythm that was manageable, but not exhausting. Amrand decided that it would be best to angle slightly to the northeast and then cut back to the west when he estimated that their progress had brought them near their destination.

As he had predicted, they saw no one, though the forest was alive with the furtive movements of its indigenous creatures. More than once, Doraux was startled by the menacing hiss of what sounded like a very large cat. Whenever this happened, she would glance at Amrand who appeared not to have noticed. As the afternoon wore on, the Jerhia became more reticent and preoccupied. Not wanting to be alone with her own thoughts, she attempted to draw him into conversation. "You're worried."

He nodded without looking at her. "Yes, there is much to be troubled by."

"Do you think that we'll be caught?"

"No. As I've said, our chances for reaching the next causeway are good. I'm concerned for my home and my family. Myrhia will not delay in her campaign against the west." His mouth twisted into a thin slash, as if he had difficulty in translating his thoughts into words. "Many will die. Even if we should manage to repulse Myrhia's hordes, Jerhia will be indelibly scarred by her violation. As you have remarked, this war has placed a blemish on all of the values we held sacred. Perhaps this will eventually prove beneficial to the Jerhia...will break with flawed traditions and inspire a new Jerhia sensibility, but it saddens me nonetheless."

"Do you have a wife, Amrand? Children?" Islena inquired, touched by the stoic dignity of how he carried the burden of his grief. Had she ever been so philosophical in the face of upheaval? He shook his head. "No, the cavalry was all the family I wanted. In a way, it was my one true love...a love that does not allow for shared passions. Besides, ours is a structured nation, Islena. We are matched to augment qualities such as intelligence, size and physical strength. Love is not an important factor in the equation."

"How awful," she gasped. "Your country actually breeds people like farm animals. That's inhuman...abhorrent beyond words."

"Perhaps, but it has made us what we are," he replied without rancor. The notion staggered Islena and then she recalled the breeding programs of her country's own slave era.

'Remember where you are?' she reminded herself. "I didn't mean to be so righteous, Amrand. It's just that everything here is just so alien to what I'm accustomed to. There are parts of world where arranged marriages are still an active tradition...but this practice is regarded as cruel and archaic by the more progressive cultures."

The Jerhia smiled fondly. "It is you who deserves the apology. You have seen this world at its most base, after having been abducted from your rightful home. Would you tell me of your world, Islena...of the life that you led there?"

So she did. For the next several hours, she attempted to describe the essence of the life that she took fore granted. For the sake of not confusing Amrand, she kept the technical references to a minimum, but she saw that he was clearly astounded by her tale of how people lived and the freedom that they enjoyed. Never once did he convey any hint of cynicism or disbelief and Islena found herself liking this professional soldier more and more, despite her vow to remain neutral and aloof from this world's emotional entanglements.

They mounted a long slope which afforded them a breathtaking view of a wide ravine, through which ran a fast moving river. Amrand stood and surveyed the slopes, satisfying himself that they were alone. "We've progressed well today, Islena...perhaps as many as six leagues. Still, we should remain ever vigilant...the eastern continent belongs to Myrhia now."

Her thighs thrummed from exertion and she was in need of a hot bath, but she showed no adverse effects otherwise. Amrand was about to tell her that they would stop for the night once they reached the bottom of the ravine when an acrid smell tickled his nostrils. He spun about and scanned the horizon to the south, his senses braying frantically.

"Smoke!" he exclaimed, pointing in the direction they had just come. Islena followed his hand and saw a thick cloud of gray smoke hanging above the trees. Here and there, tongues of flame could be seen lapping at the sky. "What is it?"

"I'm not certain, but it does not bode well. That type of fire could only have been started by human hands."

On that one point, he was most definitely in error. From within the cloud, a huge shape sailed into the twilight. Islena saw it and a scream tore from her lips of its own accord. Myrhia's fire bat had found them.

The crackling beat of its large wings shattered the silence as it lumbered over the treetops. The tips of the trees burst into flame each time a wing brushed against them.

"We've got to run," the Jerhia admonished, but Islena was oblivious to his entreaty, so intent was her concentration upon the monster. It swept upwards and hovered there, its malefic silver eyes seeping the ground below it as though searching for a very specific quarry.

"Sorcery," Amrand cursed. Doraux stood riveted, as though her feet had taken root in the springy soil. He raced over to her and swept her into his arms, shocked by her weight and density. She grunted as he picked her off the ground and descended the slope at a cumbersome run. A protruding root spilled the pair heavily and Islena landed with a grunt and continued to roll down the slope, coming to rest only scant inches from a large stump. Amrand was not so lucky. He pitched forward and struck his shoulder on a large outcrop. The world swam in and out of focus as he bit back against an eruption of white hot pain.

The screams and commotion drew the fire bat's gaze. Ponderous in its movements, it took several seconds to register what it was seeing. Its fiery gaze brushed over Amrand and settled upon the woman who was climbing shakily to her feet. It emitted a piercing squeal and darted towards her with smoldering talons extended.

Dazed by the impact and the unreality of the flying horror, Islena made no move to flee. The thing dropped down and then converged upon her, gliding only feet above the ground. The scrub grass erupted in a flaming ribbon in the creatures wake. Frantic, Amrand staggered to his feet and began to bellow and wave his arms in an effort to divert the beast's attention.

The fire bat hesitated in mid-swoop and turned in his direction. It was evidently confused, but Amrand doubted that it would remain that way for long. Frantically, he searched for a way to extricate the pair form their peril. Seeing their one chance, he began to shout, "Islena, run towards the river."

She peered down the slope and took a few tentative steps in the waters direction.

'Damnation,' Amrand cursed. Picking up a boulder, he heaved it at the fire bat and began to sprint up the slope. His shoulder issued a strident bray of pain with every step. The thing absorbed the blow without reaction, but was sufficiently distracted to turn upon the fleeing Jerhia. It spiraled up and swooped down, closing ground rapidly on the sprinting Amrand.

Amrand could feel its hot breath on his back and knew that he would be incinerated with the slightest contact. It drew even with him and dipped a wing with the intention of swatting him like a nattering insect. Timing his movement perfectly, the Jerhia threw himself to the right, narrowly evading the flaming wing.

As the bat flew past, the weeds and the scrub grass were reduced to a blackened, smoldering mass. Amrand moaned and clutched his injured shoulder, momentarily overcome by the argent flare of pain.

Her traveling companion's cry broke Islena's paralysis. Though the bat had been with them for less than a minute, she had lost all sense of perspective and focus. Now she recognized the extent of their peril as the bat soared high into the twilight and wheeled back for another attack. Her mind persisted with its foolish clamor that this was just another waking delusion, but fortunately she refused to give it audience.

Thick smoke drifted about them, casting a surreal glow over the confrontation. The bat made a direct line for the prone Jerhia, but Islena raced up the slope and screamed wildly, "It's me that you want. Well, I'm here, so come and get me."

The thing hesitated briefly and then sailed toward her. Without any clear perception of what she intended to do, Doraux turned and raced back in the direction of the river. The slope ended in a sheer drop of at least fifteen feet into raging white water. Reluctant to risk the plunge, she turned to her left and raced along the cliff top, hoping to find a more inviting spot to risk a dive.

Her powerful legs pumped furiously as she raced along the cliff, but in the loose earth the bat easily closed the distance between the pair. It quickly became apparent that she would soon lose the race, so she veered to her right and threw herself over the edge in a frantic sprawl of arms and legs.

Islena could hear herself scream as she plummeted towards the raging water. Fingers of rock thrust up to greet her, but she was fortunate enough to avoid them, plunging into a deep pocket in the river. The fire bat squealed in what sounded like frustration and then breathed a fiery jet over the roiling surface of the river.

She surrendered herself to the undertow and was pulled further down the river. Only when her lungs pleaded for oxygen did she propel herself to break the surface.

In the distance, the bat hovered over the spot where she had entered the river, ineffectively spewing fire over the torrential waters. Islena drew a deep sigh of relief, but relief turned to terror when she realized that, despite her prodigious strength, the rush of the current would prevent her from swimming to shore. There followed a near-paralyzing surge of terror, that was further exacerbated by the understanding that, in a rage of water like this, surely a falls awaited further down stream. The recollection of the jutting fingers of rock pushed her into the embrace of debilitating panic.

Something seemed to grip her ankles and pulled her below the water. She thrashed wildly and jerked to the surface, but was once a gain pulled under by invisible hands. Her return to air was much slower and her struggles more frantic. She would have been pulled under a third time, but a strong hand caught hold of her forearm and dragged her to the surface. It took several seconds before she realized that she had been saved by Amrand. Through the surging water and the gloom his face looked distorted and monstrous, but she quickly deduced that pain and panic were the sources of this delusion.

"You've got to be calm," he cried over the roar of the current. "Go with the water. Let it carry you."

To her consternation, Islena saw that she had been attempting to swim upstream. "We'll drown. Or, or be crushed on rocks."

The Jerhia shook his head adamantly. "NO. This is our only route to freedom. You've got to conserve yourself. The river will carry us to a place where the fire bat may not follow. Now, for the love of whatever gods there are...stop your thrashing."

Something in his voice must have convinced Islena, because she forced herself to cease her struggles and surrender to the will of the current. Immediately the water's grip relented and she found enough buoyancy to remain easily afloat. He smiled reassuringly despite the incessant whine of his injured shoulder. He looped his hand through the shoulder strap of her spandex bodysuit and instructed her to catch hold of his leather belt. Kicking with their legs to remain above water, the pair allowed the river to lead them along its violent course.

3

Islena could not have estimated how long they remained in the water. To avoid a relapse into panic, she allowed her thoughts to drift and surrendered to the sensations of their watery passage...the cold water, Amrand's firm grip and the barely perceptible blur of the land beyond the water's edge. Gradually, she became aware of the slowing of the current. She was equally cognizant of the growing numbness in her lower body and was about to ask Amrand if they could swim for shore, but before she could speak the starry sky became a vault of utter darkness.

Sensing Islena's anxiety, Amrand quickly explained, "We've passed into an underground cavern. This area is a natural limestone deposit and there are hundreds of such water courses in a very small area...they riddle the topography of the region."

"Can we just get out of the water now?" she pleaded. The Jerhia flinched at the brittle edge to her voice. "Of course."

They swam to shore and crawled onto the slippery limestone surface. Standing erect, Islena could distinguish the vague shapes of stalagmites and stalactites. She could hear Amrand moving in the darkness beside her. Though she could see nothing, Doraux was grateful for the natural concealment that masked just how profoundly the fire bat had frightened her.

"I'm sorry," she murmured distantly.

"Sorry?" he repeated quizzically.

"I panicked and nearly got us killed." She tried unsuccessfully to suppress the anguish and self-contempt in her voice. Amrand snorted. "Islena, faced with such a thing, how could one not know panic? It is not weak to be afraid in the face of horror."

"I froze," she insisted, determined to condemn herself. "You faced the same thing and you didn't just grow roots like a damned tree."

"Islena, I've faced constant terror for the better part of seven years. When I had my first encounter with sorcery, I remember being totally immobilized by terror. Only a madman would not feel fear of the supernatural...a madman or a demon."

"I hate weakness!" she exclaimed vehemently. Her words resounding through the hollow darkness, and Amrand knew that she was deaf to what he had said. The fall of tears resounded in her quivering voice, and Amrand found himself moved by her vulnerability. He was suffused by the urge to hold her, to comfort her, but dare not risk the consequences of that simple act of compassion. Instead, he explained, "Islena, in this world you will be exposed to every manner of personal degradation imaginable. Fear, hatred and jealousy...these are things that are common staples in the world that Myrhia has wrought. If you are to survive, you may well have to do things that are abhorrent to everything for which you live, but such are these black times. You must not let them touch your soul. You have experienced stark terror and survived, where most others would surely have perished. Turn this experience to your advantage."

She listened sullenly, her lips pressed into a tight line. His words were generous, but she had disgraced herself. He had saved her, first from the fire bat and then from the river. She made a silent oath that she would never be a liability again. "What was that thing?"

"Frankly, I'm not sure. One of Myrhia's conjured abominations no doubt. Only she would have the power or the temerity to bring such vile things to life." He shook his head and admitted his confusion. There seemed no discernible logic in the fire bat's wanting to kill Islena. Myrhia was seemingly intent upon finding this woman, but the fire bat was a creature wrought for pure destruction. Its appearance further muddled an already cloudy picture.

After lapsing into a brooding silence, Islena suddenly blurted, "You saved my life today, twice in fact. I owe you both a thanks and an apology. I've not trusted you from the beginning, while you've done everything to demonstrate that your intentions are benevolent."

Amrand experienced a bright stab of guilt. His motives for helping her were not inspired entirely by gallantry and should they reach the west, he'd have done nothing to help expedite her return to her world. The deception, while necessary, lanced his heart with shame.

Something more seemed required...some magnanimous gesture of dismissal, but the best that Amrand could muster were a few half-murmured words. Then the Jerhia walked slowly away. Islena remained stationary for a moment, wondering if she had inadvertently offended the soldier. After a moment, she began to gingerly pick her way after him.

4

High-pitched laughter echoed through the forbidding hollow. Even the trees, which had been witness to many a dark wonder, appeared to shrivel before the blood-curdling sound. The mutated inhabitants of this insidious forest scrambled for cover as the enchantress allowed the power to flow from her in an ecstatic celebration of her impending triumph.

Islena had been located and now her prize need only be collected. Then Myrhia's well-choreographed waltz of destruction could commence and the shackles of this inconsequential world would be sundered. Absolute, unencumbered freedom would soon be within her grasp.

Chapter Eighteen

1

There was no prior warning of the attack. They had been walking for what seemed like days, moving ponderously over the treacherous limestone landscape. Their only source of light came from an occasional portal to the world above. Murky light filtered through these holes...sometimes dull gray and sometimes velvety purple. There were several moments when Islena felt positive she was going to slip and tumble back into the rushing river. Once, the limestone path was cut by a rushing tributary of water and the pair had to wade across thirty feet of chest deep, ice cold water. In those moments, she wondered, for the first time in her life, if she was equal to the physical and mental challenges that fate had imposed in her path. Only images of her husband and children gave her the wherewithal to continue.

They had just crossed out of a zone of light when Doraux first perceived movement off to her left. She attempted to peer into the thick shadows, but the darkness refused to relinquish its secrets. Another few steps and the sound came again...a furtive whisper of motion against the wet stone.

"Amrand," she whispered. "There's something in here with us." And her first thought was that another of Myrhia's horrid seekers had located them. Amrand came to a stumbling halt and listened. He could hear nothing other than his own hammering heart and rushing blood. Somewhat irritated, he began to tell her that she was hearing shades, when several shadowy forms rushed at him and bowled him to the ground. He cursed and spat a warning at Islena, while struggling to free himself from his attackers. In moments he was subdued by superior numbers and his own exhaustion.

Islena felt thick, meaty paws clamp down upon her wrists and draw her arms tightly up around her shoulder blades. Then she felt herself being jerked backwards. The smell of rancid breath and stale sweat made her want to gag as her assailant tried to manhandle her to the ground. She heard mocking laughter as a hand trailed roughly across her breast. This violation made her suddenly furious.

She pushed herself against the figure and threw her head backwards. There followed a muffled crunch and a high shriek, then one hand was free. Islena raised her leg and drove the point of her heel directly onto the assailant's instep with uncanny accuracy. The man uttered a long, shrewish howl and released his hold upon her other arm. She drove an elbow into his substantial gut and then a back fist into his face. The man grunted deep in his chest and staggered backward, suddenly losing all interest in the firm breast that had so tantalized him seconds before.

Pivoting about, she switched over to the offensive. There was no calculated thought in her barrage of blows, only a fury-fuelled animal proficiency. One fist found a jaw, the other a temple. The man tried desperately to protect himself, but the assault struck him from every imaginable direction. The man, whom Islena saw was obscenely fat, gave up any notion of defending himself and turned to flee. Before he could take two steps, she surged forward and pistoned her foot into the gap between his legs. There was a long exhalation of air, followed by a meaty thud, as the man collapsed onto the slippery rock and went completely still.

Still incensed, Islena heaped invective upon the unmoving figure, seriously entertaining the notion of using his skull for football practice. Abruptly, the chamber filled with a harsh light that blinded Islena where she stood and spared the man on the ground any further abuse.

When her eyes adjusted to the glare, she was confronted with a half a dozen crossbows. Slowly, she dropped her hands to her sides.

"Islena, don't provoke them," Amrand admonished. She glared at the rabble, but remained still. The man at her feet groaned and clutched his injured groin. Eventually, he staggered to his feet and scowled at Doraux through a bloody mask. She met his gaze with unflinching, cold eyes and he quickly glanced away from the she-demon.

There were at least twenty men in the chamber, all shabbily dressed in old and threadbare clothes. Every eye was fixed upon the beautiful woman with the heavily muscled body. The men exchanged whispers amongst themselves, rapidly speaking in a tongue that Islena did not understand. There was something decidedly primitive about these men and every move seemed to intimate danger and a willingness to resort to violence.

"Who is the leader here?" Amrand demanded.

An older man stepped out of the shadows, and Amrand could see that he was what passed for the leader of the rabble just by the way the others quickly deferred their position to him. He gave Islena an appraising glance and his eyes widened for a fraction of a second. Then his normal sly expression settled over his face like a veil. "Time enough for questions later. Now you come with us. Jerhia, you are expendable...resist and we'll consign your whore-spawned soul to the river."

He walked over to the fat man whom Islena had thrashed. "Beroff, I think that you'd best join the women in the kitchens, though you'd do well not to bicker about what goes in the broth."

The fat man started to protest, but his words were lost in a thunder of derisive laughter. The old man's face contracted in a hawkish grimace and then gestured for the others to follow. Several men began to push Amrand after the leader. Another reluctantly jabbed a crossbow into the small of Islena's back. She glowered at the man, but a word from Amrand and she fell into step with the others, seeing little alternative.

2

The band herded the prisoners for more than a mile, finally arriving at a series of rope ladders that led to the world above. While she walked, Islena found herself torn between a smoldering anger and a sinking malaise. She was outraged by her treatment at the hands of this scum, but she was even more depressed by the prospect of captivity, however short. Every moment that she was not working towards getting home drove her one step closer to the brink of consuming despair.

The old man stop before one of the ladders and commanded in heavily accented English, "Climb."

Then he led the way. Islena was surprised by the ease with which he scaled the forty feet to the top of the limestone cavern. One half of the group led the way and then the prisoners were ushered up, with the other half following closely behind them. Then they emerged to find themselves in a large clearing, near the base of a towering cliff. She gulped a great swallow of fresh air, grateful to be back beneath the open skies.

Amrand wasted little time in protesting their treatment. "So this is how the Lamish have taken to treating travelers?"

The old man scoffed and waved his hand. "The caverns are ours. Who goes there uninvited should not expect hospitality."

"I am Amrand, Adjutant of the Jerhia. Do you care to risk raising our ire?"

"As I hear it, the Jerhia no longer hold any authority here," the old man retorted contemptuously, to the amusement of his followers.

"And the Lamish have taken to aligning themselves with Myrhia?" Amrand countered coldly. Islena noticed that several of the men recoiled at the mention of the Queen's name. Some even made odd warding off gestures that she had come to be associate with certain heavy metal bands in her world.

"What do you want here?" The old man snapped, dispensing with his tone of casual derision.

"Food and a place to rest and perhaps whatever clothes you might be able to spare. Beyond that, I ask that you provide us with safe passage to the next causeway."

The old man shook his head in amazement. "You ask all of this. What compensation can you give in return for such service?"

"We have nothing to give, other than the pledged benevolence of the Jerhia."

The entire clearing echoed with a sardonic laughter, but Amrand continued to watch the old man, face set in a neutral expression. He made no mention of his unusual traveling companion or the pivotal role that she might play in the course of events to come. The Lamish were a mercenary lot, who would sell their grandmothers if the price suited their fancy but they might not sell the pair out to Myrhia because the enchantress despised the itinerant race and was making every effort to exterminate them. Her campaign of genocide had driven them to seek refuge in the limestone caverns. It was possible however, that they might attempt to extort what they could from the west, should they come to suspect Islena importance. The delicacy of the situation made Amrand want to twitch, but he forced himself to remain impassive in the face of his belligerent captors.

"These are troubled times. It will take more than simple benevolence to enlist our help." A sly expression had stolen over the old man's face. One that Islena did not care for in the least. The man's face evoked comparisons with a weasel's or a ferret's. His personality seemed to suit the metaphor.

"As I've said, we've had nothing to pay you with. Myrhia's troopers hunt us and we seek sanctuary in the north." The old man rubbed the stubble on his chin and considered the matter. Then he eyed Islena's powerful body and malicious light dawned in his eyes. "Your traveling companion is most unusual...and most lovely."

"Tread lightly, old man," Amrand warned flatly.

"Here, I am master. Your rank means nothing, murderer. It is you and your lot that have brought us to this sorry state," the old man exploded bitterly. He glared at the Jerhia and then looked back to Islena. His gaze fell upon her skin, palpable and obscene. "Still, it is possible that we might accommodate you. If only we can work our way about the matter of payment. We would be risking much in transporting you to the north."

He moved closer to Islena, openly inspecting her as if she were a farm animal at an auction. She could feel herself growing angry, but Amrand cast a silent entreaty for her to remain calm. The old man turned back to the Jerhia. "There is not much to occupy our time in this place. There are no diversions to steal our attention from our considerable woes. This woman is exceptional, that is quite obvious. I propose that she enter into a contest as payment for our aid."

"Absolutely not!" Amrand rasped, not caring for where this was leading. Islena fixed him with a sharp glare, but he ignored her. The old man feigned indignation. "I offer a simple test of skill in return for everything that you require. You see this as somehow unfair?"

The Jerhia shook his head vehemently, but Islena spoke out, "Let's hear what the man has to say, Amrand."

Amrand rolled his eyes and threw up his hands. Islena regarded the old man coldly. "What exactly do you propose old man?"

He smiled wolfishly. She could feel her antipathy for the man intensify. "You availed yourself well back in the caverns. It's clear that you're no ordinary woman. We are graced with the presence of another woman who is quite exceptional. The price for our service is that you face her in a contest of the staff."

"That is absurd," Amrand erupted vigorously. "This woman has no training with hand weapons. If it is contest you require, then I will fight it."

The old man cut him off with an impatient wave, turning his attention to Islena. "That is my price. Decide."

She glanced to Amrand who shook his head pleadingly and then to the eager faces of the Lamish. The prospect of a physical challenge excited her in ways that she did not entirely comprehend, as if this trial would serve as proving grounds for obstacles yet to be faced. "I'll do it."

There was a general uproar of delight. Amrand hung his head dejectedly. He doubted that Islena, in her impulsiveness, had any concept of what she had just agreed to. The old man smiled slyly and offered Islena a pitying look. Then he turned to one of the other men and instructed, "Summon Lorio."

As the man ran off to fetch this Lorio, the old man began to explain the nature of the contest. "The two of you will face each other armed with a standard staff...an iron sleeve at one end and a spatulated end at the other. You will fight until one submits or is rendered unconscious. No one will interfere in your contest. On that, you have my personal guarantee."

Islena tossed her red mane defiantly. "If I defeat this Lorio, what assurance do I have that you will not seek some kind of reprisal or that you will honor our arrangement?"

The old man simply spread his arms and grinned. Just then the man returned through the trees. Behind him came a tall, stunningly beautiful woman carrying an ornate jousting staff. Cryptic symbols had been engraved into the iron sleeves. Islena's attention was set squarely upon the approaching woman. Her features were sharp and exotic, while her body was full and marvelously proportioned. Even in these circumstances, Islena could not help appreciate the symmetrical contrast between her tiny waist and her flaring hips. Lorio wore a sleeveless tunic that displayed long, well-muscled arms. As she moved, the sweep of her long thighs danced seductively and her long black hair shimmered in the golden light.

Her large brown eyes fastened upon Islena's and Amrand could almost hear the ensuing clash of steel wills. Islena's body responded to the other woman's challenge in a way that was almost erotic. There was contempt in the other woman's expression that Doraux immediately felt inclined to smash from her face.

Amrand winced when he first laid eyes upon Lorio. The casual way in which she twirled the staff and the litheness of her movements spoke of a deadly proficiency. Those hypnotic brown eyes told tales of a woman who would revel in inflicting pain. He had to find a way to avoid this fight. This woman would surely beat Islena badly or possibly even kill her if the collective lust demanded it.

"You underestimate the stranger," a voice informed him. Amrand blinked. The voice had been in his head and it had belonged to Rygore.

Lorio stopped ten feet from Islena, studying the smaller woman's spectacular muscle structure. Lorio had fought many contests and had never lost, but she had never experienced the anticipation she felt at the prospect of having this stranger fall before her. Without taking her eyes from Islena, she inquired, "What is it that you require, Dadar?"

No one noticed the pained expression that flickered over Amrand's face at this address. The old man looked at the woman affectionately, confirming Amrand's worst fears. "This woman wishes to challenge you at the staff."

Lorio smiled wickedly. "As she wishes."

"Very good, then we may begin." Someone thrust a wooden staff into Islena's hands. She hefted it experimentally and was surprised to find how comfortable it felt in her grip. Amrand spoke up, "Permit me to examine the staff."

The old man glared at the Jerhia, but allowed him to examine the weapon. Amrand came forward and took the staff from Islena. Examining it closely, he found a large crack in the wood. He threw it to the ground and growled, "You demand a contest with an unskilled opponent...the least that you might do is provide her with a weapon that is not defective."

The old man feigned surprise as Lorio fixed him with a resentful glare. "A simple mistake. Give her another staff."

As they waited for another staff to be brought forward, Amrand tried to provide Islena with a simple strategy for defending herself. "When she attacks, do not be mesmerized by the rhythm of her staff...instead focus on her hips and the center of the staff. They will indicate the direction of her attack. Islena, this woman is dangerous and competent. If you absorb a sharp blow to the head or ribs, fall to the ground and allow them their little victory."

Doraux bristled at the suggestion that she fall. Her eyes met Amrand's and he was afforded a glimpse of her indomitable spirit. "Amrand, I'm going to win this. I'm going to knock that arrogant bitch on her ass."

Disconcerted, Amrand fell silent. She turned to face Lorio and announced that she was ready. The statuesque beauty glided over to her and gently ran a hand over her opponent's shoulders and along her thick triceps. Then she looked directly into Islena's eyes and declared, "Never have I felt such unadulterated power in a woman's body, but I will make you cry like a child."

Islena remained silent as Lorio took several steps backwards and presented her staff. Then, twirling it elaborately, she circled to Islena's right and the contest commenced. Shouts of encouragement resounded as the two women circled each other. Islena held the staff up with the top end protecting her head in the direction in which Lorio was circling. Lorio moved with a lissome grace that was indeed hypnotic. The quarterstaff was a blur in her hands as she attempted to draw Islena into committing herself with a series of elaborate feints. Islena forced herself to focus on the areas that Amrand had recommended.

Lorio feinted attack several times as she circled the other woman, and was surprised to find that Islena would not be drawn into any of the feints. It was evident that the woman was not adept with the staff, but she was blessed with a natural athletic grace. Tiring of the false movements, Lorio attacked, bringing the staff down in a chopping movement. When Islena raised her weapon to deflect the blow, Lorio quickly swept the other end upward and landed a sharp blow to the thick belly of Doraux's quadriceps.

Lorio smiled. The watchers howled in delight. Amrand closed his eyes in dismay. The blow stung Islena like the snap of a whip, but she grimly refused to display any reaction.

Lorio lowered her staff and indicated a spot on the grass before her, taunting, "Kneel before me and kiss my feet. Perhaps I'll spare you further pain."

Islena responded by charging forward with her staff raised above her head. Lorio stood before her one moment and in the next she had vanished. As Islena rushed past, the woman sidestepped neatly and struck Doraux across the kidneys and the shoulders sending her sprawling flat on her face where she lay motionless for several seconds. The crowd jeered as Lorio stood over her. Amrand was silently imploring her to stay down, but Islena pushed herself heavily to her feet and turned to face her tormentor. Gesturing Lorio forward with her staff, she whispered between gritted teeth, "Come on, you promised to make me scream. I'm waiting."

Lorio's smile faltered slightly and then she darted forward and rained a volley of blows upon her opponent. Islena managed to deflect most of the blows aimed at her face, but several struck her on the shoulders, the arms and the legs. The spatulated end caught Doraux across the thigh and ripped a bloody gash through the spandex.

"Enough, old man! Your champion has proved her superiority," Amrand bellowed, but the mob ignored him. Their lust for violence would not be satiated until Islena lay beaten and humiliated on the ground. Confident that her opponent was hapless, Lorio began to toy with Islena, dropping her staff and taunting her opponent to the rapturous delight of her people. Islena remained in a defensive shell, fighting to ignore the mounting pain in her body. Extending her staff forward, Lorio jabbed casually at Doraux's midriff. The shorter woman made a clumsy attempt to parry the blow. By sheer chance, she deflected the thrust and her staff skidded against Lorio's staff, along the Lamish woman's arms, and connected directly into her teeth.

Lorio staggered back several steps and almost dropped her staff. Blood dripped from a shallow gash on her upper lip, which began to swell immediately. Her astonished expression made it exceedingly clear that she was unaccustomed to tasting pain. A nervous hush fell over the gathering as Lorio brought her fingers to her lips. When they came away bloody, she cried out and charged Islena, driven by anger for the first time in the contest.

The blows came in a frenzied blur with a speed and violence that the shorter woman could not match. The spatulated end caught Islena across the cheek and sent her reeling towards the bluff. Lorio's eyes blazed with pure hatred as she maintained her unrelenting attack. A barrage of blows shredded the spandex suit and raised huge welts and bruises along the smaller woman's thighs and ribcage.

The mob roared for Lorio to end it and then the inevitable blow broke through Doraux's faltering defense and struck her in the breast. White hot pain exploded along Islena's side, causing her to cry out and stumble against the unyielding rock of the escarpment. The shorter woman lowered her staff and she slid to her knees as pain turned her powerful flesh to jelly.

Lorio towered over her fallen opponent, breathing heavily. Islena gazed up at her through pain-clouded eyes.

"Now you're mine," Lorio whispered. She then proceeded to commit her only misjudgment of the contest. Driven to thoroughly humiliate Islena, she attempted to crush her in a test of strength, before driving her to the ground where she would beat her mercilessly. She crossed Islena's staff and attempted to exert a steady downward pressure on her fallen foe. In the next instant, she found herself being propelled through the air parallel to the ground as Islena dug in her aching legs and pushed her tormentor backward with a flexing of powerful thighs.

Lorio landed with a thud that knocked the air out of her lungs in a rush. Striking without conscious thought, Islena launched forward and brought the staff down in a wicked arc that dug into the Lamish woman's midsection. Lorio screamed in agony and attempted to roll away. Islena kicked her staff out of reach and then landed a dozen blows to Lorio's exposed arms and torso. Lorio cried out with each blow and then fell utterly still. Islena noticed a thin rivulet of blood running from the fallen woman's scalp into the white dirt. It took all of the discipline she had to suppress the nearly sexual desire to simply beat Lorio to death.

Instead, she threw aside her staff and turned wearily to the old man. "Now you'll honor your part of the bargain."

Amrand groaned, realizing that she had committed the cardinal sin of turning her back upon a dangerous opponent. As quick as a panther, Lorio was up, though her pain was clearly reflected in her dark eyes. The Lamish woman had secured her long silky hair with a velvet lash. With slightly trembling fingers, she pulled the lash free as she converged upon the shorter woman.

Islena detected the attack the instant before Lorio pulled the cord tight around her throat. Pulling back with the last of her strength, Lorio drove a knee into Islena's kidneys.

Large black circles bloomed before Islena's eyes and she understood that it was imperative that she break free or fall into unconsciousness. Her outrage at being backstabbed combined with her physical advantage saved her. Reaching back, she took a firm grasp on Lorio's forearms and then bent forward, driving her granite glutes into the taller woman's upper thighs and breaking her leverage. Lorio's grip relented and Islena carried her forward momentum through with a savage cry.

The old man uttered a strangled cry of negation and looked on in absolute incredulity as the two women rolled into a somersault. Lorio grunted thickly as Islena landed atop her stomach. In that moment all of the fight drained out of the taller woman, but Islena was intent on extracting a price for every indignity that she had suffered. Snarling, she hauled Lorio to her feet by the hair. Dispensing of any sense of delicacy, she seized the defenseless woman by the throat and the groin, and then hoisted her towards the heavens.

Holding the woman aloft, she glowered at the gathering, and then simply allowed their fighter to fall to the grass and dirt. Lorio landed on her face, raising a puff of dust, where she lay unmoving. Savagely, Islena kicked the unconscious woman in the thigh and in the short ribs.

"Islena, it is over!" Amrand bellowed, pulling free of his stunned and sickened captors.

"No, Amrand," she snarled. "It's not over until he and I agree on one thing." She drove the flat of her foot into Lorio's back and pulled her head back. The old man looked to be on the verge of apoplexy. Tears glistened in his eyes as he waved his hands, his gaze transfixed on Lorio's swollen and battered face. The glazed and vacant eyes stared sightlessly into whatever hell of pain Islena had visited upon her.

"Please, enough...spare her," he implored, the words choked by emotion.

"You'll do everything that you've promised, including escorting us to the north."

"Yes, yes. Anything. On my life, please let her be," the old man moaned wretchedly.

Islena regarded him closely for a moment and knew that he was being sincere, if only for the time being. Then she glanced down at the vanquished woman. The need to humble and humiliate consumed her then, and a malicious smile spread across her face like black oil on the surface of a clear spring waters. Amrand noticed the expression and winced. In that one moment, he was seared by a crystalline insight into this enigmatic woman's character. There was an intrinsic flaw in Islena Doraux...an imperfection of character that made her unstable and viciously dangerous under the proper circumstances. In that instance of revelation, Amrand gleaned that she had been summoned here for a purpose most malign and, though this reason eluded him, he guessed that this flaw would figure prominently in whatever role she was yet to play. He made no attempt to forestall the blow as she drew back her powerful arm, realizing that she was beyond the appeal of logic. He averted his eyes as the fist rammed into a prominent cheekbone and Lorio cried out from the depth of her suffering. Then it was mercifully over. Islena unceremoniously slammed Lorio into the dirt and slowly limped away. The old man rushed past her and knelt before the battered woman who had called him Dadar. Babbling, he tenderly rolled her over and clutched her to his chest. Then he began to rock her in his arms, crying unabashedly. Gradually, the others drifted towards the pair, completely ignoring Amrand and Islena. As she drew even with him, Amrand gripped her arm and rasped, "Dammnit, there was no need to inflict so much punishment."

"She attacked me from behind," she growled, pulling her arm away.

"You have no conception of what you've done. She is his daughter," the adjutant disclosed

"She cheated," Islena snapped petulantly, as if that particular transgression could rationalize any retaliatory action. Then she stalked off, leaving a bewildered Amrand staring after her.

Chapter Nineteen

1

When she had moved through the trees, Amrand returned his attention to the Lamish. They were a fickle lot under the best of circumstances and Amrand was concerned that they might renege on their agreement to lend them aid. It was entirely possible that the old man might well decide to extract a little retribution for the savage beating that Islena had inflicted upon his beloved daughter.

Watching the group huddle about the fallen woman, The Jerhia found himself wondering how a man who so obviously loved his daughter could subject her to such a brutal sport for the sake of amusement. Love was a strange and unfathomable emotion, he knew, and just another perplexing aspect to a cold world that was growing ever more unfathomable. He shook his head in consternation and then crossed over to the group.

The old man, Grigor, knelt beside his battered daughter, tenderly cradling her in his arms and whispering words of comfort through his own tears. Lorio had regained some measure of consciousness (much to Amrand's eternal relief) and was shivering in the throes of pain. She clutched to the old man's shoulder. Her face was a badly swollen mass of lumps and bruises. The left eye had been closed and Amrand judged that the cheekbone had been fractured. Several men gently lifted her and began to carry her in the direction that Islena had disappeared.

Grigor watched them with an anxious expression. Amrand moved to stand beside him and asked, "Will she be well?"

The old man regarded the cavalryman with a look of unconcealed hatred. "Do you truly care? You travel in the company of a demon, soldier. I pity your soul."

"It was you who initiated the contest, old man. You bear the brunt of the burden for whatever pain your daughter now endures."

The truth withered the old man and he simply nodded. He started to follow the other, but then stopped and declared, "I will honor my promise to allow you to go free. I will even provide you with what provisions we can spare. I will not, however, lead you to the next causeway...to travel in a devil's company is to condemn your soul to perdition. Take your demon and go to where ever your heart desires."

2

Amrand did not go to Islena until deep in the small hours of morning. He had spent several tortured hours trying to understand what had happened during her fight with Lorio. He wanted badly to avoid any contemplation of the implication of the final blow that Doraux had struck. From the first moments of their entry into the military academy, the men and women of the Jerhia were bombarded with the importance of discipline and restraint. Relishing the meting out of punishment and torture were perceived to be symptomatic of a sick and flawed mind that had no place on an honorable battle field.

As Islena had said, Lorio had indeed broken every convention of fair conduct, but that did not justify the brutal extreme to which the stranger had resorted. He also remembered that fear could often be express as anger and violence. Still, that final expression of malicious delight tormented Amrand and prompted him to venture out in the cold night in search of explanations.

They had been housed in separate tents. Apparently the Lamish did possess some sense of propriety. He saw that a brazier was burning in the tent and quietly pushed the flap aside. Islena sat on the floor in front of the brazier, her arms wrapped about her knees. She sat with her back to the tent entrance and did not hear Amrand enter. To his embarrassment, he saw that she had pulled down the top of her spandex uniform and was hugging her bare torso. Ugly, livid bruises marred her bronze skin like a plague.

She was weeping softly.

Feeling miserably incondign, Amrand retreated from the tent and stood in the shadows listening to the sounds of her suffering. At that moment, Amrand realized just how far out of his element he really was. He lacked the faculties to deal with this extraordinary creature. His confusion was further aggravated by his undeniable attraction to her exotic beauty. In the harsh, yet pragmatic world of open warfare there had always been an enemy. Myrhia symbolized everything wicked and despicable. With Islena, there would be no well-defined boundaries. For him, she would remain an eternal mystery. Understanding who she was and the role she was destined to play suddenly assumed a new exigency in the Jerhia's mind.

Grigor's words echoed in his mind. 'You travel in the company of a demon, soldier. I pity your soul.'

Wracked by ambivalence, Amrand dragged himself to his tent and a fitful sleep.

3

The immensity of her pain both alarmed and amazed Islena. True, she had voluntarily exposed herself to moments of intense pain, but these self-inflicted episodes had been minor in comparison to the misery which she was now experiencing. Livid bruises, arrayed in every color in the spectrum, mark the places where Lorio's staff had bitten into her taut flesh. Pain gripped her in convulsive waves that made her want to scream, but she contented herself in hugging her knees and rocking back and forth.

The vicious confrontation with the Lamish woman had raised many questions in Islena's mind, but it had also dispelled one particular delusion. Given the right circumstances, she was capable of anything, even murderer. The discovery horrified her, though she was pragmatic enough to realize that her savagery was a quality that would avail her well in this most barbaric of worlds. Lorio would have demolished a tamer woman...that was the irrefutable truth. She knew instinctively that, if she were to survive this ordeal, it would be necessary to dispense with many of the inhibitions of civility and confront her enemies on their own barbaric level.

She also found herself pondering the continued absence of Amrand. His attitude had perplexed her as had the fact that he had left her to suffer her pain alone. His frown of disapproval had been unfair. Had she not been the one who had been forced to fight for her life? Had she not been the one victimized by Lorio's treachery? In light of all that had happened, Islena felt that she had demonstrated saintly restraint. She felt the need to confront him and to justify her actions...a need that was unfamiliar to a normally independent woman who saw no need to defend the darker aspects of her nature.

A subtle sound stirred her out of her thoughts. A shadow fell across the tent, and she breathed a sigh of relief, certain that he had finally come to check on her condition. Ignoring the strident protest, she inclined her head to one side and peered over her pain-wracked shoulder. Someone was standing in the shadows, holding back the heavy canvas tent flap.

"Amrand?" she inquired, feeling the damp air chill her body. The visitor did not reply at once, and then a thick, distorted voice asked, "May I enter?"

Islena tensed, immediately recognizing that voice despite the slurred intonation. Taking stock of herself, she doubted that she could marshal the strength to resume hostilities. 'Damn you, Amrand, how could you leave me vulnerable like this?'

"Please," Lorio mumbled quickly. "I only ask that we talk."

Islena could discern no guile in that garbled plea. The thickness of speech made it evident that this woman was suffering every bit as much as she was. Gone was that infuriating arrogance, replaced by a timidity to which Lorio was quite obviously unaccustomed. "Come in if you must, but I warn you that any more fighting will be to a finish."

Tentatively, Lorio stepped into the light and stood gazing down at the seated woman. The left side of her face had risen into an angry knot of bruised and swollen flesh and the eye was a glimmering slit. As she crossed the dirt floor, Islena noted that Lorio's usual leonine gait had given way to a shuffling limp. The sight of the other woman's infirmity pleased Izzy in ways that she would never have been willing to admit. She did find her self curious as to why this woman would seek her out so soon after being humiliated. "You have no shortage of nerve coming here after what you tried to do."

Lorio averted her eyed and winced at the subsequent pain in her neck. "I had to come."

"Your father sent you," Islena remarked, automatically assuming that this had been the old man's doing. Lorio shook her head. "He says that I have brought shame to my people. He is right."

Islena shrugged indifferently. The old man's opinion meant nothing to her. "He must have known that you would lose someday."

"He is an old man, and sage in many ways, but there are times when he is a fool. He insists that I have disgraced my people by allowing myself to be humbled." she gazed directly into Islena's eyes, her good eye blazing. "I feel no shame in being beaten by a woman such as you. I have disgraced myself not by being vanquished, but because I was unwilling to accept your superiority and by resorting to reprehensible tactics."

"There were things that I shouldn't have done as well," Islena muttered, expressing a magnanimity that she didn't really feel. "I was fortunate to win."

Lorio shook her head. "You're an extraordinary woman. Perhaps that is why I went to such despicable lengths to try to defeat you."

The Lamish woman's forthright manner disarmed Islena's animosity in spite of herself. "How old are you, Lorio?"

"Twenty-two."

Islena shook her head.

'Barely a woman,' she marveled. 'And to think that I nearly beat her to death.' white hot shame flushed her cheeks and she gazed down to the brazier.

"Why did you come here?" she repeated quietly, now without rancor.

"There are things about you that I wish to know. In light of what I've done, I know that I'm undeserving of answers, but I hope that you'll at least listen to what I've to say."

Islena regarded the tall beauty closely and then nodded for her to proceed. There was an aspect of admiration in Lorio's gaze which made Islena feel distinctly uncomfortable. Suddenly, she was possessed by the certainty that this girl was going to impose some immense burden upon her already overburdened shoulders.

"For the time that I was a small girl, it was apparent that I was to be different from the other women. It is our character to be a spirited lot, but I've always felt compelled to aspire to more than the traditional subservient role of scullery maid. I had no interest in the herbs or the powders. I rebelled against any attempt to fashion me into a typical Lamish woman. Can you understand any of this?" Lorio asked earnestly. Islena nodded. She knew exactly what Lorio was speaking of. Had she not experienced the same refusal to conform as a teen-ager? She, herself, has stubbornly resisted all cliché expectations and boundaries.

"As I grew, certain physical abilities revealed themselves. I was faster and more agile than most men. The art and violence of the staff drew me and I quickly mastered the weapon. There is not a man in our camp who would not be hesitant to challenge me to combat." She considered this and then added, "At least, until tonight."

"My skill and my physical beauty set me apart, and I was content with the niche that I had carved." Lorio paused reflectively. On their surface, Lorio's words echoed with hubris and vanity, but Islena discerned a woman who had a fundamental understanding of who and what she was. "Then the dark times came to this world and my perspective gradually began to change. I love my father unremittingly. He raised me after my mother died, and labored hard to provide everything that I had lost in her absence. That is why it is so painful for me to say that he is wrong in most of what he believes and does."

Lorio had entered carrying a clay jar. This she set aside and then began to pace about the tent, completely involved in whatever tale she felt compelled to tell. Despite her partial nudity and her nagging pain, Islena found herself intrigued by this younger woman. "It is not an easy thing to surrender the ways of the past, especially when they have been such a source of comfort and joy as they have been to my father. He would rather die than admit that the Lamish cannot continue to exist as they have done since time out of mind. We have become the nasty joke of the nations...commonly perceived as a shiftless, itinerant people who thrive on thievery and worse."

"Worse still, we have raised the ire of Myrhia." even in the gloom, Islena could not fail to notice that Lorio shivered at the mention of the Queen's name. "Is this Myrhia really the monster that she's alleged to be?"

Lorio stopped and met Doraux's gaze. Her one clear eye was luminous in the subdued light. "There are no words to express the extent of that witch's evil. Pray that you never fall under her hand."

Islena felt a moment of intense empathy pass between them and then Lorio resumed her tale. "She has made every effort to wipe us from the face of the earth. We have been run to ground and forced to hide like burrowing animals. My father insists that we are best served by becoming invisible and waiting for the storm to pass." Lorio grimaced and spat, "I say that we must fight. If we are to die, then it must be with some measure of honor and dignity. Our people must make a stand against this evil and show the rest of the world that we are prepared to do our share in purging the world of this scourge. It is why I have come to you."

Islena shook her head, missing the connection. Lorio knelt before Doraux and took her hand, her voice become fraught and impassioned. "Your sudden appearance is not a random chance of fate. You are a woman of great import. It radiates from you like heat from the sun and you could well be my personal salvation."

Doraux shook her head in exasperation and tried to draw her hands away. Everyone who she met seemed determined to thrust some impossible responsibility upon her shoulders. Why could they not see that she was as much a victim as they were? "Lorio, you're wrong. If you understood just how lost and frightened I am, you'd probably laugh at me. Or lash me with contempt. Whatever it is that everybody seems to want, I am not the person to give it to them. I only want to go home."

Yet, it was apparent that nothing she had just said had any impact upon the other woman, who continued to regard her with the same expression of unaccountable reverence. This had to stop. She had to put an end to this predestined nonsense right here and now, even if that entailed going against her nature.

"Lorio, what happened between us means nothing," she tried to explain, almost frantically. "If you wouldn't have tried to out muscle me, you would have beaten me senseless. Just look at what you've done to me. Do I look like a shaper of destinies to you?"

Lorio gave Islena's wounds a cursory inspection, wincing at the sight of the angry swelling on Islena's exposed breast. "Even the shaper of destinies must face trials of iron. The strongest of weapons must be forged in fire."

Doraux sighed wearily. No logic could argue against such lofty, zealous metaphors. Cautiously, she asked, "What do you want of me?"

Lorio's good eye glimmered. "You can say that you're just a victim, but I know better. You've been brought here because you are needed, because there is much to be done. I want to help you...that's all. Whatever your purpose, I want to serve you in some way."

Islena shook her head adamantly. "I told you, all that I want to do is to go home. I doubt if there is any way that you can help me do that."

"We can struggle to avoid the tasks for which we've been selected, but it's very seldom that we can actually escape them." Her grip tightened on Islena's hand and her expression intensified. She could feel the passion of this woman's conviction and saw much of herself. "I want to protect you and I can, despite how you bested me. I am a master of the staff and adept at most other types of hand weapons."

"Why?" Islena demanded simply. "Your place should be with your people."

Lorio never faltered. "There are two reasons. First, I owe you a debt of gratitude. I wronged you and you spared my life, though it was rightfully yours to take. More than that, I want to salvage the pride of my people and to lead us away from the path that we've walked on for more than a score of generations. I must show them that, if we are to flourish, we must change. Please, I have no right to request anything of you, but please let me be the one to lead you and the Jerhia to the northern causeway. There is no man in our group more adept at guiding than I."

"Your father would never let you go," she responded distantly. Lorio shook her head. "In many ways, my father is an amoral man, crude and unscrupulous, but he has a weak spot where I'm concerned. He can deny me nothing," she concluded confidently. That fact that he had allowed his daughter to engage in such a deadly past time made Islena wonder just how much the old man actually loved her. Conversely, Lorio had exhibited a natural independence that would make her difficult to control. If she had wanted to fight, it is likely that the old man would have been forced to resort to physical restraint to stop her. Islena could feel that old despair threatening to return. She had no wish to be caught up in a struggle for power, nor did she wish to recruit a legion of disciples who would sacrifice their lives to fulfill some obscure destiny. "Lorio, Amrand is going to take me to some people who will try to help me get back to my world. I won't pretend to understand any of what is happening in yours, and I quite frankly have no intention of getting involved in this conflict. I have a family, a husband and two sons, and returning to them is my only priority. I can think of no inducement that would persuade me to commit to any other course of action."

Lorio smiled knowingly and reiterated, "It's never that simple, Islena."

Islena shrugged and made to rise, but Lorio placed a firm hand on her shoulder. "Please permit me to guide you to the north."

Doraux scrutinized the other woman's battered face, fully intending to fashion an emphatic refusal. Instead, she assented, not fully comprehending the forces that compelled her to do so. Lorio beamed a broad grin, openly delighted by the prospect of risking her life in service of some grand purpose that Islena knew did not exist. In spite of the ugliness that had passed between them, she found herself developing a grudging respect for this enigmatic woman, who now seemed to bear a closer resemblance to a queen than she did the petty thug Islena first thought her to be.

With an unexpected tenderness, Lorio ran her hands over Islena's powerful shoulders and over the horseshoe of her triceps. In a dreamy voice, she asked, "Are you typical of the women of your world, Islena?"

"No," she replied at once. "Most people hold the opinion that women who are strong and muscular are freakish aberrations. That attitude is slowly giving way before an onslaught of new feminism, but there are still a lot of men...and many women who expect women to be weak and deferential. Prejudices are deeply ingrained and it may be years before women like myself are completely accepted, if ever."

"But what of the women, how could they not be drawn to your beauty and power?" Lorio inquired, clearly mystified by Islena's disclosure.

This question had long since perplexed Islena. With men, the narrow-minded preconceptions of women were to be expected, but she had often wondered why women would share the same narrow view. How many times had she heard women tell her that they want to tone up, but they didn't want more muscle mass? "A lot of women are afraid to rebel against stereotypes, to defy the accepted status quo as it were. Over the course of my world's history, women have endured most of the persecution and thus their reluctance is certainly understandable. The world placed limits on what we women could aspire to become. Slowly, but inevitably those limits are being eradicated, but only through protracted struggle and constant sacrifice."

A speculative expression crossed Lorio's face. "Your very presence will change the face of my world. Seeing you, many women will begin to re-evaluate their place in the scheme of things. Some may even find the courage to change the precepts that keep us shackled. As you've said, it only takes a few to bring about sweeping reforms."

Her hand happened upon a particularly tender bruise and Islena stiffened. Lorio quickly drew her hand back, wincing as if she had shared the pain. Then she stood and retrieved the clay jar. "This is an old Lamish unguent. We are not without our secrets."

She bid Islena to stand and remove the rest of her garment and Islena complied without argument. Standing naked before the taller woman, her body was tattooed by bruises and abrasions. Lorio regarded her with an expression of frank appraisal, clearly fascinated by the sweeping curves and the deep striations that defined Islena's chiseled flesh. Drawing a tremulous breath, the Lamish woman knelt and began to slowly apply the unguent to Islena's battered body. The white substance was remarkably cool and she was startled to discover that it numbed the pain upon contact. With the absence of pain, Islena's body was free to luxuriate in the gentle rhythm of Lorio's skilled hands as they ministered to her hurts.

"Is that not better?" she inquired without looking up from her work. Islena murmured, not wanting to betray just how profoundly the probing hands were affecting her. The treatment seemed to go on forever. As she watched Lorio work to relieve the pain she had inflicted, Islena was visited by the uncomfortable image of a supplicant before a shrine. Instinct advised her to reject Lorio, that to accept her would add another burden to her shoulders and complications to an already hopelessly convoluted situation. Her discomfort was further aggravated by the way in which her body was responding to the other woman's skilled touch.

She had suffered through so much in the last few days. Through the torment and uncertainty had come the overwhelming need to be held and comforted. This statuesque beauty, with her nubile body and inviting breasts, could easily provide her with everything that her body craved. There could be little doubt that Lorio would willingly submit, should Islena decide to ask. Did she really want that kind of power over another human being? The moral ramifications of that question plagued Islena and she sensed that the question would resurface to haunt her again and again before this nightmare was over.

Lorio stood and set the jar aside, gazing deep into Islena's exquisite green eyes. A slight smile played at her sensuous lips. Never taking her eyes from Islena's she discarded her clothes, revealing a body of splendid feminine proportion. The heavy breasts drew Islena's gaze and set her heart to beating quickly...She drew a deep breath and brushed her long red hair back from her face.

The taller woman moved closer, until Islena could smell the sweet scent of her flesh. "I don't want to be alone...please, do not send me away."

Islena gathered herself and met Lorio's eyes. They had shared the intimacy of pain and now they stood on the threshold of another kind of intimacy, one that would irrevocably link them together. Her body was her most cherished possession and she could not resist its need. Nodding, she extended her hand and led Lorio to her pallet.

Lorio settled into Doraux's powerful embrace with a sigh of contentment. Islena whispered softly to the other woman and caressed her. Then she turned her attentions to assuaging Lorio's pain, succumbing to the pure atavistic emotion of their coupling.

Above them, winking jewels adorned the cold vault of the heavens and a bitter wind blew over a beleaguered world. In the cradle of their embrace, both women managed to forget, if only for a moment, the harsh and inexorable realities that awaited them beyond the canvas walls.

4

In the moments before waking, Islena was visited by a particularly appealing fantasy. Ben lay beside her in their bed. Down the carpeted hall, Donald and Allan would lay in the gentle embrace of whatever dream moved them. They were a family and everything was good, just as it should be. War, hatred and avarice...these were things that existed well beyond the walls of their little fortress where things were bright and could only improve as time slipped gracefully by. She turned lazily in her bed, not wanting to lose the magic of this little moment. The blanket brushed across her cheek.

She felt the coarse fiber brush against her skin like an abrasive paper. Startled, she sat up and stared about in total disorientation as illusion dissolved and the floodgates of reality crashed open.

Reality crashed down up her, bringing with it the most profound despair that she had ever experienced. Then the recollection of Lorio and the night that they had spent together returned to color her misery with shame.

"What in God's name have you done?" she moaned, clutching her head in her hands. She was powerless to forestall the spill of tears. On top of all that had happened, all of the unwanted upheaval, she had compounded her predicament with infidelity. In all of the years of her marriage, even through the periods of alienation and resentment, she had never once contemplated being unfaithful to Ben. Yet in this antiquated time, she had cast aside all of that and broken the sanctity of that vow...with a woman.

The immensity of that violation of trust twisted her stomach into tight, painful knots.

"You damned fool!" Still crying she began to pound her fists into the large muscles of her thighs. She had lost all control of her emotions and actions. Why? What enchantment had usurped her precious independence...her unassailable pragmatism? Flickering images of their shared passion returned to assail her...the tart taste of Lorio's nipples and the uninhibited way in which she had given of herself, all if these things mocked Islena's profession of shame and remorse.

Eventually the tears subsided and her gaze shifted vacantly around the tent. Her brazier had been relit. Fresh clothing had been laid out upon a small stool near her pallet. She glanced into one of the corners and winced, grasping the true measure of what she had done. There, like an embodiment of her indiscretion, stood Lorio's staff. The cryptic symbols seemed to taunt her from the shadows. Had she not always coveted adulation, wanted the young girls to look up to her through dream-glazed eyes?

"But not like this?" she whispered. "Not like this."

'Indeed, but what is done is done,' came a harsh, reproachful voice. She blinked, it was the voice of the thing that had possessed and spoken through Richler. 'You've committed a colossal blunder. Each of us must learn that we are accountable for our actions and the effects of this particular miscalculation will resonate through what remains of your life.'

A note lay atop the clothing. She stooped to retrieve it and was baffled to learn that she could not read it. The page was cover by line after line of unintelligible symbols. Then it occurred to her. She could understand their spoken word, but she could not comprehend their hand writing...yet another baffling conundrum. She threw the note aside as though it were poisonous.

"Islena?" someone ventured.

'Amrand,' she realized as she reached for the black top and pulled it over her head, surprised to find that it fit her perfectly. The black trousers were also an ideal match. Fully clothed she ushered the Jerhia into her tent, greeting him with a chilly reception that she felt he deserved. Had he come to her, perhaps her encounter with Lorio would not have come to pass, she reasoned...not bothering to wonder why it had always been so easy for her to delegate blame to others. Like many things, this notion was filtered out by whatever protective mechanism Islena had created to insulate herself from the harsh reality of who she was...from her own inherent flaws

"I trust that you're well?" he inquired. When she glared back in response, Amrand was forced to drop his eyes.

"Are you really concerned?" she snapped, suddenly furious, as though the Jerhia was the source of her every woe. "I suppose that you were too preoccupied to come and see for yourself last night."

Amrand remained silent, deciding that any response would only provoke a further escalation of her anger. He cursed his ineptitude at handling complex emotional situations. He had been taught to be dispassionate for so long. Now, faced with the dire need to understand this enigmatic woman, he found himself woefully lacking.

"Islena, I think it wise that we part ways with the Lamish. The mood in the camp is unsettled." Amrand had not cared for the baleful glares and the sardonic grins that he had received on his way to Islena's tent. He told her this, but she waved her hand impatiently. "You think that the old man will go back on his word?"

"It's not inconceivable."

"I can almost guarantee that he won't," she spat the words out and Amrand could only guess at the reasons for her rancor, though it was clearly directed at him. Intrigued nonetheless, he inquired, "How?"

She looked at him frigidly and disclosed, "He won't renege because Lorio will be guiding us to the north."

Amrand shook his head as if he had misunderstood. Just then, the tent flap was thrown open and Grigor burst in uninvited. He confronted Islena from across the brazier, while a perplexed Amrand gazed on in utter confusion. "How have you come to beguile my daughter, she-demon?"

"Lorio has made her own choice. If she decides to stay, or if you can convince her to stay, it might be best for all of us," Islena allowed neutrally.

"She will not listen," Grigor flared. Though he appeared livid with rage, Amrand sensed desperation in the old man. He continued to rage at Islena. "I have promised you that I would provide you with an escort to the next causeway. You have no right to turn my daughter against me, you whore-spawn bitch!"

"It may surprise you to find that your daughter has a mind of her own," she replied simply and turned away as if the old man were no longer there. He blinked as though he had never entertained the notion. Then he wheeled on Amrand. "Can you not reason with this woman? Lorio is my only flesh and I would not lose her to your mad misadventure."

Feeling like a man who had inadvertently blundered into a furious battle, Amrand could only shrug helplessly and look to Islena. "What is this about?"

She had knelt to put on her joggers and did not bother to look up as she spoke, "Lorio came here last night and asked if she could guide us. She also apologized for fighting dirty. I tried to dissuade her, but she insisted that she be the one. The woman's an adult and she has her reasons for coming, but I won't try to dissuade her."

Of that, Amrand had little doubt, but he wondered if they were the same reasons that she had related to Doraux. She stood up and walked past them. Over her shoulder she again declared, "If she wants to come along, it's fine with me. If you don't want her to come then you can try to convince her to stay."

5

Islena found Lorio preparing for her departure. She noticed that a new staff had been tied onto her pack. This one had been fitted with a razor spine, which ran along both spatulated ends. There was so much that needed to be said, but the awkwardness of the situation reduced Islena to utter speechlessness. Upon seeing the other woman, Lorio smiled broadly. The swelling was still prominent, but it did not seem to distort her lovely features as it had done the night before. "I see that I guessed well."

Islena laughed nervously. "They're fine. Thank you."

"The north is cold and damp. I've brought along several changes." She seemed to falter and went back to packing with a vigor that conveyed her own anxiousness. Islena watched her for a moment and then said, "Your father was angry and he doesn't want you to go and he accused me of beguiling you."

"Superstition and anger often make people say things that are foolish," Lorio remarked, her tone conveying that seriousness of the argument that must have taken place earlier. Doraux hesitated and then plunged ahead. "I'm wondering if he might be right."

Lorio stood and looked at her questioningly. Islena groped for the right words. "You seem...taken with me. I'm not any kind of heroine. If you're expecting earth shattering things from me, I can tell you that you'll be sadly disappointed."

"I don't think so," the Lamish woman replied seriously. Islena sighed. There it was again, that polite, but stubborn insistence that she was somehow extraordinary or predestined to fulfill some ancient promise. Despite her best efforts, she could seem to make no inroads in dispelling that nonsense. "Lorio, what passed between us last night was wrong."

Lorio stiffened, suddenly appearing distraught. She stepped to Islena and placed a long finger against the shorter woman's lips. The gesture seemed girlish and touchingly innocent. "No, say anything else if you must. Say that it may never happen again, but please don't say that it was wrong. I've sworn to protect you. I'll give up my life for what we've shared last night. Please don't tarnish it. Please!"

Confronted by such frantic need, such unconstrained passion, Doraux could only nod. Lorio hugged her tightly for a moment and then pushed her to arms length. Her face radiated such joy that Islena was forced to look away. "We're setting off down a road of wonders. I can feel it."

Doraux nodded absently. She could feel nothing but confusion and uncertainty, exacerbated by debilitating apprehension and nagging guilt.

6

By mid-morning the three were ready to begin their long journey to the next causeway. All of the Lamish had assembled on the same field where the two women had fought their fateful duel the day before. This time they came to wish Lorio and her companions luck.

Only Grigor did not partake in the farewells. He stood sullenly off to one side, desperately striving for a way to avert the catastrophe which he had helped set in motion. Lorio had told Islena that her father had refused to surrender the traditions of the past. On that much she had been wrong. Grigor was enough of a pragmatist to realize that, if his people were to survive, he would have to reach some accommodations with this Demon-Queen from the east. He had decided to offer her the woman and the Jerhia as a token of his desire to reach some accord. To that end, he had dispatched a rider with a message that the pair would be headed to the north and the next causeway.

Then everything had gone horribly wrong. By some wicked twist of black irony, Lorio had agreed to guide this monster to the north. He had commanded. He had cajoled. He had even resorted to pleading, but in the end, Lorio had refused to relent. She had always been such an obstinate girl, so fiercely independent. It was as though she had been seduced in some way.

"Gods preserve her," he muttered as he approached the group. Lorio...his precious Lorio...she was the one thing about which the hardened old man could not remain cynical and self-serving. If something were to happen to her, he would be left with nothing.

He briefly entertained the notion of confessing his treachery. His people would understand and Lorio would eventually grope her way to grudging acceptance. They would dispose of the two and hopefully earn the wicked queen's forbearance in the bargain...an attractive notion with one fatal flaw. The rider would have reached the Imperial guards and Myrhia would not take kindly to having been tricked. The Lamish were already out of favor with the wicked one and they could scarcely afford to raise her ire even further. Her time had come upon this world and the future of those who opposed her held only the prospect of suffering and obliteration.

There was only one viable option...he had to convince Lorio to remain with him.

He pushed his way through the throng and stood before the three. He eyed the two intruders, despising them for the havoc they had brought to his life. Then he imposed himself between them and his precious daughter, unconsciously attempting to drive a wedge between them. "Lorio, I beg of you, you are my only child...all that I have left of your mother's memory. Stay with me and your people. This is where you belong."

The woman's dark eyes softened slightly. "Dadar, we must look beyond ourselves now."

She stepped back and swept her gaze over the Lamish that had assembled to see her off. They stared back, Islena noticed, with rapt attention. Again, she found herself admiring this younger woman...her youthful strength and confidence. These were things which Doraux knew to be fleeting. There were times when she could feel the leeching affect of years turning its gaze upon her. Perhaps this was why she drove herself so hard, as if sweat and pain would allow her to regain that fading feeling of invulnerability and permanence. She recalled Lorio's prediction that her presence would provide inspiration for a special few women who could well shape the face of the future. Lorio herself was living proof of that prediction. "The Lamish cannot isolate themselves from the rest of the world now. We all cling to the proud tradition of independence that is our heritage. We've ignored the rest of the world as though it did not exist and by doing so; we have brought our people to this sorry state...hiding in the ground like burrowing animals."

Her eyes hardened and her voice grew coarse with emotion. "We were wrong. We gave others reason to hate us. We sowed the seed of prejudice that have made us so widely despised. Now is the time to show them that we have been judged too harshly, that we aspire to the same ideals as they; to live in peace and drive the beast from our lives."

Islena could feel the hairs on the nape of her neck bristle. She was experiencing a crucial juncture in the fate of a people. Lorio gestured in her direction and all eyes shifted to the stranger. "This woman has come to us from some distant shore. Though her purpose remains a mystery, I say that she shall be our salvation. I have pledged my service to her and I ask that you proclaim your opposition to the evil that preys upon this land." She spread her arms like a prophet on a mount. "This land, and all who dwell here, is balanced on the razor's edge of judgment. Should she triumph, Myrhia's darkness shall pale the fires of hell and consume us to a one."

She dropped her hands and regarded the group, cheeks flushed with passion. Some eyes were thoughtful, but most were blank and uncomprehending. It was clear that most did not understand. They were rooted too firmly in the past. Disappointed, she sighed and went to her father. "I will guide them to the causeway and then return. Do not fear for me father. I am a fox in the woods."

Grigor grimaced.

'And I am a wolf,' he thought bitterly. He wanted to wish her well, but could not speak for fear that he would betray the heinous thing that he had done. Hurt rippled across her lovely features, then she strode forward hugged him fiercely and kissed his cheek. Then she pivoted about and marched off to the north without looking back.

Islena flayed the old man with a sour glance and then trotted off after her. Amrand lingered for several seconds, troubled by the unrecognizable emotion that danced in Grigor's eyes. The Lamish noticed the other's scrutiny and snapped, "Well, you have what you desired. Be gone and leave us in peace."

Amrand turned to go, but a bony hand closed on his wrist. He turned back to the old man and was shocked to see that he was on the verge of tears. His hollow cheeks were flushed and his eyes glistened wetly. "Jerhia, keep my daughter safe...Please!"

Amrand nodded curtly, feeling the weight of another pledge settle onto his strained shoulder. Then the old man's face closed up and the moment broke. The Jerhia turned and loped off after the others.

Chapter Twenty

1

In the two days that Islena had been absent from her own world, the following things occurred...at the Seattle coroner's office, an overworked and bored assistant attached Marla Holmes' head to her torso and placed her in a steel-lined drawer that was to be her last way station on a journey to interment and whatever might lay beyond. During the nightshift of the very same day, a duty cleaner opened a door to the meat locker and discovered that one of the hotel rooms had been broken into. It was only later, while the state detectives were making their examination, was it determined that the janitor's assumption had been erroneous. Though the jagged metal appeared as though it had been blasted through by an anti-tank weapon, the shards were pushed not inward, but outward.

Someone had broken out of the locker. The two detectives had exchanged frightened and confused glances and had decided to omit that particular detail from their report.

Either way, the body of Marla Holmes had inexplicably vanished.

Ben read the news and poured obsessively over the numerous accounts of the murder at the iron Works Gym. They did nothing to provide him with any new insight into his wife's disappearance. He drifted through the days with the grim scowl of the permanently indisposed, thinking that each ring of the telephone or every knock at the door would bring the insufferable news that his wife had been found dead. Neither grim eventuality occurred and time dragged on.

State and City Police investigations revealed certain peculiarities which led them to other, equally grim conclusions and the hunt for Islena Doraux intensified.

2

They walked and slept in a repetitious cycle for three days. Lorio was indeed a fox in the woods and Amrand grudgingly surrendered the direction of their flight to her, though he continued to be suspicious of her purpose. As time crawled slowly by, Islena sank ever deeper into lethargy of spirit, though she continued to function with the machine-like efficiency of a high performance engine. Each time one of her fellow travelers would attempt to engage her in conversation, she would tacitly but firmly brush them off. Both respected her wish for silence and since neither entirely trusted the other, conversation lapsed to an absolute minimum.

The morning of the fourth day was overcast and oppressively humid. As had become standard, Lorio ranged about fifty feet ahead of the pair, scouting for any sign of possible trouble. Doraux came next and Amrand brought up the rear, spending much of his time contemplating the extraordinary woman in front of him.

Lorio had just disappeared through a dense wall of underbrush and Islena was about to push her way through, when a shrill whistle prompted Amrand to tug on her shoulder. She glanced to him questioningly and he gestured for her to remain silent. Islena watched him fight his way through the tangle of branches and then followed.

Lorio had positioned herself behind a thick clump of bushes and was peering intently at something down the slope. Seeing the pair, she ushered them forward. When Islena and Amrand came abreast of the Lamish woman, they found themselves gazing down upon a small village, which stood in a clearing next to a river. The buildings were little more than squalid hovels, many of which appeared on the verge of total collapse. She thought that the village must surely be deserted, but then a woman, with a small child in tow, emerged from one of the hovels and headed in the direction of the river. Both the woman and the girl carried a mound of clothing and tattered blankets.

'This place is actually inhabited,' she realized with total dismay. 'God in heaven, do people actually live this way?'

Amrand gestured for the three to go back the way that they had come, but Lorio shook her head contentiously. Islena winced. A certain animosity had existed between the pair from the outset, most of it coming from Lorio. Doraux had sensed that this moment of confrontation was inevitable.

"We must go into the village," Lorio whispered angrily. The Jerhia shook his head, clearly exasperated by her obstinate challenge. "No, there is nothing to be gained by making contact with these people. They can only alert the imperial troopers to our presence. I say that we skirt the town and continue to the north."

"You're wrong, soldier. These villagers will be able to tell us of the state of matters here...where the fighting is located and how strong Myrhia's armies might be in the area." She glared at the large blonde man, daring him to gainsay her logic. Amrand cursed the fates and glanced to Islena for help, but her attention was riveted upon the woman and the child. The pair had made their way down to the river and was in the process of washing their few possessions on the rocks. Islena watched with her face set in conflicting lines of dark fascination and disbelief.

Lorio turned to the other woman and her expression immediately softened. Amrand caught the puzzling change of expressions and frowned. He had spent many a silent hour pondering the strange relationship which existed between the pair. The physical effects of their battle had faded, but it been Amrand's experience that the mental scars and animosities of such a fight long outlived the pain. Yet, these women displayed nothing but fondness for each other as if theirs had been but a foolish disagreement.

"Let Islena decide," Lorio declared. Doraux dragged her eyes away from the peasant's labors. She had grown attached to the two. Those attachments could only exacerbate an already difficult situation. She required answers, truths, and each of her self-proclaimed friends had their own agenda. She wondered briefly if she had always been so distrustful. It didn't matter. Only survival mattered and whatever facilitated it. She suspected that these people, with their lives of incessant drudgery, would provide her with impartial truths. Something told her that there were certain questions that were better left unanswered, but she disregarded this advice and murmured, "We'll go down."

Lorio smiled broadly, flashing a vindicated sneer at the Jerhia. Amrand drew a weary breath and let his chin settle to his chest and then he gestured for the two women to lead the way.

Upon seeing the three emerge from the trees, the peasant girl tugged excitedly upon the hem of her mother's dirty dress. The woman followed her daughter's finger with no enthusiasm, but upon seeing the approaching trio, she stiffened and pushed the girl behind her.

Islena drifted through the village, appalled by the squalor that surrounded her, struggling unsuccessfully to ignore the pervasive stench of human waste. The things that passed for houses looked as though they would collapse before the first good gust of wind. She could clearly see large holes in the thatched roofs and walls of some of the more decrepit hovels. The sickening reek of excrement had permeated the village, making breathing a most unpleasant necessity. Pools of raw sewage had collected in many of the low spots. Doraux felt as though she had stumbled into a small enclave of hell.

She turned to Amrand, her eyes burning with a reproach that the Jerhia could not comprehend. "No one should live like this...no one!"

The Jerhia exchanged a puzzled glance with Lorio. Hopeless poverty was a timeless reality that both had come to accept as sad but inevitable. She continued to glare at the pair, her anger augmented by their obdurate reaction to what she perceived to be a tragedy. Frustrated, she returned her gaze to the way station for the lost. People were peering at her though doorways and makeshift windows. There were small, dirty children and ancient men of thirty-five. All were emaciated and all were filthy.

Islena wanted to flee, to run until exhaustion purged the image of this horror from her mind. She could feel the rise of hot tears of outrage and savagely fought to hold them back. "Damn you both," she raged at the bewildered pair. "And damn this world of yours."

Then she strode down to the waters edge. The woman, whose age was inestimable, watched her with an inscrutable expression. Islena was reminded of a dog that had suffered through too much abuse and viewed the world with a mixture of resentment, fear and a mindless need to please, if only to avoid further pain.

"My name is Islena," she offered as kindly as she could manage. The woman remained silent, her expression changing not an iota. Deep lines crisscrossed the woman's face as if indigence had stamped its brand right into her tired flesh.

'This is what it looks like to lose hope,' she realized and prayed that she would never sport that bitter mask of pervasive defeat...of capitulation to inescapable despair.

The little girl peered out from behind her mother with the mesmerized expression of a child who had not yet been touch by the reality of her lot in life. It would not be long, Islena surmised, before that expression disappeared forever. She fixed upon the stranger's bulging arms and tawny complexion, so different from her own pallid skin.

"Are you a magical person?" the girl inquired in a timid voice. There was something sweet and innocent in the girl's question, and Islena had to avert her eyes to prevent from breaking down. She shook her head in a vigorous denial. The mother hushed her and pushed her back to the chore of beating the clothes. "What does your type be wanting here? There's nothing for you to take."

She spread her arms apart. "We want nothing. We've only stopped to rest and ask for directions."

The woman's eyes went dull at the mention of the word rest. For her, the alien concept was an indescribable pleasure that she had long ago forgotten and would never know again...at least not until death came to rescue her from this living prison. She shrugged and turned back to her work, settling heavily into the cold water and wringing the clothes with thin, bony hands.

Suddenly overwhelmed with pity, Islena waded into the water, unmindful of the stench, and knelt down between the pair. Without a word, she took up a piece of rag which passed for a blouse and began to wring it in the water with her powerful fingers. She was aware of an innumerable collection of disbelieving eyes upon her back, but she ignored them and took up the task with an energy which baffled the woman. She shot the girl a warm smile. The girl returned the smile and did her best to emulate Doraux's powerful movements.

The three continued to work until the piles had been washed as well as the crude method would allow. As she labored, Islena reflected upon how many of the things that she took fore granted could ameliorate this woman's drudgery. The notion made her own lost world seem impossibly distant. When they were finished, Doraux piled the clothes into the battered copper tub which served as a basin. Then she started back up the slope. The woman and child watched for a moment and then they too trudged up the muddy slope after this benevolent apparition.

Islena deliberately avoided eye contact with her companions, while trying not to step into the crude sewage channels that had been dug into the lifeless brown mud. At the top of the slope, she stopped and handed the burden back to the other woman. Something flickered in her listless brown eyes and Islena thought that it might have been a rare expression of gratitude.

Slowly, cautiously, other villagers were emerging from their hovels and coming out to see who these strangers might be. Her eyes fastened on the woman's, who flicked her gaze to and fro nervously. "What is your name?"

The eyes searched the stranger's face and then dropped again. "Bethian." gesturing to the child, she added, "And that is Milliar."

"Where are the men?" Islena asked, gazing over the gathering and seeing only women, children and elderly men.

"Gone...some to tend the flocks...most to fight in the war." The voice was flat and indifferent. "Though, I'd be guessing most of 'em be dead now."

Amrand came to join Islena and the woman flinched back at the sight of the black uniform with the red piping. Even the child shrank in terror. Seeing the reaction, Doraux asked sharply. "What is the matter? Does he frighten you?"

The woman's eyes closed off whatever she might have been feeling. "All soldiers frighten us. When they come bad things come with them...no matter whose dogs they be."

"How long have your men been gone?

The woman considered the question and shrugged pensively. "Weeks. Months. I can't be sure. It doesn't matter none, `cuase we know that they won't come back."

"Why?" Islena posed the question with a harshness that she had not intended. The woman appeared not to notice. "They're all dead. Soon most of us `ll be joinin' them." she cast a baleful eye toward Amrand. "Soldiers took what little stock we had. Left us with nothin'. Soon the rains will come and the old and weak `ll die. The strongest will have the worst of it."

"Perhaps it's best that way," she sighed morosely and then walked off dragging the child behind her. Islena whirled on Amrand. "What is she talking about?"

Amrand felt his face flush with shame and wondered why she could so easily evoke this particular emotion in him. She had a way of making everything that he had held sacred seem profane and vile. "There are times when an army runs short of provisions and then confiscate whatever food is at hand to sustain itself."

"From people like these?" she demanded in a voice shrill with outrage. "That's despicable. They have no means to provide for themselves." she gestured about wildly. "They're going to starve. Look around, Amrand, this place isn't fit for pigs, much less humans."

"War is an ugly thing, Islena. So is poverty. I'm not a philosopher, and I don't have answers to all questions," Amrand rejoined, knowing how pathetically inadequate this explanation must seem to a woman who was unaccustomed to the harsh realities of this world.

"Bullshit!" she flared. "All cheap rationalization. You can't condemn people to a lingering death and give a damned about them." Lorio had come forward, alarmed by Islena's mounting anger. Amrand stiffened at the last remark, but forced himself not to respond to the insinuation.

"Amrand speaks the truth, Islena," Lorio ventured softly. "As wretched as their lot might now seem, it is sheer heaven when compared to the lives they could expect to live under the Witch's hand."

Islena lashed Lorio with her outrage. "You spoke of a better world under this fabled King. Why have these people not been taught the simple things that might reduce their misery? There seems to be no end to this world's ingenuity when it comes to making crude weapons to kill each other, yet open sewage sits in puddles. And you're wrong, Lorio. If this is the best that one can expect from life, then death is preferable."

An old man hailed them from a slight rise in the slope. They turned as one, and he shambled forward, supporting his feeble body on a crooked wooden staff. As he approached, Islena could clearly see the badly swollen joints which spoke so eloquently of the ravages of arthritis. The agony of every movement was reflected plainly on his withered face. Yet despite his enfeebled condition, the man moved with an air of dignity. "What is it that you want here? If you flee the Queen, then you place us all at risk."

His rueful gaze passed from one to the other and then settled upon the woman, who seemed unbroken by the burden of her womanhood. Amrand stepped forward and bowed formally. "I am Amrand of the Jerhia. My companions and I seek the next causeway and some knowledge of what we might expect to find between here and there."

The old man straightened stiffly, though he lacked the flexibility to draw himself erect. "I am Myanthin, the elder of this village. I know little of the north and what passes there. I can tell that the fighting rages yet and our young men die still. Beyond that, I can provide you with no further news of how the battle unfolds."

"We wish to reach the north without attracting the attention of the Queen's army, and require some direction in safe passage."

"In this world, safe passage is the one thing that is beyond guarantee," Myanthin intoned bitterly. "You may plainly see that we have nothing of value here. Please go and leave us to our lot?"

Detecting the underlying desperation in the man's words, Islena pushed past Amrand. "May we stay, Myanthin, if only until nightfall?"

The Old man considered the woman closely, noticing the powerful bulges of muscle with obvious shock. He could sense no guile in her entreaty. In his long life, it had been his experience that strangers had only carried trouble to his village. They had carried the wares of betrayal and deception as trade for the hospitality that his people had extended. Yet, as surely as he knew this to be so, Myanthin found himself incapable of turning her away, despite the strident urgings of his better judgment.

"Stay, if you feel so compelled," he muttered sourly. "I doubt that we have the means to eject you anyway."

Islena frowned at his admission of vulnerability. The old man turned and walked away without further discourse, as though he intended to simply ignore their presence in the hope that they would grow weary and leave.

She turned to the others and declared, "If he is to speak, we must do something to earn their trust."

Without awaiting reaction from the others, she turned and strode from the hill. The pair exchanged puzzled glances and followed. Lorio came abreast of Doraux, and asked, "What is your intention? Trust is something that these people do not impart easily and it is improbable that one good deed will do much to change their perception."

"This whole area is a breeding ground for Dysentery and Cholera and maybe a hundred other infectious diseases. A few simple practices could alleviate much of the threat."

Lorio frowned. The alien words that rolled from Islena's lips were replete with menace, but only in a cryptic sense. Near a small hut, a rake of a man stood holding a crude hoeing tool. His face was covered with a rash of angry sores that twisted Doraux's stomach into queasy knots, but she forced herself to look him in the eye despite her revulsion.

"May I borrow that?" she asked amiably. The man nodded and extended the tool as gingerly as if he were attempting to hand feed a savage and unpredictable beast. Hoe in hand, she surveyed the land around her, trying to gauge the general inclination of the village. Stripping off the cloak that Lorio had provided for her, Islena set about dredging out a small irrigation channel. As she labored in the afternoon dampness and gloom, a sheen of perspiration spread over the rippling muscles of her exposed arms and shoulders. Gradually the villagers came out of their huts to view the extraordinary creature's labors, many clearly awed by her incredible physique.

She continued to work, throwing clumps of gray and black mud in every direction, until her first channel had reached the river. There, she stood and watched as streams of fetid water flowed sluggishly towards the river, carrying much of the raw sewage away from the place of habitation on the down stream side.

Turning to face her audience, Islena strove to breech a barrier that transcended mere language. "If you will allow me, I will show you ways to improve the sanitation problem in this village. You can't know the threat that this refuse poses to your very health and existence. Myanthin has said that you have nothing to give. Then allow me to give this one thing to your village. If you have them, I would recommend that you place straw bales here to filter out solid waste."

A mistrustful murmur ran through the group, but then Bethian, the woman whom Islena had helped at the river, pushed to the front of the crowd, and shouted, "Let her show us what she will. I see no harm in it."

The murmur intensified as the gathering turned to Myanthin, who signaled his acquiescence with a tacit nod. For the remainder of the afternoon, Islena labored with an industriousness that captivated the most obdurate of skeptics. She led the group in the digging of several outdoor washrooms, and helped them select sites for additional structures. She took great pains to explain the benefits of keeping the village free of refuse and sewage so as to prevent the spread of disease.

Rejoining her amazed companions, as the last of the gray light bled from the eastern horizon, Islena felt some small measure of accomplishment. Amrand lacked the heart to tell her that, through general apathy and the perpetual weight of despair, the villagers would have strayed back into old practices within a week of their departure.

"It's a simple thing, I know that, but even a simple measure of dignity and self-respect might make all the difference to these people," Doraux explained to Lorio, who loved the stranger too well to allow skepticism to color her reaction. For the first time, Lorio grasped the immensity of the challenges which Islena had yet to face. Despite her phenomenal power, Lorio wondered if the woman had the mettle to suffer through the bleak disillusionment that awaited her...or the constant exposure to abject suffering and misery that was the lot of so many of this world's inhabitants, even without the menace of a brutal tyrant looming over them. She also wondered what it might be like to dwell in a world where human dignity was held in such high regard.

Myanthin appeared behind the three. Gone was his original severity, replaced by an expression of reluctant gratitude. He regarded Islena with frank appraisal from which Islena did not flinch. "We thank you for your effort. The people of this village are unaccustomed to such acts of kindness. We ask that you stay the night and partake of our hospitality."

He offered Islena an oddly shy smile, which she returned brightly. "We gladly accept your kind offer, Myanthin."

"Our fare is simple, but we will share what we have," he added apologetically. "Game is scarce. It would seem that even the creatures of the forest have not been spared from the ravages of war."

Islena could feel her throat tighten with emotion. She merely nodded and turned away, fearing that she could not bear the sight of the man's inviolable dignity in the face such desolation.

3

A rare atmosphere of ebullience descended upon the villagers as they gathered for the meager feast. Scores of people crowded into the largest of the buildings, that was nothing more than a shed, while others leaned through the open doors and windows, all struggling to catch a glimpse of the wondrous woman who had come into their midst.

The three travelers consumed very little, but went to great lengths to express their gratitude for the food and drink that they were given. Islena was the focus of all questions and curiosity. She tried her best to answer every question no matter how inane or misguided they might be. Finally, it was her turn to pose a question. "Myanthin, how long has this village stood by the river?"

The old man's brow furrowed, and he stroked his gray beard in recollection. "It has stood here since time out of mind. I can personally attest to the fact that my great grandfather once lived in the dwelling that I now occupy."

Islena could barely suppress her astonishment. If asked, she would have speculated that this village was nothing more than a hastily erected shanty town...a home to the displaced refugees of war. She turned a confounded glance upon Amrand, who nodded thoughtfully. All of these years and still the inhabitants had made no progress in easing the rigors of their lives. The ramifications of that notion staggered Islena's imagination. In her world, technology had progressed at a rate that was dizzying, if not terrifying. Another moment of intense insight flared through her mind, but on a subconscious level to which she had no immediate access. There was something inexplicably familiar to all of this as though she had shared this experience before. As fatuous as that notion was, it refused to cease its constant prickling on her thoughts.

"Will you speak to me of this war, Myanthin?" she asked. "I am a stranger to this land and it's imperative that I gain an understanding of the circumstances that have brought it to this state of misery.

The elder bowed his head as though he had been deeply aggrieved by her question. When he again looked up, there was a shadow of anguish into his weathered features. "The subject of the war is a sore one with my people. It has taken from us what little store we had...our young men, our meager stocks, and our fragile dignity. We have little to gain from conflict, yet we are hopelessly ensnared in its web. The conflict has lingered for so long that it becomes difficult to distinguish good from evil."

With this, Myanthin flicked a sour glance to Amrand, an exchange that did not escape Islena's acute attention. "Myanthin, as I've said, I am a stranger to this land. Though I know little of its structure, I find myself forced to choose the path of my actions. I require guidance in my choices."

"I will tell you all that I know," Myanthin offered earnestly. Like Amrand and Lorio before him, Myanthin found himself affected by the aura of predestination that hovered over this extraordinary woman. Islena was about to ask who had been the architect of the misery that had befallen this world, when an urgent, braying of horns shredded the intense silence and gravity of the moment.

There followed a high, piercing scream, and then a general panic as people bolted for the single exit. Islena looked inquiringly to Myanthin, whose face was contorted by a look of apprehension that bordered on apoplexy. Gazing about, she discovered that every face was twisted into identical masks of horror as the villagers fled the room in a blind panic.

Judging by the extent of the elder's angst, Doraux guessed correctly that the piercing screech did not bode well for the villagers. Rising, she hurried out into the damp night air. Outside, a light mist had descended over the night, while in the direction of the river; a bank of impenetrable fog began to make its way up the incline. Islena considered the fog closely, chilled by its stealth and luminescence. She became aware of the Jerhia's presence at her shoulder.

Ever inquisitive, Lorio had strode boldly to the front of the group of villagers, trying to ascertain what had made the frightening sounds. Doraux regarded the Lamish woman, troubled by the growing affection that she was developing for the younger woman. Observing the statuesque beauty as she moved amongst the beleaguered villagers, Islena experienced a percipience that clutched at her heart and attenuated the steel fibers of her thighs...a moment of vivid insight into the role that the Lamish beauty was destined to play in Doraux's uncertain future.

If ever she had encountered a woman with the mettle to shape destinies, Lorio was that woman. Yet in Doraux's shadow, she had been relegated to the role of subservient. In that moment, she knew that this extraordinary woman would be sacrificed to whatever arcane purpose Islena was committed to. By any standard of decency, she should dismiss Lorio and send her back to her rightful place amongst her people...even by force, if that was what was required.

As much as she intuited the inherent truth of this, Islena felt certain that she would not dismiss Lorio. They had been bound together by the intimate sharing of the flesh and pain. The egocentric aspect of her nature would not be compelled to relinquish its grasp on this jewel. Ultimately, it would be Lorio who would count the cost of Islena's selfishness.

"I'll protect her," she murmured, pledging a solemn oath that she subconsciously knew was beyond her ability to keep.

The grating screech issued a second time, now more frantic than ever. Islena discerned movement to the south and pivoted in time to catch a glimpse of a large silhouette sailing through the clearing. A primal cry of terror erupted from those in the front ranks. Possessed by blinding panic, the villagers stumbled in an unthinking retreat. Even the dauntless Lorio took two hesitant backwards steps.

Sitting on the branch of a towering pine, an enormous golden owl swept its baleful gaze over the cowering villagers. In an instantaneous transition, the villagers had fallen back into their role of resigned victims.

"A screech owl!" someone, a child judging by the timber of its voice, exclaimed fearfully.

Amrand and Islena pushed up beside Myanthin. "What causes the commotion?"

The elder slowly faced the Jerhia, his fear chaffing the edges of his composure. "The owl is an instrument of evil. It acts as despite's eyes in the time of darkness. That it has landed here in such an ostentatious manner can only be an omen of ill-tiding for this village."

The owl's unearthly golden eyes settled upon Islena with a palpable weight that raised hackles on her skin. With an emphatic squawk, it flapped its powerful wings and rocketed towards Doraux, talons extended before it. As the thing appeared sure to collide with Islena, Amrand hurled himself upon her. The pair crashed heavily to the ground, narrowly avoiding being raked by the gouging talons. As Amrand landed atop Islena, attempting to serve as a shield, he felt a sharp pain in the kidney, and reasoned that the bird had managed to rip the flesh of his lower back. Glancing up, he was surprised to see Lorio glowering down upon him, her visage twisted by an unfathomable glaring jealousy. The Jerhia deduced that the blow had been intended as a not so subtle message, yet he was utterly baffled by her belligerence...or the message's intent.

When the pair had regained their feet, they saw the villagers pointing skyward toward the circling beast.

"It comes for her!" someone cried, pointing an accusing finger at Islena and she immediately knew that superstition had shattered the rapport which she had established with the villagers.

"Yes, she has brought this evil down upon us," another concurred and suddenly the posture of the group shifted dangerously. Both Lorio and Amrand positioned themselves between Islena and what was quickly becoming an angry mob. Again finding herself in the position of having to be protected, she was suffused by a powerful resentment. Pushing her way through the pair, Doraux confronted the group's fears and suspicions. "If there is one of you who believe I intend to harm you, then let that person come forward and accuse me."

Her bold challenge served to defuse the group's desire to lay blame for this latest affliction. Appearing sheepish and weary, Myanthin faced the travelers. "If we've given you offence, we ask your pardon." He gazed directly into Islena's lovely green eyes, his discomfort intensifying. "You can see that we are helpless. We have no means to defend ourselves."

Comprehension filtered through, and she inquired softly, "Do you wish us to leave?"

His gaze flicked up at the harbinger, which had flown off to the south. "The bird is the forerunner of imminent evil. That its arrival coincides with yours can only mean that...something is hunting you."

His voice trailed off and Islena spun away in disgust.

"Is there no one in this world who is not driven by ludicrous superstition?" she growled at Lorio before stalking off. She had not taken three steps when the first flaming arrow landed in the thatched roof of the nearest hovel. The ravenous flames soon consumed the collection of wood, mud and vine, with a speed that spoke of willful malice that evoked images of the fire bat.

The villagers' reaction was predictable and instantaneous. Fleeing blindly in all directions, people threw others aside with no consideration for size or sex. The old and weak fell screaming under the rush.

As Doraux watched, a volley of flaming arrows found target amid the shanties, casting a flickering spectral hue over the panic. Amrand screamed an admonition, but his words were effaced by the general tumult of flame and apprehension. In a moment of bleak despair, Islena realized that she had indeed brought ill fortune to the belabored villagers.

From the trees to the east and the south there came the primal thunder of man and beast, as scores of mounted cavalry exploded out of the cover of night. The Jerhia, ever-trained to assess the defensibility of his position, guessed that it would require a miracle to deliver them from this new threat. His assessment was confirmed when hundreds of foot soldiers emerged from the rolling fog, advancing slowly like ghostly sentinels.

The horsemen converged upon the defenseless villagers like a plague. With sword and mace, they dispensed death, indiscriminately hacking at men, women and even children. Appalled beyond the limits of tolerance by the reprehensible slaughter of the unarmed, Islena sank slowly to her knees, mouth contorted into a rictus of negation.

Less than five paces from where she lay, a gibbering woman fled desperately from her mounted tormentor. Doraux raised her tear-stained eyes toward the soldier. He advanced upon the doomed woman with the casual confidence of one engaged in a sporting event. Almost nonchalantly, he raised his sword and hacked off the woman's head with a single mighty swing.

Hot blood spattered Islena's face. She wiped the blood away with her hands and then held them out before her. When comprehension filtered through, she began to scream...a high, keening sound that surmounted the rumble of the slaughter.

Hearing the cry, Lorio turned away from an approaching cavalryman and sprinted in Doraux's direction, barely avoiding being trampled by a rush of armored horses. Seizing Islena by the shoulder, the Lamish woman attempted to drag her out of the main stream of the horses. The woman brusquely shrugged the helping hand off and glared at Lorio.

"If we are to live, then we must flee," Lorio advised desperately. "We can be of no assistance to these people."

When Islena gave no indication of having heard, Lorio slapped her hard across the face. The smaller woman's head snapped back on the stalk of her neck, but her disassociated expression did not change a whit. When it appeared as though Islena intended to lie down and allow herself to be exterminated like a sheep, her eyes widened and she cried out, pointing in disbelief at one of the riders. "Jerhia!"

Lorio gazed about to see that the swarming cavalrymen were all attired in the standard regalia of the Jerhia. Looking to Amrand, it was apparent that he too had noticed the familiar uniforms. He stood in the center of the clearing, gazing about in a mixture of incredulity and consternation.

In the depth of her chest, Islena began to growl like an enraged and long-abused animal that had suddenly found itself in a position to collect a small measure of retribution. She threw Lorio aside with such force that the Lamish woman was momentarily separated from her senses. Sprinting through the rushing horses, she gave voice to her outrage and perceived betrayal. The fact that the soldiers had made no move to attack Amrand, only added credence to her certainty that he had deceived her.

Amidst the ugly spectacle of massacre, Doraux launched herself at the man in whom she had placed her faith and trust. She channeled all of her suffering into the blows, catching the bewildered Jerhia with a barrage of fists and feet. Amrand absorbed the attack wordlessly, as though this newest affront to his people's dignity had made him immune to physical pain. Reeling backwards with blood streaming freely from his nose and mouth, he considered how death might be a welcomed release from this final, unpalatable outrage...this appalling deception that would leave a permanent scar on his people's honor.

About them, the carnage had finally come to a sudden end. Here and there, the more sadistic of the foot soldiers hacked and chopped at the pleading wounded who lay scattered about the ground like abandoned hope. A small circle had gathered about Islena and Amrand, viewing her tirade with no small amount of amusement.

In frenzy, the woman ripped and tore and slashed at the Soldier, who refused to raise a hand in his defense, unable to muster even a feeble denial.

"You traitorous bastard, I warned you what would happened if you deceived me," she howled as the cumulative effects of her clumsy blows finally toppled Amrand. Finally spent, she knelt beside the unmoving Amrand and began to weep in open misery, unconcerned by her abject display of emotion. The prospect of suicide danced invitingly from the shadows of her darker nature. Better to be impaled on a butcher's sword than to endure endless misery and humiliation in a world evidently bereft of any compassion or loyalty.

The pendulum of her despair had reached that extreme, when a second volley of arrows showered out of the light drizzle. There were horrifying bellows of agony and surprise as the attackers fell in droves. Apparently caught totally unprepared for the assault, the Jerhia soldiers ran blindly in all directions.

Lorio regarded the carnage and Islena's subsequent explosion with ambivalence. The sudden appearance of the mounted Jerhia had touched a nerve of warning with the Lamish woman. Though she did not trust Amrand and suspected that he carried some ulterior purpose behind his aid to Islena, she believed that the Jerhia were a people of integrity. This reprehensible action was inconsistent with everything that she had learned about the warriors from the west.

And then the Imperial troopers appear from the north and the east, charging to meet the unprepared Jerhia like avenging angels. She watched as a mounted trooper ran a foot soldier through with his pike. Through the overwhelming visage of pain came an expression of betrayal. The man collapsed to the ground cradling his steaming intestines in laced fingers. As he convulsed through his death spasms, Lorio gleaned the truth of the situation.

This was all part of an elaborate deception...a brilliantly conceived ruse designed to convince Islena that the Jerhia were the enemies of the land and not Myrhia's predacious horde. Grasping the gravity of the situation, Lorio ran from her place in the shadows toward the woman who she had vowed to protect.

Intent on reaching Islena, she did not hear the thundering hooves as the horse bore down upon her. Nor did she have time to react to the slap of the broadsword as it impacted with her back. She emitted a long, slow sigh and fell heavily on her face.

Alone now, Islena gazed about in utter incomprehension as the tides of fortune appeared to have reversed themselves in a matter of seconds. She viewed the quick and thorough destruction of the Jerhia troopers with indifference. Some of the mounted Jerhia managed to regain their horses and flee to the south, while a few of the foot soldiers escaped under the cover of the coalescing fog. A hoarse command sent several cavalrymen off in pursuit.

At that moment, a driving rain broke. The downpour soon washed away the pools of blood that had formed in the runnels in the earth. Islena's gore-spattered face was cleansed of the staining blood, but no amount of water could efface the memory of the brutality and butchery that she had just witnessed. Those unbearable images had been burned into her very synapses and she correctly surmised that they would haunt her to her grave.

"Islenaaaaaaa!" The emphatic sigh of the wind rang like a siren's whisper. There was a forlorn and beseeching quality to that wind...one so stark and poignant that Islena could feel her heart wrench in her chest. Abruptly, the wind escalated. Yet, instead of the howl of naked anguish that she might have anticipated, the gust carried a sweet and melodious song as though to declare that there was still the possibility of hope in this world... even if all prospect of hope seemed lost in the particular awful moment.

A chorus of horns sounded as if to give competition to the lilting harmony. About the perplexed woman, both the soldiers and the cavalrymen snapped to attention. Their sudden display of respect proclaimed the imminent arrival of someone of great import. All heads turned in unison, as though all had heard the delicate melody. Mystified, Islena was coaxed from her plunging despair by dark fascination.

Out of the murderer's fog there came a solitary figure. With the appearance of the latest player, Islena perceived a sudden shifting in the demeanor of the Imperial Guard. Beneath the facade of impassivity there lurked a thick, coiled tension.

The single figure moved stolidly forward. A purple, hooded cape concealed all features, but could not disguise the diminutive stature. Despite the lack of height, the figure still exuded an unmistakable aura of elegance, power and undisputable authority.

She knew of only one person who might command such power; Myrhia!

An inarticulate wail of anguish and indignation escaped her lips and a monumental rage, as virulent as poison, well up in her chest. Beside her, Amrand reached out from the depth of his pain and touched her ankle. She snarled and drew back as though she had been touched by corruption embodied.

"Caution," the Jerhia managed through blood-caked lips and then submerged into unconsciousness.

"Rise, my sweet," a voice commanded softly. Islena jerked her head up to find that the figure now towered over her. She had covered the distance between as though space was a medium that could offer her no restriction.

"I have come to release you from the grasp of the wicked. Rise, precious angel. There need be no deference between us."

The sound of Myrhia's voice produced a rather curious effect upon Doraux. The rage and despair, which she would have sworn to be immutable only seconds before, now seemed remote and incidental. She felt as though she had suffered everything vicariously. That voice, with its rich texture and lilting tone, served as a balm upon Islena's frayed spirit. For the first time since she had been torn from her own reality, a measure of her shattered equilibrium returned.

From within the folds of the cape, a delicate and finely-boned hand reached out and settled upon Islena's shoulder. A contact suffused her weary body with a flood of warmth and energy; assuaging her aches and pains, while providing a solace for her anguish. In the face of such regal dignity, Islena felt herself compelled to rise. Her taut body gradually relaxed, the imminent violence subsiding as the powerful muscles uncoiled.

They stood facing each other at arms length, and still Myrhia elected to remain hidden behind her hood. She extended her hand toward Islena, palm up and fingers closed as though she were proffering a token of some sort. Mesmerized, Doraux traced the hand's movement. She was suddenly struck by the disconcerting notion that the hand was a disembodied thing, somehow separate from the woman who hid beneath the cape. There was a seductive, serpentine quality to that movement that transfixed Islena's attention like a moth to a flame.

"I bring you a gift of tranquility and dreamless sleep," Myrhia intoned, her voice edged by keen emotion.

With her reflexes dulled by enchantment, Islena was unable to react to Myrhia's swift movement. The hand opened and then warm breath blew a fine mist into Doraux's unsuspecting face.

There followed a veritable explosion of sensation and light as she drew the powder deep into her lungs. Primary colors...so hard and vital as to be blinding, were transmogrified into subtle pastels the warmth of which suffused her with an indescribable joy that defied the limits of expression and banished the horrifying images of slaughter she had sworn were indelibly etched in her mind only moments before.

As Myrhia looked on, a broad, euphoric grin spread over Islena's lovely features. Sensation after excruciating sensation bombarded Islena's nerve endings. As deep as she had plunged since this horror had begun, now Doraux found herself being lifted higher. Concealed behind a wall of shimmering light, she could feel the offer of an apotheosis, the opportunity to wrestle control of her destiny away from those who would usurp it.

Unaccountably, at the last moment she faltered and fled into darkness.

Myrhia watched expectantly and then pursed her lips as her quarry's body folded to the ground. Turning to the nearest trooper, she ordered, "Take her to the carriage. Be gentle, she is more precious than gold."

At last she had her prize, but the moment did not carry the exaltation that she had anticipated. In light of all that she had suffered through, Myrhia had been certain that Islena would have succumbed to the allure of the spell, surrendering her mind to the enchantress. Somehow she had found the capacity to resist. As three troopers lifted her from the ground, Myrhia touched her face. "Breaking you may prove more difficult than I had first anticipated."

The Captain of the Cavalry brought his horse to reign before the Queen. "What of her companions?"

"Bring them along. They might prove useful in making her more pliable. The Lamish whore will provide an interesting diversion for the prison keepers."

"The village, Milady?"

"Burn it. Burn the bodies as well," Myrhia instructed absently. "Their stench offends me."

The troopers carried Islena and set her to rest in a carriage. She appeared restful and content in sleep. Her exquisite face was no longer marred by the ravages of trauma. In this way, the second part of Islena's journey came to an end.

Chapter Twenty One

1

As Islena Doraux collapsed to the wet soil of Northern Kornas, a half a world away, a man snapped awake and peered wildly about in the darkness. His mouth was stretched wide in a soundless cry of negation and horror. He lay gasping in the darkness for several seconds while his thundering heart fought to settle back into a normal rhythm. The nightmares had come with increasing and bewildering frequency over the past few days, but tonight's had been unquestionably the worst...the most harrowing and vivid.

In the helpless state of sleep, the man had come eyeball to eyeball with merciless death. Not his own, that prospect had since lost the power to make him quail, but the death of everything of beauty and splendor. In his dream, this lumbering personification had pointed an accusing finger in his direction, freezing his heart with its scornful laughter.

Wiping perspiration from his brow, the man rose and stumbled out into the open night. He gazed up at the sky, hoping to find a denial of his fear in the sprawling arrangement of stars, but the heavens had lost their luster and ability to dispel his doubt.

Somewhere in the world a terrible change had begun. Or perhaps it would be more precise to say that it had reached its climax. An infernal process had been set in motion and the man correctly surmised that she had been the one to initiate the process...to unleash a malevolent engine that had first been conceived in the dim recesses of history too distant to even imagine.

"Oh Myrhia, what manner of wickedness have you wrought?" he demanded bitterly. The man had no misgivings about his own failings and through the agonizing hours of reflection, he had come to recognize several truths. There was no way to estimate Myrhia's capacity for evil. Whatever scheme Myrhia had hatched would undoubtedly pale the limits of any acceptable human conduct. In every incarnation and in every reality, her particular brand of evil carried with it an exorbitant price that invariably came due in the currency of spilled blood and human misery. With every new rebirth, her evil grew more virulent...more terrifying in its limitless hunger.

There was something else that the man knew, though he doubted whether even Myrhia would be willing to concede the validity of his painful insight...once set in motion, there were some monsters that could not be brought to heel.

He hung his head and drew a despairing breath. In a realization of his worst fears, the man discerned that his role in things had not yet been played out. His fragile illusions had all been cruelly shattered and still he was expected to contribute more. The gross injustice of it all made him want to scream at the indifferent heavens.

Wearily, he trudged down to the waters edge and scooped the warm, sweet water onto his face. Peering up from the water, the man saw the ineffably lovely green eyes.

"For all of your misery and disgrace, you must endure more. As great as your desolation might be, there are even greater depths yet to be plumbed," the ocean whispered as it broke gently on the golden strand of beach.

"I have nothing left to give," the man protested between clenched teeth.

As though he had not uttered a sound, the voice of the world concluded, "And from the muck of degradation, you might yet find absolution...restoration."

Pushing himself to his feet, the man dragged himself back to his hovel. His destiny had been thrust upon him. The weight had staggered him again and again, through the ages, and he realized that there could be no escape from its merciless grasp.

Settling back onto his pallet, the man laced his fingers behind his head and began to wait for the day when he would be rudely torn from this sanctuary and thrust back into the raging flood of events.

2

Amberdias had stood at the river's side for a span of years that exceeded both lore and written memory. It had stood as a glowing monument to the natural glory of Natzurdan. Silent and majestic, the city lay deep in the bosom of the rolling hills of the central plains. All who approached the capital were mesmerized by the spectacular blend of wood and natural stone that comprised the structures of the great city. This spell became one of absolute wonder when the visitor discovered that the tapestry of architectural splendor had been woven from still living trees and embedded stone by the loving hands of the gentle people who lived here.

Amberdias was a living city in every sense of the word, from the stone walkways and parapets to the wooden pillars and vast, ornamental stairs that wound from level to level amidst the great halls of the city's interior.

The complexity of this structure would lead the beholder to conclude that he had awoken into the heart of an enchantment, for surely such craft was beyond the scope of mere mortals. Only a deity could raise such an edifice to nature's beauty. Still, the city had been built and maintained by the Natzurdan, who had long before mastered the secrets of stone and wood. Through a labyrinth-like series of rituals, the masters had developed a way to entice the elements of the earth to mold its structures to their will...their vision.

All who came to the central cornerstone state were mystified by this special relationship, wrongly concluding that it was the result of alchemy or even magic. Had they chosen to do so, even the lowest of Natzurdanians could have dispelled such erroneous notions. Every man, woman and child shared the common ingredient of reverence for the natural world about them. Through this unremitting devotion they had won the mother's trust. From this trust had come the privilege of sculpting and crafting of stone, shaping living wood and directing precious water.

At the pinnacle of this special partnership stood Amberdias...a persevering symbol of love and devotion to life...to the miracle of the mother's creation.

At the center of the city, the needle of Zadicus thrust boldly towards the heavens. Perhaps the Natzurdan's most stunning achievement, it served as a conference hall for the appointed leaders of the Nation. A solitary man stood on the stone balcony which rimmed the highest reach of the needle.

Morzhian closed his eyes and took another step towards the railing. Opening his eyes, he was struck by a dizzying wave of vertigo that accompanied every such venture. After several seconds, his knotted stomach relaxed, if only a little. Morzhian was no longer precisely certain of his age, though he guessed that his hundredth summer had come and gone many years since. He had been the appointed leader and spiritual guide of the Natzurdan for more than thirty of those years and never had he been confronted with such a dire crisis as the one that now hovered over his beloved nation.

He frowned, and the net of lines around his eyes deepened, giving him the appearance of a living corpse. He feared that every human being had forfeited their reason...that the Mother's perfect order had been subjugated by anarchy. When he closed his eyes, his percipience allowed him to feel the Mother's profound dismay. He could feel the dogs of iniquity yipping and snarling to the east, hungry for plunder. A discordant note of anarchy now vibrated through the fabric of the world, disrupting the mother's natural harmony.

There seemed no way to stall Myrhia's juggernaut and the havoc that open warfare would unleash upon the precious earth. He shuddered to think of the Mother being raped and pillaged by her hordes. Once accosted, the Mother would never impart her trust to the world again. That fragile relationship would be eternally lost and with it would go the Natzurdan's reason for existence and the death of his people would surely follow.

Morzhian understood that the very survival of his race hung on the course of the events of the next few weeks. His gaze traced the skyline, with its granite domes and long, winding promenades. The streets were alive with activity and if one were unaware of grim events on the eastern continent, it might have been possible to sustain the illusion that all was as it should be.

The soil of Natzurdan had not known open warfare for over five centuries. In the days when Artumas had ruled Emercia, Morzhian would have sworn that such an eventuality would prove remote over the course of the next five centuries yet to come. And now his people found themselves poised on the edges of calamity...of invasion and all of the indignities encompassed by occupation.

As he watched people hurry about their appointed duties, the chosen tried to visualize his people embroiled in deadly conflict. To his dismay, he found that he could not. From birth, his people were imbued with the notion that life, all life, was sacred and violent death was an abomination. Now they would have to turn their beloved land-craft to the taking of life or perish.

There came an urgent rap upon his door. Morzhian hurried back into the main chamber and bid the knocker to enter. A squat, heavily-muscled man announced, "My lord, the Emissaries from the Jerhia have arrived and request that the conclave begin at once."

Morzhian sighed. The Jerhia had always been an impatient lot. To their minds, all discussion was nothing more than pointless rhetoric. The only meaningful discourse took place on a battle field. "Very well. Usher Jerrod into the great hall. After all, it was he who demanded this meeting."

The arrival of a Metocan had caused a ripple of anguished speculation amongst the common folk. The magic wielders were a solitary and secretive people, seldom seen beyond the mist-covered forests of their own haunting land. That the high council would dispatch one of its own members could only indicate that something of the gravest import had come to pass. Though questioned at great length, Jerrod had refused to divulge his purpose until a high ranking representative from the Jerhia had reached Amberdias.

Morzhian made his way through the secret antechambers and hidden halls, reaching the great hall first. It was here that he had first been commissioned to rule his people, and as he went to meet the others, Morzhian suspected that it would be here that he would be called upon to make the most difficult decision of his stewardship.

Positioned at the head of the great mahogany table, the high lord ran his hands over the smooth wood, feeling its vitality through the thin skin of his old hands. It provided him with a momentary reassurance, however false and fleeting, that the situation could yet be salvaged.

The double doors to the great hall were thrown open and a group of seven Jerhia strode purposefully into the hall. Morzhian recognized the man at the head of the group as Maxim Tier Marshal Ossiran, a man of limitless energy and competence. He strode across the marble floor as though he were capable of righting the world's woes with a blow from one of his heavy fists. It was easy to feel secure in the presence of such a man. He stopped ten feet from where the High Lord sat and bowed formally. "Morzhian, High Lord of the Noble Natzurdan, I carry greeting from the people of Jerhia. We are most honored by your generous invitation."

Morzhian smiled to himself. Beneath Ossiran's stiff formality, the High Lord could sense the warrior's impatience. "We thank you for your timely response to our call and extend to you the hospitality of our great city."

The High Lord gestured for the Jerhia delegation to be seated. As he watched the group, each face displayed the same distracted expression. He understood the cause of their unease. Their country was to be the first to feel the bite of Myrhia's viper. Formalities aside, Ossiran came directly to the point. "Forgive me for being forward, old friend, but may I ask what warranted this council on the eve of my Country's most desperate battle."

Morzhian merely shrugged his narrow shoulders. "It is not I who has initiated this meeting. Amberdias proved to be the most convenient place for the Cornerstone Nations to come together. It is Jerrod, of the Metocan, who has requested our presence."

The Tier Marshal frowned, reflecting the Jerhia's inherent unease with the Magicians from the north. "Then fetch this Jerrod and let the discussions begin."

"Jerrod is here," a placid voice announced and every head turned toward the chamber doors. The first sight of a Metocan was always disquieting. They appeared insubstantial, yet radiated the most intense of auras. The emissary seemed vague and translucent in the bright light of the chamber. Jerrod and his companions floated slowly across the chamber, strangely incongruent with the very tangible world of the Natzurdan.

When he reached the table, Jerrod raised his hand and signaled that the formal introductions be dispensed with. "I empathize with the Jerhia's consuming impatience and promise to be forthright in explaining what warranted our request for a conclave."

"There is little point in detailing the world's dire need. With every passing hour, that threat becomes a more intimate reality. I have been charged to say this...we are the Cornerstone Nations and the burden of the land's defense has fallen to us. We have been united in cause and now we must be united in the action that good fortune has disclosed we must take."

"The Jerhia is fully aware of the threat that confronts the world. Has the Metocan forgotten that our soldiers have spent seven harsh years sacrificing their lives in the land's defense," Ossiran muttered irritably. Morzhian winced. The Jerhia's bluntness was a thing of legend. The high Lord wondered if his presence had been meant to be an arcane message of one sort or the other, but dismissed this as being too subtle for the ever-pragmatic Jerhia.

The Metocan bore Ossiran curt reply without affront. "We are aware of the gallant effort of your people, Tier Marshal, and their bravery will be regaled in story and song, but we have also tried to oppose Myrhia's evil in our own way. I have summoned you here in response to matters of the greatest urgency. With your indulgence, I will explain."

Ossiran glowered at Jerrod, who would not be daunted by the warrior's caustic nature. Watching the Metocan, Morzhian felt the first stirrings of admiration. It was apparent that this creature was young, but it was equally evident that he was also capable and determined. The Tier Marshal nodded, and replied gruffly, "Proceed."

A faint smile played at the Metocan's lipless mouth. "While you are well aware of Myrhia's vile campaign to plunder our lands, there is another, more ominous aspect to her intentions. Myrhia is perhaps the most powerful magician of our history. One cannot wield a power such as hers without emitting emanations of that power."

Jerrod paused and leaned forward. "The Queen has strove diligently to violate every law of nature and magic, and she has succeeded to a degree that is terrifying to consider. She has raised the dead and has broken through the barriers of time and space...barriers that separate the worlds...the realities."

Morzhian leaned forward, his face intent and ashen. "You say that she has raised the dead?"

The Metocan merely nodded.

"To wage warfare?" Ossiran demanded. Jerrod allowed himself a sardonic grin. For the Jerhia, all things were born from the desire to make war.

"On this matter, the witch's mind is inaccessible. I would hazard to propose that this is an integral part of Myrhia's ultimate aim, which is to gather the Three Proclamations."

"By the Mother," Morzhian murmured, horrified by the ramifications. Ossiran's face twisted into a contemptuous moue of disgust. "The Proclamations are nothing more than religious mythology," he challenged, "A fable from the dark ages of ignorance and superstition."

"My dear Ossiran, there have been no darker ages than ours," Jerrod retorted softly. Ossiran grunted, but fell silent. It was Morzhian who took up the thread of the discussion. "Even if she were to gain possession of the Proclamations, she could not aspire to their full power. Should she make the attempt, it is likely that she, herself, would be destroyed by the wards that seal their power."

Jerrod nodded his head in acquiescence. "Indeed, Myrhia's vile nature would prevent her from wielding the inherent power." The Metocan paused. "That is why she has broken the law of time and space...surmounted the barriers that were thought to be invulnerable."

Dawning comprehension darkened the Natzurdan's brow. "You speak of the one of prophecy?"

"Yes."

Morzhian felt his heart wrench in his chest. "Then she is searching other worlds for the One?"

Instead of responding, Jerrod closed his eyes and raised his arms. A fine mist began to spread from his fingertips. As it thickened, a fuzzy image began to form upon its surface. As the resolution sharpened, the form of a woman began to take shape. Both Morzhian and Ossiran muttered thin sighs of amazement. Recumbent in a litter of some sort, the woman's body bulged with iron-carved muscle and implied power. As she slept, a blissful expression was set upon her ethereal face.

"This exquisite creature is the one and she has fallen into the hands of the Queen," Jerrod concluded glumly. Stunned, Morzhian closed his eyes and traced the contours of his brow. With this one disclosure, the land's peril had multiplied a hundred fold.

"You are certain that she is the One?" he asked, both knowing and dreading the answer.

"There can be no doubt. She exudes an aura to rival Myrhia's own. Myrhia's vile ambition exceeds all of our suppositions. She intends to destroy this world and conquer all worlds beyond it. This One, this Islena, shall be her instrument to achieve that aim."

"Why would Myrhia believe that this woman would do her bidding? Should she obtain the Proclamation, and activate them, she, herself, would ascend to omnipotence. Next to her power, Myrhia would appear hapless," Morzhian offered.

"Indeed, but we must not underestimate the witch's capacity to manipulate and coerce. Whatever else she might be, Myrhia is a master of deception and enchantment. The One is an unstable commodity. In many ways, she is potentially more dangerous than the Queen. Should the bitter angels of her soul subjugate all that is good in her heart, Islena may indeed become a villain's pawn. In the worst of all possible destinies, she might even thrust Myrhia aside and fulfill the Queen's black ambition for her own gratification."

Jerrod let the last thought hang over the assembly like a poised axe. Ossiran had absorbed the exchange between the two in a brooding silence. He was not a man given to consideration of the mystic side of the world. In his mind, all that mattered, every element that shaped destiny, was forged in flesh, bone and steel. Still, he was reluctant to dismiss this Jerrod out of hand. Experience had taught him to read emotions and his two counterparts wore their trepidation as a Jerhia might wear a uniform. "Jerrod, my knowledge of this lore is old and imprecise. Refresh my memory."

The Metocan turned his rather abstract gaze on the Tier Marshal. "In days past, the ancients of our nations came together to share the wealth of their collective knowledge. It was decided that the each would create a symbol of their people...or more precisely, an embodiment. You must understand that this symbol was not only to represent the strength of each culture...it was forged to contain the spirit of that culture as well. It was only when the undertaking was completed, did the elders realize the potential for catastrophe that their work represented."

And like the spirit of the people each icon symbolized, our forefathers found that their work defied destruction." Jerrod stopped and raised a slender finger to his lipless mouth. "When it became apparent that these icons were indestructible, it was decided that they should be sequestered away and a caution placed upon their use."

"What of these supposed icons? How is it that we have no knowledge of their whereabouts?"

"The icons were carried into the wilderness by three elders of each nation. As legend would have it, each of these bearers stood on the brink of death and sacrificed the remainder of their lives to serve their people. Supposedly, the place of concealment went with them to their graves."

"How convenient," Ossiran remarked sardonically, to which Jerrod could only shrug. After an uncomfortable silence, Morzhian attempted to take up the argument on the Metocan's behalf. "Tier Marshal, it might be extremely rash to make light of Jerrod's concern. It is equally easy to dismiss the Proclamations as the stuff of myth, but perhaps we may look to Myrhia to validate their authenticity."

Ossiran leaned forward, clearly perplexed. One could expect superstitious ramblings from a Metocan, but it was rare for the normally prudent Morzhian to subscribe to such nonsense. "I'm not sure I follow your reasoning."

"Myrhia is a creature veiled in mystery. Her origins, her source of power; all of these things are still not known to us. We do, however, know that she is a calculating, supremely intelligent woman. Can there be any doubt that she has masterminded her each and every victory? In the years of this war, she has exhibited powers that were previously thought to be beyond the reach of all but the deity. Now she has plucked this woman from a world beyond our own, believing that she is the predestined one. Ossiran, I entreat you to think on this...has Myrhia ever taken an action that is baseless or foolish?"

Ossiran's eyes narrowed speculatively. His gaze moved from Morzhian to the Metocan, whose placid expression had not changed. Though she had exhibited sinful disregard for human life, it was true that Myrhia had proven to be a master strategist. Her actions, though sometimes confusing, if not evidently preposterous, had invariably led to victory. With so much at stake, Ossiran wondered if he could afford to be influenced by his old prejudices. "Very well, let us assume that the Proclamations are real, what is the extent and nature of their power?"

It was the Metocan who responded to this. "I must be frank, Tier Marshal. The true nature of the ancient icons is the stuff of much debate and controversy. I can only repeat the generally accepted speculation. The proclamations represent the embodiment of every bit of accumulated knowledge that each of our people had accrued up until the moment of the icon's creation."

"What is the value of knowledge? One cannot fight with books and tablets of letters?" the Tier Marshal interjected gruffly.

"Admittedly. If the icons were to fall into the hands of all but the foretold one, it is likely that they would be useless...if not an outright bane. Only the foretold one can unlock the power of the Proclamations, to draw from them the power that they are alleged to contain," The Metocan explained patiently.

"So these icons are of no value to Myrhia directly?" Ossiran asked, a new light dawning in his eyes.

"So we suspect. This is why she must enlist the help of this woman. If Myrhia's conjecture proves to be rooted in fact she can breathe life into our forefather's greatest achievement...and their greatest nightmare."

"You speak of activating these Proclamations, but I'm still uncertain as to what this entails or what purpose they would serve even if they were located and activated."

A shadow passed over the Metocan's face, bringing his features into sharp resolution, making the extent of his fear all the more apparent.

"It is not an easy task to accurately describe what it might be like to unlock the power of the Proclamations. As you have been quick to point out, much of what we know of the icons is founded in lore. My people have devoted much time to the study of the legend." The Metocan paused and moved away from his spot at the conference table. He began to stroll about the large hall, seemingly lost in thought, yet his tone remained clear and concise. "Years of debate and conjecture have produced volumes of scholastic work all of which are quite frankly based on unsubstantiated theory. Nonetheless, amongst the scholars it is commonly believed that the icons were created to act as talismans."

Ossiran only blinked, but an expression of comprehension pinched Morzhian's blunt features. Terrified by the implications, the elder took up the thread of Jerrod's theory. "You're saying that the Icons are not the true sources of power?"

"Exactly," Jerrod replied with some passion. "The Proclamations were invested with a power. They are not, in themselves, powerful. If they were, they could be employed by whoever might gain possession of them. This is precisely what the forefathers sought to prevent. For this reason they placed a lien on the Proclamations. Only the prophesied one has the ability to unlock the secrets of these instruments. If this woman is that one, and should she come to possess the Proclamations, she would absorb the cumulative knowledge and power of our three races. Every skill, every fragment of knowledge that our peoples have accrued would be branded into the fibers of her being. Military craft, magic and all nature lore would be hers to utilize as she saw fit."

"You're speaking of an apotheosis," Morzhian intoned, staggered by the notion. Ossiran flashed a sharp look in his direction, but the Natzurdan's attention was focused firmly upon Jerrod. The Metocan nodded grimly, hesitant to elaborate as if to speak of such matters might force them into the light of reality. "This woman could conceivably become the most powerful force that our world has ever witnessed. Single-handedly, she could level mountains and tear entire continents asunder."

"This is madness," Ossiran objected, springing to his feet at the thought of such blasphemy. "Even Myrhia would not possess the audacity to tamper with such unnatural forces...even if they actually did exist."

"She already has," Jerrod countered. "It is why the woman is here. Can we afford to disregard the threat?"

Ossiran drew a hand across his mouth. His instinctive Jerhia mistrust of all things mystical made it difficult to entertain such a scenario. "If we allow that all of this has some basis, there is still the matter of actually locating the damnable icons."

Jerrod nodded. "True. The Sacred Book might guide us in this matter." He began to recite a portion of the ancient scripture. "Power is a beacon for those with the disposition to recognize its force. In the Proclamations, there exists a power of abominable proportions. The seeker shall be drawn to omnipotence as a moth is to flame."

"Arcane gibberish," the disgruntled Jerhia snorted.

"Not Gibberish, Ossiran," Morzhian disagreed. "The one need not actively seek the Proclamations. She will be drawn to them by the inexorable attraction of destiny and her predilection to wield such power."

The Jerhia lapsed into a contemplative silence, weighing his disbelief against the possible consequences of misjudgment. His was a race that devoted meticulous attention to planning for any contingency, no matter how obscure or improbable. This willingness to explore the spectrum of possibility was a quality that was very often lost beneath a cold, evidently cynical exterior. His first tendency was to reject this menace and thus not be drawn into the world of mystical warfare, but he had witnessed the effects of magic too often to jump to hasty conclusions. In the great tradition of the Jerhia's analytical mind, Ossiran offered the most dispassionate and pragmatic solution to the dilemma. "I see only one alternative to protect us against the danger you suggest...this woman must die"

This brusque declaration was greeted with gasps of shock. For the first time since the session had begun, the Metocan emissary displayed open consternation. He opened his mouth to register his protest, but no sound issue forth. Seeing the extent of the Metocan's discomposure, Morzhian attempted to plead with his Jerhia counterpart. "Ossiran, it might be expedient to reconsider. The threat that this woman's presence poses is grave, but there is the possibility that she might yet serve our cause."

The Tier Marshal waved off Morzhian's call for restraint. "There is little to reconsider. The woman is a liability too great to suffer. Some risks have far too great a potential for absolute catastrophe to allow them to come to pass, irrespective of their possible benefits. Just think of the destructive power that Myrhia would have at her disposal should she actually succeed in obtaining these bloody Proclamations. Our ancestor's must surely be guilty of unimaginable arrogance and stupidity to fashion such evil tools."

"The woman is innocent," Jerrod retorted. "She did not seek out her destiny. It was forced upon her by the vile ambition of a tyrant. We have no right to condemn her to suit our ends. That is Myrhia's game, not ours."

Ossiran pushed himself to his feet. His face had gone red with anger, causing Morzhian to utter a small groan. "There are times when sacrifices have to be made for the greater good. This woman is a menace and she must be rooted out. I can see no other reasonable recourse."

"Dispensing death is always the simplest solution," Jerrod countered hotly, "and inevitably the least effective. One begins to kill in the name of some greater cause and soon it is impossible to distinguish between the righteous and the villainous. Even in the grimmest of moments the obligation to abide by our moral convictions is inviolable."

"I have neither the time nor patience for this romantic rhetoric," Ossiran raged. Then he turned and gestured for his entourage to depart. Understanding the disastrous consequences of a rift between the Cornerstone Nations, Morzhian moved quickly to prevent Ossiran's departure. "Perhaps you are right, Ossiran."

The Jerhia stopped in mid-flight and turned to consider the elder. Jerrod gaped at the Natzurdan, face twisted by a mixture of disbelief and ire. Morzhian pleaded for patience with his eyes to which Jerrod responded with a pinched frown. Ossiran scrutinized Morzhian's face, searching for some sign of deception.

"The Jerhia prides itself on its pragmatism. Perhaps it's time that we be totally candid."

"Indeed, let us be frank," Ossiran agreed, his response colored by some nebulous emotion that the Natzurdan did not fully recognize.

"You see this woman as an intolerable menace," Morzhian began slowly. He hoped that he could subjugate his anxiety, but he knew that he was about to offer the most important argument of his life. "I see her as our only hope for salvation."

Ossiran grunted, but made no move to leave. Morzhian had long been a shrewd and stable leader of his people and deserved some degree of deference. "It is true that, if unlocked, the Proclamations would convey power enough to destroy the very world. In the spirit of truth, perhaps it is time that we set aside our own egos and utter the other operative truth."

"Which is?" Ossiran demanded intently.

"Our world and its peoples are already doomed," Morzhian declared grimly. The gloomy prediction hung over the room like a penumbra.

"Morzhian, I never would have suspected that you were such a defeatist," Ossiran remarked evenly, but the Natzurdan saw that his pronouncement had achieved its desired effect on the other man.

"Not a pessimist, Ossiran, but a realist. Myrhia has become a juggernaut. She will not be deterred or turned back. Her power is growing in measures too vast to comprehend. You might ask how I came upon such knowledge and I will tell that I feel it in the pulse of the mother earth. Myrhia's poison has insinuated itself deep into her veins and our world is deathly ill. Do we have the candor to confess that our tactics will not stop the wicked Queen? Or our magic? Or our earth power?

"She will consume and rape our lands, and bring genocide to our people. Everything that we have struggled to build will be washed away in a river of our own blood. Inevitably, Myrhia will have her Proclamations and our misery will become a grain of sand in a sandstorm of suffering that will scour everything of value from the face of existence."

Morzhian paused breathlessly, momentarily overcome by the starkness of his own augury. "Unless we find them first!"

He allowed the Jerhia a moment to weigh the implications of his last statement. While he was not entirely convinced of its legitimacy, Morzhian at least thought that it might cause Ossiran to reconsider his ill-conceived decision to assassinate the one. The Jerhia returned to his seat. His gruff demeanor had softened enough to allow both the elder and Jerrod to embrace a small measure of hope.

"You speak as though you have a specific plan. Obviously, you feel as though Myrhia has motives for finding the Proclamations that reach beyond conquering this world?"

Jerrod nodded for Morzhian to proceed. "Myrhia has delved into springs of forbidden knowledge. Until now, the concept of other worlds was considered nothing more than a source of discussion for academics and philosophers. This woman's presence has verified the wildest of assertions. With the Proclamations, Myrhia looks to expand the horizons of her conquest. When she has destroyed our peoples, I suspect that she intends to challenge time and space itself...to gain access to endless realms of plunder."

Ossiran muttered something unintelligible. The idea of such audacity clearly dwarfed his imagination. Jerrod glided forward, his voice soft and oddly comforting as if he were attempting to placate a disillusioned child. "This is why we must turn to the woman for aid. At the very least, she might help us locate the Proclamations and disarm them before the Queen can put them to use."

The Natzurdan took up the thread of Jerrod's thought. "Maybe it may prove that she might fulfill the prophecy and restore light to this afflicted world."

Ossiran frowned but did not give voice to his skepticism. Gesturing in Jerrod's direction, he intoned, "Our friend's percipience has shown that the Queen has already taken this woman into her possession."

"And this is the crux of our discussion," Morzhian said. "Jerrod and I both agree that we must make some effort to wrest this woman away from Myrhia's grasp. If such a thing is possible, the Jerhia will find a way to bring it about and thus we turn to you."

Ossiran's gaze sharpened.

'So, once again the burden falls to the Jerhia,' he thought with no small amount of vexation. He sighed deeply and placed a contemplative finger to his lips. Still, this might serve his own hidden agenda. Morzhian had shaken the Tier Marshal with his insistence that their defeat was inevitable, unavoidable. If he allowed himself to set aside his subjective certitude that his people were still indefeasible, Ossiran realized that the elder had been brutally accurate in his assessment. His gaze flicked over Jerrod, the unflappable Metocan who had carried this news of the darkening storm, and settled on the blunt, earnest visage of the elder. Though he derived a small measure of satisfaction from their barely concealed anxiety, Ossiran deduced that this might be the last major contribution that his people would make to the destiny of this world. The time of the warrior was quickly giving way to the age of the metaphysician and though the prospect pained the old warrior, he realized that the course of fate could not be forestalled.

'Ah, but perhaps it can be forestalled, if only for a while,' he thought with a subtle smile. "What you are asking is not an easy matter. If this Islena is the valuable commodity that you think her to be, it can be assured that Myrhia will have taken precautions against just such an eventuality."

"Yes, Ossiran," Morzhian smiled warmly. "We understand that this task will not be easy, such momentous undertakings seldom are, but if it can be done, the Jerhia will find a way."

Ossiran raised his hand to his face and rubbed his chin. The ride from Iythanos, the mountain fortress which served as the Jerhia's most northerly enclave, had been a long and arduous one, and the Tier Marshal still sported the stubble of the journey. "There is a man who might be capable of such a mission. He is the black sheep of our upper cadre of Officers. He has always eschewed discipline in favor of flamboyance."

He exchanged glances with the other members of the entourage, who understood his reference and greeted it with varying degrees of incredulity. "Gillian is his name and he is more of a rogue than a military man. He would have been banished long ago were it not for his intellect and unquestionable skill as a soldier."

"Ossiran, can any one man be capable of what we require?" the Metocan inquired. The Jerhia responded with a vehement nod. "People traveling in a group would be quickly spotted and questioned in the east now. The job is better left to one man who can move quickly and discreetly. The average Jerhia would stand out like a flaming torch in the east. Gillian, on the other hand, is a chameleon who will be completely inconspicuous amidst the High Queen's rabble."

Morzhian clearly discerned the Tier Marshal's distaste for this Gillian, but decided against probing its sources. "Then we are agreed. The Jerhia will conduct the mission to bring this Islena out of the east. If the rescue should prove successful, every effort will be made to induce the woman to seek out the Proclamation if for no other reason than to keep them out of the Queen's grasp."

Ossiran grunted dourly and stood, bowing to the two representatives. Formally, he announced, "So that we might launch this undertaking as expeditiously as possible, I beg your permission to depart at once."

Both Morzhian and Jerrod nodded and returned the Jerhia's ceremonious bow. The elder came around the table and embraced the Tier Marshal, who seemed rather uncomfortable with such open displays of affection. Morzhian stepped back and gazed into Ossiran's arctic blue eyes. "We've achieved something great today, my old friend. Mayhap the wisdom of the ancients can reach across the gulf of time to guide their descendants out of this time of darkness."

"Mayhap, my friend," the Tier Marshal agreed, though his tone suggested that he was not without his misgivings. He withdrew a step, offered the elder a stiff salute, then turned on heel and strode off. When the large oak doors had closed and the sound of ringing heels faded away, Jerrod said to Morzhian. "I sense a certain ambivalence about the Tier Marshal."

"As do I," Morzhian agreed with a fetched sigh. "It mustn't be easy for a man of such proud and noble tradition to confront the truth of his people's fall from glory."

"We must monitor the Jerhia's efforts closely. I fear that they might not embrace our view of the gravity of this newest threat from the same perspective."

Morzhian grimaced, knowing that the Metocan was proposing subterfuge against their own ally. He wanted to object, to chastise young Jerrod with a scathing lecture on Jerhia integrity, but Ossiran's guarded manner caused him to hold his tongue.

3

As Ossiran led his contingent of officers down the stone and wood corridors of the palace, his desire to depart Amberdias deepened with every stride. The ringing corridors of living rock and ironwood had always had this effect upon the Tier Marshal, leaving him with the disquieting sense that he was wandering through the gullet of some immense, yet affable beast. The analogy made him long for the crisp, clean air and towering granite majesty of his homeland.

Though none of his officers had the temerity to give voice to their disbelief, it was evident that his mention of Gillian as a possible candidate had jolted them to a man. Ossiran had made no secret of the acrimony which he bore towards the swordsman. Indeed, it was commonly known that Ossiran had been responsible for exiling the other man to the relatively low ranking of adjutant...a position that was an insult for a man of Gillian's irrefutable abilities.

Ossiran had always demonstrated a penchant for doing the unexpected, both militarily and politically, and his choice of Gillian might not have surprised some of his closest colleagues. As he had told Morzhian, Gillian was an atypical Jerhia, who at times displayed a disregard for tradition and discipline that bordered on impertinence. The man had a spirit that was better suited to a highwayman than a warrior, yet in this one undertaking, his free-spirit might prove beneficial.

As they emerged from the darkness of the passage and into the light of the Amberdias afternoon, Ossiran congratulated himself on the prudence of his choice. He would convince the council that their rogue was the ideal man for the task of rescuing this woman. Though he had not bothered to argue the point, the Tier Marshal did not fully concur with the others' dire assessment of their current predicament. Fate was a fickle thing and might yet prove to be the High Queen's undoing. Taking her fight onto Jerhia soil would prove expensive and just might persuade Myrhia to abandon her ambition to conquer the western continent.

It was not in the Jerhia nature to allow pessimism to occlude judgment. He would advise that Gillian be dispatched eastward as he had promised, but the rogue would go with a hidden agenda guiding his action. Of that, Ossiran would make certain.

If this purported savior showed even the slightest inclination to serve Myrhia's purpose, or even appeared unstable for that matter, Gillian would be empowered to slit her throat and let old prophecies be damned.

4

On the western edge of the great mother life had been reduced to backbreaking labor and constant, unflagging vigilance. On the narrow ribbon of stone which connected the two continents, men and women worked until exhaustion, struggling desperately to undo what nature had spent millenniums building.

And every eye watched.

The inevitable question hung over the span like a shroud...when will they come?

The eastern horizon was still and deathly quiet. It had been three days since the high command had sent a party of scouts to learn of the state of Rygore's army and though they had been trained to subjugate their emotions, the defender's despair deepened with every hour that the scouts did not return. After the third day, it became impossible to ignore the obvious...the east had fallen under the Queen's heel and it was only a matter of time until her ravenous dogs turned their attention to the west.

It was beneath this umbrella of anxiety that the warriors of the Jerhia went about their labor of defeat. The strident cry of metal on stone rung in every ear until, even in sleep it drowned out all other sound. With picks, sledges and massive iron bars the warriors endeavored to render the causeway impassable. To further exacerbate the misery of the effort...this undeniable concession of total defeat and helplessness...a wave of humid heat had descended upon the area, sitting over the great chasm like a blanket of misery.

In their finest tradition, the soldiers persevered through the heat and exhaustion, driving the iron bars into the fracture lines of the rock and then prying on the slabs until they broke free and plunged into the great mother. A great cheer would go up each time a chunk of stone would plummet into the void, but the jubilation was hollow and seemingly inappropriate and would quickly die down.

The teams would work in twelve hour shifts, dragging their weary bodies back to straw pallets when the next crew arrived to replace them. The cycle of their lives became sleep and warfare with the stone, which resisted destruction with the tenacity of a living beast.

And always there was the furtive scrutiny of the eastern horizon. Three full days of incessant, mind-numbing drudgery and still the anticipated invasion did not come. At the end of the third day, the senior commander, responsible for disabling the causeway, declared the stone ribbon to be effectively impassable. The four thousand men and woman had scaled several twenty foot deep depressions into the rock at intervals all along the causeway's length.

For the sake of caution, it was decided that the work would continue until the Queen's armies appeared. Though haggard, the soldiers appeared grateful for the distraction. Anything was preferable to the long, tension-filled hours of waiting.

On the dawn of the fourth day, several scouts arrived from the eastern edge of the causeway. In agitated gestures they pointed toward the thick columns of smoke that churned into the overcast sky over the eastern forests.

The wait was nearly over.

Chapter Twenty Two

1

As she gazed down upon the sleeping form of Islena, Myrhia's senses were alight with a deluge of images and compelling emotions...some joyous, some poignant. From the depth of her peaceful slumber, could this woman even begin to suspect the vast wealth of power that her living vessel of flesh and bone contained? The enchantress thought not.

"Ah, but I do my sweet," she cooed over her unsuspecting captive, murmuring the words as if to a newborn.

Indeed the image was an apt one. Islena was about to be reborn...shattered and remolded in the shape of the Queen's infinite ambition. On impulse, the Queen leaned forward and kissed the other woman's prominent cheek. In the embrace of the Queen's spell, Islena stirred but did not awaken. The deep brown eyes closed and the angelic face turned toward the ceiling, where the play of frolicking gargoyles had been captured on plaster and paint.

Through the long twist of years, Myrhia had never lost faith in the inevitability of her destiny. Even the horrific moment of rebirth, wet and baffling, in the gullet of stone that had been her place of exile she had not experienced the towering, twisting emotion that assailed her now. Even through the private anguish of betraying Artumas, her single-minded dedication to her quest for omnipotence had not faltered.

Now she stood on the brink of deification and Myrhia was shocked to discover the cool presence of self-doubt. She had been robbed on other occasions, in other worlds. Just when triumph had appeared certain, she had suffered humiliating defeats at the hands of her eternal enemies...the champion of the light and the daughter of the tempest...these two indomitable spirits who had always succeeded in defeating her.

She sighed and touched the flesh of her forearm. The gesture was odd as if meant to reaffirm her continued existence. Her immortal soul had never been reborn into such a powerful incarnation as this one. As if her virtually limitless magical powers were not enough, this particular world, despite its persisting ignorance, had managed to concoct the most powerful icons of power the medieval mind could conceive of. They were so close, so attainable, that the enchantress could feel their force radiating through the delicate bones and exquisite flesh of her latest body.

There, wrapped in embroidered satin, lay the means by which Myrhia would attain the fabled talismans. She stepped closer to the volatile beauty and stopped abruptly, jolted by an instant of perfect awareness; absolute comprehension of her present position in the current of destiny. Peering back along the river of time, she beheld the moment of her creation and the gaping wound of malevolence from which she had been birthed.

On the bed, Islena moaned thickly and thrashed about in anguish. A closed fist shattered a heavy clay basin which had been left on a nearby night stand. As powerful as her angst was it lacked the power to rouse her from Myrhia's enchantment.

For her part, the enchantress stood in the center of the room, swaying like a sapling beset by a winter wind. Consumed, she closed her eyes and permitted the vision to carry her away. The void, dark and forbidding, loomed up at the center of all things. The night Queen correctly surmised that she was baring witness to the moment when the human soul had first been conceived. From the heart of the darkness came the first flicker of a spark which erupted into an argent blaze of blinding magnitude.

As the light unfurled like some glorious flag, Myrhia keened and threw her hands up in an unconscious gesture of warding.

Time continued to track and the two cornerstones of human nature drifted through time and space. Moved to awe, she watched the two forces clash like invincible juggernauts. From their violent coupling there came the offspring whose name was ambivalence and daughter of the tempest.

Ambivalence was a fickle and inherently imperfect child, but both parents coveted its love and aggressively sought to gain control of its soul. From the incestuous relationship there came the eternal battle between good and evil with the daughter of the tempest serving as the fulcrum upon which the eternal conflict hinged.

Through the deepest reaches of time these three forces floated, each culled and courted by the other, waiting for...the beginning. For countless billions of years, the relationship between the three remained constant and would likely have not changed had it not been for the intervention of God...or perhaps the random and equally arcane workings of universal physics.

Whatever the initial catalyst, the physical universe was born, and with it, the engine for perpetual change. When the first prototype of modern man slunk out of the Darwinian slimes of the evolutionary waters, the age old conflict gained direction and purpose. Slowly, inexorably, the three abstract forces resolved themselves into physical beings.

"We are the three incarnations!" Myrhia whispered in a voice tremulous with awe. The three forms floated through the labyrinth of time and space, coming together at different junctures through the ages. On these occasions, the universe reverberated with the thunder of their meeting. The affects of these confrontations echoed through the pages of history books from a thousand different cultures...a thousand different worlds.

Though the actual bodies changed to suit their needs, these incarnations remained bound together in their quest for ultimate and unequivocal control over the soul of this new being...man. Eventually, Myrhia discerned that this relationship had a distinctly geometric shape...that of an equilateral triangle.

With mounting excitement, she watched as it twisted and wound its way through the river of time, rapidly approaching the moment in which she now found herself. Armed with this new acuity...this heightened perception, the enchantress gleaned a new understanding of her own nature, not to mention the nature of the strange creature who lay before her. As the vision came to a point of intersection with this present reality, she began to smile and then to laugh.

As the moment of impact came and went, Myrhia opened her eyes to find Islena curled into a fetal position, whimpering pitifully. The enchantress crossed over to where she slept and began to tenderly stroke her brow, stilling Islena's anxiety with a comforting touch.

The Queen correctly surmised that the unsuspecting pawn had shared the identical vision. 'Not surprising that she might quail in terror,' she thought, 'just as I now soar in jubilation.'

The three forces were bound together in an infrangible triangle, and at the moment of this particular confluence of time and space, Myrhia stood at the apex.

2

The room was steeped in a brooding, expectant silence. Recumbent in the grip of the Queen's enchantment, Islena could feel the tension gnawing at her stiff muscles. The air seemed unnaturally warm as she struggled to break free of the peculiar malaise that impeded thought and kept her submerged just below the surface of consciousness. Shifting experimentally, she realized that she was lying on a soft mattress and not the cold unyielding ground to which she had become accustomed over the course of her journey with Amrand and Lorio.

Those two names jolted her, propelling her out of her slumber as though she had been doused with icy water.

Recollection filtered through the fog of disorientation. Her heart began to hammer in her chest. Vivid images assailed her senses in rapid succession...the cry of the defenseless villagers as they fell to the cavalry swords...her savage attack on the Jerhia when his treachery became evident...the sudden appearance of the Imperial Troopers and, most compelling of all, the floating, almost surreal figure of the enigmatic High Queen.

All of these things formed a stark collage that overwhelmed Islena's frazzled senses. Above it all there arose the overwhelming desire for release. When she had first come into this world, Islena had questioned her ability to survive its primitive savagery. She had come to learn that she could survive...that the dark side of her nature was more than adequately equipped to deal with violent confrontation. Yet, she was ill-prepared to deal with betrayal and mendacity and the constant need to reassess her beliefs about the nature of this barbaric world and the people who populated it.

As she lay upon the bed, tears began to stream down her cheeks. Her state of isolation gripped her like a noose. She had trusted Amrand, allowed him to fashion a version of reality and hope to which she could cling until she found her way out of this nightmare, and all of her trust had been misplaced. Despondent, Islena felt more utterly alone than at any other time in her life.

"Perhaps you can empathize with how I feel," came a soft voice from somewhere in the darkened recesses of the room. Islena opened her eyes and sat up with a start. The room around her swam in and out of focus and when the swirling images resolved themselves into one, she saw that she was in a large, lavishly furnished bed chamber, that was unoccupied, save for herself and another woman.

The woman stood with her back to Islena, gazing steadily out of a tall, narrow window. Judging by the dull light that filtered through the frosted glass, she deduced that it was dusk. The room's other occupant was a diminutive creature, with hair the color of anthracite that fell in a cascade of loose curls to a point at the small of her back. At first, Islena was certain that she was looking at a child. Then, the woman turned to face her. The full impact of Myrhia's beauty suffused Doraux like a warm balm. Suddenly, all thoughts of despair and betrayal withered and fled her mind.

"Myrhia," she breathed softly. The Queen crossed the room slowly. Dressed in a splendid gown of black satin, bedecked with pearls and emeralds, the woman appeared the very embodiment of dignity and majesty. Only the gown's neckline, which plunged to depths that were scandalous, revealing a generous expanse of firm breast, gave any hint that Myrhia was aware of her potent beauty and the effect that it might have on the beholder.

The face, with its large, mirthful eyes and finely-honed features, invited trust and beyond that, perhaps even unending devotion. Amrand's final entreaty for caution whispered in her mind then, but she ignored it without thought. This woman, with her open innocence, must surely be incapable of guile.

"Islena," Myrhia replied, with the ghost of a smile.

"You know my name?" Doraux stammered, rather surprised by her sudden deference in the other woman's presence. The Queen's dark eyes glimmered. "I know the name that you've been given and I know of your true name."

Islena blinked, not grasping the Queen's esoteric meaning. Indeed, it was becoming difficult to think clearly as if she were intoxicated or bewitched. She spoke in a dreamy, distant voice, "I, I don't understand."

Myrhia glanced away, her expression clouded by the weight of some unimaginable burden. "You are named Islena in your world, but to me and those who have pledged fealty to my cause; your true name is hope."

Islena merely shook her head as though the Queen's personal pain was indistinguishable from her own. A basic instinct kept braying a frantic admonition, warning her to be wary of this woman's beguiling charm. Suddenly, the full weight of her ordeal fell upon Doraux. The tears that had began when she had first awakened, came in earnest now...a deluge of despair that she seemed powerless to prevent. She leaned forward and hid her face in her hands, surprised to find herself embarrassed by her display of weakness before the Queen.

Myrhia smiled. It was precisely as she had suspected it might be...Islena was a distraught, shattered woman, perilously close to absolute breakdown. Now she would restore her confidence, nurture her belief in both herself and in Myrhia's righteousness. As she moved to console Islena, Myrhia complimented herself on the brilliance of her scripted deception at the village. Though it had come at the expense of hundreds of mercenaries, she judged that Islena had been thoroughly deceived by the ruse and thus the expenditure was deemed acceptable.

She enfolded the weeping woman into her embrace, pressing Islena's face into the comforting warmth of her breasts. As Doraux surrendered to the other woman, her tears began to fall without restraint. As they spilled over the curve of Myrhia's breast, the enchantress whispered soft, hollow platitudes; compassionate words that had no power to touch her own soul. Though she had perfected the art of simulating emotion as the need required, she oft wondered what it might be like to experience genuine empathy for another's pain. The notion was beyond her sensibilities to comprehend. Surely, only a fool would willingly traverse another's road of torment without the prospect of some eventual remuneration.

"I only want to go home," Islena rasped through her bitter tears. Eventually, her weeping subsided. She became aware that her torso was naked and she quickly pulled the sheets up around her breasts. Her green eyes found Myrhia's depthless brown ones. Islena could feel Myrhia's commiseration and slowly began to regain her composure.

"Your time here has not been easy?" the Queen inquired softly, her words fraught with earnest concern.

Islena shook her head. There were moments when she felt that this exquisite creature must certainly be a mirage. "My best friend was killed by...by some kind of monster. My family, my children were terrorized, and that was in my own world. Since I've been here, I've been exposed to torture, murder and treachery at every turn."

She glanced down to her knuckles which were an abraded and angry red...evidence of the ferocity with which she had attacked at Amrand. The sight caused her spirit to sink.

"Where am I?" she asked in a flat voice. The Queen regarded her somberly for a moment and then replied, "You are in the City-state of Perdwick, some six leagues from where my armies rescued you from the Jerhia."

Islena glanced sharply at the Queen as a peculiar note in Myrhia's voice aroused her suspicion. "Is that what's happened? I've been rescued?"

Myrhia appeared openly wounded by Islena's insinuation. She stood and gestured to the doors and the row of windows. "Are there bars on the windows or locks on the doors...are these the quarters of a prisoner?"

The indignation in Myrhia's voice made Islena feel ashamed for having questioned the woman's sincerity. It also provided her with a glimpse of the mettle that lay beneath the deceptively placid and fragile exterior.

Myrhia sighed elaborately, and turned away from her quarry. 'I must take care in approaching this one,' she cautioned herself. 'She is composed of sterner stuff than I had anticipated.'

She drifted over to her original spot by the stone window casement. Islena traced the high Queen's movements, suddenly regretting her sharp tone.

"I'm sorry if I sound ungrateful," she murmured softly.

Myrhia fetched another sigh, privately pleased by Islena's deference. "Ah, I suppose that it is only natural that you would be suspicious of me. In these dark times, trust is a commodity that is not given lightly. I can only guess at the vile allegations and sheer fabrications that your companions wove for you."

She glanced at Islena. Something in the other woman's expression must have confirmed her suspicions, because she could only nod grimly and resume her inspection of the night sky. For a protracted moment, Islena could not speak, reluctant to broach the question that had demanded asking since she had first regained consciousness. "What's happened to Amrand?"

Myrhia looked at Islena, a speculative light gleaming in her limpid brown eyes. "The Jerhia who traveled with you?"

Islena nodded, almost fearing to breathe. Myrhia's tone darkened. "The Imperial Guard attempted to take the Jerhia prisoner, but he was determined to resist capture. He struggled with several of my guards, killing one and severely wounding another." She paused, and then added, "It was necessary to kill him, Islena. He was quite adamant about resisting capture."

Islena maintained her mask of neutrality. Amrand despised the High Queen, that was true, but animal savagery was not consistent with his disciplined nature. More significantly, Amrand would have been in no condition to wage a serious struggle even if he'd been so inclined. Her beating had left him tottering on the verge of unconsciousness.

"And Lorio?" she ventured and then froze, dreading the answer.

"The Lamish woman was loath to leave your side. I do not know if she shared complicity in the Jerhia plot to ensnare you, but her concern for your well-being was unquestionably genuine. Islena, the Lamish are an itinerant, fickle people. Their loyalties have a tendency to follow their interests. I have no doubt that they have conspired against my rule, supporting the Jerhia when it appeared a virtual certainty that the Jerhia would usurp my throne. Still, I have no quarrel with the Lamish and lack the resources or inclination to hold a grudge."

"Is Lorio dead?" Islena persisted.

Myrhia's brow furrowed. There was an edge to Doraux's voice that insinuated an intimacy that went beyond mere companionship. "Heavens no, I must say that your friend is a feisty, spirited woman. I had to give her my personal assurances that your welfare would be best served in my custody. She reluctantly agreed to return to her people."

After a weighty pause, Myrhia observed, "This Lorio is a most extraordinary woman."

"Yes, she is," Islena remarked thoughtfully.

'My sweet angel, how you wear your heart on your sleeve,' Myrhia thought. 'So you are not above temptations and the pleasures of flesh. I sense your disquiet and confusion.'

"If you could only understand my dire need, it would become glaringly obvious that you are my final recourse. Nonetheless, I am just another stranger. In deference to the injustice to which you've been subjected in my world, I waive the formalities of station between us. Put forth whatever questions and misgivings you might have. I will take no offence and perhaps I may assuage your doubts and earn your trust."

Islena hesitated. She had always been slow to impart trust. There had always been a duality to her nature...a barrier that divided her personal life from the personality that she presented to the world. Though she had a wide circle of acquaintances, many of whom would consider her a friend, most would have been shocked to discover just how little they knew about the woman they considered as such. As one notable writer with a national bodybuilding magazine had discovered, Islena guarded the intimate secrets of her life the way that a petty tyrant might oversee his perceived kingdom.

Faced with the prospect of placing her faith in another stranger, one shadowed by the most ignoble of allegations, Islena found herself torn by indecision. Frightened and isolated, she had decided to follow Amrand, seeing no other viable alternative if she was ever to find her way home. She had come perilously close to falling victim to treachery and now this woman, an angel incarnate if looks were any measure, was asking her to commit herself one more time, possibly paving the way to further calumny.

'Do you have a choice?' she wondered. Ultimately, she did not. Even if Myrhia allowed her to walk out of this place, to fade into obscurity in a world that she did not understand, where would she go? Though it irritated her fierce sense of independence, she saw that her only path home lay through the goodwill of others.

"I need to know who I can trust," She turned her gaze upon Myrhia, who stared back evenly. "All that I want is to go back to my family and keep them safe."

The High Queen nodded sadly. "If only I could grant your request. I can promise you nothing, Islena...only the unembellished honesty that you deserve."

The words touched Islena. That feeling of being seduced, beguiled, returned and she found herself inviting it in a strange way that she could not fathom. Myrhia moved slowly to her, an idyllic beauty adjuring Doraux to open her soul to the enchantress and as though from the depths of a dream, Islena succumbed. "I don't know what to do, who to trust. To decide, I have to learn about the Jerhia and this Ryalla, if he even exists...and this damnable war...tell me what it's about. More than anything else, I need to know why anyone might believe that I have some grand role to play in its outcome."

The High Queen smiled affectionately. "I believe that I can answer those questions, and others, but first, you might be more comfortably clothed and fed."

She pointed to an armchair near the bed. "I hope those will prove adequate for the time being. After hearing my story, should you choose to stay, I will have the finest tailors in Emercia create a wardrobe that befits a guest of your importance."

She laughed gaily then, evidently delighted by the prospect. Islena recalled that Lorio had laid out a wardrobe for her after their night together. The recollection made Islena yearned for the Lamish woman's company. Myrhia stood and moved toward the doors. "Dress, and when supper has been prepared, I will summon you to the great hall."

3

Islena dressed quickly, surprised to find that the trousers and sleeveless, black tunic were a perfect fit. She wondered why Myrhia had saw fit to select such a masculine garb for her guest. Standing before a long Chevalier, Doraux steadied her form closely. She resembled a soldier, but the light material conjured images of an attire more suited to the ninjas that her sons had loved to watch. The thought of her two sons almost caused her to lose control, so she quickly turned her thoughts to her body. With some dismay, she found that it had been days since she had actually touched a weight, and though that might have seemed trivial in light of the nightmare in which she had become embroiled, her body longed for the physical regimen the way an addict might crave smack. Oddly enough, she found that her body had never looked so sharp, so refined. The muscles in her arms and legs stood out in sharp relief, crisscrossed by deep striations. As she prepared for her crucial encounter with Myrhia, Islena derived a certain measure of comfort from the impression of capability her body exuded. It was almost as though she were being honed. Physically at least, she had proven equal to the challenge thus far.

Thirty minutes after Myrhia's departure, there was a sharp rap on the door. Two armed guards entered her chamber and requested that she escort them to the main hall. Their expressions were identically blank. Only when they saw Islena did those expressions change. Flickers of disbelief rippled across both face, delighting Islena in some complicated that went beyond mere pride.

As they led her along the carpeted halls of the castle, Islena marveled at the opulence and architectural splendor of the structure. Rich woods and ornate moldings abounded, as did the spectacular murals that had been painted into the ceilings of every landing and common space. If this was indicative of the rest of Perdwick, then it had somehow managed to escape the ravages that she would normally associate with protracted warfare.

At the end of a long hall, the three came to a set of double doors that were at least fifteen feet high. Islena's escorts bowed to the two guards at the door and returned to other duties. Though no one spoke, Islena received the distinct impression that the group was almost wooden with tension. She briefly wondered what had so disquieted the guards, but then the doors were opened and she was being ushered into the great hall.

If the corridors and the landings of the castle had seemed lavish, then the great hall could only be described as opulence embodied and sheer excess indulged.

In the subdued glow of the wall lights (actual gas lamps, Islena marveled), sculptures of iron and bronze appeared to float through the air, suspended high above the marble and granite floor. Near the front of the hall, a huge dais had been erected to hold the jewel encrusted throne that symbolized the seat of power for Myrhia's monarchy. There was gold and platinum trim in great abundance, dazzling the senses from every corner of the huge hall. An ornamental crystal chandelier dominated the ceiling, catching and reflecting the glow of a hundred torches.

There was an aspect of the romantic about the great hall despite all of its extravagance. Islena contemplated the possibility that she had been transported back into her own world's medieval ages but she was familiar enough with history to know that there had never been a Perdwick or a war-crazed Jerhia.

Nor had there ever been a creature as compelling and ethereal as the one who now awaited her arrival near the banquet table. For all of the art and craftsmanship that had been worked into the great hall, the effect paled in the resplendent corona of Myrhia's beauty.

She favored Islena with a disarmingly dazzling smile and beckoned her to approach the table. Myrhia's eyes seemed to sparkle. Her cheeks were shaded a high and hectic red, while her luxurious hair was held back from her prominent cheek bones with two pearl-inlaid combs. Islena felt tawdry and lusterless by contrast, and wondered if this had been Myrhia's intention in attiring her as she had.

"I trust that the clothes are to your liking?" Myrhia inquired, drinking in the elegant lines of Islena's figure. Doraux could feel the weight of Myrhia's gaze upon her flesh like a palpable, yet subtle touch.

"They're fine," she murmured softly. Myrhia smiled again and gestured for her guest to be seated, indicating that Doraux's chair was to be at the head of the table. The High Queen assumed her seat and leaned forward. Islena's attention was drawn to the peculiar amulet that hung in the deep valley of Myrhia's breasts. The stone setting, with its luminescent blue crystal, touched a cold nerve in Doraux's heart. That bluish glow was vaguely familiar, like something conjured from the sweaty jungles of a nightmare, but then Myrhia was speaking again and all of Islena's apprehensions seemed remote and inconsequential.

She glanced dreamily about the great hall, wondering absently how long the castle had stood here. It occurred to her that there was a perceptible air of permanence to this land...a sense that there had never been an evolution of culture or technology. It was almost as though time had seized upon one particular moment in history and had decided to end its march then and there.

Myrhia surreptitiously observed Islena, whose lovely green eyes were glazed as though she were mesmerized by the alluring dance of the candlelight. The High Queen offered her guest a radiant smile and clapped her hands. An instant later, a procession of servants materialized out of the shadows, all bearing trays and platters and carafes. The most tantalizing of aromas reached Doraux's nose, eliciting a Pavlovian response. She could not recall the last time that she had tasted anything other than dried meat strips and dried fruits.

One by one, the platters of meat were laid out before her, steaming and succulent. Finally, the servants left the two women to their repast. The Queen gestured toward the buffet with a flourish and declared, "In anticipation of your coming, my master chef has prepared a feast of the finest delicacies that our land has to offer as would befit a guest of your import."

Doraux might have blushed at such an extravagant compliment under other circumstances. Experience had taught her to be wary of excessive flattery. Tonight, however, she met Myrhia's gaze evenly. As she eyed the waiting feast, she recalled the village, and its children, emaciated and hollow-eyed with hunger. Their penury had left an indelible mark on her soul. Now she was here, about to break bread with a woman, who was either a devil or an angel, while they were all dead, their wretched lives having ended violently.

With that vision of Black Death came a moment of crystalline insight...she was a woman of great consequence...this proclaimed destiny was not the fabrication of augury-addled lunatics. For reasons that were beyond her present ability to grasp, in this particular reality, Islena Doraux would play a pivotal role in shaping this antiquated world's future.

Myrhia reached for the gold-edged plate that sat before Islena. "Since you are unfamiliar with my world's food, I'll select the first plate. When it comes to food, I'm afraid that I'm a passionate hedonist," she explained, as she skewered several slices of different meats onto Islena's plate. "I'm afraid that there hasn't been much room for passion in recent times."

"The war," Islena remarked dully, reluctant to broach that particular subject.

"Yes, the war. The last seven years have been unrelentingly dismal." She poured dark liquids into a gold goblet and handed it to Islena. The spiced flavor was maddening and Islena wondered if it was wise to indulge. She watched the High Queen as she fussed over the food and wine. She felt vulnerable despite the fact that the two were alone. Physically, Myrhia appeared as fragile as a spring flower and yet Doraux suspected that it might be a grave mistake to underestimate this woman.

Myrhia offered the plate to her guest. "If I'm to tell you about the current state of this world, I'll have to start my tale from the very beginning."

As Islena watched, a subtle transformation seemed to befall the Queen. Later, when Islena had opportunity to reflect on things that had come to pass, she would recognize this as the moment when she had fallen victim to the Queen's deceitful enchantment. The lovely brow darkened and a thoughtful, melancholy gleam flickered in Myrhia's limpid brown eyes. When she spoke, her voice trembled on the edge of tears. "And all tales must begin with Artumas."

The high Queen wavered and raised a hand to conceal her emotions. Islena suddenly gleaned that she was not the only one to suffer a paralyzing loss. "My husband was an idealist and an incorrigible dreamer. The notion that every human being, irrespective of their stock and heritage, had an intrinsic worth governed his life. He strove diligently to bring a system of justice to everyone, from the mighty to the lowest of peasants. There were times when even I thought that his aspirations were too lofty to ever have any hope of being met with success. Yet, for an intoxicating and all too short moment, Artumas managed to change the soul of the world. Grudgingly, people began to regard each other with a new sense of respect and value. Compassion flourished and the people prospered. "When Myrhia managed to meet her captive's gaze there were tears glistening in her eyes. She made no attempt to conceal her grief. "It was as though Artumas had raised an enchanted Kingdom from the sheer force of his will and vision alone."

Watching the river of tears wind their course over the High Queen's exquisite cheek bones, Islena suspected that this was the first time that this woman had ever openly shared her grief and pain with anyone. The wicked injustice of the idea staggered her.

'How could she survive with so much pain locked up inside for so long?' Islena remembered the bitter, almost poisonous anger that had followed the death of her parents. What would have become of her if she had not had Ben to share her sorrow? Yet, this woman had been forced not only to endure her own personal loss, but had also been drawn into a savage struggle for survival.

"Amrand spoke of Artumas. Your husband was revered amongst the Jerhia," she ventured tentatively.

Myrhia's eyes flashed. She pounded her goblet down, spattering the fine linen with wine. "It was the Jerhia who killed my husband."

Islena could feel her cheeks redden. Lamely, she whispered, "I'm sorry."

Myrhia stared reproachfully for a moment and then dropped her gaze. "It is I who am sorry. I forget that you know nothing of this world and its wretched little intrigues. My husband forged an accord with the Three Nations of the West."

"The Cornerstone Nations?" Islena interrupted, groping for understanding.

"Yes. They are the three ancient societies that have developed and cultivated the earth powers. Until the rise of Artumas, these countries had been alien, even hostile terrain. When Artumas first raised the notion of opening relations with the west, I told him that I was leery, but his determination could run to obstinacy at times and he elected to ignore my misgivings, which was his right as king."

Listening to Myrhia, Islena could hear echoes of the exasperation that those who shared a deep and unremitting affection could occasionally feel for their mate. She doubted that such emotion could be easily feigned. "If my husband had a fault it was that he was too quick to impart trust. In the business of ruling, one must be able to recognize a jackal in the guise of a hawk. The first time that I set eyes upon Ryalla, my skin began to crawl. He had come ostensibly to serve as an emissary for the Jerhia, but he was really here to lay the groundwork for my husband's murder."

Myrhia faltered for a moment. A tension furtively stole into the moment as a dreary silence descended upon the great hall. Islena recalled the thin, hawkish Imperator as he menaced her defenseless son. In his murderous gaze, she saw that no act would be too barbarous, no treachery too despicable. When she had regained her composure, the High Queen continued, though her voice was flat and listless, "I was in Emercia, when the word of my husband's disappearance came. He had departed only a fortnight before, heading the first official delegation ever to be received on Jerhia soil. Ironically enough, it was near this very city of Perdwick that his party was set upon by a large band of heavily-armed assailants. Most of the escort was killed in the first assault and when the battle was over, Artumas was gone."

"No words can convey the anxiety that hounded me in the days following his abduction. Every waking moment, I expected that a messenger would arrive with a ransom demand. Days passed and that prospect grew dimmer. Finally, I was forced to accept that Artumas was dead. Logic would dictate that the high king was too valuable not to be used as a bargaining chip, and when no demand was forthcoming, I could no longer deny the painfully obvious fact of his death...his foul murder."

Myrhia hesitated again. Her pained expression spoke eloquently of what that grim admission had cost the beauty. Islena felt herself perilously close to tears now and took a long sip of the wine to steady her beleaguered emotions. Then her body shivered with revulsion. Strangely enough her teary vulnerability only accentuated her beauty. "Gradually, it became apparent that the mantle of leadership would fall upon my shoulders. I was oath-bound to attempt to carry on my husband's agenda."

Here, Myrhia paused. Her eyes locked upon Islena and did not falter. Doraux realized that the High Queen was about to relate something that she considered to be of paramount importance. "I became a ruling Queen because I loved my husband, not to satiate any desire for power. When I was first confronted with the vital decisions that were required to govern a nation, I was absolutely mortified. Only the thought that I was perpetuating Artumas' legacy saved me from total inadequacy. If you believe nothing else I say, please accept that as the unequivocal truth."

She searched Islena's eyes. There was a desperate aspect to the High Queen's declaration of her integrity which profoundly moved Islena. She could only surmise how she, herself, might have fared if confronted with the loss of everything that she cherished, while forced to bear the burden of mammoth obligations.

Some acknowledgment seemed to be required, so she nodded. Myrhia offered her a wan smile of gratitude. "Most monarchs are gradually initiated into the art of ruling," she continued, "but I was not so fortunate. A mere six weeks after my husband's disappearance, another Jerhia delegation arrived in Emercia. Ryalla had personally come to offer his condolences on behalf of his people, and to offer his assistance in protecting the integrity of my throne against what he described as a growing tide of subversion."

Myrhia paused again and closed her eyes. The thought of the Jerhia Imperator evoked a shiver of revulsion, this one more violent than the first. "Always skeptical of the Jerhia, I declined his offer and he requested a private audience. Once alone, Ryalla spoke of rumors of a possible plot to overthrow my throne. When I demanded to know who the conspirators might be, he became evasive and would only say that I could no longer trust my inner circle of advisors."

She abruptly stopped her narrative. Her small right hand strayed to her talisman as if for reassurance. Islena guessed that she was struggling to articulate something unspeakably horrible. "When I again refused his offer of alliance, he revealed the true purpose of his visit to Emercia...a proposed marriage that would unite the two most powerful nations in the land. He said that our might would be unparalleled and that we could literally rule the known world."

"He was mad Islena, but his insanity had a definite form and purpose. I scoffed at his proposal, perhaps rejecting him with more vitriol than was warranted, but I was astounded by the man's audacity. The man's response was what might be expected by such an egocentric wretch. He struck me across the face. The force of the blow knocked me to the floor and Ryalla fell upon me like the common savage that he is."

The words became fraught, every one spoken with great effort and expense.

'Even a Queen?' Doraux thought bitterly, incensed that even the most powerful of woman was not safe from the ugly specter of sexual violence.

"I'm sorry, but this is difficult for me. I've kept this locked inside myself for seven years, fearing that to speak of it would be to admit some manner of weakness...or even culpability."

Knowing that she might be taking a liberty, but not caring, Islena reached across the table and took Myrhia's delicate hand in her own, which appeared large and clumsy in contrast. "You don't have to tell me about this. You don't have to relive it for my benefit."

"I do," Myrhia insisted with more vehemence than she intended. "I want you to believe me, to share what I've endured in the past seven years...only then can I ask you to make the grave sacrifice that the land requires of you."

The two women regard each other over the steaming trays and subdued light of the candles. Islena nodded soberly and Myrhia resumed the telling of her tale. "He ripped my bodice open. I...I could smell his masculine virility and feel the heat of his lust against my skin. 'I will possess you,' he vowed. 'If I must tear down the very foundations of this world, I swear that you will kneel abeyant before me.'"

"And then he marked me." At that, Islena gasped and recoiled as though she, herself, had suffered the abjection and outrage.

"Marked?" she murmured. Myrhia stood and came around the table to stand before her guest. Wordlessly, she proceeded to slide one of the shoulders down revealing her right breast. When Islena saw the mark, she emitted a low moan. The livid, jagged scar tore a path across the swell of the breast, just beneath the nipple. The puckered flesh recalled vivid images of how Ryalla had brandished a jagged bottle to her son's throat, and suddenly Islena was furious. She slammed her fist onto the table with enough force to upend both goblets. Myrhia pretended to flinch, but Doraux's angry reaction filled her with delight. If a man was capable of marring such perfection, such rare and precious beauty, could there be any doubt that he would slaughter children and peasants without compunction.

Feeling wanton, Myrhia stood before Islena, allowing the marred breast to fuel the woman's mounting anger. She had played the role of the beleaguered heroine to perfection and now it was time to ensnare her prey. After a moment, she readjusted her garment and returned to her seat.

"Some semblance of reason returned to the Jerhia and he stormed out of the palace."

"Why did you not have him arrested? Seek out some kind of retribution?" Islena protested, unable to dispel the image of the glorious flesh defaced by a barbarian's blade.

The High Queen dropped her eyes to the table, where the rich wine spread like wave of life's blood. The metaphor delighted Myrhia. "That is a question that I've flayed myself with for seven years. My first instinct was to have the bastard arrested and quartered before a gathering of the court, and I would have been perfectly justified in doing so. Something tempered my anger and stilled my hand, and to this day it is as inexplicable to me as the universe itself. Perhaps it lay in a lack of confidence or a foolish hope that war could yet be averted."

"Less than two months later, I was quickly and brutally disabused of that notion. The Jerhia invasion was quick and indescribable in its brutality. Ryalla's roving cavalry had overrun half of the continent before my armies could even mount a defense. The massacre that you witnessed at the village was a commonplace occurrence in the early years of the war. There were times when it seemed that the stench of death and desiccation had polluted the entire world. The Jerhia are a nation of proficient soldiers. My troops were caught in one indefensible position after the other and routed again and again."

The High Queen stared into the wavering light of the candles. Islena followed her gaze as if the candles were a medium through which she could share the other woman's vivid memories. "During the first winter, the total collapse of my armies seemed inevitable. In the depth of my despair, Artumas came to me."

"In a dream?" Islena inquired. The Queen shook her head adamantly. "Not precisely a dream, but a vision. I was alone in the woodlands which border my palace in Emercia, searching my anguish for some glimmer of hope. I remember that the day was dull and threatening snow. I was following a path through a shallow ravine, absorbed in thought, when a figure stepped onto the trail and startled me."

"I glanced up, my heart thundering in my breast, and there stood Artumas. I instantly knew that it was truly Artumas, but his image was incomplete, translucent, and it became clear that this was a specter."

Myrhia smiled fondly. "He told me that I had forgotten the key ingredient to real leadership...a true rapport with the people. He reproached me for remaining sequestered in the palace, while the average man surrendered his life defending my throne. Upon reflection, I came to see that I had lost the faith of the people and they, in turn, had gradually lost the will to militate against iniquity. Artumas said that if there was any chance that the land might overcome its peril, it was imperative that I become a legitimate leader...a warrior queen."

"Returning to the palace, I commissioned the blacksmith to forge an ebony breast plate that would stand as a symbol for hope and justice. And then I traveled to the front to personally lead the fight against Ryalla. As my husband's spirit had predicted, my armies responded to my presence. I had never witnessed a battle before, and though the sheer savagery horrified and repelled me, I could feel the sudden surge of confidence that possessed the soldiers as they met the Jerhia charge. After a fearsome struggle, the Imperial Guard was forced to concede ground. For the next four years the Jerhia hordes drove us back, slowly and inexorably. Still, every successive yard that they advanced was gained at greater cost."

Myrhia glanced up at her guest. A fierce pride and independence shone in her lovely eyes allowing Islena a glimpse of the mettle which had made her queen. "I commanded the troops at every battle, and gradually more of the ordinary people found the courage to shed the chains of their fear and take up the fight against the invader."

"Today, we stand on the verge of ejecting the horde from the Eastern Continent," Myrhia concluded. Instead of the ebullience that Islena expected, Myrhia sounded dejected and weary as though the cost of victory had been too exorbitant to warrant celebration.

"Then the fighting will soon be over?" Islena prompted hopefully.

The High Queen shook her head grimly. "I had fervently hoped that the bloodshed would end when the last Jerhia had been routed across the causeway, but recent events have shown that it was naive to believe that Ryalla would ever stop."

"What events?" Islena asked, sensing the answer, yet helpless to forestall the question.

Myrhia looked directly into her captive's eyes and said simply, "Your coming."

"I don't understand!" Doraux rasped bitterly, no longer able to contain her seething frustration. For a brief moment, the High Queen's expression was one of unmitigated pity. "When it became apparent that even the Jerhia were not equal to an entire continent of people resolved to oppose his tyranny, Ryalla has turned to another source to achieve his end...sorcery."

"Magic," Islena spat disgustedly, the single word dripping with enough sarcasm to convey her opinion of the subject. The High Queen leaned forward and place one of her small hands on Islena's powerful forearm. Oddly enough, she did not react with her customary repugnance. Instead, the touch was soothing. "I know nothing of your world, but in this world magic is the prime force that shapes time and space. It is unwise to be scornful in the face of such might."

Islena pursed her lips, but remained diplomatically silent. Upon her forearm, the touch became a gentle caress, but she could not tell if Myrhia was even aware of her action, so absorbed was she in the telling of her tale. "It's imperative that you grasp and comprehend the precise nature of the situation in which you now find yourself. Ryalla has enlisted the aid of the Metocan, the most powerful nation of magicians and sorcerers on my world, to sway the war in his favor. They have contrived to awaken the most powerful force known to man...a force endowed with the power to lay waste to everything."

"You, Islena, are the key to that force," Myrhia concluded dramatically.

Islena shivered as an elemental dread gripped her heart. "Please, Myrhia, since this nightmare began, I've heard nothing but vague allusions to my power and suggestions that I was pivotal in a grandiose war between good and evil." Now it was her turn to cry. Though usually shamed by such overt displays of weakness, something about Myrhia's gentle dignity seemed to invite the sharing of emotion and confidence. "If you know what this is about, why I've been torn from my family, please tell me."

Though Myrhia's expression of deep concern did not change, inside the High Queen rejoiced in the certitude that Islena's soul now belonged to her. Her eyes softened. "I'm sorry. In dwelling on my own tribulations, I've completely neglected your strife, and in truth, it is you who are the aggrieved party. I'm afraid that one of the great tragedies of this war is the loss of compassion for the pain of others. We've been given the choice of inuring our hearts to misery or being driven mad with the lunacy and horror of pervasive atrocity."

"Plainly put, you have been brought here because Ryalla believes that you can help him locate the Three Proclamations of power. Why he is convinced that you are the one who can find the ancient icons is a complex matter and one not given to simple conclusive explanation. This might provide you with some insight into the mystery." The Queen reached down into the shadows beside her chair and produced a large, leather bound book. This she slid across the table to Islena, who regarded it blankly.

"What is this?" she heard herself as, unable to drag her gaze from the cracked leather binding of the ancient tome.

"It is simply known as the Sacred Book, sometimes referred to as the Ancient Wisdoms. I have taken the liberty of referencing the sections that foretell of your coming, though the passages are admittedly obscure."

Islena shook her head, more in frustration than vehement denial. "I'm just a wife and a mother. I don't know why everyone insists on making me into a Messiah."

"Messiah?" the High Queen echoed. There was something perplexing and disturbing about the term.

"It doesn't matter," Doraux muttered thickly. "Tell me more about these Proclamations."

"The first and most important thing to know about the Proclamations is that no human eye has seen them for over a millennium. To many, they are the fodder of mythology and art and nothing more. Supposedly, each icon was forged by the ancients of the Cornerstone Nations, representing the cumulative sum of their knowledge and power. Together, it is theorized, the whole is greater than the sum of its parts. The Proclamations are every man's fantasy and darkest terror."

"And you believe that these Icons exist?" Islena offered, rather perturbed that a pragmatic ruler, such as Myrhia, might be swayed by superstitious drivel.

"Artumas was the first to tell me of the Proclamations," she explained. "My husband was rather an authority on the subject. I suspect that the concept quite frankly intrigued him and horrified him as well."

"So Ryalla intends to have these three Proclamations, is that about the sum of it?"

"You do have a way of cutting to the salient heart of the matter," Myrhia said in a bemused voice, her smile becoming fey, as though her grip upon hope was tenuous. It occurred to Islena that, when the inevitable request was put forth, she would be hard pressed to refuse whatever Myrhia required. "Yes, sorrowfully enough, that is precisely his intention."

The High Queen sighed. It was a mournful sound fetched from deep in her chest. "Seven years of constant warfare and finally it seemed that victory was in sight, that the invaders would be ejected, and now I am confronted with a more potent scourge. He is hoping that sorcery will succeed where more conventional means failed. It is clear that it will never be over until one of us is cold and in the grave."

"The Proclamations have enough power to be that decisive?" In a world so technologically crude, where the most complicated weapon was a catapult, she found it difficult to imagine a weapon that could alter the course of history. Then she recalled the fire bat.

"Very often, when man aspires to Godhood, his arrogance is rewarded with disaster. In your world, Islena, is there not a single weapon the mere mention of which inspires fear in the hearts of men?"

'The hydrogen bomb. Biological and chemical weapons. Star Wars and God only knows what else. Oh yes, Myrhia.' she thought bitterly. 'We have horrors that would give even a High Queen nightmares for a lifetime.' Rather than attempt to explain, she simply nodded.

"You have one last question to ask, don't you Islena?" Myrhia prompted coyly. Her tone was deliberately teasing. There was something distinctly titillating about the way that her name rolled off of the High Queen's tongue.

The wine was a potent brew...one that caused Islena to feel light-headed and strangely removed from her own flesh. There was an element of seduction about the enchanted evening that should have felt dangerous, but was instead intoxicating. Distantly, she heard the flow of her own words. "How and why does Ryalla think that I can or will help him get his hands on these Proclamations?"

"Legend holds that the elders where terrified by what they had wrought and took steps to insure that their creation would never fall into the wrong hands," Myrhia quoted from The Sacred Book. "The power of the icons shall remain recumbent until The One appears to rouse them from their slumbers at the time when the world's need is greatest."

"Ryalla believes that you are that one." After a brief hesitation, she added, "And now that I've had an opportunity to stand in your presence, so do I."

The remark struck Islena as though she'd been scalded by a pan of boiling water. She stood up quickly, upending her chair as she retreated from the table. Her cheeks had gone crimson and her green eyes flashed wildly, as she shook her head in an unconscious gesture of denial. "That's absolute nonsense!" she bellowed. "Is everyone here crazy? You're spouting mystical bullshit as though it were no more mundane than breathing. I'm the fucking victim of everyone's lunatic delusions."

Myrhia suddenly leapt to her feet, moving around the table with deceptive speed. She gripped both of Islena's wrists and shook her briskly. Next to Doraux's sculpted psyche, the high Queen appeared as frangible as crystal, but she confronted the more powerful woman as though she was impervious to anything that Islena might unleash. Myrhia's aggression was so unexpected that it stunned Doraux to immobile silence.

"Do you really want to go home?" the Queen demanded hotly.

Islena nodded numbly and attempted to avert her eyes. The dark fire that radiated from the High Queen shattered any illusion that she might be too timid or weak to rule. An irresistible force jerked Islena's gaze back to meet the queen's blazing regard.

"There are some basic maxims that you had better accept," Myrhia intoned sharply. "Whatever prejudices that you've acquired on your old world will only do you harm here."

She deliberately dug her long nails into the firm flesh of Islena's forearms. "Accept the fact that your old beliefs hold no currency here and dispense with them."

The High Queen released one of Doraux's arms and brought her fist down on the table, making her guest flinch as the force of the blow made the entire heavy table reverberate as though it had been struck by a mallet.

"If you have any chance of surviving this ordeal, it is imperative that you realize that this world is a tangible place, with its own real and deadly evils. Learn to recognize these perils and adapt to them. To do anything else would only be to forfeit whatever slim chance you might have of being reunited with your family."

Releasing her grip, the High Queen stepped back. "There is more at stake than your own self-interests, as unfair and undeserving as your plight might be."

Islena blinked, discerning the implications couched in Myrhia's dispassionate tone. The sudden change in postures confirmed just how precarious her situation was. "Maybe you'd better explain that."

"There are two governing forces in this world, Islena...conventional warfare and magic. The harmonic balance between these forces is earth knowledge. It is this balance that prevents one of the governing forces from running rampant in the world. Do you understand?"

"No!" Doraux hissed, losing all patience with discussions of the arcane workings of the High Queen's world.

Patiently, Myrhia drew a breath and moved her hand. A tiny emerald flame erupted in the small cup of her palm. It began to dance and flicker. It was a moment before Doraux realized that the improbable green flame was moving in precise syncopation to her own racing heart.

"How did you do that?" Islena demanded in a voice made tremulous with confusion.

Myrhia waved her hand and the small flame vanished. Then she reached for the startled Doraux's hand and turned the palm upward. In a darting pass, she slid her palm across Islena's while uttering an incantation in a language that her captive did not recognize.

Now the emerald flame sparked to life in Islena's palm. There was a moment of heat, but it was diffuse and not unpleasant.

Myrhia beamed a brilliant smile, delighted by her guest's amazed reaction. "A mere trick, Islena: one that any magician's apprentice could perform. Yet, it is not without the power to beguile. What you are seeing is little more than a sensory illusion. Go ahead and touch it."

Enthralled, Doraux hesitantly passed her fingers through the flames. There was an instant of the same pleasing warmth, but the flames found no purchase on her bronze skin.

"The world is fraught with danger...especially to a woman who is naive to its workings. By bringing you here, Ryalla has violated every natural law. He will go to any extreme to coerce you into doing his bidding, including the destruction of everything that you hold sacred. The Imperator will not hesitate to use your family as a means of coercion if he feels that is what is required to make you biddable."

"What should I do?" Islena murmured softly, still mesmerized by the emerald flame.

The Queen recognized the moment of surrender and moved to capitalize on her victory "You must learn to recognize the forces that are at work in this world. Above all else, you must come to terms with whom and what you are. Only then will you be able to best select the path that you must follow and assess which alliance would best suit your interest."

Pursing her lips, Myrhia exhaled and the exquisite flame promptly went out. She replaced it with the Sacred Book. "This might provide some insight into why Ryalla believes you are the chosen one who could unlock the recumbent power of the Proclamations."

She accepted the leather-bound book, tucking it under her arm without glancing at the pages. Myrhia looped her own arm through Islena's and ushered her towards the main door. "I've promised you total candor. I need your help desperately. If the tyrant manages to find the Proclamations, all of those who have sacrificed their lives will have done so in vain. I also happen to share his certitude that you are the one of prophecy."

Islena found herself lacking the energy to raise any further arguments. "Will you answer one more question?"

The High Queen spread her arms in a gesture of accommodation. In the soft light of the gas lamps, Doraux wondered if it was possible for anything to be as lovely as Myrhia appeared at that moment. "If Ryalla were to somehow entice me into using these Proclamations to help him get what he's after, what would happen?"

Myrhia frowned severely and fluttered her eyelashes. "He would become unstoppable. Even time and space could not confine his evil ambition."

"Myrhia am I your prisoner?" she demanded bluntly. There was little point in skirting the issue. The High Queen did not respond for several moments. The tension thickened as each searched the others eyes for a glimpse of insight or intention.

"You are my guest, and as such, I am obligated to extend you every courtesy, including the protection of your personal safety," Myrhia replied slyly.

"And if I was to leave here, my safety might be jeopardized?" Islena's smile was a hard as bits of ground glass, forcing Myrhia to abandon her diplomacy.

"My world is embroiled in the ugliest fight for survival that it has ever known. It allows for no neutrality. We must all declare ourselves eventually. I pray that you will stand with me, but if you chose not to, then I am compelled to do what is necessary to survive. If I cannot compel you to stand as my ally, I must then insure that you do not become Ryalla's pawn."

There was a sense of fatalism about the High Queen's response that softened Islena's hard glare. For her part, Myrhia decided that it might be prudent to placate Islena. This was a woman who could be driven to intransigence at the slightest perceived threat to her independence. Stopping near the massive doors, she tenderly caressed the aristocratic ridges of Islena's cheekbones, correctly deducing that such tactile advances unnerved the other woman.

'She's deliberately tantalizing me,' Doraux realized, but could not help but succumb to the High Queen's subtle manipulation.

"Let us not treat each other with suspicion and anger. Ours is a common purpose. I want a dignified peace and a return to life as it was in the days of my husband's reign. Is your objective so different from mine?"

The two eyed each other for a long moment and then Myrhia rapped sharply on one of the doors. A guard swung one of the massive oak doors open, signifying that the audience was at an end. "Tomorrow I must leave for consultations with my commanders in the west. During my absence, I ask that you read the Sacred Book and try to comprehend the grave implications of the prophecy. An open mind is your greatest ally, Islena."

Myrhia paused, stroking her chin reflectively. "I sense your ambivalence. Tomorrow you shall go out amongst the people of Perdwick. Observe them and speak freely with them. If I am the monster that the Jerhia has undoubtedly alleged me to be, some sense of my tyranny will be reflected in their eyes if not couched in their words. The peasants are neither diplomatic nor particularly good at masking their emotions."

"What's to stop me from simply leaving?" Islena offered with a crooked grin. She was not certain what motivated her to attempt to provoke Myrhia. It was possible that the explanation lay in her desire to ascertain the High Queen's true intentions and nature, but she guessed that her reasons were more complex. In the presence of another strong woman, she had always felt the compulsion to challenge, to be assertive. While not a particularly admirable trait, Doraux understood that it was an essential ingredient of her character.

A slight flaring of the nostrils was the only indication that she had succeeded in rousing Myrhia's ire. Behind her, the two escorts stirred anxiously; shocked that anyone would possess the temerity to address the High Queen with such blatant impertinence.

Myrhia's mouth stretched into a tight, Humorless smile. "Hopefully your good judgment will prevent you from simply wandering away. You may take my trust as a sign of my good faith."

"Fair enough," Islena replied, detecting no guile on Myrhia's part. In truth, there was little to be gained by aggravating her self-appointed benefactress. Myrhia smiled her radiant smile and all of Islena's misgivings evaporated. As Myrhia had declared, if there were answers to be found, she would find them amongst the ordinary people of Perdwick. The fact that she had even been granted the opportunity illustrated that Myrhia might well be what she claimed to be, or possibly the most dispassionate gambler that Islena had ever encountered.

In the face of Myrhia's disclosure, her contentiousness seemed to be an expression of monumental ingratitude. "Myrhia, I'm sorry if I've been difficult, or somehow offensive. It looks as though you've saved me from blundering right into Ryalla's trap and I'm grateful. I find myself immersed in a situation that defies every sensibility that I've developed through my own life experience. It has placed me in an unenviable position of having to impart trust and be dependant upon others for my survival...circumstances that are contrary to every value I hold sacred."

Myrhia smiled shyly. Her sudden diffidence reminded Islena of the way that a small child might react to an unexpected compliment. "Frankly, I was moved as much by the land's need as your own welfare. Still, I fervently believed that the two are intertwined and that our alliance will serve our mutual needs."

Islena found herself impressed by the High Queen's straightforward manner. Her chief concern lay in the land's need and she made no pretext about her priority in meeting its demand. Under other circumstances, Doraux would have found it difficult not to trust or like Myrhia, but her initial impression of Amrand had been remarkably similar and very nearly disastrous.

While imparting trust had never been an easy thing for Islena, neither had sharing her inner emotions with strangers. Still, she felt obligated to try. "Myrhia, learning to trust other people has never been a particularly easy thing for me. I think that you've been honest, and I appreciate that, but I need time to be certain and to decide what actions to take."

The High Queen's expression became pensive. "Time is a precious commodity and while I'm prepared to grant it to you, Ryalla most definitely will not. When he learns that you are with me, his reaction will most certainly be quick and violent." She paused to contemplate the imaginary threat, her brow furrowing in apparent agitation. As Islena watched her, she could not help but wonder how such a fragile creature had managed to persevere against a barbarian like Ryalla. Then the beguiling, impish grin resurfaced. "I'm sure that we can provide for your safety for at least one more day. Hopefully a day in Perdwick will help allay your concerns."

She motioned to the guards, who quickly stepped aside and indicated that Islena should follow.

"We'll speak again when I return," Myrhia called after her broad back, marveling at the span of the woman's shoulders. Doraux suddenly thought of something else to ask, but when she turned back, the massive doors had already swung shut.

4

Ynthrax had witnessed the entire exchange from the concealment of the shadows directly behind the throne. He went from astonishment to dismay as the woman's tone grew more combative, more irreverent. He shuddered to think what might have befallen him had he ever challenged Myrhia so brazenly. He fully expected her to bring a bolt of lightening down on this Islena, but Myrhia continued to display an incredible amount of restraint. The entire episode only served to illustrate just how crucial this woman was to Myrhia's mad scheme of insatiable conquest.

Finally, the interview concluded and Myrhia merely stood staring at the oak doors, a curious half-smile playing at her lips. Ynthrax approached her tentatively, fearing that she might vent the frustration that she must surely be feeling, upon him.

His disbelief was further compounded when she whirled about and clapped her hands together exuberantly like a small child. "Is she not a marvel, Ynthrax?"

"My Queen, she seems unpredictable," he ventured cautiously, "Volatile, even."

"It pleases me to see that you've become a student of human nature," she chided lightly. The commander could not recall the enchantress ever having seemed so sanguine. "Yes, the woman is unpredictable and volatile. Once she has been swayed to a course, she is likely to pursue her end with a tenacity that is beautiful to behold. I fear that the Jerhia are about to make a deadly enemy."

She threw back her head in a peel of laughter that turned Ynthrax's blood to ice water. "Milady, your, eh, guest remains unconvinced of your integrity. If she feels the slightest intimation that something is amiss, she'll turn that tenacity against you. She's dangerous."

"She is beyond dangerous, Ynthrax. I doubt that you can begin to fathom just how much of a menace she truly is," Myrhia's eyes darkened. Ynthrax imagined that he could hear the whirring of the cryptic machinery behind those inscrutable eyes. "Don't you see that her very instability makes her vulnerable? If I can rouse and direct her passion, Islena will be all the more pliable...all the more resolute to serve my purpose."

Ynthrax merely nodded, though he privately harbored the notion that the High Queen had finally committed a gross miscalculation. It was then that Ynthrax decided that he must actively attempt to reverse the madness that he had helped set in motion. He turned away for fear of conveying his treasonous thoughts. In her preoccupation, Myrhia appeared not to have noticed his mounting agitation.

"I've arranged for one last bit of theatrics that will help convince our lovely Islena that the nefarious Ryalla is the cause of all of her woes."

The commander knew better than to question Myrhia about her machinations. Instead, he turned to the matter of the western invasion. "Milady, the troops grow restive. We've held them at bay for five days. The scouts have reported that the causeway is now virtually impassable."

"The invasion may begin in the next few days," she interrupted, her tone hinting at either boredom or irritation. "I've made certain plans in that regard as well...a little display to unbalance our supposedly unflappable opponents."

"You'll be present at the crossing then?"

"Naturally." It was obvious that the High Queen was still distracted by the woman. "Depart immediately. When the time to commence the invasion arrives, I'll join you. Now leave me. I have preparations to make and a city of the dead to resurrect."

Ynthrax bowed and withdrew. Outside the door, the commander sighed and sagged against the wall, leaning his craggy forehead against the cool stones to suppress his trembling. He wondered how much longer he would be able to maintain his charade of loyalty.

Myrhia's prescience was terrifying under normal circumstances, but her preoccupation with the woman just might afford him the opportunity to contrive some way of stopping her. If he was to make a move, Ynthrax knew that it would have to be done with all possible haste. Suddenly, he longed for the savage beauty of Redia, while doubting that he would ever see its mountains and brooding forests again.

Inhaling deeply, he pushed away from the wall and headed for the barracks. His pace began to quicken as his mind began to lay the foundation stones for his proposed betrayal...and the death he could expect by way of compensation.

Chapter Twenty Three

1

The horse picked its way gingerly along the rock-strewn shore at a canter. The man's vigilant eyes swept the distant shore, though experience had taught him that he would see nothing through the churning fog. There had been times when this strange, haunting place seemed particularly alive and he thought that he had detected subtle intimations of activity from the far side of the hissing river.

The solitary rider suddenly dismounted, spoke a few reassuring words to his horse, and turned to consider the impenetrable bank of mist.

"What worlds do you hide?" he inquired of the brooding fog. No reply was forthcoming and indeed, he had expected none. Gillian had been here, relegated to this place of isolation and mystery, for the better part of three years, and had never lost his fascination with the land that lay over the deadly waters of the Hiberas.

On impulse, he stooped down and collected a pebble. He regarded it closely for a long moment before tossing it into the dark water. The stone arched out over the dark river and began to descend. Before it could break the surface a blinding bolt of argent lightening snapped out of the placid water. It struck the pebble, reducing it to a fine white powder that drifted down into the river, setting off a hundred tiny eruptions upon contact.

The phenomenon delighted him in an inexplicable way. In those tiny bursts of deadly light, Gillian imagined that he could see a parallel with the scourge that presently ravaged his world. He brushed the dust from his hands and returned to his search of the opposite shore. His very presence here was symptomatic of the Jerhia's innate mistrust of all things metaphysical.

Even though his land stood on the verge of being overrun by a tyrant's lust for power, the autocrats still insisted on placing two thousand capable troopers to guarding their western flank against whatever terrors that might dwell on the other side of the Hiberas.

Gillian's cruelly-chiseled features twisted into a mirthless grin. He had no illusion about the reasons that lay behind his own presence on this enchanted border. His flamboyant manner had raised the ire of the Upper Tier, especially the dour Ossiran, who presently exerted the greatest influence over that upper chamber. Gillian knew that he had little chance of being delivered from the unrelenting boredom of this pointless assignment \- guarding against spirits and specters was a magician's work, not a soldiers - as long as the old man held power in Summergaden.

Despite the tedious duty and the insulting rank, Gillian possessed no real rancor for Ossiran. On the contrary, he found the old man's stubborn refusal to surrender the traditions of the ancient's rather admirable. The primary philosophical difference that existed between Gillian and the Upper Tier was rooted in the way that each perceived the course along which the Jerhia character should evolve. Gillian had always been the renegade, challenging the notion that a Jerhia's soul should be built upon rigid discipline. Even in the academy he had defied many of the great traditions. His inimitable skill as a soldier had spared him from being exiled outright, and though his teachers had attempted to punish the strong independence out of him, the boy had steadfastly refused to surrender his individuality.

Before his assignment here, Gillian had been brought before the Upper Chamber and forced to defend his rebellious attitude. "Our people have lost their souls," he had declared to the tribunal. "We have bred a nation of robots, who have no essential humanity. Myrhia has destroyed our mantle of invincibility, and if we are to survive this war, it is imperative that we unleash our passion for justice and humanity that our ways have unwittingly entombed. As much as it might pain you, it is time to admit that the desensitizing ways of the past must be abandoned in favor of passion and fire."

His argument had received the angry reception that he had expected and so he had been sent here, while his countrymen continued to die in defense of a heritage that was essentially obsolete. Gillian shook his head bitterly.

Across the Hiberas, the Land Of Shades mocked him silently...this requiem for the dead...this purgatory for souls not dark enough or bright enough to find their rightful place in heaven or hell. Gillian was ambivalent about the old myths, but he had no doubt that the land was enchanted though all he knew about what might dwell there was derived from speculation. In all of recorded history, no one had succeeded in braving the Hiberas and entering the demesne of the dead.

A permanent wall of obscuring fog had denied even a glimpse of what lay on the other side of the river. For the most part, Gillian suspected that the mists hid a blighted, barren waste. Then there were times, when the imaginative aspect of his mind dictated the course of his thoughts, that the Jerhia believed the hidden world to be one of ineffable beauty and splendor. Either way, Gillian was certain that this pointless scrutiny would be as close as he would ever come to discovering the mysteries that the hidden country had to offer.

Just then a rider appeared over the hill that he had just descended. Gillian winced, seeing that the rider's frantic pace was much too fast for the treacherous path. To his surprise, the rider, who turned out to be an official Jerhia courier, managed to reach him without incident.

"The Gods must indeed smile on fools," he told the young man as he watched him dismount his horse. The rider saluted breathlessly, his eye glowing with the fervor that Gillian had long come to associate with the chronically hypnotized youth of his culture, to whom duty was sacrosanct.

"I bring an urgent message from the Upper Tier, care of Ossiran himself," the young man announced, obviously ecstatic over having been entrusted with such an important duty.

"So the old mule lives yet?" Gillian quipped as he took the letter, smiling at the boy's near apoplectic reaction. Clearly exasperated by such impertinence, the boy turned and stumbled back to his horse. A communiqué from Ossiran himself? Intrigued, Gillian tore open the letter and began to read. As he scanned the text, that intrigued turned to horror and then utter incredulity by the time he had finished. He reread the letter carefully and then threw it into the Hiberas, watching as a tongue of flame consumed it like a tasty morsel.

The witch had conquered the entire eastern continent and was poised to invade Jerhia even now. Even Gillian had never believed that her machinations would progress so far. The final portion of the letter was absolutely mystifying. Evidently, Myrhia now held captive a woman from another world. Ossiran's missive implied that this woman might be the One of Prophecy. The ranking powers of the other Cornerstone Nations insisted that Myrhia intended to use this woman to find the fabled Three Proclamations.

'Wonder upon unthinkable wonder,' he thought, bemused.

Gillian shook his head. Surely, the pragmatic Ossiran did not subscribe to such fatuous mysticism? His latest set of orders made it quite apparent that the old man was taking this latest threat extremely serious, the logic of which completely eluded Gillian. His instructions read:

The causeway from Natzurdan remains open, though for how much longer I cannot say. You are to depart at all possible haste and cross that ribbon of stone before it is taken! Once in the east, you shall covertly seek out this woman. To infiltrate the defenses of the Imperial Army, it may be necessary to assume the guise of a mercenary. Select an identity of your own devising and conduct yourself as you see fit, but find the woman.

When you have located the woman, observe her carefully and determine if she is inclined to serve the enchantress. If you detect any such willingness, kill her without hesitation. As you are a man who appreciates candor, I will be frank: Officially, you are being dispatched by the Cornerstone Nations to bring this woman safely out of the east. Privately, I will charge you with a more realistic mandate. Find the woman, yes, and rescue her from Myrhia if you are able, but should she be complaisant to the witch, or if you deem it impossible to return her to the western continent, take her life. While she lives, this woman represents a grave danger to every living creature on this world. With your unique disposition, I am confident that you are ideally suited to the task of negating this threat.

Ossiran

Gillian frowned. Had murder become such a cynical and detached thing as this? If the war went on for much longer, Gillian thought that it would be difficult to differentiate between the two sides. A faceless woman had been condemned to death because she had the misfortune of falling into the wrong hands. Disgusted, Gillian uttered a vile epithet and gazed up at the sky.

The soldier mounted his horse and started back for his Spartan lodgings. He intended to collect his personal belongings and begin the journey north within the hour. Gillian had already decided that he would not kill the woman, unless she showed herself to be cut from the same cloth as the enchantress. Though perhaps nothing more than self-serving symbolism, he was determined to spare her life and bring her back to the west to demonstrate that there was still some value in even a single human life.

2

The differences between prevailing tension near the shattered Jerhia causeway and the macabre tranquility that Gillian was about to leave behind could not be measured in terms of mere distance. With each hour that Myrhia's army did not attack the air along the fractured stone ribbon became so thick as to be suffocating. To further aggravate the agonizing tension a storm front had taken up residence directly over the chasm, bringing with it an intense heat and maddening, enervating humidity. For the soldiers, the simplest of movements brought forth a flood of greasy sweat that made the body feel depleted and foul.

Ossiran stood on the western edge of the great crevice, surveying the damage that his troops had inflicted upon the stood ribbon. While he was satisfied with all that they had achieved, the sight of the jagged and broken stone filled him with a vague ache as though some intrinsic part of his soul had been hollowed out. There was an aspect of symbolism to the devastation of that road.

'There can be no going back,' he told himself, realizing that the old and beloved traditions of his people had been irrevocably lost with their shattering defeat on the eastern continent.

He forced his attention to the tactical detail of the situation. In its present state, the causeway presented an insurmountable obstacle to any conventional attack. Any army attempting to forge its way across that broken valley of stone would be slaughtered like cattle in a pen. He found it cruelly ironic that, after seven years of defeats, this was the most defensible position that his troops had been blessed with in the entire campaign.

His personal adjutant, Maroc, joined him in his inspection. "The troops have done well. If they intend to span this gap, the High Queen's troopers had better sprout wings."

"No possibility should be discounted," Ossiran remarked with a touch of bitterness. "Still, if we could manage to bloody her army badly enough, it might have the effect of dissuading her from pursuing her invasion plans."

"It comes to me that Gillian has received his instructions and has already departed for the east," Maroc reported dryly. A sour expression crossed the old man's face. "Perchance he can remain true to the Jerhia cause on just this one occasion."

Maroc simply nodded, knowing that it was unwise to dwell on the subject of Gillian. The two returned to a silent examination of the defenses, when an abrupt shout of warning came from somewhere along the ribbon.

Ossiran's heart hammered in his chest. Could this be the onset of hostilities? Part of him hoped that it was the beginning, preferring battle to the awful tension of the unnerving wait.

"The glass," the Tier Marshal barked. The adjutant handed him a miraculous invention, which consisted of a tube and two pieces of ground glass that magically brought distant images closer. All along the causeway, his archers milled about in eager anticipation. He raised the glass and scanned the length of stone on the other side of the segment his troops had destroyed. A single rider drove his mount toward the edge. He approached under no flag and rode as though he intended to vault his horse over the void. When it appeared certain that he would simply plummet into the hole, the rider reined his horse and came to a smooth halt on the very edge of the drop-off. Curiously enough, he remained there, simply watching the other side and waiting patiently for someone to acknowledge his presence.

"Does the High Queen send an intermediary?" Maroc wondered aloud, immediately suspecting a ruse.

"Perhaps," Ossiran mused. "I think it best that we find out."

With this, Ossiran, the Maxim Tier Marshal of Jerhia, mounted his horse and led a small procession of followers to the western edge of his perimeter. Through sheer diligence and determination, his soldiers had succeeded in destroying a stretch of causeway one hundred and thirty feet long and approximately twenty five feet deep. Ossiran dismounted and strode to the edge of the hole. Mustering all of his characteristic gruffness, he hailed the lone rider. His voice rang clear in the expectant silence of the afternoon. "You stand on disputed ground. Identify yourself and state your purpose!"

After a moment, the solitary figure replied, "I am Rygore and I wish to return to my homeland."

Ossiran glanced about and noted that every face wore the identical look of disbelief. Maroc turned to his superior and admonished, "I sense some treachery is afoot. It is inconceivable that someone of Rygore's import would be allowed to ride out of the east, unescorted."

Ossiran considered this for a moment and then shook his head, convinced that his army operated from a position of superiority that would allow them to react quickly and effectively to whatever deception the High Queen might attempt. "It is possible that he brings a message from the enemy. What's more, he is a distinguished member of the Tier and I cannot turn him away. Have the ladders brought forward and bring the Tier Marshal across."

Maroc groaned silently, but recognized that inflexible tone which declared that his commander's mind was made up. "Let it be done."

Six men carried a thirty foot section of siege ladder forward and lower it into the valley. As the team moved to bring the tier marshal across, Ossiran raised his glass and swept the eastern horizon. The approach road was deserted and nothing stirred in the trees along the precipice. He trained his glass on Rygore, but the man's face was tilted downwards and he could see nothing of his old friend's countenance.

The soldiers extended the thirty foot ladder and Rygore moved to climb down. Ossiran and his aides watched the old man's stiff descent, each viewing his unexpected appearance as a portent of varying implications.

At last, Rygore climbed out of the hole and stood before the supreme commander with his head bowed. Ossiran interpreted his deference to be an indication of the shame that accompanied the debilitating defeat that the man's forces had suffered during the final battle in Kornas. The role of the vanquished was not one that a Jerhia Tier Marshal was accustomed to playing.

"Tier Marshal Rygore it warms my heart to see that you have survived," Ossiran offered uncomfortably. He too was not used to receiving defeated commanders and had no clear notion of the appropriate words to offer. "We grieve for the loss of our fallen kindred."

"I must announce that the east has been lost," Rygore declared with a stiff formality that did not entirely succeed in concealing his tremulous voice.

Ossiran nodded. "But hope is not, my old friend," he remarked, trying to find a way of lessening Rygore's monumental anguish. "As you have seen, we have prepared a most nasty reception for the High Queen's hordes...one that will disabuse her of the notion that we will fall easy prey to her armies of predators."

Rygore suddenly looked up, his eyes frantic and wild. He gripped Ossiran's forearms and pulled him closer. "I've come to tell you that this is sheer folly. Your position is indefensible. If we are to survive it must be through strict obedience. I entreat you to renege on your effort to oppose her before she resorts to genocide!"

Nonplused, the high commander attempted to pull away, but could not. "Rygore, has defeat clouded your reason," he sputtered. "No army could broach this obstacle."

Rygore beamed a hellish grin, and Ossiran understood that Maroc's apprehension had proven correct. Something had poisoned his friend's mind. "Fool, there is no earthly force that can resist her power. Our constricted doctrines have blinded us to the true nature of this woman's strength." He opened his eyes fully for the first time. They shone a luminous and unnatural blue that was awful to behold. "Ah, but you will, old friend...you most assuredly will."

With this, he pushed Ossiran away and took several steps backwards. There was a chorus of warnings when it became apparent that he would fall over the edge. To the amazement and dismay of all present, the thing which had once been Rygore did not surrender to the grasp of gravity. Instead, he hovered in thin air and spread his arms in a gesture of evocation. "Behold! This is what the High Queen can offer. Her puissance knows no boundaries. While we scurry in the dirt like ants, plotting your feeble resistance, she extends the generous offer of immortality."

As though in defiance of the natural law, the thing that had been Rygore did a comical jig while suspended. His movements evoked images of a horrific marionette. Finally, he focused his awful blue eyes upon the commander. A sober tone had replaced the former euphoria. "Lay down your weapons and spare the blood of our people."

"This is how I answer your tyrant," Ossiran growled. He raised his fist and then brought his hand down in a chopping motion which was met by the hiss and whine of a hundred archer's arrows. Each found home with customary Jerhia accuracy. Arrows protruded from Rygore's chest. His abdomen. His skull.

To Ossiran's consternation, no blood issued from any of the wounds. The floating demon responded by throwing back its head and emitting a low, guttural rumble that shook the solid stone of the causeway. It inhaled deeply, its lungs expanding to impossible proportions, and then it exhaled an expanding cloud of black mist. The mist swelled and thickened, rising up into the already darkened skies.

"Do you see?" the thing chirped gleefully. "Even the heavens are not beyond her influence."

The Jerhia watched in collective horror as the cloud spread to engulf the entire eastern horizon. The afternoon dullness faded into twilight and then the storm broke with terrifying fury. Even the unflappable Jerhia could not help but be moved by the barrage of lightening bolts that issued out of the roiling clouds with a malevolence that seemed purposeful. Huge arcs of blue and white electricity leapt from the sky, gouging up massive chunks of granite and flinging them effortlessly into the Great Mother.

A line of catapults had been erected along the western edge of the chasm and concealed by natural camouflage. Each one of these was demolished by the strike of successive bolts of lightening. The great battle engines burst into flames and burned while the troops who manned them could only look on in helpless dismay. Soon the unnatural twilight was aglow with the eerie light of dozens of intense fires.

Along with the destructive lightening bolts, there came the titanic rumble of earthshaking thunder. The rumble reverberated through the sky and shook the earth and stone. Along the causeway, the soldiers were picked up and flung in every direction by the violent upheavals. Scores of soldiers were thrown over the edge, their dying screams obliterated by the forlorn sound of the world tearing itself asunder.

Maroc was screaming for Ossiran to move clear of the floating monstrosity, but the old man remained stationary as though he was riveted to the ground. He stared at the thing that had once been his most competent field commander, oblivious to the carnage around him or the prospect of his own imminent demise. Morzhian and the other one had not exaggerated when they had spoken of the apocalyptic scale of Myrhia's evil. If he had not been so skeptical perhaps this disaster might have been averted. In a twist of black irony, Ossiran realized that the fate of his entire world now rested in the hands of a man whom he had branded an incorrigible rebel. 'Gillian must find and kill this woman.'

The realization was the final thought that he would have in this world. The thing grinned its hellish grin and abruptly darted forward. Before the others could pull the old man clear, Rygore swept him up in his arms and lifted him into the sky, carrying him out over the chasm.

It inclined its head towards Ossiran's ear and began to speak. Though the thunder was deafening, the old man could hear each word as clearly as if it had been spoke within the chamber of his mind. He recoiled from the foul stench of the things breath; a putrid combination of desiccating flesh and sulfur.

"Your world is at an end, my old friend. Today marks the dawning of a new age. The futility and folly of the old ways are finally put to rest," it laughed. "It is time for relics to be put away."

With this, he released Ossiran and let him fall, screaming, into the incalculable depths of the Great Mother.

"Pull back to the western edge!" Maroc exclaimed, gesturing madly for a general retreat. The situation might still be salvaged if he could organize some systematic withdrawal. All about him, flashes of lightening assailed the stone structure of the ancient causeway, achieving in minutes what the Jerhia would not have been able to in weeks.

He began to pull backwards, pushing men before him as he made his way toward the beckoning ridge. Abruptly, the cacophonous thunder relented, to be replaced by the braying of a solitary trumpet. Maroc and the retreating Jerhia froze.

"They come!" someone cried, giving voice to the fear that had haunted the nation for the better part of seven years...that sense of impending violation that had been so inconceivable to a culture that had never suffered defeat or lived under that shadow of subjugation. Maroc did not stop, but he did gaze back over his shoulder as he ran. The causeway itself had been rendered impassable. Huge, jagged junks of solid granite had been thrown into the Great Mother, effectively severing the tie with the eastern continent.

'In your haste to demonstrate your power, you've committed a fatal error in judgment, enchantress,' Maroc thought to himself. And as the approaching armies reached the broken sections of the causeway, his conclusion appeared irrefutable.

Reaching the line of catapults, the adjutant found that only two had escaped the storm unscathed. "Arm the engines and begin firing."

The crew scrambled to comply and the engine was ready to fire in only a few moments. There was a mighty swishing sound and the large boulder was propelled out over the void. It fell well short of the mark, bouncing harmlessly into the chasm. The advancing army had come to a halt at the edge of the passable section of stone ribbon. They seemed unconcerned by the Jerhia's feeble attempt to mount a defense. The lead riders dismounted their horses and at Rygore's instruction, stepped out into the thin air. Like mist, this deadly legion began to float across the void, marching inexorably toward Jerhia as though on solid ground.

Suddenly comprehending what was about to occur, Maroc raised his field glass and trained it upon the floating soldiers. In full regalia of Imperial troops came rank upon rank of luminous blue monstrosities similar to the Rygore entity. Unlike Rygore, these things did not pose in the guise of human beings. They were massive hulking creatures with no discernable facial features and appeared to radiate their own hellish light.

Maroc could feel the weight of a thousand eyes upon his back, all awaiting the cogent instruction that might deliver them from inevitable defeat.

'I am unprepared,' Maroc thought, feeling abject and inadequate. Rygore had illustrated that the creatures were impervious to conventional weapons and these were all that his troops had at their disposal. In the face of this, there was only one humane and viable alternative. "Sound general retreat," He bellowed.

"The cavalry is to retreat along the central road, alerting the other regiments of what has transpired here. The foot soldiers are to scatter into the forest and find whatever refuge they may. Moving north as they go, find what provisions they can...take what they can carry and destroy the rest. "

There was a brief interlude...a moment of stunned silence, and then the grim implications of Maroc's command touched every Jerhia heart. It was evident that the battle for the Jerhia homeland was lost after only scarcely having begun.

On the causeway, the Morticants came on like an unstoppable juggernaut. They did not hurry their pace even as the Jerhia ranks broke down before their advance. They were immune to defeat and indifferent to the jubilation of victory. Their sole purpose was to advance and destroy anything that attempted to hinder their progress. They heeded the command of their only master...Myrhia.

After the last of the Morticants had reached the western continent. Myrhia, Ynthrax, and a party of commanders rode out to the place where the invaders had left their horses. As the high Queen watched the last rank of attackers pass through the trees, she could not help but smile at the simplicity with which victory had been achieved. "As promised, Ynthrax, I have provided you with a near bloodless victory. Was this not an ideal moment to unveil the greatest manifestation of my magical powers?"

"Impressive, indeed, Milady," Ynthrax concluded shakily. Despite his fear and revulsion, he was forced to admit that even he could not have anticipated the extent of their power. With this admission came the understanding that the day might soon be forthcoming when the High Queen no longer required his services. A small number of these creatures could easily achieve what a massive army could only dream of accomplishing. "What shall the Imperial Forces do, my Queen?"

She regarded him with a pointedly sardonic grin. "What they do best of course...sit and wait. My Morticants shall destroy the most serious obstacles in your path, while the heavens shall reduce the general population to quivering, mindless animals. Behold!"

She pointed toward the sky, where the vast roiling cloud had progressed toward the west. The western horizon was gone, obscured by a solid wall of blowing snow and fist-sized hail.

"By the Gods!" he exclaimed, grimacing before the awful spectacle of wanton destruction.

The High Queen leaned closer and gripped his forearm. Her voice was fraught with a couched warning. She touched her breast plate. "No Ynthrax, by the Goddess. This world is for all intents and purposes, mine now. While you clean up what resistance remains, I shall turn my energies into breaking free of this archaic prison."

"You speak of Islena and the Proclamations," he responded sourly.

"Yessss!" Her reply was a sibilant hiss of unadulterated hunger. Her dark eyes became distant and speculative. Ynthrax could almost taste the passion of her lust. She shook her head. "Come, this little sideshow has kept us distracted long enough. We shall return to Perdwick where I expect that Islena will have been prompted to reach her decision."

A rather curious expression flashed over Ynthrax's face, but Myrhia had already pivoted her horse and was heading back to the east. He issued a series of instruction to his commanders and set out after her. He prayed that, by the time they had reached the dead city, his own schemes would have reached fruition.

Chapter Twenty Four

1

She rose with a start, her body covered in a profuse sweat, her breathing coming in shallow gasps. She glanced about the unfamiliar room, discerning only vague shapes in the gloom. A single brazier provided the only source of heat and light in her quarters and had just about burned down to embers. Islena tried to recall the specific thing about her dream that had driven her to this state of agitation, and found that the substance of her dream had dissolved the moment she had opened her eyes, though the prevailing emotions had lingered.

What did come was the memory of the previous night's encounter with the enigmatic Myrhia. The meeting had made a vague and rather indecipherable impact upon Doraux, and though she was uncertain about her feelings toward the High Queen, it was difficult to reconcile her fragile beauty with Amrand's tales of a remorseless monster.

She kicked back the covers and realized that she was still dressed in the black uniform-like garb that Myrhia had given her. Gazing at herself in a Chevalier, Islena found that she didn't care for the implications of the costume. It was as though Myrhia had already conscripted her into her service. She peeled the uniform off and threw it into a pile near the foot of the bed. Naked, she stood before the mirror and considered her body. In the time that she had been here, her physique had undergone some subtle transformations. The most obvious was that her bronze hue had faded slightly, tarnishing her coppery appearance. Yet, when she looked closely, it occurred to her that the actual muscle structure of her body was changing, becoming harder and more defined. Evidently, the air and vitality of this place agreed with her. Still, Islena felt unaccountably sluggish and realized that she had not lifted a weight in well over a week.

"This is your only weapon," she murmured to her image, deciding that she could improvise. Physical exertion had always kept her thought process sharp and focused, and if there had ever been a time for clear-sightedness, it was now.

Still naked, she knelt on an area rug and began to perform a series of vigorous push-ups. She kept her mind deliberately blank, moving strongly until her shoulders had begun to burn and a thin sheen of perspiration covered her entire body. Rolling over, she worked through a sets of crunches and sit-ups and then through leg raises and extensions. She imaged that she could hear her engine cycling up through its gears as her heart rate elevated.

As her impromptu workout progressed, her equilibrium returned. This was the first time that she had been alone to consider her predicament; Amrand had apparently deceived her, but should she automatically throw her trust behind Myrhia? Was the eschewing of one an instant progression to the other?

She pushed herself harder, laboring until her powerful muscles began to tremble. Perhaps some insight could be gained through pain. It would have been a grievous error to believe that the High Queen was a timid flower. The woman had a character to match Islena's. She judged that Myrhia was strong and would not be swayed by emotion in the face of difficult decisions. But could she be trusted? That was the salient question upon which so much depended.

Using a chair as a brace, Islena began a set of deep tricep dips. There was a fatalistic sense of irony to the situation that brought a bitter grin to her sensuous lips. Her very life hinged on the human emotion that she had always felt the least comfortable with. When one imparted trust, they surrendered a part of themselves to the recipient, thus exposing their souls to the most cruel abuse imaginable...betrayal. Islena abhorred that kind of vulnerability because on the deepest atavistic level, trust was incongruent with survival.

Gazing about the room for something that was balanced, she spied a tall candle holder. Removing the candle and throwing it to the stone floor, she began to curl the holder. The iron base made a balanced curl impossible, so she switched positions for each successive set. The bicep heads bulged majestically as she worked them, raising the weight without moving her torso. She watched the contraction with the glazed expression of the hypnotized.

A sense of well-being suffused her body as the heat of effort restored her confidence. Myrhia had offered her one piece of cogent advice...she would have to choose, because this harsh world did not bestow room for neutrality. If she was to find her way back to her family (and Myrhia had been frank in declaring that the chance of that was depressingly remote), she would need help.

That was irrefutably true. She reasoned that, since magic had been the force to bring her here, only magic could send her home. That admission led her to several others. Amrand had being trying to lead her to the west, when they had been taken by Myrhia's Imperial Troopers. Myrhia claimed that the Three Cornerstone Nations were situated across this causeway. It thus became evident that any answers that she hoped to find would be had in the west as well.

A prolonged set of controlled knee bends brought a moan of delicious pain to her lips.

She would have preferred to have cast out on her own and tried to make her way to this Ryalla, but she understood that this was not practical. She knew nothing of the world and its geography. Eventually, she would have to rely on someone to guide her across the chasm. Her experiences with the people of this world told her that they were a fickle lot who served their own interest. In light of that bleak assessment, Islena understood that she was left with very little alternative in the matter. She would have to tie her fortune to Myrhia's and hope that she had chosen wisely.

Over an hour had passed since she had begun her exercise and her body had become a trembling mass of delicious pain. In its augmented state of awareness, Islena's body evoked images of the previous night's meeting and the ambiance that had hung about the pair. There had been a definite atmosphere of seduction to the dinner and she could scarcely deny that she had been profoundly affected by Myrhia's exquisite beauty. Gazing into those great and limpid brown eyes, it was easy to be mesmerized by the High Queen.

Her surrender to Lorio's advances had demonstrated that she was susceptible to such enchantments. Lorio could not compare to Myrhia's enticing appeal and Islena knew that she would have to be wary of falling into the same trap twice. Thoughts of Lorio caused her heart to wring painfully. The Lamish beauty had prevented a Jerhia Trooper from taking Doraux and had suffered for her devotion.

"Oh Myrhia, if you've lied to me about this one thing, I swear that I'll make you pay dearly," she vowed breathlessly, recalling the High Queen's oath that she had returned the woman to her people.

Pleasantly exhausted, Islena sat on the edge of the bed and waited for her heart rate to return to normal. And what of this curious matter of the Three Proclamations?

Of all the things that she had been told, the tale of these three icons was the most perplexing, and the primary reason behind her abduction. As illogical and baffling as it would seem, the main power players in this world's deadly drama all subscribed to the belief that only Islena could activate these icons. It seemed that everyone of import in this world regarded these fabled symbols with a mixture of dread and awe. Even Myrhia was obsessed with the notion that they held power beyond all imagining. Islena had always defined power in the most tangible terms, and while there were different types of power to be sure, she theorized that true power was not vague or ambiguous and existed on its own. Without physical substance, a thing could have influence, but not true independent power of any value.

Even in her world there were symbols of power, such as the Christian cross, but they were nothing without the accompanying faith. If one did not believe that the cross represented divinity and salvation, it was reduced to nothing more than metal or wood. Yet Myrhia had said that these icons were actually sources of power...talismans that held the sum total of an entire race's achievements. Could she possibly allow herself to subscribe to such an improbable notion?

Islena realized that it made little difference whether she accepted the reality of the proclamations or not. The people who had brought her here believed fervently in their power and like it or not, they had usurped control of her destiny. Both sides in the conflict wanted to find these Proclamations, and both insisted that she was the key to locating and activating them. Whatever else might be true of these proclamations, the willingness of others to accept their existence and inherent power had come to define Islena's reality.

Dwarfed by the scale of her dilemma, she shook her head and let her face fall into her hands. It was then that she recalled the book that Myrhia had pressed upon her. She glanced up to see that she had left it on a table near the door. Springing to her feet, she crossed the room and retrieved the heavy volume. She carried the book back to her bed and settled down to read.

As she scanned the text, the disconcerting notion that her mind was playing its translation trick returned. The words on the page were clearly not English, but somehow she understood them. The mystery astounded her, but she forced herself to concentrate on the text. The style was heavy and convoluted, drawing on allusions and ambiguous references that meant nothing to her. As she worked through the sections that Myrhia had designated, Islena had the distinct impression that what she was reading was more of a fairy tale than a sacred Scripture.

'Don't draw hasty judgments,' Myrhia's voice echoed in her mind. 'A stranger to your own world might be apt to draw the same conclusion when reading your Bible.'

That was true, but she could not help wonder about passages such as...the magician's wand shall set the fiercest of beasts to prancing like merry nymphs.

Reading on, she arrived at a section of text that the High Queen had boxed for emphasis.

It is said that life resembles a heavy chain, and that each link is but another aspect of the immortal soul. When the time of darkness casts its shadow over all worlds, the terminal ends of this chain shall come together to form the circle of time. Through these overlapping links there shall stride the despoiler, bringing anarchy and despair to all things good and noble. Its staples shall be blood and misery and none shall escape the sting of its iniquity.

The next several passages went on to describe the nature of life in this shadow of evil. Islena could see that it would be easy to draw a parallel to the horror that was running rampant in this particular time. Then she came to the critical paragraph. Someone, most likely Myrhia, had inscribed her name in the margin next to the block of text.

In the bleakest depths of desolation there shall come a figure from the opposite side of time and space. This figure shall come in the guise of a familiar stranger of irresolute heart. The fortunes of the world shall teeter on imperfect shoulders. Evil shall conspire to corrupt and control, but armed with the power of the ancients, this blessed one shall discover their true nature and find the means to give opposition to the despoiler and restore light to a dying world.

Islena laid the book aside, surprised to find that she was breathing in pinched gasps and shaking profoundly. It was crazy of course, the references were ridiculously obscure, but her being cried that she was this prophetic figure.

"Good God!" she muttered in disgust, and slammed her fist down on the cover. When viewed from the prejudiced perspective of her present situation, it was easy to draw certain conclusions...the proclamations were the power of the ancients and Ryalla was the despoiler and she was the familiar stranger. The implications of that specific reference were lost upon her, but things were confusing enough without trying to analyze that vague allusion. She was enough of a skeptic to know that any conflict could be fitted to the broad inferences of that passage and she refused to allow it to sway her thoughts.

The confinement of the room began to work at her nerves. The brooding castle, with its cold stone and dim lighting, was unrelentingly grim. She walked to a window and peered out, hoping to catch a glimpse of the city of Perdwick. She remembered that she was naked, but found herself unabashed by her nudity. Peering out of the window, she found that her perspective faced the heavy woods that surrounded the city that must have spread out from the opposite side of the castle. The rugged, unspoiled vista reminded her of Washington's parks, and that reminded her of the family that she had left behind. She retreated from the window, cutting the memory off with brutal swiftness. Dominique Normandy had given one good piece of advice when she had told her to forget her world. As difficult as that might prove to be, Islena saw that it was the only way that she could survive the rigors of this one. Melancholy was yet another millstone that she could not afford to carry.

She sighed, an expression that she contemptuously viewed as a tool for the pathetic, and retrieved her clothes. She dressed, still feeling oddly uncomfortable in the uniform, and went to her door. She was not completely surprised to find it locked. Drawing back her fist, Islena began to pound heavily upon the large wooden door, the furious blows reverberating down the desolate stone corridors.

An instant later, a single guard swung the door open and stood regarding her questioningly. Though his face remained veiled, the man could not hide his surprise at the sight of such an unusual woman. "I require food and water for bathing. I also wish to speak with Myrhia."

Islena had decided that it might be best to address the trooper with the slightest hint of condescension in her voice. The effect was immediate. The guard recoiled as though he had been slapped, fearing that this fool's blasphemy might somehow reflect upon him.

"The High Queen is gone to the west. Her return is not expected until this evening," he stammered. "She has bid us to meet your needs in all things."

"Then you will allow me to go free?" Doraux teased, taking a perverse pleasure in this underling's obvious discomfort.

"That, I cannot do, Milady," the guard replied stiffly.

"The food and bath then."

The guard nodded and hurried away, relieved to be out of the devil's company. This thing that Myrhia had conjured was an abomination, despite its exquisite beauty, and perhaps as deadly as the High Queen, herself.

Some minutes later, a copper kettle was carried into the room by two straining guards and set near the fireplace. Thereafter, a procession of serving woman dragged buckets of hot water into the room, all stealing furtive glances at its occupant. Doraux watched the women impassively. Their faces were all deeply lined and bereft of hope or vitality. Their faded expressions spoke eloquently of the female role in this world. Here, women were the drones, good for drudgery and bedding, but little else. The stereotype made Islena wonder how Myrhia was able to cling to power without a male presence to stabilize her rule.

The breakfast was heavily spiced and greasy and she consumed only enough to satiate her gnawing hunger. She had preferred Amrand's simple fare of fruits and nuts to this over-prepared waste of good food. Conversely, the bath was a sheer delight. Her time in the woods had made her feel disgustingly filthy and she would have preferred to simply languish in the perfumed water until the High Queen returned. Still, there was one last matter to attend to and she chose to forsake her pleasure in favor of possible revelation.

The High Queen had advised her to let the eyes of the peasants tell her the tale of this world and Islena recognized the sagacity of that advice. She climbed out of the kettle, giving the steaming water one final longing look, and dressed in another of the uniforms.

Regarding herself in the mirror, she realized that this garb would draw unnecessary attention to her presence and it was her intention to observe discreetly and draw her conclusions from what she saw. She summoned the guard again and told him of her intention to go unattended into Perdwick. She also requested a cloak to conceal her body. He simply nodded and went off in search of an appropriate piece of clothing.

2

She was not sure what she had expected when she was led through the castle, the immensity of which dwarfed her imagination, but it had not been the almost curt dismissal that had accompanied her escort through the main gates.

A hawkish captain had led her through the gates and stopped three steps into the courtyard. He addressed her in a tone that was civil, yet cold, making his disdain apparent. "The Queen has commanded that you shall not be squired through the city, but I feel compelled to advise caution in your travels. Perdwick is a...wild place, where everything is not as it might first appear...many of its occupants are vipers."

Islena accepted the warning with a tacit nod and gazed about. The captain turned and walked back to the gates. Before he re-entered the castle, he turned back to Doraux and said, "The High Queen has allowed you an extraordinary privilege, it would be wise not to abuse her trust. Your presence is required upon the Queen's return. If you are still absent, I will be forced to hunt you down."

He watched her for a long moment, imparting the distinct impression that such an eventuality might please him considerably.

"Spare your threats. I'll be back," she remarked in an equally frigid voice and turned her back upon the man in a curt gesture of dismissal.

Islena had never been to, or indeed heard of a place named Amberdias, but if she had ever traveled through the Natzurdan capitol, she would have immediately been taken by the contrasts between its majestic and systematized arrangement and the random sprawl of Perdwick. She first noted that Perdwick was a walled city, circled by a fifteen foot high envelope of smooth stone from which all possible hand and foot holds had been laboriously effaced.

'Myrhia, you are a sly one,' she thought with a bemused grin. The High Queen's little bit of deception amused Islena. The wall did not preclude the possibility of escape, but it did make such an undertaking considerably more difficult. She began to walk toward the town with a smirk tugging at her lips. It was not long before that smirk was replaced by utter astonishment. Perdwick was surely the vision of an architect suffering through the terminal stages of dementia.

Nothing seemed to have been developed to any particular plan. Grandiose structures had been erected next to ramshackle hovels that appeared on the verge of collapse. There was absolutely no uniformity in style, size or arrangement of any of the buildings. She turned down a street that was dominated by an immense, towering edifice that looked as though it had been intended to challenge the authority of the sky itself. The sleek structure seemed to serve as a gathering point and the approaches to its base were choked with people.

Islena hesitated at the top of the street, suddenly reluctant to mingle with such a large throng of people. Looking back, she could see no signs of covert escort, but it was doubtful that Myrhia would be so obvious in her efforts to track her movements. There would be operatives, or so Islena believed, planted amongst the masses.

She raised the hood of her robe despite the closeness of the mid day sun, and ventured up the street. If the city had been astonishing, then the people could only be aptly described as wondrous. As she wound her way through the crowd, her ears were buzzed by the sounds of seemingly a hundred different languages and dialects. There was as much of a contrast between the people as there had been with the architecture. While the affluent (And there seemed to be no scarcity of these) were attired in splendid, brightly-colored robes of satin, silk and lace, there were also pitifully poor beggars who made their desperate supplications in strips of rags. The smell of exotic perfumes hung in the air, but beneath this Islena became aware of the cloying stink of long unwashed flesh. The blend was potent and oddly intoxicating.

The long street opened onto a huge circle where literally hundreds of makeshift market stalls had been erected. This square was a teeming mass of humanity and the earth beneath Islena's feet felt as though it were vibrating with the noise and vitality of the gathered throng. People moved through the crowd at a reckless pace, apparently unconcerned by the prospect of knocking others off of their feet. After ten minutes of wandering through the tangle of humanity, Doraux began to feel as though she were a human pinball.

She tried to reconcile the frenetic activity of this market with her images of a city profoundly affected by a horrible war and found that she could not. While the faces whirled by her in a blur, they did not appear to be the faces of people who had suffered through deprivation or painful personal loss. Though this entire city had supposedly been overrun by Ryalla's marauders, it displayed no outward scars of that trauma. It was, in fact, rather suspicious that none of the buildings displayed any sign of damage one would reasonably expect to find with a siege and subsequent occupation. Islena would make it a point to question Myrhia more closely regarding the specifics of Perdwick's role in the war.

Eventually, she managed to work her way near the tables where the merchants were displaying their wares...most of which was clothing and live produce. There were large pens that held live chickens and pigs, and something that looked to be a rather curious cross between a domestic cow and a bison. The bartering at these locations was particularly animated, but the prevailing smell drove Islena to beat a hasty retreat from the pens.

Time passed and Islena continued to browse, finally coming to the foot of the monolithic tower that had no visible means of ingress. She shielded her eyes from the bright sun and gazed up at the tower, hoping to discern some clue as to what purpose it might serve.

"A splendid thing is it not?" someone remarked from behind her. Startled, she spun about, guessing that she had been followed all along. What she found was a winsome girl of no more than eighteen, standing behind a table near the base of the structure, sequestered in the tower's shadow.

"What is this thing?" Islena asked, still watching the girl.

"I do not know," she replied, clearly bemused. "I can only say that it has stood there for generations. I don't think that there is anyone alive who can say why it stands. There is no way in, yet it is as permanent as the heavens themselves."

Islena found herself drawn to the girl, who seemed whimsical, yet engaging. The girl was fair of skin, with long blond hair the color of purified gold. While she cut a striking figure, it was her eyes that captured the beholder's attention like a magnet. They were set directly upon Doraux, but appeared to be focused on something deeper than her physical body.

And then the realization crashed down upon her. 'My God, she's blind!'

Despite its tragedy, the girl's disability made her all the more compelling in a way that Islena could not articulate.

"Will you come and see my humble trinkets?" she asked shyly. For the first time, Islena turned her attention to the wares that the girl was selling. The disconcertingly beautiful eyes never left her as she neared the table. Islena regarded the array of goods, shaking her head as she did. The entire collection was unremarkable and evidently of little practical value; a polished stone, a sliver of wood, a few things that might have been cheap replicas of more expensive talismans, and a tiny mirror with a flawed reflective surface.

She regarded the piteous collection and felt her heart go out to the girl who sold them for who could waste even a second glance at such worthless merchandise. Though she appeared healthy, Islena suspected that this girl had spent many a hungry night if this was how she earned her keep.

"They appear to be plain," she commented, as if in response to Islena's impression of her wares, "But each has a special history. Some even have an enchantment, though I would not claim to have experienced this personally."

"Are you alone here?" Islena inquired softly, glancing about at the milling throng.

"One is never alone in this place," she replied with a small laugh.

"But you tend this...business alone?"

"I do," the girl agreed, her voice inflected with an odd emotion that Islena thought to be regret...or a wistful sadness

"Are you not afraid that others will take advantage of your...your blindness?"

The girl's smile returned. Watching it dawn upon her lovely face, it was almost possible to forget her disability. "I have sold my wares here for many years and have never been harmed. Perhaps the thieves feel that my goods are of no value," She remarked with a shrug. "Or possibly the shadow of the tower is a sacred place in which no ill can be perpetrated. Do you think such a thing is possible?"

"I don't know?" Islena murmured noncommittally. Though the mob continued to flow about them, she had the disquieting sensation that she was alone with this unusual creature. Though she gave the initial impression of simplicity, she realized that there was a complex and layered aspect to this girl. "What is your name?"

"Isindred?" she said shyly.

"That's delightful. Isindred, you said that you have never been bothered in this place, but how can you be certain?"

The girl reflected upon this for a moment, grasping Islena's meaning. "Did I not know that you had come into the shadow of the tower?"

"How?" Doraux prompted, sensing some crucial significance in understanding this blind girl's power of perception.

"Every living creature carries its own aura. When someone approaches with the mind to commit evil, I feel it vibrating in the muscles of my body. Though my eyes are useless, my senses have compensated for their loss," she concluded solemnly.

"And you detected my presence?"

"Oh yes!" The girl's enthusiasm was unexpected and charged with implicit reverence. She suddenly reached across the table and touched Islena's face. The fingertips gently traced the contours of Doraux's lean face, unerringly creating a picture of the woman before her.

"You are as lovely as I imagined you to be," the girl breathed. Her fingers lingered for a second and then dropped away. Islena felt compelled to ask, "Who are you?"

The girl merely shook her head and shrugged. "I am a humble merchant and a blind girl."

The next question passed through Islena's lips before her conscious mind realized that it intended to pose the question. "And who am I?"

The girl dropped her unseeing eyes and offered Islena a rather self-deprecating smile. "You are an embodied spirit...as we all are. These are complex matters and I am only a humble merchant."

She paused, running her fingers over the goods arrayed on the splintered wooden table. Islena marveled at the deftness of the long digits.

'These are her eyes now,' she realized. She wondered if the girl had been born bereft of vision or if she had somehow lost it during the course of her life. Whatever the case, she had evidently not been soured by the misfortune. Doraux doubted that she would have been able to avoid embitterment if confronted with similar circumstances.

Isindred's hands fell upon the mirror. She held it up and placed its cool surface next to her cheek. Then she held the small glass out to Islena, who took it with a surprising amount of reluctance that she could not credit. Her initial impression that the glass was flawed proved to be incorrect, or at least, imprecise. The surface had been smoked, or likewise treated, and when she held it up before her face, Islena found herself staring at a shadowy, indistinct impression.

"Though it might appear cheap, the mirror you hold has been imported from Vaniak," the girl elaborated. "And though I have never been there - indeed, I have never ventured beyond the walls of Perdwick - it is said that the greatest conjurers of the age work their magic there."

"This is magical then?" Islena asked noncommittally, not wishing to offend the girl, who apparently held the opinion that her trinkets had been invested with a divine power. "How does it work?"

A flicker of pain rippled across her lovely visage...there and gone in an instant. "My loss has denied me certain pleasures of sensory experience. There are aspects of sight that cannot be compensated for with other senses. I have never seen my own face, though I have been told that I am rather pretty." She abruptly reached over the table and clutched Islena's wrist. When she spoke, her voice was edged with desperation that Islena could not help but heed, "Am I truly pretty?"

"You are beautiful," Doraux replied simply and truthfully. The girl smiled brightly, immensely pleased by the compliment. The girl remembered the glass in Islena's hand. "Like me, the glass is normally blind, though it might be better to think of it as being dormant. It is said that every person wears a mask for the benefit of the world about them. Some masks bear little resemblance to the person they conceal, while others come close to portraying the true face of the soul beneath. I attribute this variance to the power of self-delusion."

"To awaken the mirrors power, we must learn to visualize our true selves," Isindred instructed. "That is not always a simple matter. Deception becomes habitual, until we cannot even penetrate the veils of our own vanities and conceits. Most are afraid of confronting what we are, preferring to dwell on the illusions we fabricate for ourselves. For such people, the looking glass is as sightless as my worthless eyes," the girl concluded gravely.

"May I try?" Islena inquired. She had learned that every good con had an out. If the glass didn't work, it was the user's fault and not the charlatan's. Not that she would accuse Isindred of being a charlatan. The girl was obviously guileless and had been the victim of a particularly unscrupulous deception, just as people from her world fell victim to the velvety seductions of television evangelists.

Yet, despite the cynicism, the mere mention of the word vanity touched a sore spot in her heart. She carried that single accusation like an indelible scar...freshly torn open with each new insinuation.

"I would be honored if you did," the girl remarked humbly. Islena became aware of a certain wave of surrealism that had enveloped the pair, but the allure of the looking glass had become irresistible. "How do I begin?"

"Close your eyes and try to construct a detailed portrait of yourself in your mind. You must convey the essence of what you are to the glass. It will detect any fabrication...even if you do not."

"How many people have seen their true reflection in the glass?" Islena ventured curiously.

"On rare occasions, those who have the will...and the need have seen something."

"What do you suppose they've seen?" Islena ventured with an unintentional sharpness. The moment had assumed an absurd gravity. This was, after all, only a glassy trinket, and a flawed one at that.

"Their threadbare souls, perhaps," Isindred offered evenly.

Islena studied the girl's face for several moments and then turned her attention to the oracular glass. It stared back at her indifferently. She closed her eyes and tired to evoke an image of herself on the screen of her mind. A picture gradually materialized...a beautiful, red-haired woman...a tempestuous amalgam of sculpted muscle and indomitable will. The carved power of the perfectly erect figure was matched by a spirit that was every bit as balanced and symmetrical as the body. Satisfied that she had envisioned an accurate portrait of herself, Islena opened her eyes.

The smoked glass stared back mockingly, evidently unimpressed with essence that Islena had elected to convey. She inhaled sharply, thinking that she had been foolish to waste her time on such nonsense. Discerning Doraux's vexation, the girl hastily prompted, "Focus on your true spirit and on the things that are of value to you. It is seldom easy to turn one's perceptive powers upon themselves."

Islena wanted to hand the glass back to the girl and beg off further dalliance with the mystical, but the beseeching quality in Isindred's voice seemed born of desperation. "I'll try one last time."

She closed her eyes and began the construction process, but saw immediately that this method would yield the same portrait that had just been rejected. Instead of attempting to be so specific, she began to let her mind flow and wander, collecting certain images from her memory and welding them into a montage that would represent everything that she had become. Part of her scoffed at such an inane exercise, but she chose to ignore it. Perhaps this, too, was an ingredient in her character. When she had finished, her mind's eye held a collage of images that swirled about in abstract representation of her inner spirit. Satisfied that she could do no more, Islena opened her eyes, expecting to be greeted by the same obstinate blankness.

What she saw nearly caused the mirror to tumble from her trembling fingers.

"What do you see?" Isindred demanded sharply, sensing Islena's agitation even as her own excitement intensified. What Doraux saw was her own image, guttering and sharpening like a picture on a television set with faulty reception. She recognized her own features clearly enough, but what shocked her, and caused her heart to skid erratically in her chest, was the more blurred image that hover about the head of the reflection. It was difficult to distinguish any individual features, but the shadow conveyed the impression of great beauty (though, in the more traditional interpretation) and poise. The image ignited a storm of complex, yet ambiguous emotions that pounded on the ramparts of Doraux's beleaguered perception of her own reality. The woman was strikingly familiar, but despite that feeling of soul-deep intimacy and an unaccountable commonality of experiences, Islena could not recall who she was or how she had touched her life.

Eventually, frustration clouded her mind's image and the glass faded back into its original state, but the spectral image of the blonde woman had become firmly embossed on Islena's consciousness.

"What did you see?" the girl reiterated, concern replacing eagerness. Distantly, Islena replied, "I saw a perfect reflection of myself."

The girl clapped her hands in delight. "I knew that you were somehow special from the first moment that I gleaned your presence. Who are you?"

"Just a stranger trying to find my way home," Islena replied evasively. She did not want to draw this innocent child into her drama. All that she had touched had been met with an ill fate...Marla, Dominique Normandy and perhaps even Lorio, all of them had suffered because of their proximity to her. It was possible that even Amrand had been an unwitting victim of sorts, though she was still unwilling to absolve him of duplicity in trying to betray her. She was determined not to involve Isindred in this madness. Still, she could not escape the distinct impression that the girl had imparted some essential, albeit abstruse, insight into Islena's fundamental nature and the true reasons for her involvement in the dark drama that had befallen her life, and for that she deserved some expression of Islena's gratitude.

"Isindred, where is home for you? Do you have family here in the city?"

For the first time, Islena's question drew a sorrowful response. "My family fell victim to the first invasion. When the soldiers came from the west, they systematically decimated the population of Perdwick. One out of every three families was killed in its entirety just to illustrate that the invaders would brook no resistance. Fate would decree that we were amongst those selected to die."

"Yet you've survived," Doraux managed, despite her revulsion.

Isindred nodded. In a voice tremulous with an immutable grief, she began to recount the tale of her father's search for a shelter to protect his beloved daughter. Driven by desperation, he had succeeded in finding a home where the girl might manage to escape notice. A humble merchant had agreed to care for the girl in exchange for her help with minor chores, and he had sheltered her through the horrors of the occupation. Her family, however, had been less fortunate.

There were two great killers in this wretched world. The first was war and the second was disease which was no less efficient in culling the population. The Small Pox had followed hard on the heels of the invasion and her protector had succumbed to the plague. With the pungent stench of desiccating human flesh hanging in the air, Isindred had taken over his small trade in exotic wares. She had persevered through the hardship when many more advantaged people had failed, succumbing to either disease or despair.

"The city had been a place of teeming vitality, reduced to a shadow of its former self by years of ravaging," the girl concluded. Islena gazed about the square, which was a writhing mass of humanity, finding it difficult to envision a greater concentration of people in one area...or a city being more viscerally alive than this.

"There are many ways to lose one's soul," Isindred observed cryptically. The rather ironic remark prompted Doraux to peer sharply at the girl, unsettled by her ability to divine her every thought.

"Isindred, I want you to come with me to the palace. I'm certain that the High Queen would be delighted to meet you," Islena faltered. "I think that she would be pleased to see this mirror and some of the other things."

"I'm but a humble merchant girl," she stammered, clearly nonplused by the prospect of having an audience with one so mighty. "Surely I would have nothing that would catch the interest of a Queen."

Islena swept her gaze over the mass of humanity in the square. People appeared to ebb and flow in a solid wave. It suddenly seemed imperative that she rescue this fragile beauty from these mean streets. A wave of queasiness swept over her as the heat and combined smell of so much human flesh so closely quartered crushed down upon her. She began to perspire then, sweat rolling from her pores in greasy sheets.

"It's not safe here," she mumbled, but the thought dissolved before she could reveal precisely why she thought the girl to be in peril. The heat continued to intensify, until the drawing of each breath required a monumental exertion of will.

"Are you alright?" Isindred inquired, detecting Islena's distress.

Islena shook her head vigorously, trying to bring her eyes back into focus. It was at that moment that she became aware of the first assassin. He stood near the base of the tower, partially concealed by the brooding shadows, staring fixedly at the pair. He was attired in a shapeless robe the color of desert sand, cinched at the waste by a length of cord.

Doraux jerked her eyes away from the figure, as it pushed away from the stone wall and started to slowly thread his way through the crowd. His unhurried pace suggested his lack of concern that she might manage to slip away. It took only a moment to spy the other three assassins as they converged upon the two women. All four sported the identical expression of cold detachment that Doraux had come to associate with mercenaries...each moving with an almost indolent grace that spoke of deadly proficiency. She had no way of knowing who the four were, or to whom they pledged their fealty, but there could be no mistaking their purpose or their intended target.

She glanced back at the girl, wondering if the four were likely to recognize her affliction and thus leave her alone. In that moment, Islena decided that she had to accept responsibility for the girl, though the reasons behind this obligation were confusing.

"Isindred, I want you to listen carefully. There are some men who have come here to hurt me," she told the merchant girl, trying to maintain a calm exterior, if only for the girl's sake. "They've seen that we're together and I'm afraid that they might harm you as well." The girl's lovely face blanched. She looked about frantically. "I can feel them. Who are they?" Islena did not doubt the girl's percipience for a moment. "I don't know who they are, but that isn't important now. What matters is getting away from them."

The man who had stood near the base of the tower was only twenty feet away now, a half-grin twisting his thick lips. As he came slowly forward, a short dagger appeared from the folds of his robe. Realizing that he would be within striking distance in another few strides, Islena seized Isindred by a delicate wrist and jerked the girl clear of the wooden table. Pulling the frantic Isindred behind her, Islena began to scream in the hopes of attracting attention. "Help, thieves! Someone help us!"

Then she took to heel, dragging the blonde girl behind her, while ignoring her alarmed cries of protest. There was a moment of utter silence in the vicinity of the girl's stall as all eyes turned to locate the source of the tumult. The four would-be assailants froze in the face of the scrutiny, but after a few seconds, the patrons of the market, who were accustomed to all manners of chaos, went back about their business.

Chapter Twenty Five

1

As he watched the raging battle from the concealment of his treed knoll, an odd lassitude descended over Gillian. The people of Padiculak, bolstered by a small contingent of Jerhia troopers, fought bravely to prevent the inevitable victory of the advancing Imperial army, but were systematically being crushed by vastly superior numbers. The sight of so much squandered life and wasted blood filled his heart with a monumental despair. This war (and all wars, he now realized) would leave an indelible blight upon his beloved world irrespective of how it eventually resolved itself. With this burgeoning sorrow came the bitter understanding that he was a prominent member of a culture that had glorified the waging of war. Now at least the horrible delusion of justifiable war would be dispelled for ever.

Despite his new found aversion to war, Part of Gillian could not help but feel craven. While he hid in the trees, several of his countrymen were surrendering their lives in struggle that would prove ultimately fruitless.

'Unless you find this woman,' a voice reminded him. The intrusion upon his thoughts baffled the soldier because he did not recognize its source. He could not conceive of any single person, other than Myrhia, who could so influence the course of fate. There were times, during the course of his journey to this specific moment in time, when he could not help but think that this entire mission was Ossiran's final spiteful insult. Along with these reservations came the maddening uncertainty about the outcome of the war in his homeland. Gillian felt secure in the knowledge that Jerhia was an impregnable fortress of hostile mountains and dense forests. It had taken Myrhia seven years to conquer the Eastern continent. It would take her ten times longer to bring the Jerhia to heel, if ever. Nonetheless, an aura of predestination hung about Myrhia. It spoke of a woman who would not be denied. It spoke of a woman who would be deterred only at the most outrageous and extravagant cost.

Gillian waited until darkness had come to lay its claim upon the land before resuming his perilous journey to the east. He spared the battlefield one final glance. The bloody expanse of grass was steeped in an eerie silence, but red effulgence had gathered in the air above the killing ground...a silent reminder that this place was a tainted killing ground where the innocent earth had been sullied by blood.

The moon was a pale shadow of its usual self and for that small mercy, Gillian was genuinely grateful. He picked his way carefully from one stand of trees to the next, watchful for the pickets that would surely be posted to guard the main enemy encampments. After about an hour of dash and wait movement, Gillian judged that he had infiltrated the enemy positions. Ranging further to the north, he came upon a small, poorly-maintained road that led away to the east. He elected to follow the road, cutting into the undergrowth whenever he discerned the slightest movement. It would not be prudent to be found traveling so close to the front. Both sides would be wary of strangers with no visible sign of allegiance and he could just as easily find himself impaled on a Jerhia pike as he could an imperial sword.

Several groups of mounted troopers rode past during the next few hours, and it was near dawn before he finally found what he had been looking for. A solitary rider came into sight as Gillian moved closer to the road. The man's unhurried pace and lack of attentiveness made it plain that he was in no rush to join the battle. It was also obvious that the man was a mercenary and not a member of the more disciplined Emercian Imperial Guard.

'And we've lost to men such as these?' Gillian thought in consternation. Silently, he picked his way to the edge of the road and waited for the rider to come abreast of his position. When the man had ridden past, Gillian exploded from cover and threw himself at the rider's back. The pair went down with a muffled thud, the mercenary grunting under his attacker's weight. Gillian placed the point of his dagger against the man's pulsing jugular.

"It would seem that I have you at something of a disadvantage," he whispered merrily. The man merely rolled his eyes, which were as large as a horse's, and drew a ragged breath through his clenched teeth. Gillian could smell the foul breath and fear and knew that he had found a willing informant.

"I have a few questions. If you wish to live to see daylight, I suggest that you answer them," Gillian advised in the same casual tone. "If you lie I'll know. This dagger is magical and has no tolerance for deception."

"Anything!" the man wheezed airily. His loyalty to the High Queen ended with the spending of his last silver piece.

"Do you know of the woman that the High Queen has taken such an interest in?"

The man's eyes blinked. Gillian could almost hear him weighing the possible consequences of his reply. "Only a little. The Queen is most secretive in her dealings." He paused, and then added, "It is not wise to ask too many questions."

"I think that would characterize Myrhia's rule quite accurately," Gillian remarked dryly. "Let's see if the little you do know might be of value. Who is this woman?"

"I don't know her name?" the man replied stupidly.

"Don't be obtuse," Gillian cautioned. "I care nothing about her name. I want to know why she is considered to be so valuable."

Gillian could feel the man start to tremble beneath him. "I have heard rumors, but I cannot vouch for their accuracy."

"Then speculate," The Jerhia growled impatiently.

"It is said that this woman possesses some great power that will insure Myrhia's ultimate victory. It is why she brought the entire war to a halt while she searched for the woman."

Gillian pursed his lips. The man's story went a long way towards explaining why the invasion of the west had been delayed.

"Has she been found?"

"Yes. A trap was laid for her in the north of Kornas. It is said that the queen arranged for the death of several mercenaries so that this woman might be convinced that Myrhia was her friend." Gillian grunted at this. If Myrhia was willing to resort to such theatrics then this woman must be of immense importance indeed.

"And she's been taken where?"

"The High Queen has made Perdwick her home garrison in the west. I would guess that she's been taken there," The man replied, eager to please. Any marauder foolish enough to operate in the very shadow of Myrhia's army was surely a lunatic and thus capable of anything. Gillian grunted at the name of that place of infamy. It was only appropriate that the butcher would call Perdwick her home. The walled city had resisted her siege with a defiance from which fables are spawned. When the defenders had finally exhausted every resource, the Imperial Troopers overcame the battlements and conquered the city. Infuriated by the long delay, Myrhia personally supervised the methodical execution of everyone left within the city's walls, a number which may have exceeded ten thousand. If this woman was prisoner within the castle, Gillian's task would become infinitely more difficult.

"I find myself in a difficult position. If I simply let you go, the chances are good that the Imperial Troopers will be on my trail within the hour."

The man shook his head in vehement denial. "I owe nothing to them. I fight only for the money they pay me. The queen has no love for mercenaries and they, none for her."

"Naturally," Gillian spat in disgust as he hauled the man to his feet. Sensing that he had somehow offended his attacker, the man attempted to make amends. "It is wise not to tread in the shadow of the High Queen's rage. She has won this war and her enemies may count what remains of their lives in days."

"My friend, your declaration of Myrhia's total victory might be somewhat premature. It will be a long year before the west falls to that tyrant."

The mercenary shook his head, his eyes assuming the wild cast of a zealot. "It is claimed that the west is as good as fallen. Travelers from the south say that the Jerhia is in flames, devastated by an army of monstrosities that Myrhia has unleashed."

"Nonsense!" Gillian flared, realizing his error the instant that he had spoken. The man's eyes narrowed speculatively, understanding just whom he had been taken captive by. He recognized that Gillian had discerned his understanding, and renewed his struggle to escape. Clamping his hand over the man's mouth, Gillian dispassionately drew his dagger across the exposed throat. A thin line of blood appeared on the white flesh. The man opened his mouth in a soundless, bloody gasp and collapsed to the dirt road. Gillian watched him die impassively. Mercenaries were the scourge of the dark world that the enchantress had forged and he felt no compunction at ridding the world of one.

He dragged the man into the underbrush and then sat down to consider what he had been told. It would be a three day journey to Perdwick under the best of conditions. Now, beneath the penumbra of a hostile occupation, the time required would be doubled even if fate continued to smile upon him.

'Jerhia is in flames.' That was ludicrous of course. The notion that the Jerhia's elite could be routed was inconceivable to Gillian. He elected to dismiss that particular rumor as a bit of hollow propaganda. The woman...and the ramifications of her presence were another matter. It was impossible not to be intrigued by the woman and Myrhia's purpose in attempting to recruit her to serve her dark ambition.

Gillian carried the body to the closest ravine and dumped it into a shallow creek that slithered its way across the bottom. Then he set out at a jog for the dead city of Perdwick. His fascination lent an air of exigency to his whole quest, allowing him to ignore his exhaustion, but not his mounting apprehension.

'Jerhia is in flames!'

2

Islena charged through the throng on the city common, dragging Isindred behind her, not caring whom she collided with. She could feel the hot breath of her pursuers upon her shoulders and judged that the four were closing quickly. She was both shocked and incensed by the monumental indifference displayed by the square's patrons. They turned a deaf ear upon Islena's plea for help in manner that would have made even the most obdurate New Yorker appear to be a Good Samaritan by comparison. Even the ones who fell victim to her charge displayed no angered at their rough treatment. They merely rose, dusted themselves off and went about their business as though such blatant rudeness was a commonplace occurrence...something to be expected and accepted.

'Who knows,' she thought, 'perhaps it is.'

She chanced a quick glance over her right shoulder. She had surmised correctly in as much as the man, whom she had first spotted in the shadow of the tower, was perhaps only fifty feet behind. His face was set in the expression of a man who knows only stolid determination and would not rest until he had accomplished what he had been dispatched to do. Quickly scanning the crowd, she could see no sign of his accomplices, but guessed that they might be moving to intercept her somewhere ahead. It took only a passing glance to realize that Isindred was flagging badly. On her own, Islena could probably have outdistanced the pair, but thus burdened, it was only a matter of time before they was overtaken by their pursuers.

'Then leave her. She's not your concern. Besides, it's not her that they're after,' this new, craven voice echoed coyly through her mind, nearly causing her to stumble. The voice attempted to sway her, but she savagely cut it short. Was she capable of such a wretched act of betrayal...of flagrant cowardice? Surely not? In response, her mind conjured up images of Marla's headless corpse splayed out across her desk.

"Isindred, we're going to have to find a place to hide. It doesn't look like we're going to get much help."

"We've become shadows," the girl gasped cryptically.

Doraux did not have the time to ponder the implications of that particular metaphor. She suddenly veered off to her right, dragging the bewildered girl with her. If the main thoroughfare had been congested, this narrow side street was virtually impassable. She clawed, shoved and bullied her way through the solid wall of people, who tolerated the abuse with the same apathy as the others who had suffered through it. Still, no one bothered to question what had set the pair to such a frantic flight.

Halfway up the alley, she stopped to catch her breath and locate her pursuers.

Two of them had reached the head of the street and were pushing their way through the throng. It was remarkable that, in the midst of such a mass of teeming humanity, there was no sign of authority to maintain order. It would have been a relatively simple matter to slip a dagger into someone's heart and slip away before anyone was even aware that blood had been let. She pushed deeper into the street, angling towards another small opening between buildings. The only viable hope for escape seemed to lie in making her way back to the relative safety of the palace. Again, It suddenly occurred to her how pointedly strange it was that everyone appeared to be milling about aimlessly, as though their sole purpose for existence was this itinerant, purposeless rambling along these congested city streets.

The two women managed to reach the small opening, which turned out to be an open sewage channel that ran between the buildings. As she entered, the suffocating reek of raw excrement accosted her lungs. Behind her, she could hear Isindred gag. The channel was clogged by mountains of decaying garbage. Doraux kicked her way through the piles of refuse, trying not to think about what it was she was stepping in.

Reaching a bend in the lane, she halted to check for pursuit. To her relief, the channel was still empty. For the first time, it appeared possible that Islena might escape without a violent confrontation.

She registered movement only an instant before the fourth assassin lunged out of the shadows. The gleaming of his killing blade was blinding in Doraux's eyes, and she thought, 'I've been such a fool.'

She tensed against the imminent explosion of agony that did not come. At first, she thought that it had all been a horrible conspiracy of ill fortune and momentum, but in the weary, grief-stricken days which were to follow, it became exceedingly clear that Isindred had deliberately imposed herself between Islena and death. The man snarled, and there came a liquid, tearing sound as the dagger found flesh. A spray of hot blood spattered Islena's face and she screamed in outrage and revulsion, stumbling away while raising her hands to her face.

Her anguished cry of negation mingled with Isindred's almost whimsical death sigh. The girl slid back against Islena before falling lifelessly into the polluted water of the sewage channel with the dagger still protruding from her chest.

Islena's inarticulate wail spiraled up into the placid afternoon sky as though to register her outrage with whatever deity might be presiding over this wretched bit of perverse drama.

The attacker regarded his unintended victim with an expression of mild disgust. His glance shifted to his victim with the syrupy slowness of a somnambulist. Seeing his dull, blunt face, Islena snatched the dagger from Isindred's breast and lashed out with blind, immutable fury.

The man's reaction seemed strangely listless, enhancing the impression that he was functioning in a dream state. More by luck than chance, the blade slashed across the man's throat, bringing forth a torrent of blood in a crimson wave. The startled assassin staggered backwards and clutched his bloody throat, as though he could staunch the deluge. His eyes bulged and then glazed, and a thick, gurgling sound escaped his lips. Then he pitched back against the wall, carrying his final expression of disbelief into death.

Islena watched him die with a measure of intensely dark satisfaction. Then comprehension of her deed filtered through the rage and she let out a low, guttural moan. She reeled back against the wall and pitched the killing tool into the dirty water.

"I'm a murderess," she mumbled, overwhelmed by how easily the taking of life had been.

'And there's more blood to be shed, if you're to survive this ordeal,' an inner voice predicted flatly, clearly vexed by her perceived weakness.

'Is it that simple?' she wondered numbly. Could one cross the line between civility and murder with the mere angry flash of a blade? Would each successive death come easier, until finally, dispensing death became as trivial as eating or defecation? She glanced from the man that she had killed to the girl, Isindred. She appeared small, fragile and sorrowful as she lay in death. Foul water swept over her lovely face, pasting her golden hair to her smooth brow. She had been an angelic creature in life, possessed of a frangible purity that was ill-suited to cruelties of this world. Now, her body was but a chilling lump of clay, Islena mourned the fact that there would be no one to mark her passing.

Confronted by the stark portrait of senseless squander of precious life, Doraux experienced a moment of metamorphosis. With Isindred's unjust death, there came the brilliant flame of insight...now was the time to shrug off the mantle of victim. She had been pursued and beaten, forced to endure the abominable spectacle of slaughter, all in the notion that she was a Messiah. Those who wielded the power in this world coveted her for a purported power which they claimed she possessed. They insisted that she held the key to their destiny. Gazing down at Isindred and feeling the assassin's blood drying on her hands, she could sense the first stirrings of that arcane puissance.

"I will not die!" she vowed through clenched teeth. She gripped the robe, drew it over her head, and discarded it into the channel. If, indeed, some arcane power resided within her, Islena swore that she would find its source and turn it upon her tormentor's. She ran her hands along her thighs, over her ridged abdomen, traced the proud swell of her breasts and finally clutched the coiled springs that were her biceps. Her lips split in a serpent's grin and her entire body spasmed in a warrior's birth that resembled sexual climax.

All sought their Messiah, but a Messiah could also bring death and dispense dispassionate retribution.

She bent down and lifted Isindred's body into her bulging arms. It felt as light as a roll of cloth. As the girl's head lolled back on the thin stalk of her neck, Islena smiled and murmured softly, lovingly. In the girl's mirror, she had seen a hovering specter reflected behind her own image. Perhaps that ambiguous shadow mirrored the recumbent force that dwelt within, and perhaps it had been this force that Isindred had first discerned. "I will shed a river of blood in your memory. I will repay every hurt that you have ever suffered tenfold."

Stripped of all revulsion and inhibitions, she raised Isindred's head and kissed her pliable lips. With that single moment of forbidden sharing between the living and the dead, Islena Doraux dissolved into a blur of vague memories. In the wake of that uncoupling with the cargo of her other life, the warrior would evolve to take the first uncertain steps toward her apotheosis.

In the heavens, which had been a perfect blue, a solitary cloud appeared to throw its shadow across the face of the sun.

3

The captain, who had escorted the stranger out of the castle, stood on the upper battlements, his eyes sweeping over the deserted streets of Perdwick. He had always experienced an extreme trepidation in this vile place...Myrhia's edifice to genocide, but that discomfort did not reflect upon his stoic face. Like all survivors of the High Queen's reign, the captain had long since learned to keep his expression guardedly neutral.

The afternoon sun beat relentlessly down upon his brow and salty rivulets of sweat rolled down his cheeks and into his eyes. He bore the sting with the same stoic indifference with which he suffered his command. As he gazed down over the common, lifeless dust, brown and sterile, would occasionally be caught up on the erratic swirl of the winds and lifted high into the afternoon sky.

Other than this intermittent sigh, the only sound to be heard was the soft, scouring whisper of grit on mortar. Lush greenery thrived on all sides of the walled city, but within, the ground had turned sour and sterile as though its vitality had choked on the rivers of blood that it had drank. The captain did not know. Nor did he have the inclination to give the matter much consideration. Thought was a dangerous process here...one that led to madness, death and worse.

There came the soft clatter of chain mail and the captain knew that his moment of blessed solitude had been violated. The adjutant approached tentatively, but the captain did nothing to acknowledge his presence.

"She's been out there for a long time," the intruder offered, obviously unnerved by the notion.

The captain granted him a brief glance and replied simply, "Yes."

"I wonder what she's doing. What does she see?" the soldier remarked, peering down into the empty expanses of dust and mortar. The man was young, the captain observed, and had not yet learned that such open speculation was not especially prudent.

"Whatever the Queen has deemed she should see," he responded, his tone conveying his wish not to be drawn into discussion. The young guard blinked at the curtness and returned his gaze to the city. The captain felt an instant of regret...after all; the soldier's inquisitiveness was only natural. Even the darkest of wonders are not without their attractions. Myrhia was the darkest and most beautiful wonder of all and the seductive allure of her magic was not an easy thing to ignore or resist. That is, until one had the opportunity to witness its horror first hand. The captain had had the misfortune of witnessing the carnage that had come in the aftermath of Perdwick's fall, but even he could not deny his fascination with the dark beauty and her insidious mystery.

He supposed that this fascination made him evil by association, but on this matter too, he possessed no real desire to examine his mind.

"What do you know of the woman, Captain?" the soldier asked, making another attempt to engage his superior, who turned a speculative eye to the guard. There was an urgent aspect to the young man's questioning. "I know little. I can only surmise that she is of great import for the High Queen to go to such unprecedented lengths to deceive her."

The young man nodded, his brow furrowed by a private worry that the captain had no wish to understand. In the world that Myrhia had woven, everyone had their own dark fears and torments without having to share the burden of anyone else's nightmares.

"The rumor of the moment is that the war is all but over. The High Queen shall return with the heads of her enemies," The adjutant said after a moment, his words fraught with pride.

The captain allowed himself a bitter grin. The adjutant's naiveté was astounding if he truly believed that this war would ever be over. With tyrants, there was invariably one more battle to win, one more patch of ground to conquer. "It's wise never to bury your enemies before they're actually dead."

The soldier fell silent, perplexed by his superior's brooding mood. Despite the total collapse of the resistance on the Eastern Continent, there seemed to be an air of pessimism hanging over Myrhia's inner circle. The quiet gloom had not escaped the notice of the average soldier, though its cause remained unfathomable.

Just then, a piercing cry rose up from somewhere within the city walls. It was a harrowing cry that turned the captain's blood to ice water in his veins. It echoed through the deserted streets of Perdwick like an entreaty for redemption.

"Something's happened to the woman," the adjutant whispered, giving voice to the captain's worst fears. If that was true, his life would be of little value.

"Should I dispatch riders?" the adjutant inquired shakily. The captain considered the matter. Ynthrax had been quite specific: there was to be no interference until the woman appeared at the gates. "The gates will stay closed," he commanded. "If providence is with her, she will return."

4

Islena raced along the sewage channel with Isindred's body in her arms. Her powerful legs pumped like twin pistons as she splashed through the fetid water. Behind her there came a hoarse cry as one of the assassin's discovered the corpse that she had left behind. The cry echoed astonishment and fear both of which brought a shark's grin to her lips. She was not certain what had prompted her to carry the dead girl with her. Her mind had fastened upon the stark image of the girl lying in the filth of the channel. The gross injustice of that image had unleashed something in Islena and she found herself welcoming the impending moment of confrontation. From this moment forth, she was to be the shaper of events and not their helpless pawn.

She wound her way through the twisting channel that seemed to have no end. The pounding charge of relentless pursuit was coming ever closer and Islena knew that she would have to soon select a place to face her assassins if she was to have the initiative.

Turning a final corner, she came face to face with the unyielding brick of a dead end. There came the sound of charging feet and two of the men came into view behind her. She cursed softly and it was then that she spotted the single door that was set into the wall approximately half way up the channel's length.

The door stood ajar as if beckoning her to enter.

Having discovered the body of their comrade, the two men drew daggers and started for Islena. Their eyes were at once menacing and yet cautious. Without hesitation, she sprinted to the door and plunged into the darkness beyond.

It took her a moment to come to the realization that she had entered some manner of eating establishment, though who could eat in the proximity of such open filth she could hardly imagine. Four long wooden tables had been scattered throughout the room, and each was occupied by unwashed and unshaven men, all of whom were clad in dirt-hardened clothes. The smell of cooking fat mingled with the stench of unwashed flesh, caused Islena's stomach to contract into a tight, queasy knot.

As she crossed into the center of the room, she noticed a large figure standing in the shadows. Though the figure was dressed in a colorless robe, its face concealed in the shadows of a hood, there was something about the figure's posture that struck her as distinctly familiar.

She had no time to reflect on that odd sense of familiarity, however, as the front and rear doors exploded in a shower of splintered wood. The large, bearded man entered through the front door and the other two blocked the rear door to the channel. The collection of patrons viewed the violent entry with neither surprise nor alarm, and Islena quickly saw that she was going to have to fight if she was to leave this hovel alive. Only the hooded figure appeared to be watching the proceedings with any measure of interest. Resigning herself to her desperate situation, she tenderly laid Isindred's body on one of the splintered tables and turned to face her assailants.

"What's wrong with you?" Doraux raged at the patrons. "Can't you see that they want to kill me?"

The two assassins near the rear of the building came slowly forward, brandishing their daggers in a way that made it exceedingly plain that there would be no hesitation in putting them to good use. Islena vaulted over a table, putting it between herself and the pair. She could feel her heart hammering wildly in her chest, and was mildly surprised to find that the rushing adrenalin came as much from excitement as it did fear.

The two men began to move around either end of the long table, but the bearded man, who was evidently their leader, made no move to join the fray. Islena brushed one of the indifferent patrons aside and threw his clay wine goblet at the man on her left. He ducked to his right, narrowly avoiding the cup which shattered on the stone wall, not far from where the mysterious hooded figure still stood.

Meanwhile the second man charged forward, dagger raised high and face congealed into an ugly, savage knot. He brought the dagger down in a wide, whistling arch. Doraux pivoted to meet the threat, raising her hands to deflect the killing blow. There was a sharp snap, as distinctive as the crack of a whip, as she caught the man's wrist in her hand. The descent of the knife stopped abruptly and completely.

Islena grinned at the man, her powerful arm muscles standing our in sharp relief. The attacker's eyes widened with dawning horror. Doraux squeezed and turned her wrists in toward her body. There was a sickening snap that reminded Islena very much of breaking branches and the man began to shriek. His dagger clattered uselessly to the board floor, and she promptly kicked it away. She released her grip on his wrists, looped her fingers around the back of his head and pulled him forward. As she did, she vaulted vertically and drove both knees into the man's face. His eyes rolled upward in their sockets and the man collapsed, whimpering, to the floor.

A second scream issued from just behind her, souring her jubilation. In dealing with the first threat, she had entirely neglected the other attacker. She closed her eyes and tensed, wondering how much pain might accompany the death she fully expected.

"Aagh," the man gasped. He sagged against her and fell to the dirty floor near his other fallen comrade. A jeweled dagger protruded from the center of the man's back. A shocking amount of dark blood ran from the wound, making a sticky pool on the muddy boards.

Islena shifted her astonished gaze to the front of the building, where the hooded figure had taken up position between her and the last remaining assassin. Holding the man at bay with a large drawn sword, the figure extended a long elegant finger and wiggled it in the way a teacher might admonish an errant child.

"Discard your weapon. The woman is unarmed," The voice was throaty and melodious and unquestionably female. More utterly astounding yet, the hand was rich ebony in color.

'Marla?' Surely not. Marla was dead...horribly murdered and mutilated by the monster born of an even greater monster yet.

The man glared balefully at the figure, and then shot a glance over her shoulder to where Islena stood waiting. He made no move to draw his weapon or challenge the sudden savoir. She had a sudden impulse to rush forward and pull back the hood, but forced herself to resist the urge.

The figure's intent soon became apparent. "She's right," Islena challenged. "If you're going to kill me, why not use your bare hands? Don't deny yourself the thrill of feeling the life drain out of me...or could it be you're afraid?"

The robed figure stepped back and lowered the blade. Doraux threw over the table to her left and invited the man to come forward. From beneath his craggy brow, his brown eyes shifted continuously from Islena, to the intruder, to the two bodies on the filthy floor, and back to Islena, who grinned wickedly back at the giant.

She could sense the conflict which she imagined to be raging behind his eyes...a fierce struggle between fear and uncertainty on the one hand, and a deeply ingrained belief that, despite her extraordinary appearance, this was still only a woman. To her surprise, she discovered that, not only was she undaunted by his size, she found herself craving the physical confrontation.

"Come on then," she taunted, dropping her hands and inclining her head to expose her throat. "You have an audience and a pliable victim. Or does your type only go after people who have no way of defending themselves?"

The gesture and subsequent barb was too provocative to ignore. The man cast one final glance at the hooded figure and then the natural order of his world reasserted itself. He lumbered towards Islena, fully intending to pulverize her skull with one blow of his massive fist.

Doraux marked his swaggering approach impassively, her powerful muscles coiling to spring. The man came within range and swung in a savage, downward arc, but to his consternation, his seemingly defenseless target had vanished like the morning mist before the rising sun.

Like a cobra, she had rolled to her right an instant before the fall of the punch. Coming to her feet, she delivered a sweeping kick that took the unbalanced attacker directly in the nose.

A sharp snap of shattering bone punctuated her feeling of intense satisfaction. The man bellowed like a wounded bull, his cry of pain and outrage virtually shaking the walls of the filthy hovel.

Yet, despite the ferocity of the blow, he did not fall. Instead, he drew the back of his hand across the ruined flesh, gaping at the volume of blood that spurted across his rough knuckles.

His eyes narrowed in the expression of a man who has just come to the disconcerting realization that he has just committed an irrevocable error in judgment. Raising his hands to protect his wounded face, the man again attempted to corner his nimble opponent.

What ensued was a classic battle between speed and conditioning versus brute force and desperation. Doraux retreated, ducked and danced around the larger man, who threw a furious barrage of punches which proved entirely futile. When the opportunity presented itself, she would dart forward and land a kick or a punch, fading out of range before the man could react.

After a time, the attacker began to falter badly, his breathing coming in racketing gasps and his feet obviously rebelling against his will to command them. His dark eyes gleamed with a mad desperation as he looked about for a way to disengage himself from this she-devil.

Exhaustion aside, Islena understood that he was still dangerous and decided that it was time to end this fight, though the newly-roused dark aspect of her nature would have been content to prolong the beating until his pain atoned for every injustice that she had suffered.

"You know that I'm going to kill you," she informed the man nonchalantly. "It's only a matter of how quickly and painfully I choose to do it." As she spoke, Doraux danced lithely around the larger man.

The attacker grunted, his voice quavering now, and made one final, rubbery-legged run for glory. Islena timed her reaction flawlessly. Bending deep at the knee, she sprang vertically and laced her fingers around a narrow support beam which ran the entire length of the room.

As the man stumbled forward, Islena twisted one hundred and eighty degrees and snagged him in the vice of her legs. A guttural groan tore from his lips, but he began to rain punches upon her thighs. She clenched her jaw against the pain, but grimly refused to relinquish her hold. Livid red welts bloomed on the granite thighs, but soon the blows became lighter and less frequent as the crushing pressure gradually strangled the flow of blood to his brain.

Finally, the man's thrashing subsided completely. His face had gone a high, hectic red. It was evident that all of the fight had been crushed out of him and she could easily walk out of this place without further violence.

"Should I stop?" she wondered. Violence had always been abhorrent to her, and there had already been enough life squandered, hadn't there? Her legs ached dully and her oxygen-starved shoulders and arms brayed an agonized concerto. She wanted desperately to flee this place and seek whatever solace and sanctuary Myrhia might provide.

Then her gaze happened upon the ruined beauty that had been Isindred. Outrage set the blood in her veins to boil. She flicked a smoldering glance toward the hooded figure, which had turned to view the confrontation. Though Islena could not see the woman's face, something about her posture suggested that she too was deriving a certain obscure pleasure from Doraux's brutal triumph.

"And should I?" Islena inquired thickly. The woman's only response was a barely perceptible nod.

She acknowledged the tacit approval with a feral grin. A small voice admonished her to stop now and retain some sense of her diminished innocence, but the voice was small and easily ignored. Summoning all of the strength she could marshal, she raised herself toward the cross beam, which whined a strident screech of protest. Bellowing like an enraged animal, arms trembling with exertion, she raised herself upward and pulled the bearded man up with her until his legs dangled limply above the dirty floor.

"I will not die!" she howled, reiterating the vow that she had made in the street. The heavy burden jerked left and right. Islena's body appeared to glow with a puissance born from the depth of her fury. Abruptly, her legs unlocked and she allowed the lifeless assailant to fall to the floor with an unceremonious thud. Her hands unclasped and she landed lithely on the balls of her feet, near the spot where the last of her assailants had come to dust.

If she could have seen her own face at that precise moment, in all probability she would not have recognized the woman or the alien emotion etched into the beautiful countenance.

She turned to thank the woman, whose intervention had saved her life, but there was no sign of the robed figure. Her gaze swept over the room.

The few people who remained regarded the carnage with nothing more than a mild interest, their eyes betraying nothing...neither fear nor revulsion.

Islena shook her head in exasperation and walked out into the afternoon sunshine. The ghost of a smile played at her lips. She had confronted death and had not only persevered, but had conquered. If these men had been Ryalla's trained dogs, and she had no doubt that they were, their deaths would convey a powerful signal to the tyrant...Islena Doraux was through being a helpless victim and was coming in search little retribution.

Chapter Twenty Six

1

Somewhere in the intervening hours between Islena's desperate battle with the four assassins and her return to the castle, her elation gave way to an odd lethargy. Perhaps it was the heat, which refused to surrender its hold on the land despite the coming of night, or possibly it was a gradual comprehension of her action, but in the course of her wandering, she began to drift into a dreamy torpor.

The streets were no less congested, despite the onset of twilight, but the shifting tide of humanity had taken on a surreal aspect. At times, the people floated from place to place with that disconcerting expression of vacuous detachment fixed upon their faces like a mask that could not be shed. Then, when her strange malaise seemed to be at its worst, the patrons were transformed into grotesque parodies of human beings. The suffocating reek of putrefied flesh assailed her lungs and the harrowing cries of misery and pain caused her to clamp her hands to her ears and roar for surcease.

Then the episodes would pass and a state of semi-lucidity would return, leaving Islena to stumble numbly back towards the castle. Bits of thought flashed through her mind, fragmented images and questions that were too elusive to be grasped and held for consideration.

The only thought that prevailed was the burgeoning certainty that there was something inherently inconsistent in all that had transpired in the ramshackle tavern.

'Why would he want to kill you?' her frazzled mind questioned persistently. The question was not an unwarranted one. If she was such a precious commodity, one with the capability of shaping destinies, would it not seem more logical that Ryalla would attempt to abduct her? And on the heels of that...why would Myrhia allow her to venture forth into the city without some manner of covert surveillance? If the stakes were as high as she professed them to be, why would she take such a risk?

These questions chased each other about like frantic wasps in flight. She attempted to set her mind to the task of solving the disturbing riddles, only to find herself back in the throes of some terrifying hallucination.

Near midnight, she stumbled out of a twisting side street and into the purple shadows of Perdwick's castle. To her fevered mind, the hulking castle had assumed the brooding outline of a mausoleum.

In shambling, looping steps, she staggered to the massive gate and cried for ingress.

The gate opened and the captain of the guard stepped out and stood watching her. He appeared unconcerned by her obvious state of agitation, nor did he make any move to come to her aid.

She came to a halt three paces from the captain, whose face was obscured by the purple shadows, and stood swaying in the midnight breeze.

"Four men tried to kill me," she apprised him listlessly. He made no response and so she elaborated. "They're all dead."

The captain simply grunted and his dark eyes remained as inscrutable bits of obsidian. "As I told you, this is a dangerous city."

"They killed a blind merchant girl named Isindred."

"Unfortunate," he remarked, but his tone made it perfectly clear that the news of the girl's death was meaningless. Islena wanted to flare out, to rail against his obduracy, but the whole exchange had taken on an illusory aspect. Her anger dissipated in the fear that she had finally surrendered her frail grip on sanity...that this was a new aspect of the hallucination that had plagued her for the past several hours.

"I want to see Myrhia," she mumbled thickly.

"The High Queen has not yet returned from the West. She did promise that you would be summoned upon her return." The Captain stepped back and gestured toward the main gates. "If you'll return to your chambers, I will arrange for food and drink."

Islena doubted that she would have been capable of swallowing a bite, but she could feel exhaustion stalking her like a shadow and her body found the notion of a peaceful sleep too enticing to resist. Sleep was a luxury that she could scarcely afford. There were too many questions that needed immediate answers, but her limbs felt deadened and her eyes burned. Perhaps she would do well to rest before her audience with Myrhia, a meeting that would determine the course she was to follow from this night forth and would be best met with an open mind and keen senses.

She spared the teeming streets one final glance. Darkness had obscured the crowds, but she could still hear the commotion. Perhaps it was weariness, but their comings and goings raised a forlorn sigh that reminded Islena of every despair that she had ever known.

'Isindred is lying dead somewhere out there and not one of those people will mourn her passing.' The grim notion was too stark to be endured and she fled from it like a child will run from an imagined devil.

2

Her dreamless slumber was broken by a chorus of loud voices in the hours before dawn. The candles had burned down and she found her self laying in pitch darkness. After several seconds, her eyes adjusted to the pale moonlight that shone through the narrow windows near her bed. Food, long since cold, stood untouched on a tray near the opposite wall. She could vaguely recall stumbling back into her private chamber and collapsing like a stone. Apparently she had not stirred since even when the evening meal had been set out for her.

At first, she thought that the disturbance had been raised to herald Myrhia's return, but she quickly discerned that the raised voices were edged with a cruel derision.

Crossing to her window, she peered down into the purple gloom that had gathered at the foot of the castle walls. A group of perhaps eight soldiers had gathered in a circle around a solitary figure. It did not take her long to grasp the essential nature of what was occurring. She had seen this particular ugly drama played out on the evening news a hundred times before, though on those occasions, the brutality had been disturbing yet remote.

"I've only come for my daughter," the figure in the circle wailed in despair. His anguished plea elicited a burst of laughter from the soldiers, one of whom sprang forward and swept the feet out from under the man who landed in the trampled grass with a grunt of pain.

At the sound of that voice, Islena's heart froze. It was hauntingly familiar, though her still-addled mind obstinately refused to match a face and name to the sound. One of the soldiers reached down and hauled the man to his feet. "If your daughter is here, then she'll have little use for an old goat like you. There'll be plenty of diversions here to keep her attention."

This brought a howl of laughter from the rest of the mob. Islena understood that mobs were a fickle lot and their brand of ugly humor could turn to lethal brutality with deadly swiftness. The old man did not appear to share this particular bit of knowledge. "Please, I only ask that you release my daughter," he beseeched, his effort hampered by the free flow of tears. "Lorio is the only thing that I have in this world."

One of the soldiers responded by swatting the man across the back of the skull with the blunt end of his pike. Again, the old man sprawled into the dirt with a grunt. Seconds later, he stirred and began his entreaty afresh, stumbling shakily to his feet.

"Lorio!" she whispered. Surely, her ears had deceived her. Lorio had been returned to her people. Myrhia had solemnly sworn as much during their interview of the previous evening.

The man was babbling now, his voice distorted by anguish. "We had a deal. I would deliver the woman, and in return, she would leave my people alone." His high, whining tone bit into Islena's brain like the buzz of a drill. Yes, she had heard that voice in other circumstances. Now she clearly recalled the swagger and the arrogant disdain.

"Grigor, you miserable bastard!" She turned away from the scene just as a soldier delivered a savage kick to the old man's side that shattered ribs and sent the old man face down in the roadway.

"If it's your daughter you want, then it's your daughter you shall have," the soldier declared and seizing the old man by the scruff of his tunic, began to drag him in the direction of the main gates.

The ramifications of what she had just witnessed cut through the fog of her confusion. Bitter tears of betrayal sprang to her eyes, and she slid down the wall to the cold brick floor. The old man had evidently compromised Islena in return for a guarantee of his people's safety. She recalled how distraught Grigor had been when he learned of Lorio's intention to guide her to the north.

Everything that Myrhia said had been a lie and she now found herself alone and helpless in the dragon's lair. "No, not helpless," she amended fiercely. "Never helpless again."

She stood and dragged the heel of her hand across her tear-stained face. Her first thought was that she should wait and confront Myrhia with the knowledge of her treachery, but wisely decided that it might be more prudent to dance out of the dragon's jaws. Like Isindred, Myrhia presented a portrait of fragile beauty, but Islena now realized that this fragility was only a facade for a ruthless, calculating soul.

Her first priority was escape. Myrhia's return was imminent, so it was best if she left at once.

"Where will you go?" The question surfaced in her consciousness like an irrepressible itch. The High Queen had asked her that very question. Islena forced it from her thoughts. Such contemplations would only open the door to even more disturbing realities that were too debilitating to entertain.

Gazing out the window, she saw that the open fields and forest surrounding the castle walls were now deserted, but her window was more than thirty feet from the ground. Crossing to the main chamber door, she was not surprised to find it locked. One or more guards would undoubtedly be posted on the other side. She briefly entertained the idea of creating some sort of diversion, but decided that such theatrics really only worked in the movies.

Trying to contain the first stirring of panic, she went back to the window and peered up along the wall. It was perhaps forty feet to the upper battlement. The sheer, clammy brick appeared unassailable.

She was reconsidering the risk of attempting the jump, when she noticed the protrusions that ran up into the darkness not four feet from the stone sill.

"Come on, Izzy. You'd have to be crazy to even think about it," she berated herself. Yet, even as the words left her lips, she found herself climbing up onto the ledge and searching for a potential hand hold. The protrusions vanished up into the darkness like the rungs of a ladder. She supposed that they had been intended to be decorative, but they might just prove to be her salvation.

Steeling herself against the onset of vertigo, she pivoted in place until her back was turned to the drop. Clutching onto the window casing, she gracefully extended a leg onto one of the protrusions and pressed down experimentally. The narrow lips felt solid enough to bear her weight. Seeing little alternative, she immediately elected to make the attempt.

She stepped back onto the window casing and closed her eyes. Any fall would probably be fatal. It was also possible that the protrusions did not go all the way up to the top of the battlements. The image of being stuck along the wall like a treed cat came to her mind with a discouraging vividness and she suddenly found herself afraid.

Then the memory of Myrhia's limpid brown eyes and her hypnotic beauty returned, followed by the traumatic vision that she had experienced during her first visit to Mrs. Normandy. Myrhia was the master spell weaver, an enchantress who could conjure a virtual reality to suit her ends. She need only think of the mythical Ryalla's visit to see the truth of this. If she remained here, how long would it be before the High Queen had bent her to service her evil aspirations?

"You have a taste for killing now," Myrhia's shadow reminded Islena. "You'll soon come to discover that such a taste is very often addictive."

The thought broke her paralysis. She stepped across with her right foot and then reached up with her right hand to grip another of the stone rungs. Heart hammering in her chest, she relinquished her hold on the window casing and pulled herself across. Her left foot slipped and she teetered on the edge of the abyss, but her arms were powerful enough to hold her until her foot found purchase.

The stones were perilously slick and each step, each transfer of weight, would have the potential for disaster. She could feel her legs trembling violently and willed herself to be calm. She succeeded, if only enough to take the first step.

She needed an image, something to strengthen her resolve against the terror which was threatening to overwhelm her. A picture of Lorio came to her then. She fastened upon it and held it in her mind's eye as though it were a beacon in the storm.

The protrusions were spaced at one foot intervals, but the ascent seemed to take an eternity. Islena clung desperately to the narrow lips of stone. A cool breeze had sprung up from the east, but she continued to perspire profusely. It ran from her scalp in rivers, trickling into her eyes like diluted acid. Halfway up the wall, her forearms began to cramp, further exacerbating her plight. She closed her eyes against the stinging pain and groped blindly for the next lip.

'I'm going to fall,' she concluded in a rare concession to defeat. 'I'm going to fall and this horror will be over.'

Despite this mental submission, she did not give up on the climb. She forged her way upward. One step...a second...a third and with each successive step, she expected to find her well of endurance dry, but with each step, she found the resources to take another. She took cold comfort in the fact that her death would rob Myrhia of her coveted prize.

She reached up with one hand and then the other, pulled herself up and tumbled over the crenulated top of the wall, landing on the stone walkway with a startled grunt. She pressed her face against the dew-slicked stone, waiting for her heart to settle back into its normal rhythm. She remained in this position until the low hush of voices sent her scurrying for the shadows.

The entire castle was ringed by a battlement which had apparently been conceived to provide the structure with a defense against threats from within as well as from without. The section of battlement, upon which she presently found herself, was perhaps ten feet wide. The castle's architect had provided the defenders with a crenulated wall which rose to chest height upon Islena. She cautiously raised herself up and peered through one of the gaps to discover that large landing areas had been set at about one hundred meter intervals all along the battlements length.

There was movement in the courtyard beneath her.

Risking discovery, she stood erect and leaned over the edge. To her astonishment, the group of soldiers were just now leading the still pleading Grigor across the open space of the courtyard.

'It must have taken only minutes to make that climb,' she realized with a sense of dismay, though in virtual time, she would have sworn that the ascent had taken hours.

As she watched, the group led the dastardly old man in the direction of a long, squat building. Two guards emerged from the shadows to greet the arriving group. The man guiding Grigor came forward and exchanged words with one of the guards. Crude laughter echoed across the open yard, and suddenly the guard seized the old man by the scruff of the neck and propelled him in the direction of the open doorway. Doraux correctly surmised that this was the castle's dungeon.

The old man vanished into the shadows as though into the maw of some massive and horrific monster, and soon the soldiers drifted away, their night's diversion evidently at an end. As the group dispersed, Islena ducked away from the light. Then she turned her thoughts to the imposing task of extricating herself from Myrhia's stronghold. If all that she had been told proved truthful, Grigor could expect to suffer mightily at the hands of his captors.

'It's no less than the son-of-a-bitch deserves,' she thought bitterly, as she carefully picked her way around the upper wall. There were stairs set in the inner wall. She would have to find her way to the nearest of these and risk a descent to the main courtyard when the way appeared clear. From there she would...

Her plotting ceased abruptly. An anguished cry very nearly escaped her lips. She managed to contain it, though just by the barest of margins.

'Lorio is in there!' the realization crashed down upon her like turbulence from a clear blue sky.

"It's your daughter you want? Then it's your daughter you shall have." Those had been the soldier's precise words as he had led Grigor into Perdwick. In her haste to escape, she had not given consideration to the implications of this promise. Lorio was here, probably in the very dungeon where Grigor had been so rudely escorted. Any notion of escape dissipated in a burst of poignant memories...the initial deadly contest that had brought them together, the subsequent shared passion and the arduous journey through the wilds of Kornas.

Yet it was the final image of Lorio that forestalled any further search for egress from Myrhia's grasp. She recalled pivoting around to see Lorio absorb the blow that had been meant for her. That act of unqualified love had imprinted itself upon Islena's soul and she could not turn away from an opportunity to make restitution. Besides, the only thing that awaited her on the other side of this wall was the prospect of an aimless, desperate wandering, fraught with perils that she was loathe to contemplate and incondign to meet alone.

After several moments of observation, she discerned a pattern in the patrols of the main courtyard. She found that there was a period of time, possibly as long as five minutes, when the entire yard was completely deserted. She waited for the two pairs of guards to disappear around different corners and then raced down the stone steps and into the covering shadows of a small guard hut.

The sky grew darker as the night progressed. Heavy clouds lumbered across the heavens, effacing the moon and deepening the protective shadows. Clinging to the wall, she crept slowly, but inexorably toward the building where Grigor had recently been taken.

'And just what do you intend to do when you get there?' her mind kept demanding, railing against the folly of her every move. She dismissed the question, deciding just to act and allow the details to take care of themselves. With every step, she fully expected that a torchlight would flicker along the upper battlement and someone would cry, "You there, stop where you are!"

And what would she do then? Comply or risk all on a mad dash for glory? She did not know. She had taken her thoughts to a place where possibilities and outcomes were little more than superfluous bits of baggage. As she raced along the section of well lit wall, anticipating the fatal sting of an archer's arrow, she realized that she was intoxicated with the temerity of her actions as though she had been born to this moment and its dreadful perils.

Coming to the dungeon's entrance, she paused and studied the building. It was a low, squat structure; an appropriate home for torture and degradation. When the wind guttered, she imagined that she could hear muted cries issuing from within.

'Lorio is in there,' she again thought despondently. There was no telling what manner of horror she had been forced to endure. Islena harbored no illusions about the fate that a beautiful woman could expect to suffer at the hands of jailors in a world such as this. The temptation to plunder such a treasure would be irresistible and Lorio would inevitably fight like an enraged animal caught in a snare.

'God, please let her still be alive,' she prayed, though prayer touched her to be little more than windless angels in this unholy place.

Spurred on by a new exigency, she described a cautious circle of the building, only to discover that there was only one entrance into the structure.

Suddenly a pair of guards emerged from the doorway, laughing and clapping each other on the back. If either would have bothered to glance over their shoulder, he would have spotted Islena, standing exposed and vulnerable in the pale light. Instead, the pair moved across the courtyard, too preoccupied on tales of imagined sexual exploits to waste time on vigilance. It occurred to her that the entire security process seemed desultory at best and this provided her with a faint glimmer of hope that she might actually make her way out of this place, Lorio in tow.

Deciding to cast her fate at the feet of providence, she race to the entrance and plunged into the uninviting darkness of the prison. Incredibly, she emerged into a narrow corridor that was completely deserted. Instinct warned her that there was something suspicious about this cavalier approach to security, but she elected to ignore the warning. She could hear a cacophonous roar of laughter issuing from down the length of the corridor and discover why the occupants viewed guard duty with such indifference; the ground floor of the building also housed the guard barracks.

That faint glimmer of hope guttered in an instant. Despite that sudden pessimism, she made no move to withdraw. Seeing no alternative, she picked her way deeper into the building. The smell of human flesh came to her nostrils; the accumulated stench of bodies packed too tightly and bathing neglected for far too long. She wrinkled her nose in disgust and turned away.

She noticed that a doorway had been set into the far wall near the end of the corridor. Weak light flickered through the opening, allowing Islena a glimpse of a descending staircase.

'That's it,' she correctly surmised. 'That is where I have to go.' Apprehension made her shiver, but she willed herself forward and reaching the doorway undetected, took several steps into the dreary gloom and before coming to an abrupt halt. The high, eldritch stench of slow death assailed her like an unexpected assassin. In the tavern, Islena had inhaled the heady aroma of freshly spilled blood. Then, death had been an intoxicating thing, signifying her triumph and ultimate survival.

This stench was ineffable. She felt her stomach rising, burning and rank, and clamped her mouth shut. Along with the unfortunate prisoners, every dark beast of the human spirit had been incarcerated within these walls. She could hear the echoes of age old injustices, wretched and faint, crying out to her. A harrowing cry resounded from below and she very nearly bolted for the doorway.

"I'm not strong enough," she whimpered. She had been raised with the solemn belief that all life was sacred, but this place repudiated the sanctity of human life. Here, the notion of virtue was ridiculed by the heinous actions of men, who were probably not monsters but were capable of truly monstrous acts. She took a tentative step forward and then another.

'Go down there if you have to, but understand that, should you manage to emerge, you will emerge into the light drastically changed,' her mind admonished. 'This is a place that was conceived to defile righteousness and to corrupt the spirit. It breeds hatred and ugliness and even you are not immune to its poison.'

The thought shook Doraux, but lacked the power to deter her from her course. Steeling herself against the anticipated horror, she descended into the uneasy gloom until she reached the first landing. A series of chilling pleas for mercy rang through the stone chamber. She recognized the voice to be Grigor's. In counterpoint, other voices shouted derision and encouragement in turns. Like sharks in a feeding frenzy, the guards had evidently left their posts to enjoy the woeful spectacle of an old man being mercilessly tortured for the simple distraction of the act.

'Just maybe you'll do your daughter one final bit of kindness, old man,' Islena muttered. She proceeded along the corridors, peering into each cell in search of Lorio. There were ten cells set into the walls of this particular section of the dungeon. The first nine were empty, but she could smell the residue of past occupants in drying blood, urine and feces. As she moved up the corridor, Islena could feel her apprehension growing. The impression that she was traversing the gullet of some mammoth, insidious beast grew with each step.

A single torch, suspended on a bracket, cast a sickly, incondign light over the entrance to the final cell. Even as she stepped to the rusted iron bars, Islena was unconsciously shaking her head in negation.

The first glimpse of Lorio struck her like a massive wave breaking upon a deserted shore. The metaphor was an apt one. In that moment of impact, the final remnants of civility and gentleness were scoured from Islena's heart, leaving behind a stony core of ice which would be impervious to compassion or mercy.

The woman in the cell was a pale shadow of the ferociously independent spirit that Islena had come to know and love. Shaking with rage and indignation, Doraux reached for a torch and drawing it from a rusty iron sconce, held the torch aloft. The extent of Lorio's savaging nearly caused her to run mad...to kill and gouge and tear, until she herself had been killed.

Lorio hung motionless against the opposite wall. Her jailers had gone to extreme lengths to insure their captive would suffer every imaginable abjection. The floor of her cell had been flooded with filthy water that reeked of raw sewage. Lorio, herself, had been stripped naked and hung suspended from the wall. The chains had been deliberately shortened so she would be forced to stand continuously.

Evidently, she had struggled to remain erect until her long legs had evidently lost the strength to support her. Trembling with exhaustion, she had eventually sagged. Now she dangled grotesquely by her arms, her legs folded beneath her in a sprawl of resignation.

With a savage grunt, Islena thrust the torch through the bars. Though the light was weak and ineffectual, it provided more than sufficient illumination to tear her heart asunder.

"Oh, sweet Jesus, Lorio," she whispered.

Lorio's wrists had been clamped by a rusty iron manacles. As she had gradually lost the strength to support herself, the heavy iron bracelet had dug cruelly into the flesh of her wrists. Blood trickled lethargically from the wounds as though it, too, was gradually losing the will to circulate in the face of her torment.

Lorio's long torso was crisscrossed by abrasions and defaced by bruises. Her legs were similarly marked. Even her full breasts had not been spared. As the light touched her eyes, Lorio whimpered and shifted slightly. The single movement resulted in a chorus of agonized cries as her tortured shoulder and wrist brayed in protest. The Lamish woman's piteous moan, ripe with torment and despair, was so atypical of the woman whom Islena had come to know. She was oblivious to the tears of grief that spilled down her face. Nor could she suppress the pang of guilt which insisted that she was in part responsible for Lorio's agony and humiliation.

It was then that she noticed the blood glistening wetly on Lorio's inner thigh.

She leaned her head against the indifferent iron and began to weep uncontrollably. Though she had guessed that Lorio would certainly be subjected to this worst of all degradations, she was still unprepared for the stark reality of the violation.

Perhaps there was a familiar note to the despondent weeping because Lorio painfully lifted her head.

"Islena?" she whispered thinly, her voice a papery echo of its former self. She glanced up to find Lorio regarding her through pain-glazed eyes. The sight of that once beautiful countenance robbed her of her ability to speak. The eyes were gleaming slits of misery, partially lost in the mountain range of swollen and discolored flesh. The sensuous lips had been shredded by the heavy fall of innumerable blows. Lorio summoned the courage to muster a weak smile, but when her friend gave no response, Lorio allowed her head to settle wearily to her chest, perhaps thinking that her mind had conjured this apparition to assuage her torment or perhaps aggravate it.

'She'll never be the same,' Islena reflected. If she did survive, the day would come when the physical scars would perhaps fade, but the ugly specter of her violation would continue to haunt her. In the back corner of her mind, Lorio had been disabused of the notion that women could ever be anything more than chattel in this wretched world. Islena further surmised that Lorio, the Lorio whom she had battled to near death, would somehow be diminished by this ordeal...a pale facsimile of the passionate tigress that had nearly succeeded in vanquishing the much heralded chosen one.

"Lorio," Islena called softly, striving grimly to subjugate her own grief. The battered woman again raised her head with a grimace. Islena thought that she discerned a glimmer of irritation in those eyes as though she had no tolerance for maligning specters. That faint spark, whether real or imagined, provided her with the remote hope that something of the old Lorio could be salvaged.

Lorio continued to squint for some time, and when the woman before her did not dissolve into a spectral mist, she exclaimed, "Islena, by the Gods, is it truly you?"

"Yes," Doraux murmured in a voice that was hoarse with emotion. She winced as Lorio's shredded lips began to bleed afresh.

"I thought that you were just another of the ghosts that come to torment me when the pain is at its worst. I would hear voices and raise my head. When it wasn't one of them." Here Lorio shuddered and Islena grasped the reference all too well, "I would be confronted by the sweetest visions...my mother, my older sister and others that I would have thought lost in time. When I hailed them, they would not reply. Instead they would watch me in a brooding silence, their pitying expressions driving daggers into my heart."

"They're all dead, you know," she remarked in a fey voice. "All of the people whom I have held sacred are gone." At this point Lorio faltered. "And when you appeared, I despair that you had gone to join them."

"I am not dead," Islena asserted vehemently. "I've come to take you out of this place."

Lorio offered Doraux a rather dubious smile, though her suffering turned the expression into a grotesque parody of what she had intended. "Then you've come at the right time. I can tolerate the agony, but can suffer through no further visitations."

Her words trailed off into a rasping groan as another convulsive shiver of agony wracked her tortured body.

Alarmed, Doraux pleaded, "Hold on for just another moment. I'm going to have to find some way to open this cell."

She jerked upon the bars experimentally. Though they were heavily spawled by rust, it quickly became apparent that it would require a bulldozer to pull them free of their moorings.

"I'm going to have to find a key, Lorio," Islena remarked with an artificial calm that she hoped would conceal her mounting desperation. She had already resolved not to abandon Lorio to this hellish place irrespective of the consequences. Better to endure a similar fate of pain and degradation than to flee and be pursued by reproachful shades and bitter recriminations.

She had already started back up the corridor when something fell at her feet with a metallic clatter, ringing in her ears like a discordant symphony of defeat. Over her shoulder, Islena could hear Lorio whimper softly.

"I believe that those are what you seek." Doraux stiffened. The lilting, melodious voice could only belong to one woman.

Suddenly the corridor blazed into light as a dozen torches erupted simultaneously.

Ringed by a protective cordon of Imperial Troopers and accompanied by the man whom Islena recognized as the leader of the troops who had hoarded the women of Kornas to their deaths, stood Myrhia. Her hair was adorned by a net of spun gold and the emerald intaglio, which was set into her breastplate, cast an eerie green glow over the corridor.

Her dark eyes regarded Islena with obvious amusement. Her ethereal face was set in an expression that might have been either delight or disappointment. To Islena's eye, she resembled a glorious child regaled in adult's clothing. It was nearly impossible to reconcile this image with the reality of the enchantress' twisted, perverse soul.

She could sense the siren song of the High Queen's allure striving to possess her, but she staved it off with a savage shrug of revulsion.

"You lying, miserable bitch!" Islena hissed. Vitriol boiled in her soul like hot acid

Myrhia merely smiled at the display of ire and shrugged her shoulders in a gesture of helplessness. "So, the facades have crumbled then? We assume the role of adversaries yet again."

She stepped away from her soldiers and advanced towards Doraux, who stood as motionless as a piece of statuary. 'Come closer, bitch,' she encouraged silently, 'another few paces.'

Myrhia did continue to advance, either oblivious to Islena's fury or unconcerned by it. The High Queen lowered her voice so the others would not hear her words. "I had hoped that I would be able to find some sufficient inducement to entice you to join me as an ally, but fate has resigned us to be eternal enemies, you and I."

The High Queen's countenance had become pensive and her eyes grew misty with a melancholy that Islena could neither credit nor trust. "There is still hope that we may escape the rigid constraints of our destinies. Islena, try to rise above your anger and give some consideration to what I am proposing. You can't begin to comprehend the power that I've accrued. In my fingertips is the puissance to crumble mountains."

"Then why the elaborate charade? If you're so fucking powerful, why bother going to such lengths to pull me into your twisted, psychotic delusions?" Islena was livid, yet beneath her rage there lay a certain curiosity that she had to appease.

"Not everything that I spoke of the other night was fabrication. The Three Proclamations and all of the power with which they've been invested, do exist and providence had decreed that you must be the one to rouse their recumbent power."

"Why don't you just go and find them yourself. If you think that there is anything that you can do to extort my help, then you're one deluded, fucking bitch"

Myrhia's eyes flashed at the provocation. "That's the second time that you've made that disparaging reference. The third time will not be without its price."

The two women glowered at each other and then Myrhia's eyes regained their normal impish twinkle. "Islena, this belligerence serves no purpose. I am offering you the very stuff of your fantasies...a veritable hedonist's paradise. In my universe, you may be a Queen, free to fashion the kingdom of your choice. It is pointless to deny that you crave power. It has been so in each of your past incarnations, but that craving has never been as vulgar...as flagrant as it is now."

Sensing that Myrhia was making her appeal to her resident dark angel, Islena retreated as though her influence could be attenuated by distance. The effect of the enchantress' voice was akin to the subtle penetration of the incubus. Confident that her prey's resolve was wavering, the high queen advanced. "You and I are separated only by shades of light, and made enemies only by degrees.

"Look at me, Islena," Myrhia whispered softly.

"Look at me!" The clenched imperative could not be ignored. Doraux found her gaze being drawn to meet the High Queen's bewitching eyes. She heard a soft sigh escape her lips. Celestial effulgence had gathered around Myrhia like a corona, lending her imposing beauty an angelic aspect. To her chagrin, Islena could sense another tearful outburst lurking just beneath the surface of her anger and cursed her wayward emotions, preferring to die rather than to display even a suggestion of weakness before Myrhia. She took another backwards step and felt her back press against unyielding stone. There could be no escape from the enchantress' immense presence or the compelling drag of her will.

She wrenched her head to the right and her gaze fell upon Lorio's battered visage. The Lamish woman's eyes glimmered, the narrow slits radiating a mixture of entreaty and despair. It was the latter which empowered Islena to resist.

"And what about her, Myrhia? Will you elevate her to the status of a Queen, or at least heal her wounds?"

Myrhia's gaze flicked over Lorio, a faint moue of disgust tugging at the corners of her lips. "Ah yes, your little concubine...you always have had strange predilections of the flesh."

"You keep speaking as though you know me," Islena flared, vexed by the constant insinuations of familiarity.

"Islena, you can't begin to comprehend the extent of our intimacy. You and I have shared experiences that have laid the foundations of worlds."

"You're a raving lunatic," Doraux retorted, though with far less certainty than the notion should have evoked as the fabric of her mind was gently rustled by the stirring of a distant memory that she could not bring fully into focus.

"As you'd have it," Myrhia shrugged with an elegant smile. "Eventually you will come to the moment of inevitable insight."

"Release Lorio," Islena demanded tightly.

"I'm afraid it isn't that simple. I would require sufficient inducement," the enchantress quipped with a sardonic grin. "Ryalla, the grand imperator of the Jerhia...was he not a clever creation...had also made mention of cost. I believe that the recently deceased Mrs. Normandy might also have mentioned it. Do you really believe that I lack the means to compel you to do my bidding? Would you be so defiant in the face of an eviscerated husband? Imagine the sheer horror of witnessing your own son being garroted, while he pleaded for your help."

Myrhia glided forward. "Just as I have plucked you from your world, so too, may I summon others to facilitate my grand design."

Islena glared at Myrhia, her jaw clenched in outrage, but faced the provocation stoically. The High Queen suddenly grinned wickedly, an insidious notion blossoming in her mind, and looked to Lorio. "To demonstrate, I might allow you to endure the sight of the Lamish whore being subjected to every imaginable perversion and degradation." She turned to consider her entourage, all of whom appeared to be mesmerized by the tyrant they served. Islena noticed that only the large, bearded man seemed to view the sorry spectacle with a trace of revulsion. When he became aware of her scrutiny, Ynthrax quickly averted his eyes lest he betray his true emotions. The High Queen singled out a short, grotesquely ugly man and beckoned him to come forward.

The man reluctantly shuffled to the fore. Myrhia pivoted about. The pure delight in her eyes spoke eloquently of the twisted, perverse nature of her soul. "Do you think he's suitable? Imagine the pent up rancor and bitterness such a man must surely harbor. Without restraint, there could be no limit to his capacity for cruelty."

The blow came with such speed and efficacy that even Myrhia could not react to its violence. Islena lashed out at the High Queen with the accumulated outrage of every injustice and indignity that she had been forced to suffer. The report of flesh upon flesh was as loud as the crack of a whip. All in the chamber lapsed into a stunned silence.

She snarled and advance upon the enchantress, who reeled back and slammed into the stone wall. Then her knees appeared to unhinge in slow motion and she folded to the ground as though being lowered by unseen hands. Doraux pounced upon her in an instant. With her fist entwined in the raven tresses, the larger woman jerked the diminutive Myrhia to her feet as though she were a sack of feathers.

The enchantress' normally perceptive eyes were glossy with pain. Ynthrax experience a surge of elation, silently willing the woman to do what he himself, lacked the fortitude to attempt. Doraux drew back her fist with the intention of inflicting as much damage as possible before the High Queen's lackeys could intervene.

Yet, before the first blow could land, Myrhia reached out and almost gently touched Islena's abdomen with a trembling finger. There was a period, no longer than a brief flicker, of pleasing warmth, followed by an explosion of argent pain like a bursting nova.

Islena glanced down, her mouth contorted into a rictus of agony and astonishment, to discover that the black material of her tunic was alive with a forest of green flame. She cried out, expecting to feel the bite of the consuming heat. Instead, her skin cringed at the caress of an intense cold that caused her teeth to chatter. Clutching her hands to the effected area only deadened them on contact.

Myrhia stumbled to her feet, but lost her balance and fell backwards, landing with her skirts drawn up about her thighs in a salacious sprawl.

A single soldier laughed and then froze, grasping the enormity of his error. About him, the others instinctively drew away from him so as not to fall victim to Myrhia's certain wrath.

To the shock of all present, the retaliation did not come. Myrhia simply closed her eyes and placed her hand upon her jaw, which was already distended and bruised. She inclined her head just in time to witness Islena collapse to the floor only a few feet from where the Queen lay. Doraux writhed in agony, cradling her abdomen with her forearms. To Myrhia's admiration, the woman made no utterance pain.

In that instant of shared suffering and anguish, Myrhia was visited by a premonition of her own failure. The future mocked her from beyond impenetrable veils, raising nightmarish recollections of a past prison of rock and water.

'This woman is destined to be your bane,' Myrhia told herself, 'and still you cannot resist the temptation, the nearly sexual attraction of danger she presents.'

'Send her back. Let the taking of this world satiate your lust for conquest. You are a moth to her flame and this foolish dalliance can only end in the ruination of everything that you have striven for,' The voice unfurled its plea for reason, yet the still dazed enchantress knew that she would not, indeed could not, heed that entreaty. Like Islena, her essential character had been forged and cast in the kiln of predestination. Myrhia fervently believed that she could be deified should she succeed in drawing forth the power of the Proclamations...an ambition far too enticing to be eschewed.

Turning onto her hands and knees, mindless of the implied indignity, the enchantress crawled across the damp stone to where Islena lay quivering like a fevered child. She brushed back the woman's sweat-pasted hair, brushed her lips over Doraux's ear and whispered, "Here, we are sisters in pain, a mutual sharing that may either unite our causes or erect an insurmountable wall between us. As I had said last eve, there can be no neutrality in this struggle. All must declare an allegiance and pledge fealty. I offer you a kingdom and a bonding of our souls in return for the task that you were born to perform. Declare yourself now."

Doraux raised her head, though the effort sent rolling waves of nausea coursing through her body. She squinted at Myrhia's lovely visage through glazed eyes. The Queen's offer was not without its appeal. In perfect candor, she had always longed for power and the trappings of idolatry and adoration. Despite Myrhia's dissembling and her thoroughly corrupt soul, Islena did not doubt that the enchantress would honor this particular promise. A more immediate consequence of her acquiescence would be an end to the turmoil and incessant grief that seemed to accompany her resistance.

Perhaps, in time, she might even grow accustomed to the dispassionate wielding of power and the indiscriminate taking of life.

'My God, are you no different from her?' she demanded of herself, appalled and vaguely terrified that she could even entertain such a notion. She met and held the enchantress' expectant gaze. "Go fuck yourself. Before this is over, one of us will be dead. So, if you intend to kill me, you'd better do it while you have the chance."

Myrhia's expression soured and she appeared to sag perceptibly. When she spoke, her normally lilting voice had grown somber and flat. The consuming sorrow that pinched her lovely face could not have been feigned. "You and I are shackled by the restraints of our natures. I had hoped that on this one occasion, the two of us could defy our separate fates and forever shatter that mold. There are times when this eternal conflict grows tiresome. The three of us were meant to stand together and I long for the day when I can shuck off the role of antagonist."

Myrhia stood and smoothed her ruffled velvet skirt, then gestured for three of her Imperial Troopers to come forward. As they approached, she pressed her hand gingerly along the angle of her jaw where a discolored swelling, the size and shape of an egg, had blossomed. "I confess that I have erred in underestimating your speed and power. Perhaps a part of you has already detected the recumbent power in the fiber of your extraordinary body.

The enchantress waved her hands and the lacquered nails blazed into flaming shafts. "I, on the other hand, foster no misconceptions or uncertainties about who I am or the extent of my power. You reject my offer of benevolence? Very well, it's time to indoctrinate you in the protocol of royalty and to test your mettle in the bargain."

With a curt, slicing gesture, Myrhia instructed her troopers, "Take her to the gaming yard."

Chapter Twenty Seven

1

The Imperial army's first twenty four hours in Jerhia proceeded with the kind of fluidity that every military commander dreams of, but few reasonably expect. The initial incursion shattered the elaborate defense network as though it had been constructed from balsa wood. When the foot soldiers failed to halt the stolid advance of the glowing blue monstrosities, mounted cavalry joined the fray, supported by a squadron of Jerhia's elite archers.

Like the defenders of Kornas, they proved woefully ineffective against the creatures, which, while ponderous, were impervious to arrow, fire or lance.

As the archers broke ranks and retreated and the decimated cavalry scattered into the forest, the Imperial troopers came forward and dispatched the wounded Jerhia with their customary cruelty. The mercenaries heaped their scorn and derision upon the captured enemy...inquiring what might have become of their renowned fighting skills. The Jerhia bore the degradation with their characteristic taciturnity, which only incited their captors to further acts of violence. No one would ever know the number of brave Troopers who died horrendous deaths on the first day of the invasion, but the Jerhia resistance was thoroughly shattered in the first twenty four hours.

The monstrosities advanced implacably and organized defense dissolved before their rolling juggernaut. Yet, by the darkening of the sky, the invader's initial elation had been tempered by a disquiet that was to deepen into anxiety over the course of the next few days.

Though the Jerhia had been defeated, they had not been fully obliterated. The people of the mountain nation were a cunning and resourceful bunch...their military skill built as much upon invention as it was upon valor and discipline. When it became exceedingly clear that the Jerhia could not overcome the Morticants, and that the eventual result would be total obliteration should they try, the entire population executed a massive vanishing act.

When the Imperial Troopers reached the first settlement of Yasep, on that first evening, the commanders were shocked to find that every structure had been razed to a blackened husk. The commander ordered a thorough search of the ruins.

Not a single body was found.

Every usable good had either been transported or put to the torch. Grasping the intent of this Jerhia stratagem, the Commander's euphoria quickly gave way to a sinking feeling that this was to become the most exorbitant and arduous campaign of the entire war.

During the first night of the occupation, his dire fears were confirmed. A squadron of Imperial Troopers were dispatched to search wooded area immediately to the north of Yasep. To gain an understanding of the ambiance of a Jerhia night, it is first necessary to develop a sense of geographical awareness.

There is a rugged, almost violently savage aspect to the terrain. Massive ranges of towering mountains render the majority of the country virtually inaccessible to all but fools and mountain goats. What lowlands there are, have been densely blanketed by thick stands of conifers and fur trees that have stood sentinel over the land for centuries. These natural wonders tower over huge outcrops of extruded granite. The forests are as untamed as the mountains, for the Jerhia hold them in reverence, and appear forbidding to those unfamiliar with its indomitable nature.

The pooling shadows possess a vitality that can fill even the most intrepid of hearts with apprehension. Bolstered by the presence of the fearsome and cryptic Morticants, the Imperial Troopers ventured into this vast and secret darkness with a sense of impunity. Yet, when the commander dispatched his men without escort, that sense of invulnerability quickly evaporated at the prospect of searching the forbidden forest.

The twelve man patrol moved through the lightless tracts more like timid and wayward schoolgirls than battle-hardened combat veterans. Like the day's headlong plunge into Yasep, the patrol encountered not the slightest hint of human habitation.

Riding along a particularly dark stretch of road, the twelve riders inadvertently blundered into the first of the Jerhia ambushes. The road ahead of the galloping riders suddenly blazed into a wall of flame, capering before the startled riders like a hellish curtain. The first two riders had no time to reign theirs horses and therefore plunged headlong into the inferno, which turned out to be an oil-saturated section of roadway some twenty meters long.

"Trap!" someone brayed out in an idiotic and terrified declaration of the painfully obvious. The surviving riders swerved, managing to avoid charging directly into the carpet of flames, but panicked by light and sound, their horses whinnied and reared. Three of the riders were unseated, landing on the carpet of pine needles with muffled thuds.

Scattered throughout the trees, a score of improvised torches blazed into life, followed by the distinct twang of crossbow strings and a deadly fusillade of bolts. The Jerhia archers struck with an uncanny accuracy. When the first volley had been spent seven dead men lay on the grass next to their panic-stricken horses, their blood spreading in slow, viscous pools on the green grass.

The three who had tumbled to the ground knelt there, cowering in terror and numb shock as their attackers approached. A tall, broad-shouldered Jerhia strode toward the man who appeared to have retained the greatest control of his wits.

When he spoke, it was with the placid voice that one might use during a casual conversation between long time friends. "You trespass upon sacred Jerhia soil."

The troopers merely stared back dumbly, his apprehension mounting.

"Though it would be well within our right to take your lives for what we consider to be the greatest of offences, you will be allowed to live so that you might convey a message to your queen."

With a bewildering swiftness, the Jerhia withdrew a dagger and pressed it against the captive's throat.

"I trust that I have your complete attention?" he inquired softly, though the man's horrified expression made it clear that the question had been superfluous. "If this unjustified aggression persists, and should your Queen refuse to relinquish the land that she has unjustly taken, the blood of her troopers shall spill like rivers, just as it has done here tonight. The Jerhia people will never submit to tyranny and we will not forfeit our rightful home without having first extracted a terrible price. Tell her this."

"She will not care," one of the other interjected meekly. "The Queen would see us all dead to have what she wants."

The Jerhia noticed the others unconsciously ease away from the Trooper as though they feared that Myrhia's retribution would spring upon them like an apocalyptic bolt of lightening from the heavens. The Jerhia's inscrutable blue eyes narrowed. "Perchance it is time that your comrades found the fortitude to take back your own destinies."

The three bowed their heads as though in silent admission that they had been gelded under Myrhia's fist. The Jerhia stepped back and pointed in the direction from which the ill-fated patrol had first come. "Go, and be sure to relate every last detail of what has happened here. Tell your comrades that, if Myrhia is to have this precious soil, these hills will become a fit habitation only for abominations and ghosts."

The three were gone in the blink of an eye...each resolved to leave this infernal country to Myrhia's horrors and the lunatics who would presume to oppose them.

The days would pass and with each successive raid, the moral of the invaders would sag. Despite these lightening raids, the invading armies drove deeper into Jerhia, like a poison bound inexorably for the heart.

The gradual erosion of the Imperial army's confidence created the most bizarre of all possible paradoxes...while the invaders won every battle by default, the troopers could not escape the pervasive sense that this war was fated to be lost...at least, for them.

Reluctant, yet desperate, the High Commander turned to Myrhia for a solution to the problem of the phantom enemy, but the High Queen was preoccupied by concerns of her own.

2

The court yard into which Islena was escorted under armed guard, was rectangular in shape and delineated by high brick walls that were completely overgrown by creeping vines and ivy. In the days before Perdwick had fallen under the hand of darkness, this courtyard had been employed as a jousting and gaming yard for the amusement of visiting dignitaries.

Bleachers and private boxes had been erected along the entire length of the north wall and it was here that royalty and commoners alike had mingled to view the friendly competitions. It was said that the legendary Artumas had once passed an afternoon in the royal box before Myrhia had come to usurp his throne. Now, as night slowly relented before the march of dawn, less than a dozen people had assembled on the vast field, the grass of which had turned a despondent yellow from months of neglect.

A dozen soldiers, all armed with pikes, surrounded Islena. The position of their weapons and their tense, expectant stances suggested that they fully expected this she-devil to leap out at them like a rabid animal. She had, after all, struck the enchantress, and only the truly deranged would be capable of such suicidal audacity.

Islena merely stared back at them in a silent rage. She realized that there was no hope for escape, but she intended to suffer what lay ahead with both stoic dignity and defiance.

The large, bearded man gestured for the soldiers to stand back, and then moved to face the captive woman. He fixed Islena with a frank gaze of appraisal which she fielded unflinchingly. Then the man smiled, an expression clearly not common to his craggy visage, and said, "I do not know who you are, but you are courageous, if not reckless."

"It's not hard to be courageous when circumstances leave you little choice," she snapped balefully. "She's inflicted this upon me and I have to live with it."

The man reflected on this for a moment, then nodded brusquely and moved away. Just then, the High Queen entered the field from the opposite end of the courtyard. Islena noticed that the Imperial Troopers stiffened as the enchantress entered and she realized that they regarded Myrhia with absolute terror. Yet, the woman appeared so delicate, so frangible. The blow which Islena had landed in the corridor served as a testimony to Myrhia's mortality. The campaign of tyranny and her fierce grip on power, on the face of it, at least, seemed ridiculously disproportionate to the facade which she presented to the world.

As Islena was about to be painfully reminded, appearances can be brutally deceiving.

Gone was the breastplate and jeweled netting, replaced by a uniform of unadorned black that resembled Islena's. Myrhia's raven tresses had been drawn back by a velvet lash, exposing the sculptured arrogance of her cheek bones and the swan-like elegance of her neck. She crossed the courtyard at a brisk stride, gesturing for the soldiers to move away from her precious prize.

She came to a stop five paces in front of Islena, a distance that would preclude a recurrence of the surprise blow that had embarrassed her in the dungeon. When the enchantress spoke, it was in her deceptively blithe voice. Only her dark eyes conveyed the somberness that the forthcoming conflict had aroused in the lightless cleft of her heart. "Your time in this world has not been easy. Your damnable intransigence is partly to blame for the tribulations you have suffered."

She met Islena's eyes, and for a brief instant, Doraux glimpsed some of the vast emptiness which constituted much of Myrhia's life.

"You're as much of a prisoner as I am, aren't you?" Islena intoned, shocked by the degree of compassion in her own voice. Myrhia frowned, her veil quickly slipping back into place and the moment of empathy was broken.

"I am Queen," Myrhia retorted stiffly, misconstruing Islena's remark. "And I have every intention of becoming a Goddess."

"You'll never be accused of setting your sights too low," Doraux chided venomously. Myrhia's flawless skin reddened and her composure wavered for an instant. "It's a wonder that such a small body can contain such a vast ego."

"You try my patience...not an expedient thing to do, I assure you."

"Perhaps, but I'm going to deliberately keep trying to provoke you," Islena snarled.

"Why?" Myrhia demanded in consternation. "Have you no inkling of the power at my disposal?"

"Then kill me," Doraux flared. "Nothing you can ever do will make me a slave to your deranged ambitions. As long as I draw breath, you'll have a cold shadow on your shoulder."

Myrhia's eyes blazed, but she remained silent.

Islena grinned in derision. "As powerful as you might think you are, you still have one weakness...you need me and your lust for power won't even allow you the simple satisfaction of killing me for my insolence."

The enchantress smiled and clapped her hands together in delight. "You are precious, Islena. Your fierce spirit moves you to such shows of bravado and yet you are so naive. Within the fabric of your consciousness there resides a wealth of power to rival my own and still you remain oblivious to its existence."

She paused to contemplate this for an instant. "It's almost pathetic to think that you could only find expression for that inner strength in tawdry contests of vanity."

Though she was possessed of an independence that should have insulated her against such vitriol, Islena was assailed by a moment of intense shame. For the first time in her life, she felt as though she had devoted all of her energy and time to a vainglorious and utterly meaningless pursuit. She suddenly knew that what had always been her greatest passion had been suddenly and irrevocably taken from her with a derisive pronouncement from her mortal enemy. She could feel herself wilting under the profound sense of loss as the foundation of her personality shuddered.

"If it wasn't for your extraordinary nature, I would hold you in the same contempt with which I view these wretched peasants," the enchantress continued evenly. "This is to be the first lesson in your indoctrination. I am going to disabuse you of your foolish skepticism. I'm going to humiliate you and make you grovel like a complaisant dog, Islena."

Grasping what the High Queen was proposing, Islena virtually licked her lips. "I see that you're pleased," Myrhia observed with a wry smile. "I invite you to partake in a contest...your physical prowess against whatever resources I might possess."

Something spoke against hasty commitment to such a challenge. The woman was so small and so obviously vulnerable...surely she must conceal some unseen defense? Myrhia stepped back and gestured for her troopers to stand free of Doraux and depart.

"Milady?" Ynthrax objected, though he had already begun to usher the others toward the opposite end of the gaming field.

"Go, Ynthrax," Myrhia commanded tersely, waving him off dismissively. The man shot Islena a final, unfathomable look and then stalked away, leaving the pair alone.

Myrhia turned her attention to Doraux offering her captive an ebullient smile. "Power is the pinnacle of all things. It is the thing every sentient being covets, though many fail to...or refuse to...acknowledge their own craving. You have a power of sorts, but it still in its formative stage, primarily because you have no real concept of who or what you are. The world is not so tangibly defined. It cannot be described in simple, pragmatic terms."

She waved her hands and the air about her head began to buzz and congeal. A strange effulgence gathered in the arch between her hands; intimations of a power that existed far beyond the realm of Islena's sensibilities. "I am the embodiment of all that you stubbornly refuse to accept. Tonight, you shall be enlightened and those preconceived blinders shall slip from your eyes like scales."

Then enchantress, closed her eyes and whispered, then offered her enemy a feral grin. "As I've promised, I'm going to make you grovel, bitch. You think that I've caused you to suffer, but your pain is inconsequential compared to the hell that I've endured in my journey to this particular juncture in time. Come darling and let me pour for you the sweet wine of agony. When I am finished, you will believe in me and you will plead for the opportunity to lick my boots."

Islena charged forward, intent upon crushing the High Queen like a juggernaut. Though she was disadvantaged by fifty pounds of solid muscle, Myrhia spread her legs as though she intend to meet the onslaught head on. Doraux snarled and ducked her shoulder, certain that the impending impact would snap the High Queen like a fragile sapling.

Much to her consternation and surprise, the expected collision did not materialize. She passed through the spot where Myrhia had stood as a great frigate might plough through a heavy fog. She tried to rein her charge, but her momentum carried her forward and pitched her face first onto the grassy common, landing in a tangled sprawl.

Islena rolled quickly to her feet and gazed incredulously at Myrhia, who stood with her back to her opponent, glimmering like a mirage. "Time and space are less substantial here," she explained in a scholarly tone. "The physical body can transcend the constraints of its own solidity."

Islena frowned in confusion. Surely, she had been deceived by trickery. No one could alter their composition with the immediacy and ease of thought. The High Queen made no move to face her adversary. "It is essential that you come to grasp the precise correlation between the physical and the metaphysical world. Once the correct perspective has been attained, one can shun the laws that restrict the average man."

Islena crept cautiously forward, grasping that she would be better served by exercising restraint. She had managed to come within an arm's length when the enchantress vanished like a broken promise. In the blink of an eye, she had materialized beside the startled Doraux. Her deceptively delicate hand flashed out, chopping Islena high on the cheek bone. The blow was struck with the velocity and power of a feller's axe. As her knees buckled, Doraux emitted a strangled gasp inspired as much by shock as it was by pain.

The right side of her face began to swell immediately, reducing her right eye to a glimmering slit. Though the pain bit deep into her skull, she tottered unsteadily to her feet and pivoted to meet Myrhia.

The enchantress now stood some twenty paces away, grinning benignly at her battered opponent. "One good turn deserves another."

Tenaciously refusing to concede, Islena took a stumbling step in Myrhia's apparent direction. A sharp crackle tore the predawn air, followed by another. There was a moment of utter shock, followed by a blaze of incisive terror. Myrhia gesticulated and the third lash of her invisible whip bit deeply into Islena's lower thigh, tearing through the thick material of her trousers and bringing forth a thin ribbon of blood. She laid a hand over the wound and then gazed around her as though the very air had become belligerent.

"The first lesson is complete...never underestimate the might of one's enemies. Despite the disparity in size between us, I possess abilities that enable me to inflict punishment upon you without risk to my physical being."

The High Queen performed several elaborate gestures, unleashing a barrage of wicked blows which excoriated the tight flesh of Doraux's back, buttocks and thighs. The uniform was rapidly reduced to tatters, while the grass around her feet became spattered with quarter-sized droplets of blood. Each lash was punctuated by Islena's sharp hiss, though she adamantly refused to fall despite the immobilizing pain which strove to humble her.

Myrhia approached. Her feet appeared to glide inches above the dew laden grass, confirming the impression that she was more spectral than substantial.

"This is all so unnecessary," she whispered in a doleful tone. "A simple oath of fealty is all that I require."

"Never!" Doraux gasped through a mouth contorted by agony.

Myrhia shook her head regretfully and fetched a sigh of regret. Then her expression became mischievous. Her right hand cut the air in a scythe-like motion. There followed a guttural rumble and the air folded like an optical illusion created by August heat over open fields.

The subsequent blow swept the legs out from under Islena, bludgeoning her to the ground with a muffled grunt. Stunned, she gazed up to find the enchantress looming over her; a thunderhead preparing to unleash its ineffable fury.

"You are determined to try my patience," she glowered. "Your stubbornness grows tiresome, bitch." The night sky reverberated with a series of piercing shrieks. Myrhia closed her eyes and laid back her head. A disturbingly shrill braying tore from her lips as her throat worked up and down in a convulsive, yet oddly rhythmic manner. The sound that came forth rang eerily familiar and decidedly subhuman.

Then she inclined her head to the heavens, scanning the rapidly lightening sky, and waiting with an air of expectation that one might associate with the advent of a divine miracle. Islena briefly contemplated using the distraction as an opportunity to attack, but her huge and debilitating pain would allow her to do nothing but lay at her tormentor's feet, suffering silently.

Myrhia continued to utter that shrill, ululating cry until, after some moments, a response shredded the night skies over the common. This was joined by another and then another, escalating in both volume and pitch until the very ground felt as though it were reverberating in naked terror. Svelte, menacing silhouettes rocketed through the milky, pink light of dawn, executing slow rolls and plummeting dives in a flawless, efficient manner that could only be that of a hawk.

Myrhia mouthed her ancient, arcane incantation which rallied the hawks into a uniform attack squadron. Wheeling as one, they swept down out of the sky, heading directly for the horrified Islena.

Guided by instinct, she rolled onto her stomach and wrapped her arms protectively about her head, knowing that the passive defense would prove woefully inadequate against the steel talons and beaks of the winged predators. The birds swarmed over Doraux, tearing randomly at her back and legs as they swooped down in a predatory frenzy.

A large hawk screeched belligerently and dragged its talons across the back of her hand. The wicked curve of its beak gouged at the sensitive webbing between her thumb and index finger. Islena rolled to her right and regarded her injured hand with bewildered amazement.

Seeing their quarry's vulnerable underside thus exposed, the squadron of hawks converged in unison. Islena flailed blindly, but the birds struck with a precision for which she had no effective counter.

A talon tore her right shoulder.

A beak gashed the thick muscle of her quadracep

Flapping wings beat against her face hard enough to bring blood to her nose.

The birds were relentless in their attack. Islena's desperation mounted with each successive wound that the birds inflicted. Torso and legs thoroughly drenched with blood, she scrambled to her feet and fled blindly for the courtyard gate. Sensing her flight, the birds whirled into the air above the green.

Islena pounded across the soft turf, feeling light-headed from terror and blood loss. Above, she could hear the frantic screaming of the birds as though they feared that their prey might find a way to elude them.

She reached the gate, her face twisting in a lunatic grin of triumph, and threw it open to find the enchantress blocking her way. She did not stop her flight, instead ducking her shoulder and throwing herself at Myrhia.

Whereas the last time the High Queen had been as insubstantial as a shifting mist, this time she proved to be as unyielding as solid stone. Islena bounced off of her enemy and rebounded back into the courtyard as though she, herself, was fashioned from India rubber.

Her indomitable spirit willed her flesh to make one final valiant effort to regain her feet.

"Don't, mommy. Please! Don't make her have to hurt you again." Islena recognized the voice that had issued to tearful entreaty. Her head snapped up, her eyes wide in negation, to see Myrhia standing with a maternal arm draped about her youngest son's shoulder. Upon later reflection, Doraux realized that this image of her son was only a conjuration. He was too vague to be human with features that were imprecise and more suited to a hologram than a living, breathing human being. In her state of dazed horror and pain, the boy appeared all too real and vulnerable and Myrhia's message struck home like a crossbow bolt.

"Leave him alone, you fucking bitch," Islena seethed. While Myrhia smiled indulgently, the boy gave no outward reaction to his mother's profanity or to her distress.

"I have no mind to harm the boy," Myrhia promised, but then added ominously, "at least, not yet. He's only come to be the voice of reason and to show you what you stand to lose should you continue this foolish resistance to the inevitable."

With a grimace, Islena hauled herself to her feet. Her body was a symphony ablaze with the pain of a hundred different wounds, while her face had risen into a grotesque range of bruised flesh. She judged that the damage was superficial. Miraculously, it seemed that none of her tendons or ligaments had been severed. She began to advance on the enchantress, never taking her eyes off of her son's terror-stricken face. The enchantress tightened her grip on the boy's shoulder, digging her nails into his flesh with a force that left bloody crescents in his skin.

He cried out and Islena automatically hesitated.

"I believe that we've reached a crucial juncture in the course of our mutual fate," Myrhia observed. "This is the moment of epiphany, where you must come to the understanding that the advantages in this contest are exclusively mine."

She prodded the boy forward. "This is your child, a product of your own flesh, Islena." She lifted the boy from his feet and shook him vigorously, his shriek emphasizing her inherently superior position. "From this point forward, your defiance will begin to cost you in tangible and intimate terms. Consider this before you take another step or persist in your pointless intransigence."

Islena came to an abrupt halt. Though she glowered at the enchantress, but her fury was attenuated by the dawning comprehension that circumstances would force her to succumb, not for her own sake, but for the sake of those whom she loved, but could not adequately protect.

"I won't fight any further." Her half mumbled concession of defeat was the most difficult pronouncement that she had ever been forced to make. She derived a small comfort from the fact that she had not conceded a promise of subservience. 'At least, not yet.'

Myrhia smiled broadly and released the boy. "Run along now. There are sweets in the cook's pantry."

Islena called his name, expecting him to run directly into her arms. Instead, he regarded her with an oddly vacuous expression and then fled without as much as a backward glance.

Distressed and perplexed by his bizarre behavior, she returned her attention to Myrhia, who now stood within arm's reach, steadying Doraux's battered visage intently. Her eyes absorbed the detail of the other woman's superb structure and the extensive injuries to which it had been subjected, as though she were an art patron delighting in some great masterpiece.

"You are truly magnificent," she murmured admiringly. Islena realized that the High Queen was enamored of her captive and was thinking that there might be some possible leverage in this knowledge, when Myrhia struck her viciously high on the side of the face. Doraux toppled sideways very much like a felled tree.

"I am a voracious consumer of beauty," Myrhia declared to the battered woman. "Will you serve me?"

Through the strident ringing in her ears, Islena whispered a low, yet adamant, "No!"

The High Queen fetched a profound sigh and shook her head more in exasperation than actual anger. "Very well. My ambition has no time constraint. Perhaps degradation will do what pain has not. The dungeons are a cruel place, Islena, but very often that intimate acquaintance with humiliation and pain help one toward a special moment of clarity and insight. All of the affectations and veneers are stripped away...after a time...even for the most intractable of prisoners."

She clapped her hands and a group of Troopers appeared as though they had merely been concealed behind a mantle of invisibility. Islena watched impassively as they encircled her, noticing the occasional flicker of shock in their eyes as they filed past. She found herself feeling indifferent to their reaction, as she was to her injuries and seemingly inescapable plight.

The High Queen's hulking Commander appeared at her side. She spared him a brief glance and instructed, "She is to be taken to the same quarter of cells as her Lamish trollop."

Ynthrax conducted a brief inventory of Islena's wounds.

'God's, she is bound to bleed to death!' he thought morosely and gestured for two of the Troopers to escort her to the dungeon. They exchanged glances and approached Doraux cautiously, perhaps anticipating a violent outburst. Surprisingly, Islena submitted without resistance and merely allowed herself to be led away.

Neither Ynthrax, nor Islena noticed that Myrhia's normally limpid eyes had filled with tears as she watched her captive being led away.

3

It was near dark the next day before someone finally appeared in the dark corridors outside of Islena's cell. She had passed the hours between their arrival before her cell door and her incarceration in their hellish dungeon in a fluctuating state of semi-lucidity. The swelling pain created odd illusions and abstractions...some so vivid that she feared for her sanity.

When these mists of agony would temporarily lift, Islena would attempt to take an objective stock of her physical condition. The blood from her various wounds had finally trickled to a halt, announcing that she was not in imminent danger of bleeding to death. In the wretched filth of her cell, Islena's greatest menace was the possibility of contracting disease or infection, which she correctly deduced would prove lethal in a world that had never heard of aspirin, much less antibiotics.

She had been chained with her arms held vertically above her head. While the position restricted her ability to look down, what she was able to see of her flayed thighs was not encouraging. The imminent threat of slow death through rampant infection made Islena cringe. She would have preferred to have died on the tip of an assassin's blade.

The key in the lock seemed to clang like a death knell, hurting her ears which confinement had made preternaturally sharp. With enormous effort, she raised her head to find an old woman standing in the doorway to her cell. She was flanked by two massive troopers, whose eyes were flat and empty...vacant expression Islena had come to associate with veteran tenure in Myrhia's service.

The woman held a large copper bowl. Islena could hear a liquid sloshing against its polished metal insides. The crone's wizened face betrayed no emotion as she crossed the narrow confined of the small cell. Her deportment was that of a lifelong servant; aloof and openly condescending to anyone who was not her mistress.

She flicked her eyes over the captive and then settled her gaze upon the two Troopers. She spoke in an imperious tone that echoed of her mistress. "Remove her clothes."

At that, Islena roused herself and began to thrash wildly, braying out a stream of obscenities that would have shamed her under other circumstances.

The two Troopers hesitated and exchanged agitated glances. Like the others in Perdwick, the pair had heard the stories...this one had killed four assassins in the city of the dead. She had even escaped confinement in the castle (though how, no one was precisely certain). Most incredible of all, she had actually struck the High Queen, knocking her to the ground with a single blow, though she had paid dearly for the affront.

"Do it quickly!" the old woman snapped impatiently.

Islena suddenly stopped thrashing and stood utterly still. She settled her weighty gaze upon the pair and waited. The first man gingerly gripped her left wrist. She accepted his touch without resistance and waited for the other to come into range. If rape was their intention, she would make sure that they paid a heavy price for their bit of perverse pleasure.

Seeing that she had apparently submitted without a fight, the second Trooper made a show of ogling the prisoner's high, firm breasts. The dank chill had raised the nipples into turgid peaks that poked enticingly through the tattered fabric of her sleeveless tunic. His mouth split into an ugly grin which revealed a line of rotten stumps and rank breath.

Reaching down, he casually drew a thin dagger from a sheath which had been strapped to his thigh. He glanced to his comrade, who nodded encouragingly. In their eagerness, neither of the men noticed that Doraux had gripped her chains, her massive biceps bulging and her knuckles white in anticipation of a single opportunity. She glanced at the old woman, hoping that she might intervene, but the faded gray eyes merely watched the proceedings indulgently as though the pair were nothing more than spoiled, yet favored children engaging in a bit of harmless revelry.

The trooper pressed the tip of the dagger into the material that stretched tightly over the valley of her breasts. The one holding her forearm emitted a nervous laugh, his eyes bright with a lecherous gleam. The dagger flashed up and then down, nicking her bronze skin and bringing forth a single droplet of blood that glistened like a crimson pearl, before running down into the beguiling valley of her breasts.

Using the bloody blade, he peeled back the flaps to reveal two high, upturned globes which were capped by incredibly erect, pink nipples. The dagger wielder dragged the cold blade over the firm flesh, eliciting a gasp from the captive.

"A delicacy for the taking," he remarked with an ugly rasp. The other trooper joined his laughter and clapped him on the back, exhorting him to take further liberties. The trooper glanced briefly at the crone, who nodded her tacit approval, though her expression was inscrutable.

Slowly, as though grasping something of immeasurable value, the Trooper cupped Islena's breasts and squeezed experimentally, moaning with pleasure. In response to their firmness, Islena shivered with revulsion, but managed to subsume the urge to lash out. Instead, she inclined her head to one side and made a deep growling noise in her throat as though overwhelmed with passion.

"You see, Stoian, she likes it," the other observed, already conjuring images of an erotic night that would make for a most interesting tale for his fellow troopers.

The guard named Stoian licked his lips and bent his head forward, intending to take the tantalizing nipple into his mouth. His expectant expression of delight quickly congealed into a rictus of agony and then he was reeling backwards across the cell, bellowing like an impaled bull, and clutching his injured groin, dropping the dagger as he did.

Islena's reaction had been so swift and violent that the guard clutching her wrist did not fully comprehend what had transpired. He released his grip upon her wrist and turned his attention upon his suffering comrade his quizzical expression was almost comical.

The misjudgment proved most costly.

Gripping her chains, Islena pulled herself up and raised her legs like a piston, snaring the unsuspecting guard in the awesome vice of her thighs. He emitted a strangled gasp and fought frantically to extricate himself. Channeling her immutable fury through her legs, she applied a bone crushing pressure upon the guard's skull. After a moment's futile struggle, he dropped his arms and looked to his comrade, who was too consumed by his own pain to offer any assistance.

Through Islena's outrage and the guard's panic and pain, all had forgotten about the old woman. She watched the conflict unfold, fascinated by the extraordinary creature and her primitive savagery. She judged that the one guard would be denied the use of his privates for the foreseeable future, and the other might well lose his head if the color and distortion of his face were measures of his plight. Still, they were only men and thus expendable for the sake of this amusing diversion.

The guard, still clutching his affected privates, collapsed to his knees and began to vomit copiously. The other sagged into unconsciousness and started to spasm like an erratic marionette, hopelessly imprisoned between the granite pillars which continued to squeeze without quarter. The old woman (a minor enchantress of twenty-two years, whose ill fortune it had been to raise the ire of the High Queen and be punished by means of an aging spell) viewed the humiliation of the two boorish guards in a state of rapturous delight.

Islena applied one final petulant wrench to the soldier's neck before releasing him. Then she set her flashing green eyes upon the old woman, who did not flinch under the weight of Islena's imposing glare.

"Whatever you had in mind, I'd think twice," Doraux warned with a snarl. "I'm not having a particularly good day and I'm pissed off."

The woman nodded brusquely and set the bowl down. Several clothes were draped over her left arm. She selected one of these and dipped it into the copper bowl with an odd precision that was strangely elegant for one so decrepit. She spoke with the same clipped precision as she set about her work. "Your wounds are deep," she stated evenly. "In this place there is always the danger of infection, not to mention permanent disfigurement. To ward against either possibility, the High Queen had personally prepared this unguent to salve the wounds."

"I don't want her poison," Islena growled menacingly. The old woman stopped and regarded her with an expression of incredulity that skewed into open speculation. "Remarkable. You have been immersed in the flood of this world's vortex and you have yet to grasp the eminently obvious...your will, your wants and desires, are totally immaterial here."

"This is Myrhia's time, girl. One may survive in her shadow or perish in the flames of her ire. Either way, the matter of your will is not a consideration. Like many things, freedom is the lost privilege of another age."

"Stay the hell away from me! I'm from another age and the bitch's rules just don't apply to me."

The old woman grinned sardonically and ventured closer. She bent forward to set the bowl down, ignoring the groans and pleas of the two fallen troopers. Islena lashed out with her left foot, barely grazing the old woman's shoulder. She hissed and jumped back, but did not fumble the copper bowl.

"Savage!" she rasped, her eyes igniting into a furious shade of orange that attenuated Islena's own fury. "I've suffered too much to endure further indignity from the likes of you." With this, the crone threw the contents of the bowl over Islena's ravaged torso. The prisoner's reaction was instantaneous and ear-splitting. The thick, white liquid worked its way into the open wounds, effervescing furiously and bringing shriek after agonizing shriek from Doraux's tortured lips. The pain grew geometrically, escalating and deepening like an exploding star until she felt certain that her synapses would simply ignite, consuming her in a fire of agony. Beyond the barrier of her pain, Islena was aware of the old crone laughing in derision. "You see, you are flesh and blood after all."

And then everything vanished, her consciousness draining into a black void.

4

She awoke, after an interminable time in the darkness, to find herself cold and wolfishly hungry. Worse still was the maddening thirst which made her mouth feel like parchment and her tongue like coarse-grained sandpaper.

During her stay in the void others had completed the job of removing her ruined clothing. Being naked and shackled imbued her with a terrifying sense of vulnerability. The recollection of Lorio's savage violation induced a violent fit of shivering that caused her teeth to chatter. She reluctantly glanced over her torso, searching for the small signs of infection that seemed almost inevitable in this filth ridden hell. To her astonishment, not only were her wounds not swollen and red, they had actually begun to heal.

"The salve which you so violently resisted was concocted to medicate the needless injuries that you suffered," came a voice from the shadows of her cell. Myrhia stepped out of the darkness and stood regarding her captive thoughtfully. "Why do you feel compelled to make every situation as difficult as possible...primarily for yourself?"

Islena attempted to speak, but her tongue was thick and her throat parched. Sensing her discomfort, Myrhia glided across the narrow cell. "Hunger and thirst are like relentless hounds that allow one no peace. Still, you suffer this of your own volition. With a simple word, the greatest of feasts, the most heady of wines, could be yours for the asking." She ventured closer, her voice ripe with a thread of something that might have been desperation. "End this futile resistance and say that you will serve me."

Lacking the strength to stage an exhibition of bravado, Islena merely shook her head and slowly averted her eyes. Myrhia continued to regard her for several seconds longer, her expression remaining neutral, and then she moved back into the shadows. She returned carrying a bucket which she set at the prisoner's feet. From this, she measured out a ladle of water and raised it to Doraux's cracked lips. "Drink this."

Doraux gazed at the enchantress in distrust, making no move to accept the water which her body desperately craved. "Don't be fatuous," Myrhia chided sardonically. "If I had wished you dead, your bones would have been moldering in the grave long ago."

Realizing that this act of defiance would prove hollow and self-defeating, Islena sniffed at the water and pursed her lips to drink. Myrhia raised the ladle and slowly, teasingly poured the water into Islena's waiting mouth. She expected the water here to be brackish and tepid, but was surprised to find it cold and delicious. She gulped down the ladle's content, drained another, and then swallowed half of a third before closing her lips.

"Better?" Myrhia inquired, her concern seemingly genuine. In that odd moment of intimacy, through this simple gesture of compassion, Islena came to realize that this iniquitous creature actually harbored a genuine, albeit inexplicable affection for her.

"I hope that you're not actually expecting gratitude," Islena muttered thickly.

"There's fight in you still," Myrhia remarked, evidently delighted by some aspect of Islena's continuing defiance. The prisoner glared balefully, but the High Queen only continued to smile. Then she positioned the ladle over Doraux's left breast and poured the remaining contents onto the upturned globe with studied concentration. The shock elicited a gasp from Islena, but was not without its pleasurable aspect. In affirmation of this, the pink nipple grew into an achingly erect knot of electric sensation. Myrhia repeated the process on her right breast.

"And perhaps there is more than just fight left in you. I would suspect that such a superb physical specimen must be constantly aware of her own femininity and its own intrinsic needs." The enchantress' overt titillation appeared to amuse her.

Islena uttered a guttural groan that might have been either rapture of revulsion. Myrhia threw back her head and laughed boisterously. Then she allowed the ladle to slip through her fingers and clatter to the floor. Islena sagged against her restraints. Her breasts heaved and her blood felt as though it had become confused in its circuitous race through her veins.

"There'll be other opportunities for such pursuits," Myrhia said, adding slyly, "Once you've come to accept your place in the order of things."

"Leave me alone," Doraux muttered morosely.

"You see, that is something that I just can't do. Quite candidly put, I am openly fascinated by you. Perhaps you've already gleaned as much from the remarkable tolerance that I've displayed towards your antics. It is a complex fascination that goes beyond your purported relationship with the Proclamations. In truth, I see so much of you in myself. It is almost as though one of us is a facsimile of the other."

"I'm not like you," Islena rasped vehemently. "I may have...weaknesses, but you are absolutely insidious...your actions are heinous."

"Islena, I have lived a score of lives and have stood at the juncture of a hundred changing worlds. Through all of it I have gained one invaluable piece of knowledge; there are no absolutes. No pure evil. No inviolable divinity."

"You kill people without regard or compunction. You always move to suit your own aspirations, irrespective of who might suffer as a consequence. In your entire life, have you ever once acted out of compassion or mercy?"

Unexpectedly, the enchantress became pensive then. "Perhaps once. Against my better judgment, I allowed emotion to sway me and spare a life that would have been better taken."

"You're a vile, evil witch!" Doraux spat. "The people of that village, the one where you first found me, they were innocent. They had suffered through a wretched existence from the day that they were born and you slaughtered them like cattle."

"Perhaps the end I dealt them was the ultimate act of mercy," Myrhia replied around a harsh grin.

"That's the most miserable, fucking self-serving crock of shit that I've ever heard. Even you can't be so vain as to actually believe that."

Myrhia shrugged her shoulders as though to signify indifference in the matter. "I did not invent poverty and deprivation. Even my husband, for all of his noble aspirations, could not have alleviated the misery of even a fraction of those who truly need. That eventual realization was a tremendous disillusionment for Artumas. There were to be others, of course, but that was the moment that initiated the erosion of his spirit and allowed me to beguile him. Ah, but that is another tale."

"I feel compelled to demonstrate that I am not evil...amoral perhaps, but not evil."

"You're the fucking embodiment of evil," Islena returned icily.

'This is mad,' she told herself incredulously. Here she was, debating morality with a woman who had tortured her, dispassionately killed her friends and threatened to exterminate her family. Under other circumstances, the notion would have proven laughable. Myrhia shook her head, displaying a measure of passion for the first time. "You spoke of the peasants and their untenable lot. Is fate evil because it has selected a portion of its children to bear the weight of indigence? The heavens may grant sustenance and thus life to the farmer. In the next moment they may destroy his crops with flood and wind. Do you deem nature to be inherently evil?"

"This is my point," the enchantress summarized, as though delivering a lecture on rudimentary philosophy to a stubborn schoolgirl. "It is imprudent to draw hasty conclusions on the moral fabric of those around you. There is a duality to every person's nature. The more passionate the person, the more pronounced that dichotomy is apt to be."

Islena shook her head apathetically. Maybe this was just a dream...a bizarre delusion that her beleaguered mind had conjured to relieve the monotony of her abjection. If so, then her sanity was more precariously perched than she had first imagined. "Why are you wasting your time? Nothing you could say could possibly rationalize your actions or change my perception that you are anything other than a hateful, murdering monster."

The enchantress sighed heavily. "You always were prone to hasty judgment. That has never been a particularly attractive aspect to your character."

Myrhia paused to reflect upon this, chasing after past reflections like fleeting shadows on a late October afternoon, and leaving Islena to smolder over the constant insinuations of familiarity. Finally the High Queen shook her head and drew her attention back to present matters.

"I came of age in a formative era of power. Even as a small child, I understood that a profound cycle of change was on the wind in the world. Conquest, ambition and glory...these things were the stuff of lore and legend. It became clear that I must be among those who forged the direction of that age, that monumental instant when the very river of time appeared to stand still, as though deliberating over which course to follow." Myrhia halted her narrative, her exquisite brow furrowing in vexation.

"In that bleak time, women were repressed by the old standards of inferiority and subservience. They were denied direct power. In its stead, a woman was forced to settle for the indirect form of power garnered through manipulation and seduction. As I came to grasp these sexist realities, I vowed that I would never submit myself to the degradation of experiencing life vicariously. I swore before the Goddess that I would never become a male appendage."

"In this respect, you and I are very much the same," she ventured, and then added slyly, "At least as you are now."

Doraux shook her head. Her deltoids had begun to throb dully and her neck muscles felt cramped and stiff. The most strident protest came from her wrists, where the manacles had dug deep and painful grooves into the tight flesh. Her massive legs were tired, but not exhausted to the point where they could no longer support her weight and for that she was genuinely grateful.

"You speak of me as though you know me intimately. Why don't you just drop this stupid game of one-upmanshimp and tell me what the fuck you're talking about," Islena challenged.

"Your new found vulgarity is most irritating. As for secrets, I'm afraid that fate will divulge its mysteries as it sees fit." Doraux grunted in disgust and averted her eyes. After a moment, Myrhia resumed her monologue. "As I grew to womanhood, experience led me to the Mother and her rich lore and heritage. The order was created for women and governed by women, and though the new religion was devouring the old even then, the floodgates of knowledge were thrown open. This is the crux of what I have become. I have trod through the land of dark shadows and they have divulged the pivotal truths which govern my every action...conquest begets power, and for the sage, power begets knowledge."

"I strive to unravel the very mysteries of the universe, to unlock the secrets that will emancipate us from single moments in space and time. And I am so very close." The enchantress' eyes gleamed hungrily. "Your presence is testimony to the proximity of my complete success. In juxtaposition to an ambition so lofty, what are the deaths of a few peasants? Or even a few worlds?"

"You truly are insane," Islena whispered, staggered by the High Queens towering megalomania.

"Cling to that belief if it comforts you to do so, but if you should abandon your prejudice, you will see neither dementia nor even iniquity." Myrhia pressed closer to Islena. "I am a woman who possesses a full and unbiased comprehension of who and what she is and I have fully accepted the role which destiny has delegated to me."

She held her captive's gaze for a long moment and then turned away. She then walked into the shadowy recesses near the opposite end of the cell. Perhaps the effect could be attributed to Islena's frazzled state of mind, but it seemed that, whenever Myrhia moved into these pockets of darkness, it appeared as though she had immersed herself in a pool of ink. The effect was at once disconcerting and terrifying.

"You claim that I am depraved and vile, yet I abhor violence against my sisters. What the troopers attempted to do to you is the gravest of transgressions in my eyes. Their actions offend me. As a token of my outrage and regret, I have brought you these."

Myrhia darted out of the shadows and placed two objects at Islena's feet. Then she rapidly stepped back and waved her hands in an intricate gesture of invocation. With the blinding magnitude of a welder's spark, a green finger of flame leapt from her hands.

The light disclosed two gruesome obscenities that caused Islena to cry out in revulsion.

The High Queen had placed the two disembodied heads of the offending Troopers near Islena's feet. Their mouths lolled open in identical expressions of unimaginable horror.

The flames found purchase on the lifeless hair, erupting into a dull flame and filling the cell with an acrid smoke. Islena's tormented stomach heaved wretchedly as the flames consumed the flesh beneath.

"Oh sweet Jesus," she exclaimed and twisted her head to one side.

"Justice here is delivered with swift and brutal finality," Myrhia declared solemnly. Nothing in her tone suggested that she found the grotesque human candles to be in any way repulsive. "What they did was intolerable and I have taken measures to ensure that they will never repeat their offence."

"If I was the monster that you have fashioned me to be, would I not have derived some perverse pleasure from their actions?" she concluded and it was immediately obvious to a mortified Doraux that Myrhia regarded her action as a valid repudiation of Islena's allegations.

Islena's regarded the Queen with an expression of disbelief and disgust. Myrhia snorted contemptuously. "Spare me the posturing. You would have gladly killed them yourself, had I given you the opportunity."

Myrhia then pivoted and walked to the cell door, and then through the bars as though they were no more tangible than the haze that a summer sun may raise over a field in the languorous days of August.

Chapter Twenty Eight

1

She awoke with a guttural, simian growl, scrambling her way out of an uneasy sleep like a drowning man will claw desperately for the surface. She inhaled a long, tremulous breath, which had a raspy edge to it that she did not at all care for.

The instant that her body had become aware of its revived state of total consciousness, Islena immediately regretted her emergence from the void. The relentless pain in her neck and shoulders brought a steady flow of tears to her eyes. As miserable as this proved to be, it paled in comparison to the agony radiating from her tortured wrists and forearms, the ligatures of which were stretched like grossly over tuned piano wires.

Steeling herself against the inevitable wave of nausea, Islena raised her head. Her hands hung limply above the manacles, dangling like pallid spiders. She tentatively ran her tongue over her flaked lips, creating a sound which reminded her of fingernails dragging over sandpaper. Steeling herself, she tried experimentally to move her fingers only to find them as unresponsive as bits of wood.

The numbness was more alarming than the excruciating pain in her other muscles.

When she marshaled the courage to turn her gaze upon her wrist, she noticed a glint of dull white through the ugly mass of dried blood and shredded flaps of skin.

'That's the bone you're seeing,' she understood with utter revulsion.

'Don't think about that,' she commanded herself. There was little value to be had in contemplation of her gradual deterioration. Better to concentrate on a way out of this predicament.

"Fucking-A!" she croaked and then laughed wildly, though the effort hurt her parched throat. Eventually, the laughter curdled into an ugly, hacking cough that reduced her to gasping for air.

'I'm losing my mind,' she thought morosely, but realized that the very pronouncement indicated that she had not completely parted ways with her senses. There was little point in trying to conceal the gravity of her situation beneath a mantle of false optimism. Now was the time for absolutely unbiased evaluation. Is she did not find a way out of this hellish cell, it was only a matter of time before she died. Islena found such blunt admissions strangely comforting in that they appealed to her sense of pragmatism as though a wasting death could be viewed as prosaic.

Part of her mind insisted that Myrhia would never allow things to reach that lamentable end...her ambition would prevent that eventuality. Her beleaguered body was quick to contradict that patently misleading notion as false comfort.

Her frequent lapses into unconsciousness made it impossible to estimate how long she had been here. Islena imagined that it must be a period of no less than four days since Myrhia had offered Islena release in return for a vow of fealty. In that time, she had seen the High Queen only once. Dressed in a lovely green velvet gown, the enchantress had lingered near the bars and watched Islena silently. Her face was set in a tense frown and her eyes appeared troubled and turbulent. The two did not exchange a word and Islena finally fell into a fitful doze. When she awoke, the enchantress was nowhere to be seen.

Since then, she had suffered through ever-increasing pain which would eventually relent to numbness that would signify the looming approach of death.

"No!" she rasped truculently, "never." Yet, in the face of her condition, the defiance rang especially hollow. In her old life, Islena had learned to master pain, to compartmentalize it and to regard it as a path to gain. She had overcome the pain and deprivation, believing that it would galvanize her in the end. Her present torture was another matter entirely. There would be no glorious remuneration here...only a slow descent into raving madness, coupled with excruciating death.

Her left thigh abruptly clenched into a nauseating cramp. Wide-eyed, she glanced down to see the large muscle standing out in sharp relief. Grimacing, she slowly forced her toes to uncurl, applying her full body weight onto the foot in gradual increments. There was a peak of unbearable agony and then the cramp began to subside.

She danced woodenly from one foot to the other, desperately trying to stimulate the blood flow to the muscles. When some semblance of normal circulation seemed to return, she allowed herself to settle back against the clammy stone wall, hoping to lighten the burden upon her nearly exhausted legs.

'And just what do you intend to do when they can't support you anymore?' a malicious voice demanded. She decided that she simply would not engage in such defeatist considerations. Something would intervene before then. Something had to.

Despite the bravado, there seemed to be no way of escaping the biting nag of her bodies mounting infirmities. The suffering was made all the more keen by knowledge that the body to which she had devoted her life was deteriorating with an almost meticulous precision.

'That's not quite correct, Islena,' a voice whispered. That familiar tone, with its smooth, erudite edge, moved Islena to a gentle weeping. Her mother, senselessly killed in another lifetime, spoke to her bedraggled mind in her typically graceful and composed manner. Those dulcet tones had always succeeded in calming Islena when the young girl's passion had surmounted her good sense.

"Your body had changed, and though you're suffering more than I had ever hoped that you would, you are not dying...at least, not yet." Her mother's voice was calm, but insistent. It contained an aspect of urgency, but none of the debilitating panic that threatened to overwhelm the daughter.

Islena forced herself to undertake a dispassionate evaluation of her physical condition, while trying to ignore its braying cries of misery. Though her skin was cold and abnormally pallid, the underlying muscles appeared unaffected by the ordeal. If anything, they seemed harder and more prominent than ever.

There was something of consequence in that particular observation, but Islena's thought process was too impaired to divine the inherent significance. She groaned and hung her head wearily.

'Be patient, Islena,' her mother's spirit advised. The gentle prompt served to assuage Islena's frustration and send her spiraling through a series of disjointed reminiscences. She closed her eyes and let them fill her thoughts. After a time, the memories evolved into a synchronized hum of images and associated sounds.

For the first time in weeks, Islena fell into a gentle slumber populated only by pleasant recollections of the people she loved.

2

Some time later, the rhythmic slap of leather on stone shook her out of her tranquil sleep. She judged that a large group of people were fast approaching her cell and correctly surmised that something terrible was about to befall her.

Two Imperial Troopers were the first to come into sight. The first unlocked the door and swung it open, standing back to allow entry for another person who had not yet come into view. Islena had expected that person to be Myrhia, so she was rather surprised when the Troopers led a gaunt, stick of a man into her cell. The man was completely naked, his body resembling a loose collection of sticks which had been wrapped in frayed sack cloth.

One of the Troopers barked scornfully at the pathetically emaciated man and then abruptly clubbed him to the ground. Either through indifference or infirmity, the prisoner was unable to put his arms out in time to prevent his face from slamming into the damp stone. He lay there, unmoving, for several seconds and Islena began to think that he had been knocked unconscious.

Abruptly, he forced himself up and swung his head in her direction.

Though his face was a gore-streaked mask, the pale blue eyes were unmistakably familiar. Seeing the grotesque caricature of Amrand, the Jerhia who had struggled mightily to keep her from Myrhia's grasp, Islena began to shriek.

She laid her head back and began to keen like a small animal caught in a trap.

"If your cry is inspired by guilt, then it is well warranted," Myrhia pronounced scornfully from the doorway. "In providing you with aid, Amrand, the loyal dog that he is, has assured himself a most protracted and wretched end. Like all of the others who have died for you, his only sin...other than his tiresome integrity...has been his wish to assist you."

Islena heard the accusation through a filter of numbness. She could not divert her attention from the shamble of the man who had once been a proud warrior. Though his mouth hung open in an idiot's perpetual grin, his eyes were an incisive reflection of the horror through which he had suffered. Perhaps it was only Islena's overtaxed mind conjuring things that were not there, but she imagined that Amrand's eyes declared exactly whom he believed to be responsible for the torment he had endured.

The enchantress crossed the cell, her eyes gleaming wickedly in the gray gloom. She took hold of Islena's manacles and applied a gentle pressure to each bracelet. There was an audible click, the restraining support vanished and Islena slumped to the floor next to Amrand, her wrists exploding in sickening waves of agony.

"Assignment of guilt is futile," Amrand murmured thinly. His voice was little more than a quivering whisper. "The burden of guilt is not yours to carry."

For a terrifying moment, none of Islena's limbs would respond to her cerebral directives. Her arms and legs were splayed out from her body like blocks of dead wood. She waited patiently for the sensation to return to her extremities.

"You've been provided with a small taste of suffering," Myrhia said quietly. "Still, you have yet to be humbled. You're an extraordinary physical specimen, but I deduce that this alone cannot account for your endurance. One need only glace at your comrade for a very graphic example of the harsh realities of this place."

She pivoted about, as lissome as a swan, and delivered a sharp kick to Amrand's ribs. The Jerhia exhaled sharply and a thin rope of saliva dripped from his shredded lips.

"I must confess that my approach to your persistent defiance has been erroneous," Myrhia conceded as she admired her handiwork. Though Myrhia's admission was delivered with a tone of casual levity, Islena could discern an air of expectant tension hovering about the High Queen. Gazing about, Islena divined the same tension in all those present...a tension that went beyond the normal fear of the enchantress.

Something ineffably horrible was about to occur and though she did not know precisely what form it would assume, it was quite apparent that it would brutally center on Amrand.

Myrhia's eyes twinkled fetchingly in the sullen light of the cell, again conveying the impression that she was a mischievous schoolgirl. "There are times when I believe that you are driven by the perverse notion that suffering is paramount to nobility. I suspect that, should I not take alternative actions, you would continue to persevere until every last breath has been leeched out of that magnificent body. Naturally, I would be forced to intervene long before that sorry eventuality. I've reached the conclusion that your torment would be less tenable if it were endured vicariously."

"Don't you dare!" Islena hissed and then threw herself over the prone Jerhia, desperately attempting to shield him against the Queen's sadism. Laying atop Amrand, Islena could feel the pitiably sharp bones digging into her breasts, abdomen and thighs, and understood that she was far too late for anything save for hollow gestures.

Myrhia strode over to the pair and, seizing a handful of dirty curls, jerked Islena's head back. Myrhia's dark eyes flared like bits of anthracite. Her effected joviality was gone, replaced by a terrifying anger. "I do dare, you obstinate cunt. It is precisely what sets me apart form the rabble. I have the fortitude to pursue my ambitions without compunction...without remorse."

Then she slapped Islena's face, the sharp report of flesh on flesh echoing sharply throughout the enclosure. Islena responded with an insolent grin and the enchantress slapped her face yet again.

"Your displays of bravado are pathetic," Myrhia growled coldly and slammed Islena's face into the cold stone hard enough to bring blood to her lips and nostrils.

Just then, Ynthrax came into the damp cell and announced, "It comes, Milady."

With his declaration, the level of pervasive tension increased by several increments. When the Morticant came into view, Doraux felt her body tremble in reaction its hulking, malevolent presence.

This was the thing that had slaughtered Marla and had pursued her to the seer's home. The involuntary trembling gave way to a monumental, towering rage. Impulsively, she rose up and launched herself at the hulk with no thought as to the possible consequences. The thing's inhuman eyes tracked her approach with no sign of concern, nor any intention to defend itself. Islena rained blow after vicious blow upon the creature, but her assault was utterly ineffective. It absorbed each blow as though completely unaware of the fact that it was being attacked.

Islena continued to hammer away, tears of frustration welling up in her eyes, while the others regarded her futile effort with sardonic amusement. The last of her energy expended, Islena sank to her knees and began to weep bitterly.

The Morticant remained motionless, apparently oblivious to both her presence and her acute grief.

"You see, my Morticants are not precisely alive...at least, not in the conventional sense of the word. I have created their very flesh and endowed it with life and purpose. They function with a single-mindedness that is both awesome and terrifying. Its sole reason for existence is to prosecute my will."

Islena was only peripherally aware of the enchantress' explanation of her Morticants physiology and function. The unremitting futility of her situation settled upon her shoulders like a palpable weight of despair. The woman proclaimed it her intention to become a Goddess, but if she could create monstrosities such as this, then perhaps she had already attained that lofty mantle.

"Stand the Jerhia upright," she instructed, and two of the Imperial Troopers stooped down and roughly hauled the emaciated parody of Amrand to his feet. They released the Jerhia, who promptly toppled back to the stone. One of the Troopers produced a truncheon and promptly struck Amrand across his lower back. The Jerhia grunted but he did not give his tormentors the satisfaction of hearing his screams. The Trooper's face darkened in rage and he prepared to deliver another blow.

"Enough!" Myrhia's voice cut the silence like a flash of killing steel, freezing the Troopers in mid swing with its undeniable imperative. His eyes widened and he hastily stepped away.

"Now stand him up and secure him to those restraints," Myrhia barked, indicating the manacles from which Islena had so recently been released. In a moment, Amrand hung limply from the rusted restraints. The ghastly sight of his wasted body hurt Islena's heart, but she was powerless to avert her gaze. Amrand watched her, his eyes glistening intently.

Myrhia stepped between the pair, mercifully breaking the moment. "The capabilities of my creatures are absolutely astounding. Not only is it impervious to the effects of the elements, it is capable of altering its state and transmogrifying itself into whatever might best facilitate its purpose of the particular moment. As you see it now, my Morticant appears in its crudest, truest form. When you first encountered it, the Morticant had assumed the form of a certain piece of mortal refuse that I had broken to my will."

"A Morticant is really an amalgamation of the elements and he may command them as required. Observe carefully and strive to grasp the implication of this most instructive demonstration."

Islena tensed, frantically grasping to contrive any way of averting what was to come. The best she could produce was a feeble appeal, which she knew would fall upon disdainful ears. "This isn't necessary. Please. No matter what you want or how you might think you can get it, you don't have to do this."

The enchantress regarded Islena with a wicked grin. "You're quite correct. This isn't necessary, but the power to prevent it lies entirely with you."

Behind the High Queen, Amrand mustered enough strength to croak forth one final entreaty. "You've made so many misjudgments, Islena. Don't compound them by acceding to her duress. My life isn't worth the compromise of your spirit."

The High Queen whirled about. "You dare speak, you insolent bastard," she raged. "You'll pay threefold for every word."

Turning towards her Morticant, Myrhia spoke in an ululating voice that sounded decidedly lyrical. His inscrutable countenance offered no indication that he might have heard the enchantress, much less comprehended her instructions, but he suddenly lurched forward, coming to a halt less than a foot from the helpless Jerhia.

Islena perceived a change in the Morticant, and after a moment's inspection she noticed that its hands had begun to change. The bluish flesh had become viscous as a dramatically increased internal heat causing it to boil with frantic little pops that reminded Doraux of super-heated lava.

When she grasped the essence of Myrhia intention, Islena became distraught. At that moment she would have acquiesced to anything to forestall what was to come...not only to spare the Jerhia, but also to avoid the torment of witnessing his torture. Ignoring her own infirmities, Islena pushed herself to her feet and attempted to throw herself at the enchantress. Before she could take a step, she found herself being lifted from her feet and wrestled to the ground.

The large, bearded man pinned her shoulders firmly to the cold stone and she simply lacked the strength to shrug him off. He gazed down upon her with an odd gesture of entreaty and mouthed the words, "Now is not the time. Be patient!"

The utterance so startled Islena that she abruptly ceased all struggling and lay still.

"Raise your arms above your head," he instructed and while his voice was harsh, the strangely pleading expression never left his face. Something in his eyes moved her to comply. Ynthrax stepped behind Islena, seized her wrists and pulled her into a sitting position, arranging her in such a way that she could not twist away from Myrhia and what was to follow.

"Watch carefully, Islena," Myrhia advised coldly. "Try to visualize the same scenario with your husband or sons replacing the Jerhia."

The Morticant held its hands out in a manner that ironically resembled supplication. Its hands were blazing now, more liquid than flesh. The entire cell was suffused by the warmth which radiated from the creature's flesh. Amrand's jaw was clenched in anticipation, the muscles working beneath the thin sheath of skin.

Myrhia placed a long finger against her lips, assuming a pose of contemplation. "I'm afraid that I can't make up my mind, and normally I'm such a decisive woman. Shall I have the Jerhia hobbled or should I have him emasculated."

She peered directly into Islena's eyes and the full extent of her ignominy revealed itself in the perverse delight that gleamed there. "I think that it would be fitting if you were to select. After all, it is your continuing intransigence that has brought matters to this ugly impasse."

Islena blinked in revulsion and shook her head in an unconscious gesture of negation. Myrhia's mirth vanished. "If you refuse to select, he'll lose both his manhood and his leg."

Islena trembled with fury, despair and outrage, and though there were many bleak days to follow, this moment would prove to be the nadir of her ordeal.

"Why?" she whispered in a voice choked with desolation.

"I want to make it emphatically clear that you must share the culpability for all of the pain that this man and others have and will suffer. Now decide!"

Islena shuddered, and perceiving no other way to extricate herself from this nightmare, willed herself to look at Amrand. Forcing herself into the role of a dispassionate observer, she quickly gleaned the operative reality which governed Amrand's condition...he was going to die. His injuries were simply too catastrophic and consequently immedicable. Trying to inject herself into the indecipherable maze of the male psyche, she decided that a man would probably prefer to die as a man than a gelding.

"The leg," she muttered wretchedly.

"I'm sorry, but I don't believe that I heard you," Myrhia's voice was fraught with a venomous glee.

"THE LEG, YOU MISERABLE FUCKING CUNT! I SAID, TAKE THE LEG," Islena roared, screaming as though mere words could excoriate the High Queen.

Myrhia smiled and conveyed Islena's choice to the Morticant. Without hesitation, it laid its flaming hands upon Amrand's leg, gripping it just beneath the knee.

Almost at once there arose an acrid smoke which caused Islena's stomach to constrict into a tight knot. She attempted to avert her eyes, but the enchantress held her head fast in deceptively strong fingers. "You will watch," she promised the moaning Islena. "If you dare close your eyes, I'll have you staked out and slit his throat over your bare breasts."

Amrand struggled valiantly to suppress the welling cry of agony, but as the muscle and ligature dissolved like candle wax, even the Jerhia discipline could not sustain him. The inevitable scream tore from Amrand's lips, shaking the very walls of Myrhia's stone and timber enclave of hell.

The Morticant's hands did not falter, not did the Jerhia's piteous cry deter it from its prescribed task. It continued to apply a steady pressure until the last of the flesh had melted away.

Islena became distantly aware of a low, sheepish whimpering and was distressed to realize that she was its source. The monstrosity glanced back at its creator, seeking further instruction. The enchantress nodded stiffly and the beast gave Amrand's leg one final petulant wrench and the lower limb detached with a stark snap. Amrand's body convulsed violently before succumbing to merciful unconsciousness. Islena found herself envying him this one dubious mercy.

"Cauterize the stump," Myrhia instructed clinically. "He may be required again." The thing immediately laid its hand upon the stump and a hissing sound filled the chamber. Islena's traumatized mind drew an immediate comparison to fat popping in a skillet.

'I'm going crazy,' she thought and realized that it would have been an eventuality that she would have invited at this precise moment. No one could witness such torture while fully lucid and expect to retain their hold upon sanity. She could feel herself tottering on the razor's edge of jabbering madness. Had the horror not ended when it had, she had little doubt that her tenuous grip on reason would have been irreparably broken.

"Drag him back to his cell," Myrhia's insufferable obduracy rescued Islena from the brink, providing her with a target upon which to focus her outrage and acrimony. A Trooper released Amrand from his manacles, not bothering to prevent the Jerhia from collapsing to the stone. Another joined the first and the pair virtually dragged the Jerhia from the cell.

The horrific sight of Amrand's blackened stump bouncing over the rough stone caused Islena's stomach to regurgitate its contents in an eruption of hot bile. Myrhia viewed Islena's plight with a faint moue of disgust and contempt playing at her lips. When Islena's fit of nausea had subsided, Myrhia chided. "You lack the requisite fortitude to fight me, Islena. You may possess the heart and strength, but you lack the intestinal resolve to descend to the level of this conflict."

At that precise moment, Islena found herself lacking the capacity or conviction to offer any objection. Myrhia's eyes bore into her relentless, so piercing as to be painful upon her skin. "You have twenty four hours to accede to my demands. Then we shall remove his other leg. When the Jerhia dies, the Lamish whore will assume the burden of your intractability."

After a moment of wordless dueling, Myrhia turned and strode from the cell with her entourage in tow. When she thought that all had gone, Islena rolled onto her stomach, buried her face in the crook of her elbow, and began to sob in unabashed sorrow.

She did not notice Ynthrax lingering near the bars. He gazed down upon her with an expression of intense appraisal, pondering the most perilous manner of sedition conceivable.

3

In the small hours of the morning, the High Queen's commander slumped forward in his chair, staring vacantly at an assortment of maps that were spread over his table like playing cards. Myrhia had dealt a victor's hand, or so the advancing lines and field reports attested, and yet her High Commander felt desolate and thoroughly corrupt. The latest report (now four days old) claimed that the Imperial Army was within sight of the Jerhia capitol. Most of the city was aflame; dying wretchedly under a pall of black smoke. Ynthrax was stunned by the totality and swiftness of the Jerhia demise.

"Have the Gods turned their eyes from the world that they conceived?" he wondered aloud. His query fell upon deaf ears. A man of gold, plunder and all the self-serving pursuits one would normally associate with a ruthless Redian mercenary, Ynthrax could not understand the source of the sudden philosophical contemplations that had congested his thoughts of late. If the current course of events held true, Myrhia will have conquered this world by the onset of winter. He could visualize no twist of fate that would forestall what he now perceived to be the fall of eternal darkness from coming to pass.

"Except the woman."

Startled he glanced about, finally realizing that it had been he who had uttered this improbable declaration. Indeed, only this enigmatic stranger seemed to possess the mettle to challenge the Queen's ascension to her evil throne. It was undeniable that she had displayed signs of extreme weakness in the cell, but she still had not capitulated to Myrhia's brutal duress. Her revulsion to torture was more a sign of humanity than an indicator of an intrinsic weakness.

Ynthrax closed his eyes and leaned back. Over the course of the past two weeks, the Commander had engaged in an uncharacteristic amount of silent reflection upon the life he had lived. He had always been incorrigible. There would be little gained by attempting to dilute the truth through colorful euphemisms such as rogue or scoundrel.

He had lived his life with a reckless disregard for everything but his own interest. He had elected to live in the shadow of the flame and the sword, until he believed that his soul had atrophied from indifference.

In that one regard, he had proven mercifully incorrect.

In his youth, Ynthrax had led a party of marauders out of the hills of Redian, down into the fertile northern valleys of Fairmarch...cutting a swathe of devastation through the normally tranquil farmlands. Ransacking entire villages, raping, murdering and plundering at will, the raiders returned to their native soil as spectacularly wealthy men, lauded by their fellow Redians as conquering heroes.

What they did not count on was that their marauding would precipitate a declaration of war by Emercia. Artumas vowed that the offenders would be punished and the Beasts of Redia would be put back into their cages.

On this count, Artumas had succeeded and Ynthrax found himself facing the prospect of a trip to the hangman's gibbet. Then Myrhia had usurped her husband's throne and the course of Ynthrax's destiny had been forever altered. There were moments, more frequent of late, when the Commander wondered if he would have been better served had he kept his appointment with the hangman.

When one views himself as wicked, they are occasionally astounded and horrified by the true face and nature of evil when they finally happen upon it.

Ynthrax found himself dwarfed by the sheer immensity of Myrhia's evil. The dramatic appearance of this Islena had forced Ynthrax to re-examine his system of beliefs, conceptions and values. It was a disconcerting awakening to discover that he had lived his life as though he were nothing more than an irredeemable piece of excrement. He was shrewd enough to know that he could never atone for his past transgressions...one cannot ascend to sainthood on the foundation of one's corrected misdeeds. Still, it was possible that he could reach some sort of reckoning with himself if he were to play a role in Myrhia's demise.

He was about to embark upon the most dangerous action of his life and though he was resolved, Ynthrax required all of his will and courage to impel himself to action. Drawing a deep breath, he pushed himself to his feet and shambled to the door.

The woman in the dungeon possessed an indomitable spirit, but he doubted that her sanity could withstand many more of Myrhia's inducements. He had to act tonight, while his courage was equal to the task.

4

Islena lay weeping until her tear ducts had no further fluid to proffer up to her grief. Now she lay perfectly still, weighing her willingness to concede to Myrhia against her ability to endure another torture session. She could barely tolerate the reek of her own soiled flesh, but that discomfort paled in comparison to the shame that plagued her shattered heart.

"Amrand, please forgive me," she prayed, though she felt completely undeserving of absolution.

"Don't be pathetic," an acerbic voice snapped venomously. "You played no part in what happened to him. Making you decide was nothing more than a tawdry attempt at psychological manipulation...only your total capitulation may have spared him...or mayhap, not."

Islena recognized the voice as that of her purest ego. Unadulterated by sensitivity or empathy, it had governed her most consequential actions. She suddenly found herself loathing it and wishing that she could take a dagger and cut it out of her soul.

"I could have spared him simply by saying yes," she rasped. "Agreeing to help the demented bitch and actually doing it are not necessarily one in the same."

There was a certain measure of truth in the last sentiment. Yet the notion of submitting to Myrhia, even as a ploy to escape from this hell and prevent further suffering from being inflicted upon her friends, was not without its implicit perils. There were dark and ambiguous temptations lurking just beneath the surface of the enchantress's invitation. She could feel the wicked allure of power tugging at the more primitive recesses of her pure ego.

As a small girl, Islena recollected her father telling her a tale of the grinning demon.

"The grinning demon is an amicable sort, who appears when one is faced with a difficult moral dilemma," he had said in that thoughtful voice that had always managed to soothe Islena. "This particular demon always tries to induce its victims into taking the quickest and ostensibly most convenient solution to a problem. Ultimately, these quick solutions always seem to breed monstrous problems and unending misery."

The logic of that particular story had never been as apparent as it was now. Agreeing to search for Myrhia's damnable proclamations would quickly extricate her from this present hell. It might even prevent a further recurrence of today's nightmare (though she suspected that torture might be a plank that Myrhia would use whenever Islena's enthusiasm would flag), but the path concealed the grinning demon.

In the dark and inaccessible well of the subconscious, Islena sensed the pressure of the shadowy wolf. If the wolf were granted a free reign to govern her actions, this search for the icons would become more than a purchase of time...it would evolve into a full-blown hunt for personal omnipotence. Once the hounds of her ambition had been unleashed, Islena feared that she would be unable to bring them to heel.

The enormity and scope of her dilemma elicited a groan of dejection and she closed her eyes, searching for the respite of sleep. Her bodies various aches and pains defeated her.

There was a furtive shuffling from the corridor, beyond the bars of her cell. Warily, she raised her head. The tendons in her neck stretched like rusty steel cables. For a moment, she feared that Myrhia had returned for another session of vicarious torture. The man who had overseen the herding of the women of Kornas to their deaths stood staring down upon her. He was alone and held a silver tray in his hands. Under his arm, he held a pair of hard-soled boots and an unadorned military uniform.

Islena glared at him suspiciously, wondering what new twist of malice Myrhia had concocted.

"I'm going to throw these clothes through the bars, and then the boots," Ynthrax informed her evenly. His neutral voice conveyed none of his underlying anxiety. "Dress and I'll bring in the food and water."

"Where are you taking me?" Islena demanded truculently.

"I'm not taking you anywhere," he returned flatly, and then tossed the clothes and boots onto the floor in front of her. Islena scrambled across the damp stones to retrieve the clothing, never once taking her eyes off of Ynthrax. She slapped the trousers on and then the tunic, disgusted by the sensation of clean clothes on filthy skin. She smelled vile and felt intolerably dirty, but being dressed returned some sense of humanity. When one was forced to exist as an animal, it was not long before they became animalistic in both mind and action.

She slipped on the boots and turned to face Ynthrax. He offered her an unfathomable grin and then opened the cell door. She briefly considered charging the Commander, but wisely decided that she had little chance of actually subduing him in her present state. As though discerning her conflict, Ynthrax admonished, "If you move to attack me, I'll be forced to kill you."

"I don't think your mistress would be pleased," she retorted sardonically.

The High Commander's brow furrowed. "In this case, Myrhia's displeasure means nothing." His eyes widened and his voice softened as though shocked by the temerity of his rebellion. "Eat and drink. There is no telling how long it might be before you have the opportunity to indulge again."

He handed her the tray. She regarded it for awhile and then sat upon the stone floor and began to eat with no thought to social graces. The food was rich and spicy, but she ate it zestfully. Starvation had an interesting way of breaking down one's fastidiousness she observed absently.

As she ate, she frequently stole glances at Ynthrax, who continued to regard her with an openly speculative expression.

"If Myrhia hasn't sent you, then what are you doing here?" she asked at last. His expression did not alter a whit.

"I've come to set you free," he replied simply.

She abruptly stopped chewing and gaped at the man, eyes narrowing in suspicion of this improbable offer of assistance. Again, she demanded, "Why?"

"My reasons are complicated and the time to elaborate upon them is a luxury that neither of us can afford. I can no longer bind myself to Myrhia's evil. That is as succinct as I can be."

"In Kornas, I saw you drive a group of women and children over a precipice. How can you possibly expect me to trust you?"

Ynthrax merely shrugged. "In Myrhia's kingdom, death is preferable to bondage for the vanquished. I'm not seeking exoneration for the things that I've done. I simply wish to set you free."

"Again, I have to know why," Islena persisted.

Ynthrax frowned, trying to grope through his murky motivations and produce a coherent answer. "I believe that you will be able to destroy Myrhia, if given a chance to acclimate to this world."

"I have no intention of waging a holy war with Myrhia," Islena declared flatly. "If I get out of here, all that I want to do is to put as much distance between myself and that crazy bitch as I can." Even as she made this vehement assertion, Islena knew that it would ultimately prove untrue. It was simply too late to detach herself from the injustice. The humiliation of being whipped and nearly raped, the degradation of living like an animal and the outrage of witnessing torture...all of these things had personalized the conflict to a point where she could never simply walk away.

Ynthrax shrugged, especially aware of the self-deception. "You will do what you must. Should you escape and simply vanish, Myrhia will nonetheless be thwarted. I feel compelled to warn you that the High Queen will come to extract vengeance upon everyone whom you love. If you value your family, I would actively pursue a way of destroying the enchantress."

"You talk about my family, but how am I to get home?" she flared, allowing her frustration to become evident. Ynthrax had never been given to comforting diplomacy or circumlocution, and so he made no effort to foster false hope. "I don't know. Without Myrhia, returning home may be impossible. Perhaps there are other sorcerers, but I doubt that they would possess the power or the inclination to defy the High Queen."

Islena bowed her head and sighed. Ynthrax sensed the depth of her despair, but was powerless to approach it or relate to it. "Perhaps the Proclamations stand as the only answer to the problems that plague this planet. The intricacies of Metaphysics are far beyond my grasp, but the intensity of Myrhia's obsession proves that they might well be the source of unimaginable power. Perhaps they may offer some manner of solution."

Islena's eyes narrowed. The mere mention of Myrhia's accursed Proclamations aroused Islena's mistrust. "What if I decide to stay right where I am?"

"Then I will be forced to kill you now," he replied bluntly. "If the Proclamations do exist, Myrhia must not have them."

Ynthrax's reply had been so unexpected that Islena was forced to abandon her suspicion. Allowing herself a faint moment of excitement, she asked, "How will you get me out?"

"I will lead you from this cell into the city. From there, two of my men will guide you to freedom beyond the walls. Once on the other side, you are on your own."

"If I am caught?"

"You will be returned to your cell and I will die a hideous death," He stated without emotion. "Now decide."

"I'll go," she responded at once to Ynthrax's obvious relief. The she added, "But there are a few things that I want first."

"By the Gods, what?" Ynthrax demanded with a groan of consternation.

"Lorio is coming with me."

"That's not possible," Ynthrax said, shaking his head vehemently.

"Then I'm not going anywhere. If you're going to try to kill me, then get ready for the fight of a lifetime." The two locked gazes and Islena tensed. In her depleted state, and in such closed quarters, she doubted that she had much of a chance of over powering the much larger man, but she preferred to die than abandon Lorio to this place. Seeing that Islena would not relent, Ynthrax submitted with a weary sigh. "The woman is weak. She has suffered immeasurably. Your relationship seems to have stirred an unusual amount of rancor in Myrhia. Lorio received a treatment that is unusually cruel, even by the High Queen's depraved standard. She may well die and she will certainly hinder your flight."

"I don't care. If she is to die, it will be with me and not in this hell."

"Your loyalty is admirable. I only hope that it will not cost me my life." He rose and crossed to the bars. He locked the cell door, and then paused to add, "I will return shortly. Be ready to leave."

Then he was gone, leaving Islena to adjust to the latest incredible shift in the storm winds of fate.

Chapter Twenty Nine

1

With every moment that Ynthrax remained absent, Islena became convinced that the encounter had been contrived as another method of psychological torment. The he reappeared at the bars with three other men, one of whom appeared hopelessly inebriated.

The High Commander opened the cell door and stepped inside. Two Troopers dragged the drunken man in and threw him to the damp stones. The man's head bounced off of the floor with a dull, meaty thud.

"Why?" Islena grunted, gazing at the dead man and realizing that his neck had been snapped.

"He will serve as a cover for your escape. Like the other two fools, he allowed his libido to surmount his good sense."

"Why is it so easy for the people of this world to kill?"

"A sad reality," he said, though his voice reflected no genuine grief or regret.

"Where is Lorio?" Ynthrax silently gestured to one of the surviving Troopers, who stepped out into the corridor and passed out of sight. Moments later, he returned with the Lamish woman in tow. Her legs dragged limply across the stone as though they were paralyzed and atrophied.

She raised her head and Islena grimaced. The bruises were healed, but the face appeared to be nothing more than a skull covered by a thin sheath of pallid skin. Her body was cruelly emaciated and had developed a permanent stoop as though the muscles of her body could no longer support her skeletal structure.

"You fucking savage bastards!" she hissed balefully. "You detestable, miserable fucks!"

Some semblance of comprehension seemed to dawn in Lorio's eyes and she attempted to smile. Islena was forced to glance away lest she begin to scream. Still, she went briskly to Lorio and pushed the Troopers roughly aside. The Lamish woman sagged into her arms, feeling as insubstantial as a sack of feathers.

"I promise to take you out of this place, and now I've come to do it," Islena vowed through her tears of indignation and outrage. Turning to Ynthrax, she prompted, "What now?"

"We will lead you out into the city. These men will then lead you to a place where you may depart the city undetected."

"What if we're seen?"

"Every aspect of this escape has been well conceived. Should someone blunder upon you, they are likely to end up in the same state as the lamentable fellow in your cell. We must leave now."

With this, the group moved out of the cell. As Islena emerged into the corridor, she experienced a sweeping wave of relief jolt her body like the most profound spasm of joy. She vowed, then and there, that she would never be returned to captivity alive.

Ynthrax led the group deeper into the dungeons. They passed from areas of constant occupation to areas that had not been used for decades. As the group negotiated the maze of corridors, Islena began to feel as if they were making their way through the gullet of an enormous stone monster. In light of the countless lives which had been squandered here, the metaphor was not without its aptness.

For a time, no one spoke. The only sounds to be heard were the slap of leather on stone and the harsh, wheezing rasp of Lorio's respiration.

'Don't die, Lorio. Please don't leave me here alone,' Islena pleaded silently.

The group had been traveling for the better part of an hour, constantly moving downward, when they turned a corner and were confronted with a stone wall. Islena sagged, positive that the wall signified that the cruel ruse had reached its end. Any moment now, Myrhia would appear and she would be returned to her cell, there to await the next round of debilitating torment.

Ynthrax offered Islena a brief half-smile and then walked to the wall. He then proceeded to run the flat of his palm over the rough surface of the brick work, stopping now and then to apply pressure to a certain brick. After several moments of this experimentation, a distinct click shattered the expectant silence, followed by the grating screech of brick on stone as a section of wall swung inward.

A cool draft heralded the presence of a down casting shaft. Ynthrax turned back to Islena and said, "This is as far as I may go. This shaft was excavated by the previous rulers of Perdwick. Evidently, they were preoccupied with the threat of insurrection."

"Where does it go? Into the fields beyond the walls?"

Ynthrax shook his head. "It leads to a mule stable located on the opposite side of the city. My men will guide you from there to a secret breech in the main wall. I must warn you that the city, itself, is a harrowing place. What you are likely to see will be profoundly disturbing, but you must try to ignore these specters and escape as quickly as possible."

Islena nodded curtly, having no clear notion what Ynthrax was referring to, but choosing not to pursue the matter.

"It is essential that you make your way out of the city with all possible haste as there is a major changing of the guard in the minutes before dawn. The body and your absence will be quickly discovered and a massive search will be mounted." Ynthrax was also certain that a vindictive purge was bound to be undertaken, but he elected not to share this bit of information.

Islena's face darkened and for the first time since she had fallen under the penumbra of Myrhia's obsession, Ynthrax was forced to regard her as a real human being...a frightened and confused one who had no clear idea of how she was supposed to survive beyond the next few moments.

Moved by his recently revived sense of humanity, Ynthrax felt compelled to offer Islena some manner of guidance. "When they begin the search, they will expect you to head west. I would advise you to head east initially, before turning north and then west. If you manage to evade the inevitable swarm of mustered troops, your single hope would be to reach the most northerly causeway into Metocan."

"And then what?" Islena muttered morosely, clearly weary of what she had already endured and intimidated by the prospect of the arduous exodus that lay ahead. "Do I hide for the rest of my life like a burrowing animal, or keep running until there is nowhere left to go?"

"I wish that I could provide you with some cause for optimism, but Myrhia possesses a clear and terrible prescience. Maintaining your freedom will not be a simple matter. As I see it, the Proclamations are your only real source of hope...perhaps the only collective source of hope, as well."

"Even if I was inclined to look for the Proclamations, I would have no idea where to start, or what to do with them if I should locate them. I might spend an eternity searching aimlessly for something that may not even exist."

"Desperation, by its very nature, does not present us with a plethora of favorable choices. There is, however, a man who might have the answer to many of your questions. Perhaps you should seek him out."

Islena remained silent, while Ynthrax appeared to consider the merits of saying more. "I trust that you've heard of Artumas?"

"Myrhia's husband?"

Ynthrax nodded. "As king, Artumas developed as scholarly interest in the Proclamations. It is believed that he may have even known where they were located...within certain geographical parentheses."

"But he's dead," Islena interjected, recalling Myrhia's tale of his demise.

The High Commander shook his head adamantly. "No, not dead. It is a popularly held that Myrhia had her husband killed, but the popular notion is nothing more than myth. Her treatment of Artumas was the only occasion upon which the High Queen ever displayed lenience. Rather than kill him, it was her choice to exile him to a land beyond the Demesne of Shades."

Islena absorbed this for a moment and then asked, "Why did he simply not return, perhaps to lead an insurrection against his wife."

"Myrhia once told me that she had consigned her husband to a place to the west of the Kingdom of the dead. There were times, immediately following the overthrow of her husband, when Myrhia's mood would border upon the maudlin. She said that she had relegated him to a place where he could live comfortably, but could not return to threaten her reign."

"Where is this Land of Shades?"

"The Land of Shades lies across the enchanted Hiberas River, along the western border of the Cornerstone Nations. It is commonly held to be a repository for wayward souls and a myriad of other unnatural wonders." Ynthrax waved a hand in derision. "Of course, this is mere speculation...a way for spiteful metaphysicians to keep the peasants docile and terror-stricken. No one has ever returned from the Land of Shades and so there is no way of telling how vast it might be or what might dwell there."

Islena dropped her head to her chest and shook her head in disgust. "My only hope is to cross a continent on foot, finding my way through the fucking enchanted kingdom and try to find a man who may not even be alive. If by some miracle, I should actually manage that, then I'm to coerce him into searching for those damnable charms."

Ynthrax offered her a wry smile. "That's fairly succinct. It is the only hope that I can offer, as slender as it might be."

Islena sighed and turned toward the wooden ladder. She lifted Lorio over her shoulder and prepared to climb. Suddenly, she paused, gently leaned the Lamish woman against the stone wall and returned to the perplexed Ynthrax.

"I have one last question," she intoned, and the High Commander's eyes narrowed. He tacitly nodded for her to proceed and she asked, "Are there black people on the Eastern Continent?"

Ynthrax's brutish features reflected his confusion, "Black people?"

"Black-skinned people," she clarified, trying to be more specific, though his obviously perplexity served as a silent reply and ignited a new flame of disquiet in her already besieged mind.

"No such people exist that I know of." After a thoughtful pause, he added, "Though it is possible that the Land of Shades might spawn such a deviant."

Islena merely nodded and started to turn away. With the swiftness of a Jaguar, she spun about and delivered a jolting right hand which caught the High Commander full on the jaw. His head snapped back and he staggered, but managed to retain his balance.

"That was for the woman and children of Kornas," she snarled. Ynthrax motioned for his guards to remain still, while resisting the urge to rub his throbbing jaw.

"If you think that releasing me is even partial atonement, you're deluding yourself." she railed in a voice made shrewish with outrage. "You could devote an eternity to exterminating the Myrhia's of this world and never adequately pay for the life of even one of those women and children. There's no forgiveness for genocide."

Ynthrax bore Islena's sanctimonious tirade stoically, recognizing the inherent truth in her words. He watched as she returned to Lorio, lifted her friend into her arms and began to climb the ladder. As she vanished out of sight, she called out, "If you possess an ounce of genuine compassion, you'll kill Amrand quickly and mercifully. When your day of reckoning comes, perhaps you'll be afforded the same mercy."

Ynthrax stood alone in the stone passage, contemplating the ramifications of his actions and wondering if there was even the remotest possibility that he had just initiated Myrhia's demise. There was no way of knowing and so he started back, deciding that he was unlikely to be alive to witness whatever outcome time might reveal. As he hurried along, he prayed that Islena's absence had not yet been detected.

2

Nothing that Ynthrax might have described could have adequately prepared her for the horror which she encountered on her second trek through the walled city of Perdwick. After reaching the top of the shaft, Islena's legs shook with exhaustion. She lay Lorio to one side and fell to her knees, breathing in great gulps of cool air and praying that her heart would settle into its normal rhythm.

"You are best to leave me, Islena," Lorio whispered weakly. "You are weakened and I am a burden that will prove fatal."

Islena regarded her friend. The face had grown cruelly gaunt, but the intensely beautiful eyes had not changed. She clasped Lorio's hands and squeezed them gently. In a low, adamant voice, she delivered her fierce pledge. "No matter what happens, I'm not going to leave you. I'm going to have to live with the guilt of abandoning Amrand for the rest of whatever life remains to me. It doesn't look as if I'm ever going to go home and you're the only thing that I've got in this world. So let's get one thing straight...I'd rather have us die together than have to suffer through this hell without you."

Lorio's eyes shone with an inexpressible gratitude, along with an unqualified love and adoration that had once unsettled Islena. Now she found the expression immensely comforting, realizing that she had come to need Lorio as much as the Lamish woman believed that she needed her. She also knew that, despite her vehement intentions to the contrary, she had come to develop powerful attachments that would make any return to her old life extremely difficult.

She fought back ambivalent tears of pain and happiness, slowly helping Lorio to her feet. "Do you think that you might be able to walk if I support you?"

The Lamish woman smiled in grim determination and the four set out with the two former guardsmen leading the way. As they emerged from the shed, Islena was confronted by a bewildering and ghastly tableau of horror that sprawled before her disbelieving eyes like a depraved impressionist's personal visualization of hell made vivid by dark magic.

The streets were as congested as they had been on the day that Islena had wandered freely about Perdwick. Only now, the inhabitants were grotesque parodies of the people who had lived here before the darkness had descended upon this once thriving city.

"We must hurry," One of the guards prompted, his voice quivering with trepidation of the supernatural. Islena's head was twisted to one side and when she swiveled to face the front, she was confronted by a man whose face appeared to have been dissected by a rusty hatchet. Her forward momentum carried her into the man and then through the vaporous apparition. He dissolved, only to reappear some seconds latter; a shambling nightmare of cataclysmic disfigurement. Peering wildly about, she saw that every face displayed similar yet varied evidence of horrible abuse and torture.

"What is this place?" she heard herself ask of the closest Trooper. Without glancing back, he provided her with a brief summary of Perdwick's recent history. "The Queen's army tore through this country virtually unopposed. When they reached this city, it was expected that the people would throw open their gates in unconditional capitulation. Instead, they chose to fight. Their resistance was so tenacious that a score of assaults were repulsed and the Queen's army incurred frightening casualties. Eventually, lack of food and water, combined with disease, succeeded where the constant attacks could not. Perdwick fell, but not before staging one of the bravest defenses in recent history. Myrhia was so incensed by the delay that she ordered every occupant slaughtered and trapped their spirits between the walls of the city."

Islena's gaze happened to fall upon an eyeless specter, which evoked memories of the blind girl, Isindred had been her name. "There was a young girl peddling trinkets in the city square. I spoke to her. Touched her and found her to be substantial. Surely, she was not an apparition?"

The two men exchanged knowing glances as they hurried along. "You say this girl was a blind peddler?"

Islena nodded.

"She is the only living soul in this Hellish place. The Troopers found her wandering aimlessly through the ruins, frightened and disoriented. The High Queen had her taken to the palace, where she consoled her and released her into the city to resume her peddling. Occasionally, she would dispatch a man or woman to purchase one of the girl's wares. I suspect that the Queen was amused by the girl's disability. I even think that she regarded the girl as a pet of sorts."

The final thought wrenched something in Islena's heart. To believe that someone might be capable of perpetrating something so depraved, so monstrously evil, defied her sensibilities. It was this single moment of outraged disbelief, Islena decided to pursue Ynthrax's advice and seek out the Proclamations, even if it meant traversing the hills and valleys of hell to find them.

The four turned down a side street that came to a dead end at the base of the city walls. The stone had crumbled...perhaps as a consequence of the siege.

"Can we not scale the walls?" Islena asked, appraising the height, which appeared to be no greater than twelve feet."

The shorter guard shook his head. "The land beyond the wall has been excavated and falls vertically for another twenty feet. Such a jumped would be hazardous and totally unnecessary."

With this, he set off for the end of the street, beckoning for Islena to follow. He stopped before a low, rectangular building that might once have served as a shop or a storage facility. Nodding, he bounded up the short flight of stairs and disappeared through the door-less opening. The other guard helped maneuver Lorio up the stairs.

The stale air of the interior struck Islena like a palpable slap. A thick patina of dust covered the haphazard arrangement of sacks and crates.

"Why have we come here?" Islena demanded, her truculent tone clearly conveying her inherent distrust of her newfound saviors.

Instead of a verbal response, the two men commenced clearing away the crates and sacks from the far wall. The pair then lifted away several boards to reveal some sort of vertical shaft. One of the Troopers began to explain. "There are several such passages spread throughout the city. Some have collapsed through the years, but this one will allow us egress from the city to the great forest beyond."

Without further commentary, the pair descended into the darkness. Islena realized that they were more anxious to escape this place than she or Lorio. Her former mistrust evaporated with the realization that they had placed their lives at great risk by agreeing to escort her. The fact that these men would dare betray Myrhia at the zenith of her power spoke eloquently of the nature of life in her shadow.

Lifting Lorio over her shoulder, Islena carefully ventured onto the ladder. Taking one final glance at the room, she saw that several of the entrapped spirits had come to congregate at the doorway. Though they were shimmering and insubstantial, Islena thought that she could see bitterness and desperate longing reflected in their ghostly eyes. The thought was too poignant to endure and so she shut it out and allowed the mechanics of descent to consume her thoughts. The tunnel seemed to go down for a great distance, gradually distorting her perspective in the darkness. The walls were earthen and exuded a clammy, unpleasant moistness and dank odor.

Glancing up, she saw that the dull light at the top of the shaft had diminished to the size of a silver dollar.

'Christ, this tunnel has been burrowed through earth and clay,' she realized with dawning terror germinating in the pit of her stomach. It was easy to understand how some of the other tunnels had collapsed. To come all of this way only to die of suffocation would be a particularly perverse and cruel twist of fate.

"How much further?" she called out, managing to banish the fear from her voice.

"Only another few feet," came the disembodied reply. As if to confirm this, the sound of leather on solid wood echoed up the shaft. Islena sighed in relief, but this relief quickly congealed into horror as a shower of dirt rained down about her.

"The walls have begun to loosen!" one of the escorts exclaimed in a voice that hovered on the verge of outright panic.

"Hurry, by the Gods, woman," the other hissed in alarm.

The dirt was cascading down in a steady stream now. A thick clod bounced off of Islena's shoulder and another landed upon her right hand with enough force to nearly dislodge her from the ladder. Trying to quell her panic, she quickened her pace, almost crying out in relief when she finally touched ground. A hand seized her by the left arm and jerked her into a side passage just in time to narrowly avoid being crushed by tons of loose earth and clay. The collapsing dirt displaced the fetid air with enough force to knock the four off of their feet.

Islena attempted to draw a breath and her lungs abruptly filled with abrasive dust. Somewhere behind her, she could hear Lorio calling to her. Crawling blindly on her hands and knees, she scrabbled over the dirt floor to find that Lorio had been partially covered by falling earth. With both hands she began to dig, her efforts growing more frantic as now dirt began to fall from the roof of the horizontal tunnel.

"Help me get her out, you bastards!" Islena bellowed, and soon the three pulled the Lamish woman free and then raced desperately down the tunnel, often stumbling over protrusions in the uneven floor. Around them, the earth began to shift like a long recumbent beast roused from its slumber. Islena suspected that it would not be much longer before the entire tunnel collapsed like a hollow bone.

As they ran, the group found that they had come onto a sharply rising incline. The earth was so slick and the grade so steep that it became difficult to establish proper traction.

Somewhere to their rear, a section of the passage collapsed with a guttural rumble. The three put on one final, terror-fuelled burst of speed. When it felt as though her quadriceps would rebel, Islena emerged into a dimly lit clearing in the dark forest, not far from the walls of the city of death. Islena's sense of relief was so profound that she could barely restrain the urge to weep.

After a moment's hesitation to regain his breath and equilibrium, one of the guards crossed over to Islena and dropped a satchel at her feet. "These are provisions that may last for three days if used sparingly." He offered Islena a crossbow and a quiver of the most lethal bolts that she had ever laid eyes upon." She accepted the weapons with the tentativeness of one who is unaccustomed to handling instruments of death. "This will help you in the matter of food, but it might be prudent to learn to use it as a means of protection."

The man hesitated, and though she had spent nearly two hours in his company, she could not have accurately described a single feature of his face. "We travel east and then north to Redia. If you elect to follow Ynthrax's advice and travel east, then north, we would be willing to accompany you."

Lorio reached out and squeezed Islena's calf twice to signify her disapproval. Islena understood the Lamish woman's reluctance to accept any proffered help. Her suffering had been more profound than Islena's by a good margin. Her mistrust was too deeply ingrained to be negated by a single act of kindness. Islena had come to learn that suffering, and the subsequent bitterness, had been too hard come by to surrender easily. "We'll travel alone."

The man shrugged and Islena saw that he was equally relieved by her response. These men wanted nothing to be gone, but they paused long enough to impart one final bit of advice. "These woods are thick and swamp-riddled. Making your way through them will prove an arduous task. Still, it would be prudent to steer clear of roadways and villages. When she discovers that you have escaped, Myrhia will upturn the roots of the smallest tree to find you. There will be no safe haven to be found in this world and everyone you encounter is likely to be a traitor or an outright enemy."

Islena's only reaction was a neutral nod. In the next moment, the pair vanished into the trees, melting into the night like shadows.

The exigent need to place as much distance between herself and the castle as possible was not lost upon Islena, but she suddenly found herself feeling depleted and lethargic. She glanced down at Lorio, whose face was partially obscured by deep shadows. The dark beauty's eyes glinted like bits of obsidian in the faint light.

"We're free, Lorio," Islena whispered. Lorio closed her eyes for a moment, and when she reopened them, they were dull and clouded by pain. "Not free, Islena, but a step in that direction."

Doraux knelt beside the Lamish woman and gently cradled her head against a muscular thigh, brushing the hair away from the ravaged face. "All of my life, I've been driven by an obsessive need to achieve, to excel for the sake of excellence alone. I've never been content to slip into a mold or niche, especially if that niche had been conceived by someone else's expectations for me. Sometimes my fixation with success frightened me and made me feel almost alien. Being rebellious can grow tiresome and self-defeating, but I could never be satisfied with mediocrity. Now, after what I've witnessed and endured through the past days, all that I crave is simple peace. It's rather sad to think that so much suffering was required before I could finally see just how misguided my priorities were. If I manage to survive this and find my way home, I'm going to purge the demon that has plagued me because the only true and persevering peace comes from contentment."

Lorio placed a thin hand upon Islena's shoulder. "Islena, the Lamish have long known what it is to be driven. In our case, we were driven by self-preservation and not a pervasive desire to succeed. We have a rather fatalistic saying...tranquility is death's great compensation."

Islena turned a thoughtful gaze to the night sky. The cold blink of the immeasurably distant stars appeared derisive, as though mocking their plight. The sky suggested a myriad of possibilities, none of them optimistic.

"There will be death, Lorio," Islena murmured distantly, declaring her pledge to the heavens, "but not ours...not ours."

3

Ynthrax slouched morosely behind his desk, eyes fixed upon the still-dripping dagger which lay upon its polished surface. Only moments before, he had plunged the very same dagger into the shadow of the man who had once been a proud Jerhia warrior. The final expression in the man's eyes had been one of gratitude. With that one small token of cold mercy, Ynthrax had ended his tenure as Myrhia's chief henchman. All that remained was for the High Queen to appear and formalize the process. There was still a remote possibility that he might escape the night's sedition unscathed. If so, he would contrive other ways to subtly undermine Myrhia's war machine. He elected not to embrace the prospect for success too hopefully. In Myrhia's world, optimism went largely unrewarded.

Time passed with syrupy slowness and Ynthrax began to experience a gradual, dawning elation. With every moment that her absence went undetected, Islena's prospects for a clean escape increased. The woman was inordinately stubborn, but he prayed that she would heed his advice and follow a more circuitous route to freedom.

As the first rays of the partially concealed sun drove the darkness scrambling westward, the initial alarm shattered the encampment's tranquility. Ynthrax could clearly distinguish the sounds of shouting Captains and the frantic crush of charging feet. It was not hard to imagine the burgeoning dread that each man felt as the first confusion gave way to a terrifying comprehension. The High Queen's prize had flown and her wrath was the stuff of legend and nightmare for all who fell victim to it.

His response to the alarm should have been immediate, but Ynthrax decided to await the first report in his chambers. As matters evolved, his wait did not prove to be a long one.

There was a brusque rap and the door abruptly swung inward. Ynthrax tensed, knowing that only one caller would not await a formal summons. He picked up the dagger, which he had used to kill Amrand, and casually swept it into a desk drawer.

"Are you not the least bit curious as to the possible cause of such tumult?" Myrhia inquired, her voice charged with an incisive edge which he guessed would prove fatal.

Ynthrax turned to face his former Mistress. Her eyes glowered ominously and yet her lips were curved into a curious half-smile that suggested amusement.

"I'm sorry...I was preoccupied." He offered lamely, tilting his head to the maps arrayed on his desk.

"Preoccupied, or perhaps you knew precisely what the cause of the alarm would prove to be?" Myrhia inquired slyly, still maintaining a calm exterior.

Ynthrax made no reply. Instead he climbed slowly to his feet. He prayed that he would marshal enough courage to die with some measure of dignity. "There's little to be gained by denial. If you knew, why did you make no move to intervene?"

Myrhia began to wander about the room, her eyes flicking over the assortment of maps laid out across the various tables. Each reflected the dynamic limits of her rapidly expanding empire. Her deportment seemed more suited to a casual conversation about some benign matter than a death sentence.

"All that has come to pass is preordained. From the moment that I spared you from the hangman's noose, you were destined to move inexorably toward this moment of sedition. You have been granted a role in the greatest drama of the age, Ynthrax," She lashed him with a predatory grin that froze his heart. "Now, that role has been played and it is time to exit the stage."

"You are officially relieved of you command."

Faced with the inescapable reality of his death, Ynthrax was pleased to find himself unafraid. Yet more delightful, if not perplexing, was the extent of his relief now that his sojourn in the darkness had reached its end. "What do you hope to gain by allowing her to escape?"

Myrhia smiled blithely, as though immensely pleased by her own cleverness. "If Islena will not seek out the Proclamations at my behest, then I must create circumstances that force her to do so in the name of her perceived best interest. Eventually, Islena will come to the insight that her only road home lies through me. When that inescapable truth finally dawns upon her, she will lay the Proclamations at my feet in return for safe passage back to her old life and a guaranteed requiem for her world."

"You are attempting to strike a most precarious balance, Myrhia," Ynthrax remarked. "I believe that you have gravely misjudged her character. She will never crawl for you benevolence."

"Unlike you, Ynthrax," Myrhia retorted in a flash of argent anger. "You are pleased with your tawdry act of petty defiance. Did you not encourage her to seek out the Proclamations as her only means to militating against my reign of tyranny?"

Ynthrax remained silent, though his expression of despair conveyed his grasp of the terrible error that he had unwittingly engineered. By directing Islena to seek out the Proclamations, he had inadvertently set her upon the High Queen's intended course and thus his final act of contrition was reduced to mockery and sham...his self-sacrifice rendered ultimately pointless.

"Don't appear so forlorn, Ynthrax," Myrhia intoned with feigned empathy. "Your failure was destined. Take heart...predestination essentially exonerates us all from our shortcomings...and our sins of complicity."

Ynthrax stared glumly at the ground, choosing not to engage in a pointless verbal sparing session. Myrhia clapped her hands and a dark shadow fell across the doorway. "Before you die, I think that you should be given the opportunity to meet your successor."

A massive robed figure glided gracefully through the doorway, its head obscured by a full hood. Myrhia greeted the creature with a nod, her lovely eyes sparkling with malice. In a single fluid motion, the figure shrugged off the robe.

Ynthrax gasped and took an involuntary backwards step. Though the creature was endowed with decidedly female proportions, it was massive beyond all imagining. Its ebony skin glowed with an unearthly vitality. Marla's once amber eyes were ringed by an effulgent blue that reminded Ynthrax of a sun's corona. In death, and her subsequent transmogrification, Marla Holmes had achieved a flawless beauty that had eluded her in life. She stood unabashedly naked before her predecessor, her seemingly indestructible body glistening like a black diamond, regarding Ynthrax with the dispassionately cold eyes of an assassin or executioner.

Myrhia positioned herself next to her creature. In juxtaposition to the monstrous Holmes, the enchantress appeared as frangible as bone china or decorative crystal. Ynthrax wondered how one could possess such temerity, such supreme confidence, as to create such an abomination. It horrified him to think that such monstrosities were now running rampant and unconstrained through the world. Knowing Myrhia as he did, Ynthrax doubted that the moral ramifications had ever remotely figured in her unleashing of the beasts. Her confidence was supreme and unwavering and her ambition was unfettered by even the slightest hint of morality.

Myrhia regarded the creature with unrestrained pride as one might gaze upon a beloved and accomplished daughter. "This mammoth beauty represents the latest refinement to my Morticants," she declared lavishly. "She is the first successful fusion of a human body with animated mortiplasm."

Knowing that he was condemned, Ynthrax found that he was now free to express his opinion without fear. "Tampering with the law of nature is heretical madness. This thing poses a dire threat to the very order of existence...possibly even to you."

The notion amused the enchantress, who laughed gaily. "Do you not yet see that I'm immune to threat? I am more of an embodied concept than a physical being. As for threats to humanity; am I, myself, not the quintessential threat to the mortal realm?"

"There's little point in prolonging this changing of the guard," she announced finally. "Marla is going to kill you, Ynthrax. You've been an obsequious enough dog and so I will grant you the mercy of a quick death."

"Damn your mercy, witch!" he exploded. The inevitability of his death prompted him to wish to die with the same fierce defiance with which he had lived most of his life or at least the years that preceded the day that he had become Myrhia's puppet.

Bellowing an old Redian battle cry, Ynthrax retrieved the dagger that he had used to consign Amrand's soul to its final mercy, and charged forward. Instead of charging the Morticant, Ynthrax lunged for the enchantress, hoping to plunge his blade deep into her throat, before the entity could intervene.

He raised the dagger, a lunatic grin spreading over his face, but before he could speed it upon its lethal downward arc, the High Queen shimmered and then vanished. Ynthrax's forward momentum carried him into the granite pillar of Marla's extended right arm. The air burst from his lungs in a rush. He suddenly found himself being propelled backwards. He collided with the heavy oak table, his forward momentum carrying him up and over, and as he groped for balance, Ynthrax only succeeded in bringing the heavy piece of furnishing down on top of himself. Maps and sheaths of paper drifted around the room like bits of falling snow.

Ynthrax attempted to rise, but found himself paralyzed by the sharp pain that lanced the right side of his ribcage, making it difficult to draw a full breath. Despite the force of the impact, he refused to surrender his grip upon the blade. Rolling to his right, he forced himself to his knees, gritting his teeth against the excruciating flare of agony that followed.

Myrhia instructed the Morticant to commence its methodical destruction of her former commander. The exquisite black woman glided forward, lithe movements reminding the enchantress of the elegant sensuality of the Panther. The heavy muscles of her thighs contracted and expanded beneath the taut velvet of her skin, hinting at an unimaginable power that was capable of pulverizing mere flesh and bone.

Undaunted, Ynthrax launched himself forward and plunged his dagger into the meat of her left quadricep. She stopped abruptly, gazing down at the weapon in open fascination. Her strange eyes glistened with intense interest, but displayed no perceptible sign of pain...or even mild discomfort.

Ynthrax cursed and attempted to withdraw the dagger, but the flesh would not yield its grip on the embedded steel as though he had buried the blade in solid granite. Transfixed, he watched as the muscle began to ripple and then flow like candle wax.

To his utter amazement and horror, he realized that the solid flesh was quickly being transformed into a something more gelatinous in consistency. A strident hiss filled the room and steam began to issue from the bloodless wound. Ynthrax tried to release the dagger, but Marla grasped his wrist, and though he struggled mightily to extricate himself, he could not break her vice grip.

He glanced up to find her gazing down upon him with a sadistic grin. It was the first time that he had ever seen a Morticant display even the faintest hint of emotion and while the drone versions of this walking nightmare were devoid of facial features, this ebony woman's face was expressive and alive with darkly terrifying emotions. Gazing up into those horribly animated eyes, Ynthrax recalled Islena's inquiry about dark-skinned people and understood that she had crossed paths with this particular abomination before.

"And more surprises," she intoned in a voice made husky by delight. Suddenly, a spew of molten iron boiled out of the wound. He washed over the flesh of Ynthrax's hand, ravenously dissolving the tender flesh as it spread.

Ynthrax bellowed in agony and attempted to pull away, but Marla's strength prevailed. Only after the last of the lava had erupted did she finally release his hand. The flesh of her quadricep was once again unblemished. Ynthrax held his hand up and regarded the blackened stump numbly.

The blade had been completely melted by the monster's transformation.

Worse yet, the cooling iron had fused the haft to the remains of his hand. Crying out in revulsion, he stumbled to his feet, frantically waving his hand as if in abnegation. Then he bolted around the heavy wooden table, imposing it between himself and the nightmare. Marla lifted the table and casually threw it aside as if it was constructed of dust and feathers.

The lethal grin did not waver...an expression that was horrifying, despite its dazzling beauty. Ynthrax gave ground until he had no further space to relent. Marla paused and extended her hands, palms forward, toward the bewildered Ynthrax.

Then she attacked.

There followed a barrage of blows of such ferocity and swiftness that Ynthrax could not isolate any one point of impact. Rather, his body reeled beneath an avalanche of pain that grew geometrically with each successive blow.

Marla drove a fist into his sternum, doubling him over to meet a pistoning knee which pulverized his nose and cheek bone. He fell back against the wall and clutched his nose with his remaining good hand. Blood, thick and shockingly bright, spurted between his fingers in a steady geyser, spattering the carpet and the overturned table. Pivoting about, she drove an elbow into the dying man's jaw, which shattered with a sickening crunch that dislodged several of his teeth.

He grunted thickly and toppled sideways like a felled tree. Reaching down with a hearty laugh, she dragged him upright and seized him up in a constricting bear hug.

Ynthrax groaned, flailing ineffectively at Marla's head. She continued to apply a constant pressure, impervious to his clubbing blows. She held the two hundred and sixty pound man as though he were no heavier than a sack of wheat chaff. The huge muscles of her biceps and deltoids stood out in sharp relief as her erect nipples dug into the abraded flesh of his chest, incisive as bits of iron.

She applied one final titanic squeeze. Ynthrax jerked his head back and a cry of agony escaped his blood-flecked lips as the vital organs collapsed within his chest cavity. Dark blood burst from his mouth in a geyser, spattering Marla's shoulders, back and heavy breasts.

Still, Ynthrax found the wherewithal to raise his head despite the monstrous pain. He sought out Myrhia through the fog of his torment. She gazed back at the dying man with no discernible hint of emotion, save for a curious half-smile.

Seeing Ynthrax's exposed throat, Marla darted her mouth forward, and in an ineffable act of savagery, ripped her quarry's carotid artery out with her teeth.

Myrhia frowned, nonplused by the unanticipated act of brutality. The humanized versions of her Morticants appeared to relish slaughter and take delight in imaginative sadism. By contrast, a pure Morticant would only respond to specific direction, and would carry out its sanction dispassionately. Such inventiveness bespoke thought, and thus possible independence, both of which were perilous qualities in a serf imbued with such vast power.

In the vice of Marla's arms, Ynthrax finally slumped forward. His battered body began to spasm violently, the muscles dancing and twitching in an elaborate death waltz.

Marla, grinning madly, applied one final petulant wrench. There followed the inevitable sickening crunch as the dead man's ribcage shattered. Denied spinal support, Ynthrax's body folded backwards until the back of his head touched his heels. Only then, did Marla relent, casting him aside like a sack of rubbish.

She turned to face her creator. Her face beamed with expectation as though she were awaiting a well-deserved commendation.

Myrhia came forward and peered down at the human wreckage. His open eyes stared sightlessly at the chamber ceiling through the grotesque landscape of his ruined face.

"You've performed admirably," Myrhia allowed, bemused by this unexpected insight into the nature of a human-Morticant hybrid.

Marla's smile became radiant. Her teeth, Myrhia observed, where smeared with blood and snippets of flesh. The thing spoke as though it were not accustomed to the faculty of speech. "What will you have me do now?"

Myrhia averted her eyes. "There is one whom you covet? Upon whom you seek revenge?"

The thing merely nodded, tongue snaking out across its bloody lips.

"The task of locating her shall fall to you."

"Islena!" the thing sighed with a hedonist's unbridled lust.

"Look at me, Marla," Myrhia commanded with sudden harshness. The massive ebony woman turned her gaze upon the enchantress, her eyes narrowing speculatively. "Islena is pivotal to my design. Without her, I have no hope of obtaining the Proclamations. I am dispatching you to command the search. Mark me well...she is to be returned unscathed, though you are free to kill all of those who accompany her. You might derive a particular pleasure in disposing of the Lamish woman. She has served as Islena's whore."

Like a striking adder, she abruptly reached out and gripped Marla's huge forearm. The creature's eyes widened as a numbing cold radiated from Myrhia's palm, rapidly spreading along the length of the limb. "If harm should fall upon Islena while she is in your care, there will be no adequate words to describe the hell of your suffering."

The flesh of Marla's forearm gradually turned white as a layer of frost spread toward the elbow, penetrating the dense musculature and heavy bone.

"Have I made myself exceedingly clear?" Myrhia inquired tightly.

"Yes! Yes!" the Marla-entity keened. "It hurts."

"Indeed, it does," Myrhia whispered. It was imperative that she bring this deviant to heel, while she pondered the ramifications of its burgeoning will. "While you may be impervious to others, always remember that I possess the faculties to destroy you as easily as I granted you rebirth."

The Morticant nodded submissively. Myrhia released the arm, which quickly reverted to its state of ebony perfection. Other than the livid reminder of her decapitation, Marla Holmes had been reborn as the epitome of flawless beauty and physical perfection.

"Dispatch cavalry in every direction," Myrhia instructed. "Scour every village and settlement. If you should sense even the slightest hint of evasion, execute the village elders as an indication of my intolerance to defiance. Make it clear to the rabble that their continued survival is predicated upon apprehension of this woman. After a time, there will be nowhere, however miniscule or remote, that will provide her with sanctuary."

The Morticant nodded and turned to leave, but Myrhia summoned her back. The enchantress was not displeased to note the flicker of trepidation in the creature's eyes. "When she has fulfilled her service and the Proclamations are mine, she will be yours to do with as you wish."

Marla Holmes smiled, a lascivious grin that she would have been unable to effect during her mortal life and Myrhia found herself pitying Islena Doraux.

Chapter Thirty

1

She awoke with a scream that had been wrenched from her lungs with by the sheer, compelling horror of the stark nightmare. A hand reached for her in the darkness and she threw it off with a shrill cry of disgust.

"Islena!" someone whispered urgently. The voice held a tremulous, labored edge which Islena realized could only belong to Lorio. She inhaled sharply and covered her face with her hands.

"A nightmare," she offered by way of explanation and stood up on unresponsive legs. The predawn chill cooled the hot, greasy sheen of perspiration, leaving her feeling uncomfortably cold and wretchedly filthy.

"The same one?" Lorio inquired, though she had become accustomed to the scream that invariably preceded Islena's awakening, an agonized ritual that reminded Lorio of a drowning woman's desperate struggle to reach breathable air. Islena had been afflicted with this particular nightmare every night since they had escaped Perdwick.

"Oh yes," Islena replied weakly. "It never varies. I can barely sleep now, though I can hardly keep my eyes open." Lorio frowned in the darkness, sensing her friend's anguish as if it were her own.

In Islena's dream, Marla had returned, stalking Islena like a predacious shadow. She had cut a swathe through the netherworld, leaving a trail of mutilated corpses in her wake, while pursuing Islena with the single-minded tenacity of a rabid fox. In the seconds before she willed herself into howling consciousness, Islena was assailed by the ghastly image of Marla standing over her decapitated body, holding her head in one blood-spattered fist.

The vivid memory...an intensely graphic horror...evoked a shudder in Islena. She wrapped her arms about her shoulders and hugged herself, though she lacked the nerve to close her eyes lest the gruesome remnants of that final scene assume new and vibrant light.

"It's still many hours before dawn," Lorio informed her softly. "If you can't sleep, then, at least, lie down and rest."

Islena shook her head numbly. She feared that sleep and tranquility were states of grace that she would never enjoy again. She stood up and stretched, then made her way toward a narrow gap in the trees which served as a roadway.

As Ynthrax had advised, the pair had made their way gradually east, before turning north. Islena had no clear concept of where they were heading, but a final destination was less of an object than actually evading capture. The pair had avoided roadways and settled areas, taking long, circuitous detours around villages. Lorio had elected to follow the main north-south roadway, staying some hundred yards from the actual roadway, so as not to become hopelessly lost in the endless forest that was broken only by the occasional cart track.

It had been four days since Ynthrax had miraculously freed them from the dungeons of Perdwick. In that time, Islena's emotional state had traversed the spectrum from naked fear to a deep-seated paranoia. There was something oddly conspiratorial about the fact that the forest appeared uninhabited. There had been no hint of the expected massive pursuit of which Ynthrax had warned them. Instead, the pair seemed to be the sole living occupants of the vast woodland. This sense of isolation should have comforted Islena, yet she found the notion increasingly disturbing in a way she could not concisely articulate.

"Where are you, witch?" she inquired of the heavens. There was no reply...only a disdainful silence.

Islena shivered as the chill found chinks in the folds of her clothing. The climate was changing perceptibly as they moved further north. She had attempted to question Lorio on the matter of distance and was frustrated to find that the geographical perceptions of the world's inhabitants were woefully lacking. In this primitive place, travel was measured in terms of days and not distance. As in the case of Islena's forefathers, a person's world was confined to a twenty mile radius around their own birthplace. Their understanding of the world beyond was based entirely upon conjecture and stories gathered from the occasional travelers who might happen through.

Her trek to the north might be measured in miles or thousands of miles...Islena had no accurate way of knowing. In the final analysis, distance was immaterial, as was time. In this world, time was less precise and of less consequence. Events ran their course at their own peculiar pace and no one (with the exception of Myrhia, who was driven by grandiose aspirations or burning ambitions) appeared concerned by the snail like progress of daily life. Despite the desperate exigency of her own situation, Islena found that she had lost all sense of time since being abducted.

She did know that she had to journey to the north and locate the third causeway. Lorio had dissuaded her from her original intention of trying to cross the nearest one, which had almost certainly fallen under Myrhia's hand by now. Being overly eager, Lorio had expediently argued, would lead them back into certain captivity and a reprise of the hell of Perdwick.

And so they had set out on an interminable journey to the north, neither having a clear idea of how far they would have to go before reaching the mythical third causeway, which stood before them like a shimmering beacon of hope.

"We're now in Glynwith. We must pass out of Glynwith and through the small feudal land of Kerwyn before we reach the river Tynan," Lorio had explained. "Very little is known about the land beyond. It is a harsh an inhospitable country, said to be sparsely populated. I have heard that only barbarians and religious zealots dwell there."

"It is told that terrible snow storms appear from the clear blue sky to bury unsuspecting travelers where they stand," Lorio had concluded, quite sincerely. Islena concealed her skepticism, guessing that the north would prove every bit as forbidding as Lorio had described. In this place, embellishments were oft substituted for an even more terrifying reality.

In keeping with her new philosophy of patience, Islena decided that she would concern herself with the perils of the north both real and imagined, when they crossed the river Tynan.

Between then and now, Islena correctly surmised that the pair would encounter hazards to keep them fully occupied. Her ordeal had not conditioned her to expect the stroke of good fortune that awaited her.

She listlessly made her way back to the place where she and Lorio had paused for the night. The Lamish woman had fallen back into a fitful doze, her body twitching in a somnambulist's reaction to a terror that Doraux could not begin to imagine. Islena knelt beside her friend, studying her gaunt features. It was not an easy task to gaze upon the battered visage without experiencing a sense of guilt and shame.

"I should have insisted that you stay with your treacherous father," she whispered bitterly. Then again, the father was most likely dead, for which she could also claim some degree of culpability. She was coming to regard herself as something of a dark cloud, dispensing death to those around her through mere proximity alone.

A low moan tore from Lorio's lips and she twisted under her blanket, plunging her face into the cover of shadows.

After the two Redians had left them, Islena had carried Lorio until her thighs had trembled like saplings in a spring gale. She had continued to carry Lorio until the muscles of her lower back had contracted into painful knots. Still she pressed on, until the last of her energy had been expended and she had collapsed, gasping, to the forest floor. In that moment of exhaustion, Islena was accosted by the blackest despair that she had ever experienced.

Lorio had reached a trembling hand to Islena and implored, "Leave me. You have to get to the west. Your freedom is more important than my life or death. I implore you to leave me."

Lorio had delivered the plea as adamantly as her condition would allow and for one regrettable moment, Islena had nearly surrendered to the temptation. 'Yes, why not leave her?' the dark angel of her nature had advised. 'She's going to die anyway.'

Islena had closed her eyes and gritted her teeth until the selfish bitch had fallen silent. Then she had risen and gazed around the clearing as fragments of a notion assembling in her exhausted mind. Over the next hour, she had gathered up the required materials from the trees. She had used an arrow head to sever the vines and had broken the trees with her bare hands.

When she had finally finished, Islena had gently lifted the astounded Lorio and laid her in the center of the crude contraption.

"What is this thing?" Lorio had inquired, though she had already grasped the essential principles of the concept.

"It's called a travois, and although it's cumbersome, it's still a lot easier than carrying you over my shoulder."

Lorio regarded the device dubiously. "It would still be easier to leave me."

"True, but nothing else has been easy. Why should this be any different?" The cavalier remark had silenced Lorio, but had not quelled Islena's own dark stirrings.

Indeed, pulling the travois through the dense forest had proven to be a hellish ordeal of exhaustion and pain. By the end of the first day, Islena's shoulders had ached as though she had spent the day on a cross of crucifixion. Still, she had bore the agony stoically and displayed no impatience over the slow pace.

By the third day, Lorio's condition had showed marked improvement. The massive bruising and facial lacerations had already begun to fade, though she would be left with an array of small scars that would forever mar her once flawless beauty. Despite these permanent mementos, Islena was amazed by the Lamish woman's resilience.

During the intervals when she had not been dragging the travois, Islena had practiced with the crossbow. She had been pleasantly surprised at the level of proficiency she had managed to achieve in a comparatively short period of time. To her own astonishment, Islena had actually killed several large rabbits, supplementing her diet of fruits and dried cheese. Though the very sight of the cooked meat, saturated with thick grease that popped and crackled in the open flames, would set her stomach to queasy rolls, she realized that it was one source of nutrition that would expedite Lorio's recovery.

By the fourth day, the Lamish woman was able to walk for short periods of time, though the effort was plainly reflected upon her pale face. Yes, Lorio would survive her ordeal in the dungeons of Perdwick, though she would carry the physical reminders to her grave. The less prominent, but ultimately more profound consequences of her torture had been engraved on her psyche. Lorio's eyes swept perpetually about, darting back and forth as though she expected disaster to strike from all corners. Islena noticed that abrupt noises caused her friend to flinch. All in all, the woman's mantle of supreme confidence had been shattered. The strong, arrogant woman who had nearly killed Islena had vanished forever, leaving a fragile shadow in her wake.

Lorio suddenly gasped and came awake with an audible snap. The lovely brown eyes appeared confused and glazed. Islena watched her regain her equilibrium through tear-misted eyes. Finally, comprehension filtered through and Lorio gazed up at her friend.

"We must depart at once," she announced urgently. "Something is stalking us. It is distant now, but we dare not allow it to catch our scent."

"What do you see?" Islena demanded, her heart touched by the chill of Lorio's nightmare and the lingering terror it inspired.

Lorio squinted into the gloom and then pounded her fist upon her thigh in frustration. "I can see only fragments but something vile is approaching like a storm. We must leave at once."

Islena pursed her lips. Lorio's blind apprehension was a compelling force. She nodded silently and set off to retrieve the travois.

"No!" Lorio rasped. Her tone was adamant and uncompromising. Islena looked questioningly to the Lamish woman, who had risen shakily to her feet. "From this day forth, I refuse to be a burden. I will walk or I will die!"

Islena regarded Lorio for a moment and then broke into a smile...the first genuine expression of delight that she had experienced in days. Lorio's spirit had been badly frayed, but it had not been altogether extinguished.

Grimacing against the biting pain and the dizzying nausea, Lorio gazed to the north and then set off through the trees. Islena looked after her with unbridled affection and something that was akin to unconditional love.

'She's changed,' she observed. 'She's weaker, yet somehow, stronger as well.' The paradox was legitimate and the thought turned her mind to the subject of her own transformation. The consideration was too complex and disturbing, so she dismissed it and quickened to follow her companion.

2

On the seventh day of their journey to the north, the two women came to the great road that delineated the border of Glynwith and Kerwyn. In truth, the great road was nothing more than a cart track with knee high weeds growing up the center.

Lorio gestured for Islena to linger in the brush, while she ventured out to scout the roadway. In this part of the world, there would be legions of highwaymen to contend with, not to mention, Myrhia's Imperial Troopers. Any encounter along this road held the potential for treachery and violent death.

Lorio crept closer to the road and knelt beside a large granite outcrop. Then she closed her eyes and listened. Slowly, a vast array of discordant sounds reached her ears, some no louder than a muted whisper. The Lamish referred to this as the clearing of the senses. Denying the body one sense served to augment the efficacy of another. In a state of absolute concentration, Lorio was able to hear a branch fall. If she was to tamper with the cleansing for a protracted period, the cacophony of sounds that would flood her mind was likely to drive her mad. For reasons that she could not entirely fathom, she had elected not to tell Islena about her perceptive abilities, though she would have gladly sacrificed her life for the other woman. As the Lamish philosophy dictated; there were secrets which were not meant to be shared.

As she slowly filtered out the various registers, Lorio could discern a dull rumble. She focused her mind on the sound, actually decreasing her heart and respiratory rate. This heightened acuity brought the sound into sharp focus. There was the clatter of horses, a small number at most, but the primary sound was the discordant shuffle of human feet. She concentrated as much as her diminished strength would allow. After several minutes of intense effort, Lorio was able to establish that the group was moving in her direction.

There was an odd muffled cadence to the movement. This was not the crisp, determined sound of troops on the march. The effort of prolonged concentration began to tire Lorio. Perspiring profusely, she gasped as her breathing came in ragged bursts. Still, it was imperative that she discover what was approaching. Struggling grimly to marshal the remains of her strength, Lorio eventually surrendered as the ambient sounds of the forest obscured the distant noise. Lorio cursed and dropped her head, wondering, though not for the first time, if she would ever regain her former sense of well-being.

She turned to find Islena watching her with a quizzical expression set upon her lovely face. "Are you well, Lorio?"

Lorio averted her eyes and waved her hands dismissively. "Fine."

The reply had slipped out more brusquely than she had intended. Islena continued to watch her for a moment, suspecting that her companion was not being entirely truthful, and then shrugged.

"There is a large group of people approaching us from the west."

"Troops?" Islena asked, not thinking to ask how Lorio might have gleaned this bit of information.

"Perhaps not," Lorio allowed, not wishing to betray anything of her perceptive gifts than was strictly required.

"Then we should get across the roadway and as far away from here as possible before they get here," Islena remarked, and turned back to retrieve their packs. Lorio reached out and caught her muscular forearm in a surprisingly powerful grip. When she spoke, it was in a low, intense voice driven by a vague sense of foreboding. "We'll cross the road, but I believe that we should linger to see who comes."

Islena began to object, but the pointedly odd light in the Lamish woman's dark eyes cut her short. She realized that Lorio was functioning under the guidance of some deeper instinct and thus far, Lorio's instinct had served them with an uncanny accuracy.

Lorio darted across the dirt track, while Islena ran back and gathered up their few possessions. In seconds, she had slung the crossbow over her shoulder and headed after her friend. She was about the cross the ten feet of open dirt, when a shrill whistle brought her to an abrupt halt. Scanning the opposite foliage, she saw Lorio frantically gesturing for her to move back into the underbrush and take cover.

Islena fell to her knees and crawled into the concealing shadow of a nearby stand of brush, her heart hammering wildly in her chest. Her skin prickled with an electric tension and the very air seemed to have congealed into an insufferable jelly.

It was then that the first of the shambling human derelicts came into view and her heart contracted into a painful knot of pity. Consternation and abhorrence led her to stand slightly, exposing herself to the roving eye. The column of prisoners stretched around the curve of the trees. They shambled forward with the mechanical gait of the irredeemably condemned. Islena could see resignation reflected in every pair of hollow, haunted eyes.

Suddenly, two Imperial Troopers moved to the front of the line, shouting threats and curses, while savagely administering the truncheon with indiscriminate glee. As the column of walking dead slowly wound its way along, Islena noticed that the majority of the prisoners were women and children.

Then she recalled the women of Kornas and understood that these prisoners were about to face the same fate that the others had surrendered their lives to avoid.

Rank upon rank filed past, the haggard faces bobbing dully in the pale light. Her eyes fixed upon one young boy, his tunic torn to reveal a scarred and horribly emaciated torso. He appeared oblivious to everything save his own immutable torment. Each step was taken in a looping manner that spoke of imminent collapse.

She glanced down to see that his feet were shoeless and reduced to bloody pulp through days of forced marching. All at once, the boy veered off to his right and stumbled towards the trees, no more than ten feet from where Islena knelt. Before reaching the underbrush, his legs rebelled and he went down in a tangle of gaunt limbs.

The escorting troopers fell upon him like a pack of jackals.

"On your feet, you worthless bit of slime," one bellowed. Dismounting his horse, the soldier kicked the boy in the stomach. The boy whimpered and rolled himself into a protective ball.

"A cheeky little bastard, isn't he?" one of the others mused and casually jabbed the blunt end of his pike into a frail thigh. The boy's scream could be heard to echo across the forest, ringing in sharp counterpoint to the Trooper's mocking, derisive laughter.

Seething with anger, Islena reached over her shoulder and nocked an iron-tipped bolt into her crossbow. She focused her mind upon the mechanics and trajectory of the anticipated shot and not the impetuousness of what she was about to do. She raised the crossbow, bringing it to dead center at a point between the Trooper's shoulder blades. With her recently developed proficiency and at the relatively close quarters, she had little doubt that the shot would prove fatal.

From her point on the opposite side of the road, Lorio watched everything evolve with mounting dismay. She had correctly imagined the reaction that this brutal beating was bound to evoke in Islena. The woman was volatile and had little tolerance for this despicable brand of savagery. The Troopers were converging on the boy like ravenous jackals upon a fresh kill.

Lorio peered around, desperately searching for some way to prevent Islena from firing without alerting the Troopers to their presence. She had not suffered through the hell and degradation of Myrhia's dungeons only to see her people's hope for redemption dashed by a misguided arrow. Through the throes of her agony, there had come the revelation that this woman, this enigmatic Islena Doraux, was the key to salvation for all who had fallen under Myrhia's villainous fist. This Islena was a special one. Her survival in the face of overwhelming adversity was testimony to that.

'And yet,' Lorio thought 'her impulsive and unpredictable nature makes her as dangerous to her friends as it does to the enchantress,'

Islena wrapped her finger around the trigger, the boy's pathetic whimpering echoing in her fevered brain. Yet, when the moment came to administer the final bit of pressure that would consign the Trooper to the Hell that he so richly deserved, Islena found that her body refused to obey her outraged will.

The single act of firing this arrow would preclude any possibility of an eventual reunion with her family. By comparison, the boy's life...a life that was nearly extinguished anyway...seemed a disproportionate risk.

Without that slim hope of deliverance, Islena knew that she was as dead as this procession of ghosts.

On the roadway, the truncheons fell in a rain of blows that finally crushed the boy's skull, while the other prisoners looked on with glazed indifference. Two Troopers carried the boy's body to the opposite side of the road and threw it into the trees.

"Not even a decent meal for the wolves," one of them quipped, and the other laughed in agreement. At that moment, a Captain of the guard appeared from the rear of the column. "What's the delay?"

"Just a dead waif," the killer responded with a note of pride. "We disposed of his body in the trees."

"That makes ninety since we left Yanis," the commander remarked sourly. At this rate, he would be lucky to reach Redia with a score of survivors. That would prove a fatal turn of events, indeed. Where this lot was destined, bodies were used up with astounding rapidity. He doubted that even one of this lot would manage to survive a week in the mines. That particular monster had a truly voracious appetite.

The Captain had no clear notion of what material might be extracted from the mines, nor did he have any great desire to find out. He did know, however, that the extract was vitally important to the High Queen, as was this source of cheap labor.

"We're going to have to slow the pace!" he instructed and then proceeded to the head of the column. Slowly, the procession of the damned began to move again.

Islena could not raise her head to watch the line wind its way out of sight. When she had failed to pull the trigger, Islena had divorced herself from a moral tenant. The uncoupling had cost her in some abstract way that she could feel, but not qualify. By allowing self-interest to sublimate her outrage, Islena had opened the door for the onset of spiritual torpor. Was it such a simple matter to sacrifice conscience for expedience? The question nagged her like an inaccessible itch.

She experienced a rush of emotion that felt very much like grief, yet lacked the power to move her to tears. Dry-eyed, she climbed to her feet and crossed the road in search of Lorio. She passed the boy's pathetically mutilated body without sparing it a glance. Nor did she hear the stark buzz of the flies which had already come to feast on the lifeless flesh.

3

"Why were they transporting so many prisoners?" Islena inquired quietly.

Lorio glanced up at her friend. It was the first phrase which Islena had uttered since they had come on the Prisoners caravan. "I can only guess that she will use them as slave labor."

Islena nodded her face impassive. "Why would Myrhia require so much slave labor?"

"Who is to say for certain?" Lorio replied honestly, clearly baffled by what she had just witnessed. "It is said that she mines the mountains of Redian for gold, silver and jewels."

The image was inconsistent with the Myrhia Doraux knew and so Islena shook her head in disagreement. "I don't think that Myrhia would waste her time with bobbles. She doesn't seem overly preoccupied with accruing material possessions. Her ambition is more inclined to the abstract. She once told me that she didn't care about the trappings of power...and I believe her. No, I think that she has a more consequential use for those people. If she's using these people for slaves, I would bet it is for something possibly related to these Proclamations.

Lorio considered this for a moment and then remarked, "Anything is possible, but no one has ever survived to describe what occurs in the Redian mines. If there is something of value being unearthed there, other than the obvious, it remains a mystery, Islena."

Islena grunted. Evidently, Lorio did not regard the matter as anything more consequential than another example of Myrhia's infinite and ever-inventive capacity for cruelty. Islena had told Lorio that she had believed the High Queen's declared disinterest in material things, and so she did, but she also believed that Myrhia did nothing without a very specific and well conceived motive.

Whimsical cruelty was not in keeping with her nature and thus her efforts in the Redian mines were no doubt a part of her diabolical scheme to obtain ultimate power.

"There's a village," Lorio exclaimed. She stood at the crest of a long slope which led down to a collection of some forty ramshackle structures. At first glance, Islena thought that the place was derelict, but then she spotted three larger structures at the center of the village. These appeared to have been constructed from some kind of baked brick.

An instinct stronger than prudence and reason, suddenly adjured her to go down into the village and though a similar excursion into another village had ended in disaster, the attraction to go down struck her as powerfully as an addict's craving. Islena shook her head in bewilderment, but the impulse did not diminish.

Lorio discerned her friend's exasperation and inquired, "Something about this village troubles you?"

"Not precisely," Islena responded, her voice soft and distant. "My instincts are urging me to go down there."

Lorio tensed at once and started to object, but Islena cut her short. "Lorio, how long have we been traveling north?"

"Perhaps eight days. I don't see what that has to do with the village." Lorio's eyes had assumed a flinty glaze that Islena recognized well. She, herself, had sported the identical expression often enough.

"In that time, we have not encountered a single soldier, other than the group that escorted the slave march."

"And all to our good fortune, as far as I'm concerned," Lorio interjected hotly. Islena could feel the first stirrings of anger, but then discerned the fear lurking beneath Lorio's obstinacy. Though she had suffered greatly at the hands of her captives, Islena's ordeal had been tempered by her importance to the enchantress and her machinations. Conversely, Lorio was, in the eyes of her captors, nothing more than a diversion upon which to vent their collective frustrations and vapid cruelty. Would Islena ever know what hell Lorio had endured in the dungeons? The Lamish woman had not broached the subject of her torture and rape. On the one occasion that Islena had attempted to raise the subject, Lorio had withdrawn behind a truculent wall of silence, simply shaking her head and stalking off.

"Lorio, I can empathize with what you've endured," she began softly. "I've had a taste of it myself, and I'd rather die than be subjected to that degradation again. Still, we've been traveling for a week without coming across any sign of human habitation."

"Kerwyn is a remote corner of the world," Lorio insisted, in a tone that was vexingly petulant. "It is not unusual for one to travel for weeks at a time without seeing another soul and we have deliberately chosen to avoid contact."

"Lorio, I have to go into that village," Islena declared finally. "I can't supply you with specific, tangible reasons. If you can't come with me, I'll understand."

Lorio stiffened as though her courage had been called into question. Islena smiled warmly, hoping to diffuse the mounting tension.

"You could skirt the village and wait for me over there," she offered, pointing toward a gap in the trees on the opposite slope, immediately to the north of the settlement. "It might be less conspicuous if I were to go into the village alone."

Lorio absorbed this for a moment. She wondered if Islena had sensed the extent of her apprehension. The multiple rapes, the brutal beatings...these things made the thought of recapture insufferable, filling her with a paralyzing dread. Only the notion of disgracing herself in Islena's eyes prevented her from accepting the suggestion.

"I doubt that you could ever be inconspicuous for long," Lorio muttered, and subjugating her terror, started down the declivity. Islena watched the statuesque beauty descend. As she did, the sun broke through the layer of clouds, bathing the small village in a golden glow, lending an air of divine blessing to her instinct.

As she started after Lorio, Islena could feel a calmness envelop her mind. She gazed about like a person emerging from a prolonged slumber to find that she had gained a new equilibrium with a land that she had once viewed as alien and hostile.

"You are about to reach the second juncture in your long journey." The voice belonged to the messenger who had first spoken to her through her officious boss...what had been his name? She was profoundly surprised to find that she could not recall. The lapse of memory did not concern her. She had, as a matter of preserving her sanity, closed the door on her former life.

'At least temporarily,' she amended.

Buoyed by the sense that she was about to encounter a positive change of fortune, Islena started confidently down the slope.

4

That instant of jubilation proved fleeting. The moment the pair entered the town, they were struck by the feeling that every eye was trained surreptitiously upon them.

The village was as unsanitary and the people as filthy as the village in northern Kornas. Yet, there appeared to be a dark vitality to these people, where there had only been despair and resignation in the others.

The aura of suspicion and mistrust hung over the town like a penumbra.

Islena could feel Lorio's blossoming unease, but refused to be infected by it.

"Not the most amicable people that you'd like to meet," she remarked casually. Lorio grunted, but said nothing. She desperately wanted to beat a hasty withdrawal, but surmised that this would only arouse further unwanted interest. In this particular time and place such interest could well prove fatal.

Islena shook off her misgivings and headed directly for the group of three buildings that she had spotted from the crest of the slope. Her feet moved forward as if by their own volition. There was something of value to be had here, she felt certain of that, and that certitude drew her on very much as a magnet may attract steel.

In her state of distraction, she was oblivious to the three men who blocked her way until she had nearly collided with them.

Lorio shouted a startled admonition, her heart plummeting at the thought that they had blundered into a trap.

A fat, bearded man, with cloying, rank body odor, gripped Islena's shoulder and demanded, "What business have you here?"

Islena tensed, and Lorio rushed forward and imposed herself between the pair. "We are merely travelers seeking refuge from the wars to the south. Our homes were destroyed and our families killed. It is our wish to procure food and clothing before continuing our journey to the north."

"And what do you women expect to do in the wastelands? Keep house for a ranter?" This provoked a gale of derisive laughter from the men and women who had assembled to witness the drama.

Lorio noticed that the collective mood had congealed into something ugly and dangerous.

"I don't know what a ranter is and I frankly don't care," Islena growled. "Is this the kind of hospitality that you usually extend to strangers?"

Lorio winced. There was the potential for confrontation every time that combative tone entered Islena's voice. It was clear that she did not grasp the precarious nature of their situation.

'A situation that she's dragged you into,' she thought. 'And now the task of extricating her falls to you.' This last thought surprised Lorio with the intensity of its venom and resentment.

"We're nothing more than refugees," Lorio added, hoping to defuse a potentially nasty confrontation.

"Perhaps," came a voice from the rear. "Or perhaps you're running from something more specific than war."

Islena span about to confront the speaker, a tall, thin man with intense brown eyes set in a narrow face. He darted forward and ripped apart the flaps of her cloak. The concealed crossbow was torn from its restraint and clattered to the ground.

The mob emitted a gasp in unison and Lorio knew that their situation had become dire. The man, Umrik, turned to the mob and, with a sweeping flourish, declared, "Do refugees travel with concealed arms?"

The answer came back as a resounding negative.

A group of about ten men had formed a tight circle about the two women. Umrik had taken control of the crowd, inciting them with his accusation. "It just may be possible that these two are the pair that the High Queen seeks."

Before the two women could react, hands reached for them from all sides. Islena and Lorio found themselves being dragged in the direction of the cluster of buildings at the center of the town.

"These two will be the key to our prosperity!" Umrik declared to the throng, who raised an avarice-fuelled cheer.

"If you believe that, you are fools," Lorio cried. "If you act on her behalf, you forfeit your soul to Myrhia"

Lorio's entreaty fell on deaf ears and the pair was dragged along the muddy streets, while a procession of spectators followed behind them.

Among the mob there walked a stranger who had escaped notice in the tumult created by the arrival of the two women. The man's arctic blue eyes regarded the unfolding drama with keen interest, though it was the red-haired, heavily-muscled woman who drew his rapt attention.

Posing as an opportunist and living as a brigand, Gillian had traversed the countryside, through towns and nameless villages such as this one, hoping to come upon even an inkling or rumor of the fabled Islena. For the longest time, growing increasingly discouraged, Gillian heard nothing (save for the dispiriting tales of the collapse of the cornerstone nations) and he began to think that this Islena was perhaps a mythical creature. Then, less than a week ago, he had encountered the first of the roving patrols. He had been sleeping at an Inn in the south village of Tinacot when the patrol of Imperial Troopers had stormed into the town like a band of barbarian marauders.

The village luminaries, such as they were, were herded into the square and publicly interrogated by the Cavalry Commander. The questions had come in a bewildering deluge:

Had a woman or a pair of women been spotted in the vicinity?

Had any of the merchants sold food staples of weapons to strangers in the past week?

The Captain had repeated the questions in an unchanging, inflectionless monotone that had instilled terror in every villager, but had failed to yield any satisfactory answers. In the end, the Captain had led his Troopers elsewhere, but not before setting a portion of the tiny village to the torch out of frustrated spite.

The reprehensible display of ruthlessness had convinced Gillian of several things...Islena did exist and she was of paramount importance to the enchantress and whatever machinations she might harbor.

He watched impassively, as a scowling Islena was unceremoniously dragged into one of the three buildings, which turned out to be an Inn very similar to the one in Perdwick. The interior was dimly lit and filthy. The ceiling was oppressively low and the floors were constructed of rough planks. The walls were greasy black with years of accumulated coal smoke.

The men bullied the two women into the center of the room and stood back. Lorio placed a calming hand upon Islena's forearm and whispered, "Now is not the time for rash action."

Islena shot Lorio a sour glance and then averted her eyes to the floor. Her consuming thought was not one of panic, but resentful confusion. 'How could my instinct have led me so far astray?'

Umrik came to face Islena, his eyes blazing with avarice and lunatic delight. He greeted Islena with a contemptuous smile. "You are a divine blessing, woman."

He wheeled to face the mob that had pressed into the ramshackle Inn in anticipation of a public humiliation. Their eyes gleamed with a fervent light akin to extreme hunger. Gazing about, Islena realized that it was unlikely that this rabble would be swayed by appeals for reason. It was then that the first dark flowers of panic blossomed in her stomach.

Outside, Gillian considered the imposing problem of freeing the two women from the rabble. Fired with greed, this lot would not part with their treasure without a bitter fight. He had correctly guessed that their mood was one of smoldering violence. Such ugliness seemed to fester in the smaller settlements. It became apparent that he would require some type of diversion. He ran along the street and turned left into a narrow gap between the buildings. He moved swiftly, his eyes sweeping the litter-strewn lane for some hint of a workable distraction.

Inside the Inn, the mob began to grumble and whistle, declaring that Gillian's time was short. Fire, he reasoned, was the most effective distraction, but the damnable building was constructed of quarried stone.

'Ah, but not the roof,' he remembered with excitement. One look confirmed his theory. The roof was constructed of the interwoven thatch which was common to this area. He knew that it was apt to be as dry as a tinder box. The roof was low and comparatively flat so Gillian was able to pull himself onto it with ease. He felt for the crossbeam, and finding them, straddled the thatched section. Reaching into his pouch, he drew out a piece of steel and flint and began to strike the two in a furious blur.

Sparks flew, showering down like tiny lightning bolts. After several seconds of frustration, a solitary white spark found purchase. In the next instant, Gillian was forced to scramble off of the roof, narrowly avoiding becoming a human torch.

"And how might you be of importance to the High Queen?" Umrik demanded, as though the notion was a personal affront.

Islena fixed her would-be inquisitor with an acidic glare and remained stubbornly silent. Something in her eyes must have given him pause because he retreated a step and gazed about with an embarrassed half-smile.

"Perhaps you are a demon," he whispered, peering into her blazing green eyes. "Bockra?"

A thin, stooped man shuffled forward and stood expectantly at Umrik's side. His obsequious manner declared that he was little more than a trained dog. Lorio's mounting panic trebled. This Umrik was the town instigator and the self-proclaimed leader of this rabble. His was the ability to bend the mob to whatever whim his sick mind might contrive and something about his hawkish countenance suggested that his whims would lean toward the sadistic if he suspected his status with the rabble was being compromised by their defiance.

At the very least, she judged, they could expect a return to Myrhia's dungeons, but not before a sample of the local brand of brutality.

She shivered as she recalled the hellish ordeal at the hands of the Imperial Troopers. Death was preferable to a repeat of such torment.

She cast a desperate glance at the nearest man. He wore his short sword with a casual arrogance of one who did not appreciate the weapon or its purpose. She was entertaining the notion of making a desperate play for the weapon, when a twenty foot section of roof collapsed into the midst of the throng.

The ensuing chaos swept through the room as though a tornado had touched down out of a clear sky. That hypnotic lust for violence evaporated in a cacophony of maddening screams as people charged towards the exits in a terrified rush.

The coal grease served to accelerate the spread of the flames, instantly turning the room into a death trap. As Islena watched in transfixed horror, people fell and were trampled by those behind them, whose only concern was for self-preservation.

An obscenely fat woman stumbled into a wall of flames and instantly became a ghastly human torch. The acrid stink of burning flesh and hair filled the room along with a dozen other equally nauseating doors.

"We have to get out!" Lorio exclaimed, pointing in the direction of a door that was cut into a side wall. She gripped Islena's arm and began to pull her frantically in that direction, when Umrik imposed himself between the woman and the last remaining exit.

He brandished a fearsome looking dagger and the lunatic whirl in his eyes made it clear that he had no reservation about putting it to use. "So you are the Devil's missionary!" he rasped, jabbing the dagger toward Islena's midsection. "You'll burn in your own flames."

He attacked with a primal cry, raising the blade, which appeared to gleam like a molten metal under the harsh glare of the raging fire.

Islena raised her hands in the hope of catching his wrists before the dagger could complete its lethal arc. Eyes glowing with a malefic delight, he bellowed, "Die, witch!"

Islena discerned movement over the man's shoulder; an argent flash converging on the back of the man's head.

Umrik's expression of triumph congealed into amazed consternation, and then agony. His dagger clattered harmlessly to the wooded floor and his hand beat feebly against his chest.

In the next instant, Umrik lay dead at her feet, an ornate jeweled dirk protruding from his neck, just below the base of the skull.

Islena and Lorio exchanged puzzled glances as a voice called out to them from above the pandemonium, "If you wish to live, then I suggest that you follow me now."

The man was a silhouette against the entrance, and though he was partially obscured by the thickening smoke, the pair was in no position to decline his invitation.

They raced toward the doorway which opened onto the narrow alley, where the women stood gulping in the blessedly sweet air. Straightening, Islena assessed their savoir suspiciously.

Though the face was that of a stranger, Islena instinctively realized that this had been the presence which had attracted her to the village.

"Why did you do that?" she demanded, surprised by the unintended rancor in her voice.

The pale blue eyes regarded her coolly. "Let's say that I despise mob violence, especially when women are the target."

"How chivalrous," Lorio stated mordantly. Gillian's eyes slid over the tall woman.

'So this Islena has found herself a protector.' Her exotic features suggested that the woman could be Lamish and Gillian knew just how intractable and spirited that particular lot could be...and just how dangerous.

He briefly considered killing her and thus removing a potential threat, but elected against overt violence. This Islena looked like a woman who was more likely to be wooed by trust than coercion.

"Distrust me if you would, and I'd like to stand here and debate the integrity of my intentions, but I suspect that the mob will have no patience for discussion once they recover." He pivoted and turned to a spot further up the trash-strewn alley. "My horse is tethered in the woods to the north. Come with me if you choose, or stay and take your chances on your own. It matters not to me, but whatever you choose, decide with haste."

That final bit of advice imparted, Gillian turned and sprinted into the shadows. Before Lorio could deliver her inevitable objection, Islena clapped her on the shoulder and sped off in pursuit.

Watching her run, Lorio arrived at the realization that Islena Doraux was a creature of her own mind...one who was immune to possession. Her independent nature would serve nothing but her own perceived best interest.

'She will leave you, Lorio,' the Lamish woman whispered to herself. 'No matter how much you grow to love her or how much you might sacrifice upon her behalf, she will leave you behind if the need presents itself.'

The insight stung her heart, bringing bitter tears welling to her eyes.

She entertained the notion of leaving then...of returning to her people and teaching them to fight against her oppressors...of freeing herself from the perceived ensnarement of tying her fate to this mercurial stranger who had so beguiled her.

The thought flared and she had actually managed to take a step in the opposite direction. Yet, just as converging rivers must run to their point of confluence, Lorio turned and ran after the woman whom she had grown loved.

Chapter Thirty One

1

"In modern parlance, I might be referred to as a Highway man," Gillian explained as he chewed thoughtfully upon the rabbit leg. The group had traveled for the better part of the day before deciding that they had placed enough distance between themselves and the village of Tinacot. Now, as purple twilight segued into ebony darkness, the three sat about a small camp fire as Gillian's tale unfolded.

Lorio watched the man intently, her glance occasionally sweeping towards Islena, who appeared thoroughly absorbed by the newcomer's tale. Lorio was not so easily impressed. The man radiated treachery and guile like a foul odor. She was much too shrewd to be seduced by his shallow charm. Unfortunately, Islena was clearly not so wise to the ways of this world.

"You're a thief, then?" Islena asked, with a sly smile.

Gillian grimaced, pretending to be stung by the crude simplification. "Not a lowly thief, my good lady. To be a thief is to steal the way that a dog might take scraps from its master's table when his back is turned. Mine is a much subtler profession. A skilled calling, if you will."

"He is a common criminal," Lorio asserted hotly. "His kind is the scourge of defenseless travelers everywhere."

"And what were you doing in a place like Tinacot?" Islena interrupted, hoping to placate Lorio's anger by simply ignoring it. An instinctive sense told her that this man would be of help to them. Assistance was the one commodity that they were hardly in the position to decline."

Gillian threw the greasy rabbit bone into the fire and wiped his hands on the grass as the flames erupted toward the night sky. Though the affable smile did not leave his face, he was perplexed by the depth of the Lamish woman's belligerence.

'I must sleep with one eye open,' he cautioned himself, and then replied, "How I came to be in Tinacot is really a simple matter. I've been traveling about the country for some time, plying my trade until an area became too hazardous and then moving on to more profitable and less perilous hunting grounds."

"When the High Queen's army began to score one decisive victory after the other, I decided that it might be time to move to the more uncharted territory of the west." Gillian's brow darkened momentarily. "Myrhia's conquest has brought dark times upon the land. There is no honor even among thieves. The only travelers upon the road, of late, are mercenaries and Imperial Troopers."

"The days of the gentleman thief have quickly run their course. The real monster now holds the seat of prime power," Gillian concluded with a reflective sadness. "I fear that I must soon seek an honest living."

"Yes, and you are the very image of righteousness," Lorio spat sardonically.

"You seem intent upon provoking me, good lady?" Gillian observed quietly. "Have I unwittingly offered you some offence?"

She glared at Gillian and started to tell him precisely why she despised him, but Islena placed a restraining hand on her arm. The pair engaged in a duel of hard stares and then Lorio averted her eyes. Gillian noted the exchange with keen interest.

"These are dangerous times," he offered, hoping to placate Lorio. "It is prudent to be suspicious of strangers."

Lorio lashed him with a withering gaze and then stared fixedly into the fire. Gillian shrugged and beamed a warm smile at Islena. "You've asked me many questions. I think that it's only fair that I be given the opportunity to do the same."

Islena's expression became guarded. "Questions?"

"I would be most intrigued, for instance, to know how two such lovely women came to be traveling, unescorted, through such wild country," he asked, the innocuous smile never leaving his face.

Islena looked away. Though his tone sounded casual, Islena discerned an interest that exceeded mere curiosity. Nonetheless, evasion was only likely to peak his suspicion and so she decided to be as truthful as she dared. "You've seen the slave caravans, no doubt?"

Gillian nodded.

"Both Lorio and I were taken prisoner near Perdwick. We were held in the Queen's dungeons. It was...ineffable."

"I can imagine," Gillian nodded thoughtfully.

"After an interminable period, we, along with hundreds of others, were to be sent to the east. The march was escorted by a squadron of Imperial Cavalry, all of whom seemed to derive endless delight by inflicting pain on the prisoners. Only a day to the east of Perdwick, the first of the women died. Her body was left to rot in the tangled underbrush."

Islena stared reflectively into the fire. She need only conjure the image of the lemming-like charge of the women of Kornas to properly feign the requisite emotion.

"And yet the two of you managed to escape?"

"The two of us were the most beautiful in the procession. The escort Captain came to fancy us," Islena said softly. Looking directly at Gillian, she added, "We seduced him, and killed him."

Now it was Gillian's turn to look elsewhere. Having achieved the desired effect, Islena smiled and concluded, "We've been running ever since."

Gillian's mood became somber. "Where do you intend to go? Wandering aimlessly about the country is a sure invitation to catastrophe. The Imperial Army is everywhere and treachery runs rampant amongst the people, as your experience in Tinacot would painfully illustrate."

"Lorio has spoken of a causeway to the west of Perdwick. We are going to try to cross it."

Gillian shook his head. "You will not cross that particular causeway unless you have the gift of wings. The heavy fighting is concentrated in the immediate area around the stone bridge. I've heard it claimed that the High Queen's army has launched one final push against the defenders."

"You will find no egress there," Gillian concluded, not certain if he had related the truth or a necessary prevarication. As he watched, he could see Islena's lovely expressive face sag. She looked to Lorio, who scowled and declared, "There is one final causeway to the north. We will go there."

"But that is far to the north, through the Blighted Lands," Gillian exclaimed, pretending to be shocked, but delighted that the Lamish woman had taken his bait. Beyond her imposing pulchritude, this Islena exuded an inner strength and an iron will. The Jerhia could virtually see the cloak of providence hovering about the woman.

'Could this really be true?' he wondered, studying the aristocratic angles of her face. 'Could this woman really be the living embodiment of the ancients' fabled savior?' Gillian did not know, but he could not ignore the impression of infinite capability that lay couched in the leonine lines of her phenomenal body. This woman appeared to have been created to surmount the gravest of challenges and ascend the loftiest of pinnacles.

"We don't really have any alternatives," Islena intoned.

Gillian's laughter belied the seriousness of his inquiry. "With the Queen on the verge of realizing her greatest conquest, why do you think that she would be so preoccupied with two runaway prisoners?"

Islena began to stumble, but Lorio broke her sullen silence. "I would think that a common thief would be too concerned with his own affairs to dwell on the welfare of two runaway prisoners."

"Lorio, this man saved our lives. We owe him courtesy for that, if nothing else," Islena retorted, turning a sharp glance upon the other woman. Lorio sighed and glanced away, her posture reminding Gillian of a sulking child who had been scolded by a doting mother.

"I mean no disrespect, and as your friend has so forcibly observed, I do have my own agenda." He paused, knowing that he had to forward the proposal as subtly as he could manage. "As I've said, there is no place to ply my trade here. There is freedom to be had in the west...for the time being, at least. When one travels through the Blighted Lands, it is prudent go in numbers."

Islena's incisive gaze locked upon his. "Are you proposing that we go together?"

Lorio's objection resounded like thunder, but it was the agonizing recollection of the fate which had befallen Amrand that gave Doraux pause. Trying to buy time, she asked, "That man at the Inn mentioned the Blighted Lands and something called the Ranters. What do you know about them?"

Gillian placed a long finger against his lips. There was elegance to his movements that Islena could not help admire. His expression darkened as though he was peering into a deep well populated by hellish shadows. "The truth is that no one can say with any degree of confidence just how the Blighted Lands came to be. It is popularly held that the land was devastated in a war between the ancient masters of magic. That is rubbish, of course, but the place has a certain haunting ambiance, as though the very land is possessed by malice that has killed everything vibrant and fertile."

"The Ranters are another matter. They are a group of religious zealots who were relegated to the north. Though this might sound like unjust persecution, it would do to keep in mind that this so called religion borders upon blatant dementia. Being exiled to the hinterland has done nothing to stabilize their descent into madness. They are an unpredictable lot and all the more dangerous for that unpredictability."

"And we would be better off meeting them in numbers," Islena challenged bluntly. "I have to know why you want to risk traveling with two women. If anything, we are likely to hinder your progress. Other than Lorio, there is no one that I can trust in this world. I have serious and dangerous enemies and another betrayal is something that I cannot afford. So, I need a damn good reason why I should trust a total stranger who offers aid with a charming smile and no apparent motive to do so."

Gillian understood that he had reached the juncture where even the slightest suggestion of deception would result in rejection. This woman was too valuable to be allowed to wander through the Blighted Lands unattended. If she refused to accompany him of her own volition, it might be necessary to compel her through force. The prospect of subduing Islena, while killing her appointed guardian, was not one that Gillian relished.

'Or kill her,' Ossiran's voice echoed in his thoughts. He wandered if he was capable of such a ruthless act in the name of pragmatism. "If you demand a tangible reason why you should trust me, I'm afraid that I can't produce a single one. If betrayal is my intention, why would I have risked my life to rescue you from the mob in Tinacot. The truth of the matter is that I don't fancy traveling through the north alone. Whatever the reasons may be, we all have the same objective...escape to the west. Still, if you believe that I intend to lead you into some manner of trap, then it would be expedient to drive me away, though I would rather depart without incident."

He stopped, holding his breath, while she scrutinized his hawkish face, searching for a suggestion of guile. The moment drew itself out. Above them, the universe spun upon its axis of suspended time, while worlds collided and suns were born and died in fiery displays of pyrotechnics that appeared as little more than a blink in the night sky.

"All right," Islena said with obvious reluctance. "But you should remember that desperate people are prone to rash actions when cornered."

Gillian absorbed the implicit threat thoughtfully and merely nodded.

2

He detected the movement a fraction of second before a blunt object was thrust roughly against his throat. He gazed up to see a silhouette looming over him in the predawn light.

Gillian made a move to clutch the staff, but Lorio increased the pressure and large black flowers blossomed before his eyes. Lorio's voice was fraught with hatred as she spoke. "Islena is naive for all of her power. She doesn't always recognize a snake when it crawls out from under its rock. I, on the other hand, come from along line of people who are driven by an intrinsic distrust of strangers. I don't know who you are, but I know that you're not who you claim to be."

"Islena has decreed that you will travel with us, and so you shall, but rest assured that I'll be watching you." Lorio paused and then concluded gravely, "All that I require is the slightest provocation to kill you."

She relaxed the pressure, stepped back and glared at the Jerhia for a few moments. Gillian propped himself up on one elbow and regarded her with a benign smile. "Your loyalty to your friend is admirable. If there is any harm destined to befall your friend, it will not come from me."

"That may be the first truthful utterance that has passed your lips since you first set upon us."

Returning to her bedroll, Lorio lay down upon the cold and uninviting ground. Sleep took her into its insensate embrace with a final swirling image of death and desiccation. She trembled at the ghastly sight of a shroud and lifeless, alabaster flesh. Through the obscure allusions, Lorio was allowed a fatalistic glimpse of her own death and awoke with the stark certainty that she would not survive to witness the conclusion of Islena's grim odyssey.

3

Columns of black smoke meandered indolently into the late afternoon sky, proof that fires had finally burned themselves out. What had once been the village of Tinacot was now a charred husk. Nearly every standing structure had been razed by the flames. For the most part, the buildings were of shoddy construction and proved to be easy prey for the predacious fire.

The thirty odd souls who had perished in the calamity were irreplaceable to those who loved them, despite their lowly station in the grand scheme of things and cries of anguished moaning could be heard to ring throughout the surrounding forest. As if that were not enough, a sudden storm appeared from the west to further compound the misery of the exposed survivors.

One such survivor, Vasik the merchant, stood next to the Imperial Troopers who surveyed the damage with the inscrutable eyes of those who are accustomed to seeing devastation and horror on a daily basis. If he was at all affected by the spectacle of destruction, the Captain betrayed no outward sign. Compassion was not considered to be a desired quality in a Captain of Myrhia's Imperial Army.

"You are telling me that these women did all of this?" the Captain demanded irritably, terrified beneath the facade of irritation.

Vasik shook his head vigorously and gestured wildly with his hands. He was a man prone to exaggeration by nature and this present situation provided him the opportunity to push embellishment to the limit.

"I said woman, but she was really a witch. She brought fire down upon the village," he raved. "Out of the sky, she did."

The Captain wrestled with the desire to clout the man atop the head. He stole a brief glance over his shoulder at the robed figure who sat astride the black charger. Though the woman's face was obscured by a full hood the Captain could feel her inhuman eyes upon him, as repulsive as the casual touch of a reptile. "Without the superstitious dribble, tell me precisely what happened at the Inn."

"The two women came into the village without escort, an occurrence unusual enough to arouse suspicion in itself," the portly merchant noted. "They asked where they could purchase certain provisions."

"It is known that the High Queen has proclaimed a bounty upon two women, and being loyal citizens of her majesty, we decided to take the women to the Inn and question them."

"And who conducted the interrogation?" the Captain asked, disgusted by the man's servile nature.

"Umrik, sir."

"And where is this Umrik?"

"Dead, with a knife in the base of his skull."

"I thought that you told me that the women were stripped of their weapons prior to being taken to the Inn?" The Captain grumbled, growing increasingly agitated by the inconsistencies in the man's story.

"If she could conjure fire from the heavens, surely a dagger must be a simple matter," the fat merchant explained as though to someone especially obtuse. The Captain grunted and turned toward the figure upon the Charger.

Vasik coughed and called out to the Captain. "Excuse my bluntness, but isn't this information of some value to the High Queen?"

The Captain wheeled about and regarded the irritating merchant questioningly. He immediately recognized the glimmer of avarice in the man's eyes. The merchant smiled and intoned, "We've brought you all that much closer to the woman and have suffered much in the process. Perhaps some small token of gratitude is in order."

"Perhaps," the Captain whispered thoughtfully and then walked back to the merchant, who failed to perceive the Trooper's grin for what it was. That grin curdled into a scowl as the soldier drew back his mailed fist and smashed it into Vasik's bulbous face.

There was a distinct crunch that reminded the Captain of snapping kindling and then the fat man was rolling about in the mud, wailing like a banshee. The Captain, who had served in the glorious days of Artumas, watched impassively as the blood spurted between the man's clutching fingers. There had been a time when he would have found such behavior abhorrent. Now, he merely dismissed it from his mind and turned back to the figure on the horse.

Seeing the ebony figure, adorned in the black robe, the Captain's heart began to race with anxiety. He had been forced to accompany a group of original Morticants on several occasions and the experience had always left him feeling despondent and unclean.

This new hybrid of female and monstrosity was incomparably worse. Beneath its incisive gaze, he could feel his skin begin to crawl and cold sweat sheen his brow.

She pushed back the hood and peered back at him through those inhuman eyes, her lips twisted in an amused grin. "Difficulties?"

The dulcet strains of her deep voice were as improbable as her flawless ebony skin. The Captain understood that the physical beauty was superficial...a facade that concealed a soul of unmitigated malice. Whereas the first Morticants had been nothing more than automatons, this new version seemed capable of conscious thought and acts of willful evil.

"The greedy bastards actually expected a reward for letting the woman slip through their fingers," the Captain replied sourly. The thing that had once been Marla Holmes laid back her head and laughed indulgently. "Ah, these peasants are precious. Before we depart, erect a gallows and have the fat merchant strung up. In Myrhia's empire, death is the only reward for failure."

The Captain nodded noncommittally and glanced away. These object lessons were always a matter of course with each village they came upon. The Trooper dismissed the memories of past atrocities from his mind and recounted Vasik's tale.

"He claims that the woman ignited the fire with nothing more than a malicious thought," he concluded.

"Sheer embellishment," Marla snarled. "Islena may be a lot of things but she possesses no metaphysical skills. No, someone interfered and we can only assume that their purpose is not loyal to the Queen."

Marla gazed about, sniffing at the air like an anxious wolf searching the winds for a trace of a coveted scent. "They will have fled to the north in search of the final causeway into Metocan. We will make ready to give pursuit."

"But that will entail traveling through the Blighted Lands," the Captain observed with unbridled discomfort. No sane man would look upon the prospect of crossing the most inhospitable land this side of the fabled Land of Shades without feeling some degree of agitation.

Marla regarded him with an expression of incomprehension. The Trooper's discomfort grew geometrically beneath that alien gaze. "I mean to say that any organized pursuit there is not a simple matter. The country is barren and sparsely populated. Those who live there suffer from dementia. We will find neither provisions nor cooperation."

"Don't waste my time with trivialities," Marla snapped ominously. "If you have a specific recommendation, offer it."

The Captain drew a tremulous breath and forged ahead. "We lack adequate provisions to conduct an extended search in the Blighted Lands. A large cache of food and potable water is required if..."

"Perhaps you would like to explain to the High Queen how the woman managed to escape while her Troopers concerned themselves with filling their bellies?" Marla inquired with a sinister sweetness. The Captain merely bowed his head in resignation, knowing that a trek through the Blighted Lands was preferable to incurring Myrhia's wrath.

The hybrid grunted, its tone becoming curt and impatient. "Dispatch a portion of your forces to the task of scouring the surrounding villages for supplies. Have the remainder ready to leave for the north within the hour."

The Captain nodded and left to comply, grateful to be away from the abomination. Marla watched him for awhile and then turned her attention to the Northern horizon. Her nostrils flared as she breathed in the fall air made acrid by the thick smoke. Amongst the thousands of registered stimuli, she isolated the faint residue of one that was intimately familiar.

"I smell you, Islena," she whispered to the darkening sky. "Soon, very soon, you will fall under my hand."

Then she jerked the reins and the great charger reared up on its hind legs and galloped toward the northern hills, taking still smoldering obstacles in great galloping strides.

4

It was impossible to adequately articulate and express the sense of desolation one might experience as they journeyed through the southern extremes of the Blighted Lands. Nothing had managed to escape the unimaginable cataclysm that had ripped the very soul from this place. The only vegetation to be seen were the dwarf Ironwood trees and a type of bush, the leaves of which resembled the skin of a dying man and which was covered by the largest, most sinister looking thorns that Islena had ever set eyes upon.

The prevailing wind howled out of the north with what Islena felt certain could only be conscious malice. Its frigid sting lashed her cheeks until they felt wooden and numb.

'This is what the world would probably look like after a nuclear holocaust,' she though glumly. 'Desolate and forlorn.' Even the rocks, upon which she and Gillian sat, appeared shriveled and frozen in a grimace of eternal despair. The pair had sat in silence for a long time. Sober reflection seemed a natural undertaking in such a bleak environment.

She stole a furtive glance at Gillian. His profile was resolute, his face unlined by strife. If the ambiance of this ghastly place affected him, he had managed to conceal it behind a wall of impassivity.

'Who are you really?' she demanded of him silently. He suddenly turned to face her, as though conscious of her inquiry.

She smiled, though she was not precisely sure why, and asked, "How far do we have to travel through this wasteland?"

The Jerhia shrugged. "It's impossible to say, because I have no idea where the third causeway is."

"What?" Islena exclaimed, both shocked and angered by his admission.

He regarded her with a similar expression of surprise. "If I gave the impression that I knew precisely where I was going, then I must apologize. The geography of the Blighted Lands is as much a mystery to me as it is to anyone else. Legend proclaims that a third causeway exists, of that I am certain, but as to the exact location..."

He shrugged his shoulders. Islena drew a shaky breath. She could feel a black depression trying to wrestle control of her emotions and plunge her into a morose darkness. "What will we do?"

Gillian grimaced at that. There was a forlorn edge to her voice that spoke of a woman poised on the precarious edge of depression. This sudden exhibition of frailty touched Gillian, just as it had touched Amrand before him. He groped for some obligatory words of solace. "It's not as bad as all of that. We will simply head west until we have reached the great chasm. Then, we will turn north and follow the edge of the continent, until we stumble upon the causeway."

"You make it sound so simple," Islena muttered sourly, finding himself irritated with his blithe manner. Of course, he could afford to be flippant. For him, this was just another adventure. He did not have a family on the other side of time and space. He was, after all, a common thief.

"Islena, these times require prudence and patience," Gillian remarked, his tone becoming morose. "There is so much adversity and treachery in the world now. If we do not measure our actions carefully, it is inevitable that we blunder into disaster. We can make our way to the west, but we must be circumspect in all that we do."

Islena nodded distantly, but her eyes had assumed a flinty glaze that declared that Gillian's advice had fallen upon deaf ears.

"Where are you from, Islena?" he asked unexpectedly.

She looked up as panic constricting her heart, and seized upon the first name which came to mind. "Kornas."

"Ah yes," he observed. "The towering mountains are as magnificent as any that I have seen."

Islena's mind raced. She suspected that he had laid a trap for her with the consummate finesse of the smoothest of charlatans. Taking a gamble, she lied. "In the winter, they glow like sentinel glaciers. Kornas is lovely, but it is not likely that I will ever set foot upon its soil again."

Gillian nodded and glanced away. Ossiran had been correct. This woman was not from this world. That realization unlocked a plethora of possibilities. Her very presence defied all natural laws and implied some terrible purpose which only the iniquitous Myrhia could fully fathom.

A metallic clatter rang out, though the sound was strangely muted in the dead air of the Blighted Lands. The two scrambled lithely to their feet and raced along the shelf of rock upon which they had been sitting.

Earlier, Gillian had lent his sword to the Lamish woman and now he cursed himself for his monumental act of stupidity. He had violated the first rule of soldiering in an effort to placate Islena's hostile traveling companion. That gesture of trust might now prove fatal.

The resounding clash came again and again...like the fall of an axe. At the base of a fifteen foot rock face, working directly below the startled pair, stood Lorio, tenaciously hacking away at a large Ironwood tree with Gillian's sword. Her face was set in a twisted grimace. She swung the weapon as though at war with every demon that had ever haunted her.

"Gods, what will be left of my blade?" Gillian moaned, but Islena thought that she detected a note of admiration beneath his exasperation. Watching Lorio deliver blow after blow to the trunk of the equally cantankerous Ironwood, the Jerhia observed, "The woman has set herself to a formidable task."

"She'll bring it down," Islena replied confidently, delighted to see that her friend's labors appeared unencumbered by pain or weakness. Lorio's recuperation was nothing short of miraculous. Islena experienced a momentary shame, having judged that her friend would die not long after their escape from Perdwick.

Lorio unleashed a barrage of savage blows only to be rewarded by a small chip being dislodged from the tree. She paused breathlessly, regarding the tree with clear consternation. Cursing to herself, she resumed her furious assault, totally oblivious to the scrutiny of the pair above.

"Your friend, despite her rather irascible nature, does not shirk from a challenge. Like a handful of others that I have known in my life, she is driven and compelled by the quest," Gillian remarked. "Like the others, it is doubtful that she would ever find fulfillment in the mundane and sedate life while that fire rages in her heart. She has been born in an age when such adventurers are the stuff of hope and deliverance."

He did not bother to add that there appeared to be an aura of fatalism hanging about her like the infected corona of a black sun. He had witnessed that terrifying spectacle once and it had touched him as fundamentally wrong. What he felt in Lorio's presence was infinitely worse...the grim predestination of death in its most harrowing incarnation.

He glanced at Islena, who watched her friend labor with an irreconcilable mixture of affection and melancholy.

"How did you come to know her?" he asked.

"Our captives forced us to fight with staffs," Islena replied in a partial blend of truth. "She came close to killing me...would have killed me if her youthful arrogance hadn't gotten in the way."

"So, she is trying to fashion a staff from the Ironwood," he observed thoughtfully. Such a weapon would be formidable indeed.

Islena nodded. "She is a master of the staff."

"The Lamish are not prone to develop friendships with other nationalities and they seldom, if ever, impart trust. Yet, I have observed the two of you together, and it is apparent that she Idolizes you and at the same time, attempts to protect you in the most maternal fashion."

Islena's cheeks colored and she pulled the fur collar up about her face. The man was remarkably incisive.

'Or is our affection that obvious?' she wondered. She feared that he would glean the true nature of their relationship.

"She may have learned to master the staff, but I suspect that she has yet to master her suffering," Gillian ventured. Islena found the remark to be incredibly obdurate and felt compelled to defend her friend. This stranger, this common thief, had no right to cast judgments on a woman who was little more than a child.

"She has suffered more than you can begin to imagine," she flared. "When I first met her, she was brash and smug; arrogant in a way that would have been infuriating had it not been so ingenuous. She's lost that. No, that's not quite correct - it's been stolen from her. The woman you see is older, darker, and more dangerous. She has suffered through a century's worth of grief in less than a month. This hellish world has put her through some bitter fires and has forged something imponderably frightening and diamond hard."

She watched the younger woman hack doggedly at the tree. There was an immutable sadness in her eyes that touched Gillian. When again she spoke, her voice was tremulous. "All that she has seen and endured has extinguished whatever potential Lorio may have held. Now, she has become an instrument of vengeance and hatred."

"And what of you, Islena?" Gillian asked softly, shocked by the sudden desire to take her in his arms and feel, if only vicariously, some of her anguish and torment. The horribly vivid images had festered within her like a poison. Suddenly vulnerable, she abandoned her reserve and let them out. "In Kornas, I saw a group of woman clutch their terrified children to their breasts and leap into the Continental divide to avoid capture. In a small village...I never did learn the name...I looked on helplessly as a group of impoverished peasants were slaughtered by Imperial Cavalry. In the slave lines, I cried as a group of men truncheon an emaciated boy to death because he was no longer capable of standing."

She placed an index finger on the hollow of her temple. "These images are ingrained in my mind and they will give me no peace. As unspeakable as these things are, they've only strengthened my resolve to survive. It's as though I've become a repository for these people and their memory. If I was to die, all of these things would be irretrievably lost."

A fierce shout of triumph erupted, breaking the grim pall of Islena's tale. Glancing down, the pair saw that Lorio had succeeded in felling the Ironwood. She looked up and favored the pair with a radiant smile that momentarily restored her former pulchritude.

"Bravo, Lorio!" Islena cried, clapping her hands in delight. Lorio raised the sword and saluted the two with a formal bow. Her exuberance was a welcomed change from the brooding darkness which had afflicted her of late.

Still beaming, Lorio returned to the task of fashioning her staff. She laid the severed branch along a flat section of ground and began methodically hacking away the bark.

Feeling Gillian's strong presence beside her and witnessing her friend's regained vitality, Islena felt a surge of momentary optimism.

'I really might make it through this,' she marveled. And so it seemed, for just when she was about the fall victim to utter dejection, fate placed another extraordinary personality in her path. She raised her face into the brisk wind, and for the first time since entering the Blighted Lands, she found it genuinely refreshing and not merely cold.

5

When the storm commenced, it broke with such unexpected suddenness and unrestrained fury, that the small party was briefly thrown into utter chaos and panic.

The milky light of day was fast fading to a purplish twilight and the three were contemplating potential places for shelter. They were in the process of crossing a vast sand flat that had been thoroughly scoured by centuries of relentless winds. Ahead, there could be seen a high cliff face which dominated the entire western horizon. If there was shelter to be had, it would be there, but the open spaces had a way of making it difficult to judge scale and distance. Gillian privately feared that they would be forced to camp on the hardpan.

All through the late afternoon, the temperatures had plummeted. When the three breathed, white plumes rose a short distance into the air, only to be shredded by the wind, which had begun to howl with a vengeance.

"We must reach that cliff wall," Gillian called above the persistent shriek, trying to spur the two women to increase their already frantic pace. Islena nodded grimly. The heavy muscles of her body had begun to cramp, despite the thick fur she wore. The skin was just managing to hold the cold at bay, but she guessed that this fragile balance would be shattered with the onset of night.

"The cliffs are bound to be riddled with caves," the Jerhia reasoned. "They will be a sanctuary from the wind, if nothing else. Let us make haste."

Even Lorio did not raise her customary objection, though she normally made a point of contradicting everything that Gillian said, no matter how logical.

Gillian's horse provided the first indication that something terrible was about to transpire. Without apparent provocation, the mare reared up on her hind legs and kicked frantically at the air. Its eyes whirled and twirled as it blindly lashed out at some unseen predator.

Islena was about to question Gillian about the source of the horse's alarm, when the radical pressure change fell upon her like an invisible hammer, sucking the very breath from her lungs and sending her reeling like an inebriated soldier.

She gazed about wildly to find that the horse and her traveling companions were similarly effected. She struggled to draw breath into her tortured lungs, but the air had grown too rarefied to meet their demands, as though the group had unwittingly stumbled into a vacuum.

After a few agonized seconds, the air pressure stabilized. Gasping desperately for breath, Islena cried, "What in God's name is happening?"

Her companions' identical expression of dazed horror indicated that they were no less confounded than she. Suddenly, Lorio stiffened, her face contorted by primal terror. "Look!"

Both Gillian and Islena pivoted about to see a solid wall of cloud rising up over the top of the great rock escarpment.

The massive front stretched from horizon to horizon, precluding any possibility that the three might be able to circumnavigate the storm. It twisted toward the heavens, unfurling like a gray and white funeral shroud. In its shadow, jagged bolts of blue lightning were flung forth like deathly expressions of a mad rage. The group gazed on in mortal terror as the huge bolts came to ground, shattering wide sections of rock into powder and fragments.

As the storm raced over the top of the cliff walls and descended into the valley, it became evident that snow would prove to be the chief weapon in its arsenal. Powerful winds raised curtains of snow, compelling it to dance like a nest of writhing snakes. The great escarpment was obscured within seconds. Every shift, every howl of its fuelling wind hinted at conscious malice.

In the spirit of that metaphor, the mammoth storm opened its maw and swallowed the three helpless travelers.

In the frigid embrace, visibility was reduced to an arm's length at best. Tiny spicules of ice lashed at Islena's face. She ducked her head and raised her arms to shield against the violence. She glanced down in amazement to see that four inches of snow had already accumulated about her ankles in the span of a mere two minutes.

'We're going to die,' her mind offered up this grim declaration with a clinical detachment that startled her. She had always envisioned fighting death to the frantic and bitter end. Yet, it seemed inevitable that they would freeze to death or simply be buried beneath the huge drifts of snow. That particular eventuality touched her as blackly humorous in light of all that she had survived. She was powerless to suppress the wild fit of laughter that this final black irony evoked.

The sound reached Gillian and Lorio's ears like the wail of a banshee. The two converged upon it, groping through the blinding snow until each had clutched Islena.

She accepted the embrace, grateful for the warmth it provided. Now, the snow had reached her mid-calf. She pointed the bewildering development out to the pair with a series of frantic gestures.

"If we are to survive this, we must make a run for the base of the escarpment," Gillian cried above the wind. There was an inchoate panic in his voice, still contained, but there nonetheless.

In her weakened state, Lorio was quickly approaching her tolerance for the extreme cold. Islena could feel her thin body trembling violently as she held the Lamish woman.

"How will we find our way? The snow's obscured everything," Lorio cried, now totally under the thrall of desperation and panic.

"The wind...we must keep our faces to the wind," Gillian assured her. The swirling wind could be deceptive, but the prevailing direction of the storm originated from the west.

"Lorio, extend your staff," Gillian instructed. The Lamish woman complied, though she was barely able to hold the staff out against the rush of the wind.

"Islena, you and I will hold the staff. You shall take the middle position, and I, the front. Do not surrender your grip on the staff."

Hunched over, the three set out for the base of the cliffs while the storm held court around them. Gillian clutched his horse in one hand and the staff in the other. When the storm had first breasted the escarpment, rearing its head like a ravenous monster, the group had been less than fifteen hundred yards from the base. The effects of the fierce wind and driving snow expanded that distance by a factor of what felt like miles.

Islena closed her eyes and ploughed doggedly through the snow, which now stood two feet deep, her muscular thighs pumping like pistons. When the wind momentarily abated, she could clearly hear Lorio's breathing coming in harsh gasps. It was obvious that the Lamish woman was flagging badly and would not be able to sustain the frantic pace much longer.

"We'll make it, Lorio," she encouraged. "Just hold onto the staff." Despite her words of encouragement, Islena realized that maintaining a grip on the staff would not prove an easy matter. After only a few minutes of exposure, her own hands were becoming numb and unresponsive.

She heard a muffled grunt and stopped to look behind. Through the frenetic swirl of snow, she could barely discern a sprawled shape in a nearby drift.

"Gillian, stop!" she screamed. Islena released the staff and went to the assistance of her friend. Lorio was making a valiant effort to rise, but her limbs were numb, useless bits of ice. Islena fell to her knees and began to frantically brush snow from her away from Lorio's face.

"Lorio, you have to get up," she insisted firmly, fighting back her own tears.

Though her eyes were pasted shut with bits of ice, Lorio turned her face to the sound of her Friend's voice. "My legs and arms are lifeless. It's over, Islena. I've done all that I'm able. I've helped you to escape, so I'm content to allow the snow to carry me to oblivion."

Islena cursed silently and suddenly glanced up. A robed figure was standing silently not ten feet from where she knelt. Its tattered robe snapped like a sail. To her horror, she saw that the thing was a skeletal snow construction. Only its eyes gleamed with an awful, malefic red. "Yes, abandon her to my care. There are many uses for flesh as succulent as hers."

The thing threw back its head and emitted a shrewish laughter, then started forward. "Never, you fucker!" Islena snarled, not sure if she was defying this apparition or one of the dark angels of her own nature.

She lifted Lorio into her arms and turned to flee into the teeth of the wind. Gillian called out and set after her in close pursuit.

As she ran, Islena realized that the wind had assumed a distinguishable voice, like the chorus of a million wayward souls. The discordant hammer of their words rang into the hollow of her mind...all imploring, threatening, cajoling and mocking her plight.

Still, she ran, actually increasing her pace, despite her burden and the taxing strain it imposed on her body. More of the ice specters materialized, but she burst through them without slowing. Eventually, they fled from her, perhaps grasping that they lacked the wherewithal to overcome her irrepressible vitality and dogged determination.

Gillian sprinted after her, wondering where she found to the resources to maintain the desperate pace. He could hear her inarticulate cries above the gusting wind. Though he could not distinguish her specific words, Gillian received the distinct impression that her primal exclamations were ones of savage glee.

He had never considered the contingency of madness and wondered how he would deal with a woman who had lost her reason.

"Islena, wait!" he bellowed, not really expecting her to heed his plea. He plunged after her, almost racing into her back.

She stood perfectly still, her eyes fixed upon something in the distance, slowly, as though from the depth of a trance, she pointed into the curtain of snow.

"What do you see, Islena?" he asked. She did nothing to acknowledge his question...only continued to point. Gillian stepped to the fore and squinted against the biting snow. At first, he saw nothing, but gradually his eyes adjusted and he could discern a faint orange glow. It swung in a pendulous motion that told him that he was seeing the rather ineffective light of a lantern.

"Someone has detected our approach," he declared ebulliently. "They're trying to signal us in."

Without further explanation, Gillian gripped Islena's arm and jerked her forward, racing toward the perceived sanctuary. In his eagerness, he gave no thought to whom or what might be transmitting the beacon. Nor did he consider their possible purpose.

Chapter Thirty Two

1

"These storms have been named Sherak or the Devil's breath of winter. In the course of any given season, we are apt to have a dozen such storms," the man explained as he tended to the fire which had been lit in the center of the small cave.

"How did you come to be out in such a horror?" The man inquired, affecting an air that was almost, but not quite casual. This savior was nondescript in appearance, being of average height and weight. The only features of note were his placid blue eyes, which caused Islena's skin to crawl whenever his gaze happened upon her.

Gillian laughed. "Even braving your Sherak is preferable to braving the terror that now holds court to the south."

"Ah, victims of persecution," the man remarked with a rather odd sigh. "My name is Glendon and I was forced to seek refuge from persecution."

Glendon smiled and Islena's body shivered. There was a reptilian quality to that smile that she immediately distrusted. In the far corner, Lorio moaned in her fitful doze. The three others glanced in her direction and the newcomer observed, "Your friend is quite ill. It appears that she has suffered a wind bite. Perhaps even a fever. She must receive treatment or her condition will in all probability deteriorate."

Gillian and Islena exchanged glances. Though the man spoke softly, his voice was devoid of emotion as though Lorio's plight was totally inconsequential. He stood and crossed to examine the ailing woman, whose head was slick with perspiration. "She has fallen deep into the troubled waters of fever. When the storm abates, we must move to the Abbey."

'A Ranter,' Gillian and Islena thought simultaneously and understood that they had stumbled into a new element of menace. Glendon straightened and turned to the two. "The Abbey is only a short distance through the gullet of this precipice. It stands on the upper plain, not far from the sheer face."

"How did you know we were out there?" Islena asked more sharply than intended. Glendon regarded her with an unflappable serenity. "This is a dangerous place. One must be ever vigilant. There are several watch stations along the upper cliff. I tracked your approach across the flatlands from one of these. When the Sherak struck, I descended and lit a guide lantern. Providence delivered you from the jaws of the storm."

After a considered pause, he added, "I might just as easily allowed you to die."

Then he shrugged, the benign smiled slipping across his face like a veil. "But that would not have been in keeping with the dictates of my order, would it?"

Lorio suddenly coughed, her body shaking with the violence of her infirmity. Islena knelt beside her friend and began to whisper words of solace. Her inability to do anything beyond this made her to feel horribly incondign. "She is getting worse. Can we not take her to the Abbey now?"

Glendon frowned, a rarity in itself, and tilted his head toward the roof of the cave. Glancing at the entrance, he saw that the storm had long since buried that means of egress. "We will have to chance the gullet at any rate. I must warn you that the ascent is arduous and fraught with danger."

"Like everything else in this damnable place," Islena spat balefully and gestured for the monk to lead the way. Again, he offered her his odd shrug of deference and strode toward the rear of the cave. Gillian slowly drifted over to Islena and whispered. "It might be wise to restrain overt displays of ire. If this man is a Ranter, and I suspect that he is, we find ourselves in a potentially perilous situation. It would be expedient not to provoke a fanatic's wrath."

"The climb is a long one," Glendon prompted from the shadows. "We had best go now."

2

Thirty miles to the west, the pursuing party of Imperial Troopers had not been so fortunate as those they pursued. They had been negotiating their way through a section of barren hills when the Sherak had rolled over them like a juggernaut. They were blessed with neither shelter, nor a dubious guardian angel to guide them to sanctuary, and thus had suffered the full brunt of the killing storm.

The Captain of the Troopers stood gazing numbly down upon the detritus of what had once been an elite unit of mounted cavalry.

"By the Gods, what mad endeavor have we undertaken?" he sighed heavily. Sickened, he turned his haggard face away from the remains of the twenty men and dozen horses that had perished in the storm. He imagined that the other eight horses had fled blindly after unseating their riders. If he were to dispatch men to search for the beasts, he would no doubt find their carcasses near by.

He shook his head and fetched another deep sigh. The pain in his frostbitten cheeks was quickly escalating into something immense and monstrous, but he willed himself to ignore it, or at least reduce it to a bearable level. There were matters of great consequence to be attended to, such as convincing Myrhia's Hell spawn to abandon this lunatic expedition, before he and the other human party members perished.

Summoning his courage, he approached the massive woman, who stood contemplating the western horizon. She displayed no ill effects and appeared totally indifferent to the calamity that had befallen the squadron.

"Milady," he began reluctantly. "I ask that you consider the prudence of withdrawal. It is my opinion that we no longer possess a sufficient force to deal with possible threats...of which there are plenty to be had in these barrens."

She turned a speculative gaze upon the Captain. The air temperature was cold enough to kill a man after only a brief exposure, the Morticant was attired in a sleeveless tunic. The huge slabs of ebony muscle looked capable of withstanding any adversity that nature might contrive.

The alien amber eyes terrified the Captain, but he adamantly refused to allow this terror to reflect upon his face. Marla returned her attention to the western horizon. "These delays try my patience. Gather up what salvageable supplies you can and let's move on."

The Captain gaped, nonplused by such obduracy. These monsters were totally devoid of compassion or propriety. "What of the men? We cannot leave the bodies here."

Marla frowned, baffled by his pointless sensitivity. "Do you propose that we carry their bodies across the Blighted Lands?"

"Damnation!" the Captain erupted. A part of his mind was horrified by his temerity, but he ignored it in his outraged indignation. "These men served the High queen well. They are elite Troopers. They are entitled to more than abandonment to the scavengers."

An amused grin played at the hybrid's lips, but the smile did not touch her eyes. "Your devotion is most touching. If you want the whore-spawns to have a burial, then so be it."

She brushed by the Captain and marched quickly to the place where the bodies had been arranged. The surviving Troopers regarded her with a skitterish curiosity. Marla stood with her feet spread apart and dropped her head to her chest. An expectant silence descended upon the group. To a man, all could feel a gathering of forces in the frigid night air.

Slowly, the thing, that had once been an affable and rather capricious woman named Marla Holmes, raised her head. The troopers cried out and scrambled away, many on the verge of outright flight. The Morticant's eyes blazed with a blinding iridescence... a million shades of color that shimmered and shifted in a bewildering animated swirl and coalesced into twin shafts of light.

The twin shafts twisted about Marla's head, intertwining and finally, merging into a single shaft that undulated like a hypnotized serpent. With an incredible swiftness, the rainbow beam jumped forward and struck the nearest corpse, which abruptly exploded into an argent pyre. The beam leapt from one adjacent body to the next, creating an intricate web which eventually connected all twenty corpses. The magnitude of the collective argent flames forced all the living creatures to gaze away and shield their eyes. Only the Morticant was able to look on as the bodies burned to cinders.

When the last of the argent fires had burned down, no trace of a corpse was to be found. Only the scorched rocks offered any indication that something extraordinary had transpired there.

Now Marla returned her attention to the Captain, who stood transfixed in spite of his revulsion. Her eyes had reverted to their normal blue over amber shade. She regarded him with an expression of impatience which bordered upon vexation. "I trust that this will allay your concerns."

The Captain nodded meekly.

"Then gather up the remaining supplies and have your Troopers scour the area for the corpses of the field horses."

The Morticant waved the man away with a curt gesture of dismissal and then resumed her scrutiny of the western horizon. She was anxious to continue her pursuit. When the storm had first struck, Marla had been alarmed, fearing that the Sherak would deny her the opportunity for her precious revenge.

In a dreamy reverie, the Morticant grinned coldly. "You will not be so fortunate, Islena."

3

The Abbey did indeed stand a short distance from the upper edge of the escarpment. Upon first sight, Islena was immediately impressed by its scale and grandeur. This was the most spectacular structure that she had seen since coming to this otherwise bleak world. The building was crowned by not one, but two domes, one of which rose into a soaring bell tower which seemed to have been intended to challenge the God's dominion over the heavens.

In the midst of such mind-boggling emptiness, the lavish structure was not only incongruous, but vaguely menacing for its improbability. Islena glanced at Gillian, who was inspecting the Abbey with a mixture of consternation and awe."

"It must have taken them forever to build this place," she remarked to no one in particular.

Glendon looked at her sharply and then smiled his unfathomable smile. "The building of this Abbey is said to have spanned over fifty generations. It is perhaps the most ambitious construction ever undertaken; an edifice truly worthy of the God to which it was erected."

"But why here?" Islena questioned, still baffled by the incongruity of the place and its chosen location.

"Jackylwyn will provide you with a more elaborate introduction to Runesholm," Glendon replied evasively and turned away from the she-demon.

"Runesholm?" Islena echoed.

"It is the chosen name of this Abbey," Glendon replied and began to move toward the buildings central facade before any further questions could be posed.

Islena observed the curious man for a moment and then set out after the monk (if that was, indeed, what he was), still holding the unconscious Lorio in her arms. Gillian quickly came abreast of her. His expression was one of obvious concern and she nodded for him to elaborate. "In my profession, one learns to develop a keen instinct for danger. My instinct tells me that this place is perilous in the extreme. The storm has broken. Let us decline his offer and go away from this wretched place."

"Even the air here is restive and brooding," he concluded somberly.

"I didn't really believe that you were a common thief," Islena spat angrily. "Now I see that I was wrong. Does Lorio look like she could survive further exposure to the cold?"

Gillian pursued his lips, realizing that there was no simple way to resolve this dilemma. This woman's commitment to her friend was clearly inviolable.

"I'm sorry," he said earnestly. "I realize how callous my admonitions must appear, but you must keep in mind the precise nature of our situation. This particular breed of religious fanatic is fueled by a megalomania that has empowered them to commit the most heinous of atrocities in the name of their supposed deity. Those doors may well be the gates to hell."

Islena shook her head vehemently. "I don't give a damn if their cannibals. Lorio is going to die if she doesn't receive help. This Glendon says that they can help her here and I'm not willing to risk her life on the basis of your paranoia. I have a commitment to Lorio...but you don't have any obligation to us."

Her unflinching gaze bore into Gillian, challenging him to make an immediate choice of allegiance. Loyalty was a commodity that this woman held in the highest esteem and thus he had no alternative but to concede. "Very well." he sighed in a tone that suggested he was making the ultimate sacrifice on their behalf. "But I implore you to be alert to the dangers here. Do not be lulled by this Glendon's apparent meekness. It may well be that these sheep have fangs."

Islena replied with a tacit nod of agreement. With her green eyes still flashing, she turned and stalked after the monk, leaving an exasperated Gillian to watch her go.

'What a formidable and complex creature you are, woman,' he thought, as he watched her mount the steps to the Abbey. It was not unthinkable that a savior could be carved from such timber. 'I only hope your intransigence won't be the death of us.'

"Runesholm." There was an aspect of finality to both the place and its chosen name. With a wary sigh, he trudged through the heavy snow, deriving a small measure of comfort from the reassuring weight of his sword against his thigh.

The interior of the Abbey did nothing to alleviate Gillian's disquiet. Massive stone pillars dominated the side walls and another set ran up the center of the great hall. All of the pillars rose up into the impenetrable gloom only to connect at the arching ceiling, each to its adjacent partner. While structurally impressive, the oppressive gloom steeped the interior in a brooding tension and it was difficult to believe that any deity worth worshipping held dominion here.

As they walked up the central isle, toward the altar, Islena noticed that the pews were nothing more than slabs of stone. Without the comfort of cushion or backing, a long sermon must have been a torturous ordeal for the worshiper. This design was, no doubt, intentional and provided her with a grim insight into the stark nature of the faith practiced here.

Glendon mounted the steps before the massive stone altar, which appeared to be little more than a crude rectangular slab of quartzite. With great reverence, he knelt and kissed the stone. Then he gestured for the others to join him with the manner of one conferring a great honor upon an unworthy infidel. For all that Gillian knew this was exactly how the inscrutable little monk perceived them.

The altar area was again both huge and sparsely furnished. The walls were adorned with murals that had been painted in stark reds and blacks. Islena found the intrinsic theme of each of these works to be indecipherable, though each body was depicted to be horribly deformed and each face was frozen into expressions of immutable suffering and misery.

She turned a questioning glance upon Gillian, who stared back with a sullen and reproachful frown.

"Rather unnerving, aren't they?" a thunderous voice inquired from behind them. All heads turned to see a massive man emerging from the doorway near the rear of the altar area. He strode purposefully over to the group, his cassock flying about him like a sail. As he approached, Glendon fell to one knee and bowed his head. Drawing beside the monk, the man laid a palm upon Glendon's bowed head with the air of one imparting an egalitarian gesture. Glendon rose, his face a high, hectic red, and began to speak rapidly. "The storm has delivered these travelers to our sanctuary. One has fallen to the ravages of the Sherak and is in dire need of unguents and broth."

Jackylwyn cast a brief glance toward the unconscious woman, quickly gleaning the nature of her infirmity, and then turned to his other two guests. His incisive eyes swept over Gillian, who he immediately recognized for what he was, and settled upon the exotic beauty with the disconcertingly limpid green eyes and flaming red hair.

"By the Gods," he marveled. 'A splendid enigma in the heart of the forgotten lands. The eternal rage of the heavens may yet be placated,' Though the prospect of deliverance filled him with euphoria, Jackylwyn managed to contain his excitement behind a guardedly neutral veil of levity.

Islena could feel her cheeks flush under his open scrutiny. His gaze touched her like a palpable thing...unsettling and penetrating to the extreme. The man, himself, was the complete antithesis of Glendon. Every feature, every characteristic and gesture appeared pronounced to the point of extravagance, from his long, hawkish nose to his piercing brown eyes. Yet his most striking single feature was his head which was unusually large and unabashedly bald. The shining skin had been adorned by a tattoo of spiked lines which ran around the rim of his skull from one ear to the other. The ascending and descending lines of each peak were alternately colored in red and black.

This man was the quintessential embodiment of what Islena pictured a Ranter might look like. His eyes continued to linger on her face. Though there did not appear to be an overt sexual undertone to that gaze, it did fall upon her with frankness that even the most shameless of lechers would have had difficulty matching. The compulsion to fidget and squirm was nearly irresistible, but another instinct adjured her not to display weakness in this man's formidable presence.

"Why do you look at me so strangely?" she inquired openly.

Jackylwyn was momentarily caught off guard by her forthright manner. He was accustomed to a world in which women were, at all times, deferential, yet this beauty displayed no sign of the servility a woman should rightfully possess. Perhaps she had not yet been acquainted with the role this life would insist she play.

'A defiant wench, such as this one, would surely pacify the Gods.' And yet to sacrifice such an exquisite beauty? He flashed a disarmingly charming smile. "If I've given offence, let me apologize. It is a rare occasion that our Abbey is honored with the presence of one so lovely. Even the devout are not above the appreciation of beauty."

Islena accepted his apology with a cool nod, though she did not return his smile.

"You are all welcomed to Runesholm Abbey. I am the Curate of the Sword. My name is Jackylwyn." The man bowed with a flourish and a formal gesture of welcome. "Ours is a humble lot, but we extend what hospitality we may offer."

"Help for my friend is what we need the most," Islena interrupted curtly, not sure why she felt the compulsion to be both rude and ungrateful in this man's presence.

'It's this place. It's bloody gruesome.' That was true enough. Despite the lavish declarations of welcome, the Abbey was the most forbidding place that she had ever stepped into (with the notable exception of the dungeons in Perdwick).

"That is one service that we are able to provide," the Curate promised, and without further word, strode off toward the rear of the Altar area. Glendon nodded for the three to follow.

He led them along a narrow corridor, the walls of which were covered in murals thematically similar to the larger murals of the Altar area. Finally, he motioned them into a small cell-like room. Islena carried Lorio over her shoulder, while Gillian followed; his hand never straying far from the hilt of his sword in anticipation of the treachery that he felt certain would befall them at any moment.

Like the rest of the Abbey, the cell was sparsely furnished. Islena gently laid Lorio upon the straw mattress and propped her head up with a faded pillow.

Glendon bent down to examine the Lamish woman, his eyes narrowing speculatively. "Her breathing is labored and shallow."

Running his palms slowly over her abdomen and ribs, he appeared surprised by the prominence of her ribcage and hip carriage. "This woman has undergone a traumatic ordeal?"

"Yes," Islena replied, her tacit response signifying her unwillingness to elaborate. Glendon shrugged and stood. He crossed the room to light the brazier, repeatedly striking a small iron bar against a slab of flint, until a small shower of sparks ignited the dry straw filler. Pleasant warmth soon radiated throughout the small cell and Islena soon became drowsy. It occurred to her that she had not slept on a decent mattress since her first night in Perdwick. Upon the heels of that, she discovered just how desperately her body craved respite from the ordeal of flight.

'To lie down for one night without woe or dreams to plague my sleep,' she thought longingly.

Just then, Jackylwyn entered the room, infusing the cell with the odd tension that his presence seemed to arouse. Behind him, there entered an old man and two younger men, all of whom were dressed in monks robes similar to the one that Glendon wore. Each carried stone bowls that contained a different color viscous liquid. The elder instructed that these be set upon the table next to the ailing woman.

The Curate whisked Islena and Gillian away from the bed while Glendon and the elder conferred over the prone figure of Lorio.

"Baroth is our most experienced Cleric," Jackylwyn informed the pair. "If this woman can be saved from her infirmity, he will find the means."

The Cleric Baroth finally nodded sternly and turned his gaze on Lorio. Proceeding without explanation, he pulled her tunic apart, revealing two breasts that were still attractive despite the ravages of imprisonment and illness. Islena started to object, Lorio had endured more than enough degradation, but Jackylwyn forestalled her objection, "Baroth has labored for years to develop powders which seek out and destroy both disease and demon alike."

Islena remained silent, though her agitation was quite obvious. Baroth plunged his hands into the first bowl, then the second, and finally the third. Then he held his hands aloft in the manner of a penitent and closed his eyes. Murmuring an inaudible incantation, he slowly wove his hands back and forth over Lorio's body.

Suddenly, the flesh at the base of Islena's neck began to contract into an electric knot. The thick paste which coated his hands began to glow with muted effulgence. The urgency and volume of the incantation increased as the glow grew in magnitude.

Judging that his hands held the requisite power, he abruptly stopped waving them in the air and laid them upon Lorio's torso. Transfixed, Islena stared gape-jawed as the cleric began to minister to the ailing woman. A strangled cry escaped Doraux's lips as Baroth's hands passed through Lorio's flesh, seeking out the source of her infirmity in the recesses of her ailing flesh.

'Christ, this can't be real,' her mind screamed. Now the elder's hands were no longer visible below the wrists. The flood of unreality threatened to sweep her away into gibbering madness, but she grimly clung to reason. She had to remain tethered in the moment if she was ever to find her way out of this lunatic menagerie. Though she had bore witness to all manner of spectacles that had obliterated her precepts of reality since first awakening in the forests of Kornas, she was still thoroughly astounded by each new incident of the fantastical. Her notion of what could and could not be was beleaguered but still trenchant and every new jolt to her definition of reality was still as unsettling as the first.

The insanity escalated, when Lorio abruptly laid back her head and howled like a wounded wolf. Her brown eyes rolled up in her head. Glendon and the other two monks rushed to restrain her. Together, the four began to murmur an inaudible prayer. Lorio continued to thrash and struggle, beating a muffled, frenetic tattoo against the straw mattress. Her exposed throat bulged until it seemed inevitable that it must burst as though it were an over-inflated balloon.

"What's happening to her?" Islena brayed in alarm. Baroth scowled at the distraction, but offered no explanation.

"Patience, Milady," Jackylwyn insisted. "Very often, this ritual is disturbing to the uninitiated, but it is a delicate work, requiring absolute concentration."

Islena lapsed into an anxious silence. Eventually, Lorio's body arched until only her calves and head touched the mattress. As quickly as the spasms had begun, Lorio collapsed into a twitching unconsciousness. Baroth's hand tenderly caressed her abdomen, leading Islena to conclude that what she had seen was little more than an optical illusion or some type of glammer. The cleric straightened and returned to the three bowls, applying more of the foul-smelling balm to the Lamish woman's hands, which had suffered acute frostbite during the Sherak. Though Lorio shivered, there was no recurrence of the previous dramatics. The thick paste did glow, though not with the same intensity.

Baroth continued to study her for a further moment and then drifted over to Islena. His dour countenance revealed nothing of his estimation of Lorio's condition, and Islena was finally forced to ask, "Will she be alright?"

The cleric shrugged noncommittally. "The magic is powerful and yet the woman's ailment has taken extensive toll on her body. I am a cleric, not a clairvoyant. Her fate is in the hands of God."

With this rather curt declaration, he brushed past the three and strode from the cell. Islena glowered after him, outraged by his blatant discourtesy. She looked to Jackylwyn for explanation, who seemed privately amused by Baroth's insensitivity and rudeness. "Baroth is a masterful cleric, but a rather inept communicator, I'm afraid. Time and strife have caused him to grow bitter with life, and even more so with death."

Islena left the pair and crossed over to Lorio's bed. The lovely face appeared untroubled by pain or the woes of loss. The olive complexion was as unblemished as it had been on the day that their paths had first crossed.

"She's only a girl," Islena murmured, tottering on the brink of tears. The poignancy of the moment gripped her heart. There had been a plethora of such moments during this bitter odyssey.

Glendon and his assistants filed past. When the third drew even with Islena, he reached out and gently squeezed her wrist. She glanced up to see a youthful, ingenuous face beaming a smile of encouragement, or perhaps sympathy. Unlike the others, the youth did not appear to be detached from his emotions and the smile also touched his eyes. Islena returned the smile, but the monk turned and fled the chamber like a schoolboy who is unexpectedly confronted by a girl he secretly admires.

Jackylwyn and Gillian had come to stand beside her. The Curate placed a hand upon her right shoulder, squeezed, and abruptly withdrew his hand as though he had inadvertently touched a glowing coal. He regarded Islena thoughtfully, wondering precisely what might lie beneath the loose clothing. In her preoccupation with Lorio, Islena did not notice his reaction or his intense scrutiny. Tenderly, she re-buttoned Lorio's tunic and drew the single blanket up around her chin.

The Curate had recovered his composure sufficiently to say, "Similar quarters await the both of you. A brazier has been lit and a hot bath has been drawn. It may be some time before the matter of your friend's recovery has been decided."

Islena wanted to stay with Lorio, as though her proximity might guide her friend out of the shadow of her affliction, but practicality told her that this was one battle that the Lamish woman would have to fight on her own.

4

Islena lay upon her mattress staring vacantly at the ceiling above her. Her thoughts were disturbed and brooding as time slipped slowly and torturously past. A shadow appeared at the threshold of her cell. She sighed deeply, not feeling condign to the task of facing visitors and their constant and unsolicited demands. Everyone whom she had encountered in this world had drawn designs upon her, trying to deflect her to their own agenda, through seduction or coercion. Even Lorio, for all of her youthful idealism and innocence, had striven to establish Islena as an example...a figurehead of defiance around whom she could erect a fortress of hope.

By her own estimate, Islena regarded herself as a frightened and desperate woman, who was tenaciously struggling to cling to her sanity and life. Her greatest fear was that she might surrender the former long before losing the latter.

Gillian stepped into the soft light, appearing somber and uncertain. Crossing the Blighted Lands had been a calculated and unavoidable risk. Ill fortune had led them directly to Runesholm and the dubious hospitality of this Jackylwyn, who Gillian theorized, was as demented and dangerous as a rabid cur. It was imperative that he convey the full extent of this potential danger to Islena.

Islena swung her legs over the edge of the bed and propped her elbows upon her knees in an uncharacteristic display of weariness.

"Milady carries both her exhaustion and tribulations like a millstone," the Jerhia remarked softly. Islena gave him a crooked grin fraught with a surprising amount of bitterness. "I'm constantly amazed at how lyrical the people of this world seem to be. You people just fucking adore your metaphors and similes, don't you?"

Gillian blinked, perplexed by both the reference and the source of her vexation.

"Lorio's condition troubles you," he commented, and immediately cursed his own vapid reply to her anger. Islena glared at him sharply, thinking that he was either frivolous or incredibly obdurate. Seeing neither, she concluded that the man lacked the sensibilities to empathize with her sorrow. He was, by his own admission, a common thief, plying his dubious trade in a world that ascribed virtually no value to a human life. Still, she felt the need to elaborate...if only for herself.

"Yes, to see her barely clinging to life in the middle of this hell hurts me in a fundamental way that I can't begin to describe, but what I'm feeling goes far beyond simple grief, Gillian. Watching helplessly as Lorio slowly dies fills me with outrage and hatred. I never would have believed that I had the capacity to despise another human being as thoroughly and blackly as I do now." Then she recalled the drunk that had killed her parents and knew that she had uttered an inadvertent lie.

"In the world's present state, hatred is a rather common emotion," Gillian informed her. He sensed that Islena's mood was brooding and potentially explosive. He felt as though he had just wandered into a nest of enraged hornets.

"It's more than just hatred," she said and stood up. She strolled over to the brazier and stood basking in its warmth. "If we had an idea, even the slightest damned inkling, of the adverse affects that our very presence might have on other people's lives, I doubt that we'd even risk venturing out of our own houses for the fear of the damage we might inflict."

Gillian frowned, realizing that this bleak utterance was motivated more by self-loathing than animosity. He surmised, quite correctly as events would confirm, that this loathing was festering in her soul like a virulent poison that she would have to purge, lest it corrupt her spirit. As a physical specimen, this woman was extraordinary, but her psyche was as brittle as crystal and would shatter under the right duress.

"I've known the both of you for a short time," he began tentatively "but it would seem that Lorio is a fiercely independent woman. She is a living paradox."

"No," Islena disagreed. "Lorio is nothing more than a strong-willed girl, fighting desperately to validate her existence and raise herself above the squalid, itinerant's life that her people are renowned for. She sees me as a means to fulfill that need. My grand purpose satisfies her needs quite well in that respect...even if it is illusory."

"How can you claim responsibility for her delusions?" Gillian asked. "If the girl has fixed upon you to become her role model, what might you have done to dissuade her?"

"The point is that I did nothing to discourage her." Islena retorted fiercely. "Sure, I made a few perfunctory attempts to warn her off. There was no, 'Lorio, going with me is really dangerous. Your place is with your people.' Saying that, I did other things that made it virtually impossible for such a passionate woman not to follow me. Oh, I was such a clever bitch and all the while, I convinced myself that I was absolved of all responsibility for whatever might befall her along the way. Even I am not capable of clinging to such self-serving bullshit."

Islena made not attempt to rein in her rampant sorrow and the subsequent tears spilled down her cheeks in bitter rivers. Lacking the words to console her, Gillian could only look on helplessly. He offered her the only solace that he could think of, despising the condescension which rang in his words. "Islena, you presume to bear too much of the burden for you friend's suffering. Only a God should carry such a millstone."

"Every day, I am confronted by a more precise image of the person that I really am." She looked at him, her inner turmoil naked on her lovely face. "What I see is something abhorrent and reprehensible."

Gillian said nothing, knowing that Islena was determined to have her moment of self-deprecation. "From the first moment that I set eyes upon Lorio, I wanted to humble and hurt her. I told you that she was a master of the staff. We were forced to fight, and I beat her, through luck and her error in judgment. Seeing her laying beaten on the grass, I was tempted to kill her for the sheer, visceral pleasure of feeling her die. In reflection, after what she has endured, only to come to this, I wish that I had killed her out of love and mercy."

She crossed to her bed and sagged dejectedly to the mattress, turning her back to the Jerhia. "If you're wise, you'll leave this place far behind and forget that you ever met me. Everyone who has ever tried to help me has been rewarded with death. I've become a plague."

Gillian continued to watch her until her breathing settled into the shallow rhythm that accompanied sleep. The bewildering complexity of the woman, with her honest displays of vulnerability, touched him in ways to which he would have believed himself immune. Ossiran had been correct in ordering her death. The fragility of her mental state was truly horrifying to consider in light of the puissance that she might eventually come to possess.

As clearly as the Jerhia understood the necessity of the sanction, he also knew that he was incapable of fulfilling it. This woman had shared her pain with him, entrusting him as a guardian of her personal sorrows. To take her life now would be a monstrous act of treason. Whatever else Gillian might be, he was not a monster.

Chapter Thirty Three

1

The annoying rapping went on and on, summoning her out of her nightmares that had traversed her hours of sleep like fast moving thunderheads. She snapped awake and gazed about the unfamiliar confines of the tiny cell. With the return of lucidity, that old grief settled back upon her heart like a bitter accomplice.

The knocking came again, its insistence beginning to alarm her, like the dreaded knock that awakens the condemned in the oppressed lands of her own world.

"Give me a moment," she called hoarsely and fumbled for her clothes in the darkness. After Gillian had left, Islena had attempted to compartmentalize her grief the only way she knew; by subjecting herself to a brutal exercise regimen. She had forced herself through a torturous session of push-ups and sit-ups until her body trembled with exhaustion and her heart palpitated wildly in her chest. Then she had surrendered herself to the mercy of a hot bath, before tumbling naked into bed.

She threw open her cell door to find Glendon and three others gathered about the entrance. All four regarded her with identical expressions of solemnity.

"Milady," Glendon announced simply. "Your friend has succumbed to her illness."

Islena's only reaction to the tacit pronouncement of her friend's death was a small, hurt sigh and a pursing of her lips. The comparative mildness of her reaction surprised her, and though her sorrow was profound, she could not find it in her to cry again.

Glendon cast a nervous glance at his companions. Evidently, he had been expecting hysterics and this display of composure in the face of loss agitated him in ways that Islena could not fathom.

"When?" Islena demanded in a flat, dispassionate voice.

"Only a short while ago. Baroth labored frantically to revive her, but her lungs were simply too congested to draw breath."

Islena nodded mutely, only partially hearing Glendon's words. It occurred to her that her mild reaction might be rooted in disbelief and she was possessed by the sudden need to verify Lorio's death with her own senses. Knowing that the sight was to leave an indelible scar on her heart, she said, "I want to see her. Take me to her now."

Glendon agreed, the frown still pinching his watery blue eyes. The three turned and led Islena from the monk's cell. The corridors leading to the main hall had been lit with countless torches. They cast a diffuse yellow glow over the long tunnels of stone. The dancing light animated strange spectral shadows, but Islena's thoughts were turned inward. One pulsing, repetitive image echoed in her mind, filling her with utter despair. 'I am alone.'

Though part of her was appalled by such selfishness, she was powerless to quite its clamor.

As she shuffled listlessly into the altar area, she was stunned to see that every pew was occupied by the monks, all of whom wore their most formal cassocks. Gillian stood near the altar and he glanced at her briefly as she entered the main hall. Although his face was guardedly neutral, Islena could clearly discern his reproach and was puzzled to find that it was directed against her. Four monks crowded about the highwayman, scrutinizing his every movement. Alarm began to stir in the pit of her stomach when she saw that he was no longer in possession of his sword. She knew that he would never willingly part with the weapon, and correctly deduced that they were no longer guests here.

Pushing the realization from her mind, she disengaged herself from Glendon and descended the steps to the Abbey floor. Then she saw Lorio and her heart froze.

The Lamish woman had been laid upon a flat stone table directly in front of the main podium. Death had effaced the pinched expression of betrayal that had affected her through the last weeks of her life. In a strange way, Islena envied Lorio's flawless beauty and her apparent tranquility. Her ordeal of torment had come to an end.

'While mine has no end in sight,' she told herself dejectedly.

"Death is not the termination of life. It is a means of transition, of ascending to our true and intended state of grace," a voice proclaimed grandly, startling Islena out of her reverie. She glanced up to see Jackylwyn striding purposefully toward the Altar. Like the others, he was dressed in his ceremonial fineries. A complex black intaglio had been stitched into the material directly above his heart. Though the pattern was a meaningless hieroglyph to Islena, she guessed that it might signify his rank within the Runesholm order.

Most ominous of all was the zealot's lunatic gleam that she saw smoldering in his eyes. She had seen the same flaming dementia blazing in the expressions of a hundred fire and brimstone television evangelists. Then, it had seemed uproariously funny, if not somewhat pathetic, now under these particular circumstances, that expression was thoroughly terrifying.

The man's cheeks had turned the high, hectic red of profound excitement. He strode to the lectern and flattened his hands upon the polished wood surface. "Your friend's untimely passing is a grim reminder that life is a fragile gift."

His gaze shifted to Islena, his eyes flashing wildly in the muted light. There was an aspect of joviality to the Curate's demeanor as though he found the occasion of Lorio's death a source of amusement. Suddenly Furious, Islena marched over to the table and laid her hands upon Lorio's left breast. The heart was a still as a midwinter's night. She gently touched Lorio's cheeks and found that the flesh was still warm, now growing pallid as the blood retreated from the extremities of the body.

"I assure you that she is quite dead," Jackylwyn observed evenly. "Death has lent an angelic aspect to her beauty."

Islena let her hand slip from Lorio's face, and she stepped back, drawing a ragged breath as she retreated from the finality of her friend's passing. At that moment, it became imperative that she leave this place. Braving another encounter with a Sherak was preferable to remaining in close proximity to the lifeless husk that lay before her like a mute recrimination. Distancing herself from the guilt was an act of cowardice. Islena realized this, but could not master the urge to flee.

"Gillian and I will be leaving come first light," Islena heard herself murmur as though from down a long corridor.

"I'm afraid that your departure is not such a simple matter," The Curate intoned, eliciting a stir of excitement from the assembly. Islena's gaze snapped to meet Jackylwyn, who regarded her with the cold grin of a predator who knows that he holds the advantage over his quarry. "No, not such a simple matter at all."

2

Ranforte carefully maneuvered his way down the winding spiral steps, which had been painstakingly cut from the gullet of the great escarpment. His torch guttered and eddied in the downdraft, but still provided ample light to allow him to make the treacherous descent in relative safety. The frigid night air made him feel grateful for the sparse heat it was able to throw. It had been his misfortune to draw the watch on what might prove to be a most memorable night. Still, he had been indoctrinated in the belief that eternal vigilance was the keystone to survival.

Ranforte reached the bottom of the stone gullet and stepped into the cave into which Glendon had guided the three strangers. The thought caused the young monk a further moment of regret. There had not been a stranger at Runesholm in the three years that he had been here. He carried his torch to the mouth of the cave and lit the lantern which was suspended from the roof by means of a brass ring. Then he faded back into the shadows to escape the bite of the bitter wind. In the intervening hours between the strangers' arrival and this vigil, a team of monks had dug non-stop to clear the mouth of this access cave. Ranforte doubted that another party would appear so soon on the heels of the last, but one could never be too cautious.

If he had possessed the means to express the complex emotions that had originally guided him to this place, it was likely that he would have praised the glorious ritual that was about to be enacted above him. Instead, he had been born a shy introvert, driven by bizarre beliefs that had alienated and horrified everyone around him. On the rare occasions when he had attempted to elaborate upon his convictions, his reward had been abuse and exile.

His exile had led him to this frigid hell, which had turned out to be his very salvation.

Here, he had found brethren to share his conviction...the certitude that all people were intrinsically evil and symbolic sacrifice was essential if the Gods were to be placated. Without this bloodletting, the world would surely parish in a fiery cauldron of retribution. As Jackylwyn had once remarked, "If sacrifice was not desired, the Gods would not have delivered the blade onto their people."

"Ah, the blade." The very thought of the blade evoked a sense of euphoria so profound that it set him to shaking. The sword was kept behind locked doors and only the Curate had access to its deadly beauty. Ranforte had spent idle hours fantasizing about its holy gleam and its finely-honed edge. In reverie as vivid as reality, he had conjured up images of rich, red blood streaming over its lustrous surface, sanctifying the imperfect earth.

Tonight, providence would breathe life into his fantasy.

"And I won't be there to see it," he whined like a petulant child denied a place at the dinner table. He shuffled dejectedly to the mouth of the cave. The night was moonless, but clear. When the wind would gust, huge sheets of snow would be lifted toward the heavens, completely obscuring the visible horizon.

He scanned the horizon from north to south and then slowly back to the north. The vast, virgin blanket of snow spoke of solitude and emptiness.

"This is truly the end of the world," he said, and then stopped abruptly. Something was moving out there.

Like insects swarming over a huge field, he discerned several shapes moving over the plain no less than four hundred yards from where he stood. He tracked their passage carefully for several seconds and realized that they were converging directly upon his position, undoubtedly drawn by the lantern. He flinched and shrunk back against the icy wall as though suspecting that these new strangers had somehow detected his presence.

Their stolid forward progress, in the face of the dying storm, filled Ranforte with an abstract dread. Momentous events were being played out above him and the unanticipated arrival of these new strangers might disrupt the culmination of the Ritual of the Blooding.

Wracked by indecision, Ranforte began to pace frantically around the drafty cave. He had been adamantly warned that nothing was to interfere with the ceremony. Yet, the relentless approach of this latest group did not augur well for the ritual, though precisely why, the zealot could not say. Venturing a short distance into the night, the monk squinted against the gusting wind to identify the strangers, but the darkness and the spiraling snow dervishes made this impossible.

"The light, you fool," he berated himself and rushed to douse the lantern, hoping that the group had not spotted its rather frail glow.

He watched breathlessly, fervently praying that the interlopers would lose their way. After a few moments, it became obvious that his prayers had been offered in vain.

Deciding that their presence warranted disturbing the ritual, Ranforte hurried toward the stone gullet.

Halfway across the floor of the cave, he became possessed by the certainty that he was no longer alone in the frigid darkness.

Unnerved, his heart began to thunder in his chest as he discovered precisely how vulnerable and isolated he was without the benefits of arms or numbers. Mindless panic overwhelmed his imagination and he fled blindly for the stairs. From behind the fleeing monk, there came a lithe gliding sound, like velvet being drawn over skin, and a massive pain flared in the center of the terror-stricken monk's back.

His scream welled up, bouncing along the walls of the stone pipe, only to be shredded to unheeded tatters in the howling winds of the upper escarpment. Ranforte glanced down in disbelief as his ears filled with the liquid tearing sounds of viscera being torn from its moorings. He attempted to scream again, but a great gout of heart's blood jetted from his mouth, spattering upon the cold stone of the cave floor.

A resounding crack replaced the ghastly tearing and suddenly a clenched fist burst through the dying monk's ribcage.

"You see, all of the demons that you've ever imagined," a melodious voice whispered in his ear. "They are real."

With cruel and deliberate slowness, his assailant crushed the heart as the monk gazed on through dying eyes. Then the hand withdrew with a final petulant wrench and the zealot collapsed lifelessly to the floor. Marla laid back her head and keened with primal euphoria. Pausing to deliver a savage kick to the corpse's head, Marla strode to the entrance and relit the lantern with a wave of her hand. When her human escorts reached the base of the escarpment, she ushered the Captains and the surviving Troopers into the cave. They huddled against the interior wall, grateful for any shelter from the unrelenting winds. The Morticant regarded the group with undisguised contempt. How frail these humans were, how fragile? She wondered how anything could survive being so susceptible to the ravages of the elements, not to mention the constant threats posed by other predators. She dismissed their frailty from her mind with an amused smile.

"Have your men prepare for combat, Captain," she instructed. "The wolf is in the pasture and there is a feast to be had."

3

"Are you saying that we are not free to leave here?" Islena demanded furiously. Jackylwyn smiled benignly. "Not precisely. Let me qualify my statement by saying that you are free to leave after you've compensated us for our generous hospitality."

Islena glowered, but remained silent, peripherally aware of the mounting excitement which was sweeping through the ranks of the assembled monks. The majority of those present had risen to their feet and were swaying to the rhythm of an arcane music that only they could hear. Every eye was fastened upon her with the glazed expression of the chronically hypnotized.

Jackylwyn moved around the lectern and came to stand at the head of the altar stairs. Though his every move appeared casual, Islena suspected that she had unwittingly fallen victim to a carefully choreographed deception, the culmination of which was likely to prove fatal.

"What do you want?" she demanded, her tone fraught with impatience and not the fear that the Curate clearly expected.

"For now, your undivided attention, which I would imagine, I have succeeded in capturing. To begin with, I'm going to tell you how this spectacular Abbey came to be in the midst of this dreary desolation."

"To hell with this Abbey!" Islena exploded, her body thrumming with the cumulative effects of grief and indignation. "To hell with the entire lot of you."

Wheeling about and began striding brusquely for the exit to the house of the mad. Two monks attempted to intercept her, imposing themselves between Islena and the doorway. Like a coiled spring, Islena hurled herself at the unsuspecting pair, striking the first with a crushing back fist to the temple, while neutralizing the second with a sweeping knee to the groin.

The first monk reeled backwards into the nearest pew, knocking over monks as though they were living dominoes. The second merely collapsed into the center isle, hissing like a deflating balloon. Islena stepped over the writhing monk without as much as a downward glance.

All about her, the monks drew back, evidently stunned to inaction by her display of ferocity. Behind her, Jackylwyn watched Islena dispatch the two monks with mounting wonder.

'This one has spirit,' he thought excitedly. 'And a vigorous blood which is bound to appease the Gods.'

He doubted that she would cower, as the other simpering wenches had done, even when confronted by the awful majesty of the blade.

As Islena approached the main door, Baroth stepped out of the pooling shadows as though to deny her egress.

Islena came to a tentative halt some ten feet from where the old man stood. In the air, she could feel the currents of tension intensify just a notch. Eyeing the old man warily, she growled, "Don't try my patience, old man."

The Cleric's expression did not change a whit. He ventured closer and held his hands aloft. Holding them two feet apart, he proceeded to bring them slowly together. As he did, the transparent air between began to fold and congeal, becoming translucent and malleable like heated plastic.

Mesmerized, Islena could not draw her gaze away from the phenomenon, while her braying instincts adjured her to either attack or flee. Behind her, Gillian stirred for the first time, vehemently exhorting her to submit without resistance. He had been exposed to enough magic to know that even a minor cleric could inflict irreparable damage upon an unprepared adversary...and this was no common hedge mage.

The density and distortion of the air increased as Baroth drew his hands closer together. Gazing at Islena, an unfathomable half-smile touched his normally dour countenance. Slowly, he began to intone a whispered incantation.

Something about that grin and those unintelligible, yet vaguely ominous words broke her trance like the shattering of crystal. Islena sprang forward...her powerful legs propelling her horizontally like a missile.

Though her agility surprised Baroth, the Cleric was still able to project his spell. It leapt from his fingers to meet Doraux's onslaught, spiraling through the air with a high-pitched whine of a buzz saw.

The distorted air appeared to unfold and envelop Islena, stopping her forward momentum as effectively as if she had struck an invisible wall. She fell to the stone slabs directly at the Cleric's feet.

"She will raise no further resistance," he declared gruffly and gestured for a group of nearby monks to carry her back to the altar.

Islena lay motionless upon the cold stones, her cheek abraded by the impact. Though she experienced no physical pain, the spell, if that was indeed what had assailed her, had robbed her of the faculty of motor control. Though she was conscious of her limbs, Islena lacked the means to compel them to function.

'My God, he's paralyzed me,' she realized, horrified by the prospect of something that had long been her greatest fear. Though her limbs were unresponsive to commands, they could still register sensation. 'It's as though he's put my body to sleep, but not my mind.'

The designated monks carried the helpless Doraux to the first pew and arranged her so that she faced the Curate.

"I trust that you'll be more pliable," Jackylwyn said dryly. "Cooperation may be given or coerced. It matters not, to us."

"You are all contemptible and vile," Gillian interrupted angrily. "That so many men would resort to magic to subdue a woman is craven and despicable."

"We employ what gifts the Gods have granted us," the Curate retorted absently, never taking his eyes from Doraux's exquisite face. Her new vulnerability only enhanced her allure and Jackylwyn found himself desperately wanting to partake of her natural enticements.

'The narrative,' he reminded himself with a sly grin. "One must understand some of the history of Runesholm to grasp the sacred essence of what you are about to experience."

"All who you see assembled in this hall have been ill-served by the obdurate world beyond the Blighted Lands. They have found their way here in search of sanctuary from the narrow-minded and baleful imbeciles who feared and thus grew to vilify their beliefs." He paused dramatically, a man with an obvious talent for inflammatory rhetoric, and added, "And just what is the common bond that has drawn these men to this sacred place?"

Jackylwyn nodded his head like a small child who cannot wait to impart a secret, though not before a prescribed measure of teasing. "There'll be time enough for that, but first, the history of Runesholm."

The Curate descended the stairs and came to stand before the immobilized Islena. "You find yourself within the walls of a venerable Abbey. In its own way, it rivals your own exquisite beauty. This structure stands as an edifice to perseverance and refusal to capitulate to hatred and bigotry. Millennia ago...no one is precisely certain how many...the first believers were relegated to the Blighted Lands. Many perished in the harsh and unforgiving climate, but a few indomitable spirits survived. Coming together, each realized that they were united by the common thread of theological belief. Necessity compelled them to form an order, or a religion if you prefer, and erect an institution that would serve as a beacon for our creed. Thus, Runesholm came to be."

"Centuries passed and the orders number rapidly grew. This twisted, supposedly barren piece of earth became the requiem for the unforgiven. Over the course of years, our belligerent neighbors, learning of our growing order and fearing our unity of purpose, would dispatch raiding parties in an effort to extirpate our creed. One by one, these heretics fell victim to the Sheraks and other natural defenses that the Gods have bestowed upon us. Their losses proved frightful, and evidently discouraging, for after several such misguided campaigns, these crusades ceased entirely."

Jackylwyn offered Islena a self-satisfied grin. "It is likely that the order would have remained an unobtrusive congregation of worshipers were it not for the coming of a man named Dzorogan some ten centuries ago. In his capacity as Curate, he proclaimed that our order could no longer suffer the gross injustice of exile. Through deep contemplation and consultation with his elders and sages, Dzorogan declared Runesholm to be the religious fountainhead of the world, an admittedly extravagant title, and revealed a list of ten edicts that were to guide and shape the character of our religion."

"I will not bore you with the minutiae of the Dzorogan charter. The beliefs to which we subscribe are not at issue here. Let it suffice to say that we were transformed from a passive order, cowering in the depths of a wasteland, to a ferociously independent league of holy warriors who lived solely for the purpose of serving his divine will on this wretched planet."

Islena experienced a joining of realities with this last utterance. Every world, no matter how divergent, seemed cursed by the affliction of the warring zealot. Her mind drew an expression of disdain that could not be reflected upon her wooden face.

Jackylwyn paused, bringing the tips of his index fingers to his lips. "Forgive me if I'm given to these flights of distracted reflection. The recounting of the tale of our formative years has never lost its power to move me. Dzorogan imbued the order with a more assiduous character. He solemnly vowed that we would never fall prey to persecution from the infidels to the south. Yet, the order possessed no means with which to defend itself and prevent recurrences of past injustice. To rectify this shortcoming, the visionary Curate proposed a pilgrimage of seclusion. With neither food nor water, and only a purple robe such as this, Dzorogan ventured forth into the Blighted Lands, where he remained for two score days. He returned a scarcely recognizable shadow of the man that he had been - horribly emaciated and gravely ill. With his recuperation it would be discovered that his ordeal had not been undertaken in vain. Our God rewards the persevering and the suffering devout."

Jackylwyn gestured and the east wall of the Altar area blazed into light, though Islena could detect no apparent source of illumination. A huge mural, stark and disturbing, showed a pitifully thin man kneeling upon the earth of a barren plain. Above his head there hovered a massive sword with an ornamental Gold hilt. Set into the hilt were two breathtaking rubies that had been cut and fashioned into a reptilian glare. Though the implications appeared obvious, closer examination showed the sword to be hovering above the emaciated man (presumably Dzorogan) in a protective posture.

"After weeks of entreaty and abjection, the Gods had granted the Curate's petition. They told him of a mystical sword that would protect the order against all aggression. Ah, and yet there are occasions when the Gods display a blackly ironic sense of humor. To obtain this divine blessing; Dzorogan was forced to undertake a long and perilous quest...a convoluted path fraught with pitfalls and compromising diversions. You see, failure was never precluded because arrogance is bred through unconditional success. No, our benefactor triumphed on his own merit and ingenuity."

Jackylwyn stopped as though in fond and intimate remembrance of a man who existed centuries prior to his own birth. "Still weak from his travails in the wilderness, the Curate set forth upon the Quest for the divine gift. Years passed and the order despaired of ever seeing him again. The presiding fathers went so far as to institute the process of selecting a new Curate when unexpectedly the crusader returned. As promised, he returned carrying the sword of the Deity."

"The chronicles of Dzorogan will be preserved as long as men stride this world, for it is through his devotion and persistence that the true course of our faith was to be determined."

Gillian stood incapacitated by disbelief and though he managed to conceal his agitation behind a mask of neutrality, his thoughts were tugged in a hundred conflicting directions.

'He speaks of the sword of Jerhia!' Despite the sweeping confusion and long-held skepticism, that one voice spoke to him with an irrefutable calm and an unequivocal certainty that he could not ignore.

Jackylwyn cast a knowing glance in the Jerhia's direction and smiled. "Though he attempts to disguise it, I'm sure that our friend is familiar with this particular tale...perhaps in a somewhat different context, eh?"

He moved closer to Islena, who strained to meet Gillian's gaze, but was still unable to compel her muscles to function. The Curate leaned closer and whispered, "You might be more selective in choosing your traveling companions. This jackal sports a false face, I think."

The ingratiating smile suddenly vanished and Jackylwyn stood erect. "The world is a vile place, overrun by prevaricators, fornicators and all manner of miscreants." Now his voice became thundering, bombastic. "Our God is mightily offended by the lewd and whorish world and the strutting peacocks who would presume to wield power over the domain that the Holy One forged. The entire world has become a stinking morass of corruption and decadence."

"There will come the inevitable day of retribution, dear lady," the Curate roared, his face distorted by rage, spittle flying from his lips. Islena could not determine if his agitation was feigned or genuine. She only knew that he was inciting the monks towards absolute frenzy.

"When the sacred sword was consigned to our keeping, so too was the responsibility of insuring its purity and sanctity. With this commission, we reach the climax of my tale."

Islena regarded the Curate unblinkingly, knowing that he was extending a challenge that she would be forced to accept. Jackylwyn returned to the lectern, where he leaned his elbows upon the angled platform. "With this understanding there evolved the ritual of the Blooding. To appease God and mollify his displeasure, the ancients decided that blood would prove the only effective means of maintaining the sword's integrity. As if in divine affirmation of this, the wayward would always wander into our haven. For the most part, these were deviants and refuse fleeing from the most heinous of crimes. With the descent of the darkness upon the lands to the south, the composition of these refugees changed drastically. The appearance of such a rare and exquisite creature only illustrates that even Myrhia, the epitome of evil enchantment, may be bent to facilitate the holy purpose of the devout."

"Blood such as yours, my sweet, would brighten even the foulest of dispositions," Jackylwyn declared with a lecherous grin. Islena's eyes blazed furiously, and for a brief moment, Jackylwyn was assailed by a premonition of impending disaster. It bloomed in his mind like a black rose and then vanished, leaving the Curate perceptibly shaken. He anxiously surveyed congregation whom he had incited into a rapturous frenzy. There could be no backing away from the coming climax. Like all rites of bloodletting, the moment had assumed its own irreversible momentum. He had set the stage, but some higher force had usurped his control over the direction of the play. For all of his professed piety, Jackylwyn was a shallow man, hopelessly shackled by his own vanity. Confronted by this woman's seemingly insurmountable mantle of quiescent power, the Curate found himself wishing that he had allowed her to leave and been satisfied with the other captive.

Long moments passed before he could trust himself to speak without conveying his distress. "Though it would seem that the Gods are harsh in this judgment, so too are they just."

"Dispense with the hollow rhetoric," Gillian snapped icily. "Yours is the hand that holds the axe. There is really no need to claim that you wield it with a sanctified glove."

Jackylwyn regarded the Jerhia sourly. "Your kind has always been incapable of appreciating the elegance and irony of these situations. They possess a beauty and poetry that are lost on the infidel."

The Jerhia shook his head in fuming disgust. The Curate, making a note to prolong this ones death, turned his attention squarely upon his enigmatic captive. "Providence has led you to this place and moment, thus bestowing you with the highest of honors. Your blood shall be spilled to secure the continuing tolerance of the Deity. In the spirit of justice, fate may yet afford you the opportunity to survive."

He came to stand directly before her, and drawing himself up to his full height, posed the climactic question. "Will you freely submit yourself to the judgment of the Sword of Runesholm?"

Islena returned his gaze, her eyes as hard as green diamonds. She formed the single word in her mind and was rather surprised to find that her jaws had been released from Baroth's spell. "Yes!"

The unflinching affirmative ushered a return of the Curate's disquiet. He could feel an oily sheen of perspiration building on his brow. He had ministered to the climax for many a year, but never with the trepidation that he felt as Islena Doraux prepared to confront Runesholm's instrument of judgment.

Chapter Thirty Four

1

The High Queen of Emercia, imminent ruler of the known world, sat in a contemplative silence...her lovely face set in deep lines of concentration as she pondered the tactical impasse depicted upon an array of field maps. Myrhia's eyes swept slowly across the vellum with its vexing depiction of her stalled invasion of Natzurdan.

Tormal, her senior field commander, looked on anxiously, his trepidation mounting with every second that the enchantress remained silent.

"Where are the specific locations of the resistance?" the High Queen demanded, her tone declaring a dangerous irritation. Tormal stepped forward and smartly tapped his pointer upon three locations, one upon each map. "These three locations are the only practical access points to the north...the fjords of Pendura, and the narrow valleys of Balmox and Ilderhom. The rest of the border area is composed of a vast, inaccessible chain of mountains. We do not have the equipment or the type of soldier necessary to conquer such obstacles."

"And yet the Jerhia cross these ranges effortlessly," Myrhia observed disdainfully.

"They are entirely in their element, while we are out of ours. This is, after all, their country, my Queen," Tormal ventured, shocked by his own temerity.

"This was their Country," the enchantress corrected crossly. "And you would do well to temper your patronizing remarks with the appropriate amount of respect."

The Commander bowed formally, half expecting to be stricken by some manner of sorcery for his perceived insolence.

'Damn you for leaving me with this hellish burden, Ynthrax,' the field commander cursed bleakly. News of Ynthrax's death had been accompanied by rampant speculation and a sinking sense of disquiet that could not be allayed by battles won or lands annexed. The march of the invaders had floundered and the latest act of wizardry had threatened to thwart the enchantress' efforts completely.

"Describe the types of obstacles that the Natzurdan have placed at these passes. Be concise. It's important that I know precisely what they are doing."

The Commander gazed about the room, seeking support in the faces of his assistants. Each returned his gaze with a poignant mixture of neutrality and relief.

'Is this the demeanor of a victorious army?' he wondered sullenly. "I have not been to the two passes at Bolmax and ilderhom, but I personally inspected the field at Pendura. I lack the words to properly express what I witnessed there."

"Try!" the enchantress commanded, her ire beginning to rise menacingly close to the surface. Tormal swallowed and attempted to recount some of what he witnessed. "I had assembled my cavalry at the head of the river. They were instructed to lead the break along either bank, closely supported by the archers that had been positioned in the cliffs along the river."

He paused, a confused expression coming over his hawkish face, as though part of his mind adamantly refused to credit what his eyes had registered. "The order for the attack had been issued, but before the cavalry could spring from its staging areas, a deep, guttural rumble shook the earth along the river. It sounded as though the earth were being torn asunder. Horses bolted in sheer terror and archers were flung from their niches in the cliffs. Perhaps a hundred men perished in the first seconds of the madness."

Myrhia absorbed this thoughtfully. "And you are not describing an untimely, yet natural quake?"

The Commander shook his head adamantly. "This was no simple quake. No sooner had the rumbling ceased, than the river waters began to boil as though heated by the Devil's breath. Plumes of hot vapor rose into the air and soon the entire valley was obscured by a scalding steam. The attack degenerated into outright anarchy. Burned and half-blind, our soldiers fled the field in disarray. Yet, even this was not the most incredible thing to transpire. Through the curtain of white steam, a towering monolith appeared to arise from the valley floor. It pushed upward until the entire valley was sealed by a solid wall of granite. This dissipating mist revealed that the two slopes of the valley cliffs had somehow melted to create a curtain of stone."

"It is as though the solid earth had become mercurial," he concluded in open bewilderment. "Like flowing wax, surging to fill a void."

"And did you make an effort to circumvent the obstacle?" Myrhia inquired, her mind racing.

"Yes, my Queen. I redeployed the troops and probed to either side of the new curtain. Again, the very earth reformed to block our way. It seems as though the Gods have allied themselves with the enemy."

"No, not the Gods," Myrhia corrected with an indulgent chuckle, "but our admirable foes, the Natzurdan."

The Commander gaped in open astonishment. "Surely they do not command that level of power?"

This Tormal, who was a poor substitute for Ynthrax, and his expression of unadulterated dread, only augmented Myrhia's irritation. "Indeed, they do. Theirs is the power over earth, stone, wood and water. Individually, they are capable of astounding feats. With a concerted effort, entire landscapes could be reshaped by the force of their will."

The enchantress drifted into a silent reverie for several moments, while the Commanders contemplated the ramifications of what she had just divulged. Casually sweeping the plans to the chamber floor, Myrhia curtly dismissed the group. "Withdraw your armies a short distance back from the three crossings. Concentrate upon finding and destroying the remaining Jerhia resistance. These defenses will not be overcome by conventional means."

"You will find a method to break through?" Tormal asked, relieved to be exonerated from the responsibility for the Northern invasion.

Myrhia wheeled on the expectant group.

'Such an accumulation of simpering fools,' she thought contemptuously. Between the lot, they could not comprehend the nature of what had transpired and the degree of desperation that these actions represented. These feeble acts of resistance were akin to an open admission of defeat, though these dolts lacked the insight to see beyond their superstitious dread. The enchantress yearned for the day when she could dispense with the need for humans entirely.

Her Morticants were indefatigable and not subject to fear or avarice. They would not be dissuaded or deterred by any mean acts of sorcery. The Commander stood watching her, their eyes entreating their Queen to dispel their fears. "Go and prepare for the cleansing of Jerhia. While impressive to the ignorant, this new ruse is nothing more than carnival Glammer, intended to forestall the inevitable in hopes of some miraculous intervention."

"None shall be forthcoming," she declared finally, her melodious voice ringing with the irrefutable confidence that had carried her to the threshold of omnipotence.

2

The Imperial Troopers finally reached the entrance to the cave, guided by an eerie blue luminescence that turned out to be the monster's hand. The Captain and his men huddled against the far wall, grateful to finally be out of the biting wind which had hounded them since first setting foot in this accursed barren hell.

Marla lit the lantern with a spark produced by the snap of her fingers. The Troopers recoiled from the sight of the human wreckage strewn about the cave floor.

"As you can see, our demented religious friends were expecting guests," the hybrid sneered, "though not with open arms."

She regarded the monk indifferently and then instructed, "There are bound to be others about, so have your troopers prepare for an assault." She indicated the stone stairs which trailed up into the darkness. "Those undoubtedly lead to the top of the escarpment. It is likely that we will encounter the remainder of his fellow lunatics there."

The Morticant stopped abruptly, its lovely face contorting into a rictus of pain and outraged horror as though it had been stricken by tetanus. Its eyes rolled back in its head, revealing gleaming argent corneas. Her perceptive senses were crudely torn from her mind and flung upward like an ascendant spirit, leaving the body to become as livid as a piece of statuary.

Marla's initial terror gave way to comprehension and then to ecstasy as she grasped what had befallen her.

At the behest of an unknown, yet exigent need, her mind had disentangled itself from the moorings of her physical body. The accompanying sense of liberation was wildly intoxicating. Having shunted off the physical restrictions, Marla's consciousness passed through rock, earth and air with equal effortlessness. Through perception alone, she discerned the hulking shape of the Abbey through the predawn murk, and directed her mind toward the imposing silhouette of Runesholm.

She passed through the six foot stone walls, and upon witnessing the drama unfolding within, her jubilation became horror.

3

Baroth hovered above Islena, his eyes regarding her coldly. "The spell that you are under was meant to be temporary, but I could just as easily administer a more permanent version of the same. Do you understand?"

Islena blinked her eyes three times, having again lost the faculty of speech. Falling frequent victim to sorcery had finally distilled the last of her skepticism. The Cleric simply leaned forward and pressed the palm of his hand against her forehead as though emulating a television faith healer. He murmured a single unintelligible word and Islena felt the grip of her paralysis slip away like a loosened manacle.

Baroth stepped back in the name of caution as Doraux rose and shook the tingling sensation from her limbs.

Jackylwyn greeted her with a huge, malefic grin. "You pledged to adhere to the strictures of the ritual."

Islena merely nodded and drew herself defiantly erect. Though aware of the gravity of her peril, she was surprised to find that any eerie calm had imposed itself upon her thoughts. Despite the danger, she was able to regard her plight with the cold detachment of an invisible observer.

'Something is about to happen, something that even mad Jackylwyn could not have reckoned in the depths of his wildest delusion.' The thought, she immediately realized, had not been formulated by her own mind. Stepping forward, with a perplexing half-smile playing at her lips, she prompted, "I've squandered enough time, so enact your ritual. I believe you're in for one hell of a surprise."

The invitation was delivered in a voice undaunted by trepidation. Frowning, Jackylwyn turned toward a nearby monk and instructed, "Bring forth the bracelets."

Turning back to the still-smiling Doraux, he announced, "Being an infidel, you cannot grasp the honor that fate has bestowed upon your unworthy soul. The sacred blade shall purify your blood and absolve your soul of its transgressions. You shall ascend into heaven with a pure heart."

"We shall see," Islena countered evenly, her voice fraught with an esoteric meaning. The monk returned carrying a gold tray. A velvet cloth concealed two vaguely menacing shapes. Jackylwyn accepted the tray and carried it over to the waiting woman.

"Extend your arms," he commanded, and then a sly grin twisted his face. "But first remove your tunic."

Gillian tensed, while Islena remained utterly motionless.

"Don't compound your evil with perversity," the Jerhia snapped. It was possible that he might snatch a dagger from the nearest monk and bury it in this bastard Curate's throat before the others could react. The action wouldn't likely extricate the pair from their predicament, but it would make death somewhat more palatable. He would derive a measure of empty satisfaction in watching Jackylwyn die.

As though divining his reaction, Islena turned to

Gillian. Her eyes were limpid, her face placid. "There's no need for that, Gillian."

And then she smiled, a radiant offering, though the emotion never touched her eyes. The expression was perhaps the singularly most terrifying thing that the Jerhia had ever beheld.

"Do it quickly, woman," Jackylwyn hissed, trying to disguise his unease with vexation. "If we are forced to do it for you, I assure you that you will not find it so gentle."

Islena's unfathomable grin stretched ever wider. The sense that some external force had assumed command over the moment grew ever stronger and infused Doraux with a feeling of invulnerability. As she began to undo the buttons of her long sleeve tunic, her spirit began to soar with a giddy elation that puzzled the part of her mind that was outraged by all that had happened to her.

She casually shrugged off the tunic and stood with her chin held high and her shoulders defiantly square. All assembled gasped in incredulity, staggered by the tight, flawless skin which stretched drumhead tight over thick, striated muscles. The deep grooves of her abdomen did nothing to mitigate the impression that she had been constructed from armor plating. She was deeply satisfied to find that, to a man, all present were robbed of their equilibrium.

Islena's gaze moved over the group, causing many to flinch or avert their eyes entirely as it fell upon them.

"Are you a demon, woman?" Jackylwyn asked softly, consciously willing himself to force his gaze from the deep valley between her lush breasts. The taut globes and the dusty pink nipples shook the Curate, impeding his ability to think clearly. Oily beads of sweat trickled uncomfortably down the back of his neck and into his Cassock.

"I'm flesh and blood," Islena replied icily. Her intense eyes glinted like bits of glass. The Curate swallowed with a perceptible click. He drew the cloth from the tray to reveal two objects that Islena did not immediately recognize. Taking one from the tray, he commanded. "Extend your right arm forward, palm up."

Islena complied without hesitation, her massive biceps rippling like coiled springs.

"These manacles are called the cuffs of judgment," Jackylwyn explained as he moved toward her. He held one aloft for Doraux's inspection and then released two spring pins. The device snapped open like a hunter's trap. He placed it over Islena's forearm and clamped it into place. The body of the manacle extended from her wrist to a point just below her right elbow. It was constructed of some manner of Iron-silver alloy, the gleam of which seemed almost baleful in the muted yellow light of the Abbey.

The Curate quickly took the remaining cuff and secured Islena's other arm. A slotted metal spine ran along the inside of either restraint. The Curate held Islena's arms and pushed these together sharply. There followed an audible metallic click as some unseen mechanism activated and bound the two sleeves together.

Islena continued to regard the Curate with an almost absent expression of contempt, as though she found this contrived drama both infantile and pathetic. Jackylwyn was nonplused by her steadfast refusal to display even a hint of panic. Even Baroth appeared unsettled by the woman's unflappable composure.

"These cuffs have been forged from the most sacred of metals. They represent the combined efforts of our most accomplished alchemists. They have been sanctified by the Gods to serve their ordained purpose."

"You sound as though you truly believe that," Islena retorted disdainfully.

"Your vitriol and insolence shall avail you nothing woman," Baroth warned dangerously. Islena flicked the Cleric a dismissive glance which was tempered by the recollection of what he had so recently inflicted upon her.

"You see, Islena," the Curate continued, "These bonds are instruments of justice. They were designed to serve as conduits to the center of your very soul. This rarefied metal will define the character that dwells beneath the facade and affectations. If your heart is pure, this blade will find no purchase upon your flesh."

Jackylwyn smiled. "You see, this is not a heinous torture, but a test of your virtue."

Islena snarled her derision, "In the years that the ritual has been enacted, how many have survived?"

Jackylwyn's smile became a smirk, providing Islena with the answer that she had suspected all along.

4

The High Queen found herself immersed in her customary solitude, a condition which she normally enjoyed, but tonight found both cloying and restive. The problem of the Natzurdan was more of an annoyance than a genuine obstacle. Myrhia's grasp of physical transmogrification...the altering of physical properties of the basic elements...was extensive. The strain upon the conjurer was enormous and it would be virtually impossible to sustain these obstacles for extended periods of time.

Eventually, the three geographic areas would return to their normal state and her armies would flow through the gaps like a raging tide. The exhausted defenders would be powerless to resist and Natzurdan would be hers as fast as her Cavalry could sweep across it.

Despite the optimistic forecast, the High Queen was assailed by nagging uncertainties. Could the Natzurdan be so desperate as to resort to stalling tactics that must inevitably fail? On the face of the situation, it would seem that they were. Despite this, she could not help but wonder if her enemies' hopes were more substantial than wishful prayers.

The enchantress wandered over to a plush recliner and lounged like a large cat, deciding to succumb to her restless thoughts and allow them to lead her where they may. Could it be that the delaying tactic was meant to provide her enemies with enough time to bait a trap for her armies? It was possible. While the Natzurdan were characteristically a methodical, uninspired lot who were totally subservient to the whims of the master to whom they were slavishly devoted, there could be little doubt that their defense was being coordinated by the surviving Jerhia commanders and the more imposing Metocans.

It was the later group which would provide her with the most serious opposition. The collective ability of their Inner Circle could, in all probability, rival her own powers of enchantment and conjury.

If not for the exigency of her quest for the Proclamations, Myrhia might simply have been content to isolate the Metocan; confining them to their homeland of brooding mists and ominous shadows. The force necessary to subdue the race of magicians was frightening to conceive, and while she was supremely confident of her ability to vanquish all opposition, Myrhia was cognizant of the inherent dangers in unleashing such unbridled magic. Once released, there was always the possibility that the power might spiral into total cataclysm, obliterating both victim and wielder indiscriminately.

Irrespective of the potential consequences, the High Queen would not renege upon her path of conquest. It was essential that she control every square foot of land so that a thorough search for the Proclamations might be conducted. Already, she had dispatched small groups of Morticants to scour the rugged Jerhia terrain for the first of the Icons.

The search had proven fruitless, but that did not particularly worry the High Queen. If Augury proved accurate, Islena would be drawn to them as a predator is attracted by the tantalizing scent of blood.

Thoughts of Islena evoked a spectrum of emotions, ranging from a kind of lust to an abstract terror, and finally settling upon a general disquiet. Despite the extensive hunt and the hybrid's dogged pursuit, the woman had yet to be apprehended. Never had the eternal chess match between the two souls been so intense, or so acrimonious. Though reluctant to concede as much, Myrhia had not anticipated the woman's resistance to domination. In every incarnation, her enemy became all the more powerful.

And now she has fled into the Blighted Lands.

Myrhia uttered an ancient and forbidden epithet which set the three maps around her to flame. She calmly extinguished the blaze with a casual flick of her wrist.

Other than the Land of Shades, the Blighted Lands were the single most perilous region on the planet. Ignorant of the dangers, Islena was susceptible to a myriad of various threats. It was not unthinkable that she might perish from the effects of the inimical environment alone.

The series of flashing images, which assaulted her mind in stroboscopic succession, caused Myrhia to hiss like a scalded cat. There was a stirring of alarm from just beyond the heavy canvas entrance to her tent. Through her shock and dismay, she managed to cry out, "There is no need for alarm. Remain where you are."

Someone, or something, had opened a direct channel into her consciousness and was relaying this series of images, which Myrhia quickly surmised were images the sender was viewing through their own eyes.

"Marla!" she gasped, knowing that her creation alone might possess the ability to negotiate the complex labyrinth of her mind so quickly and vividly. Still, she had no time to ponder the implications of her creature's stunning ability.

The flashing images painted a stark portrait of Islena's dire need. She had fallen into the hands of the Lunatic Ranters. Her peril was grave and immediate. Flanked by robed monks, Islena, her powerful torso naked, was being led towards blue effulgence by a large man, whose eyes gleamed with a dementia that was part sadism and part religious zeal...qualities which, Myrhia knew, were often interchangeable and always dangerous in the extreme.

The strange restraints which bound her arms declared that Islena was not a willing participant in whatever insane ritual these madmen had concocted.

Both horrified and incensed, Myrhia focused her thoughts upon the blue effulgence, which emanated from beneath a heavy oak door, and found that she could not discern the nature or source of the glow. Within sight of fruition, it was possible that her well-conceived scheme might be undone by a group of fanatical blood letters.

Understanding that drastic action was required, the High Queen began to wave her right arm around her head in broad, sweeping motions. As she accelerated, the air above her head congealed into a thick plastic cocoon which would guard her physical body while her spirit ventured forth. The frantic crackle of the distorted air would be enough to discourage even the most determined of assassins.

Moving quickly, Myrhia dropped her head to her chest and commenced the ritualistic incantations that would release her spirit from her body. Her thoughts grew steadily lighter, until finally, the enchantress was gazing down upon her body, which had slumped back onto the lounger. Taking a moment to insure that her protective mantle was still in position, Myrhia spiraled up into the night sky and rocketed off toward the northeast.

5

Jackylwyn paused before the great oak door, inclining his head to glance back at Islena. Then, he removed a silver key from a pouch on his belt and inserted the heavy key into the lock. A collective sigh of primal pleasure greeted the distinctive click of the tumblers. It had been over two years since the last time this solemn celebration of the ritual of blooding had taken place.

The Curate pushed the door open and stepped aside, gesturing for Islena to precede him over the threshold. "Enter, and behold the sacred gift that the true God, in his omniscience and generosity, has conferred upon us."

Islena was forced to squint against the harsh blue light radiating from the interior of the chamber. Despite the forbidding intensity, she found herself drawn forward, baffled to realize that she was eager to discover what lay within.

The interior was visually stunning in its proportions. The vaulted ceiling was so high as to be dizzying and was dominated by an indescribable stain glass mural which depicted a magnificent sword spinning gloriously through the Cosmos.

As visually compelling as the interior proved to be, it paled in comparison to the deadly splendor of the blade which lay nestled on a bed of black velvet. Islena emitted a soft gasp of admiration as she absorbed its sleek lines.

The craftsmanship was masterful and the cutting edges had been honed with a deadly precision that could not be mistaken, despite the extravagant design of the guard and hilt. Jackylwyn's eyes glistened at the sight of the sacred sword, which moved him to the verge of a teary euphoria. Upon being roughly propelled across the threshold, Gillian stopped abruptly, riveted to the stone floor as though mesmerized by the spectral killing tool.

'It's true to the lore in every detail,' he thought incredulously. Surely, this must be a brilliant replica forged from extensive knowledge of the ancient legend. Though different in many respects, Gillian's innate mistrust of all things metaphysical was a deeply ingrained Jerhia trait. The Proclamations were the stuff of fireside legends.

The Curate escorted Islena to the case in which the blade was ensconced. She noted that the blue radiance was without source, as though the weapon were projecting an aura of sorts.

"Do you have any concept of what it is you are seeing, woman?" he asked with infuriating condescension. "This wonder of wonders was fashioned on the forge of the heavens. Only the most devout would have the temerity to approach such splendor, much less dare to wield it."

His gaze settled upon her lovely face, touching her with the dirty heat of a rampant infection. "I dare to wield it, for I have been selected to act as an instrument for its heavenly purpose."

Having uttered this pronunciation, he seized the blade and raised it toward the vaulted ceiling. "Behold the Blade of purification!" he bellowed. "We humbly pledge our fealty to its creators and declare our unremitting gratitude to those who have entrusted it to our keeping. We vow to toil ceaselessly in the name of its divine purpose."

Leveling the gleaming blade at the impassive Doraux, he continued his bombastic diatribe. All about the group, the assembly had taken up a metronomic chant, while rhythmically swaying from side to side. Islena was appalled to note that many sported prominent erections that protruded through the rough-hewn material of their vestments. A shiver coursed through her powerful body as it became apparent that their distraction was more sexual than religious.

"Hark, omnipotent Gods, we proffer unto you this vile creature, in all her worldly imperfections. Accept her blood as a token of our service and devotion."

Islena heard the words as though down the length of a long corridor. They swelled and faded until she could no longer distinguish them from the howling of the wind beyond the Abbey walls. She found herself unable to turn her gaze from the hilt of the great sword.

Its magnificent design was eerily familiar. She could not shake off the certainty that, not only had she seen the blade before, but that it had stood as a guiding symbol in her life.

"That's ridiculous," she murmured, but the glistening rubies, arranged in the intricate gold design of a dragon, whispered an intimate refrain of times and places that had existed in her own world centuries before her birth.

"Do you willingly submit to the true and irrefutable judgment of the Sacred Blade?" The Curate demanded, now fully immersed in his role with all previous apprehensions forgotten. Islena glanced up, her eyes gleaming with some abstract emotion. Jackylwyn's sensibilities insisted that what he saw was fear, but Islena's almost aloof bearing told him that his preconceptions were wrong.

"Yes, I willingly submit," she replied clearly and evenly, her words echoing strong and resolute through the inner sanctum.

"Raise your hands to chest level," The Curate instructed. Islena complied and he slid the blade into the slits between the two restraints. There was a grating of metal upon metal as the blade pushed forward towards Islena's exposed midriff. The immediacy of her predicament crashed in upon her then. As she helplessly watched the tip of the strangely familiar sword inch closer and closer to her bronze flesh, Islena understood that this was not a charade. These lunatics sincerely meant to sacrifice her to their depraved Gods. More astounding than her imminent death, was the revelation that she had fully expected Myrhia to intervene...that the enchantress was the source of her defiant refusal to succumb to terror.

The black irony of this struck her as uproariously funny and she began to bray a hysterical laughter. So unexpected was her outburst that Jackylwyn momentarily hesitated.

In a perfectly composed and reasoned tone, a voice in her mind advised, "This is your opportunity. Seize the moment, for it will not come again."

She responded without the slightest vacillation and no consideration for the consequences. Islena Doraux closed her hands tightly around the Blade of Runesholm.

Anarchy spread its terrible wings and usurped control of the moment.

6

The facade of Runesholm Abbey was dominated by two huge oak doors that stood thirty feet high at the center of their arch and weighed in excess of two thousand pounds per piece. To further insure the invulnerability of the doors, they had been braced by two six inch thick iron laterals; one near the top and the other an equal distance from the bottom.

As these doors had been securely bolted from within, the monks assigned to guarding them had seen no need to exercise their normal vigilance and had abandoned their position to observe the sacred ritual.

All were shocked and then terror-stricken when something collided with the heavy doors with such enormous force as to overturn pews and send tremors reverberating through the great stones of Runesholm.

A terrible silence descended upon the Abbey as the monks stared in wonder at the many huge timbers which had been cracked by the force of the impact.

"Someone brings cannon fire against us!" a thin monk cried in a high, apoplectic soprano. The next blow appeared to confirm the monk's panicked declaration. Huge shards of wood exploded in all directions and a dark shadow burst through the opening, partially obscured by blowing winds and swirling snow. The monks, who were crowded about the door to the sword chamber, were momentarily stunned to inaction, until a furious Baroth pushed his way through the milling rabble.

"Who dares violate the sanctity of this Holy Shrine?" he challenged in a voice grown strident with outrage. He glanced about in disgust, seeing that none of his apprentices had ventured to meet the incursion.

Baroth strode purposefully toward the ruined entrance, just as the first of the Imperial Troopers charged into the Abbey with swords at the ready.

Baroth snorted derisively and uttered a single word. An abstract shape leapt from his hands, spiraling toward the nearest trooper, who cried out in agony and stared down at his hands in horror and disbelief.

Baroth's spell had liquefied the guard of his sword into molten metal that had flowed over his right hand, fusing it to the weapon.

Others followed, at least a dozen in all. Realizing that he could not deal with each on an individual basis, the Cleric stepped back and glanced up at the hanging remnants of the doors. Then he focused his mind upon the twisted iron laterals that held the shattered oak.

An agonized scream issued from the metal and suddenly broken wooden timbers rained down upon the Troopers, instantly killing six and mortally wounding three others. The survivors scattered and charged up the isles, hacking indiscriminately at the monks, who appeared mesmerized by the drastic eruption of violence.

Baroth muttered a vitriolic curse and raced back along the central isle to deal with the intruders. Inside the chamber, Baroth knew, the ritual of the blooding would be reaching its culmination. It was incumbent upon him to prevent that climax from being disrupted. Jackylwyn had promised the old Cleric that the woman's blood would be his. Baroth had not bothered to explain that such vital blood could only augment and consolidate his own personal power.

As he moved to intercept the nearest trooper, a looming figure materialized from the air before his eyes. He collided with the figure as though with a solid stone wall, and toppled heavily to the floor.

When Baroth had recovered his senses, he glanced up to find a strikingly beautiful woman, with improbable ebony skin, towering over him. Her amber eyes glittered with a playful malice that chilled the Cleric's heart.

"Begone, malevolent specter!" he murmured and then reached out and placed a crack-nailed finger upon her striated abdomen. The withering spell was amongst the most potent that the old man could cast. Instead of the expected wail of anguish and trepidation, the things generous mouth twisted into a predacious grin.

"Your enchantments will avail you nothing against me, old man," the thing informed Baroth amiably and then snapped his finger in a swift motion. The Cleric howled and scrambled away, his fractured finger dangling uselessly from his right hand.

With this excruciating pain, there came the realization that this thing was not human and that his traditional magic would find no purchase upon its inanimate flesh.

"Reprobate!" he accused and fled towards the entrance, but before he could flee into the stormy night, a diminutive figure imposed itself in his path, as the old man skidded to a halt and squinted through the gusting snow.

Baroth recoiled, falling to the marble floor and scrambling backwards like a crab. His face contorted with fear, the pallid skin drawing over protruding bones.

"You would dare to come here?" he raged at the figure as it mounted the steps with a languid grace. Myrhia's astral form was indistinct. Only her eyes burned with a keenness that caused the Cleric to cringe before her immutable fury.

"Your Gods are decrepit and impotent, Old man," the enchantress snarled. "The mere mention of my name causes them to cower and tremble. I've come to bring their house down around them."

A papery, wheezing sigh escaped the Cleric's lips.

"Where is the woman?" Myrhia demanded harshly. Baroth shook his head and attempted to regain his feet. The enchantress tented her fingertips and savagely brought them together.

The Cleric gasped as invisible hoops of steel closed about his chest. Still, he found the fortitude to resist, refusing to divulge anything of the ritual being enacted within the abbey's ancient walls.

"Very well, die if you prefer, old man," Myrhia decreed, with pointed indifference. Baroth felt something pierce the fabric of his mind, racing through his thoughts like a pernicious disease. The enchantress watched dispassionately as the spell ran its course. Baroth's eyes glazed over and became vacuous, the spark of his intellect extinguished like a small flame in a hurricane.

Myrhia strolled over and bent close, her sweet, warm breath caressing his ear. "I have allowed for a small portion of your mind to remain cognizant of its surroundings. While your body steadily deteriorates with excruciating slowness, that tiny portion of your mind shall be fully aware of your gradual decay, but shall be powerless to prevent your slow crawl to the after world."

She withdrew and smiled amiably. Baroth regarded her with an expression of numb horror, his eyes opened wide in a silent entreaty for mercy, a plea that the enchantress gleefully ignored.

Dismissing the immobilized Cleric, Myrhia proceeded to the foot of the Altar. A single word exploded the stone lectern in a cloud of gray dust. Her eyes settled on the pallid countenance of Islena's companion...Lorio had been the Lamish whore's name. She immediately discerned that the woman had been entombed in a spell very similar to the one which now held Baroth.

'It's probable that the old fool had been the one to cast this enchantment,' Myrhia thought, amused by the black irony of the Cleric's demise.

Sparing Lorio a final baleful glare, Myrhia turned her attention to the task of locating Islena.

A group of monks cowered about a doorway near the rear of the Altar area, regarding her with identical expression of awe and trepidation. She willed her image in that direction. Just then, she detected an attacker converging upon her from the rear. Through her Morticant's alien eyes, she could clearly see distorted face and the dagger which he brandished. His cankerous lips were split in a lunatic grin of anticipation. Myrhia allowed him to pass through her and then ignited the thunderstruck monk with a warm breath.

He stumbled about the stage, flailing desperately at his robes, while Myrhia looked on with satisfaction as he twitched through his convulsive antics.

The gruesome human torch stayed erect for some time before finally, mercifully, collapsing between two overturned pews. Seeing how this hellish spirit had inured Baroth and incinerated the impetuous monk, the guardians of the door fled blindly, scattering to leave Myrhia's path to Islena unobstructed.

Yet, as she grew nearer to the doorway, a blaring admonition began to bray in her mind, as every sense implored her to proceed with extreme caution. Something beyond that doorway posed a very real threat to the enchantress.

"Islena?" she inquired softly. Bemused, her stride faltered and broke. Back in her field tent in distant Jerhia, the enchantress' uninhabited flesh began to rise into great hackles.

A momentous and long dormant force had begun to stir just beyond the threshold. It was ageless and unadulterated...so immaculate in its purity that it filled the normally intrepid Myrhia with a profound terror that reduced her to immobility. Whatever lay beyond that door posed a mortal threat to her very soul...an entity that she had believed to be thoroughly invulnerable.

Unable to draw her eyes away from the soft blue iridescence drifting through the doorway, she mentally summoned her Morticant.

Marla glided over to her Mistress, sensing Myrhia's anxiety. The High Queen pointed urgently toward the doorway and the soft blue light beyond. "That light. Find its source and destroy it. If Islena is there, bring her to me."

The massive woman glanced hesitantly to the threshold and then cast a quizzical glance at the enchantress. Myrhia frowned, perplexed by the hybrid's failure to respond immediately to her command.

"Always remember that I can easily return the lifeless clay of your flesh to the mortuary slab from which I retrieved it," she snarled and gestured brusquely toward the door. Marla's eyes darkened, but ultimately she marched across the slab floor and plunged into the blue glow, disappearing as completely as if she had dived into inky waters.

Myrhia drew a ragged breath, her heart palpitating wildly beneath her full bosom. Percipience informed her that this was a moment of culmination, or more succinctly, of apotheosis, but refused to grant her the luxury of a more precise elaboration.

The subdued blue glow suddenly flared into a neon eruption of blinding magnitude. Though impervious to tangible physical harm, the enchantress instinctively raised her spectral arms to shield her face.

The entire north wall of Runesholm disintegrated in a shower of stone fragments. She perceived a dark shape rush through her form and realized that it had been her Morticant.

Marla landed heavily amidst a collection of dead monks, where she lay utterly still. Myrhia's gaze shifted from the Morticant to the stupefying spectacle being revealed by the settling curtain of dust.

In that fleeting instant of crystalline clarity, the actuality of her vile ambition, with all of its intrinsic ramifications, struck her like the fall of a mallet. She had initiated a process which would proceed under its own impetus, heading toward a conclusion over which she could exercise only minor control.

Subjugating her apprehension, the enchantress strode through the detritus of death and destruction that had once been Runesholm. In her fixation on the woman before her, she was indifferent to the pathetic petitions for mercy from the mortally wounded.

If she was to wrestle the initiative of destiny away from the course of the ancient prophecy, Myrhia understood that it would have to be at this particular juncture. Bolstered by the certitude that hers was the power to defy the course of fate and augury, the enchantress went forth to confront her ageless adversary.

Chapter Thirty Five

Though the cacophonous uproar of the battle reached Islena's ears, she was only peripherally aware of the explosions and ghastly screams. Both she and Jackylwyn regarded each other along the length of the glistening blade.

Islena's exquisite green eyes had narrowed into slits of concentration. Her prominent biceps stood out in full relief as the tip inched closer to her left breast.

Conceding to the inevitable, she closed her hands about the blade and pushed, gritting her teeth against the anticipated razor bite of the blade.

What occurred next would play in her mind again and again over the course of the following days and weeks as though her subconscious adamantly refused to accept the apparent reality of the moment. Instead of propelling the sword toward the startled Curate, Islena's touched somehow induced the sword to leap forward toward her exposed flesh.

Jackylwyn gasped and his eyes popped wide. His body stiffened as an alien forced invaded the chambers and recesses of his mind, usurping control of his limbs. He cried out again, his lungs nearly bursting with the vehemence of his exclamation of agony and horror. The sheer enormity of the alien force moved to fill the tangible and intangible vessels of the thing that had once been Jackylwyn. In the final excruciating seconds of his life, the Curate realized that the fabric of his mind and the sinew of his body would never be able to accommodate the invader.

Islena grimaced as the friction of the blade set the callused flesh of her palms afire. Still, the expected torrent of blood never materialized, nor did the tip of the sacred sword pierce her tight skin.

The subdued corona of blue, which had enveloped the two antagonists, suddenly flared, blinding the spectators to what was to follow.

Twin shafts of crimson fire sprang from the dragon's eyes, catching the Curate in mid-shriek. Jackylwyn clutched his face as his skin liquefied and began to flow through his fingers. Releasing the shaft, the Curate wailed and staggered backwards. His fingers came away from his face with wet sound that caused Islena's stomach to clench painfully.

"What have you done?" the curate demanded of the mystified Doraux, who stared at the grotesque parody of a human face with grim fascination.

"Nothing, I've nothing to do with any of this," she protested weakly.

Jackylwyn responded to her declaration of innocence by lunging at the paralyzed woman. As his chest collided with the haft of the sword, his eyes bulged and then ejected from their sockets with two distinctive pops. Shafts of red light ripped through the opening, setting the nearest two monks aflame.

The Curate's flayed flesh hung from his skull in dripping flaps as the bones of his face began to bulge and distend under the increasing pressure of the alien force now suffusing his body.

"Please make it stop," Islena croaked thickly. Despite her intense hatred for the Curate, she derived no pleasure from his grotesque death waltz. As if in compliance with her wish to bring the horror to an abrupt end, the Curate's skull finally succumbed to the internal onslaught and burst apart. The headless body fell to the stones in slow motion, where it decomposed to colorless dust in the space of thirty seconds.

The spectacular demise of their leader shattered the composure of the remaining monks, who turned to flee in a blind stampede, recanting upon their oath to sacrifice their lives for their precious God.

Islena watched the panicked flight as though from the bottom of a deep pool. She found herself still clutching the sword and was mildly surprised by its weight. Suddenly, the metal began to thrum in her hands as the long recumbent power of the Jerhia Icon began to stir. Fearing that the coalescing power would do to her what it had done to Jackylwyn, she frantically tried to throw the blade aside. Much to her dismay, the powerful fingers, that clutched the cutting edges of the sword, would not uncurl.

"Gillian," she cried, turning toward the Jerhia, whose pinched expression conveyed the extent of his confusion and incredulity. Her despairing cry shattered his paralysis. A sharp elbow to the sternum incapacitated the guard on his left. The other reacted in a dull-eyes syrupy motion that left him vulnerable to the Jerhia's savage counter. A sweeping chop shattered the monk's wrist, sending his dagger clattering across the floor. The man regarded his wrist with a kind of abstract horror and simply wandered away.

Gillian watched the man's shambling exit and then moved closer to Islena, still perplexed by all that had transpired and seemed yet to be unfolding. He placed a hand upon her shoulder and reached for the sword with the intention of relieving her of the burden.

Like the dramatic appearance of the Sherak, an enormous force surged up along the length of his arm and brushed his mind, filling his thoughts with a vision of indescribable puissance that defeated his ability to grasp its immensity. Then he felt himself being lifted from his feet and roughly flung across the room where he landed in a disoriented sprawl. Fighting grimly to maintain his grip upon consciousness, he climbed unsteadily to his feet, but abruptly stumbled to his knees.

His vacant stared indicated to Islena that she could expect no further assistance there.

Again, twin shafts of light issued forth from the dragon's eyes, this time without the lethal harshness that had slain the Curate. The red glow encapsulated Islena, caressing her body with a touch that was at once sensual and immeasurably comforting.

It wound its way around her body, seeking ingress and gaining it through the gateways of her eyes and the dark valley of her womanhood. She threw back her head, face set in a contorted portrait of unabashed pleasure. In that moment of infusion, Islena knew that whatever power this sword might hold, it would bring her no harm. On the contrary, she experienced a soaring elation that, for the moment at least, reduced her tribulations to meaningless trifles. In that instant, every obstacle seemed surmountable, every enemy seemed conquerable.

The collective consciousness of an entire people spoke to her with a single purpose that dazzled her senses. In the span of a second, the evolution of the Jerhia culture and psyche played itself out in her thoughts...expanding the limits of her mind like a bursting nova. Like a living encyclopedia, Islena absorbed the cumulative knowledge of an entire race...several millennia of collective civilization absorbed in the span of seconds.

The restraints that bound her arms tore open and flew across the room, embedding themselves deep in the opposite wall. The great blade spun wildly in the air, before slapping the haft into Islena's open palms.

"Ah!" she sighed in a throaty articulation of animal delight. A broad smile spread over her exotic countenance as she straightened to face the decimated ranks of her tormentors. They scrambled about the vast chamber like rats trapped in a cage with a ravenously hungry cat.

"Time to die!" Islena decreed cheerily, now more of an instrument of vengeance than a mortal. Raising the mighty sword with one powerful arm, she closed her eyes and allowed her senses to be inundated by its might, melding this with her immutable outrage. Still grinning, she began to wave the icon about her head in great, sweeping circles. Slowly at first, and then accelerating to the speed of a blurred dervish, the weapon cut through the air with a high whine.

Her fury mounted, until her irreducible rage reached the boiling point. The dragon's fire jumped forth, seeking out the scurrying monks with a chilling accuracy. One by one, they burst into flames, suffering through the same accelerated decomposition that had reduced the Curate to dust.

The carnage was not enough to appease her appetite for vengeance. With a small degree of alarm, the rational part of her mind understood that she was not precisely sure how to stop the destructive outpouring of unmitigated power.

Gillian lifted his head painfully and gazed about through pain-distorted eyes, distressed by the cataclysm that raged about him. At the storm's heart, Islena continued to wield the ancient icon, her naked, bronze torso radiant with perspiration and her face contorted into a wrathful grin.

'She's lost control,' he discerned at once and quivered, correctly surmising that her lust for vengeance might not discriminate between friend and foe.

Islena cried out again. Every fiber in her body vibrated with raw, unadulterated power that continued to cycle up like a monstrous engine. Finding no living being upon which to vent her outrage, she directed it upon the walls of the iniquitous structure.

The stained glass mural exploded and rained down in a million tiny fragments. The red rage seared the stone walls and deep mazes of cracks spread from wall to wall and ceiling to floor.

A figure charged through the open doorway. Islena brandished the sword in its direction and unleashed the ruby fire without consideration to the identity of the target. Lorio was dead, after all, and with her death, Islena had lost her only friend in a world which had proven nothing but hostile. Her only allegiance was to herself.

The channeled force caught the figure full in the chest and propelled it back through the open doorway.

"Islena, in the name of the Gods, cease this madness," the Jerhia beseeched from above the roar of devastation.

Islena focused her gaze upon the man. Dim recognition filtered through the curtain blind anger and indignation. "Run, Gillian. Go now. The power is so compelling...so irresistible. I'm going to reduce this whole accursed place to rubble...so if you wish to live, flee."

Gillian grimaced. The glaring need to destroy, to extract revenge, had supplanted all reason. Again, he thought that perhaps Ossiran's dispassionate condemnation had been warranted.

Suddenly, a single intrepid monk appeared through the clouds of smoke and dust. His face radiated a serenity that transcended simple bravery. He approached Islena with no obvious sign of apprehension. "You must stop this senseless destruction at once. This vulgar exhibition of power will have consequences that you cannot begin to imagine. Suppress the ugly rage in your mind and bring the sword's puissance to heel."

He extended his arms to demonstrate that he posed no threat to Islena. She squinted through the red effulgence and recognized the monk as the one who had assisted Baroth in his ostensible effort to save Lorio.

"You were one of the men who killed Lorio," she seethed, preparing to excoriate the monk for his role in the Lamish woman's death.

"Your friend is not dead," he replied evenly. Even through her rage-colored haze, she could discern no guile in the monk's words. The whirling corona of dragon's fire revolved around her head, marginally dimmed, though far from extinguished. The man ventured further. "She has been entranced by the ranters and may be roused by a simple utterance." His tone became mildly reproachful. "Yet, should you persist in this mindless exhibition of destruction, you shall kill her along with the rest of us."

Islena's face suddenly cringed, hot tears springing to her eyes. As her jubilation became disappointment, she confessed, "I can't!"

The monk shook his head as though not quite grasping what he had just been told.

"What?" he murmured, his composure momentarily shaken.

"I...can't...make it...stop!" she wailed, her voice fraught with a terrible anxiety. Grasping her predicament, the monk closed his eyes and bowed his head. In the next moment, his solid flesh and nondescript features began to melt into a doughy mass which rapidly lost all color and definable shape. When the transformation had concluded, the lucid eyes were the only feature that could be clearly distinguished.

"A Metocan!" Gillian exclaimed in wonder. The implications of the mystic's presence added a new and dangerous complexion to the already chaotic situation.

Islena regarded the improbable figure warily as he glided toward her. His voice was gentle and soothing. "Open your mind to me."

She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. Her years of intense training had taught her how to achieve a maximum level of concentration. In the darkness, she could feel her body gyrating with virtually limitless power. Gradually, she became aware of an intrusive presence in her thoughts. Her body was suffused by a serenity that slowly dulled the heat of the dragon's fire and she willingly surrendered herself to its control.

As abruptly as the cataclysm had begun, it was over, leaving a pale and shaken Islena holding the exquisite, yet apparently ordinary weapon. As strong as her revulsion was, an inner voice prevented her from casting the weapon aside. Her eyes swept over the chamber, regarding the array of incinerated corpses with bewilderment and abhorrence, before settling upon the Metocan.

"How did you do that?" she inquired in a tremulous voice.

The translucent flesh shifted into what proved to be a surprisingly engaging smile. "A simple matter really. Your outburst was fuelled by rage. Once your anger was mollified your will regained control of the Sword's power. I would hope that you now perceive the importance of the relationship between the icon's force and your volatile temper."

Even when delivering a reproof, the Metocan's tone was placid and Islena, who was normally sensitive to perceived condescension, could not help but smile weakly. "Who are you?"

"My name is Kevlan, and I am by no means extraordinary," he replied. She could see that see that his shyness was not feigned. Gillian crossed the rubble-strewn floor to join the pair. He stared at Kevlan with an expression of wonder and something that might have been suspicion.

"Our Metocan friend is guilty of his nation's putrid humility," a voice declared from behind the three. As one, they wheeled about to be confronted by a shimmering apparition of the enchantress stepping into the devastated chamber. She stepped over the desiccating and blackened corpses with her customary grace and aplomb, her face displaying no reaction to the carnage.

Her limpid eyes settled upon the magnificent sword in Islena's hands. A look of undisguised avarice rippled across the enchantress' face, tempering her rare beauty.

"I knew that you would not disappoint me, Islena. I knew that you would be attracted to the Icon with you typically aimless yet inexorable determination." Her fond smile belayed the fact that she stood facing her mortal enemy. Islena correctly interpreted the affection and shivered, causing Myrhia to chuckle in disdain. "As vehemently as you profess your refusal to be drawn into the politics of this world, here you stand, aligned with a Metocan and a Jerhia."

Islena glared sharply at Gillian, who merely nodded an admission and then averted his eyes. Doraux's sharp reaction clearly delighted the High Queen, who had long before mastered the art of sowing the seeds of discord.

"Ah, burgeoning comprehension. You see, Islena, I've deceived you, but who other than the unimaginative Lamish whore, has not lied to you and attempted to manipulate you. Look to the Jerhia and ask yourself if whatever help he's offered you has been motivated by selfless generosity." Sweeping her gaze over Kevlan and Gillian, she queried, "What ulterior motive governs their actions?"

Islena glowered at her reviled enemy, but the first dark misgivings had already begun to blossom in her mind.

"Where is Lorio?" she cried, suddenly alarmed by the realization that her friend was alone and helpless.

"Bring the harlot," Myrhia commanded and a large monk immediately appeared at the threshold, unceremoniously dragging the still unconscious Lorio by the ankle. Something about the figure's powerful stride seemed vaguely familiar to Islena, but the monk's face was obscured by a full hood.

"These bastards are your cronies, then?" Islena demanded, prompting Myrhia to throw back her head and laugh. "In this matter, everyone is my agent; even those who are foresworn to destroy me shall unwittingly serve my ends."

In a sudden lithe motion, the enchantress bent down and pressed her index finger against Lorio's left breast and uttered a single esoteric word. Lorio's eyes popped open and she gazed about in sheer, disoriented terror.

Then her eyes settled upon the spectral figure of the enchantress and a towering rage ignited on her drawn face. As impetuous as always, she launched herself at Myrhia with a strident cry.

The enchantress simply faded like youth, leaving the dazed Lorio to crash heavily to the stone floor. Undaunted as always, she pushed herself to her feet and rushed at Myrhia a second time, not gleaning the true nature of the High Queen's presence. In a fluid motion, the monk came forward and swatted Lorio down with a casual flick of a fist.

"Enough!" Islena raised and brandished the sword. "Touch her again and I swear that I'll cut your heart out."

With Islena's mounting anger, the red effulgence began to gather about her...the dragon's eyes winking in anticipation. Kevlan glided forward and laid a restraining hand upon her shoulder. "Ignore her provocations, woman. Can you not see that your unbridled fury is precisely what she desires?"

"Yes, Islena, release the power in one consuming wrathful fit. Reduce this evil structure to dust and extirpate my scourge as well," Myrhia taunted, spreading her arms like a supplicant.

The enchantress stood erect and spread her arms as if to suggest either vulnerability or invitation. Islena scowled, her breasts heaving with the craving to strike, but the placating hand of the Metocan stayed her fury.

After an interminable moment, Myrhia dropped her hands and shrugged. "A prudent choice, my sweet one. While you are in a pragmatic frame of mind, perhaps it is the occasion to examine the hard realities of your situation."

With this, the enchantress flickered and vanished, only to reappear an equal distance behind the trio. The three pivoted to face her.

"Why waste time on such gaudy carnival tricks?" Kevlan chided in an uncharacteristic display of ire.

"Indeed, Metocan," Myrhia retorted with amusement. "Such bravado from a race which cowers within a curtain of mist like frightened little night creatures, fearful of the sun's glare."

"Your race is doomed to extinction," Myrhia pronounced and then dismissed the Metocan.

"I'm going to make one final egalitarian gesture on your behalf, Islena. Come with me now and I'll allow your companions to leave this place unharmed." She seemed to consider this and then added, "I might even be persuaded to allow the Lamish whore to accompany you as an amusing diversion...a token of my benevolence and desire to reach an amicable accord."

Islena bristled, but said nothing, though her body was taut with the desire to attack the enchantress.

Patiently, Myrhia continued, "I'm only asking you to accept the inevitable. I have carefully mapped every path upon which you have and have yet to tread. The first Icon is in your possession and there shall be two further moments such as this. There will follow a moment of apotheosis and then you must submit to me. Your rancor will twist and subvert you, Islena. If candor is still possible for you, you will know that the process of your perversion has already begun."

"If prophecy proves correct, she shall live to be your bane, serpent Queen," Kevlan interjected.

"I spit on your prophecy," Myrhia growled. "I am immune to the sting of some vapid, ancient lore conceived by simpering idiots. Augury has never divined the innate flaw that hides deep in the cleft of this woman's soul."

Her eyes settled squarely upon Islena, penetrating and incisive. The High Queen's words echoed in the chambers of Islena's mind. "You and I know the darkness. You have long struggled to control it, but with every day and every indignity, your resolve weakens. Eventually, that dark aspect of your nature shall come to dominate your every action and more significantly, the awesome power that you are destined to inherit."

"Know this, Islena, the moment of retribution shall fall upon you like an anvil from the heavens. The grim reality of what you are shall consume your spirit and erode the barriers of your delusions. Then, you shall come to me for relief from the misery of disillusionment."

"I'd rather die than crawl to you," Islena countered, though her eyes conveyed a glimmer of doubt.

"Really?" Myrhia quipped sardonically. "Do you believe that death is a line of demarcation across which I cannot reach? How many bitter surprises must you endure before you grasp the full extent of my power? Are you really so stubbornly obtuse?"

Islena was cognizant of the presence even before the hand fell upon her shoulder and the painfully familiar voice rang in her ear. "Hello Izzy."

Islena tensed, her mind braying a strident denial. 'I don't want to see,' she pleaded. 'Please, God, don't let this happen.'

Her silent entreaty fell upon deaf ears. She was spun about by powerful hands to come face to face with the thing that had been Marla Holmes. With an eager glee, Marla drew back her fist and struck Islena in the face, though the fist became an open hand just before impact.

Doraux cried out, though more in horror than pain, and reeled backward. Gillian drew the short sword, which he had taken from one of the monks, and imposed himself between Islena and the Morticant.

"I've never killed a woman, but you may force me to set a precedent," he warned. Both Marla and the enchantress laughed. Kevlan closed his eyes and attempted to probe the black woman's mind. Penetrating her thoughts, he quickly discovered, was akin to falling into a pit of writhing vipers. He fled the confines of the hybrid's soul, visibly shaken by the maelstrom that he had encountered.

"Stay back, Gillian," he warned. "This thing is a vile abomination. Your sword will inflict no damage."

As if to emphasize this, Marla seized the sword from the distracted Jerhia's hand and brushed him aside as though he were a paper doll. Her eyes met Islena's and she unflinchingly drove the blade into her own flesh, not stopping until the guard had touched bone.

Islena loosed a horrified cry of anguished and averted her gaze. "You're not Marla."

"Oh, but I am, Izzy," the Morticant disagreed blithely. Stripping off the habit, she towered naked over the fallen Doraux. The sculpted majesty of her powerful body was marred only by the protruding sword and the livid scar which wound a jagged course around her throat and neck.

"Look at me, you self-possessed little bitch," she rasped. Despite her revulsion and sinking despair, Islena could not refuse the imperative. Slowly, she turned her face to look at the woman who loomed over her like an engine of vengeance, fuelled by a malignant hatred that had thoroughly leeched away everything that had been good and gentle from her soul.

"I am Marla, but everything that I've become and all that I have suffered through and lost is a direct consequence of your obdurate refusal to see beyond your own prejudices and conceits. You wouldn't listen, wouldn't accept the possibility that your shallow view of reality might be woefully incomplete."

"You killed me just as surely as if it had been your hands drawing the garroting wire," she concluded harshly, her eyes glazed by an unbridled acrimony.

Islena shook her head and moaned an inarticulate wail of abnegation and denial. She wanted desperately to repudiate Marla's accusations, but a sense of guilt and shame held her tongue. Her attempt to speak dissolved into a wail of anguish.

"Don't fret, Izzy," Marla urged as though alarmed by her friend's distress. "Your tears are as unfounded as they are meaningless. Providence brought Myrhia to retrieve me from the grim finality of death. Not only has she restored me to life, she has granted me immortality and indescribable power."

She looked to Myrhia with a fawning, obsequious smile that made Islena want to scream. "In resurrection, my mind was cleansed of all of the superfluous clutter which made Marla Holmes so inconsequential. I exist for one purpose and one purpose alone; I'm going to kill you, Izzy."

A huge, feral grin spread over Marla's face. Her eyes blazed with the zeal of a compulsive death merchant. "I'm going to crush you muscle to muscle, flesh to flesh. I want to hold you at the moment of death and feel you shudder one final time and fall limp. I want to crush the life out of your pretentious body. That one intimate sharing of your death shall be validation for the hell that I've been subjected to on your behalf."

Islena's tears came in a furious deluge. Half-blinded by their stinging flow, she stood to confront her accuser. Her tone was fraught with a dull outrage and a grim resignation. "Then do it, Marla," she invited morosely. "I won't resist at all...won't even raise the slightest fight. If this is what I've done to you, then it's only fair recompense, anyway."

She stumbled toward the Morticant, arms spread wide in a gesture of unconditional surrender. Marla hesitated, peering suspiciously at her avowed enemy. Deep in the jellied interior of her cerebral cortex, a barely audible voice protested against this madness. It exhorted her to see that this hatred was artificial and misplaced, but when Islena suddenly cast aside the sword, the voice was swept away in a rush of blood lust.

Islena came to a halt within arm's length of the powerful hybrid. In her state of utter despair, she saw absolution in the enormous, curving muscles of the ebony creature's incredible body. "Kill me, Marla," she implored and fell into the Morticant's outstretched arms. The hybrid emitted a deep, guttural grunt of satisfaction and imprisoned Islena in a crushing bear hug, very much like the one which had disposed of Ynthrax.

Islena, continuing to weep, draped her arms over Marla's shoulders and locked her thighs around the slender waist. All three witnesses regarded Islena's apparent suicidal submission with varying degrees of alarm and incredulity, none more so than the High Queen.

"Marla, you are not to harm her!" the enchantress commanded, somehow managing to subjugate her welling distress. The Morticant responded with a feral snarl, but did not intensify the pressure on Islena's ribs.

Doraux could discern the enormous power poised to crush the very life out of her and found that she welcomed the prospect of death and its innate release. She could see nothing other than wretched futility in further existence beyond this ghastly moment.

"To hell with her, Marla," Islena croaked through her torment. "You were right; every indignity that you've suffer is solely my doing and the only partial justice comes with my death. I dearly want to atone for what I've done. Now do what your yearning to do! Kill me, Marla!"

The Morticant drew back its head and gazed into Islena's eyes, its anger attenuated by a budding distrust. Doraux's eyes blazed with an eager anticipation that defied the Morticant's skewed sensibilities. The hybrid uttered a cry of disgust and threw Islena to the stone floor. "I will not serve you. When I do kill you, it will be at a time of my choosing, when the desire to live has been rekindled in your heart."

She turned to her creator, her visage twisted by a profound misery. The enchantress regarded her creation coldly.

"Go! Await my return on the steps of the Abbey," She commanded harshly. Marla shuddered, cast one final longing glance at Islena, and fled the room.

In the confusion, Gillian had maneuvered himself toward the sword. He quickly stooped down to retrieve the Jerhia icon, but as his fist was about to close upon the haft, the stone clattered away from him and came to rest next to the despondent Doraux.

She regarded the weapon vacantly, refusing to open her mind to its silent entreaties and its propositions of power. The realization that this inanimate object had its own design upon her...its own expectation, set her to whimpering.

Truncated by her tears, the High Queen floated into Islena's view. "Why prolong your agony? There is no benefit to be had in futile resistance to the inevitable. Do you not see that your pain is my pain? There will be no respite or sanctuary to be had. Your torment, your inconsolable sorrow will grow exponentially."

Thoroughly defeated, Islena merely turned on her side and cradled her face in her hands. Myrhia glanced away in disgust. "Are you so completely dispirited that you are reduced to such futile childishness?"

Unable to suffer any more of the enchantress' merciless abjection of the broken woman, Gillian jumped at the High Queen, though reason cautioned him that he lacked the faculties to wage combat against a specter.

She cast an impatient glance in his direction and pursed her pouting lips. The floor beneath his feet abruptly canted as though the massive stones which comprised the floor were being levered from the ground. His legs quickly betrayed him and he found himself gazing up at the jagged shards that had once been the Runesholm mural.

"Your feeble displays of chivalry grow tiresome, Jerhia," Myrhia hissed. She fixed him with a withering glare and then turned back to Islena. "You think that you've suffered? My restraint has spared you from genuine misery."

"But, no more," she promised in a tone that suggested that the limit of her tolerance had been exceeded. "I shall educate you in the true mechanics of despair and degradation. From this day forth, no aspect of your life shall be immune or inviolable. Spurn my generous offer of partnership if you will, but the consequences will be dire."

She pointed to the crumbling door through which the hybrid had so recently fled. "What was once a shallow, capricious woman has been transmogrified into an amalgam of malice and virtual indestructibility who is devoted solely to your destruction. Imagine your husband and children so transformed."

A vivid image of Marla, face twisted into a feral grin, eyes glowing with a duality of alien strangeness and familiarity, rose unbidden in her mind. Gradually, this terrifying image dissolved, only to resolve itself into a horrific Morticant parody of her husband, Ben.

She emitted a wretched gasp and forced the image from her mind. Even she was not aware of the almost devious movement of her hand as it sought out the haft of the sword. Kevlan noticed and silently implored her to reject the Queen's duress.

"Only you can spare yourself this indescribable torment. Come forward of your own volition and pledge yourself to my service. One simple act can alleviate your suffering and insure the safety of those whom you hold dear."

Islena donned a mask of confusion and anguished indecision. The High Queen drifted forward, going so far as to extend a delicate right hand in a gesture of benevolence. Doraux grinned, an ugly expression of utter abhorrence that did not touched her eyes. "I'll never be your lackey. If it's this damnable sword that you covet, take it and go back to hell."

With this, she heaved the huge blade over her head, marshalling all of the acrimony she could find in her heart, and hurled it at the shimmering apparition of the enchantress.

Myrhia's expression of expectant triumph congealed into one of astonished horror. She quickly raised her hands to ward off a blow which fell in a dimension that was more astral than physical.

A deafening shriek tore through the frigid air of the Abbey, setting the already compromised walls of the structure to vibrating.

Her image became indistinct and then vanished completely, dissolving to the accompaniment of the enchantress' nerve-rending cries. Myrhia's rapid demise startled Islena, who watched the flickering image dissolve with gape-jawed wonder.

"Is it over?" she inquired of no one in particular. Surely Myrhia could not be vanquished so simply? Meanwhile, the Icon continued its flight, reversing its course in a broad circle, before coming to rest in Islena's outstretched palm. She stared at the weapon, absently repulsed by the concept that the sword had forged an intangible bond with her.

"No, it's really quite straightforward," a small voice informed her with a hint of mordant delight. "The Icon is drawn to you, as you were to it, in accordance with the prophecies of the ancients. The only prevailing mystery is your refusal to accept what your senses insist to be true."

Islena cried out in bitter negation, allowing herself to sink to her knees, but not relinquishing her grip on the sword. In her grip, the weapon felt more like an extension of her own body...more like a deadly appendage than a separate tool of destruction. This irresistible attraction stood as an irrefutable substantiation of everything that the enchantress had spoken of. By a massive exertion of will, she forced her fingers to open and let the golden haft slip to the damp stone.

At that moment, a thunderous, apocalyptic voice filled the Abbey, Its resounding tone fraught with a strident fury. "You have chosen. I have generously offered you virtual immortality and inconceivable wealth and power, which you have rejected out of hand. There can be no reversal. You have cast your lot with those who presume to oppose me and thus linked your fate with theirs."

"Know this; I shall not be denied or dissuaded. Nor shall the shallow moral precepts that so encumber your pretentious allies, restrain me from realizing the mantle of omnipotence for which I am destined."

"Prepare yourself for the degradation of absolute despair and capitulation." Myrhia delivered this bombastic admonition with a supreme confidence that suggested foreknowledge as though she had managed to peer behind the veils of the future to see her eventual victory. The notion caused Islena to cringe and sink deeper into her morass of desolation.

"Go with your friends and allies. In the end, even that shall prove beneficial to my designs. You have become the personification of death. Your very proximity is a curse for all about you."

The thundering, disembodied voice fell silent. Soon after, the malign presence withdrew from the Abbey, leaving in its wake, death, sterile desolation and the high whine of a frigid, remorseless wind.

Still weeping, and fearing that she might be unable to stop, Islena slumped forward onto her face, the sword lying by her side with mute patience. Gillian and Kevlan exchanged concerned glances, but neither moved to offer solace to the grieving woman.

Lorio slowly emerged from her stupor, her empathy for Islena rousing her from her unconsciousness. She immediately grasped the depth of her friend's anguish and crawled to her. Tenderly, she placed her hands upon the shattered woman's shoulders and raised her into a sitting position.

Islena's eyes were clouded by grief that appeared infinite. Seeing Islena poised on the edge of the abyss drove Lorio to tears. Seeing the symbol of deliverance so close to utter defeat loosened Lorio's own tenuous grip on hope. If Islena surrendered to torpor, Lorio's fragile spirit would be broken as well.

"We're alive, Islena," she whispered fiercely. Doraux's glazed eyes regarded her friend without comprehension. The expression was disconcerting, but Lorio forced herself to go on. "The bitch has attempted to break us, but she's failed. There is strength to be gained through perseverance, and now you have this." she pointed out, indicating the sword and its wealth of power. "I think that Myrhia already suspects that she's committed a grievous error."

Islena's gaze slid to the floor. The sight of the ominous weapon and the bewildering bondage to an uninvited destiny that its presence implied filled her with an ugly, vindictive need to lash out. After all, this child, with her infuriating idealism, was largely responsible for cajoling Islena into this lunatic quest. Had she been thinking rationally, she would have immediately seen that her delegation of blame was cruelly unfair. In the extreme of her dejection, exacerbated by the gloom of this charnel house, Islena's only thought and consuming need was to inflict a measure of suffering upon another, just as it had been inflicted upon her.

With calculated cruelty, she snapped, "Your father is dead."

Lorio recoiled as though she had been physically struck.

"He died in the dungeons of Perdwick and that's precisely what he deserved," Islena continued, her mouth twisting into a feral snarl.

"Islena...you're distraught, you have no idea what you're saying," Lorio stammered, her lower lip beginning to tremble.

"I know precisely what I'm saying," Islena contradicted harshly. "Who do you think led Myrhia's troops to the village? Dear old dad entered into a tidy arrangement with the High Queen, giving me up in return for...for what? You'd be in a better position to know what might induce him to sell his soul."

Lorio was shaking her head in vehement denial. Her face reflected the panic and shock that Islena's sudden vicious attack had provoked.

"My father loved me, cherished me," she screamed defiantly, though a seed of doubt had germinated in her eyes.

"Oh, yes indeed," Islena laughed contemptuously. "His love for you was a precious thing. So unremitting that he subjected you to brutal contests for the amusement of the savages that you are so naively devoted to."

"Stop it, Islena. Please stop," Lorio pleaded, her entire body shaking convulsively. This was worse than physical torture and the limbo that the cleric's spell had consigned her to.

Still, Islena persisted with a malicious glee that penetrated and then ravaged Lorio's already vulnerable heart. "You are partially right, though. The bastard never intended to endanger you. He had no way of knowing that his selfish, arrogant little Lamish princess would suddenly develop a moral conscience. Yes, he didn't want you to go, nor did he have the ethical sense to admit his treachery. He watched you go into the jaws of the dragon rather than risk injury to his pride."

"How can you know this?" Lorio challenged through her tears. It suddenly occurred to her that the enchantress might have implanted a demon in her friend's mind. With cruel emphasis, Islena disclosed, "I was there when he was taken into the dungeons. I knew that he was being held captive there even before I discovered that you were being held."

Lorio's trembling became severe and she backed away from Islena as if the other might be poisonous. "You knew of his imprisonment and you allowed him to remain there?"

Once vented, Islena seemed unable to control the sadistic compulsion to deliver one crippling emotional blow after another. "Yes, but I don't imagine that his suffering was protracted. It isn't likely that he lingered too long."

Lorio placed her hands over her ears, laid back her head and keened shrilly. She found herself unable to accept Islena's vitriolic tirade and was thoroughly devastated by the maelstrom that had descended upon her already wretched life. Her eyes locked upon Islena's, who viewed the Lamish woman's torment with a malefic delight.

"This..." She stopped abruptly. Outrage had robbed her of her ability to articulate her indignation "was not necessary." With this, she fled the chamber and the Abbey, sprinting blindly into the purgatorial wastes where she was quickly swallowed up by the darkness.

Islena watched her go and then hung her head. During the exchange, Gillian and Kevlan had looked on speechlessly. Both men were appalled by the torrent of rancor that Islena had unleashed upon the woman, whom she had proclaimed to be her only true friend. Equally disturbing was the relish and ferocity with which she had administered the psychological thunderbolts.

It was Gillian who was most profoundly affected by the ugly display. In the time in which they had traveled together, he had had no inkling of this capacity for malevolence.

After a moment, Islena became aware of their intense scrutiny. She rose to face them, appearing both subdued and sullen. "You may think that what I just did was indefensible, and quite candidly, I don't particularly give a tinker's damn. I've endured enough without being shackled by misguided expectations."

She noticed the ancient sword lying idly at her feet and delivered a wrathful kick that sent it clattering into the shadows. "If the bitch wants me to take up that sword, she's going to have to plant it in my heart."

She glowered at the two men, as though defying each to lecture her upon the exigency of the cause and the imperative necessity of resisting despair.

Instead, Gillian merely inquired, "What are your intentions?"

"I don't know," she replied bluntly. "Perhaps I'll just sit here until I find enough courage or despair to kill myself."

"Might I suggest accompanying us across the final causeway to the western continent?"

Islena contemplated the offer for a moment, then shrugged and acquiesced with marked indifference. If she elected to bring an end to her misery, she could just as easily do so in the west. Besides, she did not relish the prospect of dying in a place that held so many uneasy shades.

The trio prepared to depart without further word. While Islena and Gillian rummaged the Abbey for food and clothing, Kevlan retrieved the Icon, wrapping and binding it.

Upon her return, Islena noted that he carried the sword in his possession. She regarded him balefully and vowed, "Bring it if you will, but you will never entice me to use it."

"Milady, it was never my intention to try," he responded with a benign smile. Soon after, the trio set out, leaving the cavernous remains of Runesholm to molder in the bleak desolation of the Blighted Lands.

THUS ENDS THE FIRST PART OF ISLENA DORAUX'S JOURNEY THROUGH THE LAND OF SHADES.

15-02-1992

26-01-2011

Glossary: Elements of the drama, both grand and small

**Islena Doraux:** An ascendant being...Daughter of the Tempest...a Seattle, Washington resident who is drawn into an antiquated world to search for the Three Proclamations of Omnipotence...the fable _One of Prophecy._

**Benjamin Richards:** Husband of Islena, father of Donald and Allan.

**Allan:** The younger of Islena and Ben's two sons.

**Donald:** The eldest son of Islena and Ben.

**Marla Holmes:** Co-worker and close personal friend of Islena. Later, the first Human-Morticant Hybrid and Islena's avowed enemy.

**Dominique Normandy:** A Genuine clairvoyant who first discloses the dire threat looming over Islena's life during a seemingly impromptu tarot reading.

**Elbert Watts:** A condemned spree killer who is chosen to lead Islena Doraux to the antiquated world.

**Myrhia:** An ascendant being...Mother of Iniquity...Wife of Artumas and eventual usurper of his throne. Queen of Emercia and ruler of the eastern continent...also known as the emerald enchantress.

**James Richler:** Islena's supervisor and nemesis...a tool of augury through which Islena receives a portent of the fate that awaits her.

**The Great Mother:** A seemingly bottomless chasm that separates the eastern and western continents of the antiquated world. The origins of this chasm remain shrouded in mystery as does any explanation of the fact that it has not filled with water. Three natural stone causeways spanning the chasm connect the two continents.

**Rygore:** Tier Marshall (the Jerhia equivalent of General) and commander of the Jerhia Expeditionary Force on the eastern continent. As the story commences, Rygore's primary task is to protect the southern most causeway leading into Jerhia from invading armies.

**Jerhia:** One of the three CornerStone Nations that comprise the countries of the western continent. Jerhia is a tightly regimented society whose citizens are all dedicated to the science and art of warfare. Theirs is a society imbued with and unflagging sense of honor, justice and duty. Jerhia has pledged itself to oppose Myrhia's campaign of ruthless conquest on the eastern continent.

**Kornas:** A country located on the eastern edge of the Great Mother, directly across the chasm from Jerhia. Primarily an agricultural state, it is the site of the final battle between Myrhia's Imperial Army and the Jerhia Expeditionary Force.

**Amrand:** Adjutant to Rygore, he is the first inhabitant of the antiquated world to encounter Islena Doraux and attempts to guide her to the western continent.

**Morticant:** An entity created from a mysterious clay mined in Northern Redia and animated by Myrhia's sorcery. These beings respond only to their creator's commands and are impervious to physical or elemental damage. They are able to transmogrify their structure at the queen's direction and seem virtually invincible.

**Ynthrax:** A Redian mercenary who was rescued from Artumas' executioner by Myrhia and eventually elevated to become the Commander of her conventional Imperial Army.

**Redia:** A lawless nation of brutal mercenaries and raiders. With a topography composed mostly of rugged and impenetrable mountain ranges, Redia is located on the northerly corner of the eastern continent's east cost...the source of the mysterious clay that has allowed Myrhia to create her Morticants.

**Artumas:** An ascendant being...High King of Emercia who was exiled beyond the Land of Shades after his Queen Myrhia usurped his throne.

**Ryalla:** Also known as the thin man, Ryalla is the purported Imperator of Jerhia and Islena Doraux's apparent enemy and tormentor. He appears in Islena's world and threatens her family while vowing that she will serve his purpose in the antiquated world.

**Marius Lockland:** An FBI agent who is co-coordinating the hunt for mass murderer, Elbert Watts...a hunt that eventually leads him to Islena Doraux.

**Icarileen:** The Capital city of the small nation of Suran.

**Suran:** A country located immediately to the south of Emercia, renown for its artists, thespians and the exceptional beauty of its people.

**Crystal of Thamius:** A huge natural crystal imbued with oracular powers and employed by the Inner Circle of Metocan Mages as a tool of divination.

**Inos:** Grand Mage of the Metocan Inner Circle and thus, the putative leader of the Metocan people.

**Metocan:** A CornerStone Nation located at the northern end of the western continent. The Metocan are a culture and society devoted to metaphysics and magic and the pursuit and development of all magical arts deemed acceptable to a lawful and civilized society...an isolated and secretive society that traditionally eschews contact with the outside world, they have nonetheless joined forces with the Natzurdan and Jerhia CornerStone Nations to oppose Myrhia's campaign of conquest.

**Metocan Inner Circle:** Seven Metocan mages who govern the country and who control and direct what is consider practicable and teachable magic.

**Jerrod:** The junior most member of the Inner Circle who is dispatch to The other CornerStone Nations to apprise their leaders of the imminent arrival of Islena Doraux into the antiquated world and the significance of her summons.

**The Lamish:** An itinerant ethnic people who are spread over the entire eastern continent. Known for their often unsavory and unscrupulous conduct, they have fallen afoul of Myrhia and now avoid all contact with non-Lamish people as a course of survival.

**Grigor:** The figurative leader of one of the many Lamish clans roaming the eastern continent. Father of Lorio.

**Lorio:** The daughter of Grigor, Lorio is a master of staff combat and a skilled woods guide, who after losing to Islena in a savage duel of staves, befriends Doraux and become her constant companion.

**Bethian:** resident of a nameless impoverished village where Islena is taken captive.

**Milliar:** daughter of Bethian

**Myanthin:** village elder who attempts to apprise Islena of the prevailing realities of the antiquated world.

**Natzurdan:** A CornerStone Nation devoted to earth magic and the protection and preservation of the natural world...its people are particularly gifted in the ability to fashion stone and living wood. Natzurdan is located on the western continent between Jerhia to the south and Metocan to the north.

**Amberdias:** The capital of Natzurdan and a city that is commonly heralded as the most magnificent in the known world. It is constructed entirely of sculpted stone and living wood.

**Needle of Zadicus:** A towering edifice that serves as a home to the elder of Natzurdan in the heart of Amberdias.

**Morzhian:** The venerable elder of the Natzurdan during the Emerald Enchantress war.

**Ossiran:** Maxim Tier Marshall and putative ruler of Jerhia during the Emerald Enchantress war.

**Iythanos:** Jerhia mountain fortress on the Jerhia-Natzurdan border.

**Gillian:** A non-conformist officer and master swordsman who is dispatched by Ossiran to rescue Islena Doraux...or assassinate her should the prospects of rescue seem impossible.

**Perdwick:** A country on the western edge of the eastern continent.

**Perdwick city:** Capital city of the nation of Perdwick. The city's entire population was exterminated after the besieged city finally fell to advancing Emercian forces. It is in Perdwick that Islena finally comes to distinguish between those who are her allies and those who are her avowed enemies.

**Summergaden:** Capital of Jerhia and seat of the Upper Tier...the governing military body presently led by Maxim Tier Marshall Ossiran.

**Maroc:** Tier Marshall in the Jerhia military and personal adjutant to Ossiran. Later, the Maxim Tier Marshall of Jerhia.

**Isindred:** A blind merchant girl and the only living citizen remaining in Perdwick.

**Glynwith and Kerwyn:** Two feudal lands located immediately to the north of Perdwick, with Kerwyn being the most northerly of the pair. Both small states are largely uninhabited and heavily forested.

**River Tynan:** A river that delineates the northern border of Kerwyn. North of the river lies the inimical Blighted Lands.

**Blighted Lands:** An inhospitable barren waste that spans the entire northern section of the eastern continent. The area is primarily composed of exposed bedrock and scouring sands but is often subject to deadly blizzards. Like many other elements of the antiquated world's arcane topography, the precise origins of the Blighted Lands remain a mystery.

**Sherak:** A ferocious blizzard that often sweeps across the Blighted Lands with little or no warning, dropping massive accumulations of snow.

**Glendon:** An initiate at Runesholm Abbey

**Runesholm Abbey:** A ruined abbey that sits on the upper escarpment of the Blighted Lands within a league of the Great Mother. Nothing is known of the structures original builders or the purpose for which it was erected, but it has now become home to a group of ostracized religious zealots known as the Ranters.

**Ranters:** An exiled religious order that has been relegated to the barrens as a consequence of the order's extreme and often times violent dogma.

**Jackylwyn:** Curate of the Sword at Runesholm Abbey at the time Islena stumbles upon the Ranters.

**Baroth:** A cleric or Runesholm Abbey who is adept in both healing and destructive magic.

**Ranforte:** A monk of Runesholm Abbey at the time of Islena's arrival.

**Ritual of Blooding:** A ritual of human sacrifice intended to appease the deity worshipped by the Ranters of Runesholm.

**Dzorogan:** A former Curate of Runesholm Abbey who undertook an arduous quest to locate the Sword of Judgment.

**The Sword of Judgment:** A Jerhia-forged sword that was found by the Ranters of Runesholm and incorporated into their Ritual of Bloodletting...the first Icon of Omnipotence.

**Tormal:** Supreme Commander of the Emercian Imperial Army selected by Queen Myrhia to replace Ynthrax.

**Pendura, Balmox and Ilderhom:** Three narrow and rugged fjords that lead out of the mountains of Jerhia into the hills of Southern Natzurdan...It is here that Myrhia's invasion of the western continent comes to an abrupt halt.

**Kevlan:** A Metocan dispatched by the Inner Circle to infiltrate the religious order at Runesholm Abbey. After the events at Runesholm Abbey, he leads Islena to the third causeway and the western continent beyond.
