 
Wothlondia Rising

The Anthology

Beginnings

Book 1

By Gary Vanucci

Wothlondia Rising

Gary F. Vanucci

Published by Ashenclaw Studios at Smashwords

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2013 Gary F. Vanucci

Acknowledgements:

I would like to thank the many people who helped me get these short stories to print, all of my fellow authors who have offered support, and peers, family, friends and fans who follow me on twitter, Facebook, Goodreads, and my blog—Eye on Ashenclaw. You guys are extraordinary! I would also like to thank the authors at the Independent Author Network who continue to aid, promote and support me without me having to ask. You people give me inspiration to carry on. I would like to give credit to those who helped me publish these books, including Jason Russell; my editor, Stephanie Dagg, who's editing services can be found here: http://www.booksarecool.com/tag/stephanie-dagg/; the folks who make up Ashenclaw Studios—Nick & Liz Titano, Tom Sullustio; and the entire Saturday night gaming group at the Titano's for so many reasons! And kudos to my artist and fellow author, William Kenney, whose site is here: http://wkenney.deviantart.com/. Also, I would also like to thank Mr. Bob S. for giving me the encouragement and extremely practical writing advice along the way and who helped me maintain the confidence that I needed to persevere.

This series of short stories is dedicated to my mother

Geraldine M. Vanucci

who was a glaring and unforgivable oversight in my first novel

Covenant of the Faceless Knights

Mom, I love you and you are always right...what can I say.

Please visit my home page @ <http://eyeonashenclaw.blogspot.com/> for an extended reading experience and to observe all of my social media. All characters, maps, logos and content in these stories are copyright Ashenclaw Studios, LLC. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by

any means without the written permission of the author.

An

Production

NOTE:

All Wothlondia Rising short stories can be read in any order. They are a series in that they represent prequels to my debut novel, Covenant of the Faceless Knights.

Distant Familiarity specifically details the events that happen just prior to the Prologue of Covenant of the Faceless Knights while the rest of the series take place approximately twelve years prior to the novel.

# Chapter 1

A Rose in Bloom

Rose padded softly down the alley, keeping to the shadows until she entered the busy streets of the Entertainment District. Remaining completely unseen, she approached a merchant's stand teeming with potential buyers. The morning was warm as she felt the sun's rays upon her. The masses were pushing and shoving at the front of this particular kiosk that sold breads, fruits and other delightful foods, looking for the best and freshest of the bunch. She sidled up to the stand and snatched an apple and a piece of bread faster than the eye could follow, placing them into a pocket she'd sewn into her shirt. She did this as a morning ritual, choosing a different stand each day.

She took note of how the streets had become choked with a growing number of Watchmen with each day that passed. This was because Oakhaven proper was growing—especially the Trade District—and why not? The calendar year was 54 P.A. and it was beginning to take on the appearance of what it had been prior to the attacks of Ashenclaw and her dragon kin—a thriving city for trade and a suitable place to make a living, no matter what your profession. As a matter of fact, some of the local historians believed that this current variation of Oakhaven was perhaps even grander and more prosperous than any of its former manifestations.

Reports were beginning to spread around Wothlondia about the volume of people coming in and out of Oakhaven each week, purchasing homes, buildings, warehouses and the like in the Manufacturing and Trade Districts where they could buy and sell on a daily basis. A recent influx of guards, laborers, business owners and longshoreman made the rumors ring with an air of truth.

Yes, Rose thought, Oakhaven is a fine city!

She silently stalked away from the Entertainment District and through the Commons, which was where the homes and smaller businesses that could not afford space in the Manufacturing District were situated. It was also the seedy underbelly of Oakhaven with streets and alleyways full of beggars, thieves and muggers. Some streets were better than others, especially during the hours the sun shone down upon them, but all bets were off at night, unless the Watch happened to be passing by. Even so, the Watchmen walked in packs in the Commons and patrolled this district less often than any of the others.

As Rose made her way to the brothel, she avoided one particular place—an orphanage that harbored awful memories. She was as yet unable to face up to what that particular span had done to her over the relatively few years she'd spent upon the face of Wothlondia. She had not yet reached her sixteenth name-day, but she had many recollections from her early teens. Those memories did not elicit pleasant thoughts, nor did they bring into being a joyful childhood. Far from it, Rose thought bitterly.

She had been faced with a constant stream of cruelty from potential guardians in those years. Her maidenhead had been taken from her at a young age, before her thirteenth name-day if she recalled correctly, and as well she had been physically and verbally assaulted and otherwise abused. Many a step-parent, step-sibling or other keeper had mistreated her, or worse, when she'd been in their care, including the proprietor of the orphanage to whom she owed a special kind of payback.

Augustus by name, he was a well-connected man. He had frequently sent her off to a 'guardian' who was unfit to mother or father her properly. More than a few times, when accosted by people who should have been protecting her, Rose had had to defend herself, especially when help from the Watch or city officials did not arrive in a timely manner...or at all. Afterwards, they simply sent her back to the orphanage, too young to face any real charges, and never did they find any evidence of the ill-treatment she claimed—and this despite her obvious bruises. She had hated her time there.

She recalled partially a time when she was preparing to run away from the orphanage when the half-elven and beautiful Marielle had stepped in, coaxing the young woman from Augustus, citing her looks and offering a favorable return on investment if Rose remained unscathed.

Marielle had taken her away from Augustus that summer and Rose began her life at the bordello. It was much improved when compared to the abuse she'd endured at the orphanage, and her figure began to fill out into shapely proportions. Marielle, her Madam, assigned her a position after her fourteenth name-day as an errand girl. She would allot chores to Rose, having her handle everyday jobs, mostly involving washing and cleaning for the first half year of her stay as she was acclimatized to their ways and dealings. Rose was both athletically built and pleasing to the eye for men who enjoyed the company of a female counterpart. This was a blessing in disguise to Marielle, she'd often complimented, as Rose was a comely lass—more so than many of the other girls—and that fact lent itself well to her approaching profession.

Of course, those others couldn't help noticing her burgeoning features and she was often shunned or otherwise mistreated.

Rose had an uncanny sleight of hand, as well as a silver tongue—both of which were a benediction and a curse. She could talk her way into, and then out of trouble, though wise cracks were bountiful and often spoken at inopportune times. She was frequently scolded by her Madam for this particular habit, though Marielle had already guessed that the lectures would not arrest Rose's loose lips.

Rose was also discovering a certain penchant and aptitude for thievery. The thrill of pilfering goods or coin made her heart race, and she could not stop. Theft was fast becoming her drug of choice. She showed a dual acuity of both mind and body that allowed her to accomplish the deeds without being detected a single time—at least by the Watch. She was particularly well accomplished at the art of thievery, and that had attracted some unwanted attention from a certain group of organized crime persons in Oakhaven.

She'd been warned more than once about pilfering goods—including the food she stole—and that if she continued, there would be consequences. But being the brash young soul Rose was, she did not take it seriously, nor did she believe that they would catch her. So, she continued to steal, food mostly, whenever she desired. She did not have much in the way of coin and certainly could not afford the prices of the merchants here in Oakhaven, who sold their goods at inflated cost. But that wasn't the issue. Rose filched because she could, and because she was good at it. And it didn't hurt to have a full belly when going to the brothel in the morning, as Marielle soon had her toiling, putting her to task to complete many chores.

Her source of income had recently started to change in a favorable manner ever since a well-to-do man had begun asking for her—and her specifically—on a regular basis. Rose had spent a full year as one of Marielle's girls now and she'd only had a few repeat customers before, but this man would request only her. The man had an affinity for redheads, she supposed at first, and he was more than kind to her, tipping her generously and never laying a hand on her unless it was to caress. He was a strikingly handsome man to boot, with eyes the color of the deepest blue sky, a neatly trimmed goatee and long, dark hair that he often wore tied back. He also boasted to her in confidence that he was in consideration for a high ranking official's position, which, if he acquired it, she was sure would make his visits less frequent. At least publicly, she considered. There were plenty of high-profile customers who entered Marielle's brothel, but they were treated with the utmost care and discreetness.

She knew that she should separate her personal feelings when it came to her clients, but this man was different. He stirred feelings deep inside her, especially when he looked into her eyes as no other had ever done before. His tone and words were generally soft and inviting, but they also betrayed a hidden side that was more forceful whenever the conversation turned the slightest bit quarrelsome. Mostly, he treated Rose as if she were not a prostitute, but was instead simply a woman deserving of a man's touch and attention. He was persuasive and intelligent, knowledgeable and charming, and appeared to be smitten with the young seducer.

Her Madam, Marielle, was a very kind woman as well, especially to Rose, but was savvy and harsh when she needed to be. Marielle knew how to handle herself amongst the drunken and boorish sort that often visited her brothel. The beautiful half-elven woman favored Rose and personally took to mentoring the young lass, which the other girls observed and teased her about on a daily basis.

All these thoughts receded once she hit the short row of wooden steps leading up to the brothel's entrance. Rose bit into the apple as she opened the door wide and then stopped as two girls moved to impede her progress.

"I'll take that," remarked a raven haired girl named Felicity, as she plucked the half-eaten apple from Rose's grasp. Felicity had once been a very beautiful girl, but had not taken care of herself over the past few years, and had allowed her inward ugliness to spread outside.

"That wasn't very nice," remarked the other, slightly stout woman named Sabrina, her blonde hair pulled back tightly in a pony-tail. She was a striking girl with a good amount of curves, but she lacked confidence about her figure, believing herself to be overweight and unattractive. Rose had heard these admissions whispered often enough in the night, when Sabrina would cry on the shoulder of Felicity or one of the other girls, confiding in them. But Rose knew that Sabrina was naturally beautiful, with her voluptuous form and an intrinsic comeliness that needed no make-up. She was in demand at the brothel, a simple fact that contradicted her very own self-doubts.

"So nice of you to help me watch my figure," Rose quipped slyly, emphasizing her words and tugging lightly at the threads of Sabrina's deepest insecurity.

I can be cruel, too, Rose thought as she turned and let her eyes fall directly onto Sabrina for a moment, before landing harshly on Felicity.

"You are certainly under The Watcher's eye this day, my pretty, knowing I can't rearrange that sweet little face o' yours," Sabrina hissed at her, throwing up a façade of bravado to mask her own diffidence.

Rose simply rolled her eyes incredulously at the comment, pushed past the both of them, and carried on down the hallway to Marielle's quarters. Once there, she rapped on the door and waited, deciphering a shuffling in the room beyond accompanied by muffled voices.

After a moment, she heard a voice from behind the door. Rose turned the handle, opened the door ever so slightly and peered into the dimly lit room. A rather stout and now-flustered man pulled a loose sheet from the bed in an attempt to cover himself, blushing with embarrassment that began to reshape itself into anger.

The half-elven Madam was sprawled out on her bed shamelessly uncovered, her shapely body catching the minimal light that peeked in through the slight gaps of the drapes. She smiled at Rose and stretched, exuding an audacious confidence and basking in her own state of undress. Her body was smooth and the symmetry of her half-elven frame was plentiful. Marielle was more than comfortable in her natural state as she sat up and lit a candle. Her light green eyes sparkled intermittently as she blinked, and her long, dark hair framed her face perfectly. It appeared to Rose that she had been painted on the wall of the room instead of occupying its space.

"Nothing I haven't seen before," Rose wryly stated, standing within the threshold of the room, her words further mortifying and infuriating the man. He continued to cover himself as Rose looked to the floor, then to her Madam, and then to the floor again. Marielle gave Rose a disapproving stare and shook her head in annoyance as Rose stared up at her again. The man was a distinguished merchant in Oakhaven—Bronn was his name—and he was quite well known. He was rumored to be involved in some scandalous activities about town and also happened to be very married. Rose knew all of this, so she assumed that it was also common knowledge amongst the folk in Oakhaven, who blathered of such things nightly at the local taverns.

"This situation had best go no further!" whispered the man in a heated tone, trying to keep his voice down.

Marielle motioned her to come inside so as to avoid further discomfiture to the man. Rose rolled her eyes in reluctance but entered and shut the door as was directed.

"Whatever happens within the walls of my establishment remains within and goes no further. You know our policy, Bronn," Marielle insisted. "We have... insurance policies against such things," she added cryptically.

Rose understood what that meant, as did Bronn, judging by the change in his expression. Marielle was well-connected in the Commons and could call upon certain undesirables, to whom she offered favors of the flesh, in return for a strong arm and a silent tongue.

"Rose, do go about completing your chores and clean up after," Marielle ordered sternly as she pulled on a thin nightgown. "You have an important guest to entertain shortly, too."

Rose turned in a huff and exited the room, closing the door gently on her way out.

She did not like doing chores.

The streets are quiet tonight, thought Ganthorpe as he proceeded toward his destination under cover of the moonlight. He did not worry one moment about being accosted, even here in the Commons.

Oakhaven was fast becoming his town.

He arrived very late in the evening, striding confidently up to the door of Marielle's establishment and knocked firmly upon its oaken surface. A moment later, he recognized the familiar sound of a fairly dependable lock relinquishing its grasp on the knob. As the door opened, a beautiful half-elven woman stood before him, smiling a forced smile and looking radiant, despite the late hour.

"I did not expect to see you at this time of night, especially answering your own door," remarked Ganthorpe cynically, tugging at the lower portion of his goatee as he smiled in a deflecting manner. "I'd have thought that the lovely Marielle would be sharing someone's bed by now, or counting her coin from the night's fruitful bounty."

"You are late," she said curtly. "She will not like that," the Madam added, ignoring his comments. Just then a bell tolled in the distance, reflecting the time of day—or night in this case—which happened to be midnight. The timekeeper, Brogan, had begun using a series of markedly different-pitched tolling bells to signify the passing of the hours in Oakhaven, with each unique chime signifying a particular time. Ganthorpe grimaced at the sound of the chime, soft though it was, as it startled him. The bells were something new that had been implemented recently and Ganthorpe, being a disciple of the darkness, did not take too kindly to the change.

"He will get it right, and soon," Marielle offered in an attempt to quell his irritation, easily sensing his disturbance and uneasiness at hearing the bells. She, of course, wanted her patrons to be unperturbed when they were within her walls, though Ganthorpe noted she couldn't help a wry smile at his reaction as she closed the door behind him.

He strode respectfully past the women gathered in the antechamber of the brothel, who were all gawking at him, and he smiled back at them with his charming grin. Then he suddenly turned to Marielle, who was escorting him to the room.

"Sorry for my delay," he apologized as he tossed a golden coin toward her. She caught it and smiled, never even looking at it.

"A peace offering?" she asked him derisively, rolling the coin over with her fingers and locking eyes with him.

"Of course," he answered, bowing before her. "My Rose is a delicate flower and is not to be plucked by any but me, as per our agreement."

"I have my own stream of coins. Save this one for your girl," she answered flippantly, lobbing the gold coin back to him. He caught it deftly, his hand navigating the space quickly and accurately. Then he shrugged, never really getting used to the boldness and candor of this woman. He certainly admired her business sense and merely nodded in response at her impertinence.

She was a surprising one. One of the few, he considered.

"Besides, you may need it to stem a lashing," she added with a chuckle, both of them knowing that Rose would be none too pleased at his tardiness.

"Very well," he finally managed to say, licking his dried lips before turning the corner of the hall and climbing the staircase to the next floor. Marielle watched him as he paused at Rose's door before disappearing herself. He removed a red rose from beneath his jacket, and then knocked lightly.

"It's about damned time," he heard from within, and he grinned, recognizing that tone as what he perceived to be playful.

He opened the door and found the most recent of his infatuations sitting in a chair, drinking a glass of wine, her legs crossed with a good deal of her flesh exposed. She frowned at him as he entered and he offered her the flower.

"You are rather behind schedule," Rose interjected, expecting some kind of explanation, but none was forthcoming.

"A rose for my Rose," he smiled, bowing low and ignoring her remark. Then he moved in and kissed her. She shoved him away playfully before giving herself over to him. She kissed him deeply for a long moment as they fell to the bed.

"I have a proposition for you," Ganthorpe began, as they lay next to one another a few hours later.

Rose leaned up on her elbows and stared at him intently with her gray eyes.

"I'm listening."

Then she rolled away to sit in the chair adjacent to the bed, gently scooped up her goblet, and tasted another sip of her fruity wine. A moment passed and she placed the goblet down on the desk, stood and stretched. She turned to stare at him expectantly. Her raised eyebrow instructed him to continue voicing his current notion. He swallowed hard, fighting through an obvious distraction that she presented to him, her supple body shimmering in the dimly lit room, but he appeared up for the challenge as he looked away from her. She was a bit disappointed that he was able to turn away, but did not let on.

"I know that you have certain skills—"

"Well, of course I do," she snapped, cutting him off and responding to what she thought he was referring to. He shook his head dismissively and continued.

"Not what I mean. You have a certain flair for...thievery. I've heard you've been pilfering goods in the marketplace," he remarked simply, drawing a curious look from her as her features screwed up. "The Trade District, my dear," he clarified.

She turned that puzzled look his way and frowned, not quite sure what he was talking about. It was clear that he wanted to converse, though. So, she pulled a light silken robe over her elegant frame and sat in the chair facing him, still unsure what he was getting at.

"You know my meaning," Ganthorpe said, his eyes turning icy as they regarded her.

"I'm afraid I don't." That offering had her unsettled and then she panicked, sensing something serious about him that she'd never seen before. It was almost threatening...dangerous. His tone was altogether different, too, and more than a little intimidating. Rose tried to remain calm, steadying her breathing, but she could not help shooting a surreptitious glance his way. She slipped a small knife out of the drawer of the table behind her, thinking the man to suddenly be something other than she had originally perceived him to be. She was completely unsure, but had to protect herself in case things got out of hand.

"Is this some kind of threat?" Rose asked, wondering if she had stolen something from him inadvertently and that now, perhaps, he meant to make her pay. She'd been the recipient of many betrayals from others in her past, who'd promised her one thing or another. But, if this were the case now, it would sting most of all.

He laughed in response to her question as if to dismiss the absurdity of the accusation. However, her paranoia was mounting and she did not see it as such.

"Yes," he answered, half smiling again and moving toward her.

Rose, now terrified, dove at him clumsily with the tip of her knife extended. He slid to the side, caught her by the arm and forced her slash downwards and into the goose down that filled her bedding beneath the linens. He then twisted her wrist and placed his thumb in an uncomfortable area, forcing her to relinquish the dagger.

"And no," he finally added.

He nodded with admiration, seemingly at the speed at which she had launched the attack. Then he steeled his face again, his mask an expressionless canvas that she could not read. She had no idea if he meant to kill her, rape her, leave her or something altogether different.

"Did you mean to kill me?" he asked incredulously.

Rose nodded slightly, then shrugged and winced in pain at the wrist-lock still held in place. He hadn't even realized he still held her and so released her immediately, moving off the bed to stand away from her.

"By the gods, girl—calm down! I'm not going to send you to Archinon," he mentioned strongly, throwing his arms up. He was referring, of course, to the home of the gladiatorial arenas in southwestern Wothlondia, where the law-breakers and other miscreants taken captive by the Watch were sent by caravan monthly to receive judgment for their crimes in one manner or another. King Tallaruk, Archinon's fierce ruler, was a sadistic but fair king, Rose considered, thinking the man to be a bit like Ganthorpe from the tales she'd heard.

"What then?" Rose questioned him, flustered and gesturing wildly as she stood and then sat again in frustration at the whole scene.

"Keep your voice down," he instructed in a commanding, hushed tone. He closed in on her again and stood facing her. Then he sat on the bed, beckoning her to shift and look at him. She did so, reluctantly and vigilant, holding his gaze steadily, a tentative contemplation overwhelming her.

"I have eyes everywhere in this city," he began to explain. This confused and surprised Rose at the same time.

"Who are you?" Rose asked him, whispering now.

"I am Ganthorpe Randolph—the soon-to-be-Assistant Mayor of Oakhaven," he announced clearly to her, boasting proudly as if the deed had already happened. Then he modified his tone and spoke words meant to gauge a reaction. "That could mean a much busier schedule and a public image that may add up to less frequent visits on my part," he went on, watching intently the expression on the young woman's face. Rose knew that she offered a slight hint of disappointment there, and he reacted as such. She knew him then to be extraordinarily skillful at reading even the slightest change in body language or mannerisms, as well as the most insubstantial of vocal fluctuations. Yet another surprise to this man and yet another of his many gifts, she understood.

"I am aware of these things," Rose answered, pursing her lips and then biting the lower one as she turned away from him briefly.

"Ah, but what you do not know—and what no one but a select few know—is that I run the Thieves' Guild, an organization of pickpockets and rogues here in Oakhaven called the Shadowhands."

"I know who they are...," she whispered. Rose spun back towards him, letting the information sink in. And then sudden realization crept over her.

She recalled in the recent past having been approached by thugs and rogues on the street on numerous occasions, threatening her and worse, but she had never suffered any repercussions. She had simply ascribed their words as empty threats from wretched, cowardly men. Now she was beginning to picture a different scenario. One in which a certain lover forbid any actions to be taken against her.

"I want you to join us... join me," he went on. She scowled at first and then placed a hand to her chin in a contemplative posture for a moment, followed by a long bout of silence. "I will tutor you personally in the ways of the underworld and you will have riches beyond compare," he added as outward encouragement. That enticed her more than a little.

"I—but, what of Marielle?" Rose asked, sincerely concerned with how her Madam might react to the news.

"I will make it worth her while," Ganthorpe replied, smiling that wide grin that seemed wolfish to her now, with just a hint of the boyish charm that was more familiar. "I know what it is like, Rose, to have nothing and to have to steal to survive."

"I own enough coin now," she lied, fending off his accusation, but Ganthorpe recognized the hint of falsehood beneath her words clearly. She knew he'd detected the slight variation in her voice, even though she'd tried to mask it from him.

"Besides, you can't help yourself, can you?" He asked rhetorically, seemingly knowing her answer. He gazed upon her as if he knew exactly how she felt, as if he thought them to be truly kindred souls. He was slightly older than she, but the excitement of perpetrating the heist or the pick-pocket was without comparison, and they both knew the thrill and exhilaration it offered.

"I do have a strange desire to thieve," she admitted with a sheepish grin.

"Well? What say you?" he asked her, crossing his arms over his chest. Rose simply moved forward, threw her arms around his neck and kissed him.

"I will follow you anywhere," she admitted, startling even herself with that admission.

"So, you don't want to kill me anymore, I hope?" he asked, pushing her back to witness her reaction.

"Not at the moment," she winked. He looked to her as if he could not tell if the threat was truly meant behind the smile that followed.

He was inwardly happy, she could tell by his expression, and he relaxed again.

"There is nothing quite like the thrill of employing your skills to relieve a wealthy merchant of his wares, eh?" he asked her again, raising an eyebrow. "Now, all I need is to teach you how to use that dagger of yours," he added arrogantly.

"I can use one just fine," she retorted, producing a hidden blade from somewhere beneath the loose fitting silk robe she wore and holding it to his neck. It was a very thin blade, like that used to skin a piece of fruit, and was small and very lightweight. She had removed the handle, leaving only the sharp steel behind. "You see, I am not without certain skills of my own."

She pulled the knife away from his neck and tossed it on the desk.

"I see that I have underestimated you, Rose," he smiled, obviously impressed. He spoke as though her actions further supported his decision to approach her on the subject. "It won't happen again."

"A girl's gotta protect herself, right?" she said, removing her robe, this time genuinely disarming herself. "Would you like to check me further for concealed weapons?"

"Truly remarkable," he laughed as he grabbed her by the neck and kissed her hard on the lips. "A Rose with thorns," he observed, holding her at arm's length.

"You have no idea," she replied. As she shoved him forcefully onto the bed, some of the goose down billowed out from the tear of her failed assault.

They remained intertwined until the sun appeared from behind distant clouds in the eastern sky.

"How was your evening?" Marielle asked Ganthorpe as he made his way out the back door and into the alley. That hidden door was privy to only to a chosen few of her 'special' clients.

"Very... interesting," he summarized, bowing low. He stood, then came back to the doorway and leaned in close. "We need to speak later, at length," he added cryptically, then smiled and walked out onto the desolate street.

Marielle stared after him and wondered what that was about. Then suddenly he spun lightly on his heel and approached her once more.

"Meet me for breakfast at the Steel Dragon," he invited. "It will be on me. Make yourself available before Sun's Peak."

The half-elven woman paused briefly in contemplation of the news. She looked around for prying eyes and then closed the door when she saw no one. She knew immediately that this must have something to do with Rose... or at least that the young woman would know something about it.

Marielle strode off down the hallway to the base of the stairs, climbed them and hurried to the room where she knew Rose slept. She knocked on the door.

"Are you in there?" she called.

The sun shone through a window in the hall in front of Rose's door and it reflected back into Marielle's eyes, causing her to squint. She rapped on the door once more, waited a moment and then entered. Rose was lying immobile on the bed, still enveloped within shadow.

Then, to Marielle's shock and distress, she seemed to literally melt into the bed. Rose simply disappeared, wholly and completely, her eyes wide in apparent astonishment for the brief instant that Marielle's eyes met her own. The Madam raced to where Rose had been only a second ago and felt around for her, not knowing what to think about what had just happened. Was she imagining the whole thing?

"By the gods! Rose!" she cried out, again and again, frantically searching for the girl, tearing the covers off the bed and eventually throwing the them to the ground. Then she flung the curtains of the room open and stared incredulously, mouth agape, heart beating furiously, as she drew in a deep breath.

"What is happening?!"

Rose felt like she was falling. That was the only way to explain it.

The last thing she could remember was hearing the turn of the handle and the creak of the door to her room as it began to open. She instinctively receded into the covers of her bed... then she felt a sudden and distinct chill. And she was blind?

Was this a dream, she wondered? But it didn't feel like a dream. She opened her eyes and saw nothing but darkness all around her. She thought she heard something and glanced behind her. Then again, something sounded in the distance and to her right. She began to move forward and her eyes began to adjust to the gloom. She also saw...Marielle. The half-elven woman was below her and to the left, but moving so slowly that Rose could not comprehend what was happening or what she was doing.

"Am I dead?" Rose whispered to herself. She started to see figures in the shadows now—shifting and gliding along, advancing in all directions. Rose remained still, observing the barely moving figure of Marielle below her, clearly in her room at the brothel. She continued watching all the forms in motion around her. The shadow-things were all shapes and sizes. One seemed to notice her as if for the first time. It approached her and she felt the thing touch her—and then move through her!

Rose sensed a chill creep through her with the shadowy creature, which continued past her. She felt very cold and took a few steps, still seeing the barely-moving Marielle below and behind her. Rose began to run. There were no borders, no walls, no gates, and no structures at all, just nothing but empty blackness in this...realm...for lack of a better word.

She saw all kinds of happenings beneath her in what she reasoned must be her city, her room, the brothel. But where was she, then? She fought to subdue the panic that threatened to overwhelm her. A few more minutes passed as she continued moving forward. She recognized the layout of the Trade District below her, and a few of the merchants. She noted, puzzled as to how everyone down there was moving in the most sluggish manner imaginable. Rose was truly perplexed. She seemed to be moving faster than anything else that was happening around her...or more specifically, below her.

Then she saw something else. No, someone else. There was movement approximately a hundred paces ahead of her. The figure turned and faced her, clearly seeing her. All Rose saw was a pair of deep, violet eyes that penetrated the darkness. She turned and fled, as fast and as carefully as she could. But she could feel that the owner of those eyes was still behind her. She whirled round to see the form, its violet eyes still the only thing indicating its presence at all, closing in on her.

Her muscles propelled her forward at inconceivable speed as she viewed the landscape below, now seeing sectors of Oakhaven and, more specifically, the Commons. On she sprinted, eventually beholding a familiar structure now below her—the brothel! She raced toward it and finally saw the interior. There was Marielle, but she could barely make her out, as if she were partially erased from her reality. Then she too was gone. Rose kept going, sensing the thing, whatever it was, still behind her, closing in on her, and she knew it would overcome her in a few more heartbeats. She dove for the darkness below and felt something on her shoulder—a hand perhaps? She could not make out what it was, but it certainly did not feel like flesh.

She felt the soft texture of silk and then wool on her fingers. She leaned against something hard—it was a wall, she believed. She used it to push herself up and stand. Then she banged her head on a solid object above her and felt a door handle in front of her. She turned the handle and shoved it open. Sunlight from outside penetrated the shadows and she blinked agasint the sudden burst of bright light. She looked up and recognized the shelf upon which she had hit her head only seconds before.

"What in all of Pandemonium was that?!" Rose whispered excitedly to herself.

She was in the brothel's hallway. More precisely, she realized, she had come through from a closet. At last she recognized her surroundings and regained her bearings.

Thank the gods! Rose thought, excited and relieved to be back home again.

She headed to her room. The door was opened a crack and Rose saw Marielle inside, eyes wide, with a hand over her mouth.

She recognized Rose and her eyes widened yet again.

"What the—?! Where did you go, child!?" Marielle asked in shock, with a perplexed look upon her face.

"I was... I don't really know!" Rose answered honestly. "I felt like I was not here. In reality. I was in another world altogether. And something or someone was chasing me!"

"You must have been dreaming child," Marielle declared, but in an unconvincing manner, as if she herself did not believe it either.

"No," Rose stated firmly. "Not a dream. It was real, and if not, then I am under the effects of something," she continued, running a hand through her auburn hair, which was damp with sweat.

"We will discover the truth soon enough," the half-elf sated, pulling Rose in and hugging her tightly. "Try to go about your chores for now. I have to meet with... someone."

Rose shuddered as she had a feeling of what that meeting was about. She ran off to do as her Madam had asked, all the while trying to understand what exactly had just transpired.

Ganthorpe waited patiently at his glass-topped table, sipping a glass of wine despite the early hour. The sun shone brightly through the many windows, casting much light into the room. As of late he almost always dined in this room—a smallish one located at the rear of the main hall and out of earshot of the rest of the dining room—and asked for it specifically. It was why he chose the Steel Dragon to conduct his meetings.

A moment later, he saw the woman appear from around the corner. She was shown and then escorted to his table, her dark hair bobbing up and down with each step she took. As she neared, her green eyes fell over him, seeming to look him over until he locked his own blue orbs with hers. She was dressed in a finely made, but rather short, gown of the finest and thinnest fabrics Ganthorpe had ever seen. The dress was a deep green that accentuated her eyes and the fabric hung loosely on her shapely figure.

"Can we speak freely?" she whispered to him, after she sat comfortably in her chair, noticing that the tables on either side of them were occupied. She held herself with a confidence that few owned.

"They are with me," he winked back at her, keeping his voice low. "So, if you can speak freely in front of me, then you can in front of them, too," he added in a derisive sort of way. She gave him a sharp look, followed by another filled with annoyance at that last comment.

"My apologies," Ganthorpe grumbled, curbing his sarcasm.

"This is obviously about our girl," Marielle stated more than asked, shaking her long, dark hair and crossing her legs beneath the table. Ganthorpe could not help but admire the woman's shapely limbs beneath the clear glass of the table top as the skirt parted very high on her thigh, revealing much to him. He was not sure if she was flirting with him. He rubbed his goatee nervously. Perhaps it was the wine, he thought, admiring her beauty nonetheless.

Ganthorpe waved a hand to the servant, who immediately placed a plate of fried duck eggs and bread, as well as a mix of fresh berries, in front of the woman. Her eyes never left Ganthorpe's own as she placed a berry into her mouth and chewed it, smacking her wet lips. Marielle smiled at Ganthorpe's wandering eyes and flushed face, obviously amused at the thought that she was in charge of the conversation at this time. She broke the stare and glanced at the men seated at the tables around them, noting that they kept an eye on her and Ganthorpe, sneaking furtive glances their way on occasion.

"Our conversation falls on many ears," she whispered to him, sipping a small mug of water.

"They are all faithful servants and would die for me if necessary," he reassured her, reiterating their fealty to him. "Do not concern yourself with them." He returned to sipping his own goblet of wine and took a tear on a small piece of bread, waiting for the questions that he was sure would come. But none followed as Marielle daintily arranged herself and began to eat her eggs and bread with a sure hunger, looking up in between bites and waiting for him to continue his explanation.

"I need something from you," he began anew after a moment of silence. She looked at him quizzically and swallowed the last of her bread, dabbing gently at the corners of her mouth with a napkin.

"What is this about, Ganthorpe? I thought this meeting had something to do with Rose?" she asked blatantly.

"It is... I mean, it does," he corrected, still smiling and holding her gaze. "But first, I must take you to see something, once you are done your meal of course." Marielle surveyed the room and observed that the men at the other tables were still eyeing them.

"Are you in some kind of trouble?" she asked him in a hushed and somewhat concerned tone.

He held back a laugh. "Not in the slightest," he replied, attempting to stifle his amusement so as not to disrespect her. "As a matter of fact, things could not be better. I told you these men work for me. Come with me, I will enlighten you further. Shall we?"

He stood and bade her to follow him, gesturing with a hand toward the other men around them. They all stood and followed the two of them out of the Steel Dragon and into the streets of the Entertainment District. Most of them went their own separate ways, but two particular men shadowed them at a safe distance as Ganthorpe and Marielle proceeded into the main courtyard of Oakhaven. They continued along, passing through the Manufacturing District and finally into the Warehousing District along the docks that bordered the River Divide and the shores of the North Gulf.

"Where are you taking me?" she asked, clearly uncertain as to what this could possibly have to do with Rose.

"Bear with me," Ganthorpe answered. "All will become clear and you are in no danger, I assure you, so please relax and enjoy the sights of this lovely daybreak."

On they went, a quiet concern still etched on her face, until finally they stopped in front of a building on the main throughway in the Warehousing District. Several men were working there and Ganthorpe caught their eye. Then they entered the building. Crates, cartons, boxes and barrels littered the floor of the warehouse, forming a maze of a walkway.

On they went, Marielle following blindly behind him, not uttering a word. If she was frightened, one would never know it.

They walked past an empty room, moving down and through to another one where huddled workers nodded to Ganthorpe once more, a clear and wordless salute. He continued into an office, approaching a bookcase at the rear of the room. He looked at Marielle and winked. He reached above him and pulled forward a book that appeared to be anchored to the bookcase—a lever, she realized with a slightly startled look.

"Who is this man of mystery who enters my brothel almost nightly and that I seemingly know nothing about?" she asked as she heard the clear sound of gears moving from behind the bookcase. The wall seemed to rotate ever so slightly. "I knew Ganthorpe to be connected in the Commons, but I had no idea that he had this kind of influence here," she said in mock surprise. "You must be quite high up on the food chain of Oakhaven's underbelly," she remarked, watching the wall come to a stop. It had shifted, moving outward on the left and inward on the right, as if rotating on a pin at the center. It was not unlike a door—albeit a rather large one— pivoting and opening just enough for a person to fit through, one at a time.

"Come," he instructed, choosing not to make mention on her commentary. She nodded and they advanced down a set of steps into a basement that was lit intermittently with lanterns and a few torches mounted on brackets upon the walls. "Where is the natural light stemming from? And is that the taste and smell of salt in the air too?"

"Aye. We are quite near the docks along the North Gulf."

Inside the vast space were many people milling about, talking quietly to each other. "As a matter of fact, we are directly under the warehouse in a clandestine office that I like to show only to the most trust-worthy of clientele."

"These men and women come from all walks of life—street thugs, beggars, footpads and," he gestured toward a few dressed in the highest quality of clothing anyone had ever seen, "officials from Oakhaven that are under my employ."

Ganthorpe allowed her to take it all in for a moment, dusting off his clothing, and then he marched down a hall and into another office. It was extremely well furnished and lit by some kind of magical light source on the supremely well-crafted desk and chair.

"To what end is all of this? And why am I here?"

"Sit, please" he offered, as he took a seat behind his desk, gesturing for her to take a seat in one of the pair of cushioned chairs facing directly across from him.

"What exactly is this all about, Ganthorpe?" she asked again, truly puzzled and a bit out of sorts. "And...who are you, really?"

"First things first. I have organized, and now command, a guild of thieves here in Oakhaven," he began to explain. "Most of it is not coincidental, but rather it is planned."

"So, you control all of the pickpockets, cutpurses and killers in the city?" she asked incredulously, standing and pacing about the room. "You? Ganthorpe Randolph?"

"Not all of them... yet. And not the killers, no. I abhor violence, but excuse it if necessity dictates, and cannot stay my own hand if and when that necessity rears its ugly head," he added. "I am entitled to a percentage of anything taken or pilfered in this city, you understand?"

"How can you despise that which you instigate?" she asked judgmentally.

"Instigate?" he asked, almost sounding insulted by her perception of all he had accomplished. This was not a thing he had taken lightly and he needed her to understand it. "Thievery is a skill, my dear. It requires many talents and skills which most people do not possess. And yes, it may occasionally require the capacity to silence a tongue if necessary, but as I have said already, it is truly a last resort," he added in a slightly intimidating tone. "And that is few and far between. My people are trained not to be seen. They are the shadows in the streets that creep along the walls and are as quiet as the night breeze. As I have said and will continue to say, I do not employ murderers. These folks are merely thieves and rogues, possessed of fine talents."

"Some enjoy bleeding the silly merchants," called a chilling and high pitched voice from the shadows. Marielle flinched at that and it seemed to Ganthorpe as if her heart had skipped a beat. It was a woman's voice that penetrated the darkness and caused Marielle to hug herself as goose pimples covered her bare arms. Out of the shadows stepped a fit woman in tight black leather with blue eyes that were as cold as ice and raven black hair the same color of her leather garments that fell past her shoulders. "Only the ones that deserve it, though," she added through a forced smile as she moved to stand behind Ganthorpe. Marielle looked as uncomfortable as he'd ever seen her as she locked eyes with the woman.

"You are not helping, Saphirra," Ganthorpe admonished openly to the woman. Silence followed for a bit again before he spoke. "Marielle, I have a purpose for Rose."

"And?" Marielle asked, waiting to hear his proposal. She sat and crossed her legs once more, feigning an air of indifference before this obviously callous woman that Ganthorpe almost believed, had not noticed her initial reaction. It was a very convincing front, nonetheless. Still, he had to respect her efforts and truly did so.

"I am willing to purchase Rose from you," he stated. "She has certain...qualities...that I find useful."

Saphirra snickered at that comment.

"What do you mean? Purchase her?" Marielle asked, truly not comprehending to what he was alluding.

"She has been stealing from the merchants in the Trade District for months now. She is quite good, but my agents have detected her on more than one occasion and warned her to stop. She does not," he went on, shifting in his chair. "I have two choices now. She either joins me in my endeavor...."

"Or?" Marielle asked concernedly, already knowing the end of that statement.

"She becomes food for the sharks," Saphirra answered plainly, placing a poisonous stare upon Marielle, meant to threaten her.

Marielle's face went through a series of twists and turns that Ganthorpe reasoned was her deciphering what was best for Rose under the circumstances. She obviously cared a great deal for the young woman and was currently under duress about the whole subject.

"You see, I own the underworld of Oakhaven," Ganthorpe explained, pulling the half-elven woman from her reverie. "And soon enough, when I become the Assistant Mayor, I will own the entire town. If I were you, I'd keep that in mind when I decided who I wanted watching my back. I know you have your own muscle in this town, but with me backing you, it would be greater still and would put you in a much stronger position."

"I see." She stood and paced the floor fretfully. It was a thinly veiled threat he'd made, they both knew, but it brought up a good point. She could always use help in the right places.

"You will take care of her," Marielle told him. It was not a question.

"Of course," Ganthorpe promised, that haughty and confident smile that she had become used to was planted firmly on his face.

"Very well," she said. "Can someone escort me back to my establishment?"

"Of course," Ganthorpe stated again, standing and indicating for her to follow him. Marielle did so. He watched intently as he felt the cold, hard eyes of Saphirra staring after Marielle as she walked out of the room and into the hall beyond. That was something of concern that he may have to address sooner than later with this bloodthirsty rogue. But not now...soon enough, he considered as his thoughts turned to Rose and he was truly excited to begin her training.

Rose did not take the news well at first, realizing that she would not see Marielle all that often in the weeks and months to come. She hugged the woman and walked out of the brothel the next day to a mix of sobs and hushed whispers, as Ganthorpe noted the cruel, hushed smiles upon the faces of Sabrina and Felicity, the two girls she'd spoken of on more than one occasion.

She did, however, spend some time understanding, studying and applying the very special talent she'd somehow discovered of traversing the shadow realm, which was how they referred to it. She and Ganthorpe practiced it a few more times shortly after Rose became a member of the Thieves' Guild. At first it was something that she did not understand wholly, until Ganthorpe and she reasoned it out one fateful night. They spent several weeks further exploring what her abilities were, practicing how the young woman could travel through the realm of shadow at will. It was yet another surprise Ganthorpe had stumbled upon that shone good fortune upon him and his recent decisions.

Over the next few months, Ganthorpe instructed Rose alongside his best thieves, adding to the already potent repertoire she'd built on her own, to become an incredible asset. She had a unique mixture of shrewd intellect, instinctual survival skills and raw talent, along with her newly-discovered shadow walking ability.

Ganthorpe showed her the routes to and from the Warehousing District, both above and below the city, and made her memorize them. She paid special attention to the series of subterranean conduits, formerly a series of mine shafts and caverns that were known only to a very select few. Even most of the city officials did not know of their existence, and those who did were either dead or necessary pawns in Ganthorpe's game of politics.

The Master of Thieves spent time with Rose daily, teaching her the ways of the rogue and this seemed to add to the already accordant chemistry they'd shared before. The two of them were together most of the time, and it was quite evident to anyone witnessing their interactions, that they were more than friends. Anyone that witnessed the two of them together for more than a few moments was aware of this—including Saphirra.

Seeing Rose and Ganthorpe together bothered her more than a little as she and Ganthorpe had spent the past few years as lovers off and on. And now, with Rose in the picture, Ganthorpe openly shunned her advances, giving in to her wiles only on his terms, when the two of them were alone. With that hard realization staring back at her in the mirror that night ,and before carrying out her task as laid out for her by Ganthorpe, she felt it was time to make a few 'changes' to her given plan.

"Spending a lot of time with that one," Saphirra observed one morning, when Ganthorpe arrived at his office and took a seat at his desk in one of the many homes he owned in Oakhaven. He waved a hand dismissively and scowled at her.

She smiled, this being exactly the response she'd anticipated and she felt it further bolstered her decision. She'd completed his mission, surveying the merchant named Bronn, a new player in the game of less-than-lawful deeds and he was also a possible threat to Ganthorpe's carefully fashioned organization. He was also trying to conduct a bit of illicit business behind Ganthorpe's back, even after being warned that this was, at the very least, frowned upon. Saphirra had pushed the instructions given her a little further though, and deliberately attempted to up the ante in an attempt to overthrow the current leadership—and spitefully so.

"What does that mean, exactly?" he asked, removing his eyes from hers and staring blankly at a day-old report he'd received from his agents and spies on the streets about the city's goings-on.

"I think you know exactly what I mean," she answered, smiling at him and looking like the cat that swallowed the canary.

"Stop with the games...what news?" he asked, looking up at her again with an irritated expression.

"It went off without a hitch," she said, producing a pair of exotic looking daggers with vicious curves to them and runes etched into the pommels. The daggers were clearly affected by some kind of magic and mirrored the length of a short sword. "And he had these," she added, waving the weapons about before sheathing them.

"What? How did you—"

"Let's just say that he won't be needing them anymore," Saphirra said, nodding to a figure that hid in the shadows, as silent as a shadow himself. The figure moved so noiselessly toward Ganthorpe that he had no idea that he was ambushed until it was too late. Only then did Ganthorpe realize that he had overlooked a few details upon entering—namely that the guards normally posted at his door were missing and that most of the lanterns that lit his office were dimmed. He of course, thought nothing much of it. He scolded himself for not paying more attention to the details presented as his face twisted in anger.

"Any idea what you want me to do with this?" Saphirra teased as she tossed a sack onto the desk. It was barely open, but thick with dried crimson, and Ganthorpe could see the top of a head peeking out the top until he realized it was Bronn's.

"You have crossed a line, my dear," he said as calmly as he could, while his unknown assailant held a sharp blade against his throat. "You were told to collect information—not body parts!—from the target." He tried hard to maintain an air of authority and Saphirra laughed at that poor performance.

"You are the one that has crossed the line!" she shrieked in an uncharacteristic manner. Then calm washed over her contorted features as she took a deep breath.

Ganthorpe discerned that she was obviously flustered.

"I don't think you will be giving me orders anymore," she observed, matter-of-factly, to the apparently helpless man.

Ganthorpe wondered what exactly she was going to do with him. He had a way out, he recalled, risky though it was. Months prior, he had had the exterior of his chair and desk fitted with a row of tiny, poisoned darts for just such an occasion. Each of his offices was outfitted this way, for Ganthorpe did not like to take any chances. The darts, five of them in each section as he recalled, were very small and loaded on top of tightly wound springs. They were hidden beneath the leathers of the chair along the arms and top back as well as the front and back edges of his desk for just such an occasion. In this particular case, they would shoot up and into the body of anyone leaning over his chair, such as his unseen assailant was doing currently.

Ganthorpe assumed it was a man behind him based on numerous facts: the callous fingers, the strength of the hold and the sheer size of the hand on his head. The man would be dead or badly wounded if he pressed the mechanism under his seat twice in succession or tapped the lever on the top of the chair's base—either trigger would do it. Ganthorpe had settled on two pushes as the activation method to avoid any accidental firings. Of course that would launch all of them on the chair, but it had not been quite perfected yet. He clicked it once in preparation and waited. He was curious to see what Saphirra had to say. He would certainly have to silence her now as their relationship had irrevocably changed with her betrayal. He was extremely disappointed with the woman, given their professional and personal history.

He was fighting the mix of emotions when he saw her...

Rose!

He depressed the button a second time, thus launching the darts into the portions of the man's arm and chest that leaned upon the chair. He quickly held the man's now-numb arm from accidentally slicing his jugular and waited longer. The assailant's hold on his neck loosened as expected as he succumbed to the poison on the tips of the barbs as they penetrated his flesh. It happened so fast that the victim didn't even notice the pinch in his arm until it was far too late. Ganthorpe remained seated as he heard the body slump to the floor behind him while watching a figure—that of a young woman—approach from the shadows.

Saphirra must have sensed an attacker approaching, or perhaps she had seen Ganthorpe's eyes unintentionally betraying Rose's presence. She instinctively rolled to the side, away from Ganthorpe's desk and toward a more open area of the room. She tumbled forward quickly and came to her feet just as Rose attempted to land a thrust that would have wounded but not killed her.

"Clever bitch!" Saphirra cried, turning to see the red-headed young woman emerge from the shadows of the room.

"It is a shame that one so young has to die," she intoned calmly, removing those long, vicious daggers from the makeshift sheaths on her belt. She brandished them threateningly at Rose, not even noticing that Ganthorpe's attacker was down, nor that Ganthorpe himself merely sat in his chair of his own free will, staring at the two women about to engage in a death duel. He felt a slight twinge of anxiety as his emotions got the better of him but wanted to see what the two of them were made of, and so he did not move to act.

Rose held a pair of daggers as well, one in each hand. She too was skilled in the martial arts of close combat. Although she'd only been exposed to a few months of instruction under the Shadowhands trainers, she had a very instinctual and predatory way about her when she fought. Ganthorpe had recognized that immediately during their first training session, and had predicted that such ability would certainly be useful—especially now when she faced the incredibly dangerous Saphirra.

Saphirra was mystified as to where Rose had appeared from. She was sure she had checked the room thoroughly before springing the ambush on Ganthorpe. But no matter, she thought. The girl must have been hiding behind a secret door of which she was unaware. That thought, though, angered the woman even more as she now believed that Ganthorpe shared secrets with Rose that he had never revealed to her.

With that overwhelming jealousy guiding her actions, Saphirra lunged for Rose, a wicked dagger in each hand waving to and fro. She slashed back and forth, left to right, and then in reverse, attempting to throw the young woman off balance with her veteran maneuver.

Rose backed away instinctively, managing to parry that second series of slashing moves by guiding her opponent's strike wide with her left hand. Rose continued her counterattack, punching Saphirra's right forearm with her right fist, the pommel of the dagger in her hand reinforcing the strength of the blow. This sent a wave of pain along Saphirra's forearm as she noticeably winced. It angered her.

Saphirra shook off the discomfort and continued her rotation of the jagged and exceptionally long blades, slashing and slicing, gaining speed as she continued her attacks. This was not lost on Rose, who fearfully backed away again and was quickly on the defensive. Saphirra only then realized that a potent magic must be aiding the dagger attacks since the sheer speed of her assault was inhumanly quick. It sent her shoulders to aching with the relentless fury of thrusts and swipes.

Saphirra, in quick succession, landed first a right slash that cut Rose under her left breast, then a left slash that sliced in further and slightly deeper along Rose's ribs, where blood surfaced immediately through her leathers.

Saphirra paused a second to meet Ganthorpe's gaze. She also took note that he remained seated at his desk and that her accomplice lay unconscious or worse on the floor behind his desk.

"Men," she spat, with a twinge of spiteful hatred in her voice. "They are all useless, it seems."

She managed a mocking smile at Ganthorpe. She was not sure why he was still sitting there, but could not give it any further thought as she meant to press her assault. She charged forward once more, attacking the adolescent girl faster and faster, again and again. Rose fell back under the swiftness and ferocity of the assault but managed to parry and dodge several of the blows. But the speed at which the attacks came was more than she could handle and she received many superficial lacerations on her arms and upper torso. Try as she might, she was unable to completely evade the older and more experienced woman's ever-hastening strikes.

"Are you frightened of me, girl?" Saphirra asked as she paused her assault.

"No!" barked Rose in response, pure anger welling up inside her.

"You should be," warned Saphirra in an even and threatening tone as she advanced yet again on Rose, daggers held out before her.

"Use the shadows!" called Ganthorpe, interrupting the steady dance of death that Saphirra was presenting as a show to him, toying with the girl he favored. As the onslaught paused for a few heartbeats, Rose shot him a look that inferred that she'd already attempted that. He returned a confused, and then concerned look, as he understood that she must have tried it already. Saphirra had Rose on her heels and was toying with her as a cat did with the mouse.

Ganthorpe gave her one last command before deciding to join the fight.

"Concentrate," he said sternly to Rose.

Rose had been fighting on instinct, she realized suddenly during the brief respite as Saphirra once more gazed wickedly toward Ganthorpe, seeming to mock him. It was time to shift the tide of battle in her favor, she decided. So this time, when Saphirra came at her again, Rose simply rolled back, submerging herself in the shadows of the room's peripheries. Once inside the shadow realm, she ran to where Saphirra stood and then stepped out of the shadows directly behind her. She lunged, but to her surprise, Saphirra managed to avoid most of the brunt of her thrust, which wounded her superficially along the left side of her back. However, on top of grazing her, Rose did also manage a solid kick to the inside of her left knee, bending it to the side, and obviously straining the tender ligaments and tendons within, as the older woman howled in agony.

Rose disappeared into the shadows once more. She repeated the action, emerging from the realm of shadows and melting back, over and over again, scoring many shallow and superficial wounds to Saphirra's flesh. She knew she could not slow Saphirra's attacks, which were clearly augmented in power and swiftness by the magical daggers, but she could impede her by striking at her base. And so she focused on assaulting her opponent's legs.

Sensing the weakness in her that the young rogue had exposed, Saphirra immediately responded to reclaim her advantage. She hastily unsheathed another dagger, one that was weighted specifically for throwing, and flung it at Ganthorpe. The man instinctively recoiled backward and fell over the unconscious form of his prone and former assailant. Suddenly, Saphirra rushed toward him and hovered over him, dagger held expertly to the side of his neck, ready to rip straight through the soft flesh.

"You can stop your tricks now, little Rose," instructed the woman, jerking her head to the side to shake free her tangled hair from in front of her eyes. In so doing she revealed a deadly set of blue eyes that regarded the room with great care, darting back and forth.

"If you are behind me, know that you will not kill me before I can drive this blade's edge all the way through your lover's neck! I will bleed him like a pig if need be," she threatened to the empty air, letting the warning dangle as she worked Ganthorpe back to his feet. She stood behind him, waiting for a response.

"You certainly are a thorn in my side, young lady," she finally remarked as Rose presented herself, emerging from a shadow in front of the pair.

"Here I am," Rose acknowledged, arms held out wide in a display of submission.

"You can put the blade down now, Saphirra," Ganthorpe boldly expressed to her in a commanding tone, attempting to assert himself despite his considerably inferior position. "You cannot kill me."

This seemed to shock Saphirra momentarily.

She suddenly bore an expression of disbelief, her expression indicating to Rose that Ganthorpe was not taking the scenario seriously and that he might regard her as less than a threat.

Ganthorpe was pushing her patience. Saphirra could not hide her contempt and almost plunged the blade through his neck in anger, but held it still. Oh, how little he truly knew about her plans and designs. She had set into motion a devious campaign during the past year, gathering names and arranging meetings with the most elite killers in all of Wothlondia. While under the employ of Ganthorpe and the Thieves' Guild, Saphirra began to realize a certain and undeniable fact.

She enjoyed killing.

And all she wanted to do was add to the stakes of their game and reap the rewards that came with them. She wanted to leave Ganthorpe's organization and develop one of her own. An organization of Assassins—not thieves—and, moreover, one where her word was the absolute law.

In this moment of silent reflection, as Saphirra allowed her mind to wander, Ganthorpe reacted. In one swift motion, he simultaneously grabbed both her elbow and her wrist with either hand, thus securing the arm that held the dagger to his throat and preventing it from penetrating his skin. He shoved the arm up and ducked underneath it, all in the same motion. The Master of Thieves moved so fast that neither Rose nor Saphirra registered what was happening as it unfolded before them. Ganthorpe, for whatever reason, was a great deal faster than he'd ever shown before.

Saphirra filed that fact away for later consideration. Ganthorpe was full of surprises, she admitted, only beginning to scratch the surface of this man's secrets.

Rose suddenly emerged from within the shadows again, appearing beside Ganthorpe. Saphirra only had a heartbeat with which to react. She removed the second dagger from its scabbard and drove it toward Ganthorpe's exposed back. But, before she could connect with his flesh, a blade emerged from the darkness, biting into her own forearm, and causing her to drop her enchanted blade, all the while biting back a yelp against the biting pain of that vicious thrust.

Saphirra swung her now free left arm, which Ganthorpe had released upon seeing her drop the first dagger, and attempted a wild punch at Rose, trying to make her pay for her interference here. Rose ducked beneath the poorly and angrily swung assault and drove her hand up and into her jaw, causing Saphirra to see stars as she fell backwards. She felt the sharp pain of something striking her head as the blackness continued to flood her vision and thoughts, until they claimed her completely.

When she awoke, several hours later, her hands and legs were bound behind her, and a piece of cloth had been stuffed into her mouth. A damp sensation chilling her to the bone, Saphirra squirmed and her eyes widened in surprise. Directly in front of her stood Ganthorpe, hands on his hips, staring straight into her eyes which registered first shock, then anger and finally dread, realizing her helplessness.

"I assume that I can remove your gag without fear of you shouting or otherwise making a scene?" Ganthorpe asked in a demanding way. She nodded, never removing her gaze from his icy stare as her fear turned to open confusion. Ganthorpe must have read this plainly as he offered an explanation.

"I am willing to let you live, despite your distinctly dissimilar intentions for me," he announced.

Saphirra was beginning to recognize their surroundings. They were below the docks, along the shores of the North Gulf where many victims were sent out to sea—many victims that she herself had claimed!—never to be seen or heard from again. She panicked suddenly and her heart hammered in her chest as she recognized the form of her associate, whose name she could not even recall, and who was also bound and gagged, lying on a raft. That tiny vessel would certainly not last very long in the rough waves once the current pulled it out of the North Gulf and into the High Sea and beyond. It was a very frightening and unnerving scene that filled her thoughts. The High Sea was full of pirates, sharks, troglodytes and worse.

"I would very much like to understand why exactly you betrayed me, and what is in it for you?" Ganthorpe asked her, mercifully pulling her thoughts from her morbid reverie.

"I have my own agenda that includes not so much working against you, but perhaps...with you," she informed him, in an attempt to entice the man's attention and tug at the strings of his curiosity.

"And what exactly is this proposition?"

"I am proposing to organize my own guild. A Guild of Assassins," she explained simply. "One that will work in harmony with you and your own organization." She continued, outlining her plan. "I have set things in motion, including ties and promises to some very significant people. I will give you generous discounts and anything else you may want or need!"

At that moment, Rose came into view from behind a support beam that held up the pier along the ocean's edge, near the raft that was ready to be shoved out to sea. The man who lay upon it now was wide-eyed with fear, his arms and legs tied uncomfortably behind his back as he looked from one to the other to the other again.

"Are you seriously considering this?" Rose said, openly questioning Ganthorpe, a truly puzzled look upon her face.

"Ah, you brought the thorn along," Saphirra said, dripping with sarcasm and nodding toward Rose.

"Are you giving me your word that no harm will befall me, or my organization, and that you will never again interfere in my affairs?" Ganthorpe asked Saphirra, ignoring all of their comments for the moment.

"Aye," Saphirra promised, looking from Ganthorpe to Rose and back to Ganthorpe and finally upon her associate again. "My word."

"Very well," Ganthorpe remarked as he withdrew a dagger and moved to stand above Saphirra. She shuddered for a heartbeat and even closed her eyes tight, not knowing if he would kill her or not. He cut the bonds on her wrists and then ankles. As he bent over her, she kissed him on the lips and then quickly scanned the expression of Rose to gauge her reaction and smiling a wicked grin.

"That was uncalled for," Ganthorpe disapproved, backing away from the newly dubbed assassin. He looked to Rose, who clearly objected to the whole thing—that expression was unhittable. Then the Master of Thieves headed toward the man on the raft, one of his newer recruits who'd evidently been lured into servitude by Saphirra with money and perhaps even more, if he knew her well enough.

"Allow me," offered Saphirra, with a shameless smirk planted on her face. "I will take care of this one—free of charge," she added, winking at Ganthorpe.

"Very well," Ganthorpe agreed. He began to walk away from her, out toward the southernmost section beneath the pier that would lead them back to the pier above.

"Where are my daggers?" Saphirra called to Ganthorpe.

"I honestly don't know," Ganthorpe lied, smiling at Rose, who looked down at her belt beneath her jacket, where the twin magical daggers were hidden from Saphirra's sight.

"No matter," shrugged Saphirra, turning to face her failure of an accomplice as she shoved him out into the water.

The two thieves never looked back, but they were sure they heard the sound of muffled screams a moment later as they eventually faded away completely.

"How are things going, thorny one?" called a voice from behind her as she sat at a desk in her room, pulling a brush through her thick, auburn hair.

She turned to regard Ganthorpe, once more visiting her room in the middle of the night. She was not surprised.

"Thorny?" she echoed cynically.

"You don't see it?" he asked with a chuckle.

"Of course, I understand the reference," she said, in a caustic tone. "I may be young, but I am not without a bit of wisdom. And this is an obvious joke, is it not?"

"Or is it thorn-e?" he added, rubbing his goatee thoughtfully. "Yes, that is what I shall put on your papers of guardianship."

"You are adopting me?" she asked with a quality of hesitation.

"No, not I—I refer to your phony legal papers that I have had forged to show that a set of fabricated guardians have adopted you," he responded. "I will be adding a last name to them."

"Won't Augustus be looking into this?" she asked as a sneer crossed her face at the mere mention of his name.

"He will not be bothering you—or anyone else for that matter—ever again," Ganthorpe declared with conviction, scratching his goatee and smirking. "Suffice to say that I have already made use of Saphirra's generous offer. And I did it for you." She smiled and held the grin on her face for a long time as she pulled the brush through her hair over and over. Finally, she looked up at him as he patiently stood and watched her intently.

"So, yes, the papers?" Rose asked, reverting to the initial topic.

"They will add layers to your already heavy set of credentials that Marielle will supply the orphanage—and its new head."

Ganthorpe grinned as he stood and removed a red rose from beneath his jacket. He had clearly arranged for one of his own men to occupy the role of director at the orphanage, or at the very least, had that person on his payroll, Rose thought as she studied the man's bright blue eyes and eye-catching smile. He was certainly charming and incredibly handsome, she admitted to herself.

"A thorny rose for my Rose Thorne," he said in a straight-laced manner, handing the flower to the young woman. "It is suitable, don't you think?"

"Of course," she replied graciously, accepting the rose and staring at it closely. After a moment, she turned around and smiled, hiding her face from him. Then, she lay on the bed and stared up at him, locking stares with his huge blue eyes that at the moment were full of elation.

"It is a good lesson to remember for both of us, eh?"

"And what is that?"

"That something can be both full of beauty and yet hold a hidden, deadly side at the same time."

"Story of my life," Ganthorpe sighed under his breath, as he climbed into bed after her.

# Chapter 2

Strength of Faith

Garius Forge was sweating profusely.

His woollen garments that were situated beneath his golden armor were soaked, as was his face and head beneath the heavy, steel helm. Perspiration covered his chest inside his hauberk, and everywhere else for that matter. It was the end of Summer's Fade and it was still hot, even here up north, and he and his group were covered from head to toe with the golden plated armor customarily worn by the servants of The Shimmering One. They each wore a white tabard as well, bearing the symbol of the sun-god stamped proudly upon their chests. It was yet another reflection of their unyielding commitment as a devotee to the sun-god.

His assignment was to travel east with a group of paladins on a pilgrimage. Garius and the four knights under his command—Matthias, Marcus, Bralon and Micah—rode on the backs of mighty warhorses, complete with lean muscles and mighty strides. Their movement was unusually slow this day, however, as they were charged with escorting their guest, the halfling healer named Divah, to the village of Dhegg, and then home to Merithia in the northeast section of the Shindar region. This was all part of their instructions given them by the High Priest, Tiyarnon.

Halflings, as is common knowledge throughout Wothlondia, have an affinity for healing as the druids do, by tapping into the spiritualistic powers originating from the Feyfields. Rumor has it that they are more in tune with that particular plane of magic than even the elves, to whom they are closely related. Simply put, halflings are smaller versions of the elves and closely resemble them in every manner possible, including their appearance.

The sun reached its pinnacle and the halfling woman recognized that Sun's Peak was upon them. This time of day caused the men to collectively pause for a moment of reflection in reverence to the god of the sun. The female halfling sat quietly and observed the ritual with compliance and great interest.

Divah was an expert healer who needed no aid from the gods of the realms—she was a natural healer able to mimic the healing prayers of even the High Priest with the simplest of efforts. The healing gift was innate to many halflings, though she was more skilled than most. She was believed to have a direct connection to the Regenerative Plane, with which most healers of the realm would be envious.

Divah was quite diminutive but was especially delicate, even for a halfling, a fact offered by many of the priests she'd met in Oakhaven. She delicately brushed the white hair away from her vibrant green eyes and continued to observe the priests.

She sat atop a pony that trekked rather more slowly than the men would have liked, she knew, but they each kept their tongues silent at the behest of the warpriest, Garius, who led them along. After all, they were to escort her safely, and were not given any constraints on time.

Divah had been sent by Rimbo Hollytoe, the village elder of Merithia, to observe the temple of The Shimmering One in Oakhaven and to meet with the eldest priest, Tiyarnon, to gain an understanding of how they went about tapping into the regenerative plane. She had left two others behind in Oakhaven to further investigate the procedures and to document it for further analysis. Likewise, Tiyarnon had instructed this small group of attendants to glean some wisdom from the Merithian halfling as best they could.

"I cannot wait to visit Dhegg and to examine the tinctures and potions and other wares offered by Larwinckle and the gnome merchants there! They are rumored to have rare tomes and recipes concerning healing elixirs and things of that nature for sale, too," the halfling woman said excitedly to Garius, who rode beside her, regarding the halfling's unbridled enthusiasm with a smile of his own.

"I am aware of these rumors as well, my lady," Garius responded kindly. He locked eyes with hers and sensed a timid and playful shyness about the halfling that seemed too innocent for words. Her thirst for knowledge and frank naivety were as refreshing as they were innocent.

His hand instinctively went to his helm, which dangled from a clip on his saddle as the heat was a bit much to wear it this day. His short cropping of black hair was completely soaked with sweat, which sent a steady stream of moisture down his face and pooled above his thick eyebrows, though he did not complain.

Divah's white hair, however, appeared to be completely dry, which puzzled the warpriest a great deal.

"How is it that you do not perspire?" he asked, unable to quell his curiosity and gently nudging the firm head of his warhammer back into its proper place upon his back as it had slid uncomfortably to one side.

"I do not sweat," she answered him bluntly. "I do not know why. I barely feel the heat upon me even now," she added, looking skyward into the brilliant sun. Garius's face screwed up in confusion at that remark.

How is that possible? he reflected without a word. Halflings are certainly...different.

"It is something to which I am immune, I suppose," she continued with a shrug, perhaps sensing his reaction. "I've never really given it much thought."

"Very well, my lady," he nodded politely, wiping a puddle of perspiration from his brow. "I welcome the heat. It is like the pain of a wound or the bite of the chill wind. They proclaim to your senses that you yet live."

She politely returned the smile that was set upon his face and then turned away from him, keeping her eyes straight ahead. She either did not understand the reference or could not relate to it, he gathered as he returned his own attention to the landscape.

They had circumvented the Blackstone Mountains, traveling north around them, and had also crossed the upper portion of the Prismatic River at the ford. They were currently just north of the Oakcrest Mountains where travel would begin to slow even further. They stopped there to eat and rest for a short while.

And the days began to pass just the same.

The landscape began to slowly change beneath their horse's hooves, for they had been traveling for quite some time and had entered the region of Stonehill. The ground was becoming rugged and coarse, lending a resounding conviction to the region's name.

A chill was becoming more palpable in the air around them and Garius was thankful for that. They were midway through The Calming and the month of Nature's Fall was only a week or so away.

Dhegg could be found near the center of the Lochbeech River, further to the west, and only about a day away now. They had been riding for almost two months, due to the slow pace set by their guest, but they still had plenty of supplies.

"It has been fifty three-years since the reign of Ashenclaw," Divah mentioned absently. He stared at her for a long while absently.

She possessed a beautiful smile that she displayed often enough and her face was undeniably a woman's, boasting a set of high cheekbones with full lips and a distinguished wisdom behind her eyes. It all seemed strange on the body of a woman who looked as if she had not yet reached her fourteenth name-day.

"The calendar year is 54 P.A., my lady," Garius corrected her assumption, focusing on her question again.

"Apologies, my lord," she answered him respectfully. "We halflings do not place as much importance on the measurement of time as we should."

Garius merely nodded his consent and continued carefully through the hilly patches that presented beneath their horses' hooves. Suddenly, the sound of steel being drawn was heard as the Paladins brought their weapons to bear.

"What is it?" asked Garius.

"Micah's keen elven eyes have detected enemies approaching from the south, my lord," answered Bralon accordingly. Micah was half-elven and Garius knew that his eyesight was better even than that of some full-blooded elves.

"Enemies, you say? How can you be sure?" Garius questioned them.

"They are not human," Micah called back to the warpriest with utter certainty in his tone. "They move as if they are not living, sir." Then he clarified further. "They are... undead."

Divah gasped at that and reined up her horse. "The undead are profane atrocities!" she stated boldly, wincing in what looked to be physical pain.

"Aye," Garius nodded grimly in agreement. "We shall smite them from the face of Wothlondia and send them back to Pandemonium with haste." He donned his polished steel helm. "The Shimmering One shall see to this."

"Aye" agreed Bralon the Bold, as he was oft called, in a calm, solemn tone that emerged from behind a thick blonde beard. That and the occasional glint of an eye were the only features seen through his heavy steel helm. He was a bear of a man with muscles threatening to escape from beneath his sturdy, golden plate armor, and his deeds were legendary.

The undead mass shuffled closer, then one by one began to rush toward the group. These undead were large and it looked as though they were unsure of their own footing. Upon closer inspection, however, they moved quite swiftly in comparison to their bulbous nature.

"What in Pandemonium...?" asked Micah as he waited for the command, looking back to the warpriest. There were at least three score of the creatures hurrying toward them. And once the creatures caught the scent of fresh meat nearby, they began to trample each other in a mad rush toward the holy warriors.

Garius gathered the knights around him and delivered a prayer of aid that would fill them with divine strength. Within seconds, Garius and the group of Paladins shone brightly for a split instant until the burst faded, remaining faintly aglow around their armored shells. That radiance replenished them with the power and endurance of the gods. However, as they knew, for they had received this blessing before on many occasions and on many battlefields, it would last only a short time.

The female halfling was instructed to move further north into a cropping of trees atop a small hill, and she willingly did so and with haste. She was not cowardly, Garius appreciated, but seemed to have an overwhelming fear of the undead. He would have to pursue that reasoning at another time.

The five servants of The Shimmering One formed up next to one another, Bralon at their head, and took the brunt of the undead charge. The creatures slammed into their blades and shields amidst a cacophony of screeches and guttural sounds unintended for men's ears. Filled with the blessing of divine strength, the Paladins slashed and sliced into the sickening and diseased flesh, sending body parts flying everywhere.

Garius could detect the stench of disease on the abominations as a miasma of contagion surrounded the very air around each and every one of them. The warpriest waded through the dead bodies on the floor, while the invigorated knights around him cut a swathe through the horde of zombies. Garius removed his holy warhammer and gripped his shield tightly, fastening it to his left arm as they fought together.

For several moments, the divinely charged warriors cut down their enemies with ease, never slowing or tiring, their attacks charged with the force of a dozen men. Blow after blow took the zombies down, one by one, until the speed of their attacks eventually slowed.

Divah watched from afar in horror and felt bile within her throat, threatening to spew forth.

How are they doing this? she wondered, seeing the vast number of the undead creatures and knowing that there were only five knights. There were scores of the vulgar things.

She held fast and watched with mouth agape as the scene unfolded.

Garius strode into the midst of the chaos and voiced a prayer, holding his sun-symbol in his grasp as reassurance. The Paladins heard his words and pressed their attack, not allowing a single one of the zombies to disturb the priest. The words grew in volume and reached their crescendo as the warpriest held both hands on high.

"You shall not win this day!" Garius screamed, and his eyes and body filled with a white light. That radiant, brilliant energy burst forth from him all at once, bathing the area in light so bright that none could see within it.

"Your perdition is fulfilled!" Garius shouted as the luminosity burst forth from his body exploding in all directions.

The undead creatures fell in droves under the holy outbreak, simply melting or reduced to ash right before the eyes of the Paladins. Micah swung roughly at a zombie but nearly sent himself sprawling to the ground as the creature turned to nothingness before him. All told, several dozen of them fell under the ubiquitous light. But when the knights' vision cleared, there were still more of the undead coming.

Garius saw that Marcus had fallen, succumbing to an unseen foe, perhaps due to the visible aura of contagion that seemed to fester upon the skin of these zombies. He had been bitten and clawed by more than one of them as they found flesh beneath his armor. He was feverish and convulsing. Yet still more of the undead approached. There was no respite as the knights moved forth to continue their service to The Shimmering One, as was their vow.

Garius held his hammer on high, the huge head pointed skyward.

"For The Shimmering One!" he bellowed, rallying his holy warriors and spurring them on once more with a renewed vigor. He turned to regard the fallen Paladin and was contemplating calling a burst of energy upon him when he felt a rap on his head from an unobserved zombie that had made its way to him. The sound echoed within his helmet and his ears rung at the sheer savagery of the blow. He shoved the drooling thing away with his shield. That created a bit of space, allowing him to swing and bury his warhammer deep within his assailant's skull, which cracked and caved under the force of his blow. With that, the zombie fell limply to the rough soil with arms outstretched.

Garius remarked that Bralon was fighting like a man possessed of The Champion himself, with strength and exuberance set forth with each and every swing of his blade. He cut down zombie after zombie as it if were a menial task and he carried on as the focal point of their attacks.

Then the warpriest turned again, this time seeing Matthias straining to keep one of the creatures at bay. It was on his sword but the zombie had gotten inside the knight's shield. It was pushing forward along the length of his sword, already impaled upon it, but indifferent about its state of being. It was propelled by its hunger, not reason or emotion. Its goal was to feed, pure and simple. That is one advantage they have over us, Garius thought as he moved quickly to Matthias' aid. He came in on Matthias' right flank and pointed his warhammer at the zombie.

"But we have faith," he whispered to himself in a reassuring tone, calling the celestial aid of The Shimmering One once more and driving a beam of divine holy energy right through the creature's skull. It slumped upon Mathias' sword. He glanced at Garius, nodding in thanks, before receiving the next zombie which he drove back with a slam of his shield followed quickly by a wide swing of his blade.

Garius moved to assist the fallen Marcus, as Bralon hacked down the last of the zombie threat.

As he approached, he witnessed Divah kneeling beside him introducing a burst of regenerative energy into the man while he prayed, bravely and loudly to the sun god through trembling lips. The timorous halfling that had once run from the undead creatures was gone, leaving behind someone more courageous, it appeared.

"I thought you feared for your life?" Garius questioned.

"I was more afraid for this man than for my own safety," Divah answered with an implacable contempt behind her green eyes. They were hard in their reflection of the warpriest, whether in response to his words or in an attempt to quell her own fears, Garius could not tell. Perhaps it was simply her detestation of the undead zombies that propelled her.

Marcus coughed and shivered as the divine light coursed through him. Garius knelt in prayer, away from the halfling, and prayed for help in fighting the disease that now ran rampant throughout his fellow companion.

Moments later, Garius stood and removed his helm.

"These things are called Blood Rot Zombies—Blood Rotters to some," Garius explained to Divah. "They have not plagued our world since a time before the reign of Ashenclaw. Something wicked has been sent to Wothlondia." As he spoke, the warpriest knelt and examined Marcus. "Something wicked, indeed. This was no random act. Something summoned these things and set them free upon our lands."

"Some-thing or some-one?"

"That is something I intend to find out. You have done all you can and I appreciate that," he thanked Divah kindly. "I must rid him of the contagion now or he will die."

The Paladins surrounded the warpriest and offered support in the form of prayers while Divah willingly moved aside to allow them the space.

This was something she had not anticipated, and though she had dealt with disease and poisons before, she conceded the warpriest his prerogative without a word. She watched in awe and wonder as the warpriest chanted spells and invoked the regenerative energy into the fallen body of Marcus over and again for the next hour and more, attempting to quell the deadly infestation that consumed him.

It was for naught.

"We need to burn his remains so that he does not return from the dead," Garius stated with pain in his voice. "He deserves a hero's burial. Yet, here I am faced with burning him instead of sending him off rightly in a glorious ritual."

Silence and dejection filled the empty air. The warriors formed a semi-circle around the body of the fallen Paladin which they had stacked up high on neatly piled branches in a clearing. Garius started mouthing a prayer in remembrance of the valor of the man named Marcus while Bralon struck the tinder twice. The kindling caught quickly.

They all stood silently in reverence and watched as the Paladin was consumed by the flames.

"It is never easy to lay a loved one to rest," Divah announced softly to the warpriest.

"He deserved a champion's funeral and instead we have to take the practical precaution." There was a brief pause and she regarded him sympathetically. "It comes with the territory, but we do not have to like it," he replied. "I thank you for your condolences in the matter." He saw the look of concern on her face, though his stare returned to her nothing but hardened features and eyes as cold as ice.

After an hour passed, the ceremony was concluded and a proud servant of The Shimmering One lay dead.

"You did your best," Bralon assured the warpriest, slapping him on the back.

"Aye" he nodded. "We all did. But where in Pandemonium did these foul things come from?"

"I am not sure," responded Bralon from beneath his helm. "But we have to get moving. Our supplies dwindle with each day and we need a break from the road."

Garius nodded his consent and they all mounted up and sped off toward Dhegg, the halfling propelling her own pony to its limits.

At one point, Garius looked back to see the pyre burning, smoke billowing into the night sky, even though they were several miles away by now.

Within the hour, Garius witnessed a light coming from a burrow hidden deep within the soil and realized that they had wandered right into Dhegg and had not even realized it.

The town was mostly subterranean, structured slightly below the uneven grounds of the Stonehill region, with one or two of the dwellings extending on into a huge grove of trees that grew harmoniously adjacent to one another. Garius was aware that the gnome's defenses were their stealthily concealed burrows, granting them the element of surprise against would-be invaders.

It was then that he abruptly perceived the shadowy figures, short of stature and hiding behind the crests of the surrounding hills. Some were even in the trees above. Gnomes stood or crouched with crossbows cocked and ready to fire upon them. However, it seemed that they were awaiting a command to discharge their weapons, for they restrained their volleys.

Garius had been so preoccupied with his own guilt at having let Marcus die that he hadn't noticed any of it. He thanked The Shimmering One that his folly hadn't cost them even more lives.

"Hold!" called a voice from overhead. It was wheezy, yet forceful.

"It be very late, strangers," said a smallish man, who slowly came into view, descending from high above in the shadows.

Before them stood what could only be a gnome, with thick white hair covering his head and a neatly trimmed beard surrounding his chin and lips. Bright blue eyes peeked out from under bushy white eyebrows and he had a bit of a belly on him.

"I am Larwinckle and I assume ye' mean us no harm. At least that's what I be advised."

"Aye," Garius confirmed. "Apologies, my lord, but we have been traveling for months with no rest and sought you with purpose. Please consider allowing us to remain in your village."

"Of course ye can stay," Larwinckle answered, signaling for all of the gnomes to put down their weapons. They all gathered around and looked the humans and the halfling up and down curiously and then scattered back to their homes.

"Follow me and I'll be showin' ye where ye can bed for the eve," stated the white bearded gnome, moving as he spoke.

He showed them to a smallish burrow, which was large according to gnome standards, and which would sleep all five of them, albeit uncomfortably.

"Many thanks, Larwinckle," said Garius kindly, nodding to the gnome. "I am Garius Forge, warpriest to The Shimmering One."

"Pleased to meet ye, Garius Forge," replied Larwinckle as he backed out of the burrow. "We'll speak on the morrow when we break our fast."

Garius nodded and closed the door, unaware that a pair of spiteful eyes considered him curiously.

Garius removed his armor methodically over the next hour before lying down. He barely slept at all as the face of Marcus haunted his slumber.

Garius focused on the door when he heard the footsteps approach, light though they were. He was awake, but hardly refreshed. He had already refitted his armor meticulously, prayed and meditated in the cramped confines of the room and had done so quietly enough not to wake the others.

The expected knock sounded on the door, echoing in the room as his companions began to stir. Garius opened the door and beheld a hunched gnome. He looked impatiently into the room, and then stared up at Garius and began mumbling something to him. The warpriest bent to one knee before the bald gnome and placed a hand to his ear.

"I said, Larwinckle be ready for ye," the unnamed gnome repeated more clearly and then waddled away along a scarcely perceptible path that was worn into the grassy meadow. It was barely visible now and had gone undetected all of last evening, especially after the sun had fallen into the clouds.

"I will accompany this one. You will seek me out once you are dressed and ready," Garius called back to the others, but Divah was already up and out of her bedroll wearing a long gown made of a thin, yet durable fabric that Garius assumed was meant to be slept in. The halfling was so excited to get moving that it seemed she did not care about the state of her undress.

"I am coming with you," she told Garius eagerly, her green eyes filled with wonder and joy at her obvious expectations of finally exploring the gnome village. With that, she snatched up her shoes and began moving hastily out of the burrow. The Paladins began to move about in the shadows of the room, donning their clothing and then their armor. Garius shook his head and a smile cracked his face as he watched the halfling, hopping forward on one foot and then the other, trying to put on her shoes while hurrying after him.

She is quite impulsive, he thought, allowing the smile to remain until it left of its own accord a few moments later.

The gnome led Garius and the female halfling to a smallish door that appeared to be anchored to the ground. It was partially hidden by brush and foliage, Garius observed, as the gnome knocked loudly on its hard, wooden surface. Garius also noted that there was no knob to be seen or any other obvious way to pull the door open from the outside.

With that thought in mind, he saw the door open outward slowly as a gnome pushed it ajar and then waved them all in. Garius watched as the gnome and halfling strode easily through the opening, then he stooped, having to bend low in order to navigate the space. It was well lit inside by a combination of lanterns and a brilliant, magical light coming in from above them that appeared to hover and move about on its own. The warpriest wondered if the wisp of light was something sentient.

Larwinckle sat at a large table by himself and waved Garius and Divah over to join him.

"Havin' some duck eggs, curds and bread for the breaking of our fast," he informed them as another gnome placed a plate of food and a basket of bread in front of them. Another, a female gnome this time, came over and handed them both a mug of water and another of milk. Garius nodded and accepted them before turning his attention back to Larwinckle. He observed quietly as the gnome ate his food with a seemingly ravenous hunger until moments passed and he was gulping down the last of his mug's contents.

"I cannot wait to see your market!" Divah said excitedly between bites of her food.

"Ye are welcome to see all of our wares," the gnome responded. "Berengel and Zulmatten over there will certainly be happy to show you their latest inventions." He pointed at a table where two gnomes sat alone. One had floppy brown hair all about his face and the other was bald on top, with silver follicles lining the back and sides of his head.

"No one really talks to 'em except one another," he laughed.

"Is your whole village present?" Garius asked him, scanning the room and noting that there were literally hundreds of gnomes milling about. This structure was one of the few that extended above ground, making practical use of the tight grouping of trees outside.

"Not even close," Larwinckle giggled. "This is Hedgewin's Tavern," he continued, indicating a gnome behind the bar who hurried about, wiping mugs and giving instructions to the others under his employ. The bar itself was a massive construction of fine wood that wrapped around behind them and disappeared out of sight. "This place is the biggest building in the whole town and goes up seven more floors."

Garius looked surprised as he peered up to the wooden ceiling but then saw a sturdy set of steps that obviously connected to the floors above and another set heading down.

"Where do those lead?" Garius asked about the stairs leading to a lower level.

"Aren't we full o' questions this morn?" Larwinckle answered with a smile. "Eat yer food 'afore it gets cold and we'll talk after."

Garius nodded and did as he was told, with a look of curiosity upon his face. He had never really intermingled with the gnomes before and was finding their customs quite different. He looked to his right to see that Divah had already finished eating and had joined the two inventors at the other table. A moment later, the Paladins entered the room ducking and squatting under the roof. They found seating and settled themselves uncomfortably on a bench at another table as the gnomes brought them their food. Garius watched as Matthias, Bralon and Micah each gave thanks to The Shimmering One and clanked mugs in respect for their fallen brother before eating their meals.

He slowly finished his own repast in silence while Larwinckle told a story of how he and his kin came to master the repeating crossbow. Garius listened intently.

Randermotten did not leave his burrow this day for the morning meal, nor did he want to share anything at all with the gnomes that would surely gather throughout the day at Hedgewin's Tavern. He was, however, very interested in the strangers that came calling last eve... he and the newly summoned demon, Zan'kuros, that is. Zan'kuros was an avatar demon from Pandemonium and servant to the demon lord, Amon. He had responded to the pleas of the warlock the day before last.

Randermotten was an ambitious gnome and habitually excluded himself from most activities enjoyed by his brethren. He had been a hermit for several decades since his wife of many years passed away from a sudden illness. He kept to the shadows and eyed his fellow gnomes with contempt. The inhabitants of Dhegg generally respected each other's privacy and so left him alone for the most part. However, they did consider him quite strange. He walked with a limp, a defect he'd had since birth, his hygienic habits were not usually well kept and he could often be found muttering to himself. Many of the villagers would whisper about the peculiarities of the hobbling gnome and gossip amongst themselves about his unusual mannerisms. This angered the misguided gnome, and instead of pursuing help from any of the Gods of Order, he instead begged for aid in the night to the demon lords and pursued the black arts of the warlock.

From the abyss called Pandemonium emerged the fiend Zan'kuros, a demon that smelled of sulfur and brimstone. It did not have a corporeal form, but instead was a thing of mist and smoke, shimmering and fading in and out, and its eyes shone bright red in the darkness. It hovered in the shadows, whispering and planting seeds of treachery within the thoughts of the gnome, sometimes sending images into his mind's eye.

"Weeee muuuusst fiiind a host foooorrrr meeeee," it hissed to him in a very broken tongue. It spoke to the gnome in the common trade-speak, or Wothlondian as it was called.

Randermotten had been dabbling with the dark arts in secret for a year now and was beginning to harness that magic, especially the necromantic spells associated with the Degenerative Plane.

"I've a host in mind," stated Randermotten, sweeping a mop of hair from in front of his dark eyes which harbored a palpable hatred. "We've been set upon by a group of Paladins. You must possess one of them!"

"Yyyeeeeesssss," it whispered, its red eyes glinting in the shadows. "Giiivvveeee meeeeeee a tasssssssste offf flleeeessssssshhhhh."

"I'll bring one close enough and ye should have the time ye require ta trap his soul," Randermotten informed the creature, seeing its eyes flash a bright scarlet at that comment.

With that, Randermotten opened the door to his burrow and squinted into the sunlight, surveying the scene. He set off toward Hedgewin's Tavern and then stopped as a fortuitous event occurred—one of the Paladins emerged from the tavern... alone!

"Help!" called Randermotten suddenly, waving to the Paladin to follow. He was able to yell it loudly enough that the knight heard him across the short distance, yet softly enough as to not disturb anyone else. Or so he thought.

"What be the problem, my lord?" asked a female gnome passing by, a neighbor to Randermotten, whose name eluded him. He ducked back into his burrow and she pursued him. She had long silver hair and the bluest eyes he had ever seen, so full of warmth and hope.

That look changed to shock, and possibly despair, he thought, as he thrust a dagger straight through her heart with a crazed look in his deep, dark eyes. As he dropped her to the floor, her warm blood still fresh on his hands, the Paladin entered.

His facial features distorted slowly beneath his helm, converting from puzzlement and wonder to sheer horror and disgust as he registered what had happened here. His gaze slowly adjusted to first regard the limp gnomish female on the floor lying in a puddle of blood, and then the dark-eyed gnome standing with a bloody dagger in his hand.

"What is the meaning of this?" Bralon blurted out in absolute revulsion at the sight of the dead gnomish girl. But as the holy warrior unsheathed his weapon, intending to enforce the will of The Shimmering One upon the obvious and base murderer set before him, he froze. He jerked back suddenly and began to convulse as his helm flew from atop his skull to reveal the blonde hair beneath. His wide eyes showed a clear struggle within and turned to regard Randermotten, whose face widened with a wicked smile.

Bralon's brow began to bead with sweat as the demon Zan'kuros asserted his will from within the holiest of holy warriors. The Paladin felt the darkness closing in on him, wresting control of his soul.

Randermotten watched intently, growing nervous as the internal battle seemed to go on for what seemed an eternity. He continued observing, beginning to wonder who would emerge victorious.

Bralon fought with the will and power of a true warrior of the sun god, but in the end it did him no good against this foul demon from Pandemonium. Now he was no longer Bralon the bold. In his stead was a demonic creature, the likes of which Wothlondia hadn't seen in decades.

The Paladin rose to his feet and stood up straight once more. Randermotten held his dagger out before him in a threatening manner, worried about what he would do if Bralon had actually won the battle for his soul.

"I... am... Bralon... no.... more," the creature struggled to say, seemingly having trouble uttering the words. "Zan'kuros... is... now."

"Not used to the human's voice, eh?" Randermotten chuckled with a relieved and devious grin. "We be needin' to clean this up and ye be needin' to be gettin' back to your... friends," he added with a sickening giggle. "Yer gonna' have to act like all is normal until ye leave, and then," he paused, "...slaughter 'em!" Randermotten said this with confidence, knowing that the demon within Bralon was mighty indeed. "Then ye return ta me and we'll decide what's what."

With that, Randermotten began to clean the gnomish woman's lifeblood from the hard floor of the burrow while the demon devoured the body. Randermotten winced a few times during the procedure. He was still not used to the demon and what it was capable of doing. Once that task was finished, Zan'kuros, now in the body of the human paladin, began working his vocal chords aloud, familiarizing itself with the voice of its current host.

"Thank you again for providing us with food and shelter," Garius declared with a gesture toward his plate. The meal had not been very appetizing, but he had eaten it nonetheless out of respect for the gnomes' kindness and hospitality. "I am finished eating now."

"So ye are," observed Larwinckle, standing and heading toward the door to the lower level that Garius had questioned him about earlier. "This heads into the tunnels below the village," he said matter-of-factly. "We gnomes don't do much of our traveling above ground, ye see."

Garius nodded in understanding. It made sense now to him. The gnomes were generally under-dwellers, subterrane-born with a penchant for doing things in the dark rather than the light. That type of existence would not sit well with the warpriest. He needed the constant reminder of his god's presence.

He watched as Bralon came back into the tavern and wondered how long he had been gone. Garius realized he must have been listening to the gnomes' story for over an hour, and so intently that he had not been paying attention to the comings and goings around him. He watched as Bralon walked unsteadily toward the others, took a seat next to them and began speaking to them in hushed tones.

Is something wrong with Bralon? Garius wondered. But, before he could give it another thought, he felt the hand of the gnome upon his shoulder.

"Do ye want to take a look see?" Larwinckle asked, wrenching the warpriest from his introspection. Garius nodded politely and examined the three Paladins as they stood and exited the tavern. Probably going out to pray beneath the sun, Garius thought, since it must be nearing Sun's Peak again.

The warpriest silently followed the gnome to the lowest floor level of the tavern, which in Garius' estimation had to be twenty to thirty feet below ground at this point. Larwinckle descended the stairs and opened the door. A well-lit and expansive tunnel opened up before him.

There were several gnomes scurrying about down here and Garius realized it to be a grandiose space. Their entire village for the most part was under the ground in these wide, voluminous tunnels. Garius had to duck slightly on occasion to avoid banging his head along the ceilings of the tunnels, but generally they were at least a full head above his height. As they walked along, he discovered that there were buildings and other structures built entirely under and directly into the ground, with stone that made up the walls. His awe and respect for the gnomish people grew as he admired their craftsmanship and ingenuity. There was even a small, clear brook that ran alongside the major walkway where fish could be glimpsed, swimming under the crystalline surface.

Larwinckle showed Garius around. Divah appeared from time to time, moving from shop to shop, attempting to take it all in. She was accompanied by several gnomish escorts who obviously knew the marketplace well enough.

Then Garius noted a mannish figure in brown robes with a hood about his head, walking alone. He seemed quite out of place and was roughly human in size, though Garius could not see his face... or skin for that matter.

"Who is that?" Garius asked Larwinckle as the figure slowed to stare at him, steadily walking past. He was a human—a man, older than his gait would suggest, Garius noted, witnessing the leathery skin of someone who must be well past sixty years of age. The warpriest also saw that he held something tight to his chest but could not make out what it was.

"That be a visitor from Safehold," Larwinckle admitted in a whispered tone. "He is from the Order of the Faceless Knights."

Garius was shocked at that revelation. "The Inquisition is in Dhegg?" he asked incredulously. Larwinckle nodded in response. "They don't much like bein' bothered or bein' the topic of our conversin'," he stated confidently. "That's fer sure!"

The man had stopped and was staring at Garius again for some reason, ignoring the significant distance between them, and making the warpriest feel uncomfortable. The distant figure held Garius' gaze for a while, ostensibly sizing him up until eventually the hooded figure returned his attention back to his surroundings and then quickly disappeared around a corner. Garius turned back to Larwinckle and shook his head, though the gnome did not notice the exchange and ignored the gesture.

"I'll be showin' ye around the whole village for a tour if ye'd like now?" Larwinckle offered. "Maybe show ye some of our fine crafts, trinkets and even some of our finer foods," Larwinckle added a bit more enthusiastically. Garius nodded and followed after the white-haired gnome, unable to shake the feeling that he was being watched.

Zan'kuros stood over Bralon's former companions, who now lay dead inside Randermotten's burrow, their bodies completely shredded and almost unrecognizable. Bits of flesh and gore stained the ground and walls. Randermotten had run screaming down the stairwell once they entered his home and lured the all-too-goodly knights to their ultimate demise in the sub-basement.

Zan'kuros first used Bralon's strong arms and steel blade to slay the one called Micah. He accurately slashed between the armored plates, slicing through the man's exposed neck before he realized the deception. The half-elven Paladin died clutching at his throat, his eyes wide in disbelief. Then Zan'kuros toyed slowly with the other, the human knight, Matthias, before showing him its true demonic form. Matthias fought fiercely and injured the demon a few times, causing blackened ichor to ooze from the demon's wounds, before ultimately being torn to pieces by the demon's natural weaponry. Zan'kuros was finally becoming comfortable with this fleshy host and was able to shift back and forth quite easily when necessary.

"Iff... you summon more of my... k-kin, then we will... take over the village f-for you," Zan'kuros stammered, transforming back into the form of Bralon the Bold.

"I got plenty of lifeblood to perform a ritual," Randermotten replied, gesturing to the shredded remains that covered his basement floor. "It will be time again soon," he continued, climbing the stairs and standing outside in the mid afternoon sun. "Once the moon is full tonight, I'll be more 'n happy ta bring another here to aid in the quest. But," he paused to regard the demon, "I want to be made lord and master of Dhegg once it is done!"

"Prepare the circle," Zan'kuros nodded respectfully, staring at Randermotten through the face of Bralon the Bold. His eyes flashed red for a second before returning to their normal shade of brown. "I must rid us of the... warpriest, too. I understand that he is a s-significant threat... according to the thoughts of this... f-fleshling."

"Aye," Randermotten confirmed. "Take care of him and I'll be havin' another of yer kind here by the end of the eve. Just remember our deal, demon." Randermotten spoke threateningly, for he held a symbol upon his person that had two significant properties. Firstly, it would protect him from the demon's influence and secondly, it could banish the demon back to Pandemonium if he wished.

"I... remember," Zan'kuros acknowledged, turning away from Randermotten and exiting the burrow, heading off to Hedgewin's Tavern once more. Randermotten wasn't exactly sure if his ears deceived him just then, but he was almost positive he heard very faint laughter in the distance as the demon disappeared behind the tavern door.

Larwinckle led Garius around the underground village that comprised most of Dhegg for the rest of the day. There were miles and miles of passageways below the ground and very little of the village emerged into the rough and rocky terrain above. The two of them stopped at an emporium selling many different goods and crafts made by hundreds of the gnomes. This was one of the largest places that Garius had seen so far in the village.

Divah emerged from the emporium and came over to the pair of them. She was followed by another, a female gnome, who waited patiently behind her.

"I see Glimma there is showin' ye around the marketplace," Larwinckle said to the halfling, nodding toward the female gnome. "She knows all of the finest places to secure goods in Dhegg!"

"She does!" Divah agreed, holding up a leather sack near to bursting that clattered with the sound of glass and metals clanging together. "I can barely carry this."

Larwinckle walked over to a pair of gnomes who were wandering by, spoke with them quietly and watched as they went sauntering off. Then the three of them waited, since he held up a finger to indicate this, and within moments, the two gnomes returned with a three-wheeled cart. They left it, bowing to Larwinckle, who smiled wide, his blue eyes glinting with pride as he offered the cart to Divah.

"Ye can place yer effects on there and continue to explore the markets until yer heart's contented," he added with a low bow. With that offer, Divah was off and pushing the cart toward her escort, Glimma.

Larwinckle then turned his attention back to Garius. "Is there anythin' you might fancy a look see?" he asked the warpriest. Garius thought about this and decided that there was nothing in particular.

"I should probably make my way back to the tavern and rejoin my companions," Garius admitted, tugging at the strands of a short, braided beard that hung just below his chin.

"Very well," Larwinckle nodded. They began to retrace their steps. Within moments, Garius saw the form of Bralon walking toward them.

I wonder what he is doing down here alone? Garius thought, as he did not see Matthias or Micah alongside the huge Paladin. As Bralon the Bold neared the two of them, Garius sensed something was wrong. He did not know where the feeling originated, but he simply understood that Bralon was not what or who he claimed. He said nothing to Larwinckle, merely continuing forward, but mouthing the words to a spell as he looked toward the ground.

Bralon was within ten paces when Garius shoved Larwinckle to the ground and extended his two arms outward together, pointing at Bralon as he finished the spell. At that moment, a burst of regenerative, holy energy shot forth from his outstretched hands, bathing Bralon's armored form in divine magic. It was so brilliant that many nearby gnomes had to cover their eyes. Larwinckle stared up in disbelief at both the events and at Garius, who next removed his shield and hammer from his back, and armed himself, strapping the shield to his left arm and gripping the handle of the hammer tightly in his right hand.

When the light cleared, no longer did Bralon the Bold stand before Garius Forge, but instead there was a demonic form so hideous it caused Larwinckle to recoil in sheer terror. Garius tightened his lips and gritted his teeth.

"Go back to Pandemonium where you belong and release this man's soul to me!" Garius commanded, as if he knew exactly what was happening, though in reality he did not. Something was giving him cause, aiding him in understanding the recent events. Garius was well versed in the ways of possession and the allure of demons, but this was different. It was as if The Shimmering One himself was inspiring the warpriest.

The apparition in front of Garius was approximately two full heads taller than the warpriest. Its body shimmered with a darkness not born of this world and its true form was significantly threatening. At first hunched, it now rose to its full height, spreading out its huge arms that ended in deadly talons. And it roared. A sound of something both alien and threatening echoed from the walls of the vast cavern. Gnomes began to run to and fro, either in sheer terror or in the hopes of finding a weapon of some sort. Garius could hear Larwinckle barking commands to the gnomes and saw that the demon looked his way once, but mostly stared into Garius' dark eyes.

"Not... without... you," the demon finally spat in response to Garius' command. With that, Zan'kuros charged Garius with inhuman speed. The warpriest had not even seated his helmet before the thing was upon him. Its maw opened wider than should have been possible as it appeared to unhinge from the jaw, displaying a series of razor sharp teeth.

Zan'kuros rained down a sequence of blows upon the warpriest's steel shield with such force that it caused him to stumble and fall on his back. His helm rolled to a stop behind him. The blows eventually slapped the shield out wide to Garius' left and exposed his chest and face for a brief second. One strike slashed across his plated hauberk, taking some of the golden flecked steel along with it, while the next slashed across Garius' face and forehead, ripping the flesh above his left eye. Blood streamed down Garius' face, temporarily blinding him.

The demon had reared back for yet another strike before Garius had the time to react or reset his shield. But before the killing blow landed, Garius heard a resounding thunk sound, then another, and then several more followed. This made the demon stop. Garius cocked his head enough to see that a group of gnomes stood with their repeating crossbows, launching volley after volley of bolts into the demon's hide.

It wrenched its massive bulk away from Garius and roared in defiance at the gnomes, black ooze cascading from the wounds upon its flesh. It chased after them, eventually catching two and tearing their limbs from their sockets. Then Zan'kuros tossed the bloody stumps that remained aside like so much garbage. Next the colossal demon launched itself with inhuman speed at where Larwinckle stood.

Garius meanwhile made it to his feet, wiped the blood from his face and retrieved his helmet. He thrust himself between the two foes and pointed the head of his warhammer at the demon. He uttered another prayer to The Shimmering One. The demon charged once more, leaping through the air. But instead of landing upon the warpriest, the demon was caught full in the chest by the warhammer's head. The blow sent it reeling in the opposite direction and it heard the distinct sound of its corporeal armor cracking under the intense impact of that assault. The hammer was laden with divine power and a burst of holy energy had erupted from the weapon as it struck Zan'kuros.

Garius stood in defiance, the hammer in his hand, as the demon hit the hard ground, bouncing and sliding into a nearby wall. The age-old stone buckled somewhat under the enormous bulk of its carcass. It shook its horned head and screeched a piercing howl that caused all nearby to protect their ears. Pain resonated through Garius' head as he could not impede the raucous, other-worldly sound from penetrating his hearing.

Minutes seemed to pass until the sound finally faded. Soon after, his mind was able to focus once more and he observed something happening in the air around where the demon now stood.

A rift was beginning to materialize.

Garius realized in a dreadful panic that the howl was some kind of extra-planar summoning and his heart skipped a beat at the thought of what might rush through that portal if it came into being.

Before he could do anything at all to address the summoning portal, the demon was on the move once more. Garius braced himself for the charge, shield held out defiantly before him, but nothing happened. Again, he heard the sound of bolts hitting the hard flesh of the demon. He looked up to see more quarrels sticking in the demon's hide.

This time, though, the gnomes were working in unison. One squad fired their repeating crossbows and then another squad on the opposite side launched theirs. They were giving him time, Garius realized.

He rushed over to the rift and began a counterspell that would stop it from forming. He uttered an incantation to the sun god to reverse the summoning ritual. Slowly, the flickering aperture between the planes began to recede. Garius continued the prayer. Sweat beaded upon his face, mixing with the blood from the gash on his brow, as he mouthed the words with reverence and willfulness.

Just as the rift was about to seal, Garius witnessed an oversized claw extend and then recede into the shadows, attempting to come forth, but it did not make it through before the tear in the fabric of reality sealed for good. There was an instant, though, when the warpriest had locked eyes with the demonic presence within the planar chasm and had felt a palpable and imminent fear run up and down his spine. Perhaps it was a demon lord, he wondered for a brief instant. But before he could finish this thought, he heard a scream and observed the demon as it once more cornered a group of gnomes, pinning them against two walls. It was about to pounce upon them.

"Face me, demon!" Garius bellowed in a powerful voice, full of other-worldly endowment. The demon craned its head back to face Garius and even the gnomes jumped involuntarily at hearing him.

"I shall know your name and you shall return from whence you came!" Garius clamored as he advanced on the demon. His eyes and hands shone brighter with holy radiance with each step he took toward the demon and with each word he spoke.

Zan'kuros bore down on the approaching warpriest and leaped in the air to land upon him. As it took Garius to the ground, it roared in victory and cocked its right arm back to launch another assault upon the prone human.

From Garius' body came a beacon of light that engulfed the demon, lifting it from atop Garius and then holding it fast in midair.

"What is your name, demon?!" Garius cried aloud, not just once, but many times over.

"Zan-'kur-os!" called the demon unexpectedly and involuntarily.

Zan'kuros was shocked and frustrated that the human was powerful enough to command such spells. It hovered helplessly within the divine prison of light and turned hateful red eyes upon the warpriest.

"Return to the depths of Pandemonium, Zan'kuros, and never return to the face of Wothlondia again!" Garius spoke the words with conviction. "Return, foul demon, to the depths of your fateful dwelling and bother us no more!" As Garius spoke the last of those words, the beacon shone brighter and brighter until it imploded upon itself.

When all was clear, nothing remained of the demon and in its stead was the body of Bralon the Bold. Garius slumped to his knees and each and every onlooker stood with mouths agape and eyes wide. All but two, that is.

The halfling female named Divah had watched the exchange from a distance and rushed over to the fallen man, infusing regenerative powers upon him in the hopes of rejuvenating him. She did not understand the ways of the worshippers of the sun god and hoped he had simply collapsed from exhaustion and not something else.

Another figure moved from deep within the shadows and came into view, lowering his hood and revealing a wrinkled face. He approached and whispered a command to Divah, who stopped what she was doing and moved to tend to Bralon instead.

Garius opened his eyes and saw a strange face before him and then recognized it as belonging to the man from the Order of the Faceless Knights.

He stared into the aged man's dark eyes and his vision clouded and eventually faded into darkness.

When Garius came to, he began to sip from a mug that was thrust into his face by the female halfling, who smiled at his new and stable condition. He winced at the pain he felt upon his forehead above his left eye where Zan'kuros had taken several layers of flesh with a slash of his clawed hand.

Garius was in a bed somewhere in Dhegg, he guessed, and his armor had been stripped from him. He lay in the bed with only a loincloth and his chest was bare. He also gathered that he must have collapsed from exhaustion at the magical expenditure required to banish the demon back to Pandemonium.

A chill suddenly entered the otherwise warm room as a door opened behind him, allowing a cool breeze to enter the space. Several of the candles and torches flickered with the breeze, threatening to extinguish.

"We were fearing that you might have sacrificed yourself," Divah confessed, with a befuddled look upon her beautiful face. "At least, that's what the others suggested. How is your wound?"

"Bralon?" Garius asked the halfling, ignoring the question. She turned away from him. Garius heard her whimpers and understood what that meant. He did not pursue the line of questioning any more as his fears were realized. He saw Bralon's belongings nearby, packed and ready for transport back to Oakhaven for his family, he surmised.

"Who is responsible...?" Garius asked with both a frustration and disdain evident in his tone.

"Do not concern yourself with these things," called a stern and terse voice from his right side. Garius turned his head but a candle burned near him and blinded his vision to that side, hiding the owner of the voice at first. Then a hooded figure emerged from the light to stand before the warpriest.

"I am Ezekiel," stated the elderly gentleman. "I am a representative from Safehold and an Inquisitor belonging to the Order of the Faceless Knights." He paused, allowing the information to sink in. He was clearly in the twilight of his years and had a long, flowing beard that, initially tucked behind his robe, now hung loosely in front of his chest. The man bore symbols of all of the Gods of Order upon his raiment.

He spoke again. "We have discovered the place of the demon's summoning, but the source has... eluded us," he stated clearly and then added cryptically, "for now."

Divah was still in the room. She got up to greet Larwinckle as he entered. The two of them whispered in the background for a moment. The inquisitor waited again for Garius to sit up in the bed and focus on the conversation.

"Your insight is vast, your piety unequalled and you will make an excellent addition," stated the man calmly, awaiting the questions to follow.

Garius' face twisted in confusion. "I am sorry. What?" he asked the Inquisitor.

"You will be joining our sect," he added, and again Garius stared at him in disbelief.

"Surely you jest," Garius replied, with wide eyes.

"I am afraid that I do not," replied Ezekiel, folding his arms over his chest. "We will discuss this with Tiyarnon, but I am sure that he will consent to our... offer."

"But what if I do not accept?" asked Garius, clearly confused and becoming aggravated with each passing word.

"You have no choice, son," Ezekiel declared, as if this were fact and nothing else. "You are gifted, Garius. You have a clear and powerful grasp of detecting the presence of demons and are more than capable of exorcising them. This is not a gift to be taken lightly."

"But I—"

"It is true," called a female voice from behind them. "I could not discover what your true calling was, but I believe Ezekiel is right. You are a hunter of demons, Garius, And it is a gift."

"The halfling speaks truly," Ezekiel echoed. "You must get some rest and we will discuss this further when you wake. It is too much for you to understand in your weakened state." With that, Ezekiel left, followed by Divah, leaving behind the leader of Dhegg alone with Garius.

"I saw what ye're capable of doin' there," Larwinckle said, raising his white, thick eyebrows. "Ye certainly have a gift." Garius simply sat unspeaking, struggling to sort out what had transpired. "Not just any priest could do what ye did," Larwinckle added, crossing his arms over his round belly.

Garius took in a deep breath and sighed. "I suppose you are right," he admitted, averting his eyes from the gnome and looking to the ceiling above, as if searching there for answers. "I allowed my companions to die," he continued, as if this were an argument to the contrary.

"Ye didn't allow them to die, my lord," Larwinckle responded, referring to him in a respectful manner.

"Lord?" echoed Garius. "I am no lord."

"Ye are a warpriest of The Shimmering One and deservin' of a title, sir, whether ye like it or not," Larwinckle countered, "Just as yer knights were." Silence filled the room for a few moments until Larwinckle spoke once more.

"Ye were simply livin' yer life," reiterated the gnome. "Ye can't blame yerself for the actions of Randermotten and the demon, lest ye drive yerself batty. Yer fellow companions are with yer god now."

"Aye," Garius admitted. "They are, at that."

"Ye should give this event some serious consideration afore ye cast it aside, is what I'm suggestin'." Larwinckle moved to the door. Then he turned back to the man lying in the bed and stared deeply into his dark eyes. "We'd all be dead—me and me kin—if it weren't fer ye..."

With that, the gnome left. Garius heard the door shut and heard the patter of the gnome's footsteps as they faded into the distance, just as his acceptance of his offered position grew.

# Chapter 3

Tears of Blood

Zabalas Dimonia stood outside in the courtyard where a newly constructed castle had been erected. It was appropriately named the Bastion of Skulls, as it was fashioned from thousands of them, making up its entire exterior. It was surrounded by the expansive courtyard within a small village, aptly known as Gallows' Hill, situated in the southeastern portion of Wothlondia known as the Stonehill Region. The settlement had been famous for centuries past as a burial ground for anyone that claimed the uneven landscape of Stonehill as their home. Even those outside the region were welcome to bury their dead here, and many did so.

There were very few who lived in the village proper, aside from the undertakers, embalmers and gravediggers who found plenty of work there. Wagons and caravans would come by the thousands from all over Wothlondia to send their loved ones to their final resting place.

The center of the settlement once accommodated statues of the Gods of Order and the people believed that they watched over their deceased kin, who thus remained forever under their vigilant eye. At one time, despite the morbidity of death associated with it, it was a beautiful and serene place. It provided the bereaved relatives with a sense of finality that could be appreciated.

Now, however, the Bastion of Skulls stood in its place. No more were there architecturally beautiful mausoleums, crypts or even the exquisitely carved statues that once adorned the courtyard—there was only the enormous skull-embodied fortress in their stead.

The site never looked as ghastly as it did now.

Zabalas stood amidst all the bodies that lay here, uncared for and ignored for the better part of a half century. These were all victims of Ashenclaw and her scorching drakes some fifty years ago. Most of the bodies were burned and disfigured, but oddly whole and preserved, not turned to dust as they should have been. There was what could only be described as a supernatural aura surrounding Gallows' Hill. It was a palpable feeling of dark magic derived from the purest of evils.

The dark warlord was enveloped from head to toe in armor as black as pitch, accented with a mixture of spikes, horns and prongs. He gestured and began a series of chants, speaking in tongues not native to this realm. The entire landscape for as far as the eye could see began to glow yellow, then red, and eventually there came a flash of light so brilliant and white that it would have blinded anyone looking upon it. The discharge burst upward and bathed the lifeless bodies in a glow of unparalleled malevolence. Zabalas's actions began to awaken these strangely preserved bodies and breathe 'undeath' into them.

One by one the corpses stood, clumsily swaying to and fro, wavering on their feet as if they were not accustomed to or familiar with these extraneous husks they now inhabited. The corrupt quality in the air animated the corpses, making them profane mockeries of what they had once been in life. Now they were hideous abominations.

Zabalas gazed upon his minions, rotting flesh dripping from their bones and tattered remains of once-whole clothing hanging from their limbs and torsos. These undead things carried a disease within that made the blood boil. They were the stuff of nightmares and had appeared only a very few times in the past on this plane. They were a gift to Zabalas from his master.

"It is Summer's Fade... as I once remembered it. The weather is changing, sending an appropriate chill on the air that shall carry my minions with it across the land." Zabalas stood in the gloom. The sun had recently departed and darkness descended across the face of Wothlondia. Evenfall was upon them and it seemed a fitting time to unleash the undead scourge upon the surface.

"Let us see what the people think when these living corpses—these Blood Rot Zombies—rise up and tear the flesh from their frail and weak bodies!" Zabalas grimaced, throwing his head back and glaring into the darkened sky above, seeming to threaten the very Gods of Order. "The Races of Order will soon come to feel my hand as it slowly tightens around their throat, but by the time they sense its grip, it will be too late."

Zabalas slowly removed his sword from its scabbard. He held the blade aloft as a series of purple and pink flames danced around its sharp edges, licking at the tip. "And you will lead them!"

Zabalas pointed his blade in the direction of a creature with a headdress upon its rotting head that appeared quite out of place. From beneath its once regal robes, the thing was emitting a tangible contagion which did not appear to have any effect on the heavily armored warlord. The aberration that stood before him was endowed with magical aptitude and arcane knowledge that rivaled that of even some of the ancient elven mages of Acillia.

"You will launch destruction upon the surface folk and tear the Races of Order asunder with your magic," continued Zabalas as he circled the wretched creature, sizing him up with a scrutinizing eye. "Yes... you will do just fine," he concluded in satisfaction. "They think that the queen of the scorching drakes was a fearful sight!?"

He then strode forward a few steps, walking amidst his undead host that measured easily in the thousands. "Of course it is," Zabalas mused, almost in contention with his last words, then he quickly spoke again, stifling a laugh. "A dragon queen the size of a mountain that can turn stone into slag in seconds is indeed a force to be reckoned with. But that will be compared to the games of mere infants when they see what I have in store for them."

He replaced the now-flameless sword back into its scabbard. "Go my kindred children. Go and see what kind of chaos you can bestow upon them all!"

Zabalas turned on his heel, heading towards the Bastion of Skulls, as the multitude of diseased undead creatures walked, ran and crawled out of the courtyard and across the rocky ground of Stonehill, heading in all directions. As he continued toward the castle, a fiendish creature that lurked in the shadows of a nearby crypt gave an approving smile within the gloom. Zabalas turned and gave pause to regard the demonic presence that stood there, seeming to absorb all light that passed nearby. The only thing he could see of the other-worldly creature was the glowing red eyes that penetrated that cold, lightless space.

As Zabalas neared the castle, he heard the growing sound of deranged laughter that followed him into his stronghold, seeming to somehow grow louder even after the voluminous door shut behind him.

The logs that comprised the palisade around the village of Chansuk were tied tightly together and sharpened at the tips. Scarr made his way through the eastern entrance and around the stockade. He entered at an even pace with a hunting party in tow and an elk draped across his broad shoulders.

"We have food now for many weeks," declared the muscular man as he dropped the dead elk before him. Many of the tribesmen and women gathered around as horns sounded to signal the return of the hunters.

Scarr's blonde hair and unshaven face were specked with blood and dirt, yet he gave no indication of weariness. The elk was easily the largest that any of the villagers had ever seen, probably close to three hundred pounds. As the rest of the small group of hunters returned, each and every villager in attendance put up a deafening cheer. They roared in satisfaction at the bounty and for the safe return of their kin.

Huuna, Scarr's wife, ran to her husband and threw her arms around his massive body. She kissed him, scraping her delicate skin on his rough, unshaven face.

A blessing by the head shaman of the village, Syth, was to follow shortly thereafter. He traditionally bestowed good fortune on the animals and thanked the spirits for their gift of continued sustenance that blessed the barbarians of Chansuk.

It was early morn on the seventh day of The Chilling and the snow would soon come to greet Chansuk and the southern portion of Wothlondia. Sometimes the Stonehill Region would receive only the bitter chill of the north instead, but most winters it was the recipient of a generous amount of snowfall. It was not nearly as much as that suffered in the north, by comparison, but it would certainly hinder the barbarians in their hunting.

Adding to their misfortune was the fact that the deer and elk usually became nutritious victuals for the frost worgs that would inevitably arrive with the cold. Most winters for the barbarians were filled with the eating of berries, grains and fruits stored from a long, bountiful harvest. The land to the north was plentiful in that regard—unlike the wetlands that they called home. Occasionally, hunting parties were successful enough to tide them over with wolf, bear or even the bountiful and tasty red meat of frost worgs themselves.

Scarr slapped Rothnarr hard on his back, knocking the huge barbarian forward somewhat. He was a strapping young lad who reminded Scarr of himself when he was younger, even more so than his own son, Magreth. Rothnarr was the son of Kernagos, hailing from the neighboring town of Greymoors to the northwest, and was a powerful specimen of a man, even now in his youth.

Rothnarr demonstrated thick, golden-blonde hair, and wore a long beard tied into several, separate braids. His eyes were the green only seen in emeralds—all features of Scarr too—and similar to those of Saeunn, his daughter (minus the beard).

Greymoors was further from the waters that bordered Chansuk and was on dryer ground. The barbarians that lived there were altogether displaced from the moist and swampy surfaces where the River Thrice emptied into the Somber Sea. The Greymoors favored combat on horseback and were friendly to the Chansuk tribes and their people, sharing many things in common, other than terrain, and often worked together. This was especially so when Ashenclaw and the scorching drakes had rained death and fire, burning the ground of their beloved Wothlondia. Chansuk united with the Greymoors barbarians that year to down several of the beasts with spears, swords and axes. They lost many of their kin over the course of those attacks, but managed to slay the drakes. The tribes stripped the wyrms of their scales, teeth and talons, keeping whatever they could salvage as trophies.

Further reinforcing the alliance of the two tribes, Scarr often took Rothnarr and several of the Greymoors kin on seasonal hunting trips to provide both villages with quality meat to store for the winter. Along with the traditional salting or curing of the flesh, the shamans could help keep it from spoiling with magic. Sometimes it might even freeze once exposed to the icy chill of the winter months.

Kernagos, the chieftain of the Greymoors, was a bear of a man. He exhibited darker hair than his son, but the two men were definitely born of the same ilk. Both were nearly identical in size, the only difference being that the elder was slightly bigger around the waist and shoulders and brandished additional tattoos.

Magreth, son of Scarr, had features akin to his mother with darker hair and light brown eyes, but with a finely muscled body like his father. He was devoid of the enormous amount of tattoos found upon his father's body, for Scarr's battle prowess and achievements in combat were too many to count. That dissimilarity would likely change over time, though.

Rothnarr felt at home amongst the Chansuk barbarians, and especially so with Saeunn. She was in love with him and he with her, Scarr knew, as did anyone who saw the two of them together. It was no secret. Scarr did not understand why his only daughter would hide her feelings from him, but he did not question her motives. He prepared himself for the eventual revelation of the relationship and the likely joining of the two tribes if the couple were to be wed.

"Come, we have much work to do," claimed Scarr loudly to Magreth and Rothnarr. The young Greymoors barbarian was staring toward the center hut in the villages, Scarr and Huuna's home, where Saeunn could be seen standing in the doorway.

Saeunn chanced a surreptitious glance and noted the gaze of Rothnarr upon her. If anyone was closer, they would have seen her blush—an uncommon event for the stoic barbarian woman. Her bright blonde hair cascaded down her back and over her shoulders, a few braids intermingled with the loose strands. A mesh of tightly ringed mail draped loosely over her breasts, shoulders and back, and a series of leather straps covered her loins and hung freely to mid-thigh. Much of her well-built arms, mid-section and legs were exposed, despite the weather, and were tanned from the summer months.

Barbarians wore light armors in order to maneuver quickly on the battlefield. Also, when they fought, they were oft times overtaken by a bloodlust that flowed hot through them, heating their blood as it fueled their fight.

Scarr and the others moved further into the village toward the huts of the shamans. As they arrived at the designated area, Shaman Syth stepped from his hut. Tokens, trinkets, fetishes and feathers hung from both his skin and clothing. He remained silent and observed the barbarians as they went about their tasks, untying the elk from the huge branches upon which they carried them, two per bough.

Suddenly, a scout on horseback appeared in the distance. As he neared, he clumsily dismounted, stumbling to the ground. Scarr recognized the boy as one of Helzak's children—Halton. Helzak was a fine bowman in Chansuk, and had the eyes of an eagle. Normally Helzak would be either hunting with Scarr or helping as a scout, but this day had him bedridden with sickness. That was why the boy was in his place. The young man approached with a frightened and disturbed look upon his pale, young face. His eyes were wide and he was pointing to the north as he attempted to gather himself.

"Halton, what is it?" asked Scarr as he tried to steady the boy.

"The... Greymoors," managed the boy, gasping for air, the heat from his breath seen clearly against the cold of the morning air. "A horde...," he continued, finally slowing his breathing. "A horde of... something... is coming this way!"

Scarr grabbed the boy by his comparably smaller arms and pulled him closer. "A horde heading where?!" demanded the barbarian chieftain.

"They are heading northwest. Most of them, anyway," cried the young man. Scarr could feel the boy shaking and fidgeting in his grip, truly frightened by whatever it was that he had witnessed.

"How far are they now, boy?" asked Scarr, plans formulating in his mind.

"Many miles still," Halton answered, motionless in the iron grip of Scarr's powerful hands. "I was able to spot them a great distance away, but—"

"But, what?" insisted Scarr, pulling the boy even closer. They were almost nose to nose.

"They seem to be... random in their movements. Like they are not organized. They have no leader, I think."

Scarr pushed Halton back and released his vise-like grip, admiring the boy's obvious talent for perception and observance of details. Just like Helzak, thought Scarr. The boy fell backward, but caught his balance and stood again, staring at the commanding barbarian before him who tugged at his braided beard thoughtfully.

"Alert the village," Scarr ordered, specifically directing this command to Magreth. He nodded and ran off in a dead sprint. Then he turned to Rothnarr and added, "You'd better alert your people, too, if your father doesn't know already."

"Aye," Rothnarr agreed and strode away with purpose.

Within moments, a crowd began to form around their leader, a wall of muscled barbarians who stood intently awaiting the words of their great chieftain.

"Barbarians of Chansuk," Scarr began, but then hesitated, seeing his daughter amongst the group, her hair now braided and tied back in a pony tail. "We are facing an enemy unknown to us. But, whoever they are, we will send them running back in the direction from whence they came!"

A chorus of cheers went up with that declaration, a deafening roar from the hundreds of barbarians gathered. That roar slowly turned into a chant of "Chan-suk, Chan-suk!"

On it went for several moments until Scarr withdrew his twin axes, his signature weapons, and crossed them one over the other in front of his chest. He then climbed atop one of the huts in two powerful strides. As he reached the roof, he peered over the palisade and maneuvered the axes up and over his head, crossing them once more. The clamor became deafening as Scarr watched Rothnarr ride to the northwest on horseback.

"For The Champion!" Scarr roared, looking skyward and standing like a god on the roof, his blonde hair falling over his finely muscled shoulders. The barbarians responded to those last words and rushed toward the northern gate. Scarr gave them a head start and then leaped down to join them.

Saeunn became one with the horde as it rushed out of the village. With weapons in hand and an intense battle lust etched upon their faces, the barbarians of Chansuk raced to intercept the unknown threat. Saeunn was with her brother, Magreth, who wielded a huge battle axe. He led and she followed, her own greatsword drawn and at the ready. Saeunn's weapon had been crafted by a village blacksmith only a few years ago and was gifted to her by her father when she reached adulthood after her sixteenth name-day. Needless to say, it was special to her. She had drawn blood with the weapon before, but only on a few occasions.

Saeunn knew deep down that her father accepted her as a true barbarian—naturally gifted and uninhibited when it came to the kill. She did what she must on the field of battle and did not let guilt or trepidation rule her actions. She knew that Scarr witnessed and understood this from the first time she ever brandished her weapon. But, he never voiced it. He would never speak of it, especially to her mother.

Once Huuna discovered that Saeunn was accompanying the counter attack, she would not be pleased... not one bit. She had visions of her daughter marrying a warrior and bearing him children, just as she had done, and had voiced that opinion often. That life choice did not sit well with Saeunn, the barbarian. And Scarr knew this, too. His daughter had always shown the fire of a warrior behind her eyes, though he attempted to discourage her many times for Huuna's sake.

Women were not often sent into the vanguard, but there were more than a few of the so-called 'fairer sex' who could make quite an impression in that very arena.

Women of Chansuk were no ordinary women.

Just then, Saeunn noticed Scarr as he scanned the crowd and ran at a slow pace, allowing those behind to catch up. His gaze fell on his daughter. He stared at her initially with a discouraging look meant to dissuade her from the coming battle. It was a futile effort. He therefore ran on, passing her and looking back, nodding this time. It was a silent approval that he would never voice as he did not want to explicitly encourage her. She interpreted that as a sign meant to signify his unspoken blessing to her.

She was once told that, when he had a bit too much to drink, Scarr whispered admissions of knowing that The Champion had gifted him with not one, but two warriors from the seed of his heritage.

With that thought in the forefront of her mind, Saeunn took to a full sprint, catching up to her father and leaving her brother behind. Her green eyes lit up with a renewed sparkle and her braided blonde hair bounced from side to side as she ran, almost as if it too were inspired with a new vitality.

Then she saw them coming.

The barbarian horde collectively slowed for a split second as they beheld the living atrocities in greater detail. The things were bloated, rotting creatures. Skin adorned with sores and boils dripped from their bones. They were a truly horrid sight and an obvious blight upon the whole of Wothlondia.

The first of the wretched creatures hit their lines. After the initial revulsion of having seen the things up close, the barbarians responded in kind.

Saeunn and Scarr were amongst those in the second wave of attackers. Saeunn strayed from her group, purposefully giving ground as she wanted to swing her weapon wide. She rushed to meet a group of the creatures head on, barbarian fury pumping in her veins. Her first wide swing cleaved one in two across the stomach, barely slowing on the flesh or what was inside it. She recognized this abomination to be what the village shamans told her was a zombie, an undead corpse fueled with evil life gifted by the demon lords of Pandemonium. But this thing looked different from the creatures in the shaman's tales. It was full of deadly disease and oozed a vile corruption from its tattered skin.

A second and third pestilent wretch appeared and moved toward her. Part of her could not help but be impressed by the speed at which the bulbous creatures scrambled. She slashed her sword across in a downward, right to left motion, all but severing the head of the nearest zombie. It hung loosely by a strand of flesh, and then landed with a squishy sound upon the damp ground, followed by its body.

The third zombie slammed into Saeunn, knocking her back a few steps and probing for flesh to bite with its keen-edged teeth. It continued, following its impetus, which the woman had anticipated for she fought on instinct. Saeunn rolled backwards with the creature's momentum, extending her sword straight out while holding it tightly and near the top of the hilt, halfway up the weapon's blade, giving her better control of its weight.

The undead wretch skewered itself upon her sword. But instead of recoiling, the zombie continued to push toward her, further impaling itself and refusing to yield, wanting only to reach her flesh. Saeunn pulled her blade free, exchanging the placement of the weapon with her own left foot, which she used to keep the thing at bay. She shoved out with tremendous force, thrusting the creature rearward to gain space and using that inertia to once more propel herself into a backward roll. She sprung to her feet before the thing could move toward her and spun in a complete circle. Her greatsword followed the arc and slashed through the zombie's neck with significant force, causing its head to fly away, rolling toward another fray not far from her. She paused to witness the battle for a split second as she was given a brief reprieve.

Saeunn heard the slashing of swords and axes biting into zombie flesh. She listened to the screams of dying barbarians and heard the invigorating roar of battle cries that instilled a morale boost to the servants of The Champion.

Saeunn followed the bounding skull of the zombie and watched as another of them charged, tripping over it and stumbling forward. It had the misfortune of sprawling into the devastating dance of the pair of axes belonging to her father, Scarr. He had managed to stay close to his daughter in the skirmish and kept an eye on her. He grunted a few times as he swung those axes in a rhythmic pattern, continuing to chop the zombie to pieces in a way that made it look as though he were dancing and not fighting. Not once did any of the creatures advance past his defenses and never did the man's weapons cease their hypnotic pattern of destruction.

Out of nowhere, Saeunn felt her flesh ignite from within and her green eyes widened in shock as she sensed the sudden onrush of heat. It seemed like her blood was beginning to simmer, as if had been sitting on a fire for hours, and she became unnerved. This sensation was unlike the frenzy that she normally experienced in the field of battle and was instead something of a supernatural nature.

Once the burning sensation ceased, it was followed quickly by a genuine fatigue that washed over her. She noticed now that several of her tribe was suffering these same effects. Scarr continued to cut through the zombies one by one as if they were merely dissolving under the onslaught of his attack sequence. If he was affected by the same thing as she was, Saeunn could not tell.

Shamans of the Chansuk tribe made their way quickly to those suffering the effects of the contagion, chanting to spirits through the din of the battle and asking for healing energies. For the most part, they did their best. Many of the barbarians stood again and renewed their attacks, smashing or slicing into the zombies, reducing them to pieces of rotting flesh.

Saeunn felt the healing of the spirits and was suddenly unburdened by the fatigue. The attack continued and the barbarians' losses were very few. Both Scarr and Saeunn noticed that Magreth, leading a smaller pocket of barbarians further north, was stumbling and looking fatigued. He was most certainly affected by the same ailment that she had been. The two barbarians pressed on as they were greatly thinning the horde of zombies.

Saeunn jammed her sword through the head of a zombie lying on the floor that she'd placed there with a leap and shoulder check of her own. She held a boot on its head and yanked her sword free, looking around at the waning battle. The tide had turned in the favor of the barbarians. It appeared they were victorious. Scarr approached his daughter and summoned Shaman Syth to his side.

"The unending tide of undead creatures appears to have an end after all," Scarr smiled. "You fought well, my daughter, as I knew you would. Syth, tend to my son." He pointed to the north where Magreth knelt in obvious discomfort.

"I have already asked the spirits to bless him, my lord," responded Syth.

"Do it again!" Scarr ordered tersely as they advanced through the battlefield, finally making their way to Magreth.

"Aye, my lord. These things are called Blood Rotters," revealed Syth as he shook a fetish. He followed that up with another incantation spoken in a dialect inherent to the shamans. "Blood Rot Zombies," he continued. "I have spoken to the spirits and history talks of creatures such as these that make the blood boil. They are born of the purest evil. Their disease is direct and very... deadly."

Shaman Syth said nothing more and continued to do what he could for Magreth, apparently diminishing the effects of the contagion for the most part as the young barbarian stood in a state of balance. Meanwhile, Scarr and Saeunn aided some of the wounded, helping them to their feet to bring them to one of the shamans for healing aid.

Suddenly, a shout rang out in the distance as a barbarian clearly vocalized: "More coming from the east!"

In the distance formed a second swarm of the Blood Rot Zombies, much larger than the first, heading their way.

It seems this is the day that I meet with The Champion after all, thought Saeunn grimly, as she tightened the grip on the hilt of her greatsword.

Scarr spoke once more, rallying his tribesmen against all odds. "For Chansuk! For The Champion!" he shouted. The barbarians steeled their resolve with each word. They knew that they faced an insurmountable task and that their outlook was bleak. Yet, those that stood smirked at one another, accepting the challenges of battle and grasping their weapons, moving with fervor toward the enemy.

Before any of the barbarians could advance to meet this second wave of Blood Rotters, a confident shaman began to move forward. He strode through the crowd, pushing to the front of the horde of barbarians to stand and face this new wave of dense undeath rushing toward their ranks.

A hush fell over the barbarians as Shaman Syth began speaking a ritualistic incantation as the Blood Rotters closed in. At the completion of the spell, a surging mass of fire erupted from his outstretched hands, engulfing the nearest half dozen of the oncoming creatures in magical flames. Those flames jumped from one creature to the next, and so on. The conflagration seemed to hiss and protest as it consumed the undead, sickly bodies. Soon after, several dozen of the Blood Rotters were ablaze with mystical fires.

The barbarians paused and winced at the sheer intensity of the torrent of flames. They watched as the fire changed color, leaping from zombie to zombie. They continued to gaze upon the phenomenon as the magical flames devoured the nearest ones, reducing their bodies to dust before they could slam into the wall of barbarian flesh behind the shaman.

This was only a brief respite, however, as there was another pack of zombies behind this one and it advanced on the barbarians, emotionless and tirelessly. Scarr feared that the hesitation in the fighting might spark doubt to creep across his people so he roared encouragement: "For Chansuk!"

The warriors turned to their leader, seeing a fierce determination on his face and a look in his eyes that conveyed courage beyond compare.

"For The Champion!" Scarr added for good measure as the barbarians began to rally around his words. The warriors began chanting the mantra in deafening repetition. Scarr felt the frenzy building within as they recited the words in unison.

Then he heard what he thought to be thunder in the distance. It began as a soft, low rumble, and then grew in volume. Now it sounded like rolling claps of thunder over the plains of Wothlondia, promising a coming storm. But suddenly he perceived words through the din. From behind them came a mass of riders, galloping and crying out similar encouragement. The words were distinct now and the compelling chants rang out. "For The Champion!" was followed by "For Greymoors!"

The Greymoors barbarians had arrived.

Kernagos and Rothnarr were at their command, leading the attack on horseback as was their way, and they raced into the throng of undead horrors.

And so, the fight began anew.

Magreth joined the counter attack with the Greymoors on the rear flank of the zombies. They circled to the north in an attempt to drive them south toward the Chansuk tribe. He caught up to his battle brother, Rothnarr, who had jumped to the ground, preferring to fight beside Magreth.

Although the barbarians themselves did not have the magical fire of their shamans, they did carry torches with one end soaked in oil. Magreth, with as cunning a mind as his father, immediately withdrew his torch. As he ran past a Blood Rotter corpse still engulfed in flames, he plunged it into the conflagration to ignite it.

"Fight with fire, barbarians!" called Magreth, holding his battleaxe aloft in one hand and the blazing torch in the other. "They will burn and die quickly! They cannot survive it!"

"Nor can they survive without their heads, brother," observed Rothnarr with a grin upon his face, glancing at his sword. Magreth looked at his battle-brother and gave a hearty laugh.

The barbarians nearest him followed suit and began to ignite their own torches. They charged into the masses of the Blood Rotter army, torches and blades at the ready. They moved as one, cutting and burning their way through the zombie horde. The undead were single-minded, though, ignoring the threat of the fire and looking only for flesh upon which to feast.

"It is good to see you again, brother," Rothnarr smiled at Magreth as he sliced a zombie's head off. Magreth then shoved his torch into its body, setting it ablaze.

"And you, brother," Magreth replied, butting his brow onto Rothnarr's own.

"Perhaps you will yet achieve the mark of heroes upon your arms!" teased the blonde barbarian, motioning to a specific tattoo on his own right shoulder.

"It is good to have you fighting at my side again, too," answered Magreth with a grunt, ignoring the remark and kicking a zombie in the chest, knocking it to the ground and burning it just as quickly.

He turned too late to see another of the Blood Rotters closing on him. Rothnarr cleaved its legs in two at the knees just before it reached Magreth, and its upper torso fell flat onto the ground with a thud. The son of Scarr took that opportunity to sever the thing's head and then set all the limbs ablaze by pouring a flagon of oil upon its body parts. The stench of the burning, contaminated bodies was enough to make the barbarians reflexively gag and cough while pressing on with their assault. The entire area was lighting up in the sunset, bathing the battlefield in artificial light. Barbarians on foot and on horseback continued their assault on the Blood Rotters as the sun continued to sink into the clouds to the west.

The two barbarians moved in a semi-circular fashion, herding the Blood Rotters and forcing them toward the rest of the force and away from the villages of Chansuk and Greymoors alike. They were weary. Magreth realized that they'd been fighting for the better part of the day.

As they dropped the last of the straggling creatures, Magreth saw something appear on his flank. From out of the dense brush came a sudden bolt of lightning. It struck Rothnarr, lifting him off the ground and sending him into the air, some twenty or so feet. A second bolt jumped from Rothnarr and landed upon Magreth's flesh, shocking him and knocking him to the ground. It seemed to merely send a tingle through Magreth while Rothnarr received the worst of it.

Magreth watched as Rothnarr landed hard on the wet ground and fell limp, his weapon lost to him. He was unmoving, which a handful of the Blood Rotters noted and so began to move toward him. Magreth returned his attention from Rothnarr to the hideous creature responsible for the bolt of lightning. It looked similar to the Blood Rotters, but seemed different. A headdress rested unconventionally atop its head and a noble's robe was draped over its bloated bulk. That clearly defined it as something altogether greater than the others—and certainly more deadly, judging by the arcane power it possessed.

Magreth watched as it cocked its head at him in a manner that suggested a base cunning or intelligence. The thing moved its hands wildly and spoke something incoherent. Magreth began to sprint away. The undead mage unleashed another bolt of lightning meant for him. He instinctively ran in a zigzag pattern so the bolt landed directly to his right, singeing some of the dark hair along his arm as it scorched the ground next to him.

He looked back to see what had happened to Rothnarr, but was out of sight of his friend. He was in dire straits himself as the zombie mage shuffled quickly after him, forcing him away from Rothnarr. Magreth attempted to move back toward his fallen battle-brother, but a third lightning bolt forced him still further away as he had to tuck his body tightly into a roll, finding cover behind a nearby thicket of trees. He was not sure how much longer he would be able to continue this game of cat and mouse, he thought, worried that Rothnarr was already dead.

Saeunn slashed her way through the zombie infestation with Scarr at her side, his twin axes working in a tireless sequence. The Greymoors and their fearless leader, Kernagos, had stormed across the plains on horseback, making it to the battle as the second force of Blood Rotters, double the size of the first, had attacked. The tide of battle was turning in their favor once more.

Saeunn went to engage another of the Blood Rotters, allowing its bulging frame to penetrate her personal space. It lunged forward in the hopes of tearing into her flesh. Saeunn simply ducked the lower half of her body, bending at the waist and then standing upright to flip the thing over her. The zombie landed with a loud thump on the wetland and Saeunn repositioned herself to be perpendicular to it as, for a heartbeat, it lay prone. That was all the time she needed. With a powerful downward strike, she severed the head of the Blood Rot zombie, her anger finally at its peak.

She turned to see her father produce a torch and use it to set the next fallen Blood Rotter ablaze. The rest of the barbarians were doing likewise, recognizing the success of the Greymoors employing this measure to the north.

Saeunn paused a moment to take in the sight. Blazing zombies now littered the battlefield, causing a bright fire to be seen from miles away. Some of the magical flames of the shamans remained lit, even when the undead Blood Rotters fell upon patches of damp swampland. Barbarians fought savagely against the supernatural foe and the whole scene suddenly seemed unreal to her.

"Burn the damned things!" Saeunn heard suddenly, pulling her focus back to reality at the unmistakable sound of her father rallying the troops in his raspy, gruff voice. His blonde hair and multi-braided beard was splashed with blood, as was his entire body. His bare chest, though covered with blonde hair and heavily tattooed, was also bathed in zombie gore. He swung his axe and torch combination to great effect. Scarr was an inspiration to the barbarians and to her as well.

"For Chansuk! For Wothlondia!" she heard once more over the sound of the battle.

Shaman Syth appeared next to her suddenly and put a hand on her shoulder, turning her to face him. He held a rod of some kind in his hand which he used to restrain her sword hand lest he be cut down. He knew that surprising a barbarian warrior, even an unseasoned one, was never a good idea.

"Wha—" Saeunn managed, staring into the mystical eyes of the shaman that seemed distant. Where had he come from?

"Hold out your weapon," Syth instructed her. She did as she was told and watched as he removed a strange vial from his belt sack, uncorked the container and rubbed phosphorescent oil along the blade. It held fast somehow, not spilling to the ground at all, not even one drop.

The older shaman then spoke an incantation quickly and waved a hand over the blade, causing it to burst into flames. Saeunn nearly dropped her sword, but the shaman had placed his hand over hers to ensure that she did not. Magical fire began surging and then shrinking as if in rhythm with the sound of her own heartbeat.

"Go now, child. Smite your enemies and send them back to the plane of Pandemonium from whence they came."

Saeunn immediately ran off to intercept two Blood Rotters heading toward them. Syth fell back into the crowd of barbarians, issuing mystical aid and spiritualistic healing to those suffering the effects of the blood rotting ailment.

Saeunn and her now-flaming blade began cutting down zombie after bloated zombie. Each strike set one more ablaze, and they burned, eventually crumbling to dust. She somehow ignored the effects of their terrible disease, pushing past the fatigue-like symptoms of not only the blood rot, but also of her own tiring muscles. Her innate fury counteracted the weariness somewhat, but there was an irrefutable ache in her limbs.

The main force of barbarians had driven much of the undead infestation to the south. Saeunn pushed further east, cutting down the seemingly limitless army of Blood Rotters, until she saw a limp body lying on the ground a hundred or so paces away. In the dwindling sunlight, she could not make out who it was. She noticed that five of the zombies were advancing on the prone barbarian, anticipating a feast of fallen flesh. She turned toward them and, as she did, she caught a flash of lightning in her peripheral vision to her right and behind her, though no storm presented this day.

Saeunn began to run as fast as her legs could move her, sprinting with the speed of a wildcat and closing in on the undead pack. She arrived just as the Blood Rotters converged on the barbarian, encircling him and bending low to feed on the easy prey, but Saeunn would have none of it.

It was only when she got to within striking distance that one of the zombies noticed her, but it was too late. Her flaming greatsword came down, splitting it in two from head to groin with a downward stroke and setting magical fire to the thing's disease-ridden flesh as the blade passed through.

It was then she caught a glimpse of the fallen barbarian. It was a man, blonde and bearded, with the physique of a bear and whose body appeared scorched from something. Recognition flooded her thoughts and horror beset her features.

Rothnarr.

Realizing that her lover was the intended victim of the zombies sent a deluge of anger through her. The barbarian woman was incensed.

Another two zombies turned their attention toward her. She swung her flaming sword in a wide arc with such force that she cleaved the first one in two. Its burning upper half flew to the left and the lower section collapsed to the soggy ground. She used the momentum of that wide swing to continue the circular motion, reversing her grip on the weapon. She brought the pommel of her tremendous greatsword to bear directly into the face of the next zombie. Blood, tattered flesh and bone sprayed out as she caved in the contaminated creature's nose. She ignored the carnage and allowed the Blood Rotter to hit the ground, then drove a booted heel into the creature's neck, crushing it into the soil.

She heard another approaching from behind and dropped the flaming weapon on the prone body of the dying zombie in order to set it ablaze. She simultaneously thrust a swift back kick into the oncoming zombie, the fourth of the five wretches.

She turned to face the last of them as it leaned over the limp body of Rothnarr and began tearing flesh from his right arm. The fourth blood rotter rose from the ground behind her and rushed at her once more. She grabbed her weapon from the burning zombie, ignoring the flames as they licked at her hand and arm. She spun one hundred and eighty degrees, severing the zombie's head from its body. The suddenly flaming skull went flying some distance in the opposite direction.

She turned to face the last one again, not even turning to watch the body of the decapitated zombie as it fell into the swampy ground behind her, and advanced with anger unparalleled toward it as it chewed on the flesh of her beloved. Standing over the zombie, she seized it firmly by the nape of the neck and pulled it up, tossing it away from Rothnarr's unmoving form. The Blood Rotter landed unceremoniously onto its back, still tearing into a piece of flesh it held.

Saeunn suppressed all logic or tactics at this point and allowed complete and utter instinct to take over. She grasped her greatsword, flames dancing up and down its shaft, and drove the blade down into the zombie's skull with all the might she had in her. The zombie's head splattered into chunks of flaming, unrecognizable pieces as she continued to hack down onto the remains over and over again. After her senses returned, she dropped the flaming greatsword, fighting through the pain in her heart and went to Rothnarr.

"Syth!" she cried out. "Help him, please!"

Saeunn did not want to look down upon the man she loved... did not want to witness him in this weakened and helpless state. The battle still raged on to the west and to the south of her, but she did not take heed.

An owl landed in front of her and transformed right before her eyes into a man. It was Syth, she finally recognized, wiping her eyes that streamed tears born of heartache and frustration. The shaman began immediately uttering prayers and summoning spirits to access the regenerative plane and to begin the ritual of healing. Blood pooled onto the ground next to Rothnarr's mighty right arm, mixing with the wet ground and making it seem as if it were some morbid and surrealistic design in the damp soil. Syth continued to invoke healing rituals over the fallen barbarian, repeating the words over and again. Saeunn noted that Syth also treated another area of his body, and that Rothnarr had been the victim of something that caused a severe scorch mark on his left shoulder and back, too.

After several moments, Syth succeeded in stopping the blood flow from the wound almost completely. He checked the man's pulse, lifting his huge left arm and then listening to his heartbeat. He did not need to tell Saeunn that Rothnarr's breathing was shallow at best.

A flash of lightning again caught her peripheral vision and she turned to see someone running their way, emerging from a tree line to the south. Her first instinct was to funnel the danger, whatever it was, away from her lover.

A barbarian man, dark of hair and fleet of foot, was racing toward her. She sprinted toward him and recognized him to be Magreth.

"Away from here!" Saeunn shouted. He heard the plea and nodded. The barbarian man zigzagged away from her, pointing to a rather large and old stump of a tree just as he tucked and rolled, dodging a bolt of lightning. She nodded in response to him and began to hurry toward it, propelled by the task of protecting her beloved and aiding her brother.

Saeunn saw the thing chasing Magreth—the source of the lightning bolt. It was moving at an extraordinarily rapid pace that seemed to defy logic. It was a Blood Rotter for sure, but distinct from the others. It wore a kind of headdress and was robed in majestic-looking regalia that suggested it as being of a higher station than the rest—especially since it was hurling bolts of lightning at her brother.

Saeunn rounded the remains of the once mighty tree and waited for her brother to pass. The stump was choked with profuse undergrowth and shrubbery sprouting wildly around it. Saeunn knelt. The magical flames that had once engulfed her greatsword were all but gone now, flickering out bit by bit. Magreth, still running crazily past a thicket of shrubbery and through the thick vegetation, rounded the tree stump tightly. The Blood Rotter mage followed, trying to keep up with the faster barbarian.

As the creature presented itself, Saeunn leaped out from behind the stump, slashing her greatsword mightily as it ran past, gashing a gaping wound in its right side. The blow was struck with such force that she ended her lethal strike by landing on her left knee as the thing fell behind her atop the wetland surface.

As the undead mage lay there, a liquid oozed from its wound, gushing out onto the sodden ground and steaming immediately as it hit it. Amidst the hissing sound of the thing's blood hitting the damp soil, Saeunn heard movement as suddenly the creature stood behind her. She could not believe her ears. She slowly rose from her bent knee and turned in time to see the Blood Rot mage finishing a spell.

How? Saeunn was lost in her own disbelief at the turn of events. She immediately expected to feel the jarring heat of a lightning bolt sear into her own flesh and braced for the inevitable.

She did not see an electrical discharge at all this time, but instead saw a flash of something else in the fading sunlight. She spun to witness what appeared to be a cone-shaped discharge of a black and green substance. It seemed to spew forth from the cavity caused by her blade and it gushed toward her.

At that instant she was sent sprawling to the ground as her brother slammed into her, knocking her down. The discharge of nauseating ooze hit Magreth square on his right flank and back as he leaped in front of his sister. He could not stifle a scream as the acidic blast stripped layers of his skin away, revealing muscle, tendon and bone. It happened so quickly that Saeunn could do nothing but watch helplessly as it ate away pockets of his flesh.

Saeunn's eyes widened, displaying a sequence of horror and then anger—first one and then the other. She stood and charged the thing before it could do any more harm. Her greatsword slashed in multiple circular left-to-right motions which systematically took chunks of clothing and flesh with them. The creature stumbled back with each cyclical rotation of her blade. Her steel hacked at the undead mage like a machine, falling in line and pressing forward each time it moved backward. More of the acidic stuff flew from it, landing on Saeunn's mail and leather and even upon her own flesh too, but she did not feel it. She felt only the anger burning within her; the fury and bloodlust that fueled her with the indomitable spirit and strength to down any foe.

When she was finished, the remains of the undead enemy were scattered about and Saeunn stood, spots of burning acid on her flesh. But she did not care. She stood over her vanquished foe until she felt the strong grip of a hand clamp down on her right shoulder.

Scarr, covered in blood and gore, stared into the eyes of his daughter and pulled her close.

"This is exactly what I meant for you to avoid," he said in as endearing a tone as he could gather under the circumstances.

"Magreth... is he—"

"Do not look," Scarr instructed, but she could not stay her eyes. Her brother, or what remained of him, lay on the floor in a heap, almost an eroded version of the man he was. Only parts of him remained as both the disease and contagion of the Blood Rotters' infection ate away at him.

"It is best to burn all the bodies and any others who die this night, my lord," Syth whispered to Scarr. The barbarian chieftain nodded.

"Are you injured, my lord?" Syth asked.

"No," Scarr answered.

"None of this?" Syth gestured to the blood and guts and fleshy sinew that covered the barbarians skin and blonde hair. "None of this is your own?"

Scarr stared hard at the shaman and walked away. Saeunn remained distraught, holding her brother and realizing that through all of the fighting that had occurred, her father had not suffered a scratch. She could not help but feel considerable admiration and disbelief as she watched him address the gathered tribes.

"We must gather the bodies of the dead and place them on a pyre this night," he called out to the weary barbarians. "They died a heroes' death and deserve this burial. So says The Champion!"

With those words, the barbarians moved to collect bodies and tinder. Within the hour, all of the bodies were gathered and burned.

Members from both the Greymoors and Chansuk tribes covered Magreth in skins and took what was left of him toward Chansuk. Scarr turned to regard his daughter, who was on her knees in the mud weeping, and went to her. He threw his massive arms around her and squeezed her tight, pulling her to her feet.

"We must go, the battle is done," he told her. She did not respond, but merely stood, staring blankly into the horizon with tears pouring down her face. Several of the Chansuk women approached to help her.

"And Rothnarr?" she sobbed.

"Needs more attention, my child," Syth chimed softly. "To be a true barbarian is to forsake all pain and loss and to understand that you may die at any time. You must accept that. There is no greater accomplishment than to die on the field of battle."

Saeunn heard the words and allowed them to sink in as she walked.

The barbarians carried their wounded brethren on their backs or on horseback the few miles more to Chansuk's gates. They were told that those who did not die outright from the Blood Rot disease would likely become zombies themselves. They all understood and collectively agreed to watch over their friends and loved ones closely.

The two barbarian tribes had fought thousands of zombies, fought for the better part of ten hours without stopping and lost hundreds of their own. Many barbarians more would be lost to the Blood Rot contagion. More still would succumb to zombification. It was all necessary in the arena of war.

The battle was won.

Saeunn sat still, tears streaming down her face and a profound throbbing in her heart that was beyond compare. She had wept for countless hours and felt there should be no more tears left to cry, yet still they came, unbidden and unending. The shaman's words still echoed in her mind.

The village elder continued his ritual, painting the tattoos on her arm that would symbolize her great loss, as he did for each and every barbarian that attained some extraordinary feat, or had a story to tell. Each marking on her body denoted a memorable event that held an important meaning. The tattoos were personal representations of symbolic events, as well as inter-cultural achievements that were forever inscribed upon the body of a barbarian.

After the painting ritual, the shaman would perform the ceremony that would make them permanent on her arm, never to be removed. This was customary practice.

Many barbarians from both the Greymoors and the Chansuk tribes were being marked today for battle accomplishments and, more importantly, to represent friends and family that were lost to them. This was especially real to Saeunn, for not only had she lost one of her siblings with the heroic and untimely death of her brother, but she too had lost the love of her life. Both Magreth and Rothnarr were dead—slain by the foul Blood Rotter things. Never would she be the same, either in love or in war, for she had learned many lessons this day.

The barbarians would halt the further spreading of the Blood Rot plague amongst their tribes in the Stonehill region and stem the spreading of the contagion within their own ranks. But at what cost? Again, Saeunn heard the words of Syth in her mind and again, she tried to steel her emotions against the loss.

This was the beginning of her journey, during which there was much bloodshed to come. Saeunn continued to mull this over in her head as she clenched her fists so tight that the tips of her fingernails penetrated the skin of both her palms, drawing blood. A trickle of it ran down the inside of either hand and down onto her forearm, but she was numb to the pain. Try as she might, she could only focus on the sense of loss within, very palpable and unwavering in its dominance of her emotions.

The shaman continued his ritual, the vital fluid going unnoticed. Saeunn's mind was elsewhere. Both her own blood and the words of the shaman became distant and then departed altogether, for Saeunn had turned her emotions inward, suppressing them. She took a deep breath, pushed away the pain and gritted her teeth against it all.

She now understood what it meant to be a barbarian. 

# Chapter 4

Maturation Process

The young high elf had recently celebrated his twentieth winter, and with that had reached a certain level of frustration where his own magical aptitude was concerned. Better said, it was his father who had the issue with his incompetence—Elec had come to grips with his own misgivings years prior. Making matters worse for him was the ascendancy of his siblings in that regard. His brother and sister were both progressing with better than anticipated results, making Elec's failings even more prominent. It was not their fault, he knew, but it was a very real fact that he could not change, despite his many attempts.

His sister, Aeona, and his brother, Elandion, both older than he, were not only able to tap into the energies within the plane of Arcana, but they were capable of bending those energies and manipulating them with such command that they made them their own. They were masters of the arcane arts whilst Elec was unable to harness even the simplest of magics. He could cast some of the minor spells known collectively to the high elves of Acillia that resulted in subduing or hindering, or which had to do with trivial callings to the elements as opposed to commanding the powers of a raging storm.

Such magic was common knowledge to the high elves of Acillia, especially those of superior social standing, such as the Stormwhispers were. These high elves included Elec's Uncle Faorath, who often visited his nephew in his workspace where he would be poring over tomes and texts continually in any subject other than those concerning arcane focus.

"Greetings, nephew!" Faorath announced loudly as he entered the room. Elec, seated at his desk, automatically grabbed a text with preparations for spell-casting on its pages and opened it in an attempt to feign studying.

"You are not fooling me," Faorath said, shaking his head and standing with hands on hips. His uncle had wide, reflective eyes of the deepest amber, and golden blonde hair that accented the hue of his eyes. He wore the finest nature of clothing, with loose fitting sleeves that draped loosely over his slight frame. His breeches were dark blue, his shirt was silver with gold accents and he wore sturdy leather boots. There was a hint of golden jewelry highlighting his wrists and fingers.

"You may be able to dupe the others, but not me," he finally added.

"Fine," Elec sighed, knowing that his uncle's sight and perceptions were more acute than those of a bird of prey. This was also the reason why he was one of the most accomplished of all the Wind Riders of Acillia.

The young elf slid the spellbook to the side, revealing his true project.

"Tinkering with mechanisms still, I see. And what is this?" Faorath looked at the device. He moved it aside and uncovered carefully drawn plans of mechanisms together with notes and alchemical theories beneath those. Faorath simply shook his head and smiled. "Your secret is safe with me, Elec. As long as you are passionate about what you do, I am content with that."

Elec stood and hugged his uncle tightly, smiling and staring up at him, for Faorath was extremely tall, well over six feet in height.

"You know that your mother only wants you to be happy, too," Faorath stated. Elec's white eyes widened at that particular topic and he shook his head, tousling his long, curly black hair. "But Father—"

"Speak not of Keryth, lad. He only knows what he was shown. He pushes you and your siblings too hard to master your arcane abilities, just as his father pushed him. He knows nothing else."

Elec looked up at his uncle once more and sighed, knowing deep down that magic and its mysteries would always remain just that—mysteries—as far as he was concerned.

"I have something you might find useful," the elder elf declared, changing the subject. He held up a brown leather belt with many evenly spaced loops along its surface. Elec looked at it quizzically and then took it from his uncle's outstretched hand.

"Those loops should be solid enough to hold your flasks. I had it made especially for you."

"So that is why you took a flask," Elec exclaimed in understanding. He slid one of the beakers in place and it held firmly. He began to place more of them in the loops, one after the other, until the belt was nearly full. He then strapped it around his waist and over his shoulder and looked at his uncle again for confirmation. Faorath nodded approval that he had outfitted the belt properly. Then he helped Elec adjust it so that it fastened tightly. Elec beamed and nodded in appreciation of the gift.

"But father will never approve of my pursuit of alchemy," Elec sighed in a deflated tone.

"No," agreed his uncle. "In this you are correct."

Elec removed the belt and regarded it attentively, admiring the craftsmanship and detail more closely.

"I had a very dear friend make that for you," Faorath announced.

Elec's white eyes stared up at his uncle; a small black dot of an iris could be seen staring back at him. Elec had extremely rare features for elves in general, let alone high elves, owning a deep blackened head of hair. His eyes revealed the milkiest of white pupils surrounded by a black iris—the exact opposite of his own and any eyes Faorath had ever seen. There was no denying that the boy was unique.

"Who made the belt?" Elec asked.

"Ah, yes—the belt. Shardrin made that for you. He is one of the most skillful leatherworkers in the whole realm."

Elec nodded in agreement.

"You know of him?" Faorath asked in turn.

"Aye," Elec nodded, inspecting the belt further. "He is the one who has been instructing me in the ways of the mechanic."

Elec went back to his desk and held aloft one of the mechanisms, an expertly crafted intertwining of gears and cogs. It was one of a series that he had to practice with. When fully assembled, it formed some sort of trap.

"I should have known," Faorath responded. "He is an expert when it comes to those devices there. He is unequaled in that regard. The whole business of trapping is one of his strong suits. Quite the rogue, that one!"

Elec certainly had chosen a difficult path to walk, Faorath thought, knowing full well that Keryth had his hands full where his son was concerned. He would be hard pressed indeed in attempting to bend the boy's will, Faorath mused with irony. He stood and watched Elec fiddle with the mechanism, expertly removing pins and gears, replacing them as fast as his hands would allow. Faorath could not help but be impressed by the harmonious interaction of his nephew's fast mind and digits as they set to the task.

"You might want to think about having him teach you a few lessons in the finer points of swordplay, too," Faorath suggested. Elec merely nodded, transfixed with his undertaking.

"Be sure to get some rest tonight, for tomorrow is a big day for your sister and the family," Faorath added. Aeona was to be married by week's end and tomorrow was the rehearsal.

Elec was so engrossed that he did not even notice the absence of his uncle until the call for supper that eve, several hours later.

Elec awoke the next morning to the sound of a soft chime coming in through an open door. One of the elders of Acillia had come to greet him and stood in the doorway, here to prepare him for the wedding ceremony. Elec winced at the thought. He squinted against the newly risen sun freshly entering the room as the shade was thrown open. He pulled his hair back and dressed himself, all the while listening to the elderly high elf mouthing instructions as the sun fell over him and began to warm his flesh. This went on for over an hour. He listened distantly to the elder speak, nodding occasionally, while grooming himself and fiddling with a trap mechanism.

Elec knew of the elder, stringy and lean, with hair so white it was a contrast to even his own pale flesh. Try as he might, he could not remember his name. Instead, his mind went to what responsibilities he and his friends and family were assigned for the wedding and how they should get ready for them. Elec was to cast the simplest magic of elven lights—quite possibly the most rudimentary of all elven sorceries intended to invoke alternating lights that shone intermittently, and often used in celebratory events. Once the spell was in effect, sparks and lights shot from the hands and into the sky, shining and popping with multi-colored light.

The elder led Elec out of his chamber and down the spiral stairway to the dining room, passing through it and into the foyer. Elec swung the door wide, noticing that all of his family had left already. They had probably been escorted to the site for the wedding—a spectacular hall not far from his home where, he was told, his own mother and father had been married.

Once outside, Elec drew in a deep breath of fresh air. He took in the beautiful blue sky and the mountain range to the north that quelled the cold air and breeze from that direction, cutting it to a light and brisk gust once it arrived at the village proper. He heard a caw from above and looked to the sky to see many of the giant eagles and griffons flying with high elves mounted atop them.

His uncle instructed the Wind Riders, leading his kin in the training of these exotic creatures for use as steeds. It was one of the more famous endeavors for which the high elves were known throughout the realm.

Elec followed the elder as he led him through the village and to the façade of the glorious and expansive hall. The exterior of the building followed his people's basic theme of spacious environments with flowing, curvaceous architecture and an organic, soft feel throughout. Round edges and domed roofs were the staple of this type of construction. Beautiful arches, adorned with intricate stonework, graced every part of the grand hall. By contrast, the high elves' cousins, the forest elves, created structures of great height, integrating the trees in which they built their homes to keep all in a natural state. Both races of elves enjoyed spiral staircases, however. The forest elves made use of them to reach their homes in the trees, while the high elves favored them within their living spaces as a connection to their ancient past.

Elec entered the hall and was shown where he would be stationed for the wedding. One of the elders pointed at the perch upon which he would stand in order to bathe the ceremony in the multi-colored lights.

Keryth Stormwhisper noticed his son enter and went over to him. "I assume that you will be able to handle the minor task which you were assigned?"

His father looked down on him with an intimidating look. He was taller than Elec, with silver hair and amber eyes that commanded respect. He was a well-known and powerful mage, well respected as a leader in the multitude of smaller villages on the island they called home.

"He will be fine," called a woman's voice from behind. It was a soothing voice that made Elec feel at ease, despite his father's attempt at making him feel otherwise. Alaise, his mother, was a beautiful being with eyes of violet and hair of bright gold. She bestowed a smile upon her son that warmed his heart.

Alaise pulled him away from his overbearing father and sat him next to his sister, Aeona. Her husband-to-be, Anthalion, was off doing his own preparations as the male elf was given more responsibilities and speeches to make than the bride-to-be. Elec's friend and Aeona's former lover, Jhaeronas, was present, at Alaise's behest.

Alaise was fond of Jhaeronas and had remained friendly with him and his parents, always admiring his numerous achievements within the Circle of Mages, the spellcasting elite of Acillia. He was also a friend and confidante to Elec, helping the elf in his arcane endeavors on many occasions. Jhaeronas and Aeona had intended to marry a few years prior, but Keryth did not approve of their relationship. Many within the Circle of Mages believed there to be an unhealthy rivalry between Keryth and the younger elf. Elec knew that, at the very least, Jhaeronas harbored resentment toward his father, and may even have held Aeona responsible for not protesting more vigorously, though he had never said it. Jhaeronas had always been the jealous type and held a vengeful fire deep within his amber eyes. Elec was to be positioned near Jhaeronas at the ceremony and would certainly keep one eye on him.

At the feast that evening, Elec watched Jhaeronas stare at Aeona and he knew that, despite his outward appearance and statements to the contrary, his friend was still in love with his sister. Elec chewed his food and contemplated that for the rest of the evening, feeling a deep sympathy for him. A broken heart was something that could never fully mend, he was told.

The three days passed quickly and the day of the wedding was upon them. The scene was a glorious event with hundreds of the Acillian high elves from many of the surrounding villages in attendance, and all dressed in the most noble of garments. The sight brought to mind exactly how influential a figure his father was, Elec thought, taking in all of the pageantry and splendor. He was truly happy for his sister and his brother-in-law to be, yet felt sorry for Jhaeronas at the same time. Elec could not shake the feeling that his friend was hiding something from him though he had not been able to pry free this deeply buried information, despite many attempts over the last few days. He was fearful of the melancholy within Jhaeronas and wondered about bringing it to the attention of his brother, but Elandion was directly involved in the ceremony and was nowhere to be seen at the moment. Elec climbed the spiral stairwell to take his place in the rear section of the hall. Jhaeronas was stationed to his right.

As the wedding began, beautiful elven music sounded harmoniously from both stringed and wind instruments, swelling throughout the acoustics of the great hall. The ceremonial participants preceded the bride and groom into the hall in a stately procession.

Elec watched as the wedding party reached the beautifully carved platform at the front and took their places. The dais was adorned with brightly hued fabrics in reds, blues, greens and yellows, crafted by the finest artisans of Wothlondia. Ivory, tan and even gold and silver candles were on display and mirrored by the three ornamental candelabra that surrounded the platform upon which they now stood. It was truly a magnificent and breathtaking sight.

Elec watched Jhaeronas staring at one of the candelabra directly above the elven couple. He must have sensed Elec's gaze because he turned to regard him with a wild-eyed stare before reverting his eyes to the flickering candles. He began to wave his hands wildly above the crowd. Not a soul amongst the audience caught the display as the entire throng was transfixed by the ceremony. Not even Anthalion's kin, stationed at the opposite side of the balcony, took note of Jhaeronas' gyrations and gestures.

Elec was completely unsure what his friend was doing, but instinctively decided that it was not well intended. He quickly began to counter the spell with a simple magic meant to 'shackle' the target's arms. In this case it would interrupt Jhaeronas' spell casting at the very least, leaving Elec to confront him about his intent later. He waggled his fingers and mouthed the incantation, willing the effects of the spell into the central plane as he'd been taught many times. But, as on many of those prior occasions, Elec realized with horror that he had failed once more to bring the powers of Arcana into being—had failed once more to cast the required spell as it fizzled into nothingness. Before he could chastise himself about it, Jhaeronas was at the end of his incantation. Elec's heart hammered in his chest as time seemed to slow to a crawl.

He watched helplessly as a minute bolt of arcane energy traversed the hall, hitting the heavy chain that fastened the candelabra above his sister and Anthalion. Elec screamed at Jhaeronas, infuriated that his friend could do something so dishonorable—and to his sister of all people. As the call echoed through the expansive hall, all eyes were diverted from the couple and turned to the source of the outburst, landing upon Elec. All eyes but Anthalion's, that is.

Anthalion reflexively shoved his bride out of the way as the heavy wooden fixture came to a stop upon his slender frame. As its weight landed squarely on his back, he winced and yelped in pain. Aeona fell awkwardly from the dais upon which they stood, twisting her ankle and hitting the stone floor.

The assembled spectators missed the commotion at the front of the hall as they had all turned to face the balcony at the rear. The guests whirled once more when they heard the sound of the candelabra bursting into countless pieces on the body of the hapless would-be groom.

Suddenly, Keryth uttered a spell called Hand of Fate. An arcane form shivered into view, taking shape as the hand of the elven gods, summoned from the plane of Arcana. The massive thing enveloped Jhaeronas within its mighty grasp. It yanked him from his perch atop the balcony, lifting him into the air and holding him helplessly before it as the crowd parted. Several other mages began to prepare spells to aid Keryth if necessary, not knowing exactly what was happening.

Keryth's face was a mask of rage as he commanded the magical conjuration expertly, suspending the helpless Jhaeronas aloft.

"How... dare you!" Keryth thundered. Jhaeronas remained silent and more of the throng backed away from the furious Keryth. Several rushed to help the fallen lovers at the front of the hall, including Alaise.

Elec watched dumbfounded. He was rooted in place, though not from any magical effect—he was frozen in shock at the recent events. He watched as some officials ran to assist Keryth, coaxing him into releasing Jhaeronas from his spell and then grabbing the limp elf as he was freed. The punishment for such a crime against his people was exile, Elec knew. Jhaeronas would no longer be welcome within any of the areas on Acillia and, if he were to return, it would be under penalty of death. The elves escorted Jhaeronas away unceremoniously. He managed to glance up toward Elec, who noted a distant look in his former friend's tear-soaked eyes. But just for an instant though, he came to himself, and pitifully mouthed the words, "I'm sorry".

After Jhaeronas was taken away, Aeona was helped to her feet and divine healing was given to Anthalion by one of the elder priestesses of The Dreamer. She knelt at the groom's side wearing the familiar stars and half-moons raiment of her goddess. She channeled radiant healing energy into Anthalion's body, closing the worst of the wound and attempting to mend the broken bones he'd surely sustained near his ribcage, where the brunt of the candelabra's blow was first absorbed.

Elec descended the spiral staircase from the balcony and joined his mother and sister, lending them support. Keryth scanned the chaotic scene and then pulled Elec away from the rest of the family to stand near the center of the hall. Faorath slowly followed them and purposely eavesdropped on the conversation.

"What happened?" Keryth asked, hands on hips, staring into Elec's exotic eyes in an attempt to discern the truth.

"I—I saw him moving to...," he stammered, looking down at the floor then back up to his father. "He began casting a spell and I tried, but I... I wasn't able to stop him," Elec admitted in defeat, once more feeling overtly inadequate and strangely guilty under the scrutinizing stare of his father.

"So, you could have stopped him if you were even half the mage that your namesake suggests?" Keryth said mockingly, jabbing at his already sensitive frame of mind.

"Keryth, you have no—"

"This... is of no concern to you, Faorath!" Keryth barked in response to the interruption by his brother-in-law. "If Elec were your own flesh and blood, then you could handle it your own way."

"He is my flesh and blood," Faorath countered in a quieter tone as several of the crowd turned their attention on the quarrel. Keryth's stare fell this time on Faorath, as if daring him to speak again. A moment passed as the two of them locked eyes but spoke no words. Faorath held his ground, though, and did not move away.

Keryth returned his attention to his son once more. Elec kept his head down and his shamed gaze upon the floor while his father crossed his arms over his chest and shook his head in disgust. But, before he could further humiliate him, Alaise, wide-eyed, grabbed Keryth by the arm.

"Please! Not here and not now! We have more important business to attend to," she whispered to her husband, indicating the fallen Anthalion.

"This is not over," Keryth said, directing his comment to Elec and then turning to Faorath and adding, "you, too." Faorath stared him down once more and then looked sympathetically to his nephew.

"It is not your fault, lad." Faorath laid a reassuring hand upon his nephew's shoulder. He spoke the words with conviction to Elec, as if they were fact and not opinion.

While they were speaking, much of the crowd dispersed. However, some elves remained to help where they could in cleaning up the now postponed ceremony. Elec could see the priestess of The Dreamer still chanting prayers and administering magical aid to Anthalion.

Faorath and Elec both neared the dais, Elec moving closer to his mother and sister. It appeared that Anthalion was almost fully healed. He complained of a pain that still lingered in his ribcage, but the wound was closed and there was no sign of injury beneath the tunic, now blood-soaked, that he'd worn for the ceremony.

His father spoke no further to Elec, but despite what had happened to them, Aeona and Anthalion both offered him words of support. None of it made him feel better, however, and he joined in the clearing the hall before retiring somberly to his room for the evening.

The next day, Elec set to task, working the springs and latches of a mechanism occasionally, while working his alchemical solutions, barely eating or speaking to anyone else. His mother finally entered his room late that evening.

"You are not eating," she declared, holding out a plate of food. Upon closer inspection, Elec recognized it as his favorite—scrambled giant eagle eggs with a side of boar meat. He could not help but smile at his mother in appreciation at her attempt at quelling his dour mood.

He began to nibble at the food while Alaise sat close by silently, simply watching him as he ate.

"I should have stopped him," Elec finally managed, after consuming his entire plate.

"No one blames you for it," Alaise responded. She moved across to be near Elec at his workspace, which was inundated with countless texts and scrolls. "If anyone should be blamed, it should be me." Elec scrunched his face, wearing a perplexed expression at hearing this strange admission from his mother. "I invited him," she said as evidence, violet eyes wide and hands outstretched. "Along the lines of your thinking, I should be the one held responsible," she added after a pause. "Right?"

"Of course n—"

"Well, then I think I have made my point," she interrupted. "You are no more to blame for what happened than I or anyone else who was at the ceremony."

Elec nodded as she finished voicing her observation. Suddenly, the door opened wide. Keryth stood there in his bright red robes. The ornate golden stitching all over the arms and chest added to the regality of his stature.

"The people have mixed feelings as to how much blame they are assigning our son," he announced bluntly. "Murmurs abound as to what could have—and should have—been done!"

"Keryth!" Alaise admonished, glaring at her husband.

"Hold your tongue, woman!" He returned her stare a hundred-fold. "This news reflects on our family in a negative light! The elders and mages are speaking of what happened and are telling the tale as they saw it—that Elec could have stopped the incident but failed to do so." Keryth turned his scalding gaze upon his son now. "He failed to enact a single spell. He failed to stop that fool Jhaeronas from injuring Anthalion. And it could have been worse!"

"Why do they blame Elec?" Alaise asked in all seriousness.

"Because it is obvious to them all that he—and he alone—had the ability to stop Jhaeronas from finishing his spell since he was the one nearest," Keryth explained. Then he spun on his heel and left the room in a huff.

"He is right, you know," Elec admitted after a few moments of silence. "I could have stopped him, if only...."

Alaise said nothing and instead gave Elec a hug that seemed to last for hours.

Morning came once more and the passing of time did nothing to quell the guilt that Elec felt. He approached his alchemy that morning with passion unparalleled, diving into his work in order to forget about his problems. The hours passed and he continued mixing and testing elixirs, theorizing about different effects based on his findings.

Faorath entered his nephew's workspace and found Elec engrossed in his work. He moved into view, startling Elec and nearly causing him to drop his latest potion, but fortunately he snatched it back in a flash.

"You have good reflexes," Faorath proffered, nodding to Elec and watching him as he pushed aside a curly strand of dark hair from in front of his eyes.

"Thank you, uncle," Elec answered, still focused on his experiments. When he finally managed to look up, he witnessed his uncle exploring the contents of his bookcase, which was filled with texts on the topics of magic and science.

"I wrote this one, you know," Faorath informed him, pulling one tome in particular from the shelf. It was a book explaining the training and handling of exotic magical beasts.

"Yes, and it is something that I want to discuss with you," Elec admitted. "I would like to train as a Wind Rider." Faorath's amber eyes widened at this revelation.

"Your father—"

"Would be more than happy to be rid of me," Elec finished the sentence for him. "I would no longer be a disappointment to the family and this would perhaps free my mind from the torment of spellcasting."

Faorath stood silent for several moments and then nodded his affirmation. "Very well, I will approach your father on the subject." He smiled a wide grin in appreciation of Elec's decision as he strode to the exit.

When Faorath returned over an hour later, he found Elec once more deep in study, but this time he was reading the book his uncle had written. Elec looked up from the thick tome and smiled, nodding a greeting.

"I have read this book at least seven times," Elec disclosed. "I have always wondered what it would be like to fly above the trees and into the clouds, to discover what Wothlondia and even all of Krotto has to offer in the ways of nature's beauty."

"It did not take much convincing for your father to agree to this," Faorath stated bluntly as he stood with his hands on his hips. "He feels that if he presents this news to the elders, it will assuage their doubts and help his standing to remain as it was—'unblemished' was the word he used, I believe. No matter, Stormwhisper has been a powerful name in the family of high elven mages over thousands of years, as you are reminded each day."

"Aye," Elec agreed. "I feel that if I had been something of a real Stormwhisper mage, I could have stopped Jhaeronas."

"You are a real Stormwhisper, Elec. Do not doubt this. Just because you do not show an aptitude for manipulating the powers of Arcana does not make you any less a family member."

"That is not what my father says," Elec refuted. "My sister and brother and all of the Stormwhispers before them were able to do this. I do not understand why I cannot." Elec peered into a mirror. "I even look different than all of my family," he added, twirling a lock of his dark hair in his fingers, then flicking it away in disgust. "I have dark hair and my eyes are unlike those of any of my kin. I have never seen another high elf with features such as mine!"

"Your masteries lie elsewhere. That is quite obvious," Faorath offered, waving a hand over the workspace. "You are quite a remarkable alchemist, as well as an expert in the ways of mechanics. As for your features, you are exotic, yes, but it adds to your unique character. It does not detract from anything you do, nor does it define you. You will do well to remember that."

Faorath headed to the door, pulled the handle and swung it wide open. "Come to me when you are ready to begin your training."

Elec watched the door close behind him and returned to his book. But try as he might, this time he could not digest the words, for his mind was elsewhere.

The Wind Riders' station was several miles away and up the side of a large mountain. The Wind Riders used the caverns as well as the summit of the wide peak to train their apprentices. This venue also provided the magical beasts a place to make their homes. Elec could not wait to see it up close.

As he made his way through the village, he could not help but overhear some of the elves making mention of the failed wedding and his failures in the events there. Most of it was rumor, but it added another dimension to his humiliation as he heard many accusatory and damning opinions of his actions—or lack thereof. He began to run toward the pathways that would lead him to the top of the mountain and to his uncle. He did not look back or stop once along the entire two mile trail.

"Glad you could make it," Faorath greeted him when Elec reached the top of the trail. Faorath sat atop a griffon. Elec stepped back as the creature advanced toward him.

"Do not be frightened, for they can sense fear and it tends to make them aggressive," Faorath advised his nephew, tying his golden mane into a pony tail.

This time Elec calmly and confidently approached the creature and patted its head and beak, admiring also the leonine musculature that made up its hindquarters.

"This will be your mount with which to train," Faorath informed him with a wave of his hand. Elec turned to regard one of the Wind Riders leading a giant eagle down from the crest of the mountain top. "If things go well, you will not only become its master, but you will also befriend the creature."

Elec was handed the reins of the leather harness that was strapped around the beast's head and midsection. The giant eagle did not even resist when Elec took them. It simply stood still as if waiting for its passenger to climb aboard, and Elec did so, slowly and carefully.

"Freedoms abound for you now," Faorath stated to Elec, turning his griffon toward the edge of the nearest cliff face. He looked back at Elec and then gestured for him to follow. "You read my book, now act on it."

Elec grabbed the reins tightly and patted the eagle on the side, then whispered, "Let us take this journey together, friend." The giant eagle walked after the griffon, ending up directly to the left of Faorath. With a flapping of their mighty wings, both magical creatures took to the air. Elec swallowed hard as he lurched forward. He was in awe as the eagle ascended into the sky, following the griffon. They flew for several miles before turning back to eventually land atop the crest of the mountain once again. It was magnificent, thought Elec. He could not quell the boyish excitement gushing forth as he smiled wide. He stroked the giant eagle on its beak and head. The magical creature seemed to survey him before turning its head forward once more. Elec raised an eyebrow at that.

They repeated the route several times over and Elec felt a greater command with each flap of the eagle's wings. They landed after the twelfth such trip. Faorath stopped him for a moment, commanding his griffon to stand next to Elec.

"You must give the bird a name," Faorath instructed, caressing the head of his own mount. Elec thought about this for a few moments, then looked to the sky with a smile.

"Adok." It was the ancient elven word for grace.

"Very well, let us take Adok on a longer journey and, before the end of this day, you will feel as if the two of you are but one being." With that, they were off and flying once more, not returning to the surface of the mountain until the sun sank low in the western sky.

The next few years were by and large the same. Elec often conversed with Adok as they flew together, sharing his innermost thoughts with the giant eagle. The flights were cathartic to him as he often spoke aloud of the events of the botched wedding and about his friend Jhaeronas, speculating as to where he might be now. He could neither escape the inner guilt nor the constant stream of rumors and whispers about his magical breakdown. His sister eventually married Anthalion and all was well in that regard. No matter what he did, though, Elec could not seem to shake the culpability and trepidation, or avoid the surreptitious glances he received from his own people. His home life was no better since his father, who was at the very least ashamed of his youngest child, shunned him pitilessly.

Elec had told his uncle how he and his father had argued more and more over the last few weeks and he was frustrated beyond measure. Finally, he approached Faorath before another flight into the cloudy afternoon sky.

"I must take an extended leave, Uncle. I am fighting inner demons but despite my many distractions, I make no headway," Elec explained. Faorath stared intently at him, listening. "I feel that I need to remove myself from home for a while."

"You are not respons—"

"I understand what you are saying and have said in this regard. However, I am aware of my own shortcomings and I feel a sense of blame at allowing Anthalion to be harmed," Elec interrupted, staring off into the overcast horizon. "I believe that I have let Aeona down, too."

"You know that this is not true and your sister has been supportive of you," Faorath countered.

"Whether or not it is true, I need to do this. I only tell you this because I would like very much to bring Adok with me."

"So, you would simply disappear in the night and not speak of it even to me?" Faorath demanded accusingly.

"It is not... like that, uncle," he stammered. "I mean you no disrespect, nor my family. I simply have to face this fault and come to grips with it."

It was now Faorath's turn to stare silently into the gloomy firmament for several moments. "Very well, Elec. But before you leave, I have a few things for you. Do not leave without them."

"All right," Elec agreed, nodding. His disarming smile failed to revive his uncle's mood.

"We shall take one last flight and then you will meet me at my home this very evening. And then you may do as you say."

With that, Faorath pushed his griffon forward off the cliff face and into the night sky, almost disappearing after the first fifty feet or so in the gloom. Elec followed and propelled Adok onward into the heavens, catching up quickly to his uncle. Neither of them spoke a word; instead they simply flew on the backs of their mounts for the next few hours. It was peaceful.

That very evening, Elec was careful not to wake his siblings or family and softly padded out of his house. He moved quickly and quietly through the avenues of his village to Faorath's home. He had packed many of his alchemical devices and texts, and had not forgotten the belt his uncle had had made for him, which was currently strapped across his chest and full of cylindrical tubes of various mixtures.

He rapped lightly on the door. A moment passed and Elec nervously darted about in the shadows as he wanted this trek to be a clandestine one. He was not feeling the bravest of the brave at the moment. It seemed cowardly, this running away in the middle of the night. He heard a lock tumble open, almost seeing through the door at that moment. He understood exactly how the mechanism operated, for he had worked with those basic types of locks thousands of times. When the door finally did pull inward, it was Keryth Stormwhisper and not Faorath who stood before him.

"Father!?" Elec exclaimed, sounding wounded by the apparent betrayal by his uncle.

"Do come in," Keryth announced. In the corner of the room, seated in a comfortable chair, was his uncle whose eyes were wide in an apologetic manner. Keryth witnessed the exchange, huffed and then sighed aloud.

"He had nothing to do with it," Keryth said. "I have eyes and ears everywhere, son, and I was not going to allow you to leave unless I spoke with you first." Elec looked around as if searching for a way out. His eyes glanced all about and after a few moments of silence, he met his father's gaze.

"What is it, then?" Elec asked him.

"You are leaving the assembled villages I understand. Are you to leave Acillia altogether?" enquired Keryth, folding his arms over his chest.

"I... yes," Elec stammered.

"To what end, may I ask?" Keryth continued, rubbing his chin and pulling his cloak tighter around him. It was getting chilly this evening, which it did often in the month of Nature's Fall.

"To find myself, father, as well as distance myself from my people and their damning whispers," he admitted, "with or without your blessings."

"I am not here to stop you, merely to question what you plan to make of yourself," Keryth mused aloud. "I see you taking up with the Wind Riders—an admirable profession," he stated, glancing and nodding at Faorath, for he truly respected his brother-in-law for that feat. "And then I see you still invest your time in those foolish alchemical pursuits... among other things." He paced back and forth in front of the elf, chafing his hands together. Elec was not quite sure if this was because of the cold or from pure frustration at the events occurring.

"You read these texts, yet you cast them aside and simply abandon your namesake and its calling?!" cried his father. "Are you some kind of barbarian? A Kinestath Tempus, perhaps?!" He referred specifically to the name for warriors in the ancient tongue of the high elves, his anger growing with each word he spoke. "You disgrace your family name. I do not oppose your self-inflicted exile or whatever it is you call it. I would go so far as to say it is an agreed-upon decision," Keryth finished in a cogent tone of voice, measured rage and frustration evident in his yellowish eyes.

With that, he turned his back on Elec and Faorath and spoke an incantation, once more speaking in ancient elven tongues. Then he disappeared from sight, leaving nothing behind but the two elves with their own thoughts.

After a few moments passed, Faorath stood and retrieved a rucksack from the table, holding it out before him. "I am sorry," he began to say, looking into the strange black and white eyes of his nephew. "But he ambushed me, much the same way he did you." Elec merely nodded to his uncle, his mind still doubtful and lost in apprehension until he felt the hand of his uncle upon his shoulder. "Are you still leaving, boy? You seemed to be doing well with regards to your training and have a natural aptitude for flying the giant eagle. If you stay, it will not be long before you could graduate to the griffon training."

"Yes, I am leaving. I must do this, now more than ever." Elec's tone was suddenly confident. "I have made the correct choice." Then, "What is this?" he asked, seeing that his uncle had something in his outstretched hands, an offering of some kind.

"Supplies," Faorath stated simply. "Enough food for you to tend your hunger for well over three months. There are cured meats, breads, seeds and edible flowers from my own garden." He watched as Elec carefully inspected the contents of the pack. "I strapped more of the supplies to Adok's saddle—enough for the both of you—and he is prepared and waiting for you atop the precipice."

Elec nodded and turned away. "There is more," Faorath continued, causing Elec to spin to face him again. "I have packed several small sacks of Moontear berries. I have kept them fresh from the spring harvest. I thought they might be something to remind you of home." He was referring to the berries that grew only a few weeks each year on Acillia and bloomed in that short time under the starry nights. The high elves celebrated the event with an annual festival on the first day of the bloom. His uncle knew it was one of Elec's favorite times of the year. And the berries were a delicacy, sought after everywhere across Wothlondia.

"I... appreciate your gifts, uncle," Elec said thankfully, pulling his cloak tight about him and then strapping the rucksack to his back and taking the sack of berries from him.

Again he made to leave but heard another call from behind. "Elec... wait," his uncle declared. "There are additional gifts."

"More?" Elec asked, turning to stare suddenly upon the most magnificent blade he had ever seen. His uncle also gazed closely upon the glinting steel too as he held it out before him so that Elec could study it. Runes adorned the blade and its handle was of the finest steel, gilded with copper and slightly longer than usual, indicating that it could be used just as easily with either one or two hands.

"Where did you get this, uncle?" asked Elec with eyes wide in awe.

"This is an ancient sword given to me by my father, and his father before him, and so on for several generations," Faorath stated. "The blade was forged with fires and magic combined. Its name is Daegnar Giruth. It means 'blade that drains,' loosely translated."

"It is truly magnificent, but what of it?" Elec questioned, not realizing what his uncle intended.

"I am gifting it to you, Elec," Faorath said, sheathing the sword and then presenting it to Elec.

"I cannot accept such a gift," Elec stated, attempting to refuse the weapon.

"Nonsense," Faorath began. "It is mine to give and you are in need of a blade, so I give you this one."

"But—"

"'But' nothing, Elec," his uncle replied tersely. "Do not make me force it upon you!" he added, holding the blade out defiantly to his nephew. Elec nodded in response, not taking his eyes off the magnificent weapon.

After a long silence, Faorath continued. "The sword steals some of the strength and vigor from the target of its strikes with each slash of its fine edge. Your opponents will begin to slow their attacks, hit with less force, until, if they are not already dead from blood loss, they will succumb to the effects of the blade."

Elec took Daegnar Giruth and belted it respectfully around his waist. He playfully removed the blade from the sheath, replacing it and drawing it a few times over for good measure and gauging the fine weight and balance of the steel.

"These are for you, too," Faorath announced. He presented his nephew with a wonderful pair of leather boots. The black of the leather seemed to shimmer in the glow of the lantern which lit the room brightly. Elec could not tell if it was a trick of the light or if the boots themselves gleamed. He took them, but they appeared too big for his feet.

"I don't think they will fit," Elec observed, frowning and holding one of the pair up to his own foot as he stood balanced on one leg, never teetering an inch. His stance was unwavering and his uncle smirked at the admirable deed.

"Try them on," his uncle insisted, running a hand through his golden locks.

Elec removed his own disheveled footwear before placing the large boots on first his left foot, and then his right foot. Within seconds, the boots shrunk to his size and felt like they not only fit perfectly, but also caressed his feet. He gasped in awe at the amazing transformation. "I have never felt such comfort."

"See the inscription there... on the heel, nephew." Faorath pointed to the sole of the heel of the left boot. Elec saw it and nodded—the words were in ancient elven and he recognized them. "When you speak that phrase there, wherever you can see within your line of sight is where you will appear."

Elec's face crinkled in bewilderment. "Teleportation?" he asked simply.

"Aye," his uncle affirmed. "Even if you cannot cast spells, these few items will allow you to bend Arcana's whims to your own, but only a few times a day. Three if I recall correctly." He rubbed his chin in contemplation over that guess. "You may want to test that number yourself in the very near future," he added with a wry smile. "You never know when you may want to be somewhere else."

"Thank you, uncle," Elec cried, marveling at the gifts. "I will add them to the others," he said, again pulling his black cloak tightly around him. This was yet another of Faorath's many presents, received on his twentieth name-day. The cape hardened magically on impact, deflecting any attacks harmlessly away. Elec well remembered the first demonstration of its magic and he nodded in satisfaction at that.

Elec then reached into his belt pouch and removed a small piece of glass that, when held over the eye, magnified the landscape, making objects appear closer and in greater detail. He held it up to show his uncle that he still had this present.

"And take this, too," Faorath added, handing him a thick cloak of the best leather and wool. It was much heavier than the fine one Elec currently wore.

"And this? What does this do?" he asked his uncle, smiling in wonderment at what magic this newest item might have hidden within.

"It keeps you warm," his uncle said, raising an eyebrow. The two of them shared a laugh at that lighthearted joke and embraced a long time before Elec wriggled free.

"I thank you much for these and you have my eternal gratitude," Elec said, heading for the door. His uncle breathed a heavy sigh, and heard the door open and close.

And just like that, Elec was gone.

The giant eagle ascended magnificently into the sky with the proud high elf atop its back. Elec's hair streamed and whipped behind him in the very cool breeze of the night air. The cold was piercing right through his leather and animal skin ensemble. He guessed that he might soon have to begin to wear his woolens beneath his armor and his furs in the coming days.

This was the farthest he'd ever been from his home, he realized. He was many score miles to the west. There were three islands here that he felt might be good places for him to further pursue his journey into alchemy. There were new plants there for him to use and test, including ones he'd read about in several books.

He patted the giant eagle on its head as it flew higher into the night sky. After several hours Elec knew now that he had reached the isle furthest from Acillia and he decided to explore this particular land mass. Rumor had it that the vegetation flourishing here included the rare whitetails used in the healing balms and elixirs that he wanted to test for himself.

The darkness was beginning to fade, giving way to the morning light. The sun had not yet risen, but would be upon him soon. Elec decided to descend now, between two large croppings of trees. Down he went, seeing some of the animals in the forest scampering and running as he approached. There was a sparse section of land, backed up to a hill not far off, that might provide him some defensible ground in which to make his camp.

The giant eagle landed and came to a stop right at the base of the prominence and Elec dismounted. He began to set up a small camp, unpacking his portable tent beneath whose canvas and animal skin walls he could find shelter from rain and sun alike. He removed some of the dried food and breads from Adok's saddle bags and tore into them, tossing a few bits over to the eagle, too. He liked the dried meat, but Elec knew he would need to allow his mount to hunt on its own. He waved the bird away, secure in the knowledge that it would return after it had finished eating.

After he had completed his meal and the tent was in place, Elec set off in the morning sun looking for any and all unique plant life. He did not stop until the sun was sinking low into the clouds. He scarcely realized he had not eaten until he looked up into the sky. He had spent the better part of the day scavenging and scrounging and had discovered many flowers and herbs. Excitedly, he hurried back to his camp, several hundred paces to the west, where he found Adok waiting for him, morsels of some kind of carcass still on his beak.

Elec lit a campfire, using several of the dried twigs he'd managed to scavenge along the way, and chewed at another bit of dried bread. "We will need to do something about this," he mentioned to Adok, holding up a piece of the stale bread and laughing to himself.

After his meal, he set up lanterns in his portable lab and went to work, shredding and distilling many of the plants. Elec repeated this procedure many times over several weeks, testing the elixirs on himself with varying outcomes—but most of them with the desired results. He tried out the healing balm and elixir, and also one particular potion that increased his reflexes and speed. He employed this while he familiarized himself with the weight of Daegnar Giruth, practicing his strokes over and over into the open air and upon several of the bushes and foliage nearby. Once satisfied with the consequences of an experiment, Elec would quickly cultivate many vials of a particular potion, placing the finished product into a flask in his bandolier and quickly moving on to the next one.

His hunger increased along with the effects of the swiftness elixir and he felt that there might be a relationship there which he documented. For several more weeks, Adok would return with fish from the surrounding reaches of the Eastern Sea, after satisfying his own hunger first. Elec rewarded the giant eagle with more of the cured meats, which the feathered creature seemed to find to his liking and of which, fortunately, Elec had plenty, thanks to his uncle.

"I thought I might find you out here," called a voice from behind him one day. Unsheathing Daegnar Giruth, Elec spun round to face the owner of that voice. He saw a familiar high elf approaching.

"Wha-?" Elec stammered, lowering his weapon as the elf approached. "Shardrin the Scoundrel! What are you doing here?" he finally managed, using the title given to his new companion by several other high elves. It was a nickname that Shardin did not care for.

"I might ask you the same thing," Shardrin answered, ignoring the comment and stepping close to Elec, smiling in the process. "I am hunting game and looking for the skins and scales of the Tyrantian beasts as well as other... materials... acquired from creatures that I cannot find on Acillia. I need these resources in order to construct my finer items, such as that very belt you wear," the high elf stated, rubbing the leather of Elec's bandolier between his forefingers. Then he pulled his black mane into a pony tail.

"Aye," Elec nodded. "If there is anything I can do to help you, please tell me. For now, share some of my bounty." Elec slapped Shardrin on the back.

The two of them sat and ate, Shardrin recounting tales of his adventures and indicating that he was nowhere near finished with his career.

"I am only just beginning to build the tales for the bards to sing in taverns," Shardrin laughed. He removed his belt that held two scabbards of the most intricate and boiled leathers, much like the armor that he wore. "There is always room for one as skilled as I that can scout and disarm the deadliest of traps. Have you been practicing?"

"Aye," Elec nodded, producing the gears which he had been taking apart and putting back together with the greatest of ease.

"It seems it might be time to show you something a bit harder," Shardrin observed, clearly impressed with Elec's attention to detail and expert placement.

"What are those?" Elec asked, not really listening to the last comment but instead focusing on the twin scabbards.

"These," Shardrin explained, picking them up and setting them on his lap, "are my prized swords."

"May I look at them?" Elec enquired, throwing more wood onto the fire. It was getting dark and there was a distinct nip in the air.

Shardrin nodded, handing Elec the first of the two. The short sword that he removed from the scabbard was even more intricately constructed than the casing. Elec did not know who had made them, but recognized expert craftsmanship when he saw it. He also noted a faint blue glimmer along the edge of the blade and felt a chill there that was more than the cold of the steel. The glow indicated that some kind of magic had been mixed with the blade when it was crafted.

"So. Do you want to attempt to work on a more difficult mechanism?" Shardrin asked him, holding up a new device of some kind. It was truly more intricate, with more gears, pins, springs and moving parts than Elec had ever seen before.

Elec took it, once he had replaced the short sword back into its housing, and stared at the object in fascination. As he fiddled with something, Shardrin took the sword and refitted the belt around his waist.

"Ah!" Elec yelled out in sudden pain, shaking his hand to stem the ache. Shardrin returned his gaze to him.

"Quiet," he advised Elec. "We do not know what is out here in the wilderness. Now, as I was trying to tell you, this particular device has an electrical discharge upon it. It is not fatal, but will certainly hurt you if you are not careful," he added, standing up suddenly. "It makes you focus, does it not?"

He unsheathed his swords. The second blade appeared to have a dim red glow... or was it just the reflection of the fire? Elec could not tell.

"What are you doing?" Elec asked in confusion, looking around for some hint of danger. He could see nothing in the gloom of twilight, except the glowing sword. Adok was nowhere to be seen since he had taken flight some hours ago.

Shardrin moved away from the fire and toward a path that led up the hill above them. Then Elec saw them. A half dozen or more smallish shapes were bounding down the hill, the size of dogs, and with pointy snouts and long, slender tails that made them seem like... dire rats?!

Elec kicked a few of the fresh logs back out of the fire, thinking that they would not want to leave it unattended. The flames immediately dimmed.

Shardrin was moving up the hill toward the attackers. As the creatures approached him, Elec stood and removed Daegnar Giruth. From then on, things seemed to move in slow motion around him as he followed the trail of the rogue elf. As he ascended the path, he watched as Shardrin engaged them.

His first pass of the blade, a south to north upward chop, seemed to freeze the center section of the first rat as it was cloven in two, the lower portion falling straight down to the soil and the top portion flying off. It hit the ground some fifty feet away and shattered into a hundred shards upon the rocky ground below them, the parts scattering and vanishing in the weeds and foliage.

Shardrin's second swing caught another of the creatures with an outward hack that carved through the flesh and bone of the beast like a warm dagger through fresh butter. Elec looked at the remains of that one as he neared the combat, its insides completely and utterly liquefied and held together by its own melted vestiges.

"By the gods," Elec murmured.

"Mind helping me? You can swear later," Shardrin remarked nonchalantly, ducking as a dire rat launched itself over him, heading toward Elec now. His hearing was better than even Elec's it would seem. That was an impressive thing, Elec thought as he strode forward, his enchanted blade held out before him, gripped tightly in both hands.

Elec swung the weapon—over swung it, in fact—and threw himself off-balance. The blade was much lighter than he expected. Or was it the adrenaline rushing through his veins that made him do it. The clumsy swing nearly took him off the side of the hill and down onto the rocky surface below.

The rat did not miss its target, however. Its beady eyes flashed in the dim light of the campfire below and its teeth locked onto Elec's forearm, biting right through his flimsy armor. He yelped in pain and threw the thing off of him, losing a small portion of flesh as he did. He looked down to see blood seeping out from under his leather clothing. He reached for his bandolier, seizing and uncorking a potion which he quickly consumed. Then he drank another, tossing the vial aside as the rat launched itself at him again.

In that split second, the elixirs took effect. The pain of his wound, which had already begun to burn from within from an obvious contagion, receded and the gash was slowly closed. Elec's speed and reactionary time increased too, so the rat seemed to slow down comparably to his own actions. He smacked the thing with the flat of his blade, accidentally missing with the edge, and knocked it to the ground. He brought a clumsy overhead swipe down onto the creature, removing only its tail in the process.

Elec heard the laughter of Shardrin in the background and swung round to face him. He saw the Scoundrel cross his two blades in front of him, essentially blocking a diving rat and catching it in mid-air. His next action was to uncross those blades, taking the head of the huge rat off, and sending it soaring away while the body dropped to the ground with a sickening thud.

Elec whirled back in time to see his own enemy fly through the air toward him. He instinctively held out his blade firmly with two hands, and the rat impaled itself upon his sword edge. Elec glimpsed a low flying shadow and reflexively ducked, thinking it to be another enemy, but it was the form of a giant eagle. Adok, Elec realized, as the bird descended and grabbed two more of the dire rats that raced toward the high elves and flew off with them.

"Where are they coming from?" Elec managed to call out to Shardrin, who drove a short sword through the belly of the last one and then stood on its carcass with his right foot, removing his blood soaked weapon and wiping it clean with a rag of dirty leather.

"There." Shardrin pointed to a spot several hundred feet above them. It was hard to see, especially in the darkness, but Elec's darkvision allowed him to make out a depression in the side of the hill—a cave entrance of some kind.

"Shall we?" asked Shardrin, not waiting for a response but heading in that direction. "They were certainly aggressive creatures," he called back to Elec, smiling that same sly smile that he had before.

This elf has certainly been around, Elec thought, pursuing him as best he could.

Several minutes passed before Elec finally reached the path into the cave and saw Shardrin holding up a hand, forefinger extended indicating for him to remain silent and to stop moving. He did so and crouched, waiting for Shardrin to advise him further. A moment more passed, then Shardrin padded softly back to Elec and squatted to face him.

"The rats are all but gone, but I have to say that there is something deeper within this cave," Shardrin explained, sheathing his second sword. Elec simply nodded and followed after him quietly. He paused at the cave entrance and looked skyward, searching for Adok, but did not see him.

"There are tracks here, and large ones at that," Shardrin added, looking around. "Do you see the size of these tunnels, elf?"

Elec noticed that the passage was huge, seemingly able to hold a full grown dragon. He stopped breathing involuntarily at that thought, and then sucked in a breath slowly to stop the panic from ensuing. Shardrin appeared to be enjoying himself, Elec noted, and he shook his head slightly in disbelief.

"I am picking up the scent and sound of running water nearby, rich with minerals" Elec said softly.

"Good," Shardrin nodded. "There may be hope for you yet, Elec." He removed the reddish hued sword halfway from its sheath to shed a minor glow upon the rocky walls. It bathed the surrounding few feet in a dim radiance. He then stooped low to the ground and ran his hand along the surface of something that Elec could not quite see.

"Something larger than we has traversed these tunnels and perhaps calls this place its home," Shardrin stated, smiling sarcastically once more at that bit of news. "See the prints here, hardened and softened by dampness over time?"

"Aye," Elec whispered back, considering some kind of faded impression of a footprint on the now-toughened ground.

The air around them was silent. They continued down and then the passage leveled off for another fifty feet or so. Then their keen elven ears picked up the unmistakable sound of snoring. They looked at one another and then back toward the source area of the sound, withdrawing their weapons quietly, and advancing softly once more. The snoring grew louder until they saw ahead of them a spacious cavern with an opening above through which the air poured in freely and the smoke from a recently ignited fire billowed upward and out. Through the crackling of the fire and the smell of the burning wood, there was a purely putrid smell within the chamber. Shardrin clearly noticed it too as he winced, reflecting what Elec's expression probably looked like.

As they crept forward again, they finally caught a glimpse the source of the snoring—a giant.

Elec gasped involuntarily and his eyes widened in shock and awe. He had heard of these supernatural creatures, but had never seen one, especially up close.

The thing was massive, easily reaching more than twenty feet in height, and surely weighing in excess of one thousand pounds. There were animal furs covering most of its lower half, while its chest and upper torso were bare skin, bristling with coarse hair and corded muscles.

As they neared the sleeping giant, Elec noticed that it had the widest jaw he'd ever witnessed on a living creature. He had seen ogres before, raiding his village once after they had somehow crossed the waters of Sunrise Bay to attack them, but they were reminiscent of children when compared to this giant. It was balding with only a tuft of auburn hair upon the top of its head and a scruffy clump on either side of its jaw, framing its face. It was somewhat bloated, as the ogres had been, but had muscles everywhere along its arms and chest. Scraps of animal parts, bones and uneaten flesh lay all around the sleeping behemoth, and also piles of animal hides piled so high that Elec was uncertain as to whether the skins were mere pelts or whole creatures.

Shardrin circled the giant, short swords in his hands, as it lay sleeping, its back up against a crop of rock that projected up from the floor and was covered in skins. Elec approached also, sipping an elixir, then removing his sword from its scabbard. As he neared, he heard a crunch underfoot that echoed throughout the chamber.

The creature first opened one black eye—the shade of the darkest of nights—and then the other, affixing its gaze upon the approaching elf, curiously at first. Then its brow furrowed and it snarled at Elec. Its mouth opened and it displayed a misshapen row of yellowed teeth, with some missing, but those that remained were sharpened at the tips. As it stood, reaching its full height of twenty-five feet, it remained hunched-forward, its substantial arms stretching almost all the way to the ground, reminding Elec of a carriage resembling that of a gorilla. The giant barely fit within the vast expanse of the spacious cavern now that it was upright.

Elec froze, paralyzed by fear at the sheer enormity of the giant. It was truly massive and reached for a club, which was in reality the trunk of a tree, the base of which was worn smooth, no doubt from incalculable usage.

It swung the tree across its body, meaning to turn Elec's bones to powder, but the elf regained his sensibility. He rolled nimbly backward and under the swing as the club slammed into the wall of the cavern, creating a thundering cacophony that echoed throughout the chamber, seeming to shake the very walls themselves.

Elec looked up from the ground and glimpsed flashing blades as Shardrin leaped from a ledge above the giant, landing squarely on its back. He disappeared behind the girth of the mighty behemoth but must have landed a solid strike as the giant howled in pain and dropped its weapon. The giant turned slightly in a vain attempt at wresting the elf from its back, allowing Elec to see that Shardrin was out of the reach of its grasping hands.

"Strike!" Shardrin called out to Elec, who held his enchanted blade firmly in both hands. He downed another potion quickly before running straight at the giant, slashing wildly many times and scoring several hits. He remembered that his uncle had told him of the magic within the blade and trusted that this was exactly the time and place to make use of it.

The giant's back was stained with bright red blood dripping from underneath the hides over it. Suddenly, it stumbled backward toward the wall of the cavern. Steam punctuated the air now too, as the frost and fire from Shardrin's enchanted blades fought for supremacy.

Elec followed the creature's movements. He realized that although the giant was not intelligent, it certainly was cunning. It intended to slam its own back against the wall in an attempt to crush the rogue elf.

"Shardrin!" Elec called in warning, slicing another superficial blow at the giant's moving legs.

"I know!" Shardrin called back, trying to remove one of his short swords from the giants back that seemed to be stuck. That blade was aglow with a dull red light too, Elec noted.

Elec pressed the attack, hacking and slashing at the giant's legs until they stopped moving altogether. Elec heard a mighty thud as the behemoth crashed its own body into the wall with thundering force, just to the right of the campfire. Shardrin fell from the creature harrowingly upon the hard ground, knocking the wind from him. Elec could tell he was in pain from his facial contortions which he could see in the flickering light of the fire. The giant, still standing under the elves' assault, turned his attention toward Elec, who held up yet another elixir.

"Never a better time to give this one a try," he muttered to himself and downed the contents as the giant advanced a step. His vision blurred for a moment and then suddenly, he was moving and at great speed. Everything else appeared to slow down and he was moving faster... much faster. It was working.

He slashed and cut at the giant's legs again as they presented themselves. He ran between them, dashing back and forth around the creature. It could not catch him. The combination of his elixir and the magic of Daegnar Giruth in slowing his opponent's blows was devastating. Elec realized that he did not need to be a master-at-arms to deal with this enemy. Again and again, his sword found giant flesh. The beast staggered, bleeding from dozens of wounds now, and crying out in some kind of guttural language that must have been the native giant tongue. His tone, however, was unmistakably angry.

Shardrin managed to rise to his feet unsteadily and surveyed the scene before him in wonder. He saw that one of his blades was still deep within the giant's back and he shook his head, moving to aid Elec. But the elf needed no help, for the giant stopped and leaned forward, its black eyes rolled into the back of its head and it fell to the hard ground. The sound of that impact echoed throughout the cavern.

A moment later, Shardrin was back atop the creature, attempting to unearth his blade from what could only be the giant's ribcage. It became apparent that the bone and skin around the blade had melted and was bunched up around the sword in a heap. Eventually, after a few forceful tugs, the blade was coaxed free. Shardrin cleaned it off and replaced it in his scabbard.

"Now, let's have a look see at what our giant had in the way of treasures!" Shardrin declared with a grin from ear to ear. Elec's vision was beginning to return to normal and he nodded, though he was suddenly very thirsty.

Shardrin spent a few moments looking through the piles of discarded belongings and under the animal skins that the giant was obviously using as a bed. Elec removed a water skin and downed the contents. Shardrin came over to him.

"Your eyes," Shardrin remarked, noticing that they appeared odd. "They are almost all white. There is no sign of the black." He thought this quite strange indeed. "You may want this, though," Shardrin added, holding up a dagger—a magical dagger with runes and a pommel made of expert craftsmanship, the likes of which Elec had never seen before. "I can teach you to fight with both weapons held if you'd like."

Elec reached out and took the offered dagger, turning it over in his hand and feeling the master-crafted balance. He perceived that the blade was perfect in all ways... and sharp too, from the looks of it.

"Aye," Elec said in response to the offer. "I'd like that." The two elves rummaged through the debris and ruins there and found gems, some copper, silver and gold coins scattered about, and also a small statue of a wolf. It seemed to be carved from ivory, Shardrin reckoned. "This might fetch a coin or two," he smiled, cleaning the statue thoroughly with a sash of leather and then placing it neatly in his belt pouch.

"I'd better check on Adok," Elec mentioned, looking round one last time. His eyes appraised the hard stone walls and floor, the all-but extinguished fire that had been blazing for hours, and the carcass of the giant that would no doubt attract denizens from deep below in the tunnels of the subterrane. Stray animals from above would also wander into the cavern, such as the dire rats they'd seen earlier, to feast on what was left after that. He sighed and wondered what it all meant.

Then he shook his head and followed Shardrin out of the passage into the chill air of night. Adok was outside the cave entrance, as if waiting for his return. When they got back to their camp, Elec could see that Adok had laid out several of the dire rats on the floor.

"At least we won't starve," Elec laughed heartily. Shardrin joined in after seeing the carcasses.

The two of them sat around the campfire and Elec uncovered the runes on the dagger—more ancient elven text that read: Wyrm's Fang. The elves discussed the fine blade, the ancient ways of their ancestors and the powerful magic that must have been awakened centuries ago. The night faded relatively quietly as the two high elves slept peacefully and in shifts.

The next nine months passed with Elec learning the two-handed fighting technique of Shardrin the Scoundrel. He studied the different uses for both dagger and sword, how to employ them together and when to perform dissimilar actions with them.  Wyrm's Fang turned out to be the sharpest blade they'd ever seen. They had tested it on many different structures and densities, and found that it could cut into stone without even the slightest marring of the blade.

Over and over, every day, the two of them practiced the maneuvers until Elec felt that he had a somewhat firm grasp on the concepts of swordsmanship.

"Now it is up to you to practice them," Shardrin said. "I must take my leave as I have many beasts still to track and hunt for their pelts." Elec simply nodded, for he had much more to do as well.

Shardrin left that day after the two of them shared a final meal and some wine that Shardrin had been saving. Then Elec and Adok were once more alone in the wilderness.

As the seasons passed from summer to winter, Elec continued furthering the studies of both botany and alchemy and exploring the three islands that surrounded Acillia. Adok came and went, sometimes disappearing for days, but always returning to find Elec, who took to the air with him regularly for several hours at a time, exploring the countryside and surrounding waters of Sunrise Bay.

The high elf spent the following decade in solitude, coming to grips with everything that had transpired between him and his family. He studied and practiced his fighting techniques and even had a few run-ins with wild bears, cats and even one time with a Tyrantian crawler—the size of three bears. Adok had of course assisted him with those sharp talons of his when the Tyrantian creature crested the hill in search of food, Elec recalled.

His notes on his alchemical findings were copious and comprehensive, detailing effects both wanted and unwanted, and the steps that were to be taken to lose those unwanted outcomes. Elec was beginning to truly find himself and discover what his purpose was within his alchemical practices.

He was deep into a process on this day and chewing on a piece of stale bread. It was chilly and the ground was becoming more unyielding with each passing day, yet some of the vegetation continued to persist through the cold near the shore. It was then that he heard the sound of footsteps approaching. Slowly, he slid Wyrm's Fang from its sheath, ready to whirl about to face the unknown assailant, preparing the magic teleportation of his boots just in case.

"You look well, nephew," called a familiar voice. Elec spun to see that before him stood his Uncle Faorath. "Well, except for that unsightly fur you have on your face!"

"Uncle?" he cried, his eyes, growing wide and a smile forming on his face. He had thought about his magnificent and generous uncle many times over the last ten years and often wished to return to Acillia to visit him, but could not garner the courage. His uncle embraced him in a lengthy hug.

Elec had not even realized that his facial hair had grown thick this last year. He had taken to ignoring it, and many more of his hygienic duties.

"What brings you here?" Elec asked him bluntly. He saw past his uncle to the griffon that he called his own and wondered where Adok had gotten off to this time.

"My mission is twofold," Faorath explained. "Do you know what year it is, nephew?" Elec scratched his ear. He had stopped taking accurate measurements of the passing of days some four years ago or so. He shook his head to indicate that he did not know.

"It is 65 P.A. now and things are amiss," Faorath began to explain. "First let me present you with news and a task that our people are asking of you. It would appear that several tribes of orcs and goblins have taken up arms around Wothlondia, my boy." He sat on the ground and bade Elec to do the same. "Apparently the goblinoids no longer want to trade with the surface folk. The people of Stonehill are claiming to have seen some aggressive behavior. Nothing is known for sure, but we have theories, derived magically and through reconnaissance of our own," Faorath said, keeping his eyes on Elec's.

"We need someone—hopefully you—to take notice to Safehold and then Oakhaven," Faorath continued, standing now and wiping the cold from the seat of his pants beneath his robes.

"Why me?" Elec enquired.

"Because we feel it will do you some good to have contact with the outside folks—the humans and forest elves, among others. You had previously expressed a desire to cohabitate and meet these other races," he reminded his nephew, staring up into the clouds and blue sky. "It is important, Elec, all this information we have divulged and the theories we have put together. It is time for man to hear it before it is too late."

Elec nodded. "I understand," he said.

"I would consider it a personal favor to myself as well," Faorath went on. He pulled out a small leather bag. "On an unrelated note, I have something for you." He reached into the bag to produce a ring. It shone faintly, even in the gloomy air beneath the recent cloud cover.

"What... is it?" Elec demanded, truly amazed to simply behold the magnificent item.

"Speak the word on the side there," Faorath said, pointing to the script, "and I will show you."

Elec did as he was instructed. Suddenly, the air around them began to shimmer and fade back and forth, in and out, until a clear and present shift in the planes occurred.

"Wha—?" Elec exclaimed, startled at the event unfolding before him. Faorath bade him to follow and he stepped through the inter-planar gateway. Once hesitantly inside, Elec saw what could only be described as a full-fledged laboratory. There were tables littered with burners and flasks, as well as other alchemical equipment,

"I have had this made for you over the last few years," Faorath stated, as if it were no major accomplishment. "I figured that it might come in handy since you liked to travel." He held his arms out and pointed to the walls around the room, which had many of Elec's books from Acillia already lining the bookcases, and countless empty flasks and shelves set up to store his mixtures and other supplies. Elec was speechless.

"I... I do not know what to say." Elec once more hugged his uncle tightly. "I cannot thank you enough for this gift!"

"I know you will make use out of it," Faorath added with a smile. "You can come and go as you please. There is a small part of the astral plane tied to this ring that is yours now and always." He turned to see Elec thumbing through some of his older books he'd collected but had not brought with him on his long trip. Until now, he was not sure if he would ever gaze upon their pages again.

"I will return in a week to hear your decision," Faorath said as they exited the extra-planar lab. Elec spoke the word once more and the magic came to pass, in reverse order this time, until there was no trace of the shimmering doorway. Only the chill air remained.

"No need," Elec declared, placing the ring in his own belt sack and seeing Adok returning once more. Faorath's griffon neared them as well. Neither of the magical beasts moved to attack one another, they simply remained quiet and still. "I will do as you have asked, uncle." Elec began to pack up his supplies. "I shall leave in the morning for Safehold."

"Very well, Elec," Faorath nodded as he mounted his griffon, grabbing the reins and turning to face him again. "I believe in you and that you have a bright future, no matter what that may be. Your path is an honorable one. That is all that we can take to our graves—our honor."

Elec smiled agreement, waving to his uncle as he took flight, then watched him fade into the sunlight until he could no longer see him.

"Looks like we've got some work to do," he observed to the giant eagle, tossing a piece of bread into his mouth. It was then he noticed another bag on the floor near Adok. He peered inside and found another fresh helping of Moontear berries from this year's harvest. He smiled once more, a long and hearty grin that made him feel truly happy for the first time in years. He went about setting up his lab the rest of the day, beaming the whole time as he popped one of the white berries into his mouth and chewed, savoring the flavor.

# Chapter 5

Reflections

Orngoth left the grotto of his own accord. His barbarian ogre brethren were going about their everyday routines, mostly sleeping and eating, within the series of caverns they now called home on the lower western side of the Blackstone Mountain range.

At dusk yester eve the Ironskull tribe had encountered a pack of ferocious mountain bears approaching their cave entrance. There were three bears all told, with paws as big as a man's head and claws sharper than any dagger. When they stood on their hind legs, they were taller than any of the ogres. Each bear weighed at least one and half times that of a full grown ogre and had a mouth full of razor sharp teeth.

They did not stand a chance against the Ironskulls.

As the ogres dined on the cooked flesh of the bears, Orngoth had to wait for scraps as usual. But this time, instead of lingering, he decided he would come back later when they were all sleeping to claim his portions.

The cool breeze coming from the north was chilly today, penetrating the furs he wore around him and causing bumps to permeate his skin. Underneath the furs were oddments of chainmail that he had managed to salvage from the armored horses of some of their victims, and which he now wore draped loosely across his massive back and chest. His ram-horned helm sat firmly atop his head and his dark, bristly hair was bound beneath it, aiding in his warmth. He barely wore any clothing at all, mostly fur-covered leather boots and a heavy chain loincloth over woolen undergarments.

The ogre clan had moved around a lot in the last few years, Orngoth recalled, scavenging food here and there and sacking passersby in caravans. Sometimes their victims were wandering sellswords or mercenaries whom they happened upon. Occasionally, they would invade the dwellings of some of the less aggressive humanoids, taking what they desired. Ogres were cruel to begin with—barbarian ogres were even more bloodthirsty. This was beginning to bother Orngoth more than a little as he felt that what they did was... wrong. There was really no other way to describe it. He did not feel good inside when the ogre clan raided a village or pillaged a road-weary group of travelers. He did not know how or why—he only knew that it felt wrong.

This fact made him reflect upon his birth mother. She was the only explanation for these emotions, Orngoth reasoned. She was human; he had discovered that much, as had the Ironskull ogres. And he had very faint recollections that at some point in his childhood, he had belonged to a family of humans who had abandoned him somewhere. He was also told that he was 'lucky' that the ogres had found him and claimed him as their own those many years ago. It was an ogre female in the clan named Hazel that took him in and cared for him for those first years. She had died a while ago, but Orngoth remembered her deeds better than he recalled what she looked like. She had been kind to him at least and that was what he remembered most.

Further evidence of his 'impurity', as the ogres called it, was the color of his skin. It was less in the yellowed tones of the ogres and more along the shades of pink of the humans. It was also free of the warts and boils commonly found on the hides of his ogre brethren. His eyes were reflections of the bluest of skies, quite unlike those of any ogre, whose eyes were always as black as the darkest caverns of the Subterrane.

Orngoth was treated callously and with minimal care by the Ironskulls. The clan had been given their name by Muurg, their leader and chieftain. He was a brutish hulk of a thing, with a bloated belly and stiffened muscles atop his back and arms like none Orngoth had ever seen before. However, Orngoth was no slouch either when it came to size and strength, weighing as much as a horse and standing tall amongst the pure blooded ogres.

Muurg was fairly intelligent and extremely cunning for an ogre. He had deciphered Orngoth's human heritage from the features he displayed shortly after Hazel claimed the boy as her own. Orngoth received daily beatings and the catalyst was the simple fact that his veins were 'polluted' with the blood of the humans. Muurg instigated the attacks with an insult here or there, and the barbarian ogres did not need much more in the way of incentive. Scars and fractured bones sometimes lingered as results of the thrashings, at which time the ogres would simply leave him lying in a pool of his own blood as they walked away laughing. But Orngoth would never plead for them to stop, nor would he show any signs of fear. That would result in his death. The ogres did not stand for cowardice in any fashion or render any mercy whatsoever.

Orngoth did not blame them for their ways as he understood what the barbarians felt when they entered the state of the frenzy. He felt it oft times, too. There was nothing much he could do when he sensed the fury well up within him. It was uncontrollable, he admitted. Once his eyes washed over with the red of anger, there was naught that could be done until it left of its own accord. Besides, this was his family now after the humans had abandoned him.

As he wandered down the path of the winding hill and into the valley below, his contemplation of past events dissipated. He continued, heading toward the copse of ironwood trees at the apex of a faintly hilly area, where he often quietly sat, alone with his thoughts. This was a place of peace for the half-ogre. The much needed tranquility of nature's most beautiful surroundings offered him a brief respite from the hatred and heartless behavior of his clan.

He strolled over to where he'd laid the club he had been crafting—a thick bough of ironwood that brought him a sense of calmness when he cinched his thick fingers around it. He sat and leaned against the familiar, wide tree trunk to once more smooth out the club's handle. He removed his small dagger and a whetstone, sharpening the blade for what seemed like an hour. He then began using the sharp edge of the blade carefully, moving it up and down the club's shaft with awareness and care. Shavings of ironwood fell softly to the ground. The club was slowly taking shape, for he had been working the hard wood for months now, venturing out every day while the rest of the clan slept off their meals.

Suddenly, the sound of moving brush to his right flank jarred him from his peaceful thoughts. Something was approaching through the thick foliage—something that was either unaware or uncaring of the noise it made, shuffling loudly toward the outer edge of the thicket. Orngoth waited with the club in his hands for whoever—or whatever— it was. The club was weighty, with tough ironwood bark lining its shaft and rigid natural protrusions near its top edge.

Finally, Orngoth saw the source of the noise as it emerged from the brush, fully presenting its bizarre outline plainly in the clearing—a Tyrantian crawler.

Orngoth had seen them once before from a distance a few years after the ogres first found him. He had been young, but he remembered gazing down upon them from a hill high above as several of the crawlers had torn into a pack of wolves. He was told that there were at least three types of the Tyrantian creatures—the worm, the crawler and the skimmer. There were rumors of more types, but that was merely speculation.

The worms were snake-like things that spat venomous poison and had huge mandibles surrounding multiple rows of razor-sharp teeth. The skimmers were huge wasp-like creatures with stingers that shot a paralyzing poison and could pierce flesh as easily as a spear. And the crawlers, one of which peered up at him over the row of foliage not twenty feet away, were like giant insects. They had two sets of arms—a pair with spear-like tips and another clawed set with three fingers and a thumb for grabbing—and teeth that could tear flesh.

Orngoth gripped his ironwood club and squeezed it tightly as the creature approached. The crawler, at least as tall as a man and with thick limbs like tree trunks, was hunched over. Then it saw him and lunged forward, using all six of its limbs as it bounded toward him. It crossed the span of twenty feet in a single heartbeat.

Orngoth was ready, though. His club was raised behind him and he reared back and slugged the thing hard with a left to right action, knocking the Tyrantian to the ground some five feet away. It held still for another heartbeat but then found its footing by bending its joints in odd ways. This seemed completely foreign in nature to Orngoth, for he had never seen animals that could bend like that. The crawler's chitinous frame appeared to have withstood the brunt of the club's blow and it immediately leaped once more at the half-ogre. This time it found its mark.

Orngoth's club went spinning from his hands and his ram-horned helm went flying as the full weight of the creature landed upon him. The Tyrantian was as dense as a full grown ogre, Orngoth noted. Its clawed appendages pinned his arms to either side with an inhumanly strong grip.

The half-ogre barbarian peered skyward and realized he was sloping downward slightly on the crest of a hill, under the canopy of a wide berth of trees. The Tyrantian opened its maw wide, bearing teeth like tiny daggers, and snapped at him. Orngoth jerked his head to the right and the teeth came up empty. Once more it snapped its jaws to the left but found naught but vacant air instead of the flesh it desired. As it lunged once more, Orngoth felt the anger growing within him and he struggled to free his pinned arms. Then, in one forceful motion, he brought his knees up hard into the creature's underbelly and knocked it forward and off balance. It held onto Orngoth's lightly tattooed arms and brought some flesh with it as it tumbled head first down the angled hill.

Orngoth rolled to his belly and then got to his feet whilst watching the crawler come to a stop a short distance away. He glanced to the side and spotted his club. He launched himself that way, feeling the reassurance of solid wood in his hands just as the Tyrantian beast sprang at him once more. This time when he swung the club, he was angry. He caught the Tyrantian in midair and the impact made a sickening thud as the shell of the creature cracked under the sheer ferocity of the blow. The crawler's outstretched left arm bowed under the pressure and twisted in a direction that even it was not meant to bend in.

The crawler hit the ground hard but charged again, on five limbs now as its left arm hung limply at its side. Again the impact of the club hit hard on the shell, this time on the chest that was open to attack. The crawler slashed with its right claw and tore into Orngoth's left shoulder, but was sent flying straight into the ground as the half-ogre barbarian went in a sideways arc, planting the club into the ground in front of him. Greenish-black ooze emerged from the thing's chest—the shell was softer there, Orngoth realized—and the ichor covered the leaf and moss littered ground.

Orngoth roared as he stood triumphant over the dying body of the insectoid creature. He proceeded to take out the rest of his anger on the dying carcass. More of the creature's blood and innards flew about as he hammered the gargantuan club over and over into the beast. With each strike that followed, the sound that had begun with a solid crack of bone and armor ended in a squishy, bubbly sound of liquefied bone and gore.

Finally Orngoth glared down at the dead and misshapen thing that had once been a Tyrantian crawler. In its stead was an unrecognizable mass of pulp. The victor was covered in dark greenish goo from head to toe from his assault. He was breathing deeply and his muscles ached from the exertion. He slumped to the ground, rump first, and sat in the remains for several more moments before retrieving his ram-horned helm and wandering off, dragging his club behind him, to find the nearest brook several miles to the northwest to wash himself.

As the behemoth known as Orngoth knelt in front of the shimmering waters of the brook, he felt a distinct calmness engulf him. He leaned over and peered into the stream, seeing his reflection in the surface as the sun shone brightly overhead. He removed his ram-horned helmet and stared again into the water. He noted the mop of coarse hair about his head, and his blue eyes, and acknowledged his marked differences from the ogres. He had what could only be his mother's features, he assumed.

More importantly, he understood that he did not agree with the ogres' ways. Violence seemed to be something they indulged in and enjoyed, rather than used solely to survive. He felt he was surely at a crossroads. He could claim the ogre within him and push past the feelings of guilt and shame and give himself over fully to their ways. This thought did not sit well and anxiety washed over him and his stomach felt suddenly queasy.

Alternatively he could attempt to insert himself into humanity... attempt to find a city where they might accept him for whom or what he was. He pondered this heavy burden that he carried as he began to wash the Tyrantian gore from his furs and body.

The easy choice was to continue along the path already set in motion. Muurg was cruel but cunning and a leader that offered survival at the very least. After all, the humans apparently had abandoned him once before. They very well might do it again, he considered, splashing the cool water on his face and staring down at his hands. Grizzled fingernails with slightly sharpened edges gracing the tips of his fingers and the thick skin covering his bones gave him pause as he studied them for several minutes.

Human or ogre?

Did he want to continue down this path of violence? Were all humans like the ones who abandoned him? Would they shun him just as much as the ogres? All these questions and more still needed answering as he found himself finally clean of the gore.

Orngoth turned and continued to give heed to these confusing thoughts as he made the journey back to the ogre grotto. In a state of total contemplation, he reached the cave where he saw the four well-known wolves—Muurg's personal pets—standing guard at its mouth. They growled at him as he passed but then returned their attention to the pieces of bear scraps still lying upon the hard cavern floor. Two of them began fighting over one particular morsel, tugging at the meat, one on either end.

Orngoth continued on deeper into the cave with shoulders slumped in resignation at his surroundings.

"He comes now," called one of the ogres, seeing Orngoth approach. Muurg strode into the cavern, coarse hair and a scowl planted firmly upon his face as the half-ogre came into view. The massive ogre chieftain wiped a bit of dried food from his mouth and his brow furrowed.

"The wolves took their fill. You can eat now, half-breed."

The ogres all bellowed with laughter in satisfaction at that declaration.

"We are going to raid the travelers that come by our routes this day," Muurg announced once the laughter had died down. "You are coming, too." He pointed at Orngoth and smirked. He knew the half-ogre did not like raiding or sacking any of their victims, but Muurg did not care.

"It is time for you to earn your stay again, half-breed. And I see you have a new weapon to aid you, too," Muurg observed with great sarcasm, gesturing toward the club Orngoth had strapped to his back.

As Muurg turned his massive frame from Orngoth, two of the ogres wandered in to administer the usual beatings. The first was a massively muscled one, Muurg's physical equal—or so he thought—named Lunka. The other was the opposite in size and demeanor. Bengog, a smallish and hideous ogre that was slight of build and slightly deformed, joined Lunka. This ogre was burdened with a left arm that was atrophied and a right arm that was overly used and encased in muscle, adding to the creature's oddity. Muurg stopped them as they advanced, however, which surprised Orngoth.

"I want him at his best when we leave," he growled, glowering at the two ogres, who immediately turned and moved away from their leader, disappearing around a corner. Muurg looked back at Orngoth, scowled again as if hating himself for having to delay the beating, and then strode off, leaving him alone.

Orngoth made his way toward the extension of the cavern that the Ironskulls used for cooking. The huge area was filled with scraps of uneaten food left by the ogres, as well as various bones, tinder and several pieces of firewood and kindling. In the center of the area was a huge fire pit. He sat down in front of the flames that still burned brightly, and found some scraps of bear meat that had been overcooked or tossed aside by the ogres for some other reason. A pot of soup hung precariously by a pair of rusted handle bars atop the fire. Inadvertently, Orngoth glimpsed his own image in the dull, reflective surface of the pot and sighed. He tinkered with the leather straps he had affixed to hold his new club in place and made a few adjustments to tighten the knots. Then he turned to the food. He ate his fill quietly and afterwards fell asleep on the rough ground. Neither his dreams nor the inflexible sleeping surface provided him any comfort.

Orngoth felt a sharp pain in his side that forced him awake. A brutish ogre's face leered at him with its black eyes unblinking and full of hate. Orngoth recognized him as Lunka.

"Get up," he growled and planted another solid kick. Orngoth rolled with the force of the kick and made it quickly to his feet. His fingers went immediately to the handle of his club and he removed it from his back. Lunka laughed uncontrollably at that action, disrespecting the mere thought of him defending himself—especially against Lunka. Laughing ensued from a second source, intermittently mixed with gurgling coughs, the familiar sounds of Bengog.

"Did you not understand my command?" called a deep and booming voice from behind them all.

The two ogres swung round to see Muurg standing menacingly in his chain and leather armor, a club in one hand and a greataxe in the other—though the latter weapon looked like a small hand axe in his massive grip. Beside him stood three more ogres, all smaller than him—and Lunka, for that matter—waiting for their master's commands.

"I told you to leave him be," Muurg stated clearly, speaking directly to Lunka since he was the more intimidating of the two, while Bengog was merely his lackey. It was common knowledge that Lunka had challenged Muurg's authority on more than one occasion, but Muurg still held the rulership of the clan with an iron fist. There were approximately forty ogres under his command in the Ironskull tribe, none more decorated than Muurg.

"For now," Muurg finally added with a smirk as an aside to appeal to Lunka's compliance in the matter, rather than argue about it. Muurg often used his higher capacity for shrewd cunning to manipulate the less intelligent ogres. Lunka certainly fell into that mold.

Orngoth moved forward reluctantly and into the crowd of ogres, ready for Muurg's instructions.

"Me and my group will head south and into the paths near Heartwood Valley," Muurg explained. "You three and two others will move north toward the sea and watch paths there."

Orngoth nodded, looking back toward the grinning Bengog, to whose group he had been assigned, along with Lunka, who remained stoic. Two more ogres were assigned to their party. One of the two had scars adorning his features as if he had once been engulfed in a fire that had left burns about his neck and face. The other was a toothless wretch of a thing that hunched over severely when he walked and who spat when he spoke or laughed. They stood silently as Muurg assembled his own group.

A few more of the Ironskulls had entered the cavernous area to receive their assignments and were told where their posts would be along the roads nearby. It occurred to Orngoth that not many would be left within the cavern to guard it. But the wolves would remain behind and were ferocious enough to deter most would-be invaders.

After many more positions were ascribed, the ogres began to filter out. Orngoth followed Lunka, Bengog and the other two out of the tunnels of their home and down the winding path that would take them toward the High Sea. Later that afternoon, the group settled into a stretch of land well north of the Blackstone Mountain range. It was a well-known and well-traveled path in Wothlondia and one that would see its fair share of itinerant merchants. Most of the travelers would have guards and sellswords accompanying them to protect them from harm, in exchange for coin or a sense of honor, but they would be no match for the ogre attackers. Not once when they had relieved the merchants of their goods or wealth had any escort been able to withstand or repel the ogre barbarians, Orngoth reflected solemnly.

The ogres sat overlooking a valley that was oft used as an ambush site. As they got into position, Lunka assigned himself and Bengog to be on one side of the road while Orngoth and the other two were to station themselves opposite them.

Hours passed as they sat waiting for the inevitable and unsuspecting travelers to appear. Orngoth gave heed to the fact that he would be involved, but he would most likely attempt to stay far away from the action, if possible. He sometimes got away with it, but this only drew ridicules of cowardice, followed by more beatings. The ogres usually rushed into the fray to seek the glory of battle and to claim bragging rights, as they would compare exaggerated tales once back at the grotto.

"There," whispered one of the ogres in a deep, resonating tone, trying to keep his voice low. Scar-face, as Orngoth referred to him, towered over him, his foul ogre's lip curled up and melted directly to his face. He pointed toward an approaching caravan of wagons. There were at least four of the vehicles with mounted guards in various armors beside them. This was surely a private army of mercenaries or sellswords, Orngoth realized. Some mercenaries across the realm were more accomplished in the martial arts than others, and only time would tell which type these would be.

As the caravan approached, Lunka signaled that he would lead the assault from his side of the overlook to the north. In typical ogre fashion, they would simply charge the wagons with no real plan of attack and overpower their enemies. And with Lunka present, that was never really an issue. Orngoth had seen the creature single-handedly fell dozens of well-armed, well-trained warriors.

Orngoth gripped the handle of his weapon and sweat began to moisten his hands. He was nervous. Not fearing for his own safety, but instead he feared for the mercenaries and the bloodbath that would ensue. And he knew that once the bloodlust claimed him, as it always did, there was no turning back.

He saw Lunka charge with Bengog following close behind. Scar-face and Toothless went storming right after from their position on the southern hill. The ogres hit the first wagon hard, Lunka barreling into it and knocking it on to two wheels. It tipped and swayed, threatening to fall to its side, but righted itself with a loud thud. The enraged ogre redirected his attention and smashed his fists into two nearby mercenaries, sending them to their final resting place.

Several riders raced toward the fray at the front of the caravan, weapons drawn to defend their masters. Orngoth stood motionless, gripping his club tightly as if trying to squeeze the sawdust right out of it.

Bengog came out from behind Lunka's shadow and clubbed a sellsword who was struggling to his feet after Lunka's assault had sent him soaring from his saddle. That was Bengog's typical role in the battles, Orngoth judged, as he watched the bloodshed from above, still unmoving. He saw Lunka grab one rider by the arm, lifting him from his horse and then driving him straight into the hard gravel of the road. Then Lunka simply tossed aside the bloody stump of the limb which had been torn from the torso with the sheer ferocity of the attack. Lunka was under the full effects of the rage and the Gods of Order themselves could not save these mercenaries now.

Scar-face and Toothless hit the lines at the rear of the caravan and Orngoth could swear he saw Toothless take a sword to his gullet, running straight into a counter-attack. Scar-face brought his spear to bear and buried it right through horse and rider alike, then began flailing away with a club, crashing its solid surface onto the soft flesh and inexpensive armor of the riders.

"Curious," came a female voice from behind Orngoth. He whirled on the source, and saw a woman on horseback with a sword and shield at the ready. Curly dark hair cascaded from beneath the shadows of a green hood, which was soiled with dirt. In one fluid motion, she dismounted and strode fearlessly toward the half-ogre. Her sword was drawn and held straight out, its tip targeted right at his face. Yet he made no move.

"An ogre who does not join in on the action of a raid. May I ask why you sit here while your brethren assault these travelers?"

Orngoth merely shrugged, not sure what to make of this stranger. She moved with a confidence that defied her somewhat small stature. He stared into her cold brown eyes and her face contorted as she looked the half-ogre up and down.

"You are half-ogre, are you not?" she stated more than asked him and moved closer, her sword dropping slightly, seeming less threatening. Orngoth backed away, not knowing what to make of this, holding his great club at the ready. As he did so, he felt the tip of another weapon in his back. He also heard the quiet, but very obvious, snort of a horse now, though he had not so much as felt the stranger approach, even on horseback.

"That's it, ogre. Back yourself right into my blade," called a coarse and masculine voice from behind him.

"Hold!" commanded the woman, dropping her hood and moving closer. "It cannot be...," she admitted in a soft tone, staring more intently into Orngoth's blue eyes, which continued to track her curiosity.

This time, it was Orngoth's turn to display a perplexed look.

Suddenly, the clang of steel on steel and the resulting death throes yanked her attention back to the battle raging below. She looked back to the half-ogre and then to the man on horseback behind him and nodded. With that, the man galloped off down the hill and toward the fight. Orngoth glimpsed the flowing green and brown cloak as it unfurled behind the unknown rider.

"I advise you to stay your weapon and bring it not to bear against us, lest we cut you down!" With that final warning, the woman effortlessly mounted her horse and galloped toward the conflict too.

Scar-face and Toothless were down, as were most of the mercenaries. Several merchants had taken to the road, and could be seen running in all directions as fast as they could away from the carnage.

Orngoth remained static, holding his club and seemingly hesitant to take action, one way or the other. He looked down to see that Lunka had two arrows and one quarrel protruding from his skin. The ogre yanked them out with a roar of anger and then backhanded the bowman with a massive hand, knocking him from his steed and sending the man unceremoniously onto the roughly hewn road. Then Orngoth watched helplessly as Lunka drove his boot down hard onto the man's skull with a loud crack that echoed throughout the valley.

Bengog was on top of a wagon, smashing a mercenary to pulp with his one good arm, gore and blood following the repetitive motion of his club. There was nothing left of the opposition, who had either fled or lay dead or dying on the ground nearby.

The male rider made it to the foot of the hill and moved to engage Bengog, who had now climbed down to the ground behind a wagon and disappeared from Orngoth's line of sight. The woman whom he had just met raced into the skirmish and sent the edge of her shield hard into the left ribcage of Lunka. There was another sharp crack that sounded clearly in unison with the blow, but Lunka did not even so much as grunt.

Orngoth realized now that the man and woman must belong to the legendary wardens of the forest that roamed the face of Wothlondia. Each region had its own guardians, oft times referred to as Rangers, Striders, Woodland Guardians or Foresters. These men and women traveled the area in groups, protecting the people and the roads from peril such as this.

Orngoth began to make his way down the hill with a purpose now. For the first time in his life, he had a clear understanding of his path. He knew what he should do. He broke into a light run, then a full out sprint toward the fight, brandishing the new greatclub in both of his mighty hands and raising it above his head as he charged straight for Lunka.

The Forester woman was fending off and mostly avoiding Lunka's assaults, and those that she could not rung solidly off her steel shield. She was on the defensive, yet holding her own, Orngoth saw, as he exited the brush and made it to Lunka's side.

The ogre was so intent on his foe that he did not hear Orngoth approach until it was too late. Orngoth's ram-horned helm dipped with his head as he placed his shoulder into the rear left flank of Lunka's exposed back, knocking him off balance and eventually to the ground as he stumbled and fell awkwardly to the soil, face first.

Lunka spun to face this latest adversary. His eyes widened as he realized it to be Orngoth. His face became a mask of hatred and his eyes narrowed to level a most deadly stare upon him.

"So... the pup has come to fight," Lunka voiced, slowly clambering to his feet again. He threw his arms back while taking in a deep breath that caused his massive chest and bulbous belly to expand with air. Most of Lunka's animal furs and leathers had fallen from his shoulders, leaving his massive, yellow-pigmented skin exposed for all to see.

"And for the wrong side of the fight," Lunka added calmly, a cruel smile crossing his face. "This time, I kill you and not even Muurg can save you!"

With that, Lunka braced to charge, but the sound of tearing flesh interrupted the attack as the Forester woman managed to penetrate Lunka's hide with her longsword. Blood streamed steadily from the few wounds she had succeeded in making. Lunka looked curiously at her, like one would stare at an annoying insect, until the bloodlust returned and his eyes glazed over with the red of rage.

He swatted at her once, twice, thrice and then a fourth time, consecutively hammering straight down upon her shield. Finally he shot a left punch out with such force that it knocked her backward and to the ground. Her shield flew wide as she sprawled on the grass at the foot of the southern hill where Orngoth had been perched only moments ago. She was clearly dazed and vulnerable and Lunka stood over her, meaning to deliver a double handed hammer fist intended to end her life.

"Do you fear the 'pup'?" called Orngoth to the ogre. Lunka stopped and turned his attention to him. He could see that the anger controlled the ogre barbarian fully. Just then, Orngoth caught sight of the male Forester in his peripheral vision as he ran swiftly and silently to the aid of the stunned woman. Quite possibly the man had killed Bengog, for Orngoth could not see around the wagons.

Lunka's left arm lunged out and caught the man by his throat, raised him from the soil and snapped his neck. It all happened so swiftly that Orngoth could do nothing to prevent it. And Lunka did all this with his eyes still fixed on Orngoth. He had never even turned them to regard the approaching Forester. In one motion, Lunka discarded the clearly deceased man and charged.

Orngoth counter-charged. The two of them met in the middle and slammed into one another as Orngoth gave into the bloodlust, too, allowing it to fuel him. His vision dimmed and blurred as the impact sent him reeling and stumbling backward some ten paces before he fell to his rump. He fuzzily saw two identical images of Lunka approach him and land another tremendous blow upon his chest. Lunka stood over Orngoth and screamed at him, mocking him or something, since although Orngoth saw his lips move, he could not hear due to the ringing in his ears.

He had felt his ribs crack with that blow, too, and this despite his own tough hide and size. He was not Lunka's equal in size or in strength.

After a moment, the words began to make sense and his vision began to clear. Lunka was playing with him.

"The pup is not that big! Not that strong either," he heard Lunka bellow, arms raised in apparent victory and no longer pressing the attack.

Orngoth kicked out with his left foot, connecting with Lunka's knee. This sent the ogre's leg out wide and knocked him off balance. Orngoth rolled past him and retrieved his greatclub, which had fallen to the side after the initial charge, grasped it and stood. He interrupted Lunka's next swing with the solid wood of the club, and bark was sent airborne with the power of the attack.

Orngoth countered with a sideways swing of the club, connecting with Lunka's ribs. He heard another distinct crack. It was where the Forester woman had landed her initial shield edge strike, he realized. Another blow immediately followed, though with one hand on the club and to the right side this time. Lunka easily countered the intended feint and batted the club aside with an arrogant smile. Then Orngoth planted his right fist into the left ribcage again, causing an involuntary bark of pain from the massive ogre. Again Orngoth landed another solid punch into the same area. Lunka backhanded him in the side of the head, knocking him to the ground, but instead of pressing the advantage, the ogre doubled over in pain.

Orngoth retrieved his greatclub and moved toward Lunka, who howled in agony and rage, the bloodlust running through him. His muscles seemed to explode from beneath the skin of his arms as he shook with fury. But, before he could do anything, a sharp point of a sword protruded from his right side. Behind him stood the Forester woman, both hands around the hilt of her longsword. Having made the strike, her shield somehow found its way solidly into her grip in the blink of an eye.

Lunka instinctively swung at her again and again, ignoring the steel that was now seemingly part of his body, yet the Forester shrugged off blow after blow from the heavily muscled ogre. Over and over, her shield blocks parried the ogre's assault. She even placed a few of her own ripostes now and again as Lunka's defenses were exposed. She used the shield itself like a weapon, Orngoth admired. So, while she had his attention, he charged at Lunka once more, barreling into his weakened left side and slamming him to the floor.

The greatclub went to work then, hammering repeatedly on the ogre's hard frame. With each blow another crack was heard. Orngoth ignored the pleas and howls of pain from this horrible ogre who had tortured him for years. He swung his club again and again, feeling no remorse as he broke bones, turning them to powder, until Lunka stopped moving.

Orngoth felt a hand on his arm and swung his club again, this time at the thing that would divert him from his focus. He smote the Forester to the ground with that blow.

"Orngoth! No!" he heard through the bloodlust. "Orngoth! No!"

He towered over her, his weapon held high, but finally he recognized the woman for who she was and heard the mention of his name. His eyes cleared once more and he let out a breath that he had been unknowingly holding in for a moment.

"You... know my name?" was all that he could manage as he allowed her to stand. He looked down at his club, seeming to see for the first time the blood that caked its far end.

"Wha—?"

"You do not remember what you have just done?" the woman asked, lowering her hood to stare at him. "And yes," she added, shaking her head and getting back to the subject at hand. "I know you."

This intrigued Orngoth and his eyes widened and softened at that admission.

"You are the half-breed son of Celeste," she declared calmly. "I would recognize those blue eyes anywhere. And you—"

"My mother? You knew her?!"

"Celeste was your mother, yes," she finally admitted. "I have been tracking your whereabouts for over a decade. I made a promise to your mother years ago, when she died."

"How did—?" he asked her as his blue eyes began to moisten.

"She died giving you life," the woman gently explained. Orngoth said nothing. He merely stood frozen in place while a tumult of emotions bombarded him. A tear streamed down his left cheek and he stared blankly for a few moments.

"My name is Lynnai," the woman said, bowing, after a moment of silence. "I have two things for you. Your mother bade me find you and give them to you and I promised her I would do that."

She produced a magnificent jewel which shone with different hues as the light caught it.

"This is a magical gem that shifts color at times. Your mother did not say much of its other benefits, if any," she said, holding it out before her in offering.

Grasping the gem in his hands, Orngoth felt a sudden peace wash over him, though he believed it to be a coincidence from having been gifted this unique item.

"This is the second," Lynnai announced, holding a simple chain necklace that dangled between thumb and forefinger. It had a smallish orb that hung from its length. "This is quite a magnificent thing. It has minor recuperative powers that continue to work over time, healing you of injuries. It will, I am told, even bring the wearer back to life."

Orngoth received this newest gift and attempted to fasten it around his neck, but could not work the clasp with his enormous fingers.

"Allow me," Lynnai offered and aided him in donning it. As soon as it surrounded his neck, the chain shrunk until it sat tightly with very little slack. Orngoth began to panic, then relaxed once the event ceased.

"Thank you," he said, bowing to this intriguing Forester and touched by what she had done. "All humans are not so bad."

Lynnai strapped her shield to her back, retrieved her sword and went over to the body of her fallen fellow Forester. Orngoth helped her place the body of the man gently on the back of her horse. She nodded her thanks and began to trot off, but then turned to face him once more.

"Fare thee well, Orngoth. I hope that you find your way in this world and that you learn to judge each individual as just that." Lynnai pulled her hood up over her head and rode off in a gallop, disappearing down the road to the east.

Orngoth began to sift through the carnage, looking for anything that might help him explain to Muurg what had happened. He decided that he would return to the ogre grotto and leave in the night if he were able, but the thought of this left him with a desperate and inescapable fear.

Where would I go? he wondered. Then he heard something from behind the wagon and saw Bengog make it back to his feet. He was bleeding from a wound in his side, but it appeared superficial.

"Wha' happen?" Bengog asked, not truly understanding what had just played out. Then the ogre observed the carnage and witnessed the dead body of Lunka, or what was left of it, and frowned, or so Orngoth thought.

"Wha' kill him!?" Bengog said excitedly, looking around, worried that whatever had done this was still here, lurking about.

"I did not see it myself," Orngoth lied. "We will take the belongings that we can salvage from the wagons as usual and head back."

Bengog stared about, still obviously not knowing what happened, and nodded his assent.

With that, the two remaining Ironskulls gathered what goods that they could from the wagons and threw them over the backs of the horses. They worked until the sun began to dip further into the western sky. Orngoth spent those hours, as well as the time expended traveling back to the grotto, trying to assert the courage that he needed to leave the Ironskull tribe once and for all.

He fingered the pendant about his neck and contemplated how exactly he was going to do that.

# Chapter 6

Distant Familiarity

"What if we were to attempt to recover the phylactery ourselves?" Tiyarnon voiced aloud what all three of them had been thinking.

"I been itchin' fer somethin' to hit fer days now," Rolin responded in typical dwarven fashion, adjusting his helmet atop his head as he spat out the words. He scratched his ever-whitening beard and looked to Nimaira, who was hosting the meeting now that she had finished teaching a class. Her silver hair hung over her shoulder, tied back in a pony-tail. The half-elf sat in a chair adjacent to her desk and pondered the question, her eyes glancing down at a parchment she held that evidently demanded her attention, before turning to face her guests.

Nimaira Silvershade was the current Guild Mistress of Wizardry, deservedly so, and was quite possibly one of the most dominant mages in all of Wothlondia. Here at the University of Wizardry, she was responsible for instructing and teaching the highest level of spell-casting to those who had passed their previous courses. She taught everything from the lowest to the most advanced spells available within the school of the mystic arts, and could be found tutoring novices as well as the very best of the best.

As the half-elf woman reviewed the parchment, attempting in vain to give it the proper consideration it needed, she unconsciously crossed her legs. The lower half of her garment slid aside to reveal a shapely leg that neither Tiyarnon nor Rolin could miss. How naturally beautiful the half-elves were, Tiyarnon thought, shaking his head in admission as he admired her beauty. There was no denying that Nimaira was stunning. In fact, she was one of the most attractive people Tiyarnon had ever laid eyes upon, but she was extremely unassuming when it came to her attire as she usually wore robes that covered most of her body, especially while she was teaching.

He read her face as it turned slightly red in embarrassment at the incident and he looked away to allow her to recover. Rolin, however, did not.

"Whatcha' thinkin'? I ain't seen a beautiful woman a'fore? We got plenty of 'em in me clan at Eisenhaum," Rolin added, with a chuckle from Tiyarnon. The dwarf was referring of course to the city of dwarves within the Brimstone Mountains which the Hardbeards called their home, as had Rolin once, many decades ago. "Some of 'em even got beards!"

"I will give it a go," answered the half-elf to the High Priest's initial question concerning the phylactery, while smiling at the dwarf's comment. She then pulled the whole of her silvery hair out of her pony-tail and shook it free. She proceeded to make a ridiculous face, further poking fun and allowing herself a certain freedom that she'd experienced over the years with these two, her closest friends.

"If your frail human body can handle it," she added in a teasing way, directing her comment specifically to Tiyarnon, who rolled his eyes and coughed as the half-elven woman laughed in a genuine manner. It was common knowledge to Rolin and the half-elf that Tiyarnon was at least one hundred years old. This was universally old for a human, but the High Priest of the Sun God had seemed to slow his aging process in his early forties. The other two knew this because they had traveled the whole of Wothlondia together, prior to the assault of Ashenclaw and the scorching drakes. But how he had done it was a strange and unknown mystery to them both, as Tiyarnon had never offered an explanation for it, nor did they press the issue.

Nimaira rubbed her eyes and refocused on the task set before her now. "Rumor has it that they were seen by several eyewitnesses heading south out of Oakhaven?"

"Aye," Tiyarnon said, nodding. Rolin was mirroring this gesture as he crossed his arms over his chest.

"There be more to this than meets the eye, don't ye be doubtin'," the dwarf added, while wiping his nose and scratching his chin.

Nevertheless, Tiyarnon, the stubborn and wise High Priest of The Shimmering One, had a lofty sense of honor and felt responsible for his apprentices' actions.

"Those priests were my responsibility," said the man, eyes still on the floor and leaning on his staff. Nimaira moved away from her desk and gathered a few things, threw them into a leather rucksack, then strapped it to her back.

"I have a few instructions for my colleagues and then we can go," she continued, moving toward the door and disappearing through it.

"Inform Aldranon and Aeldur of our intentions and tell them we will be back as soon as we can," Tiyarnon instructed Rolin Hardbeard. The dwarf merely nodded and then headed out the door and down the spiral stairway where the half-elf had just gone. He proceeded out into the afternoon sun. Tiyarnon then sat alone with his thoughts as a bell sounded in the distance.

It had only been last evening when the apprentices had reportedly left the city. The guards posted at the gates couldn't really give a good description of them, as they were always more concerned with who was coming into Oakhaven rather than leaving it. But by all accounts, the men stationed had at the gates had indeed seen Thaurion in their midst, since they collectively described a man with blonde, curly hair who appeared to be leading the others.

Such a promising young acolyte, Tiyarnon thought, his mind filled with recent memories of Thaurion. He recalled how this individual in particular had shown great potential and loyalty to the Sun God. That sort of reverence reminded him of one other, whom he'd mentored many years ago.

The thought of this saddened and frustrated the High Priest as he attempted to focus on his meditations and prayers instead. It was at least a brief respite from the grief he carried now. Shortly thereafter, he descended the stairwell and went out into the teeming streets of Oakhaven's Enlightenment District. From thence he walked through to the main courtyard, passing right by the Hall of the High Council, and on to the gates. He mentioned something to one of the guards, who hurried off, vanishing amidst the multitude of people.

Rolin and Nimaira appeared just as the guard returned with three magnificent horses in tow. This made Rolin frown—he hated traveling on horseback. Nimaira had quite the opposite reaction as she very much enjoyed riding the beautiful, equine creatures.

"I'm hopin' yer not intendin' on makin' these horses speed, are ye?" Rolin asked in a phony threatening tone, knowing full well the answer to the question.

Nimaira looked to Tiyarnon and leaned in, whispering something to him that Rolin could not make out. However he guessed correctly what it was about when his two companions shared a thinly-disguised giggle.

"You'll be just fine, my dwarven friend," Tiyarnon encouraged.

"Besides, little one, it's not like we haven't done this in years past," Nimaira teased further.

Rolin, struggling to climb onto the back of his horse, frowned at the pet name she had called him. He did not like it at all, and never had, not since the first time she had used it. But he'd never mentioned his displeasure at it and it was too late now, he figured, settling uncomfortably into his saddle and grabbing the reins of the horse awkwardly.

He watched as the other two mounted their steeds. Then the gates of Oakhaven swung wide to allow them passage. Moments later all that remained of their presence was a cloud of dust, which quickly dissipated in the cool breeze of Winter's Veil. A new year was coming in Wothlondia and Tiyarnon hoped that 66 P.A. would be an even better year than the last for the citizens of Oakhaven, and for the whole of Wothlondia.

The three of them traveled for hours heading south along the River Divide, whose current ran in a southerly direction hundreds of feet below them. The river was used by many to bring goods and services to other towns for trade along its banks. The three bridges that crossed the River Divide, including Nature's Pass, were at extremely high points where ships could easily pass beneath them.

Nimaira repeatedly used her significant magical abilities to propel the horses forward at increased speeds for several minutes at a time to hasten their pursuit. This, of course, made Rolin feel very disgruntled. To him it was bad enough to be obliged to ride a horse at all, let alone having it run at two to three times its normal speed for minutes on end. The dwarf did not like it at all—not eighty five years ago, and certainly not today.

Tiyarnon and the others concluded that the priests had not taken the northern bridge, as the guards or patrols outside the city would have spotted them and reported this as being the case. Eyewitnesses explicitly expressed that the group headed south out of Oakhaven the evening before last. And they most likely would not have crossed the southernmost bridge. They would be too exposed to detection as the south was barren and known to be full of wild beasts, roaming those open plains.

This all meant that they had to have travelled over the River Divide at Nature's Pass, which would have had them passing directly through the heart of Amrel and close to the forest elves who made their homes there. The elves of Amrel would have certainly noticed the acolytes within their domain, although such a route would have also given the travellers cover. No one—humanoid or otherwise—passed through Amrel without King Dorinthal's knowledge, for his eyes were vigilant and ever-present.

Tiyarnon confidently spurred his horse further south toward the elven-made bridge, hoping his theory proved to be sound.

Tiyarnon could see the bridge in the distance. It was a beautifully carved bridge made from several trees that had fallen... or so the rumor went. Tiyarnon and a few other historians believed there to be ancient elven magic at work there, though this had never been verified.

As they got to within a hundred paces of the amazing bridge, Tiyarnon stopped and dismounted. From beneath his coat he removed his holy symbol. It was a depiction of a simplistic orb representing the Sun, with waves of sunlight emanating around its entirety in a symmetrical pattern. As he uttered a prayer to The Shimmering One, his eyes lit up with a radiant light. The horses whinnied, and Rolin was almost thrown from his mount as the brightness grew with intensity, but he managed to hold on, his short fingers clamped like a vise around the horse's reins.

"I've been fightin' to stay on the beast's back with the wind in me beard for the last ten hours and now yer tryin' a different method to toss me from its back?" Rolin growled accusingly.

"I am sorry, my friend," Tiyarnon apologized in response to his oldest companion's look of disgust. "But I sense other holy symbols of The Shimmering One nearby—perhaps within only a few miles. If we carry on at this pace, we may be able to catch them before they enter the thickest part of the forest of Amrel."

The three of them understood that the forest was not very dense immediately after crossing into Amrel, but rapidly thickened thereafter. Tiyarnon hoped to catch up with them sooner rather than later.

"That be good news," Rolin stated. "I'm fer getting' off this durned beast as soon as I be able!" he added, pulling the reins to redirect the horse east across Nature's Pass.

Nimaira followed suit as Tiyarnon slowly remounted his horse, a beautiful creature of chestnut hue and one that he had grown attached to over the years. Nimaira noted the effort which the elderly priest exerted in order to climb onto his steed, and speculated if this mission was as foolish as she believed it was. She shook the thought from her mind and continued, following the men with whom she had made a good living and enough fortune with which to begin construction on what was now the University of Wizardry. Yes, these two had often made unwise choices but, despite that fact, they all three survived.

The companions rode in silence for the next ten minutes and Nimaira continued to feel a strange sense of trepidation that bordered on hopelessness. She noticed that with each trot of her horse's hooves, the doubt mounted within her.

Why are we even doing this? contemplated Nimaira, her wide blue eyes expanding even further. She spent the next few minutes quelling the emotion inside her and calmed down again.

Rolin Hardbeard trotted along next to his two closest friends. His thoughts suddenly turned inward to his family—his dwarven kin—and he began to give them some consideration, feeling strangely uneasy about having left home those many years ago. He had not seen or heard from them in decades, and now he began to think now of how he had 'abandoned' them, as his father and brother often put it, and about how he came to be where he was now.

This series of disconcerting thoughts had come to him as if from nowhere. He felt suddenly panicked and even slightly guilty about these past events. Nimaira and Tiyarnon had told him repeatedly that he left the confines of the Brimstone Mountains with nothing but the best of intentions, but he still felt like he had forsaken his family and kin, and they echoed that sentiment. It had been more than a decade after Ashenclaw had attacked Wothlondia, and was right at the time when the war between the giants and dwarves was nearing its end. Nonetheless, he had intended only to seek to help the people of Wothlondia rebuild, though his kin often misunderstood his leaving as cowardice or even disloyalty. These emotions had not surfaced into the hardened dwarf's thoughts for decades.

His troubles quickly shifted from the past to the present as his horse once more bucked and threatened to throw him from its back. He steeled his grip on the reins and steadied the beast, then tried to rid his mind of the demons from his bygone days.

Tiyarnon, ignorant of the mindset and doubts mounting within the others, looked skyward, searching for a sign from The Shimmering One that he and his friends had made the correct decision to pursue the young acolytes. He felt confused and second-guessed himself about choosing those apprentices. Momentarily he doubted that they were worthy at all. He wondered if he had made the right choices as his horse trotted after his two friends.

He looked up at the waning sun and shook the feeling away, only to be visited by something new as a heavy sensation of guilt washed over him. Had he let these young priests down? Was The Shimmering One abandoning his hopes and turning his eyes elsewhere? It was a lingering and confusing set of emotions with which the High Priest struggled this late afternoon, and he did not know exactly why it was happening.

None of these human priests of The Shimmering One, nor even the other creature masquerading as one of the holy men, were worthy of carrying him, Cyrza concluded, though he did imagine how savory it would taste to turn them into his master's playthings. The thought of consuming the one who now carried him, so pure and full of honor, was especially titillating to him. But, alas, it was not to be. He wanted to return to his former host, for this was the will of his lord and master—Sammael. The body of Sadreth was his and he wanted the human back... if human he could still be called, chuckled Cyrza, knowing the answer to that question.

Then Cyrza sensed a familiar presence approaching. He felt nearing the minds and emotions of the three he hated most in all the planes of existence. Oh, how those three had made things hard for him early on. How sweet it would be to own each and every one of them—those who had avoided his temptations and offers for so many years! It was Cyrza's greatest fantasy to caress their innermost desires and allow them each to tap into that part of their souls. He wanted so badly to tug at their pride as he had done to so many before them... to possess them as easily as he had done their friend, Sadreth.

This was not to be—it was not part of their future, realized Cyrza, as the young acolytes of the accursed Sun God continued their journey, so near as to cross the River Divide at the southernmost bridge within minutes. All of this just so he could be reunited with his former host... how sweet that would be.

Instead of attempting to possess any of the three, Cyrza immediately decided upon another course of action and began to slowly project thoughts of doubt and frustration upon them. It was the simplest of matters for the demon that was trapped within the amulet. He had spent countless years around these three in particular, and had seen their intimate secrets and desires. It was mere child's play to manipulate them, and this was but the precursor to something more delightful. For Cyrza meant to destroy them once and for all this day. With that thought, he projected once more onto the trio of friends and sent emotions into them that tugged at their deepest conceit.

Their hubris will be the death of them, thought Cyrza from inside the amulet which dangled from the length of chain in the young priest's hands. A sickening laughter filled that dimensional space within that only Cyrza could hear. It echoed within for a long time.

Tiyarnon looked to his left and saw Nimaira gesturing and speaking ancient words that could only mean a spell was being cast. He immediately spun around, thinking he'd missed an unseen enemy or supernatural beast moving in to attack them. He whirled, head whipping back and forth, but failed to witness a threat of any kind approaching their location. He twirled back to face her again as the spell reached its climax, and he realized uncomfortably that she had locked eyes with him. Hearing a strange sound from above, he looked up in time to see what appeared to be stars raining down, threatening to crush him.

"Wha—" cried the High Priest attempting to dismount from his steed but falling to the floor instead. He uttered an incantation to his God and discharged a ray of radiant light, 'Sun's Rays' as the spell was called, directing multiple beams into the approaching objects. One by one, the rays of light hit and shattered the huge masses, causing them to break into smaller pieces as they fell to the soil. Tiyarnon breathed a sigh of relief as he regained his footing. He had expended tremendous power to counter that spell and, he realized, he was lucky to be alive. Then he saw that his horse was not as fortunate, as it lay lifeless beneath a huge, stone-like object.

"What manner of behavior is this?!" yelled the elderly priest at the half-elf woman, whose eyes seemed distant at best. Before he could receive an answer, or even pursue a second line of questioning, Tiyarnon felt a strange sensation of irritation flood into his being. How dare she strike at me, he fumed. I am the High Priest of the God of the Sun. The giver of all life. The Shimmering One grants me powers that she can only dream of, Tiyarnon thought. But, before he could act on this new and strange emotional wave, he saw Rolin Hardbeard approach her from the side. Nimaira was so intent and focused on Tiyarnon that she did not see the mighty dwarf. The next thing the High Priest witnessed was the dwarf's powerful fist connecting with Nimaira's jaw, all but knocking the woman unconscious.

Rolin stood over the half-elf, breathing heavily and banging a gauntleted fist on his plated breastplate.

"Not such the 'little one' now, eh?" Rolin mocked at the top of his lungs, and with such anger that it brought Tiyarnon back to his senses. He clearly felt a moment ago as if he needed to prove something to Nimaira for having attacked him—to make her understand that he was the superior spell-caster. And then he felt it. It was so subtle, but it was certainly there—the presence of the demon creeping ever so sneakily into his consciousness, for he had sensed this before.

Cyrza!

Tiyarnon was gripped by a very real and completely overwhelming fear. They had encountered the demon within the amulet many times. It had attempted to appeal to their pride on numerous occasions, ever endeavoring to attract each and every one of his closest friends into claiming the object for their own. Even when they were aware of its advances, it was difficult to stop them. This was why they had tried so often to warn Sadreth not to use its powers... not to tap into the evil that surely lurked within the artifact. Finally, Tiyarnon steadied himself and his fear was replaced with anger... anger at this demon for once more manipulating his friends—for manipulating him.

Rolin approached Tiyarnon with a determined step and withdrew his great battle-axe. It appeared almost too large in the dwarf's hands. Surely he would not be able to swing this mighty weapon with ease? But Tiyarnon knew Rolin did not wield this axe with clumsiness. Tiyarnon had seen the dwarf in action for decades and Rolin was a fierce and deadly warrior, never to be underestimated. With this in mind, he gripped his staff firmly and shifted it about in his hands, uttering a prayer to The Shimmering One. Rolin calmly walked toward him, muttering something to himself. As the dwarf got close to within striking distance, Tiyarnon distinctly heard him speak.

"Steel beats magic! I been sayin' it fer years," he cried, just as Tiyarnon finished his spell.

A funny look crossed the dwarf's face at that instant as puzzlement reflected within his gray eyes and he came to a dead stop, just before closing in on the High Priest.

"Thank The Shimmering One," Tiyarnon intoned as Rolin fell victim to a spell known as 'Shackled Mind'. It was a simple enchantment he'd learned years prior but hadn't used in decades. It attacked the mind of the victim, convincing them that they were paralyzed when, in fact, the body was completely unharmed and untouched.

Tiyarnon once more fought the demanding will of Cyrza as the demon reached for his very soul, striving to appeal to the hubris within him; to make him believe that he was the superior combatant and that his was the most effective method of combat. He began another spell—one intended to put a hole through the dwarf's chest—but he stopped mouthing the words just in time. He pushed Cyrza from his consciousness as he fell to his knees in agony. It was an acutely exposed connection that Cyrza had developed with the three of them and, for some reason, the demon seemed stronger. Either that or they were weaker, which Tiyarnon believed might well be the case, for the demon was immortal and they were not.

The High Priest of The Shimmering One was callously wrenched from his contemplation once more as Rolin smashed his chest violently with the haft of his axe, driving him to the ground with a two-handed shove. Tiyarnon's head bounced off the hard ground and his vision dimmed, blurred and cleared again.

As his senses returned, he saw the dwarf standing over him with his axe raised high in both hands. Sweat beaded on his leathered face and brow beneath his helm, seeming to well up in his white beard. Tiyarnon sensed that deep down Rolin, too, was fighting the possession of the demon, though his eyes were glazed over. He held out his hand, but before he could utter another word, the axe came down.

Tiyarnon closed his eyes, accepting his fate.

Nothing happened.

A moment later however, he opened his eyes. The head of the axe was to the left of his head and Rolin Hardbeard stood over him still, bent on one knee now and breathing heavily, the sweat pouring down his face. He tossed his helm to the ground and his eyes met Tiyarnon's, the familiar fire once more behind them.

"That durned demon ain't gonna claim you or me or any of us this day," Rolin declared matter-of-factly to his friend and companion. He looked around and saw Nimaira unconscious on the ground many paces away and also saw the crushed horse, the chestnut stallion that Tiyarnon had grown to love.

"What in all of Pandemonium be this?" Rolin asked, truly puzzled by the scene.

"You... don't recall," Tiyarnon stated rather than asked. "The demon clouds your mind and memory when he takes it over."

'I... did I—?" Rolin asked, pointing to the unmoving body of Nimaira and looking at Tiyarnon with eyes so wide they seemed akin to silver coins. Tiyarnon shook his head.

"She lives," Tiyarnon replied with conviction. Rolin finally released the breath he'd involuntarily been holding and strapped the axe to his back again.

"I'm thinkin' he be gone now," Rolin said.

"Aye," Tiyarnon agreed, nodding to the wise dwarf. "He must have been taken further away from us."

"Then we better get movin'," Rolin said, helping Tiyarnon slowly to his feet.

Tiyarnon shook his head. "We aren't following the thing anymore this day."

This drew a shocked stare of disbelief from the dwarf, who looked as though he had been kicked in the gut. His face began a series of strange expressions. His thick, white eyebrows raised and then lowered, his brow furrowed and wrinkled, making him seem as if he were physically injured.

"I ain't one fer quittin'!" Rolin finally managed, as he watched Tiyarnon move over towards Nimaira and utter a prayer of healing over her.

"My supplications go unanswered as I have been spreading the word of The Shimmering One to those in need since the first light of dawn," Tiyarnon admitted to the dwarf, when he had finished tending to Nimaira. "I am tired and beaten, and Cyrza is too dangerous for us—specifically us—to deal with. He knows us too well!"

Nimaira came to, hearing the voices through her fuzzy senses, and focused just as her two companions were arguing. She attempted to speak, but the words never formed as she flinched and grabbed at her injury, uttering something unintelligible instead. Tiyarnon's healing abilities helped ease the pain, but could not mend the jaw, for he was weak and tired both mentally and physically. Tiyarnon and Nimaira both feared that it was most likely broken from the impact of the mighty dwarf's blow.

Rolin averted his eyes from her, distressed at what had happened and embarrassed as well. He purposefully distanced himself, moving to examine the dead and bloodied horse instead, for he was humiliated by his actions and what the demon had been able to make him do to his closest friends. Deep down, he knew that Cyrza was too powerful for them to handle. He'd faced that creature before and felt his tempting calls for many years as he and his friends watched it eat away at not only Sadreth's mind, but his body as well. Little did the heroes know what exactly was lurking, what was hidden, deep within the amulet those many years ago—Cyrza.

Cyrza had become too familiar with them and knew their deepest, darkest desires. This alone made the demon extremely dangerous. Rolin fought against the sense of failure, but he knew in his heart of hearts that the three of them could not overcome this creature. However, he would never admit it aloud... he was too proud. This left a chaotic series of thoughts and emotions churning within him as he knelt and placed his white bearded chin in his hand in silent reflection, several hundred feet away from his closest friends.

Tiyarnon immediately began to seek for a solution as he gazed upon his demoralized companions, defeated and frustrated. Nimaira still lay on the cold ground, rubbing her jaw, with tears—not tears of pain, but tears of what might have been—welling in her beautiful eyes. Rolin Hardbeard, quite possibly the toughest and fiercest dwarf he'd ever had the pleasure of meeting, knelt in silent disappointment.

Suddenly, Tiyarnon recalled that the Inquisition within Safehold was always an option. Then he remembered his former student—Garius Forge. He had not given that particular pupil any thought in a while, he lamented, considering he was his top acolyte and had quite possibly taught Tiyarnon a few things while studying at the temple. He was an extremely gifted devotee whose mind and spirituality were attuned with the Pantheon of Order. He showed a piety under The Shimmering One that few before him had shown.

The Inquisition was definitely a possibility, Tiyarnon decided. It had been put in place hundreds of years ago specifically for this kind of thing, after all. Demonic possession was a subject with which he was familiar and had studied, but he was far from an expert on the matter. And this demon—Cyrza—was a force to be reckoned with, especially considering the advantage the demon held over himself and the others.

Cyrza had easily manipulated them. Whether it was due to their familiarity to him, their age or something else entirely, he was unsure. What he did know for certain was that the three of them needed help and that alone they could not recover the phylactery.

Frustration and anger threatened to overwhelm Tiyarnon once more and he steeled his emotions, knowing that to go down that road would only invite more trouble. Moreover, he wanted to stay strong for the others, who were no doubt experiencing similar remorse over their recent failure. He helped Nimaira back to her feet, gently aiding her as best as his aged musculature would allow. As he did, he gazed into her eyes, knowing that she felt as he did that very moment.

"Cyrza," she managed to say. He nodded an understanding and turned away from her to quickly redirect the subject matter to something else.

"We will go back to Oakhaven, but only after we make a brief stop in Amrel to visit with King Dorinthal and see what aid and information he might offer," Tiyarnon pronounced, gesturing at her damaged jaw.

"We don't nee—", Nimaira began to utter through tight lips, trying not to induce pain.

"We do need to visit the elves, and not just to treat your wounded jaw, but for other reasons as well, my dear—I require the counsel of the elven king on several matters," he added with a certain decisiveness, interrupting her dissuasive comment. He knew that she would not want to draw attention to her injury, especially as it would further deepen the guilt felt by the dwarf, but it was severe and could use some elven magic to speed the mending... or at least dull the pain.

Tiyarnon moved toward the dwarf, who was still kneeling in silence by the dead horse and inadvertently staining his armor with the stallion's life blood. Specks of it intermingled with his white beard which otherwise seemed as pure as freshly fallen snow. Rolin was about to speak when Tiyarnon sensed his empathy about the steed. He placed one hand on his comrade's shoulder and waved dismissively with the other, which still held his ornate staff.

"Speak not of my losses or troubles this day, my friend," he stated, motioning at the horse. "He is in a better place than us all, I am sure," he added, signaling for the dwarven warrior to follow. "Come, Rolin. The other two stallions galloped north, running most likely for miles toward the forest. Luckily, it is in the direction in which we travel," he finished with a wry chuckle.

Darkness was beginning to loom now and he saw the steam from his breath more clearly against the fading sunlight. He involuntarily shivered, though it wasn't from the cold alone.

Nimaira joined them but Rolin looked away and then down toward his boots as her wide, blue eyes settled on him. He continued to stare away, refusing to meet her gaze until he felt the gentle touch of Nimaira's hand on his heavily bearded chin, forcing his head up to lock his eyes with her own.

"It is over and I yet live," she managed, forcing a smile upon him, despite her obvious pain.

"I...," he stammered. "Sorry," was all that he could manage to say. She pulled him close and hugged him tightly. Tiyarnon, already many paces ahead, turned to witness the embrace, but then continued to put more distance between them as he advanced north toward the Amrel forest and eventually Oakhaven. He smiled, for, despite their obvious failings, not even a manipulative demon could destroy their heartfelt feelings for one another.

After a few moments, his friends caught up to him, since he walked at a snail's pace, using his staff for more support than he wanted to admit. Shortly thereafter, the three of them stumbled upon the horses, who'd found a garden still full of fresh plants and beanstalks upon which to graze, no doubt the work of the nearby elves. They approached the animals quietly, allowing the pure tranquility of the scene to wash over them. Even the hardened dwarf allowed the moments to pass without uttering a single word.

"Ye can share me horse," Rolin finally said to the High Priest, who laughed heartily at the enthusiastic offer of kindness from the dwarf, who, more often than not, was grumpy.

Rolin coaxed one of the horses to him eventually and began to clamber aboard. Tiyarnon suddenly pushed past to sit at the front of the saddle, ahead of him. Rolin began to protest but then simply muttered something under his breath instead.

"I'll steer the thing if you don't mind," Tiyarnon said, eyes facing forward but knowing full well the dwarf had a smile behind him that went ear to ear.

Tiyarnon turned and watched the half-elf climb atop her horse with a grace and fluidity borne of the most gifted of riders. Nimaira was majestic and elegant in every task she performed, Tiyarnon admired.

As they trotted into the forest of Amrel, Cyrza's recent dominance over them occupied the majority of the High Priest's thoughts. In between, he once more gave consideration to his former acolyte, the current Inquisitor. The Faceless Knights of Order are a very real possibility, he mused as they were finally greeted by a handful of Amrellians, emerging from deep within the foliage to present themselves to their friendly guests.

But only as a last resort, he convinced himself. Only as a last resort....

# Prologue to Covenant of the Faceless Knights

The heavy oak door to the council chamber creaked open, swinging wide as three battered and bruised forms entered. They each sat heavily on one of the many plush chairs surrounding a conference table in the center of the room.

"Me thinks that could have gone better," Rolin Hardbeard sighed, wiping a contrasting bit of dried blood from his full, white beard. Even for a dwarf who was obviously past his prime adventuring years, Rolin was a ruggedly built warrior. But this hour had him looking haggard and tired. His age was evident at this particular time, as was his broken spirit.

"You have a talent for stating the obvious, my dwarven friend," slurred a beautiful half-elven woman with hair the color of polished silver through what was quite possibly a broken jaw. Rolin managed a brief laugh as he removed his heavy, steel helmet and ran his fingers through his blood specked and thinning hair. His hard, gray eyes lightened somewhat to regard his emotionally distraught friend.

"Me dear Nimaira Silvershade, after all the years we spent takin' down giants and ogres, countless trolls and undead, and ye are only now realizin' I be a dwarf of many talents?" Rolin asked sarcastically.

Nimaira began to force a smile, but the pain in her jaw immediately distorted it instead into a grimace as tears slowly welled in her sapphire eyes. Rolin's light-hearted visage turned down sympathetically at his friend's obvious pain.

The human priest, Tiyarnon, directed a weak smile at his two closest friends' familiar banter as he tugged thoughtfully at his ever-graying beard. It was comforting for him to have his friends nearby at a time like this, having dealt with the pain and guilt for so many years himself. It also brought him a bittersweet twinge of nostalgia.

How long had it been since the three of us had time to spend together outside of official duties and chasing demons? Tiyarnon thought. By The Shimmering One, it has been too long! If they survived this nightmare, he silently pledged to ensure that they would create opportunities for camaraderie, amusement and reminiscing in the days to come.

Tiyarnon's musings were interrupted by the arrival of a servant, standing within the shadows of the doorway.

"My lords, my lady," he began with a reverent bow. "We did not know you had returned; forgive us for our incompetence." He spoke humbly, averting his gaze from beneath his drab, hooded robe and bowing repeatedly.

Rolin Hardbeard, never comfortable with being doted on, waved the groveling attendant's concerns away. "Stand up straight, ye durned fool! How many times must we be tellin' ye that we be folk just the same as yerself? Just bring Nimaira some medicinal balms, for my beard's sake!" he barked. "The priest here has exhausted his healin' powers and we got nothin' much left."

The servant retreated backwards through the door, still insisting on bowing the entire time.

"And bring me some durned ale, too, while yer at it!" the dwarf shouted after him as the servant disappeared into the hallway and out of sight.

"What do we do now?" Nimaira asked, addressing the topic at hand.

Rolin shrugged, clearly resigned to the fact that they had given a superb effort in their task thus far, as he commented repeatedly on their journey home.

"Get some rest, and try again on the morrow. What else can we be doin'?" he responded confidently, his pride obviously still at the forefront of his façade. The dwarf, despite his age and markedly weathered frame, was not one to surrender. Stubbornness was evident amongst all dwarves, and in this one doubly so, thought Tiyarnon, as he shook his head in respect for the brave warrior. They had all witnessed that courage firsthand hundreds of times throughout their careers.

"I'm afraid it won't matter," Nimaira admitted. "You were there Rolin! You know as well as I do that we do not have the resources or the resolve to succeed. Not in this! You know it as well as I!" She winced at both that realization and her smarting jaw.

The thought of failure was etched on the face of his friend, Tiyarnon knew. Their failure would weigh especially heavy in the dwarf's heart. Never being comfortable with losing a battle or even an argument, and always willing to fight to the very end for his beliefs, Rolin started to protest. But all of his objections died before passing his lips. The high priest recalled the scene in his head and recognized that any further attempts would ultimately end in failure. And Rolin knew that Nimaira was right. Neither of them knew the answer, and both of them looked to him just then.

Tiyarnon was wise and calculating beyond his years, despite his shorter lifespan compared to the others in the room. While not nearly as old in centuries as the dwarf or the half-elf, he was always looked to as their patriarch. Many others in Oakhaven shared this patriarchal notion of him. Tiyarnon had an intuitive way of scrutinizing a situation from multiple points of view, and making the proper decision based on what was best for everyone, even in times of grief. Because of that, his two closest friends were looking to him for a solution now, during what certainly was their darkest hour.

Tiyarnon sighed as he ran his hands across the gray thinning strands atop his head, all that remained of a once thick head of hair, and further reminding him of his age. As he spun his chair away from them for a moment, he caught his reflection in the glass of the conference room window and saw the leathery skin and prominent gray beard encompassing his face. After a moment of silence, he sighed deeply and turned back to face his friends.

Looking his companions in the eyes, Tiyarnon said in a steady and serious tone, "We must appeal for help to the Inquisition. And not only the Inquisition, but the Chapter of Holy Warriors that exists within the sacred walls of Safehold."

The half-elf woman's eyes widened as a look of realization crept across her face. "Meaning?"

"We must call upon The Order of The Faceless Knights," Tiyarnon remarked, drawing nods from his two closest friends. "I shall send word immediately."
 Gary F. Vanucci

Gary Vanucci was born in Pennsylvania in 1968. He enjoys writing, reading, music, art, anything at all that promotes creativity and activities that push the mind beyond conventional thinking. He has spent time as an amateur singer/songwriter and has spent multiple decades creating role-playing scenarios and playing games amongst various genres. Years of reading graphic novels, comic books, fantasy/science fiction novels and the like has led him to discover his true passion—writing!

His education includes a Bachelor's of Science in the field of Information Technology and an Associates of Arts in the field of Graphic Design.

"We are what we repeatedly do. Excellence, then, is not an act, but a habit." ~Aristotle.

Bibliography

Wothlondia Rising

Beginnings Series

Book 1

Wothlondia Rising: The Anthology is a collection of prequels that launches the Beginnings series in the Realm of Ashenclaw. The significant events covered in this book outline these characters and set them on their paths that will change their lives forever! If you enjoy paranormal, romance, undead, demons and action-packed fantasy, you will absolutely enjoy this tome. See details of each story...

Reflections is an exploration into the true classifications of self-image. This short and sweet tale tells of the half-ogre barbarian, Orngoth, who begins to realize the true picture of what he is and where he comes from. During a raid with his ogre barbarian kin—the Ironskulls—Orngoth has an impromptu meeting that could forever change his own destiny. Will he see his true self in time or will he continue down the path of reckless endangerment?

A Rose in Bloom recounts the thrilling events of a young Rose Thorne, not yet a woman, who is trying to find her way in the city of Oakhaven. Orphaned and discarded, she finds refuge in a kind madam at a local brothel and eventually meets a man who is more than she bargains for....

Maturation Process is the telling tale of the high elf, Elec Stormwhisper, who lives in the overbearing shadow of his father, Keryth. Treated as an outcast and feeling alienated from his own people, he exiles himself for a decade, finding a friend in a strange place and begins to accept his own unique destiny. Will this young and inexperienced elf ever find his true calling?

Tears of Blood is the amazing recount of the attacks on the region of Stonehill by the ancient and malevolent undead that are known as Blood Rot Zombies! Saeunn and the barbarians of both Chansuk and Greymoors must find a way to stop the undead infestation before they spread their miasma all across the face of Wothlondia! It is a tale that will forever change the young barbarian woman in more ways than one...

Strength of Faith is a tale that places a young acolyte of The Shimmering One, Garius Forge, on a path that tests his spirituality and also places him face to face with a demonic presence that has the power to alter the face of Wothlondia forever! Will his reverence and devotion to his deity be enough to overcome this horrible demon?

Distant Familiarity is the tale of three legendary figures in the history of Wothlondia, who are attempting to recover an ancient evil that was stolen away from them. Tiyarnon the High Priest, Rolin Hardbeard and Nimaira Silvershade set out to recover the artifact that has forever altered their former companion Sadreth, twisting him into something altogether evil. Can these ancient heroes find and recover the item before it is reunited with its former host?

Covenant of the Faceless Knights

Beginnings Series

Book 2

When a dangerous artifact goes missing from the Temple of The Shimmering One, the high priest in charge of its protection realizes that he will not be able to retrieve the stolen relic without help. Calling upon Garius, the man who was once his own apprentice, Tiyarnon the High Priest enlists the aid of this person who is now an Inquisitor among the Order of the Faceless Knights. Garius, a man of power and prestige, gathers a handful of allies to help complete his quest—but who among them is worthy of his trust? Aided by the mischievous Rose, a rogue among rogues, the stoic and bloodthirsty Saeunn, and a promising but naïve elf named Elec, Garius hopes his training as one among the Faceless Knights has prepared him to keep his small company in check, let alone survive the trials to come. Garius must lead his band of allies into dark regions to recover the artifact before it falls into the hands of the evil being that once held it in order to ensure the continued safety of the Realm of Ashenclaw.

Secrets of the Ebonite Mines

Beginnings Series

Book 3

After Garius and company fail to recover the item they so desperately sought, a chance encounter here and a revelation there leave clues as to its whereabouts once more. Garius Forge the Inquisitor of the Faceless Knights, Rose Thorne, the sassy rogue, Elec Stormwhisper, an elf with a newfound thirst for the martial arts, Saeunn, the stoic barbarian and Orngoth, the half-ogre brute set out to once more try to uncover the whereabouts of the tainted artifact. Their quest leads them to a dark village named Hollow Hill, left vacant since the Reign of Ashenclaw. It is a place rumored to be haunted and they soon find that it is more than meets the eye. The group soon uncovers a clandestine group of highwaymen with knowledge of the artifact and much more as they attempt to uncover the many secrets hidden deep within the ebonite mines!

Legend of Ashenclaw

Novella

Realm of Ashenclaw

Contained within this action-packed novella are the compelling accounts of the heroes who encountered the mighty dragon known as Ashenclaw. Join Azbiel, Figit, Twarda, Jon Veinslay and Triniach along with the countless others as they attempt to rid Wothlondia of the Queen of the Scorching Drakes and her dragon invasion! Will they succeed? Turn the pages of The Legend of Ashenclaw and find out!

Tower of Torment

Embers of War Saga

Book 1

As Garius and company are charged with securing the return of Princess Amara to her home town of Norgeld, Rose remains behind to focus on her suspected betrayal at the hands of her former lover, Ganthorpe, the Master of Thieves. In Norgeld, the scene is dreary, the ancient Citadel Pridemoon is cast in gloom, and whispers of bizarre figures in the castle windows are mounting. As the mystery within this veritable Tower of Torment begins to unravel, relationships are changed, deceit is laid bare, and tragedy strikes in ways that will forever change Wothlondia's heroes!

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