 
CLOUDFYRE FALLING A.L.BROOKS

CLOUDFYRE FALLING

~ a dark fairy tale ~

Copyright © 2015 A.L.BROOKS

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For Tom and Sharon

Thanks for your patience

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COMING SOON

By A. L. BROOKS

EPHEMERYS

STRANGEWORLD: DAWN OF SHADOWS

Out Now:

STRANGEWORLD: THE MORTIFERA

A Cornish village. A mysterious doorway. A monster hell bent on killing all it encounters.

Jake and Emily find themselves at the heart of an ancient mystery.

Can they find a way to defeat the Charon and shut the doorway before it's too late?

THE SHAPESHIFTERS

Arrabel Grean goes on the run from the Royal Lancers after she beheads the Hampton Baroness.

But having fled to the Dread Forests she is found by the Bonekeepers.

Will they hand her over to authorities? Or do they have something else in mind for her?

# CONTENTS

Title Page

Coming soon from A.L.Brooks

VESHK

GREAT FALL

THE BEGINNING

ENDWORLD

DRENVEL'S BANE

CHANDRY'S STEPPE

GRIMAH

AUTUMN

SKYSIGHT

THE GOAT'S HEAD

UJIK-L78

THE EROTICA

MELAI OF THOONSK

THE ABOMINATION

THE RJOOND

MOONSTONE

IHETHA

CLARAVILLE

THE WITCH

REVELATIONS

VARSTAHK

SKINKK

HAITHARATH AND THE IMPREGNATOR

DARK SKIES

KING'S LAIR

BLUD OF WRENBUGGUS

THE MENACE AT APPLEFORD

NORTHLANDS RAIL

PUKAYA'S BRIDGE

TALES OF CHIANAY

SHADOW GUARD

SANCTUARY

THE SWARM

THE WARDENS THREE

FLIGHT OF THE BLACKBIRDS

TREK TO DARK WOOD

VANTASIA

CAHSSI OF THE XOORD

RECORD OF GHARTST

SLÜV THE VANISHER

RITH GARTHA

SEA SCAR

GESHA AND OOSHA

BY THE CAT'S EYES

THROUGH THE GATES

VOL MOTHAAK

THE EMPTY TOWER

RISE OF HOR

DARK ONE

EARTHCHILD

HOORSK

DAWN OF REETH

DUMIINS

GREAT FALL 5473

Want more Monsters?

#

#

VESHK

## GREAT FALL 5472

1

GARGARON STONEHEART reached the end of the world with the corpses of his wife and daughter upon his shoulders. For a moment he stood near the edge of the Great Precipice, catching his breath, surveying the endless drop down into the hazy blue lands far, far below.

As a boy he had stood in this very spot. Then, like now, he wondered what lay down there. Some of the more learned folk from his village had said that it were filled with ancient forests of the First Days that stretched back'n'more through time to the very birth of the universe. Others claimed the ancient cities of Men lay there. Deserted and silent.

Whatever it were, his kind, the Giants of Hovel, knew that mysterious land simply as Endworld.

He had been here to the Precipice only twice before in all his days. Once as a young lad to watch his dear father see off his grandwuns. He had relished that particular occasion, treating the journey as some grand boyhood adventure, too young to appreciate the purpose of their trip. (Although, having seen his father cry, he had reflected deeply on this matter during their homeward journey.) Second time he had been far more introspective. For, that second time had been to farewell his own mother and father, to send off their lifeless forms and watch them hefted away down into Endworld's mysterious lands.

His third and final time should have been his own send off, his children carrying out the ancient ceremony of summoning Vurah's Wraiths and dousing he and his wife in liquid Helfire.

He drew in a deep breath and tenderly hoisted the corpses of his beloved from his shoulders. Gently he lay them down amidst waving tussocks of feather grass. Now he sat. Wiping sweat from his brow. He pulled his legs to his chest and rest his chin upon his knees. And with sad eyes, he watched Veleyal, his dear, dear daughter... Never again would she breathe the sweet air of Cloudfyre. Never again would Gargaron's world rejoice in her delicate laughter. Never again would she come to him, holding out her little arms wide to grasp his leg, to embrace him, to tell him she loved him, to kiss his face with her tiny lips, to feel safe in his presence. If it were at all possible, his heart sank deeper at these musings. He wiped a tear from his eye, surprised he still had any to shed.

Now he gazed upon Yarniya, his wife. There she lay, her body void of life. Something that still perplexed him. For, when bonded by marriage, giants by vow are also bonded in death; should a spouse pass on, so then do their partner. But here Gargaron sat alive and breathing while his wife lay perished. Somehow he could not help thinking that somewhere, some god or goddess were playing upon him a cruel trick.

2

It were late afternoon when he looked up and studied the position of Gohor and Melus, Cloudfyre's two suns. Melus, the more prominent of the two, glowed proud and strong and yellow and hot. Gohor, blue as ice, always the more distant of the two, seemed so much closer nowadays. The Oldwuns used to say days would end when Cloudfyre's suns strayed too close and crashed into each other. But all Oldwuns were long gone so what did they know.

Bugs chirruped and hummed in woody scrub. Gargaron found these sounds a comfort. Sounds of living things when he had encountered so much death and dying on his journey here. Occasionally a sluggish, meandering jhünd ant would crawl across his ankle; in days passed he would have swiped life from such an insect pest before it bit into him and buried its head into his skin and spat out its parasitic larvae. But it seemed oddly disinterested in him. And he felt the earyth had been tainted with enough death in recent days. Thus he let it be and he sat and watched it be on its way.

A second jhünd ant he lifted from his knuckles and placed carefully in the dirt beneath a thorn bush. As he sat there watching it, he witnessed it turning around and around and around, as if some invisible cackling demon had it in invisible reins determined to run the creature to death through exhaustion and madness.

Gargaron busied himself, gathering kindling. Then larger chunks of wood. He built a small pyramid of sticks then grabbed some dried tufts of feathergrass and stuffed these inside the bundle's hollow. He took his vial of Helfire, unstoppered it, and poured a small steaming dollop onto a patch of the soft dried grass. The purplish liquid smoked for a time, before a tiny blue flame licked into life, curling up through the feathergrass like a small snakeling. It sprouted multiple heads and then, whump, the feathergrass ignited as one, sending high red flames about the taller sticks.

An impressive fire were soon crackling and spitting and Gargaron laid thicker knobs of twisted roastwood on top. The roastwood gave off a sweet, musky aroma, a wonderful smell taking him back to younger, simpler days, when, as a boy, he and his father would take provisions into the Forests of Chayosa and, by nights, sleep beside a warming roastwood camp fire and his father would teach him about the dust of the cosmos, the stars, moons, gods and goddesses of the Great Nothing; would teach him secrets of the forest, how to conjure honeywater from the Vell Flowers of Gargantua in a summer's drought, how to stalk and hunt invisible ghost-wren for their sweet, succulent meat, and for their blood, believed to possess properties that could cause pleasant inebriation and warm the veins of your heart on a cold winter's night.

As Gohor and Melus sunk toward the distant horizon, as light began to fade from Cloudfyre, Gargaron allowed again his eyes to stray toward his wife and daughter. They lay covered in meadow moss, the tiny leaves transparent. He could see her face, that of his dear daughter Veleyal, her eyes shut. Five moon-stars old, now destined never to grow any older. She could have been merely in slumber and nothing more. And Yarniya, his beloved, cherished wife... She too looked as if nothing more than sweet, sweet sleep had come over her.

A faint smile found its way to his face. Fond memories tickling him. Of tucking his dear girls into bed at night as giant moor hens howled up from the plains, calling on Vasher, Gorvhald, Veeo, Canooc, Leenurs, Noo Ka, and Syssa, the seven moons of Cloudfyre.

He gazed up into vast dusky skies and saw Noo Ka, her pale blue pockmarked skin, beginning to glow through darkening heavens. Low on northern horizons, Syssa were rising, pale as daisies, and cratered. And above her hovered Gorvhald, its dark "eyes" watching night descend upon Cloudfyre. Others would peek out and show their faces before morning.

Fireflies began to flash intermittently. Teasing another memory from him. He had sat with Veleyal, his daughter, one night sometime around her first moon-star, on the steps to their cottage in Hovel. At dusk, fireflies floated out from Summer Woods. And danced their wonderful fairy dance before Veleyal's sparkling eyes. She had reached out her tiny hand and gargled as they lit upon her fingers and twinkled blue and green like tiny drifting stars. Gargaron had never felt so much joy as to watch her small unblemished face light up in sheer unbridled delight. And to hear her beautiful innocent laughter brought a tear of love to his eyes.

He did not know it, but, sitting here this night alone on the Great Precipice, it would be the last night he would ever see these magical bugs. By sunrise all fireflies would be wiped from existence.

3

He strode to cliff edge. And stood with his eighteen toes poking out over its lip. He gazed down into an almost nothingness below. Down there, growing out from the cliff wall, hugging steadfast to the sheer rock and all its crevices and nooks with a mighty system of barbed roots, were the great Hands of Teyesha that so fascinated him as a boy. Tree-hands that dwarfed his entire giant's body, limbs and all. Adorned with leaves and branches, and hanging with old vines. And waiting forever, palms upturned, for prey to stumble from precipice down into their hungry clutches.

Beyond the Hands, that distant land so far below lay amidst a haze of faint blue and green. As he had done as a boy, Gargaron imagined he could see empty spires of forgotten temples, imagined he could see the silent, abandoned sprawl of endless cities.

Endworld, he pondered. How easy might it be to just... step off... and follow my beloved down?

Strange jitters fluttered up through his knees and belly at this thought. The mighty drop seemed to beckon him. Carefully he shuffled back from cliff's edge, small pebbles falling over and tumbling away into that vast open space below. He let out a deep, slow breath.

4

Both suns were pushing into the horizon and Gargaron turned and set out to hunt down the squealing Mandragorus. He retraced his steps to sandy ground not far back from the precipice. He had watched his father wait for Mandragorus at Starbirth, when dust of cosmos began to twinkle at dusk, waiting quietly, patiently for the wailing root-men to wriggle up from sandy earyth to hunt the night grounds.

And so he sat. Waiting. Patient. Above him, through the overhang of clawtrees waving gently in cool evening breezes, he watched Old Soor wink at him through vast, vast leagues of the Great Nothing. Southways he spied the Maidens of Zerrunos, a tight constellation of stars, that in the blackest of moonless nights would dance and glow in patterns of red and blue and gold. And directly northways hung the Cat's Eyes, a pair of bright red stars that never averted their gaze from Cloudfyre.

He brought his attention back to ground before him at sounds of stones and dirt stirring. The muted wailing of root-men beneath could be heard. When the first of them broke surface its cries screeched out through scrubby woodland and away over the lip of old Precipice, away and away like birds into twilight. He had heard strange myths that Mandragorus screams could turn some folk to stone. If that were true then Gargaron were glad that his own race seemed immune to such terrifying effects.

He snatched this first root-man in his large fists. Its ugly little demon face glared at him as it squealed and kicked and fought, and rows of deadly fangs gnashed at the crisp air. Gargaron were careful not to let his exposed skin anywhere near that ferocious little maw. A peculiar venom resided there in its spittle, much sought after and milked by plain's witches. Deadsleep, they called it. It could put even the great Giants to deep slumber for many a day. And would put most other races to death.

He held the Mandragorus at arm's length... and once more... he waited. As dusk progressed, more stars birthed across the Great Nothing. Jenadah danced with Lansador the lover's dance that Gargaron had watched since he were a boy, two stars caught heavily in each other's torturous gravity, endlessly, endlessly swirling, swirling, swirling about the other.

More squeals now accompanied a new round of wriggling and shifting in the sand. Gargaron waited with his arm poised, and a second root-man broke surface and he grabbed it.

5

Back by his campfire Gargaron sat down and crossed his mighty legs as embers flurried up into coming dark. Gohor and Melus were but mere glow trails upon the hazy horizon now. And fireflies twinkled magically along the darkened edge of the Precipice. Endworld and its ghosts, far, far, far below, had been swallowed up by night.

Gargaron held both root-men toward his crackling camp fire, as his father had done, as he had done for his parents, until their squeals faded. Now they sang, transfixed, enchanted by warmth and glow. Gargaron then searched heavens for Ranethor, great God of life, most prominent body in the nightscape of the Great Nothing.

When he saw Ranethor's stark globe rise upon the north-western horizon he began to pray. For forgiveness. For the souls of the root-men. Prayed that Endworld's Wraiths would hear his summons.

He waited... waited for a sign from Ranethor.

Then it came: a yellow eye crossed its surface, from east to west, a planetoid in orbit around the blue gas giant, one that mysteriously could only be seen when loved ones were being prepared for their Becoming.

Gargaron stood now, and held his captive root-men against the searing, licking flame. As their long, spindly root legs caught afire they sang, still under enchantment. Gargaron kissed their small earthy heads... and then he tread carefully to precipice's edge and hurled them out into the abyssal darkness beyond.

Their flames roared and flared angrily as they fell—their angelic song floating up to him—and fell and fell. Until, so far below him, their firelight gently faded out under blankets of inky night.

6

Gargaron sat beside his wife and daughter. He kissed them both. His wife first. Then his daughter, another tear drop rolling off his cheeks, which fell and splashed against her soft skin. As it did its many droplets underwent a swift metamorphosis as tears on Cloudfyre will do when love is both true and deeper than all of the oceans, sprouting wings and legs and arms and small angelic faces, and they all took flight, these tiny fairy creatures, flapping about Veleyal's face, before alighting gently upon her forehead.

Gargaron lay down between his beloved girls and gazed up at the great cosmic void.

Then he slept.

## THE BEGINNING

1

HE had been asleep on the grassy western banks of the grand Buccuyashuck River when the first shockwave passed over him. The large goggling eyes of his Nightface, the visage on the rear of his skull, watched this shockwave pass over. Trees shook and spat out leaves, loose stones and pebbles jiggled and jumped, ornithens took for blue skies only to plummet like stones back to ground as the wave pushed through them, smashing them against bluff and ridge that banded the eastern edge of the shallow Buccuyashuck canyon. Swarms of pigmy deer burst from shaded woodland and scattered in a hundred different directions, many succumbing to death in mid stride as if shot through their skulls by arrows.

The Nightface lifted its one single appendage, a long finger like spike. And prodded Gargaron's neck. Perhaps it were unnecessary action—the rumble, shake and groan that had besieged the ground beneath Gargaron, had already begun to stir him.

He swished Nightface's spiked finger aside, thinking at first it were some big suckyfly come to chew off his skin for its nest. When a second prod came Gargaron opened his eyes and looked around, shaking deep dreamy sleep from his mind. As he yawned and looked about he tapped into his Nightface's most recent memories. Here he saw all that had just transpired. A shockwave rippling madly through the rocky ridge across river. Pigmy deer all bursting from breezy forest. Ornithens taking for clear skies but finding only death as they splat against stony ridge.

He gazed across the Buccuyashuck river, wondering why the ornithens had been affected so. Presently he noticed menfish rising to surface. And giant lampreys wriggling sickly about the rocky banks.

Naturally he reached for his fishing rake. Lampreys were a delicacy but menfish were an elusive catch. Hundreds were rising now to river's surface. Of course, it were forbidden to eat them. They were said to be the children of the First Men, those who had inhabited these lands a thousand, thousand generations gone. It were said menfish knew the gift of speech. Alas, they conversed with none but their own but to hear them, the Oldwuns told, was to hear deep magic of ages lost, tales of epochs come and gone. But to catch one meant good luck, so long as it offered you a gift of the Wetworlds, the drowned realms that lay deep and down within Cloudfyre's core.

But here with rake in hand, Gargaron hesitated.

Few menfish appeared to be moving. In fact all were afloat, and on their sides. Gills gasping for breath. Their skinny arms reaching out to merciless, unkind gods. Their mewling cries pitiful and sad. Gargaron could barely listen. And could only watch, as one by one... they died.

He climbed to his feet, looking about with goggling eyes. What, by Thronir, is this horror before me? He watched more ornithens come hurtling down, thudding into rock and river; their necks, legs, and wings snapping on impact. Then clouds of suckyfly corpses began peppering his skin, dropping out of blue skies.

Next came a thunderous roar. He looked about, his skin turning cold, wondering what it could be. Then he saw it. A tide of black water cascading madly down river. 'Oh, to Old Wolven,' Gargaron gasped, 'what now?'

Hot black water spread like oil, dead fish tumbling and thrown about in its clutches; flashes of their silver scales could be seen as wave fronts smashed and crashed and heaved against rock and bank.

In a panic, Gargaron climbed rapidly for higher ground, leaping up rock just as frothing waves swept over the bank upon which he had only recently been asleep. From his new vantage, he observed the carcass of half a hundred beast and fowl, caught in this black tide, come rushing down the wild currents, unceremoniously tossed and thrown and battered against serrated rock. He saw limbs torn and broken, he watched bellies ripped open and intestines spewing into raging black surf.

2

When the second shockwave struck, the noise and impact upon the earyth was so terrifying and immense, Gargaron thought it was the sound of the Scarecrow Range tumbling down. Yet, those snowcapped mountains dominating the skyline northways'n'east appeared unshaken.

Instead a deep, ominous grumbling noise could be heard rolling eastways in an almost sluggish movement, some juggernaut rumbling through the high woodland plateau toward him, shaking violently leaf, branch, trunk and rock.

It were almost upon him when, frantic, he threw himself behind a wall of shielding stone. He braced himself as an odd sonic wave crawled across the region, passing through earyth and rock and tree and air, and through even Gargaron himself, through bones and flesh and organs, some powerful invisible force, causing him to shudder violently, dropping him to his knees, making him gurgle, spit and splutter.

Then it went sweeping away, west to east, slowly across Buccuyashuck (surface water rippling and jiggling and frothing) before it moved up over rock shelf and away across the eastern stretches of Godrik's Vale.

From his knees, Gargaron had watched in an almost catatonic stupor. But now he were off, running in blind panic.

3

He charged through woodland, astounded by hundreds of corpses that suddenly and inexplicably littered the grassy forest floor. Foxes, angel-mites, sunflies, squirrels, Gurbs, deer, ornithens, pixies, ground sloths, fern weavers, rock dwellers, wood borers and grave dogs all. Sunlight slanted down in wonderful warming beams but all it did were illuminate the dead and dying all about him. All this sudden death made him think of nothing else but that of his wife and daughter.

He reached the top of Cahsteks Ridge, charged through Hovel's old stone gates, built two thousand years before during the days of the Soonsk, when the Xideyysa Gods rode down from the stars on stones afire, leaving the vast continent of Godrik's Vale pockmarked with craters.

Jagonard and Corinarv, village sentries, did not stand guard. Matter of fact, Gargaron saw them nowhere. Their absence alarmed him. Why should they find need to abandoned post? Except as he pressed forward he saw fresh puddles of blood, deep purple-black, cast across the worn cobbles leading to a pair of bodies.

Here they lay. Jagonard and Corinarv. Slain and dumped upon rocks, while the spidergrass were already supping at their blood and intestines.

Horrified, gasping for breath, Gargaron kept running.

He came upon Hovel's village square; the buildings here were arranged in a circular fashion around a central clump of stone megaliths where animal sacrifices were still strung up, rotting, slowly being eaten up by mulybugs and fire-ants, chewed at by growing green mounds of bonefungus.

Carcasses littered Hovel's cobbled streets. Those of his own people. Just this morning he had walked through here on his way down ridge to river. Vonagar had been heading out to the high plain beyond Buccuyashuck to hunt grass lizards with his falcon. Henendar and Melinaya, young lovers, had been rigging a wagon for journey to Waysville and Cidertown along Far Trail. Sellers had been hauling open their market stalls, Gorinth and Farbenay squabbling over positioning of olive jars and strings of pickled toad.

As well, the Magers at Hovel's Temple Of Vruinthia had been about their daily ritual of merging mind and body with tree and plant, to prey and meditate in order that they may further unlock the secrets of the natural realm. The great wooden form of Vruinthia, which from lore passed down from Great Dawn (being the time of the earliest days) spoke as being half tree, half giantess, still stood atop her temple.

But here and now the Magers had somehow perished, sprawled about in death. Whatever secrets they may have gleaned from tree and shrub had obviously not been enough to forewarn them of the blight that had suddenly and inexplicably befallen them.

Large Gorbulls, wagon haulers, lay dead and gashed open. And shire-horses were scattered lifelessly about their enclosures. Already the scavenging hoardogs from deep within Summer Woods were tearing moist bloody flesh from their bones. The stench of death were sharp and moist and meaty on the late morning air.

4

Gargaron raced through Hovel, raw screeching anxiety and fear tearing at his heart. All that filled his mind were Veleyal, his precious, beautiful daughter. And Yarniya, his beloved, cherished wife.

He tore down Meadowsvale Lane toward his stilted house where it were situated along the orange grove that backed onto the woodland. He raced up wooden stairs, burst through doors, praying he would find his sweethearts huddled in bedroom or cellar. But as he thumped from room to room he realised soon enough that his cottage were empty.

'Veleyal!' he called desperately, 'Yarniya! Where be you?'

He spotted then a note on the dining table and snatched it into his grasp:

Picking Spotted Blues in Summer Woods,

See you anon,

Love, your dear Yarniya.

5

Gargaron fled cottage, charged down lane and exited rear of village over Hovel's iron bridge that spanned Shadow Brook, and running, running he charged out into the airy woodland that fringed the top of Cahsteks Ridge. Usual ornithen song had fallen silent. Only the eerie howl of Hoardogs could be heard through the woods now. Squirrel carcasses lay spread across duff and leafy carpet. He arrived at Pliko's Stream and tracked it to Jaden's Point, a glade where he knew Yarniya liked to pick her Spotted Blue toadstools that stood as tall as Gorbulls.

Though, as he charged toward it, his heart sunk as he realised he were too late. There before him, a pair of corpses were sprawled across dirt and stone. Hoardogs picking tentatively at their toes, as if they were uncertain of their deaths.

Dread filled Gargaron. And he arrived roaring, the dogs scattering into undergrowth. He dropped to his knees, scooping his daughter into shaking arms that glistened with sweat... and her head lolled loosely, lifeless. 'No!' he cried. 'Veleyal! Veleyal, please, come round now. Please, awaken, I beg of you!'

But she heard him no longer; her eyes stared long, empty and dead into the high leafy canopy. He felt something pinching his leg. He looked around to find the fingers of his wife weakly touching him. Holding his daughter in one arm he scrambled to his wife's side. 'Yarniya,' he cried desperately. 'Yarniya? What did this?'

She could no more speak than lift her head from the earyth. Could but barely whisper. 'The Darkwing,' she whispered, 'it has awoken.' And here the last vestiges of life drained from her. And that were the last she spoke.

Around Gargaron, watching, cowering beneath thicket and shrub, the multi-limbed Hoardogs snickered and seethed, eager to feast on the newly dead. Gargaron, holding his daughter protectively, lunged at them in rage. Most scurried off but some of the older ones, the braver ones, and those more hungry, stayed put. These he pelted with stones. Great peppering handfuls of stones. Smacking many and drawing blood; one stone hit with such force it caved in skull and bone, brain squishing out of the hound like a bloom of summer roses. Wailing, its mates take off for the safety of denser woodland.

Gargaron crumpled to sandy ground, crying. He dragged his wife close. Held both his beloved in his arms. Their night faces watched him in their detached way; not comprehending, not yet dead, only watching.

He lay down his wife and daughter both, side by side, and looked about. He had an enchanted medicine back in village abode, Lyfen Essence, developed by Hovel's druids, a potion that drank away advancing death from a living body. It were too late for that now. But there were one thing he could try.

He reached for a cut of needle vines. He slashed several lengths to lie across the bodies of his girls. Then away he dashed into the woodland.

6

He ran toward Jo'ckujark Blind, a sheer rock wall that jutted straight up from forest floor. He scrambled along its base, keeping his eyes wide and open.

Until... he saw one. A vannandal. A mysterious shelled critter, old-beyond-time, an enigma that had first come into existence as simple stone spat out by the lost volcanic mountains of Vahross. Tales told of hundreds of such rocks. Rocks that were collected by the ancient, decimated race of Vannandal Knights who had sculpted each stone into unique animal forms before enchanting them with the gift of life.

He rushed to pluck the creature into his arms... but hesitated. Village myth had it that even the act of laying your finger upon a Vannandal could pull you into Dreamsleep. This were a state that you would awaken from only weeks later with your body partially rotted and your brain drained of all conscious and civilised thought, forcing you to walk the earyth for the remainder of your days a mindless ghoul.

If Thronir deems it then a ghoul I shall be! Gargaron thought defiantly and he grabbed the critter from the weeds.

As if in response, the vannandal's small segmented body glowed a soft white iridescence. And a not too unpleasant tingle ran up Gargaron's fingers. Were this the beginning of Dreamsleep? How long did it take to settle in?

He did not hesitate to find out. May Thronir take me! He clasped the vannandal against his chest and dashed back to his wife and daughter.

7

The hoardogs had returned. Though they had been unable to find a way around the needle vines. Gargaron roared at them as he returned and again they turned and scattered.

He swiped the needle vines aside and without waiting another moment he placed the vannandal critter across his daughter's forehead. He crouched and leaned forward, pressing his own forehead against the creature; it had a reek like stony river water. Though Gargaron could not have cared if it smelled like rot. He had one hope here, and that was to return his daughter to life. Thus he wasted no further time, shutting his aching eyes.

And concentrating his thoughts.

Many times he had observed magers do this. Yet, the gift of mind-touch were not an act exclusive to those possessing magical competency. All Giants, to a lesser or greater extent, had the ability. He himself had harpooned the minds of many folk over the years, to learn secrets, to unearth falsehoods, to clarify motives. He had "jumped" into the minds of animals, to learn tricks to their hunting. But he had never used a vannandal to bridge his soul with another's and attempt the transference of energies. For it were forbidden.

There were naught but dark he saw at first. Yet soon, as if a doorway had come creaking open, he saw a faint light. He believed he could hear, faintly from beyond, Veleyal's sweet laughter, her voice.

And then it came as if a portal between he and his daughter had flung suddenly wide open. Instantly he felt it, pulsing energy, sucking at his life's core, like dry sand to water, dragging it through the vannandal, pouring into his dear Veleyal.

There were no pain here as he had anticipated. Nothing but a gradual dimming of light throughout his subconscious. As if sleep were coming on. He did not care. If it meant that she would sit up and look about and live again then he were willing to relinquish all his life's energy.

However, the pull on his soul began to ebb, the tug he felt in his chest eased.

And after that, nothing.

Veleyal's body failed to awaken.

'No,' he cried. 'No. Come back to me Veleyal. Come back now, I command it. Gods and goddesses take my life and gift it to you!'

Again he put his head to the vannandal, concentrating his thoughts, desperate for it to work. He wept as he did. For there were no sensation of doorways opening this time. Naught but silence, as if he were reaching out into emptiness. 'No, it cannot be,' he sobbed. 'Veleyal, hear me, please, my love, hear me!'

But she did not.

Grunting, anguished, Gargaron transferred the vannandal to the forehead of his wife, shutting his eyes, concentrating his thoughts, stepping from his own mind into hers, sucking the living energy from his soul and heart, forcing it, heaving it, through the vannandal critter into her, desperate to open a bridge of consciousness and energy with her. But he got nothing but blackness, as if there were but a void now where once there were soul. Weeping uncontrollably he again tried his daughter.

But again... it were little use.

He knew then... they were both but gone.

He threw himself back and wailed. Trees shook. Stones in the ground shivered. Pebbles shuddered. Any ornithens left alive tore away into clear skies, and batlings shot from their caves in great dying clouds.

ENDWORLD

1

HE sat with them on the edge of the Great Precipice. Veleyal seated on his left, her small hand in his. Yarniya, on his right.

'What be out there, father?' Veleyal asked.

'Lands of wonder,' he told her smiling. 'Where our ancestors live out their days. You shall love it there.'

'Will I see gran'poppy? Will I see gran'mama?'

'Oh, yes, they shall be waiting for you. I expect your gran'mama will have a steaming hot sweetberry cake baked for your arrival. Topped with layers of lush, thick goat's cream. How does that sound?'

'Oh, wonderful. I cannot wait?' Then she looked up at him. 'Are you coming with us, dada?'

He looked down at her and smiled sadly. 'Maybe I'll do just that.' He touched her cheek gently with his great hand.

Yarniya, sitting at his opposite hip, squeezed the fingers of his other hand. Gargaron looked around at her.

'You have work here first,' she told him softly.

He frowned. 'But I have nothing here now, my sweet.'

'You have. More than you can know.'

A cry came up from below the precipice and Gargaron turned his head...

...and opened his eyes.

2

He lay there between the unmoving bodies of his beloved. Night stars twinkled still, yet the glow of dawn came from Melus as her fiery yellow crown began to work its way above the eastwun tree line. Westways, both sky and land, were still cast in the dark blue cape of wandering night, and much of Endworld's silent realm still lay within the vast shadow of the precipice.

Hearing another squeal, Gargaron sat up, rubbed his eyes, and looked about. Once again it came: a squeal from some creature, mighty and beastly, from beyond the Precipice itself. A sound both alien and familiar. A sound he had heard only twice before. He got to his feet and strode to cliff edge. Positioning himself carefully, he gazed down. He saw them, ascending. The Wraiths. Majestic angels of Endworld.

They circled their way up, gracefully dodging the great tree-hands protruding from the endless cliff wall. From blurred, indistinct shapes, to beasts of immense size they grew as they rose toward him.

As he had done as a boy, Gargaron stepped back, wary, cautious, almost frightened, as they reached his elevation. They swooped down and in a thunderous flurry of wings that kicked up grit and leaves and dying bugs, they lit upon the edge of the precipice, long talons holding purchase amidst rock and dirt. Waiting now, like gargoyles, like Monyyt sentries at the Gates of Forever.

They were unlike any creature Gargaron had ever laid his eye upon. They stood taller than he, with limbs as spindly as sticks, and beaks as long as his arms. Horns protruded from the backs of their bald, round skulls, and bent forward not back. They were grey of leg and torso, black of claw, and red of neck and face and head. Their wings seemed a mix of batwing and feather. Numerous large red eyes watched him.

Both Wraithbirds were perched there patiently, waiting to receive the newly dead and ferry them unto a new life.

Gargaron composed himself, came forward slowly and positioned himself before them. Now he spoke. 'Oh great Harons, hear me and see me, for I speak for the souls of Yarniya and Veleyal, my kin, my beloved. My dear neysahs have but strayed from me and I request your hand in helping them find my dear da and ma. May they walk the realms of Endworld with my forebears, happy, content, and safe from all harm, until I come down to them, and walk at their side, hand in hand, till the end of days.'

He turned and crouched to place his forehead one last time upon that of his daughter, and then of his wife. 'We shall meet again,' he whispered to each of them. 'In days beyond this one. I will find you. I promise. In the lands of End. We shall walk together once more.'

He kissed each girl. On forehead and on mouth. And placed a Star Flower upon their lips.

As the Wraiths watched him he took out his vial of liquid Helfire and let loose a single dollop upon the hearts of his dear Yarniya, and upon the hearts of his dearest Veleyal.

He stepped back, and stepped back more, until he judged to be at a safe distance before kneeling in gritty sand and bowing his head.

He heard first a crackle of flame. He listened to it spread, igniting first the moss that had kept his girls unspoilt, and now it kissed their clothes beneath before taking on their flesh.

He looked up, tears in his eyes, watching each Wraithbird come crawling toward the burning figures, lifting each flaming bundle into their long bony arms. As they took flight, wild flames licked up their forelimbs. But as ever the birds proved immune to fire's hunger, for blue flame remained on corpses alone and never ate at Haron flesh. And out they flapped over the Precipice before pushing back their wings, and away they soared, down and down and down into Endworld.

Gargaron hurried to the edge and peered after the long fire trails rocketing away through morning sky.

More tears came to his eyes. They spilled and splat heavily against rock and dirt. Into fairies they did not turn. Instead, they burst with small legs and skittered away as skybeetles and died beneath the sunlight warming the rock, shriveling away to flaky lumps of ash.

Gargaron sat there long after his wife and daughter were gone, bereaved. Sobbing. Tears streamed down his face, soaking the collar of his shirt.

Later, he sat eyeing the edge of the Precipice with dry, red eyes. Sat there thinking.

He got up. He walked to the edge. He stood there gazing down into Endworld. After a while he held his arms out from his body. And felt a peculiar impulse to tip himself outwards, give himself over to gravity...

He looked down. How far? he wondered. How long might it be...

before...

I hit...

the ground...?

'You have work here first,' Yarniya had said to him in his dream. 'More than you can know.'

He felt alarmed as his weight shifted forward suddenly, the dizzying height beckoning him, pulling him seductively. Horrified, he wheeled his arms backward, a wild attempt to halt his momentum.

Too late. His feet slipped, stones tumbled, and he gasped as his weight dragged him over the edge...

3

He twisted his enormous frame, shooting one hand around, and its nine fingers managed to snare the very edge of the cliff. For a second, as his body swung down, thumping heavily against the wall of the cliff, those huge fingers managed to arrest his momentum.

'You have work here first. More than you can know.'

Then his fingers lost grip... Dragging dust and dirt and stones as he scrabbled frantically, trying to reach up his free hand.

His fingers lost traction.

Out he tumbled into empty space...

4

He fell. Turning over and over and over...

Lost to the void...

Seeing dawn sky, then the endless lands of Endworld...

sky...

Endworld...

sky...

Endworld...

sky...

Then three hundred feet below, one of the Hands of Teyesha, it's great leafy fingers, its vast leathery palm, caught him and stopped his momentum dead...

5

The heavy landing belched a tremendous gush of air from his lungs. Momentarily his huge body settled in amongst knobby knuckles and wrinkled fingers. All he could do were try to gather his breath.

Yet, he began to sink through the thick digits, gravity clawing at him, his arms and hands desperately scrabbling for purchase. Rump first he went, then his head and shoulders, and there he dangled, upside down, his bulging eyes at nothing but Endworld far, far, far below with his feet snared in the Teyesha fingers.

He reached up his arms and clawed at the gigantic hand that precariously and tenuously held him. But he were still slipping; branches, twigs, leaves snapping off in his fingers as he groped desperately for something to hold onto.

'You have work here first. More than you can know.'

He clasped at everything. Yet everything cracked and snapped in his grasp.

But then... something wrapped itself about his leg. Snaring him. Holding him steadfast, suspended out over Endworld like a worm on a hook.

He looked up, saw his chest, his belly, his legs stretched out above him... and one leg caught in the looped grip of a gargantuan tongue.

It were here he saw the face. The one in the cliff wall below which the hand's thick gnarled wrist sprouted, sour-eyed and hungry looking with a mighty maw of root-teeth waiting to crunch his bones.

6

The tongue drew him upwards, lifting him toward the enormous mouth, holding him there the way he had held the woodland frogs above his own gaping mouth as a boy. He knew what came next: he'd be chewed and crunched and swallowed.

He decided he would rather fall and have Endworld rush up to meet him. So he wriggled and kicked. 'Release me!' he yelled. 'Release me, damn you! Let me fall away to my kin!'

But the fiend would not.

He watched that godless face, its stinking mouth like a fetid pit, its godless, unblinking eyes. He wriggled and struggled in its grip.

Its mighty hand reached up and took better hold of him. And he kicked at the enormous woody fingers. To no avail. He tried reaching for his sword belt. If he could withdraw his blade and inflict some painful wound, he might be able to engineer his release.

But it were no use. His limbs were pinned to his sides. He were effectively a doll in the clutches of a child. He opened his mouth and sank teeth into the woody fingers. But with skin of bark and wood, how much discomfort, if any, did this Hand of Teyesha feel?

None, judging by its reaction.

The thing's great mouth seemed to grow now; a cavern with foul hot breath. 'Release me!' Gargaron demanded of it. 'Please!' Yet he were so close now he could reach out and touch those fangs as tall as trees, as sharp as stakes. But try as he might, he were unable to free his arms.

Gargaron heaved and squirmed one last time. But it was of no use. He would be eaten, swallowed and digested. A waste, he thought, a pitiful waste. I should have died with my girls.

'Blast this!' he growled.

One ploy remained him though: once and when he were stuffed inside that gaping maw and those fangs closed around him like a cage, he would whip out his sword and drive it down deep into that fleshy tongue. And as soon as it roared with agony he would leap forth into open space and be done with it all.

7

Something unexpected happened...

Another hand, one higher up the cliff wall, reached down and took hold of him. He knew then they were to fight over him; pull him apart in their hunger. But surprise of all surprises, the hand currently holding him, passed him gently and readily to the next.

Oh, pass me to the one more starved!

But no, the second hand passed him to a third hand, also higher up the wall, which in turn passed him to another even higher.

A strange haunting murmur came from their mouths as they hoisted the giant all the way back up to Great Precipice's edge. And from there Gargaron scrambled onto flat ground, collapsing and lying there panting. The haunting moans from the Mouths of Teyesha went on and on as he remained there, his eyes squeezed shut, relieved and perplexed, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts.

8

Slowly... he regained both his breath and composure. He lay there, staring up at the sky, shaken, deflated. He did not move.

Eventually he sat up. He eyed the edge of the cliff. He breathed a sigh of relief. He couldn't help notice then the spot where he had lain his girls. The shapes of their forms were still imprinted in the sand. It brought on a deep sense of loneliness that began to pervade his entire being, a feeling of utter isolation. It was as if he were only just now realising what had gone on. That he were actually on his own now, without his family, that his dear girls were both dead and gone. Never to return.

Tears filled his eyes. He hung his head... and sobbed.

Later, only later, did he dare creep forward to cliff edge and peer over. Teyesha song had long ceased. And their great woody hands were drooping. Why? he wondered. Are they too at the end of their long lives? Or are they simply in slumber?

In numbed silence he sat there, unmoving, until the heat of Gohor and Melus felt it were blistering his skin. By then, as far as he could see, the Hands of Teyesha had all stiffened and cracked, and were slowly eroding away on the eerie, whining wind.

He did not try to understand this. Their last act were to save him. And now, like so many other creatures he had witnessed since the first shockwaves hit, they were dead or dying.

Eventually he found the strength to stand. And one last time he gazed down into Endworld. 'Be safe my loves,' he whispered, his lip quivering. 'Enjoy gran'mama's sweetberry cake. I shall find you very soon. I promise.' Then he turned away from the Great Precipice, not knowing that he would never stand there again.

## DRENVEL'S BANE

1

IN Hovel, Gargaron stood at village centre, looking about. The Hoardogs had had their way in his absence. The clothing of his village folk had been clawed from them or bitten off, and many had been gnawed down to bone, the soft flesh of their faces eaten away. A ghastly, sickening sight to be sure. One which Gargaron could not stomach, and he would avert his gaze as often as he could.

But the Hoardogs were now mysteriously absent. He had not known them to leave a carcass go uneaten. Bones and all would normally be seen to. Nothing wasted. Not a morsel. Have they had their fill? he wondered. Unlikely. So where are they then?

In the market place he found himself righting jars of preserved bulging Condor eyes that had fallen. Stacks of lemon-melons. Crates of dried bull-shrimp. Wares that had tumbled and spilled across cobbles. Lonely whispering wind caressed him as he went about his work. After absently righting a number of items he halted and stood there looking about, wondering what he were doing.

The dead lay all about you, Hovel lies effectively abandoned, and here you go tidying up as if everyone is simply off at the town hall attending a community meeting and after lunch everything will be back to normal.

He strode onto the village square. Here he noticed now deceased Hoardogs. Littering the long grass along the village wall. T'would appear that what befell my family and folk, has finally befallen them. But there were no-one to turn to, no wise old soul to consult with about this mysterious turn of events.

'You have work here first.' Those peculiar words spoken from Yarniya's mouth in his dream continued to eat at him. Yet, something more troubling outshone them. Something he had quite forgotten until this moment. Yarniya's dying words: 'The Darkwing has awoken.'

Darkwing. Great birds from the Myths of Belenoth. Could it be true?

He gazed up into the heavens.

The Darkwing, it were said, would one day awaken from a thousand year slumber to wreak havoc upon the world. They would smother Cloudfyre in death and darkness. None would survive their wrath. They would cleanse all lands of life, particularly of those folk they deemed to have mistreated Cloudfyre, those who had raped her resources for greed, those who had diseased and poisoned her skies, rivers and oceans in the name of progress and profit.

He pondered this as he began to collect the village dead; he were forbidden from delivering any of his folk to Endworld; such a sacred chore could only be carried out by members of immediate family; he were to burn those he could not send off the Great Precipice. As he went about this unenviable labour he pondered at length the feared Darkwing. If they were indeed to blame... then why had he not seen them? Why had they not flooded sky and field?

And why had they not come for him?

He arranged his fellow villagers in a row outside Hovel's Vruinthia Temple. One row, then two, then three, four, and five... and more still: ten, eleven, thirteen... Fifteen rows in total by the time he were done. Bodies of friends, acquaintances, flower sellers, fishermen, farriers, wagon menders, falconers, guardsmen, hunters.

He knelt and whispered a prayer for them all under the gaze of the goddess Vruinthia. Then he ignited them all in liquid Helfire. And a mighty inferno blazed there in Hovel.

2

Flames licked and roared under midday's warm breeze. Gargaron sat and awaited news. He had been waiting since before collecting up Hovel's dead. Skyworms. He had not seen nor heard from them since he had dispatched three apiece to Darkfort, Autumn, Mount Destruction, and Horseshoe of the Downs—villages and towns of other Giant clans. The Skyworms had carried this message:

Some mysterious event has devastated Hovel.

All have perished. Giants, Yonderfolk, animal, all.

Nothing has survived save me, Gargaron Stoneheart.

Send word of your health and status.

By now the Skyworms should have returned with tidings. Yet they had not. He found himself picking through Eromgar's corner shop. Found himself stepping through the smithy of Aesorard's & Son. Ultimately, he sat upon the wall across the street from Vruinthia's Temple, waiting and watching his fellow giants burn under a mass of flames where a mighty smoke stack spewed forth and rose high into the sky where it then drifted eastways on the winds.

He eyed old Vruinthia. There she stood in her lofty position on temple's roof where she could survey with her cold wooden eyes the entire settlement of Hovel. There she stood in serene indifference to the death of all those who had loved and worshipped her. So much for our prayers for you to lead us all to salvation, Gargaron thought with disdain. And he found himself caring not for the parts of her temple that had succumbed to the shockwave and tumbled down, caring not for those parts of the temple roof that had cracked and caved in, those rents and fissures that now invited sunlight down into chambers that may not have seen sunlight for hundreds of years.

Gargaron pondered what lay within. It were one of the few places in Hovel he had never set foot, for not being a mager it were a sacred place that ordinary, nonexalted beings were forbidden to enter.

Primarily it were the boyhood stories that stimulated him. His father had told him tales of Hor the Cutter who had wielded the magic warhammer _Drenvel's Bane_. Hor had lived much of his life with the witches of Hemlock Vale and together they had devised a secret weapon to take down Drenvel, a mythical beast purported to be impervious to sword and spear, ice and flame. They had succeeded in forging a warhammer from star fragments that had fallen to Cloudfyre in a shower of fire. And Hor had taken it to Drenvel and dispatched the beast from this plane. And at the end of his days, when Hor the Cutter had returned home to Hovel, he had gifted the warhammer to the magers and there it had rested for hundreds of years.

While I wait for my Skyworms, might I see this mighty axe with my own eyes? Gargaron thought as he sat there. And as he stood and crossed the street, giving the funeral pyre a wide birth, he murmured as he cast his eye at the statue atop the temple, 'May you forgive my trespass, old Vruinthia.'

3

The temple were full of large chambers stained in black soot from centuries of burnt incense, and here Gargaron found the nurseries of warped tree fiends he had heard of but never seen. They grew out of wall and floor, ornate twisting creatures, and it were here Gargaron discovered that many of the ceilings were constructed from green glass—a mistake then it had been to believe no sunlight ever entered this temple, for here were evidence of it.

He stepped from chamber to chamber, a ringing silence descending every time he halted to look about. He came across worship rooms, where the root feet of Vruinthia had dug down through roof and walls where her toes curled into serpentine creatures that all bore her likeness. He found blood chambers, and toe dismemberment wards, and vats of sap, caught as it dripped from Vruinthia's limbs. Flowers sprouted from web like branches that snaked up walls and over floors and it were a chamber with a wooden pedestal covered in similar flowers where Gargaron first saw it.

Drenvel's Bane.

He stepped into the room and moved toward it, green light cast down through the glass ceiling; the flowers gave off such a heavenly odour. The legendary weapon were how it had been described. A handle and naught more. Though Gargaron had always preferred to believe (and had always pictured it as such) that the weapon lay there in its entirety. As it were depicted in paintings and tapestries and stone etchings: Hor the Cutter holding it aloft, the mighty hammer dripping with the blood of Drenvel.

The greatest bounty of all hides inside our own village, his father had told him once. And be it the mightiest weapon to have ever been forged on Cloudfyre.

It made Gargaron smile, for it looked not mighty and it looked not worthy of any bounty. But a leather bound handle it were, missing its head.

He sighed, remembering his Skyworms and thought outside would be a better place to watch for their return than here. Thus he moved to leave and were almost out the door when he turned one last time and cast his eyes upon Drenvel's Bane where it lay amidst flowers on its wooden plinth.

To wield it would be to leave you unvanquished, his father had told him once.

As Gargaron stood there gazing back at it he thought, In these uncertain times, were I to establish a way to use it, such a thing might come in for some use.

4

Autumn were closest to Hovel in terms of accessibility; Far Trail were a roadway flat and wide as any of those serving the capitols of Dunforth and Blakanz, and carved from ironstone, ideal for cart and great-hound. By flight of crow, Mt Destruction remained closest, yet its northern alpine trails were steep and winding and often times the journey there from Hovel took as much as three times the journey to Autumn. Horseshoe of the Downs and Darkfort were both also many days away: Horseshoe countless leagues southways and situated in the midst of the Luasha Riverlands, requiring a pole-boat to reach; and Darkfort, eastways, lay nestled amidst the barren pyramid hills where the Gates of Forever loomed ready to swallow all who stepped beyond them.

It had been two turns of the clock since he had traipsed through Vruinthia's sacred halls and as Gargaron sat there in Hovel's quiet village garden (without the customary sounds of ornithen or bug), upon a bench that looked out across the village square, he realised he had mostly given up on seeing his Skyworms again. Thus he had turned to ideas of leaving, of striking out and seeking the answers he craved.

Mayhaps I ought to make for Autumn, he thought to himself. The Skyworms perchance have been brought down by some easily explained occurrence, and in all likelihood Autumn goes on and about its merry business happily oblivious to all that has befallen Hovel. Perhaps Autumn's Watchguard will have news of what has struck Hovel. And if not, then there be Skysight.

5

Carrying the hilt of Drenvel's Bane, Gargaron returned to his cottage on a now desperately quiet Saden's orange grove. Tears welled in his eyes as he mounted empty stairs and pushed through unlatched doors. At once its silence, its emptiness, proved unbearable. The life pulse had gone out of the place; there were a palpable feeling of emptiness in its stale, lifeless air. Like sticky humidity. He felt as if ghosts watched him from vacant corners.

Without thought, he found himself moving to Veleyal's bedroom door. He put his ear against it. Listening...

Perhaps it had all been naught but a dream, him finding her and Yarniya dead inside Summer Woods, setting them afire, summoning up Vurah's Wraithbirds, watching their twin fire-trails descend down into Endworld. Perhaps his dear daughter simply played within, or slept, perhaps all he had found in Summer Woods were mere doppelgangers.

'Veleyal?' he asked softly.

Gently he pushed the door open, hoping... praying to see her there, lying abed reading, or drawing, singing sweetly to herself. But her bed were empty. Her jummy-bear and forest-fairy doll lying there forgotten, abandoned, side by side, vacant eyes staring at the ceiling. The sight of these eyes caused him to grimace, as it brought on the raw memory of his daughter in his arms, lifeless, lolling... her dead eyes staring, staring, staring.

He wiped tears from his cheeks. Stepped across to his daughter's bed. He knelt as he had done a thousand times kissing his dear daughter to sleep at night. Only now there were no Veleyal to kiss, to hug, to tickle, to read to, to sing to. He hugged her bear and doll, lay his head upon her pillow. He breathed in. Closed his eyes. Smelling her. That mix of child sweat and a faint hint of juniper soap. His tears soaked into its soft fabric, swimming away in the forms of tiny water horses.

He grasped her pillow to his face and suddenly wept uncontrollably. The sobs shook his chest. 'Why?' he whimpered. 'Why am I still here and you have perished? Why?'

You have work here first.

'No!' he yelled at the room, his eyes bleary with tears. 'What work?! Tell me, damn you!'

But it gave him no answer.

He wiped his face. He lay down jummy-bear and forest-fairy doll. Again side by side.

6

Briefly he checked his own bedroom, ever hopeful, casting his gaze over the large empty bed, the sheets still ruffled from the lovemaking he and his wife had made the night before the shockwaves.

He sighed. Yarniya were not there.

From the store room he took a large bull-hide satchel and from the pantry he filled it with some basic provisions: cured meat, salted wrasse, dried figs, apples, pears, a loaf of rye bread. And some medicinal herbs and poultices and other remedies for any unwanted injury or illness. Lyfen Essence. And skin grafts that grew from the flesh rug living on the wall, several lengths of which he pulled off and attached to his belly. He also took a jar of the potentially dangerous Zombeez, little beasts ordinarily used solely by the town druids except they were often given to Hunters who were afforded special dispensations simply due to their line of work—availability of Zombeez in the field were most often crucial to survival. Gargaron's kind were immune to zombiism. But other races were not so fortunate and history were littered with horror stories of dire outbreaks. Thus a Hunter were trained in their usage, and where and when to utilise them.

Once he had packed, Gargaron went to fill his gourds; he considered Hovel's village well, but, thinking of the blackness that had stricken Buccuyashuck River, he did not altogether trust the health of its water. Instead he drained water from the large ceramic rain tank at back of cottage. Once done he stood back and considered what he had packed thus far.

He had traveled the route to Autumn many times over the years, mostly on drays hauled by gorbuls. Once or twice on horned horse. A journey to Autumn would normally tick off a full day's travel, provided you possessed some manner of transport. Hound and cart could take you half that time. Yet, he feared that after what he had seen since the first shockwave, transport might be hard to come by. He feared his entire journey might thus be conducted entirely on foot. Therefore he would need to pack enough provisions for a three or four day hike. He reminded himself that if all were well in surrounding shires and vales, there were places to trade for food and wine on route, even transport. And he dearly hoped this remained the case... yet he could not help feeling pessimistic. Of all he had seen since the shockwaves four days gone, well, he had met no-one else, heard from no-one. It were as if the entire world had fallen silent.

Alas, he packed provisions enough for a foot mounted expedition to Autumn.

7

He slotted Drenvel's hilt in his pack then secured his greatsword and its belt. It were a sword given him by his father, passed down from the early days of his grandwuns. It were unremarkable, had not been blooded in any war or battle like Drenvel's Bane, did not possess some grand knightly name. But it had served him loyally against bandits and cutthroats over the years and many and more Hoardogs.

He equipped himself also with his hunter's dirk; a nifty little blade, good at close quarters if a fight drew too near for comfort, but it had also proved itself handy in skinning and gutting beasts, and slicing meat. Oh, and more than useful for quartering apples.

He stood one last moment in cottage's cold empty quiet. Looking about. Memories tugged at his heart. No more would this little abode ring out with sounds of his daughter singing or laughing, or his wife humming, no more would he know the odours of crispy fried moorhen or succulent roast Farthington lamb drifting deliciously upon the air as he cooked for his small family, no more would he sit and watch his girls in slumber and think of how happy and complete they had made his life.

A small portrait etched in stone sat on the mantel over the fireplace. An image frozen in time. It depicted himself with his dear girls. They had all sat for the portrait etching not four months ago. It seemed inconceivable that he were all that remained of that small family unit. He fetched it and held it before him, tears trickling from his eyes. He wiped his face and jammed it in his pocket.

He stood by the front door, casting his eyes one last time across the cottage's interior. He sighed and left, and strolled away down Saden's orange grove.

He would never see his cottage again.

CHANDRY'S STEPPE

1

HE took the Canning Road north where it trailed the snaking course of Buccuyashuck River. But eventually both trail and river parted ways. And it were something Gargaron felt quietly pleased with. He'd had quite enough of the river's black waters floating with a thousand dead things. And the river banks covered in upturned crabs. And the overhanging trees dangling with the lifeless forms of bats and ornithens. The sheer sight of it all filled him with building dread and foreboding. For it seemed this scourge lay far more widespread than he'd initially thought.

Still, for a time, leaving Buccuyashuck behind and striking out along Far Trail helped pushed it all from his mind and he began to feel marginally relieved. Gone now were the primary reminder of what had befallen Hovel. And before him lay Chandry's Steppe, a vast sweeping tract of land that disappeared off into far distant horizons.

Chandry's remained predominantly savannah, but dotted here and there were crab farms. When he were a wee lad, when the crab farmers had not yet moved in and claimed patches of this once unspoilt wilderness for themselves, Gargaron had thought Chandry's Steppe the most exotic place in all the world. A place where a boy could play and explore without fear of being attacked and swallowed up by some nasty meat-eater. For predators with a taste for boy-giants rarely set foot upon the Steppe. Folk knew not why. Though some claimed it were the grass-eating Maymas that kept predators at bay. Tall, horned creatures, with short thick necks and piercing tusks, the Maymas, if threatened, worked in vast numbers to see off potential foe. Often with devastating ferocity. While Gargaron had never witnessed this he had watched the Gooya plains trolls chase would-be killers away. By nature, Gooya trolls were a docile lot. So long as they did not deem you a threat. You could sit amongst them as you might sit amongst lambs if you did not threaten them. Gooyas though were quick to anger if provoked. And none too many beasts were a match for a coordinated pack of Gooyas on the offensive. Thus Chandry's to Gargaron had always been a land without danger. A peaceful place where fowl and beast thrived.

Giant Moorhens roamed the Steppe, even nowadays, Gargaron knew. And Goliath Prairie Dogs would rise from their burrows and stand at their doorways to sniff the grassy air to pick up scents of food or potential mates. And were he to have strayed there at night (which were more not than often these days) he would have observed fan flowers sway in dusk's failing light before curling up and humming dreamily at the rise of stars. And at midnight, when the moons of Vasher and Syssa and Leenurs were full, the pixies and fairies would come out to dance and fly about on night's balmy breezes. The fireflies would light the hushed witching skies in a dazzling array of silent pulsing, twinkling light. At dawn, the pale, smoky wraiths of folk long departed would emerge from misty earyth and could be seen holding parley with one another. As a boy, this were the furthest place on Godrik's Vale he had been. And the most magical.

Yet, as he began his trek across Chandry's toward the yonder town of Autumn he noticed almost immediately the sense of complete desertion and the pervading, crushing silence. No sounds of ornithen, no sounds of squeaking prairie dogs, no shrill calls of plains hawks. As he walked he looked for them. But there were no sign of anything left living. Naught save great clouds of buzzing green flies, acting almost as beacons for the mortid dead that lay bloated and rotting in flattened grass.

The mortid consisted primarily of hawks and ornithen both. But not all. Some were prairie dogs, some moorhens, some blind serpents, some the docile Gooya, some the Maymas. All were sprawled through field and meadow, across dale and flat. No matter how far Gargaron went, no matter where he cast his gaze, something of the dead filled his vision. At one stage he crested a rise in the roadway and abruptly he brought his stride to a halt. Spread out before him were what he took to be the aftermath of war. An entire battlefield of dead.

Orken soldiers they looked to him, dressed in battle armour. A thousand. An entire host. And the carcasses of their wolven steeds. On closer inspection there were no blood, no hacked and dismembered limbs to this Orken army. Thus, no sign of battle. And no discernable sign of enemy.

What has done this? he wondered. Be it some sickness?

2

He found Chandry's Loss, a name given to a high northern hill with a sheer treacherous drop-off where songs claimed Chandry threw her girl lover, Mayesti, to her death after Mayesti proclaimed love for the Witch Queen of Waterdale. Here the elevated plateau looked out across the world toward Autumn. After hiking to the windswept summit, after catching his breath and dropping his pack to waving grass and weed, Gargaron cast his spyglass out across the Steppe and moors further afield. Again he set eye upon nothing save dead upon dead upon dead for as far as his sight would take him.

He turned his chin to clear sky. Beware the Darkwing, a voice warned in his mind.

'Where be they then?' he asked angrily, challengingly. 'I have witnessed no such thing since this entire mystery began. Where be they if this is their doing? Show yourselves?' he called out.

3

He continued on his way. Trudging for hours along Far Trail's iron roadway as it cut through rocky grassland, finding nothing alive. Early afternoon he took lunch on Tormun's Hand, granite towers of rock that looked for all the world like fingers and thumb of some submerged colossal beast. As he sat atop a "finger", his long legs dangling, he again took out his spyglass and scanned the silent lands around.

Empty. Quiet. No movement but for snaking winds that swept across grass and thistle. No sound but for the eerie whine of gales through the Hand. No smell but the odour of flower violets and decay. No traffic on the road. Nothing.

He thought long of his dear Veleyal. He had brought her here once or twice. They had come passed this way as recently as last spring as a matter of fact, on family holiday to Bella's Lakes north of Autumn.

'Dadda,' Veleyal had said excitedly twirling about on one foot, the hem of her dress fanning outwards, 'Do you think we might see the Great Turtles once we reach the Lakes?'

'Aye, dear one, I think we shall.'

'Yippeeeeeee!' she had squealed ecstatically. She had put her little arms about him and held him tight. Yarniya had sat beside him then, watching them proudly, smiling, her face full of love for her Gargaron, for her dear Veleyal.

He feared Autumn may too have fallen to this strange blight. But some part of him did not yet wish to believe it. He would find out in a day or two once he reached there. Until such time, there were always hope, he supposed, that Autumn had gone untouched.

4

He climbed down from Tormun's Hand. And stood in the middle of Far Trail. In either direction it lay empty of all travelers. As it had all day. Such a sight had never been known in Gargaron's time, he wagered. A picture of complete desertion, isolation. Ordinarily it were a well-traveled and populated highway. Caravans carrying pilgrims to pay homage to the Thirteen Realms where the most devoted would leave one of their own limbs, as Ravencrow the Brave were said to have done, as sacrifice to the Thirteen, in the hope they would be deemed a true servant of the Thirteen and thus be granted an arcane limb told to be imbued with the power to be able to reach into the Wraith World and from it pluck riches. A highway teeming with merchants ferrying water-glass, wristtyms, veel strahders; traders hauling spiced rum, griffon blood, powdered snuff, and dream herbs from the Säphic Isles. And travelers general, those off to the capitols to seek greater fortune and those heading back to the provinces either having made it rich, or struck it poor. And the shacks along the way filled with whoregirls, oilboys, and their pimpeteers selling every erotic delight in between. Now all gone, like driftwood on a beach washed away on ebbing tides.

It filled him with an almost physical sense of loneliness. And for a while he sat there upon the road, weeping, gazing down at the stone etching of he and his family.

5

He pressed on. The afternoon grew hot. He came upon a small caravan of folk. Paronagers, they were. Not elven, not giant, not orken. Paronagers from the Dark Sea. All dead of course. Their bodies ravaged by beasts, their clothes torn, their possessions ransacked. They were still seated inside their caravan. Their horse steeds dead, eyes bulging, bellies bloated, lying across roadway.

He stood for a while watching them...

Then something caught his eye.

It were a little way off the road, a peculiar spectacle that made him stop and stare for a little while, intrigued, a quiet dread rising inside him. He fetched out his spyglass from his bull-hide pack and brought the spectacle into view. It were what he feared. A Creep Mound.

He fetched his lavender cloth and held it over nose and mouth and out toward the Mound he walked. He dared not stray too close for such Mounds heralded a region struck down with Cripp, or Mrunk, or Xayku, or some other such deadly virus that could wipe out vast numbers of folk with frightening speed. And he made certain he remained up wind of it. It were a larger Mound than he might ordinarily see. Skulls piled high upon cracked earyth. And on it there perched a ghost raven, black of body and wing, grey of neck and head. It turned its beak and watched him... but did not desert its perch.

Such ornithens seen upon a Creep Mound told Gargaron that the skulls had come from victims of a virulent germ, those who had died hideously and had then been thrown to the Dead Worms so that their diseased flesh would be stripped to bone.

Could this sickness have spread across the land from here to Hovel? Gargaron wondered. Had some uncontained outbreak beaten news of its spreading to his village, had it swept the land and killed all before a warning could be made public?

If so, he thought, then why have I survived it?

One thing about it gave him heart: the sight of the bird. Such signs of life had been rare since the day of the first shockwave. A sign of life were a sign of hope, he told himself. And as he stood there gazing back at it he heard the words again of his wife: 'You have work here first.'

Gargaron retreated to the roadway and before he moved on he lowered his head. He spoke to the dead a prayer, to the great Spirit Ranethor, praying that their souls had found their way to the worlds beyond, and if they had not, then to speed up their passage.

6

By nightfall he had made it as far as Rillsland, a spot on Chandry's Steppe where the remains of an ancient craft of unknown material and origin had long ago fallen from the stars. Here it still lay, half swallowed by stony earyth, a tree as old as the hills growing from its twisted unspoilt metal, roots snaking about it like worms. Dreamfyre the craft had been named. And Gargaron had heard its stories all his life. He would lie next to his father at night by fireside and gaze up at the Great Nothing's dizzying array of cosmic bodies and be spellbound by his father's tales of mighty beings who lived out there, ones who had constructed great star-boats to carry them across vast interstellar void.

'Did they come to visit us?' he asked his father eagerly, his eyes sparkling in the starlight as his mind projected Dreamfyre onto the night sky above, sailing to earyth before a flowing tail of fire.

'Aye, I think they did,' his father told him, wonderment too in his eyes. 'Sadly though, there are many who preach they came to invade Cloudfyre. But I prefer to believe they came to extend their hand in friendship.'

Gargaron stood there, his water gourd tipped to his mouth. He drank. And drank again. Then wiped his chin. He surveyed the darkening land before him, Far Trail in either direction wound off into dusk, vanishing from sight as if it too had died and had chosen to quietly trail away into the faded realms beyond where the living could tread. He pulled a map from his bag. And studied it a while.

As he guessed, being here, he were not far from Baal. Baal, Giant, crab farmer and horse wrangler. A little way north were all. Noo Ka and her sister moon of Syssa had barely begun to rise, and they would be high above his head by the time he were anywhere near Baal's farm if he decided to head that way. But he would relish their luminous company as he trekked through field and plain on a small detour that may or may not yield a steed to help speed up his journey.

Anyhow, what pressing matters do I need attend? Why, none. I have nowhere to be in haste. All previous appointments have been cancelled. For all intents and purposes, time has stopped. So, why not, a detour?

As Gargaron set off, he reached out and ran his fingertips along one of Dreamfyre's metallic ribs. It were like touching perma-ice; the sheer cold more akin to a sensation of burning. He cast an eye across his fingers. And ran his thumbs across them. The iciness had transferred instantly from Dreamfyre's freezing metal. His fingers icy cold to the touch and his skin frosted over.

He had heard this rumour. That Dreamfyre harboured the bitter frost-cold of the Great Nothing, that it had brought with it the Yternal Chill that would ultimately consume all matter in the universe, and that its pilots had meant to start with Cloudfyre. But what of the curse? he wondered. To touch the ancient vessel, according to beliefs of peoples all across the continent of Godrik's Vale, were to bring one ill luck.

Gargaron scoffed. What now is ill luck? he thought defiantly, in a world that has gone to the Hoardogs, what is meant by 'ill luck', I ask? Death? To die? Why, death would be a release from all this!

He spat into the grass and folded his map away.

7

The moons lit his way as the suns took their fires home for night. His moon shadow cast three ways about him, as Noo Ka and Syssa rose from beyond horizon, and behind him came Vasher. Vasher with its own moon, a mere spot in the sky folks called Rattik. Vasher and Rattik, master and servant. The master a pale cold blue, the servant a tiny jewel of red. Later, beyond the Witching hour, Gargaron's shadow would be briefly four as Gorvhald spun giddily up from western horizon. As it were, the land around him remained pleasantly well lit. He could see for mile upon mile. Chandry's Steppe seemed merely gripped in early twilight. He felt the urge to stop and build a fire, to lie down and warm himself, to stare up at star and moon and imagine he were a boy again, to pretend he were safe and protected at his father's side, that nothing were wrong in the world, that all would be well as long as his father smiled and promised him so.

Thinking of his father brought his mind back to Drenvel's Bane. How his father would love to have seen it, he thought. As Gargaron marched on he drew the famed hilt from his sack. It were not too difficult to study the thing beneath the moonlight. And indeed the moonlight seemed to bring out features he had not spotted earlier. Though it were banded tightly in leather there seemed to be an inner radiance about it. A certain glow that seemed to cast itself through the strands of hide. But if he picked at the leather and scraped it aside with his nail the glow would fade to reveal naught but cold metal beneath.

He held it aloft, as though he were Hor the Cutter. It were said those who knew the weapon's secrets could illicit the hammer into being. And these were secretes he knew not. So for now, he slashed it through the night air, back and forth, a boy again, imagining he were the mighty Hor come to save the world.

8

It were beyond the Witching hour when Gargaron found Baal the Giant seated in a chair in his cottage. Sadly, Baal had run out of things to say. His jaw had been torn away. Someone had taken it and stabbed him in the chest with it. Baal did nothing but gaze quietly at the ceiling now while bugs and worms and clucking roach-hens and grass-fish worked ravenously at an ever gaping hole in his belly, this grotesque writhing horde consuming him from the inside out.

Sickened, Gargaron turned away and stood there catching his breath. He surveyed the remainder of the farm. A barn stood across the way under milky moonlight, its windows dark and foreboding, watching him like ominous gloomy eyes. Gargaron could see the stables within. Minding the slithering grass-fish as they "swam" through weed and dirt pulled on by the sticky scent of decay, he left Baal in his cottage and moved over for a closer look.

There were no sound but the breeze tinkering some loose scrap of tin in the night. Certainly no sound of murmuring horses. But he needed to check all the same. The livestock may have been spooked and bolted. Indeed they may also have perished. But before he pressed on for Autumn, Gargaron needed to see with his own eyes that they were not simply asleep within.

Grass-snakes and crabs acted like some portent as he neared the stables. Their numbers swelling as Gargaron drew closer. The harsh sounds of their hissing were like fingernails on slate. The floor of the stables writhed with them. There were just enough moonlight cast through upper stable windows to show him empty ribs and exposed skull bone and horse carcasses being devoured. A wet, musky odour of blood, intestines, manure, wafted on the night breeze. He winced as it flirted with his nostrils. He turned away, gripping his belly.

## GRIMAH

1

GARGARON stopped for night in the rocky hills of Eastbourne. On the horizon, under misty moonlight, he believed he could see the distant heights of Skysight tower; a dark, thin, indistinct shadow against the starlight. He watched long and hard for the telltale pulsing lights that heralded the tower's top floors. But the only lights her saw were the distant star fires in the Great Nothing.

He built a camp fire beside a rambling meat-eating plant his kind called a Brawny Twister. These plants were known to capture prey in their squirming, thorny arms, and their ugly little mouths on their ugly bulbous faces would suck and gnaw and chew all flesh and entrails from carcasses; discarded bones would pile up in middens about their twisty roots. Gargaron had learned long ago that his kind were immune to a Twister's toxic thorns. As a wee one he had played with these plants, using them to snare goat-hares or woods rabbits, as his father had taught him. But his father had also taught him that to camp beside a Twister meant a restful night's sleep. For most beasts were wary of Twisters and keen to keep their distance.

As Gargaron lay there, both his sword and the hilt of Drenvel's Bane held to his side, he gazed out at the Great Nothing's vast expanse and watched Jenadah and Lansador engaged in their endless lover's dance. Watched the great red ball of twinkling light that were Old Soor. And the twin Cat's Eyes stars. He rolled his head to the side and saw the Maidens of Zerrunos where they roamed the southern skies.

As his camp fire softly crackled and fizzed, he listened to chirpers and screepers in the dark. Their night calls brought him some comfort, reminding him of nights lying beside his wife in his cottage on the edge of Summer Woods, hearing the soothing call of the night bugs, and the soft purr of moor hens. He had witnessed so much death in the past few days. But maybe all were not yet lost. He were alive. As were these bugs that sang from night's shadows. As were those grass-fish and crabs and roach-hens he had seen consuming Baal and his steeds. As were the Brawny Twister. And the star fires still burned in the Great Nothing as they had done for time ever onward. Unchanged. Unchanging. Eternal. That, amongst all else, brought him comfort.

Once, while camping on the fringe of Chayosa, his father had pointed out the Silent Dragon, a comet riding the heavens with its tail flame-blue and its head a mighty glowing yellow mass in the shape of a snarling dragon skull. 'Old Soor's Dragon, some call it,' his father had told him. 'The Llügotha Scrolls tell us it visits us but once every hundred and seventy two moon-stars. Once it spins about our suns and bids us farewell it will again fly off into the cold reaches of Nothing's embrace, lost from all eye and sight. I shan't be around on its return. But you shall Gargaron, my son. Not many a soul gets to see it twice in a lifetime. But it is said, that to set your eye upon it a second time is to receive a gift of great wisdom.' His father had smiled then. 'Of course, this wisdom comes not from some strange magic wielded by the Dragon itself, but purely from the privilege of living to great age. Aye, you shall see it again, my boy. And perhaps you shall lie here with your own son and impart to him the tales of Old Soor and Dreamfyre and the Maidens of the southwun sky.'

Up in the trees, moonlight lit the threads of a colossal spider web. Its maker and owner presiding over a bulging catch wrapped up in a silken bundle. Some unfortunate Hoardog, Gargaron could see; half the dog's face hung loose from one side. But crucially the spider lived. Not only lived, but it suckled juices from its prey.

Perhaps I have come at last to the outer edge of this catastrophe, Gargaron thought, perhaps I have been wandering a death zone and soon I shall be free of it. The signs are there. I see them. This spider in its web before me. The grass-fish. The crabs. The chirp of the night bugs. Things living, not perished. I see them now, by Thronir. Take me from this place and deliver me to Autumn and into sanity and explanation and reason.

2

That night he dreamt of Baal. He dreamt of tearing out Baal's jaw and driving it into his chest. He dreamt of running. Running alone along Far Trail, his leather boots pounding the course iron surface. Behind him, receding into the distance, a cart rest full of innocent folk he had just robbed and slain, buried beneath Creep skulls and bones, a ghost raven pecking at their flesh. He ran from it crying... and something chased him. A great darkness. A darkness that ate away the world as it rumbled ever closer to him. A wave of black water, a wave higher than mountains, one that tumbled against clouds... In its smooth, curved front, tumbled the wailing dead of all Cloudfyre. His Nightface watched them in its cold detached way. When the roadway ended abruptly Gargaron tumbled out over the edge of a cliff so high and immense there seemed no end to it. Yet as he fell, below him he saw the hazy realm of Endworld, and behind him, falling away into the sky, the Great Precipice. Here though, there were no Hands of Teyesha; all were shriveled and rotting. With nothing to catch him he plummeted... a trail of blue fire streaking out behind him. When he reached ground there were but his daughter Veleyal before him. He knelt before her, taking her hand and there were no warmth to her, just a coldness of unliving flesh. But he took her fingers and by pure force of will he pushed his life's energy into her body, his life for hers. And as he watched... her eyes came open...

3

He awoke to a spike jabbing him urgently in the back of the neck.

His Nightface had spotted something.

Gargaron opened his eyes and took hold of both sword and Drenvel's Bane. He rolled over, groggy with sleep, and sat up―there were no daylight as he had expected, moon and star still hung in the skies―but a shockwave were sweeping the realm like a tempest. Quick, unforgiving, violent. It bent tree and shrub, it shook leaves loose, kicking them into the air, it pushed the grasses and rolled loose rocks, as if some almighty explosive blast had just occurred. A sound like rasping wind accompanied it, and it hit Gargaron, knocking him over as he sat there. Then it rolled eastways, an invisible wave front crashing across hills and away across Gandry's Steppe.

Then the world fell quiet. Dead quiet. Not a breath of breeze. Not a peep from a screeper or chirper. No sound of night birds, no distant howl of dog or moorhen. Just a ringing silence in Gargaron's ears.

Blinking his eyes, he climbed to his feet and looked about. The position of the moons told him it were late. Noo Ka and Syssa had snuck away while he had slumbered. Vasher were sinking. Gorvhald were overhead now, still spinning, always spinning. Veeo and Canooc were rising, close together, never apart, the Lost Children some called them, looking for home. Most of the stars too had moved on. Old Soor tilting toward Cloudfyre's lip, the Lovers trailing it, the Cat's Eyes low in the northwun sky, and the Maidens glowing more prominently in the south. The glow of Gohor and Melus could not yet be seen on the horizon; they were yet three or four hours off, Gargaron guessed. Other than the sound of the shockwave still rolling away into the distance, the Steppe had not changed it seemed.

Gargaron heard another sound. Growing. From the westwun. An alien sound... but one somehow familiar. A deep grumbling noise, as if Godrik's Vale itself were shifting, waking, as if something beneath had cracked the continent's crust, some terrifying monster from the dawn of creation in the process of heaving itself up through the earyth.

Gargaron thought of his waking on the bank of old Buccuyashuck, he had heard the sound of some demon or dragon spreading out across the world toward him. A sound like rolling death, as if the very earyth on which he sat had been tearing apart and caving in, tumbling away into the Great Nothing's depthless void.

So, here it came again. That same demon.

When it hit him, it gripped him and shook him hard until he feared his bones would liquefy, shaking his weapons from his grip. As he had experienced the first time, his limbs shook, his organs quivered, and it pushed his head about so violently it temporarily shook conscious thought from his mind.

When it had swept through him, so deeply through him that he collapsed to his knees and then to his side, it went rolling away yonder.

4

Sunrise he lay there, grimacing. Rain swept the hills. He swatted away the Nightface claw digging at him, scratching at his face. 'Leave me be,' he grumbled at it. Though he could hear the pained squealing of a thousand creatures.

He sat up. Looked about. Beyond the Brawny Twister, downhill, he saw them, mysterious dark shapes racing madly through the deluge. In the heavy downpour he could not fully discern their shape and form. But they were hulking things as great as he, and often they howled or barked, though too large were they to be hoardogs, and they skittered about not on four legs but on two.

Before them, fled a mass of sheep and mule. And Gargaron watched as the dark fiends tore them all to bloody pieces. The squeals and cries of terror were a chilling sound to behold.

Then Gargaron he watched, one of these dark beasts clambered up the sodden slopes of Eastbourne Hill toward him.

Panic gripped him. He unsheathed his greatsword and scrambled behind the beech trees, ducking down behind another wet thicket of writhing brambles that squirmed up his arms, crouching as low as his giant's bulk would allow.

As he hid, the dark figure approached and stopped opposite the brambles. The torrents of rain were still too thick to permit Gargaron unhindered view of the creature's anatomy but its face he could see, and he thought it a ghastly thing with four goggling white eyes too far apart and a huge slobbering mouth filled with fangs as long as stakes. Its skin were black as coal and seemed to reflect no light.

Gargaron waited for its attack, gripping his greatsword in readiness. But it never came. The beast, whatever it were, tore off, hooting and snarling.

A ploy to draw me out, Gargaron knew as he watched the figure scramble away, and so he resolved to sit there beneath the heavy shower, tense, alert, heart pounding, not daring to leave his position. Are these the feared Darkwing at last? he wondered, come to dish out their judgement upon me? Why are they not aflight then? Why are they screaming and racing about the earyth like mad rats? Why are they not darkening the skies in plague numbers?

He crouched there pondering all this. Until he realised the squealing had fallen silent, and the peculiar beasts were gone.

5

Biting rain hammered Gargaron most of that morning. He sat nervous, watching the dead and dying sheep and mules. He kept expecting the dark critters to return. To draw him out. He refused to move from his spot.

He ached. It were the first thing he'd known when his eyes had flickered open from sleep. Ached deep down in his bones. He blamed first the travel of the last few days, all the leg work, the walking. To Precipice and back, lugging wife and daughter. And then trudging to his current location, hefting heavy pack and great sword. Aye, it were not anything he weren't unaccustomed to (he were a hunter after all, walking and shouldering heavy prey came with the job) but the stress of all he had seen and lost, the sheer anguish of it all, had put an exhaustion in him he could not fathom.

Then he recalled the shockwave that had rolled over him during the night. How he had trembled and quaked so violently in its grip.

Strange shockwaves, and now these dark things, he thought. What on Cloudfyre is happening?

He were in no rush departing. "One who makes blind haste runs blindly to his doom," his father would say often. Never more true than right now, Gargaron knew.

Thus, although those howling shapes had moved off, he sat there cautious, patient. It be a trap, he kept reminding himself. To draw me into the open.

So he remained there for hours at the fringe of the woods using the Brawny Twisters as cover, surveying the ongoing Steppe from safety of hill and copse.

But half the morning came and went and there were no renewed sign of these strange dark things. Still, all the death he had witnessed since leaving Hovel gave him cause for much suspicion. Perhaps they are out there somewhere hidden. Hidden and waiting for me to emerge.

He wished, not for the first time, that he knew how to wield Hor's old hammer. He might feel a tad more at ease if he'd had the power of such a famed weapon at his disposal.

'And yet, Drenvel's Bane or no, I cannot stay here day and night,' he reminded himself.

Keeping an ear open, and eyes peeled, he packed up his camp and with greatsword in hand, made to finally strike out for Autumn. It would be his final leg before he reached possible salvation. He would have the eyes of his Nightface to aid his trek. He would remain vigilant, alert, and lash out at anything that came at him. But as he were about to depart, a wild snort came from somewhere behind him.

He spun about, gripping his sword in both fists, and ducked down behind the Brawny Twister; its writhing arms squirming about his face, shoulders and legs. He peered between its wormy limbs and, alarmed, saw a shape in the rain across the opposite edge of the copse.

Ha, he thought, I were wise to wait. Whatever those black demons are, they have lost their patience and come for me now!

He remained poised where he stood, frozen in a defensive stance, legs ajar, one planted slightly forward of the other, thick fingers curled tight about the haft of his sword. He were alarmed that his Nightface had not alerted him to the beast sneaking up on him. Had it not recognised the creature as a menace? Had it not seen it?

Whatever the case, there it stood, the monster, tall, black, unmoving. Watching him.

6

The figure remained unmoved. As if it waited for Gargaron to make first play.

Ha, it knows nothing of my resolve. Indeed his father had observed in Gargaron at an early age such resolve. When out hunting gorse and fleim, his father had been impressed by Gargaron's determination, steadfastness, doggedness, tenacity. Even as a young boy, Gargaron had possessed the ability to wait, with the stillness of a stone, watching, stalking a gorse or a fleim, or some other beast, for long stretches, with greater concentration to the task than his father had known in other boys of similar age.

They were soon locked in stalemate it seemed, Gargaron and this demon thing. Gargaron dared not take his eye from it. And yet, he were conscious of the fact that this were perhaps another ploy, to distract Gargaron whilst another beast snuck up silently from behind him. Regardless of his Nightface's recent failing, he put faith in it to inform him if and when something of that nature transpired.

It were scantly lit beneath the copse; the rain had turned away at last but clotted, thunderous cloud clogged the sky and thus Gohor and Melus remained veiled. Gargaron dared not move, crouched where he were, clasping his sword in both fists. His eyes focused primarily on the shape that hung there in the morning gloom; still, impulses had his sight flicking left and right, on the lookout for any more of these hidden creatures.

As it were, he would've had trouble seeing anything crouched in amongst the remainder of the copse but when he removed his eye from the creature it shifted quickly. As if it had been waiting for that exact moment. And when he looked back, it had gone.

His hearts beat loud in his ears, his eyes darted to and fro, nervously scouring every shadow, every beech tree.

Suddenly there it were, half the distance closer to him.

He gasped.

But then frowned. And blinked. And ultimately lowered his sword.

7

It were no more monster than he, it seemed. It were but a giant's horse. With two heads like those used by the Autumn Guard. Yet, that were not all. A rider hung from its saddle, caught by his leg, dangling there, his arms and fingers dragging through sodden grass, sodden hair covering his face.

The horse snorted. Gargaron straightened to his full height. He looked around, still suspecting a trap. As such he did not yet sheath his sword. He kept it gripped in hand. Though he hoped the steed would not be spooked by it. If this were no trap, if this animal sought friendly company, then he did not wish it to bolt. It were, after all, the first living horse he had met since before this blight fell. And besides, there were someone in its saddle, someone who looked in need of help. And someone who potentially carried information about what had become of this part of the world. And crucially, may have knowledge of how it might be rectified.

When the horse made no move toward him, Gargaron felt he had no choice but to sheathe his sword. Though he sent a clear mental message to his Nightface: Keep vigilant. This may be an ambush. Watch for anything approaching.

He raised his hand to the twin-headed horse, gesturing that he were no threat. The horse whickered from both mouths, but did not retreat, nor turn away. All its ears flickered, listening, listening...

Gargaron looked about, wondering if the steed had heard something. He saw nothing. Nor did his Nightface. He gazed back at the horse and tread slowly to it. 'Be calm,' he spoke to it softly, 'be calm, I mean you no harm.'

As he drew closer he reached out his fingers and gently touched the long smooth snout of the head closest him, patting it softly, murmuring to it the way his father had done to calm the wild stallions of Chayosa. The second head swung in his direction, and all four eyes focused on his for a while.

'I mean you no harm,' Gargaron told it softly. 'Hear me now, I speak true.'

The beast did not flinch at his touch, not even after he lifted his free hand to the other face. Indeed the majestic creature demonstrated signs that it accepted Gargaron, bowing its heads into his touch in almost a gesture of affection.

Gargaron took this moment to place his forehead first against one long sodden snout held gently in his palms, and then the other. As he did the steed's eyes closed softly. Gargaron projected a mental impression of friendship, of peace, and of good will.

When he removed his head from the steed's it lowered both its noses and nuzzled his neck.

Its swift affection toward him surprised him. He had apples in his sack with which he supposed he might use on gaining its trust, though it seemed almost unnecessary now. Still, he removed two and offered them. As the steed sniffed the offerings and then took them, crunching them heartily and noisily in both its mouths, Gargaron stood there ruminating on what he had presently "seen" within the steed's minds. Delving into the thoughts of animals were akin to deciphering an unlearned foreign language. And there were much hidden there in the minds of this majestic creature that he could not decipher. Yet what he had interpreted with some confidence were that this steed had indeed come from the Watchguard of Autumn. A destrier, it were, a warhorse. It had seen battle, and it would not flinch in a fight.

Gargaron had also learned its name.

'Grimah,' Gargaron said and both heads of the steed swung about to look at him. 'So, that be your name. Grimah.' He rubbed its noses and it lowered its heads enjoying the attention.

Still, Gargaron remained puzzled. If this were indeed a destrier of the Watchguard, be that Autumn's or some other garrison, then it should have been suitably trained, which meant it should have displayed a healthy distrust of strangers.

Were Gargaron to believe that the current circumstances had driven this steed to loneliness? That it had actively sought company?

He tried not think too much about it. Besides, the fate of its rider tugged increasingly at his curiosity.

Slowly, he reached out and took hold of the reigns. And found the steed Grimah willing to be lead back toward the bed of glowing coals where last night's flames had roared.

8

Gargaron tethered the horse to a tree and untangled its rider, dragging him down upon the grass at fireside. This rider, although having mounted a giant's horse, were not of the giants, Gargaron now discovered. The rider were tall and fair, with pale white skin. And it were not until Gargaron had smoothed the hair from his face did he realise two things: the rider were no male. It were a woman. And she were an elf, born and grown.

Is this why my Nightface did not react with alarm? he wondered. It did not sense her as a threat?

'Do you hear me?' he asked her closely. 'Come now, do you hear me, pray tell?' He put his ear to her chest. There came back the slow tick of her heart. He took her hand and patted it, lightly slapping her cheek. He even took his gourd and poured water upon her face. 'Come now, awaken.'

Nothing roused her. He peeled back her eyelids, her soft green eyes blankly gazing up at him. He poked a firm twig at them, a trick he had watched his father perform on the Liilaal, beings who could trick you into thinking they were all but dead. The elven woman however did not flinch, did not react one bit.

Gargaron turned to campfire, stoking its embers, dropping on dry kindling. When flames licked up about the crisp wood he heated some Lyfen Essence into a revitalising broth, something that ought chase off death and lift her from her unconsciousness. He lifted it to her lips. He crouched, gently held back her head, pushed her mouth open, tipped a few drops of the tincture upon her tongue. She did not need swallow it. The healing properties would be absorbed though her mouth. Gargaron had seen this brew work on many who had lost consciousness in battle, those who had been injured whilst hunting, those stricken with sickness, those who were suffering from the crushing effects of advancing death.

He lay her back down. She breathed still but nothing more. He touched her forehead. The backs of her hands. She felt biting cold. He dragged her closer to fire's edge, let its warmth reach out and drape her.

Often the brew could take its time. So he waited.

9

He inspected the steed. Despite the death of nearly every creature he had come across since Hovel, this animal looked in fine health. It confirmed his suspicions. That he had come to the edge of the death zone. That beyond here the world went on as it always had; by now folk would surely be gossiping about the strange phenomenon that had stricken his part of Godrik's Vale.

He leafed through the saddle bags for any note as to the elf woman's identity. Except for a handful of provisions, the bags were empty. So who were she? How had she come to be here riding this war horse? Perhaps she had been part of a ranging mission. Come to inspect the Steppe, dispatched by her leaders to search for survivors, to build a picture as to exactly what had happened, to ascertain what were going on in case the greater realm might be under similar threat.

But by all appearances, whatever had stricken all living things had stricken her too.

Yet... for some reason it had not effected the steed...

The cloud mass began to clear, though it did not break up entirely; whilst Gohor and Melus remained concealed, their muted radiance managed to filter through somewhat and illuminate some patches of the Steppe. But as time drew on, the elf's condition did not improve. Her breathing slowed. Gargaron listened to her heart again. She should have come round by now, lifted to consciousness by the brew of Lyfen Essence. Yet he feared her heart had slowed far too much.

As a last resort he placed his forehead upon hers. Not something he were entirely comfortable doing. Many folk looked upon mind delving as a violation. And such an act could sometimes hinder and retard the delver. But perhaps this elf were now beyond offending or afflicting. Yet, if Gargaron learned through mind delving what ailed her, and if that knowledge in turn lead to her recovery, then she may prove forgiving.

However, as he sent his thoughts out into her mind, he saw nothing but blackness. A sorry sign. For it meant her spirit were already leaving her body and did not wish to return. He wondered if a Vannandal might help her at this point. If so, she were out of luck. He had not thought to pack one.

10

He watched her take her last breath three hours after she and her mount had found him. And as she passed on, grass sprouted up around her, flowers grew from her chest and face, and her entire body turned to stone.

There were no obvious injury or wound to tell Gargaron what had killed her. Naught but a simple abrasion to the side of her head. And only blackness from her mind when he had searched her thoughts.

Gargaron sat there and watched her where she lay now, forever entombed. He eyed her for a long while. He felt a sadness for her, a pity and a strange sense of emptiness. That she had come here and would not return alive to her kind and kin. He would notify the authorities in Autumn, of course. Her family would want to know what became of her. He would inform them of where she lay, he would tell them that if she had been part of a ranging mission then it had come to grief and that perhaps more members of her party had suffered the same fate.

Gargaron packed up his camp. Kicked out his fire. Then stood regarding his new friend. 'Well then,' he said. 'I'm for Autumn. Do you wish to accompany me?' As if understanding, Grimah stepped to him and affectionately nibbled his cheek. 'Should I take that as a yes?'

He unhitched his bull-hide pack from his shoulder and tied it to the side of Grimah's saddle. The steed did not object. Gargaron straightened the bridle and tightened its straps. Then he placed his boot in the stirrup, gripped the pommel and pulled himself into saddle.

For some reason he half expected the horse to rear up and buck him off. But Grimah remained placid, content. Gargaron reached forward, patting him on the backs of both necks. Then with one last look at the elf tomb he pulled the great steed around and trotted down out of Eastbourne Hills.

## AUTUMN

1

STICKING to Far Trail, the upper heights of Skytower, distant though it were, soon came into view. Buoyed by the sight Gargaron rode on with haste through Toadstool farms, where toadstools stood taller than even he. Gigantic looming fungal plants they were with immense canopies of purple and green. He looked up as his destrier trotted beneath them, their undersides lined with bumpy blue ribs. Gargaron wondered if toad worms still lived inside them, wriggling their shining blue bellies around the moist dark beds of toadstool flesh. The folk of this region farmed the nectar produced by those fat stinking worms. The most powerful aphrodisiac called Elluur it were and it fetched grand prices in the cities of Seagarrd and Ingarra.

He were half tempted to call out as he passed by farmsteads. To see if any folk still lived, to see who might respond. All farms hereabouts seemed far too quiet he felt. But he stayed his mouth for fear of alerting any of those peculiar Dark Ones, the sort of which he had spied howling about in morning's deluge. Ultimately, the fate of these farmers lay about him in plain sight. Some lay stinking, gathering flies and grass crabs on their porches. Others lay in their fields, their lips and eyelids already pecked off and eaten.

He knew then he had not yet freed himself entirely of this accursed death zone.

2

On Autumn's outskirts, where the view of Skytower stood ever prominent, Far Trail curved north and away toward the distant frontier post of Cidertown. Here Gargaron took the branching regional road for Autumn. Yet his hopes that he might have finally reached the outer fringe of his death zone soon looked dashed. For even here he should have come across signs of commerce, of folk manning road side stalls, people in and out of cheap Inns and the seedy brothels. But the living had deserted the roadway. Only the dead populated it now. As they did, he discovered, all the way to the centre of Autumn. Menfolk, womenfolk, children of countless numbers of species. Big and small. Rich, poor. No distinction, no discrimination. All equal now in death, all perished, all decaying. Some only half eaten, some mostly eaten, some torn from their shawls and dresses and breeches by greeps, mankks, skorks and every other known crawling, wriggling, slithering scavenger and carrion muncher that dwelt in the sewers and drains and ditches on the outskirts of these larger towns.

In some of the waterways he saw dead folk floating, black gutfish busy feasting upon them.

The stench in the air barraged him, as if invisible ghosts thrust it upon him, determined to turn him away, this living encroacher trespassing upon their newly established land of dead. He fetched his lavender cloth from his pack, dabbed it in fresh lavender oil, and tied it around his nose and mouth. Instead of raw stench of dead now, he could smell raw stench of dead over-laced with sweet musk of lavender. He were not certain the compromise were worth the effort.

Still, he pressed on, trying his best to ignore the reek. Perhaps beyond Autumn, there lies the edge to all this death. It were an optimistic forecast at best. But a new notion came to him: What say Autumn be its epicentre?

This revelation made him pull Grimah to a halt. Did this make sense? he wondered. Nothing had survived in Hovel. And little else had survived anywhere else that he had seen except for this end of the Steppe. If Autumn proved its epicentre then would it not stand to reason to find everything here perished? This were not the case as Gargaron had witnessed. Swimming gutfish, crawling greeps, slithering mankks, scrambling skorks, all alive and by all appearances thriving.

He had no explanation. None of it made sense.

He cast his eyes across the settlement to the Skysight Tower that dominated the townscape where it loomed far into the heavens like a tall untouched pinnacle. He felt it watched him in return somehow, watched him with quiet suspicion, how he, the realm's wandering survivor, standing there oh so conspicuous, still stood, still walked, while every other sentient soul rotted in the streets.

If this death zone includes Autumn, he thought, then that tower may tell me what I need to know, and might allow me to see how far this blackness spreads, allow me to discover how far I need yet traverse to rid myself of this corruption, to find some soul with an explanation as to what has happened.

3

Autumn did prove deserted of the living. No matter where he tread or searched, naught but the dead lined its streets and the stench of decay were ripe and raw on the breeze. Yet there were things alive here that brought him no cause for celebration. Enormous violet flowers growing from the dead.

Corpse Flowers, his kind knew them by name. And as he pressed on deeper into the township, their numbers grew, parts of the settlement looking more like forests of violet, with their towering stems soaring above many households and shops, leaves and flowers fluttering and swaying in the breeze.

Gargaron had not seen such numbers of these creatures for many a year, not since the early days of his marriage to his sweetheart Yarniya. He recalled an occasion when he and his father had come across a bloodied battle field and there he had lain his eyes on hundreds of such plants. Hundreds that had taken root within the dead and were hungrily consuming them. He thought he would never have seen such a show of them again in his life. But here, throughout the silent streets of Autumn, there must've been thousands.

Undeterred, he called out in front of the governor's residence, and searched the hospital. He strolled through the community hall, then the university, hoping he might find survivors holed up against this blight. All the while he gave the flowers a wide berth. But searching the town for survivors made no difference. Autumn proved as dead and silent as Hovel.

At last he stood outside the gates of Autumn's Watchguard, hoping that at last here would be living folk, members of the Watchguard, surviving against the tide of death. The Watchguard fort were a vast walled complex, for here were the barracks and the primary centre of control of the realm's mighty protectors. The complex also housed the base of Skysight Tower. Alas, Gargaron's hopes were sunk for the gates were cast open—something that would not have been permitted had the Watchguard remained alive and at their post.

He heeled his steed, cautiously pushing through gate and arch, and were met with the sight of a hundred of his own kind, giants, scattered about in various poses of death and decay. Some sprawled across cobbles. Others dangling from rampart and wall. Some still at desks within offices and administration houses, bellies eaten open, innards dragged out and unceremoniously pulled across tiled floor like stuffing from a doll.

And here amidst numerous Corpse Flowers, skorks and greeps hissed at his intrusion, black little devil bugs with beetle eyes and long slurping tongues. He had hoped for life here, sentient life, but alas all that seemed dashed.

4

He took his steed to base of tower. A spot upon which he had never stood. Indeed not being of the Watchguard, not possessing official clearance, he would not have been permitted here otherwise. And never would he have foreseen such a day when he could simply amble up to Watchguard Gate and simply stroll through unchallenged. Now here he stood, marveling at the craftsmanship of the tower, a true engineering wonder, gazing up and up and up... to where Skytower's upper floors needled the clouds.

He heeled his steed, circled the vast base of the tower; the clip-clop of Grimah's great horse's hooves echoing off the surrounding domed Watchguard buildings and its tall outer walls. Two arched gates, gates too left open and ajar, lead through fifty feet of base wall to an inner courtyard.

He took Grimah through and stood there gazing up into tower's tall, hollow interior. It were essentially a giant needle, he observed, hollow all the way to its tip, far out of sight above him; it ached his neck to crane back his head to look. He circled about looking for a way up.

There were more Corpse Flowers here too, he observed, growing up from corpses scattered around the pavers.

Gargaron considered the flowers.Then he pulled Grimah to a halt and promptly slid down from his steed. Before further business, he withdrew his great sword and strode about, unceremoniously hacking down every hideous violet flower where they had embedded themselves within the carcasses of his people. The flowers mewled horribly in protest as he did so, and spat out clouds of purple spore as they collapsed.

Gargaron stumbled backwards, mindful not to inhale whilst the spore clouds passed away upon air and breeze. He did not understand enough of their kind to know whether or not this spore could lodge within the lungs of the living and germinate. Some old stories alleged that they could. That they could spread disease such as Crimp Pox, and Creeping Sickness and Wailing Wounds. Gargaron did not wish to find out.

5

The going were slow. Not because of the horse. The great beast proved eager enough. Indeed the steed actually seemed quite at ease, as if it had climbed this ramp before, for it showed no fear with the heights they gained as they ascended the tower. Nor did it seem to mind the terrible wind gusts that wailed through the open walls, biting and tearing at Gargaron's cotton shirts and clawing at his hair, wind gusts that also caused the tower to sway.

Gargaron found this structural movement more than a tad disconcerting.

From a distance the Skysight Tower appeared a formidable piece of engineering, always imposing, magnificent, portraying the idea that nothing could shift it, move it, that it would stand until the last stars in the Great Nothing winked out. But here as Gargaron climbed it, the building felt suddenly imperfect, inadequate, compromised by his weight. And every time it moved he feared it was set to topple.

Why, it holds a hundred Watchguard giants at once, he reminded himself. And their steeds.

It did not seemed possible.

Still, the higher they climbed, the more the tower seemed to sway. To make matters worse, both inner and outer walls had been constructed at regular intervals with gaping floor-to-ceiling arched openings to allow a through-hole for buffeting gales—there existed no railing to prevent one falling out of the tower if one slipped or tripped. And nothing to prevent one's steed from charging out into open space if one's steed suddenly found itself spooked.

Gargaron had himself alternatively hauling Grimah left as one of these gaps came up on his right, or pulled his steed right as one emerged on his left. The steed however did its best to fight this pattern, pulling back as much as it could to the centre of the corridor as the floor (or skyramp as Gargaron had heard it named) wound up and up and up around the central well.

Gargaron, did not share its ease. 'I feel you have done this before,' he said to the horse. 'You must indeed be a steed of the Watchguard. Right then, I shall endevour to put my trust in you. Still, I have a proposal: you get me to the top and down again without falling out and the next load of apples we find I shall give you the king's share.'

And so on they went, guided by steed.

6

Gargaron tried his best not looking down. But mounted on Grimah, regardless of whether the horse were a trained mount of the Watchguard or not, eventually became too much. The skyramp would have been thirty or forty feet across, but from his vantage atop the horse it felt as though they were traversing naught but a narrow beam. Aye, Grimah seemed more than sure of himself upon that ramp, at those tall, tall reaches of the tower, but that dizzying height ate at Gargaron's waning confidence. So, finally, feeling vulnerable, unsafe, rocking there side to side on that great mount, gripping the reins till his knuckles hurt, he dismounted and chose to climb the remaining reaches on foot.

That felt somewhat safer. Slower aye, but safer. Though the winds seemed to buffet him with greater fervour now, as if angered by his decision to leave his mount, and they seemed to grow more and more frantic the higher he climbed. He hunched his shoulders and where he could he clasped the wall for support. And where the walls opened on either side, presenting him with giddy views on either side of the ground far, far below, he slowed to a crawl.

He would not now ever believe those stories he had heard of seasoned Watchguard members racing each other to the top of this tower on backs of gallant twin-headed steeds. 'Pure folly, if ever there were!' Gargaron hissed under his breath. And every now and then, his horse, who strolled casually ahead, apparently unafraid, would stop and peer about and Gargaron could have sworn it looked amused.

'Aye, if you could talk,' he said, 'you might be of a mind to let me know how silly I look. But laugh all you like. Just do not forget to ask yourself who shall be laughing more the harder once your eagerness takes you tumbling out over this treacherous edge?'

Frustrated, Gargaron crawled on belly to tower's inner edge and without meaning it he gazed down into the "well". The diametre of this "well" had been a hundred feet at ground level, and were growing steadily narrower the higher they went. But it made no difference to the level of his fear. It were still a mighty drop. The Corpse Flowers he had slain what felt like hours earlier still lay there at ground level, but so far away did they appear that they looked no more than a smudge of violet against the ground. Of course, his intention here had been not to look down but to try and search upwards, to gauge how far he yet had to climb. From where he lay, flat on his belly, this were a much harder action to conduct, to crane his chin and neck upwards, to strain his eyes in search of the pinnacle. The effect made it feel as though he were suddenly leaning precariously out over the vast drop below him, that the demon force that hauled all things to ground would grip him and pull him from the ledge. How he had ever stood with his toes over the edge of the Great Precipice were beyond him.

The Great Precipice did not sway beneath my feet, he told himself.

Vertigo swam through him and his fingers clamped against the edge of the skyramp, fingernails bending backwards with strain and effort.

Slowly he wriggled away from the edge, catching his breath. When he looked up he saw both faces of Grimah watching him.

'Laugh but once,' he told it, 'and I shall throw you from this infernal place myself!'

It did no laugh of course but Gargaron were certain it smiled.

7

It took Gargaron and steed another hour of slow, careful, plodding to reach the top. And it were with momentous relief that the skyramp finally came to end as the tower tapered to a point where a circular floor sat atop the well. Here the ramp culminated and Gargaron lead his steed onto the landing and tethered it to a hitching rail on a central column; here Grimah drank heavily from a trough filled with water.

'Is that why you felt the need for haste?' Gargaron said good naturedly, scratching it behind one set of ears and then the next. 'To reach water?'

He took his gourd from his belt and quenched his own thirst.

From there he took a few moments to catch his breath and take in his surroundings. He knew he were not yet at tower's roof. At least a level above him it remained, he judged. The platform on which he currently stood lay perhaps fifty feet across. There were no outer barrier, no wall nor rampart, nothing to prevent the hapless from tripping and falling out; just a series of eight columns supporting the higher deck. And a stairwell leading upwards.

'Stay here,' he ordered his horse. And wandered off toward the stairs.

8

Above he emerged onto another circular platform, the sky fine and high above him. Though it was difficult to do, he did his best to ignore the continued sensation of swaying. The winds, he found, helped distract him from that problem. They were chilly and bit at him and blustered his hair and ragged his clothing. At ground level such wind would not have concerned him. He may have declared it a mere breeze if someone had commented on it, but otherwise he would have paid it no mind. Up here, at what felt the top of the world, it seemed as though it worked at pushing him to the edge of the platform and over it if it could. He were pleased to observe that the edge of the platform had been constructed with a low rampart, that if the wind turned to gales and happened to heave him across the deck he would at least have somewhere to plant his boots and rally himself against its efforts.

Unless his weight helped tip the structure...

Enough thoughts like that! he told himself.

He turned his attention to the Skysight. It consisted of a brass mast protruding from the centre of the platform, jutting straight up into the heavens for another three hundred feet or so. He had never used the Skysight, obviously, but had heard many times of its make-up and usage. Within the mast there were said to be a pipe of polished Lhulic, steel made from metals mined on sites out near Graveston, and hidden within this pipe lay an intricate conglomeration of mirrors and copper tubing which worked in conjunction with an enchanted Eye of Moonglass that could scour the Vale thousands of leagues in any direction. The contraption had been designed, engineered, constructed, and erected entirely by giant magers.

The base of the mast were suspended on a steel basket whose struts ran down diagonally into the stonework of the platform. This left a space within the basket large enough to permit someone of Gargaron's size, as it had been designed. For there, on a circular dais, sat a large metal seat. Above the seat, suspended from the base of the mast, were a sight-helmet with a flexible brass hose attached to a wide cup which enveloped the entire forward part of the helmet.

Gargaron ducked beneath the basket's support struts and fitted himself into the seat. He found it rather comfortable, leather bound and padded beneath. He reclined. He took hold of the helmet. He took a breath...

And without further hesitation he pulled it down over his head.

## SKYSIGHT

1

FOR a long while it were dark. He saw nothing. He sat a few moments, waiting for something to happen.

Soon... he saw light.

Blurred, indistinct light.

And then...a sensation of movement, of rushing toward something at tremendous speed and then halting abruptly, and instantaneously the blurred light coalesced into mountains so crisp and close before him he felt as though he truly hovered in the air before them.

The effect were dizzying, nauseating. And so unsettling Gargaron went to remove his helmet. He gripped the mechanism encasing his head. But hesitated... For his giddiness were beginning to subside. And he began to feel something else.

Awe.

He felt bird-like, hovering there, staring at the mountains. He looked down. And saw ground far, far below him: rain swept fields and glacial valleys, and the meandering grey course of some cold trickling brook. Somehow he did not fear the height. He felt free, and were almost convinced that he could not possibly be seated in some chair at the top of Skysight Tower, that he must have fallen asleep in that chair and carried away on some dream.

If he looked left and right he saw the mountain range sweeping away in both directions. He found he could turn fully about and view heather clad hills and a lake to what he guessed lay southways of him. He could hear the lonesome wind rolling out of the mountains. He could feel the biting chill of alpine air against his skin, in his hair, burrowing into his clothes; the smell of it proved crisp and fresh, he filled his lungs with it.

At length he hovered there. Looking about. He soon realised, other than turning about, he had not moved from this position.

He turned about again. The mountains swung back into view. He wondered distantly if he had somehow died. Perhaps the Tower had collapsed. Or maybe the Skysight had sapped up his soul and spat it out across the Vale. Now he were but a wandering spirit. No legs below him. No torso. No arms either side of him. He were but a simple consciousness, an entity of pure thought floating somewhere out over Godrik's Vale's vast reaches.

If this is death, he thought, then I fear it not.

The notion of his own possible death took his thoughts to the Great Precipice. A pang of sadness, of guilt and anger, hit him. He could not help but think of igniting his girls and watching them trail away with Vurah's Wraithbirds...

In moments the mountains were rushing from him, hurtling northways'n'west. Fast.

Or, more likely, he were being dragged southways'n'east. A sea-sickness gripped him. The world about him degenerated into a murky blur.

2

He had a sense of turning. Not spinning, but turning, changing directions. Instead of facing northways, he were being reoriented, rotating to face eastways while still being pulled southways'n'east through cloudy skies and patches of rain.

The blur before him soon grew brighter. But there came no refined detail, just a brighter blur, as of a bright light beyond a fog, as opposed to a weak light.

If this is death then perhaps I am now on my way to the Afterworlds.

But just as soon as it had begun, the sensation of movement instantly subsided and his belly stopped lurching.

Again, as before, the light before him started to find shape and form until he realised he hovered high and higher above a vast, vast valley. Rimming this valley were something of an escarpment wall that dropped away to valley floor beyond sight.

At first he were uncertain as to what he were looking at. Until he recognised particular creatures hanging from caves in the cliff face. Hands of Teyesha. Native to the Great Precipice. Though all dead they were, their huge vacant eyes gazing down into Endworld, their wrists both wrinkled and bloated, while rotting bodily fluids dripped out of them.

It saddened Gargaron, although he had guessed their fate when he had left this place. And now, in some form or other he had returned. It both hurt and warmed his heart. For here he felt close to his girls. Here he knew, to find them, all he need do were step off the rocky lip... and tumble down and down and down...

Considering the Lost Cities of men, he gazed into Endworld's depths, and before he knew it, he were gliding down past Precipice's Edge, gliding down and down...

A ringing in his thoughts began to bring everything to blackness. A ringing that burrowed deeper and deeper into his mind the closer to Endworld he drew. Breathing grew difficult. And then he did not breathe at all. He felt he were holding his breath at the bottom of some deep black pond. He needed desperately to swim up for air.

In his mind he clawed against the cliff face, grabbing anything that would gain him purchase. The ringing were now a wail through his skull. And still he could not breathe, could not scream nor roar nor cry. Nothing. Just a simple, awful feeling of suffocation.

If this is death then perhaps I am being delivered to Xahghis, Afterworld Goddess of eternal pain.

The rotting Hands of Teyesha snagged against him, the fingers of rotting meat sliding over him, as if this time they did not wish to aid his rise back up the wall but to hinder it, to push him down.

He not only felt them, he could smell them, the sweet rank odour of death and corruption. It filled his lungs with every inhalation, every intake of breath felt like sucking in hot gummy liquid that left a taste of bad, wormy fruit in the back of his mouth. He heard himself gasping, spluttering, gagging. He saw nothing in front of him but rancid flesh in the empty root-toothed faces as they slowly smothered him.

He were beyond desperate now. He were frozen with sheer panic. Before his eyes, winged angels arose. Vurah's Wraithbirds. Come to take his burning corpse...

Then he remembered...

Remembered where he were...

...sitting atop Skysight Tower.

It took mighty conscious effort but he saw himself reaching his hands to his head...

...and wrenching off the helmet that engulfed him.

3

Away from chair and its dangling helmet, he lay upon cold platform sucking in fresh chilled wind, gazing up into blue nothing, his field of view broken only by the occasional drifting cloud. He pondered a memory. Something someone had told him once. He could not recall who. His father? Some old acquaintance? Something he had heard in some far off Inn on some holiday or hunting excursion?

Those who sit beneath the Skysight are no common folk from the street. They are trained in its use.

His ignorance (or his forgetfulness) had almost dashed him. He had presumed the Skysight to be nothing more than a spyglass. Aye, one that stood a hundred thousand times larger than those with which he were accustomed, but a spyglass all the same.

His gaze strayed back to its mast. He did not presume to understand its mechanics any more than he had before he had joined with it. At least now though, he knew something of its effects, and from that he might deduce a little of how it may be operated, or "piloted".

He had seen mountains first. Somewhere to the north he guessed. He could not name which range they might have been. There were several spines that crossed Godrik's Vale in that direction. And from his current vantage all were out of sight beyond haze and horizon. At a guess he might say he had seen the Firehound Range. Which, by steed, if you took Far Trail all the way to its end point, you would pass through within three or four days.

Even that seemed incredible. That his sight had traveled so far.

His next "destination" had been the Precipice overlooking Endworld. He had merely thought of his loved ones and somehow the Skysight had transported him there. He could not explain what had happened beyond that. Sensations of suffocation. The need to climb the Precipice and be away from Endworld. The hands of Teyesha clawing at him, smothering him. And the Wraithbirds beckoning him. Or had manning the Skysight altered his mentality somehow, had the sheer act of trying to operate such a device with an untrained mind simply been too much? That he had perhaps lost consciousness and in doing so, had begun to dream.

Gazing up at the Skysight he felt it now gazed back at him, a teacher pondering a student after some humbling lesson. Some living entity left behind after the Watchguard had perished.

This contraption could send one mad, Gargaron thought.

Unless one disciplines the mind, a voice seemed to come back at him on the wind.

He would thus take his time. Give the Skysight its due respect. His initial response after breaking his bond with Skysight were to flee it. And perhaps that were part of its maker's intentions. If he had been up here on some idle flight of whimsy then he would gladly have licked his wounds and left. But his need to view other regional giant settlements (Darkfort, Mount Destruction, Horseshoe of the Downs) ate at him with such hunger that he would chance Skysight again—he simply needed to know if folk still existed in these places. He would this time however employ the patience of his honed hunter's mind.

And he would prevail or would be sent insane.

4

Once more, he sat beneath Skysight, helm and cup dragged over head and face.

Before this second attempt though he sat and meditated. He were aware the day were wearing on, and Gohor and Melus beginning to wane. He had distantly considered the prospect of having to descend the tower after sun fall with naught but his lantern to guide him. One saving grace would be that, after the daylight hours, distance to ground would be obscured and lost mostly from sight and mind. Well... perhaps not entirely from mind. It would be there, he knew, in the form of darkness, a gaping, beckoning lightless reminder of what lay beyond the unwalled portions of skyramp. The prospect did not warm his heart. The lonely tower would be a hundredfold more lonelier at night he wagered, with naught but wind and dark for company. And that gaping void like a soundless siren; and the wind a whispering ghost, inviting him to stray closer to perilous edge, inviting him to search for possible lights of settlement and habitation out there in the lands about: Come closer, come closer, seek kin or friend out there in the night, I promise I will not reach up from below with cold bony claws and yank you from safety. I promise, I promise...

There be also the prospect of those Dark Ones, he thought.

He most certainly did not wish to encounter such beasts in the wee hours of night, especially during descent. Were they to scramble up tower they would make his difficult trek to its base all the more treacherous.

But... for now he would not allow himself consider the coming dusk or the night hours crawling up behind it. If need be I shall spend the sunless hours atop this tower, sway or no sway. I have company besides, a steed I did not know a day or two ago, and therefore shall not be entirely alone. But I will not chance a descent until the dawn fires rise in the west.

And so he focused his mind.

5

When he felt he were ready, he invested a few moments concentrating on Mount Destruction. The name did the place no justice he always felt. Of all giant settlements Mount Destruction were most picturesque. The folk there had taken trees for homes and pubs and shops; those colossal alpine boabs that grew along the mountains in mighty woodlands had, in the area of Mount Destruction at least, been tunneled and hollowed and filled with bed chambers and larders, kitchens and dining rooms, all fitted with windows and verandahs. Hundreds there were of these enormous abodes forming lush tree lined streets and lanes, and on winter days, smoke from warm fireplaces drifted out of chimney spouts that exited the boab trunks high up near their canopies. And the entire settlement, though spread out across a spacious vale, had a feeling of being compact and cosy.

Mt Destruction's animist cathedral were no exception. It bragged the oldest and grandest boab. A mighty tree whose base were spread out across as much ground as the entire village of Hovel. It stood at town centre and much of it had been hollowed to permit worshipers, its mighty snaking root systems forming natural arched doorways. And inside there were its tall sacrificial posts, and a peace Gargaron had rarely experienced in any other spiritual house that giants had ever shaped or constructed.

Gargaron now visualised this cathedral, and so too its surrounding boab-tree abodes and pubs, and before he knew it there came that unmistakable sensation that he were moving. Rushing away from Autumn, eastways.

Again he saw naught but a blur. But here, unlike earlier, he concentrated his mind on the light beyond the blur and slowly it refined.

Soon he bore witness to the world sweeping away beneath him. Chandry's Steppe came and went below as if he were but a house fly zooming over the surface of a table map. He were soon nearing Buccuyashuck River. And when he saw it he noticed its waters had reverted from rot black to clear, reflecting the blue of the sky. And here his mental visualisation of Mount Destruction waned and he found instead pictures of Hovel had overrun them. Thus his velocity decreased and he found himself veering southways along the river.

If our river has spat out its poison, he thought, then perhaps Hovel has done likewise. Mayhaps folk from Mt Destruction or Darkfort have come by to check on our welfare.

6

Hovel loomed. And in seconds Gargaron's momentum ceased. Again came that awful feeling of his belly lurching into his throat. He fought it. Would not let it overwhelm him. This time it settled far more quickly than it had prior.

Gargaron floated above his village. He gazed down, looking about, longing for folk on the streets, for shoppers at the market square, the sound of hammers at the blacksmiths, the squeal of bleeding, dying moorhens in the slaughter house. He desperately wanted to see Veleyal skipping down the cobbled street with her friends, and Yarniya calling for order where she sat aboard the rowdy council in the community hall.

Sadly it were not to be. It were how he had left it. Empty. Silent. Abandoned. He would have taken hope even to sight Hoardogs sniffing about. Or carrion lizards. Or buzzing sucky flies.

Still, he looked about in earnest, even lowering himself to ground level, floating about the streets as might some invisible wraith, looking for any sign that would suggest someone or something alive, that Hovel's mysterious demise had been nothing but some wild nightmarish fantasy. Or perhaps there could be a trace of someone with aid or answers having visited Hovel in his absence. But no. It remained empty of life. Naught but carcass of ornithen, gorbull, horse, and the charred mound of ash and bone where he had set alight his fellow village folk days before.

He could look no more. He felt betrayed by it somehow. That it were Hovel's fault, that Hovel were in fact laughing at him mockingly. That there had been some mass secret, held by all but him.

7

As a floating consciousness, he drifted away from Hovel and Summer Woods and soon even the Buccuyashuck river canyon had vanished from view. Eastways'n'north there were mountains, the Scarecrow Range, and it filled his view now as he soared toward it, their jagged white peaks poking the heavens. Some claimed the Scarecrow were so tall and immense that during certain orbital phases, one could simply climb up and step off onto a passing moon. Amidst it somewhere, the city of Mt Destruction lay in a vast alpine valley, an ancient crater filled now with exotic plant and wildlife.

The slopes rushed by beneath him like waves, slopes laden with bracken, heather and fern. He saw no living thing. Naught but carcasses of grass kraken (a species who had long ago left the seas) and mountain goat and colossal twin-headed rock serpents. And over the jagged crest of Lower Crow (where the towering rock spines had been carved out to represent the five Goddess's of D'Ileron) he saw herds of downed mammoth, and decimated prides of sabre tooth, and families of shaggy alpine gorilla all wiped out.

The mighty spires of Mt Destruction's tree cathedral swam soon into view before him and within a moment or two his movement halted and there he floated above a city he had not visited in two summers. Northways'n'east the bulk of the mountain range loomed as a defiant block of grey and blue against Cloudfyre's eastwun horizon, its towering snow laden peaks, flirting with realm of moon and sun.

Of Mt Destruction itself, he could almost not bear to look. As he sunk beneath the leafy branches of boab trees, he found a city of giant corpses littering the streets in their thousands.

If it were not for the eerie whisper of wind, the place would have had about it the silence of a tomb.

Gargaron felt a need to depart immediately. But he did not. If he himself had survived this puzzling affliction then why not someone else? He forced himself to float amongst the streets, to roam the lanes, fixing his mind to find any survivors, hoping the Skysight would pick up on his intention and deliver him to his quarry.

But... it did not happened. If any had survived here they had either vacated or had since perished.

8

With heavy heart he turned his thoughts now to Horseshoe of the Downs. Picturing Luasha: its river lands and its cascading falls. And in no time... Mt Destruction were swallowed up behind him as Skysight sent him southways. In no time Lower Crow came and went, and away went the mountain slopes cut with a hundred streams and brooks feeding the rivers of the lowlands.

The flint coloured mountains gave way to verdant wetlands as Gargaron flew across them. He were at last beginning to relax with the mechanics of Skysight, he felt, some small part of him even marveling at how wonderful it were to observe his world in this fashion. With the freedom of an ornithen.

Horseshoe Of The Downs lay on a vast stone shore at the base of the mighty Horseshoe Falls. The Falls, a league or two in height, cascaded down about the misty city from its northwun face in a horseshoe formation where a number of rivers and tributaries converged. The architects of Horseshoe had incorporated the northwun section of the falls into Horseshoe's cathedral. A mighty flute atop the cathedral had been constructed around the falls, so that cascading water plummeted against a granite floor inside the cathedral's main hall and from there water splashed and roared and swirled away into canals running down the inner flanks of the building, past the sacrificial posts, and out through a series of water-stairs situated either side the enormous main doors.

The township itself lay spread out before the cathedral, countless small buildings built along a series of curved terraced rows, that all faced the holy building; it gave the impression of a congregation of smaller, lesser beings bowed down before some revered entity.

Gargaron felt his heart sink as he approached the city. At first he drifted downwards and hovered there above the cathedral. He were sickened at the sight of bodies gushing over the falls and splatting hard against the granite floor, piling on top of each other like fish tipped from a fisherman's net. The cathedral were fast filling with them. Logjams were building at its open arched doorways where arms, legs, heads, and torsos from any number of animals and people were being squished and mashed together.

Sickened, Gargaron turned his attention on the city itself. Could anyone have survived here? he wondered. And if they had, why would they remain here? This were a charnel house now. A nightmare from which there were nothing to do but flee.

He did not linger. He conducted his search methodically but quickly, sweeping the streets for any possible living remnant, and then, having found none, he sped with haste away from there, his thoughts reeling, haunted.

9

He felt sickened. Not this time from Skysight's effects. The dead deserved better than to be flung off some waterfall, piling into each other, burying each other inside some cathedral. It had been a sickening sight. One that rattled him, angered him.

Naught can be done for them, he told himself. Should you get to the bottom of this mystery, should you help right this part of Godrik's Vale, you may return and give these folk the burial they deserve. For now though... you have work to do.

He thought about this as the world rushed by beneath him, as he built in his mind thoughts of his next destination: Darkfort nestled amidst Forever of Bleakstone. Was this what Yarniya had meant then, in his dream? You have work here first. That he were tasked with finding the cause of this strange blight and putting it to rights?

The idea seemed to give him a sense of purpose. And perhaps if it be some dark enchantment, then mayhaps it might be overturned, even reversed. There had been any number of such documented cases throughout history. Enchantments or curses, engineered by some warlock or witch or sorcerer, that had been countered or overridden, and thus damage and mischief caused by them put to rights where it could.

The most well-known of these were the Fleshlust Curse contrived by the rogue witch Tanamii. She had kidnapped Mary of the White Cross, a young princess, daughter of the line of Drufaux Kings. Tanamii flayed some skin from the young princess's arm, and boiled it up sewn into the belly of a leech toad. Once she had consumed it she took on the princess's appearance, adopting also her memories.

Tanamii, in the guise of Mary of the White Cross, returned to Seawatch castle, stumbling at the gates, feigning weakness and injury. When castle sentries saw her they rushed to her aid, carrying her to castle infirmary.

When she recovered she took from a dark cavity in the side of her chest a vial of Fleshlust blood and force-fed it to her chamber maid.

In a day Seawatch castle had overrun with flesh eating undead. Yet Tanamii's ultimate ambition were to have her minions eat their way across Godrik's Vale so that she might rule and plunder all. She got as far as capturing three neighbouring villages before combined enchantments by giant Magers and Sagetown sorcerers saw her minions revolt and turn against her, the Fleshlust dying with her.

Perhaps if Gargaron could find the source of this blight, he might be able to overturn it as his kind and the sorcerers had once done to Tanamii.

10

Eastways he "flew", the rivers vanishing behind him. With the Scarecrow Range at his back constantly bordering his northways view, the hills of Forever became slowly more prominent. The greenery of Luasha began to fade. Elevated land and rocky outcrops began to appear. Lush grass gave way to spiky straw coloured spinifex. And in the stretches between the spinifex, the earyth were characterised by the black dirt and rock of this region. Bleakstone.

Below Gargaron, a cobbled road meandered. And countless bodies littered it all the way into Darkfort. After the other settlements, he had expected no less. But there had always been hope that the next city would prove the exception. Sadly, so far Darkfort were no different.

Darkfort lay amongst a series of ancient hills that had been carved thousands of years gone into three dozen pyramids. They had eroded at the edges, and had sprouted bony white trees. But the carved ancient symbols whose meaning had been lost to knowledge when the Juuga, the pyramid builders, died out, still stood stark along the flanks of each structure.

It were said this language were without record, without trace anywhere in all of Cloudfyre. Some with more wild imaginations claimed they were symbols of a lost alien race that what were written here were a secret message for starmen who might one day return. There were some who believed that the Juuga themselves were starmen, and that they had grown sick of Cloudfyre and they had upped and left and what were written there were but parting expletives.

Darkfort's cathedral were a pyramidal structure designed to reflect its immediate surrounds. The only difference being it stood taller and wider than the ones the Juuga had left. And at four hundred years, it were also considerably younger. Also, unlike its neighbours, it did not carry the same mysterious hieroglyphics. Instead it carried depictions of the sand goddess Skalla. And there she stood, carved from a monumental chunk of bleakstone atop the cathedral. So tall and stark were she that folk from Gargaron's village claimed that on a clear Summer's day, standing on the escarpment overlooking Hovel, one could spot her.

Gargaron slowed and hovered there in the air above the settlement. He saw naught but corpses. These included pilgrims, by the looks, for he counted many several species of folk. Darkfort were known for its influx of travelers from realms near and far, from the Outlands, from the sky-cities of Freiyfall and Oppaarra, some even from across the raging seas, a journey made only by the foolhardy or the very brave. Makeshift camps were a common sight on the fringes of Darkfort. Some yurts still stood. Others had been torn away by wind and gale; these flapped and whipped against spinifex or snagged amidst bleakstone or spindle tree.

The well-worn path, Pilgrim's Way, meandered through the pyramid hills toward the Gates of Forever, a colossal stone gate guarded by dormant Monyyt sentries, etched with the same hieroglyphs that featured on the surrounding structures. Flower offerings and sacrificial corpses hung from pikes around it. Slaughtered squid giants, brought by coastal folk, hung from pegs upon the gate. Before this devastating blight, Gargaron had witnessed such sacrifices swarming with flies and carrion bats. But there were naught of the sort this day. The same went for every corpse his eyes found. And unlike Autumn, there were no corpse flowers here. As there had been none in Horseshoe or Mount Destruction.

Be this a positive sign? he wondered. He were too perplexed, too jaded to distinguish.

The Gates of Forever were currently closed. Its strange and unholy breech in the fabric of reality locked away. There, in days before this blight, brave souls―or senseless fools, depending on how you looked at it―would chance their fate and cross into other worlds. Sometimes returning. Sometimes not. Gargaron had once purchased a book said to have been sought from another plane of reality, pulled back into Cloudfyre through the portal. Strangeworld, it were called. An expensive heirloom but oh, how it spoke of strange wonders from a distant garden across the Great Nothing.

11

Here, Gargaron wondered what he should do next. While he had access to Skysight he thought it would be worthwhile to search much and more. The capitols, for example. Dunforth. Blakanz. And the northlands. Far beyond the mountains. Where Eilophi Swamp and the Deserts of Gahndor met the Jagged Sea. And the westwolds, where folk told tales of ancient lizards that still walked the land, gargantuan beasts that could gobble up a giant in a single bite. And Jade Deep, the Green Sea, a vast ocean of frozen wastes whose depths were unknown to anyone but the green ghost squid who lived to pull down all those who would sail upon her. There were cities in or upon her shores. Cities he had never seen. Never dreamt of seeing. And what of the realms across the waves? Continents and islands beyond count. How far would he need take the Skysight? How far had this blight spread?

For a long while he hovered over Darkfort. Wondering. Wondering what next to do. How long would he need concentrate his thoughts? How long before exhaustion got the better of him and Skysight ate away his untrained mind?

I must continue my search. I must. If I be sent insane then perhaps that shall be a sweet end to all this.

So... he concentrated his mind.

And started with the capitols...

## THE GOAT'S HEAD

1

BY the time Gargaron tumbled from Skysight's pilot chair, star and moon gazed down upon him.

Death, he thought. All there be, is death unbound.

He lay there, on his back, arms at his sides. He felt as though he had swum across a wild river, one with raging and twisting torrents, one that had dunked him beneath its frothing rapids, one that had tried its best to ring the breath from him. Now he simply lay there... as if rendered mindless, drained of all feeling, yet unable to find sleep.

His eyes gazed out at the Great Nothing. A strange name for it, he found himself thinking distantly, and not for the first time. For it were obviously filled with countless cosmic night fires. Such peace though, he thought. Such silence it is filled with. As silent as all the gods of Cloudfyre, it would seem.

Death Unbound.

Has this blight come from out there? Has it been visited upon us by one of those mysterious starmen?

Another thought occurred to him then. Has this blight spread beyond Cloudfyre? He half expected to see the fires out there begin blinking out one by one, then two by two, and three by three and in ever increasing number until nothing but the endless, eternal void looked back.

Then it would be called the Great Nothing.

He felt now he were looking down rather than up. That the deck at his back were a ceiling upon which he were somehow suspended. That at any moment his body might peel from skytower and he would simply fall away into the universe. He felt like there were naught to stop his fall should that occur. The blue sky, the clouds, all had vanished with the setting of the suns. It seemed there were now clear passage down into the Great Nothing if he wanted it.

He felt his eyes closing...

He forced them open.

And they shut again.

At last his body peeled away... and he fell...

2

He recalled no dreams but a dream of bringing his daughter to life, her eyes snapping open. And then he remembered Yarniya sitting beside him remarking on morning's sunrise and Veleyal, alive and breathing, over by a low hedgerow of Brawny Twisters, gazing west, holding her plaited pigtails out of her face as the gentle wind tugged at them.

You have work here yet.

Curiously, he looked across at his wife as she spoke these words and he asked her this time, 'What do you mean by this, my sweet?'

She smiled as Veleyal called to them both. 'Melus follows Gohor,' their daughter called. 'Come look. It is beautiful.'

'Yarniya,' he said as she rose and strolled to Veleyal's side. 'Yarniya, what do you mean, pray tell.'

'Dada,' Veleyal implored him, 'come look. You must.'

He walked to their sides and beheld a sight he had never imagined. The two suns occupied the same hemisphere. It had never been known. They were closer than he had ever seen them. Aye, it were beautiful, the colours they sent out across the haze and mist of morning were but a radiant rainbow, but alas it were also somehow frightening.

He turned to his wife, this time to ask her if she thought it strange, the positioning of the suns, but she stood there no more. And Veleyal too had gone.

Cassahndia, the mischievous Goddess of Dreams, were teasing him he knew now. The ruse though were like nails in his heart.

3

He were still atop Skysight. And as he had observed in his dream, sun fires of morning were lighting the heavens. And not only that but his great, two-headed steed, were standing there at down-ramp to lower deck, watching him curiously as if enquiring, Are we vacating this wretched spot yet or no?

It took Gargaron time gathering himself that morning. He sat there at first staring at the etched portrait of he and Veleyal and Yarniya. He touched the fine grooves in the stone with his fingertips. Tear drops spilt from his eyes, splashing against the likenesses of his dear girls, teardrops that converted instantly to glowing wisps that flurried away on the breeze. He watched them go and it brought his gaze to the sunrise. Here he blinked as he peered out across the eastwun sky. The two suns did look awkwardly close, he thought. It looked wrong. He would have paid it more scrutiny yet he found his mind still distracted by all he had seen through Skysight.

When he finally pulled himself to his weary feet, he did so with all the pain and feebleness of a giant a hundred years his senior. He strolled to the down-ramp. Without any word or enthusiasm he took the horse's reins. He climbed up into the saddle and without care, he let the steed take him where it would.

4

It were with indifference that he descended Skytower. Deflated and without care. Unlike his ascent, he cared not for the sheer drop-offs. For all he had seen, Godrik's Vale had fallen to this blight. All he had seen were death. Why then did he need live? If the steed stumbled and took them both out into freefall, then what did he care? Death would rush up to welcome him. And he would welcome it.

5

Morning's shadows were still cast long and slim when he and steed reached ground and made their way from the Watchguard fort and out into the street. He took a breath and looked about as if he had just awoken, surprised somehow that he had actually reached ground safely.

With the sunlight against his face Gargaron gazed up and up and up. The top of Skysight seemed impossibly far away, and impossibly small and impossibly fragile. The horse came to a standstill and it were a few moments before Gargaron realised they were no longer moving. He drew in a long breath and looked about. Empty streets abounded, overlapped by silence. Nothing stirred but for lonely breezes sifting through loose refuse tipping along the cobblestones. Corpse Flowers remained in abundance. Gargaron believed he could hear them murmuring to each other. An ugly sound, he thought, the sounds of death, of scheming, of conspiracy. An odour wafted on the cool, dry air, an odour of spoilt meat. Many bodies were bloated or bloating, causing limbs to defy gravity, poking out parallel to the roadway. It were a depressing sight. Gargaron would not allow his gaze to linger upon them. In the end, the presence of Corpse Flowers almost proved a godsend, for their black roots and violet petals did well enough to wrap and conceal the carcasses.

Gargaron breathed in. And out. The air were laced with the foul reek of rot. Yet he were conscious of the sounds of his respiration. I am all that breathes.

He felt at a loss about what to do, where to go. There seemed little point to anything.

'I should have thrown myself down to Endworld when I had the chance,' he murmured.

You have work here first.

'I hardly care,' he heard himself reply.

Something squeaked momentarily in the wind. He spied a swaying pub sign. The Goat's Head. A wine sink he had visited once or twice in younger days. Its sign swung in gentle breeze, again squeaking, whining, before falling silent once more. It were like a voice in the dark. What else to do, but drown your grief, it seemed to say.

Outside the Inn, Gargaron left Grimah unhitched. He pushed his way inside and found the steed trailing him. He cared not. The stench in there were foul with the reek of deceased patrons. Undeterred he pushed on to cellar.

He found a number of kilderkins of strong Easthills Ale and grabbed a stoneware masskrug from the bar as he passed by, stepping around bodies, simultaneously hacking back Corpse Flowers, the way a farmer might scythe corn stalks. The horse followed him outside where the air were marginally fresher. Gargaron plonked himself at table in the beer garden. The horse stood nearby.

Gargaron tapped the kil and filled his masskrug and closing his eyes, took a long, long draught. Emptying the mug in one, he let out a long satisfied breath. And burped. Loud. He opened his eyes and looked about in case his ill manners had irked anyone. Of course there were no-one about to irk. He filled his mug again and took another slug.

Within three or four helpings the world already seemed far rosier. He gazed around the beer garden. A handful of dead patrons were scattered about. Some Giants, some Ghisshas from the Overhills, some Storkmen from yonder Foggdam. Their bodies lay in the grass. Or were still seated at table, variously slumped forward or slumped back. Each of them attached to a Corpse Flower.

After his fifth drink Gargaron burped once more, stood, and, strolling about with masskrug in one hand, and greatsword in the other, he casually and carelessly, and mindlessly it must be said, executed each Flower with a single blow to their stem, minding the eruption of spores. When the air had cleared and the Corpse Flowers lay squirming, dying, he casually returned to his seat, sat down, took a guzzle, and gazed down the street with the satisfaction of someone having just yanked a great number of particularly stubborn weeds from their garden.

Hunger eventually caused him to rummage through his pack to see what he might find. Hardened rye bread and salted wrasse. His tongue almost blistered at the thought of more of that river fish. He closed up his bag and looked about. And recalled a butcher nearby.

6

Soon he were back at table with a smoked cured breast of moorhen. He unwrapped it and employed his knife to cut off a hearty slab. Moorhen juice dribbled down his chin as he munched into moist smoky meat, washing it down with great draughts of ale. He found pears for his steed inside the Goat's Head. And he even let is horse drink some ale; both its thick-lipped mouths slurping up the ale thirstily.

This is how they saw out the morning. Drinking, eating. Until, after his third kilderkin, Gargaron slumped forward against the wooden table and slept.

7

He dreamt of an A7-VRIT zeppelin airship floating serenely over the street. He lay there upon the cobblestones gazing up at its ridged underside, thinking how graceful it looked, drifting silently on a current of soft breezes. He dreamt that airmen from Carpscoum or Rarean-On-Torr had launched reconnaissance missions into territories struck down by this blight. That they had come searching for survivors. It were almost out of his sight eastways before he thought he might do well to alert them to his presence. But his attempts to move, wave his arms, kick his legs, bellow out, were somewhat restricted it seemed, entwined in the blackest roots of a Corpse Flower.

He lifted his head from the cobbles and gazed along his body. He found he were wrapped up, like spider prey in web; he could not even howl for help for the roots had coiled about his mouth and face and were slowly squeezing the air from him.

8

He awoke with a start, grunting, calling out. He sat up, disoriented, looking about, a dull ache besieging the innards of his skull. He saw first his steed standing there, looking around at him, as if to say Oh, so you are alive. As if it had been standing guard. Or eager to push off. He saw next the street in which he lay, cobbled and dusty, and buildings on either side as if they were creatures escaped from his dreams regarding him, and empty carts, and carcasses being slowly sucked dry by Corpse Flowers. He saw thirdly the Goat's Head Inn. Or more correctly he caught sight of its pub sign squeaking in the wind.

He breathed in and out calmly, his head thumping. He gazed into the immediate skies above Autumn. Cloud and blue sky prevailed, and, from different points, Gohor and Melus burned down at him. Alas, there were no airship. Just the one fading in his dream, and his futile hopes of rescue simmering in his mind.

9

A foul taste coated the insides of his mouth. The raw flavour of too much ale. A dry, bitter taste. He rubbed his eyes before hoisting himself to his rump and he sat there, yawning, shading his face from the suns.

He craved water. He looked around for his bag. It were not on his person, nor, as far as he could see, were it lying anywhere in his vicinity. Unsteady he pushed himself to his feet, yawning again, his temples pounding. He sifted through his Nightface's immediate memories but a Nightface were never less reliable than after a bout of its host's heavy drinking—especially if its master had fallen asleep face-up and its own eyes privy to nothing but dusty cobblestones.

Gargaron stumbled back into beer garden. Apparently the dead had no interest in worldly possessions for there his bag lay on the bench where he had left it, Hor the Cutter's old hammer poking out the top, and the remainder of his provisions spilling forth. Gargaron fished out the gourd and drank... though two gulps later the vessel were dry.

He held it curiously at arm's length, scrutinising it for some time, as if the thing had betrayed him.

Grimah in turn watched him.

'Blast,' Gargaron said irritably. He stared back at his horse, as if the beast might offer some solution. But the steed simply watched him indifferently.

Eventually Gargaron considered Autumn's water reservoir. 'A mission then,' Gargaron croaked, holding the gourd aloft victoriously. 'To the town supply! For the sake of all the kingdom we shall fill our cannisters!'

Both faces of the horse looked at him, ears flicking. Neither appeared amused.

Gargaron dropped his arm, stared at his steed for a more positive, sympathetic response. He got none. Gargaron shrugged.

'Come then,' he said flatly as he picked up his pack and slung it over his shoulder. 'Quest or no, we do require water.'

## UJIK-L78

1

THE centre of Autumn were much like other giant settlements. Its animist cathedral lay on the northern edge of a large rounded clearing where towering central posts hung with animal sacrifices and the cobbles around these posts stained a deep crimson by centuries of blood spillage. Stone gutters, five here in Autumn (the number varied from region to region), ran out several metres to where a shallow pond were situated. Of course, it currently lay empty of blood, though it too were well stained. The five Faces Of Autumn rested there; heads sculpted from blood stone, with mouths gaping wide, always thirsty, drinking down blood whenever it were offered. During ritual sacrifice the gutters gushed and the pool would brim and the Faces Of Autumn would take their fill and if the great spirits were appeased the eyes of each Face would come open and glow white.

Today, as Gargaron passed by, animal remains (mostly bone and flaky skin) hung from the sacrificial posts and the pool lay empty and the Faces Of Autumn slept, their stone eyes shut. For all Gargaron knew they would now likely sleep forever.

A network of aqueducts and pipes crisscrossed Autumn's airspace; the town planners had come up with the novel and very modern method of supplying all abodes with running water. All pipes met at a confluence near the reservoir. The junction of each ceramic pipe were a sculpted form, a torso with a shapely leg, or a chest with an arm, or a head with its mouth gaped wide. And the entire network were fed from the reservoir.

The reservoir were presided over by Watchguard. Or at least were, before this blight. It consisted of three colossal spiral shells that once belonged to the three feared Viper Squid that had terrorised the aqua-ships on Deepsound. Their squid shells had been collected from the Skeleton Coast a hundred years gone. The shells' original inhabitants had long since been slaughtered and diced up and cooked. And the shells a gift to the old giant ruler, Meycheren IV. They were said to be of a magical property, that any water poured into them, no matter how brackish or rancid, would be made instantly fresh and clean and pure.

Here the shells were perched on enormous granite plinths on the south'n'eastwun district of Autumn. Their enormous mouths yawned open at the heavens, beckoning rain; of course this were primarily how water came to be stored within them—filled up during a stormy downpour. At their spiral centre a large brass tap had long ago been installed and a large pipe ran down from each to the confluence of feeder pipes that served the city. An ingenious set up.

2

Gargaron pushed into the abandoned compound through the large iron gate. As he were filling his last gourd with water and allowing his horse a drink, he gazed idly into the street, lost in his thoughts. Wondering what he were to do next. He found he were lost for ideas. There were nowhere to go, it seemed, nothing to do. Ought he to stay here in Autumn, hoping by chance that someone might come along?

It were while he was having this thought that he spied something odd.

And it were so fleeting he wondered if he simply imagined it.

A humanoid figure simply and casually strolled past the gate.

Gargaron stopped what he were doing. Not believing what he had seen.

He climbed down from the granite and strode out into the street.

He looked about. There were no-one to be seen. The street lay empty.

He would have sworn that someone had walked by.

Perhaps he were so starved of conversation and suitable companionship that his mind were now conjuring phantoms. Unless the after effects of the three kilderkins of Easthills Ale he had poured down his throat were playing with him.

And yet...

His eyes narrowed as he spotted something. A shape. A swish of peculiar colour.

The more he looked the more he realised that a figure were standing in the shade of a mash-smoke parlour. Poised by the wall, its body mysteriously taking on the characteristics of what it were stood up against: wood grain, metal window frames, glass that reflected the sunny street.

A mirror man? he thought. Is that what it be? By Mahis, is it so?

Gargaron were not sure what he ought to do. The thing did not move. It made Gargaron uneasy, cautious, wary.

He approached slowly the parlour and then stopped. 'I see you,' he declared gently. 'I see you there. Come out now. I mean you no harm.'

It were its eyes that betrayed it. Blue like Helfire.

'I am friend not foe,' Gargaron offered genially. 'Please, I'll not hurt you. Come out from there. I wish to talk. I have been somewhat starved of company of late. Please. I promise you, I be a friend.'

He could appreciate its reticence. It were said that mirror men were extremely shy by nature. Folk claimed they were the ancestors of the first peoples, the first men, and none too many were left in the world, and the ones that were, remained elusive, not wishing to be discovered for fear of being hunted and their skin harvested; their skin being said to be enchanted, that it could render its wearer invisible. Yet many folk proclaimed mirror men were naught but fantasies of over active imaginations.

Gargaron himself may have believed as much if he had not, as a boy, witnessed a mirror man. His father had taken him to a place where they had chanced upon a nomadic tribe who kept one. They were seeking a buyer. They wanted to sell their mirror man. They held him captive within a cramped cage of bones. When Gargaron were shown him he could not see him at first, for the mirror man had taken on all the colours and patterns and textures of the cage about him. But amidst a peculiar blur of light Gargaron had seen its sapphire blue eyes. For years afterwards his father had berated himself for not having the asking price for the poor soul, for not bartering harder, for not having the means of taking that sad looking mirror man away from those wretched nomads and setting him free.

Gargaron meant to take a step backwards to demonstrate he meant no harm, but to his surprise, the thing moved from its hiding place.

3

At first Gargaron felt heartened, even excited at the prospect of perhaps befriending this soul, of having someone at last to talk to. But as the being stepped into the sunshine, Gargaron grew wary and confused.

The thing that came away from the wall looked not organic at all, but metallic. When it stepped out into sunlight parts of it gave off intermittent sparks, like embers teased by wind gusts. It approached Gargaron. And Gargaron took a step backwards, not out of courtesy this time, but out of caution.

It were no mirror man, Gargaron knew now. This were, as far as he knew, one of the metal abominations built by a sorcerer known as Hawkmoth. Gargaron gripped the hilt of his greatsword and took another step back, and then another. 'Come no closer,' he warned.

The thing stopped and cocked its head. 'Oh?' it said, its voice like someone talking through tin, as if some thin film of metal were vibrating. 'Oh? But I a-ammm friend n-n-not foe. I'll not hurt yooooo. Come out from there. Come out from there. Come out from... I wish to talk. I have been somewhat starved, starved, staaaarrved... of company. Please. I promise you, I am, I am, your friend. I mean you no harm. I mean you no harm. I mean you no harm. I mean you no haaaaaaarrrghhh...'

Another flash of burning red sparks burst from its peculiar neck joints. Its head turned leftways, and kept turning, rotating entirely. Gargaron noticed four sets of strange glowing eyes as it went, spaced about its cranial band. He also noticed now it had lost one of its arms. Its head kept rotating, at the same rate, not speeding nor slowing. Gargaron saw a series of numbers engraved into one of its shoulder panels. In harsh block letters it read UJIK-L78 54XX. Were this its designation?

When its head continued to turn without any sign of letting up, Gargaron withdrew his sword. Gargaron had heard too many troubling tales about these metal men than to feel undisturbed in its presence. He were well aware that in the past year one of them had lost its reasoning in the lake village of Froghopper. It had lain waste to the entire population with what folk claimed were searing beams of fire before incinerating its own metallic head and whatever served as its brain.

Gargaron stood there watching this mekanik, as some called them. This Ujik. The two heads of Grimah watching it keenly. Gargaron were close now to striding forward and having the damn thing's head off. He would not end up like those poor sods at Froghopper.

Eventually, its metal skull stopped rotating. And it regarded Gargaron for a hefty length of time, before, again, it spoke. 'I have come in search... I haaaaaave come in search of you,' it said. 'A quest q-q-quest set for me by Master Hawkmoth. A quest to fetch the giant he said, the g-giant that wand-wand, that wanders the Steppe, the giant who moves towaaaaaard Aaaautumn.'

It watched Gargaron, its arm twitching.

'There be no-no otheeeeerrrrrs... no giants left to be found aliiive. None but you... you... you... you... you... you... yooooooooou...'

It stared at Gargaron. Its arm stopped twitching. It did not move. The lights in each of its eyes faded out.

4

Gargaron stood there regarding it, curious, fist clenched around the hilt of his greatsword. The mekanik remained still. Were this some ploy? Or were this thing unwell? Had it passed on—in whatever way a mechanical creature might indeed pass on? Gargaron felt a peculiar mix of emotions at this thought. This were the first entity to speak to him, the first words he had heard other than his own, in almost eight rotations of Melus. If he believed the tales to come out of Froghopper, this were certainly a creature to fear... But if the Froghopper killer had been naught but a rogue individual... well, what if, against everything Gargaron had heard or believed, these mekaniks were actually a peaceful entity? If so, here were one such anomaly potentially dying before Gargaron's eyes. He pitied it all of a sudden. A selfish part of him wanted to prevent it dying, he craved friendship, company, conversation, if that came from something constructed out of enchanted metal and chemicals then what of it?

He were about to step forward when the lights glowed again in the mekanik's head and it straightened. 'Behold, a com-communication fraaa from Master Haaaawkmoth.' And when next it spoke, the voice that came forth were booming and deep, as if from the throat of a grizzled old man. 'This message be for the ears of the giant I have spied traipsing across Chandry's Steppe. We do not know each other, yet it seems circumstances might be set to change that. I have dispatched this droyd to track you down. I hope you forgive me if your intention were to remain alone for I appreciate that in this decimated world we now find ourselves that there may be certain benefits to roaming about it and taking what you want when it pleases you. I make a plea for your assistance as I believe I understand what has caused this Doom. I also believe I know how to overturn it. If you wish to aid me in a quest of great importance, allow this droyd to escort you to my humble abode and I shall divulge further details. Travel safe my friend.'

With that, the mekanik, or droyd, as the voice had stated, strode purposefully away. Gargaron watched it momentarily, pondering what he had heard and what it were doing. It did not turn back to him but perhaps it viewed him from the blue eyes in the rear of its head.

'Maaaastaer Haaaawkmooooth aaaaasks yoooou to follow meeeeeee. He lllllives away yondeeeeer upoooon Barrrrrrroww Hiill wheeeere the Dead Mannn watches aaaall, beyyyyond Thoonsk, Thoonsk, beyooon Thoonsk and the murrrr, Muuurdered Sea.'

Gargaron frowned and looked around at his steed, as if for some sort of suggestion as to how to proceed here. But to his surprise, as if Grimah knew something he did not (or sensed something he could not), he were already moving, trailing the metal man.

'Oh, well as long as you think this be a sound idea,' Gargaron said to the horse. But he could not deny it, he himself were intrigued. Hawkmoth? And the claim, true or false as the case might be, that there were some knowledge of the blight and its method? And of its remedy. Well then, why not trail it? Besides, what else were he to do in this town?

He had come to Autumn to seek answers and all he had found were death. He had used Skysight to locate the nearest inhabited and unaffected settlement, and strive for it. To uncover nothing but a dead world beyond had shaken him, perplexed him, flummoxed him. Beyond this he had no contingency.

So, he trailed after the mekanik.

5

Apparently, when he had seen the A7-VRIT zeppelin airship floating over Autumn, he had not been dreaming after all. For there on city's northwun fringe, ten strokes of the clock after leaving the vicinity of the mash-smoke parlour, there bobbed its mighty balloon, trussed to an enormous open-decked gondola which in turn had been anchored to earyth by no less than eight anchor chains, with claw-clamps gripping tree, shrub, footbridge, building, anything with a sure footing.

'Th-thiiiiss way if you pl-please,' the mekanik spoke, a sizzling burst of sparks erupting from its chest plate.

There were a ramp already lowered at the back of the landing-boat and any concerns Gargaron may have had about the contraption not being of suitable size to accommodate he and his steed were quickly alleviated. Indeed, Gargaron, once he had strode aboard, found that there were ample room to accommodate he and horse. Lounges thick with felt layered cushions lined its wooden decks. Soft rugs lay across the empty spaces between, roped down by cords strung through eyelets lest a mischievous breeze should suck them off-deck. A wooden liquor bar complete with twirling, twisting bottles of all manner of wine and spirit and liqueur were situated near the foredeck, just behind the pilot's chair.

Strange, questionable designs were carved and painted over along the wooden gunwale that ran around the landing-boat's perimeter. If Gargaron had been here with his daughter he would have strongly advised her to avert her eyes. The detailed images depicted many a soul caught in acts of fornication, and the figure head at the front of the landing-boat showed off two lusty, multi-breasted Jayesque females twirled together in an embrace of love.

This Gargaron now knew, were a decommissioned pleasure craft, where the rich, the affluent, the well-to-do, the decadent, had once paid high price to come and relax and indulge and titillate themselves. They would slurp exquisite Oranjjin wines, sip aged Uloricah brandy and single malt whiskey of Looth. They would nibble at reej eyeballs, pickled veekaan paws, liver of sea-cat, spiced minced plains-goat, and all the while enjoying sweet, alluring erotica as it played out before them: couples, threesomes, foursomes, entire orgies, those of differing sex, of same sex, of differing species, howling and hissing and snarling as they sucked and kissed and fingered and pulled and thrust at each other. Naught much had been taboo up there in the clouds as that grand old zeppelin had drifted about on Godrik Vale's gentle airways.

It had Gargaron thinking. He had quite forgotten the pleasures of the bedroom since the fall of the blight, since he had seen away his beloved wife. And yet the images here did nothing to stir him. Where once he may have delighted in them, here now, with his family decimated, and the world he had known now cradled in death, they meant nothing.

6

The mekanik took to the pilot's chair situated before an operations console that included a series of spherical gas pods from where steel tubes snaked down into the floor and disappeared beneath the wooden decking. These reappeared through a rounded vent encircling the base of the central mast, a mast, Gargaron realised, resembled a wrist and forearm (albeit, ones far thicker and longer than his own). The "arm" jutted straight out of the deck perhaps one and half times his own height where a monstrous hand with a dozen fingers, each segmented by several knuckles, acted as a cage that housed the gas-balloon, each bony finger enveloping the balloon.

The gas pipes that rose from the floor snaked up and around the arm, ultimately vanishing into holes bored through the "wrist", and beyond that Gargaron could only guess where they ended: in fluted openings no doubt, at the base of the balloon's interior where they breathed out whatever mix of gas that enabled the craft to lift from earyth and head for the skies.

Gargaron observed the mekanik at work. How it twirled hand-cranks and adjusted brass leavers. In short time, the zeppelin awoke hissing and spluttering. Gas pods shuddered, pipes shook, there came the sound of whooping, rushing air and the sounds of the balloon creaking and expanding, taking on gas. The mekanik hauled another leaver connected to a pulley system which both simultaneously unclamped and wound in the anchors.

Before both Gargaron and Grimah knew it the zeppelin had lifted gently from ground and rock.

THE EROTICA

1

AUTUMN fell away beneath them: its streets filled with the dead and their silence, loose leaves of disassembled newspapers fluttering and tumbling along gutter and cobbled street, and distantly there came the mewling, somehow victorious sound of the Corpse Flowers, as if by sheer weight of numbers they had overwhelmed the giant and seen him off.

Gargaron watched all of this drop away. He felt somehow like the sole survivor of a mighty catastrophe being airlifted to safe ground. The only part of Autumn still higher than he were the lonely upper reaches of Skysight tower. Again he could not help but feel that needle, that Skysight eye, were watching him.

As they rose skyward the mekanik turned a hand crank positioned above a clear glass canister; sticky green grime and residue and condensation were smeared and beaded against its smooth interior. It were a quarter filled with some chartreuse coloured liquid. The mekanik tilted its head and studied it.

A floor-mounted metal barrel were held in place before the console by large metallic clamps. A flexi-hose ran up from its base to a nozzle and tap which the mekanik now reached out and grasped. It shunted the nozzle into a valve at top of the glass canister, turned on the tap, and pumped a lever at top of barrel. Fresh green liquid gushed forth, filling the canister.

Once done, the mekanik removed nozzle and hose, and again wound the hand crank situated above the glass canister. Green juice pumped from it through a pipe which split off into two: one running out to port, the other to starboard. Here beyond the gunwale, bolted to wooden seats were what Gargaron at first sight thought were more mekaniks; one a piece on either side of the craft, both facing outwards toward a stunted wing. They were not mekaniks, though, Gargaron realised. But merely fashioned as such from black steel. The pipes that ran out beyond the gunwales ended stuffed inside the mouths of their faceless steel skulls and once the green liquid chugged into them their long steel legs began to pump objects that looked at the same time to be both feet and pedals. These in turn spun a sprocket that rotated a larger sprocket that wound a set of wooden propellers.

Once the legs began pumping, as the props began to spin in a blur, there came the soft whump of chopping propeller blades and the zeppelin now stopped simply drifting and took on a definite forward momentum. The mekanik hauled the steering rod, shifting rudder at zeppelin's rear, and the craft turned and took on a more westways heading away from Autumn.

2

They flew over westwold farming communities, and out across glades of giant tree-fern. They covered several hundred miles even before Gohor and Melus were chasing each other toward distant horizon. Occasionally below, some town or village would drift by and Gargaron would study them eagerly through his spyglass, ever hopeful that survivors remained. But they proved always silent, where no living thing moved, and only the dead populated the streets, some of them lying there with their dead unseeing eyes, gazing up as the zeppelin thrummed by. Some settlements overrun by Corpse Flowers.

'Should we not land?' Gargaron urged the mekanik. 'There may be others down there, as I were, seeking salvation.'

Sparks gushed from the mekanik's neck plates. 'Th-theeeeerrr be none l-l-l-left, leeeeeeft. N-none at aaaaalll...'

Hearing this squeezed Gargaron's heart but still he felt he ought to search. After everything he had laid his eye upon, all the death and dying, he would not give over to the idea that all folk save he had perished. 'No, I do not believe that,' he said to the mekanik. 'How do you possibly know?'

'I have means of sensing the living. And I sense none in these settlements.' The voice were unhindered again, as if once more it were Hawkmoth the sorcerer speaking.

What has become of this world? Gargaron murmured to himself. Ranethor, Thronir, someone pray tell.

3

Occasionally Gargaron attempted to strike up conversations with the mekanik. Wanting to know if the sorcerer could hear him, if Hawkmoth had some means of communicating across great distances, hoping perhaps he might consult the sorcerer through the mekanik. But the answers were either perfunctory or garbled or they made little sense. 'How far need we fly before we reach Hawkmoth?' Gargaron asked with a sigh, resigning himself to the fact that he would receive no sensible, honest or sentient counsel nor any sort of companionship, fulfilling or otherwise, until he reached the sorcerer or some other such sod with a soul.

'We muuuuust traverse beyonnnnd, beyond Thoonsk. Aaaand crossss the Muuurdered Seeea... Not untiiil M-Melus and Gohooor again hang directly over our h-heads shaaaaall we reeeach Barrow Hillll upon which the Dead Maaan sits and watches aaaaall. There innn, innnn his cottage, Master Haaawkmoth resides.'

Through night and half a day, Gargaron reckoned by this information. He resigned himself to the idea they would be nowhere near the good sorcerer in quick time. He decided then to settle in for a lengthy flight. As he turned away from the metal man the old man's voice came again from the grill plate in mekanik's neck: 'Should you and your mount require sustenance, I have packed provisions. Please find all you require in the galley. Enjoy your flight. See you on the morrow, my friend.'

'Sorcerer?' Gargaron said at the mekanik. 'Do you hear me?'

Alas, there came no response.

4

He found smoked eel and pickled eggs and cured ham and crusty bread, he found fruits of apple, pear and grapes. For the steed there were oats but Gargaron let him have his fill of the apples, saying, 'I did promise you the king's share of apples, after all.' There were even a selection of mash-smoke: Greenshroom, Striped Dream, Funnel Skrite, Pink-Duste.

Although he had indulged in such in his younger years, he had abstained for much of his married life. But now he grabbed a poke and laid himself down on one of the felt lined lounges. He stuffed the cone on the floor mounted pipe, lit the weed with the available flint-flare, grabbed the hose and prod the sucker between his lips and drew back on the thick musky smoke. Grimah lay there, munching apples, its two faces regarding Gargaron curiously.

Gargaron tipped the pipe at him. 'To us,' he said and sucked back more smoke.

As Melus and Gohor began to drip down into the horizon, the night fires began to twinkle in Great Nothing and Gargaron's thoughts slipped away for a little while as mash-smoke fairies danced along the gunwales.

5

Morning broke and Gargaron awoke to both an aching head and a troubling noise. He sat up, bleary eyed. His steed were awake he saw, standing, and looking concerned. Gargaron stood up, unsteady on foot, and saw the mekanik feverishly wheeling pulleys and hand cranks, he heard the hiss and gush of gas heaving into balloon, he felt the zeppelin climbing sharply. Indeed when he looked over the side he realised they were considerably higher from ground than they had been before he had bedded down for night.

He strode forward and gazed westways. Before him the lay of land had changed. Thoonsk, he guessed, beautiful green water glades, were spread out before them now beneath a soft layer of dawn mist, curving across land from south to northways. But what caught his sight were not the pretty scene of morning sunbeams cast across the famed watery woodlands but the hideous wave rolling across the distant treetops, surging from northways'n'west to southways'n'east, on and onwards toward zeppelin.

It were somehow beautiful, in its own frightening way. To see it from such a vantage. But there were no time to stand and admire it.

Gargaron knew instantly what were coming their way: a shockwave like those he had twice experienced since that fateful morn on the banks of Buccuyashuck.

'Are we safe from it up here?' he asked the mekanik.

Metal man replied not.

'Are we safe here, I ask?' Gargaron pressed.

A coughing, grunting sound burped up from the chest of the metal man. 'Th-theeeeeey haaave detonated... anoth-another Boom.' Sparks spurt from the mekanik's face grill as its metal fingers worked furiously at the rudder, turning zeppelin southways, all the while taking it ever higher from ground.

'Boom?' Gargaron asked. 'Of who do you speak? What be this Boom?'

But the mekanik had no time to reply. The invisible shockwave smashed into them at a terrifying rate.

6

The craft pitched, balloon and cage rolled over, spilling Gargaron, his steed and anything not tied down or secured to craft, wildly to port. Objects toppled out over the side, and with them, scrabbling futilely with his mighty hooves, went Grimah...

Gargaron lunged desperately after him. But he were too late. Out his horse tumbled, whaling, squealing, smashing against the black steel propeller unit, rending it free, both horse and mechanical device out and over, and gone.

Gargaron clung horrified to mast, but the shudder that gripped the craft shook him loose and he fell heavily away, smashing into portside bulwark. The air coughed from his lungs. Wincing, gasping, he looked about, not even certain how he were still on deck and not thrown after Grimah. The mekanik he saw were still strapped in its pilot's seat, its head lolled sickly to one side, sparks and green flame spurting and spitting from its neck grill and its eyes madly flickering blue and yellow.

Slowly the balloon began to right itself, elevating again, bringing the craft level but accompanying it came a splitting, cracking noise and Gargaron looked up in time to witness the mast itself rupturing, threatening to snap away from the gondola.

He gripped the gunwale, eyeing the mast, willing it to hold. Only to hear the whinnying cries of his steed. He frowned. Were he hearing things? The whinnying came again.

Gripping the deck he rolled carefully to his side and set his eye out over the edge.

Somehow Grimah hung there by one of its necks, snared by its bridle that had miraculously knotted itself around one of the gunwale's horn cleats.

Gargaron felt a surge of relief that Grimah were uninjured, that it had not yet fallen to its death. But desperation pushed him now, and with a surge of blood he reached out over edge of ship and gripped the horse's bridle.

It took all of his strength to haul the horse back to craft's side. But to drag steed, with all Grimah's bulk and weight, back upon deck, he knew would take more strength than he could muster. Yet, Grimah surprised him, proving his worth as only a true steed trained in war and crisis could. With his own strength, with his own natural instincts of self-preservation, the great steed kicked out his forelegs and managed to hook them over gunwale, and aided by the giant, he managed to clamber back to relative safety.

Once Grimah were back on deck, with the mast bent at an awkward angle, with the ship lolling, and rudder stuck, sending the zeppelin on a rotating course, Gargaron scrambled to the unmoving mekanik.

He gripped it and shook it, minding the flames roaring from its neck. 'Awaken, you godawful thing!'

But it did not.

In the far northwun direction, Gargaron now spotted the vast front of a second shockwave rolling out across Thoonsk's lush canopy. It would be here in a matter of minutes. Gargaron either had to escape its claws by climbing further into sky, or land the zeppelin and ride out the shockwave at ground level. He already knew what would be best. Further elevation had made no difference trying to escape the first wave. He had to get this thing to ground.

In all his life Gargaron had never ridden a zeppelin. Let alone flown one. Yet, he unbelted the mekanik and shoved it aside. It were still fizzing and aflame, its arm in spasms as it tumbled to the decking. Gargaron studied the flight console. It were a dizzying array of levers, cranks, pulleys, gas pods, dials.

'Blast this!' he growled, yanking on the leavers that he had observed the mekanik working, hoping desperately to purge gas from the balloon, hoping to halt the propeller mechanism still operating, hoping that something would give them safe yet rapid descent. But perhaps the first shockwave had damaged controls, or ruptured the hosing as green liquid now squirted wildly across the deck. And although escaping gas hissed and spat, the craft were not heading for ground. At least not as quick as Gargaron wished it. He saw no other choice now. He withdrew his great sword and yelled at his steed, 'If you comprehend, horse, then hold something! Tight.'

Grimah appeared to understand. Or else he were once more simply enacting self-preservation measures; he began shifting his two heads and around and around so that his reigns wound about the bollard upon which the mooring lines were secured. Wasting not another second, Gargaron ran and jumped at the balloon, slicing its side, dicing through the cage's bony fingers. Instantly gas screeched from the puncture and instantly the craft began to spiral downward.

7

Gargaron were tossed across decks, sliding toward aft, centrifugal force thrusting him outwards as the airship spun, his hands and arms flailing, desperate to catch hold of anything that would secure him to the falling airship.

But here, the second shockwave hit.

The mast splintered, the balloon shot back in the drag, marginally slowing the craft until the mast severed for good. Balloon and mast spun off out of sight and the airship plummeted like a stone.

8

Mostly, woodland and water cushioned their fall. But the impact into the treetops of Thoonsk tore the zeppelin apart and branches erupted, snapped and cracked and bits of the zeppelin flung away in a thousand directions. Gargaron, steed and mekanik were flung off into tree tops, smashing through foliage like cannon balls, ripping away branch and leaf until the tepid lagoons swallowed them up in mighty explosions of water and lilies and roots and sunkwood snags.

The sounds of trees falling, of scattered branches clip-clopping down amidst bough and trunk and plummeting into water, the rain of a trillion leaves fluttering down through the woodland, the sound of the shockwave rolling away yonder, could all be heard for a little while... and then silence.

## MELAI OF THOONSK

1

SHE watched the peculiar skyship fall and disintegrate as it slammed spinning into treetops. She watched the strange beasts that tumbled from it: the two-headed horse of immense proportions, the metal man in a wash of green fire, and the Rjoond giant.

The Rjoond splashed heavily amidst the water snails, narrowly missing their mighty spiraling shells, like the humps of slumbering river monsters, jutting above water's surface. Snake orchid tendrils bent from bough and branch toward him, writhing blue stamens inside bright olive-purple flowers licking the air, tasting the new arrivals. Bug eyed swamp cats took to treetops as the skyship impacted and tore apart; there they perched, chittering excitedly amongst themselves, gazing down at the big, stupid Rjoond lying there in the reeds and lilies groaning. The headless Buccas climbed down from nests of bone root to inspect this Rjoond only to be startled by his loyal two-faced horse crashing through sodden undergrowth toward him, thus they scrambled back up to safety of the canopy.

Melai Willowborne hid high up in bushy bough as the Rjoond pulled himself into a seated position. Water dripped down his face she saw, water weed and lilies clung to his head and chest. His two-headed steed stood protectively over him, looking about, sniffing the water, searching for signs of danger. She wondered how keen its senses were. If it might intuit her presence. She watched it closely. It had not yet looked her way... but she felt it were but a matter of time.

She did not move as the giant rubbed the back of his neck, rubbed his elbow, and looked around, a grimace upon his face. She saw he and horse were both cut and grazed and bruised, strange purplish blood from Rjoond, red from the horse, dripping down and fanning out in Thoonsk's clear water.

Rjoond rolled his head from side to side, gazed up into the canopy to perhaps measure how far he had fallen. He then looked around as if searching for any part of his downed skyship.

You will have a job, Melai thought. Your craft, all of its shattered pieces, sunk and swallowed, belong now to mother Thoonsk.

If he were also searching for his metal man, then she alone could have told him: she had spied it break in two, one part shooting southways as the ship splintered into a thousand pieces, the other tumbling straight down, sunk into the cool depths of her lagoon. Even now, from her vantage, if she looked carefully she could spy its strange, blinking lights beneath the ripples, and the ungodly spurt of its green fire.

She would offer up no such secrets to the Rjoond giant however. For she knew, with his warhorse and his armoured battle-droyd, that he had come here to slay her.

'Kill me,' she whispered to the still air, 'oh Rjoond of Never. Kill me if you can. And ought you be quick and sure about it, if this be your plan. For, one of us shall die before the day is through. And it shan't be I.'

Her bow, Sera's Child, were slung across her chest. And a quiver of magic tipped arrows strapped on her hip. For now she would content herself with observing this great oaf. Perhaps he would drown down a hidden sinkhole. Or his face eaten off by a flesh leech. Or at day's end she would fill him with enough poison to topple a swamp mammoth. Whatever the case, at his moment of death she would present herself to him and let him understand that this were justice for the grief he had brought down upon her and her kin.

2

She watched him pull himself to his feet. He stumbled backward, obviously dizzy. She smiled as he fell rump first into the water. He reached for the nearest tree to drag his face from the water again, spitting, coughing. He spoke words to his horse, words she could not hear. The horse snorted, its nostrils vibrating vigorously, its ears back, both necks outstretched. She felt that it sensed her now. It looked about, this time into the tree tops. She remained oh so still, drawing on the colours and textures of bark and leaf, absorbing the scenery around her. It had not spied her but it knew something were watching.

The Rjoond seemed to pick up on this, turning his stiffened neck to survey the area the horse appeared concerned with. Were I to move, she thought, you would see me, oafish Rjoond. Yet I shall not give you the pleasure.

He stood for a while gazing into treetops. Eventually it must have wearied him for he trudged to what he thought were an island on which to free himself of lagoon's waters, but it turned out to be the shell hump of a marine snail. He backed away from it lest it prove hostile. She frowned. Does he not know that his evil magic is killing it?

He found higher ground on mounds of deadfall, pulling himself up out of the lagoon at last; though the mound sagged under his weight.

Melai grinned too herself. If this oaf hopes to find dry ground, his hopes be dashed. Except for the old stone road built three hundred years ago by the invading Rjoond's of Darkk 5, (those whose sieges had come to an abrupt end when wrath of Thoonsk rose up and drowned them in killer walls of relentless pounding water) there were no solid or high ground in this area of the water forest. Still, that roadway were some way off. And if that were the way he were planning to head then she, for her own amusement, would make certain he never reached it.

3

He sat upon the twisted, knotted deadfall heap for a lengthy period. Still gathering his senses, she assumed. He continued to appear dazed, disoriented, lost. It brought another smile to her soft green lips. And the fact that he were cut and slashed warmed her heart. So Rjoonds do bleed, she mused. And so shall you also die, Rjoond pig. By my hand.

One particular gash on his upper arm wept profusely. He noticed it not for some time. Not until his steed nudged him and the Rjoond broke from whatever tormented thoughts ate at him and looked first at his horse before noticing purple blood dripping from his elbow, pooling amidst yellow lichen and flaky brown bark and red moss. It made her smile all the more, for blood would draw up the flesh worms that resided in rotting wood, waiting for some passing beast to screw themselves into. Blood, with any luck, would also draw out the spined basilisk from its den. That would be a decent show, she wagered. Rjoond giant versus Thoonsk's mighty unvanquished basilisk. This day gets better with each passing moment.

She watched him as he sat there looking about. She assumed he may have been searching for something to staunch his blood loss, or something that had perhaps recently been on his person, a medicinal kit maybe, or some other sort of belonging. But she were happy to see, in spite of his searching, that he went without the item of his desire.

Still, it intrigued her, what he did next. He hefted up the hem of his leather jerkin, exposing belly and ribs. The muscle there were taut, no paunch. But below the line of his ribs there existed two or three rounded welts of raised flesh. From one of these he peeled away what looked to be a circular strip of skin. The Rjoond then placed this over his gaping wound and, grimacing, held it there in place for several moments.

When he removed his hand, Melai noticed the flow of blood had ceased, and the wound looked healed over, as if the patch of grafted flesh had merged somehow into the surrounding skin. It were a most intriguing and curious sight to behold.

After that she watched as he padded himself down. He checks for more wounds, she thought, wondering if and when the flesh worms would wriggle up and find him. He pulled something from a pocket. And as he held it in his lap, she watched as he studied it at length.

It were too small or too distant for Melai to make out. A stone tablet, she guessed. And what were inscribed upon it she could not see. When he put it away he gazed away into canopy, his hand shading his eyes from the glare of the suns. Does he sense me here at last? Melai wondered.

He pointed and spoke something to his horse. Melai heard him not. Except he pointed westways. Then he climbed down off the mound of deadfall and slowly, as if in acute pain, mounted up.

4

They pressed on through forest, the sound of his steed's heavy splashing as it waded through crystal clear lagoon echoed loud, obtrusive, conspicuous. Melai spread her wings, leapt, and followed, gliding soundlessly from tree to tree. Every now and then the horse's four ears flickered, troubled, wary, its two noses snorting, and it would halt against the wishes of its Rjoond master, and turn its noses in her direction. When it did she would press herself up against bark, or sink back into foliage, and her skin would take on the pigment of her surroundings.

She heard the Rjoond speak for the first time here. She were not surprised to learn that his words were not that of her own tongue, but Valeyen. The language of the Greater Vale. A tongue she had mastered long ago, a tongue taught to her by Mother Thoonsk through her home tree; better to recognise and understand the language of the enemy to better defend against them.

'What do you see?' Rjoond asked his steed, following its gaze into the crown of the woods. 'What be it, pray tell?'

Of course the steed could no more answer him than it could fly, she saw. Except every so often, when the water were shallow, the Rjoond would dismount, face the horse and place his forehead against one of those of his steed. It seemed to belie everything she had heard about these Rjoond giants. Too delicate an act, it appeared, too intimate. Tales told of an oafish and warlike race. Clumsy and half witted. And bereft of emotion or feeling. Incapable of sentiment or warmth or delicate physical touch.

She could only guess at what he were doing during these moments. Some sort of communion with his steed, by the looks of it. Tapping into the steed's mind perhaps, hoping to learn why it keeps stopping and searching these treetops.

They passed further mounds of deadfall and sunkwood snags, and blue lilies covering water's surface. Enormous lily frogs, frogs that stood as high as the Rjoond's knee, jumped and flopped about. Tadpoles as big as his fist swarmed about the steed's legs, sucking at its skin.

'Perhaps we have left the epicentre behind at last,' she heard the Rjoond say elatedly to his mount. 'Life goes on here. Thriving. Look.'

Thriving? she thought. The frogs normally croak all day. Or grunt, grunt, grunt in the throes of courtship. None are engaged in such games, as you can clearly see. None make a peep these days. The tree cats might normally be hunting, clawing fish and forest squid from the depths of the lagoon. Instead the cats languish about the tree tops, panting, enduring the illness you have sent us. And in parts, I have observed the fish floating more than swimming, gulping desperately for air. The flesh worms should emerge to feed upon your flesh each time you take to another pile of deadfall, but they do not. The mighty basilisk should have by now vacated its den to seek you out, but where is it? Life here does not thrive, as you believe, Rjoond oaf, it is dying. Dying, I say! By your hand!

5

It were early afternoon when she reached a point where she had observed enough. She could watch no more of this fiend and his beast traipsing through her water-forest home. Normally mother Thoonsk would have sent killer waves through the woodland to crush intruders, but Melai feared mother Thoonsk were caught too in some untimely and tragic demise. So, Melai would set about bringing on the Rjoond's death herself, the parasite, the disease that he were. She were undecided about the steed. Whether or not to allow it life over death. She would decide in time. Meanwhile, whether he sensed settlement or not, this Rjoond were beginning to stray too close to her village. And she would not have him discover it. For he would surely bring it down.

She flew on ahead, calculating the route he and his mount would likely take, and perched herself in a bough directly above which Rjoond and steed might trek. She removed her bow and selected a Barb of Insanity from her macabre arrow collection. Filled with Black Moonlight, once lodged in Rjoond's stinking flesh, once the misty black poison had entered his blood stream, he would lose his mind and begin a slow process of self-harm. Slicing off his fingers and toes. Cutting his face free. Incising a hole in his belly and dragging out the ropes of his guts. Before he bled to death he would try to saw off his legs, maybe an arm. Or dig his eyes out. But generally they did not get so far.

For a while Rjoond and steed were lost from her sight. But not from her ears; their approach were noisy and conspicuous to the point of annoyance. Finally she spotted them amidst red and green foliage where sunbeams cut through in brilliant golden swathes and a thousand white moths burst up from rotting trunks leaning against a copse of trees forming a natural arch under which Rjoond and his steed came stomping heavy and loud, water frothing in their wake.

'Meet death, dear Rjoond,' she whispered to the air, and nocking now her Barb of Insanity, she drew back on the chord. 'Meet it well and pray to meet it without pain, for, trust me, pain you most certainly shall feel. And for the sake of my dear sisters, I shall gladly watch.'

She stared down arrow's shaft, waiting... waiting... the big ugly head of the Rjoond in her sights. 'For my sisters,' she whispered and let her arrow loose.

6

Gargaron saw not the death dart fly toward his face. But he did feel the sudden jolts of pain rip through his ankle. As he reached down swiftly to tear off whatever swamp beast were assailing him, the arrow zipped pass his neck, missing him by naught but the breadth of a feather. He never saw it, never even heard nor felt it rush by as it speared itself silently into the water beyond.

He tore off his boot. And set his eyes on some strange segmented creature coiled about his ankle. He had not noticed it climb up. Nor had his steed, for that matter, that much were obvious for his steed had given him no warning. Nor had his Nightface. He had not even felt the thing infiltrate his footwear. No doubt some ambush parasite, waterborne, quick striking, stealthy.

Dizzy, Gargaron pulled his steed to a halt and hefted up his leg and rest it across the horse's broad shoulders to get a closer look at the little monster. Its little toothy mouth had clenched onto his ankle.

A lamprey of some kind, he wondered. For lampreys were common in the waterways around Hovel and possessed similar mouths.

He lifted his arm and touched it with his fingers. Its shell were rigid and as coarse as rock. If this were indeed a lamprey then it were obviously of a different species, being black and rough, where the kind he knew were white and slimy.

He closed his hand about the creature and attempted to simply tug it free. But its teeth dug deeper and a jarring pain shot through his foot. Grimacing he released his hold upon it. And saw blood. His own, a purplish rivulet streaming down his heel and dripping away onto horse's sweating hide.

He twisted his leg about, lowering his face to it to gain an overall picture of this little beast and the manner of its assault upon him. He watched its lips suck at his skin, small teeth grinding into his flesh. But he saw also that a bony tongue had penetrated his leg, had come through the other side, backwards facing barbs clamping it in place.

Gargaron sighed—there would be no simple way of removing this thing. He studied the barbs. Perhaps he might snap them backwards and break them, and simply drag the creature and its godforsaken tongue from him. He took one between thumb and forefinger and levered it backwards...

He grimaced as it sliced layers of skin from his fingers. He sucked off the blood. He tried the same trick using leather cloth as padding. But that too were soon cut through.

He withdrew his dirk. He wiggled its glistening black blade beneath the tip of the little beast's bony tongue. When he tried snapping off the barbs, excruciating pain zapped up his leg and a second tongue suddenly and inexplicably shot from the creature's mouth, driving through his ankle and thrusting out the other side in a little coughing explosion of blood and meat. The pain of the impact made him howl, even startling Grimah who bucked and knocked Gargaron from saddle.

Gargaron splashed heavily into the lagoon, and under he went...

7

When the first arrow failed to meet its target, Melai nocked a second quickly; another, like the first, loaded with Dark Moonlight. She were determined to see this Rjoond bring on his own demise in the most gruesome and humiliating fashion. Yet, when she saw that a Soulsucka were assailing him, she stayed her hand, choosing instead to observe the show for a little while.

She relaxed the bow chord and watched the Rjoond's attempts at extricating the Sucka from his person. She watched as he roared in pain, spooking his mount. She watched him drop down into Mother Thoonsk's cool embrace and she knew then this Rjoond of Never would fail to rise. That he would naught breathe again.

Soulsuckas were Werms of the Deep, waterborne predators, no more at home than when submerged in the deep pools and underwater valleys of Thoonsk. Rjoond had not yet surfaced. And nor would he. For by now his Soulsucka would have shot out its dozen bony arms which would have clung to underwater deadfall and rock and submerged root, holding its prey down, preventing its subject from resurfacing. Right now the Rjoond would be doing his best to hold breath as he struggled frantically against his bonds. But it would be of little use. For as the Soulsucka drank the life essence from him, the Rjoond would in turn begin to lose will and strength of mind. Already the fight would be seeping from him, his desire to rid himself of his assailant waning. Soon he would drown and the Soulsucka would be done with him and he'd be eaten up by lagoon shrimp and snapper crabs.

A bitter sweet end, Melai thought. For she had planned to bring on this oaf's demise herself, or, at very least, desired him see her, allow him to know that his death were punishment for all the suffering and pain he had brought down upon Thoonsk and her daughters.

Well, then, he dies, she thought petulantly. What care is it of mine? With his death I have my retribution, and the world is rid of one more murderous Rjoond!

8

Bubbles and ripples and swirls and splashes became of the water's surface above the drowning Rjoond. She had watched these attacks before and knew this Rjoond were wild with panic. She wondered if the Soulsucka would release him once it had drunk its fill of his soul, whether or not she would see him rise to surface... Maybe there would be just enough time, a fading moment in the final stage of this Rjoond's pitiful life, when he would look back at her with death already creeping through his eyes, and see her, distantly acknowledging her presence, and know his death were payment for all the death and dying he had visited upon this woodland.

Just as she were pondering this, the lagoon's surface above where the Rjoond had sunk, erupted suddenly in a tremendous flurry of water and the vile giant thrust upward, surfacing, gasping for air and scrambling frenziedly for a copse of weeping oaks whose great trunks hung low and horizontal over the lagoon.

He dragged himself up into their fold, his weight causing them to sag, and their canopy shook wildly. She were disappointed, but glad that she might yet have her fun with him. Though she remained perplexed as to how he had managed to free himself from the Werm's watery hold.

It were still clung to his ankle she saw. Not dead as she had feared. And for many moments Rjoond sat there gathering his breath. Gasping. Gagging. Coughing. Water and snot and spittle burst from mouth and nose as he did so, dribbling down chin and neck and chest. It took him some while to calm himself, gather his senses. When he did he looked around wide of eye, searching for his steed. He caught sight of it some distance away, standing there gazing into the treetops.

Melai realised she had at last been spotted. The steed had sensed her all along but had so far failed to pinpoint her. Now, even through her camouflage, he stared dead at her.

Rjoond, obviously intrigued, followed his steed's steely gaze. But he saw either nothing, or were suddenly distracted again by the little monster around his lower leg that his attention were not long on the subject of his horse's interest. Quickly his mind and sight reverted to the thing driving pain through his ankle.

Melai watched as he brought his foot to rest upon the great oak trunk, and watched as he gripped the body of the Soulsucka and stretched what he could of its strong, truncated body out across thick gnarled bark, positioning it like a lump of meat on a chopping board. Here he pinned it with his fist.

9

With his free hand, Gargaron moved to fetch his dirk from its sheath. But he realised that he no longer had it on his person—the last occasion he had seen it were before he had been tossed into the drink. No doubt it had sunk to lagoon's sandy bottom.

Undeterred he reached his free arm over his shoulder and extracted his mighty greatsword. Carefully he lined up his fearsome blade with the beast, and then drew back his arm in a tall arc...

10

Swift were the attempted execution, swift and sudden and true, hammering down his blade with all his considerable Rjoond strength.

The surprised look on his face as his glistening blade bounced wildly off beast's armoured hide were priceless. And by his grimace and grunt, Melai guessed the action had sent another lightning surge of pain through his leg and foot.

He fell back, apparently exhausted, as if a great inebriation had suddenly engulfed him. He fell back against tree trunk and leaf, panting.

11

Gargaron had not anticipated the complete and utter debilitating pain that rocketed through him upon the strike of his sword on his attacker. It had brought on nausea and a deep pounding throb up his leg and through his groin and lower belly and up into his torso. And now, as if to compound all matters, he were losing his strength.

Not for the first time since the downing of the airship did he wish his satchel were with him; he were sure if he could deploy a wee drop of liquid Helfire upon this little beast then the thing would burn and release its hold on him. But satchel and Helfire were gone and lost.

As he lay there he felt something nudging him, nibbling at his forearm. When he looked he found Grimah trying to heft him out of bough and trunk. The horse looked concerned, as if he knew there were danger afoot, for he kept turning its gaze to the canopy, as if something out there were watching them.

Gargaron looked, but again saw nothing... and found he did not care anyway. He suddenly wished to sleep... his exhaustion now causing him to lose consciousness. His thoughts began to drift. And the pain left him... and he almost forgot the critter clinging to his ankle.

The horse gnawed on Gargaron's arm. He shoved it aside. He knew not whose horse it were now anyway. Nor from where it had come, nor what it were doing there. He wished it would leave him be.

And then as if his wish rang true the horse turned and dashed away through the swamp.

Good, he thought, be off with you. He felt awfully sleepy and a long rest would do him some good. He stretched out along the trunk of the oak. And he gazed up into the tree tops where golden sunbeams slanted down, illuminating bug and birds as they darted to and fro.

It were here that he saw her. The beautiful winged angel perched in the boughs above. Simply watching him. At first she had the colouration of the woodland about her, and thus particularly difficult to pick from her surroundings were she. But once she leapt from her perch and swooped toward him, hovering there with wings beating in a blur, he saw her skin take on the colour of limes and her long hair the hew of lush summer grass. He realised then that she held a bow, with an arrow aimed directly at his face.

He could barely keep his eyes open however. And wondered if she were not part of some beautiful waking dream.

12

Melai hovered there. It were just she and this giant now, her Grunt arrows having drawn his beast away. 'Before you die, hear me, oafish Rjoond,' she spoke to him, tip of arrow mere inches from his face. 'You have brought a plague upon Mother Thoonsk and her daughters, and this shall not go unpunished. So hear me and heed me, this be why you die.'

She drew back her bow string and waited for Rjoond to meet her eyes, for the very moment she felt he had understood. That moment would see her release the cord, and Rjoond would find an arrow lodged through his face and its nectar of insanity pumped directly into his brain. Then she would fly back to treetop and watch him self-destruct.

Just as she made to fire the barb, there came the most infernal squeal. It echoed away through the woods and she saw the Soulsucka suddenly thrashing about Rjoond's lower leg. The Rjoond stirred, lifting his heavy head in an attempt to sit up. With somewhat detached eyes, he watched the critter attached to his leg whipping back and forth, as though it were trying to grind his foot free with its teeth. He seemed however to feel no pain.

Suddenly, inexplicably, the thing gave up its hold on him, slid from his ankle, plopped onto the wooden bough and fell still. Never to move again. Its bony white tongues lay across the bark like barbed spears. Its hidden limbs, those deployed when holding prey beneath water, now unfurled as its body relaxed in death.

Witnessing this, Melai turned from surprise to fear.

Screeching, she flew backwards, out of sword's reach should this Rjoond try to strike her. 'You!' she scolded, raising her bow at him, aiming her arrow directly at his face. 'How have you done this? What magic do you wield? What has Mother Thoonsk done to you?! Why do you murder her and her children?'

Rjoond lay back down, resting his head on knobby bark, exhausted, not even certain the flying angle before him were real. 'I-I do not understand,' he said groggily, faintly, hoarsely. 'Please, who... who are you...? Wh-what be this place? I have forgotten.' He reached his arm to her; it waved and swayed, as if he struggled to keep it aloft.

It were a ruse she knew, his feigning exhaustion. He had shrugged off the deep-water werm like it had been nothing more than a tired old crab. Now it lay dead, sprawled lifeless across tree trunk. What poison or magic did he wield? Other than her own folk, she had never known someone or something possess the ability to render lifeless a Soulsucka werm of the deep.

'All of this,' she spat viciously, 'is your doing! How could you survive the bite of a Deviling Werm if not for the dark powers you have obviously brought here?!'

He made to raise his head again. Though he could barely lift it from trunk of tree. Granted, by all appearances, the deep-water werm had not eaten up his mind or will, but its effects were obviously being felt now.

'I... I do not know that of what you speak,' he murmured. 'H-honestly.'

'Death!' she screeched. 'You deliver death. Everything be dying. You deliver naught but death!'

He looked about groggily. His eyes opening and shutting. 'No. No, n-n-not me. I b-bring no death.'

'Liar. My forest be dying because of you and your murderous lot.'

He lay there. His head against the trunk. When he spoke he sounded weak. 'S-some blight be kill-killing all. No l-land have I crossed that re-remains untouched by it. It kills a-all before it with no discrimination. And none... none of it be my doing. My-my very own f-family has perished because of it. I am all... that survives.'

'Murderer and a liar both,' she screeched, and finally loosed her Barb of Insanity filled with its Dark Moonlight. Followed quickly by another, and another, and another in blurred, wild succession. The Rjoond had no time to react. But he barely looked surprised as the four arrows lodged fwick! fwick! fwick! fwick! deep into his face.

As he rolled backwards she fired a final shot, a three pronged Spittle of Xonsüssa, straight into his chest. With that, tears streaming from her eyes, she flew for the tree tops and away.

## THE ABOMINATION

1

SHE could not watch the Rjoond die as she had intended. Did not wish, after all, to see him cutting himself up. Enough death she had witnessed in the last few days. Thus she flew and flew and flew, away and away. She did not wish to hear his howls of pain and grief when he flayed himself, when he hacked off his fingers and toes and face, when he chewed up and swallowed his own tongue, knifed out his eyes and sliced open his belly, when he lay there bleeding out. The Spittle of Xonsüssa would ensure his attack on himself would be frenzied, violent, brutal, and the pain multiplied a hundredfold.

She flew home to Willowtree and perched high in the Temple Tree boughs where she could see above all of her world, all of Thoonsk, stretching away to horizon in every direction. And there she sat and prayed to Mother Thoonsk for forgiveness (for bleeding a foreign creature within the sanctity of the woodland), and for guidance. But no matter how much she tried to push them aide, the last words she'd heard from the Rjoond kept replaying in her thoughts: 'Some blight be killing all. No land have I crossed that remains untouched by it. It kills all before it with no discrimination. And none of it be my doing. My very own family has perished because of it. I am all that survives.'

'Lies,' she insisted, weeping. 'All lies.'

They had come, when Moon of Trolls had hung full and stark above, when the Bluerock Pipits were still nesting and not yet flown south for the coming of the rains, a contingent of Rjoond from Autumn, seeking an audience with all leaders of the forest nymph clans. They had come with yet a further proposal for another road that would slice through Thoonsk, they had come with the promise of wealth, with plans, and "recompense", to upgrade and modernise the various settlements within Thoonsk herself, to open up trade routes, and the possibility of exploration for rare minerals, profits split evenly with various 'land owners' within Thoonsk. In return the Rjoond would expect to be granted permission to cut their corridor directly through the water forests. This would of course come with it the matter of cutting a swathe through Mother Thoonsk's ancient children, her oaks, her beeches, her bloodwoods, her rosewoods, her ghost gums, her elms, her paperbarks, her willows, her freshwater pandanus.

What they failed to understand and comprehend were the fact that profits and money meant nothing to folk of Thoonsk. That roads meant nothing. That the suggestion of modernising were an insult to their way of life. Profits from minerals meant nothing to a people who drew all their sustenance and happiness from the very presence of the glades and forest woodlands. And to push down trees and cut a corridor of death through Mother Thoonsk would be like slicing off her own fingers and toes. And following communion and parley with wise Mother, the forest nymphs refused, and so refused second and third offers. No fourth or fifth offers were forthcoming. The Rjoonds instead resorted to bullying tactics: if the forest nymph clans suddenly ceased to exist, then of course there would be no vocal opposition to their scheme. And so a systematic genocide had begun. Yet Mother Thoonsk had thrown out the invaders with mighty walls of water and  guerrilla attacks at every turn by her forest children.

Yet, here a Rjoond had come again. And all that remained now to defend Mother Thoonsk... were Melai.

'Yes,' she told herself, wiping her eyes. 'He lies. He is Rjoond. No honest word ever came from a Rjoond's mouth, and no honest action ever came from their hand.'

2

She remained at top of Temple Tree until dusk, until the red of the suns spilt across the sky, as if the heavens had erupted in inferno. By now the Rjoond she had shot would surely be dead, lying somewhere in a mess of his own meat and guts and bone and blood. Finally she swooped down to her deserted village, her deserted home, where the corpses of her sisters still lay upon the spirit stone, awaiting Thoonsk's guardians to receive them.

With heavy heart Melai hovered there a moment and watched them... then flew into her home tree, into its dark cosy bole, and as light faded from Cloudfyre, Melai's limbs sprouted root and anchored deep into the wood until she were encased within the tree itself and she were naught but eyes looking out at the night world, and ears listening to the whispers and song of the woodland.

Then she slept.

3

Both suns arose as per normal next morning. Yet, to Melai the surrounding forest were unusually quiet. She cowered within the bole of her tree, simply watching the water glades stretched out before her family village, sun twinkling off the still waters. The willow boughs stretched out over lagoon surface, their soft reflections gently riding the ripples. Giant lily pads covered the area immediately at the base of her tree. In days gone she would awaken to woodland fairies playing about them. Or wingless pixies riding the poisonous brown-pink swamp frogs, hunting tadpoles and guppies. Nests of the weaver birds, the great shadowy tree bound masses, were normally a raucous mass of trilling life this time of day. But not a single peep came from them. In the distance the gargantuan Monmoth trees, long the wonder of Melai's folk, were normally teeming with clouds of swallows. They too sat undisturbed this morning. Quiet. Deserted.

Since the day of the first shockwave, her forest she knew were dying, growing quieter, animals vanishing. She had received no word from the trees either; their voices had become soft, whispering, like someone on the cusp of sleep.

I have slain the Rjoond yet all is not well, she thought to herself sadly. It grows more dire by the day.

Her skinny limbs, having coupled with tree in the night, now retracted. She emerged from her nest and peered down at the spirit stone, the enormous slab of rock upon which her dear sisters still lay side by side in death.

Traditionally Mother Thoonsk sent her woodland guardians within three rotations of Melus and Gohor to retrieve the bodies of deceased nymphs. While the water forests had been stricken with whatever curse the Rjoond had brought upon them, while bird and fish and frog were mysteriously dying, while numbers of Bucca and swamp cat and blue heron were diminishing, Melai had been preparing her sisters for their retrieval.

She had removed their clothing and rinsed their bodies. She had smoothed over fresh sap from surrounding paperbark trees, thus preserving them. She had placed logs filled with smoldering mushroom, the musky clouds of wafting spoor keeping away hungry wanton pixies and corpse flies, and half-fish half-devil corpse eaters who rose up from the depths of lagoon and would attempt to drag away the deceased children of Mother Thoonsk.

It had now been three rotations of Melus since her sisters had lost their lives and Mother Thoonsk's guardians had still not come for them. This troubled Melai more and more. She did not wish to think what it could mean.

She leapt from her bole and swooped down to the communal platform where she and her sisters once laughed and chatted and braided each other's hair; it were a large naturally formed space amidst her home trees, where a dozen mighty branches from a number of willows had woven together to create a spacious terrace some fifty feet above lagoon's surface. The area were flattened and smoothed almost to a gloss from centuries of use by Melai's kind. And here she alighted, standing before a separate side-branch that acted as a vast nursery which grew with water moss and yellow horse-ear mushrooms, figs and fyre-plums, dandelfruit and crab apples, salt-leaf and sugar berries, lemon sage and flowers of bluegrape that bloomed from small vines sprouting from the bark. That and more.

She ate, though her appetite were lacking. She bit fruit and fungus directly from their perch, not plucking them or picking them as she had heard folk from other regions were like to do, cut them and pick them and pack them up and ferry them off to markets to sell. That were a bizarre concept to her and her kind. She ate slowly, distracted, the state of Thoonsk continuing to trouble her. Why could she not hear swamp cats fighting and chasing one and other through the treetops? Why could she not hear the squawk of lagoon storks as they waded through water catching fish, or the distant croak of toads, or the buzz of cicadas, or the deep grunting sounds of faraway marine mammoth, or the treetop, spider-like scrambling of the headless, back-to-back Buccas?

It were bad enough yesterday, she thought to herself, but give me yesterday over this.

And then there were her sisters... Why have they not yet been collected?

She began to wish that she had stayed to watch the Rjoond. She feared now that he had somehow survived her attempts at finishing him off, that she had angered him and thus in the sunless hours he had perpetrated some mighty deed of evil, let loose some vile magic, something that had spread like wildfire through Thoonsk, something that with a simple kiss of breath had killed everything else left alive, even the spirit of Mother Thoonsk herself, and that of her angels who took away the dead.

'Why have I been spared?' she asked herself softly. 'Does he come for me now? Does he reserve a special little death for me?'

She would not permit him, she decided. She would set out to find him. She would appeal to the trees for help, ask if they had seen him, to show her to his whereabouts, be he dead or alive. She needed to know.

4

Wooden forest golems. Five of them remained to her. Sentinels. Standing in shallow waters before her family settlement. She could bring them under her command as an attack force if need be.

She flew down to them. And rubbed her finger tips, squeezing them, dabbing clear green sap that seeped forth from her skin against the bared wooden tongue of each golem. A moment or two later the vacant, woody eyes opened, lit with a strange green luminescence.

'Doela-ta Riyyoondish, minun ajrurshen,' she whispered. Find the Rjoond trespasser and killer. 'Meestha ter lelunay uns throotler.' Set forth with me to defeat him if he still lives. And the breath that left her mouth were tinged with wisps of silky vapour that drifted and wafted against each golem. It were a language they understood, a language spoken only in this realm, language of elder days, when nymphs bragged entire armies of these creatures. Not all nymphs spoke or understood this tongue. And in recent times those born with its knowledge had become all the more rare. But Melai had been one such born with its knowledge and its secrets.

Each golem bore fins, a fish's tail, crab limbs armed with mighty serrated pincers. They bore sharp teeth in a wide garish mouth, with carp lips and goggling toad's eyes. On Melai's command, each golem stirred and awoke, looking about as if they had been in slumber for many a year and did not recognise their surroundings. But one by one they submerged, and with naught but their eyes above water's calm surface they swam away, the movement of their bodies almost serpentine through the lagoon.

Melai took flight. And followed.

5

She had expected a fight. She had expected to come across a raging Rjoond bringing down Thoonsk in madness. All she found though were his remains. Guts, dark dried blood, and limbs hacked free. His torso she found nearby, lying across bough of an oak. It were mostly hollow, intestines and hearts dragged free, rib bones exposed like a cradle of pale fingers. His head were naught recognisable. His face were flayed completely off. And his skin were already turning colour. Rot-black it were. Rot-black and unrecognisable. She had heard of this Rjoond phenomenon. How their dark deeds turned their innards to decay long before they died, how it bubbled out of them on death and tainted their entire being before decay set in.

His steed were nowhere to be seen but the Rjoond had suffered she knew. It were easy to see. She imagined she would be elated. Yet all she felt were a strange emptiness.

The golems had surrounded the scene. Awaiting her instructions. Waiting to attack and kill whatever assailed her.

'Yysia,' she told them softly. 'Yysia sensa isi.' At ease. At ease, our target is terminated. 'Jirru noothith. Jirru noothith.' To home now. To home now.

Out of respect for more life lost, she spared the remains of the Rjoond some moments of silence, her head lowered where she were perched on the edge of the bough on which his torso lay. 'Nahei,' she whispered. I am sorry.

She turned, spread her wings and leapt into the air.

6

Thoonsk's guardians arrived at dawn four days after her dear sisters had mysteriously and simultaneously fallen from the ghost tree. Through the woodlands they came, tree creatures, tall, majestic, wading through deep water, their long bark-laden legs gliding effortlessly, gracefully, as they strode onward, their long bark-layered arms swinging majestically, long fingers of twig and leaf dragging through lagoon's pristine surface, forming ripple trails in their wake.

A deep thrumming hum came from their wooden mouths, reverberating up from the depths of their throats, heralding their arrival long before they were seen. The Lament of the Waiting Ones this song were known. Always sung during a Retrieval ceremony. Their red sappy eyes were serene, angelic. They strode forward in leafy robes of red and brown and gold, robes that drifted like spider silk on dawn's cool breeze, robes that were webbed in veins like the leaves of trees.

Melai lowered herself to her knees and bowed her head. It were not proper to stare at Thoonsk's guardians. Yet Melai were required to look upon them but once. To respond to their words.

'Viasha Thoonsisk, janua srarsarri,' they spoke. Mother Thoonsk, takes back her children. 'Viasha Thoonsisk, eeyoon srarsarri tumaya florinthah.' Mother Thoonsk will give them rebirth, in the form of another and kind. 'Chilla Melaiys basheeathi?' Are these the blessings of Child Melai?

Their voices came in unison it seemed. Yet so quiet did they sound, their voices were more like distant wind shaking the leaves of a faraway tree.

Melai replied in similar voice. 'Basheeathi na Melaiys tuhth.' They are my blessings, aye.

Tears fell from her eyes and down her face as the guardians gently, respectfully took each of her five sisters into their woody arms. Here they bowed to Melai, turned slowly and Melai watched them carry the last of her family and folk away. She wept as they went, her tears dripping gently into lagoon. She wept as the morning mists silently engulfed the guardians. And soon they were gone and she were left there truly alone for the first time in her life. Below her face she saw beneath water's surface tiny blue water horses, creatures that had fallen moments earlier in the form of tears. They swam away into the depths of the lagoon and Melai sat there watching them go, wondering what to do next.

7

The suns had moved on. It were somewhere around midmorning. Melai were sat idly on the slab of spirit stone where her sisters had lain, gazing out across the silent expanse of Thoonsk. She could not help but wonder exactly where it were that guardians took woodland nymphs, feeling a need to understand, now more than ever, where it were that folk were taken to. It were forbidden to trail the guardians. All she knew were that woodland nymphs were carried to a prepared copse of trees, where they were placed and reborn into another of Mother's creatures. Though it did not quell her loneliness, Melai took heart that when her time came, she would be carried off to the same group of trees and be reborn into whatever form her sisters had taken. And they would be awaiting her.

Now though, she considered her options. She accepted that Thoonsk were dying. And hard as it were to admit, it had been dying even before she had encountered the unfortunate Rjoond. She began to question whether or not it were indeed the Rjoond who had delivered Thoonsk its curse or if something else were to blame. If she cast her mind back, strange things had been going on all across her water forest for the past dozen rotations of Melus and Gohor. When her sisters had perished she had been desperate for someone to blame. When she watched the Rjoond plummet from the heavens it seemed obvious that here were the cause. Yet still, his last words rang in her mind: 'Some blight be killing all. No land have I crossed that remains untouched by it. It kills all before it with no discrimination. And none of it be my doing. My very own family has perished because of it. I am all that survives.'

A desperate lie to win him some time and prevent her killing him? Or had he actually spoken with truth?

So consumed by her thoughts were she that she failed to notice a shadow standing behind her. A presence. A shape. A thing. Some hulking thing with black, hungry eyes.

And she came aware of it too late.

8

She turned and glimpsed the abomination covered in shaggy brown fur and bearing long ungainly ape arms. And its face were naught but a gaping mouth and gaping eyes.

She gasped but the monster swiped her aside before she could move. Its ragged talons tore shreds out of her wing membrane, and the force punched her twisting and tumbling against tree trunk; down she splashed heavily into the lagoon.

She surfaced, coughing up water. Grunting, the monster waded toward her. She struggled to free herself from the swamp, kicking, wriggling, and flapping her wings, but the water held her like a mantis in sap. The beast reached her and wound back its arm and this time Melai concentrated her will... and vanished.

Her trick were only part successful. She flew from her position with the blinding velocity of a dart fly but careered into the creature's arm and went flinging away into a mound of deadfall.

She landed heavily, noisily but quickly she altered the pigment of her skin to blend in with her surroundings. The beast looked for her. At first it seemed it could not see her. But must've sensed her then for suddenly it rushed toward her, knotted strings of saliva swinging from its yawning, cavernous mouth.

Desperate, Melai unslung her bow and fired off a quick volley of arrows armed with Bloodfyre, a chemical drawn from Thoonsk's deep-water toads. The five arrows lodged into the monster's gut and, igniting on contact with blood, five explosive concussions blew holes out of its belly. Yet the monster hardly broke stride. On it came unruffled and unhindered.

Melai flapped her wings desperately, hoping to get herself airborne and into the safety of the tree tops. But her torn wing prevented her leaving the mound. She reached for another set of arrows. These armed with Veil Of Midnight; once loosed, they would fill the air with a blanketing cloud of inky spore—if she could not harm this beast then she would disorient it whilst she made her escape.

But while she was drawing back her bow string, the monster lunged at her, grabbed her and tossed her off into another tree trunk. The upper bones in both her right arm and right wing snapped. She heard them splinter and crack, she felt a numb dislodgement of bone and she slid off oak trunk and down into the lagoon once more, unbearable pain surging through her.

She flailed in the water, barely keeping her face above surface. She tried to swim but both her broken arm and wing dragged behind her, sending jolts of pain into her shoulder and down her spine. She gripped a nub of bark from the nearest tree to keep her chin above water. The monster came wading toward her with its soulless eyes and soulless face and huge hungry mouth open wide, yellowed, thick blunt teeth ready to chomp her head free.

11

She called for her golems. Then she watched the beast halt mid stride, as if distracted, as if some danger had alerted its attention.

Had her golems heard her?

Suddenly out of the forest, in a blur, like one of summer season's flash storms, came yet another hulking creature, ramming the monster head-first in the chest.

At first Melai could make out not what had assailed it, so fast and swift and sudden had been the attack, but as the monster were knocked to its side, as the creature that had thrust it over dashed off as quick as it might given the depth of the water, Melai saw it for the Rjoond's hefty two-headed steed.

Surely not! she thought. Though she had little time to debate it; the monster were righting itself from the water.

And here the Rjoond appeared.

Out he came, wading through waters with his sword held aloft, putting himself between her and the beast. He never gave her attacker any hint he were there, any chance to defend itself: all in one movement he swung his blade around, once, slicing open its chest and belly, and then twice, removing its great ugly head.

It were over in but a sunflare. Black blood spurted from the beast's neck as its head flung away and splashed heavily into water. Rjoond backed up as the monster's arms flailed wildly. Melai were shocked, for even without its head, the thing remained upon its feet, lumbering this way and that in mad fashion, turning around and around, growing more and more rapid, more and more feverish.

'Submerge yourself!' the Rjoond yelled at her.

The monster spun and spun, its arms and razored talons swinging wildly, tearing chunks from oaks and willows, from paperbarks and wattles, shards and splinters as big as Melai rocketing away in all directions, the sound of its limbs whipping through air like wings of the great Dragons.

The Rjoond dropped himself below the water line just as the monster erupted in a mass of spines and needles and barbs. Melai dove into the lagoon with not a moment to spare.

From below the lagoon's surface, Melai saw a hundred projectiles punch through the air where not a moment earlier she had clung one-handed to the oaken trunk. Then above, all fell silent.

## THE RJOOND

1

MELAI surfaced slowly, wondering where the Rjoond were. With water dripping down her face, she clung to the oak, watching him inspecting his handiwork, prodding the bulk of the monster's remains with his sword. He looked over at her.

'Be you hurt?' he asked her.

She would not answer.

He raised an eyebrow, perhaps curious as to why she refused to speak. He returned to his inspection of the creature. Melai saw a number of lesions on the Rjoond's arms and neck, and rips in his clothing; lesions and rips that had not been there when she'd put those arrows into his face the previous day. She wondered if some parts of the drug had caused him to attack himself after all.

'I learned about the barbs of this species the hard way,' he said as if he had sensed her thoughts, indicating the numerous wounds on his person. 'I have naught seen its kind before but I have now encountered two in as many days. The first ended its life like this one. With, shall we say, certain anger management issues.'

Melai thought of the mess of meat and guts and bone she had discovered the morning prior, the mess she had believed were the self-mutilated body of this Rjoond. It bore a striking resemblance to the blown-apart carcass before her.

Gargaron turned to her again. 'Now tell me, are you hurt?'

She were. And in pain. But she would not show it. 'No. Though why should you care if I were?'

He washed the black blood from his sword before sheathing it. 'Common courtesy,' he told her. 'And besides, since setting out from my home village of Hovel many days ago, you are but the only living, sentient being I have met. And since I have discovered naught but death and dying my entire way here your being alive both intrigues and heartens me. So forgive me if I ask after your welfare.'

'You lie! You spread sickness and disease. I have witnessed it now with my own eyes, with the death of the Soulsucka.'

He frowned. 'Soulsucka?' he pointed at the body of the slain monster. 'That thing?'

'No, the Devil Werm that were attached to your leg.'

He nodded. 'Oh. That little beast. I have no idea why it perished. I tried to assail it yet with all my strength I could not. It died not by my hand I assure you.'

'Liar!'

He sighed. 'I come from Hovel, many leagues from here. And as I stated, I have witnessed nothing but death in all these long leagues of travel. I had to see away my departed wife and daughter. I had to set alight to the corpses of all my village folk. Yet, I have witnessed some things, dark scurrying beasts, that I suspect might have something to do with all this mess.'

'I do not believe you.' She turned her face away and grimaced, her broken limbs throbbing like mad. She were determined not to allow him see her pain. It would make her vulnerable. If she were able she would have had her bow trained on him in these moments. If the arrows of Dark Moonlight had not worked, if the Spittle of Xonsüssa had proven ineffective, then maybe something else were required. Spiderlily venom. Shard of Basiiss root. Or the rare Deadfist toxin. But she could not wield her bow. Not with her arm broken and the ringing pain. If he came at her she were powerless.

No. Untrue. There are always my golems...

'Nothing might I say that will change your mind?' he asked.

She gripped hold of a bunch of moss vine that were strung to the oak and began to work her way back to the spirit stone. 'You are Rjoond. Your kind lie, cheat, steal, murder.'

He frowned at her. 'Rjoond? This is a term of which I am unfamiliar. Which tells me you have me confused with another race, surely. For I am of the Giants of Hovel, from the line of Giants of Neverwhere, and the giants I know...or at least knew, are kind by nature and we stick to our own boundaries and cause none but ourselves grief and angst. Let alone murder. Or thievery.'

'Untrue! Your kind once tried taking Thoonsk from my ancestors.'

He considered this. 'Honestly? Well, if that be so then let me apologise on their behalf. Although, I must confess, this is part of history I have yet to learn.'

There were silence amongst them for a time, broken only by the return of the two-headed horse, splashing and stomping through waters, snorting, flicking its ears. It drew up to the Rjoond and both its heads turned and regarded Melai as she pulled her way at last onto the dry slab of stone, holding her broken arm to her ribs, her broken wing hanging limply.

'Anyhow, allow me to introduce myself. I am Gargaron. Gargaron Stoneheart. Giant, hunter, and resident of Hovel. This here be Grimah, a trusty steed I have found friendship with only in recent days. He is all I have now for, as I believed I explained, my family and all of my kind have mysteriously perished. Before I landed here I were on my way to find Hawkmoth, the great sorcerer, in hopes he might explain and possibly reverse the foul curse that has stricken our world.'

She simply eyed him. And did not speak. He speaks of Haitharath the Old, she thought. Haitharath, friend of Thoonsk. Be he telling me falsehoods in order to gain my trust so that he might approach in feigned friendship and bludgeon me to pulp?

'I have been starved of company for many a day,' he told her, 'I would very much like to make your acquaintance. But if you would prefer I leave you alone then I shall regretfully respect your wishes and be on my way.'

Again she refused to speak.

He regarded her for a moment or two... Waiting for her to say something. But she would not.

'Very well,' he said.

2

With a sigh he turned away and hitched his pack to the saddle of his horse. He placed boot in stirrup, took hold of his steed's reigns and pulled himself onto his mount. With his great sword sheathed, and the dormant hilt of Hor's warhammer packed in his pack, he gave Grimah's shoulder a soft tap-tap and the huge horse began to move away.

He would not look back he decided. He would not beg her to come with him though his heart longed for company, conversation and her potential friendship. He kept his shoulders high, his chest pushed out resolutely.

Grimah had gone two dozen steps through the lagoon when he heard her voice.

'Wait. Please.'

Two simple little words. They flared warmth and hope in his heart.

3

He turned, not wanting to appear too hopeful, and waited to hear what she had to say. She stood now higher on the stone mass, beside one of the several trees that grew up around it.

'You have a face in the back of your head?'

Gargaron watched her, and laughed at such an unexpected question. 'You have just noticed?'

'Aye. What is it there for?'

He pulled Grimah around and the great horse waded back toward her. 'To spy on the night when I am asleep.'

'Can I look upon it?' she asked.

He considered this, then turned his back to her. She studied it at length, intrigued. Its eyes watched her in silence, its spiked finger curled up beneath it. She had heard such tales about giant folk of legend who possessed two faces. But she did not imagine one face would be at front and the other at rear.

Gargaron turned to eye her once more. 'Not all giants have retained their Nightface. But they serve we hunters of Hovel well.'

She gazed up at him. And for a moment they regarded each other.

'Why did you save my life?' she asked. 'Just now. Against that monster. I thought you were here to kill me. Please tell, why save me?'

He shook his head. And smiled. 'I still do not know where you obtained this bizarre notion that I have come here from far across the lands to slay you and your kind. I were minding my own business, fishing. A break from my village duties as hunter. I had been dozing on river bank, dreaming... and not dreaming of reaping death and destruction on this beautiful part of Godrik's Vale, I assure you. No, I were dreaming of my girls: my dear daughter and her sweet mother. Until a shockwave passed over and awoke me. As I opened my eyes, I saw fish dying, and ornithens plummeting from the skies. I saw raging torrents of blackness sweeping down river. When I hurried back to my village I found all were dead. All. None remained alive. Including my dear girls.' He sighed. 'After I saw their bodies to their forebears, I left Hovel to find answers. I found nothing but death from there to Autumn town. I do not know if you have heard of it, but I utilised the Skysight to try and find the nearest habitat, village, town, city, anywhere where the living might still exist. But I found naught. Naught anywhere. Naught at least that could hold a conversation and tell me of this dark phenomenon. Then I chanced upon a metal man with that flying contraption you must've heard, if not seen, drop from the clouds who told me that Hawkmoth the sorcerer had discovered me from afar and had invited me to meet with him, that he needed numbers to help fight this scourge.' He shrugged. 'That is where I were heading before this unscheduled detour.'

4

She watched him. Spoke nothing. And yet he saw something new in her eyes. Something that suggested she were now reconsidering her earlier beliefs. 'What be your name?' she asked.

'As I have already announced, Gargaron Stoneheart. What be yours?'

'Melai Willowborne of Willowgarde.'

'Well, Melai Willowborne of Willowgarde, I am glad to make your acquaintance.' He dipped his head respectfully. Then straightened and looked about. 'Be this your home?'

'All of Mother Thoonsk be my home,' she answered. 'But this be my home trees of Willowgarde.'

He were struck by its idyllic setting. A circle of trees grown up around a vast slab of stone that jutted above the waterline like the roof of an enormous marine toadstool; part of it were shaped like the prow of a ship, jutting out into the waters of the lagoon. It hung with snake moss and around its edge where the water lapped, it were encrusted with fresh-water barnacles and clung with crabs that Gargaron could not say were alive or dead. One of the trees appeared to grow up through the middle of the slab of stone. But as Gargaron soon realised, it were simply growing upon stone's surface with its roots gripping the rock as though they were but vast reaching fingers; roots that seemed to harbor a vast garden of flowering shrubs and toadstools and orchids. This tree stood the tallest of the group. Alas, it seemed to be one of the tallest trees Gargaron had yet witnessed in this water forest, so far above him were its canopy that it were lost to sky haze.

But looking up he saw now several tens of feet above him, some branches of Melai's "home trees" had accumulated around the central tree to form the base of what he could only describe as some sort of "tree house". And above that, perhaps another twenty feet, the trunks of each tree were beset with some sort of growth. At least that is how it appeared at first sight. For each trunk were swollen with a bulbous mass. But he saw now that each growth were fixed with a large rounded hole, as if a doorway into the trees themselves. Were this where her kind slept? Were they dwellings?

There were a wonderful sense of calm here, but perhaps the quietness belied its usual ambience; tree dwellers like birdlings had maybe fled or had died. Bugs chirruped but, if he did not know better, their calls sounded haphazard, tortured, almost sick. As if they were crying out a sweet lament, as if they knew death were creeping through the bark to get them. Gargaron could not help but think of his wife and daughter and his own village.

5

'Would you come closer?' Melai Willowborne asked.

He frowned. 'Why? So that you may fill me with more of your arrows? I'll admit, the final one you lodged in my face gave me a wonderful feeling of inebriation. Yet, the first lot actually hurt.'

'I shall only fill you with arrows should you prove untrustworthy. So, until I test your story, no more arrows.'

He hesitated but were intrigued. 'My story? How do you intend to test it?'

'If you will permit me, I would look into your mind.'

He considered this. 'Before I agree, would you name your method of mind bonding?'

'Why does it matter?'

'I would like to know one's method before I allow one to probe my thoughts.'

She did not reply. Simply waited for him to make his decision known.

Gargaron dismounted and waded forward, his ankle still sore. Though he stood in the lagoon to his waist, and she perched high on the exposed rock, he still towered over her; a buffalo to a duckling.

'You would need bend down,' she advised. 'I cannot reach you from here.'

He crouched, the water rising up around his belly and chest and came face to face with her where she stood on the edge of this mighty stretch of rock. Up so close, she were, he realised, an exquisite looking creature. He had never seen the likes of her. Aye, on his travels and expeditions, he had witnessed forest sprites and river nymphs. Some had even called home the Summer Woods up behind Hovel when he were a boy. But this being were different. She sported, as far as he could tell, two sets of wings, like those of the Buccuyashuck dragonflies in the Spring that grew to the size of hoardogs. And a pair of skinny, bony arms and legs. Her fingers and toes, proportionate to her hands and feet, were long and ungainly looking. Like that of a Hovel Nightfrog. Her eyes were large and luscious. And alluring. She had small teeth, the same colour of her skin which were a soft creamy green. She had long hair that reminded him of healthy spring grass. She had small breasts tucked behind a green and brown shawl that were tied by a vine belt around her waist and which hung over small green thighs. She wore no shoes. Her toes had tiny green leaves where other beings would have nails or claws. She had an odour of flowers about her.

'Do you have anyone left here?' Gargaron asked.

'No.' Her voice brimmed with sadness.

'Do you wish to stay here?'

She did not know the answer to that.

'If I agree to you delving into my mind, then might you accompany me on my quest to find this sorcerer?'

She watched him closely, thinking deeply. 'I will let you know soon enough.'

He considered this answer. Eyeing her closely in turn. 'Very well. Then I submit my mind to you.'

6

She swallowed deeply. And raised her arm and jabbed a small finger at his forehead. His body went stiff as stone, feeling as if some great worm had just thrust itself through his skull and into his brain.

He saw a smooth pattern of images flow over his vision, like water in a stream swishing over smooth stones. Waking beside a river. Seeing death and destruction in his village. Finding his wife and daughter dead inside Summer Woods. Carrying their corpses to great precipice. Watching Wraithbirds carry them away.

He saw himself burning his village folk, and fetching Drenvel's Bane before leaving Hovel. He watched his trek to Autumn, accompanied by all that death and rot. He saw Dark Ones ripping sheep to shreds. Watched himself meeting the two-headed horse, Grimah. Observed his adventure on Skysite tower. And of drinking himself to sleep in the Autumn tavern, the Goat's Head. He saw the dead again, scattered amongst the streets. And Corpse Flowers beyond count. He saw the metal man and its airship. And of taking to the skies...

When the small green being finally withdrew her hand a trickle of purple blood coursed down the bridge of Gargaron's nose, down his cheek. He noticed her fingertip smeared in blood, and a small barb, like that of a rose thorn, retracting. He saw her shudder, as if what she had learned were too much to absorb.

He watched her face. She watched his.

7

She needed the Temple Tree. She desired communion with Mother Thoonsk about what best to do. But she knew not how to get up there without the use of her wing. And with her broken arm it would be impossible to climb. Thus she sat there on the spirit stone, surrounded by her home trees, wondering what to do. She looked across at the giant and considered him a while; his steed waiting nearby patiently, nibbling at floating clumps of water-grass with both its mouths.

'These Dark Ones I see in your memories?' she eventually asked Gargaron. 'What be they?'

He shook his head. And considered his answer. 'As yet I have had no genuine encounters with them other than brief moments where they have approached me, studied me, before retreating. I do not know who or what they are, nor from where they have come.'

'Do you believe they have brought this death?'

He sighed. 'I can only speculate, of course. Perhaps they have. Or perhaps the breakdown of our land and its societies has brought them out into places they might not have ordinarily strayed. Perhaps the mayhem and death has simply displaced them from wherever their home territories be.'

Melai thought of the monster this Gargaron had recently slain. She had naught seen its kind in Thoonsk before this day. Perhaps it too had been displaced, or lack of food and prey had drawn it from its own country, or perhaps whatever creature or beings that normally kept it at bay had perished and were no longer prominent enough to contain it. 'But I have heard your fears, oh giant, and I have seen that you suspect them in the downfall of the realm.'

'Aye, that is true. But perhaps I merely blame them for so far I have naught else to blame. Such as you blamed me for the dying in these woodlands.'

She said nothing.

He went on. 'Still, they could not possibly be to blame for every death. For I have seen animals, birdlings, die without warning as if they have been struck down by an invisible wave of spears. So, this Hawkmoth be whom I seek for this Hawkmoth claims he knows the answers.'

She continued to watch him. 'Do you believe this?'

He shrugged. 'I have precious little else to believe at present. Though I must say it has given me some focus.'

'What if there be no sorcerer?' Melai put to him. 'What if it be some ploy to drag out the last of the living to their deaths?'

He had to admit, this were something he had not yet considered. And it surprised him that he had not. Were he thus walking straight into a potential trap? Had he been left so bereft of feeling, so distraught, that his judgement had become so clouded? Had he been so desperate for an answer to this blight that he were willing to dash after the first solution that fell at his feet?

Do not torture yourself, a voice in his head spoke. You have had much on your plate.

He sighed. 'If it be some ploy then so be it. I would sooner fall trying, than to fall sitting staring at the earyth.'

She eyed him closely, thoughtfully. In turn he eyed her. 'Makes me wonder,' he said, his eyes narrowed. 'If this Hawkmoth be indeed seeking the living, then why has he not yet detected you?'

She shrugged. 'Who says he has not?'

8

The second metal man were sprawled and tangled in a hazel tree. Half of it blackened, charred, hinting at signs of damage by fire. Parts of the hazel tree were scorched, with branches entirely burnt of their foliage, and those leaves not charred to ash had turned copper brown from intense heat. Bits of painted skin flaked away from the metal man. Bits of tubing or wire either floated upon water's surface, or were caught tangled amidst reeds and lilies.

'It appeared three or four days gone,' Melai told Gargaron from where she sat upon Grimah's broad shoulders. 'I refused to believe what it had to say. I had never seen its like before. I were highly suspicious of its presence given that it appeared mere hours after my dear sisters perished. Before it were engulfed in fire, it reported the sorcerer's wishes. Not long after, I witnessed you fall from the sky. It were then I assumed it were all a lie, that you had come with another metal man, a Rjoond invasion force as we here in Thoonsk have long feared.'

Gargaron studied the mekanik. Its presence seemed to suggest that Hawkmoth had somehow found survivors across the land where Gargaron himself had not. And by all signs, the sorcerer had dispatched his mekaniks far and wide to gather all those who had not perished.

Melai wiped her eyes and gazed out through forest canopy to a patch of blue sky. 'I were with my sisters when we felt the first shockwave. We were away in the woods, collecting Xhuerfruit. Have you heard of Xhuerfruit? It be a fruit fortified by bark as tough as hawk eggs, but if the fruit be ripe—and you know when it's ripe for the bark turns blue and puts off such a sweet pungent odour—you crack them open while they are still attached to their branch and inside you'll find the soft Xhuer pulp all wet and gooey, which you suckle and the small segments explode and pop on your tongue and there is the release of the most delicious nectar. It can make you dizzy and giggly as a drunkard.' She wiped more tears. 'Anyway, we heard it coming. A sound like howling storm wind. The trees here speak to one another, a language we begin to learn as babes, but don't fully grasp until adulthood. We could hear them speaking of a great dark shadow pressing down. But we argued between ourselves as to exactly what they meant. They seemed to be speaking of a poison on the air. Since then, the trees have fallen silent. I hear them no longer.

'When we returned to our home trees of Willowgarde, everyone... all my dear sisters... they...' She wept. 'They fell ill. I thought at first it were but exhaustion. For one by one, without warning, they fell to slumber. I could not awaken them. I screamed at them to wake up. When the second wave passed over, it, it st-stole their breath...' She cried now. Heavily. She wanted to say more but could not. She cried into her hand, her injured arm cradled in her lap, her tears falling, becoming tiny sprites as they splashed against tree and bark.

Gargaron placed his hand gently upon her back, his fingers almost eclipsing her entirely. To hear her cry reminded him of his dear Veleyal and tears escaped his own eyes. He found naught to say to her, naught that would help her. So he simply sat with her while she sobbed; he seated in water upon a mound of deadfall, she on sun drenched stone.

Eventually she looked up at him, the green skin around her cheeks and eyes puffy and damp. 'I will come with you,' she said softly. 'I will come to Haitharath the Old as we here in Thoonsk know this sorcerer. If only to learn what great scourge has killed my dear sisters. And hopefully find a way to avenge their deaths.'

9

Melai hid her pain. And kept her wing and arm close at her side. Aye, she had agreed to travel with this Rjoond but it did not mean she yet trusted him. She reminded herself that, although he had so far proved himself a friendly fellow, his folk were the enemy of her kind. She would thus remain on guard.

They returned to Willowgarde where Melai spread upon the spirit stone an enormous Aahnyey leaf. From the garden growing amidst the roots of the Temple Tree that clung to the spirit stone, she uprooted a vast array of small plants and placed them on the leaf. Zantha, Loniyahd, Teatha, and Fraew. Jaynu Root, Blossom Cup, Jazeem Fruit. Yellowcap Mushoom. Dynoldi Pea. Gipp. Hyth. Meathe. Fynesa. Cortha. Some of them were rooted to round mossy stones, some to clumps of wood, some into the stinking carcass of dead swamp fish. Others sunk their roots directly into the Aahnyey leaf itself when placed there. Most of them drew moisture from the atmosphere and did not require regular watering. But all would sustain her and would continue to yield fruit and some she would milk for poisons for the arrows she fired.

Before she were done she fetched one last item. A little clump of bark layered wood; small green leaves sprouted from it. It were a plant that housed some particularly nasty things. Her sisters would say, 'On long journeys from Willowgarde, to ward against any lizards of the sky, we must always carry amongst us the monstrut.'

Melai now folded up her Aahnyey leaf into a travel sling, and heard the Rjoond enquire about directions for a westways journey. She declared that she could point the way and also better steer him and steed around hidden drop-offs and plunge-holes if she were mounted again upon the horse.

As this Rjoond, Gargaron, heeled his steed and pulled the great two-headed creature around, Melai took one last look at her home trees of Willowgarde. Within them she and her sisters had been born. They had been their home and mother, their playground and teacher. Now she were leaving them... For how long she could not know.

A tear filled her eye. And from where she sat upon the horse's huge shoulders she turned forward and did not look back.

## MOONSTONE

1

THERE were indeed deep plunge holes as Melai had warned. And she would berate Gargaron for not having wings, for not having the ability to fly. He told her she were quite welcome to fly on ahead if it would please her. But she stayed where she were, upon the shoulder of the steed.

'How be your wing by the way?' he asked.

'It's fine,' she told him.

The stretches of water became larger, deeper, in these, Thoonsk's, westwun reaches. Trees grew sparse. Dead things floated. Fishes, turtles, water-lizards. And other beasts Gargaron had never laid his eye on. Oarfish. Critters he had only heard stories of. And things he did not at all recognise. Dark things with shining skin and arms ending in spiked claws, and mouths full of teeth, and gleaming, bulging black devil eyes. Gargaron felt a peculiar need to drive his steed around these strange clumps of dead creatures, fearing another attack by some alien critter such as that damned Soulsucka, but Melai would direct him irritably through them, steering Grimah away from treacherous plunge holes, and then scolding Gargaron for ignoring her.

Every now and then Grimah would stray into deeper water that threatened to swamp both himself and riders, the water gushing high around his shoulders, soaking Gargaron to his hips, Melai's grassy hair swirled serpentine across its rippling surface. The steed nickered nervously. Gargaron opted once or twice to dismount, for fear that under his weight, the horse might sink into muddy floor. The act left Melai frustrated, arguing that if he were to do that she would then need keep look-out for steed and Rjoond. 'That be not ideal,' she warned. 'I have not enough eyes to guide you both around deathly drop-offs.'

When Gargaron suggested she take flight and call down directions from above, for surely with a bird's eye view she would see the way more clearly, she argued otherwise.

'I can see the bottom of the lagoon far more clearly here, thank you.'

This rebuke intrigued him.

'What do you suffer?' he asked finally. 'What injury did that beast leave you with?'

'None,' she said hotly.

He pulled the steed to a halt. Both she and Gargaron lurched forward, such were the abrupt cessation of momentum. 'I know you hide it,' he said gruffly. 'Let us have it out so that we might lance the problem before it festers.'

'Press on!' she insisted. 'I am uninjured!' Her tone suggested this were the end of the matter and end of discussion.

He hesitated. Through her mind bond with him, he had happened to see her personal thoughts and fears. He knew she had damaged wing and arm both. Yet, he would see how long she could keep a lid on her pain.

2

Gargaron ate lunch. Dried mushrooms, cured ham. He offered Melai some but she turned her nose up at his taste in food. Following a somewhat derogatory comment by her regarding his culinary preferences they sat there on a huge pile of deadfall and she ate nothing. And she spoke little. And she gazed at length into the woods, her thoughts far away. Gargaron would have preferred some conversation but reminded himself that she had only recently farewelled her kin. No easy task. Thus he respected her silence and her longing for solitude. And assumed her appetite would return in time.

Grimah watched them both as if curious of their nature.

After he had eaten, Gargaron shed his boot to inspect his ankle. Melai pretended not to look but she were intrigued to see the mighty tear put there by the Soulsucka were now effectively gone. Again she were surprised by this Rjoond's ability to heal himself; and again she found herself rethinking her belief that his kind were all oafish and dim witted.

3

They pressed on after midday, when the two suns seemed to be swinging by each other. The swamp appeared to steam. The air were muggy and rank. Sweat gushed off Grimah and Gargaron both in small rivers. Dead pond skaters floated. In the trees Gargaron watched bizarre creatures Melai called Buccas. Another species Gargaron had never laid eye upon. So fascinating were they he near drove Grimah into a plunge hole. 'Watch where you send us!' Melai screeched at him.

Gargaron pulled Grimah to an immediate halt. He saw where shallow sandy lagoon floor gave way to the dark maw of an abyss off to the steed's right shoulder. He pulled Grimah back a few paces before returning his gaze into the trees. 'What be those things?' he asked. They were peculiar frog-skinned, spider-like creatures, and peculiar of shape. So peculiar of shape Gargaron were utterly awestruck. It were as if a pair of folk, with all sets of limbs intact, were fused together back to back. And not only that, they were headless, two necks per individual that ended in naught but stumps.

'Buccas,' Melai told him. 'Magical creatures. Kind, inquisitive, not so evil as their appearance might suggest. Forest folk claimed they could never die, that they be immortal.' Her gaze shifted to water's surface where one or two of these strange creatures floated. Dead. 'Though now it seems they too cannot withstand this infernal curse that grips Thoonsk.'

'This curse grips all,' Gargaron reminded her. 'Both Thoonsk and beyond.'

They pressed on, steering clear of the plunge hole.

4

The hours drew on and the day grew hotter; a stifling humidity hung about the woodland. It drew rivers of sweat from both Gargaron and steed; Gargaron's clothes were well soaked. He cupped handfuls of lagoon water to douse his head. 'How do you bear this?' he asked Melai, water and sweat dripping off his lips.

'Bear what?'

'This unbearable heat.'

'I thought it obvious,' she snapped at him.

If it were obvious then he did not know how.

'The suns,' she pointed out. 'Have you not noticed? They are such as lovers these days. They fall toward one another. The heat were never like this. It be unbearable. Thoonsk be normally a cool, temperate place.'

'Very well then. I shall take your word for it.'

5

They made long distance in good time. Until Gargaron noticed Melai grimacing. 'Be you well?' he asked her. Her injured wing were folded protectively beneath her arm. She did not answer. 'Be you well, I say?'

'Yes.'

But she were not. The way she struggled to speak. The way she held her wing and arm. He noticed now also a peculiar odour. Some weedy reek. She were bleeding he saw. Yellow blood dripped from her elbow, running down his destrier's sweating flank. He prayed it were simply her wound that were ailing her. Yet he could not push aside the idea that the doom that had killed all else were now killing Melai.

6

It were early afternoon when they entered a part of the woodland where water levels were the shallowest Gargaron had yet witnessed since his fall into this strange world of Thoonsk. Here though trees of immense girth grew. And were peculiarly shaped, as of a wrist thrust from water and its palm upturned and fingers growing out and up as branches old and gnarled with bark the colour of soot. At their bases, knots of twisted root rose and fell over one another, and upon each tree there had been gouged patterns of ghastly faces where white sap beneath had oozed through and dried, and now, in the general wash of diffuse green hews of the surrounding forest, they glowed like that of moonlight.

Gargaron wondered if the depictions of these tortured souls were meant to ward off intruders by some long lost forest race. If so then it did not work on he nor Melai nor Grimah for something else occupied their thoughts. Melai's injury. And by the time Gargaron had placed Melai upon the 'palm' of one of these trees she were seething between her teeth. Trying to swallow her pain.

She sat there, a hunched and pathetic looking creature if Gargaron had ever seen one.

'Will you accept my help now?' he enquired of her.

She would not look at him. Though pain pinched her face.

'You stubborn fool,' he said. 'You have seen inside my thoughts, you have seen I mean you no harm, and yet still you distrust me.'

'Thoughts can be masked,' she argued weakly, 'thoughts can be falsified.' Yet, she had touched his living blood, she knew blood manufactured no lies.

'Falsified? Aye possibly, but not by the likes of me,' Gargaron gently argued back. 'I lack both knowledge and ability to orchestrate such tricks.'

She said no more. Instead she turned over and lay down. Her ribs pushed against the pale green skin of her chest. She were terribly gaunt. She had not eaten nor drunk since he had met her. She were weak, he knew, and growing more so by the minute.

'Cast off your stubbornness lest it contribute to your demise,' Gargaron told her as he rounded the tree (he could move more freely here for the water level were barely to his knee) so that he might find a gap through bough and branch to speak to her, face to face.

'Why should you care if I live or die?' she asked him rasping.

'Why should I not? I hunt and I kill for a living aye, but otherwise I find life precious. Now, even more so, now, with so much death, life seems imperative. So, tell me, Melai of Willowgarde, what ails you?'

She winced. Yellow blood continued to drip from her. 'I know not.'

Gargaron thought of his Lyfen Essence. 'I have medicine that chases away death.'

She shook her head. 'No.'

'You do not trust me?'

'No. I need Greenwater moon.'

Gargaron frowned. 'I have never heard of it. What be it and where must I look to find it?'

'It be medicine.' She gave him a look as if she still thought him nothing but a big ignorant oaf. From where she lay, she looked about. And about. 'A deep pond,' she said. 'A fathom down is where they come to rest when the moon beams of Great Keera hit the water's surface and become instantly the stone of green-water.'

Great Keera? Gargaron thought. There be no such moon. Were she losing her wits now as well as her strength? 'You require this substance?'

'I fear I have been poisoned by that unknown beast that assailed me,' she said anxiously. 'Its claws punctured me. Its poison remains unknown to me. I must need eat of the moon stones. They are a powerful remedy, Mother Thoonsk's cure-all. I must eat of them before morning or else I fear I shall perish at sunrise.'

Gargaron sighed heavily, looking about aimlessly; all he saw were thick woodland stretching away to all points of compass. 'Let me find it for you then,' he said. 'Just tell me where to look.'

7

He found a pond like one she had described. It will appear as a natural well within the swamp, she had told him through grimace and groan. Surrounded by a circular bank covered in great tufts of wriggling worm-grass. The wells are vents the ancient water-horses once bored into earyth. These creatures are long wiped from history but their chimneys remain, flooded and submerged. Other things live in them now. Sometimes deadly. So be careful. The moon stones may be found a fathom from the surface, embedded in coral.

Gargaron gazed down into the deep clear water. His steed stood nearby, surveying the woodland, as if searching for any strange critters that might be sneaking up behind them. But there were no-one and nothing about. Gargaron removed his pack. Shed his boots and jerkin and shirt. Standing at the edge of the well he considered what he had to do. Then he took a deep breath... and dove in.

8

It were remarkably clear. He could see a long way down as he descended. The walls were lit with some sort of phosphorescent algae that gave off a soft green luminescence. But there were also large spreading patches where algae had blinked out, as if all of it were slowly dying en masse. Strange fish swam lazily about, on their sides, or upside down. Tired or ill.

A huge crustacean, a lobster all black and hard bony ridges, listed from some den in the wall of the well. Its body swayed in the wash of the current created by Gargaron as he swam by. Its eye-stalks did not see him. Its body, Gargaron realised, were limp with death.

On a shelf almost a fathom down Gargaron suddenly saw something strange. A cluster of glowing stones. Only when he grabbed at one it felt more like a fleshy knob of some sort. A bulb. Were these the objects of which Melai had spoken? He did not know. But the air in his lungs were waning. His chest were beginning to ache. He could swim no further down. He plucked as many of the bulbs as he could and kicked for surface.

9

Back at the 'palm' tree, Gargaron presented the peculiar bulbs to Melai, his hand and fingers sandy and wet. 'Tell me these be what you seek,' he panted.

She looked at the items he presented. 'Aye. Th-this be them,' she declared tiredly, again grimacing. 'I-I were concerned y-you may... may not find them, that, that you would n-not recognise them.'

She squished one weakly in her fingers and slurped up its alien milk; moonlight, if he believed her claims, turned into this strange liquid substance via the magic of the well. She swallowed it down, her eyes looking dreamy, turning smoky and blue, as if she were snared in some rare arresting ecstasy. Her head swung back, her eyes rolled upwards, her toes and fingers contracted.

'Melai!' Gargaron called, 'Melai, hear me? Be you well? Be you well?'

Had she mistaken the stone for something else? In his haste, had he fetched the wrong items? He gripped her with his huge hands, his grasp almost wrapping her entire body, and shook her as stiffly as he dared.

'Melai! Melai, hear me! Please, do not perish. You must not.'

But she would not move. He watched for her breathing. He saw the soft rise and fall of her chest and yet steeled himself for its eventual culmination, for it to grow softer and less apparent until it stopped forever. Like the elf girl who had inadvertently brought him Grimah.

10

The suns fell toward horizon. He watched them as he sat there beside Melai's sleeping form. He found a natural platform in the bole of an enormous old oak, an area large enough to accommodate the bulk of his body. Then he built a fire out of reeds and branches from dried deadfall clumped high above the water mark.

He listened out for bugs and swamp frogs and nightjars. He had heard tales of the various swamp realms of Godrik's Vale. How at night you had to stuff feathergrass into your ears if you wanted to sleep, for the great cacophony of sound as the wild things kept up their mating and territorial calls would keep you from slumber and send you mad.

Nevertheless, the silence unnerved him. He heard the occasional lazy splash in the surrounding water. Something gurgling as it floated to the surface of the swamp, as it gasped and gargled and drowned in the air. Heard the dispirited cries of dying bugs. Otherwise the swamp night were as silent as death.

Except near dawn when he awoke, Gargaron heard howl and swoosh of huge swift bodies sweeping through the swamplands. He sat up and looked about.

Dawn light hung pale in the east. A veil of mist drifted through the woodlands. And moving there like spectres he saw them. Dark Ones. Swishing by like black wraiths.

He lay low, his chin in water, gripping his great sword. Melai remained in whatever state the moonstones had put her in. And Grimah lay there on a trodden down bed of reeds and water brambles, eyes open, perhaps sensing danger and thus keeping quiet, unmoving but for his keen eyes.

Are they coming for me now? Gargaron wondered. Surely they would not spare him a second time. In some ways he welcomed it. To leave this world of dying. And if so then he would somehow have his spirit make its way to Endworld without the help of the Wraithbirds. Somehow he would make it there and live out eternity with his wife and daughter.

Yarniya's words arose in him once more: 'You have work here first. More than you can know.'

Again, as before, inexplicably, the Dark Ones did not come for him. Nor did they for Melai nor Grimah. They swept onwards through swamp and tree. Pressing westways'n'north, tearing any other still living creature to pieces.

IHETHA

1

MELAI awoke on sunrise, shivering, cowering from dawn's light as it basked warmly against her soft green skin. She glared out into the forest where sunlight spiked through in long misty beams. She had heard birdlings the day before. But that morning the air were so dead and quiet.

She washed her arm through the sun rays, flexing her fingers. She crawled fully under the wash of Melus. And sat upright. She hung her head, shut her eyes, and breathed deep. When she opened her eyes and looked up, her gaze fell upon Gargaron.

She watched him for a while, curiously. 'You did not abandon me.' She appeared mystified by this. 'You did not assail me, nor violate me, nor cook me for supper.'

Gargaron frowned. Then laughed, wiping the rise of his cheek. 'Cook you for supper? Take a look at yourself. I'm like to get more meat off a bare bone. If I were to eat anyone it would be Grimah.'

His destrier, munching on watergrass, looked around at him. Perhaps at merely hearing his name, yet, perhaps also understanding Gargaron's words. 'Forgive me, Grimah, I do not mean it, of course. You have much meat on your bones but I have no taste for horse.' He turned back to Melai. 'So, how do you feel? I must say, it heartens me greatly that you look so well.'

'I have not succumbed to poison or any other ailment, so, aye, I feel well.' She flexed her wing. The torn membrane were healing. Yet the wing itself did not move with the same fluid grace that Gargaron had observed before the monster's attack upon her. 'My wing though be somewhat out of sorts. The bones have been strained. I shan't be flying for a while. Though for how long I cannot tell.' She grimaced as she folded her wing back behind her.

'Well then, you shall have to ride with me then a little while longer it seems,' Gargaron told her with a smile.

She eyed his destrier. But managed a small smile of her own. It were the first time Gargaron had seen her do so and he realised how beautiful she were. 'Aye,' she said. 'Seems I have little choice.'

2

They travelled all that morning. And by early afternoon they reached at last Thoonsk's westways border. It were heralded by a vast curving line of sky faring monoliths, huge monstrous things festooned in red ivy whose leaves fluttered briskly in the unguarded wind and gave the impression that the mighty grey stones possessed a writhing skin. At their bases, where the earth were still soggy from the watery reaches of Mother Thoonsk the stones were thick with ragged socks of green moss. And it were here that Melai abruptly ordered Gargaron to halt his mount.

The forest had thinned here. On these outer edges all that remained were ancient willows, their long, tired, sagging branches pushed gently to and fro in the breezes. The water around them were green but possessed a waxy, oily quality, and the floor beneath it were hard as if paved. And shallow too, swishing about Grimah's hooves.

Gargaron looked about, wondering why Melai had called for their procession to be halted, fearing she may have spotted some beast in the shadows stalking them. But when he looked down at her he saw that she were in fact looking wistfully back the way they had thus far traversed, before turning and eyeing the monoliths.

'What be it?' he asked her.

'I just need a moment. Would you help me down?'

'I think not. That there water looks poisoned.'

'Aye,' she said, 'you guess well, for poisoned it be. To keep out such unsavoury intruders as Mother Thoonsk would wish not to permit. Though I am immune to Mother's poisons.'

Gargaron gazed down at the water lapping around his steed's ankles. 'And what of Grimah? Do we need concern ourselves with his feet corroding?'

Melai leaned out and gazed down at Grimah's lower legs. 'I have no explanation. His legs ought to be burning.' She gazed up at the monolith. 'Perhaps Mother's potency weakens with her demise.' She sighed. 'Would you lift me down, please?'

Gargaron obliged and lifted her from saddle, lowering her to ground, mere yards from where great Thoonsk came to an end beyond its border of towering stones.

3

Gargaron watched Melai remove her bow from across her chest and lower herself to her knees. Thoonsk's toxic green liquid lapped about her hips. She lowered her chin to her chest. Her hands and arms hung loose at her sides, her long froglike fingers dangling into the water. Her wings (as much as she could manage her injured one) were folded neatly across her back. And her eyes were shut. Gargaron thought he saw her lips were moving. Perhaps she were mouthing some prayer. Respectfully he refrained from further speech.

Melai pushed her arms out, swishing water before her in a gentle wave which seemed to generate some peculiar forward momentum of its own, surging with uncanny and increasing force toward the nearest monolith which stood a dozen yards from Melai's position.

The wave crashed against the covering of moss where the oily water seemed to seep up into the vegetation, colours of green snaking up through the red ivy, spreading out like shard-sparks in a summer storm. Then it dissipated.

When Gargaron next looked at Melai he saw with alarm that she were now leaned all the way forward, her face submerged in the water. Thinking she had slumped there involuntarily he went to leap from his horse, to drag her face back into air. But then...

Her wings beat slowly. Even her injured one. And the tips of her long frog fingers danced in gentle synchronicity with the water ripples.

Then she arose and stood scarecrow like before the monolith, her arms held out from the sides of her body. As Gargaron watched he saw a face form amidst the ivy, the face of some enormous being, feminine in appearance, and from her immense mouth there flickered a tongue of green vines, snaking out in a flash of movement, and licking Melai, whip-like, across the face.

It were gone in but a sunflare and Melai sat again, this time as if from exhaustion... or perhaps elation. For she sat there, chin and nose turned skyward. And deeply she breathed of Thoonsk's moist atmosphere. And upon her face she wore an expression of calm and resignation.

Finally she spoke in her Mother's tongue. 'I have never vacated your cradle, Mother Thoonsk. I have lived my entire life within your fold. I am one of your children, and your children rarely find need to leave your paradise. Yet, now I request your permission to cross your boundary and depart here. Alas... you tell me you are dying.'

She sobbed, staring up at the monolith, from where the face had appeared and faded. She did not wipe the tears from her cheeks. Instead she let them slide down her face and drip from her chin and they fell silently away without sound into the water. There they exploded, and the tiny droplets changed in an instant into a hundred tiny water nymphs that plunged deep into the liquid and swam away in a hundred different directions.

'She has granted me leave,' Melai said softly to Gargaron, 'so that I may learn of what ails her and thus find a cure.'

Gargaron responded with a measured, respectful tone. 'Then we search for the same thing. For what afflicts Thoonsk, afflicts the wider world.'

4

Melai stood beside the enormous boundary stone, gazing back into her homeland one last time—woodland nymph and monolith side by side together in solidarity, children of the water-forest both, staring back at their dying mother.

'Ihetha,' Melai whispered before she eventually turned her back on Thoonsk. For my love. 'Ihetha thu'etha.' For my love, I shall find your cure. And she turned and did not look back.

## CLARAVILLE

1

FOR them both, the way onward seemed strange at first.

For Gargaron it were finally being away from the confines of Thoonsk that were strange, away from the endless walls of tree and bramble and towering lilies, the endless reaches of water. It were the feeling of being on firm, open country, where watery woodlands gave way to scrubby savannah, where he could look up and see the entire reach of sky with its white wispy clouds rather than a ceiling of leaves and branches and woody boughs.

But this open, alien world, a place she had never seen, nor set foot, proved daunting, terrifying, overwhelming for Melai. The vast unending sky, so high above her head, so immense and unbroken, felt like an unbearable weight upon her. That it might come crashing down without the strength of her woodland home to hold it up. There were also the sensation that, without Mother Thoonsk to contain her, she might suddenly be yanked from the shoulders of Grimah and thrust out there into the clouds. With either thought, she had to keep taking deep breaths. And concentrate her gaze upon the ground; to look up were to turn her light headed and faint.

Yet, staring at the alien ground also proved disconcerting. Where Melai had always known water, where below her she had been familiar with small waves of water serpents, or the bubbles of gupping fish, the ripples of swimming frogs, the splash of swamp turtles, the eddies left in the wakes of Buccas, here there were naught but rigid dry ground: stone and thistle, rock and shrub, boulder and grass, all without the comforting bowl of a lagoon to lie within. This were a world apart from what she knew. It frightened her. She knew no comfort here. How do folk beyond Thoonsk survive here? she wondered. With no trees to climb, no deep water in which to hide, to where do folk flee when there is danger? It confounded her.

The reaction of her new friend she found curious too. He whistled, oh so jolly like, as if he had just been delivered the most cheerful news.

'Should we not be wary of predators?' she questioned him hushly, as though any word would call on some beast, or that they were being watched; she could not stop scouring the lands around them. There looked to be naught but scrubland as far as her eye could see; on their mount they of course towered above the scrubby bushes that grew out from bare sand and rock and weeds and wilting grass. But up there she felt so conspicuous and exposed.

More than once she wondered how far Mother Thoonsk lay behind them, and could she, if she turned and looked, still see her? Would Thoonsk be there like a fretting mother awaiting her child's return? Melai would not turn for fear that she would feel an overwhelming and crushing longing to flee back home. To see Thoonsk beckoning. Or to see she were no longer visible. Either one might frighten her and quash her resolve.

2

They stopped to take their bearings on a small hillock where a warm wind swept across the dry grasses, hissing at them as if it did not wish them intruding. The view overlooked the lands westways and gave a good view as well of the way they'd come. Melai took a deep breath and looked back. Thoonsk were vanished she saw. Her body tingled with dread. And for several moments she could not breathe.

It were the way forward however that stole Gargaron's curiosity. He had hoped that he might spy the realm of Hawkmoth. But from the base of the hill, a land of barren salt-washed sand and weed stretched off before them.

They had reached the shore of what Gargaron knew once as the Claraville Sea, the great southwun inland ocean, the largest of all lakes of Cloudfyre. Though an ocean it were no more. The rivers that once fed it had long ago been rerouted for irrigation and thus her waters had dried up and the fishing villages that once thrived on her shores were abandoned. Now it were a desolate lonely place of salt and death.

'What be this strange realm?' Melai asked, a lonely wind lifting her hair.

'What used to be the great sea of Claraville,' Gargaron answered. He had never set eye upon it but in his travels his father had recounted many a tale about its sad demise. 'It were brought to its knees by mismanagement. Greedy regional kings, landowners of the surrounding shores, stole her water source so that they might irrigate and maintain their lush gardens while the poor fisher folk lost their livelihood and starved.'

Melai cast her gaze across the region before her. It were barren, dotted with islands and what she guessed were the hulls of ancient ships—vessels she'd only ever heard the trees of Thoonsk whisper tales about. But here were Thoonsk, she thought, if the Rjoond had ever had their way. Raped and ruined.

'If I recall it correctly,' Gargaron said, 'the metal man I met in Autumn stated that Hawkmoth resides upon a place called Barren Hill, a spot conspicuous by some landmark known as the Dead Man. Barren Hill lies beyond Thoonsk and the Murdered Sea both. It be a safe bet that this were the sea it were referring to.'

Thus they began their crossing.

3

Grimah stomped out across sand, and patches of crumbled and cracked salt crust that were dirty white but pinkish in places. Weeds that grew here were spindly and wilted and some shrubs lay entirely encrusted in salt. In the distance as they pressed on they spotted more wrecks of ancient lake trawlers, old wooden ships that leaned this way and that in their sandy, weed strewn graves. Much closer were the sun bleached and dormant skeletons of enormous lake monsters: snapping turtles; marine vipers; tusked water horse, some whose empty skulls dwarfed even that of Gargaron himself.

There were also islands. Tall rounded toadstool humps of land that arose up out of the old lake bed. Some of these islands still possessed the remains of long deserted fishing settlements, crumbling shacks with rooves long eaten away by unbridled winds, and some, particularly where the bed of the lake proved far shallower, still bore crumbling wooden jetties jutting out across what would once have been waters teeming with fish and shrimp; nowadays they spanned naught but barren rock and sand and empty shells from long dead crab and cockle.

It were upon one of these such islands that Gargaron and Melai set up night camp as the suns began to set.

4

Gargaron set a fire alight having gathered up kindling of salt crusted twigs and leaves, before laying on heavier, thicker chunks of deadfall. He did not mind that Melai sat back from the flickering, crackling flames. But as the flames took to the fuel and engulfed it he thought it odd that she looked so fearful.

'What be your concern?' he asked her as he sat down, pulling both his great sword and the hilt of Hor's hammer close beside him. (If there were bandits about they would have nothing off him without a fight.) 'The fire does not seek you.'

'Fire be the mortal enemy of Mother Thoonsk,' she told him, 'thus it remains my enemy.'

Gargaron shrugged. 'Aye, but in a way it is everyone's enemy. It bears no loyalty to any save, I hear, the devils. Yet, for eons, folk have learnt to control it, and bend it to their will.'

'Still, I do not understand why you would invite such a soulless demon here.'

He frowned. 'Why, for warmth. And if I had hunted some beast for dinner then fire shall have cooked it. Also, it be a social mechanism, a means for folk around which to socialise.'

She laughed. 'Now I know you fib.'

He smiled, more at her laughter. 'I fib not. A central fire will bring folk together at night, or during winter months. Banquets, special ceremonies, rituals. All may be had around a fire.'

'Strange customs then.'

'You do not utilise fire, I gather,' he said. 'How then would you keep warm during cold nights in your Thoonsk? And do you have no need to cook?'

'Much warmth and social communion and spiritual sustenance comes from our joining with our willow home trees. And have you not observed? I eat no thing that is dead or has been slain. I eat only of living plants as Mother Thoonsk has offered.'

5

The moons lit the lake bed, and the lake bed seemed to glow in a dreamy kind of elf-light. The night proved cool but the fire kept their little space on the island warm long beyond the witching hour. Melai though refused its warmth. She slept away from it, beyond the huge hump that were Grimah. And had her back turned to the giant for she could not stand to look upon his Nightface whose large eyes seemed constantly to watch her.

She slept fitfully and dreamless and the night to her were empty and silent. All her life she had slept within her home tree at Willowgarde. At night she would sprout root and reconnect with it, and until dawn, while she slumbered, she would hear the protective voice of it conversing with other trees, would hear their secrets passing back and forth across Thoonsk; she would also hear the owls and the howler bugs and the tooting frogs and the hunting turtles snapping and splashing. An entire cacophony of sound had filled her woodland during its wee hours. That first night away from Thoonsk, on that little island, she had never felt so alone, so exposed, so isolated, and when her limbs sprouted root they had nothing with which to connect. She wept alone under the moonlight while the giant and his steed slumbered without trouble.

6

The following day they came across first a stone fort situated on yet another island. It looked but the ruins of a castle, ancient and salt layered. And to pass by it closely were to see tortured remains of folk preserved by salt within.

Later, at midday, when the warm wind off the lake bed threw sand grit and dead crystalline insects at them, they passed by an island situated to their north where Gargaron slowed his steed at the sight of a peculiar spectacle; one Melai had never set eye upon before. She watched Gargaron pull out his spy glass and put the object in view.

To her it looked like a huge pile of skulls. She asked what it were.

'A Creep Mound,' he told her.

'Creep Mound? I have naught heard of such things.'

The absence of a ghost raven guarding the mound intrigued Gargaron. Though did not surprise him. It were most likely dead. 'It be an object we would do well to steer clear of. For it marks the region of some terrible illness.'

'Illness?'

'Aye.'

'Could it be to blame for all the death we have seen?'

Gargaron shrugged. 'Anything be likely.' It occurred to him then that the entire realm these days it seemed like a Creep Mound. The dead piled up daily around them.

7

An hour later they arrived at the remains of an old ocean trawler. They had spied it from a distance, and like the castle, it had remained a conspicuous lump on the horizon until, the closer they drew to it, it had taken on a more defined shape.

Unlike the castle however it were not encrusted in salt. Suggesting that perhaps it had sailed these parts long after the castle had been abandoned.

Gargaron pulled Grimah to a halt, studying the vessel where it lay bogged in the weedy sand, its starboard hull tilted groundward.

'This ship be cursed,' Melai murmured. 'Do you not feel it? Why do you stop?'

'There may be resources to pilfer.'

A lively breeze whined at them through the ship's wooden hull.

'I would rather we press on and leave it to its ghosts.'

Gargaron felt her consternation. And sensed something further. But not from Melai. An odour. Some smell wafting from the bowels of the ship. And when he saw a face watching them through one of the portholes he tightened his grip on his reins.

It came out at them then. One first. Then another, and another. Three cursed and crusted folk, with little flesh left on their bones; clad only in tattered robes and leather boots. Their rancid briny stench wafted at Gargaron on the breeze, and Grimah whined and fought against the pull of the reins.

'Take us from here!' Melai screeched.

Gargaron finally set Grimah into a gallop as the skeleton folk rushed at them, bones clicking, jaws chattering and snapping shut. One wielded a mace, the other two were equipped with swords.

They chased Grimah most of that day. Whilst they were not fast across ground, they were persistent, and chased and chased, until one by one... they fell into the hard packed salt. And did not rise again.

By late afternoon the distant horizon began to spike up with some far off line of mountains, snowcapped and jagged. But any notions that this dead-sea wilderness stretched all the way to their foothills were soon interrupted by a vast shore line forest, and soon Gargaron and Melai and Grimah had left the ghosts of Claraville behind them and were roaming through grassy green hills.

## THE WITCH

1

NEAR end of day they crested a rise and saw northways'n'east the land dipping down into a shallow vale, to what looked to be a running brook, and beyond that lay a tall tree covered hill poking into sky like the hump of some great sleeping beast.

Gargaron pulled Grimah to a halt and both he and Melai stared wide-eyed at the scene before them. There were a cottage they saw upon that hill, nestled amidst the trees, and an enormous statue, (the Dead Man, Gargaron guessed) towering into the sky perched at hill's flattened summit. But the most heartening and intriguing aspect were the wandering livestock: goat and deer. And the presence of birds flitting from tree to tree. And the sounds of bugs twittering, cheeping, whistling.

Gargaron recalled the words of the mekanik. "We must traverse beyond Thoonsk, and cross the Murdered Sea... Not until Melus and Gohor again hang directly over our heads shall we reach Barrow Hill upon which the Dead Man sits and watches all. There, in his cottage, Master Hawkmoth resides."

So, we are here at last, Gargaron thought. 'Do you see this?' he asked. 'Do you hear it, Melai?'

'Aye,' the wood's nymph replied. 'Does life flourish here?'

'I have no idea,' Gargaron said. 'We can only hope.'

2

Gargaron took Grimah down grassy slopes toward waters of the brook. Something of a canoe listed peacefully upon water's surface, strands of black algae clinging to its sides like witch's hair.

Red crabs wandered the stony shore. But hundreds of them also lay face down, or belly up; some of them with legs still kicking pointlessly at the air. A murder of ravens skipped through the stones, pecking remorselessly at the dead. But they too had a number who had succumbed and lay, with their feather's sodden, rotting at water's edge, tugged at gently to and fro by the mild current.

The sight were a dent in Gargaron's hopes—perhaps this Hawkmoth had not found a way to counter the blight after all.

He had a mind to shoo the ravens, to flip over the toppled crabs for their own salvation. But he knew better now. What had stricken the rest of his realm had begun to stricken these water dwellers. Pond skaters and frogs and fishes and salamanders all. None spared. All dying or dead. And as Gargaron and Melai drew closer, the stench of rot came to them, thick and pungent and cloying.

Melai clapped a hand over her face, Gargaron coughed and spat. Grimah snorted nervously and for a time put in a fight, refusing to step near these fetid waters.

Gargaron urged Grimah on with a gentle heel-jab to his ribs, and a determined 'Yar!' Grimah reared up on his hind legs, squealing. Melai screeched and her wings beat in a reflexive response.

Gargaron made to push Grimah forward when at last he spied the object of his steed's consternation. And it made Gargaron haul his mount to a standstill quick smart.

A water hag watched them. She lay very still. Half submerged, her face and one shoulder free of the rippling brook. Her sodden hair hung in straggled clumps, her lips had withered, her brown teeth grew with green moss and yellow rot, her sunken eyes held a bleak opaqueness, yet appeared to glow with a faint magical green witch light. A hole in her neck, ragged flaps of skin doing almost nothing to hide it, swarmed with black beetles that nibbled at the lips of flesh and when she realised she had been spotted she appeared to grin.

'Back up, I warn you,' Melai commanded Gargaron, who had not moved since laying eye on the hag; he had rarely seen one such as she, and were fascinated. 'Back up,' Melai urged again.

As Gargaron took heed the hag attempted to move.

'She comes for us!' Melai hissed.

Though all the hag succeeded in doing were lolling over. As if whatever life left to her, were swiftly waning. She continued to watch them though, most of her face now claimed by the brook, her stringy hair caught on the flow, the beetles in her neck drowning. The witch light in her monstrous eyes fading like sunlight beyond a storm.

Gargaron pulled Grimah back up grassy slopes. Steadied him. Settled him. 'Be fine, Grimah,' he spoke soothingly into his ear. 'Be calm now.'

3

They traipsed across vale, tracking the course of the brook, hoping to find a fairer waypoint to traverse. They located one further down where the belly of the brook shallowed upon a bed of smooth stones.

Crab dead littered the banks here too, and frog dead floated with naught but legs poking above water's surface. Carrying Melai and Gargaron, Grimah hurried across—crab shell crunching beneath his gigantic hooves, rotting crab guts squishing out across the wet stones.

Ahead of them now, deer and goat roamed, watching Melai and Gargaron and steed approach; and birds swooped and soared, and crickets and cicadas chirped and hissed in the grasses and shrubs. It were overwhelming to Gargaron's senses, to have been caught in a vacuum without such sights and sounds of animal life for many days. He quickly forgot the dead crabs and frogs of the brook, and felt his eyes watering and were glad Melai sat in front of him so that she could not see the tears on his cheeks. He felt salvation were close at hand. He felt certain now this sorcerer really had uncovered the secrets of the doom.

Still, hope turned to confusion at the sight of many a dead folk poised in a most peculiar fashion. 'What be this?' he wondered aloud, frowning. He had not noticed them from his previous vantage point on the adjacent hill. He had taken them for shrubs or stunted trees.

'This be the work of the Dead Man,' came Melai's voice. 'Do not look upon it.'

Gargaron frowned. 'Oh, and tell us what you know about it?'

'I have learned many secrets from the trees of Willowgarde. The Dead Man sits, they say, on Haitharath's hill. Rumours tell of folk matching its stare through sheer curiosity, and to their doom. For, sooner or later, folk who stare at him be not free to avert their eyes, and by some invisible force their eyeballs are sucked from their skulls. And dark roots grow from their legs and tether them to the earyth where death eventually visits them, an awful painful death perpetrated by the Dead Man as his arms reach out across the hill from where he sits and scratches out their innards.'

The Dead Man statue towered into the sky where it stood at summit of hill. It were both impressive and ghastly, hunched and goggle-eyed, and although it were side-on from Gargaron's and Melai's point of view, its head and chin were turned in their direction and no matter where they roamed on that hill it seemed always side-on to Gargaron and Melai, and always it watched them.

It were a true conscious effort for Gargaron to keep his eyes from it. Though he scoured the hill, taking in more than a hundred doomed folk dotted here and there, apparently rooted to earyth, torsos rent open and chest cavities emptied.

It occurred to Gargaron that they had been deliberately left for intruders to look upon. As a warning. Keep Away. For why else would this sorcerer have left such an abhorrent spectacle on his doorstep.

Gargaron heeled Grimah and winding amidst both dead folk and living livestock (that Dead Man always watching) they took themselves up hill.

4

The cottage on the plateau sat amidst trees that Melai claimed were enchanted. They possessed mouths. And clawed arms. And large red unblinking eyes like those of the narwhales Gargaron had seen as a lad, hauled in by the sail-luggers, barbed on fishermen's harpoons upon the bleak cold seas of Yissoonensk.

As Grimah approached, the mouths of these beast-trees opened, bark parting in creaking juddering movements. They began to wail. The birds took for the skies. The sounds of cheeping bugs died away. And deer and goat fled into the sparse hilltop woodland.

Grimah halted and Gargaron dismounted, and standing where he were before the cottage, keeping his distance from the moaning trees, he called out above the din. 'Sorcerer Hawkmoth? Do you hear me? I be Gargaron Stoneheart of Hovel and with me I have Melai Willowborne of Thoonsk. You sent your metal men with an invitation for us to join you. Hear me now, be you at home?'

He cocked his head, listening for a reply, squinting, straining his ear as the trees howled about him. He were intrigued by the size of the cottage. He had never met Hawkmoth but had once or twice in his days come across sorcerers who were of a species of tall folk emanating from the realm of Corsares On Hunn. Perhaps Hawkmoth were one of such folk for this cottage, while not on a scale of Gargaron's own in Hovel, were by the looks of it, large enough to permit even he comfortably.

'Sorcerer Hawkmoth?' Gargaron called again. 'Do you hear me?' He glanced around at Melai. He had not voiced it but a worry he'd had on their approach began to pick at him: what if this Hawkmoth had succumbed to the blight. For all Gargaron and Melai knew, the sorcerer lay dead and decaying inside this cottage (or elsewhere) and they were too late in learning what possible secrets he'd uncovered.

Gargaron surveyed the beast-trees. Their wails had reduced to soft growls but a number of them had uprooted, were shuffling toward them on twisting, cloddy roots. Mouths with wooden fangs gaped at him. Red eyes glowered. Branches with curving spiked claws reached for him.

'Sorcerer Hawkmoth?' Gargaron called once more. 'Do you hear me?' He felt uncertain whether or not these creatures were game enough to attack. He and Melai were certainly outnumbered. He withdrew his sword and approached the cottage's front door. Stooping to reach it, he rapped the knocker. As he did, numerous eyes that had, until then, been burrowed deep inside the door's dark wrinkled woodwork, snapped open and glared at him, yellow and aglow; a peculiar mewling sound seemed now to rise from the door itself.

How many enchantments must this sorcerer throw at us?! Gargaron thought irritably. Ignoring the eyes and the mewling, he reached again for the knocker but this time a black tongue darted from an unseen slit in the wood and curled about his arm, followed by another that whipped out and coiled tightly about his neck; both drew him with inexplicable force toward the door, pinning him there against it. A swarm of small flying critters then besieged him, arriving without warning in a cacophonous mass from some mystery origin. Gargaron initially thought them enormous hound-flies. Alas they turned out to be a swarm of squealing woodland pixies. Climbing through his hair and clothes, wriggling through his ears, pinching him, scratching him, digging their claws into his skin, cackling, keening, screaming.

He heaved himself backwards from the door, the pair of tongues holding him finally releasing their grip. He ambled about, yanking pixies from his clothes and hair with his free hand, tossing them aside, swinging his sword through the air. Yet still they came, in immense clouds. Melai had unslung her bow, had nocked several arrows, but firing into the swarm would have seen Gargaron punctured. Thus she stayed her hand.

Suddenly a booming voice erupted from the slate roof of the cottage above. 'Away, all ye stinking critters! Away with ye now!'

At once, as if in fear, the black pixies flew off in droves, taking for treetops where they alighted and gibbered and squealed and fought one another madly.

Spitting pixie sweat from his lips, dabbing welts and scratches on his face and neck, Gargaron staggered back until the slate roof came into view and there at roof's edge, flat upon her belly, her head jutting out over the guttering, lay a strange woman.

5

She both smiled and glared at Gargaron and Melai and their mount. She had black hair and pointed chin and eyes that betrayed her somehow, as if she had much to hide. And while her face were pale as moonlight, she had black fingers that gripped roof edge with glistening black claws. She grinned as they gazed up at her, her shifty eyes darting back and forth between this giant, his nymph, and their horse. 'I have been waiting for ye, I have.'

From where Gargaron stood back near Grimah, he watched her; two or three pixies still knotted in his hair, buzzing and cursing and squirming about. Melai whispered, 'We have been duped. This be some witch luring us to our deaths. There be no Haitharath here, I feel it. We need turn and flee.'

To which the strange woman replied, 'Witch? Ha! Don't be so silly, little nymph of the forest! I am but the good sorcerer's wife, I am.'

Gargaron maintained his frown but bowed his head ever so lightly, holding his sword now at his side. 'Well then, glad to make your acquaintance. I am Gargaron Stonehea―'

'Yes, I heard ye names when ye bellowed it out, good giant,' she said still grinning, still lying there at roof's verge, although now she had her palms propped under her chin, resting there on her elbows, as if enjoying this byplay.

'Right then,' Gargaron said, 'what be your name then prey tell?'

'Eve,' she said simply. 'Short for Evehnyer Dawnraider. First and last of my kind.'

Her eyes stayed on them, and she did not move and for a time no-one spoke. Then after some moments the woman left the roof. Her feet and legs rose behind her like a scorpion's tail and curled out over her head. Then she lifted her torso up with her hands and pushed herself over lip of roof, feet-first.

She landed like a spider, on all limbs, and for a moment from where she crouched she gazed up at them as a hound might. Then she scampered for the door.

Gargaron backed up involuntarily, tightening his grip on his sword. Something be amiss here, his mind's voice told him. Be wary.

6

At door of cottage the woman pulled herself to her feet and here Gargaron and Melai took in her full height. First impressions suggested she did not belong here. Though, while certainly a tallish woman, the cottage were obviously built for someone of even greater stature than herself, for barely at half the door's height did she stand.

She cast her guests a shadowy over-shoulder grin. 'Why don't ye both come in? I have ripe, crisp apples inside. And cheese. And fresh baked bread.'

Gargaron realised the beast-trees were all retreated and fallen silent. Their eyes however, continued to watch the newcomers with great suspicion and mistrust.

As for the pixies, they remained in treetops, like a colony of bats, squealing and chittering. And those left knotted in Gargaron's hair, untangled themselves finally and one by one flew off.

The woman, Eve as she had introduced herself, unlocked the door with an enormous metal key shaped in the fashion of a fish bone. She ushered them forward with her black hands and black claws. 'Come,' she said, smiling.

Gargaron and Melai remained where they were. 'I do not trust her,' Melai whispered. 'Nor do I,' Gargaron told her. And to the woman he said, 'I hope you do not think it rude when I ask, but where be this sorcerer Hawkmoth? It were he, after all, who summoned us here. Not you. And I would prefer to get this out of the way here and now before we follow you inside. We have had to overcome much to get here and I would like not to jeopardise all our hard work at this juncture. I am sure you understand.'

'But of course.' She grinned. 'How remiss of me not to explain.' She eyed him closely, her eyes narrowed. And she said nothing for a moment, as if brewing up some tale in her mind. 'Hawkmoth Lifegiver... has but already departed. Yes. Almost... two days gone. He had no choice but to, ah, leave early, you see.'

Creases formed in Gargaron's brow.

'Why, ye do not believe me, giant?' she rasped, still grinning.

'Forgive me,' Gargaron said, 'but the current state of things be none too conducive for swallowing tall tales.'

'Tall tales?' She cackled. 'If there were one for tall tales then, why, surely it would be a giant.'

He did not share her joke. He remained stone faced. 'Where be the sorcerer Hawkmoth?'

She eyed both he and Melai for several moments.

'Where be the sorcerer?' he demanded once more.

Eventually she spoke, grinning. 'Alright, allow me to confess. I have but nailed down his wrists and ankles and have splayed his innards. Alas, do not fret, he still lives, but remains none too mobile. And oh, perhaps none too talkative either since I have relieved him of his tongue. But I am sure he'll listen to all ye have to say as I have kindly left his ears where they are.'

Gargaron eyed her coldly, adjusting his grip on his sword. Melai were right, he thought. This be a witch. And she has lured us here to what end?

This Eve cackled again. 'I see now it be yee who speaks falsehoods, Giant. For ye swallow tall tales rather naturally, and I believe ye did tell me otherwise.'

'What are you playing at?' Gargaron demanded angrily; beside him Grimah had begun to grow unsettled, looking about, its neck raised, stepping hither and thither.

Eve turned fully to face him. 'Ye want Hawkmoth?' She pushed the door open; its hinges squeaked and she beckoned Gargaron and Melai forward. 'Well, inside cottage he be.'

As if to confirm this, a distant grizzled old voice appeared to sound from within: 'Send them in, Eve, and for Soor's sake, bolt the door behind you.'

The doorway lay dark and ominous.

Gargaron frowned. 'Hawkmoth?' he called. 'Be that you?'

'Who else would it be, I ask?!' came the reply. 'Now, stop dillydallying and come on in. We have much to discuss.'

Gargaron frowned. Something were not right here, something about that voice, something he could not pinpoint.

'So, giant,' said this Eve, 'tell me. Do ye wish to come in, or would ye rather remain out here? It matters not to me but hurry and have your minds made up 'fore yonder storm blows this way. For soon we shall have a tempest roar down upon us that will suck ye up into its angry belly as effortlessly as it will ye little wood's nymph, and I personally would prefer to be indoors when it strikes.'

Both Gargaron and Melai, and even the two heads of Grimah, turned northways to where a dark broiling mass had blotched out entire sky.

Melai gasped. 'What by Mother Thoonsk be that?'

Gargaron had not seen its like for some years but knew it as soon as he saw it. Its rumbling blue-grey cloud banks, the wild flashes of forked shard-light in its belly, its ghostly arms pulling it across world, the hateful demon face at its curved front. 'A vortex storm,' he said gravely.

'Aye, an angry breed, for sure,' Eve said. 'Now hurry, for I do not wish to remain out much longer. Join me inside and away from its reach. Or... spend the night here beyond shelter with naught but its fury for company.'

Gargaron looked again at the storm and saw the dark clouds so much closer now; Grimah snorted, his ears shifting back and forth, unsettled. Gargaron gazed at Melai. 'I do not trust her,' Melai told him again. 'Why does the sorcerer not show himself?'

'I have no answer,' he admitted.

'We saw a cave some miles back,' Melai reminded him. 'Perhaps we ought return to it, huddle there for night.'

They could hear it now, the storm's dull roar, and sounds of trees being torn from ground, growls of cracking thunder, screech of fierce gales. 'Aye, if we left now we may just make it.'

'Well?' came Eve's voice, a sinister tone underlying it.

Gargaron spoke not. Instead he hauled himself up into Grimah's saddle and made at once to gallop away. Yet, what he, his Nightface, Melai, even Grimah, all failed to detect were the hulking entity standing at their backs. A tall white ghostly thing with hollow grey eyes and very few other features to its form. It opened its mouth, a vast cavernous mouth... and into it Gargaron and his companions were pulled.

7

Torrents of rain swept up the valley and roared against the cottage, inundating gutters, flooding garden and stables, gushing down into the vale. Day's heat were smothered and fingers of cold snaked up hill on the back of squealing gales, chilling the air, creeping into cottage like a ghost's breath.

Shard-light crackled and thundered, illuminating the night in searing bursts while the storm front ate the hilltop woodland, bending trees, twisting them, uprooting many and more, plucking them into sky, roots and all, and off they went, end over end over end until the storm mass gobbled them up.

For many hours Gargaron and Melai lay unconscious upon a rug spread across a paved floor. A presence floated above them. Eve. She hovered like a dark cloud, horizontal, gazing down at their faces. Her own face were split in two, down the middle from forehead to chin; a red proboscis had uncurled from her mouth and had snaked up inside the giant's nose. She shut her eyes, she shivered in her delight as she drank of him. She savoured the connection with his mind.

When she were done she retracted her proboscis and turned it upon the woodland nymph, forcing it up the nymph's small nostril. And here Eve shut her eyes and fed again.

Nearby, in the shadows, loomed the peculiar grey entity that had swallowed giant and nymph and horse. Watching... watching.

8

When Gargaron and Melai eventually awoke, the storm still screamed and roared, and they saw Eve standing near shutters peering out into night. Outside, trees crashed against the rigid stone cottage, shaking windows, rattling crockery. Some fell and smashed into tiled roof. Eve looked around and saw Gargaron and Melai and she grinned. 'Come and watch,' she urged them, shouting above the roar of storm. 'Nature's fury. Wondrous to behold.'

Gargaron though could not move a fist. He felt somehow bound to floor. As if some witch's spell of atrophy held him there. He groaned as he rolled over, trying to ascertain exactly where he were. When he tapped his Nightface it had nothing for him, as if it too had been influenced by some spell.

Melai were none better. She opened her eyes but they shut on her. She moved her arms in attempts to hoist herself to some sort of seated position, hoping this may rouse her. But halfway to her objective, her senses failed her and she slumped back to floor.

It were Gargaron who helped stir her, protectively pulling her to him as he might have dragged his daughter from a pack of Hoardogs, rubbing her limbs, stimulating blood flow, talking to her, urging her to stay awake. They slumped against cottage wall together, too weak to stand, watching Eve who crouched at shutters, gazing away into storm.

9

For a long while nothing changed. They sat, out of storm grip but assaulted nonetheless by the sounds of its rage and destruction. The cottage heaved and creaked and more than once Gargaron feared the roof were about to lift free and break apart and tumble off into sky.

'What do you want from us?' Gargaron heard himself asking. His voice were weak though and went unheard above howling gale and drumming rain. He looked about for his pack, for his sword and his hammer hilt, for Melai's bow and quiver, but saw them nowhere.

Eve eventually left her position by the shutters and both Gargaron and Melai believed they heard her say, 'What say we enjoy some supper?'

They watched her as she moved to a side room. And here, through the doorway, they saw her disrobe. She had a peculiarly shaped body, as if she had been constructed rather than grown. The tops of her arms didn't quite meet at the shoulders; a short metal bar connected the two. The same could be said of the tops of her legs; a metal bar holding her legs to her hips. And there looked to be another that held her head to her chest. She possessed four breasts (a pair on her chest, the second pair below them) but below her sternum her stomach were open and she appeared within to be a mixture of wires and cogs and cords and clockwork.

When she emerged from the room she were dressed in a light shawl despite the chill in the air. Her feet were bare. Yet the greatest change was in her face. Somehow now she looked, younger, attractive, not old and menacing. With fair skin and fair hair and youthful eyes. As if she had not only changed her clothes but had swapped out her face.

She moved away to a kitchen and returned carrying a platter of apples, cheese and bread. She placed this on a large wooden table. Bursts of shard-light illuminated the shuttered windows. Wind howled. Eve approached Gargaron and Melai where they still had not moved, huddled together against cottage's stone wall.

She knelt before them, her knees against the floor and her hands placed upon her thighs. Here she regarded them, a motherly look upon her new face.

When she spoke, she did not try to compete with the storm howl, yet somehow both Gargaron and Melai heard her clearly, as if she were but talking at their ear. 'Allow me to firstly apologise,' she said. 'We did not get off to a great start. That were partly my fault. But truth is, ye did not trust me and I did not trust ye both either. Yet while ye slept, and forgive me but it were essential, I delved into ye minds. At least now I know ye be who ye say ye be.'

Eve left them, disappearing into kitchen. She returned carrying in one hand a stone mug sloshing with some sort of steaming liquid, and in the other hand what looked to be a twisted, knotted shrub branch growing with pungent yellow moss. Again she knelt, offering mug to Gargaron, and moss to Melai.

'What poison be this?' Gargaron hissed.

Eve smiled. 'Portoluca Tea. And Leanavale Moss.'

Melai eyed Eve closely, intently; she had watched her keenly stroll away to kitchen, had watched her return.

'And laced with toxins, I take it,' Gargaron grunted. 'I'll not have it.'

'Nor will I,' Melai said coldly.

'Please yourselves. But I shall leave it here in case you change your minds.'

Eve moved away, and Melai grasped the moment. She vanished, the trick her kind employed to evade attacks by predators alien to Thoonsk. One moment Melai were cradled in Gargaron's arms, the next she were upon witch's shoulder, jabbing her thorny green thumb into witch's forehead before another word could be spoken.

The witch fell prone instantly, mug and moss both dropping from her grip, the mug smashing against stone floor, hot tea splashing over Gargaron's feet and legs. Eve's eyes rolled upwards, she knew no sound, no sensation, and knelt there unmoving.

## REVELATIONS

1

THE vortex storm raged on. The sound beyond the abode were deafening, as if the womb of Xahghis, Afterworld Goddess of eternal pain, had ruptured and her spawn were spilling free. Every now and then some uprooted tree slammed against cottage walls. Every now and then some unfortunate beast were sucked up and dashed against the steel shutters across the windows, its death howls heard loud and terrifying. Rain flurried in, flying horizontal across the room. Shard-light kept blasting the heavens, thunder shook the ground.

'She tells the truth,' Melai said from where she sat against wall; green witch-blood dabbed on her thumb, and green witch-blood still seeping from the pockmark in Eve's forehead, though slowly clotting.

'She delved into our minds?' Gargaron asked, looking about, wondering what the witch had done with Grimah.

'Aye. I believe she lived out our entire lives through our memories. She be the wood's witch, Renascentia, born again as Eve, First and Last. Haitharath's loyal companion. And wife.'

Gargaron frowned. 'Wife?' He looked across at Melai, questioningly. 'Are you certain?'

'Yes.'

'Honestly?'

'I read her blood. Unlike minds, blood fabricates no lies. Why does it intrigue you so?'

Gargaron shook his head, perplexed. 'A sorcerer and a witch... mortal enemies. But married? My, what bizarre tale shall my ears be privy to next?'

'How about this? Eve were once killed. Haitharath returned her to life.'

Gargaron frowned at Melai. 'Killed? As in she were dead?'

Melai frowned. 'What other way could I be meaning?'

He watched Melai keenly. 'There be many forms of death, woods nymph. Like those skeleton folk we witnessed on Claraville. There be also ghouls. Zombeez. But she be none of these.' He pondered this news further. 'In what manner did her death occur?'

'She were but a handful of years into her marriage with Haitharath when it happened. She were out one morning beyond some nearby hills collecting Strange Fruit; a fruit she dries and turns into a tea that enhances ones dreams. That morning she stumbled unawares upon a den of what her blood memory calls ghost wolves. Once they detected her, they set on her and tore her to shreds.'

'She were torn to shreds?'

'Aye.'

'And the sorcerer brought her back to life?'

'Such as I have learned.'

How? Gargaron wondered. Reanimation were the domain of necromancers and nothing they kissed back to life could sit and hold a conversation; their best efforts returned naught but mindless, soulless ghouls. Gargaron watched Eve who lay there still, her eyes rolled up into her brow. This woman, this witch, if Melai were telling it true, had died... and returned to world of the living. By Thronir, could my Veleyal, my Yarniya, have been returned to life? It were suddenly a conundrum in his mind. He had delivered his girls to the Great Precipice at World's End when for their salvation, for his own salvation, he could have brought them, had he just known, to this sorcerer.

Melai went on with her report. 'Haitharath left here two days past. He feared because he had received no word from survivors such as us, that his metal men had failed in their task. Thus he sets out in search of the witches of Vantasia, for he believes it be they who we have to thank for the blight, for they have cast a great curse upon Godrik's Vale.'

'The witches?' Gargaron asked intrigued, turning his head and casting his eye upon Eve.

'Aye. He believes the Harbingers, the Dark Ones as you call them, were spawned by witch's demons, that they spread poison on the air and contaminate our rivers and oceans. He claims the shockwaves that rumble occasionally across the Vale are the result of witch's Boom weapons.'

'Never heard of such things.'

'Neither have I.'

Gargaron let out a long breath as he took this all in. He were still digesting the news about Eve's reanimation, and now this revelation about the witches, this revelation about demon spawn and Harbingers and so-called Boom weapons. It were much to take on board. It pushed Eve's death from his thoughts for a moment. Why would the witches set out to destroy the Vale? Why would they orchestrate such widespread killing? He knew of their centuries old conflict with the sorcerers. But rarely had it boiled over and affected so many others. He could not fathom it.

2

He stared long and hard at Eve, thinking that once she awoke he had a good many questions to put to her. 'Be she well?'

Melai took a while to reply.

'Melai,' Gargaron prompted.

She sighed. 'Her state has me baffled. She should have roused by now.'

'Let us hope she does and soon,' Gargaron said, 'I have much I wish to ask her. Did you happen to discern what she has done with Grimah?'

'I gather he has been stabled,' Melai offered.

Gargaron were relieved to hear it.

'Along with as many deer, goat and bird as she were able to muster before the storm hit,' Melai added.

'And our belongings? Our weapons?'

'Housed safely away to be returned to us on the morrow.'

He pictured a witch in possession of Drenvel's Bane; he did not wish to imagine the ramifications.

3

The vortex storm passed by morn. By then Melai had long been asleep, troubled and restless though it were. Gargaron had promised her he would stay awake, keep guard, make sure no harm came to them. But he too had fallen to slumber.

Melai awoke first, and with a start; Gargaron's Nightface watching her. As she rose she gazed about suspiciously and saw the witch were nowhere to be seen. She sat for a while, simply listening. For sounds of the witch. For anything. All were quiet.

She found she could move now without hindrance. Gone were the leaden feeling in her limbs. She moved to the shutters and gazed out at the world, for the first time laying eye on the carnage leftover by the storm. Trees lay scattered down the slope of the vale. Sticks, branches, twisted twigs like broken bones. Leaves, thousands upon thousands upon thousands, a sodden carpet of green, brown, grey. And endless carcasses. Goat and deer, hare and fowl, innards torn free, ribs exposed, gathering slugs, and flies too as thick as Gargaron's eyeballs. A mass of carcasses strewn down slope to brook. The raw, acrid smell of meat and guts and spit and scat and the cooling breath seeping from their lungs and the remains of tree and branch drip, drip dripping with water.

Melai took herself from the view and saw Gargaron rolling over, waking, stretching.

He opened his eyes and looked about. He could smell sizzling bacon. And frying eggs. And steaming tea. (Alien smells to Melai who thought they were but the stench from the dead and murdered beyond the abode, and it did nothing to water her mouth.) He saw Melai and sunlight streaming through the shutters and there were the wondrous sounds of bugs and birds from beyond the cottage walls.

For a strange moment Gargaron thought he were but home again, on a midsummer morn after midsummer storm. Back in Hovel. With all the delightful animal sounds playing out of Summer Wood, the air cool and damp and carrying the odour of rain, and the delicious smells of breakfast wafting from the kitchen. For a moment he even thought he heard Yarniya singing, and Veleyal playing with her toys.

Eve appeared then, carrying bowls of food to the large oak dining table. Porridge as first course, then eggs with bacon and sausage and black pudding followed. And fresh blended juice of orange, apple and fennel to wash it down.

Gargaron felt wary about eating when Eve offered him a seat at the table. For one, he remained suspicious of her, and two, he felt uncomfortable eating while Melai went without.

'Sit giant,' Eve commanded, 'your friend here will not leave this cottage hungry.' She strode off outdoors, and like inquisitive children, Melai and Gargaron gathered at one of the rear windows (Melai perched upon the sill itself, and Gargaron stooping to see) and off went Eve to a large greenhouse and from there she steered a wheelbarrow filled with living plants, either housed in large ceramic pots, or their roots were wound about old logs or around the carcasses of what Gargaron thought looked like dead badgers, and returned to cottage.

Melai remained quietly impressed that this Eve knew how to feed a forest nymph such as she.

'Well, don't just stand there,' Eve said. 'Fill ye bellies. Ye have a long day ahead of ye'selves, ye ought te know.'

They sat; Melai dwarfed by the huge oak dining chairs and propped up by cushions; and Gargaron finding the oak chairs a bit of a squeeze for his large girth. Yet they both touched no food.

'Eat,' Eve implored impatiently. 'It not be poisoned. If I'd wanted ye both dead I would have done it in the wee hours when I had ye both under me spell.'

So... they ate... and in silence. Melai eating directly from the plants as she were accustomed. Standing in her large seat and biting off small red Fayngul bulbs that popped deliciously in her mouth. Tearing off chewy toad lichen. Slurping up then chomping down mouthfuls of soft, succulent Cravet pondweed. Melai asked between mouthfuls, 'How have you sourced all of this, pray tell? It be wonderful. It be as Mother Thoonsk would have provided.'

Eve had no more answer than this: 'Meself and me dear Hawkmoth have both lived long and know much. We have communion with all manner of sentient soul. Even ye Mother Thoonsk. Although, we call her by another name. Nethusoonsk.'

Melai frowned, curious. Mother Thoonsk indeed did bare that name, but as far as she were aware, it were known only to her children and it were forbidden to speak it to outsiders.

'My dear Hawkmoth has had a long association with many entities of the world. Particularly those of nature and the natural world. Thus he has fostered an enduring friendship with the entity Thoonsk for almost a hundred years.'

Aye, Melai thought, Haitharath indeed be friend of Mother. She ate the remainder of her breakfast in silence.

4

Beyond the windows, the suns were rising, red streaks of warm light poking through the bare vortex-blasted hillocks. Birds tweeted and twittered and darted about the now leafless trees.

'Anyhow,' Eve declared with that grin of hers, 'a productive night, I declare.' She still bore the young face that she had swapped into many hours before. 'Little did we speak yet much did we learn of each other, I feel.' She eyed them. 'Do you both agree?'

Gargaron sat, sipping hot tea, the searing brew warming his mouth and innards. Personally he had chosen not to delve into the mind of the witch for there were some folk his kind did not parley with in such a manner and witches were one of them. Witches were sly and cunning and had been known to feign certain states of being in order to trip up an unwary giant. Gargaron had heard many times the stories of the Seven of Morgane, the seven giants who had set out to put an end to the Morgane witches who had been killing and pillaging and spreading rot-sickness across the realm. When the witches were found they were said to be close to death, weakened and unconscious. It were said that some mysterious illness or foe had struck them down. In order to learn what, the seven giants joined minds with them not knowing it were a trap. Of the seven who set out to take down the witches, seven returned... with their minds corrupted. Returning as naught but Morgane thralls. Before they were ultimately clobbered to death by giant warriors, the seven had ransacked and destroyed a dozen towns and villages and slaughtered upwards of nine hundred innocent souls.

So, Gargaron had stayed clear of the unconscious witch. Still, he pondered what Melai had gleaned from the connection she had made and thus he replied, 'Aye, much have we learned.'

Eve sat and joined them. Sipping tea. Eating eggs and spinach and crab meat. None spoke for a time. Then as if to make conversation Eve eyed Gargaron and said, 'I must say, I have been intrigued by the visage on the rear of your skull, giant. It watched me most closely while you slept, I will say.'

'As is its purpose,' Gargaron said. His Nightface were often an endless topic of conversation for people who had spent little time in the company of giant folk. He found it most tedious. 'Though, let me say, I am intrigued by your own visage. When we first met I would swear that you wore an entirely different face.'

Eve's eyes strayed to her eggs as she ate. 'Aye. A fortunate result from a tragic happening.' She did not elaborate.

Yet Gargaron were keen to hear it. 'Your death?' he asked.

She looked up at him once more. 'Aye. My death.'

Silence fell over the group.

Eve smiled, feeling the discomfort of her guests. 'I were attacked and torn asunder, you may have learned. My face were ruined. Yet my good husband found ways to restore my looks. And made it so that I can now choose my face.'

Gargaron watched her closely for a time. After a while he said, 'I have naught heard of a slain soul being brought back. Not to such an unsullied condition. Tell me, what strange magic might have returned to me my dear departed daughter?'

Eve smiled, studying Gargaron for a few moments. 'Ye have lost much, giant, I know. So too Melai of Willowgarde. We have all lost much. But how long has my dear Hawkmoth known his arcane secrets? Even he has not divulged that to me. It be something he keeps to himself. But I see the question in ye eyes, giant. Had those lost to ye been brought here upon their death, could they have been saved and regifted with life, brought back, as you put it, to such unsullied a condition? I cannot answer that. Only Hawkmoth may give ye an answer ye seek. As for myself, all I know is that I am here, reawoken after death. The method, to me, remains a mystery. So let us leave it at that.'

Gargaron did not wish to leave it at that. But if Eve were fibbing about her knowledge as to the secrets of her reanimation then it were obvious she were not going to tell him. With a sigh Gargaron resigned himself to asking the sorcerer when and if he caught up with him.

5

Once breakfast were done Eve fetched a map from a side bench and lay it upon table top, spreading her hands out across its surface, flattening out its creases. A delicate fingernail traced a straight line above a meandering roadway heading westways. 'Hawkmoth departed here two days gone, taking with him his war-steed Razor, and traveling upon his remaining zeppelin. This were his projected route. And this be his projected destination.' She tapped a remote area of the map along its western fringe. 'This be Vantasia inside Dark Wood, the witch realm. Travel here by zeppelin may take as much as a week. Except, if one were to become grounded, of course.'

Gargaron smiled ruefully. 'Aye, if he flies his zeppelin through one of the shockwaves that have been assailing us then his journey will be cut short, I assure you.'

'Well then, travel by horseback will indeed take longer,' Eve said. 'Though Razor be as swift a horse as I have ever seen. Anyhow, I will shortly post Hawkmoth news of ye arrival. Once he receives word that ye set out to trail him, he will delay his push westways, put down his zeppelin and make camp to wait for ye to catch him up.'

'Others have come before us?' Melai asked. 'Other survivors?'

Eve shook her head in jerky movements. 'Sadly, as yet, there have been none but yeselves. We remain hopeful that others be out there still forging their way here. Hawkmoth detected many of ye. And, as far as I learned, he managed to dispatch word or transport to ye all.'

'Many of us?' Gargaron asked intrigued. 'What were his method, if I may ask? To trace us. I used the Skysight in Autumn Town yet found no-one alive anywhere.'

Eve smiled. 'My dear Hawkmoth possesses many a strange and fanciful ability, giant. I do not profess to understand how they work. Except, as I said, he detected many of ye out there, alone, wandering. But enough talk of this,' she said. 'Time slithers ever onwards, and I must speed ye both on ye way.'

6

Gargaron and Melai took turns soaking briefly in a mighty tub of fresh fire-heated water. And once dressed, feeling clean and revitalised, Gargaron found Eve beyond the rear of cottage with their belongings packed together on the ground. He were relieved to see both his sword and Drenvel's Bane lying across his pack.

Gargaron now took in his surroundings. The world out here beyond the confines of the cottage dripped with water, and the trees of the hill had almost all been torn free from their perch. Most had been flung away to distant places it seemed. Perhaps still twirling inside the vortex. Others, and there seemed no end to them, were scattered and thrown every which way, twisted and matted and knotted and uprooted. The walking beast-trees that had threatened Melai and Gargaron the day before, those not ripped free and swallowed by storm, ambled about like lost souls. The hill were also scattered with the corpses of deer and goat and bird.

'I made to corral as many of them as I could,' Eve told him, as she busied herself, unfolding a peculiar little contraption of wood. 'Alas, many were already spooked before the storm hit and would not come. I saved what I could.'

Those who had been spared the storm's wrath chewed at grass amidst the trees. And birds played about, pecking at screepers that chirruped and screeched. The pixies though were nowhere to be spotted, in hiding or vanished.

'I would say you did as good as you could given the circumstances,' Gargaron told her. 'Be my steed safe and well?'

She pointed. 'Aye, and currently enjoying some oats.'

Gargaron saw stone stables, a building attached to the northwun wall of the cottage; no doubt where the good sorcerer Hawkmoth, had kept his own steed. There he spied Grimah through the open doors on a bed of straw with his two snouts deep in a trough.

'I thank you for housing him. And us.'

Eve simply nodded and kept on with whatever she were doing.

'And for gathering our belongings.'

She looked around at him. 'Ye mean, thank ye for not helping myself to them.'

He shrugged. 'Perhaps.'

'Giant, I am not in the business of relieving folk of their possessions. Even if they carry such famed relics as Drenvel's Bane.'

He nodded. 'So, you recognise the weapon?'

She laughed. 'Of course. It were forged with the aid of my foremothers after all.'

Gargaron pondered this. 'Your foremothers? Truly?'

'Aye.'

A thought came to Gargaron for the first time since arriving here. 'I don't suppose you happen to know its secrets?'

She looked around at him with a frown. 'Secrets?'

'Aye, its secrets. For it be but a hilt without hammer. Legend states that it be a magical item, that to wield it correctly is to bring its hammer-head into existence. Yet I am starting to think that someone has run off with its other half for all the use I can get out of it.'

She looked at him squarely. 'Ye know not how to wake it?'

'Aye.'

She laughed wickedly. 'Oh, this be priceless. As soon as I saw it yesterday when ye arrived I took ye for some fearless warrior.'

He sighed. 'No, I be a simple hunter. Naught more. I took Drenvel's Bane from a sacred temple in my village where it has been housed for many a year. If my village druids knew its secrets then they took them to their grave.'

Eve searched him at length. And went back to her work. 'I guess wielding this weapon may aid ye on ye quest.'

'If I could wake it, yes. By its tales, it ought help its wielder win many a fight and fight off many a foe.'

She gazed now distantly at the cobbles. 'And help protect my dear husband.' She peered up at him once more.

'Yes. Provided I can learn its secrets.'

'Well, I should think Skinkk's blood be your key. My Mothers have long told stories of ancient weapons forged for mighty warriors. But as far as Drenvel's Bane be concerned, Hor the Cutter signed a pact with the weapon, his blood mixed with that of a Skinkk, joined in battle while his fist gripped the hilt.'

'Skinkk's blood? You think this would help with any who wield it?'

'Provided he were a giant.'

Feeling a renewed sense of hope that he may have unlocked the weapon's secret, he asked, 'You would not happen to have any here would you? Skinkk's blood. A witch and sorcerer living together must surely brag a collection of such things.'

She laughed. 'I'm afraid, giant, ye assume too much. We are not in the business of hunting Skinkks. Nor collecting parts from our animal cousins.'

He sighed. 'So, where might I source some Skinkk blood then?'

'Why, from a Skinkk of course.'

Gargaron nodded at the mild rebuke and meant to say more but thought it best now to shut up. He watched Eve go about her business. When she were done, the contraption she had been working on looked something like a bizarre wooden boy, barely standing more than the height of Gargaron's knee. He possessed large, yet expressionless eyes and a small carved nose and small carved lips. He were gangly as a twig. And at first he did not even seem alive.

'This be a Windracer,' Eve told Gargaron, kneeling and holding the "boy" upright, steadying him on his little feet. She tipped a phial of orange liquid to a reservoir fashioned like a small scooped receptacle in the rear of the boy's skull. A thin stream of liquid coursed around the reservoir that had been etched in a spiral pattern around the boy's face and body. As the liquid ran down, slowly the boy seemed to breathe with life. 'It shall carry our news to Hawkmoth.'

7

Melai, fresh and dressed from bathing, came out into the rear yard in time to see the Windracer boy standing, independent of Eve, looking about like a curious child, looking up at Gargaron, looking around at Eve, looking at Melai who stood no taller than he. Eve took his hand, and the boy looked at her as a child might a mother. Then she spoke to him, and in no tongue that Gargaron understood; yet it were one Melai had heard the trees of Thoonsk occasionally speak. A woodland language.

Take this message to my dear Hawkmoth. Tell him survivors have at last found their way to our cottage; Gargaron Stoneheart of Hovel, and Melai Willowborne of Thoonsk. They will depart here shortly to trail him. Tell him that there has been a Vortex storm, that I stabled our beloved animals but that some have perished. Tell him that I love him. And that I wait here alone, for his return.

Gargaron and Melai watched her. As she stopped speaking she kissed the boy on the cheek, and stood back. Here the wooden boy looked up at her once... then he turned and ran. Quick as the breeze. Heading westways, over the back of the hill and gone, out of sight in moments, running like a ghost, swift, effortless, blurred.

'What a marvel that would be,' Gargaron murmured to himself, 'to run so quick.'

Eve fetched Grimah from the dry interior of the stables. Though Grimah proved particularly stubborn. Either because he did not wish to be separated from his lovely oats, or he would not be drawn from the stable by one such as her.

Gargaron took the reins and Grimah came forth tentatively, looking about, his ears back, weary, alert. Gargaron gently touched both his snouts, soothing the beast. 'Grimah, ease up now,' he said softly. 'Ease up. All be well.'

'He be a beautiful creature,' Eve said admiringly. 'And has a healthy appetite. He made sure there were naught left of the apples I gave him for his supper.'

Gargaron looked from his horse to witch. 'I thank you again for your hospitality, Eve. You have been a light in all this darkness.'

'And yee pair, lights in mine,' she said, nodding both at him and Melai. 'Ye company has been most welcome. And shall be again if ye choose to return this way after your mission.'

'We will be glad to accept it,' Melai told her warmly.

Gargaron handed Melai her bow and quiver and her small sack of plant provisions, then fixed scabbard across his back and sheathed his great sword. Once done, he hefted up his pack and strapped it to saddle, hoisted himself onto Grimah before reaching down in order to haul Melai to Grimah's shoulders.

Melai hesitated, turning instead to Eve. 'Why do you stay here?' she asked her. 'Why not come with us?'

Eve smiled sadly. 'Lying over this hill, and the fields and pastures that immediately surround it, be a veil of sanctity, a powerful enchantment put in place many years gone by my Hawkmoth. He wished to create a home here that animals could retreat to, a place they could be safe from poachers, hunters, collectors, traffickers, smugglers. A place that sick or injured animals might come to, to either pass on in peace or to heal and find their strength away from predators.'

She looked about at the torn down trees, where the carcasses of deer and goat and bird could be seen through wilting foliage and broken branch and the layer of damp discarded leaves that seemed to cover everything. 'On the day of the first Boom shake, my Hawkmoth were away yonder visiting, Faeryth, a dear old elf who lived a solitary existence in a tree abode. Hawkmoth says when the shake swept across the land Faeryth and his pets died instantly before his eyes. He raced home here fearing my safety but found me and the animals alive and unaffected. Yet, on observing a number of goats perishing once they moved from the safety of this enchanted area to the outside, well, Hawkmoth warned that I may follow if I were to do the same. And as he carried out inspections of the nearby villages of Gollahnt and Somersut, he found all dead. Thus I remain here, kept alive I believe by his enchantment, while by all reports the Vale dies around me.

'By mystery, magic, or fate, you pair, like my Hawkmoth, have proven immune to the curse ravaging our world. So here, for now I wait and hope ye be successful in turning this blight around.' She placed her palm gently upon Melai's cheek. 'Go now. Travel swift and sure.'

Gargaron reached down and helped Melai into saddle.

'One more thing,' came Eve's voice. 'To verify my Hawkmoth's identity, and for him to verify yers, be sure to ask him this question: Should the storm winds fall upon Ostamare, and the rains not cease, where ought I to take shelter?' His answer will be as follows...'

## VARSTAHK

1

HILLS rolled away for a number of miles, all stripped of their trees. They looked like chins of giants, rugged with the stubble of tree trunks snapped and broken and twisted and torn. Corpses of wild goat, deer, fox hounds, littered the sodden grasses.

A lake, listed on Hawkmoth's map as Hoakensdeep, could be seen far northways'n'east, its waters sparkling under morning sunlight. But directly westways'n'south lay a realm known as Varstahk, a mysterious country of which Gargaron had heard many a strange and fantastic tale. If Eve were to be believed, it were also the first major landmark Hawkmoth were to have flown over in his zeppelin.

And thus Gargaron and Melai and their two-headed steed turned toward it.

2

By midday the hills had flattened out to sandy scrubland where tall rock spires stuck from earyth like the petrified tongues of buried gods, poking out into cloudy skies, licking the heavens. As they became more numerous, long eerie corridors ran down between each one where spindly trees grew directly from their sheer surface. It didn't take long for Gargaron to notice these trees were actually on the move, slowly traversing the looming rock walls like the great starfish of Loovss over giant coral beds, worming roots shifting with imperceptible slowness, gobbling at moss whose green feathery hairs looked more like minute arms with tiny fingers and hands snatching at itsy-bitsy elf bugs that flew by.

Between many of these rock spires, serving as both floor and pathway on these long winding corridors, were worn paving stones between which wilting blue-flowered weeds grew. Gargaron couldn't help but notice that the pavers were covered in a soft carpet of elf bugs. Thousands upon thousands upon thousands. Dead. Or writhing, dying.

Gargaron recalled what Melai had gleaned from Eve, that the Dark Ones he had spied twice now (Harbingers as she had named them), spread poison on the air and contaminated the rivers and oceans. But this still confused him. If the atmosphere were somehow sullied with their deathly toxins, then why had he, Melai or Grimah not yet succumbed? For, here under full daylight, in all its heartless morbidity, were once again its apparent process at work. Great killing and great dying. And yet he, Melai, nor Grimah felt its bite.

They pushed on through this land of rocky scrub and tall rock sails. Great birds circled on thermals, giving Gargaron hope that, like he and Melai, some things seemed immune to the blight. A dark mass of swirling grey cloud clogged southern horizon. Tail of the vortex storm he guessed.

As the rock fans began to dwindle, their pathway of paving stones seemed to widen. And there were glimpses every now and then, through trees ahead, and beyond bumps and boulders in the earyth, of some great remnant of civilisation.

Soon scrubland ended abruptly where an ancient square moat lay bordered by a stone rampart. This moat had long lost its water, filled now with weeds, trees, shrubs. Beyond, lay the sprawling ancient empty city of Varstahk, ruined now for two thousand years.

They crossed its moat via an ancient bridge of stone, littered with bones of long dead birdlings. But scattered here too were with the recent dead: lizards, scrub crabs, giant scorpions, fire spiders. They stepped down a row of wide stairs, to the flat of the city whose elevation lay lower than the surrounding lands.

They pushed out into this once thriving metropolis of Varstahk. It proved an eerie, unsettling place. Wind moaned through old battlements, and whined like spectres through towers that soared high and crumbling. At ground level, old temples, domed constructions of stone, grew with giant fig trees, and gritty winds swirled through their lonely deserted interiors, wailing, crying, groaning.

Gargaron felt as if the eyes of a thousand ghosts were watching he and Melai. Although, he had to declare there were no sign of anyone squatting in this place, as if it were cursed, as if life (living or undead or otherwise) were not welcome here. As if it prevented anything taking a foothold.

Towers blocked sunlight, thus casting much of the city in cold blue shadow. Towers stood brown, almost purple. Wind kept moaning, kept swirling, kept nibbling at Melai's hair, tugging at Gargaron's clothes, pulling at Grimah's mane.

'What be this place?' Gargaron heard Melai ask.

'This be the ancient city of Varstahk,' he told her. 'Giants lived here. Cahtu they were though. Undead armies that rolled north on their mighty Temblahs, crushing, killing, pillaging. Their empire spread out of Cahtahk, their birth lands. They constructed many cities like this across the Vale.'

'Cahtu were not undead,' he heard her say.

He eyed her, surprised that she, sheltered within Thoonsk all her life, might have some perceived knowledge on this subject.

'Legends tell us they had no heart,' he pointed out.

'Legends tell us no such thing,' she said.

'We have heard or read separate legends then. They were undead.'

'They were not,' she insisted. 'I grew up hearing stories of elder days from Mother Thoonsk.'

Gargaron sighed. 'Undead or no, this were their home for a millennia. Now let us leave this silly argument at that.'

3

They pressed on in silence, the echo of Grimah's hooves bouncing back at them, and bouncing back at them again. All else were silent save for that and wind. It howled high above them in the lonely heights of the empty, blue-sky space between towers. Gargaron gazed over his shoulder; so far away now the moat they'd crossed to enter this place, so far and almost vanished beyond their sight.

They came upon what Gargaron claimed were a death pit, a cavernous square pit cut down into earyth. It were filled with stone spikes. 'Folk and animals would be thrown in there to the amusement of the Cahtu,' he informed Melai.

'It were filled with acid,' Melai corrected him. 'Not spikes.'

'No, acid were the bathing pits of the Cahtu.'

'It were not.'

He sighed. 'Well, it matters not. What matters is getting across.'

The pit swallowed the entire way forward for eighty feet. Its sides bordered by enormous towers, blocking any possible side route. With no bridge spanning the hole Gargaron and Melai were stuck.

'We've no choice but to turn around and search for another avenue,' Melai said with a heavy sigh.

So they did. It took them hours searching. Encountering dead ends. And toppled ruins that blocked paved streets. Reluctantly they were forced indoors, inside the old dark ruins themselves. Here they were wary of bandits or other unsavoury beasts that may have taken up residence within. Which they found—though all dead were they. Tusked bears. Giant badgers. And a stench of rot carried heavy and rank through the darkened halls. At times the stench were so thick and cloying they could do naught but turn back or hurry Grimah forward, choking and coughing. Other times the interiors were so lightless that Gargaron were forced to fire up his lantern. But corridors seemed to follow no logical path, and many came to abrupt ends at ancient bone laden altars where enormous glaring statues stood.

They found doorways into courtyards or onto vast wind-blown fighting arenas. Weeds, ivy, and trees grew direct from rock walls. They trailed corridors that bent backwards, or descended mighty stairways into dark dank dungeons that swirled with the rank stench of dead things.

Finally, upon a terrace they stopped to take stock.

'This place be an infernal labyrinth,' Gargaron said irritated. 'We may spend the rest of our days here.'

Melai, seated upon Grimah's shoulders, looked about. Above them naught but blue sky drifted with peaceful white cloud. Melus and Gohor were almost directly overhead now, casting warm light where earlier there had been naught but shade. Around them the city sprawled out in all directions. They could no longer see rock-sail nor hill from which they'd descended to reach this place.

To their right the slanting roof of a temple climbed to dizzying heights. Gargaron studied it closely. 'If we were at a higher vantage,' he said, 'we might plot a way forward.'

'Do not tell me you wish to scale it,' Melai asked. 'It be far too steep, you'll gain no purchase.'

'I may look like a lump but I might surprise you with my agility.'

She wore a grave look.

'Melai, tell me another way and I shall gladly take it.'

She looked about, searching, searching, hoping some missed access way or path would become apparent.

4

Gargaron hung his pack on the pommel of Grimah's saddle, then gripped the edge of the roof with his huge hands. He hoisted himself up, lifting one foot onto the roof before the other. He crawled up a dozen feet before the roof beneath him began to sag.

He froze, Melai shouting, 'It's shifting beneath you.'

It were not only shifting he realised. The ancient tiles were cracking, splintering. And there came suddenly a disturbing sound of something groaning below him, ancient beams protesting under his weight. The area around him began to sink. And he realised it almost too late. The roof were collapsing.

He shuffled backwards just as a mighty slab dropped silently away into darkness, a shaft of sunlight following it down. He slid back to the terrace where Melai were watching wide-eyed from Grimah's shoulders and it were several seconds before they heard a distant crash against the floor far, far below.

'Hmm,' Gargaron said reflectively, 'that were... interesting.' He glanced around at Melai. She almost laughed. 'What?' he said at the look on her face.

'Interesting?' she said. 'Is that how you'd put it?'

He shrugged, shaken, gazing up at high, sloping roof. 'Maybe I ought to try another section. Where I trod were probably a weak spot.'

Melai sighed. 'No. Lift me up. I'll climb. I be far lighter than you.'

He frowned. 'But your arm.'

'I have another.'

'And should you lose grip and slide down?'

'I have three good wings, and one good arm, I shall manage.'

He were surprised in that moment how fond he'd grown of her. Such a tiny little thing yet she carried such a mighty heart. In some ways she reminded him of his dear Veleyal.

He hoisted her up. 'See what you can see then. But if your arm grows sore―'

'I shall manage,' she said sternly.

Their eyes met. He smiled. 'Of course.' He lifted her to roof and watched as she carefully made her way around the rent caused by Gargaron and on up steep slope of roof. She crawled with her feet and one arm, her bad arm tucked across her chest, her three healthy wings flapping to give her buoyancy.

By the time she'd come to a stop she were but a mere speck of a thing way up near the apex of temple. She clung there, wind tugging at her, steadying herself before looking about.

Gargaron watched her point at something but could not hear her words, just a muted, distant sound of her voice flurrying about on ragged wind gusts. He saw her point to several positions, talking all the while.

Soon he watched her making her way carefully back down.

'I heard nothing,' he called out to her as she neared him. 'What were you saying?'

'I see a path,' she claimed, 'an avenue.' She pointed. 'Our way out. Come.'

Gargaron hoisted her from roof's edge to Grimah's saddle and he lead steed down the worn stone stairs on Melai's instructions. They reached another terrace which circled the temple, and down another flight of steps. This took them into what may once have been a garden filled with exotic flesh eating plants that legends promised the Cahtu were so fond of. Through these now barren gardens, Melai took them, claiming that if she had seen it correctly, their path would lead them to an avenue that would lead them through the final stretch of Varstahk.

Sure enough, through an archway with downward poking spikes and guarded by a stone gargoyle with half its torso crumbled away, they strolled out upon a wide paved road that seemed to cut the city in two. Eastways, Melai claimed it lead to a central square, to stone spires the Cahtu once hung their war enemies from. And westways it lead to outer city gates. Gazing in this direction Gargaron could now see distant forests beyond city boundary, and, beyond that, rocky crags of limestone poking into sky.

'You have done well,' Gargaron said with a relieved and exhausted sigh. 'You have done well indeed, dear Melai.'

## SKINKK

1

CLEAR passage out of Varstahk however proved not such an inevitability. Half a mile on, the avenue on which they walked, narrowed between a pair of temples outside which stood immense stone sentinels in the likeness of the Cahtu, standing tall and commanding, each with their dire arm reaching almost to earyth, while their remaining arm grasped a war hammer.

Yet, what Gargaron and Melai saw lying there at their base stopped them in their tracks.

Camouflaged against the stonework were a sleeping lizard. A lizard whose girth and bulk looked greater than that of Gargaron's. Actually, the more Gargaron looked at it, the closer they got, the more he feared this lizard were three, perhaps as much as four times his own size.

'A Skinkk,' Gargaron murmured cautiously, Grimah snorting nervously. 'A winged one, at that. We must be careful.'

Melai frowned. 'Skinkk?' she said. 'My kind call them dragons. And all are winged.'

'Not where I am from,' Gargaron informed her. 'Skinkks skitter around afoot. Though that be irrelevant, for by whatever name they come, wing or no, they are cunning and deadly.' He watched it carefully, hoping, lethal critter though it be, that it were succumbed to whatever poison or sickness had been killing all else.

He took his spyglass from his belt and surveyed the beast. He could spot no sign of respiration. 'It may be dead,' he murmured. And the notion forced a distant thought into his mind: Drenvel's Bane. Eve suggested Skinkk blood may bring it to life.

2

They waited there, watching it, considering their options. The city gates were tantalisingly close now. So close in fact that they could actually hear rustle of leaf and branch in woodland beyond. Though where the Skinkk slept, it blocked nearly the entire width of road: its long neck curled around toward the sloping wall of the southwun temple, its long spiked tail stretched toward the north. Its wings lay over its forelegs. If they proceeded, there would be little room for Grimah to sneak by without treading on it.

Still, if it were dead... 'What do you think?' Gargaron asked. 'Should we chance sneaking by it? It breathes not.'

Melai were quiet. She wished to be nowhere near this dragon. Rjoonds were the enemy of nymphs, or so she had grown up to learn, but dragons were the destroyers of woodland realms like Thoonsk. Her willow trees had told tales of Gone Days when dragons had unleashed their fires upon Mother Thoonsk. How Mother Thoonsk's children had blackened and bubbled under their thunderous firestorms. Horror tales she wished never to hear again. And did not wish to witness with her own eyes.

'We must go nowhere near it,' she said at last. 'It feigns death.'

Gargaron held the beast in his spyglass for a prolonged period. Its chest did not rise nor fall. It were still. 'All signs point to it being deceased.'

'It feigns death. I feel it. We turn around and find another way.'

'Turn around?' Gargaron would have laughed had he not been trying to maintain an air of quiet. 'What route would you have us take, Melai? This city be a rabbit warren. We got ourselves lost simply reaching this point. We find ourselves lost again we might just consign ourselves here till the end of our days.'

She did not answer. But being in such close proximity to this dragon chilled her.

Gargaron studied the beast's scaly face. Spiked horns jutted from its head. Fangs ran down both sides of its great and hideous mouth. And all the while its lizard eyes stayed shut. Skinkks were cunning beasts, he knew. If this one had heard them approaching, if it were not ill and succumbing to this blight, then in all likelihood it were lying there feigning death as Melai warned. Waiting, hoping for them to attempt a pass before it jumped awake and breathed upon them an explosion of flame.

Gargaron imagined if Melai's wing were well enough, she might take flight and soar beyond it, distract it somehow, enough time for Gargaron to sneak up on it and strike it a deathblow with his great sword. Extracting blood as it lay dying would make for far easier and safer work if he wanted to collect some to test Hor's little hammer. And once it were dead there would be easy passage out of that place. He looked down at her where she sat before him on Grimah's shoulders. 'However we do it, we must think of a way to press on. To turn and follow our tracks back out of Varstahk and then skirt this city will add an awful amount of time to our journey.'

'And to press forward at this point may end our journey all too soon,' she insisted.

'Still, find a way forward, we must.'

Ears on both Grimah's heads were drawn back. He would not stand still, though Gargaron implored he remain so, and quiet, least his clopping hooves wake the beast.

Gargaron noticed Melai sorting through her leaf sling, whose vine-like branches clung to her like wiry tentacles. He wondered if she had heard him. 'Melai, do you heed me? We cannot remain here and we cannot turn about.'

'By the Drowned Angels, shoosh!' she hissed at him. 'Do you not hear yourself? I'm surprised you don't wake the dead with that booming voice of yours.' She gave him a scolding glance, this tiny little mouse of a creature staring him down. She returned her attention to her satchel.

Skinkk continued to lie there, dead by all reports. Cool desolate winds continued to moan through Varstahk's vast network of ruins.

At last Melai pulled something from her bag: the small clump of dark wood Gargaron had seen her pack into her sling back amongst her home trees in Thoonsk. 'What are you doing?' he asked her. He hoped miraculously that perhaps it were some mighty dragon horn; he had heard of such items, ones that could command dragons, bepsell them.

'You insist our only way is forward,' she said shortly. 'So here be our solution.' She held the object out to him. 'This be a monstrut hoegeth. House of Monsters. It be a holding of elfstar wood. It keeps dormant what you might know as Charon's Children.'

3

Gargaron breathed in heavily, taken aback. 'Charon's Imps?' He looked down at her as if she were but a demon seated there. 'Impossible.'

'You have heard of such critters then?'

Charon's Imps were stuff of myth and legend. Stuff of horror tales. They were said to lie dormant in deep, lightless ocean trenches off the mysterious Senoogras Isles. How Melai had come by them were a complete mystery.

Their origins lay beyond Cloudfyre. Nine thousand years ago, during dominion of the Skinkks who ruled over Cloudfyre in those times, the Droplets of Charon, segments of a moon that legend said once orbited Cloudfyre, had crashed down through the atmosphere. These were times before the Joo Joons and Mookijuks and Forest Nymphs; before Sorcerers, and Oldwuns, and Wraiths, and Cahtu walked Cloudfyre; days when kingdoms such as Vonyael, and Liliyahd, and Skygarden, were yet to rise and fall; when clans such as the Witches of Nooin, the Elves of Highlanding, and the great Wraiths of Nightfall were yet to fight out their legendary wars; when even the eventual riders of the Skinkks, the Xerbs (all who died out when the dynasty of the Skinkks collapsed), were still to climb up out of the snowy wastes of Tunddera and tame these great lizards of Cloudfyre.

As the Droplets of Charon thundered into earyth they had exploded, leaving craters as large as hollowed hills. But from them climbed Charon's so-called Imps. Devilish creatures riddled with exotic star diseases. It were during these days the giants waged fierce battles against the Skinkks for control over Cloudfyre's vast stretches of land. And it were the giants who believed that the Skinkks, in order to wipe the giants from existence, had somehow engineered Charon's Imps. For, tiny though Charon's Imps were, their effects on giants were devastating. Their simple presence were enough to have a giant keel over in sickness, and prolonged exposure meant his death.

Giants however were not all who feared the Imps. When it came to Charon's little devils, it seemed the larger the creature, the greater he suffered. The giants had thus questioned the idea that Skinkks were to blame for the emergence of these little star devils. For Skinkks perished far more quickly at their hand, and in far greater number; brutal, horrible deaths, mutating into grotesque creatures before their thumping hearts exploded through their chests.

Sitting there gazing down at Melai's casket, Gargaron prayed that she jested, or else he were like to swipe the object from her grasp before another word were spoken. 'Melai,' he said clearly. 'This be a very serious claim. Tell me it be not true.'

She gazed up into his eyes. 'I speak no jest. You say we need press forward, well this be a solution.'

He swallowed. She had never seen him look so worried.

'Have you not encountered them in your travels?' Melai asked him. 'Charon's Children?'

'I have gone out of my way to avoid the places they are known to dwell. Do you not know the effect they have on my kind?'

She frowned. 'No. I know only that these things, whatever they be, from wherever they come, keep dragons away from Mother Thoonsk.'

Gargaron breathed out long and heavy. Staring down at her, considering the way forward, but also the way back if they took that path. He breathed out again. 'Very well.' He gazed out toward where the Skinkk were still in slumber. The Imps would make him sick but would certainly kill the Skinkk. It seemed blood extraction and passage through the remaining stretch of Varstahk might become a viable option if he permitted Melai the use of te Imps. 'Very well,' he said again.

'So, shall I proceed?' Melai asked.

He wiped sweat from his brow. 'Yes, but I must remove myself. Retreat some distance. Though...'

'Though what?'

'Should I retreat and leave you here, then I would, by my actions, be putting you in mortal peril.'

She shook her head. 'That beast will not dare stray near me whilst I wield these things.'

He eyed her closely. 'Are you certain?'

'Yes. Now, lower me down.'

'And what of these star imps? Do they not ail your kind?'

She shook her head. 'No. I shall be safe. Now lower me and go. Quickly.'

He cast an eye at the great Skinkk hoping it were indeed dead. Then he nodded. 'Aye, then. Very well. But I shall leave you with Grimah.'

'A bad idea,' she said shortly. 'He may suffer. Now lower me down please, before this dragon wakes up at the sounds of our procrastination.'

Gargaron did not like this, but knew he had little choice. Melai were wriggling impatiently from Grimah's shoulders and so he took Melai's arm, and while she gripped her ominous wood clump, he lowered her to the pavers at Grimah's feet.

'Release them and be quick about it then,' Gargaron said as he pulled Grimah about. 'And if that dragon be not dead as you so claim, and awaken before you are done then, have no fear, I shall be at your side quicker than a sunflare.'

She nodded, as if to say, Thank you, and with that he wheeled his mount around and took himself back two hundred paces, where he adjudged he ought be well beyond the influence of the Imps. Here he brought Grimah to a halt within the relative cover of a narrow corridor between temples, a low arched roof protecting he and horse from any possible air attack should this Skinkk awake unto anger.

4

Melai tread forward as far as she dared. She halted her advance no more than twenty paces from the sleeping dragon and placed her monstrut hoegeth upon ground and whispered a short incantation. Upon her breath, a greenish mist flowed gently from her mouth and covered the object like spore. Nothing happened. She looked up and searched the dragon for signs of its stirring.

It remained unmoved, its eyes ever shut.

Melai lowered her head and closed her own eyes and again spoke the incantation that ought to have rendered her monstrut hoegeth open. Again, greenish mist drifted from her lips, layering the casket. Several moments passed. Before she heard a sound. But not from the casket. She looked up. The dragon were watching her, one eye open.

5

Melai would have turned and flown... had her wooden casket not then split open, letting out intense dark light that erupted at first in black beams cutting into blue skies, beams that rolled and curled like fog on a dark night. Then out they wriggled, small beasts, black as obsidian, clambering like rampant, mindless beetles from a bucket.

Instinctively, they seemed to know their purpose, for they veered directly toward the sleeping dragon, moving like dark ghosts beyond a storm, like blots of dye on damp papyrus, leaving wafting trails of saturated ink on the air.

Gargaron were glad he had retreated. Glad Melai could not see him. For instantly, though he were some distance from the Imps, he felt his vision blur, felt his eyes water, felt as if someone had pushed a blade through his belly and were turning it about. His head might well have been submerged in turbulent waters, suddenly washed back and forth, back and forth, the way he felt. He lay low against Grimah's shoulders for fear he might tumble off, and while he grimaced and groaned he fought intense pain and mounting confusion to keep one eye peeled in order to hold Melai under his surveillance.

The Skinkk were likely already weakened and in the process of dying before they'd encountered it, yet Gargaron were astounded at how quickly and severely the star imps affected it. For the Skinkk snapped up like a snake, shuddering, rearing back its head, letting out a pained howl. It tried to heft itself to its feet. But it stumbled and roared and toppled drunkenly onto its ribs. It moved to right itself, only to flail about, its legs jutting in the air, flailing, while its wings lay weakly, sickly, out across the pavers.

Melai backed up, stepping away from the floundering dragon. She would not turn her back on it lest its apparent torture be some trick, lest its claws whip out and slice her in two the moment she let it from her sight. Her star-bugs pressed toward it, mindless, soulless, both jerky and fluid in their movement, multiple shards of dark light shooting out from them, jabbing the dragon's scaly hide, puncturing it, drawing blood.

The Skinkk managed to roll over, its legs now pinned beneath its weight. Its wings flapped wildly, attempting to lift its body upward, to free its legs. At last it managed to do so, and then it were standing. And in what seemed an enormous effort, the Skinkk swung its head round, roaring, omitting a mighty burst of molten fire across the pavers, completely drowning the star-bugs.

Gargaron's skin turned cold; Melai were in its direct path. She were two sunflares away from being engulfed by an inferno and he were utterly powerless to stop it.

Gargaron tried to heel Grimah into a gallop, but his weakened legs could do naught but merely nudge his horse's flanks. He tried yelling out, for Melai to run, for she had not budged an inch, had made no effort to fly nor flee in any manner. Yet his voice were raspy. And could not be heard. And as he watched, the roaring inferno came at her... swallowing her whole.

6

'By Ranethor!' Gargaron gasped. 'Melai!'

But it were too late. She were gone, vanished beneath the wash of flame, incinerated in but an instant.

Pure rage drove the Skinkk from the ground. It leapt into the air, flapping madly. Below it, in the same wash of fire that had immolated Melai, the darklings burned like embers. Yet, they were far from dead. They watched the dragon head for skies, watching it coldly with their burning flame-red eyes...

Gargaron thought the Skinkk were fleeing. But it swooped up, circled, and screamed back down in a terrifying arc. It were aiming not at the Imps now, but at him.

Gargaron yanked Grimah back just as the great Skinkk soared over the arch. Here the beast released a torrent of liquid fire that bubbled the stone, melting it, droplets splatting the pavers, scorching it, pockmarking it. The searing heat raked across both Gargaron and horse, Grimah rearing up, squealing.

Gargaron tumbled feet-over-head from his mount and slammed into ground shoulder-first, grunting, the impact shoving his chin into his chest, but his momentum also rolled him back onto his feet. He removed his shield from his back and unsheathed his great-sword as huge blocks of the archway tumbled down about him; he were peppered with crumbling stone and brick, mortar dust clouding the air.

He coughed and wiped grit from his eyes and in the confusion lost sight of his attacker. He squinted into the dust cloud, his eyes scanning the space between the temples above him. He saw the Skinkk not and feeling exposed he attempted a dash further beneath his shelter.

As he ran, Grimah scrambled before him, and he heard Skinkk's roar; he twisted around and saw it diving for him. He took evasive action, leaping across the debris scattered all about him, shoving Grimah through a temple doorway into what he prayed would be safe confines. Gargaron then hoped to hurl himself through the doorway after his horse, but he were out of time. He had barely a moment to drop to his knee and heft his shield over his head.

A wash of liquid fire squirted down around him as the Skinkk soared by above. Gargaron's shield took full brunt, liquid fire fanning out as it hit the shield's surface.

The Skinkk reared away, flapping upward as the star-bugs now turned Gargaron's way. Gargaron hefted himself to his feet, but tumbled to one knee. To make matters worse, the Skinkk swooped on him once more, flame squirting wildly. This time Gargaron threw himself at temple doorway, only to stumble in the debris about him and come up short.

An excruciating blast of liquid fire rained across his back.

He roared in agony. It felt as though he had been torn open, his skin ripped aside, a thousand nails hammered into his spine and flanks. The Skinkk, weakened itself, crashed into temple ruins, sending down another shower of stone and dirt, assaulting Gargaron.

The star-bugs marched onward. And above, the Skinkk regained its momentum, flapping away as if it had done its worst and were now off somewhere to rest or die. That would have been Gargaron's wish, that those advancing imps had forced it to finally turn tail. Yet, what he did not know was that he had yet to see the last of it. For again it turned, and again it swooped on him.

Gargaron were spent, his back and Nightface were aflame; the roar of fire like thunder in his ears. Yet he clawed himself for temple doorway, any attempt to get himself clear of peril. Though the star bugs were sapping his strength faster than he could move.

He collapsed finally into the crumbled stonework strewn about him. And lay there panting, flames spreading across him. His sight were going, clouding over. His consciousness ebbing away. Before it all went black, he saw two things: Grimah. His loyal mount charging from temple confines, biting into Gargaron's forearms, and dragging the giant across stone and brick to safety. And something else. One that confounded him.

Melai.

7

She stood beyond the cover of temple. Firing a rapid volley of arrows up into Skinkk's scaled belly as it swooped toward them. She looked so tiny, so ineffectual, beneath that beast, like a sparrow beneath a mighty bullhorn hound. Her heroic efforts however did little to ward it off.

She flew toward Gargaron. 'Stand, giant!' she yelled. 'Get inside!'

But Gargaron could no more stand now than stop the stars from burning. She turned and saw the star bugs creeping closer and closer. And over her right shoulder came the dragon.

She only had a sunflare to make up her mind about what she should do? Flee, vanish again? Or stay at giant's side. Either way, this giant would perish. And that being the case, did she want this world alone without him? Her answer were no. Thus she braced herself for a wash of molten fire that would consume them both.

What she were not expecting were the sudden shimmering blue iridescence that filled the air about her, a huge domed barrier of light suddenly hanging over the ruins surrounding Melai, the giant and Grimah. Some peculiar phenomenon that seemed to ward off the Skinkk. For the dragon flapped its wild wings, arresting its momentum, avoiding the light as if it meant instant death.

Here the Skinkk flew upwards, wheeled away dizzily, crashing into the ruins, an eruption of stone and brick blowing out from the impact, and the great dragon disappeared beyond top of domed temple, sliding down the opposite side, out of sight and sound.

8

Melai, confused, looked about; the unconscious giant beside her still aflame. She straightened, and something caught her eye. A tall figure, robed and hooded, striding forward with long wooden staff in hand, moving through the blue barrier like a ghost through mist.

He strode toward her and she struggled to arm her bow but a wave of his spare hand saw the bow fall heavy from her grip. As he reached her he swung his staff around and Melai saw at its tip two faces, one above the other. The upper one female and beautiful as an angel, the lower resembling the face of some tortured demon, fanged and goggle-eyed.

Presently, the eyes of the angel were burning blue and her jaw stretched open and from her mouth there erupted suddenly a roaring gale that swept across both Melai and giant, blasting Gargaron's flaming body and extinguishing all flame in but an instant.

'Rehouse your imps!' this newcomer commanded Melai sternly, his voice deep and resonating.

Melai were struck dumb by his arrival. He prompted her a second time. 'Are you hard of hearing, nymph? Rehouse your imps before they do us all an illness!'

She fetched her bow and backed away in the direction of the star imps. As she did she eyed the newcomer crouch to inspect Gargaron. The giant lay there huffing, huffing, huffing, as if near to death. Melai watched the robed figure dig his long fingers into Gargaron's bubbling flesh.

'What are you doing?' Melai demanded, arming her bow and aiming an arrow at the back of the stranger's neck.

'What does it look like?' he grumbled. 'I am trying to save your friend's life. Now lower your weapon and see to your imps. I should not have to ask thrice.'

Melai did not lower her bow. Yet she wondered something. Could this be Haitharath? Friend of Thoonsk and protector of animals and husband of Evehnyer Dawnraider the witch.

The picture did not fit the one she carried in her mind; the images she had taken from her willow tree were of a sorcerer who stood shorter than this one, who had less a head of hair and not much of a beard. This one before her stood, she judged, as tall as Gargaron's chest (were Gargaron to be standing), and it were difficult to tell hair from beard, such a mass of it there were. 'Tell me something, if you will, before I let you tend to him,' she said. 'Should the storm winds fall upon Ostamare, and the rains not cease, where ought I to take shelter?'

He glanced around at her, only a small part of his face to be seen hidden there beneath the edge of his hood. Melai awaited the answer that Eve had promised the real Haitharath would provide. Finally he gave it: 'In your heart, dear nymph. In your heart.'

She turned, satisfied, and hurried away to her star bugs.

9

Hawkmoth Lifegiver stood and raised his staff, running it back and forth slowly above Gargaron's spine. 'Tayketh uff yar bernss,' he said commandingly. 'Tayketh uff yar bernss, mee seey.'

A squelching sound could be heard along the charred, blistered flesh of Gargaron's back. Peculiar pink sprouts grew up out of the burnt mess.

By the time Melai had returned (her star bugs once more contained) she saw Gargaron's entire back were knotted in white roots and the pink sprouts now grew with blue trumpet flowers that gushed black soot onto the breeze. Nearby, Grimah stood, sniffing the air, and every now and then, with both mouths, he nibbled gently at the giant's ankles, as if hoping to illicit some response.

'Be you well?' the newcomer spoke at Gargaron's ear, as if it were not a query but a command, an incantation.

Gargaron's breathing, Melai saw now, had settled.

The stranger again spoke at Gargaron's ear. 'Be. You. Well.'

Gargaron's eyes came open. And he lay there looking about. Blinking. Unsure of his whereabouts. He groaned, and croaked, 'Wh-who are you?'

'I be Hawkmoth Lifegiver,' he replied with a warm smile. 'And glad to meet you.' He looked around at Melai. 'To meet you all.' He surveyed the two headed Grimah as if curious by its appearance, but making no comment other than a So be it expression with his eyes.

Gargaron frowned and eyed the hooded figure at length. 'Hawkmoth?' he groaned.

'Aye. And you have suffered much, thus I urge you to rest.'

Gargaron looked about, as if only now recalling what had happened here. 'Where, where be that infernal Skinkk?'

'The Devil Horn?' Hawkmoth asked. 'I have warded it off.'

'Warded it?' Gargaron looked relieved. But then his eyes widened again. 'The imps?' And coughing, he arched his head to search his immediate surroundings and saw Melai, his watery eyes falling upon her as if she were a ghost. Deep furrows dug across his brow. 'Melai?' He reached out for her. 'Is that you, pray tell?'

She stepped through the rubble to his side and took his hand. 'Aye, it be me.'

He blinked at her, having trouble believing it. 'But... but I saw you engulfed by flame. H-how is it you stand here?'

'I managed to fly from its reach before it swallowed me,' she told him. 'A nymph's vanishing tricks can be used for more than just catching someone unawares.'

He drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly, watching her as a father might look upon a lost daughter. He reached up and pushed damp hair from her face with his long, thick fingers. Then he rest back against the stonework, grimacing in discomfort.

'Right then,' Hawkmoth said. 'Rest here awhile. I must see to the Devil Horn. I fear it be not long for this plane and if it needs it I must help in its passing.' He squeezed the giant's shoulder. 'I shall return when business is done.'

10

Gargaron though refused to sit and wait. He had not come this far to lose the sorcerer so quick. Besides, though he were injured and in pain, wee thoughts of Drenvel's Bane niggled him. If I could but get some share of Skinkk's blood...

Against Melai's protestations he struggled to his feet, using Grimah's stirrups and then reins to help haul himself from rubble to saddle. He grimaced and groaned and the trumpet flowers embedded in his back, gushed with more soot.

He were obviously not aware, Melai assumed, that his clothes were close to peeling from his frame. The rear portions of his jacket, the tops of his pants were burnt to flakes, held to him by virtue of the fact that they were melted into his flesh. But he would hear nothing from Melai, saying only that they must keep up with the good sorcerer. And he pulled her onto Grimah's shoulders and they clip-clopped after Hawkmoth.

11

They passed into the bowels of the temple, by the doorway through which Gargaron had heaved Grimah during the Skinkk attack. Inside, dead bats and geckos littered the ancient paved floor. Great spiders swung, deceased, in ruined webs. Paintings of the Cahtu lined the walls with their tusks and bug faces, with their arachnid-eyes and dire-arms.

Hawkmoth strode out before them. When he heard the clip-clopping of hooves on the floor he cast a glance over his shoulder and saw the nymph and the giant mounted upon that twin headed steed. 'Giant, I believe I told you to rest,' he said sternly as he pressed onwards through gloomy temple interior.

Gargaron grimaced. 'Aye, you did,' were about all he could manage. Though on his next breath he managed, 'I ne-need its blood.'

'Blood? From the Devil Horn? What on Cloudfyre for?'

Gargaron grimaced. The world washed before his eyes. 'Blood... pl-please, could you...' He panted and his strength and awareness failed him.

A tall arched doorway, sheathed in a band of golden sunlight, delivered the small group from temple into cloudy sunshine and onto a wide courtyard, where, crashed against the opposite ruins, slumped the Skinkk.

It lay with its head resting against a crumbled wall. It eyed them as they approached. It attempted to struggle to its feet but its movements were clumsy now, exhausted. When it attempted to snort a wash of liquid fire nothing spat out but gobbets of molten droplets and acrid black fumes.

Hawkmoth ushered Gargaron and Melai to stay back. Gargaron by then were slipping in and out of consciousness, slumped there against Grimah. The sorcerer went forward on his own, his hand up and his staff slung behind his back, non-threatening. 'Be calm,' he said hushed to this creature he had called a Devil Horn. 'Be calm, oh great Rayen.'

The Skinkk made no movement. Simply watched the sorcerer with its dying eyes.

Hawkmoth made his way to Skinkk's side and knelt before its great scaly and terrifying face. If the Skink, this Rayen, this Devil Horn, had feigned illness and injury, had feigned its waning ability simply to draw the sorcerer on and thus spew forth hell fire, then the sorcerer were in certain peril.

But the Devil Horn lay there, panting, allowing Hawkmoth to reach out and gently place his palm and fingers across the great monster's jaw. 'Sleep easy now,' the sorcerer told it gently. 'Go now to your mighty ancestors who await you beyond the veil of life. You have lived a thousand years, one of the mightiest and most long lived, of your kind. Your gods hold a place for you now amongst the stars. Go now oh great Rayen, find them. Pass gently, peacefully, unto eternal dawn.'

Tiredly the Skinkk eyed him. Panting. But its breath were slowing now.

When it stopped, when its great jaw and belly finally fell still, the sorcerer stood and lowered his forehead gently against the forehead of the dragon. 'Go now,' he whispered almost sadly. 'Spread your mighty wings and fly.'

Melai believed she saw the sorcerer wipe a tear from his eye before he straightened and stepped backwards. The body of the great Skinkk moved one last time. Its scales rattled and hissed as its corpse appeared to contract inwards... A white shadow in the form of the Skinkk itself, lifted from the body, like a Skinkk chick dragging itself from its egg. It seemed to crouch there for a moment on the ribs of its departed body, looking about before leaping silently into the sky, circling once above the temple ruins, as if in acknowledgement of Hawkmoth, and then it swooped up and away into the heavens.

Hawkmoth watched it go. Then with a sigh he turned to Gargaron and Melai. 'Come,' he said. 'We must away from here.'

## HAITHARATH AND THE IMPREGNATOR

1

THEY followed Hawkmoth through the western gates of Varstahk and out into sandy woodlands. Here there were a narrow dirt trail and before they reached the sorcerer's camp they'd passed numerous plunge-holes, some up to fifty paces across, with jagged volcanic rock cliffs that dropped away to bodies of undisturbed water as clear as crystal; around their edges, long green vines dangled, and thin trees grew from cracks in the rock. 'Mind where you step,' Hawkmoth warned.

And that they did. Though the plunge-holes were such a beautiful feature of this landscape and not easy to ignore; even if Gargaron could but only glimpse them through his ongoing grimacing and swollen face. For Melai, they filled her with a sense of delight and nostalgia, for not since leaving Thoonsk had she come across a realm that evoked such wonderful, albeit painful, memories of her water-forest home.

Hawkmoth lead them on. 'Well then,' he said after a while, glancing around at them, 'as neither of you have yet spoken it, I take it your names be Gargaron Stoneheart and Melai Willowborne.' He had pulled back his hood. They saw his face here for the first time. Bearded he were, dark but streaked in grey. He had kind, grandfatherly eyes, Gargaron would have thought, but they possessed a certain intensity when he looked at you. 'You fit the descriptions well enough sent to me by my Eve at least. Although, hearing it from your own mouths may make me feel a little more at ease.'

Melai were barely aware that in all the mayhem and distraction of the dragon attack, she had neglected to introduce herself. 'Aye, I am Melai Willowborne of Thoonsk. And although you call yourself Hawkmoth, be you Haitharath? Friend of Mother Thoonsk?'

'I am.'

'Well then, glad to make your acquaintance. And let me offer my heartfelt thanks for coming to our timely aid.'

'You are most welcome.'

Gargaron went to speak when she were done but croaked and squinted. He swallowed hard and tried again. 'And I... I...' His voice faltered. He swallowed once more. 'I be G-Gargaron Stoneheart of... of Hovel. Y-you sent for us, I b-believe.'

'That I did,' Hawkmoth told him. 'I must thank you both for seeking me out. I will divulge details of my plans soon. And inform you what we face. I do not expect you to accompany me on my quest but that is a decision I shall leave you both to make. For now though, we make for my camp and I should see to your wounds oh giant.'

They reached a clearing beside another of these deep plunge-holes where a vehicle both Melai and Gargaron recognised hung twisted and ruined against the rock wall. Gargaron eyed it with some curiosity. It were a zeppelin like the one he had flown upon from Autumn. And it seemed it had suffered similar fate. It were broken and twisted and snared on jagged rocks, the bulk of it hanging sideways down into the plunge-hole while its torn and deflated balloon listed far below upon water's surface.

'Seems flying be left to bats and birdlings and Skinkks,' Gargaron muttered, looking about, wondering now what had become of the Skinkk.

'And to woodland nymphs,' Melai added.

'Or else he who fashions a flying craft when he himself does not bare wings ought to be aground when his flying machine grows faulty,' Hawkmoth stated.

'And he who comes aground upon a plunge-hole,' came a new voice, 'ought to have a friend nearby to help pull him out.'

Gargaron and Melai and the two heads of Grimah all turned and saw a strange being basking atop a boulder.

He were a humanoid, of sorts, a crabman (as Gargaron knew them), with eight crab legs encrusted here and there in barnacles, and a humanoid torso growing up out of a crab body. He looked like a jovial fellow, Gargaron thought, the way he smiled warmly, and looked ever so comfortable and relaxed where he were perched there in golden sunshine.

He slid from his spot and skittered over to introduce himself, walking sideways, much as a large land crab might. 'My name be Sir Rishley Locke,' he said, removing a twin-horned helmet to reveal a pair of gnarled and decorated horns growing from his skull beneath. 'And the good sorcerer here has me to thank for hauling him and his horse up out of this here water cave.'

'And "thank you" I believe I have said a dozen times by now,' came Hawkmoth's voice.

'And a dozen times I have enjoyed hearing it,' said this Sir Rishley Locke. 'After all, coming across a great sorcerer and finding him in peril from which he were having considerable trouble escaping, why it were priceless I must say.' He laughed, though not derisively, as someone boasting might have done. He laughed more as a close brother would, endearingly, warmly. 'How long were you down there again? Two days?'

'Naught more than a day,' Hawkmoth attested. 'And I dare say I would have engineered a way out eventually, with or without your help.'

'But of course you would have,' Locke the crabman, said throwing a look at the new folk. 'Now, who have we here then?'

Both Melai and Gargaron simply watched him, struck by his energy, his mirth, his warmth.

'Well speak, one of you,' implored Locke with a hearty laugh. 'Why, a giant silent as a butterfly! By the gods, such a thing has never seen the day has it?!'

'Sorry,' said Melai. 'We have come through much.'

'And lost all no doubt,' this newcomer said with a mighty smile, slipping his helmet back onto his head, his horns slotting smoothly into his headgear. 'Oh, we all share the same burden, I think. But we live. And that is what is important. For, if there were none left alive, there would be none to carry forward the memories of all those we have loved and lost.'

'And none left alive to carry out vengeance for their falling,' Melai said coldly.

This Rishley Locke cocked his head and smiled. 'Aye, have it how you will. So, tell me, what be your names and where be you from?'

'They are those, amongst others, that I have been expecting,' Hawkmoth answered him.

So the introductions commenced, with handshakes and smiles and more than a share of winces and grimaces from Gargaron, almost falling as he dismounted. With pleasantries done, Hawkmoth said, 'Right then, giant. Let us see how these Aporil Flutes have seen to your burns.'

2

The sorcerer rolled out a thick rug and ordered Gargaron to lay there belly down. Gargaron groaned painfully as he shifted to his knees. And groaned as he placed his hands out before him. Another groan escaped him as he collapsed heavily to rug. 'B-be you certain th-that y-you extinguished my fl-flames, sorcerer?' Gargaron enquired through gritted teeth. 'I feel...' He swallowed. 'I f-feel the fire there still.'

'The flames are long blown out, aye,' Hawkmoth informed him. 'Pain you now feel be a combination of your burns and the roots of these Aporil Flutes mending your flesh. You may not wish to hear this but parts of your back were liquefied by the time I found you.'

Gargaron had not heard him. 'Where be... where be the Skinkk,' he asked, exhausted. 'Did you, did...' his voice trailed off.

'The Skinkk can no longer harm us, dear giant,' Hawkmoth informed him. 'Though we have far more pressing matters to attend to. So lie still and save your strength.'

Melai watched on, watching the dark soot belch from the purple trumpet flowers. Her eyes moved to Gargaron's Nightface. A blackened and ruined thing it were now, its eyes dead and clouded over.

Little did she understand of its purpose, but it were a part of him and she did not know how he would take news of its demise.

Hawkmoth studied the scene. 'Mmm,' he would mutter, 'Mmmm, yes, good, this is good.' Though Melai, taking in the glistening craters of burnt flesh, wondered which part of it were good.

Hawkmoth snipped away the intriguing Aporil shoots and at once their trumpet flowers shriveled. Embedded in the deep layers of Gargaron's skin, their roots remained however. Hawkmoth took from a large sack a stone jar. He unstoppered it and fingered inside it to pull up a large slimy blue slug. He placed this upon Gargaron's ruined flesh. It were followed by another and another and yet another. Seven of them in all by the end of it.

'What, what have you there?' Melai heard Gargaron say. 'It feels such as ice.'

'Indeed it ought to,' Hawkmoth told him. 'I have placed ice slugs upon your wounds. They shall take away heat and pain, and in turn eat of your dead flesh to stimulate and accelerate your body's capacity for healing and tissue regeneration.'

Melai saw the pain washing from Gargaron's face almost instantly. His breathing relaxed, his body threw out its tension. 'By Ranethor,' Gargaron murmured, sighing heavily, 'this be utter bliss.'

'Aye, I thought you may like it,' came Hawkmoth's voice. 'Oh, though I should warn you, they have been known to cause minor sedation.'

When Melai looked down at Gargaron's face it were evident he had already dropped off to sleep.

3

When he opened his eyes, Gargaron gazed out at a perfect blue sky, wondering why he could not detect the visual senses of his Nightface. He knew not where he were, nor how he had come to be here. There were no sounds of birdlings nor bugs. But he were aware of sounds of a gentle breeze playing through trees, the peaceful rustle of leaves. And that of a child's voice.

'Veleyal,' he whispered. He lifted his head and looked about for his daughter.

What he saw staring at him were the face of an enormous, banded serpent. Its mouth opened sideways rather than downwards, while three sets of eyes on either side of its skull goggled at him. Its forked blue tongue lapped in and out, tasting him.

He thrust his arms at it, shoving it aside and rolling onto his haunches, clambering away.

The serpent reared up in the position of a snake poised to strike. Gargaron reached for shield and sword but found he were unarmed. He scrambled backwards hoping his hands might chance upon some stick or rock with which to defend himself. Failing that, he prayed for a tree behind which he might retreat and use as a defensive barricade.

Suddenly, filling his ears, came the booming sound of thumping hooves on earyth as Grimah charged into view, putting himself between giant and serpent. Some voice rang out. The serpent hissed. The voice called a second time, more forceful, and now the serpent lowered itself and turned away, its blue tongue still flicking in and out in rapid bursts.

Gargaron saw the crabman now, whose name he could not recall. Beyond Grimah he stood ushering the serpent away. Grimah turned and lowered himself to his knees, nibbling Gargaron's neck affectionately with his pair of mouths. Melai flew down from some high perch in the trees.

'By Thoonsk,' she said sounding relieved, as she landed before him, 'at last you awaken.'

Gargaron breathed heavy, still expecting an attack. 'What by Thronir be that thing?' he hissed, looking wide eyed at the serpent.

'It be Zebra, my loyal steed,' the crabman called out jovially, fixing and tightening the straps of saddle bags that hung down the sides of the serpent's flanks. 'She meant you no harm giant. She be merely curious.'

Gargaron took in two or three deep breaths, blinking, looking about, still orientating himself. He felt something squeeze his arm and remembered Melai standing at his side. He looked at her.

'All be well,' she said to him, 'all be well, you are safe.'

He drew in a deep calming breath before shutting his eyes and kneading some feeling back into his brow with his large fingers. 'How long have I been in slumber?'

'The suns have set and have since risen,' Melai told him. 'We could not wake you. Haitharath hoped to have left by now but decided we could do naught but let you sleep.'

'Besides,' came the crabman's voice again, laughing. 'You are a heavy lump. Not even Hawkmoth has a spell to heft you atop your horse.'

'Hawkmoth?' Gargaron enquired as if most of his memory of yesterday had failed him. Suddenly the sorcerer in question approached, carrying both a stone bowl of fruit and sizzling crispy bacon and a steaming mug of tea.

'Eat,' the sorcerer told him, 'drink. Win back some strength and when you can stand, come over to camp fire and I shall outline my plans as I have explained them to Melai Willowborne. You can both then decide if you wish to be part of them.'

4

Gargaron were on his feet before he had finished his tea. And looking about helped return to mind much of what had transpired the previous day. He saw the plunge-hole and took in the clearing Hawkmoth had set up camp within, he noted sandy woodland otherwise surrounding it, and if he looked east he could just spy the tall spires of Varstahk poking above the tree line.

Glad I am to see the back of that place, he thought.

His eyes settled upon an enormous blue-grey steed, nibbling chaff on the opposite edge of the camp. Gargaron thought it were a mirage at first, some illusion, so ethereal did the beast appear. This blue-grey horse looked even larger by first impressions than that of his Grimah.

'That be Hawkmoth's steed,' Melai told him. 'Razor be its name.'

'A majestic looking animal to be sure,' Gargaron commented, wincing as he shifted his weight. 'So how are my burns? I no longer feel them. I am either healed, or I am so disfigured and injured that my body has grown numb.' He gazed down at his body noting he were in a fresh set of clothes which he last recalled had been folded and stashed neatly in his pack.

'They are healed,' she informed him. 'You have Hawkmoth's slugs to thank.'

He stretched, reaching his arms high over his head, screwing up his face in the effort. 'Well then, I will be sure to kiss each one as a show of my gratitude.' He relaxed and yawned and blinked and Grimah, refusing to leave Gargaron's side, nuzzled the giant affectionately.

Melai smiled. 'I shan't miss witnessing a giant kiss a slug.' She gazed up at him, her pale green skin almost aglow beneath the wash of gentle morning sunlight.

Gargaron reached up and rubbed his steed's long noses. 'And I see I have been reclad.'

'Aye.' Melai pointed to a mess of charred and flaking cloth and material piled on the edge of their camp. 'They were mostly burnt from you. We dressed you in your spares. I hope you do not mind but I insisted.'

He shook his head and smiled. 'I do not mind. Thank you. Where be my pack, by the way.'

Melai pointed to a pile of their belongings. 'All's there. Nothing were burnt.'

He moved over, Melai following on one side and Grimah on the other. He saw both his sword and hammer hilt lying there. Along with his shield that were scorched black. And a scabbard he did not recognise. Melai explained that it were the sorcerer's. Given over to Gargaron's use and possession. 'Yours were burnt to cinders,' she said. He crouched, untied his pack and began picking through his possessions. He were focused on naught else until he located the tablet portrait of his girls. He sighed, clenching it longingly, briefly studying it. Then he slotted it carefully back into his pack and heard Melai ask, 'Be they your wife and daughter?'

'Aye.'

'May I look?'

He were tentative at first. Not because he did not wish for her to see them but purely because he felt a slight guilt for Melai's own loss, that he had at least some keepsake with which to remember his girls when Melai had none.

He withdrew it again and passed it to her. She took it gratefully and cast her eyes over it for some moments, wrestling for viewing space as Grimah prod its enormous heads down for a peek. Gargaron nudged his faces gently aside and pointed to the etchings. 'This be my ever loving wife, Yarniya. We knew each other as children, and were lovers when we came of age. And this be my Everlight, my heartbeat, my daughter Veleyal.' He smiled sadly. 'They were my world, my life.'

'They're both beautiful,' Melai told him softly.

He could do naught but nod. Anything else may have brought tears.

She handed it back, thinking now of her sisters, longing for their company. Though her thoughts were not on them for long. As Gargaron placed his portrait carefully back in his pack Melai could not help but watch the charred rear portion of his skull. As he put his pack aside he saw her expression.

He frowned. 'Something troubles you.'

'Gargaron... I... I need tell you.' She did not know how to put it.

'What be the matter?' he enquired of her gently.

'Your... your Nightface.'

He drew in a deep breath and nodded. 'I fear the worst. I no longer feel it there. It did not alert me to the serpent.' He swallowed. 'Be it burnt?'

'Aye, severely. And has not healed.' She reached up and grasped his hand. 'I am sorry.'

He smiled mournfully down at her. And tenderly placed his palm against the side of her head. As he would his daughter. He were touched by her concern. 'Naught can be done about it. Though, many of my kind have lost their Nightface and gone on to live full lives.' It saddened him, but it paled in comparison to the loss of his girls. And for this reason alone, emotion aside, he felt rather pragmatic about things. He let out a long breath and put his hand around Melai's shoulder. 'Come, let us see what this sorcerer has in store for us.'

5

'How fare you, giant?' Hawkmoth enquired, sitting cross-legged on the ground smoking a pipe as Gargaron and Melai approached.

Gargaron stretched his limbs, took in a deep breath. 'Aye, better. Though a bit sore, I must confess.'

'Good,' the sorcerer replied. 'If you feel pain then it means you live.'

'I thank you again for coming to our aid,' Gargaron said.

'Not at all,' Hawkmoth said and ushered Gargaron to a spot before the hearth of his campfire, though mostly the flames here were gone, replaced by naught but embers.

Gargaron sat, following Melai and the crabman. There were an air that now with an extra two folk to his party, Hawkmoth were ready and eager to explain why he had summoned them all.

'I am hoping more survivors, like yourselves, will find us and join us in the days to come,' Hawkmoth said repacking his pipe. 'But for now I fear you may be all who have bothered to answer my call. Or you are all who survive. So, before I set off on my quest, before you make a decision on whether or not you wish to follow me into the mouth of doom, then I ought tell you what I believe is going on and offer you some history that brings Godrik's Vale, and perhaps even Cloudfyre, to this dire point.' He lit his pipe with a stick pulled from the coals. 'So, without further delay let us begin, shall we.'

6

'You may or may not have heard of the Battle of Rabbit Flat. Not many have. It remains buried under the sheer weight of Cloudfyre's long history. And you'd be forgiven for overlooking it were you reading through the annals of Godrik Vale's past days and happened to chance upon it. It were not a large stoush, casualties were few. But it were the catalyst for what I believe we now face.

'A century before the events at Rabbit Flat, which itself now lies three centuries behind us, the sorcerers and witches, who have long been enemies, were allies. We discovered magic together, practiced it together, and intermarriage between our two sects were common. But somewhere along the way, and there are none now that live who remembers why, something came between us. My Order will tell you that it were the witches who perpetrated some heinous crime against the sorcerers. And the witches will say it were us who did them some great injustice. All I know for certain is that from somewhere, unrest spread and before we knew what were happening, we were at each other's throats, they our sworn enemy, and we theirs.

'Thus strife and turmoil between both our groups became the order of the day. And as the years drew on, attacks and skirmishes perpetrated by both sides escalated. But rarely did mighty battles play out; for the most part it were a protracted war perpetrated by guerrilla attacks. The sorcerers taking out a tribe of witches here, the witches eliminating a ranging party of sorcerers there. It were tit for tat, reprisals, pay backs. Until Rabbit Flat.

'At the time, the head of my Order, Master Stormcrake, devised a secret mission to infiltrate Vantasia, the hidden witch city, and take off with witch Goddess, Mama Vekh. To execute this he set about creating a diversion. He sent battlemages down to the southern ranges to overrun Rabbit Flat, a town sympathetic to the witch cause, but also a town that were a key strategic location for the witches.

'Master Stormcrake knew they would not accept this lying down and anticipated their offensive to recapture the settlement. Thus the witches organised a counter attack which saw battle wage for barely a day before it were retaken. Thus the siege of Rabbit Flat were over.

'However, in that time, the sorcerers had slipped into Vantasia undetected, and run off with their prize. And that is when it all changed. With Mama Vekh in the hands of the sorcerers, the sorcerers had claimed themselves much political capital. Threatening to slay the Goddess the sorcerers handed the witches a list of demands. They were to immediately release all sorcerer prisoners and their sympathisers. They were to divulge all their magical secrets and lore. They were to divulge location of all secret bases and hideouts. And last of all, they were to be banished from Godrik's Vale, never to return.

'Well, as things have it, folk don't much like being told what to do. And the witches, quite rightly I might add, threw all demands back into the faces of their enemy. And here they ordered the immediate return of Mama Vekh. And if she were not returned then their retaliation would be to "burn Cloudfyre from the skies".'

7

It were here in the telling of his story that Hawkmoth sat back and took a long pull on his pipe. He gazed into the tree tops as he let pipe smoke fill his lungs. When he let it out, the fumes came in narrow streams that drifted away on the breeze like soft grey tendrils. He took a breath and again spoke. 'The witches promised to create what they termed Boom Weapons. Bombs so powerful that a single one could level an entire mountain range and the shockwaves be felt far and wide. But that were not all. These bombs would also carry a dire curse, the Cropps, which would ensure that any sorcerer fortunate enough to escape the initial blast, would regardless, soon and in turn, be struck down with instantaneous death.'

Gargaron could not help but think of the Creep Mounds he'd seen. The piles of skulls, victims of some foul disease.

'That were not all,' Hawkmoth went on. 'The witches promised also to send out armies of foul beasts they called Harbiners to mop up any soul who had not perished under the force of the shockwaves, all those who proved immune to the Cropps.'

'Harbingers?' Gargaron said. 'I have seen them.'

'As have we,' Hawkmoth replied. 'Yes, the witches have indeed kept their promise to wipe out all sorcerers. Sadly though, their campaign cripples more than sorcerers alone. It has, and still is, killing the living of Godrik's Vale in unprecedented numbers. And it must be stopped. So, here be my quest: I shall take back Mama Vekh from my old brethren and return her to her own kind. Only then, do I fear, shall the witches cease their detonation of these Boom weapons and call their Harbingers to heel. And only then can our world return to some semblance of peace.'

Rishley Locke were tossing stones down into the plunge cave, perhaps having already heard this tale. (The plummet of his stones into water echoed up and about the steep rocky walls.) Hawkmoth were staring into the fire pit. Grimah nibbled at chaff alongside Razor. Zebra were submerged somewhere in the depths of the plunge hole. Melai looked from Locke to Gargaron then finally to sorcerer.

Watching Hawkmoth, Gargaron were first to speak. 'Where then be this Goddess, Mama... Mama...'

'Mama Vekh.'

'Where be she held prisoner?'

'At a secret location,' Hawkmoth informed him. 'A place known as Sanctuary, a place that has lain hidden from the witches and much of the world for an age.'

Gargaron looked keenly and with intrigue at the sorcerer. 'What be this place?' he asked as if he had heard something of its like before but could not place where he had heard it nor recall what it might be.

'A fortress,' Hawkmoth told him. 'The mountain fortress of the sorcerers. A stronghold. Our home. Lying atop the Bonewrecker Ranges. And no easy place to reach.'

Gargaron mulled this over. 'And say we find our way there, how easy will it be to liberate this witch Goddess from Sanctuary?'

'That depends on whether or not my brethren still inhabit it.'

'And do they?' Melai asked.

Hawkmoth shrugged. 'I have received no word from them for over a week now. Though that does not mean they have perished. It could just mean that their avenues for communication have been diminished. Or that they have gone to ground to avoid further witch attacks.'

'So if this fortress remains fortified and defended,' came Locke's voice from where he sat at the edge of the plunge hole, 'will your brethren be likely to give up this Mama Vekh?'

Hawkmoth grinned. 'Over time my brothers have grown rather arrogant and pig headed. Well, more so than ever they were. If that be possible.' Here he retreated into his thoughts for a moment or two, smoking his pipe, again his eyes on the embers of the fire pit. 'In my younger day, when Sanctuary were still my home, I made it my secret agenda to make peace with the witches. I saw no point in waging a never ceasing war with ever mounting casualties. My first step in reconciliation would be to return Mama Vekh to her kind. I brought one or two sympathisers to my cause but none were willing to go up against the might of the Order. Thus I were a lone voice. When I decided to go public with my idea I were laughed at and ridiculed by my senior Brothers. Undeterred I tried to rally support for returning Mama Vekh to her people, arguing that if we were to do such a thing, the witches would be more likely to desist in their guerrilla and terrorism tactics. "Sometimes, in order to turn tides, it be better to swallow your pride," I told them, "and your arrogance and your sheer pig headedness." But the leaders of my Order, a stuffy, pompous lot, would not relent and could not see that their actions were prolonging an already protracted conflict.'

He looked up and across at Locke. 'So, in answer to your question, crabman, if my brethren still reside within Sanctuary, if she be guarded still, then gathering Mama Vekh into our possession shall be no easy feat.'

Gargaron nodded. 'How far?' he asked finally. 'How far are we from this Sanctuary?'

Hawkmoth glanced around at his downed and ruined zeppelin. 'On foot? From our present location? Eight days. Give or take.'

Gargaron felt slightly deflated. 'Eight days may see the end of Cloudfyre.'

'That it may,' Hawkmoth admitted. 'And eight days may see the end of the protection enchantment I placed around my hill and home. But we have little choice, my friend.' He toked back on his pipe. As he exhaled, smoke drifted away on gentle breeze and he said, 'Anyway, whatever the case, we ought push off as soon as we can. Provided you so choose to accept the mission and accompany me, of course. Yet, if I am to go on alone, then all's well.'

8

Gargaron pondered this. And all that Hawkmoth had said. He pondered his own home, and his girls. He pondered his village dead and all the death, dying and destruction he had witnessed since that first shockwave had swept over him on the banks of Buccuyashuck. He pondered Melai and her Mother Thoonsk and the passing of her sisters. This were not solely Hawkmoth's fight. This Ruin, as the sorcerer put it, were killing all without discrimination, and if he himself did not do his part to end it then the deaths of his wife and daughter would be for naught.

"You have work here first," the words of his wife rang in his mind.

Gargaron looked from Melai to Hawkmoth. 'Then I am with you.'

Gargaron waited for Melai and Locke to give their own vows to this undertaking though he saw Melai smile. And guessed she and Locke must have offered similar pledges whilst he had been held in slumber.

Hawkmoth gave a reserved look of gratitude. 'And I shall be glad to have you along, giant. All of you.' He knocked out the ash from his pipe, and nodding at Melai, and at Locke the crabman, he said, 'And should more catch us up on our journey and choose to join our fight then we shall welcome their company in turn. Greater numbers will aid our cause. Now, what say we get riding from here without delay?'

## DARK SKIES

1

THE woodland and its plunge holes persisted for much of that morning, and the going were steady enough. They trotted their horses where they could, with that enormous serpent, Zebra, always slithering on ahead, Locke mounted in its saddle. Often they got up to galloping pace where the way forward were flat. Though at one stage before the woods ended the trees grew thick and the pace of Hawkmoth's little troupe were slowed to a walk. Gargaron took this moment to pull Grimah alongside the mighty grey horse of Razor.

'I must thank you,' Gargaron said, 'for rescuing me from that Skinkk. And for my subsequent care. Without you I would surely be dead.'

Hawkmoth smiled kindly. 'I have seen more than enough death lately, giant. Where I can, I try to sustain life. Think nothing of it.'

'Still, my gratitude goes out to you.'

Hawkmoth nodded.

'Oh, and also allow me thank you for the use of this scabbard.' It were a snug fit across Gargaron's broad shoulders but his greatsword hung nicely across his back.

'Well, it be worthless to me now,' Hawkmoth told him. 'I still have my staff, aye, but my enchanted sword, Starfyr, were lost down in that depthless plunge hole. And no amount of searching by myself, Locke, or that serpent had it back. So, keep it. A gift from me to you.'

Gargaron nodded. Though as they filed between the woodland trees there were still things on his mind. 'Tell me, sorcerer. I don't suppose you happened to tap a portion of that Skinkk's blood before it passed on?'

Hawkmoth glanced across at him. 'Fortunately, giant, I am not in the process of exploiting my animal brothers. So, no I did not.'

Gargaron had suspected as much.

'May I ask why you seek such a substance?'

Gargaron sighed. 'No reason. It matters not, I guess.'

Hawkmoth eyed him for a short while. As if he knew the answer. But said no more.

2

By midmorning they had left the woods behind them and came across a plain bordered southways by steep hills and bluffs. That soon changed to barren hilly terrain. As they pressed on, Gargaron searched for any sign of these Bonewrecker mountains northways, but lost were they beyond the horizon.

Not long after, they passed through a deserted, somewhat miniature, settlement of tiny mud huts with grass rooves and mud-walled animal pens. A stink of rot hung here thick as soup. Livestock lay dead and scattered. Settlement's inhabitants, small folk, smaller than Melai, lay dead also, and scattered. Another sad and pitiful sight, and it made Melai think of her sisters. She could not look. Tears welled in her eyes.

No-one spoke as they continued on their way, their mood having turned somewhat. To help lighten things, Locke began regaling them with often humorous tales of his home village, Barnacle-On-Sea, a settlement hewn from rock and coral on the Vale's southern Stromness Coast.

'Of course, my full name be Sir Rishley Locke the Impregnator,' he told them after a lively, and rather raunchy, story about his first love. 'Oh, and incidentally, I hold the record amongst my people for most females impregnated in one night. No easy feat I assure you. Though such an accolade does not come without its ongoing responsibilities. My society be matriarchal, and any involvement with females by males must mean that a crab-lady's pleasure and enjoyment be seen to first and foremost. Lest you wish to be banished from the clan. And should a male impregnate a female, well that male must, whether he likes it or not, until his dying day, remain loyal to that particular female and, if she so chooses, provide for her, or until such time as that particular female grows tired of him and kicks him out.'

Gargaron could not help smile at the way this crabman spoke. His energy and his enthusiasm and his warm easy going spirit belied the dead and dying world about them. He wondered more than once if this crabman were in fact constantly drunk. 'And what of your knightly title, sir?' Gargaron enquired.

'Oh aye, for my services to my people, and to the kindness with which I have treated my eighty three wives, I were knighted.'

Hawkmoth almost choked at hearing this. Gargaron were simply struck dumb. When he found his voice he said, 'Eighty three wives?'

'Aye,' Locke said proudly. 'Eighty three. I can name them all if you'd like.'

'No,' Gargaron told him. 'I believe you.'

Hawkmoth were still contemplating the prospect of having to serve eighty three wives. He shook his head, incredulous but impressed. 'I find both hands full with but one wife,' he declared. 'Let alone eighty three.'

'So, do you sing to them?' Gargaron asked, indicating the peculiar instrument strung across the crabman's back.

'Sing?' Locke held a heavy frown. 'I do not take your meaning, giant.'

Gargaron pointed again to the instrument. 'The lute upon your back. Be you some bard that keeps your wives and village entertained?'

Locke laughed and glanced at Hawkmoth, as if to ask where did you find this imbecile? 'Aye, if that is what you wish to believe, giant, a lute it be.'

Melai, seated there upon Grimah's shoulders, looked curious. 'Someone tell me,' she said, 'What be a wife exactly?'

3

They pressed on throughout the day stopping briefly at a stream to dismount, stretch their legs, and collect water. Their horses drank. And splashed playfully together downstream. Zebra the serpent slithered into creek, swishing below the waterline where the way were deep enough, gobbling up mouthfuls of sickly frogs. Hawkmoth remained ashore, seated upon a large rounded boulder, supping on his pipe, showing no interest in immersing himself in the brook—content he were with keeping look-out for Harbingers. Though Melai, Locke and Gargaron did not hold back. Gargaron and Locke stripped off their shirts and raced each other into the deeper parts. Melai followed, content with kneeling in the shallows; though seated there it were the happiest she'd felt since Thoonsk.

Locke removed his helmet, dunked it and drank from it. And tipped great gushes over his head. 'Wondrous,' he kept saying. 'Simply wondrous.'

Melai were intrigued by the pictographs etched on his two horns. They were beautiful in design. Though Gargaron when he eyed them thought they looked a tad childlike.

'Locke, be it your custom to decorate your horns?' Melai asked.

He looked around at her from where he stood nearby upon a shallow bed of stones. Water dripped down his face. His torso were bare for the first time since Melai and Gargaron had met him; his jerkin and shirt piled on the bank. His skin were patterned in beautiful designs of ink.

'Not exactly,' he said, taking another healthy draft of river water. He swallowed and went on. 'Be my custom if any. Which many of my fellow crab folk have mimicked. I let my children draw their pictures there and I were proud to display their efforts. And after they had all sadly perished I etched via looking-glass a unique piece by which to remember each one of them.'

Gargaron listened to their exchange and quenched his own thirst. 'They are exquisite,' he said, 'and a wonderful way to remember your family.'

Locke looked away downriver, watching Grimah and Razor lazing about the shallows, lost to his mind for a moment. 'Aye, I thought so too.'

Midstream, Gargaron proceeded to fill his gourds. As he did he happened to catch his reflection in the water; for a moment his breath left him for he did not recognise the face that gazed back at him. 'By Thronir,' he murmured. Gone were much of the hair that had once framed his face, gone were much of his beard. Parts of his nose and ears were blackened. He reached around to the rear of his head. He swallowed when his fingertips contacted the area. Wet, tender, inflamed skin, skin that were blistered and hardened. The Nightface he had never seen with his own eyes but which he were familiar with by touch were no more; its eyes burnt and burst, leaving holes in his flesh. He sighed and for a few moments studied his visage in the water as it looked back at him. His girls would not recognise him, he thought. I would be a stranger to them if they were to see me right now.

He straightened and concentrated his thoughts on the world around him. It were dead to bird and bug and to any other critter likely to utter sounds of life in daylight hours, but it were still a beautiful world. He bent and splashed water over his head. Many have lived without their Nightface, he reminded himself as water dripped off his chin and nose. He smiled despite himself. Many too have lived without their hair.

He did not know it, but from the shallows, Melai watched him in silence.

4

By midafternoon the troupe traipsed through hilly ground where mighty rock profusions jutted hither and thither from the earyth, each and every one carved in the form of some ungodly sly-eyed face. Each of them towered above Gargaron astride his mount. Their mouths were not only carved, but caves, and inside, bones and teeth lay wrapped up in bundles of dirty, flaking cloth.

While most of their attention were on these strange stone formations, Gargaron noticed Hawkmoth peering off into sky. And it were not the first time that day he'd noticed Hawkmoth doing as such.

While Melai and Locke inspected the insides of one of these "caves", Gargaron pulled Grimah nearer Razor. 'Do you search for the Bonewreckers?' he asked of the sorcerer, following his gaze out into heavens that had grown more and more grey and dark and overcast as the day progressed.

Hawkmoth answered several moments later. 'Not entirely, my good giant. I do not expect to see the Range for at least a hundred miles yet. No, presently I am testing a theory.'

'Oh? And what theory would that be?'

Hawkmoth shifted his staff where it were suspended in its brace across his back. 'Well... we have not experienced a boom-shock for some days now. And whilst I would dearly love to believe the witches have ceased their bombing, I suspect there be more to come. Thus, detecting a boom-shock before its arrival might be a way to forearm ourselves against its shuddering effects.'

'And how might we know if one is imminent?' Gargaron asked.

'Well, that is what I am trying to ascertain. Our friend, Sir Locke, on his way from the Stromness Coast, claims he witnessed the sky fall yellow some minutes before the strike of such a boom-shock. Whether or not that were atmospheric conditions particular to his location at that time, I cannot tell. But it has intrigued me. So, for now, I keep my eyes peeled for any such development.'

5

They pressed on. What did become apparent later in the day were a dizzying structure that soared out of sight into the clouds. Gargaron at first took it to be a tower like that of Skysight. One, albeit, pushed on a dire angle. As if a simple shove would send it crashing to ground. He assumed it must have rocked over thanks to these "boom shocks". But the sorcerer, when Melai asked what the structure might be, told them all it had been built as such, for it were a stardrive system. Of course, this explanation made little sense to any of them.

'What be a stardrive exactly?' Gargaron questioned.

Hawkmoth seemed hesitant to answer. He were at first busy consulting some strange contraption on his wrist he called a chronochine; an intricate looking glass-faced gadget full of cogs and springs and bits and pieces that he claimed could tell the time of day and the phases of the moon. He claimed it were powered by sun and moonlight. Even darklight, whatever that were. Eventually he said, 'History's scrolls tell us the stardrive were originally built to send folk out into the Great Nothing.'

They pushed on a wee bit further. Around them the landscape had begun to present unusual features. It were the bed of an ancient ocean, Hawkmoth told them. His Order used to conduct field trips here to scout for rare and unusual substances buried in substrata.

Today there stood the remains of ancient tube worms jutting near and far from the earyth, high and looming and translucent. And enormous spiral shells from critters long perished and turned to dust, some now growing with small trees from their backs. There were bleached and cracked husks of giant colossal crustaceans. There were fossilised animals imprinted in rock, and eroding crusts of barnacles and chitin against vast beds of stone. Coral stacks rose up from the grasses, so tall were they that it were as if giants had built them. Some of these had evidently crashed down in days gone; perhaps some more recently under the shake of the witches weapons. Around these, loomed towering rock grottos growing with grass and shrubs that danced lightly in the wind. There were indeed much evidence of portions of these grottos having shaken loose and collapsed; any creature unfortunate enough to have been caught beneath them at the time would have had life instantly snuffed out.

Still, the dominating feature, southways'n'west, were the stardrive tower. A mighty phallic structure poking far into sky from the western edge of a mountainous stone plateau that were raised up a hundred feet or more from the ancient ocean bed. And occupying most of the plateau, they saw now, were an old crumbling stone castle, a number of its guard towers still standing, and a number of them collapsed.

'That there,' Hawkmoth said pointing, 'be the Lair of King Charles. Abandoned now for some two hundred years but it contains vaults where the royals once horded their considerable wealth. It be mostly told in myth and legend now but the stardrive, as stories go, were built on King Charles' orders before specialised vessels were constructed to take him and his royal host to better worlds amongst the stars. There were a grand farewell, a mighty feast, then King Charles and his subjects, pets and family, all packed themselves into one of their star-vessels and left Cloudfyre, never to return.'

The castle were entirely dwarfed by the leaning stardrive tower. And Hawkmoth went to say more... but then stopped. His eyes suddenly focused on the heavens.

'What be the matter?' Gargaron asked.

'Well,' Hawkmoth said, 'you lot might tell me. Do you all see that?'

Each of them looked, following his pointing finger, even Grimah's two heads appeared to gaze out into the heavens. Razor too, his keen eyes searching the skyline. Locke's serpent however merely flicked her blue tongue in and out, tasting the breeze.

At first Gargaron saw nothing but grey skies and dark clouds. But when he heard Locke comment, 'Aye, that be what I were talking about, sorcerer,' he saw it... a peculiar phenomenon away in yonder clouds. Something of a ripple. Accompanied by an off-yellow hew. Like discoloured water seeping through paper. It were almost imperceptible. And Gargaron even had to ask, 'Do you three see that? Some disturbance in the cloud mass? Is that what you mean, Hawkmoth?'

'Aye,' Hawkmoth replied gravely, and sounding at the same time intrigued.

'What be it?' Melai asked, concerned.

'If Locke's theory rings true then it be the front of yet another of these boom shocks.' Hawkmoth said. 'I expect the closer we get to the war front the stronger and more deadly these things shall become.' He surveyed their immediate surroundings. Then looked back at the atmospheric disturbance. 'We would do well to be away from here though. If that be another boom-wave then it be likely to shake these coral stacks down upon us.'

'Where would you have in mind?' Gargaron enquired, looking about with little hope of finding a suitable hiding place before the shockwaves rushed over them. Both Grimah and Razor were now snorting nervously. Both unsettled on their feet.

Hawkmoth settled his eye upon King Charles' distant fort. 'Flat open ground would be ideal,' he said. 'Which we are currently without. But solid rock walls remain an option.'

All eyes turned toward the castle. 'You mean these vaults you mentioned?' Locke asked.

'Aye. I have not been this way in some two decades but by all accounts, there beneath the fort those vaults remain intact.' He gazed back at the yellow discolouration growing nearer in the sky. 'Anyhow, if we are all agreed then we ought proceed there with some haste.'

## KING'S LAIR

1

THE sounds of galloping hooves thundered across grass and rock and shale as Grimah and Razor beat a direct path for the plateau. Locke's serpent, slithering swifter than both steeds, could not be heard other than her smooth belly swishing across land.

'There were once a guarded stairway on the eastwun face,' Hawkmoth called above the noise, and sure enough, as they neared the fort they saw what looked to be a narrow chasm cut into the vertical rock wall and inside, leading up to the fort, were steps that had been hewn from the rock. Guard towers looked down upon any who approached. But they went unmanned these days. And an iron portcullis that once barricaded the base of the steps had long been pulled down and discarded; it lay half buried in sand and shrubs.

Locke pulled his serpent up the stairway, and the others followed: Gargaron and Melai mounted on Grimah, Hawkmoth and Razor last. They ascended the stairway at pace, the blue sky above them blocked by a vast iron grate pockmarked with a hundred murder holes. At the top they charged through another ruined gatehouse and onto a weed strewn courtyard.

Around the courtyard, the castle ruins stood, stone stables and long deserted kitchens and guard's quarters. Higher levels would have contained food halls and bed chambers and war rooms. All now mostly crumbled and collapsed. In the weed strewn bailey a pair of half-domes rose out of the ground, each with a walled face fitted with a monstrous stone doorway.

'The vaults we seek lie beyond those doors,' Hawkmoth told them. 'Gargaron, do you think you might prize them open.'

'I'll see what I can do,' Gargaron told him.

With that the sorcerer lead Razor up the northwun tower.

Gargaron dismounted and, with crabman assisting, set to work dragging the doors open. The doors shifted aside without protest. When they were done, Gargaron, Locke and Melai all beheld a darkened stairway leading down into blackness.

'Haitharath,' Melai called up to the sorcerer. 'What do you see?'

Hawkmoth employed an ancient eye-scope with a mint-glass lens and a moonfyre crystal. He ran it across the plains of grass that lay northways'n'west of their position. 'I see the lands being torn asunder,' he called back gravely. 'The shockwave rolls sourly and surely toward us.' He turned and trotted Razor back down the tower's worn stone steps. 'Come, let us get inside. We have little time.'

2

They passed through the thick stone doors and hauled their mounts down black stone steps, Grimah protesting at first, but perhaps took some confidence from Razor who strode down into the dark, head up, chest out proudly, green eyes gleaming in the lightless depths. Sconces hung on the walls but all were without lamps so for a time Razor's gleaming eyes were their sole source of light. Except for the small lantern Gargaron had strapped to the side of Grimah. Locke were readying to release a handful of bespelled glowbugs that would hover above the band of travelers, giving off a warm yellow luminescence, lighting much of their way forward. But Hawkmoth saw him preparing these and called for him not to waste them.

'I am simply trying to aid our passage,' Locke said bemused.

'I have another way,' Hawkmoth mumurred.

Corpses of vault raiders lay on the stairs, scattered about. The sweet stench of their decomposition were rank and thick, filling their nostrils like an acrid smoke. These were recent raiders, by the looks, whose lives had most obviously been curtailed since the initial rolling of the shockwaves. It seemed possible too, with every door ajar or torn free of its hinges, that Dark Ones had been here too and done their killing.

Hawkmoth put up his hand, ushering for all to halt. As they did, he slid from his mount, got down on one knee and took his staff into grip.

Here for the first time Gargaron witnessed the sorcerer wield this weapon. He had noticed its two faces, the angel and the demon, but had not yet had occasion to see them at work. 'Lancsh,' Hawkmoth spoke aloud. 'Maykess dees deed wuns aryz frumiss deeth.'

Gargaron saw the mouth of the staff's demon face come open, watched its eyes turn from the colour of coal to burning red, and saw from its jaws a tongue flick forth, jabbing in rapid succession three of the corpses piled there on the paved floor.

It were not immediately evident what Hawkmoth were trying to achieve. Gargaron wondered if he were paying his respects to the fallen. If so, why? They had little time to dillydally here.

Soon however, Gargaron, Melai and Locke witnessed the rising of the nearest carcass. Or more correctly, the rising of some peculiar part of it. A vapour. An essence. Something. It rose out of the corpse, a spectral thing, glowing a soft, creamy, sulphurous witch light. It rose, standing there as if just risen from a coffin. It looked about, eyes blank and formless, like wells into an afterlife... And like the wrinkled, desiccated face of the corpse, this face were pale and ghastly.

Melai, Gargaron, Locke watched on with some intrigue as a second and a third corpse "arose". These ghosts floated there, illuminating a vast swathe of these black tunnels; for a hundred paces or more there were now light.

Before the death of her sisters, before she had met Eve, Melai would have argued that the dead had the right to stay dead. But now moral conflict clouded her. She leapt from Grimah's shoulders and flew back up the stairwell.

Gargaron, surprised, watched her go, wondering what she were doing. He dropped from Grimah's saddle and started after her. But it were Hawkmoth whose voice trailed her.

'Dear Melai, she of the forest nymphs, forgive my actions, yet I use these arcane arts sparingly. And only at desperate times. We may not be alone down here. We must remember that. The Dark Ones, as the giant calls them, may be in hiding. Awaiting our arrival. The spectres I have made rise from their fallen shell, will not only comfortably light our way, but will also alert us to any Dark fiends waiting to ambush us. These are desperate times, my dear, none of us can afford to hold to our precious sensitivities, ideals, and ethics in this world beyond days.'

Melai reached stone doors at top of stairwell, where she landed and hesitated. Out there a wicked wind kicked up dust and tossed the tips of weed and grass to and fro. Gargaron reached her. Knelt at her side. 'Melai, what be the matter?'

'I cannot watch,' she said. 'That the dead might be treated so flippantly.'

'Aye, I share your concerns but we have no choice in the matter. If we were not here, Hawkmoth would still conduct this strange magic.'

She remained silent, watching the world beyond.

Gargaron sensed something else were afoot. 'I feel something more concerns you.'

She would not speak.

'Melai.'

She hung her head. Outside they could hear the roar of the shockwave rushing closer.

'Melai, please. Let me in. We have little time. Tell me what fears you so.'

She looked up into his eyes as he knelt there at her side. 'I fear the unbounded sky,' she said, 'I fear the lands devoid of trees. I fear the realms where there be no water beneath my feet. Yet, what I fear most be the darkness of a place such as this.'

He nodded, understanding now her concerns. 'Aye, though for now it should be the sky we fear,' he told her softly. 'It hurls at us another of those shockwaves and we would do well to be down here away from its reach. If there be some menace in the dark awaiting us then we shall deal with it as we discover it. But I am here with you and I will let naught bring you to harm.'

She turned and watched him. She smiled. 'Why would you bother when I tried so hard to kill you on our first meeting?'

'Life were precious before the blight,' he told her. 'Now even more so. Our destiny lies with death but I will not let him find us today. And not down here.' Gently he took her hand. The growling sounds of the shockwave growing closer and closer. 'Come now, Melai,' he begged of her. 'We have not much time. If you choose to part ways with the sorcerer then I shall come with you, but let us see out this coming shockwave first and in safety. Please, Melai.'

She swallowed. She hung her chin. She stared at her little fingers. 'I miss my sisters, Gargaron. I miss Thoonsk. And everything with which I were familiar. I do not pretend to understand this world beyond her.'

'Aye,' Gargaron said, 'and I can only imagine what it must be like. But I too miss my home. And family. Forever had I known that simple but rewarding existence. But life is as much about change and challenge as anything. For better or for worse, nothing stays the same, not forever.' He held out his hand. 'Come now,' he urged her gently.

She looked up into his face. How far they had come since she had first watched him crashing down through Thoonsk's canopy and wished him dead. She could not admit to entirely trusting this Rjoond, even now, but he had grown on her since their initial meeting. As she gazed into his eyes, she found she did not wish to leave him.

She clasped his hand and they moved with urgency back down the stairwell to where Hawkmoth and Locke had pushed on into a long, wide passage at base of stairs.

3

The corridor here widened to reveal what would once have been a subterranean settlement: hovels and "cottages" hewn from the stone, a market place, a house of governance, a necropolis beside an underground brook where black trees grew on sodden banks, leaves of white rustling in a soft breeze of damp air that carried with it the odour of wet rock, and the odour of wet moss, and the high thin stink of lime.

Here the tall ceiling and the sheer walls appeared to glow softly of their own accord with a carpet of blue and white moss. And toadstools. And lichen. It gave off a soft light, as on a clear night when the moons shine stark and bright. There were also strange shelled critters. Some still clinging to walls. Others dead or dying. Bats the size of hoardogs hung from the high ceilings. But they did not move; did not stir nor twitter in ways a healthy, thriving bat colony might. Hawkmoth suspected death had come for them.

Zebra flicked her tongue in and out, and Grimah and Razor sniffed at the air cautiously, the sounds of their hooves going clippity clop, clippity clop, clippity clop, echoing long down the vast cavern as they walked.

There proved no sign of the royals of old. Nor did Gargaron expect to see any. The royals, as Hawkmoth had told them, had left these realms two centuries before. And it were only Hawkmoth who knew the strange dark rumours that still persisted, that told of a world below the ground, dark and wet and wormy where King Charles and his family had devolved into sightless, pale-skinned folk who haunted the underground.

4

The vaults were hewn from granite, inlaid with walls of iron four feet thick. The circular doors could be rolled in and out of place via an intricate lever system. The only fear were of being locked within should the coming shake compromise the integrity of the lever mechanism, preventing the door from opening once it had shut them in.

The vaults were numerous. And each were enormous. Gargaron were surprised. He had wondered how they were all to fit inside one but now that he lay his eye upon them, one after the other, he marveled at their scope. They were also not quite empty. Many of the heavier, bulky items that raiders had not managed to thieve were still there: golden tables; mirrors lined with thousands of rare gems; a gold steed standing almost as large as Grimah. And in a world that were dying and dead, none of it now worth dust.

It seemed pointless to Melai. She had heard tales of gold and greed but to horde such items for the sheer sake of hording were something she could not get her head around. 'I would have used it to buy shelter and food for the sickly and less fortunate.'

Hawkmoth smiled at her. 'As would I, my dear. But there are many who do not think like you and I. Now, time to lock ourselves away.'

They pushed into one of the vaults, chosen because of its lack of stored plunder, and wealth of space. Though as they shuffled in with their various mounts in tow, Melai remained hesitant. Gargaron looked around at her. 'What if the entire place should collapse?' Melai asked. 'We shall be entombed.'

'King Charles' royal builders built their subterranean dwellings to account for natural groundshakes,' Hawkmoth explained. 'And it shall be many years yet before the last of these fortresses comes down I would wager.'

Reluctantly Melai trailed her companions inside and Gargaron wound the wheel on the wall and the enormous stone door rolled slowly into place, sounding gritty, almost wet, on the stone as it went.

Before long they were all shut in and with it swept Melai's breath as she fought a wave of panic, her eyes squeezed shut, her tiny fingers digging into the calloused hands of Gargaron. He knelt beside her and held her close. And all the while, Hawkmoth's wraiths hung there staring at them all with their hollow, godless eyes.

5

When the wave came they heard above ground, and somehow through the rock, a deep sonorous sound that were almost physical, even this far below surface, with an ocean of rock and stone to shield them. What it must do to the organs of the living should you be caught in its path this close to its epicenter, were something Gargaron did not wish to contemplate.

The deep solid earyth around them groaned. And while the vault held tight, there came the sound of rock smashing into the floor beyond the vault door. Melai huddled up against Gargaron, his huge arm held protectively around her. She believed the huge cavern were collapsing around each vault. The prospect terrified her and she wished she had run from this place when she'd had the chance.

For her sake, Gargaron tried to project an air of calm. Though within he felt pensive. He believed like Melai that the subterranean settlement were caving in. That it would leave them imprisoned. Though he reminded himself they had a sorcerer at their disposal—Hawkmoth would have some spell to free them, surely.

He looked across at the sorcerer who sat there as if the ordeal were merely an academic problem he were thinking through, mentally ticking off each groan and roar, as if they'd been expected, as if he had calculated each one. Though his look of calm were nothing compared to that of Locke. Of them all, the crabman seemed most at ease. And sat there smiling, as if enjoying himself, his eyes trailing between the giant and the nymph, as if amused by their consternation.

'Does this not concern you?' Gargaron called out to him.

'On the contrary,' Locke called back with a grin, swilling whiskey from a small fogged-glass vessel, 'I find it rather exciting. And amusing it must be said.'

'I find nothing amusing in it,' Melai snapped.

'You would if you could see your faces.' He smiled. 'I've been to sea. Sailed the broiling Godless Ocean. Waves a hundred feet tall and whalefish chomping at the hull. So, this be nothing compared to those dark waters.'

6

The groan became a roar as the stone plateau beneath which they were sheltered protested, like a gortroll hunkered against a mighty wind, heaving with all its might to stand its ground. It went on for what felt like hours. Grimah and Razor snorted nervously, pushed together side by side, Razor's eyes glowing green in the dim light. And Locke's serpent were even more relaxed than her master, curled up and asleep she were. Hawkmoth's three ungodly wraiths hovered there, their expressions never altering, demonstrating no fear, no angst, no happiness, no sadness. Nothing. They just seemed to stare and stare at the living.

When the rumbling and the noise finished it happened quickly, with nothing but the booming sound rolling away like an ocean wave crashing and sweeping away to shore.

Melai's fingers were still dug into Gargaron's skin, though he hardly noticed. Everyone looked about, waiting now for the second wave.

It came, though not as wild or as booming as the first. Though it seemed to last longer. And when it were done Locke put away his whiskey and said, 'Ah, nothing like a good groundshake to get the blood flowing.'

Hawkmoth worked at the wheel. It would not budge until Gargaron took over and put his considerable strength into it. Once the vault door got rolling it became evident that part of the opposite wall had collapsed against it.

Gargaron managed to heave some stones aside, making a path through which his companions could exit. Behind them the wraiths trailed.

7

Mounted again, Hawkmoth lead his small troupe through the subterranean settlement and Locke gazed wistfully at the treasure stashed in the vaults. 'Oh, what that would have bought us had the world not gone to the rats.' The troupe trudged back through tunnel and passage, up a hundred stairs, and through the large open doors where golden sunlight and fresh air met them. As they emerged, eyes squinting in the sun glare, they looked about, taking in their surroundings.

Part of the stone fortress had fallen, leaving a spectacular path of wreckage and ruin down plateau's side. Trees had come down. A guard tower had smashed against the iron grate that spanned the stone stair case, the only way on and off this place. But most surprisingly, at least to Gargaron, were the stardrive tower. There it still stood, westways from his vantage point, on its awkward angle, eerily defiant, like the arm of some long dead demon pushing out into the atmosphere hoping to tug the moons from their orbit.

Hawkmoth stood before the three wraiths; they had trailed his every step and they hovered there now as if awaiting some command. He bowed his head and Melai heard him something to them, some strange incantation. Within moments, as Rayen dragon's spirit at Varstahk had done, the wraiths lifted away into the sky. Up and up she watched them, away and away into the heavens until they were gone.

Once they were out of sight, Hawkmoth mounted Razor and pulled him round, heading for the stairway. 'Come,' he called to the others. 'Let us leave this place.'

## BLUD OF WRENBUGGUS

1

THAT night the sky hung in a strange twilight. Melus and Gohor did not set; not entirely. And no moon rose but Vasher; though pale it were and low in the sky it hung, as if timid to rise further. Old Soor and the Cat's Eyes never appeared. Hawkmoth, Gargaron, Melai, nor Locke, none of them had ever known such a phenomenon and it chilled them. Though you would not have known it with Locke. He seemed more fascinated than unsettled. 'I have lived long and seen much,' he said in the awestruck tone of someone watching perhaps the birth of a child, 'but this is a first, I must say.' He turned and looked at the others. 'I feel privileged to witness this. It may never come again that at these latitudes night be as light as dawn.'

'Our world lists like a dying fish,' Melai answered him. 'Why would you feel privileged?'

'There be beauty in all things,' Locke said. 'Sometimes the things that terrify us most are themselves the most stunning to things to behold.'

'Our world is being murdered. I see no beauty in that.'

'So, we differ. Even in this, there is beauty.' Locke slept soundly that night. Helmet off. Belly up, snoring against the hide of his sleeping serpent. But he were alone in slumber. For the others slept fitfully, if at all, consumed by what this strange night could mean.

'I offer but one explanation,' Hawkmoth declared late into the wee hours. Above, the moons of Vasher and Leenurs could barely be seen. And only the brightest of stars made themselves known. 'And not a very informed explanation, I'm afraid.'

Gargaron and Melai, seated on opposite sides of crackling camp fire, waited for him to speak. They had made camp on the edge of a ridge. Around them were spread a sparse upland scrub. On horizon were snowcapped peaks, which gave them some hope, for there at last were the Bonewreckers, and the troupe had taken some heart that they were now in sight. Yet, like all nights since the coming of the Ruin (as Hawkmoth had termed it), there were no chirruping bugs, no night hour ornithens nor soaring batlings, no nocturnal critters scampering around unseen in underbrush. Naught but their stinking bones and carcasses lying in dirt or snared amidst branch and leaf and knotted in weeds.

Down ridge were a wooded valley, steam rising, forming a layer of mist across the canopy. Earlier in the evening, Melai had longed stared at it. To her it were Thoonsk, within reach, within grasp. Her sisters could have been down there awaiting her. To Gargaron it were Summer Woods, and he imagined he could hear his dear Veleyal calling for him to come and play.

'These boom-weapons have shaken Cloudfyre's orbit,' Hawkmoth finally declared. 'Have you noticed our suns? These days Gohor be almost the size of Melus. Our world has been knocked off kilter. There be no other explanation.' He sucked on his pipe, smoke lifting away into cool "night" air. 'Thus it makes our mission all the more urgent. The sooner we pull up this witch assault on our world, the sooner we can begin to put things to rights.'

2

Melai lay down beneath nearby trees, closing her eyes, her limbs sprouting roots that joined with stem and branch, hoping for some sort of bond with this scrubland. To hear its whispers, as she would have in her home trees back in Willowgarde. Hawkmoth sat by ridge's edge, facing west where mists rose up from woodland below like arms of ghosts. His eyes were shut, his pipe out and placed by his staff and the remainder of his belongings near where Razor lay in slumber beside the two-headed Grimah.

Gargaron were not tired. He could not sleep while Melus and Gohor lingered there at horizon's lip. The sky were streaked in red and yellow. As though it were sunrise... or sunset. He pondered an alien notion that perhaps Melus and Gohor would never rise, nor set again. That Cloudfyre's orbit were now so corrupted that it would forever remain this way.

He looked across at Locke. There he slept soundly, a grin upon his face. A strange fellow to read, Gargaron thought. He tried to put himself in the crabman's shoes for a moment. What would he say about the suns failing to rise or set forever more? Something stupidly optimistic, Gargaron decided. Perhaps something such as: At least we be not caught in eternal dark, nor stuck sweltering in eternal midday heat.

Which, Gargaron conceded, would have been a fair point.

Despite everything, it put a smile on Gargaron's face. If he were not mistaken he were beginning to like that funny little fellow. And he could not place why.

He cast his gaze once more at the distant Bonewrecker range. There they lingered, distant and indistinct, ghostly peaks so tall they appeared to scrape the Great Nothing's dark belly. Hawkmoth had spoken of the urgency to see this mission through. Which meant first reaching this fortress, Sanctuary, high in those mountains. But how far to go and how long were it to take? Good sorcerer Hawkmoth suggested it might be yet another seven days on foot from this current position.

Gargaron spread out his worn vellum map, one his father had left to him. It had been passed down, father to son, for generations, and often added to by its successive owners. It were a map showing off vast regions of Cloudfyre, detailing rich hunting grounds and migration patterns and pinpointing locations of newly discovered species. It were crisscrossed in detailed trade routes, highways, backwater trails, byways. It showed locations of cities, towns, villages, settlements. It showed canals and railcourses. It showed ironways and bridges and aqueducts. Gargaron were intrigued to find that the fort beneath which he and his new friends had sheltered away from the boom-shock were depicted, and even named. Though not quite as Hawkmoth had called it. King's Lair, it were written here. And there were naught to denote its stardrive tower. Perhaps I shall add it to map when all this business be over, he thought.

It were here also, with eyes scanning for possible hidden secrets of this region, that Gargaron discovered something else. Something intriguing. Something that may just hasten their push into the mountains.

3

Melus and Gohor began their rise sometime near where Gargaron adjudged natural dawn would have played out. By then Locke were still in blissful slumber. As were Zebra, lying there like a faithful hound, head tilted to one side, tongue lolled out. And Melai looked for all the world as if she had finally nodded off. Grimah and Razor were away nibbling grass. Hawkmoth though, still sat in his meditative state, unmoved now for hours.

Gargaron, in this silent dawn, got about quietly, collecting an armful of sticks and twigs and placing them upon the embers of their fire. It smoked profusely for a while before, whump, flames billowed and engulfed the pile. He sat back, staring into the hypnotic flames...

As fatigue tugged at him, he noticed Hawkmoth were roused from his meditation, gazing peacefully over the woodland below, and smoothing an oil cloth over his long two-faced staff.

Gargaron let him have some moments to himself before eventually he strolled over and sat beside him. For a while they both contemplated the world beyond. And Hawkmoth went on with his polishing.

'An intriguing weapon,' Gargaron remarked after a while.

Hawkmoth looked across at him, with the air of someone still waking. He past the staff toward Gargaron who took it tentatively, holding the faces at arm's length.

'Rashel be the angel,' Hawkmoth told him. 'Lancsh, the demon.'

The mouths of both were currently closed. And their eyes as dark as the blackwood they were carved from.

'An angel and a demon coexisting,' Gargaron said. 'Even if they be mere depictions... well, don't you sorcerers believe this a hex. Bad luck.'

Hawkmoth tilted his head in thought. 'Aye. Unless you be me.' He smiled. 'I have adopted such an item as a charm. Especially since this one came into my possession a gift. Thus, the angel Rashel and the demon Lancsh be a harmonious pairing if ever there were one.'

'A gift?'

'Aye, from my dear wife. Eve relieved it from a sorcerer who tried to have her killed. Some Brother whose name I have long forgotten. What he were doing with such an item remains a mystery. But, in his case, the hex proved his doom.' Hawkmoth wore something of a smile of irony. 'Eve had him dispatched well and truly.' As he sat there he packed his pipe.

Still gripping Hawkmoth's staff, Gargaron watched the sorcerer work. 'Speaking of Eve, I have not yet said, she were a most caring and hospitable soul. She made us feel very welcome when we arrived at your little house on the hill.'

Hawkmoth simply nodded, and a look of yearning filled his eyes. 'Aye, she be a most amazing woman. I miss her much.'

Gargaron gazed across at him thoughtfully. 'You love her deeply.'

Hawkmoth lit his pipe and took a long toke. 'Aye,' he said giving a look to the giant that seemed to say Why would I not? Exhaled smoke lingered about his face.

'As I did my wife,' Gargaron said. 'But she were a giant such as I. And not my sworn enemy. As a sorcerer be to a witch. How, pray tell, would such a union ever come about? If you do not mind me asking, of course.'

For a time Hawkmoth simply smoked, lost in yesteryear, reliving memories from days long gone, a look of deep nostalgia watering his eyes. 'I were sent out on a mission to eliminate a party of witches who had been ambushing sorcerers of the Order. Being a young sorcerer at the time I had secretly made up my mind that I wanted to get to know a witch. Especially since my idea to mend our bridges with the witches were ridiculed by my Brothers.' He sucked back smoke, held it in his lungs then blew it out. 'A strange thing to be told all my sorcerer's life that witches were my sworn enemy, that I were to kill them on sight, when I had never met one. I felt a need to understand them. To discover for myself why they were so reviled, why we hated them so.

'When we found them there were a brief battle. But we outnumbered them and those who were not slain were dragged back to Sanctuary and tortured for their secrets. Yet, I held a secret of my own. Eve. Or Renascentia, as she were known then. She had been amongst those we had ambushed, and she were a striking beauty. She had caught my eye instantly. This were perplexing to me as I had always been told that witches were brutish, ugly creatures, riddled with sores and holding a foul stench. But she belied all that. At first I thought it were an enchantment of beauty. But she, as I were then, were young and she certainly had no need for such enchantments, for naturally beautiful she were.

'The day of our ambush, she feigned death in order to escape our wrath. But I detected it. I did not tell my fellows. I bespelled Eve with an enchantment of paralysis and hid her from wolven predators. As my fellow brothers marched our captives back to Sanctuary I posted myself as sentry to our captured outpost. Here I returned to Eve and fetched her to a place in the hills. There I removed the spell. In effect I held her captive but as we got to know each other I learned that she were a likeminded soul, as curious about my kind as I were about hers. After initially distrusting each other we ended up forming a strong bond. Thus our friendship began.

'So, I attempted to hide my relationship with her from my superiors and managed to do so for a number of years. But eventually I were found out. I were spending more and more time away from Sanctuary you see, and my superiors grew suspicious and had me followed. When it were discovered that I had been running away to Eve I were incarcerated and eventually put on trial. I were then brought before a court, tried for treason and banished from the Order.'

4

Hawkmoth sat pondering those days. Lost deep in his thoughts. It were a touching story of love, Gargaron thought, a tad more dramatic than how he himself had met his own wife whom he had known and been friends since his boyhood. He had been keen on asking Hawkmoth about Eve's death and subsequent rebirth though did not know how to bring it up. Yet as he sat there he were surprised to hear Hawkmoth suddenly recount it.

'It were they who had her killed,' Hawkmoth said sadly. 'Once banished I made my mind up never to have anything to do with them. Thus I did not trouble my old Order. Yet they found it unconscionable that I should choose to live and love a 'dirt hag' as they called them. There were those who could not get passed this. Thus they organised ghost wolves to see to her, for it seemed they did not have the guts to face me.

'Caught unawares, she proved no match for such creatures. She were ambushed and hopelessly outnumbered. I were alerted by the sparrows and finches with which she had communion, who flew to my abode and imparted what they had witnessed. I rode out on Razor and found the ghost wolves about to feast upon her. In my fury I dispatched each of them and hurried back to cottage with the remains of my beloved bundled up in a bloodied blanket.

'I spread her out in my alchemy parlour, all her varied pieces. I had no idea what to do, only I knew I could not let her go. Being away from Sanctuary had given me the freedom to study far more varied branches of magic than I would have been permitted had I stayed there. Necromancy, magic of Darkness, magic of Earyth, magic of Xuub, Meschener's Laws. But it were temporal magic I turned to. Though a cursed branch of magic it remains. For to use it repeatedly means to slowly render yourself lifeless. Until the day of Eve's death, I had merely dabbled in it. But that day I did not care for the ramifications. I dragged Eve from a time pocket just before she had left our cottage.

'There were one problem. I had not perfected the art of temporal lore. Thus what I dragged through, though living, were mere splintered pieces of her. I'd had some experience of reanimating dead newts and lizards, connecting parts together. With Eve though it were far more difficult. While I had pulled most of her through the temporal pocket, her innards remained lost. So... I built her again as best as I could. I kept her alive in stasis and built a clockwork arrangement to fit inside her ruined torso to keep her functional.'

Hawkmoth sat back and smoked his pipe. He stared longingly out across the woodland, the suns rising further now. (Gargaron still expected tweeting birds to greet the morning but there were naught but that unnatural silence.)

'It took us both time to get used to what I had done. And I questioned myself much that first year. I had saved my Eve yes, but what abomination had I given myself?'

'Abomination?' Gargaron asked him. 'Ghouls be abominations. Undead be abominations. The Eve I met be none of those.'

Hawkmoth smiled, and nodded, happy in the giant's generous appraisal. 'Aye, you are right. Her mind were not interrupted nor corrupted. Though physically she be more mechanical than flesh. There be no heartbeat in her chest.' He shook his head. 'Does that make her living or dead? I do not know. But she be my Eve and I love her as much as ever I did.'

5

They sat in silence. Hawkmoth lost in his thoughts, Gargaron lost to his own. Gargaron wondered now if his curiosity had been sated. Had his questions on reanimation been answered? Could his girls have been saved by this sorcerer? If they had been returned to him as part-mechanical beings, without a heartbeat, then, as difficult as it were to admit it, he supposed he preferred their current fate.

'Did you see to your old Brothers for what they did? Seek retribution?'

Hawkmoth smiled and shook his head. 'Such destructive cycles must be curtailed, giant, before they end in a tail spin one can naught pull oneself from. Though so often pride and ego blind one to the idea of such a notion.' He smiled. 'Besides, I believe my bringing Eve back to life in the manner I did would have enraged them sufficiently. That be satisfying enough in itself.'

Gargaron nodded but he were again pondering his girls. He gazed at length at the sorcerer. 'Hawkmoth,' he said at last, 'had you been there on the day my dear girls died... could... could you have brought them back?'

Hawkmoth eyed Gargaron briefly from the corner of his eyes. 'Aye,' he said. 'At personal cost to myself, but I may have had them back, yes.'

Gargaron swallowed hearing this, and hung his head.

'Though it may have been for naught,' Hawkmoth went on. 'For I am certain they would have ultimately succumbed to this blight regardless of my intervention.'

Gargaron nodded. His heart filled with a heavy sadness.

'I am sorry,' Hawkmoth said. 'For your loss. Truly.'

6

Gargaron stared into the dirt, lost again to his thoughts. For a time he were back in Summer Wood kneeling over the bodies of his wife and daughter. Picturing their lifeless, unmoving faces. Forever that picture would remain in his mind he knew. He swallowed, collecting himself before any tears spilt from his eyes.

Eventually he realised he still held Hawkmoth's staff. He handed it back. 'A fine weapon,' he commented.

'Aye, it be,' Hawkmoth said, taking it from the giant, 'and has served me well. As I suspect your great sword has served you.' He dipped his staff toward the giant's sword.

Gargaron nodded. 'In defense of myself and my friends, aye. Though I am no soldier and cannot say I have blooded it in war.'

'No soldier?' Hawkmoth asked, sounding surprised. Here he indicated Gargaron's pack. 'That there be Drenvel's Bane. Hor the Cutter's little baby. I recognised it on yesterday's ride. Who would carry such an item if not a soldier?'

Gargaron studied the hilt of the legendary hammer poking from the top of his pack. 'A simple hunter who borrowed it from his village temple, be who.' He had contemplated throwing it out into the woods during the night. For a burden to him it seemed now and nothing more. 'But I am of a mind to leave it behind for all the use it has been.'

At this Hawkmoth frowned. 'Oh? And why would you entertain such a notion?'

'I cannot wield it. Simple as that.' He shrugged as though that were the end of it. 'Your Eve suggested Skinkk's blood may wake it, though I have about given up finding any.'

Hawkmoth now understood. 'Ah, which is why you made a request for such a substance when I found you.'

'Indeed.'

Hawkmoth ruminated on this before rummaging through his pack, eventually producing a stone bottle. 'Well then, here may be your answer.'

'What be that?'

'Skinkk's blood, I believe.'

It were Gargaron's turn to frown. 'Good sorcerer, you told me you were not in the business of exploiting your animal friends.'

Hawkmoth smiled. 'I am not. But I happened to chance upon this vial on my travels. Skinkk's blood be a rare and valuable commodity, I could not simply leave it behind now could I.'

Gargaron sat where he were, Melai and Locke slowly stirring. 'Would you permit me use some then?'

'Why not? You have Drenvel's Bane. Such a weapon may grant us the upper hand should we come face to face with either my Brethren or the witches. T'would be folly not to try and utilise its power, I would think.'

Gargaron fetched the bottle from the sorcerer, turning it over in his hand. It were blown from a black glass, and both ends were tapered and rounded, resembling teats or nipples. There were no evidence of a lid, nor stopper, nothing to simply pop open to access the liquid within. It were completely sealed. Gargaron imagined he would have to smash it upon a rock to get at the blood. An etched inscription on its flank read:

BLUD OFFEN THEMS DRUGENS

– Soossed byus himself Wrenbuggus The Great.

'Blood of dragons,' Hawkmoth translated.

'How certain are you that it be genuine?'

'Why, it state there it were sourced by Wrenbug the Great himself. Preeminent Skinkk specialist, and it be contained in one of Wrenbug's signature vessels. And protected by one of Wrenbug's signature enchantments. If you wish, I could have the enchantment lifted and the vessel opened.'

Gargaron eyed the sorcerer. 'Aye, lift it please, if you will.'

'Right then. Let us put your legendary weapon through its paces, shall we.'

7

Hawkmoth took back Wrenbug's dark glass vessel and placed it upon the ground. Here he knelt, his hands spread out above the bottle. He whispered something, his eyes shut. His hands began to shake, and soon shook so furiously that they appeared nothing more than a wild blur while Hawkmoth himself remained so still and becalmed. The strange bottle appeared at first to be melting at both ends while its base flattened slowly against the lay of the earyth, as of a puddle of water will pool within troughs or scoops, so that at either end the bottle had "melted" outwards and fashioned shallow scoops into which droplets of blood now splashed as it seeped slowly from each tapered nipple.

Hawkmoth's hands steadied at last and eventually he sat back. 'There,' he said as if he had just arisen from some deep and refreshing night dream. 'Your Skinkk blood as you require it.'

Gargaron took Drenvel's Bane from his pack and stepped up to Wrenbug's vessel. He lowered himself to one knee. There were an odour wafting from it like acid. Gargaron were reticent to touch it. 'What... what should I do?'

'You do not know the legend?' Hawkmoth asked.

'No. Only that Hor alone could command this hammer. Though your Eve suggested I would have to mix my own blood with that of a Skinkk before I might bring it under my service.'

'Aye, her Mothers of Long Ago helped forge this weapon. So she ought know. Though in my own studies of legendary items I have read that you must cut your fighting hand, drip Skinkk blood upon the wound and then grip the hammer's hilt. Hopefully we may see this mighty warhammer herald this new morning.'

Gargaron did not delay. He placed the hammer hilt upon the ground and took his greatsword from its scabbard. Then with a single deft chopping motion, opened up a shallow gash in his palm. With blood pooling in the bowl of his hand, he put away his sword and lifted Wrenbug's bottle, tipping Skinkk blood onto his wound.

He grimaced as the alien blood reacted with his own. It bubbled and burned, issuing a dark vapour. He ignored the stench, the discomfort, and holding his palm upright he fetched with his spare hand Drenvel's Bane from the ground beside him and placed it upon the waiting pool of blood. His fingers closed around the width of the hilt, gripping it with fervour, both Skinkk blood and that of his own squeezing between his fingers and running down the hilt's length in worming, circular streams.

Hawkmoth had climbed to his feet, and had backed up slightly.

'What goes on here, pray tell?' came Locke's voice, who had awoken and stood there yawning, stretching his arms. Melai sat there in silence, sleep in her eyes, watching on tiredly.

Hawkmoth, one hand gripping his staff, said, 'Well, we are attempting to awaken a relic. One that has been in slumber for a good number of generations. And, ah, best you stand back. This could get wild.'

Grimah were standing, watching keenly, pensively. Razor looked on with his searching green eyes. And Zebra were still asleep, belly up and tongue still dangling forth like a sleeping dog.

Gargaron got to his feet and gazed at both his hand and hammer. Then up at the sorcerer as if Hawkmoth might know what were now meant to happen. For, so far, there were nothing. Not even a tingle in his fingers.

Everyone stood silent, waiting for something to kick off. But ultimately nothing transpired except for the smell of the Skinkk blood cooking Gargaron's skin.

Hawkmoth strode forward, his staff held before him as if he were marching into battle. 'Attack me!' he commanded Gargaron. 'Strike me with all your strength!'

Gargaron frowned. 'I might knock you into your next life should I do that.'

'Fear not, giant. Rashel and Lancsh will take full brunt.'

'I do not see the point.'

'Drenvel's Bane might be tempted from sleep if it could savour full scale battle.' Hawkmoth gripped his staff with two hands, bracing his feet in the dirt. 'Now strike me!'

Gargaron were reluctant. 'I hardly think striking an old sorcerer constitutes full scale battle.'

Hawkmoth laughed. 'Try me then, puny giant!'

Gargaron sighed. He wound back his hammer hilt and lunged at the sorcerer.

Hawkmoth showed all the surprise of someone not expecting a giant to move at such blinding speed. A sunflare later, he were catapulted away into a mess of shrubs.

Gargaron's first thought were, 'Oh Thronir! I've killed him.' And he dashed after him.

Hawkmoth lay there tangled, dazed, peering up at him. 'Why, appears you have a good arm, giant.' His voice sounded somewhat croaky. 'How be the hammer?'

Gargaron shook his head and held it up for Hawkmoth to see. 'No change.'

Hawkmoth were not put off. 'Again then,' he said, getting his breath back and allowing Gargaron to haul him free of the shrubs. 'This time I shall be ready. And this time don't hold back.'

8

As morning lightened, all sat around eating of their own particular breakfasts, Gargaron still wiping blood from his palm. Each of them silent, Gargaron and Hawkmoth especially so; the hammer had failed to rouse.

'Perhaps Skinkk blood be not the secret,' Melai suggested.

'Aye, would seem so,' Gargaron said disappointed. He looked across at Hawkmoth. 'Any thoughts, sorcerer?'

'Sadly no. But I am reluctant to rule out Skinkk blood altogether. There is certain to be some element we are missing.'

Locke chewed down his dried sea moss, and cracked open his sea clams. (As far he claimed, his clams could stay shut and fresh for an age, though by their stink, Gargaron were of a mind to question the crabman's claims.) 'This war hammer may not have awakened,' Locke said, grinning as he slurped back clam meat, 'but I must say, I quite enjoyed watching your attempts at rousing it. You sent our good sorcerer flying.'

After breakfast, with Drenvel's Bane put away (there were more pressing things to worry about than a stubborn old hammer), Gargaron spread his map out upon the grass and dirt and showed the others what he had found during the night. He sat back when he were done to allow them time to digest it.

'It certainly be an intriguing idea,' Locke commented keenly.

'If anything sees us through this mission in greater haste,' Melai said, 'then I am all for it.'

'What say you, sorcerer?' Gargaron asked.

Hawkmoth nodded, sipping some tea he had brewed for all. 'T'would cut our journey to Sanctuary by half. Though, there be something you ought to know about this place you've located.'

Gargaron frowned. 'Do tell.'

Hawkmoth again sipped his tea. When he had swallowed he spoke. 'As you all now know, days leading up to my departure from home, I sent off my zeppelins in the hope that I would make contact with folk like you lot, survivors of this Ruin. The idea then, once I had hopefully recruited you to my cause, were to have us all fly on to Sanctuary. My hope would be that by the time we gathered at our destination we would prove such a formidable force that my old Order would have no choice but relinquish Mama Vekh to us.

'However, my problem were that I did not have enough zeppelin's to fetch you all to me, so I began to search for faster ground routes, alternative paths, shortcuts, that might have you all reach Sanctuary in greater haste. Other than consulting my maps, the swiftest way to uncover such information were to begin dispatching reconnaissance drones. One of these I sent to Appleford town, to this terminus of which you speak, Gargaron. I must say, the news it returned to me were none too encouraging.'

'What were its report?' Gargaron asked intrigued.

'The terminus lies intact. The garetrains undestroyed. But the place is overrun by something.'

'What sort of something?' Locke asked, a gleam in his eye, as if he were in some mood for a stoush.

Hawkmoth sipped his tea, steam drifting about his face. 'My drone could not describe it. Only that there be some presence there.'

'Dark Ones?' Gargaron asked.

Hawkmoth shrugged. 'Possibly.'

'So, tell me your concerns,' Gargaron said. 'Be this spot too dangerous for us?'

'Where ever we traipse be dangerous these days.'

Locke eyed the sorcerer closely. 'You claim the garetrains lie undestroyed.

'Aye.'

'And if we get them running, our journey to the Bonewreckers will be cut in half.'

'Again, aye. Though if we get there and find some foul beast in our path then we will have wasted two days travel. One day getting there, and a day rerouting to our original path.'

Locke considered his. 'A fair gamble then.'

'I agree,' said Gargaron, folding away his map. 'And if there be something in this terminus waiting for us, then we shall simply have to make a meal of it before it does us.'

'I second that,' Locke said smiling wide.

'Me too,' Melai said.

Hawkmoth drained the rest of his tea. 'Right then,' he said with a sigh, looking about at his companions. 'If we are all agreed, to Appleford we ride.'

## THE MENACE AT APPLEFORD

1

IT were a long day in saddle and much ground did they cover. Close to five hundred leagues by Hawkmoth's calculations. Gargaron slept through much of it, dozing in his saddle. He had not planned on it, but had found his head nodding not long after they had left their overnight camp. And not far on, he had succumbed entirely to the tug of exhaustion. He were awoken at midday by Melai to allow him to quench any thirst and see to any hunger but he sipped little and nibbled less and were off to sleep again.

'He slept not a wink last night,' Hawkmoth reported, 'and he is likely still healing internally from his burns.'

So they left him in slumber, slumped forward against Grimah's broad shoulders, snoring into the horses necks, drooling. Melai sat at first upon the steed's rump but the constant side-to-side movement irked her. So she climbed up onto Gargaron himself and settled herself there upon his back.

Late afternoon they crested a hill (marked on Gargaron's map as Devil's Knee) that were strewn with a hundred mountainous boulders, and Hawkmoth called for his company to a halt.

2

Roused by the sudden cessation of movement, Gargaron opened his eyes. Naturally, he attempted to tap into his Nightface, to pick up on what it had recently observed. But there were darkness there.

He remembered that his Nightface were gone for good.

Yawning, he pushed himself up into his saddle, displacing Melai who were seated upon his shoulders. She leapt from her perch and flapped into the air. 'Oh, the sleeping mountain awakes!' she said and the others turned their attention on him.

Gargaron looked around, a little bleary eyed, a little disoriented. 'Where be we?'

It were a sunny afternoon, although, westways, monstrous storm clouds hurried eastways'n'north across darkening skies, threatening to blot out Melus and Gohor. Devil's Knee hill and its immediate surrounds were silent. Just wind dragging its chilled fingers through the long grasses and enormous boulders. As had become the norm, no sound of bugs, nor ornithens.

'That there be Appleford Terminus,' Hawkmoth told him, indicating the station building beyond the base of the hill. 'Built during the golden age of railcourse travel.'

It were indeed a majestic old thing. High arches ran along its sides in place of walls. And a replica garetrain were suspended on a steel frame above the entrance hall. Vacant ticket booths could be seen running away into the darkened interior where the northwun and southwun railcourses converged. Modern lamp posts trailed the street outside.

Away from station, in the northwun railyards, one of the monstrous garetrains were parked. A number of its carriages had been knocked off track. By the looks of it, they had been assaulted by some of the boulders that had dislodged (perhaps during a boom shake) and tumbled downhill. Parts of the terminal itself had sustained similar damage; there were evidence of sections of the building having been crushed, areas where the old roof had caved in.

The station lay on the outskirts of Appleford Town where, beyond the terminus, Gargaron could see townhouses and shops situated around a vast circular track. He had heard that folk in this region were fond of racing mountain hounds. And most towns hereabouts bragged hound tracks.

No-one spoke for a while. Perhaps all were hoping to catch sounds of some slumbering beast, or the hiss of Dark Ones, or a snickering of witches waiting in ambush. Yet the Terminal, like the town, looked deserted, and but for the breeze moaning through its arches, the building were as quiet as ghosts. There were no movement down there, other than dust on the wind. And like Appleford Town, it were sullied with carcasses of the dead. Folk who had succumbed to the initial shockwaves, or perhaps been torn to bits by packs of Dark Ones, lay decomposing where they had fallen.

Grimah's ears were pulled back, he hefted side to side, uneasy. Gargaron gently pressed his palms against the sides of his mount's two heads, hoping to glean from the horse what troubled it. It seemed Grimah had sensed naught but a foul odour on the air, though there were something alien and odd about it.

'Hawkmoth, where be this beastie then you spoke of?' Locke asked.

Both Hawkmoth and Gargaron deployed their spyglasses. Gargaron focused his on windows, arched doorways, hoping to spy creatures hidden beyond in the gloom. Areas where the terminal roof had collapsed gave light to interiors where ordinarily there would have been none without the aid of lanterns or glowstones. He saw and detected no creature nor witch.

Hawkmoth scanned the length of the building. Unlike Gargaron's spyglass, Hawkmoth's had the ability to switch between light spectrums and pick up on arcane planes. Yet, he, like Gargaron failed to detect anything out of the ordinary. It unnerved him more than it brought him relief. Something were amiss here. And he could not say what.

'What do you see?' Melai asked them both.

'I see naught,' the giant answered her.

'As do I,' came Hawkmoth's rely.

Locke sighed, as if disappointed. 'Oh, so whatever menace may have been here has since fled. Or perished. Saving us the job. Pity.'

'Let us not be too hasty,' Hawkmoth warned. 'I may have detected naught with my spyglass but my senses tell me something lurks down there still.'

'Something does lurk there,' they were surprised to hear Melai say. 'I hear its whispers, I can.'

All eyes went to her. 'Whispers?' Hawkmoth asked her.

'Aye,' she said, her brow furrowed as if finger nails picked at the insides of her skull. 'Though... it be a language I do not know.'

Locke frowned. 'Intriguing. You can converse telepathically?'

'No, I cannot. With none but my home trees, that is. I simply hear it on the breeze.' Her troubled eyes scanned the terminal thoughtfully, as if she were listening in on some private conversation the others could not hear. 'This thing knows we're here,' she reported. 'It watches us as we speak.'

That sent a cold creeping sensation up Gargaron's spine. And they all gazed down hill as if the entire station now were suddenly alive and sentient and waiting.

'Can you ascertain what this creature be?' Hawkmoth asked her. 'Is there more than one?'

'Sorry, no. I have spent too many years sheltered amongst Mother Thoonsk to understand what I am hearing, let alone offer a guess as to what I think it might be. As for numbers... it's difficult to tell... But aye, there be more than a single entity down there.'

'Dark Ones?' Gargaron asked her.

'I am not certain.'

'Witches?' said Locke.

'I cannot tell.'

3

Storm clouds pushed onwards, heaving out a chilled fore wind that curled mischievously about Hawkmoth and his cohorts, that whispered and moaned through the station, plucking at vegetation, making grass and weeds dance wildly. Distant thunder grumbled.

Hawkmoth hefted his sidesack around and rummaged through it. He pulled out a small stone canister. He pulled off its lid and out zipped a handful of small black flies that buzzed about his face. Squinting one eye against their attention, he groaned some command and off they flew, vanishing from sight downhill.

'What be they?' Melai asked intrigued.

'Little spies of my own devising,' Hawkmoth said somewhat guardedly as he watched them fly from him. 'With some help from my wife, I might add.' He fell silent, his gaze on the terminus. After a while he said, 'They pass for flies. But who would suspect such critters as being capable of gathering intelligence?'

A minute or two later they returned, one here, another there. They lit upon Hawkmoth's cheeks and crawled up into his eyes. Locke, positioned closest the sorcerer, saw them jab tiny proboscises into his retina. The sorcerer barely flinched. It were here that Hawkmoth saw what his miniscule spies had seen: strange creatures hibernating in darkened corners of the terminus.

When they were done, the flies each withdrew their proboscis and flew readily back into their stone vessel where Hawkmoth had placed a small portion of cured meat as reward.

'Undead,' they heard Hawkmoth murmur as he put the vessel away.

'Undead?' Gargaron enquired.

'Aye. And they sleep.'

Melai remained wary, for the creature she could hear whispering were not asleep. And not undead but something else.

Gargaron eyed the garetrain waiting out in the railyards. 'Right, if they sleep then we can be off with that train before they know it.'

'Should we not wake them first?' Locke asked grinning. 'I would very much like these undead to meet my moonblade.'

Hawkmoth glanced across at him. 'I'd be careful what I wished for, Locke, if I were you.'

4

They descended Devil's Knee spaced apart, Gargaron and Melai astride Grimah, Hawkmoth on Razor (the steed's green eyes aglow), and Locke upon Zebra. They gave the terminal (and its hidden menace) a wide berth, veering directly for the garetrain.

Near the base of Devil's Knee however, Zebra hesitated, as if sensing some imminent threat.

Hawkmoth put up a hand, ordering his companions to halt. The company came to a standstill. All eyes fixed firstly on Locke's serpent and then on the terminal.

From here they could see the railcourse winding its way beneath the vast protruding roof of the building, away to vacant platforms where the dead littered seats and walkways and footbridges. Here they spied a second garetrain. In station. Unseen from top of hill. It lay closer to Gargaron and his friends than the one in the railyards, though would have proved more troublesome to extricate due to the mass of roof dropped upon it and the rubble strewn about.

A soft rain began to fall. 'Locke,' Hawkmoth said, 'What worries your Zebra?'

Locke grinned and shrugged. 'I could not tell you. But she senses something.'

5

They left the terminal at their backs and, with the hill to the right and train cars to their left, they followed the rail line out into the train yards, weaving around huge boulders. As they neared the garetrain it were confirmed that three carriages remained untroubled by the boulders. And enormous carriages they were too, designed to cater for all the varied sized folk the realm had to offer. Even giants. Though it were quickly apparent that they were tangled up in some sort of hefty vine.

'A curious finding,' Hawkmoth declared.

'What be it?' Melai asked.

'I am uncertain,' Hawkmoth said. 'Some plant by the looks of it.'

Melai thought otherwise. Though she could not say why. She felt her senses clouded by whatever were hiding within the terminal. 'Alive or dead?'

'I cannot say. Either way, we need deal with it for, see there, it tethers our train to ground.'

'Leave it to me,' Locke said, stretching his arms out, readying himself for some heavy lifting.

'Very well then crabman, you and Gargaron see to this entanglement, if you don't mind. And Melai, fly high and be at guard. Keep an eye on the terminal. The moment you see something emerge, you call out. I shall check the locomotive for its arcane drive keys. And if needs be then I shall set about finding them. I need not stress that we must work swiftly here.' He made to move off when he stopped. 'Oh, by the way, mind you each stay clear of the rail beam. Especially you Melai if you be in flight. It shall come into being as soon as I manage to activate the engine. Stray nowhere near it. Any of you. It will cut you in two as easily as molten iron through cheese.'

Melai, crouched upon Grimah's shoulders. 'What be a rail beam?'

Hawkmoth indicated a series of tall steel columns, ones that curved inwards at their peaks forming what looked to be a broken hoop. Each column stood evenly spaced apart, perhaps forty paces from one to the next. And tall they were. Double the height of Gargaron. They ran out along the length of the train and away into the gloomy distance.

'Once I open the drive keys, energy from the arcane planes will be funneled along this corridor of line-braces. It holds the energy beam beneath which the garetrain is propelled. It be searing cold. Like I said, be nowhere near it once it be activated. Heed me? Now, let us get to work.'

Melai unslung her bow, prepping herself to do as Hawkmoth had instructed. Gargaron gently gripped her shoulder. 'How be your wing and arm?' he asked.

'Better. And if you are worried about me, be not. I can manage this.'

He nodded. 'Right then. Stay safe.'

She fluttered her wings, leapt from Grimah's shoulders, and flew high, spiraling away into the gusty air above the train yards...

6

Locke dismounted his serpent, casting his eyes over the vine choked carriages of the train they hoped to thieve. 'Take this side, giant. I'll work the other.' And off he went, serpent in tow.

Gargaron dismounted and crouched to get a clearer look at the subject. The vines resembled arms, he thought, long clinging arms. There were an endless mass of them, with an endless amount of elbow joints and each "arm" culminated in extended bony fingers.

He had naught seen anything like it. Brawny Twisters came closest but their branches were quite unlike these. This be naught but a shrubbery mimicking some creature's limbs.

He lowered himself to his belly and scoured the space beneath carriage, half expecting to find some fiend staring back at him. But the space were empty, with no obvious signs as to where these "arms" originated. It were evident enough though that whatever it were, it had designs on staying put: its branches were not only dug down into earyth but were wrapped around the columns of line-braces.

Gargaron straightened and eyed the carriage windows. They were dusty and the day dark enough now with storm clouds that it were not easy getting a clear picture of the interior. But Gargaron were almost certain that something were in there, that these "arms", whatever their purpose, belonged to it. He would have hauled open one of the doors for a look but the thick covering of vines prevented such an action.

'One way to find out,' he murmured, and reaching out, he took one of the knotted branches and tugged. It did not give. It were like new rope tethered tight and unyielding. He strengthened his grip, leaned back, and this time put his weight behind it. The branch cracked, swung loose, and a pained wail emanated from somewhere.

Gargaron let go. And stood there, listening. What were that? He looked around at Grimah. His horse were a tad pensive, but no more than he'd been at top of hill. Gargaron gazed back along the rail course toward the terminus—naught there but rain and dislodged boulders and collapsed bits of roof, and the silent, unmoving, dead.

'Giant?' Locke called out from opposite side of carriage. 'Did you hear that?'

'Aye. What were it?'

'No idea.'

Gargaron called up to Melai. 'You see anything?' She were barely visible in the darkened sky above.

'The way be clear,' she called back. 'The sound came from that vine.'

'This vine?'

'What other vine be there?'

Locke called out again. 'Right then, giant, what say we tackle this with greater coercion?'

'What do you have in mind?' Gargaron answered.

'Our blades.'

Gargaron bit his lip thoughtfully. He withdrew his sword. 'Right then,' he called. 'How coercive were you thinking?'

A hideous squeal were suddenly heard. This time from inside the carriage.

'You hear that?' Locke called out, a triumphant tone to his voice.

'Not easy to miss,' Gargaron called back. 'Tell me, did you strike the vines?'

'I did.'

'Sounds then like their owner be inside our train.'

'Aye, sounds like it.'

And there came another squeal and Gargaron guessed Locke had made a second strike. 'Guess there be no turning back,' Gargaron grunted. He pulled back his sword and swung it into the entanglement.

7

Whatever lay inside carriage squealed madly. And its woody "arms" recoiled violently. Gargaron backed up, wary, watching them, waiting for them to lash out at him in defence. Though nothing of the sort transpired.

He wound back his sword arm for a second hit when he heard some distant howl. And this one did not come from the carriage's interior.

He looked around. He were about to enquire of Locke if the crabman had heard the noise when the air around him suddenly sucked against his clothes and hair as if some mighty gale had swept across the terminus and its railyards. He heard Melai squeal and he looked up just in time to watch some invisible force swat her away through the air.

Gargaron gasped and went to race after her but he came aware of some ground-footed shadow rushing toward him.

He turned and spotted some hell hound galloping at him. It had long, razored forelegs, and gnashing teeth. It ran like a dog yet it bore no hind legs, the lower end of its torso disappeared into a mass of blue flame; as if half of it were of the physical realm and half of it were contained within a plane known only to ghosts.

It closed on him quickly, he had almost no time to react. Though as he gathered up his sword, Grimah bought him crucial moments, charging headlong into the monster. Horse and hound crashed into each other, the puffy sound of meat and bone crunching together were loud and raw, and they piled heavily into ground, a burst of dirt and stones and clods of weed exploding at impact.

Grimah floundered on his back, legs in the air, the creature on top of him, blue flame flaring. Gargaron sprung forward with great sword in hand just as the beast were scrambling to its feet. He sliced its growling head from its neck and despite the growing rain, the grass on the railcourse shoulders took instantly to fire as the beast's flaming body crashed to ground.

Another howling monster emerged from between carriages, hurtling at Gargaron, and another leapt from top of train. Gargaron barely had enough time to cut the first in half before he spun with his sword and caught the other in mid-flight, skewering it straight through its torso.

Yet another came charging. Gargaron caught sight of it almost too late but brought his sword around in time to skewer this one too. Only to have another come scramble over carriage top. He spun and slung his sword, catapulting his skewered attackers into it and sheer impact took the newcomer to ground where it scrabbled manically to its feet.

Grimah, having struggled to hooves, lunged at it, chomping both jaws into its face. Blood spurted from the creature's mouth, and pale blue flames flared from its body, and as it went to ground, Gargaron took its head off.

Gargaron took a moment to catch his breath. But could hear more of these beasties charging out from the terminal. 'Grimah,' he said, unhitching his shield. 'Find Melai!'

His steed seemed reluctant to leave him.

'Grimah! To Melai, I say! Go!'

Grimah made a noise of disapproval but obeyed. As steed dashed off, Gargaron heard the train's whistle suddenly pierce the air. He backed up as the garetrain begun to shunt forward. The "arms" from the entanglement had retracted from the line-braces and he spied the searing rail beam above the carriages alive now, humming, glowing, fizzing, running beyond sight away northways. So, Hawkmoth has the engine awake, he thought. 'Locke,' he called. 'Our train be leaving. Do you see Melai?'

There came no answer. 'Locke?'

He heard growls and squeals growing closer and he turned and spied monsters racing feverishly toward him. Five, six of them. More behind them. 'You lot can come to me,' he murmured. With that he turned and dashed between carriages, taking off after Grimah.

8

The train yards were a mess of engines and boxcars and open freight wagons and empty lines of passenger cars. Gargaron charged up between two separate lines of boxcars, calling Melai's name. Then ducked between a divide only to be faced with more carriages. 'Blast!' He charged at the wall of train in front of him and scrambled up its side, pulling himself to its roof. A better all-round view were revealed to him up there, at least. Appleford terminal away to his left and around to his right, he saw the glowing beam line alive and buzzing and with it their garetrain slowly pushing its way through the railyards.

'Pray you hold the train, sorcerer,' Gargaron murmured as he clambered along carriage roof.

Behind him, a pack of hissing, moaning hell beasts piled after him. But ahead, he caught glimpses of Locke's serpent and heard attack howls from Grimah. There were still no sign of Melai however. Nor Locke. Nor even of Hawkmoth for that matter.

Rain pelted down as he charged along roof, gaining speed and leaping across to the next train. Landing on its roof he kept running, his heavy footfalls leaving indents in the metal; behind him ghost-hounds clawed after him, gaining on him swiftly.

He reached the next carriage, noticing Locke now and the serpent away in the direction Melai had been flung. Gargaron leapt from carriage, the pack of hell hounds close on his heel, jumping after him. Hearing them snapping at his neck, he spun about in midair, slicing three of them in two as he fell, blue flame licking up his sword blade as if it were hot oil and not blood that gushed forth.

He landed heavily on his back in gravel, his momentum heaving him spine-first against the adjacent carriage, his weight rocking it momentarily from its tracks as hell hounds spilled about him; one of them falling beneath carriage as the train rocked back over, squashing the beast's face in an explosion of brain and blood and fire.

Gargaron booted the remaining beasts away, giving him time to pull his shield from under him and fend off another pair hurling themselves from top of train. They pelted against shield and carriage. He rolled over, got to his knee and shield bashed one on his left and scythed off the head of another on his right.

He scrambled backwards, slashing, ramming, and heaving hounds as blue flame from downed monsters took to both train and weed. As he took care of the last beast he saw another mass of them scurrying up between carriages toward him. 'By Ranethor, do they not get the hint?'

He scrambled up side of train, hauling himself to roof, and just as he did the carriage further back shunted violently outwards from where it lay, as if it were a mere paper box kicked aside by some bored child. It flew outwards and slammed violently against the train opposite, squashing the oncoming hell beasts between carriages; an azure fireball mushrooming into the sky.

The heat were blistering, even from this distance, and Gargaron leapt to ground, scurrying around the end of the carriage, shielding himself against the furnace. Crouching there panting, he spied Locke's serpent: there it was with its huge body coiled around a mass of ghost-hounds, squeezing them as they spat and hissed and bit and squealed. As she did, Zebra dislocated her mighty horizontal jaws and sunk her sword-like teeth through them all, chomping them in half as flame flared up around her face. Meanwhile, Locke were backing along an overturned carriage, using his mysterious blowflute; clouds of darts flew from the strange weapon, burying deep into their assailants...

And doing no damage whatsoever, Gargaron noted.

The beasts kept coming. Locke reverted to his moon-blade, slicing meaty chunks from the monsters as they flew at him. Gargaron thought the crabman were getting the better of them until another pack clambered up behind him, swamping him. Locke laughed as the beasts did their best to bite into him, to flood him with flame. 'Ha! Foul demons! I am impervious to fire! But do your best if it please you!' And with that he drove two of his spiked crab feet up through the belly of one and tore the beast open, black guts and blood gushing out, splashing down the windows of the train car, steaming and stinking.

Gargaron, still wondering where Melai were, uncertain if she were safe or lying somewhere injured, rushed to Locke's aid. Only to have a dozen hell-hounds emerge from between boxcars and pile after him.

9

Gargaron clambered onto Locke's upturned carriage but he felt the hounds jump him and cling to him like ants on meat, their grubby claws and filthy teeth digging into his shoulders, his neck, his back, his limbs. He couldn't free his sword arm. He did his best to throw them aside but they stuck to him like limpets.

He jumped from the carriage, taking them with him, spinning over whilst airborne so that when he landed he crushed most of them beneath him. Bones cracked and blood spurted and fire roared about him. Still, two of them kept their hold.

He was able to clamber to his feet, one of the hounds hanging from his arm. He slung about and dashed it against the side of carriage, snapping its snarling head backwards, blood gushing from its mouth, blue flames licking up his arm. He reached over his shoulder to yank the other from his back but he found Grimah tearing at it with both mouths. Grimah ripped it free, spat it out, then trampled it to pulp.

Gargaron dashed now to Locke who were still fighting his way from beneath a pack of beasts. But there were no respite. On they came, another swarm of hell-hounds, scrambling up the space between carriages, clambering over the tops of boxcars.

Gargaron were again flooded by monsters. He and Grimah both. And Locke too. Zebra whipped and coiled her body, knocking them flying but their tenacity were something to behold. Even she were soon overpowered by sheer force of numbers.

Gargaron found himself pinned to ground. His sword and shield had been dragged from him. He punched and kicked and snapped bones, but the flames these creatures dragged with them were scorching and he were running out of strength and breath.

10

There came an explosive blast from seemingly nowhere. Then Locke were laughing, yelling, 'Ha! Have some of that you stinking dogs!'

Something punched a mighty hole straight through the chests of two of the fire fiends mounted on Grimah. Instantly both crumpled and slid from Grimah's hide, dropping to ground, dead. Almost without pause, another fiend were blown apart in similar manner, one hanging from Grimah's mane. And barely a sunflare later, most of the pack assaulting Gargaron were blown to bits, body parts and streaks of blue fire exploding out across earyth and carriage.

Hawkmoth, Gargaron thought.

Encouraged now, and free of assailants, he scrambled to his feet and looked around. Yet he saw no sign of the sorcerer however. Another hound came belting toward him; he were without sword and shield, so braced himself to take the beast on with bare fists. Then something shot down from above, some silent projectile, blasting the monster, knocking it backwards, innards from its chest cavity blown out through its back in a blast of flame.

Gargaron dashed for sword and shield, diving for them, snatching them up, and rolling over onto his knee. He slashed aside a hound galloping at him before peering about, searching for whoever or whatever had taken out these ghost-hounds.

Then saw her. And his heart warmed. Melai.

11

She hovered there, bow and arrow deployed, slinging another shot, the arrow, its tip glowing white hot, zipping at its target. It made impact and exploded through the hound's ribs, punching its guts out through its chest in a spectacular explosive blast.

She nocked another arrow, pulling it into aim, surveying the area. From her height she had clear view back along the rows of carriages. She could see Hawkmoth now, toward the terminal he were, smiting a pack of ghost hounds. But after them there came no more. It appeared, for now at least, the onslaught had quit. She swooped down to giant. 'Are you harmed?' she asked.

'I be as well as I can,' Gargaron replied, managing a stoic smile. He were covered in claw wounds and bite marks, and purple blood seeped down his arms and neck but he were not in any immediate peril. Grimah too, bleeding and scratched but looking resolute, determined, his proud and fierce eyes on constant look out for any renewed attacks.

Behind them Locke hoisted himself into Zebra's saddle. 'Oh, is that all?' he asked, looking about. 'I were just getting started!' Both of them were blood splattered and scratched and bitten.

'What of you, Melai?' Gargaron asked. 'I saw you flung across sky.'

'I be well. But I declare my consciousness were thrown from me for some time. I cannot say why or how, nor what caused it. But I fear it were the work of the presence that still hides within the terminus.'

In the distance another train carriage were thrust from its tracks. Moments later Razor galloped toward them, Hawkmoth mounted in saddle. 'How are we all?' the sorcerer asked, his beard and hair a straggled sweating mess.

'As good as can be,' Gargaron reported.

'Though you could throw a few more of those fiends my way,' came Locke's jovial voice. 'I were just getting warmed up.'

Hawkmoth grinned. 'Oh? Well, you may just have your wish, crabman. For I fear that whatever Melai sensed slumbering in yonder terminal be stirring.'

'Good,' Locke said. 'Main course at last.'

'That as may be, Locke, though I feel it probably be too big even for your appetite.'

'Oh, I have rather a large appetite, sorcerer,' Locke protested grinning.

'I'm sure you have,' Hawkmoth said. 'Still, I would urge you all proceed to your train, for it departs as we speak. I need not remind you that it might be the last train for the Northlands for a while. Probably a good idea not to miss it.'

12

Hawkmoth lead the way, charging between the rows of carriage and boxcar and wagon until they met the railcourse on which their garetrain were now well beyond the railyards, gathering speed, suspended beneath the line-beam that vanished off into the far distance, heading northways from Appleford. 'Hurry now,' Hawkmoth called.

Behind them however, something had arisen from the terminus and when Gargaron looked back he spied a mountainous shadow filling the sky. It were so vastly tall it made himself look like a child's toy. In all his years, in all his travels, he had never lain eye upon such an entity. And toward them it turned.

'Hawkmoth?' Gargaron called. 'Do you see that thing?'

'Aye.'

'What be it? I have never seen its like before.'

'I fear it be Jhegoth, star demon,' Hawkmoth called back. 'And I have known witches employ its services.'

Locke laughed. 'At least now we have a true opponent on which to test ourselves.'

'Oh, we'll not stand and face it if we can help it,' Hawkmoth called across to the crabman. 'Sorry to disappoint you but our safest bet is to reach the garetrain and lose it for pace.'

13

The colossal star demon, with its eyes burning blue and the ground shaking beneath its feet, began to trudge after them. Its gait were slow and cumbersome but such were its size, each of its immense strides covered a huge distance. Thus it gained on them quickly.

The hooves of Grimah and Razor thundered across ground, and Zebra were almost silent as she slithered ahead of them, her swishing tail almost a blur. Above them all, keeping clear of the line-beam, were Melai, flying swiftly.

Bolts of blue light began peppering grass and gravel around them, blasting out small craters, throwing dirt and grit and stones to all points. And when Gargaron looked he saw these projectiles bursting from the star demon's eyes.

Hawkmoth suddenly pulled Razor around. Gargaron watched him, yelling, 'Sorcerer, what are you doing?'

'Jhegoth be far too swift. I fear it will catch us before we reach our train. I must slow it down. Now fetch yourselves onwards! You too Locke! Get going!'

Locke, who had slowed too, now pulled Zebra back in the direction of the train. 'Quite unfair, sorcerer!' he yelled as Zebra sped on. 'Some folk have all the fun!'

14

Hawkmoth hauled Razor up, leapt from saddle and brought his staff into play. As Jhegoth strode toward him, its legs deep and lost amidst a mountain of blue flame, Hawkmoth began to spin his staff above his head like some circus performer with a baton. It spun faster and faster until his moving arms were but a blur and the staff were lost from sight. It were here he slammed his staff into the ground at lightning speed, and from Rashel (his staff's angel visage) came a squeal so loud and piercing that it made Grimah howl, and Zebra screech, and momentarily sucked all sound from the ears of Gargaron, Melai and Locke.

What Gargaron saw next he saw in dead silence. A mighty white light spewed from Rashel's mouth, as if she had regurgitated some mighty dinner, and like a ripple on a pond, a shimmering wave pushed out through the rain... and slammed into the star demon.

Jhegoth staggered... flames flaring and billowing skywards.

Sound roared back into the ears of Gargaron, Melai and Locke as the darkened sky lit up with blue fire.

Hawkmoth were not done. Again he spun his staff. And again he slammed it to earyth, and Rashel once more squealed, sucking the air from giant, nymph and crabman. And once more a wave of shimmering white light vomited from Rashel's mouth and again the wave crashed around the star demon like titanic ocean waves on a rocky shore.

Jhegoth let out a mighty roar. It shook the terminus and train yards, shook the very earyth. Yet Jhegoth hung its head, as if struck by a mighty blow... and fell to its knee.

Hawkmoth wasted not a moment. He climbed back into Razor's saddle and took off once more for the garetrain.

15

The others were just off the train's tail now, galloping, slithering. Avoiding the line-beam, Melai swooped down and landed heavily on carriage roof, rolling awkwardly but gripping the knotted mass of vines that still clung to the carriage, preventing herself spilling over the side. Below her, Gargaron brought Grimah alongside the rear carriage where he reached out and grabbed the railing before sliding from saddle onto back of train. He came aware of some commotion behind him. When he turned, he saw Hawkmoth and Razor coming up on Zebra's swishing tail, but just behind them were yet another pack of scrambling ghost-hounds. Do they never give up? Gargaron wondered.

'Oh, you bring us left overs, I see,' Locke called to Hawkmoth, pulling his blowflute into play.

'Aye,' Hawkmoth called back. 'Don't say I never give you anything.'

Locke blew off a round of darts. Again they buried into the bodies of the coming hounds, and again, as far as Gargaron could see, they had no effect.

'The idea be to kill them, crabman,' Hawkmoth reminded him, waving his staff at them. Rashel spat out a mouthful of seeds that tumbled across ground before bursting to life, shooting out a hundred branches in but a sunflare, spearing the hounds through skull and torso, stopping nearly them all dead in their tracks.

More were on their way however. And in the distance behind them, Jhegoth were slowly lifting itself to its feet.

'Take them down,' Hawkmoth yelled, kicking Razor into greater pace.

'Oh? And where are you going?' Locke wanted to know.

'To the locomotive,' Hawkmoth answered. 'We need this train at a quicker speed. Jhegoth will surely catch us if not.' Now he turned his attention on Gargaron. 'Get the carriage open giant, and the steeds on board. Razor will drop back once he has carried me forward. Yar!' He kicked Razor's ribs and the steed thundered on for front of train.

Melai wedged her feet beneath one of the vines, and fluttered her wings to remain as stationary as she could. Here she deployed her bow.

The hounds advanced quickly. As Melai fired at them, Zebra railroaded them, tripping them up. Though they were quickly back on their feet. Melai took some of them out with incendiary arrows but many reached the train and, like spiders, clambered up the sides of the carriage. From where he stood on carriage's rear verandah, Gargaron lunged and thrust his sword at them, and Grimah snapped at them as he galloped along.

They bore down on Melai. She leapt into the air, they leapt after her, she fired punch arrows that blasted them backwards into the line-beam where they were sliced in half instantly, their two halves, aflame, tumbling away to ground. Three successive beasts she sent into the beam.

Locke had to duck to avoid being hit by one, hauling Zebra away from the train. Hounds went after him. One clawing its way up Zebra's scaly hide. Locke fired his blowflute at it and Gargaron saw the darts lob deep into the beast's chest. Gargaron were about to tell Locke to give up on his glorified "harp" when something happened: the ghost-hound suddenly caved in on itself, as if a hundred years of desiccation besieged it in but mere moments. It let go of Zebra and crashed to ground where it split apart like an old carcass, flames roared and its bones went flicking off in every direction.

'Ha,' yelled Locke, 'see how you like that!' and he blew out another flurry of magic darts and another handful of beasts crumpled and crippled and ploughed into the gravel, bursting bones all over the place, fire curling into the sky.

Gargaron turned for the carriage's rear door. As the good sorcerer had said, they needed to get their mounts on board. A boxcar would have been ideal but they had to work with what they had. That meant going through this door. Though the vines still barricaded the entrance point.

Bolts of blue fire suddenly pelted the train and the land about it. Gargaron glanced over his shoulder and saw Jhegoth again pursuing the garetrain. Gaining speed. It would catch them soon if Hawkmoth did not have this vehicle pick up its pace. And its projectiles would sooner or later have the train in ruin.

Gargaron slashed his great sword through the vines. As before, there came a howl of anger from within the carriage and the "arms" recoiled. He lifted his leg and one well timed boot had the door off its hinges and punched back into the carriage. He stooped and peered in.

He saw it now. The entity that had not so long ago claimed these carriages as its own, the ones whose many varied limbs had held the train like a clutch of strangling brambles. A strange looking beast it were, a torso with a head and a myriad arms. It hung there at opposite end of carriage like a spider in its web. And it eyed Gargaron with loathing.

16

Gargaron put the star demon from his mind. He hefted up shield and sword, and edged slowly down carriage interior toward the peculiar fiend.

It watched him coming. It were the colour of clammy bones. Yellowish, mapped with hundreds of hairline cracks. Its eyes were watery and red, and the moment Gargaron were in range its jaw parted and out punched a long, pointed tongue.

Gargaron deflected it with his shield, but the tongue were so sharp and quick it punctured the metal plate on shield's front.

It retracted with blurring speed and twice more it fired and cut through the shield, but a third strike saw Gargaron dart left and cleave it off.

The entity squealed and threw a hundred arms at the giant, hauling him up against the train's windows, arms curling about his neck, fingers poking into his mouth and down his throat.

17

Beyond the carriage Melai and Locke had gained the upper hand over the hounds. But the star demon were rushing toward them with ever greater speed. Suddenly there came a squeal of metal and the train stopped so suddenly and so violently that Gargaron were thrown forward, all his weight slamming against the entity at front of carriage, crushing its skull beneath him. Killing it instantly. Yellow gunk oozed from the critter's brain.

It took Gargaron a moment or two to realise what had happened. He pushed himself back from the fiend, eyeing it, repulsed. 'I wager you didn't see that coming,' he murmured, screwing up his nose at the awful stench.

There were suddenly great commotion beyond the train. He heard Locke yell, 'Dark Ones!'

Gargaron pulled himself from the fiend's embrace and ran the length of the carriage and emerged onto the verandah at back of train. Here he saw them. It were almost enough to sink his heart. Cresting Devil's Knee were Dark Ones so tall and immense they matched almost the star demon for size.

Gargaron leapt from the motionless train. Locke were firing his blowflute at a handful of ghost-hounds charging toward the garetrain. Gargaron looked about. He could see no Melai. No Hawkmoth.

'At front of train,' Locke called out to him.

Gargaron turned and spotted Melai flying toward the head of the locomotive. He raced after her, thinking something had happened to the sorcerer but he found Hawkmoth trying some spell to push a boulder free.

'Whatever you lot are doing,' came Locke's voice, 'you might wish to hurry it up. Those Dark fiends look eager to join this party.'

Gargaron did not even think. He strode up to the boulder that were lodged there in their way and with sheer brute force hefted it aside.

Hawkmoth lowered his staff. 'Right then,' he said. 'That's one way to do it. Now, let's keep moving.' He climbed the locomotive back to the driver's compartment and inside he dropped himself into driver's seat and fired the engines.

Melai and Gargaron returned to rear of train where Locke were fighting off another handful of ghost-hounds, firing his blow dart, taking them down in great clumps. More were on their way.

The garetrain had again begun to move.

'Locke!' Gargaron called as he guided Grimah and Razor up verandah and into carriage. 'We are leaving.'

Locke blew his magic darts at anything that flew at him. The train were picking up pace. Melai flew up and perched on the verandah railing, firing her arrows.

'Hurry now!' Gargaron called.

Locke whistled for Zebra who had been busy biting hounds in half—as she slithered by him he leapt into saddle.

The train built speed rapidly, though not so swift yet that Zebra could not catch it. She slithered forward, lifting her head as she drew close, allowing Locke to scramble along her neck and jump from saddle. He landed deftly upon the spacious verandah.

'Hurry girl!' Locke commanded and Zebra snaked her bulky body alongside the train before squirming up into one of the carriage's large windows, blown open by the star demon's fire bolts. The garetrain continued to gain more and more speed and the last of the ghost-hounds on their tail began to lose ground.

They stood there, Locke and Gargaron, on the verandah, with Melai perched on the handrail, and they gazed back at the Dark Ones, watching them march down Devil's Knee hefting with them enormous war hammers.

## NORTHLANDS RAIL

1

BLEAK countryside rushed by. Rain didn't let up. A roadway trailed the railcourse for some miles before it turned away through hills and were lost to the deluge. Gargaron remained at train's rear, watching the Dark Ones through his spyglass. He were intrigued by what he observed.

He watched as they trudged toward the star demon. And were puzzled as they took their warhammers to it. 'What do you see?' Locke asked.

Gargaron handed him the spyglass. 'I do not know.'

2

In the driver's compartment, Hawkmoth maintained an eye as much as he could on the rail line ahead—he and his friends did not need another obstacle to derail their getaway. Still, for a time he stood with the cabin door ajar, wind and rain gushing in, and with his own spyglass he watched the colossal Harbingers batter Jhegoth into the hill.

The scene left him with a measure of disquiet.

Eventually he put away his spyglass and shut the door to the elements. He sat there in the driver's seat, contemplating things as the garetrain sped onward.

3

The rain did not peter out till evening. As such there were not much to see by way of scenery; most of the land they passed were hidden beyond the deluge. Gargaron and his companions spent much of this time seeing to wounds and scratches.

Gargaron patched the gashes in his flesh, stripping grafts of skin from his lower belly and pressing them over his wounds.

Locke studied the giant with great intrigue. Yet the way Locke dealt with his own wounds were equally as intriguing to Gargaron. Locke had sustained cracks and rents in his claws and crab legs. He used barnacles, stored inside a saddlebag, to patch them up, pressing them against his wounds and waiting until they attached, much like Gargaron's skin grafts.

Melai watched them both in silence. 'This world certainly produces strange folk,' she said. Her own wounds were minor—except for some dark green bruising to her head she had come through the scrap virtually unscathed.

Once done, Gargaron, Melai and Locke did their best at pulling the deceased spider fiend from train's rear carriage. Both Grimah and Razor were not happy with its presence; remaining at the back of carriage, sniffing the air. Zebra did not seem to care; she rolled about it like a dog in dirt. Locke simply laughed at her. But there were an unpleasant stink about it. Hacking its dead limbs from where they were still tangled across ceiling and floor, they tossed chunks of it from the back of train, and watched its bony body go rolling and crashing across stony ground.

As they worked, Gargaron indicated Locke's blow flute. 'I know now, a lute that not be.'

Locke eyed him sideways, grinning. 'No. And even if it were, you would not wish to hear me put voice to it.'

Gargaron smiled. 'So what be this weapon then? I have never seen its like.'

'It were a gift to me by the sea goddess, Ehl Nori,' Locke told him. 'She gave it to me after I saved her daughter from fisherman who had hauled her up in their nets and planned to sell her to pimpeteers.'

He unhitched it and handed it to Gargaron who took it, turning it over as he studied it. It were cold as steel, with texture not dissimilar to dead coral. It had a single mouthpiece but up to twenty firing holes. It had a sense of age about it, a sense that it had grown in the depths of ocean a trillion years ago. He felt also it were something he should not be handling. With a sensation of growing discomfort, he handed it back to the crabman.

'It be a formidable weapon,' Locke assured him, taking it. 'Anything I strike with it, I kill.'

Gargaron frowned. 'Really? Such did not seem the case during our recent fight.'

'You did not see me take down those hounds?'

'Aye. I also saw your darts having no effect.'

'Yes, well some occasions it takes its time assessing an enemy's weakness.'

'Assessing enemy weakness?' Gargaron said intrigued. 'What do you mean?'

'It be a magical object. Its supply of darts be endless. But it is not always immediately effective. If my first volley of darts not kill my attacker then each subsequent volley will slowly unravel the secrets of its defences. Thus the poison and lethality of any following dart will be adjusted so as to make it more target specific. The only music this "lute" makes be the cries of my assailants dying.'

'Sweet music then, after all,' Gargaron said.

'So, what of your own blade, giant?'

Gargaron shrugged. 'Why, it be just an ordinary great sword. Blooded in no war. Has no name. Though, it means much to me as it were my father's and his father's before him.'

'A treasured possession then. And what of this hammer hilt you lug with you?'

Gargaron shrugged as if to suggest it were useless. 'Drenvel's Bane. Famed throughout the Vale as far as I am lead to believe. Belonged once to Hor the Cutter, legendary warrior who heralded from my village. I lifted it from our village temple after the first Boom shake killed all. At present I am not counting it as a weapon. Though I am beginning to think it came in two parts and its better half were stolen long before I got to it.'

'What about you, nymph of Thoonsk?' Locke asked Melai. 'That little bow of yours packs some power.'

Melai looked tired and, Gargaron guessed, perhaps in no mood to brag about weaponry. At Locke's insistence, she lifted her bow from her chest and handed it to him.

'Such a slight item,' Locke commented. 'I would not have believed it packed such viciousness had I not witnessed it with my own eyes. Be it a weapon of your own devising?'

Melai shook her head. 'When I were a but a youngling of the forest, I were given it by Sera the wood's spirit who taught me how to wield it. It be made of Starwood, and it bears a plaited chord spun from arachnid silk.'

'And your arrows,' Locke said. 'From where do you source those?'

'My quiver provides them, grows them. I simply spike them with deadly toxins and poisons derived from the plant life I carry with me from Thoonsk.'

Locke were impressed. 'A single army in but one compact little forest nymph. I would not wish to go up against you.'

'No,' Gargaron said with an ironic smile, 'you would not. I can personally attest to that.'

Locke raised his eyebrows. 'Oh? Do tell.'

After hesitating, Gargaron retold the account of his and Melai's first meeting. Locke laughed. Melai smiled at the memory though she felt somewhat uncomfortable at how she had treated the giant.

4

Melai did not expect to find sleep on that strange vehicle. She walked down the enormous, silent corridors of the first and second carriages, unable to access any of the sleeping compartments for the doors were all slid shut and she did not possess the muscle to open them. And if she had not already been along with Gargaron as he had inspected each room she might have feared some monster hiding behind each door.

Eventually she found one whose door were not quite shut and in she squeezed. It were large and imposing: every object, the desk by the window, its chair, the bed and basin and luggage rack (things pointed out to her earlier by Gargaron) all loomed high above her. Nothing here had been built for people her size.

She spread her wings and flew to the desk where she alighted and sat by the chilled window, watching the darkened countryside race by. The desk were wood she were glad to find, but dead wood and did not speak to her as the trees in Thoonsk did. Her initial fear of being confined within this garetrain were lifted somewhat, for cooped up in this compartment reminded her somehow of being cradled in her willow tree. She sat, sore, tired, gazing out window.

5

Back at rear of train, Locke made to climb for train's roof where the chilled rain thundered down. 'If you'll excuse me, giant,' he said, 'I have a need to feel the elements on my skin.'

'Would you not prefer to stay dry?' Gargaron asked him. 'There be room for many in these here carriages.'

Locke laughed. 'Giant, I am of the seashore. I am of the water. Too long lately have I been away from it. And too much have I missed sitting upon the cliffside rocks with my clan, gazing out to thunderous sea during a hefty rain storm.'

Gargaron nodded at him respectfully. 'Very well then. Not something I might entertain myself but I respect your wishes. Watch that rail beam though won't you.'

'Aye, I shall keep my head about me,' Locke said with a grin. He went to move off but hesitated and turned to eye Gargaron once more. 'I ought tell you something, friend. Something I have not yet spoken aloud to any of you. Not even to the good sorcerer.'

Gargaron looked up at him. Waiting for him to go on. Locke however, seemed in thought for a while. As if contemplating whether or not he should tell his tale.

Eventually he continued.

'On my journey from Barnacle-On-Sea, I happened to stumble upon an elven woman, tall, fair, beautiful. She told me she had been tracked down by a peculiar metal man who had flown off in its zeppelin without her. Having learned from it however that Hawkmoth were keen to meet with her, she had decided to set out and track him down. I told her I were heading the same way and as we had not the luxury of a zeppelin we opted to travel together.

'Eyferith her name were and she turned out to be friendly company. As we traipsed across land we enjoyed good conversation, and much laughter too despite all that had befallen us. I grew quite fond of her. We were with each other for several days when one morning I awoke and she did not. I tried rousing her but somehow, somewhy, she had passed during the night.'

Intrigued, Gargaron could not help but think back to the elven woman who had inadvertently delivered him Grimah. How he had found her perished in saddle.

'I have no explanation as to what caused her demise,' Locke said. 'She may have harboured some unknown ailment or illness, though she seemed in good health the entire time I knew her. I have deduced that whatever phenomena brought down my clan, also brought on her demise.' He paused at length in his tale... and then digressed. 'I have not always been this optimistic soul that you see, giant, you may wish to know. Eighty three wives and one hundred and twenty children have a way of loosening the screws of any sane person. But those wives and children strengthened me too somehow. You would understand this, having a wife and child of your own?'

Gargaron nodded. He knew that strength, a strength of soul and mind and spirit, and how it had grounded him. A strength of feeling and of self-affirmation. Feelings of deep, eternal love. Something he had not known in days before fatherhood.

'I marveled in the innocence of my children,' Locke continued. 'The delightful way they viewed their surroundings, their world. Everything to them were new, everything exciting, wondrous. Since Cloudfyre turned, since Eyferith succumbed, I have come to realise that any point in time, any day or night, could be my last. Thus I now live and love and breathe every moment granted me as I would were I a wee innocent child.

'How many times have I wandered the shore and not noticed the shells or the sand around my claws? How many times have I strolled through a woodland and not breathed of its woody smells, or enjoyed the songs of birdlings, or touched the damp moss upon its stones? Too many, I would wager. Because life has a habit of throwing other things to crowd your mind with: chores of a domestic nature, commitments to vocation, involvement in communal activities or campaigns. Day to day life sees one scurrying hither and thither without pause for thought of the greater world. And now, mostly, since Cloudfyre turned, since finding my children and wives all perished, before burying them each at sea, that is all there is to consume one's time. And I find that it excites me more than it concerns me. For, should I die in the next moment, then I die, giant, without fear nor regret.'

6

Gargaron left Locke and wandered back into the carriage where the spiderling had camped itself. The stench of its sweat and excrement lingered like gamey bore flesh.

Gargaron ignored the stink, hitching the saddles from both Grimah and Razor before sharing with them some dried apples from his pack. The serpent Zebra seemed curious by the offerings and lifted her face toward him, her tongue swishing in and out of her side-ways mouth, tasting the air.

'I am not certain you'll like apples,' Gargaron told her. Yet she opened her jaws and gently tried to take a piece from his fingers. He let her have it. She ate eagerly just as if she were gulping down Locke's clam meat. Again she nudged him.

Gargaron had naught seen this tender side of her. She allowed him touch her; he ran his large hand down her scaly skull. She shut her several eyes and inclined her head into his caress, enjoying his touch. Though both Razor and Grimah wanted some attention too he soon found, all of them gently swamping him. It were a touching moment. He dished out another serve of dried apples, surrounded by these animals.

7

Gargaron found Melai asleep in a sleeping birth in carriage two. The smell were far more pleasant this end of the train. And far less like some fetid creature had been holed up there. The interior were polished rosewood with sleeping compartments and at the far end a smoking booth with a beverage bar. A lovely aroma of sandalwood and spice hung in the air.

Melai were not curled up in the enormous bed as Gargaron had expected. But squished inside one of the horizontal wooden beams that, he supposed, mimicked the thick branches of her home tree. Positioned by the sliding door, he found himself watching for the rise and fall of her chest, haunted by what Locke had just imparted to him, about the seemingly healthy Elven woman succumbing to some mysterious condition and never waking.

Were it possible that Melai, himself, Locke and Hawkmoth might simply just drop dead at random and without warning? Perhaps we are not survivors, he thought, but are simply ones who have not yet died. The thought chilled him. Causing him to swallow nervously. He would let Melai sleep. And decided, when she awoke (and pray she awoke), he would not burden her with Locke's tale.

He shut the door quietly and strode forward toward the engine.

8

Hawkmoth were seated in driver's compartment, lost to his thoughts, sewing a patch of cloth over a tear in his side-pack.

'Mind if I join you?'

Hawkmoth started mildly at Gargaron's sudden presence but did not object. 'No, come in, good giant. Sit down if you please.'

Rain pelted the locomotive's long nose but a rain guard kept most of the deluge from the forward windows. Gargaron could clearly see the arcane railcourse stretched out before them—the peculiar green energy beam that propelled the monstrous garetrain vanished off into the heavy rain, sizzling as the rain pelted against it, illuminated like some ghostly artefact.

Giant and sorcerer sat for a time not speaking, watching the northlands sweep toward them and rushing by, feeling the rhythm of the vehicle as it shot forward.

'Everyone well back there?' Hawkmoth asked eventually.

'Aye,' Gargaron said. 'All be well.' He studied Hawkmoth's sewing. He saw now it were not so much a tear in his side-pack but more as if some substance had corroded it.

'Have an accident?' he asked.

'Aye, you could say that. I were rammed against carriage during our siege at Appleford. A number of my vials were crushed.'

Gargaron frowned. 'Lose anything of importance?'

'Amongst some poultices and my randweed creams, Wrenbug's bottle of Skinkk blood were cracked in two.' He looked over at Gargaron. 'It were seeped out before I discovered the bottle were in pieces.'

Gargaron thought of Drenvel's Bane. 'A shame, I guess.' Though surprisingly he found he did not much care now for the so-called legendary weapon. 'An important substance for your concoctions, I assume.'

'Aye. Though I were thinking more of your war hammer.'

Gargaron shrugged. 'It matters not. I doubt now such blood would have helped us bring back Drenvel's Bane anyway. I feel Hor the Cutter took its secret to his grave.'

Silence again between them. Gargaron watched Hawkmoth continue with his sewing. There were something calming, almost enchanting, about someone going about a menial task. A monotonous, repeated chore conducted with calm concentration, patience and care.

'You mind if I ask you something,' Gargaron said.

Hawkmoth did not pause in his work. 'Go ahead.'

'The star beast, Jhegoth. You claimed it be a witch ally.'

Hawkmoth sewed up the last of the hole in his pack. 'I believed as such, aye. And I know what you're going to say. If the Harbingers be the pawns of witches, why then were they attacking it?'

'Aye.'

Hawkmoth sighed as he held his pack at arm's length, studying his patch job. 'Believe it or not, giant, I have been sitting here puzzling over that very same question. I have not all the answers, you must realise. But perhaps Jhegoth has turned rogue, or done something to anger its masters. I have long kept my eye on Jhegoth whenever it has arisen from its hiding places. It is not of our world and I have feared for many a year that it may try one day to sully our lands, to make them unlivable to all but itself. And so perhaps in these days of Ruin, while the boom-shakes do their worst, while any survivors stumble about the lands shell-shocked and disorganised, Jhegoth has peaked out of his hole and observed this sudden power vacuum and as such has decided to weigh in on the current conflict in order to claim its prize. That being Cloudfyre. And perhaps the witches have seen this and will not stand for it and have thus dispatched its mightiest Darklings to take it out of the picture.'

Gargaron considered this and both he and Hawkmoth fell again to silence. For a few moments, the distant snowcapped ranges were seen briefly above the cloud banks. As he watched them, Gargaron considered what the crabman had relayed to him. The story of the Elven woman and her sudden death. He thought about telling Hawkmoth, to fish for his thoughts... but ultimately he decided against it.

'Anyhow, giant,' Hawkmoth said, packing away his bone needle and twine. 'You ought to rest while you can. Once we reach the mountains, the climb is long and arduous and biting cold as I remember it. And once we find Sanctuary, I dare say we will have a fight on our hands to claim Mama Vekh. Best rest and recuperate now before the next leg of our journey.'

9

Once Gargaron had left him, Hawkmoth gazed ahead in deep thought. He could not see the mountain range before him for the rain clouds were thick and dark and clotted, yet he could sense it there. As the garetrain sped onwards he could not help but consider Sanctuary. It had been many a year since he had left there. But he recalled the day clearly enough. For he had been most unceremoniously booted out. Thrown out if he remembered rightly. Marched out across Sanctuary's forecourts by Sanctuary guardsmen, dressed in their robes of deep stone-blue, and in front of his Brothers, ridiculed and spat on, kicked and slapped, and warned that if he ever returned he would be strung up on the forecourt wall for all to see and he would have his belly cut and splayed and the alpine buzzards invited to peck his intestines out.

The memory still hurt. After all this time. But he would not have changed it. He had met Eve, and she had taught him love, true love. And he had truly lived life with her, where as his days residing behind the walls of Sanctuary, he had known naught but a void in his heart.

## PUKAYA'S BRIDGE

1

WHEN Melai awoke, she sat up shivering, realising the garetrain had stopped. There were a frost upon the windows, and inside the cabin a deep cold lingered, the like she had never known. Outside she saw frozen, barren marshland stretching off into deep fog.

Melai stood and flew across to the door and pushed it open. Its brass handle were so biting cold to the touch it made her flinch. She peered up and down the aisle. 'Gargaron?' she called. A cloudy vapour puffed from her mouth. 'Locke?' No-one called back. 'Does anyone hear me?'

It were silent. She vacated her cabin and moved down to third carriage, supposing Gargaron were down there asleep beside his Grimah—the sleeping berths were far too small for his size after all. She found carriage three vacant. No Razor, no Grimah, no Zebra. No-one.

'Gargaron,' she called again, growing ever more concerned. 'Can anyone hear me?'

Again no reply.

She turned and strode back through carriage two, rapping on cabin doors as she went, calling, 'Locke? Haitharath? Anyone?' She did the same through carriage one, her anxiety building. This were not a place in which she wished to be abandoned.

When she reached the mighty locomotive she found the driving compartment vacant but the engine still thrumming. She heard distant voices then. Holding her arms about herself for warmth, she moved to front of cockpit. She were too short to see out the forward windows unless she fluttered up onto the console. So she spread her wings, flew to console, perched herself and peered out.

She saw Gargaron, Locke, and Haitharath. They were poised at the edge of a mighty ravine where the rail line crossed a long stone bridge.

2

Outside, Melai stood by Gargaron overlooking the chasm. Wind whistled and moaned and the way forward were shrouded in a green fog. But Melai saw here their conundrum.

Part of the stone bridge had collapsed and its beam-braces gone down with it. Between where Melai now stood and the remaining span of standing bridge, there were a gulf that must've stretched up to a hundred feet. Without braces to support the railcourse, the beam thinned and eventually became nothing but a waving, wispy green tendril on the wind. When Hawkmoth returned to the driver's compartment and switched off the garetrain engine the beam sizzled and spat and faded slowly to nothing.

From here, their garetrain would go no further.

3

Far below, a misty river wound through rocky stacks where foaming rapids crashed and roared. The ravine walls were sheer, too steep to climb, and impossible to scale for those such as their steeds; and the opposite wall would have proven particularly challenging for any soul for it were curved inwards and climbing it would have potentially brought down the overhanging lip.

'An interesting dilemma we have before us,' Hawkmoth spoke, gazing out to where the bridge edge hung in the fog.

'Can you not summon some beast of the air?' Locke enquired of Hawkmoth. 'To lift us all across?'

Hawkmoth grinned. Perhaps at the childlike innocence of the request, a belief that he, Hawkmoth, could move mountains on a simple command. 'I'm afraid I cannot.'

Gargaron looked eastways and westways as the ravine ran. Steep chasm walls met his gaze in either direction. He fetched his map from his pack. Searching for an alternative crossing point. 'Perhaps we might walk either that way or this, and see if we do not come to another bridge,' he recommended. 'Or someplace where the cliffs are not so sheer.' On his map the ravine were marked by a small, meandering blue line. There were not even the bridge in front of him marked here. But instead one marked perhaps a hundred miles to their east. He glanced up at Hawkmoth. 'If this map be accurate, there be a second bridge in that direction.' He pointed.

'Aye, Choner's Crossing. And two day's travel we will have lost reaching it,' Hawkmoth warned.

Across the ravine, as the fog thinned out, they saw a tall statue of what Hawkmoth claimed were the depiction of Pukaya, the river nymph. And beyond her, the railcourse line-braces wound up into the lower foothills of the Bonewreckers; so close and yet so far. The sky roaming slopes of the mountains themselves were still hidden beyond cloud banks but here were already an altitude where trees were becoming scarce and the few that had settled amidst the shale and slate and stone looked thin and crooked and lacking in foliage.

In the end it were Melai who voiced a solution. 'Why do we not construct a skywalk from here to the standing portion of the bridge?'

The others looked at her. Gargaron were about to ask where she proposed to source materials for such a span when she pointed at garetrain.

'The carriages?' she asked. 'Can we not break them down and utilise their materials?'

4

Hawkmoth may not have had an ability to summon flying beasts of the mountains but his staff had a keen knack of being able to dismantle things neatly; or at least it could melt rivets and bolts and welds without too much disruption to the various panels that made up the garetrain's carriages.

Gargaron and Locke lugged as much as they could to ravine's edge and as they worked Locke broke into song; it helped pass time and helped distract his team from their labour.

'So, you do sing?' Gargaron said to him.

'Aye. And mostly without a lute.' His were songs of the sea, he told them, songs from days when workers would haul nets in from the surf, singing as they plucked spine fish from nets.

Gargaron smiled. No-one berated Locke for singing. Despite what he claimed about his singing prowess, he were not bad of voice, and his stirring tunes helped elevate group mood as the cold mountain air did its best to dent their morale.

5

Once they had dismantled much of carriages two and three, their next conundrum were how to go about suspending the various pieces above the span. Locke suggested sending his Zebra across. He pointed at the rope coiled and strung from rear of Razor's saddle. 'She could slither down slope with your rope in her jaws, and up pylon,' he explained.

'Does she know her knots?' Hawkmoth enquired.

'Knots? Are you pulling my leg? You ever seen a serpent tie knots?'

'Exactly my point then. How will your dear Zebra tie off the rope?' Hawkmoth wanted to know.

'Ah,' Locke said. 'I see. Fair point.'

The simpler solution, as Melai saw it, were to have herself fly the windy gulf between ravine's precarious edge to the remaining portion of bridge, carrying with her the length of rope. 'We shan't need to tie the rope to bridge,' she told them. 'If I simply loop it through and bring the end back here and we teather both ends of rope together, we'll have a crude pulley system.'

The others eyed her, impressed.

'That way we can simply use the rope to heft yourselves or materials across the span.'

They still looked at her, impressed.

'I may be of the forest,' said, 'but I do know some tricks of the outer world.'

So it were agreed upon. And Melai flew across, the wind buffeting her as she fed the rope through a segment of bridge. Here she took up rope's loose end and carried it back to her companions. One end were now pulled through the iron grill of the garetrain, and the other through the bridge. Once both ends were knotted to one another, a vast rope loop had been established.

Hawkmoth now prepared to climb across to the bridge, testing first the rope's integrity. Then, with his staff strung across his back, he sat on edge of ravine, and clasping the two lengths of rope he swung out over the drop and arm over arm pulled himself across to the bridge.

He were panting by the time he climbed up onto platform and sat there, his legs dangling over the ironwork, catching his breath.

The others watched him. He were almost lost from their view beyond the green mist; naught but a ghostly figure.

And they were naught but wraiths to him. He called back. 'I am ready here.'

Gargaron and Locke secured the first segment of dismantled carriage via metal hooks (hooks that Locke had fashioned from carriage scrap) to the rope. And once done, with Hawkmoth hauling rope hand over hand from his end, and Gargaron hauling hand over hand from their end, they pulleyed the steel panel across to bridge.

And so began construction of Melai's skywalk. It took much of the afternoon for the pieces to be lifted and pushed into place, for Hawkmoth to meld them together with either bespoke metal clamps, or by melting the edge of one segment to the other through superheated flame squirted from Lancsh, the demon face on his staff. The final touch were to add support struts beneath their skywalk, two held in place by bridge's stone pylon, and two more dug in against the rocky ravine wall, Hawkmoth hanging precariously firstly from the bridge pylon to weld the struts in place, and then hung from the ravine side of the footbridge to dig the strut into the cliff face. Then he imbued the entire construction with a strength enchantment.

When Hawkmoth tested the skywalk, he did so with the reclaimed rope tied about him.

Gargaron stood back from the cliff edge, his boots dug into the grass, gripping the rope's loose end, ready to haul in the sorcerer in case their skywalk should collapse. But Hawkmoth walked its length and their little footbridge held steadfast. Locke went next with no trouble at all, refusing to be tethered. When Gargaron walked it, tethered, it shook slightly, but ultimately he crossed without incident.

The concern now were for the larger brutes: Razor, Grimah and the serpent. And how their weight might affect the skywalk. Locke eliminated some of the problem when he shouted a command and his Zebra promptly slithered down the rock wall of the chasm, splashed around the rapids and then coiled her way up the furthest bridge pylon to the northwun side of ravine.

'If only we were all but serpents,' Gargaron commented.

6

Gargaron prepared Grimah for his crossing of the skywalk, tying the rope about his steed's broad chest. Once done he tugged it to test its grip. He then pushed his forehead against the horse's heads, trying to project a sense of calm, hoping his dear horse would not fret on its crossing. 'I go first. You follow. Be calm now, I have you tethered. If you fall we will catch you.'

He then turned and made his way back along the skywalk to the stone bridge, trailing the rope out behind him, the makeshift span beneath his feet groaning and creaking.

'You hear that?' he asked as he reached Hawkmoth and Locke waiting on the stone bridge.

'Hear what?' asked Locke.

'The skywalk protesting.'

'Heard nothing,' Locke claimed.

'I heard it,' came Melai's concerned voice from where she were perched on the stone rampart that ran along the side of the bridge.

'Thank you,' Gargaron said. 'Hawkmoth?'

'I take it the skywalk be merely settling,' the sorcerer said.

'Settling?'

'Aye.'

Gargaron sighed. 'I hope you be right, good sorcerer.' He turned now to face Grimah.

His steed stood back near ravine's southern edge. Behind him Razor paced back and forth. And behind Razor, the garetrain cut a ghostly image in the fog.

'Right then, shall we do this?' Gargaron asked Hawkmoth and Locke at his back. Both had gripped the ongoing length of rope—the idea were to combine their strength, along with that of Gargaron, and catch Grimah's fall should the steed's weight prove too much for their skywalk.

Yet as Gargaron were about to call Grimah across he felt the stone bridge shift beneath him. He slackened his grip on the rope and turned to study the expressions of his friends.

'Tell me you felt that?'

The looks on their faces told them all he needed to know.

'I felt it,' Melai said, standing now, as if the bridge were about to tumble out from beneath her.

What followed were a brief discussion about how their combined weight might very well end up compromising the bridge. 'We don't need the rest of it plummeting down into those rapids,' Gargaron said.

Once this were pointed out, Hawkmoth and Locke crossed to the far end, uncoiling the remainder of the rope as they went. Once on firm ground, they anchored the rope to Zebra. Melai stayed where she were.

7

Gargaron glanced around at Hawkmoth and Locke. 'You ready?' he called

Both spaced out along the far end of the rope, gripping it, digging their heels into dirt and thick grass. Zebra were backed up behind them, anchoring the line.

'Aye,' Hawkmoth called back.

Gargaron turned and faced Grimah once more where he stood over there on the southwun edge of the chasm. And gripping his segment of rope, coiling it around his fists, he said, 'Right then, Grimah. Let us get you across.'

Grimah, who had been standing there watching Gargaron, looked keen to get on with this. And needed no words of encouragement from Gargaron to set out.

Gargaron eyed his steed step out upon the skywalk, surprised that their narrow makeshift bridge held as well as it did. There were a slight sag beneath Grimah as he reached middle part of the crossing, though Gargaron, pulling in the slack of the rope as his steed advanced, were confident Grimah would make it the rest of the way without incident.

Though, as soon as he'd had that thought... things went sour.

8

Grimah took three further steps before a noise of protesting metal cut through the air like the squeal of a cat and the footbridge lurched. Grimah dug his hooves against the steel and Gargaron gripped the rope with white knuckles.

Gargaron heard Melai gasp and hold her breath.

For the moment, the skywalk held, albeit on a slight angle.

Gargaron did not relax his grip on the rope; behind him Hawkmoth and Locke dragged in the slack that he'd collected. 'Easy now,' Gargaron called gently to Grimah. 'Easy. Easy.' He eyed the footbridge, watching for even the slightest movement. But for the moment, it had steadied.

'Right then, Grimah,' he called. 'Come again now. Nice and slow. I have you.'

Grimah, trusting Gargaron, walked two further paces... and that's when the skywalk collapsed.

The strut against the ravine wall buckled; the other struts held for a sunflare but would not absorb the sudden weight. The skywalk bent sideways.

And took Grimah with it.

9

Gargaron braced himself, gripping the rope, and leaning back. But when the rope took the horse's weight, it hauled Gargaron over the lip of the bridge. Melai leapt into the air, half expecting to see Gargaron go plummeting to his death, following Grimah down onto those spiny stone stacks far below.

But when she reached him, she saw him hanging to life from the rope.

Forty feet below him Grimah dangled, squealing in pain, the rope coiled tight below the armpits of his forelegs, digging into his skin, constricting his ribs. And back there on the northwun side of the ravine, gripping the far end of the rope, Hawkmoth and Locke hefted and grunted and tried to keep their boots grounded against rock and gravel and grass.

Melai swooped down and braced herself against a builder's rung on the pylon, holding Gargaron with her tiny hands. 'Don't you fall!' she scolded him. 'Don't you dare fall?'

Hanging there, he looked across at her, smiling. 'I shan't... If I can help it.'

He looked around for something to grab onto. The bridge itself were over twenty feet above him; below him, the remains of their footbridge had smashed and disintegrated, strewn around rock stacks and rapids. Gargaron's hands, his knuckles white as bone, were beginning to slip. He considered the builder's rung, the rung put in place during construction in order to aid workers to scale pylon from ground up; but just looking at it he knew his fingers were too big to gain sufficient purchase; it would've been like a bog troll trying to get its huge fingers through the handle of a tiny tea cup.

'Pull!' Melai screeched. 'Hawkmoth, Locke, pull damn you, he's slipping.'

'Should have tied myself on,' Gargaron grunted, grimacing, the pain in his hands ratcheting up.

'Shoosh,' Melai told him. 'Shoosh now. Concentrate all your strength. I order you.'

Over on the southwun lip of the ravine, Razor, watching this, were in obvious distress, trotting back and forth, making noise, fretting.

Melai would not let Gargaron go, she had one arm wrapped around his sword belt, the other clasped to the small rung. She feared if she let him go, he'd fall, that even her tiny effort were helping to keep him there.

She gazed down at Grimah, who kicked occasionally; the rope were digging into his flesh, his forelegs jutting up awkwardly. Gargaron tried looking down. 'Be Grimah fine?' he asked.

'Yes.' But for how much longer Melai could not tell. She looked back in the direction of sorcerer and crabman, although she could not see them for the pylon and the bridge. She called out again. 'Haul them up!' she yelled. 'Gargaron may not hold much longer!'

There were a dilemma in giant's mind. If Locke, Hawkmoth and Zebra were having trouble pulling him and Grimah to safety, well, ought he to just let go, fall away to whatever fate awaited him at ravine's rocky base and have Grimah saved?

You have work here first.

Or... there were his knife. He could have Melai cut the rope beneath him.

No. How would he live with himself to have his steed plummet to death?

He grimaced, and grunted.

'Hold on,' Melai told him sternly. 'I do not care how much you're hurting. Do you think your Veleyal would have you giving up on her if your holding on meant her life? No, she would not. So hold on damn you.'

'Melai. I fear it be me or Grimah.'

Again Melai yelled to the others. 'What be wrong with you lot? Pull before you have death on your hands!'

Gargaron had a new thought then. One that might save him and Grimah both. Shimmy down the rope, climb passed Grimah, reach rope's end and survey how far the drop to the river from there might be. If it were not too great he might perhaps survive the fall. If he were unlucky he may break a leg on rocks. Maybe both legs if things did not entirely go his way. Perhaps some ribs. At worst his back. But surely the sorcerer would have some nifty remedies to put him back together.

He opened his mouth to ask Melai if she could catch sight of rope's end, to tell him if she could gauge how far the drop were to the river rapids when suddenly the rope yanked upwards five feet and the sudden jolt made Gargaron slip down the rope's length, friction burning his fingers, dragging off skin.

He had barely a moment to appreciate what were happening when again without warning, the rope hauled upwards. With all his remaining strength, Gargaron clung to it and he were drawn headfirst into the chin of the bridge, catching him beneath the overhang, the sound of the dragging rope zinging against edge of bridge harsh against his ears.

Gargaron kicked himself free of the overhang and were pulled up rough and unceremoniously onto the stone bridge. Still the rope did not stop, continuing to slide up and over the edge, beginning to fray now, almost smoking.

Up came Grimah snorting. Despite his burning fingers, Gargaron grabbed hold of his steed's front legs and put his weight behind his efforts, dragging horse up onto the bridge. Once Grimah were safely on the span, Gargaron dropped to his back and lay there panting.

10

Melai fluttered up and landed beside the giant. He gazed at her, looking relieved. She reached out and held him, her small face against his huge, rough, unshaven cheek. He put his enormous arms around her, like a father clasping a wee babe. 'Thank you, Melai,' he murmured. And then he laughed through sheer relief. 'I were about to fall. No doubt about it. You gave me the strength I needed.'

As Gargaron lay there catching his breath, Grimah bent low nuzzling his neck, leaving a thick wet slick of slobber across his neck and chin. That both he and horse were safe, Gargaron were too relieved to care, and simply laughed, rolled his face to the side and gently warded his steed's mouth from his neck. 'Grimah,' he said laughing. 'I am glad to see you too, but hurry and fetch yourself to yonder bank before this bridge should tumble beneath us.'

11

Attention turned now to the problem of getting Razor across. Though Gargaron felt his first duty were to bid sorcerer and crabman his thanks. As he and Melai made their way to the northwun side of the ravine he did just that.

'Thank us not,' Hawkmoth told him. 'It were the serpent who pulled you to safety.'

Gargaron eyed Zebra, where Locke were unhitching the rope from around its wide girth. Gargaron stepped over to the snake beast, and reached his large hand out to it. She let him scratch her scaly neck. 'Thank you, Zebra,' he said. 'I shall fetch you more of those apples you like once we are done here.'

'Oh? What be this about apples?' Locke asked with a suspicious grin. 'As far as I know, Zebra enjoys no such thing.'

Gargaron clapped the crabman on his shoulder. 'Mine and Zebra's little secret then.'

12

Hawkmoth strode along the stone bridge, communicating with Razor via hand signals.

'Are you talking with him?' Melai enquired intrigued, as she flew up behind him.

'Aye, and he is being stubborn,' came Hawkmoth's reply. 'I tell him to head for Choner's Crossing, to find us at Sanctuary. He will be two days catching us up if he leaves now. But the stubborn brute won't have it. He claims there be monsters on their way.'

Melai frowned. 'Monsters?' She looked back at the deserted trail as it wound up into cloudy mountain slopes.

'From which direction?' Gargaron asked.

'From over there,' Hawkmoth said pointing.

Behind Razor there were but the garetrain lingering like a spectre in the mists.

'Let me fly the rope to Razor then,' Melai said. 'I could tie it around him. He can leap from edge of the ravine. You lot can reel him up.'

'Aye, an action I have considered,' Hawkmoth said. 'Though my fear be that he may swing headlong into the pylon. I would not want him to snap a leg.'

'We must try,' Melai demanded, flying off and grabbing the rope from Locke.

Though as she did, Razor grew more and more skittish, bolting back and forth along the ravine's edge. And here Melai heard something... Some noise from beyond the garetrain. She stopped flying and now turned and gazed southways.

'Something comes,' she called out. 'I hear it now.'

'Are you certain?' Hawkmoth called back.

'Aye.'

Gargaron heard it now. A howling. A wailing. Something lost to the fog beyond the garetrain.

'Hawkmoth,' Gargaron called to the sorcerer. 'Do you hear it?'

Hawkmoth had reached the spot where their skywalk had dropped into ravine—between he and his faithful steed lay a hundred foot gulf. 'I do,' Hawkmoth murmured to himself. 'Though I know not what it be.'

13

From the mists trundled a colossal brute. A Hillcrusher, as Gargaron knew them. One of the docile giants from the distant southwun reaches. A being of such bulk and height, Gargaron himself might well have been but a mere boy.

Pursuing it were Harbingers. Dark Ones.

The Hillcrusher failed to notice the ravine. Perhaps blinded by fear, it surged toward it with complete ignorance. Taking much of the cloddy grass bank with it, it fell howling, scrabbling its limbs desperately in the air for something to grab on to.

It smashed headfirst against one of the rock pinnacles, crushing it, but another pinnacle punctured its torso, thumping through its ribs in an explosion of meat and blood.

Impaled there, it died painfully, pitifully, crying like a babe for its mother.

If not for the Dark Ones, Melai would have sent it an arrow of Dreamnight, to quicken its passing. But the Dark Ones veered toward Razor. Thus Melai let loose a volley of arrows to defend the steed and Hawkmoth signaled his horse into evasive action.

'Yes, call him away,' Melai asked. 'Give me a clear shot.'

'I am not calling him away,' Hawkmoth called back. 'I have ordered him to make a jump for the bridge.'

'Jump?' Melai asked. 'He can jump so far?'

'No,' was Hawkmoth's simple answer.

Razor were already galloping toward ravine's edge, the Dark Ones hot on his tail.

Melai flew out into the gulf above where their skywalk had hung and began firing her arrows at the Dark Ones. Her first few volleys did nothing, swallowed into the dark forms of her targets without effect. She then blew holes in the ground before them.

This slowed them but failed to stop them.

Hawkmoth conjured spells; there were too many Harbingers to take down individually using fire bursts from his staff, and summoning a concussive force to blow them all to bits would have curtailed Razor's charge. Thus from his staff came a wave that could've been naught but a simple sheet of water. It swept from Rashel's gaping mouth, flying rapidly across air between bridge and the far ground and struck just as the charging creatures leapt for the steed.

The Harbingers piled headfirst into this strange sheet of "water". It stopped them instantly, like a fly stuck to web. And afforded Razor crucial sunflares, galloping toward Ravine's edge, too fast now to pull away from the jump.

Hawkmoth knew Razor had not the leap in his legs to reach the bridge. Nor could his steed hope to fly without wings. With the Hillcrusher still wailing and dying down there beside river, its guts spilled out and streaming like worms down the rapids, Hawkmoth knelt and concentrated his mind.

Razor leapt before Hawkmoth had pulled his intended enchantment from his staff. And plummeted fast toward the stone pinnacles.

14

Hawkmoth did not flinch. And would not be distracted as he channeled his thoughts, waking Lancsh and Rashel both. Slowly over the ravine where the skywalk had stretched, where the original span of the bridge once sat, a glowing ball of light appeared and hovered there. And as Razor fell toward his death the aura of light grew rapidly.

Gargaron and Locke watched from the far side of ravine and Melai soared upwards and away from the anomaly. The aura were distant but Gargaron believed he saw a ghostly apparition of the old bridge, he believed he saw Razor, back there again upon the southwun side, galloping toward ravine's edge and galloping out across the phantom bridge, while another Razor continued falling toward rapids.

Then in a burst of light, as of something thrusting through a wall of fire, Razor appeared, suddenly racing across the bridge proper toward them. And the Razor plummeting toward rapids and rock became suddenly a wispy thing of nothingness, crashing about the stone stacks with all the solidness of river silt. And then like pipe smoke, what remained of it flurried about the rocks and vanished upon the air.

15

The Dark Ones broke free of their "web", and came scrambling after the steed. But here, just before he collapsed, Hawkmoth terminated his spell. The ghost bridge faded to nothing, the aura vanished with it and as the Dark Ones plummeted into the canyon, the green mists twirled and spiraled in their wake.

With that, Hawkmoth tipped face first onto bridge's surface. And from there, he did not move.

## TALES OF CHIANAY

1

SNOW fell amidst the mountain mists as they climbed their way through tracks of slate shale. It were not easy going, but Gargaron guessed the sorcerers who claimed the Bonewreckers as their own were a private lot and did not enjoy visitors; thus they had not bothered building roads nor even cared for maintaining these treacherous tracks—anything that would discourage outsiders were most likely welcome.

Withered old trees grew from sheer mountain slopes and layers of moss clung to stones. The colours up here were predominantly grey. And not since they had left the craggy foothills had Gargaron, Melai or Locke glimpsed the sky, for the skies, and mountain peaks for that matter, remained constantly choked and hidden beyond thick drifts of fog and cloud.

Hours after leaving the ravine, the stony path leveled out at a large clearing. Anywhere beyond fifty feet in any direction were swallowed by mists. And as Gargaron surveyed the area it were quickly evident that numerous paths sprouted off in any number of directions. There were also a thick drift of snow carpeting the ground here; in all likelihood the track to Sanctuary were hidden beneath.

Gargaron called for his company to halt. As both steeds pulled up, as Locke tugged back on his reins and brought the hissing Zebra to a standstill, Gargaron sighed. 'Melai? Once more, I beg of you.'

She were seated atop Grimah's shoulders, huddled beneath a thick blanket. And as she had done for much of this trek into the mountains, she shivered, and her teeth clattered. She did not wish to be away from the relative warmth of her blanket. But knew she had no choice.

She shrugged off her covers, fluttered her chilled wings and flew across to Razor's shoulders.

By this stage of their journey through these labyrinthine mountain passes Hawkmoth had remained in some sort of unconscious state. He'd been that way for almost five hours now. It seemed like days ago that Gargaron had fetched the sorcerer off the bridge and carried him to safe ground, where he had lain him down amidst the grass. There they had spent most of an hour attempting to rouse him. Talking to him, feeding him drips of tea and other tonics through his lips. When he failed to awaken, both Melai and Gargaron had tried their individual techniques at mind delving, hoping to discern what the matter were. Melai's method left the usual nick of blood in her subject's forehead but both'd had no luck in learning the nature of the sorcerer's condition.

Yet, it were Melai who realised she could "see" the route they were to take through the Bonewreckers.

'Our route?' Locke had asked her. 'You see it?'

'Yes. I believe so. From some part of Haitharath's mind. I believe it be the way to this Sanctuary.'

It were thus group decision to heap sorcerer up into Razor's saddle, belt him in lest he slide off, and continue their trek.

Now here they were at yet another junction, with Melai, as she had done at numerous junctions behind them, digging her thumb into Hawkmoth's forehead.

This time however there came no mental pictures.

She withdrew her thumb, looking puzzled. 'This time I see nothing. It is blank.'

Gargaron feared the worst. That the sorcerer had passed on. He pulled Grimah alongside Razor, slipped off his woolen glove, reached out and touched the sorcerer's cheek and neck. It were cold, but from climate not from death he discovered for when he ran his hand down collar of sorcerer's thick robes he felt a warmth on his chest.

'He has not perished,' Melai told him. 'But his mind be no longer there.'

2

Locke built a camp fire, lighting it with Gargaron's vial of Helfire. And Gargaron hefted Hawkmoth from his steed, laying him upon his own bedroll and layering him in blankets.

They sat around fire, huddled. Even Melai. None spoke. Each of them lost to his own thoughts. Each of them sullen and tired. Though you would not have known it with Locke. For he marveled at the quiet falling snow, and at the ever drifting fog banks. 'Beautiful,' he would murmur. 'So beautiful.'

Melai barely heard him. Her focus were on the fire. She could at last appreciate Gargaron's claims that a fire could be a central point for social gatherings, and a marvelous source of warmth. She would not have believed it had she not found herself in such a relentlessly chilled region of Godrik's Vale. She had never felt so bitterly cold in all her life. But this fire were chasing that infernal chill from her bones, as if someone were lovingly caressing it from her limbs.

Gargaron wondered what time of day it were. The last occasion they had experienced some semblance of night were those hours before they had trekked to Appleford Terminus. Their railcourse journey alone had taken much of the day. Dusk should have transpired when they were busy constructing their footbridge. Yet it had not. Now they were some hours since Hawkmoth had performed that strange incantation to have Razor saved, (a spell that perplexed them still) and there were yet no sign of night.

It ought be beyond midnight, thought Gargaron. Though the air be grey with fog, not black with night.

He gazed sleepily at Hawkmoth who slumbered still. And did not intend it, but as he gazed back into the flickering flame, his mind drifted and his eyes began to shut. He told himself to stay awake. Then his head lolled slowly forward... And into deep slumber he fell.

3

Gargaron opened his eyes. He found Grimah curled up behind him and Razor lying with his head beside Grimah's. Locke's serpent had coiled itself close to fire, and purred like a cat as it slept. Melai were snuggled in beneath Gargaron's jacket. He watched her a moment or two, searching for her breathing. He relaxed when he saw her chest slowly rise and fall.

He sat up slowly, careful not to wake Melai. From habit he attempted to tap into his Nightface. Of course nothing came of it. He sighed. He spotted Locke, sitting there, toking on the sorcerer's pipe. The crabman coughed, his face a grimace. He looked around at Gargaron, his eyes red as berries, his jaw hanging loose. He went to speak but for once the crabman were without words. He tipped his head at Gargaron and grinned lopsided. Drool ran down his lip.

Gargaron pulled blankets over Melai, then stood, stretching, looking about, searching the heavy cloud. Locke pointed to something above their heads, spoke some silent words, laughed almost soundlessly. As far as Gargaron saw, there were naught there but hefty fog.

Gargaron spotted Hawkmoth then. The sorcerer were some distance away, seated there in the mist with his back to campfire. Snow fell heavy. Gargaron felt relieved that the sorcerer were at last drawn from his unconscious state. But to sit over there in the cold, his back turned to his companions... it struck Gargaron as odd.

He started his way over. Slowly. He came up around Hawkmoth's right side, giving the sorcerer a berth of several yards. He were not certain why he did this. Perhaps he were anticipating a surprise that never came.

He found Hawkmoth awake and lucid, searching foggy skies. When Hawkmoth's eyes found him he said, 'Oh, giant, you are awake at last. Two sets of eyes be better than one. Come sit with me and help me search.'

Gargaron frowned, looking at the sorcerer, suspecting now that he too, like Locke, had smoked some weed and his mind lost to its enchantments. 'For what do we search?'

'A marker.'

'I do not follow,' Gargaron said, ringing the cold from his fingers.

Hawkmoth indicated the shrouded landscape before them. 'It has been many years since I have been this way, giant. In my youth I could negotiate these mountain passes in my sleep. However, the exact route to Sanctuary has since caused itself to fade somewhat from my memory. Yet, I do recall a particular crag, known by some as the Witch's Beak. On sunny days you will see it from the lowlands. It be a mountain peak that looks to have been melted by some dragon fire and drooped over. If I happen to spy it, I should know where we are positioned, and thus understand which direction we must head.'

Gargaron sat, crossing his legs, pulling his jacket up about his neck, searching through the mists, hoping to spy this crag. 'Might you have had two sets of eyes on it already,' Gargaron said, pointing back at Locke. 'You do know our good Sir is at your pipe?'

The sorcerer simply smiled. 'Aye. He claimed he had never smoked and were curious about it. Thus he requested a toke. I warned him that the weed I enjoy be not for the faint of heart. He insisted, saying he had never been more keen for new experiences than he has in these days of the Ruin. Perhaps it were lack of judgement and foresight on my part...' He shrugged. 'You must admit, he certainly looks to be enjoying himself. And who am I to deny folk their small pleasures in such times when we have all lost so much?'

Gargaron begrudged no-one their small pleasures. But he hated to think how they would fare if suddenly they were ambushed by Dark Ones, or some other such critter; they were essentially now one fighter short of a full compliment.

If he were not still distracted by events that had taken place hours earlier he may have questioned Hawkmoth's reasoning and emphasised his concerns so that it might not occur again in future. As it were, he sat there surveying the drifting cloud banks with his mind still back there on bridge... and to the question of exactly what had happened. One Razor had fallen to some sort of strange ghostly fate, while a second had galloped across a phantom bridge. That particular Razor, as far as he knew, lay over there beside Grimah. And Grimah, judging by how comfortable he appeared in the other horse's presence, did not seem to sense a difference.

Hawkmoth studied for a moment his chronochine. And gazed again about the fog banks. 'A stroke beyond midnight,' he declared.

Which means Cloudfyre's orbit be again out of sequence, thought Gargaron, as there were certainly sunlight beyond the fog, not darkness. And it felt more like midafternoon than middle of night.

'While we sit and search for this marker,' Gargaron said, 'do you mind if I ask what happened back there at Pukaya's bridge?'

Hawkmoth were silent for some time. Deep in thought. As if he had forgotten such an incident and were having some fight to recall it. In the end he said, 'Aye, I thought you'd want an explanation.'

'Well?' Gargaron breathed in of the chilled mountain air, waiting for the sorcerer to go on.

'You recall the story of my Eve? How I brought her back from death.'

'Aye, I do.'

'Well then, now you have witnessed my method.'

Gargaron were puzzled. 'You brought Razor through time?'

'Aye. As I did Eve.'

Gargaron were thoughtful. 'Yet, I do not follow. When you recounted the tale of your wife, you told me that you had brought her through in pieces.'

'I have somewhat perfected the process since, you understand. Still, the spell remains more a curse than gift.'

Gargaron eyed him, curious. 'How so?'

'Did I did not tell you how I came to learn the trick?'

'No, you did not.'

'Hmm. I thought I had. Well, would you like to hear it?'

'I would, aye.'

4

Hawkmoth stared distantly at the ground, taking his mind back. 'I gained knowledge of this curse from a witch I had set out to capture. A particularly venomous witch known as Chianay. I were part of a contingent of Sanctuary Brothers who rode after her for days, through swamp and mountain and desert. We on our steeds. She on her wingless Skink, Firebird. We arrived in a town called Ulchurch, through which she had passed some hours prior, and to which her Firebird had lain waste. We found naught but incinerated bodies and countless burnt cottages. Still, a handful of shell-shocked survivors told us what she had done and which way she had fled. Though the stories were conflicting. According to them she had fled in several directions. There were five of us. We decided to split and each trail a separate route. Should we find her, we would summon the others via war horns.

'My path lead to an abandoned monastery on the Blasted Hills. Razor were on some scent by then and so carefully I set about searching the ruins.

'To carve a long tale short, that's where I found her, cornered and hiding in one of the northern halls. She were injured I saw. Her Skink nowhere to be seen. Before she could muster any magic against me I bound her with Wood Feet, an incapacitation enchantment.

'She looked frightened as I dragged her back to Razor. And were much younger than me, I noticed. Strange, for we believed we had been chasing a far older witch. It were a youth enchantment, I convinced myself, for she wept and tried selling me a story that she were but a young girl stolen from her family and recruited into Vantasia against her will, used as a witch's pawn and sent out to fight unjust causes for which she had no fervor. She said her family would be tortured if she disobeyed her orders, and her family killed if she absconded, that she'd had no choice but to carry out her missions against sorcerer folk and their sympathisers.

'At first, I listened to her not. For resolute I were and ambitious and single minded in my youth. But while we travelled back to Sanctuary she offered to teach me, for her freedom, a special enchantment from a branch of magic I'd had only a vague awareness. Temporal magic. I were a far younger soul in those days. Blinded by youth and ambition. I once sought the glory of my brethren's seat of power in Sanctuary. I thought the gaining of knowledge, to have power over and above that of my Order, would help put me there. And so, in exchange for Chianay's liberty, I told her to teach me this magic.

'I had used it but once before I performed it on Eve. But have learnt its dark secrets in the days that have followed. What you saw earlier... well, I opened a doorway into the past and plucked Razor from his position seconds before he went down into ravine. At the same time I summoned the standing bridge from the days before its collapse, hoping no garetrain were running its course at that particular moment. For a few sunflares, three separate rivers of time were but one. Thus Razor completed his escape from the Harbingers and made ravine's crossing in relative safety.'

5

It were fascinating to Gargaron, that someone had such an ability. To corrupt time. To revert events that had already transpired. And once again, it took his thoughts all the way back to the day he'd been fishing on Buccuyashuck River, the day that first shockwave hit and for him this Ruin began.

Hawkmoth searched Gargaron's eyes. 'Something troubles you, giant.'

'Aye. Why must my family die when there are those such as yourself who might simply pluck them from a time before their demise?'

'I have answered this, giant, if you recall. Were I to pluck them from an old time stream and deliver them to this one, this blight would still have killed them. That seems to be the way of it. I can be no more blunt than that.'

'Could you not have delivered them to a time when this blight has been chased off?'

Hawkmoth shook his head. 'Sadly, no. I have but the ability to bring them only to the present, to me. Not cast them into the future. If there be a way then I know it not.'

Gargaron stared into the falling snow. I need accept they are gone, he told himself forlornly. It will eat me up if I do not. There were a lump in his throat as he pictured his daughter's dear smiling face. His thoughts took him to the elven woman he had lifted from Grimah's saddle. And to Locke's elven companion. 'Should one of us perish,' Gargaron said aloud, still staring into the falling snow, 'would you enact this strange magic and bring us back?'

'Depends on the manner of death. If it be a result of the blight, then no.' He eyed the giant. 'You must remember, giant, this temporal magic be a curse. Every time I use it, part of me turns to stone. Ultimately it will kill me.'

Gargaron looked at him. 'Stone?'

'Aye, giant. Stone.' Hawkmoth shuffled in his robes, lifting them up so that his ribs were exposed. A huge slab of his pale skin were blackened and course. He scratched his nails against it and tapped it to demonstrate what he meant. There were a sound as though his fingers interacted with rock. 'I let Chianay go, believing she had bestowed on me a great power. And I returned to Sanctuary feeling like I could conquer the world. I spoke nothing of my time with her to my Brothers. But I were soon to learn that certain field reports had been received telling of captured witches trading cursed magical lore for their freedom.

'I were young and arrogant. I refused to believe it. Yet when I tested my new skill on a deceased canine I discovered the truth of it. I managed to bring bits of the dog through time but for my efforts I were struck down with stoneskin. I were furious. I tracked down Chianay and demanded she reverse it. She laughed at me and said it could not be reversed, that it were mine now forever, a keepsake to help remind me of my greed and avarice.

'My rage would have had her killed that day. For I were quite bad tempered and irrational in my youth. But I were chased away by her sisters. For years I sought revenge but alas, time has a way of teaching you introspection. I began to look upon life in a new light. I had once believed I were untouchable, a kind of immortal for all the magical powers I possessed. But Chianay, for better or worse, opened my eyes. And in fear of my mortality I refrained from pursuing temporal lore.

'Many years later however, after meeting my dear Eve, I were convinced, with Eve's help, that I could utilise this magic for good. We stumbled upon a combination of herbs that helped dampen the stoneskin curse. Yet, it remains a spell I must use most sparingly. For obvious reasons.'

Gargaron looked at length at the sorcerer.

'I see the pain in your eyes, giant. But none of us can escape death. Those who live, die. It has always been this way.'

'Aye. But often, loved ones are plucked from us far before their time. That part of life be unfair.'

Hawkmoth nodded. 'Yes. You are right. That part of life be most unfair.'

6

They were interrupted by Locke's drawling, weed affected voice. 'Thaaat therrr look a bitty lark a haaag's beak t'meeee.'

Both Hawkmoth and Gargaron turned and saw the crabman's pointing fingers. Through a break in the fog banks, high up and far off, there appeared to hang a peculiar formation of stone. Black and glistening. Hawkmoth smiled. 'Aye, that be it, my good fellow. And with it comes my bearings.'

Hawkmoth hefted himself to his feet with what looked to Gargaron like a decent struggle. As if he had taken a knife to his ribs. Hawkmoth noticed Gargaron's look of concern. 'I be fine, giant,' he told him. 'I be fine. My stone skin shan't kill me today.'

## SHADOW GUARD

1

THE final push to Sanctuary took another two hours over rough, rocky terrain. The scenery did not change much, although as they drew higher into the mountains the trees and shrubs became ever smaller and more tortured looking and the covering of snow on ground grew thicker. Locke were mostly sobered by then, yet although he smiled, he spoke little. When Melai asked if he were alright he said simply, 'Aye, and enjoying this chilled air on my skin.'

Gargaron wondered if he were not suffering some interminable headache.

Not long after, Hawkmoth could be heard muttering, 'We should have encountered snow beasts by now.'

'What's that you say?' Gargaron asked.

'Snow beasts,' Hawkmoth said aloud. 'Up in these reaches of the Bonewreckers, they form a natural guard against any encroachers.'

'Snow beasts?' Melai asked.

'Aye. Monsters. Big shaggy brutes. They amble about on all fours and you'd probably think them docile to lay eye upon them. But they are quite adept on two legs, and can run like a gale. Their speciality is devouring creatures far bigger than themselves.'

The others looked about, searching the fog banks now with a no small amount of disquiet. Gargaron laughed without humour. 'You did not think to warn of us these creatures earlier, sorcerer?'

'Well, giant, I have had a lot on my plate.'

'As have we all,' Gargaron reminded him.

Hawkmoth conceded with a dip of his head. 'Yes. Quite right. Though, it be the Bewitched we ought be concerned about. More so than the Snow Beasts.'

'The Bewitched?' Gargaron asked.

'Aye, the Bewitched,' came Hawkmoth's reply as if obvious.

'And what pray tell be the Bewitched?'

'Witch puppets. Dolls. They walk taller than me and possess not a soul amongst their number. They are made of wood and metal and some peculiar material known as plasteec, a material devised and used only by the witches. They possess vacant eyes, and without flesh nor heart they feel no pain. They are fearsome creatures and I have often seen them match the might of Snow Beasts.'

Gargaron pulled Grimah to a halt. He glanced around at Melai and Locke before turning his gaze upon the sorcerer. 'So we face potential dangers up here in these Bonewreckers the likes of which far outnumber and outmuscle us,' he said. 'I might have felt a tad better about these tidings had you informed us before now.'

Hawkmoth looked scolded. 'Oh, perhaps I am not explaining myself. Snow Beasts are not our enemy, giant. I were master of beasts during my time at Sanctuary. I coexisted with them for close on a year. That were some time ago, of course, but they are long lived and I'd wager the older ones among their ranks, should they still live and be not perished like almost all else, would recognise me and hold off attacking us.'

Gargaron searched the fog banks. 'Well, let us hope upon that then, shall we.'

2

They pressed on and had been going for several minutes more when a wall of rock, shaped somewhat like an enormous frozen wave, loomed up out of the mists before them. Beyond it, like grey wraiths, mighty stone towers could be seen amidst the shifting fog banks; towers unlike Gargaron, Locke, and most certainly Melai, had ever laid eyes upon.

'We have arrived,' Hawkmoth said, pulling Razor to a halt. 'I give you all, Sanctuary.'

The place were not how Gargaron had imagined. He had expected a blocky mountain fort constructed of square stone bricks, with a large barricading wall, possibly even a moat. He'd imagined guard towers soaring to dizzying heights and numerous battlements packed with sorcerer folk ready to fight off would be intruders.

What he saw instead were beautiful bizarre, organic structures; structures more like that of rounded, elongated, domed cacti, structures that looked simply to have grown rather than put together by some builder's hand. And as tall as hills they were, soaring out into misty skies. Gargaron counted seven or eight of these rounded spires, not one of them with a flat edge. And there were no sign anywhere of sentries. No sign of sorcerer folk.

'Why do we hesitate?' Locke asked.

'Before we proceed, we need open the gate,' Hawkmoth explained.

'Gate?'

Hawkmoth pointed at the wall directly ahead of them with his staff. 'That be it.'

There were no gate there that any of them could see. Naught but a rounded series of grooves gouged out of the rock wall. 'I see no such thing,' Locke said.

'Oh, it be there, trust me,' Hawkmoth said. 'Though getting to it be the first trick.' He dismounted and told the others to wait where they were.

'Getting to it?' Gargaron asked.

'Aye,' Hawkmoth said. 'There be the small matter of slipping by the Shadow Guard.'

Gargaron sighed. 'Shadow Guard? Let me guess. Another undeclared beastie out for our blood.'

'Of a sort,' Hawkmoth admitted.

'Where be this Shadow Guard then?' Locke asked, his hand on his blow-flute.

Hawkmoth dismounted. 'Wait here,' were all he would say.

3

The rock wall stretched away into fog in both directions. Where it vanished, Gargaron could only guess—it were reasonable to assume that it enclosed the entire complex. Hawkmoth walked toward it. But he halted his stride some twenty yards from its base. What lay before his feet now were a curious covering of ice that looked much like a garden path trailing the passage of the wall in both directions. It were of a metallic hew. As though it may not have been ice after all, but some sort of metal.

'Sanctuary has been invaded but once in over a thousand years,' Hawkmoth declared. 'The marauding Hordes from the south stormed north during the summer solstice of Grenxk Seven-Two. In the days before the Snow Beasts made the Bonewreckers their home. Having stormed the crags they took Sanctuary by surprise. Those sorcerers who did not escape were captured and slaughtered. The lore and beliefs of my kind were abhorrent to the southland marauders. But this place be the spiritual home of Vhada, the great entity who sat by the fire to pass on Her knowledge to Ravenblack, sorcerer and first of our kind. It were he who retook Sanctuary. Once he had turned the marauders to stone and tossed them from the clifftops he used his divine powers to establish sentries that would never wane, never sleep, never stray from their post. The Shadow Guard.' Hawkmoth pointed. 'This trail you see here... be molt-metal. No outsider may cross it. Not by foot, not by wing, not by invisibility, nor by any enchantment.

'Now, here be my predicament. There were a time when I could come and go from this place as I pleased. But a long time banished I have been. I must test if my past standing as one of the Order still holds any sway.'

4

He had not told his companions this but beneath his cloak Hawkmoth gripped a small incendiary device. He hoped he would not need deploy it. It were something he had developed in secret long ago, a device meant for a day such as this, a day where he returned to Sanctuary uninvited, where the Shadow Guard were likely to target him as a traitor, an unwanted, an outsider. If they looked as though they might rise up and slay him, well, his device would not let them have their way so easily. He would detonate his grasket bomb the moment he suspected even a skerrick of animosity from his former protectors, skewing their attack and leaving him free to leap unscathed from danger.

At least, that were his plan.

'Right, best you all back up a tad,' he said, staff in one hand, grasket bomb in the other. 'Fifty feet ought be safe.'

'Why?'

'These sentries, if they deem me an intruder, they will carve me up. And you lot too if you are within their reach. And trust me, at this moment you are all well within piercing range.'

'Piercing range?' Locke asked with a curious smile.

'Aye. Shadow Guard steel cuts through any armour, any enchantment. So I urge you, back up.'

Gargaron and Locke obeyed, pulling their steeds around, drawing Razor with them, taking up position out of harm's way, Melai seated still upon Grimah's shoulders.

Happy with their distance, Hawkmoth took a breath. 'Right then,' he murmured to himself. 'Let us see how this goes.' And with that he stepped onto the pathway.

5

In a second, the Shadow Guard rose up about him.

Four of them. Sheer and smooth, and glistening like polished steel. Taller than he they were, by several feet. And there they loomed over him, like graveyard specters, lumps of tall metal approximating the humanoid form, faceless, without limbs, their heads bent down, regarding him.

He did not kneel. He were their master after all. Or at least he once were. He stood straight, shoulders back, chest out, hoping to portray an air of confidence and authority.

There were no words spoken. But the verdict were quick. The sentries swished aside, as if simply pushed by some wind. And seemed to form a guard through which Hawkmoth could pass. And beyond him, the circular grooves cut into Sanctuary's tall curved perimetre, now spread wide like ripples on a pond.

Watching, Gargaron were not certain if he were witnessing some optical illusion. For the "gate" seemed to vanish, the circular perforations widening and overlapping until eventually there were more perforation than actual physical structure. It were as though the wall were formed from some liquid material. That it flowed into itself with each successive ripple. And soon all that were left were a wide corridor through which Hawkmoth and his troupe could pass.

'Come now,' Hawkmoth called to his companions. 'Quickly.'

His friends hurried forward, filing through the formation of Shadow Guard, the horse hooves leaving behind short lasting imprints in the molt-metal.

Hawkmoth watched carefully, in case the invitation were open to him only. Yet the Guard allowed his friends to pass freely.

It were only once Hawkmoth's party were through the gate, that the sentries lowered back into their peculiar realm, like spectres slipping effortlessly into calm water, and were gone.

Hawkmoth followed his friends onto Santuary grounds and behind them the gate seemed to form up once more, solidify, ripple back into position until the view back beyond the wall were shut away.

## SANCTUARY

1

SANCTUARY'S grounds looked abandoned. Though there were definite signs of unrest; some attack had most certainly taken place here. At ground level, sections of the rounded organic towers had been blasted open, from outside in it appeared. Frozen bodies lay scattered hither and thither in the snow. Those of sorcerers, Hawkmoth observed, and of witches too. And there were the customary signature of witch mischief: decapitated sorcerer heads prod on tall pikes.

The corpses of other creatures lay here too, Gargaron noticed. Shaggy brutes of such immense proportions they were equal in bulk and height to that of Grimah and Razor. And they might have been camouflaged against the snow had they not been betrayed by dark frozen pools of yellow blood.

'Be these your Snow Beasts?' Gargaron asked, pulling Grimah up to study one lying in the snow.

'Sadly aye,' Hawkmoth said gazing down at it from his mount, wondering if he had once known this particular individual.

It disturbed Hawkmoth, seeing the deceased Snow Beasts and witnessing the general state of this place. He'd had his detractors here but he'd also had friends, Brothers, with whom he'd maintained a secret correspondence with all these years of his banishment. It pained him to think they were all likely deceased. And did not wish to look too closely at the decapitated heads mounted on spikes for fear he should recognise them.

'Let us all keep a keen sight,' he said. 'The witches have beaten us here. And I fear they have set their Bewitched upon the place. They may still be present, hidden, and watching.'

Gargaron had already withdrawn his great sword. And Melai her bow, and Locke his blow-flute.

'Where be Mama Vekh then?' Melai asked.

Hawkmoth drew in a large breath of chilly mountain air and when he exhaled, a huge flurry of vapour fogged about his face. He pointed. 'The Citadel at Sanctuary's centre. She were housed there. Granted she may since have been moved but it ought be the first place we search.'

'Right then,' Gargaron said. 'Let us find her, fetch her, and be away from here.'

2

They pushed forward slowly, the hooves of Razor and Grimah leaving deep prints in the snow, the belly of Zebra forming neat swishes. Sanctuary remained quiet. Eerie. And the mists persisted; they could see not one end of Sanctuary from the other. And the air chilled Gargaron to the bone. Why anyone would want to live out their days here he could not fathom. There were also a hideous smell on the air, the whiff of rot.

Soon however, there appeared from the grey mists a large dome shaped building. And with it a new image of Sanctuary as a whole formed in Gargaron's mind. If it were a clear day and he were suspended somehow directly above this complex, it may have looked to him like an upturned hand with fingers curled high into the air, and the citadel sitting somewhere on its palm like an enormous domed growth.

Gargaron heeled Grimah and took the lead, if only to hurry the others. 'Be not brash,' Hawkmoth called.

'Aye,' Gargaron replied, 'I hear you, but I also wish not to be snails. Snails get stepped on. Now let us move with some purpose.'

3

The Citadel were bordered by a snow laced garden bed from which grew thorny vines that had woven their ropey branches over much of the outside surface. High bevelled windows had begun to gather with drifts of snow. So had many of the intertwining vines. A tall rounded opening in the Citadel's eastwun wall whirled with mist. Beyond, there were relative darkness. And no interior detail to be glimpsed from Gargaron's vantage point.

Gargaron had planned to lead Grimah straight in, but he halted now, sensing some corruption inside. Melai, huddled there beneath cloak and shawl, gazing silently forward as Hawkmoth drew Razor up on Grimah's left flank, and Locke, his serpent on Grimah's right.

None spoke for a time. Not until Melai asked, 'Sorcerer, do you sense witches within?'

Hawkmoth answered, 'I do, aye.'

Again silence. Gargaron readjusted his grip on his great sword. Hawkmoth pulled his stone casket from his side-pack.

The silence were broken suddenly by Locke who yelled, 'Hey! Slimy toad lovers! Come out and face us!'

Melai and Hawkmoth both started, and Gargaron winced. They all looked around at the crabman seated there upon his serpent; even Grimah's two heads regarded the crabman with a look of unease.

Locke noticed them all regarding him. 'What? Too insulting?'

'Ah, if anything, too loud,' Gargaron reported.

Locke gave him a look as if to suggest that were the idea.

'Might be best to keep your voice to yourself for the time being,' Hawkmoth advised.

Locke shrugged.

Hawkmoth opened his stone casket and, as he had done outside the Appleford terminus, he released his little insect spies. Off they flew to do their spying.

Much time went by. And they did not return.

'Something be amiss here,' Hawkmoth said. 'Something has incapacitated them.'

'Right then,' Locke spoke up, hefting his blow-flute into his hand. 'So something indeed awaits us within.'

Melai shrugged off her shawl and leapt for the air.

'Melai,' Gargaron asked, 'what be on your mind?'

She hovered there, her beating wings a blur, falling snow flurrying about them. She pointed. 'Those there windows. I might fly up and peer in. See what I can see.' Before anyone could object she were off, circling upwards, flying toward Citadel's domed roof.

They all watched her rise away from them; Hawkmoth taking his staff into hand as she went, as if he expected Melai's excursion to stimulate some attack from within. But as Melai lit upon the roof none came.

They watched as she knelt there, her small hands against the rim of one window. She gazed in, her small green nose pressed against the glass pane, her wings beating slowly, keeping her buoyant.

When she were satisfied she flew back to them, landing upon Grimah. 'There be folk inside,' she reported. 'But none alive.'

Gargaron looked across at Hawkmoth. 'What detains your flies then?'

Hawkmoth were ruminating on this. 'One thing comes to mind. The air within may have been poisoned. This be one of Citadel's defences against invaders.'

'Poisoned air?' Gargaron queried. 'Another aspect of this place you did not warm us of.' He were beginning to think the sorcerer had suffered more than stoneskin after saving Razor from death. He had lost parts of his mind.

'It has been many a year since I were here, giant. Forgive me if some aspects of it have slipped my thoughts.' Hawkmoth aimed his staff up at the high Citadel windows. From Rashel's mouth came a narrow beam of searing blue light. First assaulting one window before the next.

Gargaron waited for both to shatter in an explosion of glass. Yet, no such thing transpired. Each pane instead seemed to melt. And with a tug on each light beam, like a fisherman pulling trout, Hawkmoth hauled the warped slabs of glass from their housing. He lifted them quietly into the beds of snow beside the building. There they lay, melted lumps of glass slag.

'Wait here,' Hawkmoth told his friends and nudged Razor forward. As Citadel's large rounded opening loomed he aimed his staff into the darkened interior. He spoke a short incantation, and without warning, a cyclonic gale roared from the mouth of Lancsh. Moments later, from Citadel's roof, twin blasts of air squealed out into the cloudy atmosphere, gushing away with tremendous ferocity any and all toxic gases.

Hawkmoth waited some moments before he waved his companions on. With some trepidation (or anticipation, on Locke's part) they pushed forward.

4

The Citadel's interior were spacious. A vast rounded hall lay at its centre with a covered walkway running around its rim. Tall columns stood, sporting curling glass lanterns. None were currently lit. Illumination came from the diffuse grey light pushing in through the window recesses in the citadel's roof; through these recesses fresh snow now fell. Spaced around the edge of the walkway were chambers shaped like enormous hollowed eggs (as if creatures of great size had once hatched from them).

As Melai had reported, the place were scattered with the dead. Witches and sorcerers both, fallen in battle along with their animal companions and protectors: wolves of the sorcerers, harpies of the witches. No signs yet of the Bewitched, Hawkmoth saw, if at all they had been here.

Hawkmoth took Razor to Citadel's centre. Here there stood a high statue. He pulled Razor to a standstill and bowed his head. He pressed his fingers into his forehead and then made a gesture with the same fingers, as if offering his mind to it.

'Who be the beauty then?' Locke asked, indicating the statue.

Hawkmoth briefly explained. 'The entity, Vhada.' Her mighty wings were outstretched, and the world of Cloudfyre held within her palm. The figure beside her were a depiction of Ravenblack, Hawkmoth told them. Bearded and cloaked and stern of face, holding aloft his Wolven staff, with Thorn, great wolf of the stars, depicted there at his side, with fangs as long as sabers.

If they had been here on a more casual visit, Gargaron may have questioned why the sorcerer order, a male bastion founded by this Ravenblack, had been essentially given birth to by a female entity. If Hawkmoth cared to tell him, Gargaron may have been surprised to learn that the witches called the same entity their founding mother, though to them her name were Vudha.

Beyond the statue lay something on the floor that did not seem to fit with the rest of the Citadels' aesthetic. An object Gargaron took for an enormous clouded slab of glass.

Hawkmoth and his companions approached it now.

Gargaron noticed that it were surrounded by yet another circle of metallic Shadow Guard. Each of them stood as still as stone. Though something were amiss. A number of them were splintered, shredded, knocked over at awkward angles like old bent nails. And parts of them had been blown out across the cold stone floor.

Hawkmoth told his companions to stay back. Yet, as he dismounted Razor and stepped forward with his staff gripped in both fists, none of the Shadow Guard moved. It were as though whatever enchantment had given them life in days before this one, had been lifted.

Cautiously, Gargaron, Melai and Locke dismounted and trailed Hawkmoth.

They reached the glass block, its edges smooth and rounded. Hawkmoth could see her now. Within the mighty glass ampoule in which she had been interred for nigh on two hundred years were the daughter of Vudha herself: Mama Vekh.

5

Hawkmoth knelt to inspect her. Gargaron, Melai, Locke all crowded around.

'Here lies witch goddess, Mama Vekh,' Hawkmoth announced, bowing his head. Though he wasted little time on ceremony and set himself to work extracting her from her prison. He prod his staff upon the glass slab and he murmured, 'Riliss Ma Veekus frumss dees conteensmahnt.'

The outer portion of the giant ampoule remained a solid mass while inside it turned to liquid. Before the others had time to understand what were happening, the wet, wrinkled body of Mama Vekh were suddenly birthed from one end of the giant ampoule. Out onto the floor she splashed.

Gargaron and Melai took a step backwards. Locke though took a step forwards, hoping for a better view, his crab feet covered in birth slime.

Hawkmoth knelt to receive her, his robes spread upon the floor around him, soaking up the rank water. He took her and lay her against his forearm.

'By Thronir,' Gargaron murmured. 'Such a pitiful looking thing I have never seen.'

'Does she live?' Locke asked eagerly.

'I do not know,' Hawkmoth said. 'The Ampoule of Tarr be meant to sustain her. Yet...'

Her tiny wrinkled body lay there against his arm. She were no bigger than Melai, though she looked smaller for her muscles had wasted. She did not move. Her face were pale and her lips wrinkled and her eyes half open.

'She does not breathe,' Locke reported.

'Aye,' Hawkmoth said. 'That much we can see ourselves.'

Water and slime spilled from her mouth, dribbled down her neck. Gargaron reached forward and touched her forehead. He shut his eyes. When he removed his palm it were wet. He shook his head. 'She has not lived for many a year, I feel.'

Hawkmoth tugged thoughtfully at his beard.

'Were she alive when your lot kidnapped her?' Melai asked the sorcerer.

Hawkmoth turned to eye the nymph, pondering the sound of accusation in her voice. 'Aye.'

'Do the witches know she has perished?'

He sighed. 'If they have caused this mess here then I say they have.' He looked about. 'Although it puzzles me. Why they did not retrieve her.'

None had answer for him. Nor had he answer for himself. Perhaps his Brothers had made a pitched battle here and driven the witches off before such an act could take place. Perhaps surviving sorcerers had taken the fight back to Vantasia and were yet to return here either victorious or to lick their wounds in defeat.

6

Hawkmoth returned to Razor. He unhitched two things from the saddle: a leather sling, and a rough blanket. He positioned the sling so that it hung down Razor's flank. Then he spread blanket across floor at Mama Vekh's side and gently he lifted her wet and wrinkled body onto it. Slowly then, as if preparing her for some mummified after life, he wrapped her.

Once done, he carried her back to his steed and rest her within the sling. A set of straps held her snug in place. Just as he were finishing, there came a startling noise from across the hall.

Hawkmoth's company whirled about, weapons at the ready. They saw to their surprise one of the scattered bodies lift its head from the cold stone floor, as if it were some Undead stirred by their activity.

In a weak rasping voice, it spoke. 'Ah, I sssee you. Hawkmoth Lifegiver, I ssseeee you.'

Hawkmoth turned and stared at the talking corpse. 'Who speaks?' he asked sternly.

'Why, you do not recognise me?'

Hawkmoth drew a little closer. 'No.'

'Lord Skitecrow, I be.'

Hawkmoth walked cautiously toward him. Melai had a Crink arrow aimed directly at the thing's head; the moment it tried something it would find its face crumpled inwards. Hawkmoth reached the corpse and gazed down at it, studying it for several moments, trying to discern this old withered ghoul-like soul from the powerful sorcerer he once knew. 'Skitecrow?'

'Lord Skitecrow to you,' it rasped.

'Oh, I think not. You have not been my Lord since the day you ordered my banishment. Though I am pleased to say your face does not look as smug as it did the last time I saw it.'

'Why have you returned after all these years, Hawkmoth, witch lover?'

'I come for Mama Vekh.'

This Skitecrow spluttered, spit flying up and landing on his cheek. 'Mama Vekh? Ha, my suspicions have rung true! You return to us a witch's thrall!'

Hawkmoth smiled. 'If I return here of my own free will, then I do not see how I could be named a witch's thrall.'

'Then why do you come?'

'I have just told you. To fetch Mama Vekh and to deliver her back to Vantasia.'

'You fool.'

'Fool?' Hawkmoth laughed. 'Ha, you call me fool? You be fool for keeping her. You be fool for not sending her back years before this day. Now look at you. You reap what you have sewn, Skitecrow. This silly pig-ignorant war with the witches has finally seen the end of Sanctuary. And the end of yourself, I see. This be the legacy you leave, this will be how you shall be remembered, I will see to it. Now, time for me to return Mama Vekh and put an end to this mess that you have helped perpetuate.'

'By conceding, damn you?'

'Conceding?' Hawkmoth asked. 'Is that what you believe? And to think I actually once held you up as the wisest of us all. Well, alas, wise you are not. In the end, you are just another sad clown. Look around you, all is lost. The witches have finally had their way with this place. With all the Vale too as far as I have ascertained. Because of your blind arrogance and pride they have lain waste to our world with their accursed boom weapons, doing untold damage, killing untold millions. After all this time, after all these countless years, after all those pointless deaths, this is what it has come to. And for what?'

The emaciated, dying figure laughed then. But weakness overcame him quickly and he fell silent. For a while he lay there simply breathing, as if that were all that were left to him, his weakened, dying breath. But it appeared he had some final words yet to speak. 'Hawkmoth. I... I need tell y-you something. You m-must listen carefully to me. For cir-circumstances be... be not what you might th-think.'

'I have heard enough. I shall leave you here to your death.'

'Listen to me, this one last time.'

'I know well your schemes, Skitecrow. You wish to stall me. Nothing more. Are my Brothers due back soon to arrest me?'

Skitecrow winced, swallowed. 'Shut up and listen. In your absence, we... we excavated the ancient city of Ghartst.'

Hawkmoth sighed, done now with this conversation. 'This I know.'

Skitecrow grunted weakly. 'So, you were maintaining contact with Brothers on the inside.'

'Aye, and their names will come with me to my grave. Are we done here?'

'No. Did you not hear what I said? We excavated Ghartst.'

'Yes. What of it?'

'We found something most, most strange. A legend. A portent. A warning. Call it what you will.'

Hawkmoth looked around. He knew Skitecrow were trying to delay him. But for what? Were sorcerers on their way? To capture and incarcerate him?

'They were buried below ground. In deep secret vaults. Stone tablets we believe that... that predate even that of the Ghartst civilisation. Back to Cloudfyre's empires of Men.'

Hawkmoth gazed down at him. 'Why do you tell me this?'

'I... I urge you to see them for yourself.'

'Why would I waste my time?'

This Skitecrow laughed again weakly and coughed, green phlegm dribbling from his cracked, wrinkled lips. 'What lay waste to Sanctuary were not witches. What lay waste to us were spirits of Cloudfyre. And return they will.'

Hawkmoth looked puzzled. 'Spirits of Cloudfyre? What, by Ravenblack, are you talking about?'

'I thought I had read and studied all there were on Cloudfyre's long history. But rarely do you find anything describing life beyond ten thousand years. And here they were, tablets inscribed in a language I have seen only once before. The language of Ghartst.' Skitecrow, summoning the last of his strength, went on. 'This is what they told us: every ten thousand years Cloudfyre's children throw out the old world. Killing every living thing, be that plant, animal or spirit. We are here on the precipice of the last great age of this Epoch. You shall see, the witches are suffering as much as we.'

'These old tablets tell of this, do they?' Hawkmoth asked, with a skeptical grin. This were some trap. He felt it more than ever now. The witches were cunning. The real Skitecrow were likely a carcass in a ditch somewhere by now, for all he knew. And this thing on the floor, some imposter.

'They tell it, aye.'

'And where be these mysterious tablets then?' Gargaron asked.

'In our Halls of Yore. Placed on my desk.'

'Halls of Yore?' Hawkmoth laughed. 'How might I access such a place? I were removed from this institution before given access to the Great Hall.'

'All... all enchantments are lifted now.'

'Do not take me for an idiot, Skitecrow. Those enchantments are never lifted. Even I know this. For they are governed by Vhada's spirit.'

Skitecrow coughed and lay there catching his breath. 'Vhada's spirit has gone. She has left us. Chased off by Cloudfyre's children. The Great Halls are thrust open, vulnerable now to exploitation and violation. But it matters not anymore for there be naught left to commit such heinous acts. This world be dead.'

Hawkmoth smiled. 'Here be some trap to lure me into the confines of Sanctuary, to imprison me like Mama Vekh, for supposed propaganda crimes. I'm aware of the bounty you placed on me, Lord Skitecrow. But I assure you, I have given no falsehoods about this place. I ignore the mistreatment I experienced from your like and defend this place at every argument I encounter. I still have friends here after all. Why would I jeapardise their safety and welfare?'

The figure on the floor lay there, head down, weak, tired eyes gazing up at Hawkmoth. 'Your friends are perished. And there be no trap... please, believe me.' His voice were mostly a whisper now. 'The bounty be waived. Ra-return the Hag if that be your plan... but I implore you... read the tablets...'

'To what end?'

Though Skitecrow would speak no more. His last breath crawled from him, a green vapour in the form of a barrow gremlin dragging itself from his cracked and gaping mouth. It resembled something climbing from a grave pit, small clawed fingers pulling itself from within. After it had emerged, it hesitated and looked about, momentarily watching Hawkmoth with its large gloomy eyes before scurrying away. After a dozen feet, while still scurrying, it dissipated upon the air like mist on a plucky wind.

7

Outside they stood, Hawkmoth, Gargaron, Melai, Locke, the snow falling heavier now. Mama Vekh were wrapped in her bundle, strapped to the side of Razor, her body concealed, her dignity maintained.

'Who was he?' Melai asked.

'If it were he and not some witch manifestation, then he were an old mentor.' Hawkmoth looked distractedly off toward the westwun end of Sanctuary where the towers looked like wraiths amidst the mists. 'Though not one favoured by myself. He has been Lord and Supreme Brother of Sanctuary for too many years, and drunk by his position of power.'

'What were that grub that squirmed from his face?' Locke enquired.

'His totem,' Hawkmoth answered, though still his eyes gazed westways. 'A life force some sorcerers attain which can keep them alive for a time beyond death.'

Gargaron kept his eye on Hawkmoth, knowing the sorcerer were caught in two minds about something. 'What eats at your thoughts, sorcerer?' he asked. 'We have what we came for. Let us leave this place.'

'I ponder the Halls of Yore.'

'And these stone tablets?' Gargaron asked.

'The stone tablets do not exist, giant. If they did, my contacts here would have informed me of such a find from their excavating.'

'Then let us leave this place behind,' Gargaron insisted. 'Strike out for Vantasia and end the Ruin now.'

'We shall,' Hawkmoth told him, 'nonetheless I intend to conduct a small detour in the Halls of Yore first.'

The others were confused. 'But you said it yourself,' Melai said, 'these tablets do not exist.'

'It be not the tablets I seek, dear Melai,' he told her. 'The Halls of Yore are home to some of sorcery's most formidable weapons. There are things there that will aid us in our quest. Particularly if the witches prove testy, or take exception to Mama Vekh's demise.'

'Well, let us have at it then,' Locke said. 'My claws are freezing over sitting here discussing it.'

'Aye, have at it we will,' Hawkmoth said, pulling Razor about amidst the quiet snowfall. 'Though, bear this in mind. My old lord and master were not a soul in whom I placed much trust. For many a year he has been out to get me so this could be his final ploy to do me in. Thus, we must tread carefully.'

## THE SWARM

1

THEY made their way swiftly toward the westwun parts of Sanctuary, Razor and Grimah galloping quietly through deepening snow, with Zebra slithering swiftly, leaving deep zig-zagging trails in her path, her tongue forever flicking, tasting the air. As Hawkmoth lead them toward one of the bending towers they slowed. Parts of its lower walls had been blown inwards, as if some monstrous concussive blast had torn into it.

'Gargaron,' Hawkmoth called out. 'Locke. Would you stand guard here?' He tossed Gargaron a war horn. 'Blow this if you should spot anything.'

Gargaron caught it one handed. Shaped like the head of an eel it were. 'Like what?'

'Witches. Sorcerers. I do not know. But if Skitecrow were leading me here to stall us, then he may have some surprise in store. Oh, and care little should you not hear the horn sound; it be tuned to me specifically. No point alerting enemy to our whereabouts if we do not desire it.'

'How long do you expect to be?' Locke enquired.

'No more than ten ticks of the clock,' Hawkmoth replied. 'Enough time to gather up whatever I am fortunate enough to find.' He dismounted and began unhitching the bundle of Mama Vekh from Razor's flank.

'What are you doing?' Gargaron asked him.

'Take her. If there be some trap I walk into then I would do well not having her with me.'

It were Locke who offered his serpent. 'Grimah hefts giant and nymph while my steed has ample room.'

'Very well,' Hawkmoth said, hitching the witch mother to serpent's saddle. As he remounted Razor he said, 'Melai, for you a task if you wish it.'

'Name it,' she said.

'I need you to prep the westwun gate for our departure.'

She frowned. 'So I would if I knew its procedure.'

Hawkmoth pulled Razor alongside Grimah, extending his arm, touching Melai's forehead with his fingers; his hand almost engulfed her entire head. Moments passed, mere moments, but for Melai it felt like an entire sweep of the clock. When Hawkmoth withdrew his touch, Melai looked up at him, blinking, her eyes somewhat glazed. She looked then out across the snowy grounds toward yet another tower lingering in the gloom. It were situated on Sanctuary's most westwun point. 'That one there is it?'

Hawkmoth nodded.

'I shall see what can be done.' She spread her wings, leapt away and were gone into foggy sky.

Gargaron watched her flight path, anxious. He felt Hawkmoth's hand on his shoulder. 'Rest easy, giant,' he urged. 'She be well. We shall join her soon enough.'

Hawkmoth turned now for the rounded doorway at base of tower. Before he disappeared into tower's darkened belly he turned and spoke to crabman and giant. 'If I am not returned by ten clicks of the clock, do not come for me. The Hall of Yore be a most venomous place for even sorcerers, let alone those with no knowledge of magical lore. Instead, ride to Melai. The tallest point of that tower be the westwun gate. Melai will instruct you on what need be done to get yourselves away from here. Head southways'n'west. Vantasia you shall find inside Dark Wood beyond the southways roads. Return Mama Vekh and pray the witches halt their campaign. My wishes go with you.'

'And ours with you,' Gargaron told him.

With that, Hawkmoth were gone.

2

It had been some years since Hawkmoth had been to Sanctuary, let alone this tower. But he still knew the way to Lord Skitecrow's offices. Six levels up, ninth set of chambers along the corridor. He had been invited here a handful of times during his training. He and his Brothers. Through the enchanted Elder Portal and on into the Halls of Yore to learn theory and lore. The Elder Portal though were enchanted with death charms, death charms that could see an intruder or trespasser, were he or she to pass through it, literally disintegrate. Hawkmoth and his Brothers had been witness to its bite. In order to demonstrate its charms, his superiors had tossed a mountain yak through it. Hawkmoth and his Brothers had watched the animal's limbs drop free, and its head slough from its shoulders, and blood gush forth from rents in skin and flesh, and its organs detach and drop through holes in its torso.

Only senior members of Sanctuary, those like that of Skitecrow, knew how to disengage the enchantments.

Hawkmoth dismounted Razor as he entered the tower. And ordered Razor to stay. He would not risk his steed in testing if the death enchantments still held. The Elder Portal were just before him now. A tall ugly archway that once writhed and shifted in tentacles and fingers as though it were living. Now it did no such thing and as Hawkmoth prod Rashel toward it and uttered, 'showus mee yoos deeth charms,' nothing of note transpired.

He regarded it. Then took a deep breath and strode beneath the arch. And he were still intact once he were through. 'So, Skitecrow were speaking some truth for once,' he muttered.

He called on Razor who clip-clopped to his side and Hawkmoth mounted up and took his steed up sweeping staircase.

On the sixth level Hawkmoth dismounted and gripped his staff, alert for possible strikes by hidden witch raiders or malcontent sorcerers.

The place rang empty however, nothing but the howl of the mountain gales and biting cold snow and air flurrying through shattered glass windows. (On a clear day, these wondows bragged grand vistas of surrounding crags, but Hawkmoth could not see them that day, not with all the clouds.)

He were outside Skitecrow's office here. He took up his staff and stepped through the doorway. The office were deserted. Though a mess it were. The famed Orrery were broken and pulled down across the floor. Ancient tomes had been hauled from book shelves and strewn about. Furniture were upturned and torn. Snow continued to flurry through the widnows. Hawkmoth stepped up to Lord Skitecrow's wooden desk. He looked about. As he had suspected, no matter where he searched, there were no sign of these alleged Ghartst Tablets. 'I were right to mistrust you,' Hawkmoth said as if his old Lord were seated smugly at desk.

He set to work pulling open wardrobes, drawers, old chests. Fetching out phantom scrolls and arcane gadgets, medicines, rummaging through weapon's hordes. Hawkmoth loaded as much as his side-pack would carry before fetching himself back to Razor. He thought he might search the offices of other senior Brothers, minding out for further death enchantments, when he heard the strange sounds from beyond the tower.

They were sounds so faint at first they might have been naught but some moan of the wind. But they persisted. The sounds of some disturbance coming from beyond Sanctuary itself. A screech here. A cry there. A moan. He strode with haste to nearest window and peered out.

At first he saw naught but snowy grounds stretching out into gloom toward Sanctuary's curved perimetre wall. Anything beyond the complex were but lost to the mists. Yet, he caught glimpses of faint shadows moving about the fog banks.

'What be this?' he murmured to himself, leaning closer to window.

And what he saw put a chill through his bones so cold that for a few moments he were but stuck rigid to the spot.

Pale-skinned figures. Unsettling entities with plasteec limbs that held neither blood nor feeling. Beings with long matted locks of hair, and plasteec alabaster faces, dark soulless eyes, fixed unmoving lips consisting of bare grubby plasteec, and their clothes consisting of torn dresses and skirts. They did not laugh nor smile, they did not freeze yet held no warmth. They existed only for their masters and hated as their masters hated.

The Bewitched.

3

It had been many a year since Hawkmoth had set his eyes upon these damned creatures and he did so now with a sense of dread fascination.

He pulled out his spyglass and watched them come. They moved like ghosts. One moment here, the next there. And every voice in his mind screamed at him to flee the tower, to put Sanctuary with haste at his back. But he hesitated, waiting... needing to see this. For, somehow, in the days and hours before Hawkmoth and his company had arrived in the Bonewreckers, the witches had executed a vicious attack upon Sanctuary, infiltrating the stronghold without somehow suffering the wrath of the Shadow Guard. Signs showed they had stormed the complex in a frenzied attack, evidently catching the sorcerers off guard. And judging by the amount of frozen bodies beneath the snow, the sorcerers had suffered enormous casualties. A counter attack had obviously taken place after that, the sorcerers having rallied, no doubt gathering their wolves, perhaps their ranks even strengthened by Snow Beasts, and the witches slaughtered or chased off. But one question still intrigued Hawkmoth above all others: how had the witches found passage into the complex?

Thus it were here Hawkmoth witnessed it.

Vast numbers of Bewitched bore down on Sanctuary. The Shadow Guard rose up from their dens to meet them and in an instant, their far reaching spikes shot forth, skewering the dolls through chest and belly, neck and limb. Hawkmoth knew that it would not matter if the Bewitched could feel no pain for the spike of a Shadow Guard could remove limbs, could turn a being to ice, or to flame, or to dust.

But none of that happened. Despite being punctured and penetrated and stabbed, the Bewitched were not rendered to fire nor ice nor dust, they were not dismembered nor torn apart. Instead they advanced, slowly but surely, a wall of moving pale skin with their vacant, staring eyes, their long grubby fingers void of weapons. And as they bore down on the Shadow Guard, a hundred swords piercing them at each moment, a curious thing took place.

The dolls appeared to bewitch them.

The attack of Shadow Guard were suddenly without potency, without speed, as if an extreme fatigue had gripped them, as if they were but ensnared in some temporal trap, where time for them had slowed. It did not affect the dolls; in their ghostly ethereal way they pushed on through the Guard like young women dancing amidst beds of flowers, flitting, shifting, like wraiths. And then as they reached the wave wall, jerking like insects, they began clambering over the top, dropping down into Sanctuary's grounds.

At the sound of his blaring warhorn somewhere below, Hawkmoth finally broke from his reverie, turned quickly, remounted Razor and took him galloping down stairway.

4

Melai had reached the top of the eighth tower. Its roof were scooped out like an eagle's nest, though shallow. Here, as if merely nesting, were four giant metallic black birds, their bodies hollowed along their backs like rowboats, each with room enough to accommodate two or three riders of even Gargaron's and Hawkmoth's size.

Hawkmoth's instructions had been to prepare but two of them. His thoughts had told Melai that there ought be a steel rack containing vials of chemical matter. Liquids of red, yellow and blue. She were to take the blue chemical, pour it into the yellow. Mix. She were then to pour this mixture into each bird at the same time as she poured the red. As to where to pour it? Hawkmoth's mind had shown her pictures of a receptacle in the top of each bird's metal skull. If the birds were still fully functional, once the liquid had been administered, each bird would then come to life. His thoughts had told her that each bird would stand, walk to the edge of the platform, and await further commands. Here Melai would hold her position and wait for the others to reach her.

5

Gargaron blew the so-called war horn again, once more looking at it puzzled when it produced no sound. 'Hope our sorcerer heard it!' he said, hooking it over his belt and reaching for his great sword. Pale forms were scrambling over the distant wall, rushing toward them. Nightmarish humanoid creatures with long knotted hair and faces like dolls.

Locke removed his blow-flute. And taking in the situation he said, 'Right then,' as if facing the prospect of naught but some fairly robust gardening.

The attack were almost imperceptible. It were the way the strange pale fiends moved that caught the giant and crabman off guard. For they could shift almost unseen, sweep across a stretch of ground as quick as a gale. Giant and crabman watched the front of the pack surge toward them. And they were steeling themselves for the assault when Gargaron and Locke both felt mouths of teeth at their ear and neck. Garagron turned to brush aside what he thought were naught but pesky bugs when his hand instead hit something solid and cold.

He gasped and whirled about and found foul doll creatures attached to his and Grimah's flesh.

Gargaron snatched at them, yanked them free, chunks of his skin still knotted in their teeth. They hissed, mewled, scrabbling at him with their plasteec claws, dragging skin from his arms and face. He managed to toss them to the snow but they clambered back at him just as quick and he only just managed to swing his sword and cut them to pieces. Yet, he had not the time to catch his breath for they were tearing into Grimah, clinging to his horse's hide, biting out chunks of meat.

Grimah squealed and kicked and bucked.

Gargaron hacked at them, stabbed at them, kicked at them while Grimah himself did a fine job of tearing them from his flanks with his two mouths.

Nearby, Locke were still well inundated too. Zebra whipped her large body, sending dolls flying. But Locke had been dragged off his mount and his helmet snatched free and he had been set upon like a rabbit by hounds. Buried beneath them Gargaron heard him laugh and yell, 'Ha, come and have me you accursed fiends!' and he saw Locke's moonblade swish back and forth, dicing these creatures to bits and when Locke found his arms pinned down he simply stabbed at his attackers with the spiny tips of his crab feet. Or alternatively he dug his horns into them, head-butting and puncturing them, head-butting and puncturing, repeatedly, whenever he had the chance. There were no blood from these beings save a creamy yellow ooze that seeped from the centre of their limbs.

6

Hawkmoth emerged at last from the tower and saw his friends in peril. He snatched a Hornet from his pocket, an item he had only just taken possession of from Skitecrow's office, and let it loose.

Gargaron happened to see it. A tiny green fairy. And a mighty squeal erupted from its jaw and a concussive thud swept over all before her, taking Gargaron's hearing for a moment, and every non-living critter about them blasted away as if hit by a thunderous wall of water. It left Gargaron, Locke and their steeds suddenly free of all attackers.

With that the fairy crumbled.

'Right then, you pair,' Hawkmoth called to Gargaron and Locke both. 'Let us away from here!'

7

Melai watched them from the top of the eighth tower. They had several hundred yards to cover. She scoured the perimetre wall. More of those strange pale fiends were clambering over the top. She unslung her bow but she were too high for her arrows to be of any use.

Hawkmoth, Gargaron and Locke made their charge for the tower. 'More Bewitched,' Hawkmoth called. Gargaron had already spotted them. Ahead of them and to their sides, piling over the walls like bugs. 'Behind us too,' Locke reported.

Gargaron glanced over his shoulder and saw a mighty horde a hundred feet behind them. 'Marvelous.'

In front of them, the Bewitched were now swarming the base of the eighth tower, surging toward them.

'They shall cut off our path,' Gargaron observed.

'So don't lose your pace,' Hawkmoth called. 'Charge them, cut them down, bash through them!'

Gargaron held high his sword, and Locke spat more impotent darts from his blow-flute. Though Razor did something Gargaron had never previously witnessed from the horse: its glowing eyes shot bolts of searing green fire that punched holes straight through the plasteec torsos of those dolls, melting them from the inside out.

Both fronts crunched into each other: horse, serpent, giant and crabman piling headlong into this horde of Bewitched. And from there it were utter bedlam. The dolls were ravenous, frenzied, cutting, scratching, biting; chewing off chunks of horse flesh and of serpent, of giant and crabman and sorcerer. The horses squealed and kicked and stomped, the serpent hissed and gnashed and sent swathes of fiends flying with wild slashes of her mighty tail.

They dragged Hawkmoth from his saddle and gone were he in an instant, buried beneath them, his staff torn from his grip. Gargaron, believing Hawkmoth's magic were likely their best chance of ridding themselves of this mess, struggled getting to him, hacking at the dolls with his great sword, pushing Grimah through the pack of dolls who were like ravenous rats on a corpse. Grimah bit at them with both his heads and kicked at them, rearing up and stomping them down. But broken, or bent or twisted, they rose again.

Locke slashed his moonblade, measured but frenzied in fashion; at first from his saddle but after Zebra had raked away huge numbers of the Bewitched and Locke were hauled from his mount he found ground to stand and expertly carve up the Bewitched as they clambered toward him.

Gargaron hauled Grimah as close as he could to where he saw glimpses every now and then of Hawkmoth struggling to free himself from beneath the ravenous dolls. Razor were in a frenzied state of mind, springing about as wild as any horse Gargaron had ever seen, firing off green bolts of flame that were so powerful, so searing hot, they cut through dozens of Bewitched at a time. Gargaron dismounted, his sword hacking at the enemy as they bit at him, their plasteec mouths covered in blood and rent meat. They crowded him but he outmuscled them, throwing them off as he would children, slicing them up with vast two-handed sweeps of his sword. But they were far too numerous and no matter how much he struggled, he got no nearer Hawkmoth.

He caught sight of the wizard's staff and dove for it. Grabbing it but losing it again under the mass of writhing fiends piling on top of him. Despite his strength he were being pulled to ground. He grit his teeth and heaved his way back to his feet, throwing off his offenders. Grimah were near him, and Gargaron grabbed a handful of saddle and used the horse's bulk to help pull him free of the Bewitched.

But he were leapt upon and clawed at. And Grimah now, despite his brute strength, despite his bulk, were pulled down by both heads to ground. Then he were lost beneath mounds of the swarm, and Gargaron lost the cloudy sky from his sight as a mass of Bewitched closed over him, the sound of hundreds of munching plasteec fangs all about him, like dogflies at meat, a constant noise, eating at him.

He struggled and kicked and punched but he were tiring and he were outnumbered and ultimately he were outmuscled. He no longer had his sword; lost to the Bewitched it were. He were being turned over and pulled and hit and bitten, he were being dragged across snowy ground, thrown upside-down, tossed this way and that. Still, he were determined not to succumb, would not let them beat him. He felt his anger rising, felt rage building in his chest. He hadn't come this far to be eaten alive by this horde of abominations. He hadn't fare welled his girls at the Great Precipice just to be torn apart here without having done anything to avenge their deaths, anything to reverse the Ruin that had scorched the world's living. In the mayhem, in all the mass of writhing, ravenous dolls he caught glimpses of Grimah, heard him squealing, saw him kicking his mighty legs. And then he spotted the hilt of Drenvel's Bane still held in his pack, strapped to Grimah's saddle.

Even a hilt be better than naught, he thought.

With enormous effort he pushed his hand down amidst bodies of monsters. He growled with the effort, his anger giving him strength. If I die here, then I go down fighting, he thought furiously. And I shall take as many of these devils with me! And as he curled his fingers about the haft of Drenvel's Bane and dragged it free, something curious stole over him.

Instantly he felt his vitality return. Instantly he felt he were filled with the strength of gods. He felt out of his body somehow. Felt as light as a bird. And most curious of all, he saw the head of Hor's mighty and legendary hammer suddenly appear.

8

Locke were laughing, hurting but laughing. He had heard warriors tell how they had never felt more alive than when close to death. He were feeling it now and he were relishing it. And hoped not to give this sensation up so readily. Still, he wished to know where his Zebra were. For he could see naught, lost beneath this horde as he were. Though every now and then he heard her squeal or hiss. So he fought. He could no longer get his blow flute to his mouth so he cut through these Bewitched with his moonblade. He could hear it humming as it sliced through them, as their burning "flesh" gave off a stink like molten rubber.

He heard something new then. As of a behemoth descending upon this mayhem. And when he managed a chance he saw it, a brute wielding a mighty war hammer. At first he believed it a mirage, an apparition put out by his dying mind. But dying mind or no, he wished to watch it. For formidable it were, a colossus, awe inspiring, a god walking amongst them.

It were tall. Double in height of Gargaron. It had no eyes but searing orbs of yellow light. It had a horned helmet and looked clad in the Vyking armour of old, black steel plate. And it wielded a mighty hammer that flamed blue. And it were with this hammer, in mighty sweeping arcs, that it were casting Bewitched aside, dozens upon dozens at a time, to the far corners of Sanctuary.

It roared as it clubbed them, laughed wickedly in deep sonorous tones as its hammer scattered them, spread them, dozens and more hurtling through the air at any one time. It appeared unfatigued by its actions and godlike in its fury.

The Bewitched were undeterred though. They did not flee, they did not wane, they showed no fear. They swarmed it. And bit into it. Clambering up its legs. Assailing it with single minded purpose.

Still, with each stomp of its mighty feet, this godlike thing shook them free as though they were but lice. And it swiped them away in enormous clods. And those that were hit stayed hit; they did not rise again. And for now at least, it began to trim their numbers.

This afforded Locke more room to fight, finally gaining his feet, slashing his moonblade at Bewitched who still rushed at him, and spitting darts from his blowflute that now cut searing, smoking holes through them. He saw Hawkmoth arise like a resurrected soul from a pile of Bewitched who were still upon him, still assailing him. Without his staff his fingers worked like vast nets of weed, no doubt enchanted by magic, raking his offenders aside in clumps. Razor and Grimah both battered the Bewitched, finding the fight now far easier with the horde thinned out.

Locke whistled and called Zebra to heel, and he leapt upon her as she slithered by, blowing darts at Bewitched as they alternatively flew at him or chased him. But nowhere could he spot Gargaron.

Hawkmoth spied his staff and held his arm in its direction and to him it flew and he snatched it up into his grip as it came at him in a blur and waved it skywards, uttering a spell, 'Makus eet rayn doon wit fyrr!' and beads of flame spurt by the hundreds from Lancsh's gaping jaw into the air, shooting out in every direction, digging into the witch dolls before turning them into walking infernos that then blew apart in wild explosive blasts.

Locke kept Zebra mobile and at speed, lessening the chance of the Bewitched attaching themselves to her. He fired darts, and slashed his blade, and the colossus roared laughter and smashed his way through the soulless dolls.

'More coming!' Hawkmoth called. 'We must get to the tower!'

Locke looked and saw numbers of Bewitched clambering still like bugs over Sanctuary's outer wall.

'How many be there hiding in these mountains?' Locke called back.

'More than I imagined,' Hawkmoth shouted, grimacing, bleeding. 'The witches must have been amassing them for years!'

'Where be Gargaron?' Locke yelled.

'I can only surmise that be him,' the sorcerer called, pointing quickly at the behemoth still thumping and bashing the Bewitched. 'For that there he wields be Drenvel's Bane!'

And still the great colossus dealt with these witch dolls, grunting, and laughing, seemingly no end to his fury. But they swarmed him again, and as Locke raced Zebra for the tower he saw the mighty hammer suddenly glimmer in and out of existence.

And here the mighty behemoth fell to his knee.

## THE WARDENS THREE

1

GARGARON felt his strength falter as he collapsed. And a weakness suddenly enveloped him. He understood none of this. Moments prior he had stood taller than he had ever stood, felt bigger than he had ever been, felt more powerful than anything ever to have lived. He had been wielding a mighty warhammer, he had been knocking the Bewitched hither and thither as though clubbing naught but mere ducklings. And now this... a momentary dulling of his rage and he had lost all of it. As he gazed down at his hammer he saw that it were again but a shaft and naught more.

He felt Grimah at his side, nudging his ribs, encouraging him to stand and Gargaron held up his hand to his steed's noses, as if saying Yah, I hear you, give me a moment.

He heard Locke at close quarters. 'Seems you threw your blade away, giant.'

When Gargaron looked up he saw Locke presenting Gargaron's rescued great sword. He also saw Hawkmoth nearby.

'Oh, and let me say,' the crabman went on, 'a fine show you put on just now with that wee hammer of yours. A true spectacle to behold!'

Gargaron found not the strength to muster a verbal reply. He grimaced and took his sword from Locke and with Grimah's aid he climbed to his feet. As he slotted his sword into his scabbard he surveyed the grounds of Sanctuary. Masses of busted, twisted Bewitched lay crumpled in the snow. Several hundred. It seemed inconceivable that he had created such carnage.

'Come now,' Hawkmoth told them. 'Let us not lose this advantage. More Bewitched are on their way.'

Through the mists Gargaron saw them, waves of the witch's devils piling over the walls, scrambling out toward them, their limbs clicking like bone.

Locke pulled Zebra into motion. Gargaron struggled into Grimah's saddle; Hawkmoth remained close in case the giant needed his aid. But Gargaron were soon mounted and with his mind still a daze, he and Grimah set off after the crabman.

From top of tower Melai watched. More monsters rushed for her friends. But something puzzled her: while Zebra and Grimah sped on, carrying Gargaron and Locke, Razor and Hawkmoth were not with them.

Hawkmoth had remained where he were, posied amidst the snow covered grounds, staff held at the ready, pacing back and forth now as if waiting to take on the coming hordes all on his own. Razor were at his side. Apparantly this had gone unnoticed by Locke and Gargaron for they continued to charge away from them.

As Melai watched, she witnessed a hooked chain suddenly shoot out from some concealed position not far from the sorcerer. It shot at Razor and harpooned him through his thigh. The horse squealed and jumped and by the time Hawkmoth realised what had happened, the chain were suddenly pulled taut and Razor yanked violently from his positon, hauled through the air like a puppet, before thumping into the frozen ground, fifty feet or more from Hawkmoth's side.

Hawkmoth started after his steed but a second chain shot out, this one from a separate hidden position, harpooning the sorcerer through his lower back, punching through his flesh, and yanking him forcefully in the opposite direction.

As the Bewitched charged on, as Hawkmoth thumped heavily into the snow, a series of spiked metal poles began to rise from the ground in a wide circular area, trapping Hawkmoth within, and Razor without.

2

Hawkmoth's predicament came to Gargaron's attention after the giant noticed Locke glance around and suddenly pull Zebra to a halt. 'What be his?' the crabman asked.

Gargaron slowed Grimah and when he turned he saw Razor tangled in what looked a harpooner's rope and Hawkmoth trapped inside a pen of tall spikes, spikes that were fifty feet from ground to tip, and spaced too close together for Hawkmoth to squeeze his way out.

'Hawkmoth?' Locke called. 'What be this?'

Hawkmoth wore a deep grimace on his face as he pushed himself to his knee. The chain were still hooked into his flesh. He had expected the spiked poles, but not the chains. The chain tethering him were heavy but he managed to stand against its weight. Would be best not to be on his knees, for he knew now the wardens were on their way. He looked around for Razor. And spotted him. Back on four hooves were his steed, and pulled free of his chain, steaming blood coursing down his leg.

'Press on!' Hawkmoth demanded. Bewitched were drawing ever closer. And Razor were trotting around the corale's perimeter, angry, anxious, looking for a way in. 'There be naught you can do. Skitecrow's little pets come for me now. Wardens of Sanctuary. They shall not permit me to leave here alive.' It were a message for Razor as much as for giant and crabman.

Gargaron watched as inside Hawkmoth's pen, the ground opened up and three separate pits appeared. And from three separate stairways leading down into Sanctuary's undercrofts they came, three silver, armoured figures. Tall, ominous. They strode out into the snow, one carrying a mace, the other a morning star, the last a far reaching halberd. Here they advanced upon Hawkmoth.

'It be a farewell reception for any Brother who turns his back on this place and has the gall to return,' Hawkmoth called out, blood dripping from his chin. He reached behind and worked the chain's hooks from his back. Once done, he cast the chain aside. He bled, but ignored it. He took his staff into grip, holding it before him with two hands like a sword. He took up a defensive stance and carefully watched the three Wardens. They stood so still and so calm. Razor were in a canter around the perimeter, back and forth, desperate still for a way in to aid his master, his leg still bleeding profusely. 'I have news for them however,' Hawkmoth said with a grin. 'I shan't let them take me down without a fight.'

'You did not warn us of this,' Gargaron called, his voice croaky and hoarse.

'No. This one I kept to myself. But fret not, giant, I knew this were coming thus used my time in Skitecrow's offices well. I have some gadgets now that might aid me.'

'What can we do?' Locke called.

'You can flee!' came Hawkmoth's reply. 'You too, Razor! All of you. Take Mama Vekh. Fly southeast to Dark Wood. If I live through this I shall catch you up. Hurry now!'

3

Gargaron took hold of Drenvel's Bane once more, gripping it two-handed. He would not leave the sorcerer. He would bring down the wall of bars that contained him. Yet he could not summon it.

'Go!' Hawkmoth yelled at them. The Bewitched were pressing neaer and nearer with every moment.

Gargaron tried again, concentrating his will. But no matter how much he tried, he could not wake the hammer. He were spent. Hor's little weapon remained dormant. He slot the handle inside his pack and took his sword into hand. 'We'll not leave you here!' he called.

'This be not about me,' Hawkmoth called back. 'This be for the realm. Get Mama Vekh to her daughters. Hurry now and leave, damn you!'

And it were here the Wardens marched on him.

4

Melai still watched from the top of the tower. She saw the coming horde sweep toward her friends. She saw Locke and Gargaron pull their steeds about and ride for base of tower. Razor though remained near as he could to his master. And the hordes of Bewitched were closing fast.

She could sit and watch no longer.

She flew down tower's stairwell and found the lower floor doorway awash with enormous doll-like creatures, Locke and Gargaron hard up against them.

Melai unleashed a volley of rapid fire Loniyahd acid-tipped arrows into the dolls. On impact, the dolls were riddled with a dozen pockmarks that melted outwards in expanding holes; parts of them dripping away until their forms were so compromised they crumpled inwards and dropped, twitching in the snow, their limbs melting from them. But there were too many for her to counter.

'We need hold this ground,' Gargaron called, trying to get a glimpse through the horde of Hawkmoth's status. 'We need to work out some way to help our sorcerer.'

5

The Wardens attacked skillfully, viciously, ferociously. But Hawkmoth knew them, had seen them dispatch forbidden Brothers many times and thus had an advantage over their tactics. Grief, who wielded its mace, were swift of feet, and were deceptive. It made first move, as Hawkmoth anticipated, shifting from its position almost unseen. Hawkmoth knew it'd dart behind him, as he had witnessed it do so many times; both Sorrow with its morning star, and Pain, with its halberd, would attack while he were distracted.

Hawkmoth also knew that he would be caught short with many of his conventional spells. He had some of Skitecrow's toys to his arsenal to help him, though if they failed, well he had been a long time away from Sanctuary and a long time away from conventional learning; thus he had picked up an array of tricks in his years banished that he would not have learned had he remained here. And so simply, he went to town on them.

Anticipating Grief's movement to the tee he sprung sideways and both Grief's mace and Sorrow's morning star crashed together where his head had been but a sunflare prior, giving off a shower of sparks. Thus Hawkmoth danced aside and leapt high into the air as Pain's halberd struck out at him. He evaded it well and rolled, ducking beneath another sweeping attack by Sorrow, and Hawkmoth threw Rashel out in an arc and she breathed out a breath of iced air, a spell he had learnt from Eve. The Wardens shuddered and stopped in their movements for but a sunflare... time enough for Hawkmoth to pull one of Skitecrow's Ouppluids into play. He dragged it from his belt, grated it swiftly across his forearm and speared both it and any flesh it carried from his arm into the ground. Instantly Hawkmoth's doppelganger grew, and were fully formed by the time Grief, Pain and Sorrow kicked back into movement.

Pain's halberd struck without warning, but Hawkmoth's two selves danced away from it skillfully. Sorrow countered well with its morning star, bashing the shoulder of Hawkmoth's twin. Grief swung its mace at the real Hawkmoth. But he and his twin both leapt aside and rolled and jumped. This is how things went for a little while, the two Hawkmoth's dancing here and there, evading strikes and hacks, deflecting near strikes with their staffs. Hawkmoth himself were working on catching one of the Wardens off guard. He had to wait his chance, to counter their tactics. They were constantly flanking he and his double, constantly trying to distract he and his copy. Then he got the opening he needed. His doppelganger had run out in front of him, catching the attention of his would be killers and here he seized his opportunity, darting in with speed, striking Sorrow in the neck with his staff and darting out again in the same instant, as Pain thrust at him with halberd. Hawkmoth deflected it with staff and leapt clear.

The strike on Sorrow had done nothing it seemed, though a blue mould began to grow down its armour and up its face plate. This blinded it and it swung wildly now at random. Hawkmoth's twin scampered up behind it and crushed the side of its helmet inwards with a strike of its staff. The assault failed to put the Warden out of action but it were never the same after that, never again at full strength, never again at full fighting capacity, wandering about as of something out of its mind.

Hawkmoth were free to battle but two of them now.

He found an opening and lunged at Pain, thrusting the spiked end of his staff into the being's lower back, and leapt away, springing lithely off the shaft of its halberd. Pain appeared to show no ill effect to begin with and Hawkmoth wondered if the enchantment he had delivered would work. He rolled as he came to ground, narrowly avoiding having his skull cracked open by Grief's mace which took out Hawkmoth's twin, crunching the twin's face into his skull, blood spraying out. The real Hawkmoth leapt and rolled as Grief pulled his mace from one sorcerer and swung it at the other. Hawkmoth slashed his staff at the being's legs, hissing, 'Putus hiss leggz tu mush!' and Grief's lower left leg crumpled as if molten.

Hawkmoth dashed for clear space, his twin on the ground, dying. Pain leapt high and swung its halberd around in a swinging arc. Hawkmoth were just in time to duck beneath it, thrusting Rashel at it—she clasped its arm in her teeth. A searing light erupted from her jaws, spitting holes through Pain's arm, rendering it useless. Hawkmoth wrenched Rashel back and with it came her victim's limb clenched still in her mouth. Grief, hobbling, gave off a flurry of attacks and Hawkmoth rolled, leapt, dodged, reaching again for another of Skitecrow's gadgets. He took out a Ploidoos, threw it at Grief. The metal spike buried into its chest plate.

A moment later Grief began to jerk and its torso suddenly split down the middle, from head to waist. Though on second glance its body had not actually split but grown another of itself, another torso stemming from its own waist, a torso fixed with armoured head and arms.

As this one became fully formed it began thumping the original's torso and skull, pulling and twisting its arms. Distracted with its self-pummeling, Hawkmoth once more had but two Wardens to deal with. Sorrow, still blinded, and indiscriminately flailing its morning star. And Pain, with its remaining arm. He kept moving. Not let himself be cornered or backed up against the cage bars. He had seen many a forbidden Brother stand his ground and attempt to fight them off only to find himself conquered and pulverised.

As Hawkmoth evaded a one handed strike by Pain, Sorrow struck, taking him by complete surprise. It suggested that there were naught wrong with Sorrow's senses. It threw its sword but what flew at Hawkmoth were a hundred daggers. Hawkmoth countered quickly with a spider's spell that shot web, collecting all blades except for two or three that shot passed his face.

Pain ran its halberd across the snowy ground, cutting open some fissure in reality, and twisted grey goblins crawled forth, flying on wings at Hawkmoth. Five or six of them, wielding talons and pointy teeth.

Hawkmoth had not witnessed these tactics in years passed. This were something new. Still he felt he were slowly gaining the upper hand over the Wardens and he fought off the goblins with wooden shards spat out by Rashel, shards that ripped their flesh and tore their wings. They were easy enough for him to dispatch but he knew they were merely sent as a distraction. Sure enough, Sorrow had darted up behind him but Hawkmoth saw the attack at the last moment, thus he jumped and spun in the air, the morning star missing his chest by an inch. Now he dropped, rolled through snow, remaining goblins diving for him but they took the brunt of the morning star as he had anticipated. Having orchestrated the goblins' demise he whipped his staff around, leapt from the snow, twisting and then thrusting the sharp point of his staff deep into Sorrow's ribs.

He withdrew it and dove, rolled and came to a standstill on one knee, in time to watch Sorrow turn its weapon upon Grief, pummeling its skull. Pain rushed toward him and he made to evade the attack when a cold object pierced his chest.

Hawkmoth looked down and amidst spurting blood he saw the tip of the halberd poking though him. He turned his head and saw he had been tricked. Pain stood behind him, still gripping the halberd. And as blood poured from Hawkmoth's chest, the armoured being lifted the sorcerer high like an impaled rabbit on a stick.

6

Razor squealed and bolted around the spiked perimeter, bashing through the packs of Bewitched as they swamped him, pelting them with green molten shots of fire. He charged through them, knocking them left and right as the Warden, Pain, hefted Hawkmoth into the air like a trophy and prodded the haft of its halberd deep into the snowy ground, leaving Hawkmoth suspended twenty feet off the ground.

Witnessing this, Razor became hysterical, squealing and galloping faster and faster around the cage, Bewitched flying at him still, clinging to him. Yet they were unable to halt his charge, unable to drag him to ground.

With their work done, with Hawkmoth, Sanctuary's forbidden Brother, dealt with and dying, the Wardens began to depart. And with them, the cage began to lower, the bars slowly retracting into the earyth.

Razor were determined to get to Hawkmoth's side, but the Bewitched kept piling up about him now. Still, he used this to his advantage: he kicked them free of his hide and climbed their heaped numbers and managed to clamber over the top of the spikes. On the opposite side he landed heavily, crashing aginst his shoulder in the snow. But he rolled and gathered his feet and galloped to the foot of the halberd, bashing into it and knocking it over.

It tumbled hard, Hawkmoth plummeting into the snow, kicking up snow dust. And Razor trotted quickly to the sorcerer, nuzzling his cheek. Hoping to rouse him. Yet Hawkmoth did not move. Razor would not be deterred. He keened at the sorcerer's ears. He bit into his shoulder. He prob him with his hoof. Beyond the spiked perimeter, the Bewitched were heaving up against the bars, creating a small hillock of writhing bodies. Threatening to spill over the top. Razor eyed them with displeasure. But he ignored them and gazed down at Hawkmoth.

Hawkmoth who had not moved. Who, by all signs, looked dead and gone.

Razor lifted his head. He watched the Wardens with simmering fury...

They had halted. They were eyeing he and Hawkmoth both.

Razor snorted. He scuffed his hoof through the mud and grass. And then he charged.

As he galloped, he howled like a wolf. The Wardens simply watched him, like folk regarding the charge of a duck. At the last moment they raised weapons. But it were too late. Razor barreled into them, blue streaks of light bursting from between his ribs, his skin splitting, his flesh ripping apart...

And in an instant, he exploded in a mass of flesh and pulsating light.

7

The blast sent Gargaron and Locke and Melai crashing into the tower, crunching the Bewitched every which way, throwing Grimah from his feet, knocking Zebra off her belly, throwing her head and neck against the tower wall.

After that, everything fell still.

Gargaron lifted his head from where he lay, dazed, looking groggily about, wondering what by Ranethor just happened. Melai were back against the stairwell of the tower, rolling slowly to her side as if just waking from some deep slumber. Locke were propped against the doorway, the expression on his face one of vacant bewilderment, as if he had just smoked a full bag of the sorcerer's weed.

Gargaron struggled to his feet, using the doorway to steady himself. He set his gaze out across Sanctuary's grounds and saw the snow had been blasted away in the explosion, exposing bare brown earth and straw-coloured dead grass beneath. Swirls of persisting blue light illuminated patches of ground and snow alike, as though it were star dust. He saw that the Bewitched were scattered, knocked to ground, blasted not only from the tower entrance but also from the vicinity around the lowering spikes. Knocked back a hundred yards in any direction where they lay silent and unmoving. But the strangest sight of all were what lay around the spot where he had last seen Razor, Hawkmoth and the Wardens.

The Wardens still stood, but were unrecognisable from their original forms. While their legs were still firmly planted on hard earyth their bodies had been rent eastways; they looked like frozen flags, like silver streaks of metal smeared out across the frigid mountain air. And Hawkmoth were on all fours in the bare dead grass. His head bowed forward, his face unseen. His arms barely keeping upright. There were no sign of Razor. No sign of the halberd that Pain had thust through the sorcerer.

Gargaron started forward. He staggered but regained his footing. 'Hawkmoth,' he called. 'Be you well?'

He moved through the uncovered bodies of sorcerers and what he guessed were witches and everywhere there were remnants of the Bewitched. There were no sound across Sanctuary but the sound of wind, lonely and mournful.

Gargaron came aware of Grimah trotting up beside him and heard Melai say distantly, 'Fetch the sorcerer. We need leave here. I fear this place be not done with us yet.'

Gargaron neared Hawkmoth, certain the sorcerer were hunched there suffering from his wounds. 'Hawkmoth?' Gargaron asked. 'Be you well? Where be Razor?'

Gargaron noticed something else then. A shimmering figure at Hawkmoth's knees. It looked a ghost. Some small angelic creature, green of eye. Hawkmoth had his hand upon it. It had but Razor's horse face and Razor's eyes and Razor's horsey snout. But its small ethereal body looked as though it had wings, and arms, a fore set and a rear set, long and loose and clumsy, as if just learning how to use them, as if of some deer calf recently birthed from its mother.

Hawkmoth looked up and his bleary eyes saw Gargaron. He were bloodied and cut and his face were white, as if all blood were drained from him. 'I be well,' Gargaron heard him whisper. 'I be well. Forgive me, I must farewell my Razor.'

The statement confused Gargaron. He focused on the thing at Hawkmoth's feet. Were it somehow Razor? It's spirit?

'Fly now, little one,' Hawkmoth whispered weakly. 'I have brought you full circle. Fly now and away. It has been an honour to be your friend.'

Distantly Gargaron heard some sound. He looked about, squinting into the misty gloom. He saw faint shapes in the mist, things scrambling, clambering over the wall. Another wave of Bewitched by the look of it. Grimah, at the giant's side, were beginning to make noise, snorting from both his noses, nostrils flapping.

'Hawkmoth,' Gargaron said. 'Hawkmoth. We need leave now.'

Hawkmoth appeared not to hear. Instead he sat back, almost collapsing onto his back, and allowed the small ghostly thing before him lift itself clumsily from the frozen ground. Its thin transparent wings unfurled and flapped as two lots of arms hefted its small body from the ground. It squeaked as of a newborn, flew about Hawkmoth twice before lifting away into the air.

The Bewitched were coming now. Hawkmoth remained idle, preferring to watch Razor's new form fly off than show care for anything else.

There were no time for ceremony. Gargaron grabbed the sorcerer and hoist him to his feet. Hawkmoth were unresponsive, his body limp, his head hung low. Gargaron watched the oncoming fiends. They indeed were more Bewitched, but a larger breed it seemed, taller than ones that had come before, these with legs shaped like that of deer. Gargaron hoisted the sorcerer into Grimah's saddle. Then just as the next wave of Bewitched were about to close on them, Gargaron gripped the pommel, hauled himself onto his steed, and Grimah took flight, galloping for the tower.

8

Grimah were not need to be told to gain speed, he dug in and picked up pace, his hooves thundering across the fresh blasted ground. From tower's doorway, Locke and Melai fired off their arrows and darts, taking out Bewitched as the plasteec monsters closed in on Grimah's flanks.

'Hurry!' Melai shouted. 'Hurry now!'

As Grimah raced toward tower's base there came a thunderous noise and sections of Sanctuary's perimetre wall suddenly crashed inwards—fragments of obliterated wall shooting away in every direction. Gargaron looked and saw Dark Ones bashing down the wall, their huge black forms stomping through the fog banks, surging onto the grounds. Like Appleford Terminus these were big brutes, though rather than hammers, these hefted mobile battering rams. And while some continued to batter the wall, others strode out across Sanctuary, smashing anything and everything in their path.

The wave of Bewitched caught Grimah just as he reached the tower. They leapt at him, and again hung from his flanks. They also clung to Gargaron's legs, and clawed at Hawkmoth's robes, biting, scratching, chewing off chunks of meat. Hawkmoth seemed not to notice. Sitting there in saddle as if in some stupor, showing no concern, though around him Gargaron cut and slashed with both his sword and the spiked end of Hawkmoth's staff. And Melai and Locke both let loose with their projectiles.

The Bewitched were too numerous though and as Grimah dashed through tower doorway, their combined weight dragged the big horse leftways into the wall. Gargaron and Hawkmoth spilled to floor and Grimah squealed with anger, kicking his legs to get himself upright.

It were mayhem all over again, Gargaron scrambling toward the stairwell where Melai and Locke had backed themselves up to, dragging Hawkmoth with him as the ravenous Bewitched piled up around the doorway, more coming still, flying at them with a frightening single mindedness. They snapped and bit and gnashed and clawed, Gargaron heaving dolls aside to pull Hawkmoth from beneath the mass.

'Sorcerer!' Gargaron yelled. 'I'm sorry about Razor but we need you!'

He dragged Hawkmoth with one hand and slashed his great sword at Bewitched with the other, the staff clamped in his armpit. Melai sent off continuous volleys of acid tipped arrows, the stink on the air of burning dolls both sharp and acrid. Locke blew his blow darts, causing the Bewitched to smoulder and melt. Grimah snapped and kicked, Zebra whipped her tail and struck out with her jaws.

'Sorcerer!' Gargaron yelled again. 'Do you hear me?!'

Slowly, so slowly, Hawkmoth began to come round. He saw the enormous dolls scratching at him. Though at first he could hear them not. It were some dream to him. Until his pain began to register and his senses return. He gasped a mighty breath all of a sudden and looked about. And struggled to his feet, groggy.

'There you are,' Gargaron shouted. 'Here, take your staff.'

Hawkmoth took it absently and stumbled. Gargaron caught him, cutting a Bewitched in half as it leapt at them. Gargaron shoved the sorcerer up the stairway. Hawkmoth stumbled again and Melai and Locke put themselves before he and their adversaries.

9

It were a pitched battle from there to the roof of the tower, but the advantage for Gargaron and his friends were though the stairway up the tower were almost fifteen paces wide, the Bewitched could not flank them, nor attack from behind.

'Do we still hold Mama Vekh?' Hawkmoth said amidst the din of battle, as if he had just remembered her existence.

'Aye,' Locke replied, 'still strapped to Zebra.'

Hawkmoth, satisfied, took a quick swig of Gemtian, one of Skitecrow's old brews. He grunted and jammed his eyes shut as if he'd swallowed acid. But its effects were immediate. His mind cleared, and his pain swept aside, and he felt an acute buzz surge through him. Without thinking, he pushed his way back to the battlefront and unleashed Lancsh upon the coming Bewitched. Screeching walls of flame filled the stairwell, near igniting Gargaron and Melai. The giant stumbled backwards, his arm over his face and Melai swooped away.

Hawkmoth were not done though. Just as one wall of flame roared down stairwell, incinerating a hundred Bewitched, he called on Lancsh to deliver another.

Gargaron threw himself up the stairs taking Locke and Grimah with him just as the second inferno ignited the stairwell behind him; the heat were so intense it could be felt far up the stairs where Melai had retreated. Even Hawkmoth took evasive action in the end, bounding up the steps away from the flames, his beard singed and smoking.

He reached the others, panting, wide of eye, his muscles still buzzing from the Gemtian tonic.

'Be you well?' Melai asked him.

He looked at her, blinking, as if not comprehending. He did not answer her at any rate. He simply turned, and taking from his robe's pocket a handful of Duska (relieved also from Skitecrow's office), he pitched them all at once down stairwell.

Down there somewhere, hordes of Bewitched could be heard pouring in through the doorway. And piling up the stairway, plasteec limbs clicking and clacking.

The small rock-like Duskas bounced down the stairs. And came to a standstill. Where they burst open and gave birth to a trillion more small Duska stones that piled up in no time creating a monstrous barricade from stair to ceiling, wall to wall.

'Right then,' Hawkmoth said, catching his breath, looking around at his friends.

They all watched him. No-one moving.

'What happened to Razor?' Melai asked him.

He bit his lip, gazed at the stairs for a moment. 'Razor,' he said as if it had slipped his mind. 'Yes... Razor. There be no time to explain. We must get ourselves to the Blackbirds.'

10

Gargaron lead the way up stairwell, Hawkmoth throwing down a second load of Duska stones, creating another barrier. Behind them, the Bewitched were already tearing their way through the first wall; rocks shifting and rolling and tumbling from their stack as the Bewitched ripped them aside.

As Gargaron dashed out onto the roof there came the sound of an almighty crash and the tower lurched sickeningly underfoot.

Gargaron reached for something to hold onto. He retook his footing just as another lurch near knocked him again from his feet. 'What by Thronir be that?'

The others were equally as baffled. Gargaron rushed to roof's edge and peered down. At ground level he saw it: Dark Ones bashing their battering rams against tower. Beside Gargaron, the others watched on.

'Let us not waste the moment,' Hawkmoth said panting, 'Into the birds! We have little time. This tower be coming down.'

They raced across roof toward the metal birds awaiting them and the Bewitched broke through the second barricade and stormed the rooftop.

Gargaron turned to fight off the coming mass, hacking at the surging enemy with his great sword, buying his friends some precious time to board their birds. Locke fired bolts; Melai, in flight, rained down arrows. Hawkmoth had not yet reached a bird, though he had taken stance and were casting spells where he could, stabbing his spiked staff at the odd Bewitched who managed to break through Gargaron's attacks. Slowly he and Gargaron backed their way toward the birds.

Zebra hissed and from where she were coiled around one of the so-called Blackbirds she shot out her fang-filled jaw, knocking Bewitched from the roof. Grimah were in a bird by then but the Bewitched were coming at them from all sides now. The rooftop fast filling up with them, many of them spilling over the sides.

Another mighty hammer smash shook the tower and this time it began to tip. The birds began to slide toward the edge. They scrabbled around on their metal talons, doing their best to arrest their momentum. Still, one of them kept sliding, Zebra's weight too much for it. Over the side of the tower it went and Locke leapt for it at the last moment, reaching it before it fell from sight. Then Hawkmoth, pushed up against the edge of the roof had no choice but to leap from the tower, also plummeting out of sight.

The Blackbird spread its wings and swooped away into the sky, the crabman and sorcerer both dangling from its sides.

The second bird were flapping its wings in preparation for flight, looking around as Gargaron still fought his way toward it. But Gargaron's path were swamped with no help now but Melai firing her arrows from above and Grimah awaiting him at the bird. Another crash sent the tower into a shudder, knocking Bewitched off their feet, staggering Gargaron, who went to his knee, Bewitched surging toward him, their weight of numbers dragging him to the edge of tower.

Grimah wailed. He knew Gargaron were naught going to make it.

'Get to your feet, giant!' Melai commanded him. 'Hurry!'

But he were trapped, he were being swarmed from all sides.

Grimah snorted and reared up and leapt from the bird, charging headlong into the Bewitched, knocking them flying and another mighty crash made the tower shiver and it now were tilting, falling, great numbers of Bewitched tumbling out into space, over the edge of the rooftop.

The tower steadied for but a moment.

More Bewitched piled onto rooftop from stairway, rushing toward Gargaron who swiped at them with his great sword. A voice came into his mind.

Leave now. I fend off your enemy so you may save yourself. We shall meet again someday. You have work here yet.

He turned to find Grimah charging headlong into the rampant mass of Bewitched, taking huge numbers of them with him as his momentum carried him from the rooftop. Gargaron were backing away toward the bird. 'NOOO!' he roared, 'Grimah, no!' But it were too late, Grimah were gone. And this tower were coming down.

Gargaron turned and charged for the bird just as it slid from tower's roof, leaping into it. As it took his weight and soared for the heavens, Melai swooped down, stowing herself within its hollow as Bewitched leapt after it in great masses, trying their best to grab hold, only to miss and plummet to ground as the great tower went tumbling down.

11

## FLIGHT OF THE BLACKBIRDS

1

THEY seemed a long time in flight. Too long for Gargaron's comfort. The air chilled him though he wore his thick blood-splotched yak-spun coat. Melai huddled beneath Gargaron's blanket. She were quiet for a time not knowing what to say. Gargaron sat there melancholy, speechless. He could help it not, for in his mind, whether his eyes be open or shut (and shut were worse), he saw over and over Grimah's last moments. Piling headlong into the Bewitched, taking a huge number with him off tower's roof... and then gone without barely a look back.

Yet, there had been that voice Gargaron had heard, a voice he had taken as words from Grimah... Leave now. I fend off your enemy so you may save yourself. We shall meet again someday. You have work here yet.

The Dark Ones had stormed Sanctuary in the wake of the Bewitched. Something the witches had no doubt orchestrated. He had seen them punch their hammers through that wave shaped wall. Had felt their hammers against that tower. Sadly, Grimah must have fallen amidst them.

Gargaron gazed at the space in the back of the bird. Space where Grimah were to have been, had he made it. But it were vacant except for Gargaron's bull-hide pack filled with all his belongings, Drenvel's Bane poking out the top. Grimah had somehow detached the pack from his saddle and dropped it here. It were painful to look upon.

Melai sat there huddled, gazing up at the giant. She had her chilled fingers on his ankle. She watched him at length.

The other bird were before them, slightly more elevated. It soared through cloud mass that made the riders of both birds wet and caused them all to shiver. Zebra were coiled up as tight as her body would allow, stuffed inside the confines of the bird, the cold taking the energy out of her. Locke sat near the bird's shoulders, staring back at the sorcerer; earlier he had called out to Gargaron, offering commiserations at the loss of a fine steed. Gargaron had nodded at him. Other than that, none spoke. At first they had been all too busy patching up wounds and bite marks and scratches. And at some stage Hawkmoth had called out their heading, to perhaps confirm they were flying on a correct path. Then he had partially disrobed to inspect his chest. Other than his bizarre stone skin, there were no hole in Hawkmoth's chest nor any through his back, nothing to suggest he had been punctured first by the chain barb and then penetrated by that halberd.

Gargaron, Melai and Locke all noticed this but none questioned it for now, each of them suspecting some magical spell must have caused him to heal.

Now all were fallen to silence. Though Melai kept her eyes on Gargaron still. And eventually she could hold her tongue no longer. 'I lament your loss, giant. But I feel somehow Grimah be not perished. Nor even injured. I cannot tell you how I know this. But I feel it. I see it. A warhorse bolting down the outer side of a far tilted tower and jumping long at its base to avoid those Harbingers.'

Gargaron knew it were simply an attempt at trying to allay his grief.

'I do, I feel it.'

He smiled and nodded and gently squeezed her hand in return. 'Thank you, Melai, I hope you are right.'

2

They flew and flew, through chilled, cloudy air and it seemed hours later when clouds parted and Gargaron finally saw land below, lush green meadows and forested hills and he felt they had lost some elevation for the air around them had warmed, no longer did he require his coat. As he shed it gingerly, grimacing as the wounds beneath stung, and stuffed it in his pack, he saw how many bites and scratches and tears in his skin he had actually sustained. His limbs were literally littered with them. Almost no part of him were spared. Most had stopped bleeding at least. Though the Amahlu sap that Melai had provided had not set some of the deeper wounds where the Bewitched had chewed out large chunks of flesh. And they were too numerous and not deep enough to bother with his flesh patches. Thus he asked of Melai for more of her sap and applied great dabs of it to his wounds.

It were just as he were finishing up, that quite without warning, the birds began to fall.

3

Melai noticed the metal ornithens had until then held a blue glow in their eyes during their entire flight but now this glow began to flicker. 'Do they require more chemical?' she called out to Hawkmoth, concerned.

'No,' he called back with a certain frown. 'Not as yet. But I would not wager them being influenced by some foul witch enchantment. We are over Gwimpen airspace after all. The witches have much influence over this realm.'

The birds lost height dramatically, dropping more steeply with each passing moment. Hawkmoth called for his companions to brace themselves. 'Unless I can arrest this fall, we might be in for a solid landing!'

Pushing Grimah from his mind, Gargaron gripped Melai to him and dug himself down into the confines of their bird. Across from them, dropping faster under greater weight, Locke's serpent had coiled itself about the second bird, and Locke, smiling, were strapped in tight to the serpent's saddle, snug beside the bundle of Mama Vekh. Hawkmoth however, stood at the front of this bird, staff held aloft with both hands as if he were having some struggle summoning magic.

Below them and forward some two hundred yards, standing directly in their current flight path, there protruded from the surrounding landscape, an enormous nub of rock shaped like a gigantic mushroom. It were matted in a vast carpet of grass and vines and stunted trees. And as Hawkmoth persisted with his incantations, a large swatch of this vegetation began to shift, as if it were a bed of vipers rudely awoken. Yet quickly, as if all on its own, it fashioned itself into a pair of mighty arms that writhed and twisted upwards and outwards toward both metal birds, hurtling upwards as if they were but arms of giants stretching out to swat down pesky flies.

Instead of slapping the birds from the sky, however, they grasped them in long leafy wooden "fingers", and brought them down to the rock shelf in what were still a rather heavy landing.

The Blackbirds jolted and bumped along the matted rock, dragging up beds of flowers and grass, snapping twisted snake-vines, splintering withered trees, and then finally settled near the far end of the mushroom-rock's domed surface. The "arms" of vegetation that had brought them down now seemed to untangle and fall apart and were soon but chunks of wood and huge tufts of grass and detached lengths of purple vine.

4

Gargaron and the others took stock of their situation, and the metal blackbirds looked about as might a pair of real birds who had just arrived somewhere new. That were before the blue light went from their eyes and then they sat, curled their beaks beneath their wings and made as if to sleep.

Only now did Gargaron release Melai, noticing the grimace upon her face. She stretched her limbs, fluttered her wings and gazed up at the giant. 'I know you meant well, Gargaron,' she told him, 'but next time we find ourselves in a falling metal bird, might you let me take my own flight.'

Where he still sat inside the body of the bird, Gargaron blinked down at her. And couldn't help a sudden but short burst of laughter. 'Oh my, I am sorry, Melai. Of course, you can fly.' He clasped his jaw in his hand. 'I did not even think.'

She patted his knee. 'No. It touches me you would squeeze me half to death to protect me.' She smiled at him sideways.

'So, sorcerer,' Locke said, 'where do we find ourselves? If this be Dark Wood then I see no trees nor any witches.'

Hawkmoth pointed with his staff as he stepped down from his bird. 'Indeed, we are some way short of Vantasia. See that dark smudge away west? That be the Dark Woods. Vantasia lies hidden therein.' Hawkmoth regarded Locke, seeing for the first time something about the crabman's attire were altered. 'You have lost your helmet?'

Locke smiled. 'Aye, I left it behind as a souvenir for the Bewitched. Something for them to take back to their witch masters to remind them who decimated them.'

Hawkmoth smiled. 'Very well.'

## TREK TO DARK WOOD

1

THEY left the Blackbirds "asleep" where they were, and took some time taking stock, checking any further wounds, quenching thirst from their gourds. None spoke at all for a while. Gargaron kept expecting Grimah or Razor to appear. Their absence were acute and felt by all.

'Be we all well?' Hawkmoth asked finally, shedding his robes to once again pay some mind to his chest.

'As best we can be,' were Gargaron's reply. 'What of yourself? Twice you were impaled, yet you sport no obvious wounds.'

Hawkmoth, chin pressed against neck, were straining to conduct a thorough inspection of his chest. And then of his lower back. The halberd wound showed up as naught but light pink welts. So too the wound where the chain had pushed through him. All else there were, were old battle scars and the various panels of stone skin.

'I cannot explain it,' Hawkmoth said. 'I can only guess that in Razor's final transition, his regenerative powers somehow healed my injuries and kept death at bay. Pity it did nothing to rectify my stone plating.'

Locke narrowed his eyes with intrigue. 'Final transition? What, by Ehl Nori, do you mean?'

Hawkmoth pulled his robes back over his trunk and shoulders. He stepped forward a few paces, gazing out across the surrounding land. He could not help reminiscing for a moment, a sad smile crossing his face. 'When Razor first came into my life he were not in the form you all know him. Aye, that's right. He were no horse, but a wee dragonfly. Sounds a daft thing,' Hawkmoth said, agreeing with the expressions of his friends, 'but that's what he were. I bought him as part of a collection of exotic bugs from a traveler who claimed to have caught them on the Northern Cape. Whether the traveler knew he had something special on his hands I do not know, but I felt instantly the energy and magic given off by this dragonfly amidst the seller's wares. For, a legend did the rounds of Sanctuary in the days when I resided there about an untamed creature that could not die, but that with each passing of its life it would become a creature anew. Thus when Razor passed on as dragonfly his body were but a sugar-glider. After that he were a goshawk for many a year until attacked by tomb serpents and killed, his body then a hound for almost a decade. Beyond that he were Razor my steed. And now, well, it seems he has moved beyond this physical realm to an entirely new existence.' He swallowed, momentarily empty of voice, contemplating his Razor, saddened that he were gone now from his side. 'Eve will be most displeased when I tell her,' he said. 'She so wished to be there to witness his next phase.'

'Regenerated?' Locke said, looking about at his companions. 'Correct me if I am wrong, but to me it seemed your steed erupted like a fire mountain.'

Hawkmoth shrugged. 'Aye. Razor possessed powers even unknown to me. His last trick to take down the Wardens, I'm guessing, were one of them.'

'I am sorry you had to part,' Gargaron told him.

'As I am sorry for your Grimah, giant,' Hawkmoth replied.

Gargaron nodded. 'Aye. Though I have not known him long.'

'Yet a fine steed he were, and a close friend and ally to us all,' Hawkmoth told him sympathetically.

Gargaron nodded. 'Aye. Thank you. He died a warhorse's death: in battle, a hero, and saving the life of a friend.'

'I have told you I feel he be not perished,' Melai reminded him.

Gargaron glanced at the nymph. 'And I hold onto that.'

Hawkmoth nodded, contemplating this news. Then he said, 'Right then, let us find a way off this rock.'

2

Due to its shape, finding a way down from the rock shelf proved no easy task. Even for Zebra who tried for some minutes snaking down over rock's curving edge and succeeding only in slipping off the rock and falling to ground. Locke frowned as she whumped heavily into the grass fifty feet below. But she were up and about, shaking her head, in a mere daze.

'Maybe you ought to try flying next time,' he called to her laughing. 'You'll have the same result but I dare say it might be less labour intensive.'

For the others it were the use of vines dangling over the side of the rock mount that were the solution. By use of Hawkmoth's magic, multiple strands were plaited together for strength. The group then shimmied their way down. All except Melai, of course, who simply sprung from the rock and flew down with an easy grace.

3

On flat ground once more, the group gathered themselves. And took a quick inventory of all they had managed not to lose during the attack on Sanctuary. At their backs, the mighty stem of rock were covered in ancient rock paintings; primitive folk telling stories of death and life, towering monsters, and peculiar lights in the skies. And here Hawkmoth warned his friends that here now were the outer fringes of the realm of witches. 'We must remain vigilant, alert. For we are sure to encounter strange enchantments ahead. Our food may rot, our water may turn to vinegar. And we must keep our eyes and ears open, for witching trolls patrol these lands.

'Trolls?' Locke asked. 'Wandering about in broad daylight?'

'The mountain trolls of the Dunhland Range are no fan of the suns,' Hawkmoth told him, 'and will stay in their caves till dusk. The coastal trolls of the Skull Coast only emerged from their barnacle encrusted grottos in the dead of night.'

'Aye,' Locke agreed, 'and are mighty delicious, I can attest.'

'I'll take your word for it,' Gargaron replied.

'But hear me,' Hawkmoth said, 'the hill trolls of Gwimpen bear no fear of the suns and those of them beguiled and bespelled by the witchfolk thus roam about in large numbers. If the Ruin has thus far spared them, then they will prove deadly. They are a near unstoppable force when gathered in numbers.'

4

As they got walking, Gargaron took a huge draft from his gourd, contemplating potential roaming packs of trolls. Hawkmoth drew alongside him. 'You look in deep thought, giant. What be on your mind?'

'Much. The trolls. Our steeds. And though I set out on this journey on foot, I feel vulnerable without Grimah.'

'As do I without my Razor. But we have work to do and must not linger on events we cannot change.'

The sorcerer were right of course but still Gargaron could not help himself but worry himself with these thoughts.

'Still, we are not without some might,' Hawkmoth told him. 'Why, Melai with her bow, Locke with his darts and you, well you have your Warhammer, giant. And I personally task you with reigniting it if we happen to chance upon any of those trolls I mentioned.'

Gargaron looked puzzled. 'But my warhammer sleeps, good sorcerer...'

'Don't you recall? With little mercy you battered those Bewitched back there at Sanctuary.'

Gargaron stared at the grass before him as they marched onward, doing his best to recollect the events of their battle. 'I... I barely have any memory of that part of our fight... I recall... I recall naught but rage.'

Hawkmoth considered this with a frown and then a curt nod. 'Rage? Interesting. Well then, perhaps that be Hor's secret.' He clapped Gargaron on the back. 'Might be we can work on that theory.'

Further snippets of memory returned to Gargaron as they trudge on, how he had sprayed Sanctuary with Bewitched, knocking great masses of them flying. The thoughts brought a sense of satisfaction, even excitement, though it were tempered with a feeling of misgiving and unease—to wield so much power were near frightening. If such rage could not be controlled, if he turned wild with it and could not be stopped, he did not wish to consider it.

The blue sun of Melus had tracked halfway across the sky before they spied their first band of trolls. But Hawkmoth and his group did not expect to find them in such a state: there were seven of them and all of them were hanging dead by their necks from enormous gibbets tilted in the earyth.

Gargaron supposed the prodigious weight of each troll had pulled the gibbets into their lean. But as they neared them, Gargaron judged that each gibbet must've been pushed that way, for all were leaning in an eastways direction, as if shoved by a great force or gale.

Anyhow, the sight of the trolls hanging, confused them all. 'What be this?' Gargaron asked Hawkmoth.

Hawkmoth had no answer except to say that it were most likely the result of a local dispute. 'Fort Blackstone lies somewhere north of here. Overlooking the valley of Conntt. King Rawsthorn presided over the lands to the north. I know he has suffered troll raids for many a year. Perhaps he finally grew sick of them and hung them here to send a message to the troll clans of the hills. Or to the witches themselves.'

'So the trolls were hung,' Melai said, 'before the Ruin came to the Vale?'

'Such is my guess,' Hawkmoth said, gazing now toward the lands to their west. 'And by the looks of it, the Boom shocks have almost had the gibbets to ground.'

5

They pressed on. And on. Across boggy moors and marsh land, where a million dead bugs littered waterways, where wicker trees were shaped like bowed skeletal people. Where creatures rotted and bubbled and gave off foul green gas. It made the trudging slow and tiresome.

Hawkmoth took a reading from his chronochine and found an entire day had passed and that again night had not returned.

'Aye. So we have spent yet another night without moon or stars?' Gargaron said.

'Aye.'

'Could these Boom weapons realistically corrupt Cloudfyre's orbit in such a way?' Gargaron asked.

'They must,' answered Hawkmoth. 'What other explanation could there be?'

They trudged along a dried river bed and came to a grassy bank where coracles were moored amidst dank reeds and beyond here the land hardened and they soon approached an abandoned settlement. Here there were trees whose trunks were arched over so far that their crowns were almost at rest upon the earyth. Yet it were in these crowns, crowns shaped as bowls, that small cottages were suspended. A short flight of wooden stairs lead up to each one.

Gargaron briefly entertained the idea of stopping here for a short while, enough to build a fire, dry out his boots and warm his toes. He were thinking sadly of the fate of Grimah when he felt droplets of water splashing up from his boots against his forearms and neck and chin. He quickly decided he would rather drier land on which to rest. Somewhere not so sodden and boggy. Yet he noticed the water dripped from the ground itself. Upwards. As if gravity were reversed. He stopped and looked about. The others had stopped too. Each of them enthralled by this peculiar occurrence.

In no time at all it were raining. Though this rain fell upwards and out into the sky. A pall of grey held the settlement as the deluge grew heavy. And a strange silence came with it. Not the usual sound of heavy torrents splatting into mud, or house or grass. No, it were an almost unsettling quiet as this ungodly upwards rain shot quietly out into grey clouds.

It were a genuine novelty at first. It were cold and the wetness unpleasant but such a thing none of them had ever seen nor heard of. Not even Hawkmoth nor Gargaron who had both travelled far and seen much in their lives. It pushed thoughts of Grimah's fate from giant's mind.

'What be this wondrous phenomenon?' Locke asked Hawkmoth, smiling. 'Is this some wondrous enchantment?'

Hawkmoth simply shrugged. 'I could not tell you,' he said with an almost awestruck, boyish smile. 'There are some things even I have no knowledge of.'

6

They continued westways, the rain kept up, and the wetter and more sodden they grew. And faster the novelty wore off. Especially when they realised the rain showed no signs of abating. Gargaron at least knew why the houses back in that village had been constructed in the manner they had: the "bowls" in which they sat acted somewhat like inverted umbrellas, shielding each abode from this peculiar phenomenon.

'I say, Hawkmoth,' Gargaron said, 'Do you have no enchantment that might counter this?'

'I have a spell that would evaporate the water, yes,' he said. 'But it involves summoning an inferno.'

'I think I've had enough of your infernos,' Melai told him.

Gargaron shrugged. 'Though if this goes on much longer, I might prefer one.'

'Am I the only one who be enjoying this?' Locke asked with a smile.

Judging by the muted replies, her were.

They soon met tall grasses that swished against them, and in places, without Razor nor Grimah present to boost their height, both Hawkmoth and Gargaron faced the uncustomary circumstance of having the grass loom high above their heads. But in patches where the grasses grew not so tall, or where they had been trampled flat by some unknown beast, they admired fluttering upon the air to their north the sight of a number of colossal butterflies with brilliant red wings and glistening black bodies; a group of them appeared to be suckling on the juices of dead things hidden in the grasses.

To see something living aside from themselves after so long stopped Hawkmoth's group for a short while. And so engrossed by the sight that none of them realised the upwards deluge had finally petered out.

'What be those?' Locke wondered aloud. 'I have never before seen such wondrous creatures.'

'Dead Skarlets, be their name,' Hawkmoth told him. 'And we would do well to keep our distance. Pretty they may be, but they are also both poisonous and deadly. They exude a corrosive gas when threatened, and if you stray too close, they will thrust their proboscis through you and fire off a high-powered jet of gas into your innards that will blow you apart, inside out.'

'Well, I can't speak for the rest of you,' Gargaron said, 'but I don't much fancy such a death today.'

7

They pressed on but were forced into small detours here and there from their westways path to avoid running into the majestic Dead Skarlets that seemed numerous in number here. Hawkmoth speculated that they were likely in league with the witches, which is why their numbers had been sustained. At one stage they happened by accident to pass in close proximity to one hidden amidst the tall grass. It were suckling on the juices of a two-headed grass serpent. Zebra's forked tongue flicked in and out rapidly, as if sensing the demise of one similar to her own kind.

As they pushed onwards they began to see signs of other insects, drawn from the undergrowth by their traipsing; no bug as big as the Dead Skarlets but there were beetles the size of Gargaron's head. Many had already perished; their corpses lay upturned, legs knotted inwards, unmoving, dead. Colossal sized dragonflies lay drowned in pockets of marsh water, being nibbled at by a small species of water horse Gargaron had never before laid his eyes upon. Some dragonflies still flitted about but mostly these seemed to crash into the grass, untangle themselves, take off, fly away, sometimes upside-down before ditching sickly into the grass again.

Toward the end of their time crossing this grassy expanse Hawkmoth's small fellowship watched a flock of black ibis swoop down to peck at dying beetles. These ibis stood almost as tall as Gargaron and watched with beady black eyes the group pass by. Melai in particular kept her distance, or stayed close to Gargaron, for she surely would have proven a tasty morsel to them. Still, observing them gave her some food for thought. 'Maybe there be hope for us yet,' she said aloud after they had left the tall wicked looking birds behind. 'With all this presence of life, maybe all is not lost.'

'It tells me we are closing in on the borders of the witch realm,' Hawkmoth told her. 'It tells me these witches are indeed the cause for all the outside death and doom. While they keep their own creatures alive, similar to the enchantment I set upon the hill around my humble abode, they have committed all else to die.'

'How certain are you that if we return this, this thing of theirs,' Gargaron said, glancing at the bundle strapped to the flank of Locke's serpent, 'that it will bring an end to hostilities?'

Hawkmoth drew in a deep breath. 'As certain as I can be.' He looked across at the giant. 'Or else I would not be here.'

'And should these witches prove difficult,' Locke said, 'did you find means with which to coerce them in your Lord Brother's chambers?'

Hawkmoth did not reply for several moments. When he did he said this: 'Aye, I have what I need with me.'

## VANTASIA

1

THE forest were an ancient and enchanted place, that much Melai sensed. As they met its fringe and then pushed into it, she felt its ghosts going back thousands of years. The oaks were thick and gnarled and twisted and covered in moss of yellow and green. The ground were damp and grassy underfoot and the smell were wet and muddy, thick with the odours of slow rotting wood, of hidden beetles and slugs. And the sky were not visible above, such were Dark Wood's deep canopy. They soon found the going were dim and murky and in any direction they could see barely more than two dozen feet.

At first they stumbled over root and knotted shrub. But then it were as if the woods sensed the presence of Mama Vekh and thus a path looked as if to open out before them. Old, twisted roots seemed to pull up and curl aside, shrubs seemed to move, until a bending, curving trail through fallen brown leaves appeared before the group of travelers.

Locke, leading the way on Zebra, pulled the procession to a halt. Gargaron and Hawkmoth stood alongside the serpent. Melai, who had been in flight, swooped down and landed upon Gargaron's shoulder.

'I have never seen a woods move,' Locke commented.

'The witches know of our coming now,' Hawkmoth said confidently, watching the Dark Wood slowly part.

'But do they welcome us?' Gargaron asked. 'Or do they steer us to our doom?'

A good point, Hawkmoth knew. Without his insect scouts to fly forth and survey the paths ahead he were unable to ascertain whether or not he and his troupe were being lead unto danger.

'Either way,' Locke said, with a grin, 'it should make for an exciting trek forward.'

2

As they trailed the strange winding pathways that opened up in front of them Hawkmoth came aware of stick-men, tree critters, hidden in the woods. They were tall beings, spindly, red of eye, green of tongue, witch spies meant to go unseen, camouflaged against the general woodland and difficult to glimpse. Neither Gargaron nor Locke commented on them, so Hawkmoth surmised they had not seen them. Though he knew Melai must have for the strange looks she delivered him, questioning looks, as if asking silently what they were.

Later though, Hawkmoth realised none were actually alive. A revelation that disturbed him. He had assumed that Dark Wood and its many varied minions and entities had been spared the wrath of the witch's boom weapons. But here death, like all the lands beyond, had reached out its ungodly hand.

3

Hawkmoth's troupe were upon Vantasia before they realised it. The oaks and elms thinned, and here before the group, were peculiar wicker abodes, constructed from the strange dark wicker wood growing in this area. The wood had not been cut from its mother plant but instead, pulled and fashioned from the long thin living branches, hundreds, thousands of strands, like trussed hair, formed and fashioned into dwellings. Branches of ancient oaks created a ceiling above, and somehow there were beauty to the organic formation of this village. And a peculiar brownish light from the heavily filtered sunlight beyond, illuminated the area.

The place were also strangely empty.

Nonetheless, Gargaron had drawn his sword, suspicious of the silence. 'Where be they?'

Hawkmoth gripped his staff, as if sensing some imminent attack.

'Hawkmoth?' Gargaron said. 'Where be these witches? Be this a trap?'

'I cannot tell. Perhaps due to war, the settlement has been abandoned.'

'Or perhaps the witches lie hidden in wait,' Melai suggested, her bow ready to fire at the first sign of provocation.

They waited. Naught happened.

Hawkmoth began to weave his way slowly through the settlement, staff held at the ready. At darkened doorways into the wicker huts he prod his staff, pulses of intense, searing violet light, flashing from Rashel's eyes. If it were intended to flush witches from within it did not work. Still, Hawkmoth proceeded to following hut to repeat his actions. And so on...

As they spread out and moved through Vantasia, Gargaron were reminded a little of home. Here, the village were like Hovel, in the sense that everything encircled a central structure. Where Hovel bore sacrificial megaliths, here in Vantasia the central structure were a large wicker dwelling, a building double in size and height to the dwellings surrounding it.

It were here, before this larger abode that Hawkmoth took up stance. 'To the leaders of Vantasia,' he called out, his voice like a bomb in that silence, 'I am Hawkmoth Lifegiver, banished sorcerer of Sanctuary. Hear me, I implore. We come in peace. We return to you Mama Vekh in hopes that we may finally put an end to this ridiculous war started by my Brothers. If needs be, then I give myself over to you, where you may hold me for a hundred years as my foolish brothers held Mama Vekh. If needs be, I offer up my life to end this conflict, to put an end to your boom weapons. Too many have died and are dying. Far too many. Hear me now, please, I implore you.'

His voice echoed off into the gloomy woodland. Gargaron and Melai and Locke looked around, anticipating now either an attack by the witches or some acceptance of Hawkmoth's offer.

Nothing happened.

Melai now regarded Hawkmoth. 'Tell me you are jesting.'

All eyes turned to her. But hers were solely on that of Hawkmoth's.

'You speak to me?' he asked.

'Yes,' she said. 'What you said just now, you were jesting, surely.'

His brow wrinkled. 'Jesting?'

'About giving yourself over to the witches. About giving over your life.'

All eyes now went to the sorcerer.

Hawkmoth sighed. 'Melai, the witches dish out justice in the old ways. A hand for a hand. A leg for a leg.'

'So, what are you saying?'

'If it means my dear wife remains alive, that all the animals I have saved shall live on, that you my friends, can set forth from here and eek out some sort of life after all of this, then so be it. I give myself over to the witches so that they may do with me as they please.'

Melai frowned. 'No. No, that is folly. You can't.'

'Dear woods nymph, if they shall not simply accept the return of Mama Vekh, if I must offer myself up for the same type of incarceration we delivered upon her, then so be it.'

Melai was silent. Just eyeing him. 'You are serious then.'

'As serious and as honest as I'll ever be. I am Hawkmoth Lifegiver. Life, in all its varied and wonderful forms, is sacred. If delivering myself to the whims of the witches, if they promise to stop their boom weapons, if life flourishes on Godrik's Vale once more, then I go unto them a happy soul.'

'But, what we will do?' Melai asked. 'You cannot leave us.' She looked toward the giant. 'Gargaron tell him.'

But Gargaron could see in the sorcerer's eyes the truth of his conviction. And knew that naught could he say that would change Hawkmoth's mind. 'Maybe the return of this Mama Vekh will be enough,' was all Gargaron could offer in that moment. 'And they shall leave our sorcerer free to remain in our company.'

Hawkmoth stepped to Melai. He knealt and touched her arm gently. 'I am touched by your concern, dear nymph of Thoonsk. Truly I am. But no more discussion on this subject. My mind be made up.' He smiled.

Melai nodded. Though a sadness were in her eyes. And her own hand she placed upon Hawkmoth's.

Locke cleared his throat, loud enough to arrest the attention of his companions. 'I would not imagine the witches will want you anyway, sorcerer,' he said. 'Why they would wish to have a wrinkled old man amongst their number be anyone's guess.' He laughed and looked around at Gargaron.

Gargaron smiled.

'Besides you cannot cook to save your life,' Locke continued. 'The bacon and eggs you served me up the first morning we met, I tell you giant and woods nymph both, it were naught fit for pigs.'

'Just as well then that I do not offer myself to them as a culinary chef,' Hawkmoth responded.

Locke grinned. 'No, just as well.'

Hawkmoth stood again and Lokce looked about the empty village, folding his arms across his chest. 'Anyhow,' he said, 'it be obvious that Vantasia lies abandoned. So, what now, good sorcerer?'

Hawkmoth considered this. Taking in his surroundings for anything he may have missed. 'Well... in Sanctuary, my Brothers spoke of a fabled place where witches would retreat to in times of war. Dorubudur. A temple. Some place so old it predates all of our civilisations. Somewhere hidden away within Dark Wood.'

'Lead on then, sorcerer,' ordered Locke, 'if you know where this place be.'

Hawkmoth smiled. 'Oh, I know not where it be, my good shore dweller. But I believe I know how we may find it.' He took another item from his robe pocket, what looked to be a stick and knelt. 'Fayn uss diss rannawayss weetchus.' He then snapped it over his knee. From it there drifted a ghostly blue mist that hugged the dark leafy earyth, swirling softly, highlighting it seemed old footprints. Now it appeared to take on the form of a small being. Some sort of hare that ambled on its hind legs. It sniffed the air, looked about then ran from the settlement. 'Ah, here we go,' Hawkmoth said, 'come on,' and after it he and his companions promptly trailed.

## CAHSSI OF THE XOORD

1

THE blue hare lead them on a meandering path for hours. And as they traipsed on and on Gargaron wished for Grimah, such were the pace of this ghostly entity they trailed. Melai flew effortlessly and kept looking back where Gargaron had begun to lag behind. Hawkmoth were not far abreast of him. Locke, astride his serpent and well ahead of the others would call out continuously, 'What's keeping you pair?' And they would hear his laughter ring out through the wood.

'I shall ring your neck when I catch you!' Gargaron yelled.

'Oh well, there you are then,' Locke called back to him, 'some incentive to quicken your pace!'

All banter ceased however when the thick set oaks and beeches and elms began to thin all of a sudden late that day and a mighty clearing opened out. Like Vantasia, this place too cowered beneath a ceiling of far reaching tree branch. But here were a place made of stone, not wicker, a place of stone blocks and crumbling mortar, where twisting strangler trees had grown up from amidst peculiar ruins, their roots curling in and out of ancient stonework.

'Where are we?' Gargaron asked and hushly Hawkmoth told them, 'Here be Dorubudur.'

There were signs of recent activity and perhaps habitation. Cat bones hanging from trees, animal skulls, tusked troll skulls, lining the tops of worn, crumbled walls. Some of the stonework had been painted too. Walls washed red by blood, Hawkmoth felt, and the guts and innards of intruders laid out on the surface of sloping walls in a rough pattern of the individuals they once belonged to, teeth and tongues and eyes completing these macabre portraits.

No sooner had the traveling group emerged from the Dark Wood, than they heard the march of boots upon rock and there emerged before them an army of skeleton warriors, clad haphazardly in armour, some bearing shields, and nearly all wielding some kind of weapon; maces, swords, morning stars, halberds, weapons and gear no doubt stolen from foot soldiers from kingdoms far afield. Hawkmoth knew that many of these skeleton men were what remained of those fallen foot soldiers; slain by the witches, left to rot, and finally enchanted, their meatless bodies rising and sent out as sentries, guards or warriors to do the bidding of their new masters.

The foul reek that Gargaron and his friends had detected on arrival grew ever stronger now as the skeleton guard pressed forward.

Locke laughed. 'Ah at last, this day begins to meet my expectations.' He had withdrawn his moon-blade, smiling all the while.

Hawkmoth motioned for his companions to wait. He stepped forward and spoke aloud to whichever intelligent ears listened beyond this skeleton army.

'Forgive our intrusion, but I am Hawkmoth Lifegiver, banished sorcerer of Sanctuary. I have with me friends from afar. The giant, Gargaron Stoneheart of Hovel. Forest nymph, Melai Willowborne of Thoonsk. Shore dweller, Sir Rishley Locke, of Barnacle-On-Sea. So hear me, if you will. We come in peace, and in hope that we may finally put an end to this war that has raged for centuries beyond count. I return to you Mama Vekh. If you require it, I shall gladly give myself over to your keeping, if you desire it, hold me for a hundred years, for that is how long my foolish brothers held your Mama Vekh. If that be not enough, then let me offer up my life to end this conflict. But I plead, lay your boom weapons to rest. The world is almost at its end, enough blood has been shed. Let those that still live, live out their days in peace. Hear me now, please, I implore you.'

There were no let-up in the eagerness of the skeleton warriors, grunting, hissing, pushing and heaving against Hawkmoth's invisible force field. It told Hawkmoth one thing: that the witches had not changed their command, that they believed Hawkmoth were an advanced attack party.

He sighed, and glanced left and right at his companions. 'Looks like the witches are proving as stubborn as my Brothers. We have no choice but to fight.'

Locke grinned. 'Oh, how sad.'

'So be it,' Gargaron said, slurping down some strange brew from a blue gourd, a brew that granted him a heightened battle mind. 'Then let us be done with it.'

Locke frowned. 'I say, Gargaron. Might I ask what you are taking there, my friend?'

Gargaron shrugged. 'Something of my village druids' making. Nectre of Newtlilly. A little pain ease is all. I shan't be caught out again like I were with those damn Bewitched.'

Locke smiled. 'Pain ease, you say.'

'Aye.'

'You mind if I sampled a small drop?'

Gargaron shrugged and tossed the gourd over to Locke who caught it and studied it closely. He then popped off its lid, tilted it to Gargaron before pouring a measure down his throat. And then just to be sure, a second measure...

'Right then,' Hawkmoth called out to any witch ears that may have been listening. 'To the leaders of Vantasia...' His voice seemed to carry loud across the ruins. 'Have it your way!'

2

Hawkmoth slammed down his staff, point first into the ground and the wall of blue light holding the skeleton army at bay pulsed and altered form, taking on the shape of mighty mastodon beasts that then charged into the formation of warriors, knocking a hundred of them flying in a hundred different directions.

Gargaron, Locke and Melai took this as a command to attack. And attack they did. Furiously.

Locke heard music. The stirring tunes of the eighteen-string shelled _jhotar_ , and shore horns and the haunting voices of beautiful crabwomen in song. He were not certain whether the song existed simply in his mind but to him it felt as though it rang out through the woodland. That everyone present could hear it. And it inspired him, strengthened him, boosted him.

Gargaron heard whispers, the voices of the female sprites of the Summer Woods bordering Hovel, voices that warned of an attacker he could not see, and helped him anticipate attacks he did not see coming. Throwing his sword at thin air only to have it deflect a swinging blow by some boneman. Swinging his sword out behind him, out of his range of sight, collecting attacks. He charged headlong into mobs of these bonemen, swinging, slashing, parrying, stabbing, pushing his great sword between their ribs before twisting the blade and tearing the fiends apart from inside out. Either that or he dashed them up against trees, splintering them.

Hawkmoth used the world around him: enchanting strangler trees, getting them to come to life, their roots like the tentacles of octopus; roots that grabbed armfuls of skeletals, crushing them, squeezing them, grinding them to dust and splinters, branches that swept great masses of bonemen aside in single thrusts.

Melai used specific arrows, ones containing gooey sap that roped and stuck her attackers to one another, rendering them immobile, to be battered to shards by a graceful Gargaron.

Locke continued on his crazy berserk frenzy, roaring and skittering out into mobs of skeletons, lost amidst their numbers. The darts of his blowflute proved mostly ineffective; more seemed to miss their targets than hit. So he allowed his moon-blade do the cutting, each thrust sizzling, slicing through the skeletons like molten steel through fat. More than once Melai and Gargaron narrowly avoided being struck by his frenzied assault. But Locke seemed oblivious to it, yelling and laughing and talking to the enemy as he cut them down. ' _Come to the light,_ ' he yelled, ' _come on!_ ' and then, ' _Ha, there you go, have at it. Go on, have at it!_ ' Then when he found himself swamped, or his arms pinned, he drove his head at boneman sternum, burrowing his horns into ribs, and with a violent twist of his head, pulled torsos apart in an explosion of shattered bone.

Zebra slashed and bit and hissed and tore, and discarded bones flew every which way, like splinters of a wooden abode ripped apart in a storm. At one stage the skeletons of giants emerged and Gargaron told the others they were his. And off he went, battering, slashing, taking on these enormous fiends who wielded morning stars and maces. Once or twice he were clobbered, and his shield were smashed to bits. But he soon had the upper hand, hacking off their arms or legs before relieving them of their hissing, whining skulls.

In the end there remained but a few scattered skeleton men, giant or otherwise, broken and injured, writhing about the ruins, unable to stand or continue their fight; some with dark vapour wisping from cracks in their skulls, others oozing reeking orange marrow from rents in their limbs.

Locke stood there wild-eyed and panting, looking about bewildered, as if he had just woken up to what he'd been doing. The stirring music had gone from the world, now just the sound of his breathing, and the irksome scratch of busted bone against stone and ruins as bonemen writhed weakly where they had fallen.

Gargaron, more accustomed to the effects of his war syrup, simply stood there, taking in water, his muscles fatigued.

Hawkmoth strode forward, stepping over dying skeletons, climbing up the ruins, clasping his staff. 'Stay alert,' he ordered his companions. 'The next wave I fear will be the witches. And they shall be a far tougher force to reckon with.'

But as he reached the height of the ruins he suddenly stopped in his tracks. For there they were, watching him. The witches. Thus he froze.

3

Something about the scene puzzled him.

The attack he had anticipated did not come. Mighty vanguards of witches on the backs of lizard steeds did not appear. All he saw, and it left him greatly suspicious, were a handful of emaciated, terrified hags cowering beneath an overhanging rock shelf.

Gargaron and Melai drew up carefully on Hawkmoth's flanks. Each of them gazing down at the group of witches. Gargaron could not help but feel both a mixture of fear and anger as he set his eyes upon them. Fear that the formidable beings he had come so far to see were now suddenly right before him, and anger that here were the very folk who had caused the death of his girls, the death of all his friends, his home, the deaths of millions across Godrik's Vale. Melai too felt anger, but she also felt pity for instantly she saw the witches were in a terrible state.

Locke did not concern himself with these witches. Still partly jacked up on Gargaron's war juice, he had taken it upon himself to scurry about on his serpent, taking up skulls as trophies, hooking them to the sides of his serpent's saddle.

'Do not be fooled,' Hawkmoth warned Melai and Gargaron. 'They fool us to lull us. Their attack will come. Of that you can be certain.'

4

The attack however did not eventuate.

The witches remained huddled there, watching their invaders.

They were ashen skinned beings, Gargaron observed, bony, bug-eyed, black toothed. They wore piercings through their upper arms and legs. And they had bulbous sacks of flesh hanging from the sides of their bellies. Gargaron initially took these to be breasts. But each sack were perforated by a blackened opening, and Gargaron recalled now tales about witches storing and carrying tinctures, poisons and mind altering brews inside them.

As he watched, one of them, an older more haggard looking thing, squeezed several wisping grey, viscous bubbles from one of those sacks in her belly and threatened to throw them at Hawkmoth if he came any closer. ' _Leave us!_ ' she howled. ' _You have done enough! Leave us be!_ '

Hawkmoth withdrew his staff and held out his spare hand, as a conciliatory gesture. 'Wait,' he said, 'please, do not release your ghost stones. We come in peace.'

The hag laughed. ' _Peace? Ha! What would you know of peace?! You decimate us, you decimate our armies! Why sing peace when all you know is dealing death?!_ '

Hawkmoth frowned. 'If it be the army of these bonemen you speak of then we decimated them merely as a measure of self-defence. I did herald our arrival and intentions. Did you not hear it?'

'Aye, we heard it, _sevuck_! But why should we trust the poison from the mouth of one such as you?!'

Hawkmoth frowned again. He knelt now and unhitched the bundle from his shoulders. He lay it before the witches, untied it, pulled it open and let them feast their eyes upon its contents.

He stood and withdrew, allowing them time to absorb and study and accept.

At first their faces were of disbelief, of suspicion, but quickly it turned to recognition and sorrow. Even anger.

Hawkmoth spoke up again. 'I am deeply sorry for her hundred year incarceration. I am deeply sorry that my forebears and current overseers of Sanctuary felt the need to firstly take her from you, and then hold her to ransom. I acknowledge that it has caused your kind undue pain, anger and continued animosity toward my brethren. Therefore, what I said earlier, still stands. So hear me: I offer my life to you, for whichever way you see fit to use it. If you should choose to take my life here today then so be it. If it puts a stop to your boom weapons, if it puts a stop to all this dying, then I wish for only that and nothing more.'

'Leave us,' the hag screeched. 'Leave us to our Mother now that she be returned. Are you not satisfied?'

Hawkmoth bowed. 'I shall give you time to accept her back. But I shall not leave. Not yet. I will return in one hour to hear your verdict.'

5

Hawkmoth retreated, calling back Gargaron and Melai, and they climbed down the ruins to where Locke presided over an excessive number of bone trophies.

They sat to wait out the hour. Though Hawkmoth surveyed all approaches to these ruins from the surrounding woodland.

Gargaron watched him. 'Do you expect an attack?'

'I declare that I do not fully comprehend what is going on here. Though, aye, I feel they delay things while the greater number of their kind surround our position.'

This comment had them all searching the surrounding forest.

'So you really mean to give your life over to them?' Melai enquired as they sat there scouring the woodland. 'I just want to be sure.'

Hawkmoth nodded. 'Yes.'

6

The hag Hawkmoth had addressed fetched him on the hour. Hawkmoth were chatting amongst his friends, ever speculating on what the witches planned to do, when she approached.

She stood there, looking ill, weak, withered, emaciated. Gargaron had heard the witches were a tall breed, some as tall as his own kind. But this thing were bent over and hunched, and she were all limb and bone. Her ashen skin ran with a map of dark veins, her bulging eyes were a deep, stone blue.

'We have never pretended to understand the ways of your kind, sorcerer Hawkmoth, nor that of your agenda,' she croaked weakly. 'We appreciate the fact that you have returned our dear Mother to us. I am glad to have lived through all my long life to reach this day. But now we ask you to leave so that we may die in peace.'

Hawkmoth frowned. 'I do not comprehend. Die? Has your boom curse affected you lot too? I offered myself up to you for you to put a stop to your boom bombs. How is this difficult to comprehend?'

The witch eyed him closely, and it were her turn to frown. 'What do you play at?'

'Your boom weapons,' Hawkmoth said. 'Don't you hear my words? I offer my life for you to halt the detonation of your bombs. I cannot paint it any clearer than that. I shall not leave here until I have a deal!'

She kept frowning. 'There are no boom weapons, sorcerer. The world is in its death throes. You ought to know this as well as any.'

'I haven't the time for games,' Hawkmoth warned. 'Take me or suffer our wrath.'

'Do not threaten us,' the hag warned.

'Why? If you will not hear me you leave me no choice.'

It were Gargaron who stepped forward here, his hand on the sorcerer's shoulder, enough gentle pressure to suggest the sorcerer should step back, calm down, let someone else have a go at diplomacy.

Hawkmoth hesitated, though retreated.

Gargaron knelt, his hand on his heart. 'Hear me please, oh witch. I am Gargaron Stoneheart of Hovel. I am not your enemy nor have I ever been your enemy. But hear me, I beg of you. I saw you up there, under shelter, with your own kin. Sisters, perhaps. Daughters. Mothers. I do not presume to know. But you are with your own kind, your own blood. _I_ have none left. No blood, no kind such as I. Nor does Melai. Nor Locke. Some great blight has killed nearly all beyond these woods. We were informed that those of your kind, and I am not saying it were you nor those up there sheltering, but that witches are the cause of it. I sense now however, you know another truth. Pray you tell us. For the sake of my dearly departed wife and daughter.'

The witch hardly moved, but her eyes did search him deeply he saw. And in the end she slumped against a rock and weakly spoke. 'Whatever treachery this is, whatever rolls out across the world killing most and all, be not of our doing. And these boom weapons, I do not know of which you speak. If it be the shockwaves that bombard us periodically then it be naught to do with us. We thought initially that it were these sorcerers of Sanctuary, one final campaign to wipe us out. So with all our remaining reserves we conducted a counter strike upon Sanctuary. Only to find the place decimated and overrun with dark entities unknown even to us. We were forced to retreat. My sisters were beginning to succumb to some mysterious ailment. We assumed it to be some sickness orchestrated by the sorcerers. And the shockwaves kept coming, shaking our home, killing more.

'Sadly, we are all that remain of our kind now. All our mothers have perished. Maychild the Fair. Hyndilla the Sleeper. Chianay Timethief. Pinnezelle Skywitch of Bluefield. None of them with their mighty magic could withstand this dark tide.'

Gargaron blinked as he heard the names of these witches. 'Chianay?' he asked. 'She who distorts time?'

The hag gazed at him, wondering how he had heard of one of the Revered Ones.

'Aye, even she. All of them perished. And it were not until we retreated here that we discovered what be killing us all. For, now we know there is naught to be done... but die.'

Gargaron, Melai, Locke, even Hawkmoth now, all watched her keenly, fascinated, intrigued, confused, waiting for her to go on, to tell them the secret of this mystery.

'What be it, pray tell?' Gargaron asked. 'What be the cause of this great dying?'

The witch coughed. Dark green phlegm spluttered over her lips. 'Return me to my kind, if you will. And I shall tell you.'

Hawkmoth stepped forward here and this time it were he warding Gargaron back with a gentle hand. Gargaron, who had been about to take the witch into his grasp, looked around at him.

'Please,' Hawkmoth said. 'Let me. My kind owe her and hers much. It be a small token, but it should be I.'

Gargaron nodded and the witch did not object. She even raised her hand to him. 'Come then, enemy, help me to my sisters.'

Hawkmoth crouched and shuffled his arms beneath her bony frame and he hoisted her effortlessly into his grasp. Together they returned to the shelter, Gargaron, Melai and Locke all following. The other witches were hunched around Mama Vekh, as if their passing would be eased by her presence. Here Hawkmoth lay down the witch.

'What be your name?' he asked her.

'Cahssi of the Xoord.'

'And pray tell us, Cahssi, what are we facing?'

' _Mortatha_. The End Times. Cloudfyre Falling.'

## RECORD OF GHARTST

1

'THESE are the ruins of cities once belonging to men,' Cahssi told him. 'They stood before the last Great Fall. Eons beyond eons lost to time and lore. And may stand here again if those of the Void do not find it.'

Hawkmoth frowned. 'Those of the Void?'

'The formless demons that invade our lands.'

'The Dark Ones,' Gargaron murmured.

'Aye, whatever name you know them, they have crawled from their barrows from where they have lain for ten thousand years. They wreak havoc now throughout our country, and perhaps by now have spread throughout all countries of Cloudfyre. They spread poison on the air and contaminate our rivers and oceans and they pummel the living and leave no trace of towns and cities. Everything be in peril and none can halt their march.'

'Can they be stopped?'

'If there be a way, I know it not.' She watched them, saw the skepticism in the sorcerer's eyes. 'If you won't believe me then cast your gaze across the paintings in this cave and you will learn their story soon enough.'

Hawkmoth looked up, surveying the inside of the strange shelter. But could not see much in the lightless parts. 'What be it we face?'

This Cahssi breathed hoarsely. But managed to speak. 'I told you. _Mortatha_. Cloudfyre Falling. As it is written on these walls.'

He frowned at her. 'Mortatha?'

'Aye. Recorded and foretold here by the hands of those of Ghartst.'

'Ghartst?' Hawkmoth did not comprehend. The tablets Skitecrow in Sanctuary had spoken of were of Ghartst. He blinked, perplexed.

He stood, hefted his staff about and scratched it against the wall and Rashel's eyes gave off soft illuminating light.

Cave paintings became apparent. Ancient beyond ancient. And Hawkmoth had an immediate sense of tremendous age. Twenty thousand, forty thousand, perhaps as much as fifty thousand years these dated.

And what they showed chilled his veins like nothing had ever in his long life.

Dark Ones. Harbingers. Those of the Void, as Cahssi had named them. Of many shapes, many sizes. Black, bright of eye. About them there were naught but death, destruction, shockwaves. And every now and then stood depictions of immense bell towers—objects Hawkmoth did not recognise.

It were all extremely detailed. Set out like a story. Each scene drawn below the other, crude vertical columns of pictographs accompanied by strange Ghartst language characters.

His companions had crowded up beside him.

'What _be_ this?' Gargaron asked.

Hawkmoth tugged at his long beard thoughtfully. 'How the ancients recorded their tales. There are many such sights in the realm but none so old as this, I feel. And others I have seen are primarily concerned with hunting, with moon worship, with burial of great clan leaders. Some go back two thousand years. Some eight thousand. But none have I ever encountered be of this age.'

'Can you interpret it?' Melai enquired.

'Some. Not all.'

'What do you read here then?'

And here Hawkmoth felt the need to concentrate, lest he misinterpret things.

2

At first Hawkmoth found it hard to comprehend exactly what he were seeing. There seemed to be countless tales of mass dying, of shockwaves killing people. And of a mysterious virus wiping out entire populations. And folk not knocked off by any of these forces were cut down by legions of Dark Ones. In all so many different shapes and sizes did they come: ones who rode the air, ones who walked the _earyth_ , ones who swam the oceans, ones as small as beetles. The idea seemed that they cleansed, for whatever reason, Cloudfyre of all living things.

Melus and Gohor, the suns, were also depicted. If Hawkmoth were reading it without fault, it seemed that every ten thousand years Cloudfyre's orbit kicked off a series of strange catastrophic events. End times, when Cloudfyre's orbit were pulled violently from one sun's keeping to the other.

Last of all, Hawkmoth learned of the Death Bells. The single cause of the boom shocks. Again, if he were interpreting all of this correctly, a ring of these Death Bells, housed at the tops of mighty towers, circled the planet in a north-south band. And their tolling, were primed and activated by Cloudfyre's orbital phase, namely the commencement of Cloudfyre's transition from one sun's gravitational hold to the other.

When he were done, when he had seen enough, Hawkmoth left the spherical interior of this cave, his chest tight. He wanted fresh air, sunlight, some breeze on his face. None of which he found immediately outside the cave.

3

Gargaron remained, studying the cave paintings, trying to glean some meaning from them. He had deciphered some of it. But not all. 'Hawkmoth?' he said. 'What does this mean? Is there still some way here to aid our plight?'

But Hawkmoth would not answer.

'Three of our kind left for the closest of the Empty Towers, to bring it down,' the witch, Cahssi, informed them. 'I believe they have failed. Or perished.'

'What are you talking about?' Melai asked, fluttering about the cave, studying the diagrams and pictures. 'What does it all mean?'

Locke sat patiently outside, trusting that he would be informed of current developments in due course.

'Did you notice Cloudfyre?' Cahssi called out to Hawkmoth, pointing up at the diagram on the wall. 'The closest Bell Tower lies north of here... oh so many leagues away. Beyond the Grass Sea. That be where the boom shocks emanate.'

Hawkmoth did not reply. And would hear no more. He needed space, he needed silence, some place to think.

Above these ruins a monstrous outcrop of granite loomed like a colossal anvil stretched out above the Dark Wood. Without saying anything he took his leave from his companions and witches and walked off into the woodland. Melai went to go after him, or have someone stop him, but Gargaron called her back.

'Let him go,' he told her.

'No. Why? Where is he going?'

'Time and space to think things through, I suspect.'

Melai looked flustered. 'But I don't understand. What is going on?'

Gargaron strolled back into the cave with a sigh. 'Let us go through this methodically,' he said. 'I believe I understand some of it, but cannot comprehend what it yet means for us.'

'It means we all die,' the witch said.

Gargaron ignored her and hers all lying there huddled, unconscious, dying. And tried to make sense of the cave paintings for himself.

4

Hawkmoth sat at length atop the granite crag, overlooking the woodland and all the world beyond. He did not much else but think of his wife Eve and their little home together and all the animals they kept on their property and all the lives he had saved. It saddened him greatly that he may likely see them no longer, that he had somehow failed them. That his time taken to fetch Mama Vekh back to the witches had taken far too long and had now been wasted.

He wondered if his Order had known of these Death Bells prior to now. Considering Skitecrow's claims, maybe they had not. There had long been rumour of mysterious towers, a ring of them at intervals of thousands of miles, that circled Cloudfyre. But they were places none he knew had ever visited. And were said to be impossible to reach; either located in such places that left them difficult to access, or they were imbued with unknown enchantments that could render you dead in an instant, or they were believed sacred and better left alone. Yet, it troubled him that he had lived such a long life on this world and had never known of these Death Bells.

_So, what now?_ he asked himself.

Well, there were naught left to do but trek to the closest of these Death Bells, the one that sat atop what Cahssi had named the Empty Tower. It were situated in a perilous place of course, upon an island the cave wall called Vol Mothaak, surrounded by the mysterious Grass Sea. Once there he supposed they would set about dismantling it. The Ghartst diagram appeared to indicate as much. And the final diagram, after the destruction of the Death Bell, showed renewed life, renewed growth, rebirth.

He supposed that were his last option now. An almost insurmountable task. For, would the destruction of one Death Bell be enough to end the shock and sound waves? Enough to end the disease and dying? Enough to send the Dark Ones back to their barrows? Maybe not for all of Cloudfyre. But perhaps it would be enough at least for Godrik's Vale. And that were all he could hope for.

Still, by the time it took to carry out such a task, the enchantment around his home might have fully diminished, and by the time he returned home he would no doubt find his dear Eve perished, if she had not already, and all beasts currently sheltering there dead and rotting.

_Do I send myself on one last errand then?_ he wondered. _Or do I fetch myself home and die peacefully at Eve's side?_

He sat there and closed his eyes and concentrated his breathing, taking in the sweet, warm air, the sunshine heating his skin.

5

When Gargaron found him, Hawkmoth were dispatching his last communiqué to his wife. Gargaron stood back a moment, sensing some sadness from the sorcerer, and watched as Hawkmoth sent his Windracer, that strange wooden boy, on its way.

Hawkmoth watched it run from there, leap the edge of the outcrop and drop down into Dark Wood, vanished from sight. 'Right then,' he said softly. And when he turned to leave he found Gargaron there.

'Be you well?' Gargaron asked gently.

They regarded each other for a moment before the sorcerer hefted up his satchel and his staff and walked by the giant. Hawkmoth nodded. 'Aye. I needed time to think, that is all.' He stopped and turned to savour the scenery one last time. 'A lovely view from here don't you think? You would not think anything were wrong with the world.'

Gargaron nodded. 'No, you would not.' For some moments both of them stood in silence, surveying the vast vista.

'I saw my Eve in my daydreams,' Hawkmoth said softly. 'The curse of this Doom chips slowly away at the boundary of the enchantment I placed around my hill and home. Soon it shall be gone and my dear Eve exposed and everything I sought to harbour from this curse will die.'

Gargaron eyed him, sorry the sorcerer were facing this predicament so far from his wife. He himself could not fathom what the sorcerer were feeling.

'Even her Grey Huntress will fail to protect her, I fear.'

Gargaron looked puzzled. 'Grey Huntress?'

Hawkmoth took a moment to answer, and when he did it were with the air of someone distant in thought. 'A wraith. Her guardian. One that can swallow foes and render them unconscious or dead.'

Gargaron thought back to the day he and Melai had arrived at sorcerer's cottage on Dead Man's hill. Something had been standing there, behind them. Something his Nightface had detected far too late. Something that had swallowed them, captured them. He remembered this only now.

'She summoned it to her service after I revived her,' Hawkmoth said. 'To keep her from harm if I were ever away from home. But I fear it has not the power to protect her from this Doom.' He sighed. 'If I left now for home, would I make it back before she dies?' He smiled sadly and shook his head. 'I cannot even but hold her. And with all my learned skills I stand here inept and useless.'

Gargaron stepped to his side. 'I would not begrudge you if you turned back. If I knew my wife and daughter remained in Hovel alive yet were facing certain death, then... I do not know how I would feel. But I guess I would want to be with them.'

Hawkmoth smiled ever so slightly. 'Still, without Razor, without my zeppelin, I would not make it.' A flicker of pain crossed his face. 'My best chance is to press on to this Tower. If we find success in bringing it down then that be the best chance for my Eve.'

'Aye, and if not, we die trying.'

Hawkmoth gave a wan smile. And gripped Gargaron's shoulder. 'Aye, giant. We die trying.' He regarded the giant for a moment longer. 'I am sorry that Chianay Timethief be dead. I know you had hoped one day to call on her powers. To return to you your girls.'

Gargaron said nothing, simply drew in a deep breath. 'Were too much to hope for, I feel.'

'And yet hope be all we have left.' He clapped the giant on his shoulder. 'Come now, friend,' he said. 'We have one last mission before us.'

6

When they reached the round cave again, Hawkmoth saw that the witches had perished. All save for Cahssi. She had draped her kin in the skins of her foremothers, from face to foot, and had emptied their bellies, withdrawing their innards and lying them, still attached, around their torsos. She had also sliced the corners of their mouths to their ears, and removed their tongues, lying these beside their necks. Their mouths, seen faintly beneath the layer of thin transparent skin, gaped wide, large enough now to permit someone's fist. Hawkmoth had heard of this ritual but one he had never witnessed. They believed the spirits of their ancestors would come to take these bodies, but in order to carry them away, they must be able to fit inside each one, to "wear" them, in order to lift them.

Cahssi's hands were blood stained up to her scrawny forearms, and she had painted some of it on her forehead, one stripe for each death it seemed for she had seven stripes in all. She gazed up at the sorcerer. 'I do not understand it. Why are some of us dying so, when some like yourselves remain so vibrant and alive?'

'I have no answer for you,' he said sorrowful. 'But we must leave now.' He pulled his eyes up from her eviscerated kin. 'If I read these walls correctly then it tells me we have one last chance of stopping this blight.' He looked around at Melai, at Locke, hoping all would hear what he had to say. 'But the land where this Death Bell be situated be sadly far, far away. It will take us some traveling to reach it. Shall we remain alive long enough is something I cannot tell. But if you, my companions, wish to join me on one last quest, then I would be honoured to have you along, but we ought leave without further delay.'

Cahssi watched them from where she sat upon the rocks. 'You have returned Mama Vekh to us. For that I am grateful. So... let me assist you now.'

She went to stand but wobbled, and threatened to fall until Gargaron took her arm. She looked up at him. She squeezed his hand before she allowed him take her weight. There were a sensation of unease, even a stinging feeling in his fingers, as she did it. But she looked deep into his eyes. He thought she meant to say something but whatever it were she held it to herself. 'You needn't take weeks,' she said. 'I will show you a quicker way.'

## SLÜV THE VANISHER

1

THE Vanisher were situated in what seemed the deepest part of the Dark Wood, an area where the trees possessed bizarre twisted trunks that cork-screwed from rock and leaf matter and heavy black-purple soil, bending upwards this way and that. The crowns of these peculiar trees seemed intertwined and intricately woven together, as though this place were impenetrable from the air. (Indeed Hawkmoth had heard of such places governed by witches, where you could fall upon the roof of a forest and not fall through, instead snared within its thorny netting, you would be subsequently penetrated by tendrils with tiny mouths that would slowly suck the juices from your body.) Hawkmoth looked up once or twice. The canopy permitted such small amounts of sunlight but here and there he were certain he glimpsed the bony remains of creatures sucked dry, silhouetted against the sky.

The land dipped away into a vast bowl and the ground became soggy and marshy. There were bugs here still living, flitting about the faces of Hawkmoth, Gargaron, Melai and Locke, though they seemed to leave the witch be, though it were evident they were dying, flying in mindless circular motions, spiralling down into the boggy ground where millions of their kind had already come to rest; the ground here seemed to be alive, writhing, wriggling, buzzing with dying insects great and small.

Hawkmoth frowned, looking about. Though a diffused yellow light hung about the canopy, it were as if permanent night had descended upon this realm. And there were a strange sensation that the woodland were attempting to bury he and his friends. The trees grew taller and more dense. The ground dipped further. Until in the end Hawkmoth and his fellowship could but faintly see the canopy, so high and so far it hung above them.

2

Hawkmoth brought Rashel's eyes to glow, and Gargaron his lantern, and together they lit a vast swathe of this cheerless forest. Even so, the place were still sapped of colour. Trees, leaves, any rambling brambles were all dark and black. Aside from the light of Hawkmoth's staff, of Gargaron's lantern, what little light there were seemed to come from bioluminescent plants; lichen, or toadstools. Even some bark. But a subdued, dark yellow light it were, nothing so bright and cheerful.

'Where do you take us?' Hawkmoth asked the witch, suspicious that this were some intricate ploy to get rid of him and his company.

Cahssi had weakened markedly, almost too weak now even to speak. She pointed with a limp, emaciated arm. _Forward_ , it seemed to say, _unto darkness_.

It made Hawkmoth and Melai nervous. Locke, astride his serpent, still nursed a splitting headache thanks to Gargaron's war juice; he felt as though he'd polished off an entire hogshead of strong Coral Coast Ale. Yet he relished the subdued light. And the coolness of the woodland.

Gargaron however, surged forward where the others seemed reluctant, his boots pushing down in the mud and bog.

'Careful,' Melai warned him hushly.

'All be well,' he reassured her, looking from her to Hawkmoth. 'All be well. I see her thoughts. She speaks true. We face no trap. Trust me.'

_It is not you I question_ , Hawkmoth thought.

3

Finally when it seemed all light had been sucked from the woods, Cahssi of The Xoord rose from her semi-conscious state and looked about. She coughed weakly. 'Slow now,' she rasped. 'She Who Eats All be close.'

_She Who Eats All?_ Hawkmoth thought. _An ambush for certain_.

But he were surprised to hear Gargaron's voice. 'Easy, good sorcerer. There be no ambush. She speaks true.'

And it were here that Hawkmoth frowned as a monstrous shape were glimpsed some distance ahead in the gloom.

The others saw it too. And the party halted.

'Be that the one of whom you speak?' Gargaron asked Cahssi.

'Aye, Slüv the Vanisher. Your passage to the Grass Sea.'

4

A monstrous demon toad, or a stunted, warted salamander. Gargaron could tell not. It were difficult to discern in the dark. But puffy it were, that much were clear, with fat bulbous limbs, a flabby neck, and its vast lumpy spine nudged the underside of the high canopy. Its enormous, gaping mouth hung ajar, with eyes half open. And there were a cloying stink to it like a million things rotting.

Gargaron were not alone in wondering how this thing might possibly carry them to a point thousands of leagues away.

Hawkmoth did not speak aloud his impressions. But Gargaron detected his words like whispers on a breeze: ' _A foul demon if ever I saw one!_ '

'Take me to her,' Cahssi asked of Gargaron.

Gargaron tread forward slowly, this immense creature seeming to grow ever larger the closer he drew to it. How long it had sat here slumped in this stinking swamp, Gargaron could not guess, but it were evident the monster could move no longer, such were its crippling weight and bulk. Still, if Gargaron had not felt some sense of safety being in the company of Cahssi, he would have feared its tongue. The toads he'd known (though nowhere near as big) were adept at attacking with such sticky wet appendages, could suffocate, even strangle with them, could draw prey into their gaping mouths at the speed of a lightning strike.

Still, Gargaron pressed forward, until Cahssi asked to be put on her feet. He did as requested, as if handling a frail doll, lightly, gingerly, carefully. She stood, swaying; he held her upright for a few moments so that she might gain her strength and balance.

For a while she simply watched Gargaron. She held out her hand to him. He took it out of courtesy. And as he did he heard her voice in his thoughts once again. _We are all children of Vhuda. My time on this world is up. But I_ _give what remains of my life to Slüv, for a life force she must consume before she will send folk across distances. So hear me. I would not have helped you and your friends had you not been the earthchild._

Gargaron blinked at her, confused.

_Aye,_ she said, as if he had protested, _You be the earthchild. Soon the days will begin to run backwards. And from you, a new world will come. But you have work here first._

Her words shook him. But before he could ask what she meant she turned to face the mountainous toad. She spoke a harsh hissing, gulping language at it. As she did she snatched a blade from what looked to be a sheath fashioned from hair at her hip, a blade that looked much like a beetle wing carved into the form of a short scimitar with an ebony-black hilt. She jabbed it into the top of her leg, puncturing her skin; bubbling, yellow blood, spat from her, and dripped into the marsh where the muddy water steamed and fizzed.

The toad, Slüv the Vanisher, _She Who Eats All_ , opened its vast mouth and burped out a hideous croak that seemed to shake the woodland around it. Its tongue shot forth, tasting Cahssi's foul blood.

'It is begun,' Cahssi said, falling to her knees. 'She will take me now, and she will deliver you to Rith Gartha, the shores of the Grass Sea.'

Gargaron and his companions frowned.

'Take down this blight if you can,' Cahssi said to them and an instant later Slüv's tongue flicked out once more... and took the witch into its throat.

Melai gasped, thinking something had gone wrong, that she and her friends would be swallowed into this repulsive creature. As she moved backwards, cords of white light waved over Slüv, like strings of molten silver. More followed. 'What's happening?' she called, but her voice were lost amidst a growing din, some sound omitted from the light, a roar, a squeal. And suddenly the bands of light were so bright that she could barely see. Faintly she saw Hawkmoth moving backwards. And Locke standing there transfixed. 'Gargaron,' she squealed. 'Get back.'

In front of her, Gargaron did not hear her. Nor could he see anything now. He called out for his companions. But he could not even hear his own voice. He went to back away when he felt something wrap itself around him. Wet and hot and sticky. The toad's tongue. Yet before he had time to protest, it hoisted him off his feet and he felt a strange sensation, of being yanked forward, and then of being hurled across space. And by then the searing light were gone...

## RITH GARTHA

1

GARGARON were not certain, but he felt he had been asleep. Or at least had experienced a period of time where he'd possessed no conscious thought. Then he sensed light, and felt air so fresh and clean, and next he knew he were being burped from the mouth of some immense creature.

Into stark sun light he poured, rolling out over fat puffy lips, splashing against weed and gravel. Along with mucous and spit, Melai flowed out behind him, followed by Locke; Hawkmoth and the serpent were out last together.

They groaned and moaned and Locke laughed and the serpent hissed, backing up from the toad, rearing up and lashing out at it. Locke lying there, wiping toad phlegm from his face ordered the serpent to stand down, lest it become toad food. Zebra obeyed, slithering off angrily.

Slowly the others found their feet, slipping, sliding about in the muck, scraping toad spit from their persons, ringing it from their clothes. They edged back from Slüv's gaping maw and it watched them dumbly with its puffy, idiot eyes. Bands of light began to circle and snap about it. Everyone backed up. Moments later the toad were engulfed in a burning white radiance... and then it suddenly ceased to be there. What remained in its wake were balls of swirling light and a trillion tiny stars floating like water vapour.

2

For a while there were naught but stunned silence. Gargaron and Melai, Hawkmoth and Locke, stood there beneath a cloud blotched sky, dripping smelly toad spit, blinking it from their eyes, raking it out of their hair.

'By Ehl Nori Goddess of the Sea,' Locke said almost breathlessly, shaking thick gobbets of toad spit from his horns. 'What marvel just befell us all?'

'Have we been transported?' Melai said, looking about.

'Aye, we have,' Hawkmoth answered her. 'It be arcane transference. I, my Order, and all sorcerers have long speculated on how the witches possess the ability to suddenly appear then vanish without trace.' He grinned. 'Now I know.'

They turned to take in their surroundings, seeing southwun hills and an arid land of dirt and weed and some grass. Then their eyes caught sight of the Grass Sea. At a glance it looked like any other ocean. Except it were green in colour and there were something alien about the movement of its waves. Even Melai thought this, she who had never seen the natural ocean in her life. There were no white breakers. No sea spray. No large swells. These things had been common too on the lagoons of Thoonsk. They seemed not to exist out there. Though one thing this sea did have in common with other seas: it were vast and unending and stretched out to horizon and beyond.

None, as far as Hawkmoth knew, had ever crossed it to the mysterious islands that lay within. And none could swim upon it. The Grass Sea were not like water, buoyant objects did not float here. Everything sunk to its depths that some claimed were a hundred leagues down in parts. Those who fell in, fell and fell and stayed there, joining the dead who it were said walked its darkened seafloor and you could hear their howls on the high winds and if you were not careful they would reach up and drag you down. None could fly over it either, for some inexplicable force drew all flying contraptions and all birds down to it eventually, claiming all. Some said the fabled city of Xanaathii lay out there somewhere, swallowed—some said a hundred leagues down, others said deeper. No fish swam this ocean. No whale. But monsters lurked at the bottom nonetheless, mindless things, who it was said would reach up and prong your feet with razored talons and drag you down.

Of their group, only Hawkmoth had ever lain eyes on this particular ocean. Of their group, none but he had ever been this far across the continent. Not even Gargaron who were one so well travelled.

'How far have we come?' Melai asked.

With one last look to see that the toad had indeed truly gone, Hawkmoth began to wander toward the shoreline. 'Were I to walk home from here,' he said, 'I estimate I'd be gone more than four months.' Near the shoreline he stopped in the shade of a handful of Hispida trees, his robes fluttering on a gentle wind. 'Wow, I have quite forgotten how immense it is.'

'You have been here before then?' Melai asked.

'Aye, many years gone now. One of our initiation rites took place here. We would be tethered to a rope, a rope that were in turn tied off to a tree or some other rigid shore based structure. We would then have to venture out into the grass waves. Walk the alien floor. Submerged. It were meant to conquer your fears but it sent many a young sorcerer insane. Have none of you been this far?'

Melai shook her head. Locke simply grinned. 'Good sorcerer,' he said, 'if I'm to visit an ocean then I prefer it to be filled with water.'

Gargaron were still contemplating the spot where Slüv the monstrous toad had sat, still hearing the strange words of Cahssi echoing faintly through his mind. Though he were not even certain what she had said. Except for one thing: _You have work here first_.

'What say you, giant?' Locke called back to him. 'I dare say you'd prefer water over grass!'

But Gargaron, feeling spooked, failed to hear him.

3

Southways, beyond the low hills, there were deserts that stretched for thousands of leagues in any direction. Parched wastelands of sand and rock as hot as fire. As far as Hawkmoth knew, this Grass Sea were surrounded by these deserts. Yet, there were folk who lived here, Hawkmoth knew. Or at least had. A number of villages were situated along the shoreline; all inhabited by reptilian-skinned folk, folk with lizard eyes and forked tongues, and claws where most folk had fingers. They had found ways to traverse this peculiar ocean. A species of giant turtle inhabited this realm. And their shells, dug out and hollowed, were all that floated upon these grass waves.

Hawkmoth explained as much to his companions as they stood there gazing out across the vast expanse. There were a sense of desolation to their surroundings. As if they had reached the ends of their world. It concerned Melai that this vast "sea" were their next barrier. 'What lies out there?' she asked, trying to conceal her trepidation.

'I'm not certain anyone really knows,' Hawkmoth said. 'Mysterious islands. Unmapped lands. But somewhere out there beyond the horizon lies our destination.'

Melai had grown accustomed somewhat to the realms beyond Thoonsk, their open spaces. But mostly what they had in common with her woodland home were trees, vegetation, pockets of water such as rivers or ponds. Out there she saw no trees, nothing beneath which she might retreat and shut her eyes and listen to the wind through leaves and pretend she were safe beneath her willow tree.

'Do we follow the shore then to our destination?' she asked.

'Afraid we must cross it,' Hawkmoth told her. 'Can you not recall? The land we seek be an island. Out there somewhere.'

It were obvious that there were no such turtle shelled vessels to be seen on this section of shoreline. So Hawkmoth took up his spyglass and fixed it firstly westways, where he saw naught but barren coastline and a pod of dead turtles floating about jagged rocks. Then he turned his spyglass eastways and his eyes narrowed. 'A settlement I see.'

He studied it for a while. Hoping he might spot some sign of life, habitation. But sadly there were none.

'Be it this Rith Gartha of which Cahssi spoke?' Gargaron asked.

Hawkmoth handed his spyglass to the giant. 'Take a look. But I guess we'll not know until we take ourselves to it. Come, let us set off.'

4

The settlement were abandoned. No inhabitants, no rotting carcasses, no bones of any kind. Nothing remained but wind blasted huts made of grass-mud bricks. There were close to two dozen such dwellings spread out along the shore line. At rear of village there were something of a boat yard where enormous turtle shells lay piled about, some left in varying states of being scissored up, used to fashion boat hulls. Here a dirt road lead away to the hills and perhaps it crossed the deserts beyond to take cured turtle meat to distant markets. A number of masts poked from the flat roofs of some village huts, hung with tattered sails that flapped and whipped in the wind. There were even something of a lighthouse, a mud brick construction, the tallest structure of this settlement, most likely situated there to lead ships home on a dark and stormy night.

The shoreline on the village's "waterfront" rose up from the surface of the Grass Sea in stunted cliffs several feet high; stunted trees grew from them, leaning out over the grass waves, roots twisted and exposed. A jetty that looked to be built from turtle shell jutted from the shore line and moored to it were a number of turtle-shelled vessels of varying size. Some were small coracles. But there were a couple of larger vessels. A clipper, damaged, half of it sunk, its nose poking toward the sky. And a carrack.

'I think we may have found our transport,' Hawkmoth announced, gazing out at it.

Melai studied the ship. It were a large craft, with spacious decks and a tall central mast, its sails currently unfurled. There were the figurehead of a fearsome frilled lizard poking out from the long prow. Yet, although she were from a watery realm, Melai knew nothing of seafaring vessels. The idea of being out there at the whim of this Grass Sea brought her more consternation. 'What about the Boom shakes?' she asked. 'I don't much like the idea of being stuck out there having to ride out a Boom shake in that vessel?'

Hawkmoth sighed. 'We must be resigned to the fact that we have no other choice, dear woods nymph. We must trust in our endeavour to sail this ship through whatever the crossing throws at us.'

Melai eyed him. 'And who, of us, knows how to sail such a thing?'

There were a pause. And eyes turned to the crabman.

'Not sure why you lot search me,' Locke said with a humoured smile, scratching his Zebra behind her scaly ear.

'You be from the sea,' Melai said.

'Aye, that I am but how many fish have you ever seen traveling by boat?' he put to them. And received naught but blank stares. He sighed. 'For those of us who are just at home beneath water as on land, well, we barely see the point of waterborne craft. Although, this Grass Sea may prove the exception, of course.'

' _I_ have had some experience,' Gargaron spoke up.

All eyes turned to the giant.

'My father and I sailed the Greenbanks off and on when I were younger,' he told them. 'Perhaps those skills might come back to me once we set sail.'

'Right then,' Locke said clapping his hands together and rubbing them back and forth vigorously, 'here be our captain.'

'I stress though that I do not bring to it a wealth of experience.'

'Well, I have some rudimentary knowledge of sailing from text books,' Hawkmoth said. 'So perhaps we might simply combine our knowledge.'

'That settles it then,' Locke said. 'Now, before we set out, what say we gather some provisions?' And with belly rumbling the crabman wandered off.

5

They found a small building that had a sign reading _Oswetqa's Cured Meats_. Inside they found racks of jerky. And not just turtle meat Locke were happy to point out, but cured lizard, giraffe, dog and harpy.

'Pack what we can,' Hawkmoth said. 'Impossible to know how long our crossing will take. But we needn't starve.'

'Not a green in sight,' Melai observed.

'Ah, but who needs greens when we have salted harpy?' Locke said cheerfully as if salted harpy were the be all and end all.

Melai would happily settle for the growing plants inside her pack: their fruits and fungus, their flowers and their sap.

They found sealed flagons of ale and some strange juice derived from sea grass. As much of it as they could they carried down the mud-brick stairs cut into the shallow cliffs and out across the jetty.

It were an unsettling thing being now so near the ocean's edge, with its strange haunting whispers close on either side. Gargaron could not help thinking of Hawkmoth's strange tales: the dead who roamed the bottom of this sea who would rise up and grab the unsuspecting and haul them in. His arms were full of provisions so he would have had a task reaching for his sword at a moment's notice.

But to his relief, while there were whispers from the grass, naught surfaced to bother them.

The gangplank to the carrack were lost it appeared, perhaps fallen and sunk, or if it were hewn from turtle hide, perhaps it had dislodged and floated away. Gargaron placed his wares on the jetty, took hold of the mooring rope and hauled the ship into dock. He held it firm as it listed upon the soft grass waves and Hawkmoth climbed aboard. Here Hawkmoth scanned the decks, making sure the ship bore the signs that it were indeed abandoned, at least above decks. Locke, able to do so because of his smaller stature, scurried about below decks to report all were deserted. Gargaron tied off the ship to dock and threw their collected wares up to sorcerer and crabman. As this were going on, Melai flew high but landed heavily on deck.

Hawkmoth were quick to help her back to her feet. 'Be mindful, child, flying things and this peculiar ocean do not mix well.' The look on her face as she accepted the sorcerer's hand were one of rude shock, even fear. That even she would sink here in this sea if she were not careful.

Once their goods were stowed, Locke jumped back to jetty, mounted Zebra and heeled her aboard. She hissed as she slithered on deck, her tongue flicking wildly, tasting the air as if none of this were to her liking.

Finally Gargaron called out, 'Be we set to sail?'

'Aye,' came Hawkmoth's reply.

Gargaron unhitched the mooring rope, heaved the carrack from jetty and scrambled up the side of the vessel as it floated out into the soft grass swells. He had no need to remind himself that this were the Grass Sea, if you fell in, then that were it, if no-one threw you a line, if you could not grab one that was thrown to you, then you sank. It were a constant fear in his thoughts.

There were a nervous moment when his hand slipped and he were but suspended there from gunwale with naught but his fingers preventing his fall. And with it came a most disconcerting feeling as his legs dangled freely into the surface of the grass, and an unsettling sensation, whether he were simply imagining it or not, of the grass curling up about his boots, beckoning him, tugging him downwards. Hawkmoth grabbed his loose arm, Locke too, and together they managed to get the giant aboard.

Gargaron had broken out in quite a sweat by the time he stood there on deck, gazing overboard, down at the waving, hissing grass. Sighing, he straightened and looked around at the others. It had been a close call. None wanted to admit it. Except Melai regarded Gargaron with a look that said, ' _You have to be more careful than that_.'

6

The carrack drifted away from the jetty with no deliberate heading; the binnacle compass swung around and pointed northways while the boat were veering east. That were until Gargaron and Hawkmoth managed to work out a way to raise mainsail. It seemed no easy task even for those who claimed to have sailing knowledge behind them. Gargaron had to stop and laugh. 'By Thronir, we have come so far only to be thwarted by this simple task.'

'We are but weary from our travels,' Hawkmoth offered as explanation for their apparent ineptitude.

'Of course,' Gargaron said laughing again. 'I'm glad that is all the matter be. Though, if we cannot operate one simple sail, how is it we hope to cross this sea at all?'

Hawkmoth gave a wry smile, gazing thoughtfully up at the mainmast.

Locke, although not from a sailing community himself, claimed to have some rudimentary understanding of roping and the like and it were he who brought on the solution. And once their sail were hoisted, it caught the wind, billowed and the carrack shunted forward, catching its crew off balance. Gargaron rushed to the wheel to bring the vessel around before it careered off into shore.

The boat tilted as the giant steered its prow north to wide open seas and it were here he realised he had no clear idea where this Empty Tower lay. 'Where be this place exactly?' he called out to Hawkmoth who had wandered off to the foredeck, surveying the way ahead of them.

Hawkmoth took a moment or two to answer. 'Well, I'm embarrassed to admit, giant, but I have absolutely no idea. I have only the Ghartst cave paintings to go on. They suggest a large island lies north of here. How far I cannot say. How many days? Who can tell? For now we would do well to simply follow the compass on a northways heading toward the distant horizon. In the meantime I shall consult my maps to see if anything of this ocean be marked upon them. We shall require a spotter though. I have not witnessed them myself but there have long been tales of troughs opening up on this sea and swallowing ships whole.'

Melai turned and looked around at Gargaron before turning her eye on the sorcerer. 'Troughs?' she asked. 'What do you mean, troughs?'

'Great dark trenches that appear in the grass without warning,' Hawkmoth answered matter of factly. 'They regularly take unsuspecting ships down into the grave of this sea. Fortunately they are relatively easy to spot during the day. So we should not fear.'

'You did not think to warn of this before we took to this boat?' Gargaron asked with a questioning look.

'It has only just come to mind,' Hawkmoth said.

'And what about night?' Melai enquired. 'If this voyage should take us through the dark hours, how might we spot one of these troughs once the suns fall?'

Hawkmoth nodded, as if considering this. 'Well, I have a trick or two to light our way of course. Let us worry about that when we come to it, shall we?'

Gargaron sighed. Boom shakes and now troughs. Were nothing ever simple?

## SEA SCAR

1

IT were Melai who volunteered to take to the crow's nest. Just as well for she were the only one able to climb the mast and fit up there. Except for perhaps Locke. And instead of the prospect frightening her she found the position exhilarating. She remembered her first days away from Thoonsk, how the vast, open and unbreached sky terrified her—that fear of falling _upwards_ with nothing to contain her had been almost too much to bear. But now here she were, perched in a small housing at top of ship, with nothing above her but the entire unending sky. It should've terrified her. But instead she breathed deep the air, enjoying the warmth of the sun on her green skin.

From there she could watch the patterns of the wind move across the grass ocean. Long lines of waves rippled across the surface... ones that altered direction as quick as the wind. The patterns were beautiful, she thought, mesmerising. For as far as she could see, she watched them, entranced.

Some fifty feet below her, Gargaron bore similar thoughts. He marvelled how quiet it were out here. The sound of the breezes on the grass, the occasional whip and tug of the sail, the subdued creak and groan of the ship and its ropes. He turned and eyed the small port from where they had launched. Rith Gartha were already a distant sight behind them, the jetty almost indistinguishable from the shore line. The lighthouse, the most prominent feature, were almost lost to the haze. And all around them this strange, shifting, waving, ocean of grass; grass the colour of old dried peas. Yet every now and then there emerged a break in the colour with a bloom of red atop the grass. At first Gargaron thought these were blooms of flowers. But up close they looked more like meaty snags of tendrils, curling and writhing. An irrational fear warned him that they might detach, wriggle up the hull of their carrack and make lunch out of its crew.

'I believe, they be the staple food of the giant turtle,' Hawkmoth said, leaning over the side of the craft to watch one such writhing bloom drift by. 'And a delicacy of those who fish these waters.'

2

On went their voyage all that long day. And sight of land were long swallowed up beyond horizon. From time to time Gargaron searched the sky. He kept a keen eye open for any discoloration that might indicate a coming shockwave. But it were Gohor and Melus he pondered. While he could not look upon the two suns directly, it did not prevent him from pondering their course. He could not help recalling the cave paintings. Were it true they tussled for possession of Cloudfyre? It were unsettling to consider such a notion. Frightening. And could the orbit of Cloudfyre have brought on the Ruin? Triggered the boom shocks? Awakened the Dark Ones?

He engaged Hawkmoth in conversation on this topic. And it were Melai who asked what the paintings had told them. 'I have no knowledge of this thing you call celestial mechanics,' she said to Hawkmoth.

So Hawkmoth explained it to her, that the moons swung about Cloudfyre, and that Cloudfyre and her eighteen sister planets circled Melus. And that the cave paintings had suggested that Gohor were wanting to wrestle Cloudfyre from the grasp of Melus.

'But why?' she asked.

Hawkmoth shrugged. 'If it be so, I could not tell you.'

'You do not believe this be what the cave paintings depicted?'

'It seemed as such,' he said. 'But they were ancient and their original meaning might well have been lost to all but their creators.'

Gargaron prayed that were the case.

3

The afternoon drew on and they began to see the surfacing of several turtles in the distance. This caused some measureable excitement.

It were Melai who spotted the first. _And_ the second. Calling them out, pointing; the first several hundred feet off the starboard bow, and the second, considerably closer, off port. They were a marvel to watch, these ocean giants, surfacing, even floating for a few moments, as if watching the passing ship.

'They ought not bother us,' Hawkmoth called. 'They be weary of those who hunt them, and, I would think, know this boat to be a threat.'

Thus far, Hawkmoth's prediction proved true. The creatures would simply surface, watch the carrack, and ultimately swim away into the depths of the grass, showing no more interest in the ship, much to Locke's disappointment for he longed to view them at close quarters. Once or twice Gargaron turned the ship in their direction. But the turtles sunk into the depths before the ship strayed near.

Aside from turtle spotting, Hawkmoth maintained a diligent survey upon of the sky for possible Boom shakes, and also upon the "waters" that abounded the carrack. He were pleased that so far, he had spied no perilous troughs.

It were at dusk however that the first danger struck.

4

It had been mid-afternoon when Melai had spotted the first scar. At first she thought it were a cloud shadow cast long and narrow across the grass surface. But aside from dark thunderheads amassing in the distant eastwun skies there were no clouds to be seen.

Melai alerted her crew. Hawkmoth strode eagerly to starboard bow, gazing keenly out across the rolling grass waves. The scar were difficult to spot from his vantage. He deployed his spyglass and brought it into view, a great gaping trench in the grass. It were as if the clawing fingers of two opposing winds had pulled aside a pair of grass walls, raking them aside like a barber combing a part in someone's hair; the "part" in this instance being depthless and dark.

Locke were at the helm by this stage, happy to assume role of captain for a short while. Hawkmoth called for him to adjust their heading slightly. 'Track north-north east for a while,' he called to Locke, 'open up some ground between ourselves and that anomaly.' And up to Melai in the crow's nest he called, 'Keep us abreast of its movements.'

She frowned. 'Is it likely to move?' she called back.

Hawkmoth were not entirely certain. Nearly all he knew of this Grass Sea were from text books. Other than his shorebound initiations as a young sorcerer, he'd had no extended experience of this place. 'I've heard some say these scars can shift as swiftly as the wind.'

As their ship rose and fell on the gentle swells, Gargaron could see the dark gash three or four hundred feet off their starboard bow. His eyes shifted to the waving, whispering grass below their hull. No matter how many times he stared at it, he thought how dense it looked, like close packed brush bristles, and it seemed impossible for a vessel as large as this to sink down amidst its long waving stems. 'How deep are we here would you say?' he asked Hawkmoth.

'Your guess is as good as mine, good giant,' Hawkmoth replied, not removing his spyglass. 'But I've heard it told that at its deepest, the Grass Sea may be as much as several hundred fathoms.'

That idea unsettled Gargaron. Grass so tall and deep. There would be no sunlight down there. Perhaps little air to breath. No room to move.

They watched the scar as it suddenly swept southways like a blade and vanished on the horizon behind them.

It were relief to see it go its own way.

They saw their next at sundown.

5

The suns were low in the sky, setting behind clouds and haze and the atmosphere was turning pink, orange, red. By then Locke had somehow managed to climb his way to crow's nest; his serpent coiled about the mast's base, gazing up at him, tongue flickering.

Locke had been enjoying the solitude, the fresh winds tingling the horns on his head, when, close to nodding off, he detected a dark shape appear to their north.

He sat up, watching it keenly, whipping out Gargaron's spyglass (which admittedly were a tad large for him) and scoured the way ahead. It were only a few hundred feet from them and he saw it clearly, a chasm cut down in the surface of the grass. A strange but awesome thing to behold.

'Hawkmoth,' he called out. 'I see another of your scars. Dead ahead of us. Five hundred feet, angling out to the north-west. I'd recommend a directional change to the north-east.'

Gargaron and Melai had both been snoozing on the foredeck, watching the distant stars begin to twinkle into existence out there in the late afternoon sky that were still blue but slowly darkening, and watching what looked to be the moons of Syssa and Noo Ka, begin their rise. Hearing Locke's call they rose and strode to forward bow.

'Aye, take us north-east,' Gargaron called back to Hawkmoth who were at the helm.

But that proved almost their undoing.

The wind had picked up in the last little while, and the Grass Sea were beginning to kick up with some chop. The carrack had become harder to control, but eventually it took the heading that Hawkmoth had asked of it as he spun the wheel to port side. There were a momentary slackening of the sail as it swung around, before the wind billowed up into it and thrust the vessel off on a north-eastern tack.

But as Locke watched, he noticed with dawning concern the scar moving, the Grass Sea parting, and the great chasm spearing rapidly in their direction. ' _Oh sorcerer, the scar is on the move_ ,' he yelled. ' _On course to intercept us! Ten sunflares!_ '

' _Mooring ropes_ ,' Hawkmoth called. ' _Tether yourselves!_ '

There were but one course of action to take now. If they continued on their current course they would meet the fast moving trench and spill down into eternal dark. If Hawkmoth spun them on a south-westerly course, a similar fate might befall them. All he could do were spin the craft back on a sharp north-easterly direction with the hope that the scar would slice right by them. He had heard that these scars moved like arrows, in straight lines. He had to hope that would ring true.

Quickly Hawkmoth and his crew tethered themselves to mooring ropes, and the crevasse bore down on them like some vengeful creature. It were here Locke noticed something else. Another dark scar. This one out to port. Though, this one vanished just as soon as he'd spotted it. His focus were now split: keeping an eye on the scar racing toward them and keeping a watch for the new one.

When he glimpsed the second anomaly again he were surprised how different it appeared. And as he watched it, he suddenly realised it were no scar.

'Hawkmoth!' he called. 'Other than turtles, what beasts swim these strange seas?'

'None I know of,' the sorcerer called back, straining on the wheel. Gargaron had dashed back to help the sorcerer haul the ship about, dragging his long mooring rope behind him.

Locke's eyes were on the new menace swimming their way. He managed only small glimpses of it as it surfaced and dove, surfaced and dove, but some monster it were, serpentine, with a head full of teeth, and arms and legs folded back against its body.

'We have another threat,' he called out, 'off the portside bow.'

Gargaron left Hawkmoth with the wheel, stumbling over to the portside gunwale. When he laid his eye upon the new threat a chill went through him. ' _Hawkmoth,_ ' he called. ' _Locke be right. Some sea beast comes for us!_ '

Hawkmoth nodded, as if to say, _Right then, a scar and some beast. Two problems be better than three_. 'So be it,' he called, 'brace yourselves!'

6

Two things happened then at once.

Firstly, the scar met them. Until the end of his days, Gargaron would remember standing there on the forward port side bow, gazing down at the mighty trench below them. It were like staring down into a deep, dark mouth, a vast frightening cleft; something that existed it seemed only to swallow them. And for a few moments the ship rode the very edge of it, as if their evasive manoeuvre had been just enough to steer them from harm's way.

However, ship's momentum slowed dramatically on the swell, pushing its passengers from their feet, and the vessel began to tilt over to port. The moving trench seemed to beckon the vessel, pulling it, Gargaron, Melai, Hawkmoth sliding across the deck toward the gunwale, Locke clinging tight to the rails of the crow's nest.

And just as the ship began to topple over the lip and into the waiting deep, the sea beast roared up out of the ocean, slamming ferociously into the ship, shunting it back to starboard, saving the vessel from being swallowed up by the scar.

But the force sent Gargaron toppling overboard.

7

For some moments as he fell, all Gargaron saw were the gaping maw in the grass below him, a gaping crevasse that dropped away into the deep dark depths. Then the mooring line which he had looped and cinched around his waist, gave up its slack and he swung and smacked heavily into the hull.

For a sunflare he dangled there, grimacing, the ship riding the very edge of the crevasse, his feet dangling above the pit. But the swells heaved the vessel high, and the upsurge tossed Gargaron back into the air, and as the ship dropped back to ocean's surface, Gargaron felt truly weightless for a moment. The ship smacked heavily into the grass swells, and yanked Gargaron's mooring line, pulling him downwards with great force, and as his line ran out of slack, this time it did not hold. There came a cracking sound as the line severed under the giant's weight and Gargaron suddenly found himself screaming as he fell away into the depths.

8

Waves of grass crashed and slapped over the portside gunwale, its long hissing fingers sliding off the decking, snaring Melai in its grasp and dragging her with them. She were gone in a flash, squealing and then silence, her mooring rope held taught over the side of the ship, slipping back along the gunwale.

Hawkmoth were running, bringing his staff around, chanting some incantation. He reached the edge where he had last seen both Melai and Gargaron. He looked over the side and saw Melai hanging there, her wings flapping, the grass coiling about her ankles. Below her Gargaron were gone. Quickly he grabbed hold of Melai's mooring rope and yanked her upward, arm over arm, until she were near enough for him to grab. He reached down, snatched hold of her and hauled her back onto the vessel. But there were no time to waste here. He took up his staff, swished it down upon the deck, dropping to one knee as he did, his robes billowing out at his sides.

' _Reliss temporass!_ ' he whispered harshly. ' _Reliss temporass, vun temporass britheess! Bring iss buk!_ ' Hawkmoth felt his mind falter. He lurched forward but with his free hand stopped himself falling flat on his face. His thoughts had turned fuzzy, he felt faint. He felt an unwanted sensation surge through his limbs, a hardening, parts of him converting to rock, a sensation he despised. But this time he had acted quite without thinking, as if some other force had hold of him.

The boat rocked beneath him, he could hear the squeal of the sea monster off the bow, or somewhere upon the ship, he knew not where.

With enormous force of will he pushed himself to his feet. Yet he staggered and fell to his knees. He could hear Melai screaming, yelling out that some monster were attacking, he could see Locke through blurred sight, blow flute shooting off rapid-fire darts.

' _Reliss temporass!_ ' Hawkmoth whispered again.

He were operating in a state out of mind now, using all his thought to push Lancsh to open a dark temporal doorway, a passage leading into the past. It appeared suddenly in the form of a shimmering cave mouth, an anomaly born of pure energy, sparkling with radiant pulses that looked like tiny stars. They surged inwards, as if trailing some dark passage. And then appearing there all of a sudden, at the opposite end of this temporal corridor, were Gargaron, back there in a time already passed on, on deck just before he were dragged overboard.

When Hawkmoth saw Gargaron standing there he acknowledged it with a smile. Then he fell flat on his face.

9

Gargaron took hold of the gunwale for support. He looked about, confused, terrified. The last he'd known he'd been poised on deck watching the scar rush toward the ship. Then he'd felt himself being thrust somehow forward. In his own time and space, it felt as if some dark ocean wave had folded over him and there he'd tumbled. In his own time he had known this darkness for hours. He assumed he must've perished, that the scar had swallowed the ship. But somehow he'd never lost the ship from sight; it had always been there, just out of reach, as if caught in a bubble. Now here he were, as if he'd stepped through some membrane, stepping back upon the boat amidst a pattern of blurred light.

When he looked around he saw Hawkmoth lying unconscious, his body rocking to and fro as the ship swayed wildly. He heard snarls and screeches and as he steadied himself his eyes bulged as he realised the ship were under attack; some mighty Leviathan were writhing viciously around deck.

10

The sheer weight of the beast as it lashed the decks forced the ship to list dangerously, the starboard side were almost submerged, the top of the mast suspended horizontal out over the sea, the sail dipping into the waves as the tips of the grass stalks writhed and wormed, pulling, tugging, threatening to drag ship and all down into its depths.

Gargaron spotted Melai racing along deck to the forecastle, flying in small bounds, and firing arrows at the creature. Locke were astern, elevated on the aftcastle, blowing darts where he could, trying to avoid hitting Zebra who were currently intertwined with the much larger sea monster.

Gargaron pulled out his sword, left Hawkmoth where he lay tethered to his own mooring rope, and marched into the fray. He leapt, his sword arm held high, bringing his great sword down into the beast's belly. It split its hide, squirting blood and an acidic gas, choking Gargaron. He reeled back, shunting aside the monster's face with his sword as its open jaws swung at him.

He stumbled backwards. The Leviathan twirled away from him as a barrage of ice arrows fired by Melai bit into it. It screeched and Locke blew his darts. They had no effect.

The leviathan lunged at Melai. She leapt aside, flapping her wings, just as the beast smashed into the forecastle, wood splinters exploding outwards. Melai landed heavily on deck and tried scrambling away, but her mooring line had become snagged in the monster's limb. And it reeled her back.

Gargaron charged forward, and cut the line.

Here the beast, with a mighty thrust of its tail knocked Gargaron flying across deck. Gargaron smacked his head against the mast as he went, sending all thought from his mind in an instant. He lay there groaning, distantly hearing someone screeching, distantly aware that his body were sliding about this way and that at the whim of the ship.

He shook his head and pulled himself to his haunches. His sword had been dragged form his grip. Groggy, he looked about. Saw it nowhere. But caught sight of Melai as the ship listed, the grass dragging it further over. Melai were slipping toward the edge.

Gargaron pushed himself to his feet and scurried after her, his bulk sliding along the deck boards as the ship tipped higher on its side. Behind him, Zebra bit into the sea monster's face, attacking it repeatedly, while Locke blew darts that suddenly tore holes in the beast's hide, several rents opening up in its flesh as if slashed by some enormous invisible blade. Still, it were obvious it would not be enough, leviathan and Zebra were both sliding across deck. The ship were about to tip. They would all be sent over the side.

11

Gargaron slid heavily into the gunwale; the ship was at such an angle the bulwark were a narrow platform beneath him, the decking of the ship like a wall on his right, on his left naught but a dark drop into depthless sea. He began crawling toward Melai when some mighty force shunted the ship, pulling it back onto its keel, throwing giant and nymph back across the deck as it levelled out.

On his back in the centre of the carrack Gargaron looked about and saw what had helped right them. A second Leviathan. And a third. All writhing about the boat. Smashing masts, pulling down sails, the bulk of their forms lashing everything.

Gargaron were hit once more and thrown across ship, again knocking his head. As he shook some sense back into his mind and tried getting up, he were hit again, slammed into the deck and heaved up against the main mast. He felt his anger beginning to bubble up inside him. His blood were boiling. His temples pounding. He seethed as he were knocked again into the mainmast.

He saw his sack, still hanging there, tied to mast. He saw Drenvel's Bane. He groped for it. Could not reach it. He were hit again by a Leviathan tail but managed to keep hold of the mast. He pulled himself to his feet, reaching out toward his pack, finally getting his fingers around the hammer hilt, and as he did he felt that unfamiliar sensation return to his body. Of youth. Of strength. And of some fiend bigger than he, stronger than he, quicker and more nimble, with endless reserves of power and vitality...

12

Both Locke and Melai saw it. Drenvel's Bane coming to life, the hammer gracing the end of the hilt. And Gargaron, if it were Gargaron, for the being wielding the hammer were bigger than Gargaron, were clad in black steel armour and helmet. He strode out swinging. They watched him smash the head clean off one of the Leviathans as it lunged at him. As its head flung end over end out into the Grass Sea, its body began to writhe and twist madly, blood spurting from its open neck. Gargaron hammered its body and sent it rocketing against gunwale, damaging the gunwale as its curling body slid overboard.

He turned for the remaining beasts, as they snapped at Melai. One were being assailed by Zebra who had coiled her body around it, squeezing it while at the same time striking her fangs into its neck. The Leviathan squealed and its strange arms grabbed at Zebra, attempting to strangle her. Locke filled it with darts that tore great reams of flesh from its body.

Gargaron marched on the other, winding back his hammer and swinging it into its hide. A mighty hole punctured through its bony ribs, and a mighty gush of wind and flesh and blood popped out of it as the hammer sunk deep. Gargaron dragged his weapon from the beast and swung again, slamming the beast across deck while Melai filled its head with arrows that ripped its face apart in an explosion of meat, blood and brain.

It squirmed in silence, unable to make a sound, thrashing and rolling and Gargaron sent his hammer into it again, catching it against its spine which drove it from the ship and out into the grass waves, a mighty lump of faceless Leviathan flipping away like dead eel.

Meanwhile, the third Leviathan were having its face effectively eaten off by Zebra. Gargaron turned on it and pulled back his hammer...

But... his rage faltered... the hammer head clunked into the deck. And he felt his fury wane...

13

The Leviathan wrapped its body around the crabman and constricted, coiling Locke in a death grip, his blow-flute and pipe held to him.

Melai flew to his aid. She had spent her rocket shots and were left only with ice shards that barely seemed to scratch the Leviathan's scales. By now Locke were fighting for breath. ' _Ha_ ,' he panted, ' _do. Your. Best. Beast._ ' Each word he spat with a grimace.

' _Gargaron!_ ' Melai yelled. ' _We need you!_ '

Hawkmoth were still comatose. And Gargaron knelt there on one knee, his head hung as if it were weighted, wincing at his sudden lack of strength.

' _Gargaron!_ ' Melai screeched at him.

Zebra did her best but the beast bit back at her and she were forced to retreat. As she did she saw Locke being squished by this creature and she did not need think. As the Leviathan wheeled around at her, its bloody jaws gaping open, hoping to bite her in two, she slithered up the mast, coiled back and thrust herself down into the beast's mouth and down its throat.

The Leviathan were suddenly distracted, giving out a strangled, muffled roar. It reared up and back, loosening its grip on Locke who fell heavily to the deck, gasping for air. The Leviathan slammed once into the deck, scrabbled about as if clinging to the ship were now its life line. But then it reared up again and thrashed, snapped one of the stay ropes, recoiled, as if something were eating it from within. It arched its head and squealed one last time before its throat blew out and it flipped and kicked and reeled off the vessel and back into the sea.

It thrashed about the grass waves, tearing stalks, flicking clouds of grass into the air. Finally its body wriggled weakly, and it lay across the surface of the ocean for a few moments, moving slowly. Another hole were bleeding black blood. And another. And Zebra now pushed hers head victoriously through one of these vents.

' _Quick now_ ,' Locke called to her, still catching his breath. ' _Quick, to the ship before that beast take you with it!_ '

But Zebra were in trouble. As soon as she wriggled from the monster she could no more swim these strange seas than fly. She hissed as she wriggled in the thick grass, the Leviathan sinking without trace behind her.

' _Throw her a rope!_ ' Melai yelled. ' _Quickly, Locke, a rope!_ '

Locke scrambled to grab one. He pitched it into the waves but it would not reach. She were too far.

She squawked, trying to keep her head above water, and then she squealed as she tried her best to slither for the safety of the ship.

' _Swim!_ ' Locke yelled at her, hauling in the rope and tossing it out once more. ' _Swim, my little one!_ '

But the rope were too far from her, and she were being dragged under and no matter how hard she tried keeping her head above the surface it were no use.

Before she sunk and vanished forever, she let out a pitiful cry, like a pup calling for its mother... and then she were gone.

' _Zebra_!' Locke called. ' _Zeeebraaaa!_ ' He scrambled along the starboard bulwark, peering overboard, hoping she might resurface, hoping she may have somehow reached the ship and were clinging to it. But she were gone. And naught were bringing her back.

The grass held the ship for a few moments but the sheer weight of the vessel had it slowly rolling back onto its keel and as the carrack steadied, Locke turned away and he could hold it no longer, tears fell from his eyes and ran down his face.

## GESHA AND OOSHA

1

THE ship caught wind again. Snarls of grass hung from the bowsprit. Blood from the Leviathans glistened on deck and were splashed across the starboard bulwark and gunwale. Gargaron struggled to get to the helm to bring their boat round on a northways heading. He felt groggy, his head pounded and ached. He clasped the hilt of Drenvel's Bane; he had a vague feeling he'd somehow brought it to life again. 'Melai?' Gargaron asked concerned, 'Are you injured?'

She sat there upon deck, looking shell-shocked, pondering how close she'd come to finding herself swallowed by this sea. Yet she watched Gargaron with intrigue, as if he were some phantom. 'I be well,' she said with a grimace. 'Just gathering myself.'

'What happened to the sorcerer?' Gargaron feared the Leviathan had bitten him, filled him with venom. 'Were he attacked?'

Melai frowned. 'Can you not remember?'

Gargaron regarded her. He were still reeling from the fight with the sea beasts. 'Remember what?'

Melai pulled herself to her feet, grimacing. 'You went overboard. Your mooring rope snapped. You were gobbled up by this accursed ocean.'

Gargaron's brow held a hundred creases in that moment. 'No... I were... I couldn't have.'

She came toward him. She reached out and touched his leg to see if he were real. 'I saw it, Gargaron. You were gone.'

'Hawkmoth,' Gargaron called. 'Hawkmoth? Be you well?'

'He brought you back,' Melai said. 'As he brought Razor back on that bridge.'

2

The revelation hit Gargaron like a hammer. He felt his breath leave him. Yet somehow he saw himself dropping down into the depths of the Grass Sea, falling, falling, becoming nothing but a swirling wraithlike mass, breaking apart and disseminating throughout the long smooth grass stalks, splitting into a million tiny droplets of flesh, converted to naught but vapour. A deep shudder passed through him. And he sucked his breath back.

Melai thought he were about to stumble, as if his legs might give way. He gripped the ship's wheel to hold himself upright.

'Right then,' he heard himself saying, taking in a mighty breath. 'Right then.' He exhaled long and slow and calm, shutting his eyes for a drawn moment. When his eyes came open he swallowed and looked about and concentrated on his breathing. Exhaling slowly, inhaling calmly.

He searched the skies. The suns were setting. Night were coming on. They were not out of harm yet. Rumination and reflection could come later, not now. They still had work to do. He looked across at Locke. He knew that Zebra were amongst them no longer, though he had not witnessed her demise. Still, the squeals he had heard as he'd slumped there after the hammer had dissipated were enough to tell him she'd gone overboard with one of those sea beasts. And that she had sunk.

'Locke,' he called. 'I am sorry for your loss. Honestly. Though we must mourn our causalities later. Night comes and I fear more of those creatures, and more of those accursed scars. Would you take the wheel for a time?'

Locke did not argue. But did not speak either. He returned to the aftcastle, his eyes still wet with tears, and took the wheel as asked. Gargaron placed a comforting hand on the crabman's shoulder. 'Thank you, my friend. I am sorry for Zebra. Truly I am.' He felt shallow somehow saying this but he thought of no other words of comfort right then.

'I watched her hatch as a babe,' Locke said, sniffling. 'We were bonded for life. I shall etch her passing onto my horns as I marked the passing of my wives and children.'

Gargaron nodded, squeezed the crabman's shoulder again, briefly admiring the myriad pictograms etched into the crabman's horns. He moved away down the wooden stairs to main deck. There the sorcerer still lay.

3

Gargaron untied Hawkmoth and carried him to the aftcastle and lay him down on his bedroll. He noticed how stiff the sorcerer were, as though his limbs had hardened, as though his back were become something like ironwood bark. He ignored it. And looked about. The day were fast drawing to a close.

'Hawkmoth?' he said close at the sorcerer's ear, 'do you hear me?'

No signs of acknowledgement in the sorcerer's face.

Gargaron went on regardless. 'Hawkmoth, hear me, I pray. I know you would probably rather rest yourself than face more concerns but night is drawing on, and we may face more dark threats as the stars rise. You said you had some strategy to get us safely through the dark hours.'

Melai watched on closely. The sorcerer's eyes were shut. There came no response to Gargaron's words. Gargaron slapped him lightly on the cheek. 'Hawkmoth, hear me!'

Melai knelt down. Gently she pushed Gargaron's large hand aside. She smoothed the sorcerer's greasy fringe from his eyes. And softly pushed her thumb to his forehead. 'Hawkmoth,' she whispered, 'hear us. We need help.'

There were no change to his blank expression. But Melai kept her thumb nail pressed into his brow, her eyes shut as if feeding on his thoughts; a small gout of blood appeared beneath her nail.

Hawkmoth's mouth opened slightly. His lips moved as if straining to speak. That proved the extent of his response.

'Hawkmoth?' Gargaron asked, trying to stimulate him further, 'can you hear us?'

Melai put up a hand to shut Gargaron's mouth. Some moments later she withdrew her thumbnail, droplets of Hawkmoth's blood dripping to deck. Here she took hold of Hawkmoth's sidepack, reached in, felt about, eventually withdrawing a pair of objects that looked to Gargaron like old strands of wood, twisted and gnarled. Melai lay these on the deck, regarded them curiously. She pressed her blood stained thumb against a little barb on each of them, drawing off her own blood; green mixed with Hawkmoth's red.

It were like waking a pair of hungry pups. Instantly the twisted objects twitched, moved, rolled over, writhing, sniffing out the source of their sustenance. Melai pursed her mouth as she let them suckle her thumb.

When they were satiated they stood, ugly critters, looking about with large goggling eyes, limbs like the roots of shrubs. 'Gesha,' Melai heard herself murmuring. 'And Oosha. Hear my command, and through my thoughts, understand our predicament. Keep this vessel under your guard till the suns rise and we can see our way again.'

4

The bizarre little root fiends appeared to survey their surroundings, to take in the situation. They gazed up the crooked mast that had been battered heavily by the Leviathan attack, and up at the sail. Then just like that, they got to work. One scurried to helm, effectively shoving Locke aside (if that's what the action could be described: this being that barely came to Locke's knees, attempting, without any hesitation at all, to heave the crabman away from the wheel.) Humoured more than anything, Locke obliged.

The creature's tiny root arms grew first, and then its torso. It gained little in the way of bulk though it did grow taller, until it were of sufficient height to operate the wheel.

The second root being scaled the mast effortlessly, pulling itself up high and into the crow's nest where it too underwent a small transformation, growing taller, gaining enough height to allow it sufficient survey of the surrounding seas.

And there the two of them posted themselves for the night.

5

Gargaron stayed up late, shivering in the daunting cold, not allowing himself to sleep, not trusting in the alien critters helming the ship. He kept himself busy by mending as much of the ship as he knew how; tying spare ropes around and around the masts, reinforcing their breaks, and refastening snapped stay lines. The suns had gone and the moons of Vasher, Gorvhald, Veeo, Canooc hung bright and stark in the night sky. And although he did not report it for fear of alarming the others, Gargaron, as he worked, were witness to strange lights beneath the surface of the grass. He wondered many times if it were the coming of another Leviathan attack. But no more such beasts threatened them that night. Locke had forecast as much. 'I have heard sailors say that if there be Kraken blood spilt on ship then Krakens will stay away.' Though if he wished to consult the sorcerer on the matter, he were out of luck for Hawkmoth did not awaken.

## BY THE CAT'S EYES

1

HAWKMOTH were still in slumber by noon the following day. By then Gargaron began to grow concerned. Locke were at the helm, studying occasionally the various navigational instruments within the binnacle, or inspecting the sextant that hung from the iron gimble. Melai were again in the crow's nest. She'd been watching Gargaron who paced the decks constantly. Hawkmoth's two fiends were at the sorcerer's side, lying, again twisted and shrunk, like old bits of root ready for the compost.

Melai had spotted islands on the dawn. Due north of their position. A sign, Gargaron hoped, that they may be soon coming to their destination. As they came to them they observed small, compact islands that stuck up out of the sea, each consisting of a single prong of strange white rock, shining brightly in morning sunlight, a mighty curved spire that soared out into sky.

Hawkmoth did not awaken at all that day. And at dusk Gargaron were the one to try to bring the root fiends to life, jabbing his thumb on their barbs. They awoke, suckling blood from his finger. It were an unsettling sensation, one that Gargaron were not sorry to see finished. Yet like the previous night, the root critters did their work diligently. By then though, Locke had discovered an item of some intrigue.

2

He and Melai had been rummaging about the lower cabins for blankets to sew together; Gargaron had berated the temperature drop of the previous evening and quipped how he could not fit below decks to escape the wind chill. (The fact Gargaron would not forsake his post for comfort even if he could fit below decks were beside the point.) Yet other than warming blankets, Locke uncovered a peculiar object.

Melai helped him lug it above decks and once it lay there in the fading sunlight, Gargaron knelt to see what he might make of it.

It were a bizarre looking object. And what it were fashioned from were difficult to determine. Wood or bone would have been Gargaron's guess. Though no-one knew. Primarily it resembled the head and bust of some tortured angel. Her face were strained and stretched, for down her sides there perched small devil creatures with their arms reaching to her face and here they had their hands inside her mouth, pulling her jaw open to what must have been an unnatural limit, so that she looked forever frozen in a silent howl.

'It looks ghastly,' Gargaron said. 'What be it?'

'A whale horn,' Locke said as though it were quite obvious.

'To control whales?' Gargaron asked, confused.

'To ward them off,' Locke said, laughing. 'Honestly, I thought you claimed to have sailed.'

'I were but a wee lad. Though, what need have we of a whale horn?'

'Well, obviously this particular one be not for whales,' Locke said. 'I would wager it be for such as those Leviathans that attacked us.' And here he looked about for a spot where it might be housed.

'There?' Melai said pointing. All eyes turned to a broken prong on the mast just below the lower hem of the mainsail.

Locke skittered over on his crabs legs for a closer look, craning his neck. 'Explains why it were removed. It had been in for repairs. All we need do is find some way to rig it back in place.'

This task Gargaron took on himself, tying the whale horn there with ropes; he were the only one who stood tall enough to reach the area with ease. Once done he stood back, surveying his work. 'How does it work then?' he asked Locke.

Locke shrugged his shoulders and replied, 'Don't know. I've never sailed ships.'

3

Its method became apparent however some two hours after nightfall. The root imps, Gesha and Oosha, were again at their posts, one playing helmsman, the other in crow's-nest. Gargaron were pacing the deck, keeping a lookout in the growing dark for any threatening shadows out to sea. He had also been searching for the Cat's Eyes star constellation. He had just spotted its emergence when he heard a most peculiar mewling sound from somewhere on the vessel. He turned about, looking first at Melai who were seated near the helm, then at Locke who too wore a frown on his face.

'You hear that too?' Locke said, looking at Melai and then at Gargaron.

It grew steadily louder, almost to a deep moan. The imp in the crow's nest began making a chittering noise, pointing at something out to sea, alerting the imp at the wheel who now pulled the ship toward the northwest. Gargaron strode to starboard. And saw it. A dark shadow maybe a hundred feet off their bow. He were about to announce it as another scar when it dipped and vanished below the grass waves and when it surfaced again Gargaron saw in the growing moonlight the glistening of eyes and the glow of fangs.

' _Leviathan!_ ' he called. ' _Brace yourselves_.' He dashed to mid deck where Hawkmoth were still unconscious on his bedroll. Gargaron secured the sorcerer to a mooring line and suddenly the keening sound lifted in intensity. Kneeling there Gargaron turned and gazed up at the whale horn. He saw that part of it had come to life: the skull with its mouth being pulled open now bore the aura of some ghostly spirit and from this emanated a howl so piercing, so haunting, that it chilled the giant's blood.

Laughter from Locke somehow broke through the noise and he heard the crabman yell, ' _Ha, our Leviathan friend turns its little tail! Come and see!_ '

Gargaron, gripping his great sword, ran back to the starboard bow and there he saw it, the Leviathan twisting about the grass waves in the moonlight, turning over and over as if it found the whale horn too torturous to behold. And soon off it slithered, retreating and diving down into the depths.

4

The islands they had seen were long behind them and Gargaron were afraid they had been going in circles. None of them knew how to operate the sextant but if the compass were in sound operating order then their carrack were held always on a northways heading. At night, the position of the Cat's Eyes, the burning and ever watchful red stars that were always in the northsky, confirmed their direction.

A far more pressing matter had arisen however. They had begun to run low on their provisions. 'And naught have we anything with which to fish,' Gargaron had said. To which Locke were quick to add, 'if there were but fish to fish, of course.'

The lack of any fresh water were also becoming a concern. They were down to but Gargaron's gourd. One morning, as if in response to their prayers, the sky grew dark with rain clouds and a gusty storm blew up, and the sea grew choppy and thunderous showers set in for almost two days. Gargaron, Melai and Locke placed tubs and jars found below decks, catching as much of the deluge as they could. Then there were naught to be done but wait out the storm, huddled there above decks, navigating via the compass that were housed dry within the binnacle. Gargaron told Melai and Locke to head below decks and out of the elements, but Locke smiled for the first time since the loss of Zebra and embraced the torrents. Melai fetched blankets from the cabins below (she didn't wish to be below decks on her own) and all three helped stitch them together so that Gargaron might be covered while the storm lasted.

5

Hawkmoth did not awaken until mid-morning of their fifth day at sea. When consciousness returned, he opened his eyes and looked about. He saw he were lying on the sundrenched deck of the carrack. He knew not why, but he felt a surge of peculiar relief. The scar had not swallowed them. They were safely sailing upon the grass ocean. But there were no-one else about. No giant, no nymph, no crabman. None but his Eve standing before him on the decks of this empty ship.

She smiled at him sadly. She knelt at his side and took his hand. 'My dear Hawk,' she said. 'How far I have come to find you.'

Hawkmoth blinked. 'Eve, wh-what are you doing here? How did you get here?'

'Hush, it matters not. But you must listen. The enchantment around our home has withered and failed. All is perished. I come... to say goodbye.'

'No, Eve, this cannot be.'

'Hawk, dear, it is. Thank you for finding me all those years ago. Thank you for saving me. Thank you for showing me what it is to be loved.' She reached out and touched his face.

His eyes shot open. He sat up and looked about. He spied Gargaron at the helm, and Locke and Melai near the prow gazing northways from their position. All were too keenly watching something ahead of the ship to have noticed Hawkmoth's waking.

He looked about, but saw no Eve. Yet she had been here, presently. He were certain.

6

Hawkmoth pulled himself to his feet, still expecting to spy his witch wife somewhere on the carrack. 'Gargaron, is Eve amongst us?'

Gargaron started slightly at the voice. He looked around at the sorcerer, a corpse risen from death it seemed. 'Glad to see you have come around at last.'

'Is... is Eve here?'

Gargaron looked confused. 'Eve? No. Why would she be here?'

Hawkmoth swallowed and drew in a long breath and rubbed his face in his palms. 'Ignore me. It were but a dream.' He slumped back to the deck once more, leaning there up against the bulwark. That or nightmare, he thought gravely.

Melai and Locke turned at the sound of voices. Seeing Hawkmoth awake they started over.

'Tell me, did we avoid the scar?' Hawkmoth croaked as if the event had only just transpired.

'Which scar do you mean exactly?' Gargaron asked.

'The scar...' Hawkmoth frowned. 'Where you toppled ov...'

Gargaron eyed him closely. 'Toppled overboard? That scar be five days gone, good sorcerer. We have had to avoid many since. Not to mention Leviathan beasts. And storms.'

'Leviathans?'

'Aye, my little Zebra did much to defend our first attack,' Locke said. 'Alas, she has left us.'

Hawkmoth felt most confounded. 'Zebra?'

'Aye. She were a hero,' Gargaron said.

'Oh, I am sorry Locke.'

'Be not. For I prefer to believe she has not perished but enjoying herself at the bottom of this sea, stirring up its beasties.'

'Aye, those are fine thoughts.' Hawkmoth drew in a long breath and rubbed his neck. 'How long have I been gone?'

'Five days,' Gargaron said.

'Five days?' It were not possible.

'Aye,' Gargaron confirmed. 'You have slept through much on this voyage.'

'How have you navigated these seas?'

'Compass by day, stars by night,' Melai told him. 'A whale horn to scare off the sea monsters. Oh, and your little imps to alert us to sea scars. I stole the idea from your thoughts.'

Hawkmoth shook his head, thoughtfully. 'I recall none of this, it would seem. Though, sounds as if you have all been quite resourceful.' He eyed Gargaron for a while. 'How many troughs and Leviathans have you encountered?'

'Many,' Melai told him.

'Boom shakes?'

Gargaron shrugged. 'None, surprisingly.'

'Most strange,' Hawkmoth said. 'And I see you stand before me, giant, lest you be some apparition thrown out by some jaded part of my mind.'

Gargaron considered the sorcerer's words. 'I suspect your temporal sorcery be the cause of my salvation. If so, then I give you my thanks.'

Hawkmoth stared long at the giant. He reached his hand to the small of his back and felt layers of stone covering him from his hip to his shoulder. 'I have little recollection,' he said softly. 'But whatever I did, I am glad it were not in vain.' He took in a prolonged breath, filling his chest, feeling the pain at the rear of his ribs where there were no give anymore in the flesh about his spine. 'So where are we? Have we made no headway?'

Gargaron pointed. 'See for yourself. Perhaps you might tell us if that be the land we seek?'

Hawkmoth stood, this time with Melai's aid. Unsteady on his feet, he surveyed the way forward. He felt a tad giddy. But he spied a large landmass on the horizon to the north. Running his eyes along its distant shore, eyeing its towering inland trees, he knew here from his text books that this were at last their destination. Vol Mothaak.

## THROUGH THE GATES

1

THERE were no moorings. That much became apparent. No jetties, nor pier, just wild, uninhabited coastline for as far as they could see.

'Do we seek one then?' Locke put to them all. 'A jetty.'

'Or do we sail until we catch first sight of this tower?' Gargaron suggested.

Hawkmoth knew not why, but he felt somehow that this strange land had no piers nor jetties. He somehow knew that this were as wild a place as any he'd ever visited. And somehow more ancient than anywhere on the Vale; he had never felt about anything such a sense of age as he did as they sailed toward this unchartered coast; older too than the cave paintings he had seen in Dorubudur. Though something about it were odd, unnatural. There seemed a peculiar precision to the dimensions of the coastline. As if it held a perfect, unbroken, and unwavering curve. Were he floating high above in one of his zeppelins, he wondered, would Vol Mothaak look a perfect circle? He could not shake the idea that the land before them had been carved by intelligent hands.

'We head straight for shore,' Hawkmoth told them, 'I feel there be no place on this land to moor a ship. And I feel this tower we seek be located at island's central point and not visible from the coast. Thus we should simply head for land and forge a pathway inland.'

2

The shoreline were raised up from the Grass Sea so that when Hawkmoth and his crew eventually met land they did so with the starboard side of their carrack shunting up against the grassy bank and there Gargaron set about grabbing hold of strange trees overhanging the whispering waves to hold the carrack in place. Locke and Hawkmoth scrambled ashore with mooring ropes, securing them to hefty tree trunks. Once done Gargaron left the helm and jumped ashore, offering to carry Melai with him. She insisted on flying though, and it felt lovely to stretch her wings again and not be dragged so heavily downward as had been the peculiar influence of the grass ocean. But Gargaron stuck as close as he could to her lest the Grass Sea happened to drag her back one last time into its ungodly waves.

Still, she flew freely, unhindered, it seemed. And before they turned their back on the carrack entirely Hawkmoth surveyed it. Looking one last time for Eve.

'What be it?' Gargaron asked him.

Hawkmoth shook his head. 'Nothing, giant. It be nothing.'

3

The land before them sloped downwards. It felt to Hawkmoth that he and his companions stood on the high rim of some amphitheatre. At its base there ran a looming iron fence that followed the island's curvature eastways and westways. There were what looked to be gates interspersed at regular intervals along it. Beyond this fence, they could see rugged, shallow bushland and stunted trees. And far off on the horizon lay the island's distant interior, shimmering in a heat haze.

'If there be none who live here, and none who have ever stepped here,' asked Melai, 'then why are there gates?'

'And,' Locke said, 'who built that fence?'

Hawkmoth had no answer. Only speculation. 'Perhaps some ancient, long died out race.' He gazed far northways, to where the bushland vanished into the haze, wondering if he should have been able to see the tower from where they stood. And as it were not visible, he wondered how long it would take he and his friends to reach it.

4

Through sand and stunted sea shrubs Hawkmoth lead his troupe downhill, Gohor and Melus above them both pushing their way up into morning's sky. They were halfway down the decline when suddenly a peculiar phenomenon arose. One that halted them all in their path.

Firstly, the buzz and hiss of hidden bugs surprised them. Such a sound in recent times had become almost alien. It were a welcome noise in many ways, a comforting familiar noise. Yet to hear it here brought a sense of unease. Though the peculiarity that struck them all were not the sounds of bugs, but something else: the closer they drew to Vol Mothaak, the bushland beyond the fence appeared to grow in size. And with every step forward, the larger and taller it became.

'What be this?' Locke said sounding humoured. 'Some illusion to trick us?'

No-one answered. They all simply stared wide eyed at the scrub that were now a virtual woodland. Even the fence seemed higher somehow, taller. But now that Hawkmoth and his troupe had halted, so too had the growth of the woodland.

Gargaron stood alongside Hawkmoth. 'What magic be at work here, sorcerer?'

'It be nothing I understand,' Hawkmoth told him. 'Perhaps as Locke suggested, it be an illusion. Perhaps one sent to test the minds and mettle of would be trespassers. Stay here a moment and tell me what you see.' With that Hawkmoth retraced his steps through the coarse sand and made his way back up the slope behind them.

5

Melai and Locke and Gargaron watched him keenly.

'How are the trees?' Hawkmoth called down to them. 'Do they remain so tall?'

'Aye,' Gargaron called back. 'There be no change.'

'Where as from here,' Hawkmoth relayed, 'they have reverted to naught but arid bushland.'

'So, it be an illusion as I said,' Locke commented.

Hawkmoth returned to them. 'Perhaps. Perhaps not.' And with a smile he marched down to the base of the rim, the others following, the woodland growing taller and taller with every step closer they took.

By the time they reached the fence, the woods beyond had taken on colossal proportions. Trees that had looked like meagre saplings from afar had grown now into mighty oaks that stood as thick and wide as a giant's cottage. Shrubs that earlier appeared no taller than Gargaron's ankle now dwarfed him. Insects that before they could not see but only hear, stood now larger than hoardogs, clinging to bark and branch.

And the top of the fence loomed above them at an enormous height.

6

'Have we somehow shrunk?' Melai wondered aloud, eyeing the top of the fence line before gazing back to the top of the incline from where they'd come.

'Anything be possible,' Hawkmoth said, smiling at her, as if the discovery of new enchantments were still a treat to behold. 'Still, no time to stand and marvel. Our mission calls us ever onward.'

He turned and headed toward the nearest gate. The others trailed him, watching as he tested the iron handle. It did not budge and the gate refused to open. Unperturbed he hauled his staff from where it were slung across his back and presented Rashel's face to the key hole. 'Laye doon un submiss,' he murmured.

Rashel's tongue, rarely seen, slithered from her gaping mouth and wormed its way into the key hole. It licked about inside like an anteater cleaning out a nest of mud-ants. But it were to no avail. Her tongue soon retracted, she closed her mouth and the gate remained locked.

'Right then,' Hawkmoth said. 'Time for a heftier dose of diplomacy then.' He stood back and again aimed his staff at the lock. He opened his mouth to speak his spells... but hesitated. He looked around at the others. 'Ah, best if you all back up a wee way.'

They did as were told, climbing back up the slope a bit of a distance. Locke even found himself a tuft of grass on which to get comfortable, settling in as if for a spot of live theatre.

Hawkmoth proceeded. And he spoke: 'Bring uss diss eea funss doon!'

A rocketing blue flame squealed from Lancsh, blasting the vicinity of the gate that held the lock.

There came a counter strike in the form of a jagged bolt of blue flame that struck Hawkmoth in the chest and threw him out into the air, over the heads of his friends, depositing him high on the slope of the rim.

7

Melai flew to his aid, Gargaron and Locke scurrying up slope behind her. They expected the worst but before they reached him he grunted and sat up. He looked about as if he'd merely been slapped across the face. His staff were still in his grasp.

'Be you well?' Melai asked breathlessly.

He looked at her, slightly dazed, then put his hand inside his robes, feeling his chest for wounds. He withdrew his hand and proceeded to tap his breast bone. 'It would seem that stone for skin has its benefits after all.'

8

Once Hawkmoth'd had himself a swig of some revitalising brew, he sat gathering his thoughts.

'Perhaps you weren't, ah, diplomatic enough,' Locke suggested with a wry smile.

'What be your next move, pray tell?' asked Gargaron.

Hawkmoth sighed. 'Why, we trail the fence line until we find a gate that permits us entry.'

'What if there be none?' Gargaron put to him.

'Well, we climb the ruddy thing.'

Gargaron surveyed the fence from their position high on the slope. Once again, the woodland beyond appeared to have shrunk. 'Seems easy enough from here. But down there the fence be a league in height.'

'Plus it be lined in spikes,' Locke reminded them.

'Aye. But we'll need find some way in,' Hawkmoth said. 'Or our coming here will have been a complete waste of time.'

'Right, then we walk the fence line,' Melai answered impatiently.

'In which direction?' Gargaron put to her.

'Split up,' were Locke's suggestion. 'Two of us go one way, two the other.'

Hawkmoth shook his head. 'Not a sound idea. I fear this place would like to have us divided. No, we stay as four.'

9

They set off eastways. In the direction of the nearest gate. But it were locked and so were the next. So they kept marching, trailing the fence line and testing gates as they came to them. The call of bugs persisted. Gargaron spied them through the fence as he traipsed forward. Enormous things. Crickets, thrips, horned beetles. Clamped to tree trunks beyond the fence. Or clambering about the forest floor, squealing or hissing or chirping.

Melai watched them too. She also watched the trees. With something of awe and wonder. So much so that with each passing stroke of the clock she felt the woodland drawing her, as though it were Mother Thoonsk.

Hawkmoth concentrated of course on the fence. What he (and then the others) began to notice about it were that in some sections, portions of its vertical iron bars had sprouted small iron leaves, and branches. And occasionally, blooming from twisting iron stems at the tops of the gates were what looked to be huge embryonic sacks; a thin metallic membrane concealed some sort of wriggling being on the inside.

'What by Thronir be those things?' Gargaron asked puzzled, gazing up at the phenomenon far above their heads.

The group had stopped to observe one such sack, craning their necks, while Melai flew to their height to observe them, although she were mindful to keep her distance.

'I have no idea,' Hawkmoth admitted. 'Be some curious enchantment I do not understand.'

'Perhaps they give birth to sentries,' Melai suggested. 'Mother Thoonsk would give birth to such things of wood and stone if she believed herself at risk of being raided or trespassed upon.'

But living iron? Gargaron thought. He had seen no such thing in all his days.

10

They moved on. And on. Trudging through sand and shrub and leaf matter, mile after mile, with dwindling hope that they might ever chance upon such a thing as an unlocked gate. Melai who had long grown exhausted of flying, perched herself upon Gargaron's broad shoulder; there she sat with her legs crossed against his shoulder blade, watching this strange circular land recede behind them.

But it were Melai, quite by chance, who spotted the eventual breach in the fence line.

At the time there were an ongoing discussion about the merits of splitting up. 'Perhaps two of us ought to have done as Locke suggested and striven west,' Gargaron were saying. 'We may have found our way in by now.'

'And you may also not have,' Hawkmoth had replied, 'and we would be a split and weakened party.'

'Well, might we all turnabout and head the other way?' Locke said, almost smirking, knowing what the answer would be, knowing he were simply fueling the debate.

'A foolish notion,' Hawkmoth scoffed. 'We have come half a day already. Our heading is almost northways at this current hour. It would be more worth our while at this point to continue on our way than to back track.'

'And what if an unlocked gate lay just west of our starting point all those long hours gone?' Gargaron argued.

'And what if it didn't?'

'But it might have.'

'Right, if that be so, then, if this island be circular as I suspect, we shall eventually come by it.'

'And how long must we traipse before that happens?'

It were here Melai saw it. None of the others made any sign at all that they had glimpsed it, all too engaged and distracted by their discussion it seemed.

Melai spread her wings and left Gargaron's shoulder, fluttering to ground and landing by it. 'Do you three not see this?'

They stopped and turned, curious looks upon their faces as they took in the rent in the fence as Melai presented it. By now their inane argument had ceased.

'Oh my,' Hawkmoth said as he stepped before it.

It were clear that it were not so much a rent or breach as a parting in the bars where iron branches had sprouted forth, the bars leaning here and there as would the trunks of growing trees. What remained were a large gap in the fence. One that might submit even Gargaron, Melai thought, at a squeeze.

'Oh, well spotted,' Gargaron said.

Hawkmoth announced he would pass through first. 'We cannot risk a bolt of energy on your lives,' he told them.

'What about yourself?' Melai asked.

To this he smiled. 'Why, should I be assailed again, well, at least now I know I carry natural armour.' So through the gap in the fence he climbed. And reached the other side without incident.

While Locke went next Melai on impulse flew over the top, (which she had been dying tod o for horus) but which seemed to irk Hawkmoth and Gargaron both. She could see that much by the looks on their faces. 'What?' she said looking at them as she swooped down on the opposite side.

'I shall not lecture you,' Hawkmoth told her, 'except to say be mindful here.'

She took the advice with a nod. She had not considered the idea that the fence may have struck out at her as it had the sorcerer.

11

They stood now in the sand and grass that lay between the fence and the woodland fringe, marveling at Vol Mothaak's beauty and grandeur.

'Never have I felt like a flea on the back of a spine-hog,' Gargaron declared, 'never as undersized and slight as I do at this present moment.' For the trees themselves, now that Gargaron and his friends stood this side of the fence, had taken on even greater proportions.

Melai simply felt an urge to fly. To be off in amongst this mighty woodland realm and pretend she were home in Mother Thoonsk. Though she stayed close by her companions. Something about the place filled her with a sense of unease. Perhaps it were the enormous insects, who she felt were somehow watching her. (Watching her out of hunger? Or spying on her for a higher power, she did not know.) But there were danger here she felt, disguised by beauty.

Locke though, smiled like a child. 'What endless wonders does our world still have waiting for us beyond this?'

It were impossible to know, but Hawkmoth were eager to be on with their journey, for every moment gone were a moment closer to another possible boom shake. Besides there were other menaces to consider. 'We must keep our senses about us here,' he warned his friends. 'The Ghartst paintings, as far as I could decipher, showed depictions of Star Angels, strange beings that inhabit Vol Mothaak, who supposedly cling upside-down to trees by tentacle legs, who bear the torso of a woman and an elongated head with no face. They are the guardians of these woods I fear and all trees come under their protection. Though our simple presence here may be enough to agitate them. So, be mindful.'

## VOL MOTHAAK

1

THE troupe struck out westways and for a time none spoke. Their eyes and attention were on the enticing world about them. For the woods were enchantingly beautiful; trees themselves whose girth were so unbelievably wide and so dizzyingly tall were almost godlike. As if this were a garden, a sanctuary, where the gods of the cosmos came to rest at the end of their days. An indescribable light cascaded down amidst the canopy so high above them. A golden light that turned almost green as it refracted through a million leaves. High up in the leafy boughs there were almost a misty quality to the air. As if clouds of pollen drifted. And constantly there came the fall of leaves dropping like feathers to ground.

Every now and then away in the woods, if there were a corridor through the trees to spot them, there stood or huddled the forms, or the appearance, of giants. Not Gargaron's kind; Gargaron were a dwarf in this strange place, a nymph, a minnow. These giants were colossal beasts, and towered far above him. And they stood concealed in shadow. None but large apish eyes watching them in silence.

'Do you see them?' Gargaron asked the others hushly.

'Aye,' Locke promised, intrigued by what he saw.

'What be they?'

'Dark Ones,' Melai said, yet were not certain.

'Press on,' Hawkmoth urged, determined to ignore them and the myriad other distractions this land threw at them, and they hurried onwards as quickly as they were able. 'They may be statue, they may be sentient being, they may be the guardians of these woods, but press on, I implore.'

They pressed on. Into regions where many trees had somehow assumed the appearance of great standing cosmic angels. Hands and arms, sprouting with branches and leaves, displayed as if in prayer or offering. There were the feeling here of strolling through a gargantuan cathedral, somewhere immense but sacred.

'Could this be what we spied?' Melai asked. 'Those towering shadows back there watching us. Something like these?'

'I would like to think as much,' Hawkmoth answered. 'But somehow I feel these be different. Trees, fashioned or grown to honour deities perhaps.'

2

The further they went the more quiet the woodlands became. The chirping thrips stopped chirping. The squealing cicadas stopped squealing. The only sounds seemed to be the shifting and rustling of the troupe's weaponry and equipment, the muted sounds of their footfalls on the soft, leaf riddled ground, the sounds of their breathing. There were no echo in this woodland; when Locke whistled to test it, it fell from his mouth a flat, muted sound.

There were also no breeze, yet the air felt cool, and a fragrance wafted about as sweet as any floral odour. The curious insects here that crawled lazily upon tree and branch went about with a stillness and quietness that seemed somehow unreal. And perhaps they were not real. In a living sense, at least. For as the travelers past them by within close proximity the insects did not appear organic, but somehow things formed from a sort of copperish metal unknown to them.

3

They ate as they travelled, picking at what small provisions they had not stowed aboard ship, never stopping for lunch as they had done at other times during their travels. Gargaron's stores were growing low. They had spied nothing within this strange place to hunt, no deer, no rabbit, no fox, and no eel nor fish in the few brooks or streams they crossed. Hawkmoth had called this place enchanted but Gargaron preferred to think of it as cursed. If it had ever supported such animals (and somehow it felt as though it never had) they had gone. Fled, or perished at the hand of the Ruin. Gargaron had enough rations to last him another two, maybe three days. He hoped that by then, the Death Bell they had come to visit had been put to sleep, and the state of the world put to rights.

4

It felt as though they had been marching for many hours when Hawkmoth had an urge to check their bearings. He removed his chronochine, studied it for a few moments and were pleased to establish they were still more or less on a westways heading. When he checked time of day however, he were puzzled.

'What be the cause of your consternation, sorcerer?' Locke asked him.

He inhaled slowly as he considered his reply. 'Either my chronochine be dying a sickly death, or unnatural forces are playing mischief with its internal workings. It claims that twice, time around us has stopped. And on three separate occasions, it tells me, time has begun running backwards.'

Melai looked about. 'Backwards?' she asked.

'Aye.'

'How can that be?'

Hawkmoth laughed quietly. 'I have no answer.'

Locke smiled. 'Well then, naught can be done about it. We push on and ride out whatever this place throws at us.' He sounded like someone eager to take it on, like someone keen to leap from the top of a waterfall, hoping to dodge submerged stones when he landed.

They pressed on after each had satiated thirst from their gourds and rest their feet a short while, gazing about their surroundings, listening to naught but bone dead silence.

Though once more Cahssi entered Gargaron's mind. And once more he heard her as if she stood before him. You be the earthchild. Soon the days will begin to run backwards. From you, a new world will come. But you have work here first.

5

For much of that day the suns swung slowly across sky—if they were not visible to Gargaron and companions on the ground, their glare were evident beyond the canopy. Yet for long stretches it seemed the suns did not move at all. And when Gargaron looked up at them late in the day, well, one moment they were directly overhead and after he had blinked they were suddenly and inexplicably hovering in the eastwun hemisphere. 'Do you lot notice the position of Gohor and Melus?'

They had. And they had all stopped to study the phenomenon.

'Has time once more reversed?' Gargaron asked Hawkmoth who were again studying his chronochine.

'Aye. Almost a full day this time.'

'Be it a symptom of these woods, this land?' Gargaron asked. 'Or a symptom of the gravitational forces forecast by the Ghartst cave paintings?'

'I might suggest we shall not know the answers until we are rid ourselves of this place,' Hawkmoth replied.

'Whatever the case may be,' Melai said, 'I don't much like it.'

Locke made no comment. He appeared untroubled, merely fascinated.

6

They moved on. Hawkmoth leading the way. Lock and Melai following. Gargaron at rear.

Later, Melai and Locke were in conversation about home and family; Hawkmoth and Gargaron were lost to their own thoughts. For a little while the troupe proceeded as such until Gargaron drew alongside Hawkmoth and said, 'You mind if I have a word, sorcerer?'

'What be on your mind, giant?'

Gargaron took a while to answer. He were at once trying to recall Cahssi's strange words. He were nervous to repeat them. 'There is something I have not spoken about since our leaving Dark Wood.'

'Oh, and what might that be?'

'Cahssi spoke in my thoughts,' he told the sorcerer. 'Just before she were swallowed by Slüv the Vanisher. She said that when days began winding backwards, a new world would come. That I might have something to do with it.'

'Is that so?' Hawkmoth said with a distant look.

'Aye. She claimed I were the earthchild.'

Here Hawkmoth almost stumbled, but he regained his footing and looked keenly into the giant's eyes. 'Earthchild?'

'Aye. Were she speaking nonsense or have you heard such a phrase?'

For a while Hawkmoth did not speak. Instead he walked on through the woodland, using his staff as a rambling stick, tugging at his beard with his free hand.

'Have you heard this phrase?' Gargaron questioned him. 'Tell me.'

'I would not concern myself with it.'

'Why, what does it mean?'

'It means nothing.'

'No. I tell you something strange is afoot,' Gargaron insisted. 'Unless I have merely imagined it, I have had my wife come to me in my dreams and she has told me I have work yet to do. That may not seem so strange in and of itself but Grimah, when he left me, expressed the same words. And so too Cahssi.'

Hawkmoth were silent. Contemplative and silent.

'What be an earthchild, pray tell?'

Hawkmoth sighed. 'The earthchild theory be naught but a witch's tale told on harvest eve,' he said. 'A child from a distant star system comes to Cloudfyre to bless the crops and suns and the rains. It is said that those who pray to the earthchild will receive great yields and fertile lands. Thus it feels as if the world has been born anew.'

Hawkmoth would not look the giant in the eyes as he spoke this lie. For the fact that Cahssi had mentioned this phrase were enough to concern him. For he now feared he had misinterpreted entirely the paintings on the cave wall.

## THE EMPTY TOWER

1

LATE in the day Hawkmoth's troupe emerged from the woodland into a substantial clearing where there sat a wide pond of silver water and upon a circular island in its middle were an enormous stone foot.

All stopped to stare. For the foot in turn were attached to a stone leg that climbed high above Mothaak's distant canopy. They stood craning their necks to take in the structure's full height.

'Be this it?' Gargaron asked hushly. 'Our Empty Tower?'

'Aye,' Hawkmoth said. 'I feel it be so.'

'As do I,' Melai said, her voice low.

2

It had been with growing trepidation that they came to this point. The simple fact that they had been advancing upon the very thing that were responsible for dishing out so much death and sorrow across the Vale were lost on none of them. So the feeling that they were heading toward a sleeping juggernaut buzzed their nerves and heightened their senses and stirred their feelings for vengeance.

'What sort of tower be this?' Gargaron said with suspicion.

'I could not begin to say,' came Hawkmoth's grave reply.

The top of the leg culminated somewhere near the upper thigh. And clasped around its knee were what looked to be a gigantic stone hand; its wrist and arm were suspended out into sky where it ended in jagged crumbling mortar somewhere before the elbow. The fingers of the hand were splayed apart and between them there were vents, or windows, into the tower itself—what lay within were but a mystery. Yet it were what hung at the top of the tower that arrested their attention and stirred both their curiosity and fears.

A monstrous garish face glared down at them with crazed goggling eyes. Both eyes were askew, one looking this way, the other that way. It hung there near the top of the construction, the upper thigh of the tower stuffed through its mouth and sticking out the back of its head. Subsequently its mouth were stretched wide with lips drawn back, and its rows of fangs could be seen biting into the stonework.

'What be that ghastly thing?' Melai asked without taking her sight from it. 'It watches us, I am certain!'

'None but an idiot face,' Hawkmoth reassured her, reaching for something in his sidepack. 'Mindless, mute, stupid. Naught but stone and mortar and paint designed as such to scare folk from this place I would guess.'

But Melai would swear its eyes followed her, that they moved like the eyes of a shadow cat slyly watching the progress of a tasty swamp rat. 'Where sits this infernal bell then?'

As Hawkmoth dragged a collection of crystalline stakes from his pack he said, 'I am guessing of course, but perhaps beyond those vents up there.'

They studied the spaces between the fingers as Hawkmoth went about placing each stake around them, effectively cordoning off a wide grassed area of the clearing.

'And who or what tolls it?' Gargaron asked.

'Perhaps that we may soon discover,' Hawkmoth replied, going about and adjusting his stakes.

The others watched him now.

'What have you there?' Locke asked.

'It be a Storm Haven, kindly provided by my old friend Skitecrow. Something developed by my Order for use in alpine expeditions. Effective against rock falls, blizzards and avalanches. Thus it should provide us shelter should this tower toll its bell.'

'How does it work?' Gargaron asked.

'The onset of any shockwave ought to activate these crystals,' Hawkmoth explained. 'An umbrella of Deeplight will form, a powerful barrier sourced from the seas off the coast of Erohsvtta. We simply shelter beneath. And wait out the shockwaves unharmed.' He stood there brushing down his hands, surveying his handiwork. 'Right then. Let us inspect this tower, shall we. Oh, and keep back from the pond. There is a stench to it I do not much trust.'

3

The liquid in the pond were the colour of liquid silver and it lay as still as a mirror. Trees, leaves, sky, could be seen perfectly reflected upon its surface. The smell made its way into Gargaron's lungs. He coughed it out. 'What be that acrid stink?' he said, his eyes watering.

Hawkmoth had no certain answer. 'Mercuruan. As would be my guess. It smells as such.'

'Mercuruan?' Locke said. 'Never heard of it. Poisonous, I take it?'

'Oh aye. Take a sip of Mercuruan and it shall burn holes in your throat and mouth before it even reaches your belly,' Hawkmoth assured them. 'Wade through it and it shall strip the flesh from your bones as easily as a butcher's cleaver slices through meat. Thus we must exercise caution while we are here. To bring this tower down, to destroy its capacity, may require methodical planning. Though keep your eyes peeled and ears open. If anyone suspects or sees the smallest sign that the bell be about to chime, then yell out so that we might all retreat in time to this safe zone. Our mission here may take one sweep of the clock, or it may take several days. We shall set up camp within this protected area, if need be. Though we shall not leave this woodland until we have taken out the infernal bell.'

'How do you propose we tackle it?' Locke asked studying the tower. 'Call out. Knock. See if anyone's home?'

Hawkmoth considered Locke's jest, gazing up at the enormous hand grasping the tower's midsection. 'Aye. Why not?'

'I were jesting, of course, sorcerer,' Locke said.

'I realise,' Hawkmoth told him. 'Though finding out who or what lies within be a good starting point.'

'How might we do that?' Gargaron asked. 'If we cannot cross the pond?'

The sorcerer looked thoughtful. 'I am not certain we need to cross the pond, giant.' He turned to Melai. 'Dear woods nymph, how are your wings?'

'In fine fettle.'

'Good. Do you think then you might fly to the hand up there and report what you see beyond those windows?'

Melai gazed up the tower's leg, trying her best to ignore the goggling face. 'I could, aye.'

'Be mindful though, keep your distance. I suspect this Empty Tower be enchanted.'

'Enchanted?'

On the Ghartst cave paintings Hawkmoth had seen symbols of people reaching out and touching the tower, symbols of people lying dead about its base. To touch the tower might put one to sleep, he had surmised. He conveyed this to Melai.

'To sleep? Or death?' she asked.

'Perhaps either. So stray nowhere near it.'

'Yet close enough so that I might spy what lies within?' she said.

'Such be my idea. Though if you think it be too dangerous then let it be known and we shall find another way.'

'What other way would there be?' Melai asked. 'None of you have wings.'

'There are trees we could scale,' he told her. 'A spyglass from a tree may just as easily yield us what we wish to know.'

'And it may not,' Melai suggested.

'We shall not know until we try it.'

'None of this sounds encouraging,' Gargaron said.

'It does not,' Melai agreed. 'Though, if this tower houses a death bell that killed my dear sisters, then its demise be the reason I am here.'

'Well said,' Locke told her.

For a few moments they all stood there gazing up at the windows.

4

'Right then,' Hawkmoth said. 'Shall we get started?'

'Aye, let's,' said Locke eagerly. 'We haven't come this far just to admire the view.'

Gargaron eyed Melai. He did not wish to express it but he felt some anxiety about what she were about to do. 'You feel up to this?' he asked her.

'Yes. I be fine.'

He nodded. 'Right then, be safe.'

'And have your weapons at the ready,' Hawkmoth warned. 'Everybody. Our very presence here is bound to arouse some sort of suspicion. And once we begin our picking about the tower we might just bring the grubs out of the woodwork, so to speak.'

'Let them come,' Locke said.

Removing his sword, Gargaron looked around, searching the woodland that surrounded them. 'Right then,' he said. 'Good luck to all.' And he extended his hand to emphasise his words with the offer of a brief handshake to his companions. Hawkmoth took the giant's hand before Locke reached out and placed his hand on theirs. Melai, fluttering amidst them, not to be left out, did likewise.

'Friends till the end,' Gargaron said with a smile. The others replied, 'Friends to the end' and Locke followed up with, 'Now let us bring this blasted tower down and be home in time for tea.'

At that, and he could not help himself, Gargaron found himself laughing. 'I am sorry,' he said. 'But no, you are right, Locke. Let us do this. And if we may, let us be home in time for tea.' On impulse then, Gargaron reached wide and dragged them all to his chest and gripped them in a mighty bear hug. 'When we are done here, you are all invited back to Hovel, where I shall personally cook and serve you up roast suckling hog, the best you will all ever sample. Oh, and for you Melai, Hibiscus flowers, Golden Spore, Juniper sprouts, redmelon, and the best Spotted Blues from Summer Woods.'

'Sounds wonderful,' Melai told him, 'I will hold you to that.'

None of them could know it... but it were the last moment they would share together.

5

Melai lifted away toward the windows, determined to keep her eyes off the goggling face. She suspected Hawkmoth had some plan once she'd scoped out the tower's interior. A magical explosive perhaps, thrown in through the vents. Something to take out the bell.

As she fluttered upwards she looked down occasionally. But half way to her intended destination she became aware of an illusion...

Her companions on the ground had grown small. It were as if she were elevated two hundred feet. Gargaron, Hawkmoth, Locke, down there gripping their weapons, looked like Mynych, the famed tiny people from myth, standing there beside a vast lake rather than a pond. The warped perspective threw her nerves. And she had to simply hover there for a moment, eyes shut, to gather herself and calm her breathing.

What pushed her on eventually were thoughts of her dear sisters: Corlai with her long auburn hair; and Frelai the cheeky one, always laughing, always playing; Veylai the elder one who knew so much about Thoonsk and her secrets; and Yelai, the smallest and youngest and most innocent of them all and the least most ready to die. The image of them in her mind pushed her from her state of panic. 'I will avenge you all,' she hissed through gritted teeth and flew toward the vents.

6

Here the tower itself now seemed to evolve, to grow. By the time Melai had reached the stone fist it had taken on absolutely enormous proportions. Melai felt as if she were but a mere birdling flapping about the walls of some giant's fort. And when she dared look she realised with fright that the face looming above her had eclipsed both suns. It felt to her like it were the ceiling of some vast cavern, the ceiling of the world. And those eyes, she knew, followed her every move.

To Gargaron, Hawkmoth, and Locke, it were Melai who had grown miraculously smaller until she looked no bigger than a puny fly against a cliff face. They had all but lost her from sight. Hawkmoth had to employ his spyglass simply to keep her monitored.

And it were while Hawkmoth, and Gargaron too, had their sights fixed on their wood nymph, Locke noticed movement in the woodland surrounding the clearing. He turned and searched the tree trunks and what he sighted caused him to back up, his blowpipe held close to his mouth.

'Why, looks as if we have attracted some attention,' he told his companions.

Gargaron, and now Hawkmoth, saw strange feminine beings hanging upside-down from tree trunks. Beings with grey tentacled legs, each with her torso arched backwards, belly and breasts poking outwards and upwards into the air, their peculiarly long arms dangling out behind them, their heads hanging upside-down as if dead, yet their faceless visages somehow watched them.

'Star angels,' Hawkmoth said softly.

And here these nightmare creatures began to mewl.

7

Melai, oblivious to the goings on below, rose finally to the level of the vents. She focused her attention on the tower's innards. But found she could see nothing for it were dark within. She would need to fly closer for a clearer view. Which meant being in nearer proximity to the tower. Hawkmoth's warnings of the potential dangers of touching the construction rang out in her mind. And up this close she thought she saw hairs growing from the stone work, as if this tower were not a construction at all, but something living.

It be sprouts of some kind, she convinced herself. Weed or vine, nothing more.

She steeled herself to flutter forward but found herself thinking again of the leering face far above. She could not be certain, for she did not wish to look, but she felt as if the face had begun to grin at her.

Dare to take a look within, it seemed to say. I dare it, child, oh I dare it.

Another voice, one more familiar, entered her mind. And so real and tangible did it seem that she swung about in flight, believing that someone or something were hovering beside her. Ignore the great Face of Nothing, it said.

There were naught hovering by her, nothing immediately above her, nor below.

Be calm, Melai, the voice said, be calm now, dear. It be me, Hawkmoth.

She gazed down. Way down there, apparently a hundred leagues below her, stood Hawkmoth and the others.

Ignore the Face of Nothing, the voice spoke again like a breath upon her ears. It is of the Id, an idiot visage, a pest, a clown, reflecting and reacting to your fears. Nothing more. It cannot harm you.

But would you dare to look, my dear?

Confusion twisted her thoughts.

Would you dare to look within, my sweet?

Melai! Ignore what you hear, or what you think you hear. Concentrate on my voice.

Still... dare to look within, my child of the swamps. I dare it, I dare it, I do.

Melai withdrew her bow and nocked an arrow. 'Hawkmoth,' she said. 'Answer me this and answer me true, so that I may know at least one of these voices I hear is yours. When we first met, I asked you a question about the winds of Ostamare. Tell me now the answer you gave me then.'

Oh my dear, I shall tell you just as soon as you peer within and report on what you see.

'Hawkmoth?' she asked pleadingly, terrified, gazing down at him. 'Hawkmoth? Do you speak to me?'

No! But I do.

She looked up and squealed.

The face, without her knowing, had slid down the shaft of the tower leg and hovered there mere yards above her head, its enormous idiot eyes flicking back and forth, alternatively watching her and focusing on events at ground level, its enormous teeth still embedded in the stonework.

Suddenly she noticed the hand clasping the tower were no longer part of a detached wrist—an arm had grown out into the sky, buried away in the clouds. The fingers were beginning to move, flexing, as if altering their grip. In its efforts the hand slid down the tower about twenty feet, leaving the windows free. And Melai saw it then, in the hollow of the tower through its tall arched windows once concealed by those fingers. A tongue dangling out of that face. A vast, horrible wet beast, barbed with hooks and hanging from them were thousands of bodies. And at her level, she could see the dead forms of her sisters, hanging there, eyes open, staring at her.

She squealed.

And on that moment, for the first time in days, the Death Bell tolled.

8

Melai took the full brunt. The mere sound wave alone shredded her wings and tore them from her body, and away she were flung into Vol Mothaak, tumbling head over foot. Had it not been for her crushing collision against one of the great oaks, she might have flown on for a thousand leagues, lost and sunk down in the depths of the Grass Sea never to be found.

Below, the Storm Haven talismans were blown to bits and Hawkmoth, Gargaron and Locke all succumbed to the shockwave, thrown off into the woods like mere dolls of straw caught on a cyclonic gale.

The faceless Angels of the woods, clinging upside-down to tree trunks, remained utterly unaffected. As if, for them, the shockwave did not exist. And from their perch, they watched the intruders upon their realm sail wildly and mercilessly through the woodland.

## RISE OF HOR

1

LONG after the shockwave had swept away, Gargaron lay in the leaf litter moaning, unsure what had hit him. He opened his eyes and gazed up into the trees. His vision were blurred. He blinked and lifted his hand to rub his eyes but his arm felt as heavy as stone.

After a while, and with great effort, he sat up, aching from toe to chin. Blood dripped down his face. He blinked, hoping to clear his vision. But his left eye were gummed up with some sort of warm sticky substance. He tried wiping it away but pain came back at him. Gently he fingered his eye socket. His eye were naught but mush, and the bone were shattered, crumpled, caved-in.

He looked around. Uncertain where he were. Gargantuan woodland trees rose up about him, so tall he could not see where they ended. He took his gourd from his belt only to find it bashed in somehow and without its lid. It held but two or three sips of water. Which he tipped into his mouth.

He took some deep breaths then staggered to his feet. Weak, he stumbled. One of his legs shot up with excruciating pain. He grimaced. Using trees around him for support he managed to stay upright. He strained his good eye, hoping to focus his vision. It did not matter, the world around him remained a haze.

2

Absently clasping his empty gourd, he vacated the tree against which he were leaning. He held his arms out in front of him. He stumbled into another trunk. And held himself to it as if to let go would mean falling down and never getting up again. He steadied himself, took long breaths, tried focusing his good eye. Blood ran down his face.

He slid down the tree to his rump and sat there panting. He smudged the blood from his face. There were a hundred other bleeding wounds across his body. They itched and stung. He reached for his pack, not even sure if it were still clung to him. He sighed with relief when he felt it there, strapped across his back. Unhitching it took tremendous effort. The strap were caught on his shoulder. He hung his head, panting, spit swinging from his lips in bloody tendrils. Eventually he wrestled the pack into his lap. He did not notice that Drenvel's Bane were missing. He were concerned only with fetching out his medicinal satchel. From inside he took a small black-glass jar. He screwed the stopper with his thumb and finger back and forth until it came free. Dropping the cork he upended a handful of miniscule primate like critters into his palm. None of them were any bigger than the Ladybird Beetles that his dear Veleyal liked to collect on spring mornings.

He picked one up in his fingers and placed it as near as he could estimate to the gushing wound on his forehead. He had to do it by touch. Though his fingertips felt numb. Still, he knew once the scent of blood brought the critter from its stasis, the critter would need no help seeking the wound.

He felt it move, felt it waking. Felt it clambering across his brow like an ant. Then felt it at his wound—a sensation like a mad bee sting and then a satisfying tingling sensation and a gradual numbing of pain.

He placed others across his body. Through blurred sight he watched them awaken. They scurried about him in search of ruptured flesh. When they sniffed out a bloodied wound they opened their ravenous mouths and sunk their fangs in.

Gargaron let the Zombeez cavort over his body, their rampant appetites driving them to his wounds, where they drank and ate. The giant's physiology were no friend to them however. Their saliva stimulated Gargaron's immune system and flaps of his skin folded over each of the undead creatures, absorbing them into his flesh thus arresting blood flow and sealing each wound.

He sat back, moved to take another draught of water. None remained. He dropped the empty gourd and closed his eyes, grimacing, hoping, praying that he had not lost too much blood. Above him the two suns beat down through Vol Mothaak's canopy, hot and oppressive.

3

Sometime later, once the Zombeez had done their business, Gargaron tried standing again. Using the nearest tree for support, he climbed to his feet but when he stepped forward his legs crumpled beneath him and he collapsed into the leaf matter. He lay there panting. Sweat ran into his good eye. He smudged it away with his wrist. He climbed to his feet again, gripping the smooth bark of the trees about him. He stepped forward, one foot at a time.

He stumbled aimlessly, looking about, trying to gain his bearings. 'Melai,' he tried calling though his voice were reduced to mere croaks. 'Hawkmoth. Locke. Where be you?'

He were never certain which way he were heading. He thought of the tower. Where did it stand? If he could only glimpse it through the woods he might gather his bearings. Unless of course his friends had succeeded in pulling it to ground. His memory, his mind, everything were an utter mess. He were certain of nothing.

There were little sound, little breeze; his footfalls were muffled. The suns remained directly overhead, beaming down hot and harsh, the glaring sunlight pained his eye. He ached. His bones hurt.

Exhausted, he fell against yet another tree trunk, panting, spit running from his mouth. 'Thronir, help me find a way from this nightmare,' he whispered desperately, his bloodied lips pushed against the rough bark. It were then he heard a faint swishing noise. And a glooping liquid sound, something splashing, splatting.

He grimaced as he turned himself about, slumping spine-first against the trunk. With his one good eye he peered out into the blurred realm before him.

He saw... movement. Thirty yards away he judged. He could not tell however what he were looking at. But the swishing sounds, the splashing noises, seemed to come from that direction.

'Hawkmoth?' he croaked. 'Melai? Locke? Be that you?'

If it were, none answered him.

He pushed away from the tree, again hands held out in front of him. The conspicuous movement ahead did not cease. He pushed closer. His vision could still not make out what it were. 'Melai,' he croaked. 'Hawkmoth. Somebody answer me.'

He saw those strange beings clung to tree trunks. The faceless ones, Star Angels as Hawkmoth had called them. And he gasped when he recognised the sorcerer sprawled across a twisted bed of roots. The angels had him surrounded. And though the scene were fuzzy, Gargaron realised what were happening: the angles were jabbing him with spears. Retracting... jabbing... retracting... jabbing... again and again and again, like knives into a hoardog.

4

Gargaron, alarmed, reached for his sword but it were not on him and could not recall when he last had it. He looked about, thinking it may have only recently fallen from him. But if it lay in his vicinity, such were his eyesight, that he could not distinguish it from stick nor branch.

Without thinking, he shoved his way before these Star Angels, attempting to ward off their attacks with naught but his arms. He found himself amidst a flurry of spikes that pierced his clothing and his leather arm-guards, that punctured his skin and muscle. As they retracted from his flesh, pulsing jets of blood spurted into the air.

He staggered backwards into the ancient gnarled bark of a tree, his boots splashing through thick pools of sorcerer blood. He watched the Star Angels with his compromised vision. They clung to the tree trunks around Hawkmoth, dangling upside-down, jabbing their long spikes at him still.

They possessed no arms with which to wield weapons. And only tentacles for legs. But he saw upon their featureless faces a large obscene orifice that spat out a tusk as long and straight as his very own great sword. They stabbed Hawkmoth repeatedly and as they retracted, drawing fresh spurts of blood, these spike drew back somehow into heads no larger than Gargaron's.

5

Gargaron crouched and grabbed the sorcerer. Amidst a flurry of spear strikes he hefted Hawkmoth into his grasp and hauled him backwards.

Sweat drained into his eye. He wiped it off but it smudged with blood and made his eyesight worse. He reached again for his sword. It were not on him. He considered Drenvel's Bane. He reached for it. But could not feel it in his pack. He searched the ground around him hoping maybe it had slipped out when he'd grabbed hold of Hawkmoth. There were lots of blurred objects. But nothing his fingers touched were the hammer hilt.

He grabbed the sorcerer by the wrists, gathering his strength to haul him into his arms and run off with him. But he realised the onslaught had abated.

He looked up.

The angels clung to their trees. Motionless.

Gargaron waited for the attack to kick off again. But it did not come. Why would they stop? he wondered. Unless... unless Hawkmoth were finished.

'Hawkmoth?' Gargaron croaked. 'Hawkmoth, do you hear me?' He could make out no detail other than large blurred patches of red upon his friend's body that were probably blood and flesh. When his hands found them, these areas they were pulpy and wet and warm.

'Hawkmoth?' Gargaron groaned. 'Hawkmoth! Hear me now.'

The sorcerer were unmoving. He were sprawled and his limbs loose and unresponsive. Gargaron lowered his ear to Hawkmoth's chest, listening.

It were faint, but there were a heartbeat.

'Hawkmoth,' he said close to the sorcerer's face. 'Stay with me. Do not leave. I be here at your side. You are not alone.' He glanced up at the Angels. They were gone he realised. He looked about. The woodland were a blur but he saw no movement.

He turned back to Hawkmoth, wondering if some tincture in the sorcerer's sidepack might work to bring the sorcerer round. Yet he knew nothing of Hawkmoth's peculiar potions. Even after spending so much time in his company. He did not want to administer something that might kill the sorcerer outright. Not if there were some small chance that he might recover.

Gargaron considered his own remedies: his Zombeez, his skin grafts, and the various potions and ointments engineered by his village druids. Nearly all were giant specific. Meant only for his kind. And yet, there were Lyfen Essence.

Will it work on Hawkmoth though? he wondered. It had failed to save the elven woman who had ridden Grimah to him.

6

He took it from his pack, identifying it by feeling for its horizontal bottle. He fished it into his grasp, and held it before his face, unstoppering it, sniffing it. Like some blind-struck soul, he felt around for Hawkmoth's face, then his mouth. He brought the bottle to Hawkmoth's lips and dripped in what he thought would be two or three drops.

He sat there then, wondering what to do next. A thought came to him. He lifted the vial to his face and let fall a drop into both eyes. There proved no change in his left eye; it remained spongy, broken, pulverised, unseeing. Yet, more swift than he would've thought possible, his good eye began to clear; the blur of the woodland realm all about him coalesced into vibrant clarity.

He gazed down at the sorcerer and gasped when he noted the extent of Hawkmoth's injuries. The sorcerer were a bloodied mess of broken limbs and punctured flesh. The side of his head had been torn open, one ear entirely gone. His jaw were broken. Or horribly dislocated for it hung at a horrific angle. His eyes were shut but puddled in drying blood. His arms were twisted and bent. There were a huge rent up the side of his body where even the stone skin had cracked open like a foul egg.

Dear sorcerer, Gargaron thought, if you come back from this, it shall be a miracle.

Gargaron felt useless. The sorcerer had brought Gargaron himself back from death. All Gargaron could manage were some drops of liquid that may or may not work.

He sat back with a hefty sigh, dispirited, looking about, wondering what to do. And though it tortured him, he could not take his eyes from Hawkmoth for many long moments. In the end he forced himself to avert his gaze. To gaze off into the woodland and work out what to do next.

It were here he noticed something. Through the trees, a small clearing... Some crumpled mass lay on the leafy forest floor. He saw large crab legs poking from it.

7

Gargaron hefted himself to his feet. And set off, grunting as he stumbled forward.

He reached the clearing and dropped to his knees beside a massacred body. Gargaron put his hand over his mouth, despaired, terrified. It were Locke. His body ripped open. Crab guts were dragged out behind him, tangled in the trees. The shell of his remaining legs were shattered. His head were bent at a terrible angle, the bones in his neck stuck through his skin, crab blood were everywhere. There were no heart to listen for. Locke's chest were burst open and organs were spilt out across the grass.

Gargaron slumped back, barely able to breathe. His eye watering with tears. 'What am I to do?' he whimpered.

It were obvious now, it had all gone wrong. Their plans to save their country were terminated. He pushed himself back against a tree trunk, up against its lumpy roots. He sat there weeping. His belly ached. He realised he were bleeding again. Several puncture wounds dotted his body. The roots beneath him dug into his bones. He pushed himself from them. One shifted. He pulled it free and tossed it aside. As it flung away he realised it were no root. But Drenvel's Bane.

He eyed it from where he sat. He cared for it no longer. What use has it ever been? he thought. What use be it now?

He were still processing the demise of both Hawkmoth and Locke when he heard a familiar sound. The sound of swishing spikes, the sound of splashing blood.

He looked tiredly toward Hawkmoth who lay where he'd left him. But the sorcerer were free of those fiendish Star Angels.

Gargaron stood as quick as his aching body would allow. He clutched his aching stomach; bleeding out it were. He turned slowly, searching through the woodland near and far with his good eye. He had rotated almost fully when he saw it. Through the trees, a cluster of Angels, stabbing something out of his view.

He did not want to imagine what it were. But he feared the worst. Melai.

And if it were, he would tear down those Angels. Though this time he needn't be their pin cushion. He stumbled forward, and fetched Drenvel's Bane into his grasp.

8

Fighting exhaustion, he staggered through the woodland. Bumping into tree and branch, gripping each for support. He drew closer and closer to the Angels. Their assault on whatever they were attacking continued. And when Gargaron finally stumbled into a small shaded glade he saw her being speared, punctured, perforated.

Dear little wood's nymph Melai.

His heart sank. 'No,' he yelled. 'Leave her be!' They might as well have been digging their vicious spines into his daughter, his wife, every soul he had ever loved.

He gripped the hilt of Hor's legendary hammer. And as rage surged through him he felt a mighty fire ignite in his chest. Suddenly he felt his fatigue abandon him. He felt no more pain. He did not bleed. He felt all the strength and power of a thousand giants.

Once more, the mighty hammer head appeared at the end of the hilt.

9

If Melai had been conscious she would have witnessed a being of enormous stature rise to his feet before her, a being clad in dark steel armour, clad in a dark steel helmet, gripping a hammer that held a bluish iridescence.

Here now, before her unconscious form, the figure turned and let the Star Angels have his wrath. Trees were obliterated, smashed and bashed, wood splinters flew off in a thousand directions, shaken leaves rained down, catching the sun as they spun and fell. The Star Angels were pulverised, each swing treating them as if they were naught but hollowed clay dolls, golden blood splashing across the woodland. Though they did not break apart themselves, nor shatter. They were rendered across the woodland as long shards of metal, stuck out from the very trees they clung to, like streaks of silver smeared across a canvas. And none of them ever moved again.

But Hor were not yet done. For he had spied Dark Ones standing amidst the shadows, surrounding the clearing, watching.

Laughing a deep sonorous laugh, he stomped toward them. They put their own hammers up in defence. But while he battered them all they made no move to counter his attacks. They simply parried his hammer blows. Still, he dispatched them all the same. Twenty of them; all matching him in height and bulk. And though they did not feel to be a physical part of this world, pockets of blackness embedded in the wall of reality with glowing white eyes, he bludgeoned them down with his magical hammer. Until they were pockets of blackness spilled across grass and fallen oak, like fallen shadows left with naught but their searing pale eyes.

Hor marched back and forth, wanting more, arbitrarily swinging his hammer down a tree here, another there. Once he were done, once the leaf matter had settled, once the bodies of Angels were discarded hither and thither, once there were no further sign of Dark Ones, he saw her... Melai.

And suddenly his fury were replaced with sadness.

10

By the time Gargaron knelt at Melai's side his hammer were again but a hilt and his pain had returned and exhaustion threatened to overwhelm him, to pull him down into sweet oblivion.

But he would not allow it.

He would see to Melai first before his life gave way. He would either help sustain her life. Or ease her passing. Neither had he been able to do for Veleyal or Yarniya. If the gods willed his death, then so be it, but not before he tended to Melai.

She lay crammed against the root of a tree. As if she had been thrown and kicked and stuffed there. She were bleeding profusely. She were a mess. And unmoving.

Tears filled Gargaron's eyes as he stared down at her small, broken body. He saw she were without her wings. He saw her limbs were snapped. He saw that her ribs had cracked and her chest cavity caved inwards. He saw spike holes punctured through her. Her pale green blood were splashed everywhere.

And yet unbelievably, there were a pulse in her neck.

He crouched and lay his head on her chest. It were faint, but it were there. Her precious heartbeat. 'Melai,' he said. 'Melai. Do you hear me? It be Gargaron. I am here at your side. Can you hear me?'

There were no response. Quickly he took the bottle of Lyfen Essence from his pack and administered a drop into her mouth.

The result were surprising. Right before his eyes her wounds began to heal. He had not seen the Essence work so well even on giants. Still... it did not restore her fully. He heard her breath return, a light, short breath. But that were all.

'Melai?' he asked. 'Do you hear me?'

No response.

'Melai, it be Gargaron. Hear me. Please.' He watched as her eyelids moved and slowly parted. Though her eyes did not see him; they appeared to gaze off into the woodland. If she were actually seeing anything he could not tell.

He moved his face into her line of sight, gently smoothing her hair from her brow. 'Melai,' he said gently, 'it be me. Gargaron.'

He watched her blink, and then he believed her eyes focused on him. She watched him for a long while. He held her hand. She tried to speak. There were no sound. Not at first. But then a murmur. 'Gar... garon.'

It were so faint it were like a listless breath of breeze on a summer's afternoon.

'Gargaron,' she murmured weakly.

He smiled, but tears were in his eyes. 'Melai. I be here with you.'

'It got us.'

'Lie still. Don't talk. Let me aid you.'

'It got us,' she said again softly.

'Melai, save your strength.'

'I looked into its eyes,' she whispered. 'I saw its thoughts and mind. It cannot be stopped. I know it now as I did not before.'

'What are you saying?' Gargaron laughed awkwardly, smudging sweat and blood from her forehead. 'Stop talking. Keep your strength.'

'I... I'm dying. It's too late.'

'Melai, no, I shan't let you.'

Slowly, painfully, she reached up with her arm and touched his cheek. 'Oh, if we'd only met years before. We would have been great friends. You are a kind soul. I am truly sorry for the loss of your daughter and wife.'

'Thankyou,' he said, a lump in his throat. 'But you shall be fine. You shall be fine.'

'My wings are dashed. I am dashed. I must go now. Remember your promise. Take me back to Willowgarde, release me to my sweet sisters.'

'Melai,' he said as her eyes watched him and her life slipped from her body. She fell limp and her arm fell from his face. A slight smile remained on her lips.

'Melai, no,' Gargaron sobbed. 'Melai, please, no. Stay awake, hear me now, stay awake. Please.'

Her head lolled back and her eyes gazed out into the treetops of this hell forest of Vol Mothaak. And Gargaron saw it then, away through the woodland, the top of the tower, the idiot face gazing down at him with its idiot, mocking smile.

11

Gargaron roared and stood, taking up Drenvel's Bane once more. 'NO!' he yelled.

Once more a blinding fury swept over him. And once more his pain fell away, and the strength of a hundred Skinkks filled him. He strode through the woods toward the tower. Growing ever taller as he went. Ever bigger. Hor's horned helmet and armour of black steel plate forming about him. All the anger that had seethed within him since the tolling of the first bell drove him, all the fury that had built up since the fall of his village, since the discovery of his wife and daughter dead.

He began running, running, faster and faster, bashing aside Star Angels who now descended upon him, springing and wriggling from tree to tree, attempting to crowd him, hundreds jabbing at him with their spikes. But he flailed his hammer and smashed them asunder and he charged toward the toxic silver pool at tower's base and when he reached its bank he took a breath and roared as he leapt out over the poisonous Mercuruan pond...

He crashed heavily into the small island on which the tower stood. He landed on his knees and rolled and all in the same movement he were up and on his feet, wheeling back Drenvel's Bane, bringing it crashing into the stonework.

A boom shook the foundations, dirt and dust splintered from the ancient mortar, bits of brick peppered the pond. Ignoring the tower's leering demonic face that dropped down at him with tremendous speed, its enormous mouth aghast and laughing, Gargaron wound his arms back and brought his hammer into the tower again and again and again, punching stone's out across the toxic pool, splashes of silver liquid crashing against the banks.

Bring me down if you can! a voice screeched in his mind.

'Oh, I intend to!' Gargaron roared back gleefully.

Part of the tower caved inwards, into the hollow where the tip of a large fleshy appendage dangled, resembling the tongue of a god. Gargaron did not care. He smashed and bashed.

Bring me down, bring me down, bring me down if you dare!

He hammered and hammered and hammered and hammered...

Until nearly the entire base had collapsed.

Here he stopped. Panting. Sweating. Bleeding. Confused. But his rage held. He had brought down far more than needed to make this tower topple. Yet the tower looked no closer to falling than it had before he'd begun assailing it. It looked like a tree that had been almost chopped through, standing via a mere chip of bark. He began to fear Melai had been right. It were unnatural. It could not be destroyed. It were enchanted.

He looked up and saw the hell face glaring at him, its grin as big as ever he'd seen it, a wicked, joyous grin that told Gargaron it knew things he did not.

Gargaron ignored it and wound back Hor's great hammer once more and brought it against the final piece of base not yet destroyed. The face above squealed. And with one last lunge Gargaron swiped away the remainder of the tower's base. And for a moment the entire construction hovered there, supported by absolutely nothing, the face cackling at him, suspended there above him, its nose almost touching him, drool dripping from its vast lips.

And then... down it came...

12

It did not topple as Gargaron had hoped. It did not simply fall one way or the other. It instead dropped in on itself, the face collapsing first, plunging into him, its huge mouth trying to swallow him. He heaved it aside with Hor's cutter but the impact pushed him into the pool and dragged the hammer from his grip.

His anger left him immediately. His pain returned, felt his skin beginning to singe. Felt it burning. The black steel armour that seemed somehow part of the hammer vanished. And down he sunk into the poisonous depths of Mercuruan.

13

It were deep. There seemed no bottom to it. Gargaron dropped like a stone in a well. He tried kicking his legs, tried swimming against the pull of gravity but blocks of the tower plummeted into the pond above and pelted him, pushing him further into the murky depths.

He crashed against some ledge, or floor, he were not sure which. Tons of stone piled on top of him. He were trapped; snared like a fly in oil. His struggles began to weaken... the strength were going out of his limbs.

Soon... he realised he no longer cared. All he knew had died. He had brought down the tower, silenced the death bell. His loved ones would stay dead but at least he had saved their beloved Vale. There were naught for him anymore.

You have work here yet, his wife had said.

And now I have done it, my sweet.

It were time to let life go.

He withdrew his conscious mind into himself. Drew himself peacefully into a meditative state. Prepared himself for his passing. He would now never reach Endworld to be with his wife and daughter. But... such were life.

His consciousness ebbed away. He imagined Veleyal at his side. He imagined she were there, taking to him, telling him that all were well, that she loved him. He felt her tugging his arm. 'Come,' she seemed to say. 'Come, let us go now.'

She took his wrist. She began to drag him from the tower stones that lay heaped on top of him. He felt his consciousness return a little. He felt his dream dissipating, felt Veleyal leave his mind.

Something had hold of his arm, something hauling him from tower rubble. What be it? he wondered distantly. A fish? What damned fish could live down here? And what watery beast dares drag me from my passing?

He opened his one good eye, at risk of burning it. Though if he were dying he would not need it anymore.

He saw not a fish but arms of dark light clamped around his limbs. And he were being hauled up through stone and mortar and rubble that continued tumbling from above.

14

He were yanked into open air, drips of silver beading off his arms. He lay gasping on the banks of the pond. He saw an enormous Dark One looming over him. It stood peering down at him. As if wondering what to do with him. If it meant to do as the other Dark Ones had not, that being taking Gargaron's life, well, Gargaron now had not the sense to care. He barely registered the creature standing there. To him, reality were already a numbed and distant dream.

Yet one thing he saw broke his spirit. The tower. It stood there full and unbroken, the face leering at him, grinning.

He shut his eye against the sight of it.

## DARK ONE

1

GARGARON'S consciousness ebbed and flowed, there came periods of darkness followed by periods of light. In these times, when his eye came open he were distantly aware of being lifted from the woodland's soft leafy floor, of being cradled like a pup. Later, during a period where he felt slightly more alert, he saw the tops of the woodland gliding by, as if he were being carried off somewhere.

Beyond that, there came a prolonged period of dark. It might have been sweet oblivion had it not been for the disharmonious dreams and nightmares. When his senses aroused again he saw just the vast darkening sky above him. And a sense of the suns lowering and the horizon filled with red and yellow. And there were yet another colossal Dark One looming above him. This one even bigger than the last, with far reaching buffalo horns. Gargaron had again the sense of being carried, transferred, as if from one colossal ox cart to another. He took heart when he saw Melai lying there beside him, and Locke on the other, and Hawkmoth being lifted in behind him.

He wanted to stir, yet naught save an extreme exhaustion weighed him down. And again he fell away into a depthless sleep.

2

When he awoke again there were stars in the heavens, and the moons were out (although he could not have named them) and there were no sign of the woodland, nothing but the mighty shadow of the Dark One, its back to him, as if it were at the helm of some enormous cart. Its horns were lit by moonlight, and it seemed to hum cheerfully to itself. A sonorous yet melodic tune, if not a little melancholy.

Gargaron had a distant sense that he were surrounded by the Grass Sea, but he were not aboard a ship. Gargaron wanted to rise, to survey his surroundings, but again his mind did not permit it, and instead he succumbed once more to pain and weakness and delirium.

When his eye opened, it were sometime near dawn; but somehow he knew many nights and days had passed. The sky were turning blue. He looked around. Before and behind him he believed he saw a wooden road, suspended on stilts, crossing the Grass Sea, vanishing into far distance in either direction.

Then he were opening his eye once again and the suns glared overhead. And he were being placed gently upon dusty ground. With a sense of distant awe, like a child observing a god, he watched the horned Dark One.

Next he felt himself waking again, the Dark One had gone and Gargaron were alone.

3

Gargaron were unsure how many days and nights had passed since their foray into Vol Mothaak. He sat up slowly. His head thumped, his skin ached. He looked about. The effort seemed to take all his strength. He felt he were pulling himself up from death, as if all the dark beasts of the Afterworld were holding him down. He were shocked to take in such surroundings. Nothing but barren, endless desert in all directions. Rock, stone and dust. No vegetation. No signs of habitation. No signs of life.

None except for that of Hawkmoth it seemed. And for long moments, with his remaining eye, Gargaron simply stared at the sorcerer, unblinking, assuming the sorcerer were but some apparition.

Hawkmoth were kneeling, his hands on his knees, and his head bowed. His back were to Gargaron. Gargaron looked around for the others. Perhaps Melai and Locke were simply waiting somewhere for Gargaron to awaken.

Maybe he had simply dreamt their terrible demise. Perhaps they had been successful in bringing down the tower. Perhaps he had taken a knock to his head, taken some injury.

He saw them. Lying together.

He pulled himself to his feet. And ignoring Hawkmoth for the moment he plod slowly toward the nymph and the crabman with a sense of misgiving. He had hoped Melai and Locke were merely asleep. But he saw now they were not. They lay there in ruins, both of them battered, pulverised, broken, dead. Lifeless corpses, side by side.

Gargaron blinked as he looked down at them. 'I am sorry,' he said softly. 'I am so sorry.'

He stared at Melai at length hoping her eyes might come open, hoping she would look up and see him and smile. But she did not.

Hawkmoth stood beside him now. But when the sorcerer spoke Gargaron did not recognise his voice. 'It be imperative we keep moving.' The voice were scratched, weak, croaky.

Gargaron peered at him. The glare of the suns, both high in the sky, made it difficult to see him, to get a full picture.

'Come, giant, let us be off.'

Gargaron did not move. Not immediately. He wanted Melai, to remain in her company. She had become his daughter, his wife, his surrogate family. He could not desert her.

Hawkmoth squeezed his shoulder. 'Come now, giant.' There were a pleading sound in that voice. 'Come now. There is naught you can do for her. She came to me in my sleep and asked me to tell you goodbye. That she is safe, and pain can reach her no longer.'

Gargaron bowed his head and wept. The sorcerer squeezed his shoulder. 'There now,' Hawkmoth said soothingly, 'there now, giant. All comes to an end. One way or another. Sad though it is. For that is the way of life.'

Unsteady, Gargaron stood, stepping around to get the sun glare off his face. When he did, he could not take his eye from the sorcerer. What he saw terrified him. The sorcerer's skin were wrinkled and turned a deep sickly tinge of blue, as if rot were not too far off. His hair were blackened, as if scorched. He were hunched. One of his arms were stiffened, as if the entire limb were become stone. 'Hawkmoth,' he whispered, 'what be wrong with you?'

Hawkmoth drew in a deep breath. But he offered that old disarming smile. 'Nothing. I am dying, but that be all.'

'Dying?' That squeezed Gargaron's heart. He had lost so much. He did not want to be left alone. 'Dying?'

'Aye.' He said it looking about, as if this were it, no coming back from this condition, as if taking in the barren beauty of this new land. 'Oh, and I would already be so had I not summoned my life's reserves.'

'What do you mean?'

'As you saw with my old mentor Skitecrow. A trick a sorcerer learns early on in his career. To put away certain reserves in the event that death should visit him. The idea be to use enough to stave off death. But I have had to call on all of it just to be standing here talking to you. So once it be used up, that is it, I'm afraid. I too will go the way of all else.'

Gargaron looked horrified. 'How long have you got?'

The sorcerer smiled. 'A day. Two at the most. I hope. Perhaps naught but mere hours. Sometime at least. So, let us press on.' He turned and started off.

'What about Melai? Locke? We cannot leave them.'

'And we cannot take them with us.' Using his staff as a walking stick, the sorcerer hobbled away.

4

Gargaron watched him. Then his gaze returned to that of his deceased friends. He crouched and tenderly ran his huge meaty fingers over Melai's head; he were barely aware that the skin on his knuckles were flaking and peeled, that the skin and flesh of his hand and wrist were blistered and weeping, that the sleeves of his shirt were shredded. But his attention were entirely on Melai.

'I am deeply sorry.' Tears stung his eyes and cheeks, but he bowed his head and touched his giant's forehead to hers and then he sat there and whispered to her a small prayer, all the while tears dripped from his face to hers. It haunted him that his tears did not convert, become night fairies, or skybeetles. It haunted him that all were dying, even the magic of Cloudfyre.

Hawkmoth had stopped, were waiting, using his staff as a crutch to keep him upright.

'Gargaron,' a voice said.

Gargaron looked to the sorcerer but it were not he who had spoken. Blinking, Gargaron looked up and around. And through bleary eyes he saw a wraithlike vision of Sir Rishley Locke, standing there with his customary smile.

And behind him, just beyond his shoulder, were Melai, a ghostly apparition.

'Melai. Bu-but you live.'

Yet her small broken body still lay at his knees.

'Melai?'

'Be well, my friend,' Locke said. 'I shall escort her back to Thoonsk and save you the burden.'

'Wait.'

'You must walk on now,' came her voice, soft and distant. 'You must follow Hawkmoth, my giant of Hovel. For you have work here left to do.'

Confusion tore at his mind, as he were not certain if that last sentence were spoken by her, or if it had instead come from inside his mind.

He looked around at the sorcerer, who were speaking it seemed: '... aye... you have work here left to do.'

When Gargaron turned for Melai and Locke once more he saw them now distant, walking from him, away through the desert. He blinked and wiped his eyes but when he looked again, their ghosts were no longer there... just the endless wastes and swirling dust.

5

Gargaron trailed the limping sorcerer. Once or twice he looked back. But all he saw for a little while were the small broken bodies of Melai and Locke lying there being bitten at by the gritty wind.

Eventually the dust haze swallowed them and Gargaron saw them no longer. Yet those words still whispered over and over in his mind: You have work here left to do.

It brought his wife's face to his mind. And the smiling face of his daughter. Dust stuck to the tears on his cheeks and chin. He felt delirious, feverish, he had no idea where he were, where he were going. The sorcerer hobbled on through the swirling desert sands, unspeaking, his thoughts to himself.

Gargaron felt parched. 'Hawkmoth,' he tried to say but naught save a raspy sound spilt off his lips. He tried to wet them, licking them with a dried tongue. They felt rough and split, felt as if chunks had sloughed off.

'Hawkmoth, please, where do we seek?'

'I am not certain,' came his reply, as his form faded amidst the howling sands.

His sudden vanishing alarmed Gargaron. 'Hawkmoth?! I cannot see you! Where be you! Tell me!' He stumbled, fell, his fleshy arms catching his fall. 'Hawkmoth?!'

He felt his strength failing him. He felt the pain in his body elevate. He did not know it, but there were parts of his body where his bones were exposed. Beneath his arms the flesh had burnt away to expose his ribs. The rear part of one leg had had its meat burnt off, the bones below his knee were open to the elements and were now brown with grit, and the skin and muscle around it black with decay. His hair were all but singed away. Mostly he were numbed by it all, mostly his consciousness washed in and out of some bizarre dream world.

He were not sure now if Hawkmoth had ever been leading him. Perhaps the sorcerer's body too had been somewhere near that of Melai's and Locke's. Perhaps Gargaron had merely been trailing some aimless wraith.

He picked himself up, determined to press on. He told himself that if Hawkmoth were there, the sorcerer would not leave him.

6

The sand flurries howled and raged. And came in waves of varying intensity. And every now and then they would dull enough for Gargaron to gather a clearer picture of the way ahead. He saw more desert and naught else... and still he saw him, the wandering figure of Hawkmoth getting further and further ahead.

'Hawkmoth!' he tried to call with his dry, rasping voice. 'Hawkmoth, do you hear me? Wait!'

But on went the sorcerer and on came the swirling sands, concealing him again from Gargaron's view.

In his mind Gargaron began to hear a song his dear daughter used to sing. 'Oh, on the sweet fields of Sorollayn, I see the maids, oh, on the sweet fields of barley, comes my sweetheart.' He heard himself singing it. Dust and grit peppered his tongue. He spat out what he could. But he sang and hummed and closed his eyes against the storm and pressed forward, mindless, wandering, wandering, one step and another step and another in front of the other.

'You have work here yet,' came the voices of something above him. 'You have work here yet.'

He stopped and peeled open his eyes so slightly, and squinting, he gazed into the heavens. It were a maelstrom of dust and dirt and nothing more. But here he spied Hawkmoth again before him. He had almost stumbled into him.

Hawkmoth were poised there, pointing to some point that Gargaron could not see.

'What be it?' Gargaron asked him, trying to be heard above the winds. 'What be it, tell me?'

'Can't you see it? Just over there. Go forward now, time is almost done. I know now that you did not come to help me stop the war with the witches. It were I who were meant to help you. It is why the Dark Ones left us alone. That we helped you, to a lesser or greater extent, to get you to this point. Go now. Your guardian angel be there to take you the rest of the way.'

'Guardian angel?'

'Cahssi were right. You be the earthchild. I read the paintings on the cave wall wrongly. I thought they were instructions on destroying the death bell. I thought destroying the Empty Tower would give life back to our world. But I know now that all must die. For only then will life once more flourish. When the earthchild grants it so.'

Gargaron blinked at him. 'I do not understand.'

'The earthchild theory tells of a starman who came to Cloudfyre from a distant world called Earth and brought life here. And so that one's spirit lives on, to bring life to where life has been extinguished... You will give us a world renewed, giant. Of grass and trees and fresh, clear skies. And of laughter of people living out their lives. And of the joyous sound of children and animals, large and small, getting about their days.'

Gargaron looked but could see nothing for the storm.

'Life be an enigma,' Hawkmoth said, his voice growing weaker. 'Fleeting. It be but smoke on the breeze. And those who come after us would do well to be mindful of this fact. Lamps glow and lamps go out. Such is the way of things on a lonely world floating amidst a cold universe. And we who float upon it are all there be. Travel safe my friend.' And with that he moved no more, standing there, his body solidifying, his eyes turning dark blue and then to black. His skin became stone. His arm still pointing, his other arm clasping his staff out from his side. And no sooner had he become rock, than he began to erode.

Gargaron stumbled back, watching it happen.

'Hawkmoth? What be the matter? Hawkmoth, can you hear me?!'

But Hawkmoth Lifegiver spoke no more.

Gargaron could only watch as the sorcerer's form slowly lost detail, like a river stone rubbed smooth over a vast passage of time.

Gargaron knew he were dreaming. For as Hawkmoth eroded away, he gazed toward the spot where the sorcerer had been pointing, and what stood there made no sense.

A horse. With two heads.

7

Gargaron watched the mirage, waiting for it to slide away, to fall apart under the howling grit. He looked back at the sorcerer. But Hawkmoth were quickly featureless. Naught but a shape approximating his original form. A round lump of a head, no face, rounded shoulders, no clothes, a narrowing torso, arms and legs withering away to thin cords, his hands gone, his arms ending in rounded nubs, his staff now but dust on the air. And yet part of Hawkmoth's arm, what had become of it, were still pointing.

In the distance, the two-headed horse still stood there. As if waiting for him.

Gargaron regarded it at length, waiting for it to vanish. But vanish it did not. Compelled now, he took his tired legs and trudged toward it, hunched against the biting gusts. Dream or not, he would see himself to this apparition, if only to reach out and touch it, to prove it were not real.

Once or twice he looked back at what used to be Hawkmoth, but there were little left of the sorcerer now save a spire of sand-stone, growing ever thinner and less defined. But more and more Gargaron were drawn on by the sight of the horse, for the nearer he pushed to it, the more substantial it grew. Intrigued, he willed himself forward, curiosity feeding his determination. His consciousness faded to grey here and there, and each time his senses returned he stood, hunched for a moment or two regaining his bearings. Yet always the horse stood there, waiting. Until finally Gargaron reached it, and the horse were right there, close enough to touch.

'Grimah,' he croaked. 'Grimah? Be it you, my friend?'

The horse nuzzled him with its two noses and made a soft noise at his ear as if to confirm his identity. He kept nuzzling him, as if encouraging him to climb upon his back. Distantly Gargaron got the notion, but it seemed an insurmountable task. He felt so heavy, so tired, so burdened. But somehow, aided by the horse's strength, he managed to drag himself into saddle. There he slumped forward panting, clinging to Grimah's mane so that he would not slide off and tumble back into the dirt. He did not like his chances of getting back to his feet if that happened, let alone climbing back again onto the steed.

Soon he were aware of movement, of the horse carrying him away. And once more Gargaron slept...

## EARTHCHILD

1

GARGARON had no awareness of the passage of time. While he slept, Grimah carried him diligently across this desolate part of Godrik's Vale. While he slept, Cloudfyre underwent its final transformation before its Fall. Dark Ones and Harbingers and Juggernauts, billions upon billions of them, spread out across the world, setting alight the forests, hammering down all signs of habitation and civilisation, reducing all of it to rubble and dust. They took to the oceans annihilating the last of the sea-dwellers and their cities. They took to the skies, dealing death and destruction and cleansing wherever it were needed. The destruction and annihilation went on and on until Cloudfyre began to rumble and shake, until Cloudfyre called back her children and thus the Dark Ones, the Harbingers, the Juggernauts, returned to Cloudfyre's deep womb where they would again sleep soundly for ten thousand years before their next emergence.

When Gargaron awoke he were first taken by the searing blue skies. Were he floating? It certainly felt as such. The sky were all about him. Above and below. And yet, yet he felt solid ground beneath his bare feet. He looked down and saw his blistered toes and his reflection. He barely recognised himself. His hair were mostly gone, as if burnt free. One eye were gone, the eyesocket pushed inwards, as if some mighty blow had dashed the side of his face. He had lost considerable weight. His clothes were shredded. His limbs hung with chunks of flesh. And in parts, his bones were exposed.

But here were his reflection nonetheless.

He looked up and around. Grimah were nowhere to be seen, making him think that the horse really had been some dream of delirium. And yet, the imprint of horse's hooves in the crystalline white earth lead off into the endless distance. Other than that, here were a featureless landscape, utterly white save the reflection of the vast blue sky and the wispy white clouds upon it, reflected perfectly, like a mirror.

It were absolutely beautiful in its isolation, in its silence. Gargaron turned slowly about. There were a clarity to his mind that he had not known since before his foray into Vol Mothaak. A lucidity. But the sudden memory of the tower stung him. Locke and Melai. And Hawkmoth. All of them dead. A lump filled his throat. Guilt and sadness for friends lost. And for a while he could not shed the memory of dear Melai. He had promised to take her back to Thoonsk. He sighed heavily. 'I am sorry, Melai. I pray you forgive me where ever you be.'

Again he looked around, still getting used to viewing the world through a single eye.

So... he were alone. That thought came upon him like a crushing weight. And there were some sense, some deep part of him, an intuition, that told him he were but the last thing alive. Not only on Godrik's Vale, but on all the world of Cloudfyre. That the laughter, the voices, the cries, the tweets, the howls of Cloudfyre's millions upon millions of living things had been silenced. And he were all that remained.

He completed one full rotation, his eye scanning the horizon in all directions for any tiny landmark that he might strive for. For there seemed no feature to this landscape but its endless floor of white and the blue sky and clouds reflected upon it.

Yet, he saw something. Indeed it almost startled him. A tiny ethereal being standing twenty yards from him.

2

Its sudden, unexpected presence made him jump. He grunted, alarmed, his hand moving instinctively for his sword or hammer, both of which he seemed to have lost. He did not move. He simply stood gazing back at this tiny little being.

In return it did naught but stand and watch him. A sad expression upon its face. Like that of a child who has lost its mother.

It be some ghost, Gargaron decided.

By appearances it were not a substantial being. He might've been down to one eye but he could see through its form the reflected clouds off the white salt flats, could see through its head the blue sky. It were much like those watery mirages seen at a distance on steaming hot afternoons.

Gargaron felt thirst beginning to bite him. He realised he were not only without his weapons but were without his rucksack. But a gourd he found tied to his belt. It were not his own he realised as he unclipped it. He recognised it as Hawkmoth's. He frowned. Had the sorcerer given over his precious water to him? Gargaron felt its weight. It had a heaviness about it. Full.

He unstoppered it and brought it to his cracked lips. As cool water sluiced over his tongue and he drank, he had to fight all his will not to up end the entire contents down his throat. But it were evident he were a long, long way from fresh water on this strange land. What he had must be rationed.

He took two or three hearty gulps then forced himself to stopper the vessel. He clipped the gourd back to his belt. And once again his eyes went to the tiny being standing there.

Be it a mirror man? he wondered.

He considered his gourd again. He took it from his belt and offered it. 'Forgive me. I have quite forgotten my manners. Be you thirsty?'

The being made no response.

'Water,' Gargaron said. 'That be all it is. I offer you some.'

Again, no response.

Gargaron placed the gourd upon the flat white salt beneath his feet. And took himself back from it.

'Drink,' he told the being. 'I mean you no harm. If you be thirsty then, please, drink.'

Still, the being made no move, no reply, as if it did not comprehend.

3

Gargaron looked around. So what now? he thought. The suns were full, the light off the salt flats bright and glaring. Once more he caught sight of Grimah's hoof prints leading away from him. He scanned again the horizon for any sight of some landmark he may have missed, turning fully about as he had already done.

As before, there were no visible feature to be seen.

What to do? What be my purpose? 'Do you know why I am here?' he asked the wee one. It failed to speak. 'Do you have others like yourself here somewhere?' There might have been a tribe of them watching him, all half invisible. Unless they moved he would probably not spy them. Perhaps Grimah had gone on, trailing some scent of fresh water.

'Are there others like you?' he asked again. 'Would you take me to them? I mean you and your kind no harm. Honestly.'

Again the thing simply stood there eyeing him before looking around again, as if worried about its surroundings, as if it had never seen such a land before. Its expressions intrigued Gargaron. The creature seemed as lost and unsure about this place as he did.

Eventually it were pure necessity that gave Gargaron purpose. The salt pans were growing hotter the longer the day advanced. The gourd would not hold water forever. Sooner or later Gargaron's thirst would see to that. He pointed for the benefit of the being. 'I need to trail my steed. You may come with me if you want.'

Again, no reply.

Gargaron nodded. 'Right then, please yourself, but if I stay here I shall perish.'

No hint of understanding from the being.

Gargaron sighed. With that he started off.

4

The creature did not follow. Gargaron were gone twenty feet when he looked around and saw the thing still standing on the spot. When he had gone fifty feet the little being were almost swallowed up by the white and blue and the perfect mirrored reflections.

Gargaron knew it were wasted energy worrying himself about it.

He concentrated only on Grimah's hoof prints now, following their meandering trail northways. They seemed never ending. He began to wonder how long ago Grimah had passed this way. It may have been days. Or, for all he knew, weeks had swept by.

Hours trickled on as he trudged this mysterious land. Exhausted, hot, sweating. He halted his march and allowed himself some small sips of water, trying his best to ignore his raging thirst. He felt his lips blistered from the suns. He took some moments looking about again, hoping perhaps the distance he had covered might have delivered him closer to some new landmark previously lost beyond the horizon. But there were none. He longed for his spyglass. He reattached his gourd and were about to set off again when he got the fright of his life.

The small being stood there, watching him.

It stood closer than it had earlier, as if it now viewed Gargaron as a remote threat rather than an imminent one. As it eyed him, he heard words in his mind. I do not know what I am. Do I belong to you?

Gargaron frowned, eyeing it carefully. 'Be this you I can hear?' No reply. 'I have not seen your like before.'

The creature watched him.

The ground beneath them both suddenly shook. Gargaron looked down with some consternation. He then searched the sky for a yellow discolouration. He feared a shockwave. But minutes passed, none came.

'If you hear me and understand me,' Gargaron said, 'then listen. I have a steed. I need find him.' He pointed to the hoof tracks as though this were sufficient explanation. 'He will carry us from his place. If I do not find him then I shall perish here, for I will soon be out of water.' He shook his gourd; it felt as though it held mere drips now. 'If you hear me, if you wish to come with me, then come, I shall offer you my protection. If you choose to stay here then I am sorry but I cannot stay.'

He regarded the little being for some moments. It did not move. No further voice came from it. It simply watched him with those big transparent eyes.

'So be it,' Gargaron said sorrowfully and with that he set off again.

5

The creature trailed him this time. Keeping back some two dozen feet. Gargaron glanced at it once or twice over his shoulder, happy for the company, silent though it were.

Another hour passed. Gargaron's thirst grew. He wanted so much to throw away his gourd so that he might not be further tempted to drink up the last of its contents. Though if he did, he would be without any means of hydration. The irony were not lost on him. It caused him to laugh. As he did he looked around at the little being, hoping to share the moment. But the creature simply gazed up at him, expressionless.

Gargaron quieted himself and took up his gourd and again offered it to the being. 'I give this to you. Please accept it before it sends me insane.'

The little being looked perplexed. And when Gargaron stepped toward it, offering up the gourd, the little one took a step backwards.

'I mean you no harm, honestly. And even if I did, I have not the strength. So, please, accept this water before I put my hospitality aside and drink it myself.'

The being would not come forward to receive the gourd. It irritated Gargaron. He placed it atop the salt crust and ambled slowly backwards. 'Please. Have it.'

Again the being seemed confused, as if it did not recognise such an object. It occurred to Gargaron that this creature stood before him without water nor provisions and yet looked quite unperturbed, quite unstressed.

She be a ghost then, Gargaron convinced himself. She be that and nothing more.

He stepped forward and bent down to fetch the gourd, his hand on his hip to assist him in his effort. He felt like a giant three times his age. He straightened slowly, unstoppered the gourd, lifted it, arched his back and neck, upended it into his mouth, and this time left not a drop...

He regarded the gourd when he were done. Upending it again to his lips to suck out any last drips. He sighed when he were done. Knowing now he were doomed to die here.

With great effort he clipped it back to his belt. There may be fresh water ahead, he thought. And if there were none, well, he would trail the hoof prints until his body and mind succumbed to exhaustion and delirium. Then he would likely fall to his knees, slump forward onto his belly and face, and let sweet death carry him away.

He turned and resumed his trudge across the plain.

6

It were not long after that he spotted some far off object.

He stopped and stood, his head craned forward, mouth ajar, his eye narrowed. Were it something tangible he were seeing or something thrown out by his mind? It were impossible to tell. But it did not leave his sight, even when he blinked, it remained there, in the general heading of the meandering hoof prints.

'Do you see that?' Gargaron asked the little one eagerly. 'Tell me. Do you see it?'

The little one were looking with keen, perhaps cautious, interest. It did not reply directly except a voice arose in Gargaron's mind, What be it?

'Come,' Gargaron croaked. 'I wager it be Grimah, my steed. We must not let him out of our sight. Come now!'

Gargaron set off with renewed purpose, with a new sense of optimism and feeling of strength. He did not take his eye from the object lest it move and vanish from view.

Vanish it did not. And as they progressed toward it, it remained where it were. And slowly it grew in detail.

Gargaron saw first its legs, and its bulky torso, and saw two heads. He almost cried with relief. Tears filled his eye. 'Grimah,' he panted desperately. 'Oh, Grimah, sweet horse. You await me.'

Yet, as he and the being advanced further, what Gargaron had taken for two heads and a bulky horse torso and long legs, turned out to be something else altogether. Confused, Gargaron shaded his brow with his hand and slowed his pace.

Soon, perplexed, suspicious, he stopped altogether. No horse were standing there, although hoof prints appeared to trail toward it and culminate there at its feet.

It were a Dark One, tall and black with a feminine posture, with searing white eyes glaring back at both Gargaron and the new being. Beside it there were a ceramic sink with a white faucet and flowing water. Beside that a white marble dais with berries and fruit and bread and succulent sliced meat.

Gargaron were not certain if what he saw before him were real or if it were a phantom thrown out by his mind. As he watched, the Dark One, tall, almost graceful in her movements, stood back, as if beckoning him and his new companion, allowing them access to food and water without her hindrance.

Gargaron were naturally cautious. Yet, strangely, he felt no threat from her. He could not fathom why. He had seen her kind kill and destroy and yet... none had ever seen it their business to harm him. He felt that trend were not about to change here. Still, what did it matter if it did? He would die out here soon enough. If she struck him down it might be a blessing.

He glanced around at the small being behind him. It had stopped, and seemed to be using Gargaron as a shield between him and the Dark One. Gargaron eyed the food and water. He suspected a trap, but he were almost beyond caring.

He strode tiredly toward the faucet, eyeing it, waiting for it to swirl away like smoke on the wind. It remained there however and when he reached it and stuck his hand out to touch it he found it solid and real. There came to his nostrils the scent of pristine water as it gushed from the tap. He put his fingers beneath its flow and cool water gushed over them.

He did not remember cupping his hands beneath the flow and guzzling feverishly. All he knew were he had his eye shut and his mouth deep in water and he were filling his belly. It were an almost instant relief, the feelings of strength and vitality surging through his bones and muscles, bringing on a renewed lucidity to his mind.

Yet soon he were doubled over, vomiting great gushes of water into the salt crust; not because it were poisoned but because his belly were not ready for such inundation.

He caught his breath, coughed spit from his mouth, wiped his chin. Then he were bent over the faucet again, drinking and hoisting handfuls of water over his face and head, drenching and cooling himself.

7

He breathed in deep, stood straight, sucking in huge gasps of air, his eye remained shut, his head turned to the heavens, a soft breeze cooling his damp skin; he felt like he'd just awoken from Afterworld's torturous limbo. Now he got a scent of the food. With his thirst abated he were suddenly overrun by raging hunger.

As he stepped toward the dais laid out with foodstuff, he glanced around at the tall Dark One. She stood there, calmly watching. The transparent small being stood aside, watching Gargaron with bewilderment and confusion.

Gargaron grabbed handfuls of meat, berries, fruit, stuffing them into his gob with a ravenous ferocity he had never known. He ate until not much were left, until there were but scattered scraps and morsels and then he fell to his knees and vomited, heaving up mighty lumps of half masticated meat and bread, followed by more water and bile and spit.

Then he turned over and slumped to his rump and sat there, arms loose at his side, his head hanging, drool spilling from his lips. He endured a time of reflection as he sat there. He remembered an old dream. Of he and Veleyal, his daughter. A famine had struck and she had wasted away to almost nothing. Her skin had become transparent. There were no food to give her. No water. All he had left were his life. He had prayed to the gods to take it from him and give it to his daughter. And they had granted him his wish. All he had to do were touch her, make some physical bond, to pass on his life force.

He emerged from his reverie... puzzled. He were not certain it had ever been a dream he'd experienced. It felt more like a thought that had occurred to him only now. For it were not Veleyal he imagined needed saving, but the small being.

More images came to him then. Of beings great and small, thousands of them, in the eons of time that had come before this moment, conducting similar selfless acts, giving over their life to some transparent ghostlike being.

Gargaron gazed up at the Dark One. He saw there were no faucet gushing water, no dais layered with platters of food. It were just the Dark One gazing down at him with her empty, white, soulless eyes. The salt plains stretched on about her, still brilliantly reflecting the blue sky and the mountainous white clouds on the horizon. And not only that, the colourless being now stood before him, searching his eyes as if for his guidance.

He thought of the words of his wife: You have work here yet. He looked across at the small being. He wiped his mouth with the back of his arm, took in a deep breath. The message has been with me for some time. I did not understand its relevance. His gazed switched from the small being to the Dark One. I am the last, he thought. And his eyes settled on the small transparent creature once more. And this be the first. The last of this great epoch gives his life up to the first of the next. I do not proclaim to know how or why Cloudfyre has come to this. Sadly this is as much as I comprehend.

From where he sat he reached out his hand, gesturing to the small one. She came forward. And stopped before his outstretched fingers. She watched him. And he heard her thoughts one last time: May you not be forgotten.

Then she reached out and lay her hand on his.

8

Above them, at that moment Cloudfyre were pulled at last from the grip of Melus and delivered into the hold of Gohor. The world rumbled, and shook and far away mountains came down and oceans sizzled and mighty waves hundreds of feet high crashed across barren and empty lands.

But the assault did not last long. For the process had begun months before. This were but the final tug. And like a petal ripped from its flower in a gale, the violent rent were quickly done... and Cloudfyre soon fell to silence.

9

Their hands and fingers became one, gelled, coalesced, merged. Gargaron felt his life begin to drain from him. For a while he watched it happen. He saw colours of energy, blue, red, green, washing down his arm and gushing into the being, like water flowing into a cracked, dry river bed after heavy rains. He saw her filling up with it all. And for a time he even saw himself, as if gazing back through her eyes.

He felt the vitality of youth, sheer optimism, strength, power, yearning, pride. He felt it all as he watched himself fade. Watched the colour go from his skin. Watched the light go from his remaining eye.

The small one saw green vines sprout from her toes and feet, vines with yellow pods, that opened and burst and filled the air with spores that caught the wind and drifted serenely away.

And with that, the tall Dark One, knowing her work were done, turned and walked away, leaving four hoof prints in the salt, and soon she were gone, unseen, swallowed up by the watery mirages of the plains.

# HOORSK

## DAWN OF REETH

100 YEARS LATER

THE great salt plains of Uyiga were no more. In a century waters had found their way across them, islands had risen, and it had become a peaceful shallow sea teeming with fishes and turtles. On one of the islands a stone formation that were once a giant from a small village called Hovel stood. And it were considered a sacred place; sentient souls from surrounding lands would travel to it and pay respects. For he were the God of birth, it were said, Gargarre were his name, a child who had come from the stars to bring life to a barren world. And any who would seek him out would receive blessings of long life and fertility.

And the small being he had impregnated, she had lived a long revered life but she were perished now, yet her people had flourished and remained custodians of these lands. And a revered people they, the original people of this world, the Firstwuns, who it were said had lived during the last days of Gargarre, and had greeted him when he had fallen from the stars.

# DUMIINS

## GREAT FALL 5473

10,000 YEARS LATER

THE oceans were filled with some of the most magnificent creatures Cloudfyre had ever known. The mighty Fraeysharks with their luminous mouths, so large, colonies of Seasprites lived within them. And the gargantuan Lesothaurs who could swallow time itself. And born into this watery world deep below the raging ocean's surface, were a small mergirl from the seafloor city of Envili Deep. She were but a little creature. And were but a youngling, with all her long life before her. She swam about her days, carefree and joyful, playing with her friends, helping her Oldwuns with chores, and she did not know that one day she would be the last living thing on this world, before Gohor gave Cloudfyre back to Melus, when the Dark Ones would again rise, when the Death Bells would once more toll...

~ THE END ~

# Want More Monsters?

If you enjoyed this tale and have a taste for more monsters and adventure then check out STRANGEWORLD: THE MORTIFERA. It is real five course meal of adventure, fantasy, and horror, with a tantalising mystery running through its core. And for more of the same, keep your eyes open for STRANGEWORLD: DAWN OF SHADOWS, coming out (hopefully) in 2017.

Also, be on the look out for EPHEMERYS. Another tale full of monsters and adventure, with a dystopian sci-fi back drop and a dose of romance. (Hopefully out before Christmas 2016.)

And for a quick dose of otherworldy beasties, check out my short story THE SHAPESHIFTERS.

Happy reading!

### Review or not to review...

If you enjoyed Cloudfyre Falling and have a few moments to spare, please feel free to leave a short review at the site where you found this book. Reviews not only help new readers take a chance on these books but they also help an author gauge how his writing has been received out there in the wider world. Think of it like a round of applause at the end of a stage play. After so many months of silence, locked away tapping at a keyboard, it's nice to hear some noise.

Thank you,

A. L. BROOKS

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