 
A Hex Returns To Rynia

Ken La Salle

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2011 Ken La Salle

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1

A Hex Returns To Rynia

SONS OF RYNIA

BOOK THREE

by Ken La Salle

PROLOGUE

Part I

On the eastern edge of an oft fought over kingdom, sat an Imperial Palace. Like its people, the palace was much more than it appeared. It held the bravest and brightest this area of the world had to offer and stood courageously, also like its people, before any threat. Nearly a decade before, it had been held by stone giants, besieged by seemingly undead creatures. It had not fallen; the people had prevailed. The land was called Rynia, after its original settlers. What the Rynians referred to as The War of Earth and Stone, however, was merely a distraction as the power behind it all prepared for the greater war to come.

Inside this palace, in a smaller throneroom, an eager, young page readied to give his morning report. "Your highness," the page announced in a full, clear voice that rung harshly against the small throneroom's stone walls. (Helen Haddison, Princess of Rynia, grimaced, wondering why the young had to be so enthusiastic.) "Captain Pinder sends word that the three hundred Caspeton recruits have arrived. That more than doubles our defensive capacity, your highness," the page offered as if the information was somehow impressive.

It only means there will be that many more to die if our army should fail, Helen thought. She did not speak, though, opting to simply nod.

"And," the page added hesitantly, "there is still no word from the front."

"Why don't you shut up and leave," Tuk asked, brusquely. "Can't you see you're ruining her day?"

The page, duly chastised, hurried out.

It was Helen Haddison's birthday and her kingdom was at war. Both her father and her husband had left her behind, cooped inside of the Imperial Palace, with the burden of running a besieged kingdom. On top of that, she was already four months pregnant and her wardrobe was shrinking as she expanded. She found that she was irritable and downright terse a great deal of the time, too. Stress, her handmaidens called it. Big surprise.

"Happy Birthday," Helen muttered, thinking that was what her husband, Hex, would have said. He'd been gone a month already. In that month's time, a defense was to have been assembled for the peaceful kingdom of Rynia. A defense for a kingdom ill-prepared for war. Hex had traveled back to his own world, that place called California, to find the young wizard, Vincent Gobel. Helen's father, Marcus Haddison went south to Kallent, hoping to persuade some support from that tenuous alliance. In the hopes of forming an alliance with the enigmatic swamp-nation to the southwest, Duke Nygarra and Kraephten Kattox had gone with word that the coming war would threaten all of the kingdoms in the region. Lastly, Rynia's peacetime army of only a few thousand had traveled to the kingdom's western border, conscripting as many of the kingdom's citizens as they could. On the western border, overlooking the pitiful region known as Paead, a region less a buffer against the enemy than the enemy's feeding grounds, Rynia's army would wait for whatever help came from the distant lands.

Helen didn't look at the way her breath fogged the window. She was looking out over the cliffs at the black sea beyond. This view had been one of her husband's favorites. It had been a wall once, until the stone giant, Hargoth, had flexed his muscles and ripped the wall out. Later, he'd taken a small boy and tossed him out of the gaping hole like so much garbage. That little boy had been Vincent Gobel. Only nine at the time, the fall had shocked his latent magical powers into full bloom. This little wizard had saved the kingdom during the last war. Hex didn't want to ignore all that had happened here. And, if one was going to make it into a window, why not fit it with a window from Earth?

Hex should have been back within days of leaving for Earth but now it had been a full month. She couldn't even look out a window without thinking of him.

"Can somebody tell me what by Tzuratt's Fist she's doing? Or are we going to play a game of tease the blind man??" Tuk couldn't see Helen's sorrow, not like Commander Feyton or Red Martag, because he was blind. He wasn't very gracious about his disability, either. Oftentimes, he'd walk the halls of the Imperial Palace without his cane and, when inevitably he'd run into people, he'd yell, "I'm blind! What's your excuse?" He didn't have to be gracious. Next to Helen's spouse, Tuk was the kingdom's penultimate wizard. This was why he was summoned each morning to sit at the War Council. In this way, the princess heard updates on all manner of preparation. Commander Feyton reported on the state of the military defenses. Red Martag informed her on the state of her citizens. Tuk's job was to keep her privy to all matters magical. With only two other wizards within the castle, there was very little to report. Having a blind wizard reporting, no matter his magical prowess, seemed to Tuk no less than ludicrous. It had been his final spell that had burned his eyes to empty sockets, destroying the ranks of undead in the last war's final battle. Now he sat in the throneroom wearing the pair of RayBan Wayfarers that Hex had given to him to replace the simple black cloth that had once been used to preserve his dignity and, after waiting for a moment, shouted, "I don't read lips!"

"Silence, Destroyer," scolded Red Martag who sat across the table from him. "When the Princess is ready to speak she will speak. The poor woman deserves a moment. Wouldn't you agree, Feyton?"

Feyton looked nervously between the two, afraid to make the wrong move. Terribly inexperienced, Feyton had jumped several ranks to Commander when the rest of the army had gone off to war. Then Lieutenant Feyton, he knew he'd only been promoted thanks to his age. Nearly forty, he'd been in the King's forces since the last war. With command thrust upon him - what chance to learn command in a peacetime army? \- Feyton was perpetually second guessing himself. Even the placement of his weapon was dubious, slung across the back of his chair. Had he been secure, the bat would not have been necessary. Had he been ready, it would have remained in his hands. "Well, she does have every right and, after all, she is in mourning."

"Where did you hear that I was in mourning, Commander," Helen asked, turning from the window.

Her question was a challenge, sending Feyton into a confused scramble. "Well, I... me? No. Um."

"Because, I assure you, I am not. My husband has not turned up dead. There is no body. Hex has certainly been through much worse before - whatever he faces!" Returning to her chair, she did not sit down, rather she leaned against it as though she were ready to strike.

Red turned to Feyton and whispered, "I don't think she appreciates -"

"I don't appreciate being spoken of as though I were not here," she shouted. "I will have no more rumors circulating about my husband's health! I will not stand for it!"

Red Martag was one of the princess' oldest friends. They'd met shortly after the last war and Red had been present for her wedding and the announcement of her first child. Now, he acted as her defender. Seeing her bark edicts there, he didn't feel necessary. He'd never seen the girl so enraged. Girl? Hardly. Martag knew she was a woman but at his age, though his looks denied it he was nearly 45, she was just a girl. He nodded his support. "You are right, your highness. Rumors can lower morale just as surely as an enemy attack.

Helen stood up straight and stared at him in shock. Of course, he had been thinking of her subjects. She, however, had not.

* * *

Gault Blakely set down his rake at the outburst from inside his home. He'd only left his pa alone for a few minutes. He knew better than to leave him alone for much longer. Ma was at the shops and was meeting with the neighbors to arrange pasture during the winter for their sheep.

There it came again, loud and violent - he recognized his father's voice. He was screaming in unearthly terror, as though his limbs were being torn from his body. Gault ran towards their small house, praying he could bring a quick end to another of pa's nightmares. (Ma had told Gault to wake him immediately if he saw his pa nightmaring. She told him there was nothing worse than to allow him to endure the suffering of his memories of what had happened to him all those years ago.) He burst through the rear door, hurrying into the main room to find -

His father wasn't alone.

He was on his chair screaming unintelligibly at the two soldiers who stood before him.

"Na-na-na-No," he shouted again.

The soldiers turned away from him, seeing Gault enter. "Is this your father, boy?"

Gault looked at his father who did not outwardly appear to be suffering. Gault may have been strong but he knew nothing about defending himself or his father. And, what with the war and all, you never knew why a soldier'd be about. Gault respectfully brought his head down before he replied. "Yes... suh."

The soldier gave his father a suspicious glance and announced, "Well, he's got a real problem listening to authority. Can't he see I'm a sergeant?"

Gault knew the sergeant wasn't dressed like a regular soldier but had no way of knowing his rank. "He must, um, suh. He was a commander during the war."

The sergeant obviously didn't believe him. "Was he," he asked.

"Yes, suh. The king rewarded him for valor and for savin' Princess Helen's life."

"Really? What's his name?"

Gault stated with pride, "Commander Ned Blakely."

"Never heard of him," the sergeant replied without taking a moment to try and recall. "You Gault Blakely?"

Gault nodded. "Yes, suh."

His father's hand lashed out and grabbed his arm like a vice. He started moaning, "Na-No. Na-No."

"Get your old man off you and get your stuff. You're being recruited in Rynia's defense."

"Y-you c-can't," raved Ned Blakely as his son removed his grasp. "You c-can't! Don-n't you s-s-see?"

"Pa," Gault tried to explain, "I have ta go. They're callin' me up." Gault went back to the room where he and his brother slept to grab a couple of things.

Ned was left in the main room pleading with the soldiers, crying his eyes red, knowing what the only result could be. "Haven-n't I g-g-given en-n-ough?"

* * *

Later, as night fell, Helen climbed the stairs to the Palace's fourth floor, dreading her nightly task. On the fourth floor where the royal suites lay sat a smaller suite for her daughter, Caroline. Hex and Helen hadn't waited long after being married to have a child. It had been said that their love was too great to be held by only two people.

Ironically, Helen thought as he reached her daughter's door, it still had not been enough to bridge the gap between two worlds. Where was Hex now, she wondered. Where was he when his daughter needed to be put to sleep? It had always been his job. Him with his stories of planes and submarines and rockets to stars. What did she have to tell her daughter but the same, old thing?

"When's Daddy coming back, Mommy?" The little girl's eyes were positively pleading. They were blue like mommy's, perhaps a bit lighter. Her hair, curly like daddy's and light brown like mommy's, was so long that it created mounds upon her pillow when she put her head down.

Helen pulled the covers up to her neck. "Soon, baby, soon."

"If he found Vincent, odds are that he could have had him bring them both straight to Tsurtor's fortress in Ktoll."

She put her hand over her little girl's where it rested beneath the covers. "Where'd you hear about Tsurtor?"

"Come on, Mommy," Caroline replied with a face. "I'm not an infant."

"No. You're not," Helen conceded, kissing Caroline on the cheek. "But, thanks to your father, you are far too smart for your own good."

"How can you be too smart for your own good," Caroline asked as her mommy blew out her candles.

"When you drive your mommy crazy," Helen replied, relishing in her daughter's snicker. "Now, you go to sleep. Nanny Ademns will see you in the morning."

Quietly, she stepped back through the girl's dark room towards the waiting torchlight outside her door and closed it behind her with a soft click. (She didn't think she'd ever get used to Hex's earth-doors.) She heard someone pretend to clear his throat behind her and wondered when she'd ever have a moment for herself. Only one person currently in the Palace would need to pretend to clear their throat as opposed to just doing it, one person built without lungs or internal organs... or throat. "Byron, shush," she hissed. "I just put her down for the night."

"You insulted her," the small artificial man asked.

"No, I -" Then she realized that he, just as his maker, Hex, would have done, was pulling her leg. More wordgames common of her husband. What more could she expect from one of his creations? An inherent byproduct of Bonding, the particular form of magic that her husband practiced, was that the creation somehow "inherited" traits - and sometimes much more - from the creator. Byron Malagosh, Hex's last, best creation, even sounded a bit like him. He stood only a meter in height, made entirely out of hardwood, that wood strong as steel unique to Rynia. Hex had created many companions over the years but Byron was much more than that. Byron was fully articulated with five digits on each hand and foot. His eyes picked up everything and his nose was keen. Hex had poured everything he had into his creation until Byron was nearly, well, as close to a son as Hex had ever come. He certainly annoyed Helen as only Hex could. She made a distinctly fed-up sound and walked to her door. Turning back to him, she asked, "Did you want to see me about something? Or did you just pop up to irritate me?"

Byron thought for a moment. "Both, actually."

The edges of her mouth turned down in the way that Hex had always found attractive. (In truth, there was little she could do that he found repulsive.) "Come in," she said.

He followed her into her suite, hands behind his back just as Hex did when something was on his mind. "I wanted to talk to you about these machines that Tuk is having built."

"So, he's doing it then," she asked, sitting down before him. He wouldn't sit. Hex had explained that he was a bit insecure about his height and he'd be uncomfortable with his feet dangling.

"Yes, he's doing it," Byron replied, starting to pace. "He's hired on nearly a dozen craftsmen from town and, for the past several days, contraption after contraption has been brought into the palace."

"That's good. We'll need those machines for our defense if it comes to that. Hex put a lot of research into those machines." Helen hoped that using Hex's name would assuage any concerns Byron may have had; it had just the opposite effect.

"I know, Princess," Byron snapped, turning to face her. "I was there with him. Yet, I do not believe that it was his intent to bring these new toys out for Rynia just yet. We are not the advanced society we once were. Mistakes do happen. Or, do you forget Hargoth?"

The mere mentioning of his name brought her teeth to clench. Of course, she remembered Hargoth. After the undead had laid siege to the Imperial Palace, in the last war nearly a decade ago, the Bonder Galeny had tried to create a warlike monster that would wipe out their enemy. One could either say he was very nearly successful or too successful. His creation, Hargoth, killed him in the end and created his own army out of the palace's very walls. Forming an alliance with Tsurtor, Hargoth then took control of the palace, with its human occupants fleeing beneath him. Could she forget him after all that? Could she forget him after he nearly killed Vincent and Mark when they tried to take the palace back? Could she forget him after he tried to kill Mark again when he declared a new war in the midst of her Anniversary celebration?

So, Byron's point was valid. Hargoth had been a weapon that had turned against them, to their eternal regret. Still, there was another side. Helen rubbed her brow where another headache formed. "Your question is unnecessary but understood. Tell me, then, how do we defend ourselves without these new machines?"

"The answer's obvious, your highness. We don't."

That smug look. She just wanted to slap it! "Whatever do you mean? This is my ancestral home!"

"Property can be replaced, Helen," Byron replied, not missing a pace. "The possibility for damage that this brings -"

"No."

Byron looked up at her decision, his pacing stopped.

Helen shook her head. "I said, no, Byron. I know you think that you have logic and facts and maybe even Hex's insight on your side but I have to do what I feel is right. In this case, I believe that I would have my father's blessings as well. Tsurtor's filth will not blacken these halls again."

Byron nodded. As Hex would have known, Byron knew when Helen had made up her mind. His nod turned into a bow as he acquiesced. "You are correct, of course. I came simply to advise."

"I know," she said, and she gave him a hug. "In Hex's absence, that advice is appreciated."

As he stepped away from her, Byron said, "I know, Hel. I wish he was back, too."

Helen couldn't know just how soon she would see her husband again.

* * *

"You! Slug! Take up that bat again or do you want to be one of the first dead!" The sergeant who had drafted him, Sergeant Foster was his name, thrust the beaten, old bat into his hands, hurting his fingers.

Gault didn't want to fight. He didn't even know how. He'd definitely proven that he could take his share of hits, made evident by the bruises on his bare arms and the split lip, but when it came to attack he was worthless. His sparing partner came at him again. He'd known the other boy, Chumler, from barn raisings and dances. He didn't know the boy particularly well but held nothing against him. What he didn't understand was why the feeling wasn't mutual.

Chumler swung his bat in a wide, reckless arc at Gault's head. Gault could have stopped it with a jab to the jaw, arm, solar plexus, or the groin. He could have blocked the shot with a two-handed hold on his bat. He could have stepped closer, making the attack useless. He could have stepped aside or ducked -

BAM!

Gault was too busy clutching the side of his face to stop his fall to the hard courtyard.

"Stupid," the sergeant shouted. "You'll be dead before the end of training!"

The words came through fuzzy to Gault. He concentrated mostly on holding his left ear, where the blow had landed, and staying off of his right shoulder, where he had landed.

"Well, pick up your bat, dummy! Pick it up or he'll hit you again!"

Chumler readied his bat to drive the blunt end into Gault's groin. Sergeant Foster stopped him, though, with a shake of his head and a foul look.

"Halt your training, Sergeant! If that's what you call it." The order came from the far end of the courtyard. The sergeant wondered who it could be, disturbing his work. Gault was grateful.

"And who are you to be interrupting my training of these boys," the sergeant asked, pushing Chumler to the side and motioning to Gault to get up.

"My name is Red Martag, Master of Ships. I have need of one of your men." Red wasn't dressed in his uniform (that ridiculous thing Marcus had "awarded" him with) but he'd never been one to expect his clothes to talk when he couldn't.

The sergeant nodded. "Aye. I've heard a'you. But what could a seaman like you want with a bunch of recruits?"

"I have need of one of your soldiers. My sailors are all busy, readying for the crossing of the channel."

Foster grimaced. There's another hand stripped from us, he thought. Less and less for the island's defense and more to pet project by the monarchy's chosen few. "These boys are being trained to fight for their homes. Not to protect the docks!"

"But you have me all wrong, Sergeant," Red assured him. "It's not a soldier I'm looking for. Surely, in the process of recruiting, you've found at least one who could fare better out of a fight."

Out of a fight? Foster thought this a gift from Gerrit. Just the same, he wasn't above benefitting from dumping some excess baggage. "I may have what you're looking for, strong as an ox but dumb as a post."

"That's it," Red replied. "Point me the way."

"This would come at great, personal loss, you understand. I've put a lot of work into these fine boys." As he said it, Foster wished that Gault would stop holding his head.

Red nodded, it was the same old story. "And you'll be wanting compensation? Perhaps a good word to your commanding officer?"

Foster thought for a moment. "Both would be fine."

"Aye," Red agreed with a nod. "You'll get what's comin' to ya. Now, show me this fine specimen."

Foster grabbed Gault by the arm and hauled him forward. "Muscle-bound, just as you requested. Farmer's boy, used to hard work."

"And his fighting skills," Red asked.

"Couldn't fight a toothless grandmother."

Money changed hands and Red walked away with Gault.

"Got to get you some clothes, boy. You're nearly freezing," Red Martag told him after they'd walked far enough away.

Gault tried to hold back a shiver. "I'm fine."

"You can't be doin' my work if ya got the frostbite. But, first, we need to find your ex-sergeant's commander. Report him taking bribes, mal-treating those below him. Get him busted down to private, that's what we'll do!" Red looked at the young man beside him. "You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

Gault took a moment to relish in the thought. "Oh, yes sir."

"Good man," Red replied with a slap on the back.

"Excuse me for askin', sir, but what works we gonna be doing?"

"Why, the Princess's work, my boy. That's the most important work that can be done." Having heard stories since he was a boy of the last war, when the covert had won against armies of stone, there could be little doubt in Gault's mind. It would surely be the most important work.

* * *

A curtain of rain brought night early and the only ones foolish enough to be about were those palace guards unlucky enough to pull a late shift. The docks were clear and the streets were empty and it seemed that no one on Regal Isle thought that Tsurtor would be fool enough to attack on a night like this. There was one, though. One other who braved the winter storm, who stood out in the rain despite her better sense, who came out here because she knew the rain would hide her tears.

Helen couldn't hide it. She couldn't play the strong monarch like her father had showed her. There came a time when she couldn't hold it all back any longer. She sat beside Alinax's grave on a stone bench and let Kunsiit, the goddess of weather and of change, wash upon her, mixing with her warm, salty tears. She was so afraid, so terribly afraid that all would be lost. Tsurtor would be too strong. He'd bring forth another horror like that lich. Hex could be dead by now. So could her father. She couldn't defend her home alone!

The sorrowful weight in her stomach only reminded her of yet another great responsibility that she carried and she put her head in her hands and cried.

After a while, though, when the rain kept coming down, she was all cried out. She brought her hands down, looking at the ground, then -

A butterfly!

It flew into her gaze and caught her attention.

What would a butterfly be doing out in this storm?

She followed it as it flew up into the rain and saw another butterfly and then more! Soon, hundreds of butterflies circled around her, dancing in the night. But these were no ordinary butterflies, Helen could see as they fluttered and flitted about. They were constructed out of pieces of bark and leaves and twists of twig. Suddenly, her eyes lit up! She knew of only one person who would make butterflies from tree bits.

The butterflies danced closer, swirling in a beige blur tighter and tighter until they took on a familiar form. Helen didn't expect her heart to ache more than ever but there he stood and the sight of him tore at her bosom. There were no color differences between the typical jeans, sneakers, and sweatshirt he always seemed to wear. Around his face, his wild, longish hair formed almost a halo. He looked around as if getting his bearings and she was afraid for a second that he was a dream. "Hex," she whispered so her breath wouldn't knock any of the butterflies out of place.

He looked down at her with a smile. "Hel', I hope I made it here okay. Hope the 'chits aren't up to their old tricks. You remember our honeymoon."

"Yes, I do," she replied, feeling tears flow when she thought she'd none left. "Are you here, now?"

"No," the image of Hex replied. "I'm in Silen Forest. This is a new trick I'm trying. I hope it works."

"Oh, it does. It does wonderfully."

"I'm glad." He knelt down before her, looking into her eyes. "I've missed you so much. And now so much has changed - I don't know how long it will be before I return."

"What's changed, Hex? What's happening where you're at?"

The Hex image shook his head. "More than you can believe. We think Tsurtor has taken Vincent. He put me in jail back on earth and then, after we broke out, he Moved the entire city of Country Gardens to Rynia. It's just west of here. Tsurtor seems awfully sure of himself and with good reason. He's brought in weapons from earth. Bad weapons and he doesn't seem to have any problem using them on defenseless people. Mark had to return from Tzurritza without help. Kraephten is still back there, though, and we're hoping he's putting the remnants of their force back together. They've found some people called Machinists, some kind of wizards or something that understand rudimentary technology. Your father's not back, yet, with his monks. It's... well, it's not looking good, Helen."

"Oh, Hex," she moaned, deeply sad. "We'll do what we can here. Tuk's gone into your books and found machines, technology, that might help us. Byron's worried but we have to do whatever we can, don't we, Hex?"

Hex's image crooked its head for a moment, seemingly in thought. Then, he shook his head and said, "I'm sorry, Helen. You've gone outside the parameters of this forms' functioning."

The sudden use of cold terminology took Helen aback. "What?"

"You see, there's not much even I can do with pieces of bark. Robert was one thing but he had no real purpose. His only job was just to be. This," he said, pointing to himself, "was made to send a specific message."

"What message, Hex?"

He put his hand up and it made a slight shuffling sound as it descended upon her own. With surprising strength, it lifted her hand and, bringing up his other hand, he held her. His image was coarse with wood and moved with an unearthly (or, perhaps, earthly) pulse. Still, despite the fact that this wasn't Hex, just a juxtaposition of forest junk, she could sense him. Soon, he brought her hand against his face and the bark felt like his same, old stubble. Hex never seemed to be completely shaven. "Don't be afraid, Helen. If Tsurtor comes, don't be afraid to flee. Take a ship and sail north. Find Ny'ezia, the dragon queen, and seek her help. She may not be willing but she is able. I wouldn't be surprised if she could win this war herself." He brought her hand away from his face and looked down at her. "I love you, Helen. Don't forget that. No matter what happens."

"What happens," she asked as he stepped away from her.

As he turned his face to the sky, several of the 'chits started to move and then, suddenly, stopped. "Oh, Hel'! I almost forgot to tell you!"

She sat up, drawn by his sudden excitement. "What, Hex?"

"'Trander's back! He went to the world of the undead only they weren't undead. Tsurtor had us fooled! Anyway, he's back and he's stone now! And there's this wizard, Lanigan Reise, who could probably take out Hargoth if we could just teach him some control and -" One by one the 'chits started fluttering, taking off into the air. "Darn it! This isn't going to last!"

Helen looked sadly as Hex's arms and legs began to disappear. "It's okay, Hex. You tried."

"I love you, Helen."

"I love you, too, Hezekiah."

Soon, his torso was gone and his face was drifting away on the wind but he tried to say one, final thing. "I miss - you - - so - - - - m u c h..."

The final 'chit skittered in the sky and dropped down into Helen's open hand. Helen brought it to her face and made a wish.

Part II

It wasn't yet morning. Red would know. He would have seen the sun come up over the port, shining through his window or, on a stormy day, the sounds of longshoremen barking commands would have risen him from his bed. Red didn't ask much of his life. He worked long, hard hours for his pay. But, at the very least, he'd asked for a decent night's sleep. So, it shouldn't have come as a surprise to the royal page when Red snapped so violently at being woken. Grace was for the young and Red Martag sorely felt his age. "Well, speak up, ya wee shrimp! What is it you want?"

"Apologies, sir. My orders, sir. The princess, she -"

"Princess," Red asked, immediately out of bed. He took the twelve year old boy by the shoulders and lifted him towards the window so as to better see him by the light off the pier. "Sorry, boy," he said, putting him back down. "I didn't recognize ya what with the dark and all. Has there been an attack?" As he asked it, Red was primed to run to the Princess' aid.

But the page replied, "No, sir." Good thing, too. Red wore only his flannel underwear and, though it covered the entirety of his body, rare was the minstrel who glorified rushing to the princess' rescue in one's underclothes.

Red sat back on his bed and grabbed his trousers. "What is it, then?"

"Emergency war council, sir."

"Must be to call it at this hour," Red grumbled, pulling on his boots. "What is this hour, anyway?"

"Not yet dawn, sir."

Red looked up, making a face. "I can see that."

The page smiled a bit, relaxing. "Her highness states that you are to arrive with all speed. She states that she has news of the war. She has provided transport, of course. He awaits outside."

Fully dressed, Red grabbed a jacket. "Well, then, this ought to be good." Sending the page away, Red stepped out of his pier-side home and drew a deep breath of salty, sea air. It filled him with pride to look upon the buildings and the docks around him. As early as eight years ago, none of this had been here. Hundreds of feet below the Imperial City, this had once been nothing more than a strip of beach. After the last war, though, King Marcus had realized what danger the island had been placed in by not having a proper port. (Imagine, Rynian rulers had once believed that isolationism would prevent war, never realizing that their greatest enemy would come from within.) The original intent had been to have some method in place to spirit away war refugees if that need ever arose again. Now, however, the focus was on trade and Red doubted anyone could find a ship not already weighed down with cargo.

It hadn't been easy, turning this once shallow beach into a serviceable port. Nearly a kilometer of the shore had to be dredged. Then, over half of the port was built on the water. Red had known that this risky move was the only way to fit all of the buildings that would be needed. This, too, provided them with the deeper waters Hex had promised they would need for the newer ships he had been helping them design. No more square sails, he had insisted and Red had been suspicious at first. Now, with war on, the new triangular-sailed ships would have to wait to be tested. With the new port, the land, too, had to be dug. With several hundred feet of cliff between them and the Imperial City, Hex and Red had devised a unique system of railcars, pulled up a steep course dug into the cliffs by teams of donkeys. It was a life's work performed in less than a decade. Little wonder, then, that Red looked out upon it and smiled.

For any normal Rynian, the stairs leading up to the Imperial City, which had been carved out of the cliffsides since time immemorial, would have taken an entire day to ascend. Red had found he could do it in several hours. (On his first encounter with these innumerable steps, it had taken Hex, weaker than the Rynians thanks to his modern living, a couple of days just to descend the steps.) The carts took that long to wind their way up their tracks to the city. Either way wasn't going to be fast enough for Helen. Outside of Red's pierside home, a familiar figure, now covered entirely in a dark cloak, stood ready with the fastest means available.

There were four branches of magic that the Rynians had named. Bonding, Breaking, Moving, Summoning. The two pairs were dichotomous of their partners and rarely did a practitioner of one dabble in another. Where Bonders could join materials as though they were always meant to be that way, Breakers made it as though they had never been joined. Where Movers could take things to a place, Summoners could take things from a place. (It was speculated, of course, that there were further divisions not yet discovered by the Rynians. What else would explain Vincent's almost improvisatory sense with magic or Tsurtor's awesome power?)

Lucion, hunched over in his dark cloak, was a Mover. With but a thought, he could instantly go from one place to another. All that was needed was for Lucion to see the place in his mind. It had to be a real place. He was not powerful enough to move on to the next level, Teleportation, where one could Move to any place imaginable. Few wizards moved past the rudimentary levels of known magic. For a Summoner to move on, they'd have to bring forth the imagined to become an Envisioner. A Bonder would need to bring forth life from nothing to become a Creator. A Breaker would need to not only Break something but reduce it to pure energy to become a Destoyer. Tuk was just such a wizard.

Tuk barked at Red as the Master of Ships appeared at the door to the palace's smaller throneroom with Lucion. "About time, sailor-boy! I was about ready to fall asleep!"

Lucion stepped away without a word as Red looked on. "He's still not fully recovered, is he," Red asked.

Tuk shook his head. "No. Still gets nightmares, I hear. You'll never see me looking at the horrors of Hex's world, I'll tell you that!" As Tuk entered the princess' throneroom, Red felt compelled to point out the obviousness of Tuk's statement - for the fact of the matter was that Tuk was blind \- but thought not.

Helen was already waiting with Feyton. "Gentlemen, sit down, please." The two took their seats but, as always, she remained standing. "I've received news which may very well change our position in the war."

"I don't understand, your highness," Feyton said, apparently trying to wake himself. "My men have orders to notify me of any riders. I received no such word."

"It came from Hex." That single statement brought everyone to silence. If someone was going to make it back from the front unharmed, of course it would be Hex. Hex had, after all, saved them during the last war.

"Where is he? Why isn't he here," Tuk asked, annoyed. "When can we see him?"

Again, Red nearly opened his mouth but decided to let it pass.

"He isn't here," Helen replied. "He sent a message."

"Ah," Tuk breathed with a nod. "One of his creations."

"Yes," Helen said. She wouldn't tell them about how he held her or about the 'chit that she wore in her hair. "It came to me last night in the gardens."

"What were -" Red began to ask but knew he was out of place. "What did this messenger tell you?"

The words came immediately, having burned their mark on her mind. "The reinforcements never came. Duke Nygarra was stopped by Tsurtors forces before he could bring his Tzurritzanians east. Tsurtor's using new weapons. Earth weapons." It didn't matter what type of weapons there were. They all knew Hex's stories about the wars on his planet.

"What about his highness, King Marcus," Feyton asked, his breath shallow.

"No sign," she muttered.

"Then, he could still make it," Red Martag tried to assure her. "He could still arrive with his monks from Kal-Kor."

She nodded weakly. "Yes. Yes, I suppose he could. Still, there's more. Hex was not able to find Vincent. Tsurtor captured Hex somehow before he could find the boy and now Hex believes that Tsurtor has Vincent."

Tuk gasped. "That can't be possible! Vincent may have been young and inexperienced but he was more powerful than just about any wizard I've ever seen." This was quite a claim coming from Tuk. When Vincent had first come to Rynia, Tuk had been sure that the boy was a waste of time.

"This doesn't bode well," Red agreed. "If Tsurtor can take out Vincent -" He let the sentence hang in the air; they all knew what that meant.

But Helen wasn't finished. She told them the extent of Tsurtor's power and how he'd Moved an entire earth city to Rynia. Despite Tuk's insistence that such a thing could not have been possible, the fact remained. "We are facing a decidedly different kind of war," Helen concluded.

Feyton was nearly quaking in his boots. "But \- but what will we do?"

"I don't think we can allow Tsurtor access to this island without a fight, your highness. We need to move our militia north to where he's most likely to cross, where the island is nearest to the mainland," Red suggested.

"Aye," Tuk agreed. "I've seen an army try to fight at the gates. They get snagged up!"

"But who would hold the palace," Helen asked. "Feyton?"

The commander stammered, "I - um - well -"

"You don't need an army, Helen," Tuk claimed, pointing one bony finger. "That little, wooden man and I will have this place covered in defenses. You just wait."

Red continued, "Then, Feyton can move his men north. It would give us more time to evacuate."

Helen nodded. Don't be afraid, he had told her. "Do it. Today. When dawn comes." She returned to her window as the three strode to do their duty. "Oh, father," she whispered when she was alone. "Why do I feel like I've just stepped into Tsurtor's trap?"

* * *

Dawn came with another storm and word went out to the fighting men and women on Regal Isle. The order was to march! Those who had awaited a siege were jolted as though they'd been sleeping. March? Away from the defenses? Surely, it was suicide! And, when Commander Feyton rode before them, many muttered how Feyton knew nothing of war. He was just a country bumpkin who had hid away during the last war down in the caves in long forgotten Rynianhomme. Still, they marched.

One, however, didn't. Gault was stopped by the steady hand of Red Martag. "No, son. You'll be staying with me. Don't feel bad. I'll see to it that ya get plenty of chances to die."

Helen, too, watched the soldiers march off from atop the wall. Byron Malagosh stood beside her. "What do you think, Byron," she asked. "Do you think we're doing the right thing?"

Byron sighed and said, "Leave not your military strategies to sticks of wood, your highness, for you might not find them fetching."

Helen, who hadn't exactly expected an answer, looked down at Byron with little understanding.

Byron let out a little chuckle. "I just made that up."

As the militia passed through the city, their numbers grew. Those who couldn't march off with the army to fight Tsurtor far away were more than willing to defend their homes against the same threat very near. Soon, the soldiers were far away, past the many buildings and into the farmland beyond Helen's sight.

Now came the wait.

* * *

It only took two days.

On the first day, Feyton marched his men to the northern shores of Regal Isle. There, he set camp. Surely, he reasoned, he'd see them come over the water. Even in the night, his watchmen would detect them. Then, his men would hit them before they could take to the shore. He could not afford casualties; only one Bonder was left after the Rynian army had gone to face Tsurtor. Still, he reassured himself that any man who attacked would be pushed back into the ocean.

How was he to know that it wouldn't be men who attacked?

Hargoth had long ago made a pact with Tsurtor. He would give Tsurtor everything he needed. He'd created the behemoths. He'd even worked his master a special base to his throneroom in granite. He'd been a loyal soldier since first making the pact over eight years ago. Hargoth only wanted one thing and that was the Imperial Palace. It was his; he was born there. He must have it back.

Tsurtor cared not a whit. To him, it was nothing but a link to a painful past when he'd been cast out of Rynia all because of the woman he loved. Tsurtor would have his kingdom back. He would retake Rynia and build a new palace, a castle in the Northern Spires.

Tsurtor informed his men not to attack east of the shore. That was left to Hargoth's creations. Hargoth smiled with demented glee as he sent wave after wave of behemoths and other, more diminutive, giants into the ocean. Giants made of stone didn't float but, rather, they walked along the ocean floor.

Is it any wonder that Feyton's men were taken completely by surprise?

The watchmen on the second night were on their toes, ready for anything, and, with the first splash as forms rose from the water, quickly shouted the alarm. The odds took a sudden turn against them, though, as the number of giants doubled, tripled, and quadrupled within minutes. Soldiers scrambled awake, already dressed, and took up their bats.

Feyton shouted commands, avoiding attack from upon his horse. What good, though, when one man's blows could only scratch a behemoth while one behemoths blows could kill a dozen or more men. Half of Feyton's men were quickly slaughtered before his eyes and he screamed a panicked retreat. But no such luxury would be afforded him. More behemoths were coming from behind.

Though they fought until the dawn, Feyton and his command were killed to the last man.

* * *

The next morning, just after full sun, a rider came frantically to the palace. The nag, only ridden before by small children on birthdays was shoeless and wore no saddle. She nearly fell over when he rider leapt to the gate and shouted it be opened.

"What business have you here," the gateman yelled.

"News," the rider panted. "They're coming! Hundreds of 'em! Tell her!!" He, too, could hardly walk, his thighs beaten by the two hour sprint.

Word was run to the princess and the remnants of her war council were hastily assembled. "Martag, see to your boats! Word goes out to evacuate the city!"

"All is not lost, your highness. We may still hold them off," Tuk insisted.

"How," Helen asked. "I hear these new giants stand as tall as a house!"

"Give me ten men and Malagosh. We've surprises of our own to put out once the townsfolk are out of harm's way."

"Then do it," Helen shouted. As Tuk went with Byron, she realized that she was all alone. She had preparations of her own to make, though. Up the stairs, across from her and her husband's suite, she knocked softly upon Caroline's door.

The door opened and Caroline, dressed in her warmest coveralls, stepped out holding a sack packed with her things. "Is it time, mommy?"

"Time," she asked, kneeling uncomfortably before her daughter. "Why would it be time?"

"I've heard, mommy. I know. That bad man's coming, isn't he?"

Helen put a hand on Caroline's arm and gently stroked it. "Yes, honey. I'm afraid he is."

Caroline stepped closer, a timbre of fear in her voice. "That means daddy couldn't stop him?"

"Not yet, sweetie." Helen always admired the little girl's honesty, much like her father's.

Caroline willed the fear from her face and asked, "What happens now?"

"Now, we go to Lucion," Helen replied, taking Caroline's hand. "He'll watch over you in case anything happens. If it does, he'll get you to safety."

"What about you?"

"I'm in charge here, Carrie. I have to stay until nothing else can be done." She tried to lead her daughter but Caroline stopped her.

"But then, you'll leave. You'll flee with me, right?"

Helen looked down at her little girl, feeling the pain of her reply. "I'll try, honey."

"Please, mommy. Don't be afraid."

Don't be afraid to flee, Hex had told her.

"Come on," she said, drawing Caroline down the hall, "we have to go."

* * *

"They come!"

She heard the shout as she crested the staircase. Red met her there and took her arm. "I'm really beginning to hate stairs," she told him. As they both turned towards the city, they saw what the soldier had meant. Only two dozen soldiers were left in the palace. With the others, that left less than thirty. The rest of the isle's citizens had fled down to the docks, fleeing to Sabritau in central Kallent, as far from Tsurtor as their boats would take them.

The behemoths were easy to see. No structure could stand up against them. Hargoth had obviously adopted a "scorched earth" policy. Not even the trees remained standing.

"They're enormous," Red shouted.

"What," Tuk asked. "What's going on?"

There was no way anyone could have expected so many giants or their incredible size. Like Feyton, they had been expecting human foes.

"The city is finished," Helen gasped.

Before her, building after building was torn to the ground. Eight years of rebuilding was destroyed in minutes.

And still more giants came.

"They're approaching the gate," one of the soldiers told Red.

"Let's go," replied the old sailor. Taking the princess' hand, he said, "Come, Helen, it's time we got going."

"What," Helen asked in amazement. "I can't just leave! There must be something -"

Red considered her attitude and asked, "I'm your Defender, right? Your protector?"

"Yes," she replied, absently. Her attention was fixed on the giants. There had to be nearly a hundred of them out there, all coming at the palace. But her attention was taken by Red when he brought one, massive arm under her and scooped her up. "Martag! What are you doing?"

"I'm defending you," was his reply. Quickly, he hurried down the stairs. The soldier, Gault Blakely, had preceded him and held the door at the base of the stairs open.

"Wait," Tuk called out when he heard them go. "You haven't seen them reach the wall!" When he heard Byron's wooden feet hurry after them, he damned their timing and followed as well, muttering, "Now, I'll never see how it ends!"

Part III

Hargoth ordered his giants on. "Forward! Forward," he shouted. As he marched behind them, he looked out at an isle in ruins. Every living thing, trees and shrubs and vegetation, every animal, abandoned livestock and pets left behind, and every building, from towering three story business centers to outhouses, was crushed to nothing beneath his giants' feet. Hargoth had determined that only the palace would remain. Forward, they marched.

After several hours, the giants reached the outside of Hargoth's obsession. The Imperial Palace. Before them, it rose elegantly in pearly white. Behind the outer wall, which stood as a fifty foot tall reminder of the stone giant's exile, the palace rose to a towering spire. Hargoth had told them. He'd told them he'd return. "I'm a nightmare," he whispered, looking at the towering wall, "and I remain even when you think I'm gone." He turned to the nearest behemoth and ordered, "Tear down the wall."

The behemoth stepped forward, and the few soldiers remaining on the wall stepped back in fear. As the behemoth brought its massive fist back, it stepped just where Tuk had hoped it would. He'd spent all morning directing his men just where to bury the devices built from ancient, Rynian plans. He didn't know exactly what they'd do (Rynians were not remarkably knowledgeable in chemistry) but he was hoping they'd have some effect.

If Hex or anyone else from earth had seen the devices, they would have identified them as land mines. As the behemoth stepped upon it, one of its legs was blown into pebbles. Its balance lost, it toppled backwards, knocking two other behemoths down with it. The soldiers who had backed away from the wall's edge, rushed forward, cheering.

Hargoth put his head down in one hand and shook his head in disappointment. "Fine," he said. "If that's the way they want to play it. Sand!" The shout rang across his army and the giants all cleared a path to the wall. The soldiers atop the wall looked at each other with mutual consternation. None of these men had been in the palace during the last war.

There was a slithering and the sand moved faster than could be expected. It was a monster Hargoth had employed with brutal efficiency during the last war; this sand golem, however, was bigger than any he had made the last time he was here. As with the behemoths, Hargoth was determined to hit hard. He'd made it on the isle's shore and, formed into a cube, it would easily measure ten meters square. Such was the peril with a sand golem, it could easily form itself into any shape. After all, it was composed of pure sand!

"I want inside," Hargoth told it. Quickly, it gathered its mass so it stood as tall as the wall itself. The soldiers backed away again, unsure as to what this was.

The sand golem sliced through them with razor-sharp appendages. Then, it hit the gate. The builders who had replaced the gate half a decade ago had boasted of its strength. With the sand creeping underneath and over it, surrounding it and squeezing, the gate held for mere seconds before it was torn into splinters.

Hargoth, an evil glee splitting his face, screamed, "Onward!" The behemoths rushed forth and only five more were blown to pieces by the Rynian land mines as the walls were breeched.

* * *

Red carried Helen all the way to the second floor of the palace before Helen could stop him. "Now, please, let me retain some dignity," she grumbled. "Put me down!"

He looked at her with unsure eyes. "And you won't run back?"

"No."

"You'll go to Lucion as you should?"

"Yes!"

He shook his head. "I don't believe you."

She squirmed within his burly arms, shouting, "I don't care what you believe! Put me down!" As she straightened her clothes, she saw where they stood. "Well, this is some place to stop."

"Why's that," Byron asked, coming up from behind.

"This is where Alinax died," Helen remembered.

"Ah, Alinax," Tuk added with a nod, bringing up the rear. "If anyone could pull our fat out of the fire, it'd be that old blowhard."

"This is all very nice," Red interjected, taking Helen's arm as if to prompt her forward, "but we have important matters waiting."

"Forgive me for remembering my dead, Martag," Helen growled, hurrying to the next flight of stairs.

"Forgive me for not wishing to see you with them, your highness," Red replied, motioning for her to go faster.

But Lucion wasn't awaiting them in his quarters as they had expected. Helen dashed around the simply decorated room, shouting, "What happened? Where is he?"

"Perhaps he's already left," Byron suggested.

Red shook his head, looking ready to kill. "No. He was under strict orders not to leave unless Princess Caroline's life was at risk!"

"Mommy! Mommy!" Caroline rushed into the room, frightened arms wrapping around her mother.

Helen held her and asked, "Baby, what happened?"

"I was playing with Lucion and he left me alone," she claimed innocently.

Though her daughter's eyes looked ready to brim over with tears, Helen's voice took on a stern tone. "What were you playing, young lady?"

"Huh," Caroline asked. Then the tears dried up and she tried to sound believable. "Nothing."

"Carolina Suzanna," Helen said, using her daughter's full name which Caroline knew she only used when she was very upset. "What did you do?"

"We were playing," the girl repeated.

"What were you playing," Byron asked.

Caroline replied, "Hide and seek."

"You hid from him," Helen roared.

Red knew what that meant. "Lucion probably thought he lost her!"

"The poor bugger probably ran for his life," added Tuk.

"I hope you know you're in very big trouble, young lady," Helen scolded.

"Before the urgency of the moment escapes us," Byron interrupted, "I'd suggest we find another way out."

"Already done." Red ushered them out of the wizard's tiny quarters and down the hallway.

"Where are we going," Helen asked.

Red turned them down another corridor. "Let's just say I've learned the importance of contingencies after all that's happened."

"But this corridor's a dead end," Byron said. It had been sealed off for nearly a decade, after the last war. Once, a secret passage had led into tunnels which ran beneath the palace into the rock below. Gault waited for them at the end.

"Is everything ready," Red asked.

"Yes, sir," Gault replied. "I've run a rope down for safety."

"Down," Helen asked.

"I had to be sure of your safe retreat," Red Martag said, trying to assure the princess. He leaned hard into the wall and it pivoted slightly into the secret passage. "It's one of the job requirements. Byron, if you'll lead Tuk - thank you. Gault, seal this behind you."

"Yes, sir," replied the young soldier.

Red put a hand out to Helen. "Your highness?"

Stepping in, she grumbled, "I never did like these, Red."

"Then, you'll be happy to get out of them," Red replied, following her.

Next came Caroline, holding her mother's pant-leg, with Gault bringing up the rear. No one had been in these tunnels since they'd been sealed up at the end of the last war. Filled with dust and various creepy-crawlies, the way was further barred with supports put in against the weight of the massive building above them. A few tunnels still remained, however, and it was with this in mind that Red had conceived the notion that, if war came to the Imperial Palace, an escape route would be welcome. New tunnels couldn't be cut, though. Only through Red and Gault Blakely's labor was one tunnel able to be cleared. It was cramped, more cramped than any of the other tunnels Helen could remember - as she recalled the hours before they retook the palace in the last war when she sat in the dark with her then defender, Mark Nygarra, and the boy, Vincent Gobel - and she resented the constant reminder of her pregnant shape.

Halfway down, Red stopped them at an open pocket. Here, soldiers guarding the tunnels during the last war had stored food or found a place for a quick nap. He changed the order, then, putting himself in the front with Gault behind him. Helen and Caroline were next, followed by Byron with Tuk.

Soon, Red felt the tunnel open beneath him and he dropped to the floor. Then, Gault came down. Red put out his hands to catch Helen and then Caroline who squealed with enjoyment after the drop into her uncle's arms. Byron dropped and Red helped Tuk down. In that time, Gault had grabbed a cache of torches and tinder, providing them with light. They walked down the main tunnel that had once led to the honeycombed array of tunnels above and stepped before a sight not seen in years.

Helen's breath was shallow. "It's like viewing the dead."

Before them, Rynianhomme stretched into the darkness. A vast panorama of huts and shacks built of scavenged wood, this place that had once been the Rynian's home still stood as a reminder of the last time Rynia's enemies had them this close to defeat.

"We're not going to stay here, Red," Helen whispered. "Please tell me we won't stay here."

"No, your highness," Red replied in the shimmering torchlight. "I don't think this would be far enough. Come." He led them down into the cave. They had to walk carefully; this wasn't just the tomb of Rynia's refuge. The bones of the dead killed in the last battle for the palace remained littering the cave's floor like morbidly shaped rocks. Red put his arm around her and led her forth. Byron walked Tuk around them. Gault did as he had done the other times he'd been down here with Red, preparing for their escape; he kept his eyes away from the cave's floor, trying to keep his teeth from chattering. This time, though, he also had to lead little Caroline so he smiled down at her as if nothing was wrong.

After the last war, the cave had been sealed shut. Kraephten had come with his assistant, Timothy, and had used explosives to seal it shut forever. Forever is not a concept respected by the sea, however, and after eight winters most of the earth the explosion sealed the cave with had been reclaimed by the Seadilia Sea.

They walked up a huge mound of earth at the cave's mouth and looked over the water. There, tied to the rocks, a flat-bottomed fishing scow awaited them. "Red," Helen asked, "why not my father's yacht?"

"I'm afraid to think what the enemy might do if they saw your yacht put to sea, your highness," Red replied. "Right now, I think it best that we hide ourselves."

Slowly, they boarded the boat. The rising storm made it difficult and nearly everyone had to hold on for fear of falling. Gault had never been at sea before, never even for a day, and nearly fell over when a wave came against the rocks, rocking the boat.

"Gault," Red yelled, raising the sails (Square. Red wondered what Hex's triangular sails would have done.), "untie those lines!"

Gault fell against the back of the boat but was close enough to grab the lines from where he knelt. Within moments, with Red guiding them, they were moving away from the isle.

* * *

As the storm broke, Hargoth entered the palace unopposed. The behemoths, standing several times taller than any human doorway, stood outside as bastions to Hargoth's new reign. This suited Hargoth. He'd always looked upon the behemoths not as creatures similar to himself but as weapons. And when the fighting was over, weapons were placed at ready. Almost two dozen stone giants, standing slightly shorter than Hargoth followed him into his rightful place.

As they followed Hargoth, following him to his destiny, they started to find things amiss. Tripwires, pressure plates, and other detectors were triggered as the lumbering, rock creatures passed them, dispelling harmless gasses, electrical current, barbs and spikes and energy fields. These had been Tuk's traps. He had no way of knowing that the attack would come from animate rock, not from human soldiers, and so his traps had little or no effect.

One thing that did catch their stony attention was the metal doors that slammed shut behind them. They had been installed with the intent of trapping victims for gas. All it did to the stone giants was propel them forth, up towards Hargoth's destination.

Out in the fishing scow, Tuk realized that this would probably be the case and damned his luck. Only one trap remained, one he'd hoped would not have been needed.

Hargoth, oblivious to the impotent Rynian defenses sprung by his careless companions, knew there was only one place he wanted to be. Up the stairs he climbed. He passed the main throne room, so near to the stables that it may as well have housed sheep. He ignored the royal suites filled with soft and weak furniture. At a different doorway, he carefully turned the knob and swung the door open. Within, he stepped and saw, just as Tsurtor had promised, his throne. They wouldn't dare destroy your throne, Hargoth, Tsurtor had told him, for it reminds them of their failure. Across was the window that had once been the hole he'd carved out. He'd thrown a lot of rubbish out that window.

For the first time in nearly a decade, Hargoth was home.

"Gentlemen," he announced, climbing the steps to his throne, "here's to a job well done." As he sat down, though, he felt a hard click from beneath, as if his weight had set something off. He turned to say something but didn't have time.

Outside, upon the scow, the exiles fell back upon the deck.

The Imperial Palace, home to Rynian royalty since the Rynian's forebears first came to this world, exploded in a fireball twice its size, stretching out over the cliffs. The concussion lifted the tiny scow and tossed her sideways. Rock flew in all directions. For one, brief moment, the sky was lit with a power never before seen in Rynia.

Helen held the scow's railing, refusing to look away, and her screams fought with the sounds of the explosion and the rising storm.

"Helen," Red called but she didn't hear him. She didn't feel him take her in his arms, holding her for her own good. Her world was on that island and now it had gone entirely up in smoke.

CHAPTER ONE

KAPTURED IN KTOLL

Part I

"Worthless. A complete waste of effort." Tsurtor, standing on the beach overlooking Regal Isle, kicked at the object of his scorn. "You really should have been smart enough to know better."

Several remaining pieces of Hargoth lay at his feet, trying to scramble themselves back together but finding it quite difficult without arms or legs. It was only through Tsurtor's grace (who didn't want to lose his only supply of stone behemoths) that Hargoth was safe. It was his dry, rough mind that had screamed out to Tsurtor in the split-second of conflagration, when the huge explosion had enveloped him in extreme pressure and purging heat. It had been nothing for Tsurtor, who had been waiting for Hargoth's declaration of victory, to pluck his servant from certain doom. In addition to the ruin of his appendages and the fractures that left his remains in pieces, Hargoth had a splitting headache, literally. He found it difficult to speak through a split head, barely held in one piece. "How was I to know?"

Tsurtor kicked at him again, "I expected worse! If that Destroyer had possessed any sense, he could have used your empty head for a fusion reaction that would have eaten half the planet! Of course, he's blind," he added as an afterthought. "Leave it to the Rynians to keep a blind defender." As Tsurtor spoke, he paced around Hargoth's remains in hard, black leather boots. No longer donned in robes, he wore his uniform once again. Made from his own design, he looked almost like an officer of the Nazi SS. Tucked neatly into the boots, he wore full, riding trousers, brown and crisply pressed. Above that, a black shirt, also crisply pressed, was covered by a long, black leather overcoat. His hair was crisp and short and under complete control.

This was the Tsurtor of old, as Hex had first seen him. It had been only a matter of days since he'd brought his body, once vile and horrid, under control. Now that he understood everything an dhad reached yet another level of control. Where it stemmed from, his experiments with ancient, Rynian technology or his immersion into magic no man had ever been foolish enough to try before, he couldn't know. What had been for months rigid spikes, several feet long, bursting through every inch of his body, tearing through his skin, filling his mouth, piercing his eyes, unendurable agony, was now a gift. Having learned control over these new arms, he could extend them in seconds from any inch of himself and with no more sensation than stretching. He sent one out now. Snaking from the palm of his left hand, it hung down nearly to the ground. There, it flexed, holding itself in mid-air, and poked at Hargoth's head. "An explosion. Fah! They might as well have put out the welcome mat!"

Hargoth, his head nearly back in one piece, grimaced. He resented having victory so snubbed. Worse yet, now it would be impossible for him to take the Imperial Palace for the Imperial Palace was no more. He worked at the cracks in his head, focusing all of his power on the task, and spoke when he probably shouldn't have. "They destroyed the Palace! You never saw that coming! You claim to know everything they'll do but they sure did get you with that one!" He suddenly realized he was speaking - and to whom he spoke - and noisily shut himself up.

Tsurtor looked down upon him, fingering his chipped scalp with his snaking appendage, and thought how simply it would be to reduce Hargoth to just so much rubble. It would feel good, he thought. It would feel right.

But feelings could not enter into it. He turned his back to the ruined giant and said, "You misinterpret my lack of concern for lack of knowledge. Simply, I did not care what they did to the Palace. Could they actually declare the destruction of the own palace, by their own hands, a victory? In the end, they just win the war for me. Now, put yourself back together and quickly! We are not finished, yet."

Tsurtor turned from the shore and walked inland. This had all been a farm only hours ago. Now, stretched out across the fields, his army amassed, still arriving from its journey from Ktoll. They'd pushed forward along a broad front, easily accomplished against King Marcus' laughable defenses. For all the hundreds of tanks and thousands of saladan soldiers, Tsurtor ignored the instruments of his victory as he passed among them. He walked to a singular tent, distinguishable by its different design. It was a tent brought from earth. Within, waited Tsurtor's field commander, General K'tan.

K'tan sat hunched over his morning meal. A doe had been trapped in the countryside and brought in live. Upon seeing it and sensing its hot, pulsing blood, K'tan had leapt upon it, his claws rending through flesh, releasing gouts of life, and feasted upon its innards before the thing could stop twitching. Now, Tsurtor stood before him, watching as the general lay in the pool of cooling blood, his hands wrapped upon a hunk of flesh.

"What have you there, K'tan?"

K'tan looked up, his face a mess of blood and teeth, and replied, "Liver." Knowing it was rude to feast before the master, K'tan licked some blood off of it and set the organ down. "What issh your command, Shsire?"

"I've come for an update, K'tan. Tell me how your men fare." Tsurtor looked obliviously away as K'tan did his best to wipe off his muzzle. This had once been a human, though you wouldn't believe it if you looked at him now. What had been his name before he took on the wolfen form Tsurtor had granted him? It didn't matter. For even then, years ago when he, like his fellow commanders, had been a mercenary back on earth, he'd been more animal than man. Tsurtor only made their outward appearance more closely resemble what they considered their soul.

Now, K'tan could hardly think. His mind raced with feral passions. At night, he'd go crazy with the urge to bay at the moon. During battle, he no longer needed a weapon; he'd kill with the many teeth that had tore through his lips or the hardened nails that had become claws upon his hands. He heard more acutely with the ears that had become misshapen, poking through his tufts of hair and could smell just about everything imaginable now that his face had elongated to facilitate the more sensitive olfactory passages.

K'tan gladly pulled out a large map, printed only hours before off the field computer, and laid it upon his desk. In its center, Rynia sat much like the doe on the tent's floor. To the south, there sat Kallent and Tzurritza further west. On Rynia's western border, Paead was nothing more than a Ktollian territory. Nothing had been filled in to the north. Tsurtor had foreseen that the Rynians wouldn't make it past the Ice Giants that held the Northern Spires and he'd seen to it the Ny'ezia, the last of the dragons, whose mountain watched over the northwest, hated humanity. With the north barred and the south asunder, the Rynians would have nowhere to turn. It would be a simple matter of slaughtering resistance as they found it. Fish in a barrel.

Five stars were prominent on the map and K'tan pointed to the first of these. "Gur'tech'ssh men have gone to Awlsshban. They have enchountered no resshisshtancsh. Huk'ra, watchessh the wasshtessh of Benaatt. Putak hassh the wesshtern chity of Morrata."

Tsurtor wasn't pleased. He stabbed his finger at Rynia's center. "What about here, K'tan? Here?"

Tsurtor had punched a hole through Silen Forest. K'tan realized with revulsion that it hadn't been Tsurtor's finger that had punched the hole. Another appendage had shot out of Tsurtor's hand. "Tomonok, masshter. He will find what you are looking for."

"Yes, he will, K'tan," Tsurtor replied, lifting his hand. "He will because he knows what failure means."

Tsurtor strode out of K'tan's tent leaving K'tan looking worriedly at the hole in his map. In Silen Forest.

* * *

"So, you're telling me that you've recorded all of Rynian history?"

"Most," Silen replied. "You have to remember that without my satellite link, I only have a fifty kilometer radius. Most of that's covered with forest."

Hex nodded, climbing over a fallen tree. "And that's how people came to think of this place as haunted."

"Yes. Unfortunately, the only way for me to get information was from those who passed near and, I suppose, I didn't provide the best possible impression."

Hex looked over at Silen, still amazed that this older gentleman, looking much like Marcus' age, was as old as Rynian civilization itself. On top of that, Silen didn't even exist in this form. He wasn't an older gentleman at all. Rather, he was a super-computer, hundreds of years old, brought over to Rynia from another world when the Rynian's had first colonized this place. Silen's knowledge of human psychology and anatomical structure was so thorough that, by transmitting on a frequency interpreted by a person's brain, his appearance was actually no more than an hallucination. In a world of stone giants, animate twigs, dragons, and magic, however, it came as little surprise.

Night approached as they marched through the forest, the tall trees casting dark shadows that obscured their view, and Hex had to rest on a fallen limb.

"Not much farther," Silen told him, trying to encourage him on.

"Easy for you to say, you're just a figment of my imagination." Hex sat hunched over, breathing heavily. "Why'd you bring me so far into the forest, anyway?" Hex hadn't known he'd walked so far into the forest. He'd been guided there subconsciously, almost like sleepwalking, by Silen.

"My sensors' accuracy is reliant upon proximity."

"And so you had me cross a forest," Hex asked.

Silen huffed. "I'd like to see you get to know someone half a forest away!"

"No wonder people were afraid to come near you." Hex expected the computer to respond but, looking up at it, found it otherwise preoccupied. He crossed the distance between them and moved to nudge his shoulder.

His hand passed straight through him. This can't be right, he thought. Silen wasn't paying attention to him. The old gentleman was staring at a point a thousand miles away.

Then, suddenly, he was back again. "I haven't much time, Hex. Keep heading south by southwest. You should find your helicopter."

Hex didn't much like the idea of Silen's leaving without any explanation. "Wait! What's going on? Why do you have to leave to soon?"

Silen's form was already fading as he replied. "There are intruders in the forest. Enemies. You must hurry! Run!"

Hex didn't need to be told twice. No matter how tired he was before, fear compelled his feet onward. Through the trees, he ran, dodging limbs and vaulting scrub. Critters scattered out of his way when they sensed him coming and Hex made good time, knowing that whatever scared a computer should scare him as well. He kept an eye out for the clearing where he and Antoine had landed. Once he found the helicopter, his safety would be secure. He couldn't look everywhere at once, though, and his crash, tumbling down onto the hard ground, was inevitable.

"You make a lot of noise," a harsh voice accused. "Easy to find."

Hex didn't know what he'd tripped over but cursed his luck for it anyway. Standing up, he brushed himself off and looked around him. Immediately, he knew his situation was grim. Over a dozen soldiers - obviously not human - surrounded him, armed with some sort of machine gun. They closed in on him as he raised his hands over his head. "Take it easy, fellas. You got the wrong guy."

"No. Don't think so. Only one human in forest, that's what master tells us." The head soldier pulled out a piece of paper and looked at it. "One human," he said, holding the paper out to Hex. Though is was growing dark, Hex could see that the picture was of himself, taken when he'd been in prison. The soldier tapped it with his rifle and stated, "You."

Part II

He'd only been a few hundred meters inside the forest when they'd caught him. Probably overshot Antoine by half a kilometer, he thought. He hoped the topless helicopter would be all right but, stepping out from Silen's cover, he knew that there'd be no chance to worry. Things had definitely taken a turn for the worse.

Around him, standing upon the rear of attack Hum-Vees mounted with heavy machine guns or poking their heads out from well armored APC's, Tsurtor's forces watched as he was led from the trees. To the left, two, huge M-1 Abram tanks trained their massive guns upon him. To the right, nearly a dozen soldiers equipped with portable rocket launchers, kept him in their sights. All around, well over a hundred soldiers held machine guns, carbines, tazers, and other weapons - a wide variety, it seemed - at ready.

Hex felt almost flattered.

His chief captor stepped forward, raising his rifle in salute. "The master's foretellings are true! The enemy has been taken," he shouted for all to hear. In response, bursting in a sound so malevolent, the army about them cheered their victory.

Of course, Hex thought. Once again, Tsurtor had known what he would do before he did it and had stopped Hex from getting any information from Silen. He shook his head and nearly laughed. This was becoming ridiculous.

Three soldiers approached him with heavy, steel manacles, placing them on Hex's wrist's. They fit over his entire forearms, binding them tightly and uncomfortably close. Almost as soon as they were fastened shut, Hex's elbows and shoulders started hurting. "You realize, of course, that I could easily use my magic on these," he boasted, hoping he might scare them. "I could make them into weapons with but a moment's thought and kill the lot of you in seconds!"

His captor looked at another for an answer. Hex was still trying to discern what manner of being these soldiers were but when their leader answered his captor's appeal, Hex could clearly see that this one had once been human. He stood well over two meters and his shoulders were nearly a meter across. Rippling with muscles, the leader bothered not with a shirt even in this wintery weather. His face was full of hair, growing past the point of a beard or mustache and his nose, sticking out from this face of hair, was long enough to be a snout. "I don't think you appreciate your situation, rebel," the leader said, stepping close to Hex. Now, Hex could see long, canine teeth protruding from the leader's mouth when he spoke.

"Who are you," Hex dared ask.

"My name is Tomonok. I am one of Tsurtor's general's - his most favored general now that we have you!" Tomonok laughed uncontrollably. Hex couldn't avoid the copious splatters of spittle that sprayed upon him. "Now, let me address your stupid, little boast, rebel. At the first sign of magic, I have been authorized to shoot your knees out. Do you like that? Would like to know what that feels like?"

"No, thank you," Hex replied, trying to hide his fear.

"I thought not. Should you find some way to use your magic, just remember that every gun is trained upon you and you would have to kill us all at once. Tsurtor doesn't think you can do that and neither do I. Quite frankly, I don't think you could hurt the weakest of us," Tomonok's boast was meant to draw out Hex but Hex remained silent. "Anyway, I don't think you'll have much time to think about using magic."

This brought Hex's eyebrow up and he had to ask, "What do you mean?"

Tomonok was already walking away, though, and he shouted to his men, "Let's move out! We got another good hour of light left. Let's see you use it!"

Soon, Tomonok disappeared into his army and a soldier hooked a cable onto Hex's manacles. Hex wondered why he was given no commands as the enemy soldiers moved ahead of him and out to the left and right. It seemed they were setting up a perimeter but Hex couldn't figure out why they weren't moving. Then, the cable caught his eye. It wiggled, then sprung to life, yanking Hex violently from his feet. He flew several inches and landed, painfully, upon his face, his arms above his head. He was dragged a few feet more through the mud until, using the cable as leverage, he was able to get his feet beneath him. He wiped his face on his dirty sleeved and looked around him. The soldiers were closing their perimeter. It looked like Hex was going to have to walk.

Thankfully, they didn't walk far that night. Unlike the behemoths and stone giants the Imperial Palace had faced, these soldiers could not continue indefinitely. They'd need sleep, too. Hex was already tired from his trek across Silen Forest and was grateful to see the cable go slack before him. As he looked around, soldiers raised tents along the enclosing perimeter and fires were started, giving warmth to them far from Hex.

Hex wondered if he'd be provided with a tent, a bed, or some supplied to help him through the night. His answer came shortly, when Tomonok stepped into the perimeter and approached his captive. Though the night temperature had dropped and the sky threatened freezing rain or snow, Tomonok remained shirtless as Hex figured was his habit. When he'd closed the distance with Hex to only a meter, he dropped a blanket on the ground. "You'll need that," he said. "Temp's gonna drop tonight."

"Is that it," Hex asked. "Just a blanket?"

"Can't have you too comfortable. Tsurtor says a blanket's gonna be fine. And this." Tomonok dropped what looked suspiciously like a leg of lamb onto the blanket. It bounced, though, and landed in the mud.

Hex was unsuccessful at hiding his contempt. "It that supposed to be my dinner?"

"If you like."

"I don't like! If Tsurtor's so God-awful smart, he should have told you that I'm a vegetarian!"

Tomonok shrugged his shoulders. "We're an army on the move. We have no time to stop and grow vegetables. If you don't like it, you'll have to starve. That should keep you from using your magic on us." Leaving the blanket and the food on the ground, Tomonok turned and walked away.

"Wait," Hex called out.

Tomonok stopped and looked over his shoulder without a word.

"What if I get thirsty?"

Hex's only reply was bitterly barked, "Should rain tonight.

Hex had known in the last war that it had been no place for him. He just couldn't understand the lack of compassion. It had the effect Tomonok had intended, though; Hex started to tremble. He called out, "Wait! Where are we going?"

Tomonok had nearly reached the perimeter. Hex heard his distant reply. "Ktoll."

* * *

It did rain that night. After the blanket was soaked through and the cold had pierced Hex's bones, it began to snow. He couldn't eat much of the meat brought to him; his stomach couldn't take it. Cold and hunger turned fear into panic but he couldn't move for fear of being shot and, so, he did nothing. He trembled in the mud wrapped in a soaking wet blanket, trying not to think of Helen or Caroline or the baby because that only brought him to tears.

When morning came, he found he had got a little sleep. Someone gave him a shot of some kind of alcohol and he muttered, "What's that for?"

"Keep the cold off your bones," someone said. "Get you walking."

Almost immediately, the cable pulled taut and he was yanked from his blanket. He didn't bother to watch the perimeter surrounding him; he knew they'd be there. Mustering lucidity, he tried to recall how far Ktoll lay from Rynia's central region. He couldn't. It was taking all he had just to put one foot before another. With dusk, Hex felt some relief, knowing that eventually they would stop. They seemed to wait until Hex was in the middle of a muddy field and, then, the cable dropped. The perimeter was established and Hex was forced to sleep in the mud for another night.

More meat was brought to him. He yelled, "At least you could remove these shackles! It's pretty damned hard to eat with these shackles!"

Tomonok replied as he walked away, "You're so smart, you should be able to figure that out."

Hex could see from the dirt and grime that he'd been given the same blanket. It wasn't even completely dry. Nearly as soon as he'd rested his head in the mud, more snow began to fall.

Yet, this time he slept. His body was too exhausted to consider any concerns over comfort or safety. He fell so quickly into sleep that he didn't realize he was dreaming when dreams began.

He found himself standing upon a broad plain whose horizon stretched in all directions as far as he could see. There was no telling how far that was; the sky, the ground, and even the horizon, were lit with an intense, white light. He wished he could put his hands over his eyes but his manacles had followed him into his dream. "Where am I," he called.

Hex, came a voice.

"Who's there?"

It's me!

Hex spun around, trying to discern from which direction the voice originated. It was no use, though. It originated from all around him. "Great," he said. "That really narrows it down. Thanks for being so specific!"

Hex waited through the silence as the voice waded through his sarcasm. Finally, he heard, It's Silen.

"Silen," he asked. "I thought we'd be out of your range by now." Realizing this, Hex remembered everything as if waking up. "And how is it you're in my dream? And how do I know I'm dreaming? And why do I feel awake? And how - Silen! Is this another one of your hallucinations?"

Somewhat. I felt it would be easier on your body to keep you asleep and talk here.

"Here?"

This is that place between dreams and the real world.

The real world? After all Hex had been through, he laughed at the concept. "Fine. But couldn't you have brought me someplace with a chair? I've been on my feet a long time."

It doesn't really matter. You're still asleep. You're just dreaming you're standing.

"I don't care. I want to sit down. Now, hallucinate me up a place to sit." Hex stomped his feet, looking down at his hands. "And get these the hell off of me!"

As the manacles disappeared from his wrists, a comfy recliner materialized inches away. As Hex sank in, he sighed with delight.

Better?

"Nearly. Talking to disembodied voices spooks me. Show yourself."

Silen, appearing in his typical guise of a man just on the young side of infirm, stepped in from the light. Looking up at the light, he brought the intensity down a touch. "Better," he said. "Now, we have some things to discuss."

"Such as why you're contacting me when I should be well out of your 50 kilometer range," Hex asked.

"Such as that," Silen confirmed. "I'm sorry I had to leave you so abruptly back in the forest. A few minutes later and we would have been where your helicopter had been parked."

"Had been," Hex asked.

"Yes, well," Silen replied, sheepishly. "It seems he didn't expect you to be gone for so long and left some time before we returned you. But that's neither here nor there! I believe it's my fault you were captured. I should have warned you of Tsurtor's advances."

"What?"

Silen took a step away, turning his back. "Yes, they were -"

"You knew they were coming?" Hex found it much easier to direct his anger here in his dream world. He grabbed Silen by the shoulder, turning him around, and shouted, "When did you know?"

"Hex. Please," Silen said, visibly disturbed by Hex's anger. "In hindsight, you have to understand that I couldn't have known their agenda until it was too late. Still, I feel a responsibility to your current condition."

"I'm being held captive by a monster who'd sooner see me dead than treat me with any decency. Is that the condition to which you refer?"

Silen raised his chin in defiance. "And there's no need for sarcasm."

Hex returned to his chair with a sigh. "So, what's happened?"

"Unfortunately, the unforeseeable." Silen conjured himself a chair and sat before Hex. "Tsurtor has found me."

"Found you," Hex asked, leaning forward.

"Yes. I'm afraid they've discovered where I was buried and they," Silen twisted his face with some discomfort, "they dug me up."

"Dug you up?"

"Out of the ground."

Hex moved to the edge of his seat. "So, you mean they have you right now?"

"In the middle of their camp, I'm afraid. They're bringing me with you."

"But how did they find you," Hex asked, standing. "How would they know? It took me years of research to even come to the conclusion and I never told anyone." A terrible thought sprung from Hex's mind and he felt his heart clench in response.

Silen, reading Hex's mind, gave the thought a voice. "You led them to me!"

Hex nodded. "Of course. Tsurtor's been watching my every move. He stopped me on earth. He took my town here to be killed. He foresaw my coming to you." His body felt terribly weak and he slumped his shoulders forward. "There's no stopping him."

"But I don't understand," Silen said, stepping before Hex. "Why would he want me?"

"Why," Hex asked, amazed that Silen didn't already have the answer. "You hold all of the knowledge of the ancient Rynians. The man's power hungry. Earth technology isn't enough for him. He wants the magic from Rynia's past. And you have other uses as well," he added, looking intensely into Silen's eyes. "This!" He spread his arms to indicate the world around them. "You're skill at entering a man's mind. You'd make the perfect torture devise, brain-washing tool, mass hypnotism machine!"

Silen held his hands against his breast, nearly cringing. "But, Hex, you have to understand that I wouldn't do that."

"Maybe not," Hex replied, the hint of a smile turning up his mouth. "Maybe you wouldn't do it for them. But I'll tell you what Tsurtor's not expecting. Tsurtor would never expect that you do it for us!" Hex watched as Silen's eyes widened. "Could you do it?"

Silen looked up, tapping his chin as he thought. "There are a whole lot more here then I've tried before, Hex. I've entered the minds of a couple of dozen, maybe a few more."

"But you were inducing hallucinations, then, right," Hex asked, brimming with excitement.

"Enough to make them return home without harming the forest. The more they cut, the less secure my hiding place - for all the good that did me."

"All I need, Silen, is a single thought. Sit or Stop Walking or Lay Down Your Weapons."

"Sleep," Silen asked.

The suggestion caught Hex off guard. He gasped, "What?"

"Sleep. I could command them to sleep."

Hex grabbed the apparition by the arms with glee. "That's it! That's exactly what we need!"

And, so, plans were made. After a while, Silen left Hex, inducing deeper sleep to make Hex more fully rested come morning.

Morning came with a painful tug on his arm and he scrambled in his daze to his feet. Looking around in the gloomy, morning light, Hex saw the perimeter established, hundreds of soldiers training their arms upon him. A familiar figure marched beside him, saying, "That can't be comfortable."

Hex shook his head. "No, Silen. It's not. Would you like to try it?"

"No. No. Just observing, thank you."

Hex looked around. "Can anyone else see you?"

Silen looked at the others. "No. I'm all in your brain right now. Let me give you something to reduce the pain."

Hex wondered what the computer could have meant but was then amazed at the sense of well being flooding through him. "What was that?"

"Endorphins," Silen replied, walking backwards. "A little Epinephrin, as well. Now, are you almost ready?"

"How long do you think you'll get them to sleep?"

"Most of them are a reptilian hybrid. Their lizard brains shouldn't stand up to much. I think I can safely boast a good hour or two."

"Great." Hex held up his hands. "I'll take care of these."

Silen looked around with a smile. "It's showtime!"

As Silen vanished, Hex looked boldly around him and watched with pleasure as Tsurtor's army began dropping like flies.

Meanwhile, at the head of the formation, General Tomonok rode in his Hum-Vee. He took the entire back seat, his arms on each side of the car like armrests. In front, his saladan chauffeur drove on silently...

Too silently. The Hummer began to slow as the chauffeur's short legs slid back from the gas pedal. "Hey," Tomonok yapped, slamming his fist into the back of the chair. "What's going on?"

The chauffeur didn't answer as he fell against the wheel and the Hummer stalled to a stop. Tomonok growled, his fangs rubbing against his lips. He looked back to see the rest of his army fallen behind him. The wizard must be doing this, he thought. It had to be the wizard.

He didn't bother with opening the door; he slammed it off its hinges and stepped out of the Hum-Vee, grabbing his rifle. His wide stance took him quickly to the edge of the perimeter, where he saw the wizard looking down at his manacles, probably trying to work his magic. Tomonok didn't hesitate. With one motion, he brought up his rifle, aimed, and squeezed off a shot. The bullet ricocheted off the manacles, its impact, knocking Hex back into the mud. "What have you done to my people?"

Hex looked up, terrified. "Silen," he shouted to no one.

Tomonok closed the distance between them quickly. "I asked you what you done!"

Hex almost had the manacles off but his fear quickly broke his concentration. "Oh, shit! Silen!"

It appears that this one has been genetically altered. No longer is his mind fully human. It's going to take me several minutes to map the neural -

"Tsurtor told me to get you to him," Tomonok growled. "He never said not to hurt you." The rifle spun in his hand, its butt lashing out at Hex's head. He was immediately knocked to the ground, unconscious, a long cut on his forehead marking where the rifle had struck. "That should stop your magic!"

Silen recoiled at the violence. So long as Tomonok was unreachable and willing to resort to such measures, Silen felt it safer to release those he'd put to sleep. Hex wouldn't be able to help free them as long as he was unconscious. It would take time to set them free; Silen would have to keep working on it.

Tomonok grabbed a soldier who had fallen nearby. The soldier awoke instantly, wondering what had happened. "Disconnect him from the cable," Tomonok barked. "Put him in my ride. I'm gonna keep a close eye on him."

* * *

"The king is dead!" Tsurtor's triumphant words rang throughout Rynia, infecting the hearts and minds of its citizens. With Marcus gone, there was no one to lead the people, no one to build an army. There was no one left to defy Tsurtor. Cities fell like dominos, warped with doom's certainty.

"You will live under Tsurtor's laws," soldiers with frighteningly loud bullhorns shouted in the cities, "and these laws you will obey. No breach will be accepted. Live according to the law and you will be allowed to live. Break the law \- you will die." To punctuate the announcement, local dissidents would be brought out and killed in the most grotesque manners.

The king was dead. Now, Tsurtor reigned. His armies were everywhere and they watched as the people's backs grew bent, bowing before them. It was Tsurtor's law: Respect had to be shown. No one questioned that any longer. Those who had were dead.

In Bemmiton, Tsurtor's triumphant words rang through one woman's head. "The king is dead!" She'd heard them, bleeding, it seemed, enough for several soldiers. It was the blood of those around her that had covered her. Their bodies too, this is what had hidden her from the advancing soldiers. Her head had rung and she was dazed from the power of the blasts. She couldn't fight so she played dead as enemy soldiers, the metal appendages they carried coughing out death that could strike from afar, marched past her. When they were gone, she remained still. Tsurtor's voice echoed in her head and tears streamed of their own accord.

When she rose, moving cooling bodies off of her, she looked around for any sign of life. Tsurtor's army had been too efficient to leave any. Dead bodies and parts of bodies littered the ground around her, making it difficult to see the earth below. The stench was appalling, blood and smoke, Rynian flesh and otherworldly machinery, and she would have thrown up but she was well past that. She knew she shouldn't remain upon the battlefield. More of Tsurtor's men would be watching; she could sense it. Yet, she remained looking until she had to admit that the object of her search eluded her.

What would she do now? She was weaponless and, worse, she was without supplies. She wouldn't take from the dead. She wouldn't defile their memories for her own needs. She turned to the south, where the landscape looked clear of Tsurtor's aftermath. She couldn't escape it - the dead would never be forgotten nor their sacrifice for one another - but she had to get away.

When she found a stream large enough to wash in, she did so. Defying the icy rain, she scrubbed the blood from her face and her hair until it was no longer matted against her head. Then, she took shelter in a copse, shivering beneath a tree. Without food for several days, living beneath the elements, she found it hard to think. But she had trained long and hard, her instincts were unbreakable, she'd stake her life on them. They led her south through the hills of southern Rynia until, late one night when the sky threatened snow, she saw smoke coming from behind some trees. There, beside a thundering river, she found a mill.

But could she trust those within? Had Tsurtor's lizard's taken this, too? Hiding behind a tree, she knew it didn't matter. Her hands were numb, her sight blurred. She hardly had the strength to walk. She'd die by morning one way or another.

Pounding on the door with the back of a numb hand, the door was quickly answered. "Oh, my word, dear, you're not fit to be standing! What are you doing out here like this?" The old man wore a woolen nightcap and a puffy, warm robe. She could be sure; he wasn't one of Tsurtor's men.

"Help me," she could only whisper.

He took her in his arms, hurrying her beside his large fire. He went to get her cider but found her fast asleep when he'd returned.

Days passed. Slowly, she got her strength back along with her voice (it did little good - he quickly found that she screamed in her sleep) and found herself lucid enough to ask, "Where am I?"

"Bendik's Mill," he replied, feeding her some eggs.

"Are you Bendik?"

"Me? No. Bendik was my grandfather. He founded this place before the great war. Good timing, he had. You see, it was just before the royal army needed a whole lot of new bats for their new recruits." He scooped up some more eggs and fed them to her.

Talking through her food, she asked, "You make bats?"

"Oh, yes," he said, nodding. Without his nightcap, she saw that he had a great head full of snowy, white hair. "This here is the biggest hardwood mill in southern Rynia. We do everything here ourselves," he announced, proudly. "We grow it. We chop it. We move it. We mill it. We quicken it. We even make it into bats. That was my father's idea, rids us of the problem of getting it out to the middleman, you see?"

She tried to sit up in her small bed. He'd told her it had been his son's bed. Yet, she was still too weak. And he shook his head at her when she tried.

"No. No. No. You're not well, yet." He handed her a cup of tea.

She drank from it, grateful at the warmth it provided. "I can't rest here much longer. I need to go. You've heard of the war?"

"Heard of it? Why, my boy's out there fighting in it!"

The news brought a frown to her face. How could she tell him that his son was most likely dead by now? "It goes poorly," was all she said.

"Oh, I am sorry," he replied. "But, what would you being doing out there, little girl?"

She pursed her lips, this time rising up in the bed. "I'm a captain in the king's army."

"Oh, I'm sorry. I meant no offense. It's just that the only women I've seen who wanted to fight were only there because they were too ugly to, well... and you're not ugly, young lady. Oh no."

She smiled and it felt strange upon her face. She couldn't help but think of Samuel Gobel and how he'd pined for her. "My name's Bethel," she said, offering her hand.

"Terrik," he replied, shaking it.

In the days that followed, Bethel made her way out of the bed, regaining her strength. Terrik would not allow her to leave the millhouse. Outside, the snow had begun to fall in earnest. He'd make his way out each morning to the barn where he had a few cows and chickens and return with provisions. "Went down to Bemmiton before winter hit and stocked my larder but good! I wasn't going to be caught ill prepared."

Soon, he allowed her to cook for him and help in the mill. Once she touched the hardwood, though, her blood stirred. Her strength came quicker. After the second week, she said, "You know, I'll need to be on my way. I could use a good weapon."

He looked at her, his eyes troubled, and said, "Can't speak of that now. Nel needs tending." Nel was one of Terrik's guernseys and he only tended her in the morning.

She followed him out into the setting sun. "I'll leave unarmed if I must, Terrik."

He turned back to her. "But, Bethel, the minute they see you armed, they'll kill you surely!"

"Then, perhaps they don't need to see me with a weapon," she suggested, guiding him back into the mill. Carefully, she described the weapon she had imagined. With his help, it could be made a reality.

Less than a week later, she was on her way. It wouldn't do to have her walk into town wearing a uniform - it was a sure way to get killed - so, with a sack of provisions over her shoulder, she hugged the old man who had become like a father to her. "They come to your door," she advised, "you give them everything. Don't fight them. They have no pity in their hearts."

"You're one to talk." He returned her embrace and stroked her hair. "Try not to get killed, Bethel."

She looked at him, taking him into her memory. "You have my word."

"I know you wanted to spare me," he said, his face unaccustomed to his seriousness. "About my boy, I mean. If he has died, though, I'd like to think I'm not entirely alone in the world."

She took his hand and held it, sharing warmth. "I had no family growing up," she said. "If I should somehow make it through this, I'll gladly return to see that you're well."

He wiped a tear from his eye. "I couldn't ask for more."

Now, she walked the streets of Bemmiton, leaning on her cane as if she were infirm. She scanned the streets over and over again, looking for a familiar face. She had hoped to find some remnant from the king's army, some sign that the fight continued, but there was nothing. The only inhabitants here were frightened townsfolk.

Suddenly, a firm hand grabbed her sack and yanked it violently through a doorway. She wouldn't let go and, consequently, followed it in. The store was empty of both stock and people with one exception: whoever had grabbed her sack. He stood before her, shivering. He'd let go of her sack and held his hands up in fear. She realized that was why he shivered - out of fear. "Who are you," she asked.

He looked at her with wide, slanted eyes. His manner of dress was peculiar and she knew immediately from where he had come. "Name's Eddie Tran," he whispered, terrified that someone might have seen or heard their struggle. "I was one of Boom's people. Please! You've gotta help me! I recognized you from the battle. You were one of those Rynians. I haven't eaten in days. I've been scrounging for crumbs. Please! You gotta help me!"

It became instantly clear to Bethel Patir that this was going to be much more difficult that she had thought.

* * *

Hex, meanwhile, was facing a shock of a different nature. Touching his head no matter how much it throbbed, he was relieved to find none of the cuts too severe.

"I couldn't do much with that big brute," Silen explained, "but I was able to keep him from hitting you too hard. At least, he didn't crack your skull. No sign of concussion."

"Well, that's good, I guess," Hex replied. He leaned up against the cell well and tried to look around. With the exception of a faint bulb illuminating the hallway, all around him was dark. He saw the cot on the other side of the cell mocking him as he lay on the floor and the rudimentary hole which served as a latrine. He didn't much like the idea of how that would smell in a few weeks. "Where are we?"

"Ktoll," Silen answered. Leaning against the bars, his form acting more nimble than its elderly appearance, he recounted their journey across Peaed. "Basically, he'd hit you whenever he thought you were regaining consciousness."

Hex rested his head as comfortably as he could against the wall, relieving its pressure. "How very nice of him."

"I tried to keep you under after the second time." Silen approached him, inspecting his head like a doctor. Hex knew he could do it with a simple scan but Silen was a method actor. "How's the pain?"

Hex's response was more sarcastic than he'd intended. "How isn't it?"

"This should help," Silen replied.

Suddenly, the pain drifted away like a bad dream and his sight grew more acute. "Was I having problems seeing," Hex asked.

"No," Silen said, stepping back to a comfortable distance. "But I figured that, while I was in there dulling the pain, I'd tune your optic nerve to a more useful bandwidth."

In truth, his surroundings were as bright as day now. "Thanks," Hex said, half-heartedly.

Silen gave him a closer look. "Did I miss something?"

"No. There's nothing you can do," Hex grumbled. "Tsurtor must be pretty secure here. He's not worried about my using magic. He's given me a cot, bars, even the rock of this mountain. I could turn them into anything I wished but he doesn't seem to care." He looked up at Silen. "What makes him so secure?"

"It's very simple, Hex. We both know I've already won." The voice was vile and thick with conceit. Tsurtor walked in through the bars, looking smug in his black uniform.

Through the bars? "You couldn't come in person, Tsurtor," Hex asked, trying not to look beaten. "You could only mock me by proxy?"

"But why not," Tsurtor asked. "You know war, Hex. Don't you? Oh, that's right, you don't. I'd forgotten. War tends to keep one busy, Hex. And I've been terribly busy. Busy watching all of my enemies fall at my feet!"

Silen looked at Hex. "That doesn't appear to be logical. Tsurtor may take pleasure in his victories but if things have been as easy as he boasts he would have been done by now."

To both of their amazement, Tsurtor replied to Silen, "That's correct but you neglect to take several things into consideration."

Hex was struck speechless and Silen looked back and forth between the two quizzically.

"Oh, yes," Tsurtor said with a repugnant smile, "I know about your little friend, Hex."

"But that's not possible," insisted Silen. "I am transmitting directly to Hex's brain. I would know if my transmission was being intercepted."

"True," Tsurtor conceded. "I'm not intercepting your transmission."

"Then, how," Hex asked.

Tsurtor didn't answer. He looked at Silen, measuring the time it took for the computer to solve the riddle.

After several long seconds, Silen's eyes opened wide. "If he is not monitoring the transmission at its source or intercepting it, there's only one other means."

Then, Hex understood. "He's in my mind, as well?"

Tsurtor clapped contemptuously. "Very good, Hex. As always, you are several steps behind everyone else."

"Well, it's getting awfully crowded up here, Tsurtor!" Hex did his best to stand, propping himself against the cell wall. "I'd appreciate it if you would get the hell out!"

Tsurtor feigned offense. "Please, Hex, such language. Don't you want to know why I've come? Why I've taken so long conquering your petty, little kingdom? Where's that curiosity you've become so known for? Where that adventurer's spirit that took you into the bowels of the Northern Spires and killed my lich?" Tsurtor's final sentence was heavy with contempt and ire.

Hex could see that he was just being set up. Standing their in Tsurtor's prison, deep inside Tsurtor's mountain, Tsurtor's power was obvious. To see any more would be redundant.

"Oh, would it," Tsurtor asked. Hex had forgotten that he had access to his thoughts just as Silen. "Well, then, I'll show you anyway." Suddenly, Hex's mind coursed with images: Marcus, lying in a pool of blood; Rynia's army laid waste; Regal Isle strewn with dead; and, perhaps the worst of them all, the Imperial Palace, which had been his home for nearly a decade, reduced to so much rubble. Hex sank down to the ground, holding his head, trying unsuccessfully to will back his tears. "Isn't it glorious," Tsurtor asked. "My kingdom, rid of every sign of my father's attempt to be rid of me!"

"Most impressive," Silen acknowledged with a nod.

Tsurtor looked at him uncomfortably. "Thank you." Then, back to Hex, he boasted, "All of your plans have fallen apart, Hex. Your life is in ruins! Didn't I promise you? Didn't I say that I would destroy everything you are and everything you loved? And I did it, didn't I?"

"Yes," Hex sobbed. Between the pain and the images of loss flashing through his mind (My little Caroline, his mind frantically shouted.), he found it impossible to think. Only one truth existed: Trustor had won.

"You must be awfully proud."

Tsurtor spun around to the old form. "I don't talk to outdated computers! Why don't you just clam up?"

Silen's voice took on an appeasing tone. "I am so very sorry. I just find it difficult not to be flabbergasted by your immense power."

Out of Hex's despair, a thought arose. Why did it sound like Silen was trying to goad Tsurtor?

Whether he heard that or not, Tsurtor turned away from the computer's image, saying, "There's much more where that came from, you have my word."

"Yes," Silen asked. "Well, there had better be."

Tsurtor didn't turn back to him. He spoke through clenched teeth, his jaw taut. "What?"

"Let me ask you a question, Tsurtor." Silen strode casually to the bars of the cell and leaned there. "Where's Vincent?"

"What?" Tsurtor's question was practically a roar.

Where was Vincent? In the images Tsurtor had flashed through Hex's mind, there was no sign of Vincent. Hex wiped his eyes and looked up, waiting for Tsurtor's response.

Silen replied, "One would think you would want to flaunt Vincent's demise. You do have him, don't you? You did kidnap him as Hex suspects, didn't you?"

"I - I," Tsurtor stammered for a moment but then took a deep breath and tried to regain his composure. "In fact, I've remade him in my own image. You like pictures, Hex? Try this one." Again, Hex's mind was filled with a single image. Vincent, his body impossibly huge, his muscles impossibly large, grotesque with power, flew down from the sky, holding a bird with his power. In the next second, he killed it, dropping its remains to the ground. "I rather thought you'd like that."

Hex looked up, seeing Tsurtor flash his horrific grin.

Before tears could begin brimming from Hex's eyes, Silen stepped between them. "And Samuel?"

"Get away from me, machine. There are fates for even such as you!"

Silen did take a step back but continued with his questions. "Didn't Samuel head this way? With Mark Nygarra and others, correct?"

Tsurtor didn't look ready to answer more questions but Hex's curiosity had been hooked. He sniffled and asked, "What did you do with them, Tsurtor?"

"They were beneath my notice," Tsurtor answered, confidently.

"Beneath your notice?" Silen's reply practically exploded from him, driving Tsurtor across the cell. "But he was a Duke of Rynia! One of the Rynian royalty which you claim to renounce! Beneath your notice? Hardly!"

Tsurtor raised a fist. "Look, you -"

But Tsurtor wouldn't finish his threat, Hex stood despite the pain in his skull. "What happened to Boom," he asked.

Tsurtor turned, barring his teeth. Silen's teeth showed as well, in a broad smile.

"What did you do with Boom Tower, Tsurtor," Hex asked.

Tsurtor growled.

"And Country Gardens," Silen added. "It's still standing, isn't it? You haven't touched that, either!"

"And Kraephten Kattox," Hex shouted. "You didn't get him, did you? You didn't get the machinists, either!"

"Face it, Tsurtor," Silen laughed, rising higher than their captor, "you haven't won anything!" His laughter was infectious and Hex started laughing as well. It felt good, watching Tsurtor squirm beneath their hope. It was more true by the moment: Tsurtor had not won!

"SILENCE!!" Tsurtor's scream shook the room around Hex, bringing him to his knees. "To think I had come here to give you a place at my side! Just as I had given to Vincent! You are no more worthy! You, too, shall fall! Laugh if you will," Tsurtor shouted as he faded to nothingness, "display your insanity and die here in this mountain!"

Tsurtor was gone. Despite his images of victory, it was clear that his war was not won. In fact, it occurred to Hex that things were only beginning.

Silen sat on the cot. "You know, I don't like that guy very much."

"You'll find you're in the majority," Hex said, leaning up against the wall.

Silen rose. "Come on, Hex. We've got to figure a way out of this mountain."

CHAPTER TWO

RETURN TO EARTH

Part I

Marcus had heard Tsurtor's words of triumph. He had heard congratulations go around as Tsurtor advanced through the carnage with his men. Even as his blood spilled freely from his chest, even as he felt the world forget him, he heard.

Tsurtor had laughed heartily, walking over the offal that had been Rynia's army. "Excellent job, General K'tan! You've met my every expectation!"

K'tan had been drooling over the freshly spilled blood. "F'ank you, shir!"

Tsurtor hadn't been listening. He stood before Marcus' still form, threw his head back and laughed. He laughed and laughed until all around him were laughing as well, though they knew not at what.

"The king is dead," Tsurtor had shouted, his voice pitched high with pleasure. "LONG LIVE THE KING!!"

Then, everything around Marcus had gone black.

Moments later, he opened his eyes. Nothing was in focus but he knew immediately that he was dead. The afterlife he'd been expecting, the afterlife of one who worshiped Gerrit, the green, rolling hills where all of his loved ones would join him and he'd be loved forever, wasn't what he saw or what he felt. Good thing he never put much stock in those beliefs. Here, his body was so heavy he couldn't move. Something was stuck up his nose and his mouth tasted much like the space between one's toes. Most of all, his chest hurt. It was as though someone was hitting him over and over but, as he gazed through eyes that seemed to be lined with cotton, nobody was there.

Then, something moved. It took all of his concentration to move his eyes as the form approached. Then, as it stood above him, he could hold them open no more. As he slid into darkness, he heard a voice say, "Just rest, Mr. Haddison. You need your rest."

Rest? Yes. He needed rest. On the way to the afterlife, he must have passed through Tzurrat's Fist.

* * *

Later, he awoke again. This time, when his eyes opened, he could see immediately that it was day. Day where? There was no telling. He was obviously in a bed and that made him feel much better. Still, the surroundings were bizarre, otherworldly.

The tube sticking out of his nose was something he'd grown accustomed to but he began to panic when he saw the tubes that pierced his arms and the machines surrounding the bed. He thought back to the Lich Vyr-At-Hozoth, remembering when Hex, Red Martag, and he had found the lich in his lair. The lich had lain upon a similar bed with machines surrounding him. Had Tsurtor, somehow, brought him back to life? Would he be a pawn in Tsurtor's grand schemes, just like the lich? He tried moving; he had to get out of here wherever Tsurtor had brought him. He couldn't rise but he struggled up on his elbows, trying to gain leverage.

"Mr. Haddison! Mr. Haddison!" A woman ran into the room and gently held Marcus down. "You need to save your strength!"

Mr. Haddison? Who was this woman? "Where am I," Marcus tried to ask but the words "am I" were all that came out.

She seemed to sense his confusion. "Just rest," she said, her voice taking on a soft tone. "You are being cared for after your accident. Your friend, Mr. dos Coskas has seen that you received only the best care. I'll let him know you wish to see him the moment he returns. Are you thirsty?"

Marcus' head was too disturbed to answer. Who was Mr. dos Coskas? To what accident did she refer? He had been in no accident; he'd been in a war! There'd be no way to explain that to her. Besides, she had told him that his mysterious beneficiary would be returning. And he was, admittedly, too tired to resist any further. And, after all, he was thirsty. His mouth felt like it had been left out in the wastes of Kal-Kor. Slowly, he nodded.

"Good," she replied. "How about some orange juice?"

Orange juice?

* * *

By the time the sun was setting, Marcus had come fully out of his exhausted haze. Still too tired to move, he could at least enjoy the cool water she occasionally gave him to sip. She had introduced herself as Tina and she would be his nurse, whatever that was. Marcus soon realized that it had nothing to do with her breasts and had more to do with tending to him. Where was he, he wondered, that words were so twisted? He stopped drinking the cool water when, after he'd had quite a bit, he discovered how she intended for him to relieve himself! And he hardly knew the woman!

Later, when the room was lit by some strange torches, he heard others enter a room outside his. "Thanks for calling me, Tina," he heard a man's voice say.

She replied, "I did just as soon as he was lucid, just like you asked."

"And Doctor Bronowski?" the man asked, approaching Marcus.

"He said he'll be by in the morning and to call if there's any change."

Then, they entered. Tina, with her hair put seriously up with that colorful clip, was followed by an older, vaguely familiar gentleman. He, in turn, was followed by a stocky, young man Helen's age. Their manner of dress, just like that of his nurse, was unusual to the extreme. Again, Marcus wondered where he could be.

The older gentleman smiled to see Marcus awake and said without turning, "You can wait outside, Tina. Thank you very much."

As Tina stepped outside, closing the door behind her (doors a lot like those that Hex had brought from his world), the older gentleman stepped closer. "How are you feeling?"

"Like I should be dead," Marcus answered.

He nodded. "That's because you should. I saved you, brought you here after Tsurtor assumed that he'd killed you. It's a major weakness of his, one that I'm hoping we can exploit."

Marcus didn't move. He didn't want to display how fatigued he felt. Trying to assume an air of confidence, he asked, "And whom should I thank for..." he looked around at the peculiar surroundings, the machines, and himself, ending with, "this?"

"You don't recognize me, do you? Of course, not. It was vanity for me to think you would. Here. Perhaps you'll recognize me now." As he mumbled some unfathomable syllables, his appearance changed. He grew younger and his clothes slowly morphed into something more recognizable by Rynian standards.

The younger man at his side clucked his tongue. "I still don't know how you do that."

"It's quite simple once you get the hang of it," the older gent replied. "Keep practicing. You'll get it."

Marcus, looking upon the transformed man, heard none of this. The sight before him brought to mind another time, long ago. As he recalled it, he heard the words as if they were spoken around him. "His forces have reached the shore! There's fighting upon the isthmus!" The larger-than-life general, Alinax, yelled at his father. Nobody in his right mind ever did such a thing but Alinax never cared. He led Marcus' father's army as an extension of his own hand and he did not like to see his own hand torn to ribbons. Marcus stood at his father's side, only a boy.

His father, King Natir Haddison, pursed his lips as the general raved. Calmly, cooly, for King Natir never lost his cool, came the reply. "You'll have to send for the wizards."

"But we can't! They're defending our southern flank! Send for them and Tsurtor's mighty machines will advance! If that happens, we won't be able to hold the isthmus!" Alinax's shouting was contrasted by the answer which came quietly, nearly unheard over the sound of the fighting.

The answer was, simple. "Then, don't."

Marcus looked up at the looming, enigmatic figure with some trepidation. Though his father always took the man's advice, he was surrounded in mystery. He was called the Traveler for it was said that he had come from far away. It was certain that he had come from nowhere in this world. They said he was a wizard, though his magic was unlike any other's. No one had seen him until the war. As Tsurtor had surfaced from out of nowhere, so had this wizard. What Marcus had noticed, even then as a boy, was that this man was always heeded no matter what he said.

"Don't send for the wizards, Traveler," King Natir asked. "Or are you telling us not to hold the isthmus?"

The Traveler looked out from under his wide brimmed hat and said, "What I am saying, your highness, is both." Then, he did the most amazing thing. He looked at young Marcus! Marcus wanted to scuttle behind his father but he didn't. The Traveler's gaze held him in place. It seemed to say Pay attention. Watch what happens next!

Marcus did pay attention, for Alinax burst into a roar. "What? Are you suggesting that we give everything to Tsurtor? Hasn't enough of your people's blood been spilt today, my liege?"

King Natir did not answer. Instead, he looked to the Traveler, who answered, "Yes, your highness. Enough of your people have died for this cause. It is time to stop fighting Tsurtor's war and begin fighting your own."

King Natir sounded irritated. "Out with it, Traveler. What do we do?"

"Draw your forces back along the isthmus but do it slowly. This will crowd the limited space and leave no room for Tsurtor's machines to advance. They will be held in the back when your wizards strike."

"From the back," Alinax responded, his voice thick with anger.

"No," the Traveler said most simply. "Here."

Alinax's face betrayed his shock. "And how do you purpose to do that?"

"Leave that up to me, General. You have troops to tend."

Perhaps it was that look the Traveler had given him but that day had remained etched in Marcus' memory for his entire life. Alinax did withdraw the troops and Tsurtor, believing they were split from the Rynian magicians, had advanced his forces, crowding the isthmus. Just as promised, the Traveler made it to the wizards and returned with them in time. Then, as if it had been the Traveler's idea all along, Tulk, the Great Destroyer, brought his magic to bear upon the isthmus and those upon it. It came at a terrible cost. As Tsurtor's army and the land they stood upon was enveloped in light, as their individual atoms released enormous amounts of controlled energy, Tulk, too, was Destroyed, absorbed into the great power he released. No human eye could watch as the isthmus disappeared and the waters of the Bania Chanel separated the new isle from the mainland.

Marcus wondered how Tuk could have followed his father's footsteps which ultimately led to the loss of his eyesight. He also remembered the brave Alinax and the debt he still owed the dead general.

He looked up at the old gentleman. "Traveler," he sighed.

"Traveler," the younger man asked.

"It's just one name among many." The Traveler stepped up beside the king's bed, bowing. "Actually, your highness, my name is Raphineal dos Coskas. I am at your service."

"You're a wizard," Marcus asked.

"Yes, sire."

Yes, Marcus remembered well his feats of magic and guessed at what branch of magic he practiced. "Mover."

"Well, I dabble in quite a bit, your highness. You see, where I come from, magic is manipulated quite differently from those on your world. It doesn't require such an extensive knowledge of... physics."

"Physics," the younger man asked with a sour face. "I could barely get through high school math!"

"Is he another wizard," Marcus asked.

"Oh, yes," Raphineal said as if just remembering, "let me introduce an old associate of mine. Tim McCarty meet King Marcus Haddison."

"A real king, huh," Tim asked, though he didn't look noticeably impressed.

Marcus ignored that. "Where am I," he asked. "I'm obviously not in Rynia. Tina's never heard of Tsurtor yet, these machines, I've seen Tsurtor use them."

"Yes, well, that's going to take a bit of explaining," said Raphineal. "It may come as a bit of a shock."

"Yes," Marcus asked.

Raphineal thought for a moment and then told him, "You're on earth."

"Earth?"

Tim smiled. "You're in Las Vegas!"

"Hex's earth?"

Raphineal nodded. "Yes."

Tim looked at Raphineal. "Who's Hex?"

"I thought you didn't come from earth."

"I don't," Raphineal explained. "I come from a world much like your own."

"Then how," Marcus tried to ask.

Tim tapped his chest. "That would be my doing."

"I'm confused."

Raphineal pulled a chair up and sat beside the Rynian monarch. "You needed immediate medical attention. What you really needed was an experienced Bonder but, trust me, there were none available. The Galenists of my world aren't adept at the type of massive injuries you experienced so I brought you here." Raphineal told Marcus about his association with Tim McCarty and the many adventures they'd had, how Tim had a natural knack for magic as a child, and how Raphineal had been training him since that time. Marcus found it hard to concentrate on what Raphineal was telling him as Tim was pulling the head of a rabbit out of his shirt sleeve. "He's really very good," Raphineal continued, "and he's found just the society to accept him."

"Las Vegas," Marcus asked.

Tim nodded. "I've been packing houses for the past two years. Nobody can figure how I do my tricks! Even with holo-effects and computer-synchronized projections, they can't top me cause they don't got what I got," as if to prove his point, Tim cupped his left hand and pulled a kitten out with the other, "magic."

"Tim's the only one I knew who would have the wherewithal to afford all of your expenses."

Marcus looked from Raphineal to Tim. "All of my expenses?"

"Sure," Tim answered. "Medical and... otherwise."

Medical expenses, he was told, entailed private care by the best specialists on the west coast. This wasn't easy to explain. To him, medicine was a matter of finding a competent Bonder. On Hex's and Tim McCarty's planet, they had needed to fly in (several hours were spent on the subject of flight) vascular specialists, surgeons, and the best cardiologist. Through several surgeries (Marcus had been appalled at the idea of being cut open. How could Hex claim his world was more advanced when they practiced such barbaric methods?), which had taken a couple of weeks, several grams of shrapnel had been extracted from his chest. Then, Marcus simply could not believe that, instead of Bonding his flesh back together, the surgeons of earth had used something called "staples" and even thread of all things! The terrible pain from his chest was, as he was told, a result of his flesh "knitting" itself back together. Instead of trying to explain what he had meant by the west coast, Tim retrieved a small, handheld computer. It was a wonder his country could obviously not duplicate. On it, he brought up a graphic display of the American continent. There, he showed Marcus, lay the west coast and there, too, lay Las Vegas.

"Where's Country Gardens," Marcus asked, curious about Hex's home.

"Where," Tim replied, laughing. "Well, that's a little like Pandora's box, isn't it? You'd be better off asking where was Country Gardens!"

* * *

"Sam," the voice asked. It was far away, far beyond the drugs and pain. Where had the last month gone? He'd seen it pass on those few occasions when his eyes had focused enough for him to see the calendar that was tacked up on the wall across the hospital's hall. Vincent had disappeared just before the end of the school year and, one month later, Hex had returned to Country Gardens in time for Tsurtor to take the entire city to Rynia. But Sam was no longer in Rynia. No, the surroundings were a sure sign that he was back on earth and the last time he'd looked at the calendar, it had just been turned to August. He wished he could see where on earth he was but, in those fleeting moments when lucidity came upon him, he hadn't the strength to move, let alone talk.

The nurses had come; they'd talked to him. At first, they'd been quiet, referring only clinically to his injuries. Sam knew he was hurt pretty bad even without the jargon. He heard endless descriptions of cracked ribs, punctured lungs, shattered jaw, contusions, dislocations, perforations, and fractures. They ventilated, pinned, stapled, realigned, and set his various injuries until it was impossible for him to move. Through all of the drugs they had dripping into his arm, he was seldom awake. Days of sleep passed into weeks with only scattered moments when he had the energy to open his eyes.

Again, he heard the voice. "Sam?" It sounded vaguely familiar. It was too young to come from one of his doctors, nurses, or any of the myriad techs and aides that came and went. He thought that, perhaps, this might be a reason to open his eyes and, once he had, he knew it definitely was! Blurry though he might be, Samuel recognized Pete Matthews' curly hair immediately. He tried to talk but did not have the energy.

"Cool," Pete almost shouted, "you're awake! Vincent's gonna be so happy about this."

If the WFR said anything further, Samuel didn't know. He slipped back down into sleep, happy in the knowledge that Vincent was near.

When he awoke next, he was a little more lucid. The taint of medication still dulled his mind but things had obviously changed. He was out of the soup of sedation that had made the past month pass in a blur. He could see his nurse come in, drawing the blinds to let in the sun, and, as she approached, heard her say, "Up and at'em! You might not be able to talk but I know you can hear me which makes you the perfect patient! Now, we're going to get you moving. You've been a boring lunk for too long. Are you ready?"

Ready? Ready for what? Sam wanted to ask but found he couldn't move his jaw. Of course, he realized, remembering hearing about this once before, it was wired shut. His entire left arm was in a cast as was his right shoulder but he was able to lift his right hand.

"What," his nurse asked. Brandi, her name tag read. "Oh, don't worry. I won't have you running any marathons. Not with the kind of accident you were in. That's not 'til tomorrow. For now, we're just gonna get you sitting up and you're going to help me."

Accident, Sam wondered. What had these people been told? He moved his neck slightly, felt it chafe against the brace, so he could look more directly at her.

"Now, you've got a good right leg going for you and that left hip needs some exercise so why don't you scoot on up with your feet and I'll do the rest?"

Samuel did this, pushing up with his right leg as she raised the bed and moved him into a comfortable sitting position. He felt better already. Yet, there was one thing missing. He looked up at Brandi, questioning.

"You hungry," she asked.

"Hnn hnn," he replied, trying to nod.

"Well, let me go get your breakfast, then." She turned toward the door, walking away, and said, "I hope you like straws."

* * *

He sucked at the straw with a wild abandon. If anything, war had reminded Randy how much he loved chocolate shakes. Over on the bed, Mark Nygarra pulled another deluxe cheeseburger out of their haul from the local burger joint. "See," Randy asked. "I told you it was good." They both sat on the queen sized bed, eating the food that was placed in the center.

"They're incredible," Mark replied through a mouthful of food.

Pete unlocked the motel room's door and, stepping inside, announced, "He's awake!"

Robert, sleeping on Vincent's chest as Vincent slept upon the second bed, rose and remarked, "And it's about time!"

The feeling was mutual. Since the four (four and a fraction if you counted Robert) had returned to earth via Vincent's magic, all had stopped as they waited for Samuel to recover from the horrible beating he'd suffered at Vincent's hands.

Well, not everything had stopped.

Vincent had first appeared with the others who were also suspended by his magic high in the sky above Seattle, Washington. It was Uncle Jeff that had driven him here; with Country Gardens gone, there was no place else to go but to Samuel and Vincent's only living relative. Vincent's memories of idyllic summers spent at Uncle Jeff's, weekends at LongAcre, mornings fishing on the Sound, picnics at that park on the water down the hill from Jeff's house in Kirkland, had drawn a subconscious sick with the taint of Tsurtor's touch that longed for a time when he was powerless, cared for by good old Uncle Jeff.

"What the hell?" Pete shouted once they appeared, his words echoing what they all were thinking.

Randy asked, "Where the hell are we?"

"Seattle," Pete answered, loudly, his hair whipped by the high altitude winds. "See? There's the Space Needle! Vin, you got to get us to a hospital!" Even suspended by Vincent's magic, his leg was throbbing.

Down there, amid the high-rises, Swedish Medical Center awaited. Vincent remembered it from the time Jeff had taken him. He'd insisted he was okay; he'd only fallen into the water. "Your daddy would never forgive me, Vinnie. He'd beat me up!" "He wouldn't beat you up," Vincent had insisted. "Well, let's get you there anyway. I don't want to take any chance, okay?"

Okay. And there it was, coming towards them. Vincent mentioned Uncle Jeff and thought he could help explain things. That would take too long, Pete insisted, and besides, he had a better idea. Vincent placed Samuel out on the street, empty at this time of night. Mark thought it looked to be only a couple of hours before dawn but it was hard to tell without knowing where in the world he was.

"Go," Pete yelled. "Get the hell out of here. If this works, I'll see you tomorrow."

Vincent's mind was clearer than it had been in weeks. No longer was Tsurtor's voice constantly insinuating itself into his psyche. Still, he felt the fool. Nearly naked there, he'd returned to his world as a freak made by Tsurtor. He couldn't show his face without terrifying people. He had no choice but to listen to Pete. Up he rose, quickly so he wouldn't look back, drawing Randy and Mark after him.

"Hey, Vince! You want to ease up on the throttle?!" Randy sounded sick but Vincent didn't care. How so like a disciple of Tsurtor.

"I'm sorry, Rand," Vincent replied, slowing. He set them carefully only a few blocks away at Pier 54. A sign above them read "Acres of Clams". Vincent leaned against the railings. "I just don't know what I'm going to do," he said, wearily.

Mark placed a hand upon his shoulder. "Vincent, if we were back on my world, perhaps I could guide us but... here? This is all too much for me. The buildings rise higher than the tree dwellings in Tzurritza. Everything is as big as Ktoll but it shines! Look at those ships," he cried. They were grander by far than anything in Rynia. He put a hand on his head. "It's enough to make me dizzy."

Though the two despaired, Randy had always wanted to travel. He knew about Seattle from a few bands he liked. Chewing his lip, he asked, "Vince? Do you trust Pete?"

Vincent nodded his head.

"Cause he's smart, right?"

Again, Vincent nodded his reply.

"Well, the way I see it," Randy explained, looking around, "we're gonna need a place to stay real soon with those clouds moving in. We're gonna need new clothes, food, and money to hold us over until your brother heals up."

"But what's that have to do with Pete," Vincent asked.

"Nothing," Randy replied as if making his point. "See, I know exactly what we need to do and he'd never have the balls to do it."

* * *

"You had him rob a what?" Pete's voice was quiet but full of emotion, talking on the phone at the hospital. His disapproval was obvious.

"It was just one Brinks truck, Pete. He only took a couple bags."

"Only," Pete replied, exasperated. "How much money was that?"

"I don't know," Randy replied, doing the figuring in his head. "Probably only a few thousand. We haven't counted it all, yet."

"A few thou-" Pete had to stop and calm himself down. "Where's Uncle Jeff? Did you get him?"

"Sure. I'm at his place now." Randy looked over at his friend's uncle, who was sitting in his kitchen, looking like he was in shock. Given the situation, it was understandable. A stranger shows up at his door and announces that he knows his nephews - the nephews that had disappeared with Country Gardens. Now, it turns out that one's in the hospital and the other is heisting Brinks trucks. To his credit, Jeff breathed calmly. (He would continue to do so, so long as his wife didn't hear about this.)

Pete was very clear. "Then bring him here right now and pick me up before you have Vincent robbing banks!"

"I wouldn't," Randy tried to say but Pete had already hung up on him.

As luck would have it, Pete's leg wasn't broken; it was only a bad sprain. He waited with Randy out in the lobby while Uncle Jeff went in to see Sam. Sitting there, he explained to Randy, "I gave them Uncle Jeff's name for Sammy and pretended to try and call him. I told them I got his machine. Then, I gave them my home number and a bogus address."

Randy thought for a moment. "Your phone number's gonna be disconnected but what about the address?"

"I still got my mom's insurance card, Randy. She's always saying that it takes them forever to pay a claim."

"And by that time, we'll be gone," Randy finished with a nod.

Then, Uncle Jeff stepped out into the lobby. His face was ashen and he shook as he asked, "Where's my other nephew? Where's Vincent?"

Anonymity in mind, Randy had rented them a room with weekly rates at the Continental, one of the seedier hotels in Seattle's red light district, across from the Pike Place Market. As they took the stairs to the tenth floor, Pete, with Randy helping him walk all the way, recounted everything he could remember about Hex and Rynia and magic. The higher they went, the more upset Uncle Jeff grew. Finally, when Pete tried to tell him about Vincent's imprisonment at Tsurtor's hands, Jeff shouted, "Just shut up! I don't know what you two punks are up to but I swear if he's not here, I'll throw you off the goddamned building!"

Without another word, they led Uncle Jeff to the room and opened the door for him.

He burst into the room. "Vincent," he called, but the room wasn't that large. It held one bed of dubious comfort and a table with one chair. Mark Nygarra sat at the chair, dressed like something out of another age, complete with armored jacket and broad sword. On the bed, sat...

Uncle Jeff had never been a violent man, not quick to anger. A computer programmer for nearly twenty years, he was far from physical. He became even less so when his sister had died. He'd offered to help care for Vincent then (he didn't have any children of his own) but Samuel had been headstrong. With their disappearance, the disappearance of their entire city, Jeff had discovered that angry side, blaming himself. Seeing what he saw on the bed, he found his violent side, again. He grabbed Randy by the collar and, before either of them knew it, threw him against the wall, screaming, "What the hell is going on here?"

"Uncle Jeff, no," Vincent shouted using his magic to draw his uncle back. Randy held his throat, by which Jeff had held him, coughing gingerly.

Uncle Jeff pulled his right foot against whatever tugged him back and took a step forward. As he did, Vincent stood before him. He was huge. His chest was like a tank and his arms thicker than any boxer's. His facial muscles bulged and twisted his features in ghastly configurations. Yet, in his eyes, deep below the creature that Tsurtor had created, something familiar resided.

Vincent whimpered, "I'm sorry, Uncle Jeff."

Jeff looked up at the thing's face. It stood before him greater than two meters. How old was Vincent, Jeff wondered? Sixteen or seventeen? Hadn't he always been the runt of the litter? "My god, Vincent. What has happened to you?"

Vincent wanted to put his arms around his uncle but was afraid that his great strength would have harmed him. Jeff would have embraced his nephew but was too frightened at what stood before him.

Mark spoke instead. "'Tis the way of Tsurtor. He warps everything good into his own image."

"And who would you be," Jeff asked, welcoming a reason to look away from that thing which had been his nephew.

"Mark Nygarra, Duke of Benaatt." Instead of bowing, Mark put his hand out as Hex would have done.

Jeff took it uncomfortably. "Benaatt," he asked.

"In Rynia," Pete explained.

Randy, still angry at being Jeff's punching bag, grumbled, "Like we've been trying to tell you!"

"So, you can really do magic," Jeff asked Vincent.

Vincent nodded.

"Like what," Jeff asked. "With rabbits or birds or something?"

"He flies," Pete said, sure it would shock Vincent's uncle.

It did. "He what?"

Vincent replied quietly, "I fly."

"Show him," Pete prompted. "Show him."

Vincent hesitated. "I don't know."

Pete nudged them toward the window. "It's dusk. People won't be able to look up without looking into the sun. Go on!"

Jeff didn't much like being pushed. "What are you going on about?"

Without a word, Vincent lifted them both and flew out the window.

Pete smiled at Randy. "Best idea I ever had."

Then, Vincent returned, his uncle passed-out beside him.

Randy smiled. "Worst idea you ever had."

With Mark's help, they got Uncle Jeff to the bed. "And to think he never saw Robert," Mark commented.

Soon, Jeff was revived without having to resort to the thick water that came, hesitantly, through the hotel's faucets. "Where's Vincent," he asked. But Vincent was gone, flown the coop, ashamed at his uncle's response. Uncle Jeff agreed to say that Sam had been living with him should anyone ask. It was all they really needed to make their deception complete. After all that had happened, it was surprising that he insisted on doing more. "You can't stay here," he said. "Whatever happened to my nephews, you need a decent place to stay."

"We can't stay with you," said Pete. "One person surfacing from a city that was supposed to have disappeared is enough but three? Plus one extra from another world?"

"Right," Randy agreed. "We want anonimimity."

"Well, at least let me help you get into someplace cleaner. This is awful." The major hindrance to renting a nicer hotel room had been their lack of credit. Even with Sam, they couldn't use it for fear of arousing suspicions.

Pete thought using Uncle Jeff's credit card number wouldn't be too obvious.

Randy was irritated, being moved from the red light district.

Mark had seen worse. Unbeknownst to him, he would see much, much more.

* * *

Tom Torticell, reporter for the Independent Internet Press, was walking through the red light district that afternoon, following some leads on a series of bizarre murders. As he crossed the parking lot on 1st Avenue, he found he had little enthusiasm for the story. Just another killing. With all the years he'd been a reporter, it seemed they never stopped.

Looking up in the sky, he saw a sight which brought him pause. His mouth fell open in shock as he saw what looked like - and he knew they'd call him crazy, they had many times before - but it looked just like a...

Man flying?

He fumbled for his camera but, bringing it up, found his flying man was gone.

"Look. Up in the sky," he muttered.

Now that would have been a hell of a story.

Part II

They wouldn't explain "otherwise" for several more weeks. It took Marcus that long just to learn a little about Hex's earth. This because, it was quickly discovered, Marcus could not read. Though his kingdom was not as technically advanced as those of earth, Marcus, like a great deal of the more affluent, was not illiterate. Somehow, though he could understand the language the Americans spoke and speak it himself it seemed, his ability to read had not come over to this world. (Hex had once told him that this phenomenon had something to do with magic reinterpreting the person in terms of where they were... whatever that meant.) Though he tried vainly to understand the little scribbles, he gave up within about a week.

Instead, he learned a great deal from Tina. She told him about a thing she watched called "television" and played games called "video" and about how sometimes she would gamble by putting money into slots or poking something... It was all too confusing.

He was grateful when Raphineal entered the room one morning along with Dr. Bronowski and announced, "Well, Mack. Look's like we're gonna get you out of this room. You've got a clean bill of health."

Marcus smiled from his chair. So far his movement was limited between there and his bed. Though he was curious as to how Raphineal knew his nickname, he answered pleasantly, "Well, that's terrific!"

"Now, Mr. Haddison, I want you to understand something," Dr. Bronowski said sternly. "You aren't to partake in any strenuous activities, not until I say otherwise. You've been dealt quite a shock and you've been through a lot. Now, I'm going to ask you to keep up your medication and diet. Ralph, here, will see to it that you do, I'm sure."

And that was that. Dr. Bronowski left in his hands-off-medicine manner (there was no way for a physician of this world to compare with the literally hands-on technique of Rynian Bonders) and Raphineal walked Marcus out into... otherwise.

Otherwise, it turned out, included a suite of rooms, nearly the entire floor as Marcus was to learn in the coming days, at the top of one of Las Vegas' most exclusive resort hotels. Of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World Resort, only two, it was said, could be seen from space: the great pyramid with its blazing tip and the Pharos, or Lighthouse of Alexandria with its great beacon which rotated hourly each night of the year. (None of this was explained to Marcus. Raphineal had a hard enough time putting Marcus' mind at ease after the Rynian king saw the frightening lack of stars in the night sky.) From his suite of rooms atop the Lighthouse, Marcus could see the Temple of Diana, as it had once appeared in Ephesus, with its Purian marble and imposing columns and the Colossus of Rhodes, the massive sun god Helios striding a man-made river, across the great courtyards filled with pools and tennis courts and beside the golf course. What kind of world was this, Marcus asked himself, where so many buildings as large as his Imperial Palace were built so close together? With the expanse of buildings they dwarfed stretching out into the horizon, Marcus thought that, surely, this Las Vegas was the center of power for Hex's home kingdom.

Imagine his shock when he was first taken out to see the rest of Vegas!

Outside of his room, the rest of his suite was larger than his quarters in the Palace. He knew he'd have to do something about that on his return. "What's that," he asked.

Raphineal tried to follow his stare. "What?"

"The moving painting with the glass facade."

"Oh, that." Raphineal crossed the room to stand beside it. "This is a television."

"Oh," Marcus said, understanding, "that's what Tina was going on about. How does it work?"

"Well," Raphineal explained, "it works by transmitting images which are then received by the tv. You can watch them like this." And, switching channels, he landed an old war movie with John Wayne barking orders at someone.

Raphineal wasn't paying attention. He'd seen the movie before and, besides, Marcus was going into hysterics.

"Gerrit! Gerrit," Marcus screamed, clutching his chest. "Those people! What is being done to those people?"

"No," Raphineal shouted. "You don't understand!"

Marcus diverted his eyes, yelling, "Monstrous!"

After all was said and done \- Raphineal explained the concept, told him the history, even took apart the television so Marcus could see there were no small people being killed behind the screen - and Marcus understood the rudiments of how television worked, he insisted that he would never, ever watch the damnable thing again!

When Marcus had been given a little more time to become more accustomed to his surroundings, it was decided that he should get out and see the world he was in. Raphineal spent a few days explaining automobiles (easy concept, just a bizarre-looking, horseless carriage), buildings (there were more, Raphineal explained, pointing to the view, much more where that came from), and the society into which he'd be brought ("A classless society," Marcus asked. "It wouldn't work!").

Still, it didn't prepare him for the shock.

He'd seen work in metal before during trips to Kallent but the expanse of polished chrome he was wheeled past in the hall was greater than any he'd seen before. Raphineal was concerned by his silence, as he pushed the king's wheelchair into the parking garage. When he did draw words out of him, Marcus gasped, "Incredible! Hex never once led me to believe he'd come from a world so rich! Why would he wish to exile himself away from it?"

Raphineal thought of the crime and the war, pollution and corruption, and knew why.

The limo ride was easily the most comfortable form of transport Marcus had ever experienced and, when the limousine parked, Raphineal rolled Marcus out onto the Strip. Again, Marcus was silenced by the immeasurable wealth this world possessed. If, as Raphineal seemed to claim, this city was built just for the leisure of the working class then, Marcus pondered, in what manner of mansion must the rulers dwell? He knew the answer would make Rynia seem as nothing. On the map of earth he'd been shown, Rynia would have been as small as some of the smallest kingdoms (countries, he'd been told). This brought him to remember Hex's rantings (or so Marcus had thought at the time) as to what other wonders Gerrit held.

Something was nagging at him, though. He looked up and asked, "Are these people happy, Raphineal? Truly happy?"

"Well, happiness is relative-" Raphineal started to explain before his eye was caught be a familiar sight surrounded by a mob of women.

Though he'd fought to keep off his weight since a very young age, Tim McCarty stood amongst his fans as if he were Adonis and enjoyed his celebrity to the hilt. He never tired of the autograph hounds, the hangers-on, the groupies, or the so-called "friends" - but he always kept them at a distance. Tim McCarty knew what real friends were. "Hey," he shouted, signing one last autograph. "Looks like the patient is up and around." The mob was shaken off in moments and the three proceeded down the Strip.

"Why were those women all over you," Marcus asked.

Tim replied, as if it was nothing, "I'm known in this town. Tim McCarty, Master of the Unexplained. So, are we ready for stage two?"

"Stage two," Marcus asked.

Raphineal grumbled. "No, we weren't."

"Oops," Tim muttered.

Marcus looked up at Raphieal. "What is stage two? For that matter, what was stage one?"

"Stage one," Raphineal explained, "was getting you better. With you still in a wheelchair, I wouldn't put you out of stage one, yet. You want to explain stage two, oh spiller-of-beans?"

Tim chuckled, ashamed. "Stage two is going to be getting you to New York."

"What's in New York?"

Raphineal intercepted that question as Tim greeted a fan. "We are hopeful that we'll be able to contact an agency suitable for obtaining a force capable to defeating Tsurtor."

"An army," Marcus asked.

"Best money can buy," Tim replied, falling back in step.

"An army," Marcus said, relishing in the thought. Tsurtor had brought weapons from earth believing he'd be unbeatable. What better way to defeat him than with an earth army? "But what's stage three," he asked.

"Stage three, your highness, would be returning to Rynia and kicking Tsurtor's butt."

* * *

"And he was flying," the cynical sports reporter asked.

"Right through the air!"

"Like a bird," one of the graphics men chided.

"No, not so much like a bird," Tom replied. Remembering what he saw, he explained, "It was more like he was riding on some invisible platform."

"A platform," his editor, Abe Vinnelli, asked. By the look on his face, it was obvious that this was another story Vinnelli didn't believe.

But Tom Torticell had convinced him of the merits of worse stories before (and, boy, had there been worse!). "I'm telling you, Abe, it's true." He grabbed a map of downtown Seattle that had been splayed on his desk and held it up. He placed several colored tags upon it. "Now, look, he's been sighted here in downtown. That was mine. I was the first person, now. Then, there was that couple on the Locks. About a week later he popped up buzzing Lake Union." He grabbed another colored flag and slapped it on the map. "And this was where I saw him. Smack-dab over Ed's Bagels. You've seen the pictures!"

Vinnelli was growing tired of Tom Torticell playing Tom Torticell. "They were specks, Tom! Useless!"

Chagrined, Tom muttered, "Well, he was up pretty high."

"If you want to write a story about flying men, Tom, I expect to see the real thing! With a cape and a red S on his chest! Now put away all that crap and get to work on something I can use!" Nearly pushing over several people, Vinnelli took several steps to his office.

But someone was in his way. Holding out something from the wire, he looked at Tom. "You might want to see this," the aide offered.

Vinnelli grabbed it rudely and gave it a look. "Well, I'll be damned."

Tom's oft-relied-upon instinct was on fire. "What is it? What?"

"Get down to Bellevue Square. It seems your flying man is being followed by Skycam 5."

* * *

Samuel looked at the headline, along with the picture beneath, and muttered, "Oh, Gaa."

Pete nodded. It wasn't pretty. The picture showed a huge, human figure, its musculature grotesque, flying over the 405 freeway. The headline read, SuperMonster Over Seattle. Beneath the picture was the caption: Strange creature sighted over Bellevue Thursday has officials wondering. This was no strange creature, no supermonster. It was, unmistakably, Vincent.

Sam scribbled on his pad. This has to stop.

Pete agreed. "I know," he said. "But Vince says he has to move around to clear his head or he starts thinking like Tsurtor told him to think."

You tell Vincent that if he doesn't stop, he won't have to worry about Tsurtor. The army will shoot him down!

Pete read over Samuel's shoulder and chuckled. "I really don't think they'd be able to, Sammy. Have you seen him fly recently? It's - it's just not human!"

Sam gave Pete a knowing look. As if any flying could be called human?

Just tell him to watch himself. If he needs to get out tell him to do it at night!

Sam thought a moment and then wrote: And tell him to stay away from photographers!!!

As Pete walked out, Samuel's new nurse returned. His name was Bert and, though Sam thought he was just being paranoid, there was something about him that put Sam on edge.

As Bert was emptying Sam's trash, he asked, "And how are you today?"

Samuel grunted noncomplacently.

"Well, that's good. Now, I brought you a menu for supper if you want to check that off." He handed it over and Sam had a choice of shakes. Checking the least nauseating, he handed the menu back to Bert. "Great. Now, I wanted to ask you about your admission information if that's okay." Without giving Sam a chance to grunt an answer, Bert continued, "You put down an address here for your current residence and I just wanted to verify that it was correct."

Odd, Samuel thought. As long as he'd been in the hospital, nobody else had asked him that. He'd assumed they'd verified all the information with Uncle Jeff. Sam thought the best response would be simply to nod.

"Good. Okay." Bert looked at him and Sam suddenly got the feeling he was being interrogated. "That's your brother's address, isn't it?"

Samuel felt the hairs jump up on the back of his neck. No, he wrote, my uncle's.

"Right. Uncle," Bert said as if he'd been mistaken. "I'm sorry. That's your uncle Jeff, isn't it?"

Sam nodded, trying not to display too much emotion.

"And how long have you been living with him?"

This wasn't simple conversation, Samuel knew. It had gone beyond simply verifying his address. Now, Sam had no choice but to lie. Long, long time, he wrote.

"How long," Bert asked, "exactly?"

I came up here to study martial arts, Sam wrote. That was about twelve or thirteen years ago. I've been living with him since.

"Really? And where'd you live before then?"

Samuel remembered where he'd lived with his parents. Orange Hills, California.

"Well, you've really been around, haven't you? I've got to go but you let me know if you need anything." Nurse Bert walked away from his bed, adding, "I'm sure we'll talk again later."

From the sick feeling in his stomach, Sam did not doubt it.

* * *

Several days later, as the winds of early fall blew through an afternoon storm, Melonie Harris pulled the first batch of chocolate-macadamia nut cookies out of the oven. She loved making them every year when her old friend, who had been forced to move to the islands for a teaching job, sent her a box of macadamias. She was tempted to eat one right from the pan but the smell permeating the warm kitchen was enough... for now.

Thoughts of cookie heaven were quickly banished, though, with a knock on the door.

"I got it, honey," Jeff yelled, coming down the stairs. As he opened the door, he saw two conservatively dressed men at the door. They look like cops, he thought jokingly. "Yes," he asked.

"Jeff Harris," one asked.

"Yes," he answered.

"Agent Summers, sir," one announced, flashing a badge. "FBI. We'd like to ask you a few questions."

Having never witnessed this scene outside of the movies, Jeff was at a loss of what to say. He asked, "What about?"

"You have a nephew in Swedish Medical Center. Samuel Gobel. Is that correct?"

No, he thought, convincing himself to lie, but he was sure that FBI agents would know better. He answered, "Yes," trying to think of a plausible story.

"He listed this address as his current residence," Agent Summers said, almost accusing.

Jeff nodded, trying to look relaxed.

Agent Summers took a step forward. "Perhaps we should discuss this inside."

Jeff's hesitation and confusion were taken as defiance. The other agent stepped up threateningly, adding, "We really must insist."

"But," Jeff stammered, "but, why?"

"Have you heard of a city called Country Gardens, Mr. Harris," Agent Summers asked. "Several thousand people and millions of dollars of property were lost with that city and with the reappearance of one of its citizens we think we may have a lead as to who is responsible."

His throat dry, expecting the worst, Jeff opened the door further and the agents stepped inside.

CHAPTER THREE

IN EXILE

Part I

As the months passed on Hex's earth, and summer turned to fall, time progressed in Rynia as well. Throughout the kingdom, Tsurtor allowed his forces free rein, exacting his punishment for generations of banishment. As he had suspected, his thirst for power had not been slaked with the attainment of his dreams. Rynia lay at his feet but, still, he wanted more. Slowly, his gaze shifted to Kallent.

Meanwhile, on Regal Isle, Hargoth, restored by his own power, rose his own, twisted version of the Imperial Palace. Spires spiraled above his subjects, a restless congregation of stone giants and behemoths. No other creature was allowed upon the isle and every reminder of humanity's occupation was obliterated. Hargoth sat on his grand, stone throne, experiencing the fulfillment of his destiny, and wanted more.

As winter thawed to spring, though, the first steps were being taken to cast this evil from Rynia, finally and definitely.

The first refugee Bethel Patir found from the last battle against Tsurtor turned into two, then three, refugees. With the last of winter's winds, Bethel had formed a force of nearly one hundred, some refugees and some new recruits, dedicated to resistance. She had great plans for an underground resistance, killing the saladans which killed and looted while they slept in their false sense of security, finding ways of destroying Tsurtor's impressive machines, even poisoning their supplies, but few would be enacted. They were halted the instant word came. There was already a Rynian resistance with numbers much greater than Bethel's band. She wouldn't have believed it until she heard the name of their leader, Banry Ellison.

Then, she knew she had to find them.

* * *

Though spring came to much of Rynia, there were still portions where winter clung tenaciously. In Goroc's Landing, the northernmost sea port along Rynian shores, ice still slicked the streets. Snow-covered monoliths, the Northern Spires, filled the air and the eyes with winter's white specter. The people of Goroc's Landing were a hearty folk; a little cold didn't bother them. Most were direct descendants from the first prospectors who had come north to mine those mountains and had fought in the last skirmishes between men and dwarves as a result. They grew tougher with each year, battling not only the weather and the sea but fighting the ice giants who came down from the passes each winter as well. This had been the first winter without any raids. It was said that the ice giants were no more, eradicated by the same wizard who had brought doom upon Benaatt.

Goroc's Landing did not hold the renown of other seaports such as Ceyliz or Sabritau. Even the relatively recent port at Regal Isle was better known. Yet, it was the only port to trade with Analan and Yrachi to the southwest, far beyond the land traveler's boundaries of Ktoll.

On one particularly blustery morning, a trader from Analan came down the coast. Its sails lowered, it rode in a strong current.

"Okay, son, now give me a taste of sail and we'll bring her in!" The shout had come from the huge, bearded man at the helm and he watched as his order was carried out by a ludicrously small boy who fumbled with the ropes.

Gault, having let out too much sail, struggled to bring it back in but only succeeded in letting out more.

As the large ship picked up speed, Red looked worriedly at his young protégée. When, after Gault had struggled for several more minutes, the sail was still catching the strong gusts, Red stepped from the till' and, untangling the ropes in an instant, brought down the sail. A sudden lurch told him they'd struck the dock.

"Martag," the captain called. "I oughta brain you!"

Red donned his best smile. "No harm done."

But the captain, old enough to know better than to listen, grumbled, "Bah!" His crew was already seeing to the docking. The anchor was down. He was no more a native to Goroc's Landing than he was to any other city but he stepped upon the docks, looking for the Portmaster to appease, though the docks had seen worse

Red, happy that the captain hadn't taken it too hard (nor had the ship), put an arm around Gault as they stepped off the trader. Their voyage, made mostly to continue Gault's training, meant another week of free lodging at the captain's brother's friend's inn. "Not to worry, my boy. I've seen worse landings, take my word for it. Why, I remember my first time going solo." Red raised his free hand to the sky for emphasis. "Day as clear as glass and the sea just as calm. You could have landed that trader with your eyes closed, half asleep! Then, suddenly, there's a call from the bow! Off to port, some fisher's let his raft slip into traffic! He's not meters away! Think I made it?"

"Uh, yes, suh," Gault replied, always impressed with Red's stories.

"Well, then, son, you'd be dead wrong." Red's hand went down like a knife. "Cut the raft right in two while the fisher jumped overboard. The landing was picture perfect. Just wait until you get your chance."

"I think the boy's heard enough of your tales, Red. Let's get inside now and out of this cold."

The voice was unmistakable and Red looked over at it like a thirsty man seeing a glass of water. Her chestnut hair was caught mostly in a scarf but some still fell down, pushed aside so it wasn't in her face. Bundled as she was, there was no mistaking what she hid beneath all those clothes. Beside her, bundled even more, the little girl's face could hardly be seen through all the clothes.

Red shook his head. He and Gault wore not a coat between them. "I've told you more than once, Helen, that you'll never make a good Lander if you can't get used to a little chill."

"Then, I'll never make a good citizen of Goroc's Landing," Helen replied. Suddenly, the port was less cold. "Come here, you hairy, old mollusk!"

Red put his arms around her but didn't squeeze too tightly. "Aye, but you have grown, haven't you?"

"This happens when you're pregnant, Martag," Helen replied with little humor. Stepping out of the embrace, she said, "I guess this isn't the best time to be pregnant."

Red knew to what she referred. It had been several months since Tsurtor's victory and still no hope was in sight. Fortunately, he'd ignored the Landing. It probably held no strategic advantage or was just too insignificant to be of worth. Still, there was no proof against his spies. The royal party adopted the inconspicuous attitude of refugees from the war (which, indeed, they were). No titles were used and no magic (despite Tuk's grumblings).

Red thought for a moment and then flashed her a smile. "It's the perfect time, girl. You'll see. Before this baby's born, we'll be warmin' our toes by your hearth and Hex'll be rubbing your belly." He turned to Caroline with his arms out. "Ain't I right, little girl?"

"You're always right, Red," Caroline agreed, though it was hard to make out her muffled voice through all her clothes.

Helen embraced Gault but she spoke to Red. "Well, you'd better be right soon. I don't think I have more than a month or so left."

"I've seen Hex work miracles in less time," Red replied, holding Caroline in his arms.

Helen thought of Hex's last visit in the Palace's garden. "Maybe," she said. "We'll never see a miracle if we freeze to death. Let's get inside."

"Ah, Helen," Red replied, "it's like I tell you. You need to get accustomed to the climate."

"Fine, Red," she said, taking the lead to the inn. "I'll get accustomed just as soon as we get a fire going."

* * *

Goroc's Landing's most important buildings were built closest to the pier. Here were warehouses and shipwrights, taverns and traders. The largest inns, towering up to three stories tall, were built right up against the docks. Along IceWater Way, the Landing's widest road, the busiest businesses bustled with every new shipload of goods and customers. However, as one went further out from the docks, closer to the residences whose exteriors were hard with peat and interiors were dark with creosote from the coal-cookers, there stood those inns who worked extra hard to attract any business. Goroc's Landing wasn't exactly a tourist trap.

So it was that the royal party was able to secure a large room in the back of Criak's Cottage, one of the saddest inns sitting on the outskirts of town. They could have easily entered through the bar, where Criak's proprietor, Farlen Hefflid, would be standing, anxiously hoping to tend bar. They didn't, though. The times that they had, Farlen had jumped up, excited, only to see they were already staying with him. (Farlen looked on the royal party as little better than freeloaders, recompense for money borrowed from a friend.)

They entered through the back, to find Tuk fumbling with the flue.

"Tuk, what are you doing," Helen asked, stepping inside.

"Dag'blamed draft killed the fire!" Tuk turned from the chimney, covered with soot. It was so thick that even his grey hair, and the grey beard he had grown, was dyed. "Bones're likely to freeze up in this weather and shut that door, Martag! You're letting in the snow!"

"It's spring," Red pointed out, closing the door behind him. "The snow's all been swept from the steps. Besides, how did you know I was here? I was outside and I didn't say anything."

"I could smell you and your fishy friend from down the block!" Behind him, the logs crackled, stirring into a blazing fire.

"Tuk," Helen scolded, removing her jacket.

Tuk rubbed his hands against the warmth. "I only did what you wanted me to do but hadn't the will to ask." Caroline was soon beside him, her gloves off, wiggling in the fire's warmth.

Red pulled up a chair and Gault retrieved two warm ales from the bar. "So, what's news?"

Helen, helping Caroline out of her extra pair of pants, sighed. "No word. Tsurtor's closed down the northern pass and guards it day and night."

"So, Malagosh made it back," Red asked, taking his ale from Gault and slurping off the foam.

"Back and gone again," Tuk answered, pulling a straight-backed chair close to the fire. "That creature knows no limit. It said there must be a way but it would not tell us to what or where! It just set out again without so much as a nap."

"That's cause daddy made it that way, Uncle Tuk," Caroline explained, wiping soot from her uncle's face. "Hardwood is the strongest substance worked by Rynians, next to stone, of course, but it would have been too uncomfortable having any stone creatures roaming the halls. Daddy didn't sense the inherit weaknesses in hardwood that had led his previous creations to their premature demise."

Helen smiled, thinking the girl was so like her father.

"Well, it's disrespectful to the aged, that's what it is," Tuk accused. "You'll learn that someday!"

"So, that's the pass. There's other ways out of the war zone." Red cast a knowing gaze from Helen to Tuk, confident that the old wizard would sense his stare.

He did. "D'you see anybody else, Martag? There ain't been a peep!"

"What about you, Red," Helen asked. "What were you able to find in Analan and Yrachi?"

"As you know, Hel, no official diplomatic ties have ever been drawn with those nations. You could spend an entire night on 'would'ves' and 'should'ves'. I know I did. The Emperor of Yrachi didn't listen to me for five minutes before denying any aid. He is confident that the great mountains of Ktoll will hold back any threat Tsurtor may pose. And Analan? Not even the lowest senator would grant me audience." He breathed heavily, holding back the anger that failure to his princess brought him. "I am sorry, Helen."

While the room hung in silence, Helen moved her chair closer to the fire and held Caroline against her. She knew she had to say something but didn't know what. After several minutes, she asked the undeniable question. "Then, what do we do?"

Suddenly, the door opened and a gust blew in. Tuk lurched forward, afraid for his fire. Caroline ran to the doorway and hugged, "Byron!"

"Yes, little one," Byron greeted, trying to hold her and close the door at the same time. Red obliged with the door. "Have you been good to your mommie while I've been away?"

"Oh, always! Always," Caroline bragged, pulling Byron closer to the fire. Byron was not made to feel the discomfort of temperature extremes so he didn't need to be warmed up. Actually, drawing a wooden creature towards a fire could be taken offensively if Byron didn't know Caroline's intentions were nothing but honorable. He turned to Helen and asked, "Has she?" Before Helen could answer, though, he gasped. "How close are you now? You look so big!"

Helen looked down as the wooden man poked gingerly at her tummy. "I still have some time, yet. Until then, I'll try to take any insult as a compliment."

Byron missed the sarcasm. Already, he was pacing, a trait he picked up from his creator. "Oh, this isn't good. This just simply is not good."

"What are you on about, woody," Tuk grumbled.

"Aye, Byron, what's wrong," Red asked, pulling up his chair.

Byron continued pacing. "This throws off everything."

Helen couldn't wait through his cryptic apprehension and did something she never could have done to Hex. He was taller than her and much bigger than Byron. She grabbed him by one arm, stopping his pacing in its tracks, and said, "Tell us."

Byron looked at her silently, still thinking his concerns through in his head. "I have found something of considerable importance," he announced.

This brought Tuk close as well and Gault closed the circle.

Byron shook his head. "You're preparing yourself for good news and I'm afraid it's something I can't deliver."

"What did you find," Helen insisted.

Byron nodded sharply. "For those who know the history of Goroc's Landing, you know that the Rynians who first came here did so as a result of the last dwarven conflict. It was the last because of a deadly plague which contact with humanity brought upon them. It ended, not so much with a truce but, with a complete withdrawal by the dwarven folk. The humans ceased their mining due to the dangers that the dwarfs presented. Hidden inside their mountain, they were on their own turf and wouldn't let the humans go any further. So, it was a stalemate. But the mines remained."

"I know that, Byron," Red prompted. "That's how me and Marcus and Hex were able to find the lich, by passing through the dwarf's tunnels. What good's that do us? The dwarfs wouldn't let us pass and I wouldn't want to have to fight another one of those, let me tell ya!"

"You could do it, Uncle Red! You could beat up anything!"

Red looked at little Caroline with a disbelieving grin. "Ah, the confidence of youth."

"I have reason to believe I can change things," Byron said, bringing them back to the subject. "Hex saw immediately that the plague humanity brought to the dwarfs was not a plague at all. During the initial encounter between dwarves and men, there was no sign of sickness among the humans. Therefore, whatever the dwarfs were exposed to would have to have been something the humans had lived with so long that they'd grown accustomed to it."

"I don't know about the rest of 'em, woody, but you lost me." Tuk rubbed his beard in thought, getting soot on his hands. "Are you saying we gave them the plague without knowing it?"

Byron nodded. "If Hex's calculations are correct, we gave them a cold."

Helen looked sternly at her daughter. "Now do you see why it's so important that you cover your mouth when you cough or sneeze?"

Impressed, Caroline nodded.

"But the dwarfs are man's enemies," Tuk grumbled. "Why should they let us through?"

"They shouldn't," Byron agreed, "but for one individual. A dwarf Hex has had contact with, Gurrak."

Red thought for a moment. "I remember that name."

"As well you should," Byron replied. "He was the dwarf who led those who intercepted you as you tried to cross their caves on your way to defeating the lich. Prior to the onset of war, he magically transported Hex to their halls. It was there that he first told Gurrak about the possibility of a cure for the plague devastating his people."

"But why should Gurrak or his people allow us passage through the dwarven halls," Helen asked.

"I was with Hex when he performed most of his experiments and aided him in many of his investigations. I belief I've sufficient knowledge to stand in his place before the dwarfs."

For the first time, Gault spoke up. Ignoring the obvious arrogance of one of Hex's creations purporting to take his place, he asked, "And do what?"

Byron replied, simply, "Heal the dwarfs."

"But if you stay while another goes south," Helen asked, "who will be the other?"

"Let it be me," Red offered. "Gault and I could make our way out of the caves and back to safety within two week's time."

"And then, who would pay for our room," Tuk asked.

Helen nodded. "Excellent point. Remember, Red? It's the same reason why we wouldn't allow you to sail south again. Our rent would be due again before you returned." She looked at Byron. "I'll go."

Byron shook his head. "I'm afraid I can't allow that, Pri - er, Helen."

"Aye," snapped Red. "What're you thinking, girl? You're with child!"

Seeing Helen rise to her defense, Byron followed, "His point is valid. My entire plan had depended on your not having advanced so quickly through your pregnancy. Perhaps the time just passed too fast. Either way, we can't allow you to endanger yourself."

"This is silly!" Helen's angry voice rang off the walls. "We certainly can't let Tuk go alone."

Tuk moved his chair next to the fire. "I'll just stay here by my warmth if it's all the same."

"And Caroline's just a baby! You have to let me go!" Helen's piercing glare worked at changing Byron's mind.

"I won't allow it," Red shouted.

Helen looked up, proudly into his eyes. "You seem to forget who you're talking to!"

Both were nudged aside by Byron who said, calmly, "No. You're the one who forgets, Helen. You have no power here. You will not go. None of you can go. My plan has failed." He walked to the window and gazed outside and Red and Helen huffed in anger.

Little Caroline, though, approached Byron. "By-By, what was your plan?"

Byron ran a hand through her long tresses, curly just as her father's. "Ah, Carolina," he sighed, "so much like your father." He sat her up on the sill and held her hand, explaining, "No single person could go for various reasons, some already stated. Also, it would alert suspicions. Nobody goes into the mountains for the sheer pleasure of it. This village is too small and Tsurtor's spies are too near for us to pull this over on anyone."

"So," she asked, prompting him like her father would.

"So," he answered with extra emphasis, "if no single person could go..." He waited until a glint of understand shone in her eyes and awaited her response.

But her mother had been listening and understood sooner. "You'd have us all go? You'd risk all of our lives?"

Byron grimaced. "All or nothing, we are bound together."

"But the dwarfs," Tuk shouted. "Hadn't you thought of what their reaction might be to such a sizable party?"

"Aye," Red agreed. "This was no simple, spying mission, was it? You had longer term plans for us!"

"You need to tell us, Byron," Helen insisted. "It's the way Hex would have wanted it!"

Suddenly, little Caroline announced, "Byron was gonna have the dwarfies help us, huh? They was gonna fight Tsurtor for us!"

Devastated silence gripped the room. Was their situation so desperate? Or had Byron gone completely insane?

He nodded. "The little one is correct. Having cured their plague, the dwarfs would owe us a boon."

Red gasped, "Aye. He's right."

"Tsurtor's never fought the dwarves," Tuk whispered. "He wouldn't know how to defend himself."

"We have to do it," Helen stated.

Byron shook his head. "We won't. I cannot allow it."

"Cannot allow?" Helen's voice was suddenly thick with resentment. "Cannot allow?" She stepped from her chair and grabbed Byron by the arms. Lifting him to eye level, she shouted, "I'm getting pretty damned sick of you and Red telling me what you can and cannot allow! I'm your princess! I give the orders!"

As she placed him on the table, he replied, "But you could die, princess. You and your baby as well."

"Don't you think I know that? Don't you think I've thought this through? Every day we've spent here is just another day for Tsurtor to come and get us! No matter how perilous this journey you have in mind might be it's no worse than that! I've put my life on the line plenty of times, just as my father before me, and I'm not about to stop now! And no piece of wood or old sailor is going to tell me otherwise! Is that understood?"

Byron looked for the words to say but Red stopped him. "She's right." Byron sighed; with no more support, the risky journey was imminent.

"Rats," Tuk snapped. "And just when I got the fire going!"

Part II

Far to the south, deep in the heart of Tzurritza, the city of Raful was warmed with the springtime sun and the steam venting from the great volcano, renowned as Tzurritza's Grinding Fist. Water levels rose through the swamp, ironically making travel throughout the southern nation easier as boats could travel faster and without the pervasive fear of snags and shallows. One such boat was expected to arrive at the wide docks of Raful but no one waited. This particular boat had been built larger than any other in the swamp and was expected to be delayed. It needed to be large for it carried north the great technological treasures of the mysterious Kieni or, as it was now more typically known, the Machinist's Guildhall.

At a nearby bar, a dart was hurled to pass the boring wait. Every dart hurled was followed by a grumbled curse.

"Don't know why you spent your time with those darts, Timothy. You fight well enough with a staff."

Timothy Holt grabbed the darts from the board and walked back several paces. "Practice," he replied. "You never know when you'll need to do something." He drew his arm back and hurled the dart nearly a centimeter from the board's center.

Kraephten Kattox leaned back on the bar and sipped his tea and cursed at the taste of brandy so strong in the brew. Kraephten Kattox had grown irreversibly hateful of Tzurritzanian brandy. Still, he smiled at the bartender. "That's how he got to be the world's greatest thief, right?" Another dart landed off the board, sticking into the wall. "Yep, taught him everything I know."

Then, the door flew open and a soldier announced, "They're here, Kattox."

"That's our cue," Kraephten said, taking one last sip of tea.

Timothy threw his last dart haphazardly, landing it on the edge of the board. "But I'm just beginning to get good at this," he protested.

Down at the docks, the huge ship pulled in. Manned by six burly Tzurritzanians, three figures stood at the fore with nothing to do. Each was dressed in a peculiar fashion, obviously not Tzurritzanian, with a long coat - "lab coats" they called them - that fell well below their waist. Not only were the fashions odd but the materials were as if from another world. The men were clean shaven, their hair trimmed neatly, and the woman equally reserved. Bertrum Typewriter returned Kraephten's wave, smiling at his return to the capital city. All of them smiled, though, in truth, Charles Carburetor's was mostly due to their finally exiting that atrocious swamp. The third member was Melissa Refrigerator and the reason for her smile was only known for sure by herself or Kraephten, though the others were highly suspicious.

"Bert," Kraephten greeted, taking the machinist's hand as he stepped onto the dock. "Great to see you again! I see you brought the goods your promised."

Behind Bertrum, the six sailors were joined by longshoremen who moved the boxes from the ship. "And more so," Bertrum replied. "With any luck, we should a good deal Tsurtor hasn't thought of."

"Or, at least, we'll teach you barbarians proper sanitation," came a familiar mumble.

Kraephten turned towards its source. "And I trust your voyage was pleasant, Mr. Carburetor."

Charles laughed. "Who do you think you're kidding? That stinking boat isn't even equipped with a proper toilet. Pleasant? Far from it, I'd say."

"Hope you didn't pick up any leeches," Timothy muttered.

"Well, I hope you'll find your billet properly equipped," Kraephten said loudly, trying to drown out his young friend. "If not, I'm sure we can count on you to set things straight." This said, Kraephten turned to the final member of the team. "Melissa," he greeted, taking her hand. He kissed it and looked up at her. "I trust you are well."

Shivers ran through her from the sensation of his soft, white goatee against her flesh. "Oh," she cooed, "if I wasn't, I am now."

Melissa was different from the other women with whom Kraephten had been involved. To start with, she was easily smarter than he; it was only his charm that got him by with her. That was always more than enough. Too, she was older than his usual get. In her mid-forties, her hair was already starting to grey but she was still young enough to be his daughter. Charles Carburetor, too, was greying. Perhaps, it was for this reason that he felt he should be leading the party - no, leading the guild. Bertrum Typewriter, however, had made sure that would not happen. The youngest machinist ever to lead the guild, Bertrum was in his early thirties. It was clear to Charles that he had not paid his dues but, sadly, no one else had such keen insight.

As Kraephten stepped away from the docks, Melissa's hand in his, he watched with pleasure the amazed look on her face. "Do you find it pleasurable, madam machinist?"

"Oh, it's wonderful," she sighed. "So quaint."

The smile on Kraephten's face slowly dropped. "Quaint?"

"Yes. It's like stepping into another time."

Oh no, Kraephten thought, not her, too.

"Just look at the construction. So rustic! Whole logs. And, what's that? Wattle?"

Kraephten was happy, when, after spending hours entertaining the condescending trio, they went to the warehouse where the machinist's goods had been stored. Soon, the three had all of their equipment unloaded and, as expected, the Council, led both figuratively and literally by Bernise Holl, arrived for their demonstration. Kraephten greeted each and asked them to take their seats. If they were impressed, as the machinists had assured him they'd be, another Tzurritzanian army - albeit smaller than the first - would be recruited. If not? Well, Kraephten didn't much relish the thought of fighting Tsurtor on his own.

He leaned back against the wall as the machinists began.

Timothy stood next to him. "I sure hope this is everything it's cracked up to be," he whispered.

"If it isn't," Kraephten replied, his voice low, "you may as well kiss your Imperial City goodbye."

Bertrum Typewriter stood before the council, flanked by his two fellow machinists, and bowed. The others bowed as well, though Charles didn't look too pleased about it. "Welcome, Council of Tzurrat," he greeted. "We members of the Patrizzi Machinist Union have been sworn from our very beginning to preserve that technology which was lost so long ago for future generations. Now, with the threat of Tsurtor's powerful army, we have decided to aid you in your fight with weapons and tools far more advanced than anyone on this planet has heretofore seen." He bowed solemnly, receiving the applause of the council.

"First," Bertrum continued, taking an item from Melissa, "allow me to show you this item which, I am happy to say, made it through the voyage without a scratch." It was a small contraption, no larger than his head, with an iron base and lid, separated by four iron bars which ran up and down a cylindrical middle which were filled with glass like in a window. Inside the cylinder, a light burned, providing light enough to fill the warehouse. "This we call a light box. Luckily, all four survived the trip. It will work far better than your torches or your candles and, thanks to its base which holds a reserve of oil, will stay lit under even the worst weather." To demonstrate his point, he swung it back and forth. To the surprise of those watching, no wind got in.

Charles picked up a box, slightly larger than his hand. "And to make sure you don't get lost in that foul weather, we present for you these direction finders. There are six in all." He stepped closer, tilting it down to them so they could see the needle jiggling about inside, on top of a circular field, pointing to a big S. "By the way it's pointing, I can tell I'm facing south," he said condescendingly. "You do know what south is, don't you? Good. The other letters mean west and north and-"

"East," Bernise Holl interrupted. "Yes. We get the picture. But, how is this poossible? What manner of creature doo you have inside?"

"No creature," Bertrum announced, "only the product of science."

Charles was still looking angrily at Bernise. "Something you savages would never understand."

Bertrum shot Charles a dangerous look and Melissa continued. "Um, and when you've found your enemy with the use of the light box and direction finder, you can spy on him from afar with these extended vision tubes." She held a cylinder which telescoped out into a long pipe. "With these - we brought three of them - you can see something over a kilometer away."

"Impoossible," a council member huffed.

"No. Not at all," Bertrum reassured. "They work very simply."

"How," Bernise asked.

"Well," Bertrum stumbled, "they refract - no, you would understand that..."

"You, with the glasses," Charles barked at Herriot. "They work like that. They're just a whole lot stronger."

"Ooh," the council said as one, nodding with understanding.

Charles began to chuckle but Bertrum quieted him, saying, "And now, if we can have silence," his glare upon his fellow machinist was hard and intense, "we can demonstrate the new weapons which we will provide. Now, we haven't been able to construct many of these in the short time available. However, we do have enough for a small brigade." Melissa drew a long iron and wooden stick from a box and handed it to Bertrum. "You have seen the projectile throwers which we provided for your people. Tsurtor's men, however, have a projectile thrower that can fire its projectiles at a rapid pace. Sadly, we cannot presently match that technology. I'm sure it's only a few months away, though. In the meantime, we will provide your men with these more powerful, longer ranged projectile throwers. With your permission, I shall demonstrate its power."

The council quickly agreed and Charles nailed a clay target on the warehouse wall. Kraephten looked on with interest. His own projectile thrower, out of ammunition since returning to Tzurritza, hung heavily at his side, a reminder of what they had faced and who he had lost. "This had better be good," Timothy muttered as if reading his mind.

Bertrum Typewriter walked away from the target, over forty meters, and then turned to his audience. "As you can see, this is much further than the smaller projectile throwers would have hit," he called. "Isn't that correct, Kraephten."

"Absolutely," Kraephten agreed, holding up his weapon. "These things couldn't hit a target further away than ten or twenty meters."

"Now these throwers don't have chambers in which to place the projectile. They're based on older technology which requires a different loading process." Bertrum fished around in the pocket of his lab coat and pulled out a tubular pouch. "Everything you'll need is in here. These are actually easier to produce than the chamber loaded projectiles and, for this reason, we were able to acquire enough to allow for some practice. Now, this pouch must be opened; it won't fit down the barrel. It's made of paper, though, so you can easily tear it open. It contains explosive powder - and keep in mind that it won't do for it to get too wet or to be exposed to fire. It also contains several, metal balls. These will be the projectiles. Stuff those in as far as you can after the powder and then," he removed a rod that was clipped onto the metal portion of the projectile thrower, "you want to cram it down as hard as you can into the barrel. The harder you pack it, the better your shot will be." He worked furiously, ramming the rod into the barrel.

"Woon't this take too long," one of the council members asked.

"Yes," another said. "Tsurtor's men would have killed ours by noow!"

"This is a long distance weapon," Bertrum answered, replacing the rod. "The intent is for you to be ready before he gets close enough or for you to surprise him from a distance. Now, to finish, all you need to do is pull back this hammer and place this fire cap beneath - also provided in the pouch." He brought the gun to his shoulder and lined up the sight. "There is a sighting ridge at the end of the thrower. All you need to do is line it up and pull the trigger."

Whatever anyone was expecting, the entire council was thrown into a terror by the deafening explosion that seemed to shake the warehouse. Each jumped up, screaming, and several had begun to run for the exit as Charles shouted, "No! No! No! You primitive idiots! It was the thrower!"

Timothy had remained, leaning against the wall, without so much as a twitch. Kraephten, too, standing beside him, remained where he was. They'd seen and heard far worse in their skirmishes with Tsurtor. Kraephten even wore the beginnings of a smile.

When the council stopped their panicking, they began pointing at the thrower, saying, "You've put the spirit of the voolcano inside that machine!" "That could oonly have been created by Tzuratt!" "It's surely a thing of incredible evil!"

Bertrum found himself worrying. Perhaps these people were too primitive for these weapons, as Charles had claimed. Maybe this had been Bertrum's worst idea.

Then, Bernise Holl spoke up. "Indeed, it is evil. It is a hoorrible creation of dread." She nodded, slowly. "That is exactly why we must use it! Surely, these weapons will ooverwhelm any army of evil Tsurtor could bring against us!"

Agreement echoed around the room and, though Charles shook his head in disgust, Bertrum felt as though he'd won. Kraephten had already decided who would be the first to get those throwers.

"But there's more," Melissa announced, feeling encouraged by the council's enthusiasm. Though they remained standing, the watching her in silent interest. She lifted a box, several decimeters square, for all to see. "We have only a few of these. They are boxes of very powerful explosives. They should remain stable as you journey and, when you encounter the enemy, they can be used as booby traps."

Kraephten had used explosives once. He'd obtained them from a trader down in Kallent. He still remembered laying the bag in the rocks of the caves beneath the Imperial Palace. When they had gone off, both he Timothy had been flung like children's dolls as the cave had crashed in, closing off Rynianhomme forever. If his had been that powerful, he wondered how much more power these explosives from the machinists held. Would it be enough to aid Kraephten in the desperate plan he was already forming to win the war?

After the council had left, announcing that their decision would be made by morning, all they could do was wait... if it wasn't for the fact that Timothy Holt had once been a thief of some renowned known as the Hand of Night. The council member's apartments were located in an easily scaled tower made completely out of the enormous trees that grew from the swamp. The Hand knew how easy it was to scale; he'd done it before. Cautiously, he crept outside of each of the apartments, straining his well-trained ears to hear whatever voices came from within. It took hours. He began to believe it to be a fruitless effort - the council members would surely be turning in soon - when, listening outside of Bernise Holl's apartment, he heard several members arrive.

"Council Chief, I cannoot sleep with the thought of more Tzurratzanian lives at risk!" It was Pallo Saldia, the member who had nearly been killed by Tsurtor's homonculous. If anyone should have been allied with the effort to attack Tsurtor, the Hand had been sure it would be Saldia. The homonculous had taken on the Hand's appearance and it had been the Hand, himself, who had stopped it.

At that moment, the Hand was doubting that decision.

"You may all enter," allowed Holl, "but leave your hoostilities without. I am noo more your enemy than Kraephten Kattox. He oonly wishes, as do I, to prootect our sacred nation. Now, I will listen. What say you?"

"All accounts total our reserves at less than a thoousand," Saldia's troubled voice replied. "We, like Rynia, hadn't prepared ourselves for a war for which there was noo warning. What will we doo when Tsurtor turns his forces upoon us? We may not be able to hoold him back but, with enough soldiers, we could hurt him enough to give him pause. Perhaps, he'll turn his army toowards easier prey."

The room was silent and the Hand strained his ears. Then, Holl said, "You have a point. Duke Nygarra coost us dearly with noo gain in return. Perhaps they are moore interested in saving Rynian lives than Tzurritzanian. I - I must think on this."

Having heard this, the Hand quickly lowered himself down the many meters to the ground. On the porch outside of their quarters, Kraephten awaited his return. "Don't look too cocky," Timothy warned. "We've got trouble."

* * *

Their quarters lay on the north-east quarter of the royal mansion. Tzurritza still honored their royal family in a limited way. Though the government was no longer a constitutional monarchy, every day they slipped closer towards true democracy, the Tzurritzanian people still honored their monarchs. The Adson family, after all, was still directly related to the Haddison monarchy in Rynia and this tie bonded the two, separated realms. Kraephten and Timothy stayed in the royal mansion because of their connection with the royal family through its youngest child, Kelly Adson. They had met serendipitously and, before Kraephten, Mark, or Timothy knew who Kelly was, or visa versa, Mark and Kelly had already started to fall in love with each other. Of course, they hadn't known it at the time.

After all, how could a bar fighter in buckskins, who called herself "Kell" and addressed a Rynian duke as "Dukie", be royalty herself? Even now, as she stepped out onto the porch from her own room, she wore a decidedly unroyal robe over her bedclothes. As always, of course, she didn't mind. Unlike the rest of her family, she was not an Adson first.

She looked up at the many stars which shone through the overgrowth and took a sip of her tea before she even noticed Kraephten's silent position. "What's the woord, Kattox? When do we go?" Her left arm hung limp at her side. Kraephten knew her wound would still lie beneath her sleeve, just below the shoulder, making movement uncomfortable.

Kraephten stretched, replying, "They'll be announcing in the morning that no more aid will be offered by the council. It is their belief that they cannot afford any further Tzurritzanian deaths."

Kell didn't bother to ask how he could know the future; Kraephten Kattox had always been a little magical. Besides, she was too busy fuming. "They can't! We need to goo! We need to fight them!"

"Princess. Princess, please," Kraephten said, rising from his chair and offering her another. "Please, sit down. There's nothing we can do right now. We need to think of something else."

Her teeth gritted, she said, "But Kraephten, we need to find him. We need to find oout what happened to him."

She clutched his hand like a liferope and he placed his other hand over hers. She'd need both. "I think we know what happened, princess. The winter's past and there's been no word. If he found a way to Rynia's army, he would have found a way back."

She let go of him. "I never expected you to give up on him."

"I haven't," he said, moving back to his chair. "I've simply admitted the truth."

As if she never wanted to sit, she rose and walked back to her window. "With truth like that, we may as well surrender noow."

Kraephten looked out into the blackness of the night. "We may have to," he whispered.

Before he'd even realized what he said, she was on top of him. Gripping his shirt in her hand, she demanded, "What's gotten intoo you?"

He calmly removed her, replying, "The truth."

"More of your truth," she spat. "It's not your job to know the truth! You're supposed to save us despite the truth!"

"Princess," he addressed, standing. "We have no soldiers and your council will provide us with none. No matter what wonderful weapons the machinists may provide, we need soldiers to work them."

"You came here without soldiers, remember?" Her eyes were afire with determination. "You'll get your soldiers, Kattox. Doon't spend your time worrying about that. Your only concern should be defeating Tsurtor and -" walking back into her quarters, she whispered, "- and finding Mark."

It was plain to see that she was delusional, probably as a result of the fever which had plagued her as her body had tried to heal her bullet wound. Scars remained from that injury, some not so obvious. She just wouldn't listen! There would be no soldiers. Mark Nygarra was dead. As hard as it was to admit, Tsurtor had won.

The next morning, Kraephten Kattox appeared before the Council of Tzurritza, ready for the worst. He greeted them, "It is my hope that the morning finds you all well and your hearts at ease. I fully understand the gravity of the decision which you must bear and only ask that you remember the threat which stands against us. Tsurtor cannot be faced alone. Only together, with the Rynian forces, can we be victorious. Already, by joining forces with the Machinist Guild," he nodded to where the three sat, "our strength has increased tremendously. With Rynia and the contingent of Kal-Kor monks from Kallent, Tsurtor will not be able to stand against us." Bowing deeply, he indicated that he'd finished.

Council Chief Bernise Holl stood, speaking for the council. "You speak elooquently, Mr. Kattox, and with great passion. It is, indeed, a great threat that stands against us. His threat is noot to be taken lightly or without great coonsideration. Oone such coonsideration, you must know, is the safety oof our people. Already, have we sent the floower of our youth to be killed by Tsurtor's army. We cannoot strip our nation of its oonly defenses. It is for this reasoon that further trooops will be denied to you."

Kraephten had known that decision was coming, had expected it, had prepared himself for the shock, but hearing the words pierced his gut like a longsword. He remained firm, however, standing straight. He had one other chance. "The logic of the honorable council will find no dispute with me. Your defense is of the utmost importance for your nation to survive." If the council had thought their statement to be unexpected by him, they found his even more of a shock. Some sighed with relief and smiled. Then, he continued, "It is still my intent, however, to proceed north and bring the fight to Tsurtor with these new weapons." Shock. Again, the council fell into silence.

Bernise Holl leaned forward in her seat. "Mr. Kattox, your words coonfuse the council. What good would it doo for oone, lone person to goo against the might of Tsurtor?"

"Lone," came a voice from out of the shadows. "But he'll not be alone." Timothy Holt, the Hand of Night, stepped into the light and stood beside his mentor. "I will be accompanying him, of course."

The council was stunned by Timothy's entrance, just as the two had hoped. Kraephten said, "We hope to have full access to the machinist's weapons."

The machinists nodded, Bertrum standing up. "Of course," he said, "I'll need them, as well."

"You, tooo," a council member asked out of line.

"Of course," Bertrum replied, as if it were unimportant, "Tsurtor poses a threat to all of our peoples. The Patrizzi Machinist Union feels it should also answer the call in the fight against him."

Kraephten had been expecting this; Bertrum had insisted. "I must protest," he shouted, drawing the council's attention to him. "Respected council members, you cannot allow this man to risk his life just when you've established formal communications with his guild! If he dies, the blame will surely fall upon your shoulders and the machinists will not speak to you again!"

"I assure you that would never happen," Bertrum insisted. "Besides, they know I'm accountable for myself and this is my own decision."

"Wait! Wait," Council Chief Holl hollered. "We must think this through." Rapidly, the council's voices talked back and forth as Kraephten and Bertrum looked on, wondering if their strategy had succeeded. Then, the Council Chief turned to Bertrum, "Are you absoolutely sure that there will be noo repercussions in the event oof your death?"

Bertrum Typewriter was no actor but he knew what effect a long pause could have on an indecisive body. He stood there for several moments, his bottom teeth scraping his upper lip, before saying, "I am."

Again, the council's voice rose, arguing amongst itself. After another moment, Bernise Holl asked, "And whoo would take your place in the event oof your death?"

Charles Carburetor stood with a condescending gleem in his eye. Kraephten wasn't so sure this was acting but it had the desired effect. "I will, you unkept, confused, little animals."

The council had grown thoroughly aware of Charles' outlook on their society and it was eminently clear just what his reaction would be upon assuming leadership of the machinists. The council's response, as they whispered among themselves, was clear: Bertrum Typewriter must not die. There were still, however, an equal number of voices which spoke for the defense of Tzurritza.

Council Chief Bernise Holl quieted them and asked, "What would the machinist guild accept as adequate defense foor their leader?"

Kraephten looked at Charles. This had all been discussed before. If Tzurritza had an army of one thousand remaining, five hundred would be optimal. That many, though, would be too many for the defense of only one man. Two hundred fifty? Still too many. It took them awhile a arrive at a number sufficient for attack but not excessive for defense. "One hundred men," said Charles.

Council member Saldia spoke up. "For the defense of oone man?"

Charles replied without a pause, "He's a very important man."

But the council would not spare one hundred. Eventually, it was agreed that seventy-five Tzurritzanian soldiers would travel with Bertrum for his protection.

Kraephten had hoped for more. His logic had been that the council would want to appease the machinists with even more men than requested. Now, he resigned himself to far fewer.

Things were not over yet, however. Kraephten was surprised at the sound of the hall's doors opening. He turned around, following the eyes of all before him. There, in the doorway, stood a figure never seen before in this kingdom, let alone these halls.

Princess Kelly Adson strode into the chambers wearing the impressive robes of royal office which had stayed, seemingly forever, within her closet. It was her royal right to see the council at her will and she was exercising that right now. "Stand down, Kattox. I have woords for the council."

Kraephten stepped over to where the machinists sat without a word. What could he say? This wasn't the Kell he knew. He didn't really know who she was! Her dress was of emerald lace studded with what appeared to be diamonds and it flowed, caressing her figure, down to her feet. Upon it, she wore the violet robes of royalty which were held up behind her by two retainers. (Truth be told, they were her older brother's, William, retainers. The robes belonged to her brother, Cameron, and the dress to her sister, Adell; she'd awoken them both for their use. Hers? Well, after a lifetime in the closet, never having had it taken in or cleaned, the less said the better.) On her head, she wore a simple tiara (her eldest sister, Fiona's).

Curtseying gracefully, as royalty she never bowed, she said in her most "Adson" voice, "I have coome to announce my departure froom our kingdom. I will leave in the morning."

Questions arose amid the council. "What?" "Where?" "Where will you goo?"

Proudly, royally, she answered, "I goo to fight Tsurtor."

Instead of bursting into sound, the council remained silent. If anything, it grew more silent. Sternly, the council chief said, "You can't doo that."

Kelly Adson laughed. She laughed so hard she could hardly talk. "As if that's ever stopped me before!" Kelly's laughter threw the council into disorder. Everyone was shouting their response to Kelly's impertinence. "I will goo where I want," she said. "And nobody will stoop me!"

"Fine," Bernise Holl shouted, quieting the council. "Goo then! Why do even boother to tell us?"

"I tell you," Kelly replied, her voice again the essence of royalty, "because I choose to exercise my right as royalty."

"Your right," a council member asked.

Kelly nodded. "I seek to request a royal guard."

The room was silent. It was as if each member of the council was thinking, Not you, too!

"What size," Holl simply asked.

"I goo into a war zone. Many soldiers will be required to defend my rooyal personage."

Holl's irritated voice rasped, "Yoou'll get oone hundred men. Noo more."

"Oone hundred fifty," was Kelly's counter-offer.

"Oone hundred twenty-five," Holl shouted, "and noo more! The citizens of Tzurritza are moore important than its royalty and we'll noot endanger their lives any more!"

Kelly pursed her lips but knew the bargaining was over. "Agreed," she finally said.

As the council dispersed, Bertrum said, "Well, you have two hundred soldiers, Kraephten. I sure hope you have a plan for such a small army."

"A plan," Kraephten asked. "Oh, yes. I have a plan."

CHAPTER FOUR

KNOWING WHEN NOT TO QUIT

Part I

"You give him what for," Boom Tower remembered cheering at his mangled Jeep, as pieces of the vehicle crashed down upon the surprised giant. Just before being hurled into oblivion, he remembered hearing the giant say, "Ow." That was all a point-blank shot from his 12-gauge warranted. Then came the trip to oblivion.

Boom Tower, Country's Garden's Police Chief, had pictured himself dying many different ways. Back when he was a kid, his most memorable had been from an accident while 'coon hunting with his grandpa. During his stint in the marines, he'd imagined dying on the battlefield of some imminent war. Then, as a cop, it was always during a drug bust. Not once had Boom imagined himself dying at the hand of a rock giant.

Imagine his relief when he realized he wasn't dead!

It didn't last long, though. Sure, he wasn't dead but he also wasn't able to move. He lay there in the mud, listening to the sounds of battle, blood running out of his mouth, realizing that he'd escaped sudden death only to have to suffer through a slow one. After a while, the sounds of battle faded away as the armies of Rynia and Country Gardens retreated before the advancing armies of Tsurtor. Then, thankfully, blackness encompassed Boom's sight and covered his eyes, stifling the incredible pain that came after the shock of his injuries. Dying wasn't that bad, he realized. One just had to be patient.

* * *

For a long time, he lay there. Even after he'd awoke, he stayed still, not opening his eyes. Finally, he opened them. All around was silence. The cold of winter stung his skin. Above him, the multitude of stars that was from no place on earth told him he was still in Rynia. Still there and still alive. He just didn't have the patience for death.

Carefully, he tried to move. One didn't just get up from a whole-handed punch from a giant. His arms could move, if a bit shaky. His legs, though, were a different story. One, he could move, but the other -

OW! THAT'S WHERE ALL THE PAIN WAS COMING FROM!

Broken leg, he wondered. Or worse, broken hip?

Before he could do anything, he had to move out of the mud depression into which he'd been thrown. It was much harder than he thought it would be; just moving took every ounce of energy he had. Then, once on relatively dry ground, he passed out again.

Sometime later, it was morning. Boom found that he had moved himself up a small ridge. If he could get to the top, maybe he could have a look around. Covering just a couple of meters seemed to take forever. He used his arms and his good leg to help propel him up. Pain tore through his leg (as if it were literally being torn off) and stabbed his chest every time he moved. Inches passed like hours and he'd almost given up when he heard something. A voice!

"I don't know, Rambaud."

A female voice!

"Don't look good. We want'a stay away from there."

And it was getting closer!

"I don't think any of the king's men were lucky enough to survive."

Survive! But one did! As the voice neared, Boom knew he had to make her know he was there. Without help, he'd die for sure. "Hey," he tried to yell. It came out like a hoarse wheeze, the effort hurting his chest.

"What d'you think they were fighting against, Rambaud?"

He could tell that she was passing on the other side of the ridge. She'd never see him if he didn't move. Straining his good leg and gritting his teeth against the pain, he pushed himself up. He could feel his head swim with every inch, the pain causing his stomach to tighten against his will. Ignoring his urge to vomit, he scrambled for the top. Clutching at the dirt, he slowly advanced.

"Whatever it was," he heard her voice say, fading with distance, "I'm sure glad they're gone."

But they weren't gone completely. They'd be back. Boom knew that his little militia with the king's sad, small army hadn't won the day. He could feel his hand top the ridge and pulled, yanking himself up but the pressure on his broken leg was too great and he fell, crying out in pain.

His eyes danced in electric colors against the pain. From out of nowhere, he heard a dog bark and felt its hot breath on his face.

"Moena! Rambaud, do you think he's gonna live?"

Boom forced his eyes open and looked up into her face. He couldn't take in her features; his focus was on the pain. "Broken leg," he gasped, trying to unclench his teeth. "Bleeding inside. Need a doctor."

"A what," she asked.

That's right, he remembered. Just his luck he had to break his leg in a world without doctors! "A healer," he said. "The leg has to be set and-"

"We don't got no Bonders, mister. Only Cjuck, and he can't barely heal cuts."

If only he had the energy to be furious! She obviously didn't understand the gravity of the situation. "Please," he hissed. "I'm going to die!" He tried forcing himself onto one arm but the strain was too great. He fell back, not feeling the ground beneath him or the hot breath or...

...or anything.

* * *

His sleep was shallow, easily disturbed. How could anyone sleep with so much pressure on their chest?

Suddenly, it struck Boom that he wasn't dead.

Slowly, he opened his eyes. Wherever he was, it was night and he was inside of some kind of crude shack. The lumps beneath him told him he was in someone's bed. Oh well, he thought, when in bed \- and he fell back asleep.

The knowledge that he wasn't dead helped his sleep immensely. He slept deeply and soundly, not letting anything in the outside world bother him...

... until a familiar, hot breath blew on his face.

He opened one eye with little commitment and saw a huge, slick, black nose take up his field of vision. "H'lo Rambaud," he grunted.

Suddenly, the dog exploded into an alarm of barks, echoing off the walls.

"Rambaud! Rambaud," came a call from outside. Footsteps came from outside and a familiar voice shouted, "You know better than that! Now git, you big, dumb dog!"

"That's no dawg," Boom whispered. "Thing's a beast." In truth, it stood nearly to the girl's hips and she was no midget. Easily as wide as the bed and just as long as well, if it weren't for the beast's friendly, hairy face, Boom might be afraid of it.

"You're awake," she said. "I was sure you'd had it."

"What happened to me," he asked.

She sat on the edge of his bed (it couldn't have been more than a couple of inches off the ground and Boom guessed it was padded with straw) and looked down at his leg. "It was broke up a lot. Cjuck did what he could and then we put it in a stick. He was too tired to heal your ribs. Says you broke them up good, too, but tied'em and says they should be okay."

From all he'd heard of Rynian medicine, Boom didn't trust these people to put his leg "in a stick". "Help me up," he said, pushing his arms beneath him. "I want to look at that leg." She leaned closer (he could smell the sweat of hard work on her), and propped him against the wall. His left leg was tied up tightly against two, long, straight sticks. (Boom couldn't help but notice that his pants were missing. He thanked his bashful stars that his boxers remained.) "D'you pull the leg straight," he asked.

"Yep," she replied.

"If your Bonder can see, did he make sure all the fractures were in place?"

"Fractures?"

"Did all the bone pieces fit in place?"

She nodded. "Oh, yes."

He leaned his head back, looking at her through the bottoms of his eyes. Her long, brown hair was tied back with a rag and her long dress revealed nothing. Just the same, he was sure that with the full treatment, she wouldn't look too bad. Hell, she didn't look too bad as is or maybe it had just been too long for Chief Tower. "So, tell me, how is it you know so much about medicine. I thought you Rynians relied on your Bonders."

She lifted her chin. "Papa came from Morrata but Mama was Paeadie, from up near the Scales. They didn't always have a Bonder near when there was healing needed. I learned some things from her before she died."

"Sorry," Boom said.

She shook her head. "It was her time."

Though Boom was already slipping back to sleep, he put his hand out. "Name's Boom."

She took it. "Caitlyn."

Boom didn't expect to live through the next couple of days. He'd heard about officers dying from all the internal bleeding multiple fractures brought. When he was still alive, he expected to die before a few more days had passed. Surprisingly, though, he still lived.

And soon, she was removing his dressing. "Gotta clean these rags," she insisted. "Mama always said it wouldn't do no good to have them filthy." But any slight movement shook him with spasms and, eventually, she held him down forcefully. "I swear, Boom Tower!"

Then, the rags were off. The cool air felt blissful against his skin as she went to clean the rags. He knew touching it would bring agony but his gaze was fixed on the upper third of his femur. The flesh looked necrotized, dead. Boom started thinking about gangrene and infection.

Weeks later, though, the skin was simply yellowish, the bruising fading.

"You should be walking on that, soon," Caitlyn admonished. "Else it ain't gonna get its strength back."

"So soon," he asked. "Without a cast? How about a crutch?"

She waved away his questions. "I'll get you a crutch. Used to be papa's cane but he's got little use for it now."

So, Boom thought, she really is on her own.

On the first warm day of spring, she helped him outside. What he was doing could hardly be called walking but they made it to a chair outside. As he sat, her arms around him to help him down, he found he enjoyed her attention and knew he could get used to it. Still, something nagged. "Why are you doing this, Caitlyn?"

"Doing what," she asked, propping his leg up.

"What? Seeing to somebody you hardly know, somebody you found half dead on a battlefield."

"This war hurts all of us, Boom," she replied, looking out over her fields. Boom looked as well. So, this was what she did with nearly her every waking hour. Boom wondered what it might have been all those days he lay alone on his cot.

"Because they came so close to your house?"

She shook her head. "It's my husband, Danneal."

If Boom had been falling in love with Caitlyn, he would have been crushed. As it was, he merely felt like a complete ass.

She turned back to him. "Danneal thought we'd be able to stay even after Tsurtor took away most of the people. He went east when we heard rumor of a call-up. Said he'd fight for Paead."

"But you haven't heard anything from him, have you?"

"He's a strong man, Boom. A good man. I was hoping, since you was in the army, too, that you'd known him."

But Boom hadn't heard of him before. Of all the soldiers she could have rescued, she got one from the wrong planet. He didn't have the heart to tell her, though. He had to agree. Living with the knowledge that he couldn't tell her, knowing what had truly happened to Rynia's defenders, he forced himself to get better. He had to walk, had to get away, had to leave before, in a fit of cynicism, he destroyed her only hope.

And so, he walked. Day after day, everyday farther, everyday longer, he forced his leg to heal. As grateful as he was for his life, he wished he'd been healed by a doctor and not a second-rate magician. Every step brought pain and a limp which just wouldn't go away. Walk, he might, but he wouldn't make an Olympic runner. With Rambaud as his company, he built his strength and formed a plan.

"I'm gonna need a map, Cait," he said one evening, returning from his walk.

"A what," she asked.

Of course, Boom thought. The shack held only one room with a niche in the back which led to the rear entrance. It was in this niche where Boom had been sleeping. The only furniture other than Boom's hay covered block was a couple of roughly hewed chairs and a straw-filled mattress which served as Caitlin's bed. She had no books or writing instruments to speak of; her way of life was beneath any impoverished Boom had seen in America. What would she be doing with a map? "Well, then, come out here and draw me one in the ground. I need to know where I'm at."

She had been mending some clothes with an old needle when Boom had entered. She put them down beside her chair and asked, "How is it you don't know where you are?"

"It's like I said, Cait, I come from pretty far afield. You got no roads I can follow just those dirt paths and they lead all over the place."

She picked up a stick for drawing. "Where is it you want to go?"

"You said this is someplace called Payed, right?" She nodded. Hunkering down, he drew a line. "Then, I need you to show me how to get from there to there, from Payed to Rynia, so I rejoin my army."

"And find my Danneal," she finished for him.

He nodded, hesitantly. "That, too."

Drawing with the stick, she cautioned, "I don't know the way west. I've never been further than Owaeke's home to get help during the snows. He has plenty of tools he lets me use. But I've heard stories about Rynia. This is the border, here. I've heard there's a city, a big city, just to the south."

"What do they called it," Boom asked.

"Bemmiton," she said after some thought.

He repeated the word, "Bemmiton," liking the sound on his tongue.

* * *

"Bemmiton," shouted the saladinian officer. "Bring forth your women!"

The crowds bursted into chaos. Women screamed as they tried to dash away, only to be caught in the clawed hands of the saladan soldiers. Bemmiton was a small city but, with the war killing off many of the men, there were many women present. The only men remaining, feeble and old or young and powerless, protested weakly against the line of saladan soldiers. They would do more. Each saladan stood no more than a meter tall and could easily have been slain by a man with some strength but they were deadly in spite of that. Each was armed with Tsurtor's technology, the machine guns brought from earth. Only a couple of displays had been necessary. The women still fought, though. Each was carried forth by a pair of soldiers, kicking and screaming. They feared they would be raped, or worse.

The protests ceased all around when the officer shouted, "Silence them! Silence them! Kill them if you must!" The women were still terrified, shaking with fear, but some semblance of order had been restored. "I am Pri'chot, Captain in Tsurtor's army. I will be the new leader here." Pri'chot's voice was thick with disgust. He'd been suddenly pulled off the southern front where preparations were being made for attack to command the forces in this town. He would rather have killed them all but Tsurtor needed supplies for his troops which meant people to tend the land.

"I have received word that there has been some dissension, some trouble makers in this town, and it is my intention to put it to an end."

Among the women held, Bethel Patir did her best not to laugh. Dissension? Her and her band had impaled Tsurtor's last officer, a Lieutenant Juerkta, at the entrance to town. As they had waited for word back from Awlsban, where she'd sent two old women (the least likely members of her resistance who she felt could make the journey) to look for the main resistance force, she felt the best way to take any eyes off that main force was to draw attention to herself.

It seemed to have worked.

Pri'chot paced before the women who were held and announced, "We know the leader is a woman. We know she is here, in this city."

Bethel frowned. That information meant that they were able to extract information from young Tomary Blake, who was taken by the saladans over a week before. What else could they know?

"You won't avail yourself by protecting her," Pri'chot continued. "We'll kill you all if we must, just to be sure that she is dead, too." He looked out amongst the citizens of Bemmiton, watching for their reaction to his threat. His reptilian features turned down, though, when he saw no one give up the leader of the resistance.

Why should they fear death, Bethel thought. The saladans had already violated many of the women (Bethel escaping only by virtue of her hard looks) and killed more of the men. It was why so many had joined the resistance. They'd all be dead before too long under Tsurtor's rule.

"You will die here, now," Pri'chot shouted. He balled his hands into clawed fists uselessly. He knew he couldn't kill them. Tsurtor's army needed their labor. A sharp hiss rose from deep within his throat; he wasn't used to this. He wanted to fight! He grabbed a woman close to him, young Sarice Delig, and shouted, "Who is she? Tell me!" The woman screamed and struggled against him, saying nothing intelligible. Her struggling ended as he brought a short, curved blade to her throat and drew it back. Human blood spilled blackly upon his green skin and he licked at it hungrily. She would have fallen but he held her up. Bubbles issued from her throat as she tried to say one last word then her head slumped back and Pri'chot put his mouth over the draining wound, biting in.

"Leave! Leave now," Pri'chot's aide shouted and fired his gun in the air. The townspeople, their eyes fixed on the perverse sight before them, fled at the sound of the shot. Pri'chot knew better than to feast on human blood in public but he did it for shock value more than anything. Now, he hoped, maybe they would talk. His aide asked him, "What will you do if their leader does not step forth?"

Pri'chot let out a large belch, dropping the dead woman to the ground. "If seeing us feast upon their flesh doesn't shatter their resolve, then Tsurtor has sorely underestimated his enemy, I fear." He walked off without another word, ignoring his aide who dove upon the body before it grew too cold.

That night, the members of the Bemmiton resistance would fulfill Pri'chot's assessment. Gathering in a root cellar outside of the city, the call was repeated like a mantra, "Kill Pri'chot."

"Pri'chot will be far more defended than his predecessor," Bethel cautioned. "He'll be expecting us to make this move. Your lives will be forfeit. Indeed, ours all will be if any of you are captured in this attempt." If anyone listened, no one cared. Again, came the call, "Kill Pri'chot." The residents of Bemmiton knew they were as good as dead and Bethel Patir knew there would be no stopping their need for vengeance. This didn't mean that she would allow them to move unprepared, however.

First and foremost, they needed to locate Pri'chot's quarters. How many guards did he keep? Were the guards armed with Tsurtor's death-spitters? What did the surrounding terrain reveal? Was it lit with Tsurtor's magic torches? Someone had to reconnoiter the area before any attack could be made. The first volunteer was Eddie Tran. Previously one of Boom Tower's men, he'd learned what he called "covert actions" from a "magazine" called "Arms and Armament". He knew the saladan camp better than anyone, having been the only one of a two-person team previously sent to spy upon the saladans. He knew that Tsurtor's death-spitters were really sub-machine guns and those magic torches were high-output arch-lamps. Aris Beecher, a farm boy whose ghastly war experience gave him nerves of steel, rounded out the team. Aris had been forced to cross battle-lines after his parents had been killed during the initial fighting. By the time he'd made his way to Bemmiton, he'd become an expert at not being seen. Not a moment was wasted. Eddie and Aris left immediately on foot, disappearing into some nearby overgrowth.

It took them the better part of the night to slither through the saladan patrols and approach the outskirts of camp. Surprising, all was left as it had been on the night they had taken and killed the saladan lieutenant. Aris had a feeling, though, that this had been done to give the resistance in a false sense of security. Perhaps, on their approach to the Captain's tent, they'd find that things were now very different.

Eddie nodded and motioned for them to go further. The cold, night air had put many of the saladans into a dormant state, except the warmly dressed patrols and the watchmen in the heated towers. Slowly, the two approached, hiding carefully among the many crates and piles of supplies spread throughout the camp. Most of the tents were dark except one they approached. Set aside from the Captain's, it was unadorned and served an, as yet, unforseen purpose. Voices came from within and Eddie motioned to Aris that they should get closer to glean any information.

"Why don't you just tell us? Your resistance will only mean greater suffering," an obviously saladanian voice said within.

"I don't have to tell you uglies anything," came the reply. Eddie found the voice familiar, definitely human, but he couldn't place it.

"Why not," the saladan asked. "You've already told me that you fought for our enemy. By your own words, you condemn yourself."

"That was before I knew who you worked for! How was I supposed to know you wasn't one of them allies that was supposed to come join the fight. Why, they got guys with bats fightin', wizards, monks and what all. Why not lizards, too? What are you, anyways? Crocs?"

The tent flap opened, letting in another, and the human's voice silenced. "How goes the interrogation, soldier? Has the prisoner decided to cooperate?" Pri'chot! The voice was obviously his.

"No, sir, Captain, sir! He refuses to give us the location of the resistance."

Resistance, Eddie wondered. Could this have been someone from Banry Ellison's organization, come to make contact with Bemmiton's resistance?

"Ain't that I refuse," the human admitted, "so much as I just don't know."

"And if you did know," Pri'chot asked.

"Well, then," the human drawled, "I guess I wouldn't tell you then, either. See, you boys is caught up in what they call a losin' game. You need these people for supplies but they don't need you for nothing. Th'more you try to force 'em the more they'll rebel and you won't get their cooperation willingly. These Rynians, they're just smart enough to know when not to quit."

Then, it hit Eddie and he nearly said out loud what he realized to be true. He and Aris had to make their way back to Bethel. They had to organize a strike force. They had to liberate the saladan's captive.

Eddie should have known the voice from the start. That southern drawl. That arrogant nature. Eddie had assumed him dead just like everyone else but the evidence was irrefutable.

Boom Tower was alive!

* * *

Bethel couldn't believe it. She'd heard what had happened to him from his own men. Eddie Tran, though, having been one of Boom's men, made a convincing argument. "But how are we going to do it," she asked. "We're used to striking where we're not expected, making up in surprise what we lack in strength. Chief Tower's going to be guarded. I wouldn't be surprised if they're expecting us to try to rescue him."

"We can't just leave him there," Eddie insisted.

"I'm not suggesting we do," Bethel replied. "But we can't throw away our people's lives to rescue one man. There has to be a way to use surprise and guile once again to our advantage." Bethel left Eddie to meet with the leaders of the resistance. He waited through the wee hours of the morning. However, when dawn arrived, they could not conceive of a plan. "Our primitive weapons have proven useless against their in open combat and, from what you report, he is just too well guarded. There's no one who can think of a way around that."

"You're wrong, Captain Patir," Eddie said, walking out. "If there's anyone who could think of a plan, it's Chief Tower."

That night, as he dozed against the cloth wall of his cell, Boom felt something prod his ribs. He grunted, waking up immediately, and looked around. Again, something poked his ribs. It came from outside, on the other side of the wall. "Who is that," Boom hissed, keeping his voice low.

"Sshhh," the reply came. "Chief Tower?"

"Yes," he replied. "Who is that?"

"Eddie Tran, Chief. Nice to see you're alive."

"Eddie," Boom said. Depressed since being taken prisoner, suddenly he wanted to shout! Reeling in his jubilation, he whispered, "The feeling's mutual. Now, what the hell's goin' on, Tran?"

"Saladans got you. I'm with part of the Rynian resistance. We need a plan for rescuing you."

"Part," Boom asked. "Who's in command?"

"Bethel Patir."

Boom nodded. "Good girl. What about the main resistance?"

"We hear it's Banry Ellison."

"Good Lord. That boy couldn't lead a skunk to smell! You better get me out of here."

"That's the problem," Eddie whispered from the other side of the cloth wall. "We're not a powerful force, only about a hundred. We've been able to confiscate a couple of the saladan's machine guns but nobody can use them. Other than that, we got bats, clubs, pitchforks -"

"Hold on, there, boy," Boom interrupted. "Go back to those machine guns. How many you got?"

"Two," Eddie replied. "But, like I said, nobody can use them."

"Sure they can, Eddie. You can!"

"Me," Eddie asked.

"Hey, now, you're the one subscribed to all those magazines. I'm just hoping you read 'em and don't just look at all the guns."

"Yeah, but -"

"But, nothing. You don't need to be a good shot when you're packing that kind of firepower."

"But what about the other one," Eddie asked. "Who's gonna use that one?"

"Well," Boom replied, leaning back on his elbow, "that's where it gets kinda complicated."

* * *

It wasn't until late that night, long after Boom had given his improvised plans to Eddie Tran, that Captain Pri'chot strode into the tent, his head lifted proudly. Boom expected the saladan captain to report that they'd found Eddie but, instead, heard, "You are serving your purpose very well. I've just received a report that your resistance is mobilizing. Coming from Awlsban. I didn't know they were in Awlsban."

Boom laughed. This guy couldn't bluff his way through a game of Old Maid. "They're not, Prichert. You ain't fooling' anybody."

The captain's head lowered and his eyes narrowed. "The name's Pri'chot! And you can give up your act. General Gur'tech has sent word." Almost as an afterthought, Pri'chot boasted, "He's giving me the kill."

With the saladan's going east to find this phantom resistance, the real resistance here in Bemmiton would face a weakened enemy. "Well, wooley-booley for you, Prichert. You go on ahead."

"Ah, but we're not going anywhere. We are quite content on letting them come to us. They can attack whenever they please with their wooden clubs. We'll simply shoot them as they approach, just as we've done before."

"You don't think they've improved their weaponry in response to yours," Boom asked.

Several clicks showed Pri'chot was laughing. "Improved? To what? Slingshots? Short swords? No, Tsurtor was right. He is always right. You Rynians are nothing more than a nation of sheep awaiting the slaughter."

Could be, Boom thought. But the people of his nation were never known to turn down a good fight.

* * *

Eddie made extra certain that the gun was wedged tightly between the branches before putting Aris' small hands upon it. Eddie had wrapped Aris' hands in cloth against the morning's cold, knowing its effect upon the saladans would be much more profound than that upon the boy. "Now, you do what I told you. Hold it in for a second, then let go, count to ten, then hold it in and do that over and over. Can you do that?"

"I'm not a baby," Aris insisted, though he was not yet ten. "How long do I gotta do that for?"

"Until it stops making noise," Eddie replied. Given the large ammunition clip, Eddie was hoping for at least five minutes. "Ready," he asked.

Aris' hands were on the gun. He nodded.

"Start counting to ten like I showed you. When you reach ten, start firing." Eddie ran from the boy and into the trees. One after another passed easily; he was used to these woods by now. With every step, he counted and, by the time he reached eight, he stepped from the cover of the wood, looking down the hillside at the enemy camp. This time, there wouldn't be any subtlety. The saladans were used to subtlety. Standing there on the hillside, he knew the rest of his people could see him as well.

Nine.

He let out a yell and brought up his gun, aiming at the tower.

The four saladans in the tower saw Eddie and, until they saw his weapon, wondered what he would be doing out there. Once they saw the machine gun, they went for their own.

Ten.

Suddenly, shots were heard from the woods. The saladans ducked, believing there to be a firefight out in the trees. The would wonder what had become of their patrols and how the Rynians learned to use machine guns. They obviously had. One was coming down the hillside now! The saladans stayed behind the reinforced steel walls of the tower which afforded them protection.

Good thing, too. Eddie wasn't sure he'd be able to hit the side of the tower! He yelled, firing off a burst, hoping to draw attention. He knew he had when he saw Tsurtor's soldiers lumber from their dormancy in their thick clothes, reaching for their guns. Okay, that was close enough; Eddie knew that now he could begin his retreat and draw the saladans after his imaginary army. Once away from the camp, Bethel could lead a team to extract the prisoner.

Nearing the woods, he almost felt like he made it without a hitch. Then, gunfire! He looked behind him but the saladans were looking the other way. More gunfire blasted from the far end of the camp. Eddie had enough experience with guns to know that wasn't from any machine gun. Somebody was blasting the saladans with birdshot.

Above him, in the woods, he heard Aris' firing cease as the boy ran out of ammo. Still, Eddie remained on the hillside, transfixed by what he saw below. The saladans pushed forward to the opposite side, firing as one. More gunfire came as a retort. On the other side of camp, human figures fought into camp.

"What's going on," Pri'chot shouted.

"It's the Rynians," his aide yelped. "Somehow, they are armed with guns!"

"Impossible," Pri'chot barked, knocking his aide aside. "Tsurtor would have known!" Pri'chot was correct and Tsurtor did know. Infused with American determination, the Rynians wouldn't simply lay down and die as he had expected. They had known when not to quit.

Pri'chot looked down, wondering why his aide hadn't risen again to stand at his side. The blood pooling at his feet gave him his answer.

"Hey, Prichert!"

Pri'chot turned to the voice that spoke, impossibly, behind him and was immediately knocked unconscious as a hard piece of wood connected with his jaw.

Boom leaned over, retrieving the captain's machine gun with a smile. Around him was havoc. As an armed force of humans pushed in from one end of camp, still more came from the opposite hillsides. Above them all, the soldiers in the watchtower were afforded a perfect sniping position. But Boom had heard that they were kept out of their dormant state by the heaters up there and those heaters, just like the arc lights and all the other modern machines, had to be run by some generator. His cane again beneath him, Boom limped off to find the generator.

"Boom," he heard a voice call. Coming down the hillside, Eddie Tran walked with a small boy, both armed with machine guns.

"We need to get the generator," he said. "That'll finish'em off."

"Why didn't you tell me you had a back-up plan," Eddie asked, referring to the fighting on the other side of camp.

Boom shook his head. "I didn't."

Suddenly, a cold hand wrapped its long fingers around his neck and powerfully lifted him several centimeters off the ground. Boom thought Eddie would shoot his assailant but saw in Tran's eyes the hesitancy to fire for fear of hitting Boom instead. "You think you could take my army? You think you could get away," Pri'chot's voice was thick with anger and indignation. It was thick with something else, too; Boom must have broken a few teeth. "You will die before you see yourself liberated!"

Boom struggled for words but the long fingers clenched crushingly and the only sound he could emit was a pathetic gurgle.

"Death is the only answer to you humans," Pri'chot screamed. "Death to all-" His voice was cut off and his hand suddenly went slack.

Boom fell on his bad leg and dropped to the ground. Looking up, he saw Pri'chot fall to the ground, a long piece of wood piercing his neck. Bethel Patir planted one foot on his head, yanked out her cane, and reassembled it. "You pretend to use a cane, too, Boom? Makes a great hiding place for a weapon, doesn't it?"

"Weapon," Boom asked, getting up. He gingerly touched his neck, knowing the scratches would be there for some time to come. "We need to find out what's going on."

Before he could say any more, the power went out around the camp. Someone had found the generator and put it out of commission. "Don't move," someone shouted authoritatively. "Drop your weapons!" Suddenly, they were surrounded by half a dozen humans armed with every sort of weapon, from machine gun to hand gun to shotgun to bow. The four instantly complied.

"Who are you," Bethel asked.

"More importantly," Boom followed, "who do you work for?"

"At ease," came a call and the soldiers lowered their weapons respectfully. Bloody and panting, a human, armed with a worn-out, old bat, approached them.

"Banry," Bethel called. She stepped quickly towards him and gave him a forceful embrace. "We knew you were out there but couldn't make contact with you. How'd you find us?"

"Him," Banry Ellison replied, motioning towards Boom Tower. "The saladans communicate on something my tech-wizard calls radio. He was able to get the... frequency?... which meant we could listen in to their conversations. He wasn't about to let us let Boom Tower slip from our grasp."

"Him," Boom asked. "Who? And how'd you get all these weapons? Who taught you how to use them? What's this all about?"

"Better ask me, Boom." Carrying his double shotguns, working his way through the crowd, Gabe Hernandez smiled at his boss. There was no mistaking his role as "tech-wizard", covered in gadgets from his khaki pants to his leather jacket. "We salvaged every bit of scrap we could, picked it off the dead if we had to. Then, Banry got the idea that we should go guerilla."

"Well, that ain't gonna work no more," Boom decided with a shake of his head.

Banry seemed to expect it. "We're too big now, anyway. With your people (Bethel pursed her lips, trying to hold back her anger that Chief Boom Tower was taking her credit.), we're easily four thousand. I think the time has come to take the fight back to Tsurtor and I'm hoping you can tell me how."

"Well, I gotta answer to Captain Patir, here. She's the one who gave the order for these locals to come and rescue me."

Bethel smiled. "Go ahead, Boom."

"Well," he started, leaning on his cane, "ways I see it, Tsurtor can't be beat with clubs, um, bats. We're gonna need to find something a bit more modern. He's gonna expect us to do something stupid, too, something like trying to take back that palace I keep hearing so much about. So, we gotta throw him off. Do something different."

"Where," Banry asked. He may not have known Boom's intended destination but Gabe was smiling with insight.

"Better get some breakfast," Boom advised. "It's gonna be a long walk."

* * *

Far away to the north, another long journey was already underway. For many, it would never be over. Ostrander had been told plenty of times that it had already gone on long enough. He had to keep driving them forward, though, to safety.

The refugees from Country Gardens had attracted other, Rynian refugees all along their trek across the kingdom. They had thought they would find safety to the east, on Regal Isle. But when they had looked down upon Tsurtor's massive army, from a nearby hillock, and seen Tsurtor unleash his stone giants upon that small island, they had immediately known the folly in their plan.

Ostrander couldn't let them give up. He knew that, had he been there, Hex would have found a way to go on. So, he drove them. Like frightened sheep, he drove them. He knew Tsurtor had the west and, now, he also held the east and, presumably, the south. There was only one place left to go. Though he'd been warned away, he went there.

He kept his people close, over five hundred of them. He didn't know what Tsurtor's men would do if they were found but didn't like to think of the possibility. It was hard to conceal the tracks of hundreds of men, women, and children but he had to try.

He stood upon a rise, looking over his people in the valley behind.

"What is it," Tetrem asked. The fifteen year old boy had already been grown up beyond his years when Ostrander had found him (actually, Tetrem had found Ostrander) and was now showing a resolve more sure than many his elder.

Ostrander's eyes were good and the mass moving on the other side of the rise was clear. "More of Tsurtor's men. They're holding Caspeton to the west."

"Couldn't we just go around," Tetrem asked.

"We could," Ostrander replied. Then, he knelt down and looked straight at the boy. "But, should we?"

Tetrem hesitated. "I don't know."

"Think about it. There are hundreds of helpless people in that town. Tsurtor's slaves." He let the thought sink in. Tetrem knew about slaves from his own world. "Who knows what they're enduring as a result of his military rule. We free them, we ease their pain and, maybe, withhold precious supplies from Tsurtor's troops."

Tetrem nodded. "We need to save them."

"As many as we can, son. Just as many as we can."

As Ostrander bent over, Tetrem grabbed his cool, stone arm. "Do you really think she'll take us all, 'Trander?"

Ostrander fused the first of several stones together, replying, "She had better. She owes me."

* * *

The huge, human, general Huk'ra ate voraciously at the brains of a freshly killed rabbit. Hot juices flowed freely to his elbows as he enjoyed his feast when there came a soldier to his tent's opening. Huk'ra's pig nose snorted and his tusks rubbed dangerously against his upper lip. "This had better be good," he warned.

The saladan walked forth, knees bent and head bowed as Huk'ra demanded when in his presence, with his hands held out. In his hands, stood what looked like a rock statuette. "This was found on our western perimeter, lord general."

Huk'ra licked out the rabbit's skull. "Rocks? You disturb me with rocks?"

Suddenly, the rocks moved, pointing at Huk'ra's large nose. "I'd watch the remark, Porky!"

Caught in mid-swallow, Huk'ra coughed back up his food. "Amazing! It talks!"

"You bet, I talk, fatso! So don't think I can't defend myself."

Huk'ra was amazed. It was no bigger than the G.I Joe he'd had as a kid, back in Michigan. (Long before he'd been changed to suit Tsurtor's army.) "Give it," he ordered. The saladan extended his hands further, relinquishing the rock man to his lord general. "Now, leave me." The saladan backed out quickly, only too happy to obey his lord general's command.

The tent wasn't ornately furnished. There was a large bed to support Huk'ra's massive body, the sturdy chair in which he sat, and a table before him. He'd often look over maps on that table. Now, it served to hold his dinner. Dinner was replaced, though, by this new entertainment and Huk'ra swept the dead creature onto the floor. Putting the rock man down upon the table, he asked, "Who are you, little rock man?"

The rock man snickered. "Sure, chief. I can give you that. Name's Sergeant Second Class Charlie Ignatious Berrelie. Who the hell are you?"

Huk'ra smiled. "I are the hell Lord General Huk'ra, Tsurtor's greatest general!"

"Sure you are," Charlie commented. "That's why he's got you watching this hole in the ground."

Huk'ra smiled for just a second, his frown coming in behind schedule. "I have a lot of territory, little Sergeant. I watch the entire north-eastern extreme of what was Rynia. From Caspeton here to what was Benaatt in the north."

Charlie laughed under his breath, "Huh. Not for long."

Huk'ra heard him clearly and shouted "What?"

Charlie fell a step back, shaken. "Nu-nu-nuthin, chief! And I ain't tellin' nothing, neither!"

Huk'ra liked the sense of fear he felt come off the little, rock man and knew, instinctively, that he held information that Huk'ra could put to use. He grabbed the little, rock man around the torso, his fat fingers squeezing him tight. "You'll tell me everything, little Sergeant! Everything!"

"No," Charlie gasped, struggling uselessly against Huk'ra's might. "Charlie Berrelie, Sergeant, 5-2-1-8-8. That's all you'll get!"

"No," Huk'ra shouted, squeezing tighter. "You'll tell me everything!!"

"N-no," Charlie strained to speak. "Berrelie, Sergeant, 5-2-1-8-8."

"Talk!!"

"It won't do you no good," Charlie struggled to say as though his lungs were being crushed. "They're already poised to strike. They'll bring all forty divisions down from Silen \- wipe you out - anyway..."

Forty divisions? Huk'ra realized that even his force would be nothing before that many. He had to find a way to surprise them. "Where," he demanded. "Where are they coming down from?"

"Silen," Charlie gasped as from his last breath. "They're hiding - just - beyond - the -" His voice faded as if it was a valiant soldier's last word. " - booordeeeerrrrr."

Huk'ra dropped the little, rock man on the ground as if were no longer of any significance. "Surprise us, eh? I will show them!" He rose from his chair, a monstrous figure with little of its human qualities remaining. "Send for my captains," he shouted from the opening of his tent. "We leave tonight!"

Charlie Ignatious Berrelie rested into the dirt. "Sucker," he whispered. "That should buy 'Trander enough time. Vive la Resistance!" Satisfied with a job well done, Charlie settled into his individual pebbles and stones, indistinguishable from the dirt around him.

* * *

Ostrander watched silently from his hilltop as Huk'ra's army began to move south. "Good job, Chuck," he whispered.

"Now what," Tetrem asked.

"Now, we go down there and take as many as we can to safety," Ostrander replied, motioning down to his people that they should follow.

"And to Ny'ezia," asked Agnie.

"Yes, little one," Ostrander replied, lifting her up to his shoulder. "You will see her before too long."

Part II

Stage one couldn't pass quickly enough. Despite Marcus' constant insistence that he was better, Raphineal had him exercising daily. "Have to get your strength up," he'd say to the monarch. This usually occurred, Marcus noted, after Marcus had built up a sizeable sweat and Raphineal had just tucked into a tray of room service.

One day, several weeks later, Doctor Bronowski appeared. With his typical poking and prodding method, almost like something an incompetent Bonder would do, he gave Marcus another examination. Taking a briefcase with his palmtop computer and vials of various fluids from Marcus, he returned several hours later. "Well, Mr. Haddison, I'm pleased to report that you're doing much better. Your cholesterol is down, so is your blood pressure. As to the wound to your chest, your lungs seem to have recovered nicely and your heart is strong. I want to caution you. I want you to listen carefully now. I don't say these things just to hear my own lovely voice. You've been under a tremendous strain, Mr. Haddison. I wouldn't go running any marathons or getting myself too excited if I were you. The strain could undo any of the benefit from my miraculous care. Is that understood?"

Raphineal spoke for Marcus. "Crystal clear, doctor."

"Good," Bronowski replied with a nod. "Now, I'll see you again in six to eight weeks. You can set the appointment up with my secretary. Then, we'll se how you've come along."

That was good enough for Marcus. In six to eight weeks, he would be back in Rynia, Tsurtor would be defeated, and he could find treatment from a Bonder (Hex, perhaps) in the comfort of his own suite in the Imperial Palace. Besides, he hadn't felt better in years. Sure, his chest still felt like it had been split in half, which it had, but he was filled with the energy of one who is soon to leave on a long journey.

New York couldn't come soon enough.

In the limo, on the way to the airport, Marcus pondered, "New York. New York. Raphineal, why is it called New York? Is there an old York?"

Raphineal thought for a moment. "Well," he said.

"Wasn't Peter York one of the Monkeys," Tim asked.

"Monkeys," Marcus asked.

"Tim," Raphineal scolded.

"They're an old music group," Tim explained.

Marcus was amazed by the thought. "You teach your animals to play you music?"

Raphineal was ready to scold his protegee but looked pointedly at him, awaiting an answer.

Despite his friend's looming look, Tim said, "Oh yeah. Sure we do!"

Marcus leaned back in his chair. "Fascinating."

They made their way to the airport, boarded the plane, and took their seats in first class. "This is a massive vehicle," Marcus observed, sitting back in his chair. "How will this fit on those roads, though?"

"No, your highness," Raphineal corrected. "I thought I'd explained this. This is a plane. We're going to fly."

"Fly," Marcus replied, disbelieving. "What do you mean: fly?"

"You know, your highness. Like Vincent."

Just then, the engines roared as the planed started down the runway.

Marcus' hands clutched his armrests. "I don't want to fly, Raphineal!"

"A little late," said Tim. "We're already taking off."

Marcus leaned over to the window and saw the massive wing rise above the earth. It took most of the flight to get Marcus settled down. Vodka helped. After many tears and tantrums, they landed safely, Marcus worn down to the point of exhaustion, on the east coast.

Marcus remained in his room at the Ritz-Carlton for several days as Raphineal and Tim ventured out into the city. He'd seen enough of Hex's world and found it unnatural, perverse in a way. The time soon came for him to leave, though, when Raphineal announced, "We think we've found an organization suitable for your needs."

The headquarters for Executive Solutions was located in the middle of a Park Avenue high-rise. Marcus found he could maintain his composure so long as he didn't look out the windows. By the name, there was no way to know just what business Executive Solutions was in.

"That's just the way we like it," Brad Englund, ES's Vice-President in charge of Marketing, informed Marcus. The four sat in one of ES's massive meeting rooms, separated by a huge, cherry-wood table and reclining in plush, high-backed chairs. Raphineal and Tim had already met with Brad but the VP wanted to meet ES's newest client in person.

"I was expecting soldiers," Marcus maintained. "Your people don't look like you're ready for war."

Brad, who looked more comfortable in an office, with his sculpted, blonde hair and his neatly pressed gabardine suit, than he'd ever be on the field of battle. He steepled his fingers, nodding. "Of course. It's the corporate facade. It lets us interact with our clients on a more professional basis." He stood up, grabbing a pointer, his voice calm and confident. "Let me assure your highness that we currently employ the most effective strike groups in the world. Our teams have gone into situations that no professional army could possibly hope to resolve." He pressed several buttons on the table and a video screen lowered from the ceiling. Video images began to accompany Brad's narration as the lights in the meeting room dimmed.

Marcus's fingers tightened around his chair.

Brad pointed as weapon after weapon was displayed. Rapid assault tanks. Computer guided missiles. Attack squads armed with the latest in computerized recon, enhanced weaponry, and body armor. Screen after screen of weapons, so devastating Marcus had to take Raphineal's word on their effectiveness, flashed before them. As the lights came back up, Brad summarized, "In short, your highness, you're getting the best. Now, I understand your situation is rather unique. Mr. dos Coskas tells me you only want the best of the best so I'm going to turn this meeting over now to General Arlin R. Harris, United States Army, Retired. He is our Vice-President in charge of Special Operations and he'll be able to answer any further questions you might have and iron out all the final details. Okay?" He bowed before Marcus. "Your highness. It's been a pleasure."

As Brad stepped out of the room, Marcus looked across the huge table (I've got to get one of these, he thought), at Raphineal and Tim. "What now?"

"That was just the commercial," Tim said. "We should be getting the real thing next."

"Really," Raphineal asked him, wondering how he would know.

Tim leaned back. "It's all showbiz."

The door opened a moment later and in stepped a figure who could not be mistaken as anything but an army general. Nearly two meters in height, he wore a uniform that held him tightly, pressed out by mercilessly-built muscles. A monster of a man, his every step held certainty. He wore his age without shame. Tim thought that, by his wrinkles, he must have been ninety. Raphineal, reading the general's powerful stride and thick, white hair and white mustache, figured his age at sixty. Marcus, looking much like the general himself with a few additional pounds and, perhaps, not as much hair, assumed they were the same age, 53. Age didn't matter to General Harris. When the army had booted him out at 55, he'd found other men to lead. When the previous VP in charge of Special Ops had suggested he retire at 65, he'd taken that man's job. He was born to lead men into battle and he'd die doing it.

"Gentlemen," he barked, his gruff, commanding voice chasing the shadows of Brad's salesman's pitch from their mind. "Let us make this brief. I am a busy man." He didn't bother sitting. General Harris was not a man to sit. He stood before Marcus and put his hand out. "I have been told you are the king of a nation under siege and you are looking for our assistance in retaking your kingdom from the enemy."

Marcus stood with some difficulty - the chair had been awfully comfortable. Taking the general's hand, he tried not to grimace as the general gave it a vice-like squeeze. "Yes, general. I'm hoping your firm can be of some assistance."

"I know of every conflict presently on earth," the general stated as if it were a fact.

"That's correct, general," Raphineal acknowledged. "And considering the fact that we've already paid the ten million dollar down payment, you should have no reason to believe we are anything but sane."

The general raised a cautionary eyebrow. "To what do you refer, sir?"

Marcus cleared his throat. "What he means is..."

Raphineal spoke up. "You are correct in your suspicions about this conflict being on this world."

"And?"

Tim leaned forward. Giving people a good shock was his business. "Let's just say you're going very, very abroad, Alvin."

The general's stare shifted from one to another until, after a moment, he muttered, "I think I need to sit down." He filled the fourth chair, causing it to squeak. He only wished these men were mere crack-pots but the check had already cleared. They must have been wealthy crack-pots. He fished inside his uniform's jacket. "Am I to understand that-"

"My kingdom is in grave danger, general." Marcus rolled his chair forward. "My enemy has brought weapons from your world and cannot be defeated without similar weapons."

General Harris found what he was fishing for and brought up a thick pair of bifocals. There. Much better. Looking at each, he thought, well, at least they don't look crazy. One in particular caught his attention. "You're Tim McCarty, aren't you?"

Tim smiled at his companions. "Sure am."

"Master of the Unexplained," the general asked.

"Every day of my life."

General Harris had a pen - he always kept one in his pocket - but was without paper and didn't know if he should talk war or get an autograph for his grand-daughter first.

* * *

Sam tucked into a plate of scrambled eggs with ham just as Pete walked in. Since the liberation of his jaw, every solid food had become his absolute favorite. It had been several months since he was first admitted to the hospital, and he'd expressed his concerns about his prolonged stay to Pete before, but as long as they - whoever was running the show - were providing him with the great food, he was eating. (Of course, at this point, he probably would have called any solid food great.)

Pete wore a worried look. It had been on his face for the past month. He'd suggested having Vincent break Sam out of the hospital and making a break for it but was rebutted by Sam's reasoning voice. They were obviously being watch, Samuel admitted. He hadn't seen another patient on this entire floor; all the doors were closed for privacy, Nurse Bert had told him. The motel the others were staying at was surrounded by an obvious army of agents, watching their every move. (Agents of whom? That was the question.) But, at least so far, their watchers were benign. Samuel was on the mend. They weren't drugging him, as far as he could tell. No one had made any violent motions towards the others. Better to wait and see what happens.

Pete, on the other hand, assured the others that they were being lulled into a false sense of security.

"Enjoying your food," he asked.

Sam moaned with pleasure. "Oh, god, Pete. I just want to be fat, fat, fat." He was far from it, of course, having lost fifteen pounds he hadn't needed to lose as a result of his broken jaw. "I want to eat everything."

"Great," Pete said, not caring. "I got news, Sammy. That reporter whose been writing the stories on Vince - Torticell - he's getting closer, Sammy."

"Ah," Sam replied through a mouth full of eggs, "Tortoise shell."

Tom Torticell had made Vincent his baby, reporting on every sighting, supposed sighting, and supposed, perhaps, almost sighting. He'd turned Seattle's SuperMonster into the story of the year, whether Vincent had wanted to be or not. It was inevitable, though, and if it hadn't been Torticell it would have been some other news hound. New video footage was shot of Vincent on a weekly basis. It was unavoidable. Whenever Vincent had gone out to get air (mostly of high altitude), there had been someone with a camera. Cameramen had quickly learned that the SuperMonster was nocturnal, swooping through the cavernous streets of Seattle in the starry darkness. Eventually, Vincent's reason had been that if he couldn't stop them from filming him, he'd really give them something to film. First, he'd stopped a bank robbery. It had been too easy, pulling the robbers out with his magic power and putting them on the roof... of the nearest police division. The second show had been when he'd dropped himself in the middle of a midnight shootout between two of Seattle's largest rival gangs. Soon, the headlines became cluttered with reports of rapists, murderers, robbers, thugs, and a variety of criminals brought to justice by the SuperMonster.

"You gotta admit," Samuel suggested, leaning back from his empty plate, "Vincent sure has turned Tsurtor's curse into a blessing."

"Maybe not," Pete insisted. "The closer Torticell gets, the worse off we'll be. Whoever's watching us may not want media attention, Sammy."

"Pete," Samuel said, completely serious, "you need to relax."

Pete rose up, huffing at the suggestion. "Relax," he muttered contemptuously. He wouldn't listen to Sam make light of the situation any longer and headed for the door. "I'll show you 'relax'." He reached for the door and pulled...

but it wouldn't open.

He looked at Sam, fear in his eyes, not surprised to see Sam's look only confused. He pulled at it again and again, shaking it as hard as he could. "Sam! They've locked us in!"

Sam shook his head, patronizing, and got out of bed. His enigmatic caretakers had provided him with comfortable, flannel pajamas after he'd worn that awful robe for several weeks and now lived quite comfortably in them. "You're probably just pulling wrong."

Suddenly, a loud click issued from the door and it swung open. Nurse Bert stood there but he wasn't dressed as a nurse. He wore a dark suit with a turtleneck sweater instead of shirt and tie. "Samuel. It's time you and your friend checked out."

"Out," Sam asked.

Pete took a step back. "Where?"

Bert stepped forward and behind him were two other men pointing guns at them. "With us," he replied.

* * *

Tom Torticell sat on his tweed coat, its lining in the grass. He could always get it relined and this way it saved the knees in his already well-worn, navy-blue pants. The view just wasn't good enough from his car, parked down the hill. Parking closer was sure to have attracted unwanted attention. He held his micro-cassette recorder, best investment he'd ever made, and reported, "October fourth, five thirty-seven p.m. I don't know how Tiny can brave this weather without a shirt. I'm sitting here without my jacket - another storm's blowing in from the northwest - and I'm absolutely frozen. Should never have moved to Washington!" Tiny had become Torticell's nickname for Vincent. Not knowing Vincent's identity, it was easier than calling him SuperMonster. Besides, everyone else had stolen that moniker. He could have kicked himself for not copyrighting it.

"The goons are on the move. They definitely aren't worried about attracting attention any longer - not that it wasn't easy enough to track them before. Trouble is, this place is going to be swarming with the media if they don't move soon so I'm left sitting out here in what's bound to be rain." A huge drop plopped down on his recorder's plastic casing. "Scratch that. I'm left sitting out here in the rain. Nothing can be easy."

He paused, seeing men in suits converge in the motel's parking lot by the carload. Over a dozen of them headed for one of the motel's rooms. "That's it. Time to go." Torticell stopped the recorder and stood up. Shaking off his coat and throwing it on, returning the recorder to his inside pocket. He picked up his camera and started taking pictures as he ran forward.

He saw the agents charge the room and, concentrating on the doorway as he reached the lot's edge, missed the shot of a lifetime as the motel's roof exploded in a storm of beams and shingles. Rising with his unearthly speed, Vincent/SuperMonster/Tiny (depending on who you asked) flew away from the motel room and disappeared into the thick, evening clouds. Torticell forgot about his camera, forgot about his story, as he watched with amazement the disappearing figure fly away.

Returning his attention to the matter at hand, he realized that he, too, was being watched. Three of the larger agents approached him, not looking pleased. Torticell tried, unsuccessfully, to subtly move the camera behind his back. "Hi, fellas," he greeted with a smile. "Nice day, isn't it?"

Later, Randy and Mark rode in the back of an unmarked car towards downtown Seattle. After flying, automobile travel came as little surprise to the Rynian native. "Now, this is something we could really use," was all he said.

"Yeah," Randy asked, misinterpreting Mark's statement. "Well, maybe you forgot that we didn't want to be taken by these guys! Who are you guys, anyway?"

"Shut up, kid," the driver replied. "I want you and Lancelot back there to pipe down. You'll find out soon enough."

"Kid," Randy asked, incredulously. "And what about Robert, huh? What'd'ya do with Robert?"

From the front seat came the sound of pounding from inside a metal box and a voice answered, "Oh, it's just fine."

"At least they don't have Vincent," Mark tried to assure Randy.

"That's right!" Randy leaned forward, against the seatbelt and cuffs. "You blew it!"

"Yep," one of the agents replied, noting something in his palmtop computer. "But now we know his name.

Mark and Randy exchanged startled looks and Mark whispered, "Oops."

* * *

Vinnelli threw several sheet of paper forcefully onto Torticell's desk, his hand following through and slamming on the surface. "F.B.I. kidnaps SuperMonster's friends," he shouted, reciting the headline. "Are you out of your mind, Torticell?"

"They led them out in chains, Vinnelli," Torticell replied, raising his voice to a similar pitch. The rest of the room seemed to grow quiet as everyone's attention shifted to the exchange. Torticell put his hands together and mimicked, repeating, "Chains!"

"The Federal Bureau of Investigation does not use chains any more, Olivier! They use cuffs or ties. Can you please show me a picture of cuff or ties placed upon these friends of SuperMonster or, in lieu of that, pictures of these so-called chains?"

Torticell paused for a moment. "No. They, um, took my camera."

"They," Vinnelli asked in a lower voice.

"The F.B.I."

"Do you have any proof at all, Torticell?"

He looked down at his desk. A book on anti-gravity research, articles on super-human research, F.B.I. cover-ups, and conspiracies, along with a half-eaten fried-egg and bologna sandwich he'd had in his car since morning was all he saw. "Ummm," he hummed, drawing it out. "No."

"So, then, I'm just supposed to publish this libelous piece of fantasy on your word, then?"

Torticell looked up in Vinnelli's eyes. His brow was tight and his lids were strained and, it was clear, Vinnelli wouldn't take much more. "Give me until tomorrow when it runs, Abe! I promise you-" but he didn't finish his empty promise. The window behind him exploded out towards the street and Vinnelli found Torticell suddenly missing. For the first time in months, Vinnelli had won an argument.

Outside the window, Tom Torticell was screaming like he hadn't done in years. He'd never been thrown out of a twelve story window before. He'd always thought it would be faster. More wind. Yes, there definitely should have been a whole lot more wind as he plummeted to his death. Something was amiss. He stopped his screaming; after all, his throat was getting sore. He let out one more quick yelp when he saw the figure standing above him. (That's what he was doing, alright. Torticell was certain he was standing.) He tried to remain calm. "Whoa, big fella! You don't make it a habit to snatch unsuspecting reporters from high-rise windows, do you?" He tried to laugh at the thought. "Of course, you don't. Now, why don't you put me down - um! Gently."

But he was already going down. As they soared silently through the afternoon sky, Torticell saw dual totems approaching him from beneath. SuperMonster was putting him in Pioneer Square. Having never seen him so close before, Torticell was surprised to see the youthful appearance of his face. With his twisted features and bulging musculature, SuperMonster didn't look so much like a freak as an accident victim. A solid surface came up from beneath him and, to his dismay, Torticell realized that he wasn't being lowered to Pioneer Square. He was sitting on top of Pioneer Square. He clutched the totem beneath him, looking at the pavement far below. "You couldn't get any lower?"

"Where's my brother," the SuperMonster asked.

"Brother," Torticell said, trying to keep his balance. "What are you talking about?" He felt an invisible hand nudge him and he held desperately with his hands and legs. "Hold on, Tiny! Hey, I'm just a reporter!" He dug out for his wallet and showed his identification. "See? I.I.P! I'm one of the good guys! I don't have your brother - whoever he is."

"Then you can't help me?"

Frightened as he was, Torticell couldn't let this story get away. "Now, I didn't say that." Tiny's angry glare made him nearly back up. "I didn't say I wouldn't, either!" He tried to relax; he had to get control of this situation... somehow. "Look, Tiny, you got a name?"

There was hesitation in Tiny's eyes and Torticell could see he'd been betrayed before. Then, he replied, "Vincent."

"Great. Vinnie. Why don't you get us someplace a little safer... and a little more comfortable, and we can talk all about it, okay?"

Several hours later, atop the Mayflower Park Hotel, he commented, "You really have a thing for heights, don't you?" Each had told the other their story - though for Vincent, it was a little more complicated. Torticell believed him. Why not? He'd seen stranger things. After both had done a little more digging, which was much easier for Torticell, they thought they had most of the story.

"But what would the F.B.I. want with my brother and my friends?"

Torticell was stunned. "What, are you joking? Look at yourself! It's a wonder the C.I.A., Army Intelligence, and even other countries aren't trying to track you down. You're a genetic godsend, kid! They want you so they can find out what makes you tick, so they can't make copies."

"It's not genetics," Vincent corrected. "It's magic."

"Sure, kid." Genetic experiments was one thing. But magic? "Either way, they're trying to get you."

Vincent was looking straight ahead, trying to think of what Hex would do. It was obvious. Crazy, perhaps, but obvious. "So, why don't they get me?"

It wasn't what Torticell expected to hear. "Huh?"

Vincent lifted himself into the air. "Where is F.B.I. headquarters?"

"Huh," Torticell asked again before realization struck him. Then, he struggled to get back into a standing position, not nearly as gracefully as Vincent, and said, "Hold on, kid. It's not as dramatic as it seems. They're in the federal office down by Seneca and 2nd but," he put his hand on Vincent's massive chest just as Vincent was rising off the roof and, miraculously, held him there, "if we do this, you let a pro show you how."

"I can't wait for a pro," Vincent argued, adding, "but maybe you can help."

As they left the rooftop beneath them, Torticell smirked. "Real funny, kid."

They had to wait until morning, when the building was open, before they could do anything. Subtlety, Torticell insisted to Vincent. That was the only way they'd find his brother and his friends. His brown tweed jacket changed at his apartment for one with blue checks, Torticell walked casually down 2nd Avenue until he reached the broad entrance at 915. The morning rain fell harmlessly upon his hat and he walked through it as if it were nothing. Acting as though he was thinking of something else, he walked inside. Past the security scanner, placards showed the locations of the various offices. As he stood in line to walk through security, he read the placards. General Services, Forestry Service, Federal Reserve, ah, there it was Federal Bureau of Investigation. Number -

"Can I see some ID, please?"

Torticell looked as though he'd been distracted, which he had been, at the gruff sounding security officer. "Hmm?"

"ID, sir. Please."

"Oh, of course," Torticell replied amicably, pulling out his wallet. "Tom Torticell, Independent Internet Press. I'm here to see-"

"Yes, Mr. Torticell, they're expecting you."

That almost caused him to take a step back. "They were??"

"Yes," the officer replied. "If you'll go to that desk, they should help you."

As Torticell walked cautiously to the desk, he saw two, familiar, towering figures walk out of an elevator. "Oh, hello, fellas. I was just-"

"Coming with us downstairs," one of them finished for him.

As Torticell was taken by the arms, he was startled to see on the placard that the F.B.I. was located upstairs.

Vincent couldn't wait patiently while Torticell found Samuel and the others. He decided he'd look around Swedish Medical Center for any clue of Sam's disappearance. He looked through the windows on floor after floor until, upon reaching the sixth floor, he saw one that was completely empty. Even Vincent knew that couldn't have been right. He quietly removed a window and stepped inside. He never stopped marveling at how his magic could keep him dry and warm despite the weather. As he walked around the halls of the floor, he could see that something was definitely wrong. This floor held no patients, no staff, nobody.

"Hold it right there," a stern voice shouted behind him.

Well, almost nobody.

Vincent turned around. "Who are you?"

"Bert Warder, F.B.I." Bert flashed a badge but Vincent ignored it; he was paying too much attention to the gun Bert had drawn. If the agent had planned to threaten him with it, he'd planned poorly.

Vincent took the gun with his magic and flung it down the hall. "Now, I've got some more questions for you to answer."

"I'm afraid you're in no position to ask questions, not if you're concerned about the safety of your brother."

Vincent closed him inside a soundproof bubble. "Maybe you'll be more willing to answer questions somewhere else. Like, say, the top of the Space Needle."

* * *

It was nearly time for the federal office to close. Already, the security officers were readying to check people on their way out. They weren't ready for one of the windows to explode, though. Those windows were a couple decimeters thick. They could withstand a hail of bullets!

Vincent stepped through them like they were made of paper-mache and quickly took the security officers' guns. He didn't listen to the yelling that erupted around him. People were kept back by the huge bubble of air he kept up around himself. He walked directly to the only elevator that descended to the Sub-Level and tore the doors off. He pulled the car up the shaft and, tearing open the wall, dropped it in an adjacent office. Then, he jumped down the shaft.

Agent Warder had lasted longer than Vincent had thought, all the way up until the point when Vincent was about to leave. "Wait," Bert had cried out. "Don't leave me here!"

"I've got to find my brother," Vincent had replied.

"Look, I'll tell you but you can't just leave me up here!"

Later, when Bert had, indeed, told all, Vincent left him strapped to the Needle. "Somebody'll be dumb enough to rescue you."

Now, as he neared the bottom of the elevator shaft, he could see agents training their rifles on him. He knew there'd be too many of them for him to discriminately take their guns one by one so he tried something new. Pushing his power out with as much force as he could muster, he created a windstorm the offices had never been designed to resist. People and furniture flew in a swirling mass, all colliding against the walls. One of the agents, he picked up and brought closer to ask, "Where's Agent Summers?"

"Who," the agent asked.

Vincent shook him around the room until he saw the agent's face turn green. "Where is Agent Summers?"

"I - I can't."

Vincent squeezed him. "I can tear this city to shreds until I find him. I'd have no problem with that. Now, are you going to tell me?"

The agent turned his head to a glass door. "He's in the Vault... but you'll never-"

Vincent dropped him and shattered the glass door before flying through. Down the hallway, he flew, leaving havoc in his wake until he had to stop short. The Vault was aptly named. It was sealed with a meter thick, metal door for ultimate security. Vincent only knew the door was a meter thick after he tore it free from its hinges. Inside, tables were lined along the wall, someone strapped onto each. Electrodes were taped to each other their heads, leading to busily printing computers. Vincent recognized them immediately. Samuel, Pete, Randy, Tom Torticell, Mark Nygarra, and his uncle Jeff

His attention didn't turn to the nearly twenty agents until they leveled their weapons on him. Instantly, the room was thrown into madness. Powerful winds battered the agents against the wall but Vincent's friends remained safely upon their tables. Magical forces ripped open a small, metal box and the irate form of a small, wooden man began spewing a barrage of swear words.

Vincent was too caught up in his power to see one agent typing frantically at a computer terminal, which he held onto for dear life, until it was too late. He was struck suddenly on the back of the head and lost his grip only to find himself drawn to the SuperMonster.

Vincent recognized Bert's description of Agent Summers and asked, "What did you just do?"

Suddenly, with a reverberating crash, a solid, metal slab crashed shut, once again sealing the Vault.

"It doesn't matter any more," Agent Summers answered, trying not to pant. "You're out of control. You're a danger to the world."

Vincent dropped him, afraid of what he could mean. "I just wanted to save my friends."

"Yeah," Summers asked, leaning on one knee. "Then you can die with them."

Vincent heard the hiss and then heard another agent ask frantically, "Summers? What have you done?"

Summers shook his head; he wasn't giving any explanation. "It was the only way we could stop him," was all he said.

Vincent guessed, "Gas?"

"Don't worry," Summers told him. "We're humane. It'll be virtually painless."

Vincent saw Samuel look up at him. Sam had obviously been drugged. So had the rest. They were being questioned, Vincent guessed. He looked over at Summers. "Painless? For your sake, I hope so."

Summers wondered for a fraction of a second what he could have meant. Then the SuperMonster, and all of Summers' captives, disappeared. He along with the other agents, still conscious, cried out. He felt the headache which signaled exposure and tried desperately to remember the override code.

* * *

Uncle Jeff and Torticell appeared in the midst of a light rain. Their straps had been broken. Slowly, the rain brought them out of their drugged state and Torticell sat up. "Well, at least he didn't leave us on a rooftop." Before him, he could see Lake Washington. He thought he recognized the park in which they sat. They were in Kirkland.

"No pictures. No proof," he muttered. He was sure that people would soon think he was a crackpot for believing in Vincent, the SuperMonster, and how he'd come back from another world, after his town, Country Gardens, had been stolen away by a mad wizard but he knew he'd have to write the story just the same. Once he could figure it out for himself, that is.

CHAPTER FIVE

DESPERATE TIMES

Part I

It was decided that their best time for flight from Goroc's Landing would be dawn. The nights were still too cold for little Caroline but travel by daylight would risk the attention of Tsurtor's spies. The sun was just lighting upon the water when Red Martag returned from the docks.

"Well," Tuk asked.

Red removed his woolen cap as he stepped into their room in Criak's Cottage. The fire was still burning bright, warming the interior. They'd leave it that way, thereby leaving the impression to any who found them missing that they'd return shortly. "We're clear," he said to Helen.

Helen nodded. Like the others, she had already prepared to go. Dressed in the warmest garments they would afford for both herself and her child, she stood there, as Red had adoringly mocked, like a big, fat, steaming pastry. She had no time to dwell on her condition, though. She gave the order. "Let's go."

Into the biting, northern air, they marched. As always, Red set the pace, leading as sure footed on land as he was at sea. Behind him, Byron led Tuk by the hand. Gault followed behind them, holding little Caroline on his shoulder. Both out of their element and dependent upon the others for guidance, the two had bonded swiftly. Their only worldly belongings, only those goods that they knew they would need, had been stuffed into two burlap sacks which Red had pilfered from the docks. He carried them now, one over each shoulder, as though they were weightless. "Come up here, Helen," he called back to her. No matter how cute she might be, he knew this journey would be hard on her. He wanted to keep a close eye. "Walk with me."

She walked silently and, though she wouldn't admit it, by day's end Red could see her putting all her energy into each step. They had made it to the entrance of the pass that led southward to Benaatt. It was said that the other end was blockaded by Tsurtor's men.

"We won't be going that far, princess," Byron said, bringing sticks he'd scrounged for the fire. "There's a cavern farther up in the mountains, three days from here if we hurry, that will take us close to the heart of the dwarven kingdom."

"What I'm worried about," Tuk admitted after he had magically started the sticks to burn and they'd had some warm food and a few sips of wine, simple pleasures they'd not have after they went above the tree-line and into the mountains, "is the ice giants."

"Aye," Red acknowledged with a nod. "Hex and your father," he said to Helen, "we had us a fight with one and that was later in spring than this. Something's awful strange for them not to be about."

"Strange time's afoot," Tuk replied.

"Don't count on things being too strange," Byron warned them. "We've not entered the mountains, yet."

And, so, they settled in for the night. The men were afforded only a thin sheet to keep the moisture from the ground off while they slept, huddled together, with no blankets to ward off the stinging, night's cold. Helen and Caroline slept together as well, bundled between several sheets and blankets. Byron kept his eyes sharply trained on their surroundings until morning.

Red shook Helen's shoulder. "Your highness. It is time."

Breakfast had already been prepared and the others were awake but Helen felt exhausted. Still, she knew she couldn't let that stop her. "I'm awake, Martag. Give me some food." Her appetite was slim, though, so she gave the rest of her ration to Caroline, who was still hungry after her own breakfast.

It was on that day when they began their ascent into the mountains. Their progress was slowed by the old magician and the pregnant princess but no one spoke of this. It was obvious that they were pushing themselves beyond their abilities. Byron was pulling Tuk, whose grumbling had been given over to panting, but Helen would not allow herself to be pulled. She was too afraid that, if she did, it would quickly lead to her needing to be carried. She insisted that she was just fine and would not be helped even after, by mid-day, a dull, familiar pain started to inflict itself.

It grew worse the next day as they climbed higher, entering the snow. A constant hammer upon her gut, it demanded the recognition that she would not provide. No matter the circumstances, she was the princess of Rynia. She tried not to let the pain show. No matter how badly she wanted to cradle her tummy like a fresh bruise, she denied herself.

And so, another day passed.

The next morning, though, the pain was unmistakable. Even Red could see it in her eyes. "How much farther until the cave," he asked, not taking his eyes off of her.

Byron answered, standing behind, "We should reach the opening some time today but I can't guarantee when we'll reach the dwarves."

"She needs to be someplace warm," Red insisted, looking up at the wooden man. "I'll carry her ahead. You follow as fast as you can with the others."

Byron shook his head. "You don't know the cave's location."

"Then you'll come along as well. Gault!"

Gault was already there. "I'll bring the others safely there, Red."

Red nodded. "Good. Then we'll meet at the caves." He bent over, scooping up the princess, blankets and all."

"I will not be carried like ship's cargo," Helen insisted. "I can walk."

Red adjusted her considerable weight in his arms and snapped, "Princess, shut up."

Traveling this way was easier on her and, slowly, the pains subsided. Red, however, had to stop and rest several times. But as night fell, Byron pointed ahead at the weather worn entrance to an ancient mine. Red set Helen down at the entrance and looked behind. "Gault'll follow our tracks," he predicted. Several hours later, his prediction came true when Gault led a grumbling Tuk into the cavern's mouth. Apparently, the slower pace had subsided his panting and allowed breath for his complaints. "Truly, Gault, you're a man of powerful resilience. I saw some views where Tuk would have sailed down swiftly and silently."

Gault smiled quietly to himself.

Caroline held Helen's hand, asking if she was alright.

"Mommie's tired, honey."

"Will we be proceeding, your highness," Byron asked.

"We have to," Helen replied, allowing Red to help her up. "I won't give birth to Rynian royalty on a freezing mountainside."

Fear shone in everyone's eyes. Though Helen's discomfort had been apparent, and simple math put her very near delivery, all had hoped that present circumstances might delay the inevitable. One look at Helen, though, and that thought was like putting a thumb in a dike. This baby was coming.

"This way," Byron prompted. "The dwarven halls aren't far."

Red moved to pick Helen up but she waved him off. He pulled a long branch out of his last remaining bag and Tuk lit its end for a torch. The dim light was just enough to illuminate Byron's leading figure and Red held Helen's hand as they followed. Gault held the hands of the blind wizard and the little princess, leading them behind. The mine tilted lower and lower as hour passed into hour. Torches were lit one after another and Red was afraid of running out of wood.

"Where, Byron," Helen called, her voice strained and urgent. "Where?"

"Not far now," Byron assured her. A few more steps and - "There!" Byron pointed around a corner and Red knew he wouldn't need his torch any longer. The walls before them shone with a reddish/gold hue that filled the hallway. All along, the intensity of murals painted there was only added to by the intense light. A strange language told the murals' stories.

"They're beautiful," Helen gasped, her mind taken from her pain.

"It's just like daddy told us," added Caroline.

"Aye," Red agreed with a nod. His experience told him there was more, though. "But something about them seems strange."

"It all looks fine to me," Tuk dead-panned.

"No," Red corrected as they entered the dwarven halls. "The paintings don't seem - ah! There! Do you see that?" Two dragons fought an army of dwarven warriors where Red pointed.

Byron replied, "What of it? Hex had told me that the dwarves and the dragons were longtime enemies."

"No." Red shook his head and pointed closer. Here and there, the mural had aged to the point of peeling. Sections appeared to have crumbled off. "The dwarves I met would never have let this happen."

Slowly, the traveled down the grand hallway. Soon, they began to pass intersecting passages, leading down into other parts of the mountain. They decided to keep their path straight, all the better for a hasty retreat should it be needed.

"Where is everybody," Red asked.

Byron answered as if the question had been asked of him. "Indeed. Hex had told me that the plague was taking its toll. The visible lack of maintenance to these halls, along with their lack of guards, indicates the plague may have been worse that he suspected."

"We've got to find them, Byron," Helen insisted, her voice so tight that, if it were a cable, it would have snapped.

"Don't worry yourself, princess," Red assured. "I've seen these creatures before. They're not easily beat."

As if on cue, four dwarves hurried out of an adjacent tunnel. Red was surprised to see that they were women. Short and warmly dressed, their tiny eyes opened wide with astonishment and they cried out in an unintelligible tongue. "Wait," Byron called out but it was too late. The women ran back down the tunnel from which they'd come, disappearing behind one of the tunnel's common, twisting curves.

"Women," Red exclaimed. "Have the dwarven people fallen so that they let don't keep guards in the halls?"

"How can they fight for us in a war if they can't protect their own caves," Tuk grumbled angrily.

"I think we should stay here," Byron suggested. "Their cries should bring somebody around."

They stood silently, looking down the empty corridor. Even Caroline was quiet, though she fidgeted and pulled on Gault's hand. Soon, footsteps, amplified by the stone walls, could be heard ascending the tunnel.

Helen stepped forward, as did Red and Byron. Each felt they held the right to be the first to address the dwarves. Red was the only one present who had already dealt with dwarfs. Helen was the future queen of Rynia, her right went without saying. Byron stood in Hex's stead and Hex had communicated more with the dwarfs than anyone.

Before them, four dwarfs approached in rapid step, two armed with great axes and two with long, gleaming pikes.

"I remember the last time," Red whispered. "They didn't say anything. They just attacked us. One of them knocked me off a cliff. Mack tried to save me."

Byron's response was low and uncharacteristically stern. "I'm sure it's a fascinating story, Martag, but times have changed. They have just as much to lose as we."

The dwarves stopped a meter away, holding their weapons at ready. A dwarven axeman stepped forward, his voice weak. "Your female is with child. You know we will kill you. Why do you come?"

The pains tearing through Helen's body - and she could no longer deny their nature - insisted that she fall down, double over, do anything but stand there. But she remained standing. She stood before the dwarfs as her father would have wanted, with all the strength and dignity of her kingdom, and replied, "I am Helen Haddison, Princess of Rynia. My kingdom faces a dire threat. I have come to ask of you a boon." Even talking was painful. She had to clench her teeth, breathing after only a few words, causing her speech to be broken and, fight though she may, weak.

The dwarf shook his head. "We grant no boons to humans but that of death. Go! Leave this place!"

Byron spoke this time, acutely aware that this dwarf had already said more than he should. Under normal circumstances, he would have been fighting. But these were obviously not normal circumstances. "Yet, you requested a boon from a human not long ago. Hex of Rynia was called here for a boon. Is it so easy for you to ask but not give?"

The dwarf snarled, gleaming teeth shining behind a thick, blonde, beard. "You speak rubbish! Never have the dwarves asked anything of humans! I don't know what manner of creature you are but these words of yours are lies!"

His lips pursed by the accusation, Byron retorted, "Then, perhaps, you're not interested in the cure we have for your plague?"

A pikeman, silent throughout the dialogue, stepped forward, brandishing his weapon. "How dare you taunt us?" The pikeman charged them, swinging his pike like a bat.

Red was immediately on top of him, catching the pike with his left hand and, as the dwarf turned toward him, brought that same hand down into the dwarf's face. The blow knocked the dwarf back, dropping him to the tunnel floor. Red was amazed, standing for a moment with his mouth gaping open. The blow should have broken Red's arm, so solidly had the dwarfs been built last time he fought them.

"Red. No." Helen's weak voice barely reached him.

He hadn't a choice, though. The other dwarfs attacked. Instantly, the pike was in both hands, held like a quarterstaff. He blocked the first axe with the bladed end, amazed that he could, and brought the other end up into the second axeman's face. They're as weak as humans, he thought.

Behind him, Helen cried out.

He couldn't harm them, Red knew. He was aware of how much they need the dwarfs' help but couldn't let them hurt his friends. The other pike stabbed through his thick shirt but Red spun around, facing his princess -

and stopped fighting.

Helen was on the ground. Byron and Caroline were at her side. The princess' legs had fallen useless beneath her, the cloth of her pants dark and wet.

Red knew instantly. The princess' water had broke.

Then, Red experienced a moment he'd never known before in the heat of battle. He was enveloped by an overwhelming sense of peace, something he shouldn't have felt at all. His princess was in a dire situation before him. He was fighting dwarves who could easily have torn him apart. And these, he knew with some terrible irony, were the last hope of the kingdom who had sent the dwarves to the diseased doom. Peace was the last thing he should have felt.

Then, he realized why. It was because he was about to die.

He didn't feel when the blow came. He wasn't aware when blackness suddenly descended upon him like a final night. The feeling of peace ended. Everything ended.

Byron screamed, "No!"

Helen cried out.

"Mommy," Caroline shrieked.

Gault had caught Helen as she fell and now stepped up beside her to take his mentor's place but he was too late. Tuk, the old, blind wizard, stood in Red Martag's stead. Light shimmered around him as he tried something he'd never thought of before.

"He's igniting the air around him," Byron gasped.

"Get out of here," Tuk yelled.

"No. I'll fight," Gault shouted in return.

Byron nodded. "Me, too. We'll take down the three remaining." The three remaining weren't attacking, though. They were casting a gaze down the tunnel from which they'd come.

"Can't you hear it!" Tuk pushed forth with his magic, drawing a scream from one of the dwarfs as the igniting air touched him.

As a result of the Destroyer's magic, the air was growing thin and Gault could hardly ask, "What?"

Byron didn't feel the lack of oxygen, though. He said, "Footsteps!"

Indeed, for down the tunnel, approaching as one great hoard, came many more dwarven defenders.

Gault gasped. "What the hell have we done?"

Part II

Byron didn't think at that moment of how he had to stop Tuk from teaching others those earth swear words he'd heard from Hex on occasion. He pulled Gault back with amazing strength and yelled into his ear (knowing that the thinning air would make speech more difficult), "There! There is your responsibility!" He pointed at Helen, who was holding her belly in agony. "Get her to safety! Get her away from here!"

"But," Gault tried to argue.

Byron would have none of it. He screamed, "GO!"

Gault was good at taking orders but never thought of himself as one to run from a fight. In this instance though, he didn't know which scared him more: an onslaught of dwarven warriors or a princess about to give birth. So, he did what he'd learned was best in these types of situations. He didn't think.

He scooped the princess up in his arms. Months of hard labor on the seas made lifting her seem like nothing. The only distressing part for Gault was the thick, sticky substance under her rear end. He looked down at Caroline. "Can you run?"

She shook her head, tears running from her eyes, but said, "Yes."

"Come on!" He ignored the flashing of igniting air and turned away from whatever magic Byron was working and, instead of running back the way they'd come or forward where they'd been heading, Gault turned down an adjacent tunnel. That surely, he thought, would have thrown off any pursuers. He turned down other intersections at random, getting lost in the mountains. They ran for an hour, it seemed. When Caroline was too weak to run, she held onto Gault's back. He ignored Helen's cries; she assured him her pain wouldn't end until the baby was out. Finally, they ran out of tunnel. They had entered an uncut cavern with hanging stalactites and towering stalagmites. The ground was dark but the air was getting warmer.

"I think we're going outside, princess," Gault whispered.

"Just hurry," she panted. "Please hurry."

There was light up ahead. The rock formations smoothed and Gault's pace picked up only to realize the light was produced by fire spewing out of the rock. That was what was making the cavern so warm.

Gault stopped and looked around. He couldn't see the exit.

"Oh, Gerrit, princess. I think I'm lost."

Helen panted. "Gault. Put me down. The baby's coming."

Gault choked out, "What?"

Suddenly, the cavern was shaken with a loud crash. Caroline, who had dropped off of Gault's back to rest her arms, fell on the cavern floor. Gault looked down as the little girl cried out, holding her wrist. Then, he put Helen down, resting her head against a smooth rock.

Again, the cavern shook around them.

Gault stood up, looking in the direction from which the shaking came.

"WHO DARES INVADE MY LAIR?!"

The cry tore at Gault's ears and he fought to keep his footing. Then the long neck, serpentine head, scaled face, and soul-crushing stare of the dragon came forth from the darkness and Gault knew he had failed. Tears streamed down his face. He was sure he would die. Still, his footing remained firm and he said, louder than he dared, "Get away from us! We have no fight with you!"

"Gault!" Helen's scream was drowned out by the dragon's reply.

"AH, BUT I HAVE ONE WITH YOU!"

Gault had heard the princess' cry and cast a quick look her way before shouting back at the dragon, "No! Leave us and we will go just as soon as we are able!"

"Gault," Helen screamed. "Please!"

"WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOUR WOMAN," the dragon asked.

Gault tried to talk but in the terror between holding off a dragon without so much as an old bat and facing a woman who was about to give birth, he gagged on his words.

It was obvious, though, and the dragon saw it. "SHE IS HAVING BIRTHING PAINS!" Things happened so fast then, Gault couldn't keep up. There was a shimmering of light. The dragon disappeared. A beautiful woman knocked him aside and went to the princess. "You must relax," the woman said.

Helen panted, unable to form a word.

Caroline ran to Gault and, together, they watched.

Helen felt her pants ripped off from her. That much was a relief at least. Now, she could push and her baby would be born.

The woman gripped her hand, suddenly. "Don't push," she shouted.

"I have to," Helen gasped. "I've waited too long."

"No! You have to hold it back all you can! Your baby is coming out the wrong way! There's something wrong!"

"No," Helen screamed. "I can't!"

"You must!" The woman pulled on Helen's hand and Helen felt herself lifted up. She was looking into the woman's eyes, watching as they swirled with all the colors of the rainbow. The woman whispered, "Trust me," and Helen knew she must.

She felt the woman's hand enter her and felt a sensation that could only be, "Magic."

The woman heard her gasp. "Yes. True magic."

"Who are you?"

The other hand went in. "My name is Ny'ezia."

Ny'ezia had sworn her hatred of humanity many times. After they killed her people, she swore her hatred. After they killed her children, she swore her hatred. Yet, she was beginning to discover that it never really worked. She'd given aid to Ostrander's children. Now, she was helping this one. Somehow, though, this was different. She couldn't allow a mother to suffer as she had. She couldn't allow this baby to die.

But something was surely wrong. As she brought the baby out, it was silent. The umbilical cord had wrapped its way around the girl's throat.

She hadn't saved it. Ny'ezia felt her heart drop. Hers was a cursed touch that brought death all around her. If it hadn't been for Ostrander, the last of her babies would have died just as this one.

In the back of her mind, though, she knew she could have done more. It had been her sorrow that had kept her from taking action. Wasn't she a dragon? Wasn't she one of the most powerful beasts ever to soar the skies? If she could have saved her babies, what was stopping her from saving this one? If sorrow had stopped her once, couldn't it empower her now?

Suddenly, her eyes shown bright, raining brilliance upon the child.

"My baby," Helen gasped. "What's happened to my baby?"

"Hush," Ny'ezia breathed. "Your baby is going to be just fine."

The death had been very recent. Ny'ezia could still feel a life-force firmly holding onto this tiny form. Slowly, she did what she should have done with her little ones. She fed the still child with magic, filling it until it shined as well. The umbilical cord dropped off and Helen, bathed in sweat, brought herself upon on one elbow. "What are you doing," she asked.

"What needs to be done," Ny'ezia whispered. She brought the babe against her bosom and sighed as her entire form pulsed with magical light. Yes. This felt right. It felt good. The little heart started, bathed in magic. The little mouth gasped as magically-laced air entered its lungs. Then, a little cry came out and Ny'ezia brought the baby girl up so she could look at her, both of them bathed in eternal light. Slowly, the light dimmed and Ny'ezia was smiling. She knelt beside Helen. "Here," she whispered. "Your child is well but I think she may be a little hungry."

Helen fumbled through several layers of clothes. She had sweated through all but the top layer. Then, she took the baby and put her to her breast. Hungrily, her newborn baby girl began to suck. Helen looked up from the child to Ny'ezia. "You're that dragon, aren't you?"

"That dragon," Ny'ezia asked, amused. "I've never heard of myself referred to as 'that dragon'. How is it that you know of me, hmmm?"

"My husband told me. He's met you."

Ny'ezia thought for a moment. "Your husband is Hex," she asked.

Helen nodded, stoking her baby's head.

Ny'ezia exhaled loudly. "Well, I'll give him this. He sure does know how to get around."

"Oh, yes," Helen replied, knowingly. "The man has his fingers in a lot of pies."

Suddenly, Ny'ezia cocked her head, turning away.

"What is it," Helen asked.

"I need to go away for a while," Ny'ezia said to her. Light rippled in her hand and suddenly, she held a brightly colored blanket. She laid it on top of Helen and, lifting her legs, tucked it beneath. "Do this for me. Don't leave this place. I have babies of my own and when they are hungry - they can be very hungry. You understand, hmmm? I'll return shortly." With greater agility and speed than Helen would have thought her capable, Ny'ezia dashed back into the darkness from which she'd come.

Then, she heard, "Mommy?" The voice was small and a little afraid but it was perfect.

"Caroline! Baby! Come closer to mommy!" Luckily, the fires that warmed the cavern provided a little light and Helen could see her firstborn approach her slowly in the dim light. "You see? You see what mommy and daddy did?"

"What is it," Caroline asked.

Helen smirked. "It's a baby."

Then, it was Caroline's turn to be annoyed and Helen was glad that, for once, she was the one to turn the words around and hear the exasperated, "I know that."

"You have a little sister, Carolina," Helen said, lovingly.

"Can I touch it," Caroline asked.

Helen stoked the baby's head. "She won't bite... not until her teeth come in if she's anything like you were."

Caroline giggled and put a finger on the baby's back. "What's her name?"

"Her name," Helen asked. Then, she had to stop and think for several long minutes. "I, um, don't know."

Caroline giggled. "That's a silly name."

Helen shook her head - more of Hex's sense of humor rubbing off on the child. "Where's Gault?"

A voice in the darkness replied, "I'm right here, ma'am."

"Come closer, Gault," Helen said. "It's okay."

Gault approached with his head bowed and his eyes diverted, reminding Helen of her royalty, and said, "Yes, ma'am?"

"Gault. I wanted to thank you."

"Um, thank me?"

"Yes. That was a very brave thing you did there, standing up to the dragon as you did. Very brave."

"And strong," Caroline added. "He carried us a long, long ways."

Helen nodded. "That's right."

Gault wasn't accustomed to such praise from ladies. He could hardly take it from Red without blushing. He bowed his head further to hide his red cheeks and stammered, "I - uh - I \- uh - That's what my pa always says. 'Just point him and he'll go.'"

"Your pa," Helen asked. "What's his name?"

"Commander Ned Blakely, ma'am. Maybe you knew him before he retired?"

Helen felt warm tears drip past her cheeks. Had she known Ned Blakely? "Yes, Gault. I knew him. I was there when - when-"

"When he saved your life," Gault asked.

"Yes. And now you have. Courage must run through your family."

Gault thought about that. Then, he remembered the towering figure of Red Martag lying crumpled upon the floor of the dwarven tunnel, and he didn't feel so brave.

Part III

The plate slid to a halt as it passed between the bars. "Great," Hex muttered. "More crappy food." As he picked it up, some of it dripped onto the ground. "Well, he's not starving me to death. That's for sure."

Beside him, an image appeared. His typical garb was replaced with a white apron and towering chef's cap. "The cuisine here just reeks of junior high school cafeteria."

"Worse," Hex replied, sitting on his bed. He'd healed well in the past months; Tsurtor didn't want him dead. Not yet. "I've had junior high school cafeteria food. So? What did you find out?"

"With all of the shielding he's put up in this mountain, my signal won't go beyond half a kilometer outside before it grows too weak. There's no way to get a message out."

"So, that's ruled out as well." Hex ate some of the food. It was even worse cold, hard enough to believe as that might be.

His chef's hat and apron disappearing, Silen sat down. "So, let's se. You can't use your magic on the bars because they're electrically charged." Hex tried not to hold that idea against Silen but his fingertips on his right hand were still scarred.

Hex nodded. "Can't go through the walls without risking the acid lining." A dripping slag on the wall was evidence enough of that.

"I can't make one of the guards let you out because of those gizmos Tsurtor gave them." Silen had been trying constantly with no avail.

Hex put down his food. "If I make something out of the plate my food comes on, it just gets returned by me in a lump." It took four times before they learned that lesson. "Odds are they'd do the same to the chair and the bed." And, after all, Hex figured he'd need a place to sleep.

Silen got back up. "Can't tunnel up because of the weight trap."

Hex laid back. "Can't tunnel down because the poison spikes are pressure sensitive." These last two, the guards were kind enough to tell them about.

"And now we know I can't transmit a signal far enough outside." Silen shook his head. "What do we do now?"

Hex picked up his food and offered it. "Eat our dinner?"

* * *

Red Martag wasn't dead. Not that he didn't wish he was, with the pain that split his head from stem to stern.

"I thought you were dead," Tuk grumbled.

"Mmmmmrrr," Red groaned. "Where are we?"

"Oh, now, that's funny. Real original, too. What next? You gonna ask me how your head looks?"

A door opened and Red tried to open his eyes. "Who is that?"

A blurry version of Byron approached him. "Red! If I hadn't healed you myself, I'd say you were dead."

"He looked dead to me," said Tuk.

"Where are we," Red repeated.

"Welcome to the dwarven realm," Byron replied. "Bet you never thought you'd make it."

Red sat up. He'd been lying on a stone bed but the coverings made it feel much softer. The three of them were in a small room - not cramped but smaller than most of the "human" quarters with which he was accustomed. Red noticed Tuk was reclining in a metal rocker. The door Byron had entered through was made of metal and rock. "What's going on? I thought we were fighting them? Where's the princess? How'd we end up here?"

"Calm down, big fella," Byron said, trying to put him at ease. "You suffered a pretty bad bump on the noggin. Your head was cracked like an egg... egg noggin. Concussed but I took care of that. Sorry I couldn't help you with the pain."

"Byron," Red prompted.

"Well, you're right. We were fighting them. I mean, you were. Next thing I knew, you got hit in the head."

* * *

One of them had beaned you on the head with the flat of his axe. Felled you like a tree. That was when the princess started going into labor and I had Gault take her away from the fighting. Don't worry. I'll get to that. Anyway, Tuk started doing this new trick where he literally incinerated the air and I knelt down, trying to heal you. It wasn't just because the fire frightened me.

Well, with Tuk incinerating all of the oxygen in the area, it wasn't too long before his private supply ran out and he fell down, too.

("You couldn't a done no better, twig," Tuk interrupted.)

Anyway, Tuk was down. Luckily, so were at least a hundred dwarves. His magic had worked marvelously but there was still one dwarf remaining. He must have been leading the others from the rear. As he approached - and that took him long enough - he had to be careful not to step on his sleeping fellows - I saw right away that he was even weaker than the others, if you can believe it. He carried a cane, which he leaned heavily against, and had to stop every few feet to rest. As he drew closer, I could hear his hacking cough and, closer still, his wheezing breath.

"Who are you," I asked. "We don't want any trouble."

"Trouble or not," the dwarf said, stopping several meters away and sitting on a pile of bodies, "you've defeated us."

"They're only unconscious," I told him.

"What," he asked.

"Asleep."

He looked over the mass of seemingly dead bodies. "More of your fisiks?"

"Physics," I asked. "Yes, a little biology and chemistry as well."

(Red interrupted the little man. "Byron, we have no idea what you're talking about here.")

Oh. Well, neither did the dwarf. Then, I explained to him that such things can be useful, especially for healing diseases.

"You sound like a human I once met. He thought he could heal the death of the dwarven people as well."

"Was his name Hex," I asked. When he nodded, I was stunned. "You've met Hex?"

"Only twice. You?"

"Hex was my creator."

The old dwarf shook his head. "Well, I'll give him this. He sure does know how to get around."

"My name's Byron," I said.

"I am Gurrak."

(Red gasped. "Gurrak! I remember that name!")

Yes? Well, sometime I need to tell you how he kept in contact with Hex. It's an interesting story.

Where was I? Oh, yes. Gurrak couldn't believe I had the same knowledge as Hex for healing the dwarven plague. Of course, he didn't dare believe it.

"Hex had said that a way could be devised but I didn't dare believe - the hope, once given to my people, if it were dashed."

"Well," I cautioned, "it's not written in stone but we think we might have found a way."

"And you think you can do this in Hex's place," Gurrak asked.

"I was with Hex during every step of the research and experiments."

"Are you sure you can succeed just as he," Gurrak asked, again.

"What do I know? I'm just an animated twig."

"I meant no offense! I just have to be sure." He rose up again, leaning heavily upon his cane. "I'll need to meet with the elders."

"You might want to wait a second," I said. "Your friends are about to wake up."

Then, as if on cue, some of the dwarves began to stir. "More fisiks," Gurrak asked.

"No," I replied. "Ventilation."

* * *

"So, then, we were brought here," Red asked.

"Yep," Tuk answered. "And twig asked me to keep an eye on you."

Red ignored his remark. "Then, where were you?"

"I just returned from meeting with the dwarven elders. You'll both be happy to know that they're not going to kill you. On the other hand, they don't expect much in way of a cure."

"Has it really been that bad for them," Red asked.

"Millions of them have perished, Red," Byron replied. "Only a few hundred thousand remain."

"A few hundred thousand," Tuk exclaimed. "That doesn't sound like a little. In fact, it's greater than the population of Rynia, last we could tell."

Byron paced the room. "But we Rynians are new to this planet. Some of us newer than others. The dwarves have been here for far longer. Their history says that they've inhabited these mountains alone for nearly seventy times as long as the Rynians have been here. Compared to us, though, their numbers are great. We're going to have to heal them if we want to earn their trust."

"Then, what are we waiting for," Red asked.

"Actually, Red," Byron replied, putting his hand on the sailor's arm, "you are what we were waiting for. You see, I need a lab assistant."

* * *

Agnie rode upon Ostrander's shoulders as he led his people up Ny'ezia's mountain. Behind him, nearly a thousand tired and frightened Rynians and Americans followed. Only a few days before, Ostrander had remarked, "I feel like Moses," only to be understood by a handful of the Americans. Up the broad, grassy slope, they ascended, the cool, mountain wind keeping them cool. Some of them, though, were downright cold, especially the Americans who had only thin garments and little food. A good hunter Ostrander might have been but there was no preventing nearly two thousand footfalls from spooking away any prey. What little he did kill was hardly enough for everyone. They had to find Ny'ezia.

With the sharp snap of a wing and a piercing scream followed by a ribbon of fire, Ostrander knew that searching for her was folly. Ny'ezia made herself known. Ostrander looked up and smiled. He'd only seen her in this form once before but had never seen her fly. Her beauty was captivating and terrifying.

Ostrander didn't realize the consequence of this until he saw many of his people begin to flee. "No," he shouted. Not everyone could hear him so the message was passed down. "She's only marking her territory!"

"B-but I've read about these things! They're not supposed to exist," one of the Americans screamed.

Another shouted, "That thing could kill us!"

"But she won't," Ostrander shouted. "She won't! She's friendly!"

It took nearly an hour to assuage their fears and gather them all back again. By that time, Ny'ezia had changed to her human form and was walking down the mountainside. "What are you doing here, Ostrander, hmmm," she asked before they came too close. "I showed you patience once before and cared for your children. My debt to you is paid."

"Perhaps," Ostrander replied with an uneager nod. He looked in her eyes and hoped she saw his need. "Perhaps it is time I become indebted to you."

"No," she snapped. "There are too many people here. My home is my own; no one will take it!"

Ostrander could sense her fierce territoriality. "That is not our intention and, even if it was, we could not succeed. I fully know the extent of your power and might and have come only in the hopes that your wisdom and mercy will show themselves equal."

Her chin raised slightly, as if questioning his compliment. "What is it you want, Ostrander, hmmm?"

"Only as much as you can give, Ny'ezia. Your home is, indeed, your own. This mountain is your own. How little of this mountain these people would take. How little of it could you give?"

Again, she snapped, "No! It is unacceptable! More refugees would come, cluttering my mountain. It would bring your war here. I and my children would have no peace."

Ostrander thought for a moment. "You're right, of course. The Scales to the north, though, are still too cold. My people would freeze. Can you think of any alternatives?"

"Only one," she said with a sense of finality. Before their eyes, the air shimmered. Ny'ezia's form rose above them, dwarfing the mountainside. Golden hair turned into a fiery mane. Wings sprouted from the back. A supple mouth drew to a point, sprouting long, dangerous fangs. Before them, Ny'ezia showed her true self. She lowered herself down on her arms and legs like a resting cat and spoke quietly. "IF YOUR PEOPLE WILL REMAIN HERE, YOU CAN CLIMB ON MY BACK AND COME TO MY HOME. THERE, WE WILL DISCUSS YOUR KINGDOM'S PRESENT CONDITION."

Ostrander gave the word to his people and then knelt before Agnie and Tetrem. "You guys behave yourselves, okay? Tet, I want you to keep an eye out and see to it that everyone works together. See if we can spread out those blankets we've acquired. Both of you keep an eye and ear on things and let me know how things went once I return." They embraced as they had so many times recently; the children were learning not to worry when Ostrander was gone.

A quick kiss on Agnie's cheek and Ostrander turned back to the dragon. "How do I do this?"

"CLIMB," was Ny'ezia's succinct response.

Her scales were large enough for him to fit a hand in each and place his feet upon as he climbed. Human flesh, he thought, would probably be torn as the scales felt sharp even to his stone form. Once upon her back, she said, "COME UP HERE, BEHIND MY EARS. NOW, SIT DOWN AND HOLD ONTO MY MANE. YOU WON'T HURT ME."

"Believe me, Ny'ezia," Ostrander said as he gathered her thick, red strands in his hands, "my hurting you is the last of my worries."

"AS WELL IT SHOULD BE," she remarked with a hint of sadism. Then, without warning, they rose. Straight up.

Had Ostrander been created with a stomach, he would have felt it press against his knee. Luckily for him, though, he had no such concerns. Her ascent, however, was so steep that he found he couldn't move. He was pushed down into his scaly seat as he still held tightly her mane. Beneath them, the world dropped as if they had remained still and the others were falling madly. Then, slowing so as not to throw her rider, Ny'ezia's ascent stopped.

Ostrander found himself panting even though he hadn't been the one fly, ignoring the fact that he hadn't lungs. "I think you're showing off, Ny'ezia."

"I HAVE TO SOMETIMES. I FLY SO OFTEN ALONE."

"But that wasn't done with your wings," Ostrander observed.

"NO," Ny'ezia replied. "WE DRAGONS ARE FAR TOO GRAND A RACE TO FLY SUCH AS BIRDS."

"So there goes aerodynamics. Right out the window."

Ny'ezia ignored Ostrander's remark. "LONG BEFORE COMING TO THIS WORLD, THE DRAGONS OF OLD CREATED MAGIC POWERFUL ENOUGH TO FLY US WHEREVER WE WISHED."

"I can't help but notice you keep referring to yourself in the plural, Ny'ezia."

"AND WHY SHOULDN'T I," she asked, taking them into a tight spin. "I HAVE YOU TO THANK FOR THAT AND THAT'S WHY I'VE TAKEN YOU UP HERE!" Recklessly, she careened down towards the rocky peaks, sliding between them with ease. Then, after a hard bank around a gorge, back up they went, soaring into the clouds. "THIS IS A GREAT GIFT YOU'VE RECEIVED. REMEMBER IT WELL FOR NOW WE MUST RETURN TO MY LAIR FOR I HAVE ANOTHER PRESENT FOR YOU TO MEET."

"Meet," Ostrander asked. Ny'ezia didn't hear him, though. The wind whipped by them at an astounding speed as they drew closer to her cave.

When they landed, Ostrander climbed back down and Ny'ezia entered her lair. Ostrander noticed that she hadn't bothered to transform to her human self and, stepping closer, thought he heard birds crying but his ears deceived him. She poked her head out and said, "COME IN." Inside, he saw the source of the strange noise. While the others were sleeping, Ny'ezia held two squirming babies in her long, dragon arms. Dragon babies. She smiled down at them. "SEEMS THEY NEVER SLEEP AT THE SAME TIME."

"They're beautiful," Ostrander told her. "This is truly a gift, being able to see them again."

"THANK YOU," she replied, cooing at her hatchlings.

"But how will this help my people?"

Ny'ezia nuzzled one of the babies, saying, "IT WON'T."

Ostrander didn't understand. "It won't?"

Ny'ezia looked up, shaking her head. "NO. BUT THEY NEED TO BE FED."

Ostrander paused for a moment, trying to understand what bearing that had on his current situation. "Oh," he said.

Her eyes closing to slits, she said, "CALL ME MODEST BUT I'D RATHER NOT FEED THEM IN YOUR PRESENCE."

"Oh," Ostrander replied. "I'll just go then."

"NO!"

"No?"

"YOU'LL GO TO THE REAR OF THE CAVE," she instructed. "THAT'S WHY I BROUGHT YOU."

"Oh," Ostrander said, pretending to understand. Quickly, he hurried back. What could it be, he wondered. An army awaiting the perfect moment to strike? A larger cave suitable to house all of his people? No. Ostrander saw that he was approaching several people. One of them was holding two children.

"Stone giant," Gault cried out.

"No," Ostrander said, hoping to avoid the inevitable conflict that he'd seen so many times during his trek across Rynia.

Thankfully, the other, a woman, agreed. "No. Wait a minute, Gault." She looked over at Ostrander and asked, "What are you doing here?"

"Ny'ezia sent me here. She thought you could help me." He paused for a moment, looking down at the woman. "Pardon me for asking but how old is that baby?"

"Hmm," the woman replied. "I don't know exactly. A couple of hours," she asked the young man with her.

He nodded. "No more than half a day."

Ostrander was amazed. "You mean you just gave birth?"

"I hadn't much of a choice," she replied.

Ostrander wanted to kneel down and touch it. It was so beautiful, so fragile. "May I," he asked.

The baby was laying down on top of the woman's shirt, wrapped in a blanket, its belly full from just feeding. "Of course," she said.

Ostrander lightly touched its head and sighed, "It's beautiful. What's its name?"

"Her name," the woman asked. "I'm not sure but I'm leaning towards Anonymous."

"A non-mouse?"

"No. Anonymous. It's a joke her father used to tell. My name's Helen. Helen Haddison."

Ostrander had only been bent over before but now fell to one knee. "You're Helen?"

Helen looked over at Gault, as if this was some joke. "Always have been," she replied with a smile. "Who are you?"

"My name's Ostrander."

Her smile dropped and her breath caught in her throat. "Os - but that's impossible. Hex told me you were an earth giant."

"I was." Now it was Ostrander's turn find things humorous. "I've been through a few changes."

Helen nodded. "I can see that. Oh, Hex is going to be so happy you've come back! He thought he'd lost you in that cave!"

"I know! I've seen him since I returned!"

She'd been holding her baby with one arm (Caroline used the other for a pillow) but now her hand came up and held Ostrander's arm, almost afraid to let him go. "You've seen Hex? When," she asked.

Ostrander couldn't know how long it had been since the two had been together but could tell that, to Helen, it seemed like forever. "A few months back."

She drew him down so that he sat beside her and insisted, "You have to tell me. Tell me everything you know about what's going on."

"I will," Ostrander assured her. "I think I know why Ny'ezia sent me back here." It was her gift, he was sure. Her way of saying that everything would be alright somehow. That Hex had brought them together.

CHAPTER SIX

SLEIGHT OF FOOT

Part I

On the eastern shore of what was once Rynia, as the small waves lapped upon the shore opposite Regal Isle, Tsurtor's vast army prepared to move. Having met their expected success, they readied themselves for their next slaughter. South, that was the word Lord Tsurtor gave. Into the vast desert of Kallent and another weak kingdom to grab - that nation of half-breeds who had so corrupted Tsurtor's people - that was their next destination. Contrary to his generals, who believed in fighting a war with an eye toward defense, Tsurtor had his long supply columns already driving south. They would prepare a new base on the Kallant border for his army and build landing strips for his bombers. Then, he would travel with his unconquerable force south. Though the army had been ready to move since morning, their gear stowed, their weapons checked and rechecked, one tent remained standing in the middle of the camp. It was tall and red and its opening faced the south as it had faced the east before the fall of Rynia. Tsurtor liked things red. His tanks were red. His soldiers were red. It reflected his one, undeniable desire. Blood. The blood of his enemies. The blood of a world that had forbade him a normal life. A life with family or dignity or love.

Inside the tent, though, he wasn't thinking of blood. His eyes were closed, the palms of his hands over them, and his elbows rested upon his knees as he sat upon a large, round pillow with his legs crossed. He had found this position most useful for communicating with his minions. He had made sure, when he had probed their minds and conditioned their souls, that they would always hear his thoughts, that his will would be their own. That required little energy and nominal artificial wiring attached to his generals' cerebral cortex. Talking to them, however, required the dominance of will Tsurtor alone possessed. In their minds, he appeared as a giant, an indomitable force.

And he liked it that way.

He was trying to contact that pig-man, General Huk'ra. The shape befitted the man. When they had first met, Tsurtor knew that this was a man whose lusts could never be slaked. Huk'ra was a flask with a hole that had been gnawed out by a rat. Discharged from the army when it was discovered that a court martial would hurt the institution more than the man, the general had already been morbidly obese and compulsively violent. He'd beaten and raped enlisted men, killed and eaten the pets of his enemies, and experimented with what he referred to as "cybernetic enhancements", but were elaborate torture devices, on his troops during maneuvers. Just the kind of man Tsurtor looked for to lead his army.

Tsurtor gave the man the power and the privilege to control his lusts under only one condition: total, utter, submission. After taking his bestial, guttural name, Huk'ra gave his body to Tsurtor and Tsurtor had made Huk'ra the man he was that day.

A swine.

He'd heard the swine's disturbed wailings the night before, as he was enjoying the sight of a clear sky surrendering a billion, glorious stars, over the land of his fathers. It was a sight he'd anticipated for many years. He could have seen it before, that was true, but never before had it been his! The appropriate punishment would have been to torture the swine himself, turning him over hot coals but he had work to attend to. It could not be helped.

So, he forced his will over hundreds of kilometers away, bringing the swine into spasms of torment. If only he could see it for himself.

The time for torture wasn't long. Tsurtor wanted to know just why Huk'ra had risked such pain. He let the pig-man breathe. Now, general, why have you disturbed me?

Huk'ra's eyes darted around his tent, as if Tsurtor was there and not inside his head. "I - I've intercepted an enemy soldier. It was - was readying to march."

The enemy has no soldiers, general. They're all dead. I killed them.

"This one wasn't living! It was-"

Tsurtor couldn't stand the snortly sound of his voice and pulled the image directly from the general's head. Yes. A small, stone creature. He'd seen just such a thing in another's mind. Vincent's. Yes. But that one had been made of wood. Still, the resemblance was there. Could it have been possible that Hex had escaped from his prison so soon?

Where did you intercept this thing?

Huk'ra sensed Tsurtor's interest. Knowing his life was again worth something, he answered, "West of Caspeton. His army-"

Army?

"That's how we intercepted him. He was the scout for an army. Rynia must have some fight left in her."

Impossible. I've shown you the remains of Rynia's army. The only force they could muster now would be old women!

"Perhaps. I was driving my division south to circle around their rear flank. Should I return to Caspeton, Lord?"

Of course, he should. Tsurtor was about to give the order when he remembered his words to Hargoth several days before. "No, you will not be fighting in the desert. I expect you to remain here and ready for battle."

"But the Rynian's are finished. There's nothing left here," Hargoth had whined.

"You think Rynia is finished," Tsurtor had asked. "Let me tell you something. Rynia will never be finished. Despite how feeble we make her, Rynia will persistently squirm beneath our boot."

"But she has no army!"

"That means nothing, you fool. Their attack will come and, when it does, I want us to be here to kill it!"

No, was Tsurtor's response to Huk'ra. Continue on your course. Report anything you find. Only set up your camp again when you have circled Silen Forest and have returned to Caspeton.

He left Huk'ra's mind without any opportunity for further questions. Raising his head, he felt in a particularly bad mood. Then, he realized, it was because another of his generals, Gur'tech, was wailing in his head. He returned to his meditative position and concentrated. Gur'tech, you imbecile, can't you deal with your underlings without annoying me? Or must I feed you your own heart to teach you the lesson?

"No. Please, do not mistake my summons, master! I call only because there has been a terrible tragedy."

Tsurtor could see Gur'tech's twisted face in his mind. It represented nothing known on this world. Gur'tech's face simply looked as though someone had hit it several dozens times with all their might... with an axe. As he spoke, flesh and bony outcrops quivered and shook in a spastic dance. Tragedy, Tsurtor asked. Anything Pri'chot could have done to those stupid Bemmiters would be far from tragic.

"No, master. It's Pri'chot. He's dead! Him! All his men! Slaughtered!"

WHAT?? Tsurtor's mental scream shook Gur'tech to the core.

The general's face oozed with blood and he clutched it in agony, replying, "There was nothing I could do!"

Tsurtor grimaced but was unwilling to say he hadn't expected it. He'd just told Huk'ra that he expected Rynia to fight back but... but not so well! Report, Gur'tech. What else did you find?

"The city has been abandoned and tracks show a large force moving north."

Old women, Tsurtor thought. Destroy the city. Kill any who remain. Then follow those tracks. Kill any you find. He cut off his contact with the general and stood up, clutching his fists. Turning to the western wall of his tent, an appendage with a bone-bladed end unconsciously lashed out and tore open a new door. Stepping outside, he called out to Hargoth, who had been waiting near the southern entrance. "Notify K'tan. We'll be staying."

"Staying," Hargoth asked.

"STAYING!" The force of Tsurtor's shout reverberated off of metal hulls. Hargoth tried not to notice the dozens of flailing appendages that wriggled out from Tsurtor's body. "Move your behemoths to the mainland."

Hargoth's throat was tight as he replied, "Yes, master."

Tsurtor looked west, his eyes imperceivable. "And have somebody make me another tent."

* * *

Either the days were getting longer or Boom's butt was just tired. He was glad when they found a stream to stop their horses at for the night. Holding the saddle in one hand to brace his own weight against his mount's stability, he eased himself to the ground... but not comfortably. His left leg was more sore than if he'd been walking and his thighs felt like they were on fire.

Time to walk like John Wayne, he thought as he handed the reins to one of the hands. "Gabe, you bastard, you could have at least saved one of the trucks!"

Gabe Hernandez, looking none the worse for wear, laughed. "Don't worry, Chief," he said. "It's only your third day. You'll get used to it."

As they walked toward the mess wagon, Boom limping on his cane, he retorted, "My ass."

"What," Bethel Patir asked, catching up with them after seeing her people in a good, dry spot for the night. Around them, the camp was a flurry of activity. The horses were being watered at the stream. Water canteens and bags were filled. Runners were sent off for forage. Tents were pitched and fires were started. Weapons were checked and readied in case of a night attack. A watch was discreetly posted half a kilometer in each direction. The three commanders of the Rynian resistance, with Hernandez holding an unofficial rank, met at the mess wagon for a cup of coffee. There hadn't been enough for everyone, and Banry had yet to develop any real taste for it, but what little Gabe had rescued, they savored.

"Your what," Banry asked, already waiting for them at the wagon.

"My ass," Boom barked, leaning on his staff. "It's killing me, okay?"

Three days they'd been on the road out of Bemmiton, only three days since the battle with Pri'chot. They knew they'd been lucky to have even that much time. Bethel had immediately sent word around the city, telling everyone what had just happened. Pri'chot's force may have been defeated but Tsurtor's army waited in the wings. It didn't take a huge stretch of the imagination to know what would be done to any citizen who remained.

It had been Banry's idea to take them all along.

"You sure that's what you wanna do," Boom had asked. "You get that many civilians hanging' on your tail, you're just asking for trouble. You're gonna be spreadin' out your people, divyin' up resources, lots more injured cause of the walking."

"I lost an entire city once before, Chief Tower," Banry had replied, his eyes cast to the ground. "Then, I lost over five thousand men and women. I dragged every remaining man and woman away that I could. Some of them are still fighting with us today."

Boom nodded, his lips pursed. "Admirable."

Banry looked up at the Chief. "Thank-"

"But stupid. That's exactly the kind of weakness Tsurtor preys upon."

Rage slowly turned Banry's face into a furnace. "Chief Tower," he began to say, the words leaving his mouth slowly and restrictedly.

Bethel had stepped in at just the right moment. "Boom. I don't know how they do things on your world but here we take care of our own. We are all citizens of the king. Besides, this may give anyone who sees our tracks the impression that we're much stronger than we actually are."

Boom shook his head in defeat. "Okay. But one of these days you folk is gonna have to fight for real."

Some of the Bemmiters had remained on their farms, confident that Tsurtor wouldn't be so brash as to cut his own food supply. The rest, nearly seven thousand citizens in a city that had once been a home to tens of thousands, gathered their belongings and followed the army. Many of these became the army's support crew, tending the horses, hunting, foraging, standing guard, and augmenting the army's numbers in ways that even Boom hadn't considered.

They weren't gone for two days before General Gur'tech's man fell upon the city. With a vengeance that even Tsurtor hadn't expected, they razed the city to the ground and burned whatever lay in their path. They destroyed the farms, trampling vegetation, and raped and mutilated all who had remained.

Gabe Hernandez was the first to hear of this on his radio and brought word to the others. This led to a day with little motion. People spoke of their dead. It was then that Bethel heard of Obregon's death. Without realizing it, she'd been holding out for his miraculous return. Discovering that he was just one of the many casualties, she didn't speak for the entire day. No one had spoke much and their plodding feet, even the horses, covered little ground.

The morning of the third day, Gabe Hernandez had different news. The urgency was in his eyes as he came out of his tent. "They're going to follow the tracks," he announced. "They're going to try and catch us!" Nothing more was needed; those who could walk ran and those who rode herded the stragglers from behind. Boom had shouted more than once, "I feel like a danged cowboy!"

When they'd reached the stream, the people were walking slower than ever. They'd covered more ground in that day, Bethel figured, than they had in the previous two. It was small wonder that Boom's ass hurt.

He took a sip of black coffee and, though he preferred it with two sugars, sighed as its heat permeated his cold, sore body. He scratched absent-mindedly at the beard that had so recently begun to sprout and announced sadly, "We'll have to leave before dawn tomorrow."

Banry was shocked. "But we made up so much time today."

"Surely we've proceeded as swiftly as any army, Boom," Bethel countered.

Gabe shook his head. "I saw it, too, Boom."

"Oh yeah," Boom asked. "Well, I saw two of 'em."

"What," asked Banry.

"Hueys," Gabe replied confidently.

"No," Boom answered. "Those were too new to be Hueys. We're talking state of the art pursuit copters. Saw 'em at the last convention in Vegas. Top of the line."

Bethel interrupted. "What are you two talking about?"

"You see," Boom explained, "on our world, we have machines that can fly through the air. They're called helicopters. Well, they go pretty fast - faster'n any foot soldier that's for damn sure - and it looks like Tsurtors got himself a couple. No surprise."

"You really thought he'd go that far?"

Boom looked at Gabe and then, sipping his coffee, turned his eyes towards Banry and Bethel. "Hell, boy, I've been scanning the sky for F-18's."

"And those are," Banry asked.

"You don't want to know," Gabe told him.

"Make a long story short, Tsurtor's got a bead on us for sure. He's probably coordinating a northern sweep to encircle us even as we're drinking joe." As if to punctuate his assessment, Boom took a long pull from his coffee.

Bethel had lost interest in hers. "But if Tsurtor has this kind of information, what can we do?"

"We use it against him," Gabe answered, anticipating Boom's reply.

"But how," Banry asked. "We have horses, some of your weapons, but I've seen Tsurtor's army. We'd be nothing against him."

"Got it all wrong, Ellison." Boom finished his coffee and set the cup on the wagon's rim. "If you're gonna be a military leader, you're gonna have to learn to out-think your opponent."

Banry scowled. "Then, tell me."

Boom took his cane and poked a hole in the soft dirt. Then, he drew a line towards it. "That's us. We're heading that way. No way 'round that. Tsurtor's boys is gonna be expecting us to go there." He put his cane in the hole. "So, what do we do?" He put his cane on the line he had been drawing and turned it abruptly to the left. "We go that way."

"West," Bethel said.

Banry looked north as if thinking the strategy through. Then, he turned to the west. The others waited. Banry was the official leader of the resistance. Before Rynia's defeat, he'd been third in command of the entire army. Bethel had only been a captain; Boom was just a police chief from another world. Banry pointed north. "If we kept going that way, another day, maybe two, we'd reach Silen. We could find shelter there. Tsurtor's army would n't be able to see us even if they could fly. You're idea to go west... it's just..."

Boom pointed at Banry, finishing his sentence for him. "The last thing Tsurtor would be expecting."

"But, Boom, west of us is the great plains. Paead," Bethel said.

"I know," Boom admitted. "I was there. It's the last place you'd want to take these people and, consequently, the last place Tsurtor would look."

"How do you know that," Banry asked, obviously trying to keep any fear from his voice.

"Hell, Ellison, I know how this man thinks. I've seen it before." He looked at the others and said, "I'm a cop," as it that answered everything. When it was obvious that it didn't, he explained, "This ol' boy's got the biggest, baddest gang in town. He's achin' for a throw-down. That's why he drove straight across Rynia 'till he kicked everybody's ass. That's why he chased us when we hit one of his guys." He took several steps north of Banry and pointed toward the shelter of Silen Forest. "And that's exactly why he's gonna be waiting for us up there. He wants to prove how tough he is!" Walking back, he added, "If we go west, he ain't gonna follow us."

"Why not," Bethel asked.

Boom smiled. "Cause he expects us to want to fight, too. We whooped his butt in Bemmiton; he thinks we're gonna try it again. So, he misses us at Silen. What's he to think? He's gonna remember what he did." Boom picked up his cane and poked a hole to the right of his diagram. "He's gonna expect us to go east."

"But north was our plan," Banry insisted. "Silen would be able to shelter the civilians. We'd find game. We'd-"

"You'd find Tsurtor! That's what you'd find," Boom yelled. "You've got to change your plan, Ellison. Otherwise, you'll be leading your folk to a slaughter. It'd be hard enough to git'em in that forest under the best conditions. I've heard how superstitious they are about it. They think the dang place is haunted! You throw those people against that forest, they might as well be mosquitos before an oncoming semi!"

Banry turned to Bethel. "Surely, you have to understand how foolish it would be to send these people east."

"Foolish," Bethel asked. "I'd call it stupid." Stepping forward, she took his hand. "But that's Boom's specialty, Banry. You've got to admit. He took simple townsfolk and turned them into an army. He defeated those massive stone giants with his trucks and those explosives. He devised a way for us to rescue him using only a couple of guns."

Banry put one of his hands on hers. "You had my help on that, too."

"And Tsurtor wasn't expecting any of those things," Boom said, putting his hands on their shoulders. "Bethel's right. This is a dumb-ass stinker of an idea, Ellison, but so's walking several thousand civilians and untrained soldiers through enemy territory. West is probably safest for all of us. Tsurtor's not gonna expect us to invade his western border, right?"

"No. No, he won't." Banry nodded. "Okay. We'll do it."

Gabe, sitting on the wagon's edge, sipped his coffee noisily and said, "Yep. A real Kumbaya moment." But he wasn't out of the reach of Boom's cane.

"So, what's the plan now," Banry asked. "We're not going to Silen. Where do we go?"

"Well," Boom confessed, "Silen wasn't exactly my original idea. I wanted to go someplace where we might find some more weaponry, equip up a few more of these wannabees."

"Weaponry," Banry asked. "Where?"

Gabe, sure that he was finally headed home, answered, "Country Gardens."

"If we can make it," Boom added. "These people are exhausted. They probably haven't traveled this far in their lives and we'll need to go even further."

"We can't leave them," Bethel said, though she hoped he wasn't driving to that conclusion.

"No," Boom assured her. "But these people are getting hungry quick. We'll need to scout for food as we travel which means there will be fewer of us to catch the stragglers." Leaning against his cane, he let out a sigh. "They can't keep up this pace for long, either."

"What do you propose," Banry asked.

Boom looked up at him, chewing his bottom lip. "One hard drive. We rest tonight and then we go full boar tomorrow, 'till night if we gotta. That should put us far enough away from Tsurtor to get him looking for shadows."

So, it was decided. Word was passed. Enjoy your rest, it was said, for it may be the last for a long time. It didn't help morale. People were nervously awake when they should have been sleeping. Bethel had to send soldiers around to make people lay down and rest. The soldiers didn't bring their sleep patrol near the command tents, though. Banry, Boom, and Bethel (who Gabe had collectively nicknamed B-cubed) put down their blankets near the fire. The tents were offered up to those worse off: the wounded, the old, two pregnant women and one who had given birth only days before. Boom knew that only a few of these would make it and then, only if they were extremely lucky. The rest would fall be the wayside, victims of the forced march that would be the only way to keep the rest of Bemmiton and the Rynian resistance alive. Boom scowled at the thought, cursing under his breath as he sat on his bedroll, facing the fire.

"What," Bethel asked, sitting up.

"Sorry," Boom muttered. "I didn't mean to wake you."

"Who says you did?" Bethel scratched her side. It had been too long since her last bath.

Boom pulled a long piece of grass and held it in the fire, watching the end blaze. "Thinking about tomorrow?"

"Oddly enough, no," Bethel replied. She folded her legs before her and reared her head back for a long yawn. "I keep thinking about where we're going. Country Gardens," she said slowly, as if trying to find some meaning in the name.

"Trust me," Boom remarked, "it ain't a city to lose sleep over."

"It's not the city, actually." She looked up, locking gazes with the Chief. "Tell me, Boom. What was Samuel like back there?"

"Oh, him," Boom answered, knowingly. "I saw how he was looking at you. Didn't think you'd fall for him, though."

"Who said I was?"

"Not me," Boom replied, defensively. He laughed. "You're too tough for that, ain't'cha?"

"Where do you think he is?"

"I couldn't say, Beth. He was supposed to get his brother, Vincent, but..."

Bethel frowned when he turned his gaze to the fire. "But what?"

"Well, he hasn't exactly returned with reinforcements, has he? Face it, Beth, if Vincent was as powerful as everybody says, he'd'a been here by now."

"You think Samuel is dead?"

"I think you should try to sleep like our honcho, there."

Banry turned his head. "Who said I was sleeping?"

"Were you listening in," Bethel asked, punctuating with a slap to Banry's arm.

"It's the only way I get to hear anything. Boom's right, though. You should, at least, try to get some sleep."

"You heard the man," Boom said, laying on his blankets.

Bethel laid down as well, grumbling.

"Don't worry, Captain," Banry said. "He's alive."

"He is," Bethel whispered.

Boom grunted. "I sure hope he is."

As dawn rose the morning, so did the camp, slowly and ponderously, just like the cloud laden morning sky. With grunts and groans of pain, brought on by the previous day's exertions, the remnants of Bemmiton rose to meet their destiny. It had been generally decided that they would find it by nightfall. Either Chief Boom H. Tower had devised yet another winning strategy or this would be yet another twist that Tsurtor had foreseen.

As Boom climbed aboard his horse, the tightness in his legs reminding him unnecessarily of the agony ahead, Banry rode up to him. He wore the same clothes he'd been wearing since their trek began but now his coat was gone, handed, perhaps, to a cold child. He was chewing a piece of jerky he'd grabbed from the mess wagon. It was some of the last meat the refugees had. "I want you to be in charge."

Boom wasn't entirely awake. "Do what?"

"I may not return until late," Banry said, hesitating. "I may not... return."

"Whoa," Boom shouted. "Hold on there, Tex. You wanna tell me what you're doing?"

Banry ripped a piece off the jerky and spoke through a full mouth. "Simple. I think you're right. I think your plan has merit."

"Okay. Okay," Boom prompted. "Now, get to the 'but'."

"But I don't think Tsurtor's as dumb as you give him credit."

Boom looked down at the ground. "You thinking like the rest of 'em? That Tsurtor expects us not to fall into his trap?"

"Let's just say it's a variant," Banry replied, judiciously. "Tsurtor's got half a chance that we'll run, half a chance we'll fight. I say we don't give him the luxury of guessing."

Boom thought for a minute but didn't understand. "Meaning?"

"Gabe tells me that your technology isn't smart enough to pick out things like the direction of a set of tracks or how many sets there are in the tracks."

"You can't go out there alone and expect Tsurtor to think you were an army," Boom said, pointing north with his cane.

Banry shook his head. "Not alone. Me and Gabe and eight other men. That'll leave you with fourteen on horseback, plenty to keep the stragglers in line."

"I don't get it. We're corralling these doggies while you ride off to get killed... ten of you?"

"Tsurtor won't know it's ten. See, we head up, turn around, and head back before Tsurtor spots us-"

Boom nodded. "He'll think you were twenty."

"Twenty men on horseback," Banry noted. "Tsurtor's got to ask himself where these twenty would go. What were they headed for?"

"And you think he'll think you're the resistance," Boom asked.

"I don't care what he thinks. Point is, he can't ignore us. Do you think he'll go for the men on horseback or the defenseless civilians?"

Boom scratched his chin through his beard. "I tell ya, Ellison. I think he'll go for both."

No more was said. Boom watched for a moment as Banry and his men rode over a hill and rode to inform Bethel of their commander's plan. Bethel said what he was afraid to think. "The man's a fool! Does he expect Tsurtor to kill him before he discloses our entire plan?"

"Come on, Beth," he said as they rode forward. "A plan implies having a choice. This is stark improvisation." He tried to sound confident. "Tsurtor'd probably laugh if Ellison told him what we was doing."

It seemed that no one wanted to move. Boom had to direct his soldiers to take an active role, not just catching the stragglers but shooing the people forward to hurry their pace. At first, this seemed to work but as, morning turned to afternoon, people quickly began to fall back. One was a mother carrying her newly-born child. After a long argument, Boom was able to take the child from her and give the duty to Eddie Tran, who marched near the front of the wide column. Under a sunlit sky, their problems would have increased but the sky only darkened as the day progressed. Soon, other children began to fall back and Boom assigned other soldiers in the resistance to their care. As night began to fall, though, the adult townspeople, folk Boom never expected problems from, started slipping back, reducing the pace to a slow walk. Boom knew why, too. The plains of Rynia were rising, making it harder to walk. They were quickly approaching the lip of the lowlands where Rynia ended and Paead began. It was no more than a long rise, not even a hill, but Boom knew that was enough.

He already had one five year old boy riding on his horse in front of him and scooped up an older girl, helping her sit behind. "One more push," he yelled. "Ten miles, max!"

"Great Boom," one of the soldiers called back, "but what's a mile?"

Before Boom could remember his metrics from school, there came a booming crack from above. All at once, as though the skies had opened, sheets of rain began to fall. The children clutched at him like a buoy and, as Boom turned his horse towards Bethel (herself clenched by a frightened child), he already felt soaked. "Spring storm," she shouted. "They're a usual occurrence in these parts!"

Boom had to ride towards her and yell to be heard. "So, this is going to pass real soon?"

She shook her head, wet hair clinging to her face, her once military style having grown out. "They can last a long time. It's not safe here!"

Indeed, in their quest for a more direct route west, unobstructed by undergrowth or wilderness, Boom had guided them into a broad farmland whose furrows already ran deep with water. It would all very soon be mud.

Boom looked all around. "But where can we go? We'll just have to keep going on!"

"No," Bethel shouted angrily. "You might not know these storms but these people would easily die out here!"

"Well, then, what do we do, Beth?! It's not like HoJo's are springing up around us!"

"There," she said, pointing. "I saw a copse of trees before the downfall!"

"But that's south," Boom replied with equal vigor. "That's the wrong way!"

"That's the last thing Tsurtor would be expecting!" In the rain, Bethel's eyes shone like fires resistant to any element.

Boom conceded. "Maybe our tracks will be washed away by this storm," he added.

Soon, the turn south brought them into a dense stand of trees. With water leaking down around them, the Bemmiters were grateful for any place to lie down for the night. Everyone was wet, muddy, and exhausted but (as Boom was quick to point out over a cold dinner) Tsurtor had not found them. They were safe, for now.

The next day, Banry and his men were spotted. They'd reached the Paeadian border where, Banry, Bethel, and Boom were quick to remember, it had all began nearly half a year before.

It took them six more long days before they reached Country Gardens.

After that, nothing was as they expected.

Part II

Two hundred freshly equipped Tzurritzanian troops waited throughout Raful, some pitching their tents in the streets while the others who kept a little money with them lodged in inns and taverns around the city. With the spring floods brought on by the melting snow up in Ktoll, travel had become a bit easier and the docks were filled with taxis from throughout the swampy nation having brought their armed cargo from all parts of Tzurritza.

But Kraephten wasn't going to leave unprepared. Meeting with Grundum Shen, commander of what was being called the 2nd Tzurritzanian Corp by the Council, lest the first Corp already slaughtered by the folly of an offensive against Tsurtor be forgotten, Kraephten gave the succinct order, "Billet your men, commander, and prepare to be here a while. We've training to accomplish."

Grundum, one of those Tzurritzanians who displayed his accent proudly without considering the influence of outside kingdoms, replied, "Training? Yooou will find my men fully trained, sir."

Kraephten let out a "Hmph!" "Not with these weapons, they haven't," he said, returning to his quarters. There, as Bertrum, Timothy, and Kell waited, a huge map lay unfurled upon the floor. It was an unusual view; Kraephten had been looking for it for several weeks as he devised his plan. Finding it in the deepest piles that were King Thomas' libraries, its corners moldering and falling apart, Kraephten knew it was just what he needed to make his point. Now, Kraephten entered, addressing, "Gentlemen," with a slight bow and, taking Kell's hand, "Madame."

"Thank you for joining me. I apologize for the secrecy. I just didn't want to put forth my master plan without being aware to what folly I was leading you. Please observe the map on the floor. To the right is the east and the north is up top, here," he said, pointing with the end of his sword. It's long curve extended like part of his own arm; it was apparent that Kraephten was ready for a fight. "You'll notice Rynia and Kallent missing. To the far right is but a sliver of Paead and this small section to the bottom right is Tzurritza."

"I don't understand that, Kraephten," Bertrum said. "How do intend to show your strategy - your plan to fight through Paead and up to Ktoll - with neither Tzurritza nor Paead on the map?"

Timothy wore an evil, anticipating smile. "He's not going to fight through Paead."

"I was afraid of that," Kell grumbled. "Kraephten, have yoou any idea what you're planning to doo? Yrachi and the Sroolea Confederation are hardly inhabited on their eastern borders. You go through the wastelands or the crags west oof Ktoll, you're asking for death swift and sure!"

"Kell," Kraephten intoned calmly, halting her rant. "I have spoken with your father and my knowledge of the area, though limited, does give me an appreciation of the lands we'll be passing through. Believe me."

Kell's face was taut. Upset or scared, it didn't bring any comfort to Bertrum Typewriter to see this brave and magnanimous girl feel either. "Of what does she speak, Kraephten?"

"Please," Kraephten asked. "Let me present my plan first." The others silenced and Kraephten couldn't help note that Timothy wore that same smug look that seemed to say that nothing was wrong. The boy was always too comfortable, Kraephten thought. "Paead cannot be taken. Tsurtor has it. It also follows that Tsurtor has brought the war further east." He pointed off the map to the far right. "Rynia? Who can say what trouble she's in? Kallent? Chances are he's taken that, too."

"Why," Bertrum asked. "I thought you said his hatred was directed to Rynia alone?"

"We have a proverb in Kallent, my friend," Kraephten replied. "A mad man, once hungered, can never be fed."

"So, you think he'll continue to Kallent," Kell asked.

Kraephten nodded. "And Tzurritza as well but especially Kallent. When King Argon Haddison outlawed incestuous marriage, it was with Kallent blood that he strengthened the royal family. Betrayal so far as Tsurtor was concerned; he must look upon Kallent as invaders of the worst kind."

"History lesson," Timothy remarked. "What about the map?"

"Leave it to my young friend to put me back on track," Kraephten said with a glare in his eye. "So, we strike Paead, Rynia, and Kallent. The north and the east. He's going to be watching those lands like a hawk, waiting for us to strike - and he knows we will strike. If Tsurtor has foreseen everything, as we've guessed he must for his plans to come to such fruition, he's surely foreseen that. So, we can't go east or north."

"Which means we must go west," Kell asked.

Kraephten rested the tip of the sword upon the Srolea Confederation, directly west of Tzurritza. "That's right, Kell. We go west." Before she could reply, his voice took on a businesslike attitude. "The Srolean's land is only sparsely inhabited, as Kell's already pointed out, because the land is flat and barren. Dry in the dead of summer, the ground is a thin silt."

"But during the spring melt," Kell added.

Timothy took an audible breath. "Oh, no! You're taking us through a bog?"

Kell nodded. "The bog-lands of eastern Srolea. Tell them about what happens to that silt once it is filled with runoff, Kraephten."

But Timothy paid no attention to Kell. He was still looking fiercely at Kraephten. "I want to go back to a city, Kattox! A real city!"

"To what does she refer," Bertram asked.

"A minor inconvenience," Kraephten hissed at Kell, "and that does not make it impassable. More importantly, we'll be unopposed and unharassed."

"Truth be told, Kraeph, nobody wants the bogs anyway."

"Thank you, Kell. Now, having passed through the Srolean lands, we'll enter Yrachi."

Bertrum and Timothy, somehow distrustful of Kraephten all of a sudden, looked to Kell for description. "It's not bad," she said. "I've been there once before. Lot like Rynia just more uptight."

"And," Kraephten spoke up, "they're a trading partner with Rynia. Their Emperor is bound to let us through if he thinks it will help stabilize trade. From there, we make our approach to Ktoll." He turned back to the map and traced a line approaching the rim of mountains. "Time to reach that point? I'm figuring three weeks."

"Three weeks," Timothy asked. "Three more weeks on the road?"

"You're forgetting about Ktoll, Kraephten." Kell pointed at the black ridge, the prominent barrier separating Paead from Yrachi. "How do you expect to get over Ktoll? People don't just climb them for fun."

"I don't plan to bring us over the mountains, Kell." Kraephten ran his sword over the mountain range. "I plan to take us through."

"We're going to Ktoll," Bertrum asked, obviously worried.

"You want to explain the sanity in such a plan, oh great leader," Timothy asked.

Kraephten tapped his sword on the map and looked at each of them. After a moment, he stated, "There's no way for us to join forces with Rynia. We don't know where they are or what condition they may be in. Ktoll," he said, stabbing the map, "is where Tsurtor's power lies. If we can strike him there, while he's off fighting in Rynia, we could bring an end to this war."

"True," Kell replied, nodding. "Or, you could bring his wrath upon Tzurritza."

"Any action would, Kell."

Timothy added, "We could all die."

"We could anyway."

They looked at Berturm who was staring at the map. Realizing they were waiting for him to speak his misgivings, he said, "I don't want to think about what could happen once we get there. I'm troubled enough at the thought of going."

Irregardless of anything in Kraephten's plan they might have found troubling, none of them were going anywhere until all were trained on the Machinist's new weapons. It was Charles Carburetor's idea to "take these cross-eyed swamp rats out of the city where they couldn't hurt anyone but themselves." Good thing, too. Several accidents happened in the first two days alone. After losing five soldiers, Kraephten insisted on more safety training. He couldn't afford to have people shooting themselves in the foot or getting powder burns once they left the relative safety of Raful. Another week followed as the Tzurritzanians mutilated tree trunks with their powerful weapons. Timothy trained as well and practiced his knife throwing (having grown tired of darts), anything to end the boredom. Kraephten and Kell took to practicing as well, having arranged supplies for the Corp.

Finally, the day came when they were ready to go. With the first light of morning, Tzurritzanian soldiers lined the streets, standing at ready. Their projectile throwers were held proudly, resting on their shoulders as a stark contrast to the leather armor they traditionally wore. Commander Grundum Shen stood at their head, his tall form standing with professionally-restrained elan, armored tunic plated with metal. Grundum was an old soldier who had seen frightfully few battles. He'd been ready for a day filled with valor and glory - for this day - since he was ten. (Truth be told, his peers offered him the post because, after the slaughter of the first Corp, they all thought he was nuts to want it.) His long, white mustache was waxed and his hair cut regimentally short and his thrill at heading off to war was palpable.

Bertrum Typewriter approached the head of the Corp with Charles at his side. Approaching the commander to introduce himself, he was struck not only by the old soldier's great size but his own diminutive status. Looking back at his fellow machinist, he wasn't pleased by the sight of Charles laughing at him. Still, in his Tzurritzanian olive tunic and pants, standing beside the commander in shining metal, he did look somewhat less than impressive.

He was happy to see Kell approach from the direction of the royal mansion, back in her buckskins. Her favorite suit of clothes had turned their original maple hue to a light brown. Over her good shoulder, she carried her pack and on both hips hung the traditional, Tzurritanian spike blades. She also wore her projectile thrower, draped loosely across her back. After much practice, she had learned how to draw it around, load it with her good arm and fire with her bad arm.

Kraephten also neared, arm in arm with Melissa Refrigerator as they came from her quarters. Melissa had heard one of the many rumors - rumors which couldn't have been more correct - circulating around the city about them and had convinced Kraephten that it was time they let their "secret" out. Kraephten obliged, knowing that he could easily be dead before she could get any real commitment out of him. Left arm firmly clutched by the machinist woman, Kraephten kept his thrower in his left hand like a staff. His vittahr was slung over his shoulder with his pack and he had purchased a new suit of thick, denim clothing which, though not as colorful as his usual style, expressed his lean, healthy figure to the other woman in the crowd. "Where's Timothy," he asked.

Bertrum looked at Kell who smiled. "You didn't see him last night. 'The Hand' has had his hands full."

Kraephten knew better than to wait for him or to doubt that his protegee could keep up. He gave the order to Grundum and the Corps were led to the docks. It took until almost mid-day for them to board all of the boats for their trip to Tzurritza's western extreme and Kraephten saw to it that his was the last to board. As he was stepping on their boat, he heard the laughter of girls come from behind.

"Goodbye, Nasta! Bernice!" Yelling over his shoulder, Timothy Holt ran down the dock with his shoes barely buckled. His pants were done up, fortunately, but his shirt was in several stages of unlaced. In one hand, he carried his quarter staff and, in the other, his projectile thrower. His hair strung behind him, black and shiny, as though he'd just had a chance to wash it.

"Two girls," Kraephten asked. "Why, when I was your age-"

"You probably had three," Timothy countered deftly, stepping aboard.

Kraephten thought for a moment. "You're probably right," he replied. Then, as he stepped aboard, the pilot pushed off the dock. Sitting down, Kraephten knew they were off.

Timothy coughed against the familiar, acrid smell.

"Muchek," Kraephten asked.

"No thanks," Timothy gagged, "I just had a chestful."

Kraephten smiled. It was good to be moving again.

* * *

The spring melt had brought the waters of the swamp to their highest levels, just as it did every year, and the boats moved swiftly and confidently without fear of snags or rapids. In order to speed them along, each boat had three designated pilots who worked in shifts. At that rate, the Corps reached the Tzurritzanian/Srolean border by the morning of their fourth day out from Raful. It was longer than Kraephten had hoped but, with Tzurritza's naturally declining slope, the pilots were fighting a current the entire way.

One natural indication that they were nearing the Srolean Confederation's eastern border was a thick fog with a smell more rank than that of the swamp. "It's just one foul odor after another with you people, isn't it," Timothy commented, holding his nose. As they continued forward, a light haze filled the air, growing thicker as they moved further into the bog.

Kraephten pulled out a small version of his map for Bertrum, Kell, and Grundum. "The boglands form a natural barrier, restricting movement west of here with Ktoll stopping us to the north. Kell and I agree, though, that there are a series of foothills that form almost natural steps across the bog at its northernmost extreme. We need to make it to the foothills. They should lead us straight to Yrachi."

Grundum nodded. "Hoow many kiloometers is that oon yoour map?"

Kraephten coughed. "Over a hundred."

"A hundred," Bertrum gasped.

"Give or take," Kraephten replied.

"And what exactly is it about these bogs during the wet season," Bertrum asked. "You never really told me."

With one step out of the boat, Timothy became the first in their party to discover just why this end of the Srolean Confederation hadn't been inhabited. What he had thought was solid ground parted slowly and thickly until Timothy had sunk past his ankles. "Great," he grumbled. "And these were new boots."

"New boots," Kraephten asked. "But I didn't give you any money to-" His words were clipped off by sudden realization.

Timothy sensed the suspicion behind his silence and snapped, "Oh, come now, Kattox. I'm a thief, not a hustler, not a shop-lifter! I would think you'd grant me more class than that!"

"Then how," Kraephten asked.

Timothy pulled his foot out, trying to take another step. "A girl back in Raful, she insisted on giving me a momento."

Bertrum brought his foot tentatively out of the boat. "It's like gruel," he mumbled.

Timothy tried to brace himself with his staff put quickly found that it went further down than he.

"Alright! Listen up," Grundum shouted, his voice startlingly hollow in the bog's rank fog. "This gloop is goona swalloow yoou up if yoou doon't keep mooving soo I want to see ranks and an immediate march. We have aloot of groound too coover!"

Bertrum had taken one step into the goo and, planting his other foot, braced himself against their boat. "Kraephten, I don't know about this. It seems awful-"

"Ah, come on, Bert," Kraephten interrupted cheerfully. "Think of it as an afternoon stroll." He put his arm around the machinist and led him to the front of the ranks where they would march with Commander Shen.

Timothy laughed, following behind. "Sure. An afternoon stroll through a bog."

"A hundred kilometer strooll through a bog," Kell added, falling into step.

With the trees of the swamp left behind, they should have been able to look up and see the sky.. Sadly, though, the thick haze hovering amongst them blocked the sky just as effectively as any tree. Any light that found its way down showed them that it was still day. That light passed quickly, though, as pairs of feet pulled themselves from the mud. These soldiers had gone on hundred kilometer marches before, with full packs. To cover that amount of ground in several days would have been nothing to them under normal circumstances. With the mud constantly sucking them down, however, the inability to rest for more than a couple of hours before the bog began to swallow you up, mud in everything, mud in your food, no warmth, no shelter, a constant dampness propagating blisters and the constant smell in everything, normal quickly became optimal.

After a few days of this, they were little more than zombies in a stark, dead land. Bertrum, not accustomed to such exhaustive treks, carried the only direction finder, guiding them northwards. No one spoke. Most plodded along with their heads dropped, staring at the feet before them. Some had closed their eyes and lost their way, disappearing in an instance to be claimed by the bog. Kraephten knew well just how many were missing. Grundum told him at every rest break. Their Corp was now less than one hundred and eighty.

It was the irrational fear that seemed so rational under the circumstances that they would all die out there, taken by the bog, that brought Grundum to drive them incessantly forward. Kraephten knew that this would be his last chance, Rynia's last chance, their last gamble and that he may have already lost and it was the unendurable weight of this responsibility that moved him, wouldn't let him quit -

\- made him fail to notice that he was walking up a hillside...

"Halt!" His cry was repeated down the line by an army of men and women seemingly awoke by his scream. He looked back. There, through the haze, he saw the Corp stretch out into the bog. He saw them because he was on higher ground than they!

"We've made it," Kell sighed, her voice as well sounding as though she'd just woke up.

Timothy planted his staff and leaned against it with a sigh.

"Noon oof that," Grundum growled, knocking Timothy's staff with the butt of his projectile thrower. "We've goot too get too the toop oof this hill!"

They practically ran. Without the mud pulling at them, the incline they raced up felt like a plain. As they climbed, the haze grew lighter and lighter until, once atop, they could nearly see the sky.

"Make camp," Grundum shouted. "Get yoourselves some sleep!" It almost didn't need to be said. The Corp was ready to sleep where they stood.

The next day, spirits were higher. Now that they'd found the first hill, it would be no problem to follow them along the northeastern border of the bog. "They're cut through with rivers of water coming off the mountains," Kraephten explained, pointing at his outstretched fingers. "Up toward the top, these rivers create ravines, too tough to cross, but down here the hills aren't as steep and, I hope, the water's not as fast."

This is how they progressed for the next few days, climbing hills and fording streams. They soon found, however, that the rivers were widening as they moved further to the west. The pull of the wide rivers was making crossing harder. They were forced to move north where the hills were steeper and the water narrow and swift.

Then, one morning, rain began to fall. "Spring storm," Kraephten said.

Kell looked up at the sky, feeling the rain on her face. "You get this soo rarely in the swamp! It's refreshing!" She found she had to yell to be heard as the rain came down harder.

Grundum shook his head. "The groound's noot stroong enoough too hoold up against this foor loong. I say we take this river and camp it oout oon the next rise."

Kraephten nodded, feeling the ground become slippery beneath him. "Agreed."

The next river ran at the bottom of an earthy ravine, easily over two meters across.

"I say we get a roope," Grundum shouted over the storm.

Kraephten, Timothy, and Bertrum approached him at the lip of the ravine. "You'll have to put a man in there," Bertrum added. "There's nothing to throw the rope across!"

Kraephten turned and shouted for their longest rope when Grundum grabbed him and turned him, pointing downstream. "What's he dooing?"

Bertrum's disappearing form was swiftly swept out of sight, the ravine's edge having collapsed beneath him. Kraephten tossed aside his pack and gun, shouting back, "Not volunteering! Get your men to Yrachi! He'll never make it alone! We'll catch up!" Without another word, he dived headfirst into the current, swimming after the machinist.

Timothy dropped his own pack and added, "Have a hot meal ready!"

Kell had seen them jumping in and, running without her pack, grumbled, "Oh, no! I'm noot letting you off that easy!" She jumped past a speechless, shaken Grundum, and met the icy cold current of the runoff with her eyes closed and her mouth shut tight. Breaking the water's surface, she swam after the only figure she could see.

It was Timothy, clutching his staff for all he was worth. This made it easy for Kell to catch up with the young thief and, when she grabbed his staff, he looked at her with a mix of shock and terror. "I thought you were a snag," he struggled to say as he bobbed in the current.

"Thanks," she replied. The river suddenly took a wide turn but their momentum didn't follow that of the water. Timothy slammed against the mud wall, hard as iron, and Kell grabbed him with one arm. "Where's Kraeph," she spat with a mouthful of dirty water.

"Down," he struggled to say. They both tried to turn themselves in the water and, doing so, Timothy felt his foot hit something hard. The sides of the hills were coming down fast and Timothy could foresee what that meant. "Brace yourself!"

Kell understood what he meant and, before they could pull their knees up, their bottoms hit the hard, unyielding surface. They were thrown to one side by the force of the current and snagged in the mud. Timothy used his staff to brace his weight, holding it lengthwise in the thick sludge and running wash, and lifted himself up. He immediately grabbed Kell's arm as she, too, was struggling to get up. "You okay," he asked.

She crossed her arms tightly and her teeth chattered. "I'm freezing. Soore. I'm back in this stinking bog without a thing to eat! Sure. I'm just fine." She looked around as water rushed past her shins. She couldn't see more than a meter away and Kraephten wasn't there. "Did you see where he went?"

Knowing to whom she referred, she shook his head. "I lost track of him."

"Well, wherever he is, he's smart enough to know to get out of this wash. Come on! We should, too." She started walked with the flow of water until, eventually, the ground beneath lost its consistency as water and sludge became one.

Timothy groaned. "I did not miss this place. Kraephten," he yelled.

She shouted, "Kattox?"

Timothy let his irritation get the best of him. "You poor excuse for a strategist, show your ugly, old face so this bog won't feel so bad about itself!"

"That's the Hand of Night I know so well," Kraephten's voice was heard to say. After a moment, he appeared, stepping from the fog like a muddy monster. Bertrum followed, looking just as muddy, holding his head in pain. "Now, do either of you want to tell me why you were foolish enough to jump in after me?"

Both were silent.

"Was it because you missed the bog so," Kraephten pursued. "Perhaps you enjoy being cold and wet? Or, maybe, you think I'm too old to be alone?"

Timothy gave a little nod. "Well, Kattox, you are pretty old."

Kraephten bared his teeth. "I was expecting you to take care of things for me!"

Kell stepped forward. "Don't get mad at him, Kraephten. We were concerned for your safety."

"And what of yours, Kell? Now, how do you expect to find your precious Dukie?"

Bertrum looked up at Kraephten. "If you don't mind. The shouting isn't making my head feel any better."

"What happened," asked Timothy.

"Hit a rock," Kraephten bit off.

Her voice soft in deference to Bertrum, Kell said, "I do expect to find, Mark, Kraephten, and I will find him. But I know that those men up there aren't going to take Tsurtor's lair in Ktoll without you. You're our true leader and we won't get anywhere with you throwing yourself down ravines."

"Or in a bog," Timothy added, extricating his foot from several centimeters of muck.

Kraephten folded his arms and took a deep breath. "Granted." He pointed a finger at one and then the other. "But remind me to kick both of your butts when we get out of here!"

Kell muttered with fake chagrin, "Yes, father."

Kraephten ignored it. "Open up that pack, Bert. Let's see what we have to work with."

Sifting through the remains of Bertrum's backpack, they soon learned there wasn't much. Mud had found its way into everything. His clothes and bedding were soaked and, in this mist, wouldn't dry out enough for their use. His rations were spoiled. The direction finder had been lost to the river. All that remained was a small box that had been wrapped so well it had survived and a knife.

Then, as Bertrum suggested, they inspected their weapons. As he had suspected, the projectile throwers were useless. The flints were soaked and the barrels caked with mud. All the charges were soggy, too.

As they looked through their belongings, they walked to keep themselves from sinking in the mud. One by one, their things were thrown aside, serving no purpose other than dead weight. Finally, Kraephten pulled his vittahr from his back and wiped it on his wet, denim sleeve. Kell followed, cleaning her spike blades and Timothy wiped off his throwing knives. Bertrum felt too uncomfortable using his knife as a weapon; he'd rather use it on lunch.

Hour after hour, they walked, keeping to the northern end of the bog, the foothills of Ktoll on their right. Bertrum, in a fit of helpless anxiety, had tried to ascend one of the foothills, only to see the futility of his action as he slid down into the muck with two handfuls of dirt. "They'll never be dry enough to scale. We're too far in the middle of it, now," Kraephten told him. "Perhaps, if the rain let up," he suggested, shaking his head. "That ground is always moving. Let's just hope none of the others fell to a similar fate."

Kell grumbled, for it was as loud as her weary voice would allow, "Thank you, Mr. Sunshine."

Even with the constant rain, falling all that day and into the next, with the mud being washed vigorously from their clothes and their skin and hair, they didn't feel clean. The bog's unbreathable stench clung to them like a leech.

By the second night, their exhaustion was so acute that they had to clasp each other, their arms over each others shoulders, just to remain standing. A human chain walking through their shared desolation.

"We need to stop," Kell whispered. Her throat was parched. They couldn't even drink the rain water, the haze having spoiled it so.

"I agree," Bertrum seconded.

"No," Kraephten croaked. "If we stop, we die. The only thing stopping us from sinking into this bog is the fact that we're moving." Suddenly, he doubled over in a fit of coughs that slowed the others down. His coughing finished, he said no more but kept walking, pulling them forward.

* * *

They needed to sleep; it couldn't be denied. If they kept up at this pace, they would fall without the energy to help each other. Necessity being the mother of invention or, in this case, the overwhelming need for sleep being the parent of compromise, a plan was devised wherein one would watch them as they slept with the watcher rotating at each nap. They could only sleep for about a half an hour for each nap which meant they stopped more often.

For two more days, they traversed the swamp. They had long since lost track of the hills to their right, lost them somewhere in the haze. They were tired, hungry, filthy, sore, little more than the wreckage of their former selves. One morning, when they stepped up onto an embankment, they arms holding each other up, and saw reeds poking from the mud, Kraephten made an odd sound. His throat dry and his body weak, he tried to laugh.

"What," Kell whispered.

Kraephten cleared his throat and tried to speak. "We've made it," his hoarse voice produced. Around them, the haze had cleared and the bog seemed to disappear ahead. "Welcome to Yrachi."

There was still more bog to pass through but after several hours, when the reeds had become overgrowth and the overgrowth tall grass, they all laid down in the thick matting for the best sleep of their lives. Morning turned to night and night became morning again, none bothering to wake the others up.

That is, until Timothy Holt felt something hot and wet slide across his face. A hot breeze blew across him and, opening his eyes to a mouthful of sharp, white teeth, he let out a bloodcurdling scream. "Ah!!"

"What? What," Kraephten asked, rising quickly with his sword in his hand.

"What is it," Bertrum shouted, seeing the creature straddling Timothy.

Timothy didn't know what it was. In his half-woken state, all he knew was that he screaming only seemed to make it want to lick him that much more. He tried desperately to raise his staff without alarming it.

"Shut up all of you," Kell grumbled. "Don't you know a dog when you see it?"

"A dog," Bertrum asked.

Kraephten lowered his sword. "That's a dog?"

Timothy held his breath. Before him, standing at nearly a meter in height, covered in more hair than he'd probably seen in his entire life in brown, black and gold splotches and muddy, white feet, the "dog" panted madly, its tongue playfully lolling about. "You call this a dog?"

Kell sat up, her eyes tired and half-opened. "It's an Yrachi sheepdog . They raise a lot of sheep hereabouts."

Kraephten had seen many dogs in his days, from terriers to hounds, but never one such as this. "That thing's big enough to be a sheep."

"Hey, don't insult it," Kell said defensively, putting her arms out. "He's a very nice doggy. Aren't you fella?" The sheepdog ran into her embrace, licking her madly. She turned her head away, dodging slobber, and said, "He probably got lost or something."

Timothy patted its rump in a token display of courage. "Are you lost, um, boy?"

"These sheepdogs are like another hand to the Yrachi shepherds, Kraephten," Kell commented, stroking the beast's big head. "If this one's lost..." Her voice trailed away to a knowing smile which was quickly mirrored by Kraephten.

Timothy thought it better not to ask what they were thinking, deciding to play along instead.

So that's a dog, Bertrum thought.

Walking had become much easier in the tall grass though hunger still clawed at them with every step. Kell was so taken by the sheepdog, Kraephten didn't dare make any lighthearted references to make it their supper.

One more night in the tall grass and they came, with morning, to a broad slope. Covered as far as their eyes could see with rich, verdant grass, only occasionally was it dotted with a homestead. There were other dots as well, greyish dots. As it turned out, these were sheep.

Bertrum was amazed. He knew that, in his shoes, Charles would see just another backwards society but there was much more than that. Here was a world filled with new sights and sounds, unknown creatures and unheard of lands. If he ever returned to the guildhall, he'd be able to double their knowledge of the present world. He said this to Kraephten as they walked, finding new energy in discovery. "I think that the time has finally come for the Patrizzi Machinist Union to step out from their guildhall and interact with the world."

"Would that mean," Kraephten asked, exhausted, "that your people could admit that other societies were just as intelligent as your own? Just as hardworking? Just as creative?"

Bertrum gave Kraephten a strange look. "Oh, come now, Kraephten. You surely don't expect that, do you?"

They soon neared the first farmhouse, the sun beating pleasantly upon their shoulders. An old man was waiting outside with his pitchfork, two massive dogs flanking him. Kraephten noted with interest that the fork's tines were made of metal. "Good-day," he greeted the farmer.

His hair a muddy white, the farmer looked out from bushy, grey eyebrows. "Good-day to you. What will you upon my farm?"

"What will," Timothy began to repeat, not understanding the question.

Kraephten stopped him with an elbow to the gut and replied, "We are looking for this beast's owner. We found him lost in the lowlands and would be remiss if we didn't return him to his home."

"Home," the farmer asked. "That be Jacob. Yon creature seeks not his home but rathers the hunt of squirrel or possum. Well familiar with it, am I. Sight yonder farm." The farmer pointed to another homestead up the slope. "Find there Jon Sterling and find there a grateful owner."

Kraephten cast a sidewards glance at Kell, who spoke up. "Thanks be to you this day. Grateful for your candoor and now off to return this wayward doog, are we." She bowed and Kraephten fell into step along with her. Timothy looked at Bertrum and they bowed as well.

Looking oddly to Kraephten, as if the woman with him had spoke out of turn, the farmer replied, "You've bothered me not. Good-day to you."

"And to you," Kraephten replied. "Come along, Jacob." Continuing up the slope, Kraephten said, "I didn't know you knew so much about Yrachi, Kell."

She smiled. "I've been around, Kraeph. You don't have a rooyal allowance and spend it all on buckskins, you know?"

As they neared the next farmhouse, the sun falling weakly against their left arms, a cry came from ahead. They stopped, worried what they'd wandered into, but then found it was the happy cry of a little girl. Running down the hill at full tilt, she yelled, "Jacob! Jacob! Whence will you settle unto your home?" The sheepdog, Jacob, broke from the Tzurritzanian party and scrambled, its thick, hairy legs pumping wildly, up to the girl.

"Gerrit," Timothy sighed. "It must be twice as big as her!"

When they collided, it was as if the dog had engulfed her and a rolling ball of fur was the result. The four travelers hurried forth to be sure the little girl wasn't hurt but, happily, saw her face poke out beneath a barrage of wet, dog kisses. She giggled and squealed in Jacob's loving arms until she heard a familiar call. "Triesha!" It was a woman's voice coming from out of the farmhouse. "Triesha! What happened to you, girl? The spuds await and you are remiss!"

Triesha quickly made her way out from her monstrous hound and called back, "There be people out here, mama! And Jacob, they have returned him to us!" Triesha looked upon the four with wonder and they were aware that it was like she'd never seen anyone from the east before. She looked down at her own, yellow dress, dusting it off roughly to hide any evidence of her play.

"Grow not too accustomed to his return," Triesha's mother hollared, coming out of the house. A solid woman, Triesha's mother stood tall and wide but not fat. She held a potato in her hand and it was obvious from her flushed skin that she was preparing the evening meal. "Yon Jacob has the soul of a bird and the brains of an emptied eggshell."

As if to beg forgiveness, Jacob advanced on bended knee, scooting forward low to the ground, his eyes wide with pity. Then, at her feet, he rolled, exposing his naked bellow with a soft, sorrowful grunt.

"Ack," the woman barked. "Get not the forgiveness you think you deserve from me!" She looked angrily down at the dog and, though it shouldn't have been possible, Jacob looked even more pitiful. Triesha's mother led out an exasperated sigh. "Wretched mutt. Welcome you be. I'm too weak to say you nay."

"Mother," Triesha said. "Yonder strangers rescued Jacob!"

As they walked forward, Kraephten extended his hand but Kell slapped it down and said, "A fine eve to you, good woman."

"And to you," Triesha's mother replied, suspiciously. "What manner of folk you be, wondering foul and unclean? You've not the look of around here."

"Nay," Kell replied, shaking her head. "From lands far east we be, saved by haven from the perils of the boog."

Triesha's mother gasped. "It's the bog, then, is it? And who passes then through the land of murk?"

Kell shook her head. "Noot invaders, I assure you. Long and terrible our journey has taken us and for many days have we been without nourishment. Your doog," Kell said, kneeling down so it would come to her. "There are others who would have thought less of its rescue and more of its meat."

Triesha's mother put a hand on her hip. "Truly, I know not which would have served us better. Mangy mutt's more oft to return for food than for work. And no invading army'd be foolish enough to breach Ktoll or wallow through the bogs when the ports of the north there be. Come. Sure as my man will know you have proven yourselves good and true, there be mutton stew in the kettle enough for you. I greet you one and all. Lousie Waters am I."

Greetings went around, Jacob wanting to sniff every shaken hand. As they entered the farmhouse, Kraephten held Kell back and asked, "What was the slap on the hand for?"

"It was nothing, Kraeph," Kell replied with a smile. "But if you had so much as spooken to her before proper introductions or before speaking with her husband, well, all the Yrachi's in this area would have probably hunted you doown and killed you."

"Ah, yes," Kraephten said, understanding, "colorful, local customs."

The home was bigger than most in Rynia. A wide entryway led to an equally wide hearth at the rear of a simple, common room. More rooms were set to the side. Hanging over the fire, a huge kettle gave off the wonderful smell of fresh stew and Lousie invited them to sit at their long table. Kraephten counted eight chairs.

The sound of approaching wheels and the ruckus of many children told Kraephten just what those eight chairs were for. Five boys of varying ages ran inside, kissing their mother in turn, followed by a tall, bear of a man. Timothy, enjoying the cushion beneath his rump, thought the man just as fuzzy as Jacob.

Lousie greeted him at the door. "How fare you at market, good husband?"

He grunted. "Finer than most though I've turned a better day. Who are these," he asked, pointing at the strangers sitting around his table. Instead of answering her husband, Lousie turned silently in the direction her husband pointed.

Kraephten waited for Kell to speak. After a moment, and she still hadn't spoke, he looked at her to see her looking impatiently at him. Oh, he thought. As he stood to greet Lousie's husband, he felt the pain of many years and the long journey reach up his back. "Good eve to you, sir. Travelers from the east, we be. Having got lost in the bogs to the south, many a day has gone without food nor shelter and we would, uh," Kraephten paused unused to the convoluted Yrachi speech. "That is, when the woman in our party spoke to your woman and explained our situation, invited 'neath your shelter were we."

"They returned Jacob to home and hearth, father," little Triesha cheered from the kettle as she stirred.

"Hush, girl," her father snapped in a harsh tone. "Learn you not to speak out of turn!" He looked back at Kraephten, his expression apologizing for his daughter's lack of manners, and replied, "Yes. The great mutt did greet me most slobberingly. I must thank you one and all for his timely rescue though, in truth, I know not what shenanigans he'll next inflict." He stepped forward from his wife and children, his hand out. "Flytcher Waters am I. Welcome shall you be beneath my roof one and all."

Kraephten took Flytcher's hand, smiling. "Knowing that we come from far away, having endured great hardship in our journey, our gratitude is unending."

Flytcher immediately saw that Lousie provide them with baths and cleaned their filthy clothes. Then, dinner and, once again, Flytcher did all he could to see to his guest's comfort, seating them by the fire and filling their mugs with Yrachi ale.

"Where you be journeying to, then," Flytcher asked, the only one in the family speaking.

Kraephten had picked up a few pointers from Kell on Yrachi society. Very strict, even more paranoid. The slightest hint was taken as a bold statement. Married women were only spoken to by other women and women did not speak to anyone other than the men who held them. So, it was agreed that Kraephten would speak for them, since he was the eldest (Timothy pointed this out) and the most obviously in charge. Kraephten sipped his stew and returned, "We'll be looking for our party. On the foothills of Ktoll do they travel, thus to avoid the bogs to the south or crags to the north. Grateful would we be of some direction in that sense."

"Direction," Flytchter asked. "Owe you more than direction, my family does. Know that."

"I don't understand something, Flytcher," Kraephten said after taking a satisfying pull of ale. "For all the trouble your dog, Jacob, brings, why celebrate his return or, for that matter, thank those who return him?"

Flytcher gave Kraephten a strange look and took another mouthful of mutton. "Lapse you into that strange speech of the far east. In truth, my own head light with ale and hearth, I find you difficult to comprehend." He swallowed and took another bite. "Still, I see your meaning. Know you that Jacob is no family pet. Dismiss greatly what my Triesha might say on the matter." Pointing with his spoon, he brought a smile to the girl's face. "For without our dogs, Marley, Patrik, and Jacob too, sheep would be lost. Rather would I ask you to cut off my thumb!" He put his thumb up above his head and looked seriously at Kraephten.

Kraephten leaned back in his chair, enjoying the heat from the fire. He couldn't remember being this drunk in many years, though he had drank little. Suddenly, he started laughing. "A fine thumb it is, Flytcher Waters, sir! Thanks be to all that's good that I could save it!"

Bertrum and Kell looked shocked as Kraephten broke into a full, belly laugh. Then, Flytcher joined him, along with Timothy. It wasn't long before the table was caught up as well.

Several hours later, though, looking up at the wide expanse of shining stars outside where it was nice and cold, Kraephten paid for that drunken laughter. "Oooh, my aching head," he groaned.

"This is truly a side of you I've not seen before, Kraephten," Bertrum said, sitting near where Kraephten lay, drinking hot tea.

Kraephten muttered, "Voice... too loud... hurts head..."

"I'm sorry," Bertrum said, lowering his voice. "Is this better?"

"No," Kraephten said. "Just quieter."

"I'll say this, Kraeph. It has been a most educational excursion. After seeing Yrachi, I can't wait to experience Rynia."

Kraephten rested a hand on his eyes to block out the terrible light. "Why after?"

Unlike Kraephten, Bertrum was enjoying the stars. After living his entire life in the Guildhall, and spending the past months beneath the roof of the Tzurritzanian jungle, his first sight of night sky had been beneath the bog's indeterminate haze. This was the first night when he wasn't too exhausted to care about the sky. Like Hex, he accepted the immediate, ontological truth that, wherever their world lay, they were somewhere in a cluster of many stars. Unlike Hex, he had no way of knowing where those stars lay. However, like Hex, he didn't need to know in order to marvel at the display scrolling above him.

Kraephten repeated, his voice thick and irate. "I said, why after?"

"Hmm," Bertrum asked. "Oh, because of what I've already seen." He scooted closer to Kraephten, suddenly caught up in his response. "Did you know that the people here in Yrachi possess technology the Tzurritzanians don't even possess? The plows. The stone construction. The sheep shearers. The wagon. Oh, it's all environmental, of course. The folks in Tzurritza don't need those things but I think it shows a continuity of expansion, a family tree, if you will, of Rynian ancestry branching out through the-"

"Bert," Kraephten snapped, shutting his friend up.

"What," Bertrum asked, quietly, realizing that his speech had grown louder and louder.

"They have plows in Rynia. They build with stone and wood. They don't raise sheep; though in Kallent we raise goats. And we have wagons just like that in Rynia. In fact, that one came from Rynia."

"Oh," Bertrum replied. "Oh." Kraephten was relieved when Bertrum's voice was quieted and only the sound of crickets and tea sips interrupted his agony. Then, Bertrum spoke again and Kraephten knew he was a fool for thinking it would last. "Still, I'll wager they don't have ale like that in Rynia!"

"No," Kraephten groaned. "I think I've had enough experience to know that."

The next morning, breakfast was sturdy though Kraephten wasn't. Timothy had no end of fun displaying for Kraephten the oozing juices from his morning meat. That is, until Kraephten hit him.

Then, Flytcher insisted on driving them to the foothills of Ktoll in the family's wagon. It was the least he could do, he insisted, guiding them out. Already, the eldest boys had hitched the family's two horses to the wagon and awaited their father's approval. As he held both, one in each arm, in a strong embrace, the four marveled at the size of the horses. This being their first chance to take a look at them, they were stunned. "They must be well over two meters," Bertrum gasped.

"Yep," Timothy remarked. "They grow everything big out here in Yrachi."

As a consequence of living far from any main, Yrachi town, the wagon was loosely sprung and the ride took some getting used to as their rumps were beat into submission. "Perchance, would an Yrachi squad be joining you?"

Kraephten, holding on tight to both his seat and his unruly stomach, looked over at Flytcher, surprised the Yrachi would be capable of speech amidst all the jarring bumps. "Perchance," he blurted. "No. Perchance, no." A huge sinkhole rocked the wagon, threatening to throw most of them out. Timothy caught Bertrum before he could fly out the rear. "These bumps," he yelled. "Your family's endurance must be hale and strong to survive such a barrage!"

Flytcher nodded. "My thanks. They inspire pride in my heart." It took a moment for Kraephten's true meaning to sink in and, his nodding stopped, Flytcher grabbed harder onto the reins. "We must go faster if we're to reach Ktoll by night!" He gave the reins a quick shake and his passengers held on for all they were worth.

Beat and shaken, with Kraephten holding direly to the seat in front and Bertrum, Timothy, and Kell clutching fearfully to each other in back, they found the assembled force of Tzurritza by late afternoon. It took several long minutes before they could make their way off the wagon. Standing there on wobbling legs, Kraephten thanked Flytcher and Flytcher, in a huff, shook his hand.

Kell leaned on his shoulder. "I think you insulted him."

"How's that," Kraephten asked.

"You called his wagoon a piece of junk."

Kraephten couldn't understand how he'd done that and didn't have the luxury of time to dwell on it. "Come on, kid," he said to Timothy as Grundum approached.

Timothy, lying on the ground with Bertrum, knowing his back was broken, didn't respond.

"Commander Shen," Kraephten greeted in as strong a voice as he could muster. "Report."

Grundum looked suspiciously on the party. As beat as they looked, they also looked clean and fed. Most of the Corp's food had been damaged in the storm before they'd made their way across the foothills. This close to the mountains, there was very little to hunt. For three days, the Corps had awaited the return of Kraephten's wayward party and, still, were not entirely clean from their ordeal.

More had been lost to the storm and the bog while others had suffered falls in the treacherous foothills of Ktoll. With the addition of Kraephten and the others, their numbers now reached less than one hundred and fifty.

Kraephten looked towards the setting sun. "We probably have about a couple of hours of daylight left. Let your men know that we head out at dawn."

Several more days saw the party further into Yrachi. They'd passed plenty of fresh streams by that time and now walked with the confidence of the clean. Hunting grew better, too, as they rose away from the bog and into the wooded hills. Often, Kraephten would order his men to wait as he and Kell went to a nearby farmhouse.

They rose further, staying close to the climbing peaks of Ktoll. Kraephten started sending patrols up every crag that looked passable, searching for any sign of recent passage. It was then that Timothy knew what Kraephten was asking.

One evening, returning from an Yrachi home with a determined smile, Kraephten brought Bertrum, Timothy, Grundum, and Kell around the fire. Timothy surprised him, though, making his announcement for him. "Tsurtor's sent troops this way, hasn't he?"

Kraephten sat stunned, his mouth hanging open.

"That's why you were going to their homes," Timothy continued, "to ask them if they've seen any of Tsurtor's men. You were expecting that. You were expecting Tsurtor to make sure the Yrachi wouldn't aid Rynia."

Kraephten looked at the others and nodded. "He's right. You want to tell them what's next," he asked.

Timothy smiled but replied seriously. "Tsurtor's not the kind of person to come here alone and sign a neutrality pact. He would have shown off. He would have shown them they didn't stand a chance against him. That's what would have made them sign the treaty."

"So," Kraephten prompted.

"So, he would have left a trail," Timothy announced, inspiration shining in his eyes. "He would have brought through so many men they couldn't cover their tracks!"

"Right," Kraephten commended. "And we're going to follow them back."

Bertrum grunted, that look of deep concentration on his face. "And you don't think he'll be ready in case the Yrachi nation decides he presents them with a threat?"

Kraephten shook his head. "He won't and I'll tell you why. Tsurtor's so sure he has everything figured out, he's become predictable. He won't guard his rear because he doesn't need to. That, my friends, is how he'll be beat. After tomorrow, everything about this war changes." Kraephten laid back on the ground and enjoyed the warmth of the fire, trying his best to believe what he'd said.

Part III

If omens held any meaning, and Kraephten had forsworn the damned things more times in his life than he cared to remember, their mission was heading into better days. The black skies of their best-forgotten journey through the Srolean bog gave way to warm, wonderful sun. Kell couldn't remember when it had felt so good. Of course, she rarely saw the sun in her jungle kingdom but Timothy had lived on the Rynian shore and he sprawled in the grass like a lazy cat.

Both were roused by the morning watch, shouting the traditional morning call which woke everyone to the day ahead. "You're Tzurritzanian royalty," Timothy grumbled, "can't you have them killed?"

"Sure," Kell replied, "but I doon't have the energy."

Soon, though, they were all marching toward Ktoll, the jagged mountains looming to the east. By mid-afternoon, the trees broke and the loss of shade turned the blessing of sunshine into plain, old heat. It wasn't long before a scout returned with news. "The rain's washed much oof it away, coommander, but there's no mistaking it. The dirt's been ground beneath their feet, alright, straight up a wide canyoon, straight up the mountain."

"Goood," Grundum responded in his ever terse, Tzurritzanian tone. "Return too the pass and find an area brooad enoough for us too make camp."

"Yes, sir," the scout replied and hurried the way he had come.

Grundum and Kraephten exchanged smiles but the others didn't look as pleased.

"Isn't it a little careless, indeed, a little obvious, for Tsurtor to allow his men to leave tracks," Bertrum asked.

"It could hardly be helped," Kraephten replied. "Remember, he took those men through to impress the Yrachi's. He'd want to bring down as many as he could. They were bound to leave tracks." His answer didn't seem to placate their worried expressions. "And remember," Kraephten tried again, "Tsurtor's going to be obvious because he doesn't expect anyone to be foolish enough to follow. As far as he's concerned, he's got this end completely sewn up."

Timothy grunted, opening his shirt against the afternoon heat that only grew hotter as the sun crested Ktoll. "I hope you're right, Kraeph."

Marching to the relentless pace set by Commander Shen, it wasn't long before they found the canyon and the cleared track of dirt that led up an ascending canyon. "Incredible," Grundum sighed. "Hoow coould they have poossibly made tracks this wide?"

Kraephten, too felt disturbed by the sight. From what he knew of tracking, Tsurtor's army must have known no bounds. Still, he tried to remain optimistic. "Remember. They went both ways. Down and up."

"Sure, Kraeph," Timothy replied. "They probably went side to side as well."

"A few times," Kell added, her throat dry.

"Well, let's just get up to camp," Kraephten said. "It can't be far now."

They hoped not. Already, daylight was failing. They wanted to have enough time to do some hunting and gather the last wood before night proper fell. After nearly another kilometer up the canyon, Kell saw something that made them stop immediately.

At first, she thought it was just a log, fallen into the canyon. But trees didn't grow up here. Nothing larger than a bush. She put a hand out to Kraephten's shoulder and whispered his name.

When he saw where she was pointing, he gave the order to stop.

The scout, a young girl named Padry Maler, lay in the canyon, her throat brutally slashed by her own hand. Kraephten ordered the camp be made immediately at a sight they had seen a short ways back. Standing over her body with Timothy, Bertrum, Kell, and Grundum, looking at the wild grin and astonished look in the girl's eyes, he asked simply, "Why?"

"Suicide," Bertrum mentioned. "What could have driven her to this?"

"She was a stroong girl," Grundum remarked. "Stroong enoough to withstand the stresses oof being a scoout."

"What stresses," Timothy asked. "She was only a couple hours ahead of us!"

Kell remained silent, though. She was afraid to say what she thought. She was afraid that somehow, by giving the thought breath, she'd bring her fear to life.

That night, she slept little, tossing and turning, haunted by the nightmares she knew were in Ktoll. Nightmares that had found them in the waking world.

As the Corps proceeded up the canyon the next morning, it was all Kell could do to convince Kraephten and Grundum not to send another scout. "If there's a danger in this canyoon, best we should keep our foorces together. Save our strength."

"What danger," Grundum asked. "There's noo sign of recent trooop moovement in this area. It's clear that Tsurtoor is foocusing his strength too the east."

"He's right, Kell," Kraephten concurred. "But seeing as how our path is pretty much directed by this canyon, I can see keeping our scouts in the ranks for today."

"Thank you," Kell said. For the rest of the morning, she walked several paces before the Corps, watching, it seemed, for something only she could detect.

Kraephten knew something was wrong but also knew she didn't want to talk about it. At their midday rest, he sensed her more relaxed and took her aside. "What is it, Kell? If you tell me, I might be able to help."

"You can't help," she replied, taking a pull of water from her sack, freshly filled from a nearby mountain stream. "I'm probably just imagining things, anyway."

"You," Kraephten asked. "You're one of the bravest people I know. Mark knew that." He employed her lost love's name to be sure she got the message. "For you to be worried about something, there must surely be danger afoot. Tell me. You've traveled in these lands before. What do you fear?"

She drew her hair back from her face as if to tie it back, peering at him suspiciously. "No," she finally said. "I'm being silly."

The day progressed and they made their way further up the canyon. Its walls rose about them, tall and constricting. The perfect trap, Kraephten knew. Kell might have known what that trap entail but she wasn't telling. The next day, the canyon drew in tighter and tighter until the Corps had to march five abreast, then four, then three.

Then the long shadows of dusk fell though the sky was still bright above them and they were enveloped by an unearthly quiet. Kraephten stopped by Kell as she looked around fearfully. The Corps slowed to a halt as well, everyone looking for the cause of the terrible calm. There it was! High in the cliffs! Looking down on their prey hundreds of meters below in the canyon!

"There up there," Kell screamed. "Look!"

Like vultures, they glared down from their perch. Each side of the canyon was lined with them, maybe as many as fifty!

"We've got to get out of here," Kell hissed.

Kreaphten looked in her crazed eyes and demanded, "What are they, Kell? What?"

"The laughing wolves of Ktoll!" Just the name alone, Kell thought, should have been enough to explain their situation. The sound of the laughing wolves was enough to paralyze the strongest man with terror and destroy weaker men. Surely, she believed, tales of something this monstrous should have made their way to Rynia and Kallent. But Kraephten just looked at her, completely lacking in understanding. She would have told him but she couldn't.

Their laughing had begun.

It began as only a bark, a bark that was no more maddening than the simplest dog's bark. It came from one lone wolf at the farthest end of the canyon. It was calling the others to begin.

Each wolf howled like a lunatic, piercing the air like audible swords. The howls dropped into the canyon, echoing and echoing until the laughter was amplified many times over. The howling turned to braying and the braying became jibbering that tore the flesh and ruptured the veins. Soldiers fell where they stood as they witnessed their skin flayed from their bodies and blood bursting forth like pods on a hot, spring afternoon. They looked at each other and saw eyes dissolve and bone pierce through flesh and pus run out of screaming mouths.

Bertrum was possessed by a terrible itching in his skull. He found the nearest boulder and began hammering his head against it to make it stop. Kraephten felt fire fly from his mouth and forced down handfuls of dirt to put it out. Kell felt worms working their way out of her flesh and dug into one arm with her nails, desperate to get them out.

Soon, spike blades found throats and gun shots erupted in the canyon.

Timothy had been trying to reach his trigger but the barrel of his projectile thrower, which he was only lucid enough to load and ready to fire, sticking shakily into his mouth, was too long. A nearby shot jarred his senses and, suddenly, he realized what he was doing. He pulled the end out of his mouth and shouted, "You cannot make me do this!!" He looked up at the cliffs above the canyon, looked at the many wolves laughing with glee at the helpless prey, and brought his projectile thrower to bear. He had a hard time focusing, though, and wiped his face with one hand -

and came back with a handful of maggot-infested flesh. "Noooo!!" His scream seemed to echo louder than the laughter and he saw, to his horror, the flesh on his hands bust with bloody maggots devouring him at an insane rate. He screamed again and brought his projectile thrower up to his shoulder. He knew he'd only get one shot before the maggots had eaten through his muscles. Clearing his mind as best he could, he raised his weapon, aimed, and fired. Weak as he was, the weapon's kick threw him to the ground.

I'll die this way, he thought. I'll die with a weapon in my hand, fighting impossible odds.

But then, the laughter was gone, a calm breeze blew down the canyon, and Timothy's head was suddenly clear. Bringing his hand up, he saw it whole once again. Of course, he thought. It was all an illusion.

Kell came over, clutching her left forearm. Blood trickled down where she had broke the skin. She was grateful that, in her insane desperation to cut her own flesh, she hadn't remembered her own spike blades. "Are you okay?" Her voice was raspy. She must have been screaming, too.

"I think," Timothy replied. He tried to climb to his feet but his legs were too shaky. He picked up his staff where he'd dropped it, clutching it tightly, and used it to help himself up. "Kraephten," he gasped.

Kraephten Kattox had forced down several handfuls of earth and was now doubled over on his knees, regurgitating it back up. The two hurried to his side before he could fall in his own vomit. Tears streamed down his face as he spat pebbles onto the ground.

"It's okay," Kell whispered. "It's over."

"No," Kraephten groaned. "This is all my fault. I should have listened." He forced himself to stand, forced himself to shake off an experience that would haunt him for the rest of his life, and looked at the remains around him. Dead littered the canyon. Though most of the Corps had survived, most shook and sobbed on the ground. Some still screamed. When he turned away from that image of ruin, he witnessed yet another. Bertrum Typewriter lay on the ground, his face bloody, still and lifeless. "No," Kraephten gasped. He tried to hurry to his friend's side but his legs could only stagger. "Bertrum," he said, kneeling at his side.

"He's not dead," Kell said, kneeling on the other side. "I can feel his heartbeat." She quickly brought her arms back and covered her forearm when she saw Kraephten staring.

Bertrum regained consciousness a few minutes later after Kell had used some of her water to wash the blood from his face. His injuries weren't as bad as they looked but he knew he'd be too weak to continue on their journey.

"Well, we had better go soon," Timothy remarked. "I only shot one of those bastards. Who knows when the others'll return?" He looked over at the where the vile thing had fallen, its blood splattered on the hard, canyon floor like an inkblot. For all the misery it had caused, it was no larger than a terrier or a large possum.

"He's right," Kraephten replied. "Where's Commander Shen? We have to get as many of his troops in fighting condition as we can."

"Kraeph," Kell said.

"What?"

"Look." She pointed behind a boulder where a pair of legs stuck out like fallen tombstones.

Kraephten walked over to where she stood and looked down behind the boulder. "Oh," he whispered. "I was wondering what had happened to that." It was his vittahr to which he referred. In the madness inflicted by the wolves, Grundum had grabbed the long, curved sword. Kraephten didn't know if he had the will, after all that had happened, to pull the sword out of the commander's abdomen, where it curved up with the precision of a surgical instrument to his heart.

They couldn't start marching again until morning, though no one slept all that night. With the first sign of light high above the canyon, Kraephten stood before those still alive, less than half of the original Corps. He kept his hands behind his back to hide the fact that they still quivered. "The threat we have faced," he said, "has changed everything." He didn't need to shout; the canyon walls carried his voice for him. "We are in Tsurtor's land now without a doubt. We have yet to face his troops and I have no doubt that to do so would mean almost certain death. But if you look honestly at the future, as I'm sure you can, Tsurtor means to kill us all anyway. So, I ask you now, who's with me? Who still has the strength, the courage, to bring the fight to Tsurtor's lair. Don't think I'll judge you harshly if you refuse. I've seen what you had to face. I - I know the scars it will leave. If you do not wish to continue, Captain Typewriter will return you to Yrachi." Bertrum didn't like the idea of a rank. He preferred being a civilian. But Kraephten had guaranteed the men would not listen to him if he didn't outrank them so, in her royal capacity, Kell had granted Bertrum land and station with the rank it afforded.

Kraephten's speech concluded, it was several minutes before the first soldier even stood up. He went to where his new captain stood, sure that he'd never make the march up the canyon. Another joined him. Then, more retreated. As Kraephten was losing hope, soldiers began to take their place at his side. All told, just over thirty Tzurritzanian men and women volunteered to continue.

Rations and ammunition were divided with the majority going to those continuing. On both sides, soldiers formed into ranks, ready to march.

"You take care of yourself, my friend. Watch that head," Kraephten said as he bade Bertrum farewell.

Kell hugged him. "You be careful. We don't want Charles taking your place."

Timothy didn't know what to say, so Bertrum said it for him. "Take care of the old man for me, okay? All of you, be careful and keep your powder dry. Put a few holes in Tsurtor for me." His words were empty, though. He refused to say what he felt, that he feared the worst for them all.

* * *

Only a few hours later, Kraephten's party was almost wishing they'd turned back as well. It was just before noon. The sun was radiating warmth down into the canyon. And the tracks they had been following, the tracks of Tsurtor's army, had come to a dead stop.

"Impoossible," Kell hollared. "It's just impoossible!" She yelled because Kraephten was standing several meters away, ignoring her.

Timothy, on the other hand, assured her that it was very possible. "Things like this happen in the civilized world all the time. It's called magic, princess! Rynian magic!"

She stood on the bare earth just before where the tracks started, churning the ground under a thousand feet, and looked down. "Rynian magic," she asked. "What kind of magic makes sooldiers appear out of nowhere?"

"Movers! Isn't that right, Kraeph," he called, though Kraephten ignored him. "We already knew Tsurtor had Movers. Hargoth was a Mover. So, why shouldn't he be able to Move his soldiers wherever he wanted to?"

"Do you realize what you're saying? If he can moove his soldiers wherever he wants, without having to worry about mountains getting in the way, we'll never find him! He could just hide inside the mountain and move his people out whenever he needs to!"

"No," Timothy muttered, thinking. Kell had a point but it just didn't sound right. There was something she was leaving out. "He'd need airholes. People'd need to be able to stretch their legs. They'd have to dump their trash. Am I right, Kraephten? Huh? Am I right or am I right?"

Kraephten looked up as if he'd been distracted and turned back towards them. "You're neither, Timothy. There's an entrance very near here."

"What," Kell asked. "How do you know?"

* * *

Silen materialized in the cell in his old man form. "I've just had a conversation with a gentlemen by the name of Kraephten Kattox," he said pulling the chair up to the bed. "He says he knows you."

Silen had expected Hex to jump up with delight but instead Hex's voice was caught in his throat and he stammered, "Wh-wh-what? Where? Ha-how? What are you - what are you talking about?"

"Slow down, Hex. Ease up on the epinephrine."

Hex grimaced. "Just tell me!"

"It seems he's led an armed band up from the west to surprise Tsurtor. Boy, was he surprised when I told him that Tsurtor wasn't even here!"

Hex rose from the bed and started pacing. "So, when are they coming? Did you warn them about the saladan weapons? Are they prepared to fight soldiers with guns?"

"Well, see, that's just the thing, Hex," Silen replied, trying to keep up with his friend's lightening pacing. "I got the distinct impression from this Kattox that his people have guns, too."

* * *

As it turned out, they had missed the trail they'd needed to take. What they had thought was the trail's end was simply where Tsurtor had Moved his troops to begin their impressive drive into Yrachi. Kraephten got them out of the canyon via some switchbacks Silen had shown him. His entire mind was filled with maps and diagrams, troop placements and time tables. Now he knew he could do what the events of the past few days had nearly convinced him he couldn't. Climbing a ridge, he turned with his hand to his mouth to signal quiet. "Throwers ready," he whispered.

Timothy pulled a pouch and loaded its contents down his barrel. "I wish you would tell me what this is all about, Kraeph."

"It's like I told you, Timothy," Kraephten whispered. "Tsurtor's too busy in the east to bother with this half of his complex. Farther to the north, he has these things called jets stationed but this far south it's empty. There aren't as many soldiers stationed here so the odds are we can get in and lay those explosives and get Hex out to boot. Now, come on." Their weapons ready, Kraephten, Timothy, Kell, and ten other soldiers brought their projectile throwers over the ridge.

Below, a squad of saladan soldiers were playing some kind of game with a long stick, running back and forth on an open plateau. Ten lizards, Kraephten thought. He didn't like the odds. "Squad two," he whispered. Ten more soldiers, their throwers loaded and ready, brought their weapons over the ridge. There. That's much better.

Still, Timothy muttered, "I don't like the feel of this, Kattox."

Get used to it, Kraephten thought bitterly. "On three and remember to aim for their bellies or their necks if you can get them. Their backs are too well armored. One. Two." With three, a barrage of bullets, never before employed by an army of the eastern kingdoms, issued a new time upon their world. A time that would forever harken back to simpler days before such modern weapons.

Squad three, their weapons still primed, was the first down onto the plateau. As they found saladan soldiers still living though wounded, they lowered their throwers to fire point blank.

"No," Timothy yelled, directly disobeying Kraephten's order. He might have been a thief but he was no murderer.

He didn't need to tell Kraephten that. Kraephten was going from soldier to soldier, knocking them away from their intended kill. "What do you think you're doing," he hissed. "I'm not going to lead a band of murderers! Besides, you're wasting ammunition. Here." He took one of the charges they had readied for this mission. "You want to kill take this to point C. You remember where that is?" The look on their face told him that they remembered. It was the point furthest into Tsurtor's caves.

There were three charges in all. Each was assigned a specific place in the caves. Silen had determined each place to support the most weight and be the easiest to blow. Kraephten gave the next to squad two and kept the next. "Squad one will cover our escape on the plain to the south. It should take them an hour to get there. Now, there won't be any way to tell time inside the caves so we won't have any way to tell how long we have before an hour passes. This means that you, squad three, being the furthest in, well, you'd better run. Now!" His sudden shout shocked the third squad into a run. The ten disappeared into the small tunnel, leaving the rest on the plateau.

More relaxed, Kraephten addressed the other squad, "Now, Bertrum assured me that these are one hour fuses. You have point A. Don't hurry. We want them to get out as well."

When they were gone and the remaining squad began their descent, Kell said, "So, we're point B?"

"Actually, we're more than that," Kraephten replied. "So we'd better hurry."

Timothy, several feet away, asked him to stop a moment. He was looking at the saladan's projectile throwers, the ones that shot so rapidly with such horrible efficiency. "Kraephten, these don't look too different from our own. Sure, the ammunition loads in from the handle with these cartridges but," he turned the weapon on a canyon wall and pulled the trigger letting loose a spray of bullets, "they work on the same principle."

"You idiot," Kraephten growled. "Are you trying to have us found out?"

Timothy grabbed several more cartridges and hung the thrower's strap over his shoulder. "Then, I guess I'll need these." The others didn't take the saladan weapons but Timothy didn't mind. It just gave him that much more of an advantage. Timothy didn't want to mention it but going into those tunnels gave him a strange feeling. "Like old times, eh, Kraeph?"

"What do you mean," asked Kell.

"Remind me to tell you about Ryn-"

Suddenly, Kraephten's hand fell over Timothy's mouth, moving them back. "There's a soldier coming down that hall. We have to ready an ambush."

"There's not enough of us, Kraephten," Timothy said, reaching into his boot.

Kraephten, thinking he was going for more ammunition, said, "We can't use our throwers. It'll echo in these caves." He could have kicked himself. The other squads had plenty of people to set up ambushes. Kraephten had settled for only two others.

Still, it was always two he could count on. Timothy pulled out a knife, whispering, "Not what I had in mind, Kattox." Turning the corner before the startled saladan, he let the knife fly. The saladan quickly went down, a knife's hilt sprouting from its neck.

Kraephten looked proudly at Kell as Timothy drew the knife and wiped it on the saladan's jacket. "Did I tell you that I taught him everything he knows?"

Timothy chuckled. "Not everything, Kraeph. Trust me. Not everything."

Further into the darkness, Kraephten led the others. He moved confidently, as if the layout of the tunnels had been ingrained in his memory. Timothy surely hoped it had or else they'd be stuck in here when the walls started coming down.

"There," Kraephten whispered, pointing to another wall among hundreds.

The tunnels were lit by only the occasional torch and Timothy could barely see to light the fuse.

"Quite a force you have," a voice said.

Timothy had his knife out in less time than it took to think about it. Before he could throw it in the direction of the voice, Kraephten had a hold on his arm. "No," his mentor said. "That's a friend."

Silen had appeared in his old man garb but now his image shifted to that of a ninja, yet another image he'd taken from Hex's mind. He could tell the three didn't understand the joke, though, and drew back his hood, again exposing the craggy, white haired, Mark Twainish face. "I was going to say that your other teams have already planted their charges and are working their way to the exit. We'd best hurry." As Silen guided them to Hex's cell, he began warning them of the guards, the traps, and the electrified bars.

Kraephten maintained his calm, almost accustomed composure while Kell looked astonished and Timothy tried not to think about it.

* * *

"Wake up," Silen said. "They're coming."

"Coming," Hex asked, rising from his cot. "How do you know?"

Silen looked disappointed. "Because I'm with them right now. You surely don't think they'd make it all this way alone, do you?"

"Oh, of course, not, great wazier!" Hex tried to look presentable but knew, after months in his cell with little more than weekly baths out of a bucket of cold water, it was pointless. His clothes were tatters and his hair was matted. He'd be lucky if they recognized him.

Still, he hurried to put on his shoes. He'd had no need to wear them and was saving them for a possible escape.

Suddenly, gunshots erupted out in hallway. "That's a machine gun," Hex hissed, afraid of what might be coming down to his rescue. Hex had believed Mark's revolver was the extent of the new technology being introduced to Rynia. He was terrified at the thought of what horrible influence machine guns would have.

The gunfire ceased and Silen went to meet himself at the door. They merged into one and Hex saw his first familiar face in what had seemed years.

"Nice beard, Hex," Kraephten said, working the key on the cell door. In a moment, he had the electric charge off and the door unlocked and entered, followed by Timothy and Kell.

Hex, fully intent on coming back with a witty rejoinder, fell against Kraephten in a strong embrace. "Thank you," he whispered. "I was beginning to get worried."

Kraephten returned the embrace, patting Hex's back. "You had every reason to. You may still. Come on." He turned to the others and said, "We've got to get out of here."

"You're Hex," Kell asked.

Hex looked at the rough looking girl with green eyes and replied, "You must be Kell. Where's Mark?"

"That's the question of the hour," Timothy replied. Taking Hex's arm, he drew him out of the cell. "Come on. We've got to get out of here."

"Wait," Hex said as they entered the corridor. "We've got to get Silen."

"Hex," Silen's voice was heard to say, "you can do that later. Right now, you have to leave before you blow up."

"No," Hex replied. Remembering the last friend he'd left in one of Tsurtor's dungeon's, he insisted, "We're getting you out first."

Silen appeared at the end of the hallway, wearing sweats. "There's no talking sense into you, is there? I sympathize for Helen! Well, we'd better hurry up. My sensors give me forty-two minutes on the clock and there's a long run ahead."

Over the past months, Hex had done his best to stay in shape in the event he every broke out. He quickly learned, however, that calisthenics in the cell were a far cry from a full sprint down a dungeon hall. It wasn't long before Kraephten and Timothy were helping him along. Eventually, turning down one dark tunnel after another, they neared Silen's chamber.

"Be careful," Silen told them. Kraephten was ready to shush him but then remembered he was all in their heads. "There are guards around the corner."

"I'll handle this," Timothy said, confidently. Turning the corner, he held down his trigger for a long burst of fire, slaying those before him. "Told you this projectile thrower would come in handy," he said to Kraephten.

"Actually, it's called a sub-machine gun," Hex corrected.

Past the dead, a chamber lay. Bare with the exception of a single, stone, pillar, a suitcase sized box sat upon the pillar. Hex entered quickly and picked up Silen.

"I knew Tsurtor would underestimate us," Kraephten boasted.

"Yes," Silen replied. "Except we have only ten minutes before the charges go off!"

"Silen," Hex ordered. "Show me the closest exit outside of this mountain."

"The closest exit, Hex, is only one hundred forty three hectometers away but it's not a straight path. The tunnels take a path of seven kilometers, give or take."

"Just show me," Hex yelled. Silen said no more, giving Hex the required information. "Thank you," Hex said. "Hold this," Hex instructed Timothy, handing him Silen. Then, putting both hands on the wall in the direction of the exit, he quickly dissolved the rock in their direction.

"Oh, I see," Silen observed. "The Breaking magic to which you referred. I just didn't have a point of reference to understand what you proposed."

"Shut up," Hex hissed. "I'm trying to concentrate." Beneath his fingers, molecules jumped and atoms sped in their rotations. The heat of Breaking rock was burning his fingertips but it felt great to be using his magic once again.

Suddenly, light burst before them and Kraephten pushed them all outside, coming up from the rear.

"Seventeen seconds," Silen counted down.

"Run," Kraephten shouted. He didn't know where they were or what direction he was facing, he simply ran for all he was worth, pulling Hex behind him. The others quickly passed him.

They were expecting a loud boom, a thunderous roar... at least a bang. Instead, the earth shook a bit and there was silence.

"That was the first charge," Silen reported. "It took out nearly a square kilometer of tunnels and split the southern area from the northern. The next charge is in two point three seconds."

Again, the earth shook, this time with a low roar from below.

"Now," Silen said, "we have eight minutes before the next charge. Yours, I might add."

"It feels so good to be back in the game," Hex chimed enthusiastically. "Now that Tzurritza has joined with Rynia's army, we should be able to take down Tsurtor's army for sure!"

Kraephten looked at Timothy and then at Kell, not sure how to say what had to be said. The others, however, were not talking.

Silen suspiciously followed their glances and then a shocked look came over his face. "Oh!"

"Oh," Hex asked. Silen's voice had been positively nauseated. "What, oh?"

Kraephten put a hand on Hex's shoulder. "Hex. There's a few things I've got to tell you."

CHAPTER SEVEN

RETURN TO COUNTRY GARDENS

Part I

Beneath the heat of an unseasonably, unreasonably hot winter's day, rolling on dirt roads that had never been carved out of these canyons for limousines, Marcus Haddison crossed the empty desert of New Mexico. He looked nervously out the limo's window, looking for something, looking for his army. Where was it? As they turned around corners precariously close to the edge and into ravines down which they seemed to plummet, Marcus gritted his teeth, impatient for something he'd awaited half a year.

Next to him sat Raphineal, looking as composed as ever. Even in the furnace that the cabin had become despite the efforts of the air conditioning, Raphineal remained cool. He didn't look out the window but, instead, stared forward through WayFarer sunglasses that Tim McCarty had given him. The sunglasses made him look evil. Tim had insisted that was the point.

Raphineal had insisted that Tim not come on this leg of the journey. The two had argued long and hard in the hotel lobby, Tim insisting that he was needed, Raphineal equally certain he wouldn't risk Tim's life. "You have to understand, Marcus. The boy's done enough. He's been caught up in my problems since he was a boy. Going off from one end of the universe to another to save the land I call my home. I'll be damned if I get him killed now."

Marcus remembered their exchange in the plane out here. He'd taken another sip of his vodka, relaxed flyer that he was, and replied, "I do understand, Traveler. I regret every death I've led my people to... I only hope that what we're doing is enough." When the plane had landed at Albuquerque International, Marcus, Raphineal, and General Harris were led across the tarmac and to Executive Solution's private, jet helicopter. Marcus' reaction to airplanes had been nothing in comparison with his reaction to the helicopter. "No," he said, keeping his feet firmly upon the ground. He pointed at the small craft and shook his head determinedly. "You are not getting me in that thing."

"His highness has never been in a helicopter," Raphineal explained to the general, apologetically.

"Nor will I," Marcus added.

Raphineal leaned toward the Rynian monarch and grumbled, "I thought I explained this on the plane. Those rotors lift it up and then lower it safely to the ground."

"It's unnatural, Traveler. I'm not going to do it." Marcus' arms were crossed and his scowl was fixed.

And, so, they had taken the limo.

Now, General Harris sat across from him, talking incessantly on his phone, coordinating movement of troops. According to Raphineal's calculations, the Earth/Gerriter time difference made five p.m. the perfect time for the army to make the cross into Rynia. This should drop them in at around dawn, Rynia time. However, it would take Raphineal several hours to prepare the spells that would breach a large enough gap between worlds to take them through. So the general's men had to be in place when they arrived.

That time wasn't long, either. The general hung up his phone and turned to look outside. Marcus looked and Raphineal leaned over for a better view.

All they saw was the endless wastes of sun-battered desert.

Then, a helicopter flew over them, low and fast. It was different from the one Marcus had seen at the airport. This one was much smaller, sleeker, and had four protrusions jutting out which Raphineal quietly explained as guns. Then, turning a corner as if to follow it, the desert blossomed before them with enough machines of destruction to make Tsurtor's mouth run with drool.

General Harris saw the look on Marcus' face and spoke proudly. "Welcome to Executive Solutions, your highness. I believe you will see you got your money's worth."

Mile after mile of the armed camp stretched before them. Had he been on his own world, Marcus would have thought they'd mobilized an entire nation! Raphineal sat back immediately upon witnessing the sight, sure that he'd taken on too much. He had thought that Executive Solutions had surely been bluffing in their estimates and would fall short by as much as two thirds. Seeing the expanse of the mercenary army, he had his doubts as to his abilities. "I'll never be able to shift this many," he said under his breath.

"This is unbelievable," Marcus said, awestruck. "Not even Tsurtor had this many!"

"We have over forty thousand armed men down there," Harris replied. "That includes foot soldiers, gunners, pilots... you name it. In addition, another twenty thousand serve as support, servicing the engines, the weapons, the tools, and the men. What you see there is only a third of our entire organization. All told, we possess a fighting force that can easily supplement a moderately sized army."

"Trust me, general," Raphineal grumbled, "it's plenty."

"Maybe," General Harris said in reply. Turning back to Marcus, he continued enthusiastically, "I will tell you, your highness, you are looking at the finest equipped, finest trained fighting force ever to honor a crusade."

Marcus was still struck by the sight. "Well, I... I believe you."

Soon, the limousine came to a stop before the general's HQ. A tractor-trailer had hauled it out from Houston, Texas and it had sat beneath the New Mexican sun for the past two days. General Harris didn't seem to notice it as he stepped out of the limo. "Now, Mr. Coskas. I assume you will need begin preparations for what happens next."

"Well," Raphineal said, leaning against the limo. He couldn't continue, though. The words weren't within him.

Marcus could see it in his face, though. "You don't think you can do it, do you?"

"I don't think anyone could," the Traveler replied.

"You could call Tim," Marcus suggested.

"No," Raphineal replied, pushing himself off the limo. "I'll do it. Just give me some time. Your men might have to stay still for a while longer, general. A lot longer."

"My men are trained for anything, sir. Frankly, I think you both are off your chumps but my boss tells me that I have to do this." He pulled a cigar from his pocket and broke the seal. "They can stand to sit tight for a bit."

As Raphineal went off around the perimeter, Marcus turned to the general. "So, you really don't believe us," he asked.

Lighting up his cigar, the general peered keenly into Marcus' eyes. "Your highness, I have always fancied myself a pragmatist. If you are willing to give me a ten million dollar advance on a multi-million dollar project, then I am willing to stand in the sun for a while. However," he continued, puffing, "that does not mean that we need to do it dry. I believe my adjutant keeps a stock of ice cold beer on hand for just such occasions." He led Marcus to a green tent on the right as Marcus looked around like a child on Christmas morning.

"I'll tell you what, general," Marcus suggested as Harris pulled two long-necks from a cooler. "I think you're going to be quite surprised when he really does Move us to another world just as he's said he will. In the meantime, it couldn't hurt for me to get to know these machines a bit better."

"Sure," the general replied with a laugh. "I will humor you." As they toured the encampment, General Harris showed King Marcus the assemblage of his troops like a proud father.

"We purchased these Hyroto attack choppers from a dealer out of Inchon. They are faster than their American counterpart and we have loaded them with the latest in compact, laser guided missiles." He lifted a canister no longer than his forearm. "This little baby could take out a good sized home with no problem."

Marcus looked at it all with zeal, anticipating Tsurtor's rout. Night fell quickly, though, and Raphineal had not yet begun the spell that would take them over. When he mentioned it to the general, Harris didn't seem quite so concerned. The deep darkness of the desert had already enveloped them; it would be midnight soon. As long as his crazy clients retained enough energy to stay up, so would his men. In the meantime, he suggested that they return to his adjutant for some coffee to ward away the desert's evening chill. It was then that Raphineal returned.

"Mr. Coskas," General Harris greeted. "Join us for a coffee? Or a nightcap, perhaps? Do you drink tea?"

Raphineal had obviously exerted himself. As he approached, they could see he was dripping with sweat and, as he walked, he was hunched over. "I'd love to, really," he replied in a weak voice, "but we have to go."

General Harris looked at Marcus and then back to Raphineal. "You do? Really? Where do you two expect to go?"

"What," Raphineal snapped. "No! I mean all of us. You surely don't think we were lying, do you?"

"He does," Marcus replied.

Raphineal reached into the cooler and ran handfuls of ice, cold water through his hair. Though the air held a chill, Raphineal's skin felt like it was burning with magic. "Well, then, I think this will change your mind."

"Are you going to cast a spell," General Harris asked, incredulously.

"Actually, that's exactly what he's going to do," Marcus spoke up for his friend. "And your men had better be ready to go because when that gate opens-"

"Marcus," Raphineal interrupted, "that's not quite how it's going to happen."

"What," Marcus asked. "What do you mean? I've seen this done before."

"No," Raphineal corrected. "You've seen Rynian science which you think is magic. Get ready for some real magic." Raphineal turned to Harris. "General? Are your men ready?"

"Oh, yes," General Harris replied, skeptically. "As ready as they will ever be."

"General, I'm serious. You need to tell your men."

"That we will be traveling to another world?"

"Yes! If they aren't prepared, they might panic at what they see. We could lose them somewhere in between."

General Alvin R. Harris had seen a lot of crazy folk in his day. He'd met that warlord in Somalia who threw away lives for a water spring. There were those Serbians who believed genocide should be carried out against their enemies because of the power of their ancestry. Flat-earthers. Aborigines. Republicans. But he had never thought he'd ever meet a man so sure he could work magic. He should have taken Tim McCarty along, Harris thought. That boy knew real magic. "Fine," Harris conceded. "You are the ones footing the bill for this little outing. I will let you play with the toys." Pulling out his phone, he switched it on with a beep. "Okay? What do you want me to tell them?"

"There's going to be a disparity in realities," Raphineal replied as if he'd done this before. "Things will change all around them. One minute, they'll be in New Mexico but it will take several minutes before they reach Rynia. Let's see." He looked up at the sky. "It's nearly midnight now. That means that we'll be heading into the light. Tell your men that the sky will brighten and there's a good chance that we'll be going into an area with grass as well, so things may change right under their feet. Now, I've only been able to put up enough wards to allow just a few feet of movement so let them know they can't go anywhere. I don't want to lose half the army between worlds. I just hope I don't drop us into the middle of Tsurtor's camp." He looked at the general but Harris wasn't talking to his men.

Instead, General Harris said, "You two really are completely out of your minds. Too bad."

"Just tell them," Raphineal insisted.

His screen flickered with the press of a button. "This message is going out to all soldiers and commanding officers. This is General Alvin R. Harris, VP in charge of Special Ops. You men are... well, how should I put this... let us call this advanced training, men. The client has some interesting tasks he wants you to do and they are paying top dollar. First, you are to remain in position until notified otherwise. The client tells me that we will be traveling in some fashion so if you see any special movie effects, well, that is them. They are obviously wealthy enough to afford these bizarre games. For those mobile, I would recommend that you remain in your vehicles until notified. They are going to do something to make it light, too. So, watch out for that. This is General Harris, out."

"He thinks this is all a big game," Raphineal sighed.

"Doesn't matter," Marcus said. "You'll still fight our war if we actually do make it to Rynia, won't you, general?"

General Harris pulled out another cigar and said, "Your highness, if you were not such a crazy cracker, I might give you some credit. Sure. If we make it to another world, I will fight with pee shooters!"

"I don't think we'll want to bring it to that," Marcus replied, patting the general on the shoulder. Turning to Raphineal, who had carved an intricate circle of designs in the hard ground, he asked, "Are you ready?"

"As I'll ever be. Whatever happens... just... just remain calm. I've never tried this much before." Turning toward the circle, he began to chant under his breath. At first it was so soft that neither Marcus nor the general could hear it.

Then, as his voice grew louder, General Harris turned to Marcus. "What is he doing?"

"Just what he said he'd do."

With his arms extended forward into the circle, Raphineal stepped onto the designs. The general was sure he'd ruined them, obliterated any reason for drawing them, dramatic or otherwise, but then, when Raphineal lifted his foot, taking another step, Harris saw that the designs were undisturbed as if Raphineal had never stepped on them at all. "Mirrors," the general muttered. "Video projection." But, when he looked around, he saw neither.

Now, inside the circle, Raphineal brought his arms in, chanting louder. Joining his fingers together in a series of long, complicated gestures, he pointed at the ends of the encampment. Wind whipped up from the circle blowing out through the camp.

"What is he doing," Harris asked, his voice betraying concern.

"I don't know much about his magic," Marcus replied, his hair whipping in the wind. "I've never really seen him do it before."

"Magic," Harris shouted, for the wind was growing stronger now. No, it wasn't just the wind. It was Raphineal's chanting. It had grown so loud the wizard must have been shouting but could any man yell that loudly? "That's insane!"

Marcus leaned against the wind and shouted his reply. "So you keep saying!"

Suddenly, the wind died and Raphineal's chanting returned to a low rumble.

"Look," somebody shouted. Above them, the sky turned black, as if all of the stars had blinked out of existence. Beneath them, too, the ground disappeared, replaced too by blackness. Clarity somehow remained, turning the sights around them into nothing more than stark outlines against the formless void. For all of their training, several of the soldiers began to panic.

"What's happening," shouted General Harris.

"We must be between worlds," Marcus said, himself calm, accustomed to the whims of magic, "just like Raphineal told us."

The others in the camp were far from calm, though, as General Harris saw in the stark clarity. "We have to stop this," he shouted.

"We can't. It's already begun." Raphineal's voice pierced the void, holding still all who heard it like an anchor.

And, somehow, everyone heard it. The grunts shaking in their helmets. The gunners leaping out of their tanks. Even the technicians, the cooks, the repairmen. The entire camp stood firm, held by Raphineal's voice, waiting for it to end the mad visions around them.

But, when the general looked at him, standing within the circle, he was still caught in his chanting. "How can you be talking to us?"

"I'm not," Raphineal replied. "I'm communicating telepathically. To do this on such a wide scale takes an incredible feat of preparation and, if I may humbly add, skill."

"You mean -?"

"Yes, General Harris. I am speaking directly to you."

Marcus shook his head. "But that's something not even our greatest magicians, not even Hex himself could master."

"This is not the magic to which your homeworld has grown accustomed, your highness. Though, I will say there is a nation on the southern continent of your hemisphere which dabbles."

Marcus closed his eyes against the sights around him and asked, "How long have you been involved with my world, Traveler?"

"I'm not as old as you might believe, your highness. My involvement in the first war against Tsurtor was simply a matter of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. It was my friendship with your father that led me back. But in the last war, you seemed to do well without my help. It was only after learning that Tsurtor's designs for Rynia remained that I was compelled to look deeper into the cause of the last war. Tsurtor had been building forces for this war since even before the last - that was no more than a distraction to him which, thanks in part to Hargoth's creator, worked well to his advantage. His long range goal, though, was hindered not in the least by your victory. In fact, he had a new tool, the stone giants. I, too, was able to use this tool to my advantage. I encouraged Hargoth's greed, his own zealous need for the Imperial Palace-"

"So, it was you who brought him to interrupt the anniversary celebration?"

"If I had not, many more of your people would be dead, I assure you," Raphineal replied dispassionately. "You needed to be shown the threat which you faced. Believe me when I tell you that wasn't the worst of my sins. I had seen the return of the young magician, Vincent, and believed I could teach him humility, show him the right use of his magic. I was wrong. I failed."

"Was that why Hex couldn't find him? What happened to Vincent, Traveler," Marcus shouted. "Tell me!"

"It was the most terrible folly. He was lost to Tsurtor. He was - he was changed. It was only the selfless action of his brother that turned him away from Tsurtor. But then, it was too late." Raphineal's voice held back a flood of guilt and it was not concern for the Traveler that stayed Marcus' questions. Rather, it was fear.

Still, there was one question he had to ask. "What happened to Vincent, Traveler? In the end?"

Raphineal's voice was constricted. "I do not know." There was a moment of silence and Raphineal said, "For now, we near your world."

Marcus opened his eyes, eager for familiar surroundings, but saw little more than a bleary horizon. Then a sky full of stars ignited and Marcus knew he was nearing home.

"The strain has been too much on my body," Raphineal's voice hissed, interrupting Marcus' thoughts. "You will need to make the General understand where we are when we arrive. Keep my body warm. It will-"

"Raphineal," Marcus asked, stunned by the void left in the wake of the Traveler's voice. Around him, the air began to ripple. Grass sprung up beneath him. Trees appeared in place. Mountains thundered into position before him. Thrown by the shock of their sudden appearance, Marcus fell jarringly to the ground.

General Harris immediately helped him up. "Where the hell are we?" The general's face was red, his teeth clenched.

Marcus knew to answer immediately. "I know those mountains," he replied, pointing. "Those are the Northern Spires. Those lakes over there - they're the Scales. We're in the northernmost territory of Paead. My kingdom -" Marcus turned around and looked down at the broad panorama that stretched out before him to the south. To his right, Ktoll rose ominously with the sun shining past its peaks above the gentle fields of Paead which lay before Marcus like a victim. On his left, the sloping curve of Rynia's western border greeted him. He feared what lay beyond the woods and hills that obstructed his view. "It lies that way, to the east and south."

"Right," Harris snapped. "Your 'kingdom'. Rynia. That is what you called it." He stepped in front of Marcus, an unlit stogie clenched in his teeth. "We need to talk."

Part II

To the east, several others were recuperating from their own appearance in this troubled land. It would be night soon. Wood was being gathered for the fire they were sure they'd need. It was only thanks to a street sign that they knew where they were. The sign had read "Perigosa". It was Country Garden's largest street and it had once led up to Chapman Avenue, up by Irvine Park. Now, it led nowhere. Nowhere but their doom.

"Is he still shaking," Samuel asked.

"He's got three blankets on him, Sammy," Pete replied, heating up a can of soup they had found. "The fire's warm enough."

"I don't like it, Sam-o," Robert commented, sitting on Samuel's shoulder.

"I know," Sam replied. He knew what was wrong and it wasn't the cold. "He's been like that ever since we returned to this world. It's Tsurtor."

They had appeared that morning, descending lightly to the streets that had once been their home, and it seemed like Vincent wasn't given a moment's peace. Immediately, his concentration was lost and they fell to the unforgiving concrete. Thankfully, they only had a few feet to fall. Samuel had picked himself up only to find Vincent clawing at his skull, crying, "Stop it! Stop it!"

Randy and Pete looked at each other. They couldn't be sure but had a feeling they knew where they were. It was like their worst nightmare had been realized. They had returned to Country Gardens. It made the most sense for Vincent to zero in on his home town and, when Randy found the signpost on the ground their suspicions were realized.

Around them, the entire city was destroyed. Nothing was left standing. It wasn't burned or torn apart or washed away. It was like a giant foot had come down and flattened every remnant of the Southern Californian town.

Mark Nygarra had cautioned them. "You certainly didn't expect Tsurtor to let this remain standing, did you?"

Vincent had immediately grown violent and Samuel had to restrain him to keep him from doing himself harm. Vincent wanted to claw his eyes out, rip free his ears, crush his own skull, anything to stop the endless parade of horrors that seemed to be marching with leaded boot across his psyche. He shivered and twitched, too, as if, despite the sun that was beating warmly above them, he was terribly cold. Samuel held his brother still but looked helplessly at his friends. He could do nothing more.

So Mark Nygarra ordered the two WFR's to search through the remnants of their town for the things they would need to keep themselves alive. Meanwhile, Mark gathered the wood that lay in bountiful supply upon the street and burned the ruins of Country Gardens to help warm the young wizard, help him regain some of his mental faculties.

Randy headed in the direction of the new mall to sort through its remains. Pete went back to what was left of his house. Perhaps there, he thought, he'd find the food and the clothes that they'd left behind. He saw the crushed remains of the playground they all used to sit in as children. Him and Randy, Vincent and Geoff, and Pete. Kneeling before the wooden beams of the big fort, he put his hand upon Sean's initials and remembered.

Sam had sent Robert away as well once the little man awoke from his nap inside Sam's jacket pocket. "Next time you fall, Sam-Clam," Robert said, rubbing his shoulder, "try and land on your butt. There's more cushion." The treeling said he'd try and find some food somewhere but hadn't returned until much later. It was his own devastation which had kept him. In the park, he'd seen the ruins of the old, ash tree from which he'd come.

Now, Pete poured the bubbling contents of the soup can into a plastic bowl. All of the nice dishes that had once belonged to his mother had been shattered into bits. He handed the bowl over to Sam. "You'll want to let that cool," he said.

"What kind is it," Sam asked.

"Bean with bacon."

Randy looked at the can he had heating on the grill and said, "I'm having chicken gumbo."

Mark shook his head. "If this had been a Rynian city, there'd be nothing left. There's much we can learn from you people."

"Oh yeah," Pete asked. "Let me tell you about landfills someday."

Robert added, "And don't even get me started on mini-malls and billboards and talk radio and fish tacos and mass marketing and rice cakes and-"

"Robert," Randy hissed.

"What?"

Randy smiled. "We won't."

Samuel dipped the end of a bent spoon into the bowl and blew it cool. Then, gently, he tried to put it into Vincent's mouth, hoping his brother would eat instinctively.

Sadly, he had just the opposite reaction. He'd been held fast by the blankets bundled around him but now they flew apart and his spoon was flung into the darkness by an unseen hand.

"Here," Mark said, handing over his own spoon. "Try again."

"I really don't think it's any good, Mark. It's all we can do to keep him from killing himself," Samuel said, dejectedly.

"I don't think so," Mark insisted, still holding out his spoon. "If he wanted to kill himself, he would. All he'd have to do it use a little magic. Or have you forgotten?"

Sam shook his head, the concern evident on his face.

"But he hasn't," Mark continued, "which means that if Tsurtor's in his head like you think - and you're probably right - Vincent's fighting back."

"That, or it's Tsurtor who doesn't want him dead," Randy said.

Pete elbowed him. "Thanks, Randy."

Samuel took the spoon. "Either way, he needs to eat." Dipping the spoon again, he blew it cool. This time, taking a moment to wrap Vincent back up in the blankets, Samuel held his brother's face steady with one hand and brought the spoon forward with the other.

"NO!" Vincent's shout was so loud that Sam fell back, landing on one elbow, and the others jumped where they sat as if from a jolt.

Sam quickly rose back up, holding his brother still. "Vincent? What is it," he asked.

"Can't eat," Vincent said as if in a fever. "I have to fight him - have to!"

"Okay, Vincent," Samuel said, looking into his brother's wild eyes. "But, you have to tell me what's happening."

"I can hear him," Vincent replied, weakly. "He wants me to do things - terrible things! He shows me - and - and - and I want to!!" Suddenly, Vincent doubled over, a terrible scream hoarsely emptying his lungs. Samuel held him tight and wouldn't let go. His grip didn't ease until Vincent's long screams had become tears and it was then that his solid grip become a warm embrace.

* * *

"So, you are telling me this really is Rynia?"

Marcus nodded for the hundredth time. "Yes, general. That's why you're not getting anything off those satellites of yours. There are none over my world. This isn't an illusion. This isn't a mock up. We haven't moved you to any secret installation or to another part of your world. Raphineal did what he said he'd do. He Moved us to my world."

Raphineal leaned against the entrance to the general's trailer, surprising the two. He'd been asleep for nearly ten hours. It would be morning soon. In the false light inside the trailer, he still looked very ill. "We've acted in good faith," he said, his voice tired. "General. I surely hope you don't intend to throw away your retainer."

"That was never a question, Mr. Coskas," General Harris replied. "My interest here is information. I say we get a couple birds up and see what the scenario looks like. Executive Solutions is a professional organization, gentlemen. We're here to win a war."

* * *

Another day passed. Vincent's attacks had calmed but remained a constant concern. He refused to speak and wouldn't eat. Sam instructed Pete and Randy to keep an eye on him while he went back to the remains of their home to search for a change of clothes. Mark, too, left, searching the perimeter of the city for any sign or direction of its destroyer. Randy and Pete took turns watching their friend and picking through rubble for supplies and, by mid-afternoon, they had scrounged enough to take them on the next leg of their journey. But where would they go? It was obvious to Pete that Sam would want to get his brother away from danger but Randy knew that Mark would want to pursue the fight. Robert just wanted to smack Vincent for taking them from one disastrous situation into another.

As certain as they were, they were surprised to hear voices coming from the south. Up, along what used to be Lynan, the two saw Mark walking at the front of a large head of people. By his side, an exhausted, unbelieving Boom Tower.

"This just isn't possible," Boom gasped. Every step he took was another into his nightmare. The one thought he'd had, drawing him along their retreat from Bemmiton, was that once he reached Country Gardens, he'd return to normality. His high-backed chair would be waiting for him behind his desk. He'd commandeer a portable generator, watch a video, pop some corn, drop a couple of ice cubes in his Jack Daniels and forget about wizards, wars, refugees, the whole bit.

Not anymore.

"Tsurtor obviously knew we'd come back here eventually and wanted to show us just what he's capable of," Mark replied. "The important thing is that you got these people here safe. Tsurtor's left behind for now. We have to plan our next move."

But Boom wasn't listening to Mark's suggestions on their next move. He had stopped listening when Mark had echoed his hidden thought. That Tsurtor had known they would go to Country Gardens. Tsurtor had known.

His thoughts were shaken by a shout from behind and the beating of hooves. Bethel Patir rode up beside them, reporting, "We've all the folk we started with this morning. If anything, I think they're getting used to this, maybe even stronger. A pleasure seeing you again, Duke Nygarra."

Mark tilted his head and Boom said to her, "Assemble teams to gather firewood." He looked around. "There seems to be plenty."

"Already taken care of. Gabe's taken that duty. Commander Ellison and the rest of the watch -"

Mark froze in his steps at the sound of the name. "Banry Ellison is with you?!"

Bethel nodded. "He's the one responsible for the resistance. He'll be interested in seeing you. Right now, he's taken the rest of the watch to look for signs of the army responsible for all of this."

East, Mark thought, having found the wide tracks himself before seeing the refugee's approach.

"All accounted for then," Bethel continued. "If you could just report to Commander Ellison in my stead," she asked Boom.

"Of course," he replied distantly. Then, realizing what he'd said, asked, "Why?"

She look at the duke. "Where is he?"

"Do you remember where he lived?"

"Yes," she said, pointing, "that way."

Mark nodded. "He's sifting through what was left of his home."

"Right," she replied, riding off without another word.

"Lucky girl," Mark commented, thinking of those he'd lost.

Boom nodded, having had no one to lose.

* * *

He hadn't grown up there but he couldn't remember a time when it wasn't his home. Two jobs he held down for a long time to keep it and raise his brother in it. He remembered so many days when he'd walk up those stone stairs to the front door. His front door. It had been his first and only place. He'd grown up with his parents and then moved in with his uncle for a time. When his folks had died, he knew he had to come back down to Orange County. His folks had known better than to trust him with that big house of theirs. He would never have been able to take care of it all by himself. So, they'd provided for the proceeds of its sale to go to him, their executor. (That money was still back home. He'd saved it, hoping Vincent could use it to attend college. Now, he'd never be able to get it without the F.B.I. breathing down his neck.)

It was a stroke of luck that he'd found this place at all. When he'd qualified for H.U.D. housing, he'd thought they'd be stuck in some tenement down in Santa Ana, or worse. Then, he'd heard about the apartment complexes in the wealthy little town of Country Gardens. He thought it would have been the perfect place to raise his brother, away from the city, the crime, the memories. That was ten years ago.

It wasn't long after that Vincent had got involved with that weirdo, Hezekiah Fanlan, or Heck as Vincent had called him. Hex had disappeared with Vincent in tow one day and Sam's whole world had turned upside down. It didn't return to normal once Sam got his brother back to earth, either. Along with a brother who suddenly knew magic, he had to contend with all of the "toys" he inherited from Hex. Skates. TV. Recliner.

All gone.

There was a sound from behind him but, holding a picture he found that he had always cherished of the two when they were much younger, he tried to ignore it. What did it sound like, he wondered. Hooves?

He didn't look up when he heard footsteps, either. He looked down at his meager pile of treasures. A photo album. Some Pop Tarts. A favorite shirt. Vincent's hiking boots.

"I think I liked it better when you hung on my every move."

Her voice was so clear that it caught in his chest. Suddenly, he could no more look at his treasures than at the rest of the rubble. His eyes turned of their own accord and saw her standing there like a vision in an all too real dream. It was one he wouldn't let slip away.

Stepping down from the remains of his home, he put his hand out and touched her face. It may have been dirty; he didn't notice. He knew he probably looked a lot worse. "It's you," he said though his words made no sense.

"Yes," she replied, putting her hand against his. "I'm so glad to see my present kept you safe."

"Present," he asked, thinking back. "Oh!" He reached down and drew the blade from where he had tied it to his leg. (Robert's idea.) "I never even had a chance to use it," he said, laughing. "I only got in one fight and that was against my brother. I didn't stand a chance!"

"Oh," she replied, confused.

He took a step towards her but she took his hand from her face and pushed him away. "No. Wait." She turned away, looking out at the waste. Sam said nothing, looking at her, confused. "There's something I need to tell you. It's why I treated you so poorly. After the battle against Tsurtor's army... I thought I'd never have a chance to tell you, but I... I swore that I would." She turned to him and gazed into his eyes. "If I ever got the chance," she finished as if asking his permission.

"What," he asked.

"There was a man. Kraephten Kattox. Do you know him?"

Sam thought back to the first time he'd met the king's favorite. It was on the battlefield that had once been and would be again the Imperial City, at the end of the last war. He'd gone in looking for his brother, only to find the boy beaten by his own magic. Kraephten had found Vincent with him and when an undead attacked from behind, Sam had pulled his gun - "Yes - I - somewhat. I saved his life."

Bethel gave a huff. "You would." Her gaze directed elsewhere, she continued, "It was at the end of the war when we... he told me things, Samuel, made promises." She shook her head as if to dash away the tears welling in her eyes. "I was a fool."

Sam stepped closer, putting a foot between hers, and placed his hands on both sides of her jaw so he could gently wipe away the tears. "You were hurt. I see that. But you can't spend your life pushing people away." She nodded her agreement, smiling against her tears. "Look, Beth. I can't promise that I'll never hurt you but I can promise that I'd never want to." He lowered his hands and she took them in her own. "Other than that, I'm too exhausted."

She pulled him closer into her well developed arms until he could feel her lips move against his as she whispered, "Oh, Samuel. Would that there was a bed in this rubble. Then, you'd know what true exhaustion meant."

* * *

That night, east of the Ktollian foothills, Hex made a fire. Timothy had run out of Bertrum's firesticks and Silen kneeled with Hex and watched as the pile of tinder ignited beneath the twigs they had been able to gather on the dry, grey hillside. "So, you're saying that all you do is excite the molecules," Silen asked. "Do you realize how impossible that is?"

"Actually, it's not," Hex countered. "It's only observation that makes it appear so."

"Wait until you get to Rynia," Kraephten said to Silen. "You see this kind of thing all the time."

"And it's all an exercise of will?"

"It's not as hard as it looks," Hex replied, leaning back. "I'm not changing the molecules of a hundred tons of rock. If that were possible, I would have been out by now. No, I'm just taking a few dozen electrons up a few levels. They get hot and do the rest of the work for me."

Silen paused for a moment, looking at Hex in a way they all knew. Silen had never been taught manners. In the days since leaving the mountain, he'd accessed all of their memories just so. The four others around the fire were just glad the rest of their team - the other fifteen men and women left in the Corps - sat around fires of their own.

"What is it, Silen," Hex asked, pointedly.

Silen's head cocked back. "Oh, I am sorry. You did tell me not to do that, didn't you?"

"Hoourly," mocked Kell.

"It's just that I can see from your mind, Hex, that you've done much more in the past than excite a few molecules. You've created life! You've - you've destroyed -"

"This is exactly why we've asked you not to go prying into our minds, Silen," Hex snapped.

Kraephten put a hand on Silen's forearm, only solid because the Rynian computer made it seem so in Kraephten's head. "We've all done much we regret, Silen. You need to respect that."

"Hmm," Silen intoned, thinking. Then, turning his head to the east - which was quite disturbing since his body was facing west - he let out a startled cry.

They all followed his stare but they could see nothing in the night sky. "What is it," Hex asked.

"There is a machine approaching from the northeast. A - helicopter."

"A what," Kraephten asked.

Hex rose, saying, "Tsurtor's men have those. We've got to put out these fires. Get off this hill."

Quickly, the order went around. Fires were stomped out and Kraephten led them back up where the rocks would better hide them and Tsurtor's men, providing they saw the remnants of the fires and assumed the Tzurritzanian Corps and escaped prisoner would be more likely to continue east, would be less likely to search. Suddenly, an ominous sound approached. The roar of the motor threw several of the Tzurritzanians in a panic and the only thing keeping the others from following suit was the fact that Hex didn't. "That's just the engine," Hex advised.

"They can see us," warned Silen. "They have infrared scopes."

"What," Timothy asked.

"They can see in the dark," Hex answered absently. In his mind, he was running through every war movie he'd seen, which wasn't many. Still, he was sure there must be a way to counter the enemy's technology. There had to be; the alternative was not acceptable. He looked at Silen. "Can you calm everybody down?"

"Of course," Silen replied confidently. "Why?"

"I need you to drop their body temperatures. Slow down their heart rates, their pulse. I'll take care of the air."

"The air?" The answer to Silen's question came when he saw the others begin to shiver. Hex was cooling the air around them. "Ah," the computer exclaimed.

Hex felt his body begin to adjust to the cold air around him even as he lowered its temperature further. The others quieted down and he saw his breath steam the air. "Further," he muttered.

"I can't," Silen replied. "You've already reduced the air temperature below freezing. Further exposure could result in tissue damage to say nothing of the resulting exhaustion. This plan of yours could well backfire."

"Great," Hex breathed. The helicopter hovered so close that he could see the pilot. Four others scrambled about, very likely looking for the ones who had so mysteriously slipped away.

"They won't leave, Hex," Silen told him. It was clear Silen had already read their minds. "The commanding officer is ready to give the order to land. Then, they'll search the ground. It won't take long. By my calculations, they'll see us before that."

Cursing his dumb luck, Hex asked, "Who are they?"

"I can't be sure," Silen replied. "I do know they're not Tsurtor's men. They're recently from your planet, earth."

"Earth," Hex exclaimed. A thousand thoughts ran through his head at once, the foremost being that this was Vincent's doing, somehow. He released the air molecules around them and the icy cold soon dissipated. The chopper's radar could see them now and it remained hovering over them enigmatically.

"Don't worry," Hex said. "They're from earth!"

Several hollow snaps came from the chopper and Hex was so afraid they might be bullets, he jumped nearly a foot off the ground. That was all the others needed to fly off in a panic. Kraephten, Kell, and Timothy looked at Hex for some answers but there wasn't time. A thick haze soon enveloped them, sending them to their knees, coughing.

Gas, Hex thought, trying not to breath.

"What am I to do," Silen asked.

Don't leave me, was Hex's last thought as his head swirled around him and he fell face first onto the ground.

* * *

Marcus was awakened by the opening of the trailer's door.

"Well, we got one!" Harris' happy proclamation rang off the aluminum walls with a start, ensuring the Rynian king's wakeful state. "Found a careless patrol just east of the mountains."

"How many," Marcus asked.

"Nineteen. Odd number," the general remarked with a shake of his head. "Sergeant Danvers is bringing them in on four birds. They should get here within the hour."

"Any wounded?"

"No. They did not offer any resistance. We did not even need to use tear gas, just drugged them." The trailer cramped and the bed its only furniture, Harris sat on the only other place available, a stack of old reports. "One thing I thought was very strange, though. Danvers reports having had them on his viewer - that was how they found them; infrared scope - and then they suddenly disappeared. I will be interested to know what kind of technology they possess."

It didn't take long. Before Marcus had finished his coffee - after all the sun would be up soon - Executive Solutions' trademarked black helicopters came down on the freshly cleared landing pads and prisoners were quickly wheeled away.

That is, until Marcus realized how familiar several of them looked.

CHAPTER EIGHT

EXPECTED FOES. UNEXPECTED ALLIES.

Part I

K'tan's men had built more than just a new tent for Lord Tsurtor. There, on the eastern shore of Gerriter, they had chopped down acres of the Rynian's precious hardwood to build him a shrine. It stood taller than three men and was large enough to house a tank platoon. Tsurtor had taken it gladly and K'tan's men rejoiced for now, it was hoped, he would remain locked away. His nightmarish body, writhing with alien appendages, scared even the saladans who prayed to their salamander god that those appendages couldn't cut through timber.

PUTAK, YOU FOOL! HAVE YOU GONE MAD?!

Tsurtor's mental scream sent the general to the ground. In the farmhouse he had taken as his command post, blood poured from the proboscis which stood out from his bristly face and he tried vainly to regain his footing. It is as I have said, Putak's thought moaned. You ordered us to leave Morrata for the western side of the Silen Forest. This I have done but my men have found no sign of resistance.

YOUR LIES ARE YOUR UNDOING! I HAVE JUST SPOKEN WITH HUK'RA TO THE SOUTH AND HE REPORTS TWENTY RIDERS! TWENTY! Tsurtor would listen to no more of Putak's useless rationalizations. With but a thought, he sent the general to the floor for a final time, Putak's lifeblood spilling out as a result of a massive, cerebral hemorrhage.

He turned to the large map hanging from one wall. There were the hundreds of tracks leading north from Bemmiton as the Rynian resistance moved into Silen. The rider's tracks confirmed this.

Tsurtor cast another message without effort. Huk'ra?

Across the kingdom, Huk'ra ceased giving orders to his men and immediately shouted, "Yes, Lord Tsurtor," just as his master preferred.

Putak has fallen. Take his men and continue searching the forest.

Huk'ra's piggy eyes darted about. "Did he find the resistance? Did they-?"

Putak was his own undoing. Now! Obey my commands!

"Yes, Lord Tsurtor," Huk'ra shouted. "Permission to report, Lord Tsurtor?"

What is it?

"Last night, there was a lot of chopper activity to the north. I think Putak has been sending out too many patrols. He's expending too much petrol."

Putak is dead. His wastes are no longer a concern. You can handle that when -

Tsurtor broke his connection without another word as painful, plaintiff howls dug, panic-stricken into his mind. It was Tomonok, the one who had captured Hex. CEASE YOUR PATHETIC HOWLINGS, Tsurtor shouted.

Tomonok was obviously not in his right mind. He yowled and screamed in the part that remembered he'd once been human. Tsurtor went into his mind, clenching it in his mental fist. Now, tell me!

"Ktoll is undone, Master! It falls all around us! The prisoner, he -"

Tsurtor knew what was coming. He ignored the fact that he hadn't known ahead of time. Like so many other things, this had not entered into his plans. The prisoner has escaped?

"Yes, Lord Tsurtor!"

Tsurtor could sense broken bones within the general's body, blood flowing free. The mountain was coming down on top of them. If they didn't act soon, Tsurtor would lose any edge at all. Evacuate the mountain, he ordered. Save everything you can!

Tomonok loped through the mountain, barking orders to all who remained. He had an intrinsic knowledge of Tsurtor's lair and knew that those beneath him could contend with moving the rest of Tsurtor's army to safety while Tsurtor filled his head with more secret locations of much more dreadful things.

Later, Tsurtor sent an appendage through the map, piercing Ktoll like an arrow. So, Ktoll was finished, was it? No matter, he had Rynia now. Soon, there would be no hope for her at all. Tsurtor would admit that Hex's escape had come as a surprise to him but no matter. Now, he would use Hex's victory to his advantage. Hex no longer carried the dwarven blade so there'd be no easy way to find him... and yet...

Tsurtor gazed at the map and saw something interesting. As the Rynian resistance had moved north, Hex was bound to move east, drawn inexorably back to his adopted homeland. As two appendages floated over the map like coiled snakes, Tsurtor followed those to lines to the point where they met.

Of course!

How could he have been so blind?

His passion drove dozens of his razor-sharp arms through the map, tearing it into shreds. No matter. He'd have another one made. Right now, he had other work to do. He knew where the resistance was! He knew where Hex was heading! It wasn't enough that he'd destroyed it once! Now, he'd see it flooded in blood!

At the end of one spear-like arm, he brought the target before him.

Country Gardens.

* * *

For two more days, the refugees of Bemmiton, the Rynian resistance, and Vincent's friends remained in Country Gardens. As leader, Banry Ellison knew that they needed to regroup and be rested for the fight ahead. Bemmiters sifted through the ruins and soon found blankets and new clothes along with all the wood they needed for their nightly fires. Of the Rynian resistance, there weren't many, certainly not enough to be called an army. However, Boom was making plans with the information Gabe Hernandez got off the radio. A sneak attack, it was soon believed, could hurt Tsurtor enough to keep him east until new allies could be gained and, it was hoped, Vincent could return to normal. He'd sunken into an expressionless stupor that nothing could shake him from, not even Robert's anxious fists.

"Wake up, you empty-headed, little nuisance!" Robert punctuated every insulting word with a hail of fists on Vincent's forehead but the boy wouldn't rouse.

Sam grabbed Robert with two fingers, the treeling being nearly weightless. Sam didn't think Robert could actually hurt his brother but why risk it? "So, Pot," he asked Robert. "You having a good time calling the kettle black?"

Bethel, sitting close to Sam by the morning's fire, shooed Robert away. "I find it very difficult to believe that Hex created you."

Robert backed away from her hand defensively and countered, "Oh, yeah? Well, I find it very difficult to believe that those are real!"

"What," she asked.

"Nothing," Sam answered. Turning to Robert, he insisted, "That will be enough, treeling!"

"Is it," Robert asked. "Well, I better warn you, Sammy. Be careful with that one. She might bite off your tongue!"

Around him, dozens of fires warded off the morning chill. Better be careful, he thought, or they'll burn me, too. It was almost sickening to his little, wooden eyes to see these people slip so easily back into their complacent, dreary, little existences. They should be fighting a war! He thought Mark would understand but Mark was too busy reconciling with his old friend, that master of the great retreat, Banry Ellison. In fact, it was after bestowing that title upon him that Banry had thrown Robert out of his tent.

Robert sure was glad that Hex had made him sturdy.

Gabe Hernandez sat at his radio taking notes. He listened carefully as orders were given for southern troop movement. Gabe smiled at the news. Tsurtor's forces were giving up on any phantom resistance. Rynia had been weakened too greatly, the radio reported. Never again would she fight. And, so, Tsurtor's forces moved south, to their next prey.

"Great," Gabe exclaimed, picking up his note pad.

"It's all smoke," Robert told him, leaning up against the radio.

Gabe turned at the little voice. "Smoke?"

"You know." Robert blew imaginary, little smoke rings and repeated, "Smoke. As in Smoke and Mirrors but with no mirrors just smoke. The stuff that fire makes. Smoke."

"I know what smoke is," Gabe snapped. He ran his hand through hair that had grown out significantly since his last officer's cut. Now, most of the curl had returned and some of it fell in his eyes. "Just what are you talking about?"

"Yeesh," Robert sighed. "You're the guy who passed out when Hex did the dancing pencil trick, aren't you? You're too easily impressed. Think about it! Do you think that you're that good? That your Boom Boom is that good? You march a city full of people through a muddy plain and then expect Tsurtor not to see your tracks?"

"Sure, he saw our tracks," Gabe granted, "but he counted them out as refugees. Which is what they were, mostly. I got word from his own men! They're not coming after us any more!"

"They're blowing smoke in your face," Robert shouted. "Tsurtor's got you so fooled you'd march right into his camp if he told you he wasn't there!"

Gabe didn't have time to talk with little, wooden men. Besides, he had the info and the info was accurate. He didn't need anyone second guessing him. With one finger, he flicked the treeling off his makeshift table and went to give his report.

Robert picked himself up from the rubble and dusted himself off with a scowl. "Why do people insist on doing that?"

By noon, the fires were out and Robert was feeling a bit more secure. The Bemmiters had quickly learned to follow the lead of those from Country Gardens in foraging for their food beneath the ruins of the city. Robert found the whole thing laughable: teaching backwards peasants to use can openers! He was positive that even Hex would have seen the lunacy in that.

Luckily, the Rynian hordes hadn't found their way to Winwood Forest Apartments or, rather, what was left of them. Robert had had enough of trying to talk sense into a town full of people whose spirits were just as beaten down as the buildings through which they sifted. There was only one person in the apartment complex. Robert saw Pete Matthews sitting amongst the playground's remains. "You spend more time here now that it's destroyed! Did you hate it that much?"

"No," Pete said wistfully. "I just can't help but think about all we've lost. And, why? Because of an accident, really. If Vincent hadn't been touching Hex when he went through that gate - if Hex hadn't found that crystal on the beach - if Vincent hadn't been thrown through that wall -" He finished his sentence in a snarl, tired of thinking. He was well familiar with the story. Nothing could be changed.

"Well, don't get your hopes set too high," Robert replied, reclining on a fallen log.

"Too high," Pete asked.

"Yep," Robert answered. "Nobody realizes it but it's going to get a lot worse."

"Oh, God. Not more of your antics, Robert."

"Hey," Robert shouted defensively, "I'm serious here!"

"And when did pigs start flying?"

"Come on, Peter. I have feelings, too. If you flick me, do I not bruise? If you prick me, do I not bleed?"

"Actually, Robert, you don't." Pete hadn't been looking at the treeling but now his interest was captured and he knew he wouldn't be left alone until he heard the little guy out. He turned his gaze away from the remains of the pool where Geoff was almost killed and looked intently at Robert's relaxed form. "Just what are you talking about, Bob? And this better be good!"

"You and all of your friends seem to think that just because we got Vincent out of Tsurtor's mountain and Vincent got us away from the feds, everything's okay! Sam's makin' goo-goo eyes at G.I. Jane and Randy's doing basically the same thing!"

"He found a girl?"

"No. A fresh pack of cigarettes but the principal's the same! I tried Mark but he won't listen. He thinks Dudley Dash-Away -"

"Who?"

"That Ellison guy! Mark thinks he's some kind of great leader when all he's done is run from the fight."

Pete leaned forward and put a halting finger on Robert's belly. "Now, hold on a second. Banry saved a lot of lives. He evaded an army of far superior numbers -"

"He ran, Peter!" Robert shrugged off Pete's finger and stood. "Now, before you flick me, too, let me finish!"

Pete drew back his hand, giving Robert his attention.

"Ellison lost his entire city before the war even started! D'you think he's going to be charging into battle? No! He's nothing more than a sheepdog and Tsurtor's the shepherd!"

"Hold on," Pete said, competing with Robert's remarkably loud voice. "Can you stop talking in metaphors for just a minute and get specific?"

"Don't you think it's awfully peculiar that Tsurtor just let those people run? He could have driven his tanks right over them but he hasn't."

Pete had thought about this but had come to the same conclusion as everyone else. "Tsurtor's not going to go off chasing refugees. He's readying his next offensive. Anyway, he knows that any refugees won't last for long because they'll have to keep moving, running from Tsurtor's troops."

Robert climbed up onto Pete's arm. "The radio keeps reporting about this Kallent offensive, Pete. It sounds like Tsurtor's moving his entire army south."

"He's going to need them. Kallent's shown it isn't going to acquiesce."

"But the whole army, Pete? And leave Rynia to do as she pleases?"

Pete took the small figure and put him in his hand. "Why not? As far as he knows, Rynia's beat."

"So, you're telling me that after out-thinking us all this time, Tsurtor got hit with the idiot stick? He just going to ignore an entire city's rebellion and ride south, away from the rebels? You think that at the same time he's turning Vincent's brain into tapioca, he's just going to walk away from him?"

Pete looked down at the little man for a long time as the truth that he feared sunk in. Tsurtor had done everything he could to destroy Rynia and now the leaders of the resistance were sure that he had to focus all of his might to the south. They were doing just what Tsurtor wanted, making the same mistake they'd made from the start! They believed they'd out-thought Tsurtor but they had merely underestimated him! "You think he's going to attack," he said, breathlessly.

Robert slapped his head. "I know he's going to attack, dummy! And if you'll pardon my being right all the time \- I swear it's a curse - right now would be the perfect time!"

Pete jumped from his seat, as if hundreds of tanks were, again, thundering over the city's remains. "We need to talk to Boom!"

Robert rode along in Pete's hand as he ran into the city's center. "Just what I was going to suggest."

Boom Tower was busy meeting with members of the resistance to organize the digging out of the new sporting goods store when Pete ran into his tent. "Chief Tower, can I talk to you?"

Boom looked up from his meeting with a glare. He didn't like being interrupted. "No," he snapped.

"But," Pete tried to say.

Gabe Hernandez was quicker. "Get out, kid, and take the troll with you!" The others laughed as Pete stepped back outside in a huff.

"Kid," Pete asked, exasperated. He'd been eighteen for quite some time, officially an adult!

"Troll," Robert said, mimicking Pete.

However, they knew that no matter their attitude, they wouldn't see Boom until he wanted to be seen. That, after a long day of waiting, wasn't until nightfall. As Gabe left the tent, Pete saw the Boom was finally alone. Stepping inside before Gabe could stop him, he spoke quickly, "Chief Tower, it is imperative that we talk to you! If you don't hear us out a lot of people could get killed!"

Boom looked at Gabe and said, "Imperative?"

"Better listen," Gabe replied, good-naturedly, "or you'll rue the day."

Gabe stepped away from the tent and Pete was relieved to see that he could stay. He turned back to see the Chief sitting. "I never much cared for your taste in friends," Boom said, referring to Randy, "but you always seemed like a good enough kid." He indicated an empty chair. "Talk. I'm listening."

If there was one thing that convinced Robert that Pete would do the talking, it was the "troll" remark. Pete sat across from Boom, putting Robert on his knee. "It's Tsurtor. He's not just going to let us stay here. He's already showed us what he can do; all you need to do is look around."

Boom put a hand out to stop the young man in his tracks. "Tsurtor's bein' handled with. We put out tracks to make him think we're elsewhere and we've been hearing word from his own men that he's headin' south."

"But that's just it," Pete insisted. "You're assuming that Tsurtor has to take his army south to deal with Kallent. You're thinking that his power's just as limited as our own. You are underestimating him!"

Boom brought his head back as if struck by the intensity of Peter Matthew's words. The boy had always been smarter than most, Boom considered. Still, who should he put more faith in? His own men or some punk who - "I'm sorry," Boom said, rising to leave. "I can't put stock in simple paranoia."

Robert leaned over from the edge of Pete's knee and shouted, "Don't go, Boom!" Boom turned to see the treeling break into giggles at the sound of his own words. "Don't go Boom! No, you wouldn't want to go Boom! Boom!!"

Robert fell over, rolling precariously on Pete's leg until Pete snatched him up and, standing, shoved the little man in his pants pocket.

"Wait," Pete shouted as Boom stepped out of the tent. "I can prove that Tsurtor knows where we are!"

Boom turned around. "Last chance, then. I don't know what that talking twig's got you doin' but it better be good." Pete told him. It was.

* * *

"All of you here know what Tsurtor's capable of," Boom said to the assembled leaders of the resistance. Amongst them, sat Mark Nygarra and Pete Matthews. Not to be outdone, Randy had snuck in to stand beside his friend. Though Bethel attended, Samuel remained outside with his brother, whose convulsions only continued. Boom looked at them all, shaking his head. "We've underestimated him."

The sudden outcry was to be expected. Everyone had thought they'd been so clever. Even after explaining the situation with the same clarity which had so shocked Boom once he'd allowed Robert to speak, there were those who insisted on explaining their views. Gabe insured everyone that the radio broadcasts were not hoaxes. This world was too far behind for that. Several scouts reported seeing troop movements to the south. Bethel asked what the point would be in attacking refugees. It was to be expected. They were some of the same points Boom himself had so vainly made. Boom was pleased to see Banry Ellison make no argument. Perhaps, he thought, his commander was learning.

When the voices had quieted, Boom decided to drop the bombshell. "We also know that Tsurtor has zeroed in on us using Vincent. He's already infected Vincent's mind and if he knows enough about Vincent to do that, he knows enough to find him. So you all may have a point but if Tsurtor's coming to find Vincent, he'll find us as well."

"Then, he'll find us ready," Bethel shouted, raising her cane.

"As ease, Captain," Banry ordered. "You've seen his army. You should know better than that. These young men who've traveled with Duke Nygarra to find Vincent know enough about their world's weaponry and they've seen Tsurtor's lair. They should be able to tell what our odds are."

When the room looked at them, Randy chuckled sarcastically. "Sure. You'll be able to fight Tsurtor. When pigs fly."

"When snowballs freeze in Tzuratt's Eternally Grinding Fist," Pete said, more familiar with Rynian lore.

As the others resumed their debate, Randy leaned over and whispered, "Well this is a fine mess you've gotten us into."

Pete replied, echoing what seemed to be Randy's mantra, "It's not my fault."

They were both shocked from their bantering when they heard a scout propose, "Then, I say we put the boy where Tsurtor can find him and we won't be hurt!"

Others shouted in favor. "We can't be expected to drag him everywhere with us if he's a beacon to our enemy!"

"We can and we will!" Banry voice was heard above all the rest, quieting those who heard it. He took his place beside Boom, his face seared with anger. "From whence did you cowards get the impression that we protect only those of value to us? Who has been teaching you that our job is anything less than the protection of the weak? If that is what we have been reduced to, I say let Tsurtor win!" His teeth bared, his chest heaving in anger, Banry's eyes burned shame into the dissenters. "If it's cowards you want to be, then join Tsurtor. Go! He can't be far. As for us," he said, motioning towards the others for the cowards had typically gathered in a group, "we will continue to do our jobs as the king himself ordered. This is why we led the people of Bemmiton to safety and it is for the same reason that we will lead them again - with Vincent with us!"

"I don't want to be the devil's lawyer here, commander," Boom said, "but they may have a point. Wherever we go, Tsurtor's gonna know it. How're we gonna keep him away?"

"By leading him where he least wants to go. If Tsurtor desires Kallent, then we'll let him have Kallent. Meantime, we have several months of spring remaining to us with summer after that. I say we go north. North, where Benaatt lay in ruins and where we might find our ease, at least, in the distant kingdom of Yrachi."

"North," Boom asked.

The reply was definite. "North."

* * *

They began moving without delay, even as refugees gathered wood to carry for fires. Banry wanted them in the woods at the base of the hills leading into the Northern Spires before dawn. It might not provide the cover of Silen but any cover was better than none. Mark took one of the horses the scouts had found nearby. Having finally come to terms with his loss - he knew now that he may never see Kell again - he threw all of his energy into supporting the resistance. Sam knew that Bethel had to ride to keep the people moving but he would not join her, leaving his responsibility in someone else's hands. Vincent couldn't walk but Samuel could carry him for a while with the help of Randy and Pete. Then, Bethel returned with a mule. It wasn't much but it carried Vincent's huge, misshapen body with little struggle. Samuel was beginning to fear the worst. In the three days since they had arrived, his brother had only eaten a little soup. They each had the feeling that their individual struggles had ended. Now, somehow, they'd become part of something much larger.

Then, as they reached the woods, someone turned back and shouted at what they saw.

Randy and Pete looked back to see that Robert had been right. Sitting on Pete's shoulder, Robert was speechless for the first time anyone could remember. Below them, they could make out the vague outline of what had been Country Gardens. Descending upon it like mechanized locusts, Tsurtor's army rushed in, with spotlights seeking out every crevice, searching for its prey.

Boom rode in, bringing his horse to a lurching stop. "They're not as far as you think," he shouted. "Now get moving before they see us!" Even as he said that, he looked at Pete, realizing they were both thinking the same thing.

Tsurtor already knew where they were.

* * *

Two days later, Helen appeared from Ny'ezia's cave. Carrying her newborn daughter, she walked in a long shift of Ny'ezia's creation. Her chestnut hair hung long over her shoulders and she blinked against the new day's sun. It may have been unroyal, even unladylike, for her to appear so but she could feel that those labels had changed forever, for better or worse. Her skin relished in the cool air; Ny'ezia's caves were kept extra warm for her children. The baby stirred in her arms and she put a hand on her sleeping form to still it and the baby girl slipped happily back to sleep.

A figure hiked up the hill towards her and she checked her dress for propriety. It was the boy, Tetrem, unofficial leader of the Rynian refugees in Ostrander's absence. "Where's 'Trander'," Helen called out.

"Hunting," the boy replied. "We were running short on game so Ny'ezia sent him south."

"South," she asked. "Why not north to the lakes? He could fish."

Tetrem stopped before her, a characteristic gleam in his eye. "Because bears fish... and Ny'ezia went to pick up her children some breakfast."

Pick up, Helen though. Quite literally.

But Ostrander did not return from hunting that day nor during the night. He'd discovered a fresh trail, several dekameters in width, etched careless upon the hillsides. No army produced these tracks, too careless and shufflingly did they run. Following it, he saw that they were coming out of Rynia and proceeding north-west. It was nearly dusk on the day he'd left to go hunting when he heard a horse approach.

"Hold," he cried out.

"What the," a startled voice cried, leveling a gun impotently at Ostrander's chest.

Ostrander stepped toward the horse and said, "What is it, Banry Ellison, that makes me find you when you are leading people to safety?"

Banry lowered his gun, grinning. His people had nearly ran for two days straight. They were tired; they were hungry and Yrachi seemed a long, long way away. "I don't know, Ostrander, but I hope you have someplace for us to go this time."

By morning of the next day, Ny'ezia agreed with Helen that no ordinary impedance could bar Ostrander's path and flew off to look for him. She returned shortly, reporting, "HE COMES. AND HE'S BRINGING MUCH MORE THAN MEAT FROM THE HUNT."

Helen wondered at her mood as the dragon returned to her cave without another word. She notified Agnie and Tetrem and awaited his return with them by the mouth of Ny'ezia's cave. There, they were afforded a better view and witnessed, to their astonishment, Ostrander approach, followed by another population of refugees.

Helen smiled at his approach. He bent down, hugging his children (and Caroline, of whom he had grown very fond) and looked up at her as she said, "Hex would be very proud. Sometimes I think his creations are walking miracles."

"Ah, but they are," Ostrander replied, immodestly. "I must explain this new turn of events to Ny'ezia. Should she lose her temper, I'm the only one capable of surviving."

Ostrander stepped into the cave, Tetrem smiling, knowingly, at his comment. Agnie ran off with Caroline by her side, racing down the hill as Helen was left alone. She wouldn't be for long, though, she saw several people approach. As they walked up the hillside, she picked one face out of the crowd, "Mark!" She ran slowly, careful not to jostle her baby. She shouted again, tears now streaming from her eyes, "Mark!" He ran ahead of the others, scooping her into surer arms than she had ever felt from him, and, as they clasped each other, she knew they both had surely changed.

"Princess," he whispered, his own voice strangled with tears. "They told me that the war was lost - that the kingdom -" He held her back to take her in and insisted, "but I knew better. I knew you'd be safe."

"Where's Kraephten," she asked.

A quick shake of his head told Helen the worst. She'd known people were going to die. She'd accepted it, but...

"Who is this," Mark asked, trying to recapture the happy mood.

"This," Helen replied with equal effort, "is what my father was sure would be the next king of Rynia."

"Well, he's very handsome," Mark complimented.

"Mark?"

"What," he asked, then, "Oh!"

"Right."

"Good thing Hex likes girls," Mark lightly rejoined.

"Yes," Helen said in a voice suddenly hollow.

"The boy's okay, ma'am," came a voice. "He wouldn't give up."

"I'm sorry," Helen asked. "Who are you?"

"Boom H. Tower. Chief of Police for Country Gardens, or rather, what's left of it." Boom suddenly looked very uncomfortable, fumbling with his hands. "I never really met royalty before. Do I bow or something?"

"Curtsy," Randy mocked.

Boom hit him in the ribs without so much as a sidewards glance.

"From what Ostrander's told me about you," Helen replied, putting her hand upon his, "you and your people have done enough for my kingdom. You're a hero, Mr. Tower."

As Boom worked feverishly to halt the blush spreading up his neck and onto his cheeks, Helen judiciously removed her attention from him, turning to Sam. They only met a couple of times before and, truth be told, he could feel a twinge of the crush he had once felt for her before she'd wed Hex. Only a twinge, though, his affections were now focused on another. But he bowed just the same, addressing her, "Your highness."

"Arise, Sam Gobel," Helen joked, "or I'll be forced to grant you a fiefdom." She surprised him with an embrace and asked, "How goes the search for your brother?"

"He's down in the camp, your highness, he -"

His words were stopped by a finger pressed suddenly to his lips and the princess said, "Helen, Sam. Call me Helen."

"Okay," he conceded as she drew back her finger, "Helen. He won't be of much help, I'm afraid." In hushed tones, Samuel explained what Tsurtor had done to his brother. In the end, she held him close, calming the terror in his words. He tried to pull himself back together again, though. "These young men helped in his rescue. Peter Matthews. Randy Collins. I want you to meet -"

His words were cut short by a sudden, terrible screech, as if the ground beneath them was being torn asunder. The mountains shook and Boom lost his footing, Mark helping Helen hold her baby.

"What the hell was that?" The little voice popped out of Pete's shirt as Robert pulled himself up.

"Robert," Helen exclaimed.

"Please, no smooching, your princessliness. I was just in the middle of a great dream and I'm pretty ticked off!" He scuttled down Pete's clothing, leaving the rest behind as he stormed angrily up the hill.

"What was that, anyway," Pete asked.

"Earthquake," Randy guessed.

"I think you'll find it was much more," Helen told them.

"Robert's going to get himself into trouble again, isn't he," Sam asked. Helen just shrugged her shoulders in resignation.

Pete excused himself, having been put in the position of current caretaker of the brash, little beast.

As Robert reached the cave's entrance, a slew of curses, a hail of obscenities heretofore unheard upon this planet echoed tinily, first upon the rocky mountainside, then inside the cave. All the impressive interjections he was inflicting came to an abrupt halt, though, and Robert staggered out of the cave, uselessly uttering, "Duh-duh-duh-duh -"

Pete took the little treeling in his hands. "It's okay, Robert."

Robert shook his head vigorously. "Duh-ra-gons!"

Pete dismissed Robert's claim with a huff, placing the treeling back in his shirt pocket. When he looked up, though, he saw what all the fuss was about. He could see why Robert would be so scared. The little dragon wattling forward with its long, craning neck stood nearly as tall as Pete himself. But Pete wasn't afraid. In fact, the serpent looked more like a bird than a dragon and flapped its wings uselessly to both sides. Its skin was reddish, shot through with yellow and its enormous eyes were the bluest blue. It screeched and Pete was shocked back for a minute before realizing the thing was friendly. "Hello, little fella," he said in his friendliest voice. When he put out his hand, the dragon placed its head there, rubbing happily like a big puppy. Pete looked at the others and yelled, "Hey, guys, look at this!"

"No!" Helen ran as she screamed with Mark and Sam running after her, wondering why.

Then, the ground shook all around Pete and a hot wind blew him to the ground as his world was filled with the sight of a mouth. Teeth as tall as a man filled his vision and he cowered back as his ears were blown out by a terrible roar. "NO!! NO ONE TOUCHES MY BABIES!! NO HUMAN TOUCHES MY BABIES!!"

Pete wanted desperately to move but his limbs would not work. He shuffled impotently like a crab beneath the fierce face.

Ostrander came to his rescue, running in front of Ny'ezia's face, his feet on either side of Pete's trembling stomach. "You can't kill him," he shouted. "It was a mistake! He didn't know!" He turned to Pete and strongly suggested, "Apologize."

"I'm sorry," Pete squeaked. "I'm really sorry. I mean really, really. Boy, am I sorry! I am so so sorry! I really didn't know. Really, really. I didn't know. I swear to GOD, I didn't know!"

"YOU TOUCHED ONE OF MY BABIES!!"

"With all due respect, Ny'ezia, the child came to him," Ostrander defended. "It came out on its own."

"I'll never touch another one again," pleaded Pete. "Never ever. I promise. I mean, I really promise."

But without concern for its mother's anger or Pete's panic, Ny'ezia's child rather liked being scratched on the chin and waddled over to Pete again, it's head tilted just so.

"NO!" Pete's scream scared them all and he never thought he could be so loud. He got his legs to work and shuffled out from between Ostrander's legs. But the little dragon kept coming and Pete looked helplessly up at its mother, pleading, "Oh, please. Oh, please." His words were reduced to unintelligible yelps when Ny'ezia's child put its head against him and started rubbing.

Ny'ezia would have killed him then and there if she didn't think she'd have to clean the blood off of her baby.

Ostrander held back a snicker. "You see, mother dragon, it appears your child is the one at fault."

Ny'ezia took her baby's mane in her mouth and picked it up, hissing through her teeth, "BRING YOUR WAR LEADERS FORTH WITH ALL HASTE, OSTRANDER. THIS CANNOT CONTINUE." Then, she turned and with thundering footsteps went back in her cave.

Pete didn't move but realized that he'd wet his pants.

"What was all that," Mark asked.

Ostrander stepped forward, his hands behind his back. "Ny'ezia does not like all of the refugees on her mountain. She feels that it is bringing Rynia's war upon her and she'll have none of it. However, she is also aware that it is very likely our enemy who killed and kidnaped so many of her children. Nor does she feel comfortable sending all of these people to their deaths."

"That was Ny'ezia?" Sam was shocked. "When Hex told me he'd met with a dragon - I - I thought he was speaking in allegory. Or hyperbole!"

"Not allegory. Not hyperbole. Very, very real," Ostrander replied. "But, perhaps, unwilling as she may be, an ally."

Part II

"Then, we take a small sample with the dye, put it in the solution and that, my friend, is how we start a culture." With those words, Byron Malagosh had begun the search for a cure to the dwarven plague. Of course, it was only a few seconds before he realized that Red Martag had not been looking. It was hideous, Martag insisted, all too hideous! Tuk chided him for, in truth, the old Destroyer had absolutely no problem watching.

However, after weeks of struggle just getting a sample from some of the dwarves who were mostly offended and not just a little disgusted at donating, getting Martag's help, who felt much the same about the process, building microscopes, a centrifuge, and other lab equipment with dwarven technology, and teaching Martag basic chemistry and biology, they were no closer than ever.

Fortunately, Hex had not created Byron with the need for sleep. Byron could work around the clock; he often had when Hex had got carried away with his research. Martag had quickly settled into the underground sleeping schedule of several short naps each day and Tuk also wanted to help out wherever possible. (Several early experiments took place with the use of Tuk's magic to convert samples into gaseous form and then running them through a dwarven made spectrometer.) (Byron couldn't wait to tell Hex about the magic the dwarves found in these little machines.)

Often, the dwarven, red-clad mages would disturb their work on the pretense of seeing that nothing untoward was happening to the holy dwarven people. (It had something to do with their religion as far as Byron could tell which was, overall, stupefying.) There were several occasions when Byron came very close to shouting, "If you mental midgets think you can do better with snot, then, by all means, take my place!" Red, however, had learned enough of Byron's manner to jump in just in time to suggest that they speak with the head chemist, Tuk.

Another day, and another review of samples, brought no more luck than the day before. It wasn't, as Byron was growing fond of pointing out, just reinventing chemistry but learning about a new anatomical system's chemical reactions so they could create a new family of antibodies to cure a plague with nothing more than stone aged equipment. Neither Red nor Tuk thought he should say that too loudly.

"Neither of you understand," Byron started ranting. "Not even my judicious use of magic is helping!"

"Why don't you recheck the cultures from last week," Tuk suggested.

"I'm growing yogurt, wizard," Byron shouted.

Tuk replied, "Is that good?"

"What about the last batch," Red asked.

"It's too soon! You don't kill a virus in two days. Seven to ten, Martag! I've told you that before! Seven to ten before we have a definitive result."

"Well, check it anyway. Maybe that'll at least calm you down!" Red raised his voice, demonstrating how pointless Byron's yelling was.

"Fine," Byron replied, throwing his hands up. "Take them down and let's have a look."

Red pulled the sample off of the top shelf from the rack of samples in their lab and placed it on a table. Pulling the blanket off, he motioned for Byron to look.

"Pointless," muttered the little man. "Growth. Growth. Growth. Growth."

"Byron," Red shouted. "Look!"

"Impossible," Byron replied with much less passion. "Must be a mistake." But when they'd recreated an entire tray full of dead cultures, he wasn't any happier.

"What's the matter with you," Tuk asked. "You've saved the dwarven people!"

"Yes, Destroyer, but what you fail to realize is that now, somehow, we have to get these people to make a syringe."

"Ah," Red intoned as if he understood.

"Ah is right," said Byron. "And then, we have to find one who'll take the injection."

* * *

"So, you've met before, then," Byron did his best to slur. He had to, after all, for although the dwarf's potent ale had already started Gurrak and Red Martag sliding from their chairs, Byron did not metabolize alcohol... or, for that matter, anything.

"Oh, sooore," Red answered congenially. "We's all ran into Gur-ur-urak and his buddies back during back during the last war, back during that, when we was looking for that lyssssss-ch."

"Stoopid lych," Gurrak shouted, "caused us nothing but trouble."

The conversation was hardly understandable, Byron admitted, but they had to get a dwarf alone and put him in a mood agreeable to taking the shot - or, short of that, unconscious. (The best a dwarven smith could manage was a very large needle.) Gurrak was close to both. Good thing, too. The tavern-keeper was eyeing them angrily, having wanted to close for sometime now. Instead of paying attention, Byron kept the conversation, and the drinking, going. "A toast to the reunion of old friends!"

"Old friends," Red agreed, lifting his pewter stein.

"We wasn't friends, Red," Gurrak disagreed, taking a deep drink anyway. "You ha'been tresspassin'. We stopped you in your steps!"

"How? How'd'ya do that," asked Byron.

"Yeah," Red muttered. "I never understood how your men beat us."

Gurrak pointed deftly at his head and whispered conspiratorially, "Straag-jeddy! I tol' my men. I says, men! You hit 'em and then you hit 'em again!"

"Now that's straggledy," Red concurred.

"Well, you humerns never respected us dwarves," Gurrak shouted defensively. "You with your long legs - You know, we never asked to be short, you know!" His body had fallen over the table and was wiggling about like a beached whale - a short, beached whale. Byron eyed Gurrak's butt greedily, drawing the syringe but Gurrak sat back down too fast. "Try and tell me one thing all that height ever did for you! Come on! Tell me!"

Red thought into his stein and finally took a long, loud sip. "I'm stumped."

"I'll tell ya," Gurrak offered. "You bump you're head, that's what!"

"Wow," Red mumbled.

"You bump your head and you waste all that stone and wood on those huge buildings. You gotta make your clothes really big, too. What a waste!"

"You know," Red admitted, "I'd never thought of that."

"That's cause you're tall! Go on. Go bump your head. Bump! Bump! Bump!" As if to punctuate, Gurrak let out a loud belch. "It makes you stoopid!"

Red sipped sadly at his ale. "I'm such an idiot."

Byron leaned over. He was running out of time. "You know what we do, buddy? You know what we do when somebody's really, really sto-o-opit?"

Gurrak leaned heavily on Byron's shoulder. "Huh?"

"We do the most insulting thing you can do to a human." Byron then turned his back towards Red, dropped his trousers (because, unlike Robert, Byron was always of mind to wear clothing), and waved his wooden butt around. (He didn't bother to mention that it was called "mooning" because, aside from the fact that Rynian had no moon, under all these mountains, who could tell?)

Gurrak roared with a hearty laugh and turned to drop his trousers.

Byron had the needle and the Rynians had their subject.

* * *

The dwarves had their cure. One by one, dwarven men, women, and children were uncooperatively administered the painful shot which quickly rid their bodies of the plague. After Byron and Red had given the shot to nearly a thousand of the worst cases, they taught other dwarves how to administer the dose.

Now, Byron was called before the elders and believed the time had come to request his boon.

Gurrak, newly appointed to the Hall of Elders, universally proclaimed the dwarf most responsible for bringing the healers to the rescue of their race, stood before his other elders. By the time the others had taken their shot, the needles had been refined and were much finer. Little had Byron know that dwarven metabolisms healed wounds so slowly. "The dwarves are saved," Gurrak proclaimed. "A great misdeed has, at last, been undone. Having been created by humans, and accompanied by humans, we Elders recognize you as a representative of the human kingdom to the south. We wish you to send our thanks."

"Very well," Byron replied with a bow. "Hex of Rynia has long believed such a thing was possible and now we see the fruits of his prognostication. Hex had other hopes as well and it is my sincere wish that these be heard by this esteemed council."

Gurrak looked at the other Elders who nodded solemnly and gave his silent permission to Byron.

Byron cleared his throat for effect and began as he believed Hex would have. "The dwarven people have a long and glorious history upon this world, traced back to the roots of the mountains themselves. They've seen more that has occurred here than almost any race remaining. There is only one other race that we are aware of that has such longevity and that is the race of dragons. Of this race, only one remains, an old dragon, alone in the mountains above, named Ny'ezia. It is Hex's wish that -"

"She is not alone," Gurrak argued. "I have been there to see the masses of eggs she has spawned. Ny'ezia is a Queen mother of dragons and has given birth to enough dragons to repopulate her race."

"Precisely my point, Elder Gurrak of the dwarfs. For many years, she lived alone, up there in the mountains. No harm befell either your race or her because you were both too weak to risk loss of any kind. But now, as you have said, she has given birth to a multitude. At the same time, the dwarven people are to be restored. Once again, fighting can begin in earnest. Lives will be lost, heritage destroyed." Byron paused and looked over the faces of the Elders. All far older than Gurrak, they knew the consequences of battling the dragons. "It is Hex of Rynia's sincere wish that differences can be settled and both races can live in peace."

"You ask much, Byron Malagosh. Say on."

With Gurrak's dismissal, Byron turned to what he thought would be the more difficult of the two boons. "Very well. As you know, the Rynians have restored your people. As they imparted this plague to you so many years ago, now it is healed and you have seen that there is much good to be gained from the Rynians, not just evil. However, any good that the Rynians can provide is quickly being destroyed. You see, gentlemen, Rynia is at war. She is at war with the very forces which want to hold onto the legacy of the past - a legacy of hatred toward the dwarves, a legacy which tried to prevent this cure from coming to you. Should our enemy win, he will surely turn his attention towards conquering the dwarves for your wealth, your heritage."

"A Rynian war is a Rynian war," Gurrak stated. "Why do you say this to us?"

"Because, dwarven Elders, Rynia is losing." Byron's words drew the response he'd desired. The Elders looked silently at each other but, for all their stoic faces, Byron knew he'd thrown them into shock. "The armies Rynia has recruited, from this and other realms, have already fallen and yours, sadly, is the last aid on which we can count. For, you see, a Rynian war is not always a Rynian war, not when the Rynians hold back your doom as well." Spurred on by the Elders' whispers, Byron finished by shouting, "So tell me, Elders of the dwarven people, will you not help Rynia stand against this enemy that threatens us all? Or will you take your chances that what has already happened once, cured only by Rynian hands, may happen again?"

Expecting to see the Elders volunteer their army in response to his speech, Byron was stunned to see the Elders rise as one and exit to their private chambers. Only Gurrak remained. He approached Byron, his look stern and thoughtful. "A decision will be made. After so many dwarves have died at the Rynian's hand, it would be hard to volunteer more to die for their cause."

Byron nodded. "I understand."

"Know this, though," Gurrak added. "I know Hex. I know that he did not come of Rynia. This world he came from, this earth, produced not only Hex but this cure, this new attitude of peace. If Rynia can adopt Hex, perhaps they are worth saving. Be ready in four hours. You will have your answer." That said, Gurrak joined his fellow Elders in their chamber.

Byron pursed his lips but, for the next four hours, did not move.

* * *

Far above, in the half-light of the Rynian night, Pete slept peacefully in a bed Mark had shown him how to make out of grass and leaves. He had cleaned himself immediately after that morning's occurrence with the dragon baby, switched into the change of clothes he'd dug out of Country Gardens, and restated his oath before his friends. "Never again. Never. I see something I don't know about, I'm just gonna leave it alone!"

The day had been filled with reunions. Both Randy's family and Pete's were safe. It weighed heavily upon them to inform Sean's parents of his death but Samuel wouldn't let them back out of it. Boom reacquainted himself with his constituents, promising safe returns home. By home he meant earth... hopefully, somewhere in Southern California.

Duke Mark Nygarra happily found refugees from Caspeton who had, nearly a year before, fled the doomed city of Benaatt. Among those refugees, a small boy, not much older than Carolina Haddison, grabbed Mark's hand and pulled him down. "Hello, your highness! Have you seen my father?"

It had seemed to Mark like forever but he recognized the boy with the familiar grin. "Greg! How wonderful to see you!" He took the boy in his arms, holding him above the crowd. "Your father's over there. See? You should be very proud. He'd led the resistance against Tsurtor's forces."

Across the field, Banry Ellison was pointing out grids for camp establishment to a few of his men when he saw his son above the heads and tents of the others and suddenly, armies of resistance, wars against evil, the aiding of refugees, the men he addressed, nothing else mattered. He broke into a sprint, running across the field with energy he could not have guessed he had. Mark put little Greg on the ground so the boy could run to his father as well. When they met, Banry held his son so hard he was afraid he might crush him. "Where's your mother," he asked.

"Banry!" The call came faint and far. Banry followed the voice and saw Hildy, his love he had married back when she was an "old maid".

Mark watched with a contented smile as the family embraced. They had to grab all the gladness they could get.

By midnight, the assembly of Rynian leaders was gathered and Ostrander directed them up the mountainside to a secluded plateau where Ny'ezia had ordered they meet. Ostrander led them alone, though he was far from their nominal head. Behind him, Banry Ellison stood beside Princess Helen Haddison, the highest ranking official remaining from the Rynian army and leader of the Rynian resistance alongside the acting leader of the Rynian nation. No one gave voice to the hushed rumors that King Marcus was dead. They knew better after his miraculous reappearance at the end of the last war.

Ostrander had left his children along with Helen's and all were safely watched after by a woman back in camp. This meeting, they knew, would be no place for children.

Behind the three, the stone man once created by Rynia's enemy, then created by Rynia's savior, and finally recreated by Rynia's future brought back from a dying world, the coward who had refused to let the most devastating failure ruin him and went on to inspire the fight against Tsurtor, and the princess who had been strong enough not to quit even when tragedy dogged her every step, stood the other unlikely elements who, together, represented the finest standing for Rynia's defense. For many years, songs and stories of their fight would be told and retold if, somehow, they should survive.

Mark Nygarra had insisted that Samuel attend along with his brother. Sam's argument that his brother may as well have been in a coma for all the good he was and he'd done no more than his responsibility as a brother mattered not to Mark. Robert wouldn't be left out of it, either, riding up on Sam's shoulder. Bethel Patir stood beside Sam with Boom standing next to her. There was another who both Ostrander and Boom insisted attend and so, beside Gabe Hernandez, the frightened, frightful wizard, Lanigan Reise stood unsteadily.

Such a pitiful few. Now, they would wait.

At the bottom of the hill, Randy and Pete had been put to work, drafted by the resistance, putting up makeshift tents and helping tend to the infirm. When night had come, both were so exhausted they worried little about being left out of the meeting with Ny'ezia. For Pete's part, he'd seen enough of dragons.

Some dragons had not had enough of him, however.

In the dark, as he lay sleeping on his bedroll, a smooth tongue lightly flicked at his ear. He chuckled in his half-sleeping state, dreaming about a girl he'd met on a college tour. But then, he realized that she didn't have a forked tongue. "Ah," he yelped, jumping awake.

There, Ny'ezia's golden, little baby hopped playfully about, barking like a happy chihuahua.

"Oh, God," Pete declared, his eyes darting about in all directions.

His voice woke Randy who was up just as fast. "Get rid of it!"

But the dragon put one of its claws on Pete's arm and Pete knew it wanted him to rub its belly. "How," Pete asked, obeying the creature's unspoken wish since it seemed to shut it up.

"I don't know! But that big dragon's gonna be here if you don't!"

The little dragon licked Pete and Pete yelled, "No!" The little, serpentine head, sunk down, its huge eyes misting. "Oh, I'm sorry," Pete grumbled, caving, "but you can't stay here. I'll get in trouble."

The little dragon looked around and Randy congratulated Pete. "That's some iron will you got there. Just take it home. The mother's supposed to be meeting with Sammy and the princess. Maybe she won't notice."

"Right," Pete agreed. Taking the dragon by its front claw, he said, "Come on, you." Slowly, because the little creature constantly wanted to play, they made their way up the mountain and to the cave. "Now, please! Stay here. Okay?" The dragon let out a little, mournful bark and Pete replied, "I know but your mother would kill me... literally. And we don't want that, do we? No. I didn't think so." He patted the little rump, shooing it inside and knew he wanted to get away from the dragons' cave just as quickly as possible. Still, it worried him that the mother hadn't been there. He almost felt... set up.

Up in the higher reaches, waiting on that empty plateau, the Rynian party grew impatient. Helen said to Ostrander, "Perhaps there's some merit in the belief that Ny'ezia has given up on us -"

"Or taken us all up here so she could kill our friends and family down below as a display of her power," Boom Tower added.

"There is no merit because she is coming," Ostrander emphasized. "Ny'ezia is not one to call people up onto her mountain. She will be here!"

"She might have wanted to kill us separately to scare off the civilians," Gabe suggested.

"She is not killing anyone," shouted Ostrander. "Can't you people see that she wishes us no harm? Indeed, if she had, she would have killed us by now with no more thought than you give to cutting your morning meat."

Helen stepped up to Ostrander, sensing that familiar temper, and put her hand in his. "If you say that is so, Ostrander, I believe you."

"Then, you make the wise choice," a voice was heard to say in the darkness. The others stood around lanterns taken from the remains of Country Gardens but, beyond them, was a darkness broke only by the multitude of stars.

The voice was haunting, almost frightening in its calming effect. "Who is that," Banry asked.

"Ny'ezia," was Ostrander's reply. He knew that voice well. Once you heard it, it didn't leave you.

"You know me well, my friend. I am ashamed to have ever doubted you." She stepped forth, out of the dark, a shimmering dress dancing upon her seemingly floating form, and gave him her hand.

It was something she'd never done before and he bowed before her, kissing the back of her hand with love and respect.

It did not escape Helen's observance that Ny'ezia's beauty had captured and even stupefied some of the men. Nor was Bethel oblivious and Sam got quite a pinch.

"I come to you now, like this, because there must be comfort between us if we are to face our future." Ny'ezia turned to Ostrander, who still held her hand, and she gripped his. "Yes, our future, for things have become clear even to me." Releasing his hand, she turned to the rest and announced, "This is my mountain. At no time has man trespassed and lived. At no time have I hesitated to feast upon your flesh, no matter how mere a meal you'd make. Events have conspired to change all of that." She turned away, back into the darkness, her hand wiping tears from her eyes. "I curse the day Aret'zia and I ever loved." Her eyes met Helen's and she said, "I was never this weak before my babies were born. Then, just as humans killed my people, humans came to kill my children. Then, this creature made by humans saved the rest of my babies. It was my weakness than let him and his children live and my weakness that allowed the refugees he brought to live as well. Now," she concluded looking down towards her cave, "my mountain is covered with humans and you could kill my children before I had a chance to kill you all."

Helen stepped forward, hoping their similarities joined them. "Surely, Ny'ezia, you don't believe -"

"I believe what my eyes tell me, human, and my eyes tell me the truth! It was humans who killed my babies just as it was humans who hunted you down to kill yours!" She'd surprised herself, spinning to face the princess. Her temper always got the worst of her when dealing with humans, or dwarfs, or... anything, really. "Please. Hear me out. I had to be sure. My children are growing fast. I can't keep my little ones penned in at all times so I tested the one you call Peter Matthews."

"Well, there goes the whole farm," Robert moaned.

Ny'ezia hadn't heard. "I brought my child back to him and observed his actions. Know that he would have been dead before he could have done my child any harm."

"But he didn't," Sam said loud enough to be heard. "If he had, you would have told us."

"Yes," Ny'ezia replied with a nod. "He was, he was gentle. I am forced to face the fact that I will have to deal with humans if my kind is to thrive again."

"Then, you will help us," Helen asked.

"Yes, Princess of Rynia. I have seen nobility in the least of your people and I have a great hunger for the death of those who killed my children. But know that I am only one dragon and my children must be kept safe. Your army does not look promising."

No. Not promising. But Samuel had a suspicion that things were turning themselves around.

* * *

And the next morning, his suspicions were confirmed.

Ny'ezia returned from her hunt late, carrying a black bear she had killed and two mountain goats still alive, immediately changing shape even as she descended to the ground. Stepping into Banry's tent, where Boom, Helen, Bethel, and Mark planned a possible offensive, she smiled at getting their immediate attention. "There has been a change."

"Change," Banry asked. "What change?"

"I have just spoken with someone who assures me of an entire army stationed to the north of us who are scheduling an immediate offensive against Tsurtor. We both agreed that this offensive should entail both of our forces."

"An army," Boom gasped. "But where? How?"

"We did not have time for such details."

"Ny'ezia," Helen asked, "tell me. Who did you speak to?" Her head was filled with hopes that she was afraid to give form lest they crash. "Who told you this?"

"A very unique being," Ny'ezia replied with a smile. "More unique than anything I've encountered. His name was Silen."

CHAPTER NINE

MORNING

Part I

Not a sign of them! Tsurtor strode upon the wastes of Country Gardens, tentacles lashing out unconsciously at any rubble still larger than his foot, grinding his teeth at the thought. Not a sign!

Oh, they'd been there. As their hastily doused fires had indicated, several thousand had been on the move. How could they have foreseen his actions? More importantly, how had Tsurtor not seen theirs?

He felt as if things were slipping. The last vestiges of a beaten people evaded him. Petrol supplies were running low. Rumor had it that even the most hideous of his servants were revolted by Tsurtor's appearance, what with his many appendages flailing about like an insane squid. That shouldn't worry him. He wasn't here to be loved. He was on a mission, a quest, better they hate and fear him!

But then he remembered what had happened the previous eve. Darkness had fallen and he had crept out into a stand of thickly-leaved oak to take his dinner. It had been this way of late. The only things that could slake his hunger were the freshly killed. Food was no longer brought to him; now he caught it himself. There! Digging for some root or another, a rabbit lay unsuspecting several feet away. Tsurtor knew to lay in wait. He knew he wouldn't have to run after it. A long tentacle, its end barbed, flew from Tsurtor with less than a thought, driving through the helpless hare's neck. Blood squirted its hot loveliness upon him as he dragged it closer. Then, he sucked from the hole he'd made like someone putting their mouth on a spigot.

"So, this is what you have come to, my son," a familiar voice lamented.

"Father," he yelped, spitting out a mouthful.

Argon Haddison looked scornfully at his hated offspring, at the blood that even now dripped from Tsurtor's mouth. "You are no longer my son!"

Tsurtor shook with terror, dropping the limp carcass out of trembling hands. His father's head - it was on the end of one of his own appendages! Tsurtor fell onto his knees, babbling, "Oh, father! Father! What has become of me!"

"You are no longer a man!"

"Am I mad," Tsurtor asked. "Have I lost all reason? Help me, father!" Wracked by tears and self-loathing, he fell to the ground.

"How can I help one who brings ruin to his own house," shouted Argon Haddison's head. "Look at what you have become!"

Suddenly, without willing it, Tsurtor's appendages began to grow. Out of every inch of flesh, they sprang and from every orifice, they protruded. It was a familiar pain. This was how they'd grown once before, jutting from his eyes, tearing at his genitals; Tsurtor knew to remain perfectly still.

But they didn't. The appendages grew quickly, one meter on to four, pulling apart Tsurtor's innards. Then, they coiled as if to spring. Their ends formed hooks, spears, axes, every shape necessary for what they were about to do.

"Noooo," Tsurtor screeched, though his mouth, too, sprung forth with tentacles. He knew their intent, knew it as well as he knew his own black soul, and reached out to his father's disembodied head. Grabbing it, he pummeled it against the ground with all his might, sending all of the coiled tentacles impotently to the ground. Again and again, he drove it as it screamed. Then, he took one of the axe-shaped ends, cutting the head cleanly off, covering himself in his own blood.

Panting on the ground, he could hardly move. His body was so extended, further than he'd ever tried, he thought it would take until morning before he could move.

He was wrong.

The tentacles again sprang up. Already extended, they lifted him easily from the ground and prepared to do their deed. "It's for the best, my love," a woman's voice told him.

Oh, Mandin, he thought. Let me die along with you, together on our honeymoon bed.

"Alas," her face, hideously sprouting from the end of an appendage, lamented, "that cannot be. For I am already dead and there is still so much that you have to do."

But I haven't the strength, thought Tsurtor. I don't know if I can do what needs to be done.

"Don't worry," Mandin said with a smile. "Should all be lost, you still have the means to do what you've come here to do. Be of good cheer."

Just as with his father, though, Tsurtor knew Mandin's intent before the many arms could be driven and, this time, used his mind to destroy her before the worst could be done. To his dismay, though, as her face melted away, a new one took its place.

Tsurtor's head danced on the end of the serpentine coil. "Stop fighting. You know this is for your own good."

No amount of persuasion could turn himself. No spell would work. The coils had drawn out so far, he couldn't move if he wished.

When they raced back upon him, tearing skin from flesh, it was almost a relief. With minutes, the old body was skinned, the old Tsurtor flayed off and the new Tsurtor could step forth. Blood dripping from his ruined flesh was easily tended to by the new Tsurtor. New skin covered the body with only a thought.

Tsurtor had known this would be necessary, ever since moving the warheads to this world. His old self would never have been able to use them. Now, there would be no doubt. For the old Tsurtor, Tsurtor Haddison, heir to the Rynian throne, was gone and now the new Tsurtor, Destroyer of Rynia, took his place.

Standing there in the middle of what once was a southern Californian city, the new Tsurtor could feel things slipping. The old Tsurtor had been weak and was far too anxious to let his enemy live. Things would change.

"My mashter," a groveling voice reported.

Tsurtor turned to see K'tan on his knees where he should be. "Speak," Tsurtor instructed.

"Radar hash picked up s-chopperss and trackt dem to the nort-west."

Of course they had, Tsurtor thought. It made sense. They'd stationed themselves outside of Rynia and Hex had used his time on earth to find some poor army. As if they stood a chance. "Take Huk'ra, Tomonok, and Gur'tech. Ready them to strike at dawn."

"All of our forshesh, shir," K'tan asked.

With two appendages, Tsurtor prodded K'tan to rise. K'tan jumped. "You'll find the Rynian's entire army there, K'tan. All will perish."

K'tan moved to return to his barracks and begin planning the assault but quickly felt a serpentine length coil around his arm. He looked back to see Tsurtor greedily smiling. The master ordered, "And send for the dragons."

Part II

General Harris sat at the head of the planning table while the others walked in to take their seats. His seconds, Colonel Grey and Colonel Spalding were already there and ready to go. That was standard operating procedure. It was these locals who didn't understand proper etiquette. One by one Marcus Haddison, Kraephten Kattox, Kell Adson, and the one called Hex, took their seats.

Kraephten and Kell had come slowly from their tents, slowly admiring the massive array of weaponry. During the tour given them the day before by one of the sergeants, Kraephten had been stupefied. "What incredible projectile throwers you have!"

"The better to kill the enemy with," said the sergeant.

Neither Kell nor Kraephten had seen their own projectile throwers since arriving, though Timothy had been given the one he'd taken from Tsurtor's soldier. It had something to do with the two throwers being so unique. Both were offered guns provided by Executive Solutions. They were suspicious but were guaranteed that these would be far better than their old ones.

"May I ask what is keeping Mr. Coskas," asked Harris.

"Probably washing chemicals out of his hair if you gave him the same greeting you gave us," Hex grumbled.

"Hex," Marcus asked. He put a hand on the wizard's arm, asking him to calm down, then turned to the others. "Raphineal has left us. He says that there are things which he has delayed too long and that require his attention."

A disgusted sound came from General Harris. "Does he not think that is rather cryptic?"

Marcus spread his hands and explained, "That's Raphineal."

"I don't understand, your highness. Who is this Raphineal Coskas, anyway," asked Kraephten.

"Raphineal dos Coskas," Marcus corrected. "Have you ever heard the story of the Traveler?"

When Kraephten shook his head, Kell was surprised. "He was there on the froont lines with his highness' father. It was his plan to drop Tsurtor's army with the isthmus!"

Marcus smiled. "Please, Kell, call me uncle."

"Well, I am impressed, Marcus but that guy couldn't have been the Traveler. He was far too young."

"Trust me, Kraephten. I was there with my father and saw the Traveler at the end of the last war. It was him."

"I'm concerned about Silen," Hex interrupted. "We haven't seen him since last night."

"With all due respect, gentlemen and lady," General Harris spoke up, "we do have a battle to plan. Colonel Spalding, give your report."

"Reconnaissance reports troop movement to the south in an easterly direction and to the south-east for the past couple of days," said the colonel.

"That is old news," the general informed his guests. "Now, tell them why we called them here."

As Colonel Spalding rolled out a map, he continued, "We'd assumed troop movement exceptional. You'd already told us they took this territory. So, why would they be converging? But, here and here," he added, pointing at the composite map taken by aerial reconnaissance, "we see lines of heavy armor, guns, and foot soldiers converging on this point, here." He pointed at several blocks on the grid very different from the surrounding terrain. Where more trees and fields should have laid, stood the remains of a modern city.

"Country Gardens," Hex gasped. "What did they do to it?"

"Country Gardens," Spalding asked.

"Hold on, Mr. Hex. I have heard of Country Gardens." General Harris leaned over the table, an unlit stogie between his teeth. "Are you trying to tell me that we are looking at a city that disappeared from the face of the earth?"

"You were moved here, weren't you, general?"

"That's just a sample of our enemy's strength, general," added Marcus.

Harris, Grey, and Spalding all looked down at the map in shock. "Assuming what you have said is true," Harris said. "Why would they be converging on Country Gardens?"

"Hex! Hex," a sudden shout rang in their heads. Spalding and Grey each rose uncomfortable as the figure appeared out of nowhere but sat when Harris motioned them to sit. He'd already met Silen. "Wonderful news," the computer said. In his hand, he held several party favors and began handing them around. "I just spoke with a dragon who tells me there's a resistance movement to the east of us who will converge their attack with our own!"

"At ease," the general shouted, "and start making some sense! A dragon! Just what is going on here?"

"The general has a point," Kraephten scolded. "We're in no position to play..." his voice drifted off when he saw that Hex was standing and that he was giving them that look like there was something they didn't know.

"General, um, sir," Hex began, "you might want to sit down." He took a party favor from Silen, who leaned sullenly against the barracks wall. "Marcus knows about this but I really hadn't had a chance to explain everything to the rest of you. You see, there is a dragon."

"Of course, there's a dragon," Grey muttered, "our enemy's an evil wizard."

"Her name is Ny'ezia," Hex continued, "and she's the last of her kind."

"Still," General Harris asked, "how would you know when our attack will be, Silen?"

"Why, from your mind, General. That's all you've been thinking about all morning."

"What else did you learn, Silen," Marcus asked.

"Sadly, not a lot more."

"But you've been gone all morning," said Hex.

"I know but a dragon's brain is neither constructed the same nor works the same as a human's. It was," for the first time, Hex saw that Silen was short of words, "stimulating."

As Spalding answered a phone, Harris asked, "So, now I have to explain to my men that they will be fighting alongside a dragon?"

"Not just a dragon, general," Silen corrected. "Ny'ezia tells me there's a resistance army at her camp."

"Guns," Harris asked.

"No," Silen replied. "Bats, mostly."

Grey leaned forward. "As in baseball or vampire?"

Silen looked at them for a moment, scanning their brains for the appropriate information. "No. No. Bats," he explained, suddenly holding one in his hands, "like this." He held the long club, with one blunt end and one end coming to a tip, by its two grips like an old pro, showing it to the soldiers from earth.

Harris looked at Marcus. "This doesn't increase my confidence."

"Then neither will this, sir," Spalding announced, hanging up the phone. "Just got word from the fourteenth. Enemy troops have detected us. They broke up camp and are making the move northeast."

"That's bad," Kraephten muttered, remembering the slaughter when Tsurtor's army hit the Tzurritzanians.

"Very bad," Marcus agreed, remembering nearly dying when his own men faced Tsurtor.

"I agree," Hex said, having seen Tsurtor's capabilities since the beginning.

"Perhaps not," General Harris disagreed in a voice more sure than Marcus had ever heard. They all looked to see the general leaning back in his chair, cigar lit and clenched between his teeth, with a gleam in his eye. "The way I see it, this Tsurtor is expecting an army more ready to play ball than to fight a war. In addition," he said, leaning over and poking at various points on the map, "he is heading directly towards us which tell me he does not know or discounts our friendly dragon and her resistance army. We can use that to our advantage, gentlemen."

"I wouldn't be too sure, general," cautioned Marcus. "This is Tsurtor we're facing. It never pays to underestimate him."

"Nor does it pay to underestimate me," Harris countered, standing before them. "We are Executive Solutions," he roared and blew a cloud of smoke from his cigar. "We are the most expensive mercenary army on earth and you are about to discover that we are worth every penny."

Part III

"Silen!" The word was like a secret savior.

"Silen," Bethel asked.

"It's where Hex was going," Boom answered. "I thought it was a forest."

"It must be more," Helen exclaimed, holding her hands between her breasts, afraid to let go for fear she'd embarrass herself by jumping up or doing something equally foolish. "Much, much more!"

"It is," Ny'ezia agreed with an amused look. "It's a computer."

Boom's breath caught in his throat. "A what?"

"What's a 'compute-her'," Banry asked.

"Something which you'll have to learn how to pronounce," Ny'ezia remarked.

"Hex's got an army and a computer," Boom asked. "What the hell'd he do in that forest?"

With a smile, Mark answered, "What he always does, it seems."

"We'll have to get Ostrander," Helen suggested. "He'll want to know."

"Right," Banry agreed.

"He was keeping my children in their cave while I was out hunting," Ny'ezia said. "We should find him there."

"Fine. You find him there with her," Boom said, falling into his habit of giving orders. "We army type gotta form ranks. Looks like there's a war waiting to be won."

* * *

Shortly, an unfamiliar figure entered the huge camp, having appeared on the edge of the woods he walked up the hill, looking for someone in charge. It wasn't long before Banry rode down and greeted him. "Where do you come from, stranger?"

"I don't think you really want the answer to that question. I can tell you, though, that I'm a friend. I'm on the same side as you."

Banry felt uncomfortable with the stranger's evasion. Though he wasn't armed as far as Banry could tell, he carried himself with a surety that lent itself to danger. "And that would be," he prompted.

"The right side, Mr. Ellison. My name is Raphineal dos Coskas. I believe Vincent Gobel is here. I may be able to help him."

Samuel was again trying to get his brother to eat. Vincent had lost a great deal of weight. Even in his enlarged form, he was looking weak and helpless. But it was no use; his brother could not even swallow broth.

"Sam," he heard Banry say.

He turned around and, seeing the stranger, asked, "Who's this?"

"Someone who can help," answered Raphineal. He knelt down and immediately put his hands on Vincent's head. Samuel looked worried but Banry assured him that it was okay. After several moments, Raphineal began to mumble. Neither Banry nor Sam could make out what he said but it seemed to have an effect. Vincent's twitching grew into shakes and his eyes began to flutter. "Vincent," he called. "Vincent! You have to break the hold or you'll be no good to anyone!" Suddenly, Raphineal let go and Vincent fell back upon his bedding.

"What happened," Sam asked.

"The boy's fighting a hard fight," Raphineal replied, his voice shaky. "Tsurtor has a hold on him. He wants him to... you don't want to know what Tsurtor wants him to do to you and everybody here. He's fighting all he can."

"But you told him he'd be of no use to anyone," Banry stated.

"Apparently, that is just fine with him." Raphineal rose and dusted off his knees. "I should probably be on my way, then."

"That's it," Sam asked.

"Wait," Banry requested.

"For?"

"What are you? Some kind of wizard?"

"No kind that you would be familiar with. My magic comes from another place." Nodding his goodbye to Sam, who was too stunned to speak, Raphineal turned and walked away.

Banry kept up. "But you can see into other magicians' minds?"

"Yes."

"Can you help them?"

"Some," Raphineal admitted. "Others, like Vincent, are beyond my help."

"Then, come with me," Banry said, taking his arm. "This may not be possible but - but maybe." He led Raphineal to a tent outside of the camp. Its occupant wouldn't risk being too near for fear of what he would do. Helen had insisted, though, that shelter be built. "Lanigan," Banry asked. "Are you in there?"

Lanigan's head stuck out of the small entrance. His hair was filthy. He hadn't bathed in several days. "I \- I - n-no -"

"I'm not going to ask anything of you," Banry assured him.

Raphineal was already kneeling to the boy's level, his shock obvious in his face. "What are you," he whispered. He tried to put his hands on Lanigan's head as he had done with Vincent but pulled them away as if shocked.

Standing in the silence, Banry asked, "Well? What is he?"

"Far too powerful," Raphineal answered. "If he is to be used as a weapon in the coming battle, I'll need complete privacy."

"I understand," Banry replied. Then, knowing he was no longer part of the conversation, went away.

Raphineal took one of Lanigan's hands and looked carefully at the awesome potential he saw. He warned, "Now, don't be afraid."

* * *

"Don't be a wimp!"

"I'm not being a wimp! Ny'ezia told me -"

"Oh, Ny'ezia! Ny'ezia! The big, bad, dragon lady," Robert hollered, his voice dripping with sardonic derision. "You're right. You're not a wimp. You're whipped!"

"I am not whipped, either," Ostrander growled, standing his ground at the cave's mouth.

"Well, then," Robert posed like a greeter at some fine restaurant, "come on in!" Robert wasn't saying it but he didn't much like the idea of going into Ny'ezia's cave. Apart from risking her scorn, there was the whole matter of all those fires licking up out of the many crevices in the stone floor. Ny'ezia might have liked all the natural heat but Robert had a permanent phobia when it came to fire. He wouldn't have wanted to, either, if it wasn't for what he'd heard less than an hour ago.

Footsteps. Lots of them. They came from deep within the heart of the mountain, so far in they could only have one source. Dwarves. Ostrander knew about draconian/dwarven relations; he'd heard Ny'ezia's complaints. Robert had snooped into enough conversations to know better than to relax when an army of dwarves were heard knock knock knockin' on the dragon's back door.

Ostrander, however, felt compelled by his duty. He also knew that Ny'ezia would be coming soon and any sign of dwarves might be suspicious after the descent of so many humans on her mountain. A grumble came from the back of Ostrander's throat as he shouted for someone to take his place. "You were not made by Hex," he shouted. "You know that?"

Robert laughed and motioned for Ostrander to bring his hand down. As he climbed aboard, he said, "You keep tellin' yourself that, mud man," referring to Ostrander's original incarnation. "If you get really lucky someday, you might be right."

Their descent into the cave was slowed more by Ostrander's hesitation to trespass than anything else. Robert rode on Ostrander's shoulder sure he knew the way and verbally prodded the larger (and as far as Robert was concerned, much more gullible) of Hex's creations forward.

"I don't hear anything anymore," Ostrander observed.

"That's because you're so damn noisy," Robert shouted. "Just keep going! They're bound to be nearby."

Soon, they noticed the rock formations lessen until, after more than an hour's advance, Ostrander stepped up the first dwarven tile. "Gold," he whispered. "Shimmering gold."

"Good gold, too," Robert said, hungrily. "You should take a few of those tiles, they could be worth -" but Ostrander looked at him angrily "- great sentimental value, I was going to say. Sheesh!"

After a long while, they came to an intersection and there was no sign of dwarves in any direction. "We should turn back," Ostrander advised. "We obviously heard wrong and I don't want to precipitate a conflict between-"

"Don't move," a gruff voice shouted from behind them, "or you'll be cut to ribbons."

Robert cleared his throat, having a better view from atop Ostrander's shoulder. "I hate to rain on your parade but you're precipitating."

Ostrander turned slowly around and, seeing the dwarven horde that had surprised them from behind, muttered, "Well, this is another fine mess you've gotten us into."

Robert whined and scratched his head.

"That axe really isn't necessary," Ostrander assured the dwarves. "Nor is that sword, that mace, those hammers, the pikes, or those, um, whatever-you-call-thems."

"We're lost," Robert shouted. "Temporary insanity! We were possessed - by aliens - controlled by Oprah - they made us vote Republican - in bikini briefs!!"

The dwarf at the head of the line, the one with the big, mean looking axe, looked from Ostrander to Robert, then back again. He then pointed to Ostrander. "We'll listen to you."

"Excuse us, warriors. I think we should be able to sort this out." From out of the press of armed and armored figures, stepped Red Martag. Tuk, holding his arm, followed. Then, stepping up to Red's side, came Byron Malagosh. "I thought I recognized a voice but... Ostrander? Is that you?"

"I'm glad you recognized me, Red. Yes, it is me."

"You're back!"

"Actually, you got that wrong, dingo," Robert couldn't resist correcting. "That's his front."

"Robert," Ostrander scolded.

"Robert," Red repeated like a curse.

"Oh, not Robert," Tuk lamented

"That's Robert," Byron asked.

"We only met once but there's no mistaking it." Red nodded. "Yep. That's Robert."

"Brother," Byron exclaimed.

Robert looked sickened. "Brother?!" Ostrander took the treeling off his perch and put him in Byron's hands, where Byron could more easily embrace his older sibling and Robert threatened, "I swear, if you kiss me, I'll kill you in your sleep."

After a while, Red explained the situation to Ostrander and Ostrander had a chance to express his misgivings. "This force would surely help to supplement Rynia's own but I don't believe Ny'ezia would see it quite that way."

Red turned to Gurrak, who was leading the dwarven expeditionary force. "He may have a point and I don't think it would do to have a whole dwarven army descend on refugees, especially as many as Ostrander speaks of, who've been running from an army. We should go meet with them, just a few of us, to calm the waters."

So, it was decided that Red, Tuk, and Gurrak, along with Ostrander and Byron, who held Robert, should be the first to go.

"So, Pinocchio. Is Gepetto going to turn you into a real boy?"

Byron smiled. "Oh, Robert, you can't hate me. We come from the same source."

"Wood," Robert explained to a disinterested Tuk.

"No! Hex. He's our father!"

"Oh yeah," Robert grumbled. "I guess you got all the sappy genes."

* * *

Outside of Ny'ezia's cave, Helen approached alongside the massive dragon. "Why don't you just walk in human form," she asked.

"MY CHILDREN WOULD NOT RECOGNIZE ME. EVEN IF THEY DID IT WOULDN'T DO TO HAVE THEM LEARNING SHAPE SHIFTING BEFORE THEY'RE READY. THEY GET INTO ENOUGH MISCHIEF AS IT IS."

"You can say that again," Helen remarked with a nod.

"WHAT HAPPENED TO MY WATCHER, OSTRANDER," Ny'ezia grumbled when they reached the cave's mouth.

Just then, Pete turned round a corner, holding a baby dragon around the middle, propelling it towards the cave. Seeing Ny'ezia, he immediately let go of her child and, trembling, fell to his knees. "I didn't - Ostrander said - I wasn't gonna - but it ran, it really ran - and I was just -" Excuses tumbling ineptly out of his mouth, he put his hands over his head and resignedly muttered, "Oh, shit."

Randy came up from the south with another child. Letting his go, he immediately started yelling, "Pete told me to! It was his fault! I had nothing to do with this!"

Ny'ezia looked at them both with a mix of sympathy and irritation as the two children took gleefully to the air. Growling something unintelligible, her babies turned sheepishly back to the cave. "KIDS," she moaned.

Suddenly, as the babies retreated to where their sibs were corralled, Ostrander appeared at the cave's mouth. With him, stood Red Martag, Tuk, Byron (holding an unamused Robert), and the dwarven elder, Gurrak.

"DWARF," Ny'ezia snapped venomously.

"Dragon," Gurrak addressed.

"Dragon," Byron asked.

Red answered, ready to run, "Dragon!"

"Well, of course, there's a dragon," Robert replied. "I told you there was a dragon."

"Where," asked Tuk.

"Ny'ezia," Ostrander said, trying to calm the dragon, "before you get upset, let me explain."

"DWARF," Ny'ezia repeated.

"Yes, I know," Ostrander explained, "but they come in peace."

"THEY?"

"Ny'ezia," Byron addressed the dragon, "it is my understanding that the last dwarven/draconian war was three centuries ago. Hasn't enough time passed that the two of you can some common ground for mutual prosperity?"

"WHO ARE YOU, LITTLE WOODEN MAN?"

Byron gasped. "Little wooden man?"

"Get used to it," Robert told him.

"I am Byron Malagosh, Ny'ezia, queen mother of dragons."

"YOU WERE MADE BY HEX WEREN'T YOU."

"Well... yes."

"OF COURSE, YOU WERE. GURRAK. THESE HUMANS ANNOY ME."

"It is understandable," Gurrak replied. "They stand so tall they think they overshadow everything."

"IT'S THEIR EGOS THAT DO THE OVERSHADOWING. NEVER HAVE THEY BEEN NECESSARY FOR RESOLVING OUR DIFFERENCES."

"Are you suggesting we take this into the caves like true denizens of the old world?"

"I CANNOT THINK OF A BETTER PLACE. THE STENCH OF HEX SURROUNDS ME."

As the two of them turned and walked back into the darkness of the caves, Byron admitted, "I think we've just been insulted."

"Just so you're sure," Robert offered. "You're ugly, stupid, short, and fat. There. Now you've been insulted."

Byron dropped him.

Helen paid no attention to them. She was busy embracing Tuk. "Oh, Destroyer. I had feared so for you!"

"For me," Tuk asked, feeling Helen against him. "What about you? What happened to your big, fat, belly?"

"What he's so delicately trying to ask, your highness, is where is the baby," asked Red.

"Oh, it was wonderful. Ny'ezia served as mid-wife. Gault was there -"

"How is the boy," Red asked, taking Helen into his arms.

Relishing in the tight squeeze of her dear friend, she replied, "Oh, you'd be so proud, Martag."

"How so?"

"He's become quite the uncle."

"As will I," Red promised, looking into Helen's gleeful eyes. "Where is the little lad?"

"Ixnay on the adlay, ummeyday," Robert warned.

Red looked helpless at the princess, having never heard pig-latin.

"She's not a boy, Red."

"Oh," Red gasped. "I mean, princess, um... oops."

She patted Red's arm. "Not to fear. And how are you, Mr. Malagosh? You're plan wasn't as fated as you had thought, it seems."

"No," Byron admitted. "Fortune smiled upon us. You've befriended the dragon and we've befriended the dwarves."

"Is their plague as bad as Hex has told me," she asked.

"Not at all," Tuk countered.

Red nodded. "We've cured them."

* * *

As dusk cast its reddish hue upon the mountains of northern Rynia, all was ready. Boom had assembled the Rynian resistance to look like a proud, Rynian army. After all, he explained to them, that's what they was and they weren't gonna be outdone by no munchkins. Gurrak didn't know if he liked the sound of the word "munchkin" but lined his warriors beside Boom's army just the same. At its head, Banry looked on proudly.

All told, their fighting force totaled more than five thousand, with the dwarves outnumbering the Rynians two to one. Banry knew there was no way Tsurtor could be ready for it. With American gunners, Rynians armed with bats and blades and anything they could get their hands on, dwarven mages, and dwarven warriors each armed with an assortments of dwarven weapons rumored to be able to cut through anything, this was a larger army than the one that had faced Tsurtor before Rynia had been defeated.

This time, Banry knew there'd be no running away.

They'd leave before dawn. Even before the evening meal was served, farewells and negotiations had begun. The ranks of armed Rynians went into the masses of refugees and many refugees were spotted amidst their ranks. Little was said. For one night, at least, a war could be forgotten. Besides, the commander of the united forces, Banry Ellison, was nowhere to be found. With Greg being watched by a family friend, he and Hildy were enjoying what might be their last chance to be alone.

Sam thought that he and Bethel might find a similar opportunity. He found her at her tent with the other commanders. Her new promotion to major was not going to go unearned if she had anything to say about it. "But you can't drill all night," Sam tried to tell her. "You need to rest before tomorrow."

"No," she replied, practicing a parry with her new pike. It had been a gift from the dwarves. After the dwarves saw how poorly armed the human were, they gave out many such gifts. "I do not."

Sam watched her, trying to think of the right thing to say. "I just wanted us - in case tomorrow..."

She turned her head towards Sam, her right leg and pike extended in the other direction. Then, she leaned the weapon against the tent's wall and walked up to him. "Samuel." She took his hands in hers and looked into his eyes. "I know what you're trying to say but the timing couldn't be worse. We will be facing Tsurtor come morning. I could die. I don't want to fall in love. I don't want that to - to cloud my thinking."

He gritted his teeth and wished she hadn't said that but there was no going back for either of them. "I understand. After the war is over, who can say?"

"Who can say," she agreed. "But I don't want to think about what happens after just yet. I just want to think about whatever fight I might be caught in and killing as many as I can."

Sam tried to laugh but only sounded hurt. "We're so different. I need you to tell me you love me and you need to be free of love."

"Yes," she said. "Your words aren't making this any easier."

Sam stepped away from her. "Good luck, then, major."

As he stepped out, her mouth opened and she wanted to call to him. She cursed herself. Now, she'd be wondering if she had done the right thing.

Sam didn't go far. Boom's tent was only a few meters away. He walked in and Boom looked up from cleaning his pistol and the rifle he'd brought out of Country Garden's remains.

"What? Would it be so god-awful-shocking for me not to be alone?"

"Sorry, Boom. I just - I need to ask a favor."

Boom put down his oil and his cloth and shook his head sadly. "Oh, god. You're gettin' that look again. This is about Patir, ain't it?"

"Yes," Sam replied. "I want to fight in tomorrow's battle."

"Fight," Boom asked. "Sammy, you're a horse of a guy but you ain't no soldier."

Surprised by Boom's response, Sam asked, "Why not?"

"Because up here," Boom pointed several times at his head with the business end of his gun, "you're soft."

"Soft?"

"Soft, my friend. Nothing against you but you're better at minding kids and sick sibs than killing' or fightin'."

"I hold a black belt in jujitsu," Sam said in his defense.

Boom tested the action of his rifle and snapped, "Ballet."

"What?"

"You ever shoot a man, Sammy?"

"No, but -"

"You ever -"

"That's not stopping any of the other civilians who've joined your little army, Boom!" The strength and volume of Sam's voice scared them both. "Now, I want to fight."

Boom took his gear off of his lap and stood up, putting his hands on Sam's shoulders. "Sammy, look. I don't think of you as just another civilian that I'm paid to serve and protect. You've become my friend. My comrade." He sighed. "I don't want to get you killed."

"Boom -"

"No, listen for a second. Patir's gonna go down there and kick some ass. She'll get carved down to chicken wings before they stop her. She's a trained killer. She goes out there, she's got a shot at returning but you? Sammy?"

"Then, give me a gun so I stand a better chance, Boom."

Boom shook his head but slapped Sam's arm. "You see me in the morning."

Pete and Randy were watching over Vincent when Sam returned. "How is he?"

"He's talking, Sammy," Randy replied.

Samuel hurried to his brother's side. "What's he saying?"

As if to answer, Vincent raised his hand to grab Samuel's shirt and weakly pleaded, "Kill me, Sammy. Kill me. You're better off."

"Vincent," Samuel asked. The words nearly broke his heart but he took his brother's hand and put it on down. "Don't say that. It's gonna be okay."

"No. Tsurtor. He's gonna make me kill you all."

Sweat was running down Vincent's brow and Pete leaned over to wipe it. "It's been like that all night, Sammy. He's getting pretty scary."

"Thanks, guys," Sam said. "I'll take him for the night. You guys get your rest."

"What about tomorrow, Sammy," Randy asked. "What do we do then?"

"Then, you're gonna keep your eyes on him," Sam replied.

"You -"

"I'm going with Boom. If I can kill Tsurtor, maybe Vincent'll be okay."

Once Randy and Pete went off to their bedrolls, Samuel laid down, holding his brother close, hoping that might help. He didn't sleep for a long time, listening to his brother beg for death.

Nearby, Helen made a bed in her tent for Tuk while Caroline put the baby down for the night and, at the top of the hillside, Ostrander and his children, Byron, and Robert shared the company of the dwarves. Agnie enjoyed their long beards. Ny'ezia slept with her babies very close.

Mark didn't sleep until very late. Nor did he lay down. He stood in the darkness, looking to the southwest, dreaming of cropped, black hair, green eyes, and buckskins.

Boom finished with his guns but couldn't put them away. He thought of death and dying alone.

"I'll give you four dollars and fifty-seven cents for your thoughts," a familiar voice chided.

With the smell of freshly brewed coffee, Boom's head turned to see Gabe at the door. "Four fifty-seven?"

"I've kept it with me. You're all I got to spend it on." Gabe handed him a cup and sat on the ground beside him.

"We got a new guy coming with us in the morning," Boom said after he'd taken a sip. "Hmm, this is good. Where from?"

"Dug out of the city," Gabe replied. "So, who's the new guy?"

"Sam Gobel."

Gabe took a sip and said, "Well, the numbers gotta count for something." They both sat their quietly for a few minutes before the quiet became too uncomfortable. "Radio's been quiet."

"Quiet?"

"Not a peep. Yep. They know what they're doing." They sank into silence again and, for a long time, just sat there. After a while, even their coffee was drank and they'd said nothing. "Boom? You're driving me nuts. What's in that empty head?"

"Sorry, Gabe. I'm just thinking about this whole war business."

"And?"

"Churchill."

"Winston?"

"He said to France after it fell, 'Sleep now. Rest. And wait until morning. For the morning will come.'"

Gabe looked out of the tent, where dark of night was being washed away with a new dawn. "Morning will come, Boom. Look. It's already here."

CHAPTER TEN

DEFEAT

The sun was warm and welcoming that day, not a day for men to die. As Boom stepped out of his tent, he let its rays warm his face. On the side of the hill, the dwarves were already formed into ranks, awaiting the order to march. Row upon row of gleaming avengers stood dressed in ceremonial, golden armor. They had said the armor was magical but Boom didn't believe in such hooey. All he knew was that they'd shown him up again. Alright, he thought, if they want to play it that way.

At Banry Ellison's tent, he found the commander of the united forces shaving. "You think that's necessary, Banry?"

Banry brought his blade along the curve of his chin and wiped the scum off on a towel. "If I'm going to die today, Boom Tower, I'll die looking good."

Apparently you haven't seen what a three meter shell can do to a man, Boom thought. "It's dawn," he said, instead. "The dwarves are up and assembled into ranks. Our guys had such a good time last night that even the watch fell asleep."

"It's expected, I suppose." Banry brought up his blade and looked at him. "You said you could wake them?"

Boom smiled, slyly, "Oh, yes."

Gabe was waiting for Boom outside with an airhorn they both had salvaged from the wreckage of Country Gardens. Boom walked out, jammed his fingers into his ears, and said, "Hit it."

With a smile, Gabe gave the horn a blast that lasted a full minute. People all over the camp were jumped up in shock, especially the civilians. When it was over, though, Boom knew his men were awake. He saw them scramble into the clothes and, grabbing their weapons, run to the assembly area.

What he didn't expect was the response from the dwarves. Looking in his direction, they brought their heads back as one and launched into a shouted even louder than the airhorn! Byron Malagosh, who marched along with the dwarves, having been made an honorary member of their army due to his size and contribution to their race, shouted along as well. It lasted just as long as the airhorn blast and, in the end, Boom's men were almost afraid to form ranks.

Banry was out of his tent, face half shaven. "What did you do," he asked accusatorially.

"Ain't my fault," Boom denied, pointing at the one with the airhorn. Gabe dropped it and turned away.

Then, Ny'ezia took a step out of her cave, her head looming over them, and took a deep breath.

Boom ducked down on the ground, muttering, "Oh shit!"

The dwarves knew it, too, all of them hugging the hillside. Seeing this, Boom's army, the civilians, everyone fell down in a panicked domino-effect.

But nothing came.

"A VERY PROPER RESPONSE," she said. "LET'S NOT FORGET THAT."

Coming to the fore of his troops, Boom shouted for order. Over in the dwarven ranks, Gurrak was doing the same. Some things were universal. "All right, people, listen up! I want to see lines, straight lines! If you can't remember what that means, look at what everyone else is doing and call yourself stupid!"

"Over here, Danneal," someone shouted.

Boom would never have heard it if he hadn't been dreading hearing that name for months. He knew it would happen eventually and the mistake he had made with Caitlyn would come back to haunt him. This world must be getting to him. "Hey, son," he shouted. Several looked and he asked, "Which one of ya's Danneal?"

One tall, particularly young man looked up from his gear. "That'd be me, sir."

"Oh yeah," Boom asked. "Well, stand out of those ranks, boy, you're needed someplace else."

"Yes, sir," Danneal said, unsurely.

I'll have him drum up a "reserve", Boom decided. Either way, Caitlyn's husband was not going to be a casualty in this war.

Within an hour, ranks were formed, men were armed, and they were ready to move out. Boom sat on horseback at the head of his army not feeling the least bit guilty that Gurrak had to walk along with his men. The dwarves had already made it clear that they felt none of their men would die in this battle, due to strong, dwarven endurance and magical, dwarven armor. The way Boom figured it, he'd take any advantage he could get.

Ahead of them, Banry Ellison and Helen Haddison sat on horseback. It was Banry's traditional place as commander of both forces. Helen, however, would not be left out of this fight and Banry would not take his eyes off of her. Red agreed to pass his role of Royal Defender on to him, thus ensuring that he wouldn't miss the real fighting. Banry insisted, therefore, that she take her place at his side. Ostrander was there as well, leaving Agnie and Tetrem with little Caroline and the new baby. He knew he'd be needed for healing and for fighting and, should this battle be lost, the people of Rynia were running out of places to hide. He refused a horse, though. His weight would cause it no end of pain and he had learned on his many hunts that his new body could easily run just as fast as any stallion.

"Are we ready," Helen asked.

Banry gave the ranks a final look over and replied, "More than we should be." Standing in his stirrups, he shouted, "Men! Warriors! Our grand, draconian protector! We go now to ensure peace returns to this land," he said to the Rynian army. Turning to the dwarves, he shouted, "We go now to forge the future!" And to Ny'ezia, "We go now to right the wrongs that have been so cruelly inflicted!" Then, he raised his arms as Boom had suggested, and screamed out, "We go now to war!!"

Randy watched from the cave, where he and Pete were assigned to watch over Ny'ezia's children as well as Agnie, Tetrem, and Caroline, and the baby, who had to be kept safe. Most importantly, though, they had been told to keep both eyes on Vincent, who shivered against one wall in the warm cave, his eyes darting, mumbling to himself. Looking over his wards while watching the army march to glory at the same time, Randy grumbled, "What a revolting development."

Pete got up and looked out at the marching armies with him but knew that they had the best job. They wouldn't have to risk their lives to be appreciated. When all was said and done, they'd be safely away from the consequences. But Randy didn't see that and Pete knew why. "You've been listening to Robert too much."

"What's wrong with that," Randy asked, lighting up one of his last cigarettes. "He'd be right with me, I'll bet."

Pete looked into the cave. "Well, he would, if he wasn't bound and gagged." There, on a rocky outcrop, a small gag was tied around Robert's head and his arms and legs were bound from behind.

* * *

"Let's move, people," Colonel Spalding shouted, though most of the men were in their vehicles or standing with their units. When Spalding thought all was ready, he signaled General Harris.

The general saw the signal on his laptop and acknowledged it. He'd interact with his troops from his private helicopter where he'd taken in the battle from a bird's-eye view. He'd assured his guests of their safety. His pilot could respond to any threat in seconds. His guests? Well, beside him sat a decidedly unpleased Marcus Haddison. The king refused to show his fear of flying before Hex, who was used to it, and Timothy Holt, who seemed to enjoy it so, so he sat in the large, swivel chair beside the general, taking it all in as if it were nothing. The rest sat on benches that lined the back of the chopper. Kraephten and Kell had been assured that they would get a chance to fight. Hex wanted on the ground as well to help with the wounded.

"Any misgivings," Harris asked.

"I don't much like the idea of being so far from the fight," Kell replied.

"Yes," said Marcus. "I, too, would rather be on the ground with them."

"We direct all action from up here," Harris told them, dropping into lecture mode. "We are the puppet-masters. We give orders. They follow them."

Kraephten, who'd fought in one war as a desert raider, in another as a commander of covert troops, and in this war through the worst terrain, grunted disgustedly. "It doesn't seem right."

"Of course, it does not, Mr. Kattox," Harris admitted. "That is because your people have not advanced to this stage of warfare. That is why Tsurtor is kicking your tail, my pardons to the lady."

Kell simply smiled. She'd said much worse in her day.

Then, Harris hit several keys on his laptop and nodded to the rest. Looking into his computer, he announced, "This is it, gentlemen. Today, you will be fighting in a battle for which none of you could possibly have trained. You have been briefed on the things you will see and the ways they will fight. Remember. You are part of the greatest fighting force ever assembled on earth and, now, on any planet! I want to see you go out there and tear the enemy apart!" He pulled out a cigar, lit it, and blew his smoke at the computer. "Make me proud, boys." Then, with the push of a button, his message was cut off. "That is going out to all of my men," he told the others. "Now, we are ready." Turning to his pilot, he ordered, "Okay, Bobby, take us up."

* * *

Tsurtor watched calmly as his army moved north. He wouldn't give the cowardly Rynians the opportunity to run and hide into the shelter of Silen Forest. No. His first strategic move was to cut them off. Then, his army would advance east, killing every one of them as they went. Oh, his army was smaller now, the Rynians had taken out their small bite but his numbers still exceeded ten thousand saladans, manning tanks, choppers, and heavy guns.

And that was far from the end of it.

He had heard the footsteps coming from far away. There was no mistaking it. A tentacle flew out from behind him, latching onto its prey and drawing it closer. "You have done your duty?" From Tsurtor, this was neither question nor statement. It was a threat.

"Yes. Yes. Indeed. Always," Hargoth babbled, as he stumbled forth through the trees. He'd wanted to keep his distance until just the right time. He'd never expected Tsurtor's mastery over his... extensions to be so great. Hargoth had done such a fine job at reassembling himself that he was loath to risk being smashed to pieces by his master.

When Hargoth had been drawn to a point within several meters of Tsurtor, the arm uncoiled and slithered back into its body. "Show me."

Simple words but Hargoth knew to react quickly. With a mental command, he brought forth his newly assembled army. From the fallen walls of the Imperial Palace, an army of behemoths marched into view. Hundreds upon hundreds of towering figures covered the landscape but Hargoth was not through. From the rubble of the Imperial Palace, hundreds more stone giants marched forth to stand in ranks before the behemoths but Hargoth was not yet through. From the ground beneath the Imperial Palace, a multitude of earthen giants, monsters of mud, slumped forward, standing half as tall as the giants of stone. Hargoth, looking out upon his expanse of creations, thought Tsurtor pleased but, still, he was not through. From behind them all came the sound of scraping, a great shuffling, slithering, coming closer to the front of the ranks. Yes, now Tsurtor was truly pleased. For now an assembly of sand golems undulated upon the ground and they all bowed to their master.

Tsurtor was smiling. Hargoth dared not look. "You see, Hargoth. I told you that you would have the Imperial Palace."

* * *

Throughout the flight, General Harris interacted with his troops via his laptop, not bothering to interact with his fellow passengers. Timothy Holt's attention was elsewhere as well, watching his first flight with rapt attention.

"I don't blame the boy," Kraephten remarked. "This is all overwhelming."

"How did you doo it, your highness," Kell asked, leaning forward attentively.

"Right, Marcus. Tsurtor had me convinced you were dead," Hex insisted.

"Luck," Marcus replied. "Raphineal was there. He's no Bonder but he brought me to your world, Hex. The medicine in your society is barbaric but effective. After I was better, I was allowed to see some of your society."

"Where were you," asked Hex.

"A place called Las Vegas."

Hex groaned, slapping his forehead. "The king of Rynia, my father-in-law's first exposure to my world is Vegas?"

"Oh, it was wonderful. Raphineal's friend, Tim, brought me to a place called Glitter Gulch -"

"We have a sighting," snapped Harris. "Get ready. Everything is going to start happening -" from the general's computer came an alarm, "- now!"

Everyone looked over the side but there were few details they could make out. The long row that was Executive Solution's army advanced quickly across the green expanse of the great Paeadian valley. They were closing with another armored column coming from the east. Marcus gritted his teeth. "Tsurtor."

"We are okay," Harris assured them. "We know they only have choppers just like us and my men can keep them away -"

But a sudden movement by their chopper cut off his words and his pilot shouted, "Fighters, sir. Looks like they got eight of them. F-18's if I read 'em right."

"Imposs..." Harris didn't finish what he was going to say, remembering what he'd been told about underestimating Tsurtor. "Take us low, Bobby. Looks like he is not going to fight nice."

"Where are his tanks," Hex asked, scanning the horizon.

"They will be coming out of the Rynian highlands. They want that high ground. Tsurtor wants us to fight for every inch." Harris cursed his short-sightedness. He should have seen that and moved his troops and he would have if he'd had the time. Thanks to where the highlands of the Scales met the Northern Spires, Executive Solutions was forced to drive south into the Paeadian valley before meeting the enemy who could retain their superior location. "They must see us, though, to send out all of their fighters."

Harris realized he'd spoke too soon, though, when his monitor began blinking. Seeing the numbers coming from the west, he muttered, "Oh, no."

Suddenly, the cabin was wracked by an explosion from the copter's rear. "We've been hit," the pilot shouted. "I'm taking her down - we'll get there in one piece but there's no turning back! We're going in at sector seven-five, thirty-eight degrees west!"

"What," Marcus hollered, clutching his arm-rests.

Harris, busy with his computer, replied, "We're crashing."

The pandemonium that should have broke out was replaced with a dull quiet as the chopper whirled slowly about as it fell. Kell looked over and yelled, "We're passing our troops!" Behind them, the marching men of Tzurritza, bringing up the army's rear, fell from view.

"No. There go Harris' machines," Kraephten countered, as the doomed helicopter flew to the front of the attacking force.

The pilot's voice was barely heard over the scream of the dying copter, yelling, "We're almost down! Brace for impa -" The cabin slammed again the planet's surface like a felled bird, its rotor digging into the dirt. Hex, Kell, Timothy, and Kraephten were thrown from their bench-seats against the cabin's wall and all was silent.

Then, the outside door opened and Bobby leapt inside. "Come on, General! His birds are still in the air and I sighted the first shell! This isn't going to be a friendly place!"

Harris was already up and helping Marcus out of his seatbelt. Marcus couldn't get out soon enough. Hex and Kell came away with bumps and bruises and Timothy found his ankle swollen but they all survived.

Hex looked west at the approaching line, already firing shells above their heads and missiles flew from further back. From the east, enemy shells flew over and it was clear that Tsurtor owned the skies. "What do we do now?"

"We run," Harris shouted and led them without pause to the eastern line. Kraephten and Kell put their arms around Timothy and helped him hobble back as Marcus ran with the general and his pilot.

Hex remained where he stood wondering that if this battle was not decisive what other horrors Tsurtor would bring to ensure his victory. Then, the first of Executive Solutions' Bradley Fighting Vehicles thundered past him.

"Hex," Silen said, standing beside him. "We really should get moving to safety."

Hex nodded to his friend and picked Silen up. Running back through the deep line of men, he found Harris' temporary headquarters. "What can I do?"

"Anything," the general shouted. "Are you not supposed to be one of them magicians I keep hearing about? Get to the front! Heal some of my men! Tsurtor's forces are worse then I've ever seen!"

"He's used some kind of magic," Marcus explained. "Harris' shells and missiles are having little effect."

Kraephten hefted his sword. Like some anxious extension of his own arm, it almost itched. "I can go up there. They'll need a good sword."

Kell nodded, fingering her spike-blades. "I want a taste oof him, too."

Hex put his hands on their shoulders. "You'd be blown to bits. This is no place for swordplay."

Timothy was leaning on his staff, watching the death rain down on Executive Solutions. "I'm not a religious man, Hex, but I never thought Gerrit would permit something so terrible."

Suddenly, a huge blip appeared on Harris's screen. "What the hell," the general asked.

Hex smiled at Timothy. "He might not."

Above the clash of armies, louder than the roar of the jet engines, came a scream both horrifying and wonderful from the north-east.

"What is that," Harris could barely find the voice to ask.

Her wings spreading wider than several of Tsurtor's F-18s, her tail coiled like some enormous cobra, and her claws poised to shred, Ny'ezia asked, "WHO TAKES MY SKIES?" Darting swiftly into the fray, one jet after another fell before the pilots were able to withdraw and re-coordinate their attack. Ny'ezia watched them, hovering with her body reared back and her wings spread wide to look more threatening. Then, it was Ny'ezia who felt the bite of their missiles as one after another exploded upon her soft belly and tore one of her wings. She screamed, lifting herself high into the air out of their reach.

"What is she doing," asked Hex.

The others didn't answer, still in awe of the sight of her.

High in the clouds, she rose, feeling blood spill out of the cuts in her soft skin. "SO! THAT'S THE WAY OF IT?" Folding her wings close to her body, she dropped out of the clouds with her legs and arms in to make herself a smaller target. Flying so fast, the F-18's couldn't keep up, one by one she started to take them down.

Hex's cheers were cut off when Harris announced, "We need to retreat."

"What," asked Marcus.

"We need to pull back," Harris yelled. "My men are being slaughtered! I'm giving the order!" They would move north, not east as Harris was sure Tsurtor would expect. Slowly and orderly, Executive Solutions began to lose ground. Then, a frantic voice came on the general's laptop. Harris shouted for the soldier to control himself but the report ended with screaming and death. "I don't understand," Harris growled. "I am bringing up a longer view from one of our APC's." Then, the view on the monitor shifted and, as Marcus, Hex, and Kraephten looked on, they knew they were in an Rynian war for Hargoth's army had made the scene.

"Those stone giants are bigger than anything I've ever seen," Hex shouted.

"Thousands of them," added Marcus.

"Oh no," Kraephten gasped. He pointed at the monitor where unearthly shapes undulated in a dance of bloody madness. He'd seen them in the last war and feared the nightmare would return. It was encapsulated in one word. "Sand."

* * *

Spalding watched his men cut to ribbons as he pumped entire rounds of ammunition into the sand horrors. "Die, damn you," he shouted. He should never have opened his mouth, he realized as it instantly filled with sand and his skull exploded.

After that, the retreat turned into panic.

* * *

"We have to stop them," Harris shouted.

Hex knew where his responsibility lay. "You take care of that. I've got Hargoth's creations."

Marcus knew better than to try and stop him as the Maker ran to the north.

"Right," Kraephten shouted. "I'm for it, too!" No longer able to stay out of the fight, Kattox ran as well, heading to the south.

Kell followed him and Timothy, using his staff as a cane, shouted, "You're noot leaving me here, alone!"

Harris frantically typed on his keyboard, searching for options, and asked, "What do we do?"

Marcus' eyes were to the north where, from out of the northern spires, another army approached. Marcus didn't know it but it was composed of all that Rynia and her allies had left to give. Within its ranks marched the monks of Kallent armed with the greatest fighting techniques the world had seen, citizens of Country Gardens armed with the finest weapons their warlike society had sold in sporting good stores, Rynian soldiers armed with the strongest hardwood bats their kingdom had produced, dwarven warriors armed with the greatest magic the ancient world had witnessed, and even Rynian people who had no more than the farm implements they could scrounge and their love for their homeland. Marcus pointed up at the advancing army, little knowing that his daughter was at its head, and said, "I think reinforcements have arrived."

* * *

"This is nuts," Randy grumbled. "All the excitement of a whole, new world is just passing us by."

Robert sat next to him, ungagged and unbound so they could comfortably converse (or, at least, that's what he'd told Pete), and nodded. "You can say that again, brother."

So, Randy repeated, "All the excitement of a whole, new -"

Pete, checking on Vincent whose twitching had grown much worse in the last hour, said, "Shut up, Randy."

"Still," Randy said to Robert, "I bet you'd have a great way of getting into the action."

"Oh, sure," Robert replied. "I've got it all figured out."

"Really? What would you do," Randy whispered, conspiratorially as to not attract Pete's attention.

"You sure you want to know," Robert whispered back.

"Yes!"

"Well," the treeling said, rubbing his hands together, "you did ask." Quickly, he leapt from his perch, and ran to the nearest dragon. Its head was down but when Robert jumped upon it, the dragon stood straight up. "Yah! Yah, mule," Robert shouted, pulling on the dragon's ear. The dragon was startled but sensed the way was clear. Quickly, it headed for the cave's mouth.

"No," Pete yelled.

"On Dasher! On Prancer! On Pronto! On Pinto," Robert shouted. "On Cesarian!"

Pete ran after the dragon as Randy watched the scene. "Come back here," Pete shouted. But the dragon was already outside and, as Pete got ahold of it, it began to rise.

"Hey," Randy shouted. Propelling another outside, he turned to Tetrem. "There was an emergency, right?"

"Right," Tetrem replied.

"You stay here and keep things cool or I'll kick your butt! Got it?"

Tetrem nodded.

Before his dragon could climb too high, Randy grabbed on to it and held on tight, hearing Robert distantly cry, "Up! Up! And away!"

* * *

Ny'ezia clutched the last jet and took a bite out of its pilot. It left a sour taste in her mouth, though, so she spit it out, dropping the plane along with it. Looking down, she saw the humans and dwarves attacking from the north. From the west, she heard Silen's faint voice showing her where Marcus' otherworldly army lay. But there, to the southeast, a long swath of Tsurtor's forces stood unopposed.

Ny'ezia moved down towards them, a sleek line in the sky, and, once low enough, spat balls of fire in their midst. Rising again, she smiled. Unbecoming of a lady, perhaps, but it felt good.

That was when she heard the screams to the west. Her movement stalled. From above, eight monsters loomed above her. Their wings spread widely and their tails slithered about, barbed points seeking prey. Their bodies were long, dark, and covered in bloated, swollen muscle. Long claws reached out, red eyes were filled with hate, and mouthfuls of razor sharp teeth gnashed hungrily.

Lanigan Reise had not killed all of Tsurtor's dragons at Benaatt.

Ny'ezia felt very weak all of a sudden and cried, "MY CHILDREN. WHAT HAS BEEN DONE TO YOU?"

* * *

Then, the army of Rynia, the combined might of two races and two worlds, fell upon Tsurtor's force. Banry kept Helen back as he yelled orders to his men. "Gurrak! You take the stone giants! You people are good with stone! Boom! Do what you can with the saladans!"

The dwarven axes cleaved neatly through stone arms and maces crushed bodies of rock but neither axes nor maces not any of the dwarven weapons could beat down the sand and the dwarves soon began to see casualties, too. Their skin was thicker than a human's, though, and could take more abuse. Banry knew that for every dwarf that fell, many more humans would have fallen in their place.

Boom immediately saw the futility of sending his rag-tag army against Tsurtor's modern force but knew that there was no other choice. There was but one strategy opened to him. With their mysterious allies using the same, modern, tanks and guns (Boom had almost fallen out of his saddle when he'd seen them), there was only one thing Tsurtor's men would not be expecting. "Charge!!" His scream was hoarse and brash but it was louder than the explosions and roars all around him. He took his horse in first, firing judiciously at closely assembled enemy units with his rifle. With his men rushing in from behind, closing quarters, guns would soon be useless.

Far behind, Helen saw Ostrander looking into earthen assembly. Some moved against the dwarves, he knew, but the rest were heading for the Rynian defenders to the east. Ostrander had no doubts regarding how flesh would hold out against stone or, worse, sand!

Helen shouted, "What are you going to do?"

He looked back. "Tsurtor's leading his forces from the rear but these creations have only one leader."

Helen knew who he meant. "Hargoth."

"We have an old score," Ostrander replied and headed to the west.

* * *

Behind Tsurtor's lines, a cloaked figure stepped out of the trees, behind him another appeared. Standing less tall, the second figure appeared just in time to catch the other. "Are y-you ok-kay?"

"Yes. I'm fine," replied Raphineal, leaning against a tree. "Truth be told, I've never seen anyone with your abilities. Even Vincent..." Raphineal stood up and promised, "I said I would help you control your power and that I shall. From the look of it, you're needed more than you know."

Lanigan halted as they stepped out of the trees, overlooking the battle below. "Are you s-sure?"

Raphineal turned and shook his head. "It's as we discussed. Nothing is sure, Lanigan. But you can't outrun destiny forever. You're a wizard. You're a Rynian. Tsurtor wants to make you think those are the worst things you can be. It's up to you to decide if he's right or if he's wrong."

Lanigan considered it for a moment and nodded. With little effort, he felt his curse begin.

* * *

From the other side of the lines, advanced another wizard. He didn't need help controlling his powers. If anything, he blamed himself for having too much control. He told himself that it was because he was a pacifist. He didn't kill. They called him Maker, not Killer. The fact remained, though, that the army Marcus had brought in had neither been trained nor equipped for such monstrosities as Hargoth's behemoths. Oh, Hex had seen them before. He'd seen them in Tsurtor's mind as he had been shown the fall of Benaatt and the fall of Regal Isle. He knew he was the only one who could stop them.

They're not alive, he told himself. They're not alive.

Of course, in the back of his mind, he remembered telling himself the same thing when he killed the "undead" of the last war.

Were these creatures any less "alive" than Ostrander?

Or Byron?

Or Robert?

Or Bandoo?

Hex had run all the way down from the front and now faced a line of behemoths.

Or Skates?

"I'm sorry," he said and as one behemoth reached down to grab him, he extended his magic.

It was an old trick, the excitement of atoms. He tore them apart from their basest level. As the first before him fell apart, two more approached and they shuddered to dust. Then, four approached and Hex began to get a bad feeling. He turned around, thinking he'd retreat but more behemoths had snuck up behind him. He was surrounded! He knew the only solution was to extend the effect further to encircle himself but the strain was giving him a headache.

Four more fell. Then eight more. Ten more. Where did they end? How many had Hargoth constructed? Twenty more, then twenty-five. Hex's nose began to bleed. He had to think of another way out!

I've won.

The voice came at him like a rod through his brain, halting the effect as the behemoths advanced on Hex. Immediately, he began to work his magic again and, just as soon, Tsurtor's voice pounded its way into his brain.

You don't see it, do you? You never did. You won't win. You can't win because there are things which you won't do. I don't have those restrictions, Hex!

His name was spat with all the hatred it could hold but Hex didn't let that effect him. Thirty more behemoths fell, then forty.

Your precious Rynia. You were quite the hero last time, weren't you? Now, you'll die before you see how it ends!

Hex felt something snap in his hand and he momentarily lost concentration again. Before the behemoths could descent, though, he'd killed sixty more and was surrounded by a crater of dust.

But I'll do you this service. I'll tell you how this is going to end. You're finished. You know that. The dragon bitch is gone and now I control the dragons of this world. My army is wiping out the rest of your people and, soon, even those midgets from the mountains will be gone! Then, it will be me! Me!

Eighty more behemoths fell and Hex's vision was blurring. Already, he could taste the blood in the back of his throat. "Why," he whispered.

That is your favorite question; isn't it, Hex? I could say it's because I can but you just wouldn't grasp that, would you? Very well. Let me make this clear to your thick, little brain. I didn't go through all of this because I wanted Rynia. Oh, sure. For a long time, I thought I wanted it back after what my father had done but it was more than that. Too much time had gone by for it to hold any meaning. No, I wanted Rynia. I wanted it destroyed! Ruined! I don't want to see one living creature left to walk its wasted shores! And I've done it!

Behemoths started crashing over the edges of the crater and, when Hex reduced them to dust, their remains started to fall on him and he realized with all the terror he thought he'd used up that he was being buried alive. After all, those had always been Tsurtor's only choices. Die by his hand or be buried by him.

You were raised to believe the good guys always win, Hex, but I guess the jokes on you, isn't it? The joke's on you!

The behemoths were falling apart in larger pieces now and their weight pressed down upon him, harder and harder, until he fell into the darkness.

The last thing he heard was Tsurtor... laughing.

* * *

But for all of the attention Tsurtor was paying to his defeated foe meant less he could devote to others...

"NO!!" Vincent shouted as he bolted up from the cave floor. Everything spun around him and his body was terribly weak. Where was he? Seattle? Ktoll? He couldn't see very well.

There were voices in his head, ones he hadn't heard in a long time.

"Either you master your magic or it masters you. Either way, you are responsible," Hex told him. Where were they? In the desert? Then, why was he in this cave? Vincent remembered his whole life since gaining his magic as one completely out of control. Tsurtor had wanted him to blame it on fate, blame it on others, blame it on anyone but himself. But he realized that didn't make any sense. After all, wasn't he supposed to be a hero?

"A hero, Vincent, is not one because of what he has to gain. It is because of what he has to lose." That was Rolf Heaphge. He thought they were on the outer walls of the Imperial Palace but, no, he was in this cave. He thought back to Sondolak, another wizard who would rather gain than lose and was, therefore, not worthy of be called a hero, only greedy.

Then he remembered Raphineal's words to him as Tsurtor twisted his own desire to be great. "Remember, Vincent, you're not a hero because you're great. You're great because you're a hero." Those words had come to him out of nowhere and Vincent had thought he had been hallucinating. Another person who thought he was a hero. So many people. The recognition he had once so greatly craved had been there all along, it seemed.

Then, he remembered where this cave was and, ignoring its other occupants, he stepped weakly outside. "Tsurtor! I'm coming for you," he shouted and, rising momentarily into the air, he fell into the dirt. He rose again without a thought, speeding to the south.

Tetrem watched from the cave's mouth.

"You're not a very good watcher," accused little Caroline.

* * *

Suddenly, the battle changed around Boom. With his horse shot out from beneath him, he'd fought two saladans hand-to-hand with a knife, only to find out that the little buggers (each stood shorter than most men though taller than the dwarves) spat acid. Though it didn't burn through his clothes, his left hand was mostly swollen as the price of that knowledge. He'd shouted it out and word had spread. Boom was expecting some fierce hand-to-hand fighting.

But then, as a result of Hex's attack and another to the east, the fighting dispersed and Boom pulled his pistol, emptying his cartridge into the saladans around him. As their bodies fell, he gasped at what he saw. Gabe had thought he could take on one of their towering generals on his own and, as a result, was being beaten to death on the field of battle.

Not while I've got one good hand, Boom thought. A double-bit axe lay beside a fallen defender and Boom picked it up, hurrying to Gabe's rescue. He didn't bother striking with any accuracy. Instead, he used a roundhouse swing to drive the axe deep into the general's arm. As the general collapsed, screaming, Boom rushed to Gabe's side. "You okay," he asked.

Gabe's nose was obviously broken and he bled freely from several facial lacerations. "No," was his response.

Boom didn't need for him to point to know what was happening behind him. He quickly jumped up and, turning around, watched with a mixture of horror and amazement as the enemy general stood up.

It laughed from... Boom couldn't tell where. The thing's face, well, it had no face. It was a mess of twisted and flayed flesh. Its entire body, in fact, looked like a series of infected wounds. Pulling the axe from his arm, he laughed. "You didn't actually expect that to hurt me, did you? I am beyond pain. My body is beyond feeling. When this is over, I'll walk off of this field, disinfect my wounds and move on. You, however, will be dead."

Boom's hands shook. The burn on his left hand made it almost useless. "You got to be kidding."

"Don't you wish I was? My name is Gur'tech. I'll make this quick. I have others to kill." With a low, arching blow, Gur'tech swung the axe at Boom.

Boom, being nobody's fool, ran.

"Come back here," Gur'tech shouted.

Boom knew he wouldn't have much time. His entire reason for attack was to save Gabe and now he'd given Gabe's attacker the means to kill him. Ahead, though, a saladan soldier sprayed machine gun fire at the approaching soldiers from Executive Solutions. He didn't see Boom coming until it was too late. Leaping into the air, Boom landed with his shoulder and the saladan took it on his head. With a little maneuvering, Boom snapped its neck. He picked up the machine gun and saw Gur'tech raising the axe over Gabe. Gabe could barely move but struggled to shuffled away. Boom opened fire, spraying Gur'tech with bullets until the gun was drained.

The axe had been knocked out of Gur'tech's hand by a bullet. Gur'tech had fallen to his knees. He pointed to Boom. "Now, you've made me mad."

Boom gasped, trying to draw breath, trying to run away.

And, as Gur'tech reached behind him and pulled out a gun, the realization flashed upon Boom. The bastard wasn't trying to kill Gabe outright. Of course, if he'd wanted to do it, the weapons of the dead littered the field with the dead themselves. Gur'tech had just been toying with them!

Boom desperately wanted to move. Gur'tech leveled his gun and Boom suddenly found that he could. Leaping aside, he heard the shots. He landed on the body of another dead saladan and grabbed its gun. Fighting to get up, he looked back but Gut'tech was down. Tsurtor had made him impervious to pain, not to bullets.

Boom hobbled back to Gabe and fell down beside him, out of breath. "You okay, buddy?"

"Sure," Gabe exhaled. "You?"

Boom reached down to the dull throbbing in his leg and came up with and handful of blood. "Shit," he muttered. There was still a whole war going on around him and he'd up and got a hole blown in his leg and, he thought as his body started to shiver, it wasn't even his bad leg!

* * *

Marcus watched the carnage before him with silent awe. Across the field, some kind of magic was being worked. Tsurtor's men were driving back towards it but it was obvious even to Marcus that it was out of their control. Dwarves struck the sand golems with their blunt weapons and blasted apart earth and stone with their brilliant magic. Where bolts of green flew, no longer stood a giant. Executive Solution's mechanized forces tried to rally against Tsurtor's seemingly endless numbers but knew that anywhere they struck, they might hit one of Rynia's defenders.

General Harris shouted into his monitor until he was red and Marcus stood beside him, watching.

"Mine was a peaceful nation," he finally said.

Harris looked up, surprised to hear Marcus speak. "Come again?"

"My people," Marcus indicated with a wave of his hand. "There was once a time when they had not as much as a harbor for fear of the warships which would come. Her leaders won by diplomacy and her people were generous. Now... it comes to this."

"You have to remember what you are fighting for," the general shouted. "You are defending this entire region against an evil enemy!"

"No, general," Marcus corrected, so quietly that Harris couldn't hear him over the sound of the battle. "We're defending it against ourselves."

"Damn," Harris cursed. "We are losing footing on all sides. Those little people you have called in are doing more harm than good!"

"They seem to be stopping Hargoth's troops."

"They're getting in the way!" Harris stood up, fingering his sidearms. "Tsurtor has breached our flank. We can neither hold this ground nor give it up. The enemy is not taking prisoners." He drew his guns, looking hungrily at the field. "You ready?"

"Ready," Marcus asked.

"Look, your highness, I do not intend to let your enemy roll over us without a fight." He held a gun out to the king. "Coming?"

* * *

Their fingers raked her flesh like needles of guilt and the fire they spat she felt as though she deserved it. Ny'ezia had given up her children as lost, dead, had never made an effort to find them. Now, to find they were pawns in Tsurtor's game; it was her fault they had come to this. All her fault.

Queen Mother, you have to get a hold of yourself! These creatures may have once been yours but now they are the spawn of Tsurtor's black heart! Silen's voice hit her like a slap on the cheek but her cheek was burned and bloody and she simply did not care. Even her magic failed her and, slowly, as if sliding down a slippery slope, she began to fall. This didn't stop her errant children, however. They redoubled their efforts as if to kill her before she struck the ground.

Ny'ezia! Please! You have to try! Fly to safety. Gain some altitude! I am trying to break through their mental defenses but I need time!

Ny'ezia could not fathom why she should. Would ceasing their attack make her any less guilty for their fate?

NO, Silen shouted. You are unique being! I will not allow this to happen!

But Ny'ezia knew there was nothing Silen could do. They had both lost.

Not both. For thousands of years, I have studied man. I have seen their thoughts and their hopes. When our minds first touched, it was like tasting the most refreshing drink from the cleanest spring. I will not lose you, Ny'ezia!

For all his intensity, hers was silence.

Flame engulfed her as the children attacked as one.

I am sorry you feel that way and I'm truly sorry I must do this.

The children raged against their mother closer than they'd dared if she could defend herself. So, it took them completely by surprise when her legs went rigid, her claws extended, and she spun around, cutting bodies and faces around her.

If you won't defend yourself, I will make you!

"YOU TOOK OVER MY MIND," Ny'ezia shouted.

Long ago. Or did you think that gravity had suddenly thought to be good to you?

Her teeth gritted though several lay broken in her mouth. "THERE WILL BE A RECKONING."

I anticipate it with great joy. Until then, ready yourself. I have slipped past their mental defenses.

"WHAT AM I TO DO," she asked.

I don't know. I guess it depends on if this works.

Slowly, she struggled to open one eye. The other bled and the vision was blurry but with her good eye, she saw the children flying about, readying for the killing blow. The ground came up rather quickly and, as she slowed herself, she saw the children flying in faster. Then, just as she braced herself for their painful embrace, they stopped, pinwheeling over their own wings.

They shook their heads violently back and forth as if some giant bee had gotten in and was stinging with a vengeance. The biggest of them all was flailing the worst, clawing at his ears he began to draw blood.

"SILEN," Ny'ezia mumbled through her broken jaw. "WHAT ARE YOU DOING TO THEM?"

Showing them the truth, Queen Mother. Just the truth.

In their ears, they heard the sounds of Tsurtor's servants planning their thievery. They would steal the babies from their mother. They would steal the children's lives. They would steal them away to an evil place where the children would become Tsurtor's newest playthings. In their eyes, they saw their eggs taken in some nightmarish perspective. They saw Ny'ezia return. They saw her shock, her torment, her hatred...

...her suffering...

...her love.

But what was love to ones such as these? All they'd ever known was Tsurtor's terrible experiments and dark caves. No tender touch just the cold scalpel. The needle. The psychological conditioning.

One of the children shouted. It was the first word she had ever said. "MAMA!" Then, inexplicably, she reached both of her powerful arms up to her head and snapped her own neck.

Silen was shocked by the carnage that followed. Five of the children took their own lives. Three fled in terror.

He breathed a sigh of relief (as much as that was possible for him), though, when he realized that Ny'ezia had witnessed none of the suicides. She had lost consciousness as soon as she'd hit the ground.

* * *

Kraephten didn't bother fighting with a projectile thrower (gun, he kept reminding himself). He'd always felt as if he'd been born with a vittahr in his hand and, if this was going to be the day he died, he'd die with it there as well.

The saladans didn't know what to think. In that quarter of the field, fighting was thick and the spray of a machine gun took out your compatriots just as quickly as the enemy. Hand to hand was the only method allowed and the saladans, spraying acidic venom from their hissing mouths soon began to overwhelm the surprised soldiers of Executive Solutions.

That was because they lacked the flair necessary for a good fight. Kraephten had learned, from a young age, that battle was a dance with the partners spinning to their deaths. Even on a horse, he could pirouette which was how gained the title of Mi'larha'ta, The Blade with Wings.

The saladan's venom only sprayed at closed quarters and Kraephten could place a thrust through their necks before they could open their mouths. Through the fray, he darted, flying so fast the saladans couldn't see him. Many were killed before they saw him stop to draw his blade from their necks, spurting like springs after a winter's thaw.

"Stand aside," a shout was barked from behind the crowd of saladan soldiers. "Take care of the others," the voice ordered, causing the saladans to disperse to other, more likely, victims, exposing its source. "I will kill this one."

Tomonok reared over Kraephten like some giant were-creature. His muzzle long and dripping with blood, he admitted, "You handle a blade well."

Kraephten took a moment to conceitedly dance the vittahr's hilt on his fingertip. "I get by."

"A pity that blade will be as nothing compared to the wondrous destruction I have seen that Tsurtor has in store," Tomonok yelled.

"A pity I can't give you a few lessons with the blade before I kill you but those paws -"

"Will tear open your throat before I gorge on your blood!!" Even as Tomonok shouted his threat, he launched himself at Kattox who, though he was old, knew how easily to sidestep the charge and, with a flick of his wrist, leave a humiliating trickle of blood oozing down Tomonok's face.

"Really," Kraephten said. "You're going to have to do better than that."

Tomonok did. Having gauged his enemy's speed, he threw a blow with his right paw and followed with a quick kick with his left foot. The kick caught Kraephten, who had parried the paw, on the chin and dropped him to his knees. Tomonok charged again, this time laughing.

Kraephten didn't much like the sound of his laughter. A straight thrust to the creature's neck brought it to a quick conclusion. Replaced by the animal howling of his canine form, Tomonok flew into a rage.

Ignoring the sword, Tomonok slapped Kraephten aside with his left paw and followed with a right jab. Kraephten fell but saw Tomonok clutching his neck in agony. Kraephten's face was bleeding freely from the dog's blows but knew he'd get away with only a few good scars. The dog, however, wasn't going to walk away. Kraephten would see to that. Rising as quickly as he could, he kicked high, connecting with the dog's muzzle.

It snapped Tomonok's head back but only seemed to take his mind off of his neck. "I'll kill you," the dog screamed, clutching his enemy with both of his massive arms. "Kill," he screamed again, bringing a satisfying snap of bones from his victim.

Kraephten couldn't breath and he barely had the strength to keep his eyes opened but he knew one thing above all else - this dog was male. With a sharp kick from his knee, he proved it.

Tomonok went down, clutching his gut. Kraephten fell, squirming painfully.

"Kraephten," Timothy shouted, running to his friend.

But Tomonok had already pulled out a pistol, not caring who he hit, and began firing with hateful intent at his enemy. Kraephten shook on the ground from the impact and, when Tomonok brought up his gun, Timothy leapt to one side, throwing one of his daggers. With the accuracy of long practice, the blade slipped deeply into Tomonok's right eye. The dog shuddered and then collapsed, dead.

"Kraephten! I did it! Bullseye," Timothy Holt shouted. "Did you see?" He ran over to the dog to make sure of his kill. When Kraephten didn't reply, he turned to his fallen friend.

Blood pooled around the old desert raider and Timothy collapsed in tears.

* * *

Across the field, Kell fought on alone. Her spike blades darting in and out of the fight as she kept low as General Harris had instructed. She didn't have the advantage of reach that Kraephten had possessed so she used her long legs to her advantage. Pressing through the deadly crowd, she would get in a good kick to a saladan's jaw just as it was readying to spit. Then, she would follow by cutting out its throat.

One saladan after another fell, left and right as she avenged herself for her injuries, those to her people, the dead she had mourned... the loss of Mark Nygarra.

So, it came as a shock to her when a sabre arced through the air, slicing deeply into the neck of the saladan she was about to kill. She looked away from her intended prey to the swordsman; only one man she knew fought with a sabre in Rynia. "Mark," she screamed even before she saw his face.

He nearly dropped his sword. Standing there, covered in the blood of his victims along with some of his own, his mouth opened but he could not speak.

She didn't care. Inverting her spike-blades, lest she carelessly stab her beloved, she charged the duke, her lips crashing against hers like waves upon a long dry shore. He didn't even think of lifting his arms as he returned the kiss, living in her lips and her arms.

Then, he saw the saladan coming from behind. With one arm, he turned her away. With the other, the thrust deep into the lizard-man's gut, letting the creature's falling body draw his sword from its flesh.

When he turned, he saw that Kell had killed another saladan who had come up behind him.

Then, they kissed again. Nothing else existed outside of the occasional kill not even the glowing nimbus of magical energy exploding to the east.

* * *

To the north, where Banry shouted orders to those men and dwarfs who remained, another of Tsurtor's divisions attacked. Many of Banry's troops had fallen before Tsurtor's modern weapons, only the press of the armies saved them. Banry remained towards the back of his troops, holding his position to protect his princess, but his skin crawled at the sight of other men dying before him.

Then, a metal horse thundered to the fore, causing Banry's men to pause. The creature above it was hideous, huge tusks protruding on either side of a pig's snout. As it climbed off of the metal horse, which Hex would have instantly known to be a Harley-Davidson. It snorted, "Who is in command here?"

Banry motioned his men to let him ride forward, believing that the swine may have been calling for a truce. "I am the commander of these forces," Banry replied, riding forth. "My name is Banry Ellison."

"Ellison," the swine asked.

"Yes."

"Well, I am Huk'ra, Tsurtor's most favored general. I remember you, Ellison. You were on the walls when we took that village to the north. Benaatt," he screeched.

"Benaatt," Banry asked, his throat dry.

"Yes," Huk'ra snorted. "I feasted on meat pie for days!"

With his bat at ready in his hands, Banry shouted, "What have you come for other than your death, swine? Tell me, before I kill you myself!!"

"But that's just it. I want some enjoyment before we finish you. I want to kill you myself!"

"Then why the show," Helen yelled. "You have those guns!"

"Very good point the girl makes. What a fine time I'll have with her, spread upon my table." Huk'ra reached down and pulled a bat from one of Rynia's dead soldiers hands. "Get off that horse, Ellison. It would be no fun killing you from across the field. Tsurtor's made me strong and quick. See if you can take me."

Banry looked at Helen who quickly shook her head. "I have to," he quietly explained. Climbing down from his horse, he brought up his bat at ready. "Have at you, swine."

"Oh, what a defiant spirit," Huk'ra exclaimed as he brought up his bat. "I'm going to enjoy this." Without a hint of his intent, he charged at Banry before the human could see it coming.

But Banry had his bat at ready. Though he couldn't dodge the bore's charge, he turned his weapon to meet Huk'ra's. Lifting himself against his enemy's momentum, Banry rolled over Huk'ra's back, landing ready again to fight.

"Impressive move," Huk'ra allowed.

"It's taught to any cadet," Banry spat, throwing himself back into the battle. Putting all his weight into a left thrust with the blunt end of his bat, he wasn't surprised to see Huk'ra block it soundly. Then, he turned the end, causing Huk'ra to turn his as well, opening his right elbow which Banry struck soundly with the other end of his bat.

Huk'ra screamed, holding his limp arm against his side. His eyes flared red and his tusks gnashed but his counter attack was not paused. He swung the bat with his left hand low then high, blocked both times by Banry who couldn't afford to risk a riposte; Huk'ra's savagery provided no option but parry.

Then, the bat was in both of Huk'ra hands, Banry's blow having worn off, and Huk'ra's attack came on worse than ever. Lunging with the bat's sharp end, Huk'ra had Banry jumping from side to side leaping away just as the swine was within centimeters of skewering him. Banry knew he couldn't stay on the defensive forever. Risking Huk'ra's powerful stab, Banry stayed his ground. Swinging his bat at the last possible second, when Huk'ra's bat was less than a second from piercing his side, Banry hit the bat when Huk'ra had it in just one hand. The blow knocked it free and the bat went sailing.

"Now," Banry panted, "let's see how you do unarmed." He didn't wait before swinging and the bat connected with Huk'ra unprotected head. Huk'ra fell, clutching his face in agony. Banry didn't care; all he thought of was Benaatt. Holding his bat over his head, he hammered down with both hands upon the swine's skull. But Huk'ra had known the blow was coming and charged Banry, lifting him into the air and dropping him onto the hard ground. Crashing on his right shoulder, Banry knew something was wrong when he tried to draw breath. Huk'ra had gored him with his tusk and blood flowed freely from his gut.

Huk'ra stood above him, his face twisted. Half of it was obviously caved from Banry's blow. One tusk was shattered. His face was a mix of Banry's spilled blood and Huk'ra own flowing from his wounds. The swine drew a long knife from his boot. "Now," he snorted. "This ends."

Huk'ra charged, stabbing at the ground where Banry lay but he was just as weakened as the Rynian army's leader. Banry found the energy to twist out of the blade's path and looking up, behind him, he scuttled in that direction. Huk'ra kept charging and kept stabbing, scraping the ground upon which Banry had just lay. The swine chased him for nearly a meter.

With a screech, Huk'ra threw himself for what he knew had to be the final blow but Banry held the bat towards which he'd been racing. Braced against the land itself, Huk'ra slid down on its sharpened end. Impaled, he surrendered his final breath.

Banry struggled to rise. Clutching his side, he shouted to his men, "Kill them. All of them."

* * *

In the back of his mind, Sam knew he shouldn't have been any part of this. Sure, he'd won awards in jujitsu. He could probably take on any man he wanted but that was neither what he wanted nor what he faced. Slipping beside Byron, whom he'd lost track of, he found himself fighting side by side with the dwarfs. The dwarven magic had made quick work of the sand golems and the stone giants quickly fell but, armed with a dwarven pike, there was little Sam could do in the fight against the behemoths.

It didn't matter, though. The behemoths charged at him, separating him from the nearest dwarven warriors.

Dodging this way and that, Sam quickly devised a strategy. Like judo, the only way he could prevail against creatures three times larger than he, armed with only a pike of vibrant silver with an onyx tip, was to use their leverage against them. He couldn't keep dodging, keeping his distance. Like it or not, if he was to fight these things, he'd have to get up close and personal.

The lumbering mass of the behemoths made it very hard to use their own weight against them, though, and Sam reverted to dodging around the four behemoths which attacked him for safety.

"Banzai!!" The cry was small and faint but it was screamed like an attack sure and true.

And Sam knew that voice.

Above him, falling as certainly as one of the kamikaze's he mimicked, Robert fell from one of the baby dragons. Randy came down right after him without too far to fall, leading with his feet, shouting, "Geronimo!!" Pete remained upon his dragon as it descended until the last minute, screaming, "Oh, shit!"

Robert made a sure-footed landing up one of the massive stone giants while Randy's feet struck another's head, knocking it to the ground. Pete helped Randy to his feet and both rushed out of another behemoth's path to stand near Sam.

"Hey, guys," Robert called. Standing on the head of one of the behemoths, he wiggled about like a worm on a hook. "Look at me," he chimed gleefully. Then, as one of the other behemoths hammered its giant fist down upon him, he leapt easily to the giant's shoulder while one behemoth took off the other's head.

As the ruins of the giant fell, Robert jumped deftly into Pete's hands. "Big, dumb, stupid, pile of rocks," he gloated.

Meanwhile, Sam ran to the side as another of the stone creations charged at the WFRs. Jamming his pike into the broken pieces of another behemoth, he stayed a hair's breath away from its hand as it charged him. Free of the hesitation and fumbling that had plagued him as he fought alone, he led the giant straight towards his pike, waiting until its foot was jammed into the trap. Then, he let its hand reach down to him. Fingers as huge as human arms encircled him and he held onto them, pulling the behemoth off balance. It fell so quickly, he hadn't time to get completely out of the way.

"Sammy," his two friends call, climbing the wreckage. Robert was at him first, though, jumping on his face. "You big idiot. What's wrong with you?"

As Sam extricated himself, he answered, "I bruised my leg pretty bad."

"No," Robert shouted, poking Sam right between the eyes. "I mean up here! Hey, that was pretty fun." Again he poked Sam, and again, and again. "How do you like it, huh?"

By that time, Sam had a free hand and pulled Robert from where he was sitting on the bridge of Sam's nose. That's when he saw the last behemoth bearing down on them. A cane was jammed into its hip joint and it was furiously failing at regaining its balance. Sam charged at Randy and Pete, knocking them clear of the plummeting remains of the rock giant. When he turned, he saw Bethel taking off its head just to be sure.

"Are you always going to need me to watch out for you, Samuel Gobel," Bethel asked.

I sure hope so, he thought.

"Look," Pete said, pointing to the east, "what's that?"

They all looked, transfixed by the towering cyclone of magically disassembling matter. All fighting around them seemed to stop as the power spastically churned out of control.

* * *

There was one creature who cared little about the magical display to the east. It was to the north that he climbed. From up on an outcrop of rock, the object of his hatred, his original creator, Hargoth hollered his orders as his creations.

Ostrander knew he didn't have to do that. Ostrander knew that Hargoth could easily have spoken to his creations telepathically just as Tsurtor spoke to his underlings. But Ostrander knew why Hargoth stood up there shouting commands. It was because Hargoth did not only love his power, he loved people to know he had it.

From his vantage point at the base of the rock outcrop, Ostrander remembered with terrible clarity the day Hargoth had given him life. His purpose had been no more than a slave's. He was not to think, nor to feel. He certainly wasn't supposed to speak.

But he did. Standing in the soggy earth from which he'd risen, he looked down at his grotesque, malformed body. "What am I," he asked.

"You are nothing," Hargoth had answered. "Nothing more than a strand fallen from the cloak of my greatness. You should feel privileged that I have given you the sad existence you have. Now, go. Ready yourself to execute your every command."

Ostrander had shuffled off then, his feet sticking to the ground for fear of losing touch with that thing from which he'd come. He obeyed every order, just as his parent had commanded, and never spoke again unless ordered, never to feel his parent's touch or to know his parent's approval. Until Hex, that is.

Looking up at Hargoth, Ostrander knew that he was no longer his creation. He had transcended Hargoth's touch long ago. (No longer was he Hex's creation, either, but he held on to that part of him because he found it noble.) A part of him, though, knew where justice lie. As a creature made of stone, as a creature once tainted by Hargoth's touch, as a sentient creature, he knew what must be done.

Slowly, his feet steadily lifting and falling upon the rock, his articulated fingers flexing and his face showing all the emotion of any natural being, he approached Hargoth.

Hargoth was too busy enjoying his power even to notice Ostrander until Ostrander was almost a meter away. Then, seeing this being more subtle in form, sublime in essence, than he could ever be capable, Hargoth took a step back in fright. He didn't recognize Ostrander - at least, he thought he didn't - but there was something... something there. "Who are you?"

"Don't you recognize me, Hargoth?" Ostrander's voice held a more threatening timbre than he had thought possible.

Hargoth looked him over with a mixture of awe and disgust. "You're something one of those humans made," he accused. "Who did it? Who is trying to make their name on a cheap copy of my work? Was it Hex? That pretender! I should have killed him when I had the chance!"

"Yes," Ostrander spat. "It was Hex. It was Hex who saved me after you had me bring him to his death. But he didn't die! He prevailed farther that you gave him credit!"

"Prevailed," Hargoth screamed, nearly falling backwards off of the rock outcrop. Ostrander had backed him up and now he had nowhere to go. Instead, he circled around. "What are you talking about? What do you mean? I had you bring him to his death?"

"Just like the others," Ostrander yelled. "You had me kill them one by one before you decided there wasn't enough sport in that! Then, you had me send them against the undead \- only they weren't undead, you fiend! They were living people!"

"Of course they were," Hargoth yelled, discounting Ostrander's hatred. "That's why it was so fun. The irony of it all!"

"You want to talk about irony?" Ostrander's voice exploded over the hillside. "Let's talk about irony, Hargoth! You want to know who I am? I'll tell you! I come from the very rock of these mountains!"

"Impossible," Hargoth scoffed.

"I was given life by two human children!"

"Nonsense!"

"They were the children of those undead you so glibly had the magicians killing! I brought them over from their world after falling into Tsurtor's gate which ended the last war!"

Hargoth gasped. "What?"

"I went there with Hex!"

"You? You?" Hargoth could not accept what his mind was telling him but he knew how the last war had ended. "You couldn't have!"

For the first time, Ostrander reached a hand out to Hargoth and, this time, Tsurtor's servant did not move fast enough. "I was there with Hex because it was Hex who remade me," Ostrander shouted over the sounds of battle and the screams from his own heart, clutching Hargoth's arm. "It was Hex who saved me after the flimsy body you had given me fell apart! It was Hex who I was sent along with to see to it that he died just like the many others! Do you recognize me now, father? Do you see?"

"Impossible," Hargoth screamed. Flinging himself away from his child, unconcerned with the fall below, Hargoth lashed out with the strongest Breaking magic he could summon. Chips flew from Ostrander's arm as he raised them to block the blow. Hargoth's magic flared again, scorching Ostrander's shoulder. "I'll take you apart! I'll reduce you to dust! You cannot stand against me! I've been turned to rubble before and it is meaningless!!"

Ostrander shielded himself from Hargoth's wild magic, holding his own for the proper time to strike. Again and again, Hargoth magic hammered against him, breaking bits and pieces from Ostrander's once beautiful body. Then, Hargoth stood upon the center of the huge rock formation; his magic was straining.

Ostrander knew his time had come. Lowering his arms, he locked them onto Hargoth's shoulder and, looking into his eyes, said, "I have no intention of blasting you into rubble." Magic, hot and true, coursed through Hargoth's body out of Ostrander's hands. 'Trander's eyes flared with commitment no matter how despicable his act may seen to others, to Hex.

"What are you doing," Hargoth yelled in pain.

"What needs to be done," Ostrander replied, saving his strength for the magic he still needed to work.

Hargoth tried to move but found that he couldn't. His legs were frozen. Looking down, he saw to his horror that they had become one with the rock beneath him. All those around looked up when they heard his screams. Now, every bit of power remaining in Hargoth went towards killing his child. No longer could he flee. He was fighting for his life. Flares of destroyed matter leaped from Ostrander's skin. The sky lit, threatening to dominate the display in the east, but Ostrander did not move.

All of his strength went into his magic and it was the worst feeling he had ever known. When his arm had cracked from saving Ny'ezia's babies, it hadn't been this bad. Even when he had died from saving his own children, the pain hadn't been so great.

Because, this time, he was killing.

Hargoth's arms froze solid, standing out like limbs on a dead tree. His body stopped twisting in vain. Soon, his neck stood motionless as well. But Hargoth fought to stay alive. "W-w-h-a-t a-r-e y-o-u," he asked, pitifully.

Ostrander looked at him, too exhausted for hate, and replied, "A strand." Then, with the last of his will, solidified the last remnants of Hargoth. Now, the evil stone giant would remain motionless, eroding over the years like a common rock. Ostrander stumbled down, looking at Hargoth's creations stagger about confusedly.

As he walked, he found a mound of rock and dirt. Hex had pulled himself out halfway from the base. Ostrander reached down and pulled the Maker the rest of the way out.

Hex's eyes fluttered. "Oh. Hi."

"Having trouble?"

"No more than usual," Hex replied, coughing up a mouthful of muck. "What happened?"

"Hargoth is finished. The battle is chaos."

"No. No. More than that," Hex said, pointing to the east. "Look!"

* * *

Raphineal could feel his mouth bleeding, no one salivated this much. He was nearly blind. His body was numb. He knew he wouldn't hold out much longer.

As soon as Lanigan's magic had begun to work itself (for, in truth, his well of power was too great for anyone to truly control), Raphineal had seen his folly. Better still to try and rein in a singularity. (Perhaps, Raphineal thought, if I knew more about Rynian magic...) All the same, Lanigan's magic was working. Saladan soldiers had immediately opened fire but the bullets had turned into specks of light on contact. Raphineal had foolishly told Lanigan to extend his magic as far as he could. Having never allowed that to happen before, not even in the battle for Benaatt, Lanigan fretted despite Raphineal's promise to help him control his immense power.

But he did as Raphineal asked.

Soon, the soldiers themselves were caught up in the whirlpool of power caused by the Destruction of matter. Much like feeding a fire, though, the more his magic Destroyed, the more it grabbed onto.

Tsurtor's tanks bombarded Lanigan only to see their shells engulfed. Soon, the tanks themselves were eaten.

Raphineal held onto Lanigan tightly as his magic surrounded them in a tempest of destruction. Enemy soldiers were eaten like twigs, even the land around them began to fall.

Lanigan looked, panic-striken, at his mentor. Both knew that things had grown terribly out of control. Lanigan's pores began to bleed out as the magic's intensity tore at its source. Looking at Raphineal through bleeding eyes, Lanigan cried for help.

Raphineal held onto the young magician as tightly as he could but saw even that wasn't enough. Lanigan's magic was fighting even this modicum of control. How far away it stretched, he couldn't see. He only knew that less than a square meter around them remained. Raphineal felt his skin tear in the tempest. Lanigan screamed through bleeding lips.

The tempest reached up into the sky, dominating the horizon.

King Marcus and General Harris, fighting with General K'tan, gave it pause even in their battle to the death. K'tan took the opportunity and Harris was quickly dead. Clutched in K'tan's sharp claws, his side flayed open, Marcus pumped his last round into his enemy's chest. Covered in a mixture of blood, warmed by the torrent springing from Harris' jugular, Marcus resigned himself to Gerrit as K'tan stepped forward, not blown back by the bullets as he'd hoped, exhaling hot, bloody breath upon Rynia's king.

Then, they both fell and K'tan released Marcus and Harris' dead body.

Marcus saw the sweaty, bloody image of Red Martag pull a dwarven axe from K'tan's back. "I thought the bastard would be impossible to kill."

Red didn't reply. He lifted the axe and pointed behind him. There, the whirlpool of destruction grew. "We're running to the west," he panted. "Something terrible." He put his hand down to help Marcus up but Marcus didn't rise.

His body suddenly felt numb. Cold, for some reason, it hurt Marcus to talk, to breathe. His vision was playing tricks on him. Having lived through the battle, Marcus could feel he was dying. Damned earth Bonders, he thought.

Red saw Marcus reach weakly towards him and considered nothing else. He threw down his axe and picked up his king, his friend. Marcus weighed a lot less than Red had thought he would. Quickly, Martag hurried across the field.

"Look," Hex gasped. Everyone around them, it seemed, was running either north or west and, with Ostrander's help, he did the same.

Timothy pulled Kraephten to safety, not strong enough to pick up his friend. Samuel, Bethel, Randy, and Pete ran to the north, Robert safely in Pete's hand. Banry ordered his men away and Mark and Kell decided they'd suspend their greetings until later.

Boom looked up at the approaching storm, saw the flashes of magical energy and the explosions of converting matter, helpless. He never had been much of a praying man, always liked to think of himself as the only atheist in the foxhole, so he gritted his teeth and watched the whirlpool's grow to within a hand's breadth away.

Inside, Lanigan was nearly dead. Raphineal wanted to save him, wanted to rein in the boy's cursed power but it was too much. Something exploded above him and he saw the storm closing in. Around him, the sky filled with hurricane winds and blood, his own blood. He looked at his hands and saw the blood freely spill from his flesh.

Lanigan was slipping from his hands and, Raphineal noticed, it didn't matter. He could see the boy was still.

Lanigan was dead.

And still the storm continued.

Raphineal had believed, as had everyone, that once the wizard was dead, so too would be his works. Lanigan's magic had always been different, though, with its own will. It never needed Lanigan to act and so it had been a curse.

"NO," came Tsurtor's cry as he flew above the remnants of the two armies.

Hex looked in terror. Tsurtor was not supposed to be able to fly.

"NO ONE WILL DEFEAT ME! YOU WOULDN'T BOW TO MY WILL! NOW YOU WILL PAY THE ULTIMATE PRICE!"

What price, thought Helen.

From the north, another voice cried out, a young, familiar voice, and Samuel's heart broke at its sound, "You aren't going to do anything!" With a burst of magic, Vincent flung Tsurtor from the skies.

But Tsurtor didn't hit the ground. He flew up again, launching coils that wrapped around Vincent, drawing him near. "YOU THINK YOU'VE WON? YOU HAVEN'T WON! I'LL DESTROY YOU ALL!"

"What's happening," Ostrander asked.

Hex whispered, "I'm afraid to find out."

Tsurtor's hooks tore Vincent's flesh and his power battered Vincent's psyche but Vincent felt little of it. This new body which Tsurtor had given him could take it. Vincent had been through enough. He knew what he had to do. He grabbed onto Tsurtor's appendages and pulled his once master closer.

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING?

Vincent took a handful of Tsurtor's horrendous coils and pulled. "Killing you."

"No," Hex gasped.

Samuel was trembling. "Vincent. Don't."

"Oh my God," one of Executive Solution's soldiers cried. "Look!"

Above them, like the eyes of a demon, two missiles descended. Nearly everyone who knew what that meant, screamed in terror.

Randy sank to his knees. "He's gonna nuke us."

"YOU SEE! I'VE WON! NOW IT'S TIME FOR YOU TO DIE! YOUR TIME HAS RUN OUT!"

"NO," Vincent shouted, drawing Tsurtor closer. "Your time has run out!"

Tsurtor turned from Vincent, trying to pull himself away, but met a wall of solid air. Summoning all of his power, he battered Vincent's wall -

\- but it remained. "NO!!"

Vincent whispered, for Tsurtor was now close enough to hear, "Time for you to die." Tsurtor's missiles sped down upon the two wizards as the tempest of Lanigan's magic inexplicably charged upon the two.

"Oh, no," spoke Hex through clenched teeth.

In an instant, as the two wizards were struck by worst of both worlds, the sky blazed with an incredible light. Nothing else existed.

Pete waited where he'd fallen upon the ground for the fireball to reduce him to ash. He should have been dead in an instant.

Somehow, he remained.

The light faded.

He looked around, still alive.

Beside him, Samuel was crying.

* * *

The rest seemed like something out of a dream. Hex and Ostrander fell immediately into healing the many wounded but there was so little they could do. They were but two amidst thousands. Though Executive Solutions' soldiers were all equipped with first aid gear and knowledge enough to help their fellows and many of these pitched in to help along with the two Bonders, many of Rynia's defenders died unnecessarily.

Somewhere amidst all of that, Boom dragged himself forth. Touched by the destruction magic but not engulfed, his wounds were cauterized and Hex had to leave the bullets in. Ostrander found Timothy approaching but didn't know Kraephten. Timothy didn't know Ostrander, either, but both were so numb that it didn't matter.

From the north, Sam, Bethel, Randy, Pete, Helen, and Banry, along with hundreds of dwarves arrived at what was turning into a huge camp.

The noise of the dead and dying, the healers and the crying, ceased with an awed hush. Hex finished healing another in an endless series of lacerations and looked up to see what had happened.

Red Martag hardly had the energy to stumble but knew he had to walk. In his arms lay Rynia's king. Behind them, came Kell and Mark, shocked by the sight. Hex heard Helen cry out as she ran to her father's side.

"Put me down," Marcus wheezed to his friend. "I'll die here as well as anyplace else."

"No," Helen gasped. "No! You won't die!"

"Hush, child," Marcus barely found the strength to say. "Face the truth or you'll surely fall into the same trap that brought us here."

"But father," Helen whimpered, tears streaming from her eyes. She'd been strong for long enough. Now, that facade fell away.

"Listen," Marcus whispered. Helen took his hand and he said, "Tell Hex he'd better take good care of you. You're very precious. Never -" His gut spasmed and his eyes rolled up into his head.

"Father!" Helen screamed. Hex, who had been carefully making his way through the crowd, now broke into a run.

"Nnno," Marcus was barely heard to say. Now, it took all of his strength just to move his lips and, he knew, that only seconds remained. "You've always made me very proud."

Helen held him close, her tears mingling with his sweat-soaked hair. Then, he was still. Helen's sobs were heard almost throughout the camp.

Hex ran up behind her and breathlessly gasped, "Oh, my god."

Helen turned around, her arms out like a child. As Hex embraced her, she cried, "I thought you were dead. I really thought you were dead! I thought you'd both come back alive but then, father -"

"Sshhh," he whispered. "I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."

They held each other for a long time, both crying as if no one else was there to see them. Then, they heard a voice.

"Hex."

Silen stood there like a ghost, though his physical form, the ancient computer, was very nearby. All of his concentration was focused on the woman in his arms and he focused little on his own image. As he put her on the ground, it was obviously Ny'ezia, torn and bloody from her fight. "She'll die if you don't help her, Hex. I've done all I can but - but - her children, Hex - you have to help her."

Hex looked at Helen who nodded, letting him go, and he knelt down beside the dragon's human form. "I know, Silen," he replied. "I'll do all I can."

Kell put her hand on Silen's shoulder. "You love her, don't you?"

"Me," Silen asked, unaccustomed to the idea and the feeling.

Nobody heard anything from Robert that day. He kept looking up into the sky, waiting for Vincent to miraculously reappear.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

VICTORY

Three months later the sun streamed through a new window, warming the room within. It wasn't the kind of window Hex would have seen back on earth but it was far better than the types Rynians had been using for centuries. As Hex had predicted, earth technology was quickly making itself felt amid the old, Rynian ways. With Silen's help, he had built gateways to Move as many earthlings as he could back home. Surprisingly, however, many of them remained. Attracted by the simpler life and cleaner environment, it was as close to a second chance as many of them would get.

Pete and Randy had wanted to stay with Samuel but he wouldn't hear of it. They still had their lives ahead of them back in the U.S. and both he and Hex had agreed that they could get around the F.B.I. with a little help from Executive Solutions. And, so, promising that he'd visit them as soon as possible, Sam saw his two friends off. Robert, however, remained.

He said that he had to. With Hex, Mark, Helen, Banry, and Red trying to rebuild a kingdom suffering from the scars of a painful war with the problems of two cultures clashing, they'd need all the help they could get.

Hex looked out the window at the construction outside. A rebuilt kingdom would need a capitol. Regal Isle was a dead zone, ruined by Hargoth's creations. The new alliances with the dwarves and the dragons required the new capitol to be nearby. And, so, Benaatt was being rebuilt once more.

"Where will the Palace lie," Silen had asked once the plans were completed.

"I don't know if we'll have a palace," Hex had replied. "With the population of Americans we have now, they'll want a representative form of government."

"You mean castrate the monarchy as they did in Tzurritza," Helen had asked, obviously appalled.

"Sure," Boom agreed from his chair. Though he could again walk, he was always more comfortable sitting. "Give the people back their freedom."

"Exactly," Hex had responded. "The Rynians, having come from a more advanced society, must have once had a democracy."

"Uh, Hex," Silen interrupted. "Don't assume that just because a society is advanced, they have the same philosophies towards governing as you. That's bordering on the egotistical."

"You mean," Hex had asked.

"That's right. The settlers on Rynia came from a world with a long history of monarchs."

And, so, the monarchy would have to remain in one form or another.

But, how? Hex had little experience in forming governments and scratched out everything he'd been writing there at his desk, sick of the futility.

"Why the grumpy, little guss," Robert asked. "It could be worse. It could be raining."

"Or," Byron added, "we could all be dead."

"Yeah," Robert exclaimed. "It's not like we lost."

"Isn't it," Hex asked. "Tsurtor wanted to topple the government, destroy the Imperial Palace, finish the royal family, introduce advanced technology and advanced ideas into the society. Now, the Palace is gone, we're drawing up a new government, we have earth technology and earth ideas. Even that Machinist Guild in Tzurritza couldn't have done Tsurtor's work for him as fast as we have. He might be dead, Robert, but I think we helped Tsurtor win." Hex frowned, upset at the thought, looking down at more blank paper.

"Perhaps," Byron suggested, sitting at the window, "if you started, 'When in the course of human events'?"

"Or, how about, 'We the people, in order to form a more perfect union'," Robert said from upon the desktop. "That way people could sing it!"

"What I need," Hex sighed, "is quiet."

"Tough going," Helen asked, stepping inside. She'd just come from the fields, where she had been playing politician. The people needed a figurehead to get them back up on their feet and Helen was a quick study. Her hair was short, something Hex was getting slowly used to. She cut most of it off after the war, rather than wash all of the blood out. She said she'd felt dirty; Hex could easily understand.

He looked around, thinking of their new house. It held only four rooms. One for Caroline (though she'd been told that she'd have to share it with the baby, by and by), a bedroom and an office for Hex and Helen, and a common room. Sam and Red, both elected heads of the rebuilding effort, promised them a bathroom with real plumbing in less than a year. Though the people expected them to live in a palace, Hex was just happy to see Helen's face every morning.

"I can't do this," he lamented.

"Sure, you can," Helen said. "It's your job." She planted a kiss on Hex that immediately perked him up. "Anyway, we have to get ready. So put that down."

"Ready," Hex asked.

"The wedding dinner."

* * *

Mark didn't think she'd want her wedding rushed but, after being split up for so long, Kell would not wait. Most of her family was called up for the occasion, bearing enough to congratulate the royal family of Rynia on their victory and hold a proper wedding celebration for their youngest sister. Though Bernise Holl also begged off of the long trip, Pallo Saldia brought a proper contingent of the Council. Even Bertrum Typewriter, only recently back from Yrachi, came, dragging Charles Carburetor along. Melissa Refrigerator could not be kept away and quickly became the Patrizzi Guild's first ambassador to a foreign nation. Simply, she refused to leave Kraephten's side again.

The wedding itself lay in a meadow just south of the rebuilding city. Nearly everyone who could remained standing. Chairs were at a premium. Gabe Hernandez built Kraephten a wheelchair so the old, desert raider could be back in the saddle as Mark's best man.

But it wasn't Mark Nygarra's and Kelly Adson's wedding alone. Oh, no! Another couple, only recently decided on their future together, insisted on sharing the day.

When the service was over, however, and the celebration had truly begun, Kell was looking for her spike-blades. "I'll tear the snake's throat out!"

"Now, dear," Mark said, trying to calm her, "is that any way to remember your wedding day?"

"She showed me up! She purposely came looking better than me!"

"Come now." Mark pulled her closer lest she get away. "Nobody believes that."

"Lose the flattery, dukie!"

"Well, she is a dragon, after all!"

Kell pulled herself from her husbands arms. "A dead one, if I have anything to say about it!"

"Kell," Mark nearly shouted.

"And that remark," Kell snapped, turning back to her mate. Affecting a Ny'ezia-like air, she pronounced, "Til death do you part, eh? Well, at this rate, that shouldn't take too long." She snarled, "I'll rip her forked tongue out!"

Hex looked at Silen as he poured himself a brandy. One of the benefits of being Silen was that he could speak to all of the guests he pleased - while keeping his attention on his new wife. "You sure this is a good idea?"

"The best, Hezekiah!" Silen was positively jubilant and why not? The worst of times had been put behind them. Now was the time to release the held breath of fear - to breathe again - to live!

"I still don't understand how you talked her into it."

"Quite simple, really. I told her my battery cell only had a couple of hundred years left to it. She figured she could last that long and, I think, she was intrigued by the uniqueness of the situation."

Hex nodded and sipped his drink. "How much longer does your battery cell have, Silen?"

The computer smiled. "It's a gravi-metric design which you might understand if I explained it to you. Needless to say, I should be around as long as this planet. How's that sound?"

Hex smiled. "I think I see a divorce in your future."

"Sure," Silen said, "but oh, what fun!"

* * *

With morning, most of the wedding's guests were in their rooms or their tents, still in bed, sleeping off their overindulgences. Sam, however, was practicing his horse riding skills. It took him several hours before he reached his destination, the ruins of Country Gardens. It didn't surprise him that nothing remained.

He just wanted to see something he could feel attached to, something like home, something that took him near to Vincent. He tried not to blame himself but how could he avoid it? Now, a cold, empty place remained where his brother had once been.

He'd come alone. As attracted to Bethel as he may be (he still felt her body pressing close to his as they danced during the previous evening's festivities), he had a lot of thinking to do. He couldn't help but think it wouldn't be so bad if not for something Robert had said.

He still remembered, looking out upon the battlefield shortly after their victory, tears making a mess of his face and Robert asking, "You don't really think he's dead, do you?"

* * *

Later, Hex made a long awaited announcement. After all, his new daughter had to have a name. He and Helen had made the decision together and had asked the permission of the person responsible. That night, he gave the little girl a kiss on the cheek and said, "Goodnight, little Nysa."

It had been Helen's idea. Hex couldn't think of anything more wonderful. Ny'ezia had been the one who had literally saved their child and saved his wife as well. Who better to name the little one after?

"Daddy," Caroline asked. "Let me kiss her, too."

"Sure, honey," Hex said. Lifting the baby out of her crib, Hex sat down, cradling Nyza in his arms. "Here," he offered.

"Goodnight, Nysa," Caroline said. "You're named after a dragon so you're gonna be a magic baby!" She gave her sister a wet smooch and asked, "She's gonna be magic, isn't she, daddy?"

Hex pulled Caroline close with his other arm and replied, "I think you're both pretty magic, honey."

Hex felt his heart well up in his chest and thought about tomorrow. For the first time in a long time, it looked very good.

THE END

# Author's Note

You can follow my continuing story and artistic endeavors on the web and in future publications.

As I draft this special, digital edition in 2011, I am actively pursuing a career writing novels and plays. You can find me all over the web. Just search by my name, **Ken La Salle**. You can also find me at the following locations:

**MY SIDE. THE BLOG** : http://mysidetheblog.blogspot.com/.

**ONE PATH** : http://twolivesonepath.blogspot.com/.

**KEN LA SALLE.** You can follow my writing career at: http://kenlasalle.blogspot.com/.

Thank you for your support in making my story a success with this and future work.

