 
Khing

Book One: Ash makes Friends

by William A. Patrick III

Copyright © 2002 by William A. Patrick III

Smashwords Edition

This is a trilogy, the first book is free; the other two books cost a nominal fee.

This is a work of fiction; any similarities between actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

"So, let us not be blind to our differences–

but let us also direct attention to our

common interests and to the means by which

those differences can be resolved. And if

we cannot end now our differences, at least

we can help make the world safe for diversity.

For, in the final analysis, our most basic common link

is that we all inhabit this small planet. We

all breathe the same air. We all cherish

our children's future. And we are all mortal."

John Fitzgerald "Jack" Kennedy

"Peace Speech"

American University June 10, 1963

For Linda and our Families.

Cast of Characters

In the Land of Magic

The wizards;

Pennfield—Inventor of the Veil, a wizard (long, long gone)

Simon—Isuair's mentor, a wizard (long gone)

Isuair—Also called Eye or The Eye, a wizard

Dral—or The Dral (Whilliam Mercure the Great), a wizard

Iminia—Keeper of the Keep, a wizard

All the king's men (In the land of Alrica);

The King—Dealoraat Comeratte

His Majesty's Armies;

His brother, the Duke Herbaral

Vel—a Regular Guard with the rank of Lieutenant

Haines—an Elite Captain

Mo—an Elite Lieutenant

Bri—a Near Elite

Tara—the king's own Healer

(Lent to the prince for a time)

The Selcogin Monastery;

Diase—Simon's and the Dral's understudy

Leif—a brother of Noble birth

The Cave People;

Komana—the leader of the Isamari

His Army of thousands

The Group;

Rehoak—an ex-soldier turned merchant, turned soldier

Gractah—a member of the king's Inner Guard, the Elite, from the town of Adlia

Erow—a Gray Guard Lieutenant of great renown

Gwere—the king's favorite Captain, known for his great size

Linderwan—A Warrior of Noble Birth adopted by peasants

Massali—Nicknamed Mara by Ash, was found wandering the

Nong. Recruited by the Mara Nation

Ash—A Traveler

The Girls;

Dorian

Ashley

Aisha

Brendie

The Enemy,

The Alannas, (From the their exile in the Land of Vallhalaka);

Chracuis—The Alannas King

The Armies of the Alannas

Patrice—the Alannas Captain

Brady—Patrice's Lieutenant

Deira—a Corporal under Brady

Freggcorm—the Alannas boat designer

Marium—A First Sergeant

Aspinal—The General of the North Armies

The Movement;

Galso—The Movement Leader

Garothe—A Movement Commander

Barouk—The General, MPN 53

Feadroi—The General, MPN 125

Roden—the Captain of the original Sixth Army

The Dral's men;

Davallal—the Dral's servant

The Mara Nation;

The Armies of the Nation

The Mara queen—Sahair Cuorisig

Softlee—The Queen's Handmaiden

Calé—Massali's protégé, and a Princess in Waiting

The Suvra Nation—A Warrior Race of Women,

described as being similar to the Mara

In the Land of machines;

Ash—A Street Person, 40-50 years old, who chronicles his story, from his youth to present, in his writings and while speaking to the Labcoat (In italics)

Marla—A girl from South Central who became a nurse

Linda—Ash's Wife

The Labcoat

Chapter 1

Alrica, Year Of The Gods 745 Ad

A lone drop of sweat, slowly making its way down his body, vainly tried to provide relief from the heat. The day was waning but the late afternoon shadows had yet to cool the wizard's study. The sky showed crimson reflections in the blue and purple horizon, and above all two stars shined bright over the golden hills of strawgrass.

Isuair shut his eyes and then opened them again. His mind began to shout that this was the sign, that the code radiating from those stars was the portent for change. But the lines of code were only visible to him, and only through the open-and-close eye trick. Also, the words made little sense; songs, ballads, oversized captain's capes, clip blades, armor, flowers, war, mourn, butterflies, caveman, Princesses, Khings, Qweens, and the words big black horses radiated from the pure white specks. The word mortals was written in the floating letters of code so many times that it made Eye wince. But most of all, it was the whole, readable, nonsensical phrases that tortured him:

'Would you? Would you, in a million years? Who could hate horses so much? What's with the Green Cows? We will let YOU leave. One foot after the other. Have a bear chase them around the place. You just kicked a kid. You say it, you say it under your breath a thousand times a day. Put him with the cool kids, wind him up, and let him go. God? GOD? Maybe they all just cut themselves on sharp glass. Yeah, cut some rocks. Big rocks. Boulders. Eye, let me get my hand on you. Fuct. The gold lines come and my men die. Only they all can't be dead, Sweetie, Sweetheart, Stinker, Stinky, Stinkbutt.'

Isuair shut his eyes, waited for the lines to disappear, then opened them again and sighed. Alone in his study, Eye felt only despair for his plight; he wished for a simpler time, a time when the great choices were left to the great men. That there were none left gave him little comfort.

On the table Isuair would find his meal, laid out for him by one of the monks of the monastery. This day, as in most, he would not touch it. Instead he spent the afternoon at his window. From his perch high above Comeratte kingdom, Isuair surveyed all the king's land. In the distance he could just make out the tall spirals of the White Castle.

Hundreds of years ago the castles of the Asemio and the Awg also rose high into the sky and the knights who issued forth from their gates were the very picture of strength. In Isuair's mind they made the land strong; they made it magic. But that age had passed and things had changed. From his window Isuair could see their foundations, but little else of their glory remained. They were magic. It was they who had the predisposition; it was they who had the gift. The Comeratte's—Alricans they were called, were good people, but they didn't have it. It was they, the Alannas. They were the key, but they were gone. That they might return some day was something Eye tried not to think about.

He thought back to a time when he had become a knight's apprentice, then a knight, and then a magician. Once he had even ruled a kingdom as its surrogate king. Now, five hundred years later, he was the most magically powerful man in all the land, save perhaps, for one. Save perhaps, for two or three, if Eye had his way.

From his window Isuair studied the brown and green patchwork of the fields below as the sky above slowly turned to rose. Standing in the cooling pre-evening, he breathed the air again and again. He used the sill to support his failing body. The soft dust of the ledge stuck to his hands and the stone clawed at his skin. The air, high in his perch, now brought to him a chill that made his body shudder, but still he stood and watched. He was trying to make up his mind, and if the truth be known, he was looking for some kind of sign other than the stars. None came.

Isuair listened, then turned to the door of his study. From the depths he heard steps. The monks were returning to check on him and clear his dinner; footsteps grew loud as the men approached his apartment. After a soft knock he saw the handle of the door slowly turn. Cursing himself for not taking a moment to avoid the coming confrontation, he watched the door open; on another day, he would have taken a moment to sweep his meal into the fire and that would be that. This day, he was in no mood for games—the monks showed too little respect for his privacy and he tired of their meddling. He was also running out of time, soon, he would have to face a choice that had long pained him.

Quelling his anger, Isuair began to work the spell. Turning the words in his mind, he traced a finger on the stone sill. As Leif and Diase entered the room, Isuair waved his hand and tossed the spell, like a child would a ball, onto the floor and returned to his window.

"Sir," said one of the monks.

"Yes, yes, I was just getting to it," said the image of Isuair. The monks led the spell illusion to the table and sat it down. They watched as it ate Isuair's dinner.

Isuair shivered in the cool air. Below, dusk came to the valley; an army of stationary fireflies glowed as a thousand candles sprung to life in the cottages of Kingstown. Isuair stood at his window and imagined the warmth a simple peasant house could offer. The thought gave him a feeling of great loss; it had been long since he had had a family. He missed the gatherings around a fire, he missed the shared meals. He missed the candlelight on the faces of loved ones—a smile, a caring touch—standing alone at his window, Isuair could almost feel the caress of a devoted woman. Another shudder, this one brought by an altogether different kind of cold, swept through his body. He missed so much. As the sun's glow ebbed, and evening crept upon the land, Isuair began to weep.

Homeless Ash, March, 2007

"So, you wrote this?" asked the Labcoat. "By Elixir, you mean booze, right?" The man stared at Ash, then at the paper. "I want to establish, here, Mr. Ash, that you did indeed write this. It's an important point, because I'm working on perhaps the most revolutionary project of this century, do you understand?" asked the Labcoat. Ash just sat. After a moment, he responded only to break the silence.

"I wrote it."

"Because it's wonderful. It's exactly what I've been working on. I'm about to reveal a truth to the world that should astound the medical and public communities. And this," the Labcoat said, tapping his finger on the brown papers, "is precisely where I want to start." The Labcoat flipped through the papers. He paused at the story of the wizard and the White Castle. Then, he found his page. He began to read.

"It was a magic elixir to the man. One sip and the man became handsome. Another and the man became smart. Another and the man became funny and charming. One more and he became irresistible. One more and the man became invincible. With the elixir he was absolute. With the elixir there were no questions, doubts or worries. It was the answer. It was the missing piece. It was his magic. It was his door to the kingdom.

And the elixir? It was cheap. It was everywhere, at every corner. People gave it away at parties. Places were devoted to the elixir, existing only to serve the faithful. There were elixir holidays. The world celebrated, cheered, toasted rejoiced and mourned with the elixir. It was everywhere and part of everything.

How much contempt would a man have for someone who told him to use the elixir sparingly, socially, casually, or to use only a drop now and then?

But the elixir had a detrimental effect. It took more of the elixir each time to get the effect, to get the power. It was true that it only did minor damage each time. But it was there, the next morning, when the elixir wore off and the man's head and heart ached.

And it began to add up.

But the man didn't mind. He took it in stride, he took it like a man. He withstood the punishment as if it were a rite of manhood, head held high—at first. But the man began to use the elixir all the time. It was the only way the man could see himself the way he needed to see himself. It was the only way he could face the day, the world. He couldn't bear life without the elixir. So he began to use the elixir every day, many times a day, and it began to wear on him. Over the years it began to take its toll, and it began to show.

Soon, it began to take things from the man. First it took his peace of mind. Then it took his pride. When he lost his dignity the man knew the game was up, and he abandoned the rest—his life, even his sanity—everything but the elixir, because with the elixir, he became absolute. He became HIM. With the elixir he became ASH in The Land of MAGIC."

When he finished reading the Labcoat was very excited. "Wonderful! You see, this explains a missing piece in the puzzle of addiction, what I call; 'The Heart Factor.'"

The Labcoat spoke as if he had just revealed a great truth. After he stared at Ash, he continued. "You see, Mr. Ash, you have it." The man said. "Addiction of the heart. It's more than just some physical thing—it's your soul. Do you always fantasize that you're a great warrior when drinking? Because that would be a protection mechanism, don't you see—when drinking you're killing yourself, and the fantasies help you ignore that, they help you feel strong and right!" Ash just sat, so the man continued. "But you have a host of other problems as well. Mental problems. These crying fits, these thoughts of suicide—these are all signs of mental incapacitation. They are signs of depression.

They can be dangerous, even fatal, if not treated." The man looked at the paper again and continued. "But we're only concerned with the heart—the soul, if you would. Booze seems to change something in your heart." The man said. He wore a white lab coat and peered at Ash through bifocals. Still Ash just sat.

"This connection to drinking and the Magic Land," said the coat, "that you say captured your soul, tell me more about that. Tell me all about it. Tell me from the beginning— where the wizard took your soul as a teen. Did he take it while you were surfing?"

"No," Ash said. "And I was twenty something. It was when I tried to commit suicide, swimming out to sea by the Santa Monica Pier."

"Then start," The Labcoat said. "Tell me everything, Mr. Ash. Tell me every word."

This is the story of black and white.

This is the story of addiction.

This is the story of Ash

Vallhalaka, Year of the Gods

745 AD

This will not be an invasion, Captain Patrice told himself, it will be a homecoming—it's the soil, the sun and the fields, it's the stretches of green meadows, the ancient ocean of forests—and it's calling its people back. They will come. They have the tools, the men and the supplies. They have the weapons; they have the leaders. They have the will; most of all, they have the numbers—they have the soldiers.

They developed a plan. It was detailed. Every part was researched, tested and tested again; it was redundant—backup systems provided for the unexpected, contingencies were put in place for every possible misstep.

Everyone was behind their goal; kids collected scrap iron, pre-teens felled trees for the boats, the elderly created a special bread for the troops and the warriors worked like bees, committed to a single idea; home. They would take to the land with a million warriors.

The Comeratte king could perhaps muster one or two hundred thousand men, and they would be ill trained, ill prepared. Even as Patrice watched the boats roll along the assembly line, he knew the Comeratte king slept.

True, they were still years away, six or seven, Patrice thought, as he surveyed the shipyard, maybe longer if Freggcorm's boat design couldn't be modified. But to a man, the mind was the same; this was the right path.

There were, however, things. Things that made it difficult to sleep. He was able to shut his eyes only when he was utterly exhausted. When he awoke, he was up; his brain whirred to action, chewing on details from second one. Troubling details, like their expedition parties to the Comeratte lands. Disguised as Alricans, they roamed the countryside making pacts and building allies while the king and the Duke slept. But they were the wrong sort of allies. The Ersoberg. The Mara. The Dral. The primitives, and not the good primitives, but the other, hungry kind.

If this was a divine crusade, as their leaders suggested, why did they make deals with devils and cannibals? Their enemies are our friends, they said. Well... yes and no. A feeling shadowed his heart; it took study to place it, it hid so well. After weeks of searching, Patrice could only put a single word to the feeling; mourn. This, his heart whispered, we will mourn.

But the king's men were asleep and the allies were keeping it that way, so they would be put up with. After the war, after the taking of the White Castle, they would deal with the Cannibals and the Dark.

Then, there were other details. The king and his men just went about their business, even in the face of warnings that Patrice and his men just could not prevent.

Most came from the crusty old Comeratte wizard, Isuair, also know as Eye. But the crazy old hermit held no ear of significance; Isuair, as a wizard, was becoming obsolete. "Yes, Isuair, that's nice, Eye." It was almost funny. Even when the king caught Lerbraf, they just let him go.

"Well, just don't make any more secret maps," they said. They nodded and said shoo. They smiled. They waved. They laughed. There were no secret police, no checks, no suspicions—the Alrican people had no demons. And these were the monsters that had stolen their land?

In the depths, in the shadows, a voice called to him; it asked a single question, over and over. With each new encounter with the Alricans, the voice asked the question louder, shouldn't we talk? Shouldn't we talk first, before we kill?

But just the idea of negotiation, to some, was a crime. It could get one killed by the Movement. Once called the Oxland Guide Movement, or OGM, the Movement was a powerful driving force—it was the engine that drove the machine. It was the reason that they would one day have their home back. For this, they were committed; for the Movement they were committed.

The Movement said they would never give up. They held rallies and swung banners. They sang songs and shouted slogans. The held regular meetings and practiced a set of motivational rules. No, they would never forget, and worse, they would never forgive. Any talk of peace was met with harsh resistance, but even for that the Movement had an answer; we will give the Comerattes a chance to leave, they said.

And, the Movement machine, Patrice believed, was flawed. It planned, schemed and worked its intrigues. It designed and built armor, weapons and boats. It organized. But the Movement missed something—it missed perhaps the greatest contribution that could be made to the war effort. The Movement disregarded, discounted, magic. Patrice personally knew of a dozen men who could perform. True, much of it was nothing more than tricks or illusions, but some had skills that could be used as weapons. Patrice had seen the men make fire. Patrice had seen them burn a dead tree without flint or coals. The fire had come from the air. But the Movement seemed reluctant to embrace any idea that did not originate within itself, and, more importantly, the Movement coveted power. It would not share or delegate beyond rank and it would not entertain freelancers, as most pupils of the black arts were. They did, however, make one concession—they brought in a wizard. That it was the wrong wizard didn't seem to bother anyone.

Patrice put his hands on his hips and again thought of the word; mourn. He should go, he should go to the highest-up he could find and say his piece. It might get him bucked down to the infantry, but these days there were so many captains around it seemed he would lose little. Maybe the infantry wouldn't be so bad. Sometimes he wished all he had to do was march and drill; answering to the barking dogs of the political machine took its toll.

But then Patrice spotted a wagonload of sixteen's headed toward the Boar-boat yard, and sixteen-foot boards did not fit on a Boar-boat. He pointed this out to

Brady, his lieutenant. Brady, a sincere, jovial man, pointed this out to his sergeants and off they went, scurrying to avoid another delay. This will not be an invasion, Patrice told himself again, it will be a homecoming.

Alrica, Land of the Comeratte King

At the table Diase read to Isuair's spell image from a copy of the White Book. From his robe, the wizard removed a book of his own, his book of notes. Loosely bound, with most its pages held together with twine, the book harbored his work. It was Simon's copy of the White Book, and it was no longer white. It was almost gray, and it was in shambles. A war had been fought for it. The Dral had ripped it from Simon's own hands, and only with the power of the king were they able to rip it back. Between the pages were Simon's and Isuair's notes; all their years of exploration, all their thoughts, all their aspirations lay tucked between the pages of the book in crudely written, lose sheets. Isuair made note of the words he saw around the stars and then dropped the tome into his robe.

Night had come—only candlelight challenged the suffocating dark, and that with only the most timid of glows. At the table the monks still entertained the spell image of the venerable wizard. It was a tribute to their tireless idiocy that they would enjoy the attention of his image alone, thought Isuair. He turned away from his window and stood facing the table, arms folded across his chest.

They shouldn't have bought this. There was a time when the monk's magic was formidable. There was a time when they weren't just dithering old men. There was a time when they would have seen his magic, and Isuair would have seen theirs, and there would have been no way to deceive them. But now Eye saw only the cold stone around him. Only his magic could he see—his, the stone of the monastery, and a little of the Dral's. It had been as thus throughout the land for most of the last century. Diase was expounding the virtues of love and forgiveness as Isuair's likeness quietly ate the dinner before him.

"The White Book is the salvation that we have been promised." Diase said. "This copy, Eye, this uncorrupted copy." The monk's veiled dig at Simon's work made Isuair pause. "I will leave you this, mine own," Diase said, sliding the book onto the table. "Read its message as one clear note, Father, read it as love, read it as the life we share, the life we grow, and the life that we, all of us, must someday leave behind. It is only love and forgiveness that we will take with us from this land of mortals." It took strength for Isuair to leave the back of Diase's head unmolested. Instead, he could only imagine the sharp crack that his open palm would make on the monk's clean scalp.

Isuair's image had been eating the same bite for some time, and the monk had begun to stare. Eye held his hand in the air, palm up, and slowly closed his fingers into a fist. White lines crawled the walls, the table and the monks. The image of him rose, swept the dinner across the table, and turned to the padres.

"Love and forgiveness? Hate, imbeciles, hate rules the here and now," the spell said. "Love and forgiveness may be a promise for some shadowy, distant future..." Isuair mouthed the words along with the spell image, "...but for now, for today, you need to be mindful of the real power that possesses, owns—us—the power of hate." Isuair laughed quietly as he heard himself say the line. He knew the image would soon be morphing into a bear. Sliding invisibly past the drama unfolding before the stunned monks, he squeezed through the open door and fled down the stone stairway without a sound.

That night he would go all the way down. He would go to the secret place, hidden from even the padres, hidden from all in the land, where he would launch his assault upon the machine world. There, among the crazies and the consumption addicts, among the decedents and the deviants, among the cigarette butts and the plastic six-pack rings, among the TV trained and the parental abandons, he would begin his search.

Southern California, early 1990s

Pacific City, or PC, lies just south of Los Angeles and north of Rockport Coast, playground of the rich. While Pacific City has its share of multimillion-dollar homes, it was without a doubt the poor sister-city of Rockport—with its movie-star beach mansions and its oil-derrick free shoreline, Rockport belonged to the wealthy, and the rich roamed its beaches. But Pacific City attracted a different crowd. Outside Surf Juice Blends, a blended fruit shake shop that served drinks at outside cafe tables, sat three young men. They had poured their blended shakes into the trash and refilled the cups with malt liquor from 40-ounce bottles.

Everything in Pacific City was named Surf. Lunch was served at the Surf Cafe, dinner at the Sunset Surfer, and booze at the Surfside Liquor. It was early in the afternoon on a warm, sunny August day and the crowds had just begun to swell Pacific

City's sidewalks. All three men at the cafe tables were drunk. In the summer PC erupted with life. Cars cruised the boulevard; teams of scantily clad youths flocked to Main Street to see and be seen. Bikinis were the uniform of choice for the women; the men wore baggy shorts and wife-beater tank tops. Tattoos were the norm, not the exception, and every other counter-culture fashion device flourished; piercing, thongs, seven-inch platform heels and hair of every color, reigned. Ash and Rick sipped beer from the fruit-blend cups and watched as the crowds passed by. Danny sat beside them, his legs crossed to proudly display the house-arrest ankle-pager he sported almost as a fashion accessory. All three men laughed and joked, pretended to fight one another, and alternately ran out into the street to attract attention or to flirt with girls. Rick hitched a ride in a passing car before running back, proudly displaying the number of a female occupant.

When the three men strolled the boulevard, they did it with a swagger. When Danny passed a woman, fully dressed, he stared.

"Jesus loves you," the woman said.

"Hail Satan," Danny replied with a straight-arm salute. The boys laughed and moved on while the woman fled.

They sat at a fountain beside a chocolate shop and watched the cars roll by. When a kid, aged ten or so, bumped into Ash on an aluminum scooter, Ash trapped the toy with his foot. Danny watched as Ash studied the traffic and then jarred the scooter out of the kid's hands. Ash pushed the scooter toward the street. When the child bent to grab the toy, Ash kicked his bottom. The momentum of the kick drove the child into the street and in front of a moving car. The car squealed to a stop, and the kid, mouth open, ran off with his scooter in tow.

"Dude," Danny said. "Dude?"

"What?" Ash said, drinking from his foam cup. "I kicked a kid. The car didn't hit him. Big deal, Sally Struthers. In case you haven't noticed, there are a fucking million of these human larvae around," Ash said. His straw had begun making a percolating sound and Ash readopted his semi-permanent frown. "Now, the Hail Satan thing... now that, tard-fest, that was a fuck-up. That was accepting a calling card. What I did, well, but what you did was a motherfuck."

"Love the boob job," Rick said to a large breasted woman in a bikini top. As the woman passed Isuair, she smiled. Eye was handing out pamphlets entitled, The Big Answer! and watching the boys. As he watched, he pondered the possibility of having made some mistake.

South Central, Southern California

Marla Coleman had just begun to rise above the fog of her birthday hangover when she turned the Corolla onto Sixth Street. The day before she had celebrated her seventeenth passing year. In the morning she awoke with her head ringing and her energy sapped. She had shadowy memories of being the life of the party; the memories included images of her making a fool of herself. So instead of going to school, Marla borrowed her mom's Toyota and went for a drive. As she drove she day-dreamed her dream, one that she made up as a child—that one day she would escape South Central, to Jamaica or Haiti, and become a great witch-doctor-warlord, one with the power of control, one with the power to shape the world around her. But the traffic and the heat of the day, along with the phantom ache of her head, sucked the life out of the fantasy. She ran through the car's gears and let the rushing air whip her hair about the car.

Her mom didn't know she had the car, and cruising the neighborhood when she was supposed to be in school would have definitely brought her some heat. But Mom worked day and night at General Hospital the name Marla and her friends used for the County Hospital in Los Angeles, and she missed much.

She would make a U-turn at Normandie because she didn't need to roll into enemy territory, but Marla would do it slowly. She was making the turn under the shadow of a giant plastic donut revolving atop the bakery shop at the corner of Normandie and Sixth when something caught her eye. It was a bum—an old man. Standing on the corner was a bent old man. But instead of going about his bum business like most bums do, he looked as if he was watching. Actually, Marla thought, as the Corolla completed the turn, he looks as if he is watching me. She was sure of it. He was watching her like she was the most interesting thing in all the world.

Alrica

Isuair didn't see it. These couldn't be the two. Back in his study, he again stood at the window. These couldn't possibly be the ones for which he searched.

His biggest reservation, to this point, was just taking the plunge—that first step, but now that he had put his toe into the icy waters, he found he had doubts. They were kids. They were irreverent. They weren't smart. They weren't skilled. They didn't do anything that set themselves apart. They were just regular youths, seething with self-absorption—the kind of 'me' that permeated the machine world. These were not the saviors or destroyers of the land. They would not shed blood for the king. They would not give their lives for the people of Alrica.

Again he stood at the window and watched. The night clouds moved in wisps across the new moon, and the season looked as if it were ready to change. Isuair was ready for a change also. On the ledge lay two books. One was the way to salvation; the other was a book with answers—the Black Book.

The trouble with salvation, Isuair thought, is that you have to turn the other cheek. As he stood at the window, Isuair felt he had done that far too much in his long life. The land had done that far too much. He had decided to take the plunge and make it complete. Taking a long wrinkled finger, he gently pushed Diase's copy of the White Book to the edge of the sill. With his foot he moved a rubbish box under the window. With one more push, he eased the White Book off the ledge and watched it fall into the bin. The Black Book now lay at his window alone. He had made his choice.

Homeless Ash, March, 2008

"Mr. Ash," began the Labcoat, "this story of yours is fascinating! I think it offers insights into addiction. Not in the clinical sense, such as a predisposition to alcoholism, as in biological—you know, family members, relations that are afflicted with the ailment that may have some gene or characteristic that they then pass on to others, often skipping a generation or generations. Do you have alcoholism in your family?" asked the coat.

"My granddad died in the gutter, they say," Ash said. He needed a drink. He wondered what would happen if he punched the Labcoat in the face. He would probably be released from the crazy program and put back in jail, he thought, so he held back. "Can I get more medication..."

"Also, another good definition is continued use in the face of adversity, like drinking after one gets in trouble, like a DUI, for instance. Any DUI's in your past, after which you still drank?" asked the coat.

"Two," said Ash. He decided that at his first opportunity he would escape. The place didn't appear all that secure. "Have you ever sworn off booze forever, only to go back in an a week, a day or even an hour?" Asked the coat.

"Yes," said Ash.

"Another is personality changes, 'Bob's different when he drinks,' you certainly have that, correct? You not only are different, but you change worlds, you even change beings, correct?"

"No. There's a connection."

"Another is the presence of a strong sense of denial, 'All I'm doing is having a good time. I have stress,' they say, 'you don't know how hard it is,' they say, 'so I party a little.' This is after the person consumes an entire bottle of alcohol and blacks out." The Labcoat said. "All are good definitions of alcoholism or addiction."

"Can I get more meds..."

"But this story of yours, which I want you to continue, in it's entirety, this story seems to explain another side of addiction. One that, in my view, is not so widely expressed or thought about," said the coat. "One that I... or we rather, could reveal to the world in my paper!" the Labcoat said.

"This story draws the listener a different picture of addiction," continued the coat, "it draws a picture of addiction as it pertains to the soul. As it pertains to our mortal, un-fed, hungry, powerless soul, that the world today fails to satiate. This story tries to explain addiction as it resides in the heart—would you agree with that, Mr. Ash?" asked the coat. Ash just sighed. "Mr. Ash?" The coat pulled out a pad and began to scribble. "I'll tell you what. I'll give you the medication, but in return, you come every day and tell me more of the story. The whole thing, everything—the parts where you are here, in the machines land, and there, in the magics world, Okay? Deal?" asked the coat.

"I want Diazepam and Somas, enough to BEND me," Ash said, "and I'll tell you everything, from the streets to the land. The whole thing—crossing over, when each thing happens, everything. But don't expect there to be an exact correlation between the two worlds, that's not the way it works," Ash said, "they are independent. I usually lose the connection after a big binge, and get it back, uninterrupted, when I drink, or sometimes when I sleep. Some parts don't make sense, even to me," Ash said. "Deal?"

"Well, we'll see about the meds," said the Labcoat, "but I'll get you something that will make you happy, I promise. So we have a deal, right?"

"Right," said Ash. "Right. Remember, most of the time I was homeless. I searched for supplies for tickets to oblivion; booze, shelter and food. Often the cops would grab me and put me away, but I always broke lose. I kept a journal of the magic land. That Elixir paper was just a part of it. And I still have it, my book of notes, though I lost some of it when I was in the hospital. But I don't need it—it's here," Ash said, pointing to his head. "Every word is in here. Other people have asked me about the land, about the connection, and they always shrunk back when I told them, like I was a loon. But you give me the meds and I'll tell you everything," Ash said. He took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and began.

"I was homeless, in this world, I'll begin at my spot at the railroad tracks, trying to drink enough to stay on the other side," Ash said, "and there, the old wizard had just decided to try his hand at the Black Book."

The Black Book told the truth, but it was the truth of the bystander rationale, and, it gave the user a hunger—it told the reader what they wanted to hear and grew the appetite, but for the most salacious of desires; power, lust, pride, and the art of the hidden mischief. The allure of the bad cloaked in the good, of the secret high at the picnic table, shared with a friend, while being described by Aunts and Uncles as virtuous; this was the Black Book. It was youth and the power of newly discovered, secret, forbidden sex. It was the drive back from the dealer's house, it was the wife not knowing, it was the hidden. It was geeking and the secret. The Black Book was a searchlight into the dark, illuminating the cracks and tunnels in the eyes of the innocent lost or worse, chained, in the dark, in the backmost of the back rooms. The Black Book was a list of victims, a list of crimes, a list blasphemies and a list of fools, and it always had one last space open.

It answered questions and issued permits. That the reader should have been afraid to ask those questions was a thought that came only later, when the reader had lost something to the book. Then the book became the power, as the victim began an endless, fruitless quest for control. Every user had a different rationale for continuing to use the book after it was proved to be harmful; some sought to recapture their former glories of innocence; some sought to break even with the book and withdraw without a loss, but most sought only for one more day of lies, of rationales that would keep the looking glass fogged.

The Black Book was a hole; it was a mine, where each gem lay more buried than the last, darker shafts and tunnels led to darker shafts and tunnels.

But now Isuair was dying, and before his death, he would take the gamble, of course, for it was his last realm to master. That he would lose was simply part of the game. But he would try his hand with the book; like his predecessor, Whilliam Mercure the Great, known now simply as the Dral, he would try to use it for good.

Isuair's trick with the spell image and the bear had only frightened the monks temporarily. He could once again hear the sound of steps approaching his study. Using just the tip of his finger, Isuair lifted the cover of the book, exposing the first page. As the steps neared his study, Isuair gestured subtly with his hand. A moment later Diase's soft voice called from behind the door. "Master... " the monk whispered.

"Come in, Diase." Isuair said. The monk sheepishly entered the study, but stayed close to the door. He glanced furtively around the room, but did not bring up his last encounter with the wizard. Eye saw that the man's hands shook. "Are you Okay sir?" Diase asked. "Spiritual guidance is yours for the asking, especially in these... dark times." At once the monk's voice became strained and pleading. Isuair knew he had seen the book in the bin. And, it was not just any book that now lay in the trash. It was the White Book. And he had no doubt noticed the Black Book open on the windowsill.

"You must not falter, Father. Isuair... Eye, Please..." Isuair didn't need to see the monk's face to know that tears now rolled down the Padre's long brown cheeks. "We have come so far and you have held so strong. Remember who you are, where you have been, and what it took to get you here, Father. Remember, Eye, remember. Remember the Dral. He too took this path. It turned him, and he has yet to pass from this mortal world. He is still here, My Prince, seven hundred years later. " The wizard picked up the Black Book. A wave of Isuair's hand usually created spells. This time it cleared the room of every bit of magic. It was just he and Diase.

No spells, no tricks, just two of the land's oldest men, talking. Isuair had his back to the monk. Without any magic in the room and with the Black Book clutched tightly in his hands, Isuair slowly turned to face his old friend. Diase's eyes widened as his gaze fell upon the wizard. A moment later the monk fell to the floor, unconscious. Isuair pulled out his stool and sat. Diase could be dying. The shock of the wizard without his magic veil had been too much for the old padre. It was a tribute to the turmoil that raged within Isuair that he had no feelings on the matter. Things needed to change and there would be casualties. That was the game.

Isuair hadn't seen his real face in centuries either. Moving to the wall, he stood before the looking glass and then moved into the light. The glass was old and cracked, but it still reflected a clear image. He had black eyes without pupils. He had fangs. His skin was pure black. Mortals found this look disturbing. Mortals, mortals, mortals.

He turned away from the glass, and began to read from the Black Book. After reading the first line Isuair paused. A silent scream ran through his body. On the first page, in the book's handwritten script, it read; "Bring to the land the two. Bring to the land the Khing and the Qween. Bring them or see the end of magic and the dawn of the machine. The two will either give new life and new magic to the land, or they will utterly and completely destroy it."

The rest of the pages of the book were blank. There, for all to see in black and white, lay Isuair's own plans, developed years ago. It was as if Isuair had been using the Black Book all along. Clearly Simon's notes and the Black Book had some common ancestry. Looking to the sky, Isuair again saw the two stars. Again he would make a trip to the machine world, and again he would watch. He hoped, with all his soul, that it did not lead him to the two he beheld at the sea and in the city.

Marla and Keema sat on a buttress overlooking the 110 Freeway and smoked a marijuana cigarette. Below cars raced on cement paths six lanes wide. They talked and joked and shared their dreams of the future. They kidded each other about boys, cars, and the kind of house they would have.

They sat next to a cement embankment that served as a canvas for the local gangs. Graffiti covered the entire wall. Some crude, some artistic—but all of it was a language to the learned reader. With a crooked smile to Keema, Marla approached the wall, and, after some digging, produced a lipstick from her bag. An artist of some talent had painted the letters QW, set atop a white box. On the background, Marla used her lipstick to add the letters: e, e, and n.

"All must obey me," said Marla. "All must follow their queen!"

"If that guy finds you messing with his work," said Keema, "you're going to need all your 'queenly' powers just to keep your hide intact. Besides," Keema said, "I think you spelled it wrong."

Taking drink after drink, sitting in his nest at the railroad tracks, Ash thought back to the beginning of the end. It was odd what stuck out. It was odd what stuck in his mind; the last paper-towel. He had taken a chance earlier, when the roll was thin and had gotten away with it. But now he could almost see its cardboard center. Twice he reached for the roll. Twice he opened the cabinet, only to freeze an inch from the rack. To replace the whole thing wasn't an option. Instead he used napkins to wipe up the spilled vodka and vomit. It took every napkin they had. When he thought of the girl sleeping in the next room, he became ill again. As a last resort, he elected to use a cloth rag to wipe up. His marriage had been on the last paper-towel for some time now.

All night they talked. Together they planned sincerely for his recovery. He wanted to change. Deep inside his heart he wanted to change. He screamed it. He begged for it. He confessed that he had a problem—that booze had captured him and that now he wanted out. He wanted to get well. They talked and he hoped that some invisible power could change him. He hoped that his genuine goodwill and desire to change could somehow magically transform into a power that he could use to stop drinking. It did not. Goodwill wasn't magic; it didn't really change anything. A drink did. The escape it provided did. It changed everything.

After they decided he would get better they made love. He went through the motions; glad only that he could perform. In the midst of the act he watched her hand. It clenched and unclenched. Clenching and unclenching, making a fist, not making a fist.

How much money could he gather? What supplies would he need? Where would he go? In the end he brought clothes, cash and his car to a no-tell-motel. It was true that his plan lacked the long-term. It was true that he hadn't plotted out further than a few weeks. But it was all he had—and a few weeks would have to be enough. It would be enough. It would be because he brought booze along. Booze would deliver him. Booze would be his friend. Booze would be his lover. Booze would be his group. Booze was the popular kids inviting him to the cool table. Booze would bring him there. Booze always changed everything. He would have to worry about tomorrow, tomorrow.

"Booze..." said the Labcoat to Ash. He said it like it was a good thing. The coat made more notes. "Please, every word, continue with every word..."

Ash, Rick, and Danny rode the waves every morning. To them, surfing was a religion; it was art. It was witchcraft and magic. The sea was their god, the waves their salvation, and the sun and the moon their only peers. They needed little else. But this morning dawned cold and the waves were mushy.

Instead they sat by Ash's pickup and smoked marijuana—what they called 'roasting a bowl.' After the third bowl, Ash put the pipe away and surveyed the beach parking lot. Then he walked to the path before his truck. Three miles of oceanfront sidewalk ran from the Pacific City pier to the jetty at Rockport, and it was almost always crowded with pedestrians, roller-blade enthusiasts, and cyclists. But Ash didn't seem to mind as irritated beachgoers slowed and swerved around him. On the walkway, in four-foot tall letters, Ash wrote; 'PC Khing.' Danny, staring at the letters written in surfboard wax, tilted his head and mouthed the word.

"Ka-hing?" he asked. Then, turning to Rick, he raised his arms to the sky and shouted, "Behold, the Surf Kaaa-hing!" Rick reminded Ash that king had no "h" but Danny just laughed. Ash neither saw nor heard either of them. Ash had stopped amid the trailing end of the 'g.' He froze, his heart beating hard in his chest. While he stared at the letters he had drawn on the sidewalk, he knew the old man was there. He knew that all he had to do was raise his head and the old geezer would be there. It would be the same man who pretended to hand out Jesus-freak pamphlets while watching their every move at the juice joint. As he raised his head and the long robes came into his view, Ash knew.

When Diase opened his eyes the room looked unfamiliar to him. All he could see were the blurred images of roof timbers. He cleared his throat, took a deep breath, and tried to think back to his last waking moment. After a few moments the cold stone beneath him brought it all back. Isuair had decided to take the plunge, and Diase knew that the odds were slim that his friend would ever pull out of that trap. The Black Book had one absolute, iron-clad guarantee—anyone who read it would begin an endless, and in Diase's opinion, fruitless, quest for control.

"For mastery, for the chance to try the book and get out while you are ahead." Diase said aloud to no one. "But it always keeps you a little behind. You never get there. You never..." Suddenly Diase felt the presence in the room.

"...win..." said the presence. Before he was able to raise the alarm, a blackness came over the old padre. Before he died, Diase was able to say his killer's name only.

"Dra..."

"Sleep, Sweet Prince, you are weary," said the Dral. He stood in Isuair's office and swiveled his head from side to side. He was listening. He heard nothing of significance. Only small mice and bird sounds echoed through the walls of stone. He closed his eyes, then opened them. He saw nothing of note, yet the office, for him, was an uninviting place. He knew his presence in the study alone was dangerous. The wizard, Eye, walked in the cloak of the good, but the Dral knew that power walked with the man. Power, immense in its depth, walked with the wizard, and power was always, always, a slave or a master to and for the dark, no matter what the pretense of the wielder. "You should not be in this office," the Dral's mind warned. Games, it whispered, Eye plays games. Even as powerful as he was, the Dral felt Eye's office repellent. Again his mind whispered to him, "Tread light, and leave soon." But the Dral shook off the warnings; he thought caution and fear were distasteful tools for the weak, crutches for those who whored for the preservation of breath. The Dral felt no such desire for preservation; if Eye could harm him, so be it. Instead, he placed his boot on the face of the dead monk and addressed the body, if only to shake the office's suffocating litany of warnings.

"Eye and I have business, and you would only be in the way, Brother Daisy." With Diase dead on the floor, the Dral turned to the business at hand. On the table, open to the page Isuair had last read, was the Black Book. The Dral sat down, rested his head in his hands, and sighed. Scanning the same page over and over, some ideas immediately came to him.

Trap Eye in the machine world for one, shut the door while Isuair plays on the other side. But it looked to the Dral like Eye was doing his own work, with his own book, so that trick seemed a bit harsh for his old friend. Still, Eye always messed everything up. If anyone would be able to cheat the damn book, thought the Dral, it would be Eye, and he wasn't sure if he could just let that happen. Then his black lips parted, and, for the first time in years, the Dral almost smiled. He would let Eye work his magic, let him play his game, spin the wheel and see if the book trapped him, but the Dral would insist on some insurance.

After making minor alterations, the Dral studied the office. He looked around and liked very much what he saw. Their old friend, lying dead on Eye's floor, would be a grim reminder of the stakes of the game. Then, almost on impulse, the Dral took a piece of parchment and wrote; "This is a game not to be played by children." It was a funny phrase from the machine world, but Eye would get it. He set the card in many places about the room before deciding on the windowsill. Somehow it fit there. It was nicely lorded over by two bright stars.

He would let Eye bring them over, for better or worse, and although the Ass and the Whore might someday take the mantle of power from them, even that didn't bother the Dral. He was tired. He was ready to go. He was ready to let them try their hand at the game, Eye's Khing and Qween.

Just the smell got him high. The promise of the elixir—booze, was the promise of instant gratification. There was no mountain to climb; there was no promotion to earn or Nobel Prize to win just to feel good. And unlike those no-doubt hard-earned accomplishments, booze came with a guarantee. Unlike some shadowy goal or future achievement, the buzz of booze was guaranteed to be there, always—and as a bonus, it delivered its magic immediately. It was success in a bottle, victory in liquid, triumph in a glass, and it was always there.

Every pore in his body opened in anticipation. As planned, his stomach had been empty for most of the day. As the vodka hit the back of his throat he began to choke. Some flushed out of his nose, and it burned. When the booze hit his long empty stomach it set it afire. But Ash had no worries. Soon, as the alcohol made its way to his bloodstream, he would become immortal in the land of magic.

The Labcoat grinned and begged Ash to continue. He scribbled. He wrote. He nodded his head. Ash all but vomited.

The Dral had made a few modifications to Isuair's plans—minor changes, really. He insured that they, the Two, would be walking weapons. Both would have ten years of training—Marla during her indoctrination with the Nation, and Ash while in the wizard's trap; which almost brought the dark wizard glee—though the boy might not know it, he would feel Eye's complicity in the pain. Ten years in the arena of the kill, in the sea of the blood and the ache, tailored, both, to their own want. But he would add insurance. Marla he left alone, she had the touch, the will, and the dark already as tools, and would never abandon her own agenda, her own plans, enough to be of use, except as a backup to the shadows. She would be a player only, a piece on the board, albeit a dangerous one. It comforted him that with her there would always be a dark star about, were his coil to fail prematurely. That she was one that could not be wielded troubled him not; for the Ash was the clay. He could be molded, but the boy needed refining. The Dral had a Black Book too, and his Black Book had more print than Eye's copy. His book told him the timeline of Ash's life, in both the magic land and machine world. It showed Ash, in the machine world, going from a strong, spirited youth, with a lust for life and its challenges, to a broken man, lost in alcoholic fantasies and dreams that would never come.

The Dral would let Eye bring Ash over, but it would be the older Ash, the broken, addicted, Ash. The suicidal Ash—not just the young one that fantasized or toyed with it, but the truly, seriously, suicidal Ash. The one that once walked into a machine world market and filled his coat pockets with as many boxes of a sleep potion as they would hold. He then walked from the store without fear; he all but dared the store-drones to stop him. None did. He ate all the pills. He took a large plastic bag, filled it with air, and taped it tight around his neck. He went to sleep. His attempt failed when he began to vomit and the bag broke loose of the wetted tape. The medicine was not designed to kill; it was designed to make one ill before the potion became fatal. Of this, the man seemed hopeless, and the Dral wondered. Then he flipped through the pages and paused; he stared hard at the words he saw.

There was more; more than the boy's desperate attempts to flee the arena of the live. If anyone angered the child, his suicidal tendencies were used as a weapon. Few of the lovers of breath could match that strategy; and, the boy had a ruthless side, he was skilled, he was powerful. More powerful than perhaps even him or Eye, if he could train the beast. As the wizard flipped through the book, he saw it. Were he to choose the right path the boy could accomplish the incredible.

Then, a word whispered to the wizard in the darkness. The Dral carefully studied the pages in front of him; the Black Book was always a game with information, but the word that the Dral had heard in the wild rang true—it almost sent a shudder through the wizard. The Dral took the book by the covers and shook the tome. When he put the volume back on the desk and let it fall open. It opened to his diary section. "They are the most detailed people I have ever seen. They log every death, every torture, and every experiment, in distinct articles. They use numbers, categories and procedures to catalogue each event; they make death an industry, an industrial enterprise that still brings pride to my soul. They are a people to which I can teach nothing; they are there, firmly planted in the realm, in the dark, and it does not affright them." The Dral sat in Eye's study and almost smiled. He had written those words years and years ago, after his first trip to the machine world, after ripping the hardly-white book from Simon's hands and learning about the door.

He remembered what he had liked most about the people—besides their meticulous attention to detail—their gray uniforms. They walked proud, shoulders squared, and wore the skull-and-crossbones with a noble bearing. "Their cross is a twisted blade," he had written, "and that blade cuts the dead, those who stray from the path, and their enemies away—it cuts the feint of heart down," the Dral had written long ago. Were he ever inclined to feel alarm, this would be the time, the Dral thought. "Go to monastery—you will not find it hard to catch one of the monks alone," the Black book had read. "Use the mind of the monk to distract Simon, and get his book. Then, travel to the world of the machine, during the reign of the people of the bent cross, and mate." The word whispered to the Dral again, more loudly this time; Grandfather. She had been a proud member of the National Socialist Party, a blonde beauty with green eyes and rosy cheeks. She had been great at satisfying the hunger of the flesh. After, she had a daughter. Her daughter had a son. Family reunion. Ash. That Eye would be finishing a plan begun by him, with the very book that the Dral knew to be a fickle friend at best, only made the wizard almost smile again. Instead he took a deep breath and let it out in spurts—one not versed in the Dral would have thought it was a laugh.

But the Dral didn't laugh, instead, he thumbed the pages of his book, more curious than ever. The Dral turned page after page, and watched the boy grow. He still thought it a good plan to bring over the older Ash, but he saw he would need to do more. The Dral saw another problem—death in the magic land from Eye's traps. Death of the boy from mortal wounds in a magic castle. Mortal wounds—many, many mortal wounds. Mortal. Mortal. Mortal, the Dral mused. In Eye's study he added a few lines to counter that—Ass would have a tool, one that, if he had the courage to use, would leave the boy to watch limbs reattach; one that would let deep cuts heal. From the blue sky the Dral pulled the lines, and thrust them into Eye's spell. Then, the Dral saw the boy die regardless, of lack. He made a second tool—the boy would have everything the machine world version of the lad would have—he would not die of starvation and he would not die from want and he would not die from wounds. Then, and only then did the Dral see him and the boy dance in the land of magic.

He imagined them strolling side-by-side. The Dral teaching, the boy learning. Ash, the Dral realized, had a side of his heart that they could make grow, and once it overwhelmed the other weepy, foolish side, Ass would belong to them. Resting his foot on the dead body of his ex-friend, the Dral lifted his arms to the sky and breathed in the night. For one moment, for one heartbeat, the Dral almost felt joy. "Let the party begin." He said aloud.

As he turned to leave, the Dral noticed one other thing; a simple thing, really. Simon's play blades were gone. Only a dusty outline shown on Eye's wall. Interesting, thought the Dral.

"Well," the Dral said, again aloud to no one—with a spell he made an exact copy. If Eye wanted ornamental blades to play with, then so would he.

Early on a bright sunny day in September, Ash watched Danny paddle his board to the beach. The waves had been small and Ash had also come in early. It was overcast, and Ash wasn't feeling well. Ash occasionally suffered from sinus or ear infections—something he attributed to the high bacteria content of Pacific City's water. Sometimes surfing just wasn't fun.

This day the water was flat, so the men headed for Main Street. In the two city blocks that ended in PC's famous pier, the summer crowds were offered the services of six fast food restaurants, nine swimsuit shops, two liquor stores, seven bars or "grills" that served alcohol, three shops selling "retro" clothes, two "body shops" offering piercing or tattoo art, and one police substation.

Danny changed from his wetsuit using a towel behind Ash's pickup. As he did, he saw Ash take a quick drink from a small bottle. He looked at his watch; it was ten in the morning. Driving the half-mile to Main Street, Danny rifled through Pink Floyd and Grateful Dead cassette tapes, trying to find something he could listen to.

"Ash, buy some new tunes, you know, they make these things called "CDs" and there are bands now that don't have long gray beards."

"Put in the Stones, the one on top," Ash said, and soon Mick Jagger and Keith Richards, along with the three other lesser-known Stones, began their magic.

"Where's the U2 album, the one with the joshua tree on it, what's it called?" Danny asked.

"Joshua Tree," Ash said. He pulled the cassette from the center of his music pile and gave it to Danny. "When the band's photographer showed them one of those trees, Bono insisted they call the album that. I've been to that tree, some think it's in Joshua Tree Park, but ..."

"It's not because you wouldn't go back there in a million years," Danny said. "That wasn't your fault, Ash."

"This particular tree is much farther north, off highway 190, outside Death Valley." Ash pointed to the cover of the tape as he braked for a signal. Waiting at the light at Seaside Boulevard, Ash studied the shoreline where the water lapped the sand. As Mick Jagger sang something about not getting what you want, seagulls floated above the long lay of blonde sand. But even the tranquility of the ocean and the soft blues-y rhythms of the British band couldn't keep Ash's mind from wandering down a familiar, dark alley. I wish I wasn't there when that happened and I wish I wasn't here now. I wish I wasn't anywhere. The water caught his attention; waves lapped the shimmering sand in an endless routine of smother and withdraw. I wish I were dea...

"Green. Green, it's gree-een!" Danny yelled. "Release brake. Slowly depress pedal to the right." Three cars had already moved on to the next light, and in his mirror Ash could see impatient drivers closing in on his bumper. He sped to the next light and waited.

At the pier they made a stop at the Surfside Liquor, and then made their way to the Surf Blends juice joint. They each bought a shake, drank a small portion and poured the rest into the ornamental concrete trash barrels that lined the street. Then Ash and Danny sat at a café table outside the shop. They watched girls go by, they watched the cars pass. Then, in front of them, they watched as the Pacific City Police made a traffic stop.

"Easy bro..." Danny said as Ash began to fill his tall juice cup with beer. "Butch is right there."

"They're busy," Ash said. Leaning back in his chair, Ash used his crossed legs to hide the 40-ounce bottle of malt liquor. As the beer made its way into the foam cup, it blended with last drops of the berry shake, turning the liquid gray. Ash poured at an angle to keep the foam down; he put the plastic lids back on, handed one to Danny and placed the bottle in the trash. He began to sip the beer through the straw and life, through Ash's eyes, began to shine. Ash and Danny sat with their chairs against the building, and pedestrians passed on the sidewalk between them and the police.

Ash had started the day with a half-pint bottle of Bacardi. He had a birthday the day before and he and Danny had celebrated heavily. The night's hangover needed dulling, so he had broken his "no booze really early in the morning" rule, that was a modification of his earlier, and impossible to keep, "no booze in the morning rule." If the Bacardi had started his engine, the malt liquor got that engine purring. A flood of emotions washed over him as he sat and sipped the liquor at the cafe. Before him was the traffic stop; he was glad it wasn't him that had the attention of the police.

Ash began to feel warm and comfortable. He began to feel happy; the feeling was that of pure pleasure. It was invigorating. As the sun shone through the palms that lined Main Street, Ash felt, in its purest form, a smothering joy.

There were those in PC that believed the city council wouldn't be happy to see Ash and his friend on their street. The mayor himself, on occasion, had publicly stated he felt a "certain element" was having a "detrimental effect on the austerity of the town." That element was described as "the disillusioned and idle young," and the Mayor wanted to help their disillusionment by kicking them out PC. Pacific City had always lived in the shadow of Rockport. Rockport was rich.

Rockport attracted tourists, which attracted businesses, which in turn generated tax revenues that in turn could be used to beautify the city and bring in more tourists. It was a cycle that inspired out-right lust in the most conservative PC Council member.

And Rockport was only five miles away from PC's Main Street. But unlike Rockport, Pacific City did not start life as a scenic tourist attraction. The early PC settlers had discovered oil, and the boom that followed founded a city surrounded by a forest of derricks and drilling rigs. Turn-of-the-century photos of PC showed tall drilling towers stretching the entire length of the city's coast. But as the oil fields dried up and the property values on the California coast began to skyrocket, the derricks slowly gave way to homes, shops, a main street, and a name. The city was named after an early land developer and railroad tycoon, C.J. Pacific. It was later, when the flat, southern facing shore and the almost perfect year-round waves began to attract surfers, that PC began a romance with its new identity. A pier was built and the city re-christened itself Surf Town. The irony of which—that the city council and its mayor pretty much loathed surfers—had not gone unnoticed by the local wave worshipers.

PC wanted money. Every time it tried to rise above the stigma of its oil beginnings and its reputation as Rockport's northern, shabby sister, money, or rather the lack of it, seemed to knock it back down. When the pier was built, the city's garbage collectors, whom had worked without a pay-raise for ten years, emptied a trash truck on the pier. Their signs said Take care of your own, and worse, they had the nerve to park their huge trash-truck at the base of the pier on opening day of Pier Carnival. When the Pier Commons was built, which turned out, because of cost considerations, to be little more than a tiled sidewalk with "Spanish style" concrete steps, the city's municipal employees turned out en-mass to protest their low wages. What the employees of the city didn't understand was that affordable living wages do not generate tax revenues. Tourists do. Parks, piers, and being Surf Town brought the masses and the money in, and the employees of the city would have to just live with wages that were sometimes half of that of their sister city, Rockport, just five miles to the south.

Through all its efforts, PC did attract crowds. Only the city council, along with the mayor, felt it attracted the wrong crowds. PC had always been a haven for misfits. Parking was easier in PC. Most of the beach wasn't metered like every street in Rockport, so if you didn't have much money, and you wanted to go to the beach, you went to Pacific City.

Also, in Rockport, cops were everywhere. There were more cops employed by Rockport than in most cities twice its size, so parking violations, vehicle code infractions, or violating any city ordnance rarely went unnoticed. Rockport had money, and its rich residents wanted it watched. That had not gone unnoticed by the county's poorer residents, who drove shabbier cars and tended to park where they wanted. The police in Rockport were paid to keep it safe, clean and pretty. The Rockport police encouraged undesirables to move on, which they did; they went to Pacific City.

Pacific City wanted people that spent money. Pacific City wanted people that were nice and non-threatening. Pacific City wanted families, preferably middle-to-upper-class, white families. In short, Pacific City wanted the people who went to Rock-port. If you had a yacht, you were welcomed in PC, but if you had a tattoo, brown skin, or pink hair, you were not.

But before the people with yachts would be happy at PC, some issues would need to be addressed. A large white supremacist group had taken up residence in the city. It wasn't uncommon to see a swastika tattoo on the bodies of the more muscled sunbathers on the beaches of PC. Pacific City also had a considerable immigrant population, in its outer, poorer sections. Their cars were shabby and their houses were a blight on the landscape, some said. And, PC had a strange allure for the young—especially the disgruntled, anti-establishment, counter-culture young, said a powerful few. Until these things changed, the people with yachts would continue to move south.

The juice blends shop sat just one block from Pacific Coast Highway, or PCH, as the locals called it. West of PCH stood the pride of PC—its beach and its two-hundred yard long concrete pier. What the pier lacked in ambiance (Rockport built a replica of its1890s original all-wood pier) it made up for in sheer size.

When Ash looked left, he saw Main Street stretch into the heart of town. When he looked right, as he sat, sipping his malt/berry cocktail, he saw the pier stretch almost to a vanishing point. When he looked straight ahead, he saw cops.

The PC Police had escalated the traffic stop, and had ordered the occupants out of their car. They were now holding the man's hands behind his head as they pinched and prodded his every pocket.

The police and the residents of PC had an uneasy relationship. The residents could feel the weight of the heavy-handed police policies set forth by the mayor and the city council, and the harsh implementation of those policies by the local cops was a cause for distrust among many PC citizens.

Previously, a Labor Day celebration had got out of hand when skin-head rouges dragged furniture into the streets and set it afire. A crowd of drunken young people then played a game of let's jump over the flaming Barc-a-lounger. All of it was caught by the media and played on the local news. The result of this may-lay by a few out-of-control teens was a city ordinance that prohibited youths gathering in public.

The response from the residents was the popularization of an us-against-them attitude between the police and the residents. At a local surf shop, that later denied their role in the scandal, bumper stickers were printed. The stickers had white letters on a black field. On it was one word; Horror. Residents began plastering the stickers all over PC, on the street signs, on the sidewalks, on the shops, and for a brazen few, on the PC Police cruisers themselves. The PC Police slogan, Duty with Honor became Duty with Horror. For a summer in the early nineties, it was a rarity when the PC Police would not have the converted slogan, or at least the glue residue, announcing the resident's view of what they thought was PC Police's real motto.

Another year, a controversial sports promoter, trying to liven up a surf contest that happened to come on a day when the waves were flat, began encouraging the female members of the audience to remove their tops. When the turnout of voluntary participants enticed into this act was low, the male members of the audience began 'helping' the girls remove their tops. Fights broke out as chivalrous boyfriends defended their mates. Before long a large-scale riot ensued. Again, to the horror of the city's fathers, it was the lead story on the evening news.

The surfers that spawned the city's nickname turned out to be another thorn in the council's side. There were shouting matches in the council chambers when surfers turned out en masse to protest the lack of beach space left to them, after the council issued permit after permit to surf contest promoters, who would then restrict access to the water to only contestants. Week after week the surfers would show up to find the best part of the beach restricted to just contest participants, and they were sick of it.

What the surfers didn't realize was that surf contests brought in a promoter fee but the surfers that made the city "Surf Town" did not. Police were summoned to remove the surfers from the building. Of course, it was a slow news day, and local TV covered the scuffles. The residents began to feel that the city council, the mayor and the PC Police had declared war on them.

On busy summer days, especially in August, the cops staked out Main Street at the pier (where the largest number of young people hung-out) and watched every car, as it slowly rolled by in summer traffic. There, they wrote tickets for vehicle code violations until the sun set. One dark night in June, while chasing a robbery suspect in a poorer section of town, the police spotted a man crouching behind a trash can. They opened fire. The Mexican national, who had only months earlier become a naturalized citizen, had been outside his own house. He died en route to the hospital. He had been playing cops and robbers with his son when the police happened by, and the toy pistol he carried cost him his life.

These events polarized the city into two groups, the establishment, and the residents; and it was clear that the two were at war.

The cops escalated the traffic stop to include a search of their suspect's car. An array of items, displayed for public inventory, now adorned the vehicle's roof. The crowd on the sidewalk began to slow. Danny turned to Ash and smiled in amusement, but Ash just stared.

"Oop!" Danny said as the cops pulled a baggie from the car. Little green clumps filled the bag. The blue uniform pushed it in the face of the black man and barked some indistinguishable commands.

"Pigs one, guy with hot girlfriend... zero," Danny said with a laugh. The cop pushed the man hard onto the trunk of his own car, while the suspect's Asian girlfriend looked on. To Dan's horror, Ash, between sips of beer, began to chant. "Yo, Po, Let Them GO!" An attempt by Danny to place his hand over Ash's mouth was quickly brushed aside as Ash got to his feet. Soon Ash had the entire crowd chanting with him, and for the first time, the cops turned their attention to the two men at the juice joint.

"Ashhh..." said Danny. It was a whispered shout. "Ash!" but it was too late. A cop had begun to talk into a little plastic box coiled on a wire at his shoulder. More police arrived as Ash beat the chant into a roar. Danny tried to pull his arm, to get him to return to the relative obscurity of his seat, when he saw a cop turn to a cruiser and then point to them. Hastily parked askew to the curb, the cruiser's door swung open to release one of the largest cops Danny had ever seen. Ducking quickly through the crowd, Dan left Ash shouting and pumping his fist into the air. The last thing Danny saw before completely leaving the area was the cop making his way through the crowd, toward Ash. All the rest he would find out from the evening news.

Standing on the corner, Isuair watched as the riot began. For the first time during his visits to the machine world, he smiled.

Whether Ash hit the cop would remain in dispute until a tourist's video of the melee surfaced. Isuair saw that, in fact, it was a bottle thrown by a tattooed, spiked-haired man that struck the cop holding Ash. But the result was the same. The crowd ran wildly out of control; pandemonium reigned as the cop fell to the ground, and Ash, standing above the officer, began to move.

Ash reached to the fallen officer and began pulling at the officer's gun. After some wrangling, Ash was able to remove the gun from the officer's holster. Those nearest to Ash saw the firearm and paused. Ash fumbled with a button on the gun, and then looked around. He found himself in the middle of Main Street holding court to a stunned crowd, with a gun in one hand, a handcuff on the other, and a bleeding Pacific City police officer at his feet.

Time stopped. The buzz stopped. The PC Police stopped. Then, after a pause, they began to move—slowly, toward Ash. Ash raised the gun high over his head and pulled the trigger. The gun's report again froze time. It was a loud POP. To make sure that the pop and the power of the gun were truly at his command, Ash pulled the trigger a second time. POP. When the police moved again, they moved away from him. Throughout the entire video Ash had the gun pointed into the air, high over his head. The fallen officer at Ash's feet had begun to stir, and Ash turned to the crowd.

"Mortals..." Ash began. "Mortals..." Ash shouted. "...mortals..." Ash screamed. Tears fell from his cheeks as he yelled. Later in his cell Ash thought of a thousand things to say to the crowd and the officers. How they were neighbors. How they were brothers. How the police had no right to abuse the power they were given to protect their own citizens. How they all shared the same humanity, how they all deserved respect without regard to city politics or fiscal policies. But all he could manage during his forty seconds of fame was that one word; mortals. Mortals. Mortals.

He would later tell Danny that it felt like a ton of bricks landed on him. They just squashed him. Six hands tightly gripped the arm, hand and wrist that held the gun. Ash saw the pavement make a bull rush to his face, and he only just turned his head to avoid hitting the ground nose first. The cops had rushed him from behind, and he would say later that it felt like there were twenty of them.

Only by brute force were the cops able to muscle Ash through the crowd and into a cruiser. After they left, the crowd began to riot in earnest. They marched on Main Street and rioted in spurts for three straight days. When it was over, Ash was charged with sixteen counts of criminal code violations, from attempted murder on a Pacific City police officer to disturbing the peace, to drunk in public, to inciting a riot. During the riot more than a dozen windows on Main Street were broken and many shops were looted. The news was carried nationally, and locally the story ran for an entire week. The talking heads branded their vigils, "Riot Watch!" and "PC Under Siege," and when there was no story, the press interviewed people in front of the boarded up windows on Main Street. Also, the residents of Pacific City had a new hero, and the city council, the police, and the mayor, had a new enemy.

Isuair, standing on the corner, literally said the word; "brouuhaaa..." while rubbing his hands together and grinning. As soon as he realized what he was doing and what he had said, he stopped, bowed his head and left for a part of Los Angeles called South Central.

An Australian tourist videotaped the encounter on Main Street between the police officer and Ash. The tape clearly showed the officer making his way through the crowd as Ash chanted. The tape showed the officer grab Ash from behind. He grabbed Ash by the t-shirt (the press showed the tape over and over in slow motion) and threw him against the wall of the juice shop. The tape showed the officer pushing him from behind when the bottle came flying in from the crowd. Three cops had each filed individual reports that stated that Ash had become violent and had turned against their fellow officer in a drug-induced rage. But the tape showed it was a bottle that struck the officer, not Ash. Both Ash and the officer went down, and, with handcuffs dangling from one hand, Ash rose with the gun and began his one word speech. After the release of the video twelve charges against Ash were dropped, and after nine days he was released on bail, with four charges, including the illegal discharging of a firearm, disturbing the peace and inciting a riot, pending.

South Central, Los Angeles

"You stay clear of them boys. That's it, that's the end of it!" Marla began to speak but her mom cut her off. "Shut up! Shut the hell up! What are you going to say to me? They're bangers! Don't even think of saying a damn word to me. I see you with them, even hanging out, even standing near them, and right out that door you go." At thirty-nine Marla's mom, Nadine, had seen one of her boys die and another sentenced to twenty-five-years-to-life for murder. All Marla was going to say was that she was sorry.

"Look here, look here," said Nadine. Nadine had a book in her hands. It was a Bible; it had a black cover and gold embossing. "This is your armor; this is your shield. This is your weapon. Take this book, and pray. In this book lay your life, your salvation. This book can save your mortal soul; this book! You won't understand it now, but everything, everything you know, all that you will be, your whole life and all of your future, lay here in this book." Nadine said. "Pray child. Go now, and pray. Please, Mara, do this one thing for me, pray to our Lord God, pray to Jesus Christ our Lord and Savior. Pray for love and forgiveness—it is the answer for every question—love and forgiveness! Would you do that for me? Would you pray?" Stunned, Marla took the black book.

"Yes, Mom, I'll pray. I'll pray right now..." Marla said, through falling tears. "... did you just call me Mara..."

"PRAY child, PRAY!" shouted Nadine. Gripping the book tightly in both hands, Marla began to pray. But she started and ended the prayer silently, with the same preamble she always used when she prayed. Dear monumental waste-of-time God of stupidity... Then she began her prayer. "How does thee do fuck? With love and forgiveness.

What do I ask for in return for this hell on earth, why, love and forgiveness! How do I bow to the mighty creator of this fishbowl of shit experiment you call life, why, with none other than love and fucking forgiveness, she prayed silently. She didn't tell her mother that she thought it a waste of time, or that God existed only in fairytales, or that praying to the Rose Bowl would have had the same effect as praying to the All Mighty. Instead, she just prayed. She prayed that one day she would buy the power to exact the fear and despair that she now felt, over any that dared call themselves Lord to her. Her love and forgiveness would be of a brutal kind, a raging kind. Furious, she kept quiet and prayed to a god which whom she loathed, a god which whom she hated with an unabated, unbridled fury. And, she made sure she said love and forgiveness, over and over, until the words meant nothing to her. She said love and forgiveness, until the words spoke to her, until they said that anyone pointing a finger in her chest would get her love, her forgiveness, and that it would be black, cold and brought with blood.

Marla prayed and prayed and prayed. None knew the bitterest part of Marla's life; she had no place to go. She didn't have access to a car, nor could she walk the streets of South Central at night. Banished to her room, she withdrew into the only sanctuary she had—her headphones. If she turned up her old console stereo loudly enough, and pressed the plastic foam cups to her head hard enough, she wouldn't hear the slamming doors, the banging of the cupboards, or her mom's heavy footsteps. She wouldn't hear the gunshots or the sirens; she wouldn't hear her own heart beating in her chest, and she wouldn't hear the hate that roamed, caged, in the dark.

What kind of world is this, Marla wondered, where just talking to someone could produce such a rage? Where walking out the door, in the greatest country in the world, America, could mean stepping out into a battlefield?

She put the headphones on. The skin of her fingers scraped against the ribs of the knob as she forced the volume as high as it would go. Like "Spinal Tap" she needed this knob, this day, to go to eleven. Leaning against the bed's headboard, she pressed the earphones tight to her head, brought her knees up to her chin and clenched her eyes shut. In the blackness she became a warrior—and with sword drawn, she let the fury find home. She challenged all those that would stand to her and tore them with black fangs, a black sword and black claws. She made clouds of blood and licked the tiny droplets from the air. She wore a mask; she wore the face of beauty, and the mortals were fooled, and then the mortals were food. It was then, in the darkness, that she saw him again. She saw the old man with her eyes closed. She began to shudder and bare her teeth.

After nine nights in police custody, Ash was released on bail at two in the morning. No one was waiting for him; he was met by a cold, still night. His parents had arranged bail, and they were told he would be released at two that afternoon. They waited and waited. When asked, the Sheriffs told them it would be a few more minutes, or that there was a paperwork hold up, or that they needed to talk to someone else. After waiting until midnight, they left. Ash stood outside the jail in the cold early morning hours for a long moment, and then began to walk. It was thirteen miles from the County Jail to Orange where Ash lived. He arrived at his apartment at nine in the morning.

Homeless Elder Ash

Trying to sleep under the bridge without booze was all but impossible; even in the dead of night cars sped across the concrete platform above him. Each passage was heralded by the sound of demons. Deep and throaty, they chased Ash as he tried to sleep. It started as a hiss, turned to a howl, then grew until the beast roared, thundering at Ash through the concrete. It would climax with a thump-thump as the car passed the metal joint joining the center of the road. The beast would then flee and the night would quiet. Then it would begin to hiss again.

Soon he couldn't stand it. He grabbed his kit—his bike and his bags, and headed for the road. Anywhere quiet would do. He found a hollow between an apartment complex and a strip mall and threw himself down. While waiting for sleep, memories drifted through his mind. His thoughts this night led him to his parent's house in Fullerton. It was sometime in the early 70s. It was about three in the morning. Everyone in the house was asleep. Ash was standing before the utensil drawer in the kitchen in the dark. He had taken the largest, sharpest knife from the drawer. With the point of a knife pressed against his chest, he stood and waited. He waited for the voice to tell him what to do next. He was ten-years-old. Then the voice, the same one that told him to go to the kitchen in the first place, told him to plunge it in.

Ash always felt foreign. He always felt like he didn't belong. He felt like he shouldn't be there, that he shouldn't be anywhere. But he pretended. He pretended he was normal. He pretended he wasn't weird, he wasn't from outer-space, and he wasn't insane. He pretended when he closed his eyes he didn't see a black-skinned, black-eyed, fanged monster.

He tried to be just a white kid from the suburbs. He went through the motions. He smiled a lot. He nodded his head a lot. He said thank-you-so-much a lot. He said great, thanks a bunch, you're the greatest, a lot.

He made light of things. He tried to be quick with a joke, but he was always faking. None of it was real. All he ever felt about anything around him was apathy. Bottomless, black apathy. He really didn't want to smile; he really didn't want to talk. He didn't like or want anything. In the end he decided to put the knife down. He didn't want to listen to the voice either.

"Wonderful!" said the man in the coat.

Isuair arrived back at the monastery at dawn. He was exhausted. Though he had expected some of the monks to be awake, he hadn't expected a vigil. Then he felt it—death and the Dral. The two went hand in hand.

"Father, we had a visitor, who has since departed. He took from us a precious gift before he left. We did not detect him until too late. Brother Diase is gone," Leif said. The man then began to weep. The rest of his speech was through broken sobs. "His body lay in the chapel. I know I was supposed to stay with him. I..." Isuair placed a hand on Leif's shoulder to comfort him. As tears fell from Leif's eyes, Isuair pulled him close.

"He is at peace now," Isuair said quietly to the monk. "It is we, who are still in the storm. Give what comfort you can to the others, especially to Glem, the lost of his brother will be a grievous thing to the man. As far as you accompanying Diase everywhere, we knew that would be impossible, and if fault be found, it was I that left him alone in my study," Isuair said. "He was somewhat a match for the Dral, even at his age and his... aversion to magic. Was there a struggle?"

"No, or nothing that we could detect."

"Curious," said Isuair. "How soon did you feel his presence, while he was here, or after?"

"After. We found Diase in your study." At this Isuair paused, mouth open.

"Were there signs of magic, from either one?" he asked.

"There was much of it," said Leif, "I think something from both, but... It was soon gone. Brother Fale and I swept the room, but whatever was done was meant to go undetected," Leif said. "Eye, we have closed your study. Whatever they did in there, is still there, hiding in the cracks somewhere. Your plan must be considered contaminated. You must abandon the work. I fear it would be perilous to even set foot in your study," said Leif. Isuair only smiled.

"No doubt, Leif. No doubt about that," said the wizard. As he walked, the monk followed.

"Sir, I took the liberty to look close... to study your project for a moment..." said Leif. The old monk seemed to wither under the gaze of the wizard, but Isuair saw that the padre was determined to have his say. "To perhaps see the path as you have set it so far," said Leif; he twisted furiously at beads in his hands as he spoke. "Eye, is this the right path? Isuair, this could be an absolutely frightful mistake. Those two, you take them as the stars say, no? You wish to bring them here?"

"They are the two, from the machine world, and the stars do point to them. "Either I have become a painfully obvious planner, or you have been spying on me for some time now," said Isuair.

"Diase and I have been concerned. Eye, this path, the map you use is a bad one; the Black Book will cheat its user every time. Perhaps you may be the one to finally cheat it, but look at the price we have paid already. Isuair please tell me this is the right way, for I fear that we just have become desperate, that we have lost sight of everything," Leif said. Isuair only glanced at the man as he made his way through the labyrinth halls of the monastery. "Think of this—what if we have done all that is to be done, and our time has naturally come to an end? Let us let go, and leave this for the next..."

"And that, my spy friend, is exactly what this is about," Eye said. "There is no next! There is no generation after us," Isuair had almost shouted. Then he sighed. "Since the Dral has already discovered what he could here, I will tell you some of this plan and hope I do no further ill with my loose tongue." Eye said. "How much magic can you do, Leif? Some, right? A few pretty tricks. You can make the butterflies come, or bring a little yellow fire. Maybe create a simple illusion, and you and your brothers have been at this for a hundred years. All of us are old, Leif—old; myself and maybe Iminia are all that are left and we are all, to the man, decrepit. You guys can't or won't do it. You have tried to pass some to your nephew and to a few pupils. Had any luck?" asked Isuair. Stopping at a window, the wizard turned his gaze to the hills below the monastery. He did not look at Leif, but he knew the monk would only shake his head and twist his beads.

"I fear the magic will not be able to be passed on," said Leif. "But we have the Wizard's Council and their search for the answer of this very question—the Seidir. He will bring the magic back."

"Bureaucrats and charlatans," Eye said, "they don't even use magic anymore. Only Iminia and his daughter now show any of the touch and they abhor using it, like you idiots. And as for their search," Isuair said with a pause, "...they have given up, like you. They have turned their back on the art, they are part of a group that think one should abstain... any of that sound familiar to you?"

"Perhaps even this power change is natural." Leif said. Perhaps magic is supposed to die. I know your fear. I know of the machines land. But could this be the future, despite our efforts? Would you try to change the inevitable, with the blood of thousands?" Leif asked. "Do we have the wisdom to play this game, to take this path—a path that we have mapped with the help of the Black Book?" Leif asked. "Eye, Please tell me you will abandon this plan."

"No, Leif. No. And no, and NO! We do not have the wisdom nor the right. We have two things, the Magic Land and the machine world. With the help of the White Book, or rather Simon's notes tucked in the White Book, we have found this other world, and the door leading to it. Simon did not live long enough to do more than discover the door; he passed before he could explore it. It has been my task to study this other world, and to compare it to ours. I find one difference, and one difference alone." Isuair said, he climbed the winding stone staircase, dotted infrequently with windows, and paused at each opening. The wizard turned from the window and searched Leif for understanding, but he saw only fear. "We have magic, and they have machines. With us, the magic dies. In the last hundred years we have failed to teach a single person that art. We have managed only parlor tricks," Isuair said. "Did you know that the machine world has magic? It does, but only the kind we can teach here, tricks and illusions. Yet, if you study their history, their real history, it is riddled with magic. They call the magic miracles, and they attribute these feats to their creator, whichever one happens to be popular at the time. But I have looked deeper. I have looked deep into the histories that they hide and that they have thought lost. The machine world used to be exactly like this one. Exactly! I believe we head down that same road. I believe if we lose the magic, we become the machine world; I am sure of it!" Isuair said.

"We as a people, well, not actually us, but that is a story for another time... have a predisposition, if you will, to magic. We are inclined to that path," Isuair said. "But our people, and others, are starting to notice machines. Do you remember the Alannas, those exiled in Vallhalaka? They used to love magic, and were great wielders of that art. Remember the castles of the Asemio and the Awg? Do you remember Camilititha? She could create dragons, grow trees before your eyes from a seed to a mighty tower of leaves, and wield turquoise fire. But their culture has changed because of the... mistake. Now they embrace metal—the wheel, the gear, for they find it a great tool on their current path. If they win the coming war we will see the other world here, soon," Isuair said. "In the machine world they despoil the water, air and ground. They have poisons, they kill the earth, they kill the animals, and they are a horror to The Mother, to this blue ball. They are bred to consume and when their system fails, their world will suffer a catastrophic disaster on an unheard of scale."

"In the machine world they are slaves to their machines." Isuair continued, "they work to produce products that they then consume, and they consume the products in order to work. It's a cycle of entrapment; it makes every man a cog in a machine. The real power is out of their control, run by the ultra—ultra-powerful, ultra-rich, secretly, behind the scenes." Isuair climbed another set of steps and paused at another window. "For most people in the machine world work, their labor, has become a nightmare—most do not even get the slightest satisfaction from their toil. That is an important point. A person's work, their art, is them," Isuair said. "But wealth, escape from their toil, is the dream of every man and woman in the machine world. They all dream that one day they will have to work no more. All hope that one day they, too, will join the ranks of the ultra-rich, all for the desire to consume more. They lust to consume the most, to consume the most expensive gifts; that is their dream." Isuair said, "Yes, Leif, I am willing to bet the lives of thousands... maybe even millions..."

"But these two," Leif said. "Your hope is to bring them and restore magic? How is it that these two can come from a world without magic and yet can bring it back to us? The Dral has given his consent to your plan, though I doubt it was without some secret alteration. Does that not concern you? How will this plan help us? How will these two help us?" asked Leif.

"I don't know... all that..." said Isuair, while rubbing his brow, "... I don't know. But the stars, the door from here to the machine world lies through the stars, and when I go to the brightest, I find them. And Simon's pages tell of the king and the queen. The two also refer to themselves as the king and the queen, but with one perhaps significant detail; they spell the names not as they do in their world, but with an H and W, as is the custom of the scribes in our land. It might be small, but it's all I got, and, just for balance, I'll mention here that because of language translation problems some will deny it is even a fact, but I know it to be true. And, before he died, Simon said two words. He said, "The two."

"The two!" Isuair said.

"From this only," said Leif, "you place our hopes? Forgive me Eye, but is that enough, considering the risk? After the Dral has had a chance to mess things up, will you bring these two anyway? What if they bring the machines?"

"You have not been listening," said Isuair. "No magic means machines. There is also the war. I believe they will have a big part to play in the war. Nobody in the land even believes that it is coming. The king had me thrown out the last time I beseeched him to prepare for it," Isuair said. "But I understand your concerns. I have them also. The last thing I want is to release a pair of vipers into our unsuspecting world. So I have made some arrangements," Isuair said. "First, I will not bring them here with all their memories of the other world, I will not actually bring them, I will bring copies. And the copies will know only the basics; speech, survival skills and such. They will not remember enough of the machine world to make machines here," Isuair said. "And I have taken Simon's ornamental swords. Using magic alone, I have created a quarantine. I have set a castle high atop the Nong Canyon that will have a door warden equipped with Simon's blades. I have given the warden magic. If the two are not pure of heart, they will never get out of the castle. If they are, the warden will let them out, and into the land. But they will have to prove to the warden that they have the principles of the pure, that of love and forgiveness," said Isuair. "And then, heaven help us, because they will change our land. Simon's notes say that they will either save or destroy the land. So be it. They will have to stop the war, keep magic in the land, and bring the two peoples, the Alannas and us, together to live in a land that will be free of the bonds of machines. Free from the bonds of endless consumption and the control of a super-rich. Free to live in a world where farmers and craftsmen make and trade their goods to feed their families in harmony with the earth. Free on an earth that is healthy and not so overburdened with people that they themselves become a plague to the land. Free to live in a world where lust for materialism does not lead to the rape of the land. Free. So I will take that risk, for better or for worse, I will take that risk, Leif, to be free."

There would be war. The enemy was amassing troops, in unimaginable numbers. They will probably come in the next five or ten years, Eye thought. Finally relieved of Leif 's company, the wizard stood before the door of his study door and shook his head. The enemy was a race of people with a mission, who had taken a path set in motion by acts committed hundreds of years ago.

Long, long ago, a mistake was made. The land was taken by force. The vanquished race fled, vowing to return. But their path of revenge had led them to make a pact with the devil. Already he worked his evil on the land. He brewed hate. He fostered unrest between the peoples of the land.

The vanquished enemy had four centuries to prepare. They had grown strong. They were a simple people with a fascination with magic, but in their frozen waste of a land they had turned to the machine to help them cope with the harshness of their environment. They used it for things other than swords and armor. Isuair knew that fascination would lead them to a future of machines. It would take a hundred years, but it would come. And the shame of it, Isuair thought, as he reached for the knob on his study door, is that the two races could have joined. They would have made a spectacular team. Each has qualities that the other lacked. One loves to paint on canvas, much like the monks in the monastery, the other loves carving stone. If joined peacefully, the melding of the two peoples could produce a race that treasures art above all else, perhaps turning them from machines, and even perhaps magic, permanently.

But a mistake had been made. The vanquished people had spurned the new race, and that led to conflict. That conflict led to war. That war led to the worst possible scenario, a victor and a vanquished. And then the vanquished had planned for four centuries... As he turned the handle on the door of his study, Isuair paused. One mistake had been made after another. One mistake after another, he thought, and then he saw it. In his mind, he saw the note on the sill. With a movement of his hand, it flamed and blew away as tiny ashes out of his window. The Dral was wrong, it wasn't a game at all. Yet. He opened the door.

The stew had been muddled. Isuair couldn't tell where, but he knew both Diase and the Dral had added spice. Like Leif said, it was time to abandon the mission. But he couldn't. To stop now, even if the plan were doomed to failure, would be to admit defeat. Four hundred years of defeat. There was a chance that his meddling would result in a great loss of life. His plans could conceivably lead to total destruction of the land. But if he did nothing, it would mean the machine world. It would mean automobiles and concrete. It would mean gasoline and advertisements. It would mean plastic six-pack rings and cigarette butts, it would mean the training of the mind to the pop-culture—food for the banal; television. Given the choice, he would pick the black. He stood amid his books and began to weep. He wept for his friend, who had deserved better. He wept for the land. It deserved only love. He wept for the two he would bring over, and the two he would leave behind. As he wept, he began the spell.

Even through the headphones, even through her silent raging, Marla could hear the noise. It was very close. Pop, pop, pop. She ran out of her sanctuary to find the living-room empty and the front door open. In the street, at the foot of their driveway, knelt her mom and Cromwell, a gangster from 66th Street. Blood was on the sidewalk, on her mom, and all over Cromwell. All Marla could remember was saying "Oh, God" over and over. The media that night would describe the event as a "drive-by" but Marla knew the truth; South Central was at war, and Cromwell was just the latest in a long string of casualties.

Cromwell had been a sweet guy; at least he had been to Marla. He didn't hit on her with stupid pick-up lines. He was liked. She knew he banged because it was far safer to be part of it than to sneak around alone. He won friends not by shooting, thieving or talking, but by being there. Now, he had just been there at the wrong place at the wrong time.

Marla's street was a hot spot. Her brother had run soldier operations from their house, and had risen to the status of OG through brutal acts of violence. Now he sat, rotting in a concrete cage at Pelican Bay. Cromwell's crime was being in front of that house. They took him off in an ambulance, but his life had ended long before they ever began pumping that black bag of air into him. Hours later, at 4 am, Marla sat staring through a crack in her bedroom curtains. She decided she needed to do something. She thought about suicide, or perhaps assisting others with their own suicides. Then she thought of a prayer, one that would make her mom proud. "Please God, or the fucking Rose Bowl, take my life," she whispered.

Though it was four in the morning, her mom was still up, roaming the house. Marla arose, placed a rolled-up blanket under her sheet and used a wig to complete the ruse. She used a razor to cut the mattress in the bed next to hers. The area she cut had been crudely stitched by hand. Fishing her arm deep among the springs and padding, her hand finally brushed against, and then locked onto, the objects that her brother had only whispered about. She compared the two, and then picked one at random. She tucked the gun in her waistband, and used care to keep it from banging against the windowsill as she crawled out into the night.

It was called "the Shack" but in fact it was nothing more than a stand-alone garage behind CJ's house. CJ was a member of the Sixtieth Street Strays, and at that very moment they were holding court.

"I want in," Marla said. She had barely gotten the words out when the guys in the shack jumped. Weapons were drawn. Startled by her entrance, those in the shack surged forward, poised for battle. A few members grabbed her.

"What the hell's the matter with you..." said someone she recognized and knew only as "Pop."

"I want in, it happened in our driveway. I knew Cromwell. You guys are going to blast back, right?" asked Marla. Reaching to the small of her back, she pulled out the 9-millimeter. Again the Strays in the shack went crazy, jumping about and again pulling weapons of their own. A stunned silence filled the room, until the shack door opened, revealing part of an immensely large man holding a sandwich.

"How'd she get in here?" asked the heavy-set sandwich holder. "How do you think, bitch?" shouted one member into the fat man's face. "The guard we posted was out getting a sandwich, apparently," laughed CJ. His hand moved toward Marla's gun, but Marla quickly slipped it behind her, and into her waistband. "Hold up, all you." CJ said. "Marla, come with me, let's stand outside for a minute." The group in the shack had recovered their composure and ambushed the man with the sandwich, taking his snack. Marijuana smoke hung low in the room and a bottle of Hennessey moved from member to member. Marla, with a look back, saw a welcoming, cozy hut. Outside the shack she and CJ talked. "I'm going to have a couple of the guys get you home." Then his voice lowered. "And we'll need that piece. It was B-Dog's, right?" CJ asked. Marla stood silent.

"What the heck's a matter with you coming here at a time like this?" CJ was tall, in his forties, weathered, with dark skin and angular features. "You're supposed to be a good girl. I thought your mama was saving for you to go to college and that you were going to be a doctor or something. What happened to that? What would she say if she saw you, here, now? Think of these things, girl, think!" He was much older than most of the other members in the Strays and he rarely became directly involved in their business. He let them use his shack and took a cut of their drug money. He was nice, but Marla had heard stories about his past. He always had been kind to her, as their paths crossed, but it was rumored that he could be treacherous. He had spent almost ten years in prison and had a lot of contacts, including most all the club's drug connections. And he acted as a kind of a leader for the Strays in times of crisis.

"I..." Marla began.

"No I's! There are only soldiers in that house, and you are a civilian. We will take care of this business, and you need to know as little about that as possible. We're not talking; we're listening, we're listening to me. I'm sending you home. Do not go out after we get you back, and don't ever come here again," CJ said. "Now stay put a minute." Holding a hand on her shoulder, CJ hooked a finger to the new guard at the shack door. "Stay here with Wonder-Woman, I'll be right back," he said. As CJ disappeared into the shack, movement at the back of the yard caught Marla's attention. Two dark shapes dropped invisibly into the yard, and Marla saw a flash. It seemed to her that the sound of the shots came long moments after the flashes. She saw her guard fall, and then the deafening noise came. Almost in slow motion, she raised her gun and started pulling the trigger. Men burst out of the shack and returned fire along with Marla. As she pulled the trigger, Marla felt another round shake the man who had fallen into her lap. She didn't know how she went from standing to sitting. All she remembered was pulling the gun's trigger. Both assailants slumped against the back fence of CJ's yard. But before the smoke had a chance to clear, a car burst through the fence, splintering it and blinding Marla with its headlights. Men came out of the car firing, and CJ's men fired back. Both parties had guns that lit the entire yard. Marla could remember hopping the fence and running with one of CJ's men. After two blocks, the man collapsed, and Marla found herself standing alone in the darkness. Sirens wailed and more blasts, now muted, rang out.

In the dark, a few feet from CJ's fallen soldier, Marla stood as if she were in a trance. She froze. She began to weep. On the other side of the street stood the old man. With the yellow pale of the streetlight falling around her, she watched as he turned his gaze from her to the street where the shots had come. At some point, she began to scream. But even with her screams it had become very quiet. Then, heralded by the sound of screeching rubber, a black Chevrolet swung around the corner, its back-end fishtailing wildly. Marla took a step to run, and then stopped. A thought, calm as a windless day, came to her through the chaos. Instead of running, she turned and walked into the center of the street. Standing directly in the path of the speeding car, she straightened her arms and gripped the gun. One way or the other, she thought, this is going to stop. She raised the gun.

The noise was deafening. Pop. Pop. Pop. Isuair watched as the machine carriage came to a violent stop against the stone illumination pole. The city woman dropped her weapon and ran off. Eye watched as smoke issued from the carriage. The occupants did not move. She had successfully taken out her enemy. Eye shuffled past the smoking carriage and picked up the weapon. He rubbed every bit of the metal surface with his robe and set the pistol down again without touching the metal.

Isuair stood at his window once again and pondered the land before him. He could only take so much of the machine world before he had to flee. He no longer had any doubts about the two. With each passing day they were being trained for war in their world of machines. They would be warriors, and they would not fear. He looked out onto the fields and farms that stretched from his study window and his heart filled with hope.

Alrica was incredibly beautiful, a lush land of deserts and forests, dry and rainy seasons. The land teemed with pastures and meadows—in the spring the grasses grew high enough for a tall man to disappear in their midst. There were vast open spaces. There were places in Alrica where no man had ever walked. Miles and miles of wilderness separated every township. The destruction and waste that people naturally create had been limited on Alrica by its low population and by the respect the people had for the land. They were careful not to tread on the wilds around their towns; they cared enough to preserve the home of the beasts and the trees. They knew the wilds lived and breathed, and they knew the wilds deserved deep respect.

When a person introduced himself in the land, he told of the town he was from. People were proud of their hamlets, no matter how small. There were no factories, no industries—the people were farmers, tradesmen and merchants. They used candlelight and burned wood. What damage they did to the land was small, and the land was quick to recover. The people did not cast their rubbish on the land. And they did not have to be told this; they did it out of a common respect for the world around them.

The Plains were an endless carpet of green in the spring and a golden sea of brown by summer's end. The mountains rose tall and their snow capped peaks provided stunning backdrops for the land's travelers. The desert, baked blonde by the heat of the summer sun, offered immense open spaces that naturally settled border disputes. Alrica had a beautiful but brutal coastline, and storms along the seaboard drove away any that were foolish enough to try and settle there.

Trees flourished in Alrica. Across the countryside long rolling hills speckled with black oak often covered the entire horizon, but a forest, thick and dark, cut a wide swath through all of Alrica. The ancient forest had been around since the beginning of time. Most of it had not even been explored. The forest was mystical. Its rich soil almost never saw the light of day, for tall redwoods bid for almost every inch of sky, hoarding the light. The forest floor was carpeted by clover and fern, which quickly gobbled up what little light escaped the trees. The people of the land did not cut these trees, nor did they put out the forest fires. Instead they gave it space and respect. They simply left it alone.

People of the land were a rarity; they were the exception, not the norm. In Alrica, people struggled with extinction, not the animals around them. Be fruitful and multiply meant just that—preserve the species lest it fade. That line wasn't a joke in Alrica like it was in the machine world.

There were not enough people in the towns for anyone to be anonymous. With an identity came a personal responsibility that made people think before practicing evil. The hamlets knew each other. They knew each other's families. If someone committed a heinous act, it haunted the family name forever. And every family in Alrica had an extra, cherished member; the land itself. The world fed them, mystified them, entertained them, and in return the people offered it love and respect. They did not profit from its destruction.

There was no super-rich in the land, with the possible exception of the kings. But the kings of the land needed every gold piece to keep their communities running. They were the sole caretakers of the law. But it was a power that existed only with the people's consent. Without their subjects the kings were powerless, and in return the people allowed the kings the wealth to rule. The kings were the hardest workers with the most burdens. The land had no idle rich. Possessions were not highly valued or coveted; most of the land's residents had what they needed. Those less fortunate found help from their neighbors—there was no profit in the poor, there was no exploitation or gratification that came from people going without. A hut, a horse, a plow, a field and a cart were all most people needed. The concept of wealth was simple; if you had what was necessary to raise a family, you were rich. It was simple—it wasn't taught, it wasn't learned, it was a truth; the land was a sacred place. In a word, Alrica was Eden. And Isuair was determined to keep the apple of the machine out.

Homeless Elder Ash

One was a diary filled with the sexual meanderings of a suicidal teenage nymphomaniac; the other was a book of spiritual verses from the world's largest religions. One was black and one was white. Both were just lying atop the heap of rubbish. Ash clutched them to his chest, cradling his treasures. He was dangerously close to passing-out in the dumpster. He tried to prop himself up against the mound of trash but his will was not with him. He knew he must not lose his precious finds, the books, but he couldn't help it. He might be a bum, he may be a joke of society, but they didn't know what he knew. They didn't know the White Book and the Black Book held the secrets to the universe. He clutched them tighter.

He felt like sliding. He felt slow, warm, thick and oozing. His breath came out rich with the smell of alcohol after-burn. He took deep breaths and blew them out slowly. Boy, was he light, he thought. Boy, was he heavy, he thought, as his feet sunk deeper into the trash. He could feel the booze pumping through him; he could feel the power. He could feel his own invincibility. This moment, regardless of what came before or what would come after, made it all worth it. This wondrous, welcome to oblivion moment, made it all worth it. He began to urinate.

Night passed into day and the morning hours grew old. A man with a plastic cart rumbled along beside the bins; the cart's hollow wheels bellowed on the blacktop. His cart was full of crushed boxes. He paused for a moment to stare at Ash in the dumpster, and then moved on. He dumped his boxes in the next bin. Ash tried not to move. He felt wet. He felt hurt. Not just bruised, but injured. His back screamed. His toxic gut clenched and churned, bubbling the nights dumpster meal about in his gut. His head felt like a strobe light lay just out of his peripheral vision, blinding his brain with invisible flashes.

The world thundered at him for his neglect. Paradise came with a price. He thought keeping his face still would somehow make it all go away. He froze every muscle, letting his lips part only enough to let air pass in and out. It was an air thick with after-burn. He was just so tired of frowning. He was so tired of grimacing. Somehow there had to be a way—if he just lay there, frozen, maybe the rest of the world would freeze, too. But it didn't. It stayed. A noise, no greater than any a person might hear on a busy day, a shout, a dropped glass, was enough to pop the bubble.

Instinctively he frowned. Instinctively he pulled away. None of this was going to work. The white book made no sense. The black book just pulled a person in and twisted them. It was no book, because it was never really a life. It was a forgotten childhood and an endless string of days governed by addiction.

Suicide. The word sang to him. It beckoned him, waving slender, embracing arms. It held the promise of a thousand problems forgotten and thousands more having never happened. Suicide. It was the perfect first kiss, the warm embrace, and the, "There, there, Sweetie." The thought of trying to keep his face perfectly still returned. If he could just keep his face perfectly still, frozen, maybe there wouldn't be anything at all. What he dreaded most was that there seemed to be no end. The chapters just ran on and on and on. "Suicide is your friend, Sweetness," said the voice. Freddie. Marilyn. Hemmingway.

Later Ash bumped into the Labcoat. "You began with the wizard at his window, torn between his choices," said the Labcoat. "Now continue—begin where you first started noticing the wizard stalking you, at the AA meeting..." Ash continued recounting his tale. He was twenty-something, in his apartment.

"This was at least a dozen years ago, maybe more..." began Ash.

Young Ash

Back at his apartment, Ash headed for his booze cabinet. He didn't even pause to take his keys out of the door. He went to the cabinet, took out the bottle of gin and poured himself a drink. He poured the booze into a blue plastic tumbler, filling the cup to the top. The first drink made him gag, and he coughed some out onto his shirt, but after that the gin went down like water. Then he walked over to the door, pulled out his keys and closed it.

Sitting on his couch, he combed his fingers through his hair, desperately trying to figure out what had gone wrong with his life. He sat there and stared at the drink. He sat, stared at the drink, and began to cry. After a few moments, he walked over to the kitchen and poured the drink out.

He went to the cupboard and got the phone book. Then he went to his bedroom closet and got a shoebox. He sat in the middle of his living room floor—to his left lay the shoebox, to his right he placed the phone book and the phone. He paged through the book until he found the number for a list of meetings for alcoholics. He took the top off the shoebox and removed the gun from inside.

One way or the other, he thought, this is going to stop. After dialing three consecutive wrong numbers, Ash picked up the gun. He felt the cold touch of metal gently kiss his temple, and he began to squeeze the trigger. He had done this a dozen times, and knew where to stop, before the hammer actually tripped. But this time it was going to be different, he told himself. He pulled, drawing the lever back, when he heard a sharp rap. It startled him so that he almost jerked the trigger. Panting and sweating profusely, he waited in silence.

Just as he began to breath easy, the knock came again. Taking a deep breath, he rose and approached the door. Out of the peephole, he could make out two figures milling about on the apartment landing. Through the glass the men appeared to have giant heads. They were dressed in white short-sleeve collared shirts and wore ties. Letting out a sharp hiss, Ash opened the door.

"Good morning, Sir..." one of the men said.

"Fuck you," said Ash. The men took a step back, looked at each other, then bid Ash a good day. But as they were leaving, one of them paused. Ash watched as the young man returned to the door.

"This is the book," the man said, holding out a Bible to Ash. After a moment, not knowing what else to do, Ash took it. The man smiled, and left with his friend. Ash closed the door and looked at the book. It had a white cover. Inside, it was inscribed; 'To Simon White, with all my love... Mommy.' After he was sure that they had gone, Ash returned to his living room rug and his choices. He set the book next to the gun and the phone.

Chapter 2

Alrica

She found a patch of daisies and wouldn't move; she swept her face among the flowers, scattering bees and pollen. She rose with one of the insects crawling her face and tried to blow it off by huffing from the side of her mouth, but the creature only crawled on. She huffed again and laughed. They were at the third station, with nine stops to go. Nine long stops, Isuair knew. Above, the monastery of the Selcogin monks stood in the mists of the fading day, and Isuair didn't want to arrive after nightfall. The monks were superstitious; they were afraid of the dark.

"Sweetie," Isuair said, "there is a long way yet. If we stop for every bird and flower..."

"I'm coming Eye," said Linder, "look, one foot after the other," she said. The phrase made Eye pause. It was something he had planned to tell her, as he rehearsed his speech. It was what he planned to tell them when the horrors got too close—just put one foot in front of the other. The wizard shrugged it off as a coincidence.

Linder wrapped her arm around Isuair and together they walked the steep incline to the next station. The hill on which the monastery sat was steep; all twelve stations were needed to make the climb, especially when one climbed under Alrica's hot sun. The day was fading but the sun was still warm, even as it began to set behind the Blue Mountains. Isuair knew that the twelve stops, their number alone, was significant. He pondered discussing it with Linder. He resisted; it would lead to another discussion about the machine world.

The view already had begun to overwhelm them; all the land—its farms, its patchwork fields and its thick forests behind the White Castle—urged the viewer to behold the spectacle that was Alrica. Isuair walked at the pace of a turtle and felt it wrong to chide the girl when she stopped, but they were late. And Linder did stop a lot. She stopped for butterflies. She stopped for birds. She stopped to bathe in the breeze. She stopped when the setting sun basked her in its golden light. But Eye worried about the monks. They were easily rattled. Bringing a guest, even just the daughter of Princess Deloriate, would be trouble enough.

Sending a message in magic would only disturb them more, so Isuair just continued on, harboring his worries while urging Linder to hurry. They had the whole day to travel twelve miles, a seemingly easy task; yet Isuair underestimated how time consuming and intoxicating the princess's radiance could be. And, she hadn't been alone when he found her. Isuair had been shocked to find she had the whole of the group with her at the farm. They had bonded marvelously, as of course they would. Simon was rarely wrong. Bring the Two. Instead of talking business, Eye tried to distract the girl.

"Why didn't you claim your title, when they finally found you?" Eye asked as they walked.

"I like the farm. I like Mom and Dad."

"You wouldn't have had to give any of that up, you know, you would just have had another set of parents, a birth pair. A noble birth pair."

"Do you care about that stuff, Eye?" Linder asked. Isuair only laughed. When he was with the group, or any member of the group, his considerable fears washed away. This was why he would do this. Her. Erow. Gwere. Gractah. Rehoak.

"Is that a warbler?" Isuair asked while pointing with his staff. In a moment she was bounding over bush and thicket. Soon she had her sketch pad out and Isuair knew they would be late. Magic seemed the lesser of the two evils, so as Linder sketched he began his spell. Soon, a monk would hear a knock at the monastery's great door and a messenger would bear the news that Isuair would be arriving after dark, while bring company. Isuair knew the monks wouldn't notice the man was an image of magic. Isuair rolled the ball and watched it jump and bounce well up the hill and on out of sight. Its lines would unfurl on the stone steps before the great edifice of the Selcogin Monastery and, for better or worse, the message would be delivered. "That was one I hadn't seen before," Linder said. "They call it an Ang Warbler.

"It has a beautiful yellow chest," Linder said. "Thanks! Thanks! Thanks—I know I'm making us late. And I shouldn't have brought out the wine at the farm, but everyone was so happy to see their wizard. You can't blame us." She held her fat book before the wizard; its newest addition, a gray bird with a yellow stomach, sat among chalk drawn daisies. It was an accurate if not skillful rendition of the bird. "Come-on, come-on," Linder said, pulling on his arm, "The monks will be all irritated if we get there and it's dark."

To his great relief, the monks were happy to see them. Truth was, and Isuair knew it, magic had been fooling them for some time now. They had lost the touch. What worried them was not the use of magic by Isuair, which, if they had known would have bothered them immensely, but who would be arriving with the wizard. When they found it to be Linderwan, they were enthralled; not only was it not a stranger, it was someone they loved. Isuair leaned heavily on his staff as he watched one after another monk greet the woman. They kissed and hugged her. Woman starved, Isuair mused. When Isuair saw some of the monks begin to enter the receiving line for a second time, he broke it up. They still had another two-hundred steps to climb before they reached his study.

"How's your written word?" Isuair asked. He stood before his desk in his private study. Instead of answering, Linder took a quill from Eye's desk and wrote directly on the wood. She wrote the word 'mortal' three times, in three languages, one above the other. When she looked up, there was a tear in her eye. Isuair brought her close and hugged her.

"Okay..." Isuair said. He said it as a precursor to his speech, the one he practiced the entire way up the hill. But the day's events had literally astounded him; the group being together, their knowing looks, the word the princess had just inscribed on his desk. Instead, Isuair took a great breath and blew it out, hoping to calm his nerves. It didn't work and his body shook as he held another tear at bay. Linder broke the silence with a smile and a laugh.

"We're in big trouble, aren't we, Eye?" she asked. Isuair nodded. "And no one's listening," the princess continued.

"You guys sure are. How'd you come to pick that word?"

"We weren't just being social when you found us, today," Linder said. She blotted out the words with ink, the large stains disappearing among the thousands of ink drops on the table's surface. "Erow told us of a dream he had; a nightmare, really." She said, "This is the beginning, right Eye?" Isuair nodded again.

"You're going to be my insurance, princess," Eye said, and slowly his speech unfolded. "I too have had some bad dreams of late, and I would assuage some of my fears here. I'm going to give you a trust."

"None of this is supposed to be self-explanatory, nor is it to make any sense. What I will show you is only a tool to be used if circumstances arise. I will not even explain those circumstances; I cannot as of yet," Isuair said. "I just need this to be. I need you to know it, just in case. I need my Linder to watch my back, even if I were not... able," Isuair said. His eyes became glassy; Linder found his hand in the dim glow of the candle and squeezed it as hard as she could.

Isuair took a book from his robes. It had once been white. It was almost in shambles; its loose pages were held together with twine. "We've whispered about the other world. There is a man there, actually two people—a man and a woman. I want you to be able to watch my back if need arises. I am not worried about the woman for reasons of my own. But the man—something... may... go wrong with the man. It may actually be of mine own cause, but I do not know. I do not know if indeed anything will happen. It may be just my own fears toying with me. But... I need you to know this. Do you remember the song about the cow that ate too much golden straw and turned orange and green?"

"Of course," Linder said. Isuair untied his book and thumbed through the loose pages. He removed one of the pages and put the book aside. "Remember when we called the butterflies?" Isuair asked. Linder smiled. In a large field, her and the wizard stood covered with the flying scarves after the wizard whispered just two words.

"I remember. I also remember that I couldn't do it. I remember you couldn't teach it to me." In the candlelight the glow of their faces made each expression more pronounced. The wizard looked more worried, and Linder looked more fearful.

"You would need help, from someone with the touch. You should be able to find someone, when and if the time comes," Isuair said. The wizard stared at his page. Finally he looked up. He reached across the table and moved a strand of blond hair from Linder's eyes. He wound it behind her ear and placed the back of his fingers against her face, lightly brushing her cheek. It was a gentle gesture. He removed a page from his book and placed it in front of the princess.

"Can you read any of this?" Isuair asked.

"Yes. It's in common language. I can read it," Linder said. "No wonder you started at the word I wrote on your desk. You think it was a coincidence?"

"I don't know," said the wizard. "At the asking of such a question one is naturally inclined to retort that there are no coincidences, but I don't know. It starts with the word MORTAL. So does this one. Can you read this one?" Isuair placed another page in front of the girl. Its dark symbols were bold and jumped off the paper in the candlelight.

"Yes. No. Yes. No. Yes, I don't know. When I read the first, I see the second, they are the same page, right? The same thing, but in two different languages."

"Correct!" said the wizard. Hope sprang in his heart. "They say exactly the same thing, only one is written in the language of magic. I want you to copy them, word for word, symbol for symbol." Linder dutifully obliged. "Very good, now write it again," said the wizard. After each page, the wizard studied the girl's work. After passing his scrutiny, he lit the page with the table candle. The magic pages lit the room with bright white light for a moment and then disappeared; the common language pages took a moment to burn, glowing yellow and then burning to the corner Isuair held. Six corners of common pages lay on the table. The magic pages vanished, leaving only white ashes behind. Linder knew as she finished each page, she would be asked to write it again. She was resigned to her fate, ignoring the ache of her hand, and wrote, and wrote. The common language page was easy; it took less than a minute to write. The magic page was difficult; it took heavy concentration and many minutes to write. These, Isuair corrected often. Another set done, another flash of light and another corner on the table. Soon, Linder began to get the magic symbols to come; it was as if she turned on a switch, and pop, the magic symbols came easy. After Isuair had twenty corners lined on his desk, he took the sheets from her.

"Now write them again," he said. Linder paused. Her hand was drawn to the corners, she moved them all around Isuair's desk. From the wizard's side of the desk, it looked like she was trying to read them, as one would read Tarot cards or tea leaves. Then, Linder put her hand in the ashes of the magic pages. A single tear fell from her eye. She bit her lip and slowly rubbed the ashes on the table with her palm. When she lifted her hand, the ashes were gone from the table, but on her palm a dark stain appeared. The smudge, if peered at with half-closed eyes, looked like a face.

"Ash," she said. She began to weep. "Ash," she said again. The wizard's heart began to beat in slow trip-like thumps in his chest. The word shouted in his mind. His mind began to scream that the days of coincidences were over. Ash. Mortals. Just put one foot after the other. But it was too late. The waters, he found, were deadly cold and he had already jumped.

"Write them from memory," Eye said. He had to ask a second and a third time. He had to place his hands on her face, cradling the peach fuzz in his wrinkled fingers. How many lines would she have in that face after these next ten years, Isuair wondered. Finally, the girl began to write. She wrote quickly. With a deftness she scrawled the symbols. She wrote with a fury, page after page. Eye could only burn the magic pages fast enough, the common language pages he began to burn in sets of twos and threes.

South Central

Even with shots ringing out of the neighborhood, the house was dark. Marla figured her mom must have taken a pill.

She had blood on her sleeve that left prints. Using spit and part of her sweater she scrubbed furiously at the windowsill. The brackish stains sunk deep into the faded paint; she couldn't get it out, but she did change the handprints into larger, blurrier smudges. She closed the drapes and made a mental note to check the garage in the morning for paint. CJ had mentioned that Marla's mom wanted her to become a doctor, but at that moment it could not have seemed more improbable. She slunk between the beds in her room, pulled her covers over her head, and curled up on the floor. After some terrible long moments, she began to shudder and weep. The last thing she remembered in the night was the old man, and breaking into a run. And the last thing she knew was that she had just stepped into the dark side of madness.

Sitting at the back of the meeting, Ash could feel a claustrophobic irritability mounting within him. The rhetoric made the discomfort worse; the diatribes sounding in the room were filled with the everyday burdens that most people endure, but it seemed to Ash that the alcoholics took each challenge personally. Perhaps, mused Ash, that without the armor and weaponry that booze provided they were just more easily pricked. Ash imagined hard-bitten warriors on a battlefield being deprived of their shields and magic, all while having to face an enemy hoard, thirsting for blood.

"No wonder these people are so grumpy," Ash whispered as he refolded his arms and re-crossed his legs. When the room roared with laughter, Ash focused his attention on the speaker.

"...said before you judge a man you have to walk a mile in his shoes." The man, tall with a full head of gray, continued. "That way when you judge him you are a full mile away and you have his shoes." Again the crowd responded with a roar. Ash only bowed his head; he did not think half-funny deadpan jokes would keep him sober for very long. He tried to siphon out some wisdom from what he heard; most of the old-timers focused on God and the Almighty's power to restore sanity and bless those who sought him with the gift of sobriety. That Ash and his Maker were on non-speaking terms did not improve his spirits.

Making Ash cringe were the patterns of some of the speakers that he had heard over and over again; one man's voice always broke with emotion, another told the same joke with each sharing, another rambled on so that he was almost always "clapped out" after only a minute, and another used strange endearment terms; Sweetie, Sweetness, Stinker and Stinky with great frequency.

Also making the manic twitch were the clichés; Denial is not just a river in Egypt. The program is not for those who need it or want it but for those who WORK it. I thank God for finding me this fellowship and I thank this fellowship for finding me God. Suit up and show up. I was sick and tired of being sick and tired. One day at a time. One foot in front of the other. You can drink without living or you can live without drinking. Let go, let God. If God seems far away, guess which one of you moved? I let them live in my head rent free. You have a THINKING problem. It works if you work it. Meeting makers make it. God, grant me the serenity...

Ash had to physically resist the urge, by clamping his hands onto his folding chair, to rise and shout; Bill Wilson stole the steps from a Nazi-loving Frank Buchman and his Oxford Group Movement and right now Reinhold Niebuhr is rolling over in his grave! Instead Ash just bowed his head and sighed.

A hand touched his shoulder. Ash rose, hugged three people entering the club, and returned to his seat. He was known at the meeting, all because of a blown stop sign, an insecurity and a simple memorizing technique—Powel sanded turnips in the wrong direction, Rita listed Amy's inventory while praying a message.

The meeting at the 805 Club was always crowded. Old-timers, regulars, newbies, and court-cards filled the hall from corner to corner. The best seats, at least for Ash, were the ones next to the door. Ash preferred the seats next to the door because of a personality quirk—he was, as his wife had called him, a touch-me-not. Ash always became itchy to leave the meeting just before the last act, when all the members would rise, clasp hands, and recite the Lord's Prayer. The seats by the door allowed Ash to slip out of the meeting relatively unnoticed, and therefore miss his least favorite part, the clutching of warm, sweaty or clammy hands while praying to a God that he suspected didn't exist. For Ash it was the equivalent of handling a used urinal mint while entreating the Rose Bowl to make him a better person. But the door seats filled early, partly because of the fresh air that would blow in and partly because Ash wasn't the only person who wanted to leave prematurely; many of the court card carrying attendees left as soon as the could retrieve their signed documents.

The incident that made the back sitting, non-talking, non-hand holding Ash known at the meeting started with him running late on a Friday. Anxious to get to a door seat, Ash sped through a stop sign before the house at 805 Hart Avenue. Ash had just pulled into a parking place across from the club when his vehicle filled with red and blue lights—he was being pulled over.

"License and registration, please." After handing the documents to the officer, Ash could only stare helplessly at the club, into which members were passing the threshold in regular intervals. "Where are we going in such a hurry that stop signs become invisible?" the cop asked. Before Ash could open his mouth, the officer continued. "This is a residential neighborhood."

"An AA meeting. The 805 Club right over there."

"They don't care if you come late," said the officer.

"The place fills up. There'll be no place to sit."

"You a regular there?"

"Yeah."

"I tell you what, let's go take a look at the full club where you're a regular." Walking to the meeting with a police officer, Ash felt his stomach tighten. His gait felt awkward as he walked—his legs felt stiff and wooden as the blue uniform strolled beside him. As he neared the house his heart sank—no one loitered at the door, a sure sign that the club was crowded. To his relief, when the light of the club fell on him and his eyes adjusted, the smoky room was full. The relief ebbed somewhat when Ash saw every eye turn to him.

"Anybody here know this guy?"

"ASHHHH!"

The crowd had shouted in unison, and Ash saw the officer turn. To Ash it was a curious response, he had never done more than introduce himself to a handful of members, but he was aware that his name was stenciled on his uniform shirt. And, AA members take care of their own—especially in front of cops or courts—every member could identify with the trouble alcohol mixed with authority could bring.

"Your registration is expired and your brake lights didn't even flash at that sign, Mr. Ash," said the officer. The man had a sturdy face but nothing in it betrayed the reason for his interest in Ash or one blown stop sign. "But I'll tell you what, you tell me the seventh step and I'll pretend we never met." The tug on Ash was almost overwhelming as he fought the urge to swing ninety degrees to his left, where he knew a poster listed all twelve steps. As Ash drew a breath, he realized the room had become silent. He heard a cigarette lighter click open and click shut. Powel sanded turnips in the wrong direction, Rita listed Amy's inventory while praying a message.

"Pow... That we are Powerless, number one." Sanded. "That God could and would restore our Sanity, number two." Turnips. In the quiet, Ash heard a whisper. Right on, the voice said. The officer shushed the man. Turnips. "Were ready to Turn our will over, number three." Ash could see the officer glancing over his shoulder. In. "Did a moral and fearless Inventory, number four." Wrong. "When we were Wrong..." Ash stumbled. Eyes focused on him, many people mouthed words to him. "Rather, admitted to God and another the exact nature of our Wrongs. ... number... um..." Five, someone whispered. "Five." Direction. "Were ready to have Defects removed, number six." There were claps, more encouragement and more shushing from the officer. Ash saw a lady with her hands out—she had both fingers crossed. One man was giving Ash two thumbs up. Then the room fell quiet again. Ash knew he wasn't getting the exact wording correct but he also knew he had the gist of each step right. Even at the edge of his goal, Ash had to resist turning at looking at the poster, though he hadn't needed to. He had memorized the steps; a new member named Amy had asked him which step was the Amends step, and Ash couldn't answer her. Ash remembered her as being very pretty. Ash memorized the steps that night using the first letter of a sentence technique. Powel sanded turnips in the wrong direction, Rita listed Amy's inventory while praying a message. Rita. Remove.

"Number seven, humbly asked God to Remove our shortcomings. The officer handed Ash back his documents but his parting words, enjoy your meeting, were completely lost in the din of the roaring crowd. All stood and clapped. Ash slid into a newly placed chair in the corner, beside a window. A lady winked at him. A man slapped his shoulders. Others glanced at him and smiled.

"Finish them," many people called out. Finish them! The room quieted. The officer was gone, but Ash, apparently, was not done. Listed. "Eight. Made a list," Ash yelled. Claps and laughter. Some finished the sentence... of all that we have harmed and became willing to make Amends to them all... Amy. "Nine, made direct Amends." ...except when to do so would injure them or others. Inventory. "Ten, continued to take personal inventory..." ...and when we were wrong promptly admitted it... finished the crowd. Praying. "Eleven, sought through Prayer and meditation to improve our conscious contact with god, AND TWELVE, Having received a spiritual awakening carried this message to other alcoholics..." and to practice these principles in all our affairs, finished the crowd. Ash was known at the 805 Club ever since that day, six months before. This day, Ash thought while yawning and re-crossing his legs, there would be no such adventure.

In the meeting, he saw the old man again, and again, and again. Half the old guys in the place, Ash mused, looked like the old man that had been following him. Then Ash noticed the real old man, standing by the door, staring at him. Ash raised his cup to the man, but the man only stared at him, as if trying to read Ash's mind. As Ash stood, his cup slipped, and most of the coffee spilled on his shirt. The meeting continued without pause, but Ash could see the old man moving. A woman at the coffee counter handed Ash a napkin, but Ash only went through the motions of taking it from her. After a moment, it, too, fell to the floor. The old man was pulling at invisible strings in the air. That movement alone would have just seemed like any other "round-the-bend" wino, except that Ash could see what the old man was doing. He was telling Ash, in tiny white lines in the air, to go to the woman. Ash shook. He took a step back. He withdrew into a hollow in the kitchen, next to an open window. On impulse Ash put first one leg and then the other out of the window, and jumped. He started running. As he ran, he looked back to see the house. At the door, calm and watching, stood the old man. Ash found his truck and got in. He started the engine and the radio began to play American Pie by Don McLean. He sat and listened as rain began to fall outside his window. Partially hidden by the darkness and the rain was a figure, a man, standing now in the street. At that moment the CD at the radio station began to skip, can music... save your... can music... save your... mortal mortal mortal... Ash put the truck in gear and slammed his foot on the gas.

In the 30s the Santa Monica pier had a roller coaster, and Marion Davies, William Randolph Hearst's mistress and 1930s movie star, was absolutely terrified of it. That was until her wild friends forced her to ride it. But instead of fleeing in terror when the coaster stopped, she rode it over and over again, enjoying the ride more and more with each trip. She relinquished her seat only after a beleaguered attendant begged her to stop for the hour had grown spectacularly late.

The roller coaster and the pier had changed much in the years between Davies' and Ash's visit, but the feeling of apprehension hadn't. Ash only frowned as he stood and watched the water. It lay flat, softly undulating without waves. Santa Monica had a pier, a beach, and usually waves, but not on this day. It almost seemed to Ash that something was telling him that he had really messed up. At Pacific City he had everything a surfer could want. Waves, girls, and most important, it felt like home. But he not been back since the riot, and hadn't planned on returning any time soon.

The extra hour of driving to get from Orange County to Los Angeles had not paid off, Ash thought, as he watched the still water. He sat on the sand, arms wrapped around his knees. Although this day L.A. didn't have any waves, hopefully it would not have two things that O.C. did seem to have everywhere—crazy old men and even crazier young cops.

It had taken fifty-five minutes for the bus to travel the fifteen miles from her house to the beach, but Marla needed a change. She needed a break from her mom. She needed a break from the six o'clock news. She needed a break from the funerals. And, she needed a break from the crazy old man. For some reason, she just wanted to feel the sand between her toes.

Because he planned to bring only a copy, and only part of the copy at that, the transfer would be more difficult than simply crossing between the two worlds. Isuair would need them together, and he would need to write out some of the spell. He had everything ready, in the land he had empty copies, of his own, also waiting.

He had been waiting for weeks, but the two never came together. They came from two completely different worlds, and their paths just didn't cross. But, if it was meant to be, Eye told himself, they all would come together, and he would write the spell. He would bring their courage, their fire, their ruthlessness, but he would leave their memories of the machine world behind.

The mind is a vast storehouse of information, and Isuair wasn't sure if they could truly be brought over as clean slates, but he would try. This was an important point, because trace memories could torture a person endlessly. Isuair had wiped the memory of a king's son once, after the man lost the love of his life and was determined to do away with himself. It didn't work. The man was tormented by the desire to decipher hidden feelings that rose within him at every turn. But Isuair felt he knew the problem. The spell worked wonders on the young, but the prince had seen more than forty summers, and was simply too old. Too much of the brain was burned in, or at least that's what Isuair guessed.

Also, leaving these two behind, and taking only a copy, would relieve some guilt for the wizard. They could continue with their lives here, in the machine world, while their copies could still make a difference in the land. What they may accomplish here in the machine world was yet to be determined; Isuair certainly saw plenty of potential, for both good and evil, in the two.

There was one nagging detail. A strange notion bothered Isuair, one that he had researched and found to be baseless. But it bothered him nonetheless. What if the copy in the land, and the real person in the machine world somehow had a connection? Could they effect each other in the other's world? Would it be like twins, with some invisible link? Most certainly one or both of them would die in the war that was coming to the magic land. Would their machine world counterparts know? More important, would these already angst-filled beings have a connection with their copies that could torment them further? The plain answer was that he didn't know.

There were times that Isuair wished that his whole scheme would fall apart. But the wizard tried to look upon his plan with some detachment. If it was meant to be, it would just happen. He had been helping the process, or so he hoped, by becoming something of a specter to the two. Following them, haunting them, pursuing them, appearing in their path at every turn. And, Isuair thought, if the two just didn't come together, with time for him to write the spell, then it was just not meant to be.

The biggest difference between L.A. and O.C. was volume. Los Angeles had more of everything. Orange County was a giant suburb, and L.A. was a city. L.A. was wilder. Gang members could be seen strolling down Venice Boulevard, the famous bohemian marketplace just south of the Santa Monica pier. Within two miles, L.A. had Venice, Muscle Beach, a pier, bike-lanes, walkways, an adult playground, clubs, pubs, bars, and shops that sold everything from bongs to art (one being the inspiration for the latter, it would seem). Often, while O.C. slept, L.A. was alive. If it was dirty, it was because more people walked, spit, tossed their gum and littered there, and had been doing so for a longer period of time. All this escaped Ash, as he sat in the sand in the shadow of the pier.

Three hundred yards to the east, Marla's bus had reached its stop nearest to the beach. At the corner of Third Street, across from the Promenade, she stepped off. Standing in the bright summer sun, Marla stood at the bus stop and hesitated. The moment the bus pulled away she felt alone and far from home. She was asking herself just what she was doing at the beach. But, she thought, if she didn't go all the way to the ocean, then the trip was just proof that she had lost her mind. She had just wanted to get away, to see the ocean, to be free of the gray sidewalks and squat housing tracks of South Central. After standing at the bus stop for a moment, she started to walk. At the corner of Second Street a man asked her if she knew Jesus.

"Yeah, we play bridge on Sundays," Marla said. "He's a good guy, but he always leaves the toilet seat up. Now take a step back, motherfucker, and show some respect. I am tight with God. He goes out of his way, no matter how busy he is, to fuck with me. And I'm out this very minute looking for some Opie to retaliate on." The man crossed himself and looked as if he was about to bolt when Marla's light turned green. Marla could feel the gun in the small of her back as she crossed the street. Gun numero-dos. She had been doing some thinking. Were she to become a doctor, she would need to forget the past week, abandon her friends and the pot she smoked, and get back to school. She would have to put her nose to the grindstone for years, with the hope of one day landing a job in the health-care industry. And that would lead to the 40/40 plan. 40 hours for 40 years, and then retire. The more she walked, the better the gun felt in her back. "The next person that fucks with me dies," she said, to no one in particular, then she crossed First Street against the light, and quickened her pace.

Ash sat on the sand and watched as families and couples frolicked on the beach. He had his knees drawn up to his chest, with his arms wrapped around his legs. He missed his own beach. He missed pot and booze. He was angry that there was no family or girlfriend for him to frolic on the beach with.

Then a thought hit his mind that changed everything. It was the voice. 'Go for a swim, Sweetie. See if you can make it to Catalina—it's only about twenty-eight miles.' Ash rose, took off his shirt and flip-flops and took large steps into the water. When he was waist deep, he dove in and began to swim. Using large strokes and kicking with his feet, he felt the water begin to rush by him. He put his shoulders into the effort and took hard, fast strokes. Years of surfing had made his body a swim-machine; stroke after stroke, he beat the water. Within minutes, in the calm sea, Ash was halfway down the pier and moving fast.

Marla stepped off the wooden stairway and onto the beach. She removed her shoes and sunk her toes deep into the sand. Then, for no reason at all, she reached to the small of her back and grabbed the gun.

Using a piece of driftwood, Isuair began to write furiously in the sand. He had six of the seven lines of the spell complete. The seventh would hold it all together and then he could say the words and bring his plan home. But thirty yards to his left, Marla stood frozen in the sand with a gun at her side, and at 100 yards to the right, Ash had cleared the pier and was swimming out to sea.

He wrote 'language' and looked up. Isuair needed to add compassion, respect, graciousness, devotion for the brotherhood of man, self-preservation, emotional stability, love, and forgiveness, but the sight of the gun froze him. He had already included courage, loyalty, fearlessness, and a host of battle skills, but he was running out of time. He wrote 'love and forgive' and silently screamed the spell. He decided that he would have to sort the rest out while he had them in his quarantine, or in what Ash would later come to call, "The Castle of No Escape."

Alrica, Year of the Gods 756 AD

(Eleven years after Isuair brought The Two to the Land)

After sixteen hours of marching the company commanders finally called for the army to halt. They were to break for the night. Scouts were sent to find a camp. They returned with a report of a clearing, a glen, less than a league away. The company, one thousand strong, was heading to assist the king, which had sent word of an assault against the kingdom.

There was an invasion from the sea of hundreds of thousands of marauders. Highlanders, also called Alannas, stormed the shores from the south kingdom all the way to the Dukes shores, far up north. All in the kingdom were banding together to assist in the defense of their land. The prince was to travel to his father's house while picking up friendly armies as they went.

Mara joined the army of prince Wilhem the III, the king's very son, and pledged her sword to the destruction of the king's enemies. The prince's army was well-stocked with hale and hearty men, all with a reputation for valor.

With the promise of a night's rest before them, the army began to move quickly. Halfway to the clearing the entire company halted. Irritated by the delay, Mara pushed her way through the columns until she stood at the front. Bucking protocol, she moved among the officers. She got no more than a rude glance from one of the king's highest captains, so she continued to push forward.

At the front she saw the company's commander, the prince's bodyguard, some scouts, and in the back, the prince on his horse, all observing a man. He leaned against a log, arms at his side. His face was brown and weathered. Dressed in boots, a long, stained, hooded cloak and a bare head, Mara thought he could have been a vagrant, except for his eyes. Even from her vantage point they looked wrong. He squinted, and looked at the ground a lot. But when he did look up it wasn't just to gaze or look about, it was to search. It was to delve and uncover. There was something wrong with this man, Mara thought, something very wrong.

When she listened, she caught part of an animated conversation about the stranger. The prince and his commanders were talking in their native language and the discussion was growing heated. The company commander wanted to know how the scouts missed the stranger in their report on the glen. The debate dragged on, when finally the prince interrupted.

"Commander, ask of the stranger. Find out who he is, if he hid from the scouts, and what reason he may have for his stealth." In common speech, the commander, a huge gruff fellow whose name Mara couldn't remember, asked, "Who are you," but before he could finish, the scouts began shouting again. A lieutenant in the Elite had discovered fresh tracks coming out of the brush, leading to where the man now sat, and they refused to let the matter go forward until someone acknowledged that he had just walked in from the wilds. They had not missed him.

They may have a reputation for valor, but this company needed better scouts, Mara thought as she focused on the man. The group crowded around the stranger and began arguing all over again. Some argued that it was unnatural to just walk out of the wilds, and that the stranger must be dangerous. The gruff commander called for the debate to cease and spoke to the prince in his own language.

"Sire, the man is not armed, yet he is strange. What say you to this; we ask him our questions, who and what and where he comes, and if his story rings true we have him join the company, if he lies or if he declines to say or join, we slay him." From somewhere in the middle of the pack came calls of 'chop his head off,' in varying intervals. Mara noticed the stranger motioning to the others while speaking in the native tongue of the prince.

"I speak your language," he was saying, "you do not speak in private." The stranger was adamantly pursuing their attention, but only a scout near took notice. He ignored Ash's statements, asking him instead in common language why he sneaks around and doesn't walk out in the open like decent people. After a look of amusement or frustration, or both, the stranger seemed to give up. He leaned, bored, against the log with his hands beneath him.

Then, Mara and the stranger's eyes met. The stranger glanced away, then rapidly back. Mara felt the others melt away as she stood alone with his eyes. They said "I am here, and I can see your heart beating as fast as mine." Widening her gaze, concentrating her stare, she mouthed the words "...your death." The stranger held this stare, widened his eyes to reveal a depth-less blue, and slightly parted his lips as if to speak, when the commander shouted with a violence that brought spittle to the stranger's face.

"SPEAK! Who are you, why do you require stealth?" shouted Gwere. This was the second time in asking from a huge man who was used to total obedience. "Upon you life, answer NOW!" Gwere whispered when he had the stranger's attention.

"My fine lords," the man began. He said the words with a deliberate calmness that seemed to bewitch the listener. "...while your time is surely more precious than my life, I will answer your questions anyway. Of course, I need stealth only as a beggar would need the shadows. I am a traveler in these parts, having just walked, after roaming lost, from the wilds. I am Ash. Also, I speak your language."

This last statement, in their native tongue, caused much commotion. The arguments began anew and more participants joined the fray, the prince called the army to order. He summoned the commander in common speech. Together they spoke quietly. The commander returned, and after a second inquiring glance at the prince, turned to the stranger.

"We are weary from a days travel and head toward a place to camp, will you accompany us?"

"Yea, sir, I would," Ash said. "There is a glen just down the road."

Again this created a stir and much jumping about from the scouts. For if he had just appeared from the wilds, and was lost, how then would he know of the glen, they asked? Surely, he was a spy for the enemy. But the giant commander, a captain named Gwere, called the company to order, assigned guards to stranger, and barked commands that sent all the men moving.

"Have a seat, Mr. Ash," Said the Labcoat. "I'm not going to lecture you on the evils of drink. I know from experience that it would be a waste of time. In thirty years of dealing with people on the streets I've developed a new theory, and I want your input. I want your opinion," the man said. Ash was barely listening. He needed a drink. "Actually, this isn't my theory," the man continued. "A woman that went by the name 'Ma Bear' first told it to me.

She was also a street person." The man put down his glasses and stared at Ash. Ash resolved to do a better job at pretending to listen. The Labcoat had his hands clasped and was rubbing one thumb over the other. "I ask everyone why they live on the streets. Ma Bear's answer seemed filled with insight. She said that; 'in an effort to escape the evil world of machines and consumerism, the man turns to self-medication. As a result the man develops an addiction. In an effort to escape the horrors of addiction, the man turns to fantasy. Life becomes escape, and the only real escape possible is to abandon all possessions and wander the streets in a life of nomadic subsistence in the land of fantasy.'" The man put his glasses on and stared at Ash. Ash felt he needed to respond but couldn't think of anything to say. He had lost the man's thought at the words, 'evil world of machines.'

"Golden Cows..." Ash said.

"Cows?" the Labcoat asked. "What do cows have to do with this?" After a moment the man continued. "Does this theory, this idea from Ma Bear, sum up any of your difficulties, Mr. Ash?"

Ash had enough of the Labcoat's theories. He knew every homeless case was different.

Each had their own reason, their own story.

Some were just crazies that couldn't put a sentence together. Some suffered catastrophic events, usually the loss of loved ones or large fortunes. Some were addicts of the bottle or the needle. Some were just nomads seeking a life on the fringe. Some searched for meaning. Some searched for God. He knew homeless who could recite the Bible from cover to cover. He knew homeless, without possession or skill, who loved God with all their heart. He knew people that had nothing—no family, no means, no promise, that praised God for his good grace. They praised God from providing for them. 'I'm richer than the CEO of the biggest company,' said one Vietnam Vet. He sat on a bench beside his bike and his bags. 'I have a treasure in here,' the man said, pointing to his heart. He was missing teeth and his clothes had holes. As he talked he carefully folded articles of clothing and placed them with care into a plastic bag. The bag sat in a milk-crate attached to his ten-speed bike with bungee cords.

'I know God. I know God loves me. I have taken the Lord Jesus Christ as my Savior,' the man said. Then he laughed. 'God could do this to ANY man,' said the Vet. 'And just as he knocks them down, he could pick them up again just like that,' the Vet said, snapping his fingers, 'and put them right back on top.'

Ash didn't think so, but he wasn't sure. That uncertainty made Ash afraid. So Ash too prayed to Jesus, but as insurance. Just in case.

The Labcoat had been saying his name, trying to get his attention, but Ash wasn't listening.

After ten years it had finally come. This was not an adventure, Patrice thought, adventures were the trials and tribulations of explorers. This was an exercise. And they were well into it. The Gods had blessed them with fine seas and good weather. Freggcorm's vessel's were a marvel. They were steady and fast. They were stable and seemingly unsinkable. Most boats from the first wave, Patrice saw, as he checked his list, had made it. They had a seventy-percent arrival rate. A remarkable feat, considering the length of the journey. Hundreds of boats had already landed. Thousands of men had made the shore, and more came by the hour. They had established a beach-head and a camp.

They had already won a substantial victory against the Comeratte king, which confirmed that until the very first boat landed that the king had been asleep. The order was out for their allies to attack with abandon, and reports stated that many of the king's own town's were under siege. Even the king's armies, while assembling, were assaulted on the roads and in the fields. Everything was going to plan. Standing atop a hill, overlooking the disembarkation of the armada, Patrice smiled. Brady, his lieutenant, was directing his sergeants, who were guiding the men into groups. The groups became companies, and the companies became divisions. Each had an assignment and an objective. Each had a mission. The Movement had given everyone a book with a purpose statement that spelled out each man's objective. It was clear and precise—a little too precise, if anyone asked Patrice. The statement included division numbers for the men. It became clear, however, that the numbers couldn't be used as boats failed to show up on the beaches, landed in the wrong areas, or never arrived at all. New numbers were assigned, and Command was alerted to the situation. Still, things went well. The men were given arms, packs with rations and heal-kits, and a number. Together they would become a machine. A machine that would once and for all destroy the Comeratte king.

Patrice would make sure this group of lieutenants, including Brady, would receive commendations for their attention to detail. Execution of Phase-I had gone without a hitch. Looking down at the assemblage of boats, companies, and giant supply piles, Patrice tried to find a flaw. He found none. They checked and re-checked everything.

At each stage they watched and studied, trying to anticipate every situation before it became a problem. Nobody wanted to here the words 'how did this happen?' And if Patrice had his way, those words would never be uttered, not by the lowest of the privates, not by the highest of the generals, and not by his new boss, the Dral.

Nothing could go wrong, nothing would go wrong. They had done this before— twice. Twice the stormed the uninhabited island of Thorpe, and twice they executed the perfect assault. Twice.

Another dozen boats, another company formed. They were forming bases, supply lines, transportation corridors and reserves. Patrice could see nothing that could indicate a flaw, except for perhaps, one small thing. Everything had been analyzed and re-analyzed. Every detail had been studied with a diligence unparalleled in Patrice's career. And yet, there was one thing. It was the walk, it was the talk, and it was the way his boys' shoulders swayed.

His frown, one that had been meant for him alone, caught the attention of his Superior. The entourage, a throng of weak, haughty followers, bore down on him, and in front, with his long black robes blowing gently behind him, stood His Majesty himself; the Dral.

"Speak, Captain," the Dral whispered, "of what neglect are we guilty?" Patrice felt his stomach drop. This was a war where thoughts, intonations, inclinations and even pauses were put under scrutiny. Responses flashed through his mind, both true and false—'headache sir,' or 'a bee sting' but in the end, Patrice knew what kind of officer his was. Taking a breath, he faced his superior and spoke.

"Hubris," said Patrice. Then he added, almost as an afterthought, "...your Worship." There was a small groan from the entourage that made the Dral turn. Only the wind howling on the hill broke the silence. After studying the crowd, the Dral turned back to Patrice. Below the army scurried about, oblivious to the fortunes of those above.

"Very perceptive, Captain. Very astute," said the Dral. "But that is an acceptable vanity, considering our position... is it not?"

"Yes, sir," said Patrice. "Most definitely."

"Carry-on," said the Dral. To Patrice's utter relief, the group left slope. Patrice watched as the Dral led them to the supply dump and watched as the wizard pointed out mounds of food and weapons. Patrice shook, as if chilled, and took a deep breath. Hubris.

After shivering twice, Patrice swallowed hard. His stomach and his body would remain under his control, if only out of sheer will. Then he almost laughed. Brady peered from the depths of a bush, one that had an ample supply of thorns. Pulling his stout frame from the net of stickers, Brady sheepishly approached his captain, while frantically brushing at his now marred uniform.

"What's hubris?" Brady asked. Patrice managed a small, yet overly-welcomed, quiet laugh.

"...nothing you've ever been guilty of," Patrice said.

They had everything going for them—they had the element of surprise, they had the land memorized—regions, peoples, terrain, all were mapped, plotted and accounted for. And, they had other hopes, other possibilities. Other secret weapons—the Dral was cooking up plots. Talk was of a man, one that walked, talked, and breathed magic, one that carried impossible weapons, and one that would soon join their side—the Ass. Everything, everything was going to plan.

Massali had almost forgotten the "your death" exchange, when he did it again. She was walking among the company when she watched him seek her out. He clearly searched all the members around him until he found her in the crowd. Again this was a trespass. If she got close enough, she would teach him the manners of her kind. She looked away, looked back, and caught him smiling at her. He narrowed his eyes, parted his thin lips, and mouthed the words; "...deal, Sweetie." Then he turned away, smiling at the guards around him, who, to a man, smiled broadly back.

No commands were needed to start camp; the company sprang into the glen and got to work. Everyone knew his or her job. They knew that after their duties were complete the last few hours of the day belonged to them. To a man, every member of the company lived for those hours. It was a time for personal endeavors; washing, equipment repair, social interaction, which was usually the meal, and sleep. It was also a time for duty assignments. If one were lucky, the assignment was nothing more time consuming than firewood gathering or parameter clearing. The unlucky received kitchen duty or worse, watch. Every once in a while Mara would be approached for duty, but most withered under her stare, and fled in retreat, no doubt to double the chores of those unfortunate enough to possess warmer eyes.

On occasion she busied herself with something that looked like a chore. Walking with a piece of wood occupied much of her time. She searched the company for the Ash man. She had decided their first encounter would be simple; she would collapse him and speak to his ear on the courtesy of the Nation. She found him, but guards and commanders had corralled him, probably to squeeze what information they could from this village idiot. Another day, she thought. Turning to leave, she saw a company commander approaching her. He had 'duty assignment' written all over him.

"Don't even think about it," she whispered. Ash had soured her mood, and a poor report on her behavior no longer held any sway. The officer turned abruptly. She moved to the area where they set the largest fire, consumed a provision from her pack, bedded down, and closed her eyes. She slept while the prince's men tip-toed around her.

She awoke at dawn with Ash next to her. Mara opened her eyes and saw his face less than a meter from hers. He was pretending sleep. Thoughts raced through her mind. How did he get near, how did she not detect him, and where were the guards? No matter, she thought, in a moment she would take his life. She knew this act would be survivable, she was, after all, a Mara.

It would take less than a moment, but as she prepared to strike, everything changed. Ash opened his eyes, she heard a pop, and then everything went black. She had to push a body off of her to make it to her feet, only to be knocked down again. She heard the word 'mortals' being shouted over and over, and then the company was awash with men, horses and blood.

She remembered hoping that the idiot shouting 'mortals' would be struck down, when her hand finally found her sword. Mara's reaction was instinctual. She cut down those near her, and if the rider was out of reach, she felled the mount. Not sporting, she would agree, but her mood had turned murderous, with none excepted. This was a very bad way to start a day. Quickly she noticed the attack was being directed—it had an objective. She cut another enemy rider and pushed her way through her own men, while attempting to map the attack. She placed the body of the attack, the center of the enemy group, between her and the prince's pavilion.

They were making ground, moving swiftly toward the prince's tent. Riders had attacked from all sides, followed by foot soldiers. After the initial assault, they made for their target. Mara recognized them to be the Ersoberg, a tribal people from the south. Mara had heard that the invaders had sent emissaries in advance to recruit traitors against the king. If they killed the prince, the company would arrive at the castle with terrible news. Unbearable news. Another son lost. This was partly why she had signed up with this group and not another. That, and Eyeball's incessant pestering. He was a consultant for the Nation, an instructor of an art that was fading. The venerable wizard was skilled in the art of languages. One language in particular interested both Mara and the Nation—the language of magic. So they gave some heed to his words. There was a niche for her here, he said, to watch this boy, this Comeratte offspring, he whispered. That, and to keep her eyes open for anything unusual. But her eyes had not been open.

In the confusion the night before, she had strayed far from her prince. Her ability to help him was now severely hampered by this error. Distance and time were her enemies as much as the riders. These thoughts occurred to her all at once, as she fought toward the prince's tent.

She brought down another Ersoberg warrior, bringing her count to six. As she moved toward to the prince's camp, she swore this oath; the stranger would now die from torture. Her own hand would squeeze his heart until it stopped. None would betray them as thus and live; though she had to admire the plan; plant a spy, disrupt the routine, attack from all sides, take a predetermined objective. Beautiful and efficient. She had almost made it to the prince's tent when she stumbled onto a horse, or the remains of one. It was cut from the head to tail. Not cut, actually, but separated, as if the entire horse had been put through a slicer. Then she saw another, and another. Then she saw riders, cut the same way. A man cut down, dead from a blade stroke was nothing new, but these were two halves, without injury except for separation. The edges of the separation wound were impossibly clean. It looked as if the two pieces could be pushed together and the man could open his eyes. Turning the corner, she reached the tent and found the battle raging on its northern side. The tent was empty, the shredded canvas waved and jumped in the wind, and spears littered the area.

They were indeed trying to reach the prince with a frontal assault directed at the tent, which was still flying the prince's colors. Stupid, she thought again, they would not have flown the colors anywhere near the battlegrounds, but a hundred leagues from the invasion they had assumed they were safe. So many mistakes made all at once.

Their assailants were people from their own land, people that should have been joining their side. This was something she would deal with later. Later they would need to send a detachment to the Ersoberg home village. This was a debt that their kids and their women would pay. A moment later she spotted the Elite Guards, the prince, and the Ash. They had moved from the tent, fighting a retreat to the wood at the far side of the glen. They were completely surrounded, and to Mara's dismay, the prince was out in front, slashing away, next to the stranger. But they were bringing down bodies. The prince stood next to Ash and together they fought an enemy that surged about them in waves. But they displayed a command of the fight, a mastery for the kill. It was as if they were clearing dead grass. Grim faced, lips back, they struck and struck until the enemy was forced to slow their advance. The enemy lay dead all around them; the trail of their retreat was slick with bodies. Mara was shocked at this skill, an aristocrat and a vagrant should been battle fodder in the earliest moments of the fight. But there they stood, standing proud, albeit in retreat. She caught an opponent from her blind side and brought him down. She recognized the red-haired commander, Rehoak, to her right, and followed him as he shouted, "...to the prince! To Me! To the prince!"

With Rehoak she made it to the body trail. A carpet of corpses laid a path to their retreating prince. Blood soaked the ground. Thick pools of it lay about. Most of the fallen were slit open, cut through the body. Mara was making progress, but she was running out of time. She guessed she had another minute before any help would come too late. Time seemed to stop; she felt hours pass, but experience taught her no more than ten minutes passed since she lay, eyes shut. But time was waning; the enemy appeared to be regrouping to make one final charge at the prince. She had just reached the tree-line and the prince's men, when a company of enemy riders sprang into them. She was struck down as a crush of horses felled her. Under the pile, among the wave of bodies, she was blinded. She had never felt panic in battle before and would not now, but her mind wailed in despair, robbed of its windows, it screamed and screamed. If she struck out, she could kill a friend, if she didn't, she could be killed herself.

In her ear a strange voice whispered. "Hold." Then the voice came again, "Hold Sweetie." She tried to wipe her eyes, but her hands were covered in blood, and the viscous liquid only spread from her fingers to her eyes and back. She tried to thrust away the person holding her, but whoever it was had trapped her weapon.

When she could see, Ash was holding a bloody part of his tunic before her. He was kneeling, his foot on her sword arm. He let her go and she raced to the prince, who had survived. She got only as close as the death wall and halted. Before her loomed a mound, a plateau of gore. She stood, trying to get her bearings in the stunning apparition that stretched before her. In the end she counted at least twelve minutes pass, where she had been totally ineffective as a warrior and as bodyguard.

The prince's guard was trying to clear the slain from around the prince. The fallen had created a wall that had completely wedged them in. She pulled at a carcass, only to have it split apart. It had been a horse. The men around the prince fumbled and stumbled, slipping awkwardly over the slick mounds. Some crawled on hands and knees. They extricated foot and arm. Finally, the men, along with the prince, pulled themselves out of the heap. They were almost unrecognizable, blood-red clay figures moving in halts and fits.

Some wept. Mara placed Rehoak and Gwere, and spotted a few of the other captains still alive. Already they were organizing. Teams were established; a parameter guard, a detail to attack the fleeing enemy, and a wound crew. The dead would wait. "I'll give this to them," Mara said, as she stepped through the bodies, "the prince and his men are skilled," she said to a guard. There was death everywhere. Not just slain, but pieces of corpses, slashed bodies, half beings. Limbs. Arms lay everywhere. Single arms.

She had questions. How did Ash get to the prince before her, when, at the time she woke, seconds before the attack, they were almost face to face, and what did all the rending of the corpses? Spotting Rehoak, she called to him.

"Rehoak, are you sending men out? Is there another assault coming?" Rehoak, recognizing Mara, nodded.

"No new attack, that we see, They are in heavy retreat, and those who survive are few in number."

"And the prince?" Mara could not now see their Lord anywhere.

"He takes counsel among the trees, stay away from the tent!" Rehoak raged, and was off, as he left he called to her to join the parties now searching for the enemy.

The counts were staggering. Of one thousand, 218 soldiers were dead or near dead. Another 48 would not continue the journey. The battalion commanders reported that between some 3-to-5 hundreds besieged their company. But Mara knew by experience that the number was less than 300. Even outnumbering the enemy more than three to one, they had lost a fourth of their company, and almost lost their headpiece, the prince. On the upside, they were now battle tested and the weak were gone. She doubted that they would ever be caught unaware again, and she was quite sure there was sufficient hate in their hearts now to be effective killers.

They now had the most powerful weapon any army could possess, the thirst. For Mara, this thirst had become insatiable. And, it was a craving for a particular delicacy. She was quite sure that she knew the cause of this fiasco—a spy. As they continued the cleanup, she began to dwell on this new obsession. The wounded still cried out, the bodies still lingered, and there was still work to do, but she could stand it no more. She dropped the wounded she was holding and left for the spot where she saw him last. Ash.

Mara stepped awkwardly through red puddles and tufts of grass, when she came upon Linderwan and Rehoak. They were sitting. They were not helping the wounded. Rank had its privileges, she thought with a smirk. She passed them and then doubled back. Linderwan, a slender, tall north-westerner, had the most golden hair Mara had ever seen. It was now dutifully flecked with red. She was slowly dressing a wound on Rehoak's hand. It looked superficial, but Mara waited.

"Cat got your tongue, Massali?" Linderwan asked. She gave Mara a quick smile, and turned back to Rehoak's hand.

"Have you seen that stranger?"

"No, but the prince asked about you."

"Massali," Rehoak interrupted, "you can let the soldiers tend to the enemy and the wounded. The prince has asked about you, seeking your counsel, and you may wish to seek out his Majesty out, that is, of course, when you have time..." Mara lowered herself to Rehoak's face and bared her teeth, but Linderwan held up her hand.

"Hush, Rehoak," Linder said. "Mara, they wanted to know who shouted 'Mortals' before the attack—it came from you, right?" she patted Rehoak. "All done." She turned back to Mara, who was frowning now more than ever. "Did you see the horses?" Linderwan whispered. "Why would anyone want to cut horses like that?"

"They charged us atop mounts, unless you brought down the horse, the rider gained ground or made the breach. The assault was planned not to destroy us, but to make us reach the king with bad news."

"We have a thousand men, they paid dearly for this attempt..." said Rehoak.

"Did they?" Mara shouted. She practically shrieked at the orange beard. "DID THEY REALLY? Don't you mean HAD a thousand men?" Rehoak stared at the ground but Mara continued. The fury in her voice spoke of a morning rife with frustration. "We lost at least two hundred and fifty men," she said. "And that was while we outnumbered them three to one!" Fixing her stare at Rehoak, who had become interested in his newly bandaged hand, Mara pushed closer. "Listen to me Rehoak, we were asleep. WE WERE ASLEEP! Where was the watch? We were less than twenty feet from the road, and the prince was in a tent, marked by his own standard!" Mara said. "We took in a stranger, broke protocol, ignored the rules, and the only one's who paid dearly were we!" she rasped. "Explain how one thousand soldiers could be taken completely by surprise on the way to battle..."

"Easy..." said Linderwan, "this has been bad for us too, and Rehoak wasn't on watch."

"No, but are either of you interested in the timing of the attack, and the timing of the stranger, who speaks the native language, yet says he is a traveler, far from home?" said Mara. "You guys speak any languages from far-away lands?"

"He never said far from home," Rehoak added.

"And he knew about the glen," Mara added, "Just traveling around, yet, hey, there's a glen over there, guys!" Mara said. "How do you account for that?"

"We must bring this to the prince, the three of us," said Rehoak.

"Where is that guy, anyway?" Linderwan asked, searching to her left and right. She frowned and shrugged.

As the three made their way to the wooded area that served as cover for the prince's new council, they came upon one of the company's Gray Guard lieutenants, Erow.

"Hold, the prince is not receiving," Erow shouted.

"Erow, do any of the advisors address the stranger and the possibility of a spy?" asked Linder.

"Back, and be still, a tongue that wags gets hewn off," said Erow, overly loud, and after a glance around, he spoke softly. "The attack was designed only to kill the prince and his commanders, and was thwarted by a strong defense. The enemy did not get past the Elite Guard, and... the traveler. They protected the prince. The stranger hewn down their horses and sprayed the enemy's blood over much, over all. Mine own eyes burn with this vision, still," Erow whispered.

"Why does he hate the horses so much"?

"Never mind, Linderwan," rasped Mara. "Erow, are you sure he does not cover for his evil by only hewing horses?"

"No, no, as each rider fell, we fell on them, the stranger with us. He slew many, he took arms, legs, he hacked them with great abandon..." Erow said. "BACK! Do not pester me with your idiocy!" Erow barked. A lieutenant exited the clearing, and had paused, momentarily staring at the group. After he was gone, Erow tried to continue, but Rehoak interrupted.

"Consider that the most dangerous spy is one who seems a friend, and would stay near." Rehoak said.

"One who would first gain our trust," said Mara. "This is a perfect plan, it's the perfect gamble, if the prince dies, they win. If the prince lives and the battle turns against them, it is of no matter, for they have a spy inside to bring their victory at another time."

"Wait..." said Linderwan, "no offense, but that lackluster defense of prince would make such a plan overkill. We were ten feet from the road..."

"Oh, for Pete's sake!" screamed Erow. "There was no reason to be that careful this far from the invasion—we were trying too hard to cover too much ground, too soon, and we paid for it—so shut the hell up!" Erow was fuming. His eyes reddened and he shook during his words. Behind him, of course, now stood the prince and his guard.

"Erow, kindly show Massali to the clearing, and then return, for I would like a word with you and your friends," said the prince. To his voice there was no anger, only a quiet sadness. Erow took Mara to the wooded clearing, turned her over to Gwere, the Captain of the Guard, and returned to his post, where the prince and an Elite lieutenant named Gractah lectured them on 'tongue wagging.'

"We could hear you all the way over here," said Gwere, enunciating each word with quiet restraint, "have a seat Massali." Near sat a man hunched over a tiny fire; he had his robe held close though it was a warm day. On his garb, there was no spot free of brackish scabs. Red clots hung in the hair that fell from his hood. He did not look up and he did not move. But Mara knew it was the stranger.

"You read Sathali, or Old English, do you not Massali?" Gwere asked. The captain was the biggest man Mara had ever seen, but now he looked small, weathered and sad. He looks tired, Mara thought, as she turned to Ash. "We have a deal, no?"

A moment later the prince entered the clearing. "The Mara are taught to read, at an early age, is that correct, Massali?" he asked.

"Yes, with some exceptions," said Mara, glancing from the prince to the bowed Ash to Gwere and back.

"Massali, this is Ash," said Gwere. Ash looked up, acted as if he was meeting Mara for the first time, and smiled. "I knew a place," he said quietly, "and this place was called the Masai Mara. Hard and beautiful, this land paced the dreams of those that walked its paths. A piece of it stayed in one's heart forever, once its beauty was beheld," he said.

"I knew a place, too, called Spyland, it was full of spies, and there they would spy on you," Mara said. Ash burst out laughing, and a boy-smile, deep but heavily lined, changed his face. He looked up, and eyes that had recently wept, now filled with unrestrained mirth. He could have been twenty when he smiled, but he was fifty when he did not.

"Massali, stop this foolishness," said Gwere, "we are all weary. Can you read Old English or not?"

"I can," said Mara. She was taken aback by the captain's quick anger, and watched as the prince produced a letter and a parchment. The day had clouded, and the wood grew dark. The area in which they sat was circular, like a round room with tree columns. A small fire burned at the center, and the light danced on the tree trunks. Between each tree was a guard, their backs to them. The prince came near, and she could see his comely face was drawn, tired, and without humor. He, too, was painted solid with bloody crusts.

"Ash has drawn a map, and we have these instructions from my father, sent before we left, in Old English, which the castle scholars have read to me," he said. The wood was quiet and the prince talked in hushed tones. "Now that memory is faint, but we wish to compare Ash's map to the directions in this letter."

"Wek, our reader, died this morn, and we need your help," said Gwere.

Mara could hardly believe her eyes or ears. She sat now apart from the council, with the map and letter in hand. Next to her sat the stranger, who had returned to his foot vigil. He did not look up. He stared only at his feet, but Mara could feel him watching. Under the broad leaves of an oak, she could feel his gaze, with his head down. To fight this notion, that screamed alarm, she took a moment to breathe in her surroundings.

A good warrior is a good observer, her mentor taught her, who never let her surroundings paint a deception. She began to study. The branches of the oak hung low all around them. They sat on freshly hewn stump pieces covered with hide. The ground was damp with a thick cover of rich, dark leaves. The spot was private, but in view of the new council circle, where earlier they had spoke to Gwere and the prince. Again Mara noticed guards all around the parameter, hovering just outside the firelight. The shadows of the fire made the glen feel magical. Like the dance of fairy elves, the flame-flickers moved with the rhythms of the forest. The leaves shuffled with the shadows to a music of the wind. It would have been romantic, if not for the air—it smelled of copper. But still the flickers danced. Here, there, across the strangers downcast hood, now on hers, they danced. Ash, so he was called, sat hunched over, as before, with his cloak pulled tight around him. She could not see his hands. No matter, thought Mara, he carries no sword, at least no long one, and during her entire life, no man's knife ever so much as grazed her.

She was supposed to be studying the map and the letter. But it was difficult to take the situation seriously. The letter suggested a bizarre plan for a grouping of the armies at a fixed meeting point, and then as a single unit, the combined army was to assist the king. Mara, again, couldn't believe her eyes; the plan prohibited the arriving armies from coming to the assistance of the king as they arrived. It made it possible, that if the king became trapped in the castle, he could die while help stood idle at the meeting place. Utter foolishness, Mara thought.

This, and other absurdities, she would take up with the prince later, after she disposed of the dolt beside her. Next to the bizarre letter, she held Ash's map. It showed a route, parts of which Mara had traveled often enough, with a path traced to the lake, but it also showed a shortcut, a route she knew. A route special Mara-Scout's knew, but one that none tread lightly. Massali wouldn't even go back there, if there was any alternative. No wonder the prince was asking for her advice. The prince's army had the furthest to travel of all the armies coming to assist the king. But if they followed the stranger's shortcut, and they succeeded, they could be the first to arrive at the lake, and not the last.

The prince must see the same flaw in the letter as she, Mara knew, but figures if he were to get to the meeting place first, he could prevent the other armies from waiting. As the king's son, he could set the example to start off immediately. Then the others would naturally follow. She figured twenty-one days from the glen to the lake, but the shortcut could change that to nine. But there was one problem—Ash's shortcut crossed the Nong.

Take a dense forest and push it from beneath, until sharp mountains formed, pour rains nearly year-round against the sandstone and you had the Nong Canyons. The area was frequented by heavy gales. The resulting storms cut chasms into the rock face and formed a corridor hundreds of feet deep, that twisted endlessly through the canyon floor. The canyons branched as tributaries cut in from the north, south, east and west. The bottom of this maze was likely to be filled with water, and year-round flooding was not unusual. Trees atop the chasms often formed a solid canopy roof, which made the canyons seem tunnel-like. There was no way to get orientated, and once you were lost, you were gone. And if that wasn't bad enough, there were rumors, stories that a strange, ancient people dwelled there. It was said that they lived in the tombs of the dead. She didn't believe those rumors, but she did believe that there was no surer way to destroy them all than to lead them into that canyon. As Massali sat, a chill wind blew into the camp and the fire spread sparks about the couple. The seasons were changing, she thought, and it was time to change this. She prepared to take his life.

Ash sat staring at his feet, seemingly oblivious to the world. He had the bearing of a vagrant. His clothes were baggy and loose, a mix of many colors. He wore pants that had many holes, and his knees shown through. He wore a light shirt and a tunic of leather cut short like a vest. A bag, adorned with strange runes, hung from his back. Had Mara been able to see under his heavily stained cloak, she would have seen richly carved twin blades at his side, with markings that matched the bag.

Slowly Massali removed the Draihau from its sheath. It was the weapon of the Mara. The dagger was usually a gift from mother to daughter; given on the day the daughter won the right to carry the nation's colors. Mara received it from her mentor; she had no mom. Small but scalpel-sharp, the blade left a distinctive jagged wound. With the handle grasped firmly in her hand and with the blade tucked under her sleeve, Mara prepared one strike. She had seen argument in the eyes of the prince and the big captain, Gwere, and was in no mood to waste time with debates. Her duty was clear, protect the prince, and though she had failed this morn, this day she would not. One thing was certain, Mara thought, the world would make a lot more sense after Ash.

In one quick strike she flew at the stranger and brought the dagger down. But once Mara heard the click, she knew she was in trouble. Something struck her hard, immensely hard, in the center of her armor breast-plate, sending her to the ground. The click, or pop, was clearly a warning. A moment ago she had been on the offensive, and she had let her defenses fall. Her mentor would be laughing right now. Ash couldn't have possibly moved that fast, she thought, as she lay on the ground, but he did. The POP. Lying on her back, Mara turned her head in time to see Ash draw back, return to his seat, and once again bow his head. He had something inside his robes; he hid something with a click. Guards rushed over, followed by the prince and Gwere.

There was an absolute calm about her as she lay in the soft, damp leaves, watching the firelight move among the treetops. The pain that pulsed through her chest and lungs whispered of her coming death, but Mara knew that after a few panicky moments she would be able to draw air again. All she had to do was wait. The stranger was making a mistake not finishing her off, she thought, as she watched him sit. While she waited for her lungs to expand, she forced herself to concentrate on the leaves, the trees, and the stranger's scarred knees.

Standing by the fire, Gwere watched the two under the oak. They weren't even talking. Massali wasn't reading the map and the stranger just sat, motionless. He suddenly felt a great unease. Motioning to a guard, he planned to have the man check on them. Then he heard the noise. It was a sharp pop, like a stone skipped hard onto a solid rock. He turned in time to see the stranger, in one fluid motion, twist and snap, in a fast, crocodile-thrashing like motion. He did it three feet off the ground. Gwere had turned in time to see Ash kick Massali, hard, in the center of her golden, ornamental, armored breastplate.

The utter stillness of a body without breath is, well, breathtaking, Mara mused, as she lay on her back. The guards rushed over and along with them, Ash, too, jumped, feigning shock and surprise. And as the air finally came to her lungs, she drew a deep breath and hissed it out slowly. Ash was kneeling over her with the guards,

"I still hold you to your part of the deal, Stinker," he whispered softly, as he placed a thin blue blanket over her chest.

"What goes here?" Gwere asked. Instead of barking the question, the big captain almost whispered it. He looked shaken and confused.

"Massali are you well, were you hiding a wound—surely this would be a grievous thing," said the prince softly, kneeling, his hands cradling her face and head. He called to the closest healer among them, Erow. "Erow, assist Massali, she is injured." The second lieutenant knelt beside her and moved his hands about her, feeling her head and limbs.

"You may have an unnoticed injury from the battle, Massali. Stay still while we get Tara." Erow said.

"I slipped," said Mara.

"Head wound, that's my guess," said Ash.

"How is it that you fell, did all go black? Did your balance leave you just now?" asked Erow.

"I fell back."

"Yup, head wound," said Ash. "Sometimes you don't even see a mark."

"Massali, I will rue this dark day if..."

"I'm fine, Your Majesty, I'm fine. I'm perfectly fine, leave us to the map and the letter if you would, please, I'm perfectly fine, we're all fine, now. Cancel the healers, please."

"Yes, we're all fine," said Ash.

"Thanks," said Mara.

"She's fine," said Ash, "all head wounds are like that."

The prince and the others took much convincing, but eventually they let Mara back to her study of the map and the letter. Errol had the prince's personal healer, Tara, drop by anyway, and bid her to be careful, saying that she may have received a blow that she couldn't remember. He left shaking his head. Gwere was not so easily swayed. He paused after the others left.

"Your blade, Massali," he said, handing back the Draihau. "And you will need to pound out the dent in your breastplate, from your... 'head wound.' Gwere hissed the sentence at them, and looked darkly at Ash. "Might I remind you both we are officially at war, and to disobey orders of the prince in war is a hanging offense," Gwere said. "Any 'deals' you two have need to be forgotten... NOW!" Almost raging, Gwere's whisper rose until heads began to turn. "Your orders, you seem to need reminding," Gwere said, "are to study the map and the letter and tell the prince what you think. Anything else, and you both will deal with me!" Gwere was shaking. Many men had been lost, the day seemed cursed, and the two before him had just deceived his prince.

Ash sat across from Mara. Mara sat across from Ash, directly across, not side to side as before. Two stone statues, they sat and stared. Mara took a couple of deep breaths and shook the leaves from her cloak. She adjusted her armor; but she did not take her eyes off the stranger. She laughed a small laugh, and stared harder. She thought that if she stared hard enough she might be able to see how the man was able to do what he had done. She saw nothing but a craggy-faced, shabby man, so she sat in silence. All her life she believed in this math—this equation; strike equals death. Now the laws of the universe had forever changed. It was also the price of stealth with magic; though she doubted protection lines would have helped her against the stranger.

"How's the head wound?" asked Ash through his hood. Mara smiled her regular Mara smile. The 'head wound' shtick was funny. On a lark, the warrior took a chance. The stranger was not looking at her, though she knew, somehow, he was watching. From her pack, she produced a small satchel and a book. The book was pure white. She rummaged through the items in the satchel. Behind a sealed letter, adorned with the Comeratte Seal and addressed to the prince, she found what she sought. She took out the parchment and read the description. She stared at the stranger. She reread the description, and a shiver shook her body, but she forced herself, despite the danger, to close her eyes. She had to check. She closed her eyes and concentrated. When she opened them again, what she saw astounded her. She put her parchments and questions away. She put the satchel back in her bag, but paused with the book. After a moment, she dropped the book into their small fire and it began to burn. Moo, she said to herself. Moo. Moo. Moo. Mooooo.

"Finish this sentence," said the Labcoat. "Inside every blank is a hero and a monster."

"Cow," said Ash.

"Are you sure you want me to put COW as your answer?" The man asked, "the courts use this stuff, you know. Now, think back to the video and the pamphlet." Again the Labcoat asked the question. "Inside every blank—is a hero and a monster. Fill in the blank, please, Mr. Ash.

"Golden Cows," Ash said. "Just kidding. Umm, that would be addict. Inside every addict lurks a hero and a monster."

Very good. See how that relates to us?" said the man. "See how when we start looking at things the right way, we can start to see the problem?" The Labcoat asked, "You see, the hero is the tragic figure fighting valiantly against overwhelming odds, in this case, addiction. But the monster is the man drinking. The man that's giving in to the addictive behavior, Mr. Ash, is the monster. See how that relates to us? See how an addict is both a tragic and pathetic creature? See?"

"Cows, you fucktard. Cows are tragic and monstrous, because cows have a magic elixir that can make you look like Elvis and feel like fucking Zeus! Beware the cows!" The Labcoat glanced around the room and drew back.

"Cows."

They were moving after two hours of sleep. The debate in council raged into the night, with no resolve on their path ahead. They did, however, see the logic in moving to a different, if not safer, place. The glen now had an unwholesome feel, and the carrion birds had arrived. Though the enemy were nowhere to be found, none were able to abide the field. Before the morning waned, they were off. As they walked, despair seized many in the ranks. A day earlier they were a proud unit, eager for battle. At that time it seemed fighting would be a glorious adventure, and, best of all, it was something still in the distant future. Instead, they watched their friends die even before they faced the real enemy. In tales by the fireside, battle inspired a prideful lust, the real story, however, is one of endless sadness. In battle a warrior embraces one of two fates, survive to see those around you die, or die. No song, no gain, no glory, seemed a just trade for the lives lost. In battle a soldier will see death, cause death, or experience death. It became clear, on that walk out of the glen, that if the fight lasts long enough, all of them will face all three. Many already had. As the company trudged down the dusty road, this weighed heavy on them. But they were true soldiers, and their wounds, their grief, and those that they had just left behind, did not deter them from their duty to their prince and their king. They simply put one foot in front of the other until their thoughts of despair faded.

Mara marched with the company, but her thoughts were far away. The first order of business was to put her injured pride and her rage in a safe but distant place in her mind. She put it where it could do no harm, but where it could be called upon later to fuel her hate. She was grateful for the march that lay ahead, and the time it would give her to think. She had serious problems to work out. She was faced with a decision that she was loath to make. If the company chose to follow the stranger's plan, would she stick by her loyalty-oath to the prince? Would she follow them into folly and suicide, and if not, was there an alternative? Then there was the stranger himself, this—Ass. So he matched the description. So he had lines all over him. That could mean anything, and Eye himself seemed no more than a blithering idiot. Again, only confusion reigned in her mind. Assss.

The name rolled off her lips like the hiss of a snake. One thing was for certain; she would make no more mistakes. She would be ready, and if she attacked again, it would not end until one of them was dead. She sensed he knew this, she saw he would position himself in any situation to have the most possible physical space between them. For a moment, she let these thoughts rest. She would practice Anile, the Mara art of meditation. Problems written on a busy chalkboard are always more difficult to solve. Anile would wipe the slate clean, and she could rewrite the problems with focus. Then, the solution would become clear. Instead of thinking, Mara again concentrated on her surroundings. They were in a hilly region known as Eomahal. Beside the road long grasses, long turned brown, were the only reminder of the spring rains. Dry and dusty, the earth road smelled of some forgotten spice. The afternoon was hot, dry and still, but clouds on the horizon brought the hope of rain to those that looked. Now and then a stream, banks thick with undergrowth, defied the arid woods. The waters ran fast; as if they, too, sought escape.

Mara's thoughts were interrupted by the hiss of an arrow. The feather had kissed her cheek. Soldiers were running about, and there, twenty paces from Mara stood Ash, bow in hand. Drawing her weapon, she stood poised to strike. But the soldiers ran past her, as did Ash, the latter giving her a wide berth. They left the road, and already some of the men were pulling a large stag from a stream beside their path. Ash had felled a deer, a huge buck, and now the boys were scrambling to retrieve the prize.

The commotion forced a halt to the company. The ordered groups, all in military rows, converged into a knot as troops from the rear clogged the road, wood and stream. Those troops in front turned; and the order-riders could not pass the crowds of men.

Shooting game, or anything except the enemy while moving on the road was strictly prohibited. But with morale at an all time low, Mara suspected that the prince would let them have their fun. Also, the deer would yield meat. But there was a catch—at barely past noon, and the stag would have to be carried for almost six hours—until they would break for camp.

Gwere granted the men a break, to decide a plan for the care of the big carcass. Four or five men took command of the buck, with Ash at their side. He was letting them take over, clearly ingratiating himself to them. Ash was schmoozing, and at no point did Mara forget that the arrow Ash shot, which had brought down the buck, had touched the peach fuzz on her face. If he tried for the buck, and missed, they would have only lost Mara, who, coincidentally, was the single voice of dissent in the council, while discussing Ash's short-cut. Her voice alone argued against his plan. Too bad you hit the buck, and missed your target, thought Mara. From this point forward, she would walk behind Ash.

Pushing through the men, Ash dragged the carcass back to the wooded area around the stream. He produced a rope and strung up the animal by its hindquarters. Mara watched as he gutted and skinned the animal while the men around him just grinned. Sloughing the organs to the ground, Ash prepared the buck by rubbing an orange powder, pulled from a strange rune-bag, over the carcass. He then cut the beast up, wrapped the parts in cheesecloth, and handed them out to the men. Gwere brought the men back in line and resumed the march. It took all of twenty minutes and they were moving again.

An army the size of the prince's came with a meal-wagon to transport the feed and cooking gear for the army. But, in the interest of speed, they had forgone this custom and spread the supplies among the men. Now their burdens were heavier than ever, but none seemed to care. Bringing down the buck buoyed everyone's spirits. Ash was building trust, Mara thought, as she studied him mingling among the men. He had no shortage of volunteers to carry the carcass, even though just moments before all had been lamenting the toil of the road and the weight of their burdens.

By the end of the afternoon the company hit their stride, moving down the empty road with the greatest of speed. The army marched most of the day with few breaks and put miles and miles between them and the glen.

Now, late in the day, there were few that didn't seem to prefer death itself to one more step on the road. They were spent. When Gwere finally called for a halt to send out the scouts, the entire army sighed with relief. At last the scouts returned, and after a short trek to an open field, they halted.

With the same vigor as the night before they broke for camp. The men cleared a wide area from the center of the field and built a fire. No tent was erected for the prince; the Sovereign instead opted to seclude himself within the trees that grew on the field's edge. Mara watched as the man literally peered from the forest. He was not alone, but he might have well have been. The losses from the night before weighed heavy on him, and he accepted no comfort from the others in the company.

Meanwhile, there was a great commotion around Ash. He gathered all his carcass pieces and laid them in a pile. He began to prepare the meat for cooking. In this he did not share, insulting those who prepared the company's meals. He refused all help, and threatened those who would intrude with force. Mara watched this in horror. Here was a man who had joined the army just the day before, amid great tragedy and loss, and who now demanded obedience.

And, the army gave it to him. Ash built a high fire. After the fire had burned bright for some time, he dug a trench next to the flames. In this he scooped the coals. He covered the top of the trench with freshly cut saplings and laid the buck's pieces atop the sticks. Over everything he laid more branches. At one point he turned the pieces over while adding more coals. Soon the air was rich with the scent of taste, the smell of hunger. Against her will, glands watered her mouth. Mara stood in the field, battling utter disbelief. The smell drove the crew crazy and fights broke out when many in the company claimed that they had carried the pieces the furthest, and therefore deserved the largest share. One thing was sure; they had forgotten their earlier losses, at least for the time being. Even Gwere joined them, having been released temporarily from duty by an inconsolable prince.

At last, the meat was ready. The meal was no disappointment, in fact, soon after it became something of a legend. Ash uncovered the pieces, pulled out the meat, and started carving. A ruckus broke out as a line formed, but Ash called them to order. He knew, he said, who carried what, and the line should start with the first carriers first, and so on. Any line breakers, he said, as some of the largest and more intimidating soldiers came to the front, would get no share at all, but all honest men, on his word, would get a portion. But first, Ash addressed the crowd.

"We will dedicate this feast to the friends we lost this morn," he said, "and to the prince and the king who truly give us honor when we serve them," he said.

The friends we lost this morn? Mara thought. His heart must truly ache; he lost friends he had made just an hour before. Those who debated on whether to just kill him and move on he must miss the most, Mara thought.

"I knew them not, but the grief in the eyes of their friends make me think we indeed suffered a grievous loss," said Ash. "Let us rejoice in their glory, and Gwere, their captain, will start the meal and tell us if the meat is fit for their memory." This was met with many nods and looks of approval. Mara rolled her eyes and let out a long sigh.

Ash was putting on a show. She could clearly detect contempt in his eyes. He was playing them, and they were eager to cooperate. Ash placed a large portion of meat in Gwere's tin. After a bite, Gwere looked up, smiled, and slapped Ash on the back so hard that it could be heard across the field. And Gwere was one of the smart ones, thought Mara, as she watched the boys-club frolic with the meat; he was the Captain of the Guard. Dread filled her as she sat by the fire and watched the show. For a bite to eat, these men found love with the devil himself.

Despite his orders, the men made a mad rush for the food, and Ash only just escaped the frenzy that followed. He had given his word that all honest men would share in the feast, while knowing full well that the buck could not be split between seven hundred men. Less than forty men shared in the meal, even though after the feast you would have been hard pressed to find a single person who wouldn't confess to having had a great share of the meat. Ash came by the fire chewing on a leg joint of the buck and cradling a large steak portion.

"I had Gwere hold a piece for you, if you felt hungry. I've tasted army cooking and recommend the change." Mara responded to his offer by placing her hand on the hilt of her sword and slowly drawing it as he spoke. Ash only smiled, shook his head, and departed. To her alarm, he moved to the direction of the prince's camp. She watched him as he spoke to one of the prince's own guards, and shook her head when he was waved through. The guard that passed him was now chewing on something, Mara saw. He had access to the prince just by asking. Gwere came by and sat down next to her, pushing some of the meat her way.

Mara interrupted him as he started to speak. "Gwere, can you have your men find Rehoak and Linderwan?"

"They are close," said Gwere turning and looking into the evening, "Gractah," he called to his lieutenant, an Elite, the same lieutenant that gave Erow the 'tongue wagging' speech, "summon Rehoak and Linderwan to us," he said, and turned back to Mara. "The prince, whether we like it or no, will follow his own counsel, Mara," Gwere said.

Standing outside Epic Video, Ash said God-bless-you to everyone, whether they gave or not. His pocket rattled with change but it was a weekday and the crowds were thin. He needed at least two bucks. A packet of Red-Ramen and a small bottle of Polak Vodka would make his night. During a lull he peaked into the pocket. Sixty-four cents and a piece of Tri-Mint gum. Then, he struck gold. She handed him a paper bill. A single. He was almost there. She said, 'Thanks, God bless you, too,' and entered the store. She was a tall, slender, golden hair beauty just like Linda. His Sweetheart. He thought back to the days when he stood inside, part of the whole game, instead of outside, as a diseased observer. He mourned the lost love but not the game.

She wanted him to make magic. She wanted him to provide the spark that would light her world on fire. She wanted him to make her dreams come true. She wanted him to make her shadowy, hazy, romantic dreams that even she couldn't describe, come true.

There were moments when he did. There were moments like when he entertained a crowd on the boardwalk in Venice. He tucked a dozen collapsible flowers in his sleeve and pulled them out while reciting Shakespeare on one knee. Not very original, but she lost herself that afternoon as he amused the crowd and stunned her, his future wife. But it took booze to do it. Booze provided the magic that he then passed on to her. It gave him the courage and the inspiration.

She had given him a treasure; herself, her life, her heart, and her sex. It was a reward. It was a contract. She gave him her treasure in return for eternal control of him. Everything he did, everywhere he went and with whom he went was subject to her scrutiny. Eventually booze became an escape from her too.

It did not escape Mara that Gwere and others now called her by the name Ash used and not Massali. But it would do no good taking this point to the big captain now.

"Consider the..." Mara said. But Linderwan came up gesturing.

"Hey, what a ruckus!" Linderwan. "Did anyone get any?"

"Gwere, give her my share, I may not be doing you any favors Linderwan, I'd say that we could not rule out foul-play in this meat, from our new friend..." But before Mara could finish, Linderwan was eating the portion Gwere gave her.

"We call you Mara now, Massali?" Rehoak asked as he sat by the fire. "Hey?" He asked Linderwan, gesturing to the meat. Linderwan smiled broadly, and gave him a mouthful.

"How 'bout we just call you woman," said Gractah. The Elite and another black uniform sat with full plates, fuller than any of the others.

"...or nondescript, non-male, non-civilian..." said Erow. He squeezed between the others and began to feast.

"Consider the path that lies before us friends, look at the position we, you and I, are in, even as I speak..." began Mara.

"Got to go," said Erow. He, Gractah, and Rehoak left at once. They were up and gone before Mara could get another word out.

"Nobody wants to listen to how this man is the devil, Mara," said Linderwan as she rose to depart.

"You will find no audience," said Gwere, "and if he plans to trick or betray us, then we deal with that when that time comes. The prince will take in consideration Ash's plans whether we like it or no." A moment later Gwere too left, leaving Mara alone. Over and over she jabbed a stick into the fire.

"Okay, just listen for five minutes, and then make up your own mind," Ash said, taking Gwere's place by the fire. Mara just froze. "I do know a short cut through the Nong," said Ash, "and I've traveled it myself. And I can take the company there, and across." As Ash pleaded his case Mara studied his face. He looked much, much older in the light of the fire than he had at first glance.

"I am trained at defending myself, that's why last night happened. Frankly, I knew you were going to... well, move. But beware; I am not unarmed. I have protection. Knives. They warn me when I am in mortal danger," Ash said. He moved his cloak to reveal strange, ornamental scabbards, each with an opening at the front, each with strange clips to hold the weapons in.

The short blades, not much longer than a man's forearm, did not need to be pulled from the scabbard top; they could be drawn from the front once the clips popped open. The handles were as richly carved as their matching sheaths, runes and ancient designs ran the length of the weapons and told of some secret tale. "These clips pop open, with a sound, when I am in danger. The short swords are magic, and they cannot be stopped by metal or bone. They cut everything. They cut rock."

"I am not from here, Mara," Ash continued, "I'm a stranger to this land. This to me is more a dream than life. I don't how I got here, and I don't know why I am here, and I am lost. I seek my home, which was so very different than this place. It was horrible but at least I understood it. At least I belonged. I had a family and friends, and people could fly through the air, in...boxes. I don't know what I'm doing here. I think I died, and this is either hell or..." Ash paused. Fake tears welled his small eyes. He looked for understanding, but Mara only shook her head. After a long moment of silence, Mara rose, turned away from the fire, and disappeared into the night.

Ash let out a great sigh, buried his face in his hands, and slumped to the ground. Then he pulled his cloak close around him, laid himself down next to the fire and slept the night.

The new morning was quiet; too quiet. Ash had the feeling of having overslept. In fact, he was completely alone. The company had moved on without him. He would have thought the whole thing a dream, if not for the mess. Trampled grass and debris blanketed the field that just yesterday was pristine. Thirteen fire pits had been dug around the main fire, and unburned piles of firewood lay about the pits. Personal items, broken or worn, lay about—a buckle, parts of armor, pieces of uniforms, and here and there a chewed piece of bone. Thanks for the feast Ash—bye-bye. See you later.

Actually relieved, Ash decided to put the whole affair behind him, after he worked on the field. The area had been beautiful when they arrived, and it would be beautiful again. Moving methodically, he cleaned the field of debris, which he piled into one of the pits and burned. He moved the firewood into one big pile, and filled in most of the fire-holes. He found all a variety of items; a small-engraved bone ornament on a broken leather string, a dagger with the tip broken off and somebody's flint box. He had matches in his magic bag, but the box would come in handy. Matches caused the people of the land too much curiosity. It was probably best not to bring up the 'magic' items he carried, or where he thought they came from, or where he thought he came from.

After the field had been made more hospitable, Ash decided to spend his second night in the glen. He was well away from the road with enough wood to last the night. While greatly relieved to not to have had to face the trials that lay ahead of the army, it pained him to think they had taken off in stealth. They stole away, all seven hundred of them. That, was curious. Magic was everywhere in the land; perhaps they used some on him. He closed his eyes; he opened them and saw gold spell-lines. Sleep, they said, sleep.

During his babbling explanation to the Mara, he had said the wrong things. He knew that there were people who would have recognized every word he had said, about flying machines and the people inside them, but here, it was just insanity. He realized that a prince could never ask his army to accept a man who spoke as thus. He fought the sadness, born of self-pity, that tried to embrace him.

To hell with the lot of them, he thought. He would return to adventuring. He was free again. Unfortunately, in the absence of some kind of purpose, adventuring was a lot like wandering aimlessly as a bum would. Nevertheless, he spent the day laying about the shade of a tree on the banks of the brook that ran along the meadow. He even took a quick dip into the icy water to free himself of the blood scabs. Then, during a rest in the sun, he slept the afternoon away.

As night fell, he woke, built a big fire to fend of the chill air, and ate from his bag. As he watched the flames, a thought struck him, hard. He sat upright. The letter was a fake, and the plan to meet at the lake, a trap. They had a spy among them, and they were doomed. There were too many coincidences to ignore—the timing of the attack, that it was directed with a purpose, and the damage that so few inflicted. A spy would have led the enemy to the camp at night, saw to it that the last days march was a little too exhausting, and made sure that they slept a little too long that morning.

And to top it off, the prince was out in the open, his standard flying like a marker to a target. But, he thought, what did he care, he tried his best to ingratiate himself to them in every possible way, and as a reward they ditched him in the dead of the night.

"All right," he said to the air, "so I'm kinda slimy. So I have a hard time looking people in the eye. To hell with you all." Again he fought the self-pity sorrows as his eyes welled.

Still, it occurred to him that some adventuring might be ahead of him anyway. He was still very disturbed about the morning attack, and the thought that he could cause harm to those responsible was very compelling.

In an instant, he had decided, his was to stand in the midst of the ambush, and have his party. The prince, instead of finding a surprise attack, would find bodies. And Ash would save one or two from a swift death. They would sing to him; they would sing a song about traitors. And, Ash knew just the short-cut to take.

The Nong Canyons were feared for all the right reasons. The Gorge descended into the sandstone of the Nong hundreds of feet. The Gorge sides measure less than twelve feet across much of the time, but in many areas the sides drew in and narrowed, so close that a person must turn to get through. And the walls had a tendency to crumble on a person as they inevitably brushed the sides. Ash had emerged from his last trip a bright orange. The sandstone walls were red, swirled with pale and white sands, creating a tapestry effect. At times the walls would fall away, opening into tree-lined glens. Most of the Nong was covered with trees, and the feeling in the Gorge was cave-like. To get there, the party would need to travel through the wild woods, mountains, deserts, and finally the Gorge itself. Ash had once spent two months in the Gorge, but not on purpose. He was lost when he had appeared in this strange land, both literally, and figuratively. To try to regain some sense of perspective, Ash traveled. A wider view of the land helped to ground him; the only time the land seemed like home was when he was out in the wilds alone. But the Gorge almost killed him.

Alone and half crazed, Ash wandered the Gorge until he was ready to die. The swords were of no help to him, they almost cease to exist unless he is in harm's way. The Gorge was the first real challenge Ash had faced in the land, and where he had learned his hardest lesson. That lesson was simple; think, as long as humanly possible, before reacting. That was, of course, providing the swords didn't pop.

Almost dead, Ash lay on his back, and thought. It was then he noticed the white birds. Ash had gotten out of the Gorge by taking the paths that matched the flights of the white birds. At one end of the Gorge was a desert, on the other a gigantic lake, and then an ocean, where the birds bred. It seemed simple now, but finding that out almost killed him. Travel the Gorge in any direction other than that of the white birds, and you will get lost. Get lost in the Gorge and you will die.

There were also the strange people. Beings haunted the Gorge, strange people that flittered between the shadows. They followed Ash through the canyons, keeping just out of sight, neither helping nor hindering his passage. They were not a threat, meaning the blades kept quiet, so he ignored them.

Sitting in the field, already committed to his plan, Ash noticed a feeling in the air. He felt the faint memory of a lost emotion within the air itself, like the name of a forgotten friend. Like a hard to recognize flavor in an exotic food, he couldn't put a name to the feeling. Then all at once it came to him; watched; he was being watched. In the land, Ash found those feelings to be rarely, if ever, wrong. Now he had many questions; who, why, where, and what? The why would be easy, thought Ash as he poked a stick into the fire, the prince couldn't really afford to have a dangerous man roaming the countryside knowing his army's plans. And there was still a question of a traitor. If Ash developed suspicions that there was a traitor among them, then there was no reason to believe that the prince hadn't reached that same conclusion, and even looked to him as a suspect. That would help explain their ditching him in the night.

The who should be easy, they would send someone with the skill of an assassin and the morals of an executioner; someone adept at moving in the shadows, killing and getting out fast, someone who would be able to identify Ash in a group were he to meet up with any co-conspirators. In other words, they would send the Mara. And she would bring three or four friends to help her achieve her goal. They even may send more, if anyone had paid attention to what he could do with the blades.

The plan would be to watch, wait and listen, until a predetermined cut-off point, when they would decide if he would live or die. Later they would rejoin the army and report to the prince. The question of 'where' was actually the scariest part. Night had fallen, and Ash sat by a fire, lit up for all to see. If the cut-off point were one day, Ash would die in a few of hours. Or rather the swords would pop, and then bad things would begin to happen.

Two choices began to stare at him from the flames, as his fire cracked and popped on a green log. One, he could go relieve himself, and run off. But that would send all the nice folks watching him scurrying off after his mortal shell. Or two, do nothing and hope the cut-off point was sometime in the morning. After a moment of thought and a yawn, it was decided. Ash flung the rest of the fuel on the fire, bedded down, and relaxed for sleep. This was a country that just gave itself to gambling, he thought, and that was fine with him.

The sun had yet to rise when he woke. It had been a quiet night. Only red coals remained of his fire, and with no loose wood close, Ash could only pull his cloak tight and try to slap his limbs awake. Finally, after he gathered wood, rebuilt the fire, and scrambled in his rune-bag for coffee, he was able to warm himself. To watch the sunrise out-of-doors, with fresh coffee, was one of his favorite things. It made it seem like camping, though he knew not what camping was. Rising in the direction that he would have observed from, Ash shouted through cupped hands, "Mara, you and your friends can join me, if you like." He then returned to his seat and sipped his coffee. The cup warmed his hands and the bittersweet drink warmed his body. The sun was just beginning to make its appearance through the eastern mountains when he saw movement just out of the firelight. A moment later, with her approach completely silent, Mara stood before him. She paused a minute, then sat down. "Hi Ash, cut any rocks lately?" she asked. Behind her, in the shadows, with bows drawn, were Linderwan, Rehoak, Erow, Gwere and the Elite, Gractah. The prince had sent his army's very finest. They had, Ash thought between sips, been paying attention the whole time.

Ash looked into his cup and laughed quietly to himself. Then he took a deep breath, and looked into the faces of those that now stood before him, judging him. Those faces did not seem friendly. "Your mission," Ash said, "of course, is to insure the safety of the prince by hampering the efforts of the enemy to inflict damage on your company. Secrecy and stealth are your main concerns, and I am a security risk. Two days ago your company made a strategic error. In figuring that the land you traveled in was still in the uncorrupted domain of the king, you let your guard drop. You were wrong, and you paid for it," Ash said. "You think I helped betray and murder those in your company. You must effectively address this risk, and return to your army, probably before the end of the day," Ash said. After a moment, he went on. "Loose your arrows, for you think I am that traitor, but you err, and I will have no reservations in returning force with force," he said. "To me, the people who set up the prince's defense are not worthy of his service. I have never seen a sloppier company, a more inept group, or a slower to react scout unit in all my travels." Then he looked into Mara's eyes, and held her gaze for a moment. "I am not a member of your group, yet to me it is obvious that you were betrayed from within," Ash continued after none interrupted. "You think that I tell the fantastic stories of a village idiot, and that I must not roam the country telling any other stories. You think that you are now in control and will set things right," Ash said, "however, as you loose those arrows, my weapons will discharge, and I will tear through you. Only I will remain, to grieve the plight I have in this horrible, nasty, fantasyland," Ash said. Then, not moving his eyes from his cup, Ash sat, awaiting the pop.

Mara took the coffeepot from the fire. "Cups?" she asked. "Or do we drink from the pot?" Looking over the brim of his cup, Ash laughed. "There's one in my pack, but the rest of you will have to fend for yourselves." Mara took his pack, and his bag, and handed it to Gwere. Behind her, almost out of view, Gwere and Gractah rifled through Ash's belongings, removing all its content, searching and prodding every item. They then handed it back to Mara with a shrug. Mara pulled a cup from the pack and poured herself a cup of coffee. Gwere nodded to the others, who tucked away their bows, drew their swords, and sat in a half circle around Ash with their weapons on their laps. As a tribute to their tireless optimism, Ash decided, they stayed their hands from their weapon's hilts.

"The prince has given us free choice to take the path we deem most fitting," said Mara. "The prince seemed to think that you were not a traitor, nor a crazy man. But, since he must speak for the safety of the company, he has dispatched us to determine that for ourselves. Then, upon our choice, we can choose that path that we feel is most correct. There was great debate last night between those who sit before you now, mostly between them and I, whether to dispense with you as you slept." Mara said, "My side lost. The debate ended when your movements showed that you had detected us and yet you still slept by the fire in the open. We decided to wait. A traitor would have fled. We do not, however, agree with the prince as to your sanity or devotions. As to that, we can only testify as to what we have seen and heard so far. You could simply just be crazy. But..." Mara continued with a subtle sarcastic tone in her voice, "Since you are a sincere, honest and sane man, who is loyal to the prince and the king, you will take us to the lake, and through your canyons, in nine days, like you said you could, or we will kill you, having proven yourself false. And..." Mara continued, with a quaking in her voice, "if you ever feel you can single handily slay any or all of our party, I suggest you do so, for we will not hesitate to slay you if we find you to be untrue. We leave in ten minutes. Any questions?" Mara asked. She then turned to her beverage. "Gwere," she said after a moment, "get a cup, the coffee is absolutely wonderful."

In a short time they were off. Mara had the map Ash made at the camp. The prince kept his letter, but Mara was familiar enough with the area next to the lake that they would not need it. She could get them to the meeting place by the lake stated in the letter easily enough by memory. But Ash would have to lead them through the Gorge; none in the party had ever made it all the way through the canyon, although Mara, in years past, had made half of the journey. It was rumored that Massali was inducted into the Mara Nation after they had found her wandering lost in the canyons, under the spell of amnesia. She was a young adult when they found her and to this day she could not tell anyone of her origin, her childhood, or any details of her past. But she was a perfect fit for the Mara, and was accepted by all in the Nation almost immediately.

Massali wore the uniform of a Mara. Runes adorned her richly carved black and gold armor, scripts of the Mara that told of some secret tale of faith in battle. But a long cloak of dark sliver hid the armor from all but the most prying eyes. She wore a silver chain at her brow and much of her hair was in braids, indicating her status and rank in the Nation. Her dark skin and glossy black shoulder-length hair set her apart from the other women and created much desire among the men. It was true that the Mara were staffed with only the beautiful. It was rumored that those with less gifts came to sudden ends.

Gwere wore the sliver and black of an officer high in the king's service. He wore the black braids of an 'Elite,' a company the king used for special missions and as a personal guard. He was a captain, and at the topmost of that rank. His Elite status was considered honorary. Gwere had been sent by the king himself to protect his son. He carried the most weaponry of the group, and was larger than any other man in the army.

Linderwan, a warrior from the prince's own army, wore the silver and gray of the prince's guard. She covered it all with a pale golden cloak. Often she violated the uniform code by wearing flowers in her hair or colored paint on her armor. She also wore a necklace of brightly colored seashells and had butterfly wings pinned to the underside of her shield. Her golden hair and fair skin made her a favorite among the men.

Rehoak, the eldest member of the group, had retired from the army years earlier and was called back for the war. He wore the black armor chest-plate of the Elite, but the rest of his uniform was a mismatch of pieces from his travels. He was from the wooded country, and wore much subtle leather, of many layers and earthly colors, and was cloaked with a long dark-brown cape. He refused to accept an officer rank, and is officially listed as a private. He accepts no salary.

Gractah was a full member of the Elite Guard, and wore all black. The Black Elite usually held a special place among the king's inner circle, and they usually were only sent away from the king for special missions. All members of the Black Elite wore hooded cloaks that concealed any glitter, bright metal, or color, for they seemed to make a game of secrecy. It was rumored that Gractah was sent by the king to watch over his favorite officer, Gwere.

Erow was a member of the Gray Guard. Tall and unyieldingly handsome, he was a second lieutenant who had proved himself in battle at an incredibly young age, and had held the favor of the king ever since. He wore a gray cape and chain mail of gray. He wore the silver star of the Innearil on his breast. The people of the Innear faith did not worship the gods of the earth, as did most in the land, but looked to the heavens for prayer and solace. They had only the One God. Some said it was a mistake to ask about this; the subsequent conversations often lasted a lifetime. Erow and Linder were also gifted healers, renown for their abilities, and both planned to pursue a practice after the war.

They all were skilled at staying alive in the wild, at finding food and water from the land, and all were exceptional trackers.

All members carried knives, broad swords, shields, and most carried bows. Some carried battle helms or other head armor.

All the king's men and women in the group had proved themselves at one time or another in battle. They were gifted warriors and ruthless fighters. They were hale and hardy soldiers who would consider it an honor to die for their king. These warriors now had only one subject on their mind; Ash.

At the western end of the meadow lay an immense and ancient wood. Part of an old ocean of forest, it still covered much of Alrica. Dark and still, the wood lay undisturbed for centuries. It was wild, mostly unexplored, and for most, associated with fantastic fireside tales that enchanted the young. Ash led the group to the edge of the thick tree line and halted. From this direction, he told them, they could pass through the wood, through the desert and begin the trek into the canyon. The canyon lasted some ten leagues, until it came to an end on the east side of the lake. If the letter was a fake, they would arrive from an unanticipated direction, take those waiting by surprise, and walk in as hungry lions. If it were not a trap, they would await the first armies and lead them into battle, while posting a small party behind to pass along the prince's orders. Into the tree line no path lay; Ash had to chop his way into the forest. For this he borrowed Erow's sword, for the guard carried an extra. The woods grew more dark and difficult with each step. As the trees began to close around them, Mara was filled with apprehension. The group could easily be ambushed or lost among the dense pillars of trees that made up the wood. The forest was thick with thorns and clingy vines, each bent on abduction of the unwary. The still air taunted them, hiding demons that jumped from shadow to shadow. Scurrying noisily about the undergrowth, these creatures, invisible to the eye, moved all around them. Shadows loomed and swayed about them that no beast could claim. The smell of damp, moldy earth radiated from the wood's long dead ghosts. All in the party felt the weight of the trees drag heavily upon them.

Through much of his trail-cutting Ash quietly cursed and paused. At times, he seemed at a loss and changed directions. But soon Ash cut through a large briar, bringing them to a dry creek bed. Thick brush lined each side, but the dry riverbed was easy to follow—the rocky bottom was clear of the dense growth that covered all of the wood—though each inch was covered with pale, smooth stones. Except for the occasional stubbed toe or missed step on a rock, their going was easy and pleasant compared to the wood.

"Watch the ankles," Gwere whispered. "Seriously, place a solid foot before springing to the next rock." Ash had found a genuine passage though the impassable wood. The riverbed took them in the direction that they wished to go, and they began to make great progress. Ash knew the area well, Mara saw, as she watched him navigate the group quickly and stealthily up the dry streambed. They were scrambling warily among the boulders when Rehoak froze and signaled to the others. Out of the mists came the sounds of men. Many men, thought Mara, as she pulled her weapon.

Immediately the group switched to defense, burying themselves in the dense brush beside the dry creek. They sent Linder and Erow, their quietest scouts, to investigate. As the party waited, doubts about Ash returned.

Mara watched as he crouched in the brush and looked for signs of nervousness or deceit. She saw only quiet watchfulness. He craned his neck, looking, like all of them, for some greater view of the riverbed. She watched as Gwere crept behind Ash. There he waited, knife poised just feet behind the stranger. Long moments passed. Mara searched the trail ahead for Linder and Erow, and listened for sounds of their return, but only the song of a nuthatch fluttering among the bush could be heard. Mara's thought's returned to Ash, as she again searched him for signs of evil. He had the look of a man with weak character; his face always held a sad scowl, the kind traitors and cowards hold when the people they fool turn their backs. Only Ash didn't bother to hide his contempt; she could almost feel that he meant to do the group harm. They were in a perfect trap. Ash could do away with the group in the wilds, then rejoin the enemy and stalk the prince's army, picking them off with carefully measured assaults.

Linder and Erow returned with the news; an army, two hundred strong they guessed, lay ahead of them in the riverbed. It appeared to be the same Ersoberg warriors that had attacked them at the glen. Eyes immediately turned to Ash. Only fifty yards ahead the enemy army had posted a watch, guarding their very path. They guessed two, maybe three guards. On a signal from Gwere, Ash found the bows of Erow and Gractah pulled on him, and not just drawn, but taunt. Straining. Ash placed his hands up to his chest, palms out, fingers spread. Rehoak stepped in front of him, put his finger to his lips, and raised his weapon until the point of his sword rested on the underside of Ash's chin. Then he placed a hand on Ash's arm and pulled him gently back in the direction that the group had come.

After two hundred yards of silent boulder scrambling, Gractah and Erow lowered their bows, and Rehoak released Ash's arm. Mara, who had placed herself between the party and their enemy, rejoined the group, scouted around and guided them out of the riverbed.

Twenty yards into the forest, the group halted. In a dark corner, with a damp fern lined rock cliff at their backs and thorny thickets all around, they halted.

"Have a seat, Ass," Mara said, deliberately mispronouncing his name. As usual, she led the attack. "Ash, why are we here?" asked Mara. "Also, let me just say now that any deceit or sarcasm will end this debate... permanently," said Mara. She had almost managed to shout when she hissed the word "permanently."

"If you trace a line from the meadow to the entrance of the Nong," said Ash, "which is our destination, you will find that line will draw straight through this wood. This stream, this dry riverbed, is the only clear path through the forest. I have used it many times. So must have they. In a word... chance," Ash said. Mara began to speak, but Ash interrupted. "If I meant to do you any harm, none of you would have ever gotten out of the meadow," Ash said. Gwere pulled Mara from Ash almost as soon as she jumped, and it was some time before he could restore any order to the group. After a while Gwere got the company seated again.

"That's the last time we break protocol," the big captain said. "We follow orders, here, as we would in the company," Gwere said to Mara.

"We can settle this once and for all," Ash interrupted. "Whomever is the traitor, stand up," said Ash.

"We have yet to be detected by the enemy," said Linder, "and can flee at any moment. Mark my words, we will rue the minute we lose that luxury," Linder said.

"After we kill him," Mara said, "we leave. We go back."

"The needs of the army must be addressed in some way," said Gwere, "and killing him now does not solve our problem. Did we find, beyond a doubt, the motives behind this man, as charged by the prince?" Gwere asked. He scolded the group with his hands on his hips like a schoolmarm.

"I agree," said Erow. "We are not on a 'flee as far from the enemy as possible,' mission."

"Erow's right," said Linder. "We haven't accomplished anything at this point, Ash never tried to call out or alert the enemy. He hasn't done a thing."

"Except lead us into a trap," said Gractah.

"We will send a party to scout the enemy," Gwere said. "Linder, Gractah and Erow will stay with here and guard Ash. If anything goes wrong, kill him. Mara, Rehoak and I will move up the riverbed."

Erow began to speak, but the three departed through the brush without another word. The others took turns staring at one another while also peering into the forest. Time passed slowly; Ash spent the time breaking a tiny twig into smaller pieces.

"This is a stupid plan, it divides us, and was made in haste..." said Erow.

"Yeah, but you don't die if something goes wrong, so if there's complaining to be done..." began Ash.

"Quiet! No talking," said Linder, and after a moment she added, "Please."

They waited. Ash stopped breaking the twig and Gractah stopped bouncing his sword on his knee. A leaf, golden and yellow, as large as shield, fell slowly among them, capturing their attention. Streaked with orange and gold, it floated, dropping from twenty feet to ten, from five feet to two. It shone in brilliant flashes as it passed through beaming rays of sunlight. As the leaf touched the ground, they heard the pop. Ash was on his feet with swords in hand when Rehoak flew into the cove. "FLY! FLY! FLY!" he screamed.

The chase was on. The group took the only option left to them, through the brush on the opposite side of the cove. "Mara?" Ash shouted to Rehoak as he ran. Behind them he heard close pursuit. Rehoak looked at Ash and then looked behind him, and his brow furrowed. Ash stopped. In a moment six soldiers were on him. A moment later, he stood shaking and shivering among the dead. More came, from every side. Ash changed his direction and began to wade through the enemy, rending, moving to a run as he felled men. As he ran he called for the warrior. Off in the distance he heard a thin reply. "Run! Run!" The shout sounded like Gwere. Ash followed the sound of the voice. Moving through the enemy, Ash cut man, sapling and tree. A soldier would appear, fall, and Ash would move forward. The enemy was all around him. He was in the midst of the two hundred men. The enemy was unorganized, flying between the trees, there and gone, then reappearing at each

step. Ash continued to push toward the spot where he heard voice. He cut through the forest of trees and the forest of men as he moved.

There, in the midst of a crowd, fighting for her life, was Mara. Battling furiously at her side was Gwere. Mara saw Ash.

"Go, Go!" she shouted, and then she saw what she had missed at the glen. The knives. Ash was walking through men. He was felling tall trees. The whole forest rumbled as he passed. At the ambush, she remembered the horses; they were cut, rendered, separated with clean, long incisions. It was magic. And, the last thing she noticed, before the void suffocated her, was that he was weeping.

The orange blur slowly came into focus. Rehoak's beard stuck in her face, and his eyes were red, but as her vision cleared a crooked smile came to his lips.

"Oh, thank God," someone said behind her. Mara wasn't sure who spoke, but she was among friends.

"Lay still, Sweetie," said someone, "you've had a nasty blow." As Ash came into focus on the other side of Rehoak, Mara pondered the word, Sweetie. Then wave after wave of pain flooded her head, as she tried to rise.

"Hold! Hold! Don't move," said Erow. "You've been hurt, and need to lie still." Mara, sensing something wrong, fell back, laid still, and slipped into unconsciousness.

"Well, that answers that question," Erow said. "She can't move. We can't move. She needs care, in a heal-house."

"Ash, where is the nearest town?" asked Linder. Ash watched Linder's hand tremble as she tried to wipe the Mara's brow. "Elissa. It was the town I was making for when I came across your company," Ash said. "It's miles and miles." He did not look at Linder when he spoke. He pursed his lips to stay the tremble of his mouth. "We can't move her. She will get better here, or she will die," Ash said. From his ruined bag he took a thin, unnaturally blue blanket. He wrapped it around Mara's head. In the dusky light it went from blue, to black and silver, and shined in the forest as if it were covered in dew. Ash then mumbled a few words under his breath, while laying hands to Mara's head.

"Enough of this talk. Let her rest—Ash, relieve Gractah of his guard, you two," Gwere motioned at Linder and Rehoak. "Make yourselves busy, chase somebody, do something!" Then he placed his cloak over Mara, placed her head on his lap, and closed his eyes. Quietly Gractah ordered the others to spread out and search for remnants of the enemy army. Looking back, the others saw Gwere rocking slowly. He was praying.

Chapter 3

Welcome To The Alrica, Ash

Ash had turned a corner. He had not been asked or trusted to set watch before, but it came at a price. A soldier swinging a mace hit Mara from behind. She wore no helm and damage to her skull, Ash guessed, would be severe. If the injury swelled, she would die. The party was less than twenty feet from where she had fallen. The forest around them was eerily quiet and littered with dead soldiers and felled trees.

Ash had watched Mara fall, and found he and Gwere surrounded by dozens of the enemy, with more coming. The two men stood over the Mara and waited for the onslaught. But the enemy had made a strategic error; they took a minute to gloat on their prey. Ash stood and breathed that moment. He felt his skin flush. He felt his pores open and his heart trip. A shudder ran through him. Anticipation made his mouth dry. A hunger began to beat deep within him. Rage, channeled rage, became a drug. Blood was intoxicating, and Ash was getting buzzed.

As the crowd drew around them, he noticed some of their opponents smiling. Gwere, with his back to Ash spoke.

"Ash, I... sorry... nice knowing you." But Ash only breathed softly back to Gwere.

"Gwere, do what I say... d u c k."

Not caring if Gwere headed him or not, Ash moved the first strike. An entire revolution of the knives changed the landscape. Fragmented bodies now tripped the second row of the enemy at their knees. The knives had straps on them, and Ash swung the blades at a frightening speed. Gwere ducked, but not in time to keep the top of his helm.

Stone, metal, flesh, tree—the blades heeded them not. A swing, and a moment later, another group was down. Then Gwere heard the noise. It began as a hiss, and built to a screech. Ash was shrieking. As they came at him, the enemy was felled like trees, and his screams grew. The scene played itself out a couple more times, and then, as quickly as they had come, the enemy withdrew.

The remaining enemy soldiers departed as a group. Erow, Linder and Gractah had fought their way back to the party, and had seen some of the butchery. They found Rehoak by a mound of bodies, unconscious. They were able to revive him and he appeared sound. All but Mara seemed in good shape. Most of the enemy gathered by the woods where they thought they had Gwere and Mara trapped. Interesting, Ash thought, how the whole enemy company departed as Linder, Erow and Gractah rejoined them. If there were a traitor, he would be in that group.

The scouting party, which had decided to capture a guard for information, ran into trouble. The plan had begun smoothly enough. Rehoak posed as the guard, knowing that visual contact would probably be a protocol in the woods, and, adorned with the sentry's dented helm, made an acceptable impostor. Mara and Gwere had dragged the guard into a hollow for a talk. Unfortunately, Mara had used too much force when knocking the sentry out, and they were having trouble reviving him. They were about to give up, when Rehoak appeared.

"The army's on the move..." he said, "and they were signaling for the sentries to return. They signaled to me, and began to get close. I dodged them in the brush, but..." As Rehoak spoke they heard whistles and calls from the forest. The army was searching for their missing sentry. Then the alarm rang out; the enemy had found their colleague's sword.

Mara, Gwere and Rehoak were detected, gave battle and flight, but only Rehoak made it back to the cove. Mara decided on her own to stay behind and buy them time, hoping that Gwere and Rehoak could reach the others and make their escape. After a few steps Gwere missed Mara and doubled back, only to find the bulk of the enemy army waiting.

Ash found Gractah crouching on a stump, peering into the forest. The Elite's face was porcelain and somber. "They are gone," Gractah said. "Not even scouts have I seen. Any change in the Mara?"

"She awoke again and passed out, again," said Ash. "I'll take watch, if you would, but I'm worried about Gwere. If anything happens to Mara..." Ash began.

"I understand. We will be close, signal if you see anything," Gractah said. He shouldered his pack and stepped through a thicket. "We use the songbird whistle for the signal, the small yellow-gray bird."

"I know. It's a warbler," Ash said. "Gractah, was there anything odd about this enemy encounter?" Ash asked.

"Everything," said Gractah, "I thought everything about it odd. I can't figure out what their plan is or was... They attack... and run away? Of seven?" Gractah said. He shook his head in wonder. "Why?" he asked. Ash only stared at his boots.

"I'll take watch, Gwere may need your help," Ash said. Gractah departed through the thick brush with only a single look back. Alone at last, and grateful for peace, Ash sat and breathed the musky air. There was no sound and his instincts told him that the enemy was far away. This was the time to walk. But cowards and desperate men take that path, Ash thought. At this point he was neither, and, he had nothing else to do, nowhere else to go. Also, this was the first time they, anyone, rather, sought to trust him. If he left, they would not be far behind, and Ash knew that his betrayal would only lead to death, his or theirs. Well... theirs. Either way it would become nasty. In truth, Ash had grown fond of the whole group.

Instead he concentrated on the forest. It was humid and dark. It had a feel to it that was hard to define. It seemed to say, 'you may visit, only.' Centuries of struggle for the treasure of the sun, the slim rays of light, created a woven tapestry of greens and browns, waxed leaves and rough barks. But the coveted light was failing. Night was approaching, and the forest's power grew with the coming dark. This was the end of another long day. Then his thoughts turned to Mara, and a lump rose in his throat. He was thinking about his plight, the burden of being with the group, when and what trials they may face, while the Mara may lay dead or dying. A familiar feeling of self-loathing returned, and he tried to think of other things.

When he heard Linder's approach, it came from far away. She was carrying a large branch and was swinging it over her head while calling his name. Apparently the group had seen enough of the blade magic to not want any mistakes. They probably drew straws to see who would relieve him. Maybe they wouldn't be so let down if he just walked away after all.

"Hail ..." said Linder

"All quiet on the western front," said Ash. Linder looked around and spoke.

"We face east."

"No, this is west," said Ash, pointing toward the riverbed.

"Oh, well, Mara's awake again, and she looks better, she even drank some water," Linder said, acting causally. She leaned against a rock and looked at him with care.

"Really?" Ash asked.

"Yeah, and they asked for you. I'm here to relieve," Linder said. She pointed toward the direction of the party and nodded.

"Next time maybe you'll get the long straw," Ash smiled and knew she would think him the village idiot.

"Yes, said the blue cow to the dew cow to the chew cow," said Linder, smiling broadly. It took him so by surprise that he tripped on a gnarled root. Linder broke into a laugh, and Ash paused. Then he too smiled, and pushed through the forest toward the others.

Mara was awake and testy. Ash had overestimated her injury—she appeared lucid and alert. But as he got close, Ash could see there was blood in her eyes. He didn't take that as a good sign. Crouching next to her, Ash asked how she was doing. Instead of answering, Mara gave him a hard glance, a look that became softer as the moment grew. Then she turned to Gwere, who was still tending to her, and asked if she could be left alone.

"Call out if you're in need," Gwere said, and, with a smile toward Ash, he departed. He did not go far. Gwere and the others in the group busied themselves making a small fire, all the while keeping a close watch on Mara. He had smiled, thought Ash. Mara wanted privacy to say a single word.

"Stinker," she said. She raised her hand to his cheek. Ash bent and kissed Mara on the mouth. There was an audible, communal gasp, from the others. Mara looked at Ash with wide eyes, and then looked away. She asked for Gwere. The moment passed without Mara acknowledging it. As Gwere returned, Erow grabbed Ash's arm.

"She'll be all right, Ash, she'll be fine," he said, all while pulling him away from the warrior. Gractah dragged Ash, took more steps, and pulled him further than needed. Ash was comforted by the Mara's revival, but he felt uncomfortable about the exchange. He was being let into the group, which brought a strange joy to his heart, but he was being let in only so far, and he was beginning to make mistakes—emotional mistakes.

Ash sat by the tiny fire and watched the others tend to Massali. They doted on her. They built a fire on the leafy ground, and ignored protocols. They remained close, oblivious to all dangers and the outside world as a whole.

There, in the forest, they lingered for days, until Mara was up and around. Her recovery was more than miraculous, thought Ash. Either he had misjudged her injury or she had amazing recuperative abilities. Probably both. Or maybe it was something else, Ash thought as he shook out his blue blanket. He insisted Mara keep the thin blue wool, placing it over her head. Either way, with Mara back on her feet, the party began to think again. Early in the morning on the third day they moved about the forest, posted guards, and went without a fire. They now faced a dilemma, if they went forward, they could walk into another ambush, if they didn't, they would never get to the prince and the rendezvous site at the lake.

The party sat around a gray stone, north of the riverbed, and discussed their options. For the first time, the group asked Ash for his opinion.

"Do we risk the riverbed, or do we try to get through the forest another way?" asked Gwere, the natural leader, and ranking member of the army.

"There is, as I know it, no other way through this forest except to take the old road to the north," Ash said. "That route detours around this whole wood, and would add a week to the trip," he said. When nobody interrupted him, Ash continued, "We can take the forest road, and probably meet the prince at the lake at roughly the same time," he said. This was met with many disapproving nods, so he went on. "Or, we could take our chances on the riverbed. If that is to be our plan, we need to discuss the reaction of the enemy in the forest."

"Which reaction?" Linder asked.

"Why did they retreat so?" asked Erow, who frowned at Linder. In turn Linder made a stabbing motion with an invisible knife, and pointed to Ash.

"As I see it," Ash said, "were I the enemy, I would likely be thinking one of these thoughts; one, that we were attacked by a rouge band of the prince's outfit, as an act of revenge, and that we were unprepared, and withdrew when our losses mounted. Or two, that the command in the enemy's army saw something and that something made them withdraw. Which brings up another point, I believe that the king's letter to the prince is a fake, and that an ambush awaits the monarch at the lake. If this army, which seems to have prior information of the prince's movements, also has a detailed understanding of the area, it may well be that this enemy army is the ambush, using the riverbed, just as we do, to get through the Mogaram Desert and the Valkera lake before the prince." Ash drew a breath, and decided to let the others speak for a while. After a pause, and it was clear that Ash was done for a while, Linder spoke.

"I say, instead of long winded debates, we charge up the riverbed, with Ash in front, and let what follows, follow.

"All but the 'me in front' part sounds good," said Ash.

"We are not having a long-winded debate," said Rehoak, "only Ash has spoken, and we must consider all our options."

"I vote for putting Linder out in front," said Ash.

"I agree that we must consider the options, but we may have a serious problem," said Erow, "until a few days ago, we agreed that a traitor existed, but we all thought we knew who it was." As Erow paused, Linder moved her finger, pointing and un-pointing, to Ash. "And now, as the last few days showed, we know nothing, and the prince may be in more danger than ever."

"All the more reason to get to him as quickly as possible," said Gractah, who never looked up.

"How do we know the traitor is with the prince, and not here?" asked Erow.

"I think that's why they sent you guys to watch me..." Ash said, checking to see if they were still ignoring him. They seemed to value his opinion only when it was asked. "How do we know it's not one of..."

"Sounds like a debate to me," said Linder.

"Enough!" said Gwere. "We take the riverbed, with as much speed and caution as possible. We will take turns leading point and helping Mara. We reevaluate our progress, depending on our position, each day. Prepare to move!" As always, Gwere simply issued orders. Nobody asked him how they were supposed accomplish speed and caution at the same time.

They made their way to the riverbed and traveled the rest of the afternoon without incident. Mara traveled fast, keeping with the party. But as the day wore on, she began to slow. The group saw no signs of the enemy. This in itself was disturbing, for an army should leave a trace, Ash thought—they never returned to the riverbed, and were somewhere in the forest, perhaps making their way to the road. Gwere was right, Ash thought, the only path that lay ahead of them was to the lake. As they traveled, Ash tried to keep Mara in his sights. The Nation member looked drawn—sweat beaded on her brow and she made many missteps. She was making a monstrous effort to keep moving. Mara never looked up, never looked to the side; she seemed only to push forward. She had turned over her security to the group, and was focusing solely on putting one foot in front of the other. In another ambush, she would be dead. Ash hoped that the enemy hadn't just paralleled the riverbed, waiting yet for another opportunity to strike.

Quickly and quietly they scrambled up the riverbed, to the center of the stony trail they stayed, while avoiding the leaves that dropped from the plants that lined both banks. It was a warm day, and the trees provided some shelter from the sun. All the party was comfortable, with the exception of Mara. They made much progress, but when Gwere saw Mara's head dropping lower and lower, he motioned for them stop. They left the riverbed, found a relatively secluded spot, and made camp.

They had forgotten about game and hunting in the pursuit of progress, so their meal was limited to dry meats and nuts that they carried with them. Tomorrow, Ash reminded himself, he would shoot anything that moved. He knew they would reach the desert soon, where food would not exist. They posted watch and bedded for the night. The night passed without mishap, and at daybreak they were back on the riverbed moving again. Two more days passed without incident. Mara looked better as the days passed, and the company made good time.

On the following day, as the morning wore on, Ash began to feel uneasy about the forest behind them. He approached Gwere as they walked. Gwere said he felt nothing, but took the matter to the others, one by one. In the late morning they felt nothing, but by midday, all were exchanging glances. In the early afternoon, they stopped for a break, on the riverbed trail, under the shade of a willow tree. They pretended to have lunch, and quietly talked amongst themselves.

"As Ash pointed out, we are being followed," Gwere said, "and can assume it is the enemy army that we had encountered earlier. I expect that they left the riverbed, awaited our passing, and now follow. Any suggestions?" Ash felt all eyes on him.

"We can't leave the riverbed, the forest is too thick, so we need to out run them," said Ash.

"How's the head?" asked Gractah, turning to Mara.

"One-hundred percent," said Mara. None in the group believed her. Mara had Ash's silvery-blue blanket hung over her head like a shawl, and her eyes were still bloodshot.

"We should not have trouble outrunning the army, but we will have trouble with talented scouts. It may well be that we will not be able to outrun them," said Linder.

"Leave that to me," said Ash, "let us make the best speed possible, but keep the water-skins full from the pools, for we are quickly approaching the desert. We should be able to cross the desert in three days, then four or five days more in the Gorge. That will get us to the lake, after thirteen days, which will still be enough time to be at the rendezvous site some eight days before the prince. Or a couple of days before the enemy army that follows us," said Erow.

"Regarding the enemy scouts, what does 'leave that to me' mean?" asked Rehoak.

"A couple of us should go out on scouting missions and see if we can't rid ourselves of a few shadows. Then, if we can hide our tracks in the desert, all we have to worry about is that they do not know the Nong like I do," said Ash.

"I doubt they would be going this way if they didn't, so we must assume they will behind us the entire way," said Linder.

"We must also keep an eye out for anything that may slow them. Booby traps, that kind of thing..." said Gractah.

Without further debate, the party began to move. They went on as before, at a good, steady pace. Then, on Linder's signal, they began to move. Ash thought he would be able to keep up—in fact he thought he would be able to outrun the others—but he was wrong. The party moved with stunning speed. They ran. For hours, they ran without slowing. On scattered rocks and boulders they ran. A sprained ankle would be the end of their plans, but the party had no mishaps. After four hours of straight running, Gwere called for a halt.

"Okay, time for a little dirty work against the quick ones who kept up," Ash said. "The bulk of them should be far behind. That would leave only a few runners behind us. Anybody got anything left?"

"Lets go," said Gwere. Ash thought the big man looked overtired, but he followed Gwere anyway. The others sat beside Mara and watched as the two men disappeared down the dry river. In less than an hour they returned. They stumbled back into the group looking spent and haggard.

"Let's go!" called Gwere. He began to pick his way among the rocks. Both he and Ash had trouble scrambling the riverbed. They tripped and fell, hobbling at times. They looked past the edge of exhaustion. Gwere's breath came in great gasps. Ash's cheeks were wet. Both men were heavily covered, from head to foot, in blood.

At dusk they approached the edge of the forest. The trees failed and the long stunted slopes of the Sajaro-Mijas began. The forest lay on an immense plateau, the western edge fell sharply along great slopes and eventually leveled off into a desert floor. Ash knew the slopes, and knew he could get the party down, but he suspected there were still enemy scouts behind them, and they lacked supplies. He asked Gwere to call the company together.

"We need to consider our options," said Ash. "We can bed down, some of us at least, while myself and one or two others go back and try to catch more of our footpads back there," Ash said. "Or we can stop for a while, collect what food and water that is available, and move down the slopes."

"So, the question is, how are everyone's legs, and how's our food supply," Erow said.

"We will need three days to get through the desert, but we will not find food or water, so if we don't have enough now..." Ash began.

"There is no choice, it would be foolish to idle here," said Gwere. "The desert must be traveled at night, so we will continue. Take a break, gather any food possible, and be prepared to move. Make use of the streams, we must begin with full skins. Gather what you can find, but make haste, for going without food for a while won't starve us." Gwere, as always, made sense of the situation and issued orders.

For Ash, the forest yielded little. Cone seeds could be eaten if the party got desperate, and he kicked a few as he searched the stream for a deep pool. He had only filled his water-skin when Gwere called the party to move. His body begged for him to sit or lay. Again, he put one foot in front of the other and ignored the howling of his joints. To one side, Mara knelt, the hood of her cloak covering much. She was crying. The sight saddened him until his very breath paused. He tried to will her pain away. In his bag he searched for his blanket. It was not there; he saw it lay beside Mara at the creek. When he knelt in front of her he found cold, jittery eyes peering from her cloak. He removed her hood, placed his blanket over her head, and replaced her cloak top. She made no move. He turned away, chiding himself for having searched her out. It's best not to befriend the dying, he thought, and again chided himself for the harshness of his own mind. When Gwere set off the woman straightened up, wiped her eyes, and stumbled behind him.

The alien fingers of the Mijas slopes clawed their way to the desert floor below, conceding to the desert plains only with great reluctance. Rocky and foreboding, they were littered with shale and shifting sands. Loose dirt threatened to pull the traveler from his feet. Yet Ash assured them that there was one trail that could lead them to the desert almost in a straight line. He moved down the hills, searching, knowing the feel of the trail more than the location. After a couple of false starts and much backtracking, he finally found the trail, or what he thought was the trail. Though overgrown, his confidence in his path grew with each step. In the end he was proved right, the trail led them down the slopes and to the mouth of the desert plains. Many looks behind yielded nothing. None followed the party.

They climbed the edge of a narrow canyon, and then along the rim of a red clay hill covered with sprawling sage and mountain brush. Without the trail they would have been lost among the many dead-end cliffs. The party faltered, especially Mara, but Ash spurred them on.

"One more hour, and we will find ourselves at the edge of the desert. We can rest there," he said, "and then move for a few hours on into the Mogaram, where we can rest in relative safety the entire day. They won't be able to track us in the shifting sands. Let us go." With that, he sprang off. It was all bravado, for he could barely walk. He expected to look back and see them all still sitting in the same spot, cursing his name. But when he looked back they were behind him. The remaining hours passed in a blur, half in twilight, and half in miserable reality. They halted for a short break. They paused at times, awaiting a member to rise from a knee, only to begin again. At last, the eastern horizon began to pale. Well into the desert, the party searched for shelter. They found only an outcropping of rocks, partially covered with dead weeds. They threw themselves to the ground without words and slept.

It was dark when Ash woke. The wind was blowing hard and sand was flying about in great gusts. Gwere was up, pointing to a black mass on the eastern horizon. It was a sandstorm, and it was moving in their direction. Ash was coughing and gagging and couldn't move. He was almost completely buried in sand, only his shoulders remained uncovered. After some digging, Gwere finally pulled him to his feet and got him to a part of the rocks where the wind was less severe. Gwere gathered the others, some of which had been still sleeping, and pulled them to shelter. Gwere got all the party huddled against the rocks, furthest from dark sand clouds, and covered them all with cloaks. There they crowded in a circle and coughed their way through the storm.

Pacific City, November, 2004

The trash barrels at Pacific City State Beach were empty and the bags tied to Ash's ten-speed bike held few cans. The crowds had been gone since early October and the pickings were slim. Ash knew it would stay that way until Memorial Day.

It was November, and the wind had begun to pick up as the temperatures changed. As the bright sun warmed the pale sand the air began to move. On the horizon, Ash saw brown clouds. He had hoped to find some wood around the nearby fire-pits. Occasionally beach revelers would abandon logs or palettes by the fire rings. A free fire on the beach would have brought Ash much needed warmth; but the weather had turned and the beach had turned inhospitable.

A thick gray fog sat a mile offshore, hovering just above the water. As the day wore on the wind began to blow hard and the fog vanished. By dusk the wind turned into gales and sand was blasting in every direction.

Ash was still sick from the day before. His stomach was churning and his body ached.

As the sand engulfed him, he tried to make his way to one of the trash-bin alcoves that ran the length of the beach, seeking shelter. But he stumbled and fell. The sand began to blow with great force, and Ash had trouble seeing. The best he could do was to crawl to a fire ring. He pressed himself next to the cold concrete and struggled for breath in the dark space between the ring and the sand. Stifling a coughing fit, Ash pressed closer to the ring and tried to protect his head from the sand with his jacket. Pressing his face into his shirt, Ash began to mumble. Lying alone in the sand, Ash began to pray. Out of the brown haze came the light. It bobbed and wove through the air in two long streaks. Brighter and brighter the light became, until it was right above him. The door of the SUV opened and a dark figure emerged. It pulled at him.

"Gwere, we've got to get out of here..." Ash said. "The others will not be able to survive this. I'm sick Gwere, and I don't know if I can continue. If we get separated, remember this; there are no hills, valleys, or much of anything in our path. Travel only at night. We must make sure we head directly west. We must start each day moving into the sunset, and after each night, we must see the sun start to rise directly at our backs. In the Gorge, follow the white birds!"

"Hey, buddy, you okay? Who you talking to? Do you have a friend out here? Buddy, can you hear me?" said the voice above him. "It's three in the fucking morning. What the hell you doing out here, this time of night? The beach closes at ten. You shouldn't be out here, especially in shit like this." The figure pulling at Ash was burly and bearded, with strong hands. In the fierce winds Ash could only see the man's jacket. It was brown and had a Pacific City Park Ranger patch on the shoulder. "Hey, buddy, you okay?" the Ranger asked. Ash had another coughing fit that lasted until he was too weak to stand. The Ranger had to pull Ash like a rag-doll and fight to get him in his truck. The man lifted Ash to the passenger side of the SUV, buckled the seat belt, and slammed the door. In moments the wind was nothing more than a whisper swirling outside of the vehicle.

"I almost didn't see you, buddy. You're lucky I happened to look over. I was leaving, it's the end of my shift, and there wouldn't be another Ranger on until almost five... you okay?" The Ranger swung the four-by-four into the wind and gassed the truck toward a large brown building on the eastern end of the beach. The truck rocked and jolted in the sand, while Ash had another coughing fit.

"I could use a drink," Ash said.

"It's none of my business, but you look like maybe you should lay off the juice for a while. You don't look so good," said the Ranger.

At the Ranger Station the wind was still fierce but carried less sand. Ash slunk next to the door as the Ranger fumbled with his keys in the dark. Finally seated inside the station, Ash tried to catch his breath and clear his lungs. The Ranger sat beside him at a desk.

"There's a bathroom through there," said the Ranger, pointing to a door at the end of the hall. But Ash didn't move.

"I could use a drink," Ash said. "I... I better go. My stuff is out there."

"It will still be there in the morning. You have somewhere to go? You have someone I can call? I can't just leave you here, buddy, and I've got to go. Can I drop you off somewhere?" asked the Ranger. Ash pulled his jacket close and stared at his feet.

"I got someone nearby," Ash said. "I'll walk there. Thanks for your help." Another coughing fit kept him in his chair.

"Look—hang on for a moment," said the Ranger. The big man got to his feet and fished his keys out of his pocket. He paused at the door, and stared at Ash, as if trying to make up his mind. After a moment, he disappeared out of the door. When he returned, he carried a bottle. Every pore in Ash's body opened at the sight of the booze. It was like a billion oysters opening at once. It was magic.

"You gotta have somewhere to go," said the Ranger. "I can't have you wandering around here plastered in weather like this." Ash watched as the man lorded over the bottle, twisting his big hand over the cap but not opening it. "Don't you have a regular spot or something?"

"In Orange. You can take me to the bus stop on Beach Boulevard. I can catch the 35 back to Fullerton and get a transfer. I'll come back for my stuff when the weather clears." Ash could smell the bottle. He could see the booze slosh around inside the glass. Inside the bottle, the booze had a wonderful, fabulous, almost greasy, look.

"Deal," said the Ranger, and he broke the seal. It may have been his imagination, but later Ash would swear he heard the bottle open with a POP.

"I'll get your bike, and place it right next to the building where we parked. Nobody will bother it there. You can come back for it when you are... better." The Ranger poured out two inches into a coffee cup and slid it toward Ash.

"Thanks, thanks, thanks..." Ash mumbled as he grabbed the cup. Just the smell made him high. The first sip turned Ash into superman. He gulped the rest. This was a harsh world, and Superman would need all his powers this night.

"You know what I'm going to do, Gwere?" Ash said as he drained the cup. "I'm going to win this fucking war for you."

As Ash held the cup out for more, the Ranger paused. "Which war is that?" asked the Ranger.

It was dusk when Ash woke, and he was again buried to the shoulders in sand. As Linder pulled him from his premature grave, he saw he was the last to wake. They had slept all day, waited out the storm in the night, and then slept again all the next day.

They had survived, and except for a few sand-flea bites, were no worse the wear. As dusk settled, Ash ran through his plan for the next two days that would get them to the Gorge. "There are no hills, valleys, or much of anything in our path. We must only make sure we head west. We must start each day moving into the sunset, and after each night we must see the sun begin to rise directly at our backs. Somewhere along the way we must find a dry wash that will lead us to the canyons and the Gorge," Ash said. He turned to the big captain and placed a hand on his arm. "Gwere, thanks for last night, I swear-to-God you saved my life. That sand was killing me."

"Amen," said Gractah, Erow, Rehoak, Mara and Linder together.

The sun set into the golden haze left behind by the sandstorm. The wind calmed and the lonely arid landscape took on a quiet, solemn feel. The party was covered in dust. It was smudged in the cracks in their faces, in their clothes, in their hair; but in the warm night air, with the endless expanse of space ahead of them, they felt rejuvenated and refreshed, ready for anything. Mara looked better and insisted that the group stop fussing over her, and she returned Ash's blanket. They were short on supplies, but they were a hearty group and the Gorge was only two days away. In the Gorge they could find game, water, and at the end of its long narrow corridors, their final destination, the lake, the prince, and the war.

Ash watched the group. As they started out, they all checked each other, making sure everyone was packed and set before the start of the journey. At first the party was a group of strangers, then a group of soldiers, and now, perhaps, a group of friends or comrades. When all was ready, they began to move. Looking west, into the night, with the warm breeze in his face, Ash and the group began their trek into the hard, dry, pebbly, cactus strewn plains of the Mogaram Desert.

After many hours of walking they rested. Linder, standing and stretching, smiled at Ash like he was an old friend. Ash smiled back. Gwere came by with a water-skin, and they all sat down and shared a drink. Rehoak sat next to Ash, and Mara next to him. Erow and Linder sat facing Mara and Rehoak, with Gractah completing the circle. They went without a fire, and had no food, except for a few strips of beef from Ash, and grains that Linder had with her, which, Ash suspected, in another time would have fed the horses and the birds that she so loved.

"Don't get too comfortable, we move in an hour," Gwere said.

"Thanks, Gwere," said Erow, "any way you can tick off the minutes? Someone could accidentally relax."

"We're getting awfully cozy together," said Gwere, "we need to remember that this is a military operation, and that we may still have some pretty serious security concerns," answered the big captain.

"S-P-I-E-S," Linder whispered, overly loud.

"Ash thinks it's Gractah," said Mara with a smile.

"Damn-it!" shouted Gractah, standing up. "Out with it, if you have..."

"What?" asked Ash.

"Gractah and Linder grew up together," said Rehoak, "if Gractah was a spy, Linder would know it. Of course, Linder could be a spy, too, maybe we're all spies..."

"I am a spy," said Linder.

"A spy for the Green Cows..." said someone.

"It was Golden Cows... or purple, or orange," said Ash. "Now I can't remember what color the cows were."

"What did the cows do?" said Gractah. "Why does everybody bring up cows? What do cows have to do with anything?"

"Are the cows spying on us, too?" asked someone.

"Why did all of you come after me?" asked Ash. "What was your mission?" Gwere paused, and looked to the others. After many nods, he began his tale.

"During the assault in the glen, the prince fought beside you," Gwere said. "He was impressed with you and your skill. The prince is a great believer of magic. He also believes in the stars and the portents they foretell. The night before he felt he saw a sign in the heavens. When he fought next to you and he saw the blades, he thought you were a..." Gwere paused. "It had been foretold that he would receive outside help with this war, and the prince felt you were part of that help," said Gwere.

"But there were harsh objections by those who were trusted with the prince's

security," said Gractah. Off to the side, Erow began to point at Mara.

"We knew nothing about you, and the timing of the attack, which occurred as

you made your appearance, was of great concern," said Mara. "Emphasis on the word great."

"We... I, rather, argued that you could be a danger," said Gwere. "Whether working for the enemy or no, those blades should be kept far from the prince," said the captain. "But the prince acted like he knew you, or knew of your coming. I remember what he said; 'Gwere, this man, of this man a friend we must make.'"

"We need to be slow to judge this one," I told the prince, "whether we decide friend or foe, he is a great risk, I told him. I wished only to guide his Majesty toward the safest path, for I too had seen the blades at work, but my advice only inspired his wrath."

"'Take him to the castle. If he is what I think he is, keep him close to my father.' The prince said, 'If he is not, if he be black of heart, then I leave it to you, his critic, to dispose of him,' and his anger did build as he spoke. 'I do not like this talk of my security. Do not be overly concerned with my welfare, my friend. Fate will decide my future. I fought side by side with this man. I have seen, Gwere, with mine own eyes, the magic. I do not distrust or fear him. If those blades can help in this war, they need to be where they can help the most. You watch him Gwere. You keep him near my father and you keep them both safe. This is my charge to you,' the prince said. 'Take your friends, Erow and Gractah. Take Rehoak for counsel in the tough times and bring Linder to keep you serene. Take the Mara to watch your back. I fear she has yet to play a most perilous role in this game. Keep them safe Gwere! And forget not that you may only do your duty in this if you yourself are whole and sound. Keep yourself from harm, Gwere. I fully expect you back in my service after this is over.' The prince said this and more. His words about us struck my heart like an arrow, but his next words, about his father, pierced me more. 'When you see my father,' the prince said, 'tell him he has all of my love. Tell him he has my heart, my soul. Tell him I think of him every day. Tell him I love him. Tell him I never was able to imagine a more wonderful father.'"

"These are the words the prince said to me, in the wood that dark night," said Gwere. "I had no words for him, only I could mutter and mumble; 'So it shall be.'" The captain's story carried the weight of deep emotions and after he spoke he turned away, seeking only his own company for a time. It was Gractah that broke the spell.

"But that doesn't explain the cows," said Gractah. "What is going on with the damn cows; are they spying on us too, or not?"

A loud pop, like a stone skipped on a rock, broke the silence. On cue, the company reacted. As a group, they drew weapons with stunning speed. Ahead, a shadow began to form in the desert night, gray at first, it grew darker as it approached the party. Ash suddenly wished they had lit a fire. Like an illusion, a man, old and bent, in a long stained cloak, appeared out of the darkness. He wore a crooked hat and leaned on a tall walking stick. He peered at the group, eyes gleaming, and at once began to laugh. He used his staff to move some brush into a pile, and set it ablaze with the touch of his staff. It was less than a tumbleweed but blazed like a mighty wood pile.

"It's too cold, even in the desert, to go without a fire," the old man told them, "and beside, it's good protection—you at least, should know that, son," he said. Ash looked at the old man and shook his head. He then sheathed his blades, as did the rest of the group, and sat down by their new fire.

"You know why these pop when you show up?" Ash asked. He did not look at the wizard. "I don't, but I do know that they pop only when I'm in danger. Mortal danger," said Ash.

"Or you just might not like me," said the old man. To Ash's surprise, he nodded to the entire group as if they were old friends.

"Well met, Isuair," said Gwere. "How is it you know Ash?"

"My good captain, everybody knows Ash..." said the wizard. "How are you, my dear friend? And Mara, you let your guard down, did you? How's the head now? And sweet Linder, as beautiful as ever, as lovely as a blossom, how are those horses of yours?"

"Well tended by Deidera, I hope," said Linder, "How have you been, Eye? You look fine."

"Actually you look terrible," said Mara. She stared hard at the wizard. None saw the signs that flashed between them. "You look about six-hundred years old, wizard. And what have you been up to, scaring us in the dark like a thief in the night; are you spying on us?"

"That's Gractah job, so I heard," said the old man with a laugh.

"Wizard, how is it that they call you... Isuair?" Ash pronounced it IS-U-AIR.

"I have many names, of course, Ash," said the wizard. "Some even call me Isuair." He pronounced it EYE-SIR, and some in the group chuckled. Ash had pronunciation problems while translating written words with the language spell, Isuair silently mused. "And Gractah, how's that father of yours? Still in the game?"

"He is as hale as ever, and misses those contests with you," the Elite said. Gractah rose, approached the old man and embraced him.

"Now, none of that, or the rest of the group will be in line for a chance to pick my pocket and pinch my purse," said the wizard. Linder got up and gave the old man a hug despite his protest. All the party, except Ash, followed suit. When they were all seated again, the wizard continued. "Rehoak, what are you doing with this bunch of rascals, is your castle in need of repair? Is gold that hard to come by these days, or are you just bored?"

"My business is mine own, wizards," said Rehoak with a smile, "but the ranch is in capable hands. My son thinks I am somewhat of a busy-body."

"We all answered the call, Isuair..." said Linder.

"Call?" asked the wizard. "The only call your kind answers is your own," he said. "What are you guys up to, and what are you doing with him..." asked the wizard, pointing his staff at Ash. "Out with it. You are well ahead of the enemy behind you. As a matter of fact, they have lost your trail and are still atop the Sajaro-Mijas, wondering how to get down. The sandstorm has completely hidden your tracks in this god-forsaken desert-oven, so let us stay a while. The day will be here soon. You are in need of rest, I'm sure. Come, Gwere, the story."

The group sat around the fire and recounted their adventures; their meeting with Ash, the ambush, and the prince's hope that Ash was a weapon of war. They told of their decision to join with the manic, and to make it to the rendezvous point at the lake. They told of their encounter with the enemy in the woods and the stream-bed, and finally, the trek down the slopes, and into the desert and its sandstorms.

"Of course the letter is a fake," said Isuair. "The enemy has offered untold riches to any that will listen," he said, "This invasion has been in the making for ten years. The enemy has scouts, emissaries and spies that have infiltrated all sectors of the kingdom. They have landed over a eight hundred-thousand men on the shores of the sea, up and down the coast, from as far south as Lasgoth to all the way up to Mildre, and their plan is simple—wait, amass their forces, have their spies and emissaries do what dirty work they can, and finally, when they have the strength, attack.

The men and women they bought with the promise of riches and their spies that betray us will be the first to die, of course," said Isuair. "The invaders are a nomadic people from the northern island wastes," continued Isuair, "whose numbers have vastly multiplied, and they seek greener pastures, yours, actually. There is a terrible history behind all of this, and much more to the story. But that can wait," Isuair said. "The prince has a good heart, and can see much that is hidden. He is in league with myself and his father. We know, like you, that there is a spy somewhere close; we know him or her and we know the plan. We are taking the appropriate action," Isuair said. "I think your plan is a good one," continued the wizard. "Go to the lake, but stay on guard; you may not expect what you find there. Stick together, and don't worry about the army behind you, they have been greatly surprised by what they found in both attacks, partly because of our maniacal friend here, and partly because they figured a surprise attack would be easy and cost them little, but so far, they have lost more than three-quarters of their men." Isuair said, "...three-quarters!" He mused to himself, and looked at the group and laughed. "Take care, though, they also seek the lake, but with a little more caution since their encounters with you."

"Isuair," began Gwere, with a sideways glance toward Ash, "I'm sorry, Ash, but I must ask this... Isuair, can we trust him?"

"Trust? That depends on what you mean by trust. Will he betray you for gold? No. He could make much more money doing mercenary work for rich kings. Does he work for the enemy? No. He works for no man, mortal, immortal, good, evil or otherwise. He is his own servant, loyal to no one, sometimes not even to himself. He actually comes from where he says; he comes from a place where machines walk, talk, fly and think. At his home big hulking roaring machines exist that could get you from here to the Duke's and back in less than a day."

"Will he be loyal to you and the king?" asked Isuair. "He likes you, and he likes the king. They met once, you know, at a tournament. The king sponsored an archery contest, and greeted the winners. They got on famously, with Ash telling a joke that added just the right amount of jocularity at just the right time. He came in second, only missing the big prize because Captain Haines decided to put on a show for all," Isuair said. All heads nodded at the mention of the famous archer. "No, he will not be disloyal, in fact, no better person could you have to watch your back."

"He also sees the value in a good leader," Isuair continued, "He's rather fond of saying that what's wrong with the machine world, his world, is that there's nobody at the helm and that all the traditions, myths and rules—and the lessons that they teach the young—have faded, been cast away and ridiculed. So he should listen to you both, Gwere, you and the king."

"But he is his own, and thus, your own, worst enemy," said the wizard. "If he thinks you are in his way, you will not be able to stop him. You will not be able to stop those knives, do you understand that, big man? You will be powerless. If you try to harm him, they will warn him," Isuair said. "Remember that well, they will warn him!" Isuair said. He could see the code; he could read the white lines, speckled with black, around the manic's weapons. That the code was immaculately written did not escape the wizard. "Nothing, but nothing, stops him or them, when he is the... other Ash," said the wizard. "His weapons are his own. You cannot take them from him and he will not give them up. I do not even feel comfortable around him, for he suspects me, foolishly I might add, of trying to bend his will, or that I had something to do with his plight now. I would not and could not and did not. There is some power behind all this that is beyond me, beyond him, beyond us all," said Isuair. The wizard knew the code around the blades was of some innate nature; it was not written nor contrived by Ash. "But I try not to ask the really big questions, my huge friend, I'm not that fond of disappointment. I just try to enjoy what I can out of the day and leave it at that."

"The real question you need to ask, captain," Isuair began, "is this; is Ash right? And you will not like the answer you find. Ash has a good heart, but it is mixed. He is actually two people. What sits before you now are two distinct persons," Isuair said. "One is a sad and ineffectual human being, full of the frailties of our kind. He is one who feels all the sorrows of the world, one who laments the smallest of evils, especially any that he perceives being caused by him; and that guilt plagues every second of his every moment. He tears for himself and the world, and feels, in these sorrowful moments, real pain; pain that drives him to ponder what we would think unthinkable—the taking of his own life. He not only thinks about it, Gwere, he plans it, even going so far, at times, as to test his plans. He rates each in one for effectiveness!" laughed the wizard. "But there is another Ash," said the wizard. "One who you may not like so much. One that is sickened by the other, weaker, half. Those words should trouble you all. The other Ash is not sorrowful, ever. He is not weak, ever. When he makes the switch, and it is a switch, as fast as the breaking of a dry twig, he feels not afraid. He will not show, under any circumstances, fear. Not even before God himself will the other fear. That is something to be pondered in the quiet, Gwere. He would show no fear before...well, before God Almighty!" Isuair cried. "'Lord Grant me the Strength to Change that which I can, the Wisdom to Accept that which I can't, and the Weapons to Destroy you.' Did I get that right, Ash?" asked Isuair. Ash's eyes were tight and his head did not turn. He only poked at the fire. From his jaw alone did any of the others know that he even listened; the skin of his face worked and twisted. The wizard continued, "He will show no remorse, no matter what the crime. And, Gwere, this one has a thirst, an unimaginable, incomprehensible, unquenchable appetite for blood power, blood lust some call it, and he is endowed with the skills to furnish such a feast at will. It is at his command as all of you are," said the wizard. "The question you need to ask, Gwere, it is not, if you can trust him, but which Ash stands before you, now, and whence the other comes, and has that one found disfavor in thee?" Isuair said. "The hope is that his good side feels no great love for the other, and that the switch will always come when your enemies rage around you. Then you may not be so displeased with the other Ash. But remember this; he rages, he switches, he turns and then those around him die. It's that simple. That's why he moves on so, alone as you found him by the glen. Sooner or later, those around him die."

"That's enough," hissed Ash. "I asked for none of this, and I leave now, if it suits me. I stay because no one has told me yet to go," Ash said. "But I will not sit here and listen to anyone pass judgment on me, not anyone in this magic-tragic-shitdom, the most miserable place on earth. Let me be, it may indeed be in your best interest." Ash was now facing the wizard, with a clear challenge in his eyes.

"Ash, Ash.. Ash..." whispered Linder while tugging at his sleeve.

"Have you ever," Isuair asked, ignoring Linder, "slain a innocent without cause, Ash?" asked the wizard quietly. "These are friends of mine; they are family to me and I would have them know." Ash stuck a stick into the fire, and did not look at the others. His face darkened, and after a moment he spoke. "Were I given a choice, I would not be here, were I given a choice, I would not desire to be me, and given a choice, I would not be around me. But since no choice has been offered, I make the best of what I have. I do not know why I have vague memories of a strange place, with machines, and why everything seems so strange to me here. You say I come from there, but why is it no clear memories pass the shadows in my mind? But thinking about it just makes me crazy, so I don't, I don't think about it. I just keep moving. The wizard is right, sometimes... I don't know what happens... when I first got here I traveled... and encountered... I put my hand out... felt... then the killing started.. fuck you wizard." A single tear fell from Ash as he turned to Eye. With bared teeth Ash hissed at the old man. "You are mortal..."

"There is one more thing," interrupted Isuair. "Ash's appetite for blood has flourished of late," said the wizard. His eyes, too, were widening, his lips, too, were parting to a snarl. "And his appetite seems to be growing..."

"Well," began Mara, and the woman switched seats that put her between the two men. She nudged them further apart with her elbows. "If the enemy is as large and dangerous as you say they are, then that appetite will come in handy. Just make sure the switch comes when you see them, Ash, and not when we're all asleep," the warrior said. "Good night, everyone," Mara said while rising. "The sun comes, and I for one, am beat." She looked to both men; Ash had found a renewed interest in the fire, and Isuair sat calm and quiet. Mara, her head down, simply turned and stepped away. Across from them she crawled under her cloak next to their dying tumbleweed fire, and closed her eyes for sleep.

None would see the gratitude Ash held for the warrior woman, or his renewed interest in her, for his attention was only on the tiny flames before him.

"Isuair, were we not to meet in the morn, or evening, rather, it was nice to see my big bear wizard again," Linder said. She hugged and kissed the old man, and then lay herself down beside Mara.

"Wizards, do you hold smoke? I would share a pipe, if you carry," said Erow. The two left, but did not go far, and soon a small glow betrayed their place in the dark.

"I think I had a brother who killed a man for snoring," said Gractah, who now seemed very unspy-like.

"See you in a bit, if the sand doesn't bury us all again," said Rehoak.

"Good night everyone," said Gwere, and together everyone said good night.

After the wizard's pipe went out, Erow joined the others for sleep and the wizard returned to his seat by the fire. The flames, one by one, shrunk and disappeared, Isuair's gaze fell on Ash, who had curled up close to the Mara. Ash stayed still and wished for sleep to come, but he knew it was a false hope. He could feel the wizard's stare. After a moment, he sat up and pulled his magic blanket about him. The others seemed fast asleep, as if by magic.

"Mooooo..." Ash whispered to the old man. Eye only stared at the manic. The wizard sat and rolled his staff in his hands. Eye's face was heavily lined; his nose, mouth and brow were cross-stitched with creases and fissures, but the eyes glowed, and even while looking away Ash could feel their weight.

The Castle of No Escape was but a faint memory to Ash as he sat before the dying fire, but that which allowed his escape, and more satisfyingly, that which allowed the kill was foremost on his mind as he sat by the wizard. He closed his eyes and concentrated. It was an act of insanity or complete faith; Ash wasn't sure which. In the machine world it was akin to driving on a straight barren road with one's eyes closed for twenty heartbeats.

When he opened then again everything was gray. The effect would last only a moment; color would soon return and the world would again be painted with the hues of nature and man. But in the interim, Ash could search. Ash could spy. In the interim, Ash could scrutinize the hidden world of magic. Spell lines, the most common source of magic in the land, had color in this world of gray. Ash found that each practitioner of the art had their own color, and the lines were code, floating, working executables, strung out in the air. It was in the Castle that Ash had learned to read the code, the language of magic.

In the gray world of magic Ash studied those around him. All the party had pure white protection lines encircling them. This magic was readable; it was meant to turn a sword or alert one to danger. Ash saw the code was incredibly precise but not perfect; the protection lines had gaps, chinks in the party's invisible armor. Another set of lines swam the air around the fire; it made Ash yawn just reading the first characters, so he turned his attention to himself. Around Ash there were only his meager white-specked words. Over one of the bundles, the sleeping forms, Ash thought he saw a flash of gold, but it was gone as soon Ash turned his head. He resolved to study each member of the party further, later, when he had time. A look toward the wizard was almost blinding—the wizard was completely engulfed in a dazzling white. Ash had dreams of the machine world often enough, and what he saw when he looked to the wizard was the crash of a million waves, the pure white foam of ninety-foot surf. The power of white raged and swirled about the man with a brightness that pained the eyes. Before Ash could be truly blinded, the orange glow of the coals returned and the world took on its usual, if not darkly muted, hues.

"I've been watching you," said the wizard, "and feel it would be wise to share some of my insights. Perhaps you would like to make a few observations too... yes? You know what I think?" asked the wizard. "You love this. It's a stage. It's a place where you may write a legacy. Your heart pines for others to notice you, to talk about you and your great deeds; and here, you'd have to be someone else for that not to happen."

"You have fear," continued the wizard, "but it is not physical. It is not of what you see around you. Your fear lies deep within you—part of it is a fear of being nothing, of growing old and finding that you have been left out—and part is of not being good enough, but most of all, your fear is that at the wrong time, just when you have greatness within your grasp, you will fail, and that you will fail spectacularly." After a brief pause, the wizard went on. "But you mask that fear with courage. You are also somewhat suicidal. Not in a real way, or you wouldn't be here now, but in a romantic, 'I just won't play the game then,' way. But you won't ever take your own life; it's just a... what's that machine phrase... psychological safety net, for your mind. You think if things get too bad, you have an out. You're kidding yourself, of course. This will get terrible, very terrible, and you won't be able to do a thing about it," said the wizard.

"You also feel utter frustration at being average," said the wizard. "You are not the smartest, the handsomest, nor the strongest, so you might as well try to be the scariest and the deadliest. You also don't care about the rules; they apply only to others, not you. And that allowed you to kill those two... they died, by your justice, and your only regret; others found out," Isuair said.

"But you know what worries me the most? You hate everything," Isuair said. "But if we look closely, we find you hate you. You wish to be great. You wish to be a king, a prince. When you notice that you are not, or you see someone whom you think is, you are filled with loathing, both for them and for yourself. When others don't come close to your ideals, you are filled with contempt. If others excel, you are filled with envy. Either way, they lose," said the wizard. The wizard's eyes and skin had turned jet black. It was too dim to tell, but Ash thought the wizard had also grown fangs. Ash just sat, waiting for the pop.

"Do you know anything about our friends, here?" Isuair asked. "Let me tell you something about them. Erow led a small group of boys to victory in the battle of the Adlia Siege Armory, when he was just fourteen. During the battle, the opposition had led a determined attack against the king's stores of food and weaponry. But the king had no fear because extra supplies were hidden in the small town. Then, a traitor, a knave in the service of the Dral, betrayed the king, and led the enemy to the stash. Since the Armory was secret, the king only left boys to guard the cache of supplies. The king hoped that putting the boys in charge of the supplies would fool the enemy into thinking the cache was hidden somewhere more heavily guarded, and also to keep the boys out of trouble. Erow and his friends had already built reputations as bad lads by the age of ten. The king hadn't counted on the traitor, but the enemy hadn't counted on the bravery of the boys. For six days they held out, and overcame tremendous odds to save the supplies. When the king's army finally rescued them, only Erow and two friends, Rayids and Curte, were still standing. Twenty-six boys turned back close to a hundred of the enemy. After the rescue, Erow insisted that he be allowed to join the regular army in the war. He was, and he became an important part of two more victories," Isuair said.

"His friends, who joined with him, did not survive," Isuair continued. "He later was asked to join the Elite, but instead he joined the king's Gray Guard and never explained to a single soul why. He has served gallantly ever since. Some suspect he has since soured on the glamour and honor of war, and sought only to protect his friends. He would tell you that the greatest accomplishment one could have was surviving a conflict with ones friends intact."

"Gractah was a professional soldier by birthright," Isuair said. "His father was the king's personal guard, and head of the Near Elite Sixth Royal Corps, up until the day he died. He died while on a hunt, from a fall from his horse at his home in Adlia, in the same farming community where Linderwan was raised. Gractah is a fine soldier, but he hates his job. He loathes his job. He is here only because of his father's legacy. Given the choice, he would have become an artist, a musician, or a traveler. He longs to see the world, to set foot in every town in the land. Gractah is trapped in a world of stoic militarism, while he pines for the arts, for poetry. His father never showed much emotion, and he has trouble expressing his own thoughts. He strives to do that in the arts."

"Gwere has always taken care of those around him," Isuair said. "He has always used his natural gifts, his size and his quickness, to protect those he loves. He is the highest-ranking man in the kingdom, second only to the king's family. He has led the king's army for almost twenty years; he is a legend among his men, and for good reason; only victories follow the man. Gwere has never lost a fight; either alone or leading an army, Gwere has always found a way to win. Also, the Mara fascinate him. He hopes, deep in his heart, that there is a Mara warrior somewhere that secretly wishes for a non-military life, and would share that life with him."

"Linderwan was a baby when she was thought to be orphaned during the first war," Isuair said. "It was started by the Dral and his predecessor, Nome Brasid, over Simon's copy of the White Book. She was adopted by local folk and raised in the kingdom as their own. She found out late in life that she was adopted, but never harbored any grudge against her fate, even after she found that her birth parents were of the Noble Family, and that they had survived, raising other children. It never mattered to her. She could have been a princess, but she seemed to like the simple farm life enough to stay, even after she was offered a place as a bride in waiting in the Noble Court. Instead, she took up the art of the sword, and later joined the army as a spiritual leader, who could, when pressed, fight, though I suspect she has never actually killed anyone. Once after felling a man I personally watched her patch him up. I don't think the look of surprise has left his face to this day. She is a talented healer. She has an amazing ability to tolerate and forgive her fellow man. She loves beasts, forests, and the oceans. She has written two books on birds, and they are on display in the king's library. They are the most copied tomes, beside the White Book, in the kingdom."

"Massali thinks the Great kings and the Mara Nation play some kind of game with her," Isuair said, "but she doesn't care. She thinks that in the end she'll outwit all of them. She's too smart to worry about their plans succeeding, and too stubborn to walk away from her own. Things have happened so fast for Massali that she has adopted a 'who cares?' attitude. She has the same inner conflicts as you have Ash; she just doesn't worry about them. She's on an adventure. In this world she can take chances. Like you, when you came here, she tested her limits; you did that by killing people. She does it by defying everyone. Like you, Mara loves and hates life, both at the same time. Mara was raised, a world away from here, in an ordinary home, but at an early age, she saw too much killing in her town. She was forced to take action. Her ideas of right and wrong have blurred; she's not above breaking the rules if it helps her to survive. She's also attracted to the darker side, she sees the power there, and she, like you, craves the power to change what she sees around her."

"Rehoak is a businessman and a father," Isuair said. "He has met, or exceeded every challenge thrown at him, his entire life. After he retired from the army, where he earned a reputation for valiant fighting, life became routine for him. To overcome his boredom he became an architect and a builder. He has built an enormous family business. Then, he lost his wife to the Dral's plague. He knows he can't change some things. He knows that no matter how solidly a person can build something, it can still come down in a storm. He also has one of the longest lineages of any man in the kingdom. Few know it, but his family has only the king's itself as a rival for longevity and standing in the land."

The wizard looked close into Ash's face, paused and spoke again. "Take good care of my family, Ash."

"Woof," Ash said. "I'm a dog, wizard. No more, no less. I eat, I shit and I wait to die," Ash said, sticking a branch into the coals. "So you don't need to throw any glowing recommendations or glorious resumes my way. But... as I see it, as long as you are here, let's set the board straight. Either I'm a pawn in some game or I go bad and mess everything up. Neither does me any good, so I'll just do what I want."

"Hooray for your grand friends!" Ash said. "But just so that we are clear, just for the record, here's how I stand with you. Fuck you. Fuck you as a man, as a wizard and as a crew. Fuck this land, this world, this dream, this nightmare." As Ash talked the fire began to blaze without fuel. "Ben... mind if I call you Ben? You look like a Ben. Were I you, I would kill me, now, because if you step in my path, if you get in my way, I will cut your head off." Before them the fire began to swirl. It began to burn blood red. Isuair could see images in the flames as the fire rose in height. Ghastly portrayals of human suffering writhed within its bloody tongues. A symbol, one that was the very representation of hate in the machine world, waved black in a circle of white amid the blood-red flames. Isuair couldn't remember the machine world's name for the symbol, nor did he have any desire to ask Ash the name— though he had no doubt that the manic would know the twisted cross's designation. Instead he just sat and watched the show. No more horrifying images had the wizard ever seen. Ash carried weighty baggage from the crossing, thought Eye.

"I know the power you possess," Ash said. His eyes were wide and they did not blink. "I know that you are some kind of magic creature, separate from the rest, that you possess unimaginable strength. It sloughs off you like the dead skin of a snake," Ash said. The venom in his voice brought words thick with hate. "I think I know what a conflict between us would mean." As Ash spoke he pulled his cloak back to expose the blades. He began to inch to his side, toward Eye. The wizard did not move or react in any way. Ash then took the hilt of his weapon and pointed the tip of the sheathed blade toward the wizard. When the blade was less then an inch away it popped. Almost as a testament to the power of the wizard's sleep spell, the others remained undisturbed even after the alarm. Isuair wanted this meeting private, thought Ash.

"I have a feeling..." Tears ran from eyes that had not moved from the wizard's own since the manic began to speak. "That were I to touch this blade to you," Ash said, inching the blade out of its sheath, "that... well, let's just say it would be a little cataclysmic. That it might actually be frightening." As he spoke Ash began to tremble while smiling. "I think this whole world would change, I think an event would take place. A catastrophic, perhaps apocalyptic event." The tip of the blade was all but touching the wizard's robed thigh and as he spoke, Ash inched forward. Ash shook as a ripples of emotion washed though him. 'Plunge it deep, plunge it deep, PLUNGE IT DEEEEEP,' the voice said. But Ash only pulled the blade back and returned the sheath clips to the closed position. "Good night, Ben," Ash said with a friendly smile. He curled up next to the fire and shut his eyes tightly. In the dull gold light of the desert dawn, as he tried desperately to fade into the black of sleep, he thought he could hear the wizard. He thought he could hear the wizard laughing.

The party slept much of the day, and though it put them behind in their plans, they were better off for the rest. In the early evening they all felt human again. The desert night was cold, the air was still, and Isuair was nowhere to be found. Linder and Mara stood talking quietly over coffee when Ash approached the fire.

"Thank you, Mara, thank you from the bottom of my heart," said Ash. Mara said nothing, but smiled a very un-Mara like smile. Ash smiled back.

"I stuck up for you, too," said Linder, and then she too smiled. But Ash didn't remember Linder saying anything that sounded like sticking up for him. Gractah, who was nearby, also smiled broadly. "I don't even have a brother..." he said, and the three shared a laugh. Gwere looked over while still packing his bag, and told the group not to take Isuair too seriously.

"He has a flair for the dramatic," he said, toward Ash. "But, were I you, my friend, I would not tempt fate with the wizard, magic blades or no. Just stay clear of him. I'm telling you, I know. Stay clear of that wizard." Erow and Rehoak appeared and shared the last cup of coffee. The stout businessman, scratching his big red beard, turned to the others and cleared his throat.

"Everybody have a quiet night?" he asked.

The group trudged over the desert sand with only the night air keeping them company. They walked and walked, moving doggedly through the sands. With no mountains, forests or landmarks to break the monotony, the trek seemed endless. For breaks, one of the party simply stopped and the rest followed. To continue, someone got up and began walking again. During a rest, Ash brought out the pinecones he had gathered at the forest edge, turning them in his hands. Muted giggles followed his examination.

"What do you expect to do with those?" someone asked. Ash sniffed them; their pine smell did not remind him of food and the small stickers at their tips did not remind him of any meal. His inspection got a round of laughs from the others. Of his full belly, he told no one.

The night surrounded the party in the desert solitude. Warm, sage-scented air swirled about them. The sound of the desert rock crushing under their feet followed their every step. The monotony was broken only when Linder, in the middle of the group, spoke. "For on the Green Moon, the Golden Cow feasts on long straw until he's Orange." A couple members of the party turned to stare at her, while a few of the others began laughing. It was then that they heard the pop.

Shapes, gray and fast, came from every side. From the darkness came an assault of black and gold fangs. Leaping specters launched at the party from every angle; instinctively the group circled, but it became clear this attack too seemed directed—at Ash. Streaks of gold shot at the manic; bullets of black, hulking and roaring as they flew, descended upon the man. None had time to surround Ash. But there was no panic, no fear beyond the surprise; it was only a command, issued by the huge captain, in the manner that he did everything, one word, one order shouted in earnest. "Duck!" All in the group reacted. All turned outward and bent, heads down. With shields and swords thrust before them, all embraced the ground, awaiting the coming assault. But none of the members of the party were the target; all the black gold streaks were aimed at Ash.

Gwere pulled away as the sound came; it was beginning to become something of a specter to the big man, it stopped his heart, it paused his breath, and it had begun to pace Gwere in his dreams. It was a sound Gwere had begun to hate. It had no name even in Gwere's mind; it was an air-wail and the pre-scream. It was the whine of the blades as they did their violence. The air about them moved with thunder as Ash brought the weapons around in a sweeping arc. Doing the air savagery, the blades began to scream. The party began to scream. The attackers began to scream. Wolves, Gwere thought, as he peered over his shield. Wolves? Glassy eyes and fangs greeted him, but they seemed stuck, frozen, in pre-attack.

As soon as it had started, the assault stopped. The party suffered no injuries, and the conditioning of the group to the blades, was absolute.

The wolves had lunged at the party, but found only readied soldiers. In a ring around the group lay the first wave of the assault. Some wolves still ran about, howling and snapping, until all at once they vanished. After standing about in a stunned silence, the party again began to move. Gwere ordered everyone to a fast march, but Ash stood as if frozen. He closed his eyes, then opened them again. He expected to see crystalline white lines, instead he saw the smallest bit of gold all but vanish before his eyes. When he studied the others no lines except the protection lines were present. He again resolved to do a better job of watching the party, and finally moved on at Gwere's urging.

When they had put some distance between them and the place of attack, the group halted, for the sun was beginning to show itself in the paleness of the eastern sky.

"Any of you ever heard of wolves in the desert?" Gwere asked.

"Sure," Rehoak said. "I think I have, right?"

"Maybe Gractah is a spy. A wolf spy," said Linder.

"What the hell does 'for on the moon, the Green Cows' mean?" asked Erow.

"It was green cheese," said Gractah.

"Knock it off. There are no wolves in this part of the desert," said Gwere.

"Maybe the enemy released them..." Rehoak said.

"Maybe they are following us with a menagerie of animals," Mara said.

"Ash," interrupted Gwere, "tell us about the blades. How do they work, where did you get them, and is it possible they draw these foes we face at every turn?" asked the captain.

"If we get attacked by wild badgers..." said someone, in a woman's voice.

"Can the blades be counted on, always, to sound the alarm?" Gwere asked.

"Then we know Mara was right..."

"Show us how they cut rocks," said Mara.

"I'd like to see that, too," said Linder.

"Big rocks," said Mara.

"Boulders," said someone.

"Do you see any boulders anywhere, you idiot?" said someone else.

"Cut some firewood, it's freezing..." said Rehoak.

"Do you see any trees?" Erow said, holding his hands open to the desert.

"My vote is for rocks," said Mara.

"Yes, we like trees," said Linder.

"Enough!" Gwere shouted. "Shut the hell up, all of you! Ash, the blades?" But Ash just looked at them. For a moment he locked dull, glassy eyes with Gwere. Then he rose to his feet and walked off into the beginnings of a new day.

"I guess he wants to talk about it later," said Mara.

"That's enough!" Gwere said. "Every time we try to have a conversation you two pipe in with your stupid comments," said Gwere to Mara and Linder. "Give the damn jester's act a rest." Then he too walked off into the coming dawn. The rest of the group, dusty and tired, got up, and with a long collective sigh, followed. They were exhausted and overtired. They had run out of food. They had also run out of water.

They walked out of the desert and into the foothills of the Nong as the sun rose. Millions of years of river erosion had carved canyons deep into the heavily forested hills of the Sandstone Mountains. Rising high into the sky, few ever made it across the top of them. The only real way through the mountains was the canyon.

They were long out of food, out of water, and exhausted. There was, however, some comfort in that there was usually a stream, or a network of streams, that ran along the bottom the canyons. They would at least have water.

Linder, who had wandered some distance ahead of the group, came running

back, waving. She had spotted a flag, atop a heap, at the entrance to the canyons.

"Hold!" Gwere called as the group began a rush to the spot. "The enemy lays traps for us..." But the entire group broke into a run. At the beginning of the canyons, where the entrance to the caverns were low and un-intimidating, lay a stacked pile with a flag on top. The flag was no more than a white pocket-handkerchief tied to a stick, and emblazoned with a crude drawing. The drawing was of a stick man holding a stick or a sword, standing in front for a big rock that was cleanly cut in half. It was signed with a single rune, the letter I.

"Look at all this stuff!" Linder said. "Look! Look!" she screamed, holding up fruits, nuts, sweet breads wrapped in cheesecloth, and meats. As Linder sorted through the pile she pulled cheeses, grains, spices, a rope, and a small shovel from the mound.

"Wait!" said Gwere. "Hold..." but a screeching Linder interrupted him.

"Shut up! Shut up, Gwere! I know what you are going to say, but you are wrong, and I am tired of listening to you boss everyone around, so just SHUT UP!" Linder, hands full of fruit and bread, ran up and down in front of the big captain. Mara and the group just looked at each other, and after a moment, sat down in the sand.

"I know what you are going to say," said Linder, "...you ...you big fat oaf! Poison, well, you're right Gwere; the big nasty werewolves left it for us!" She took a bite of the bread, and continued. "There, there, I'm eating poison, how do you like that? Huh? Maybe Gractah and his spy friends left this stuff! Oh, oh, I'm dying... Help! Help! Save me, big strong Gwere!" Big strong... stupid, fat... Gwere!" Linder said. With her hands full of food and out of breath, she sat on the ground and began to weep.

"I just ..." said Gwere. He turned away, leaving the pile, and sat rubbing his face, his back against a pile of rocks.

"Um, I don't know if this is a good time for this or not," said Erow, "I hadn't mentioned it before because we were low on water, but... I have an almost full wineskin." The others, in unison, smiled.

It was a cold November day. Judging from the signs, he was in Santa Barbara again. How he got there, and what he had been doing the last few days were a blur. The last thing he really remembered was finding the contents of a well-stocked liquor cabinet in a dumpster behind an apartment complex in Anaheim. He thought back to a time, when, as a young man he had swore off booze forever. He had tossed hundreds of dollars worth of liquor into the trash as he made a pact with himself to lead a sober life. He had done that more than just a few times. He was sure that the alcohol in the trash was someone else's struggle. That, or someone had died and the spouse didn't drink. Either way, the last real memory Ash had was of placing bottle after bottle into the bags tied to his bike. A dim memory of a flatbed truck wafted up from the clouds in his mind. He had given an unopened bottle to the driver in exchange for the ride. He remembered a fire and strange faces staring at him.

And drinking, he remembered drinking. But now he sat on a bus bench, cold, sick, and hungry. Every so often he would be racked by intense shakes. He pulled his coat tight and hoped for them to stop.

His silent prayer was interrupted when a young couple emerged from an Italian eatery a block from the bus stop. They laughed and joked as they clung to each other. After they passed, the woman looked back. She was a stunning golden-haired beauty. After a moment, she ran back and placed a plastic bag at his feet. The man stayed away.

Inside the bag was a large foil pan with a plastic cover. Semi-hot food, the fumes of which smelled of pesto and garlic, steamed under the lid. Also in the bag, next to the foil container, was a bottle of wine. It was half full. Ash pulled the cork from the bottle and took a drink. Within moments he felt God's love. He felt worthy. Alone, at the bus stop, he felt cherished and belonged. He pulled the foil container from the bag and breathed the aroma. Ash had a feast.

A few sat in a row on a low brick wall and sipped from a bottle. Some reclined among the thick rolling roots of an ancient ficus. Others still sat on cardboard seats or just on the dewy grass. Most smoked hand-rolled cigarettes. Some sipped from paper cups and others from cans or bottles veiled in crumpled brown bags.

"Ash is such a much," the Labcoat said. He sat on the wall with the others. "Research," he told them, nodding and winking. The bottle came their way.

"Well, he's not going to fantasize about being weak and ineffectual," said Ma Bear.

Truth was, and Ash knew it, Santa Barbara was a get-away, one he favored when drunk. Its allure dimmed somewhat when he sobered.

The sun was out and the clouds on the horizon seemed far away. Because it was a weekday, and because it was ten in the morning, the crowds were all but absent. The park had a bathroom and some splashed themselves with water, bathing from its small prison-issue stainless steel sink. Some bartered and traded. On one of the ficus trees a shirt hung to dry. More than one piece would bring the cops, but the discrete would have a clean item of clothing, essential for the occasional dish-washing job or beach parking-lot guard gig.

Most joked and talked. They were as much a social club as the Rockport Yachting Association. They had animated conversations—wild gyrations and arm gestures brought their stories to life.

"There was this dog," said one. His eyes were dull, as if screened through the same fog that lay just off the coast. His skin had many small ruptured veins between the checkerboard lines on his face. "And I mean, man, it was just mack'n away, chow-time man," said the man. "When we got close we saw it was a maxi-pad, man, a fucking maxi from a flow that probably left the bitch woozy for a week." Ash sat on the wall and waited for the bottle. Sometimes it came, but he wasn't a regular, so often it did not.

"Damn, dirty sums-a-bitches," said the man next to him. It was all the man ever said. He wore a not-so-bright yellow rain slicker and nylon tennis shoes.

"Sometimes the itch gets so bad I can't stand it," said the man with the bottle. He took impossibly small sips from the bottle. From the park Ash could see the ocean and the pier. Santa Barbara was not for him. He longed for the dry air of Orange County. Santa Barbara was too damp, too small and too cold.

"I use a hairbrush. I have this real stiff one. A hairbrush is the only thing for the itch,

man," said the man. He produced a bag from his cart and began searching it. The bottle got tucked between the man's knees and stayed there.

"Mulu," said the lone woman. "From Mulu to Kote Kimbalu, and from Kote Kimbalu to Kuala Lumpur, three hours. From Kuala Lumpur to Tokyo, nine hours and from Tokyo to LA—nine more hours," she said. Her ankles were swelled and slightly purple. It was if her thighs were attached to her feet.

"Each one is different," said another. "One is spicy like chicken. One is rotten like an egg. One is hot, hotter than flame."

"I was chewing this gum," said the bottle hoarder. "But that's what I'm trying to tell you, I wasn't. I wasn't chewing no gum, I was eating a salad, I swear to god. Next thing I know, I'm eating gum." All in their circle began to laugh. The bottle finally left the man and headed toward Ash. "I was eating a salad, then I was eating gum—gum with no flavor. Then I look over and see my waitress put a new stick in her mouth, you know, and she chewed with her lips wide open, making another salad with these big spoons from a box of lettuce. Then I was chewing gum, when I should have only been eating a salad," the man said. "Hadn't ate in a restaurant since, and that was in the fifties." The bottle never got to Ash. He decided to try panhandling at the pier; he had to get back to OC somehow.

The pier was all but empty of tourists. There were more street-people than regular people; three bums sat on a bench, one had a weepy eye. They had set a hat on the sand by the pier. Before the hat lay a sign; 'get in a coin—get your wish.' Adventurers could toss their money twelve feet from the pier and try and make it into the hat. It was a carnival-type game with an appeal for romantics and gamers. The bums then gathered the change for the night's drink. Only a few pennies lay about, and a nickel sat in the hat. All the bum's own change, Ash knew. Ash moved on. At the base of the pier a Japanese tourist took his picture and stuck a five-dollar bill into his hand. Ash was on his way to the liquor store before the bill made it to the bottom of his pocket.

The party settled in a circle and tore at the food. Ash found Gwere sitting alone, feigning armor repair under the shadow of a small rock cliff.

"Personally," Ash said, "I wouldn't give that any more thought than her green cheese eating cows." Gwere only stared at a steel buckle. After a moment, Ash tried again. "We can starve here, or we can join them and take our chances that Eye did leave that stuff. Either way, the choice seems to have already been made," said Ash, turning toward the group. They were all chewing and staring back.

"My point was," said Gwere, "that we don't need to take this risk." He spoke in almost a whisper. "There is water and game in the canyons. For this meal we risk our lives. I do not take lightly the dangers of a world now rich with mine own enemies—the Glen—do we have such short memories?" He looked to Ash, and in the man's eyes Ash saw a challenge; Gwere seemed to be questioning Ash's own 'it's all just a game' rationale.

"Gwere, everyone lashes out at those that define our borders. Linder was speaking to the hurt and frustration in her, not to you," Ash said. "Linder loves you. She, like Mara and the others, care so much for their big man." Gwere added a blot of grease to the well-oiled buckle and did not reply. Ash remained at his side, idling in the hot sun. The others, at the pile, spoke in whispers and stared. All at once they rose, took a few steps toward Gwere, and then, one by one, collapsed. Some grabbed their throats, some their bellies. Mara grabbed her bosom. After a still moment, they rolled to their stomachs, still chewing, and again they became an audience to Ash and the captain.

"They'll carry on like that," Ash said, between halted breaths that were no more than stillborn laughs, "until we join them."

Ash and Gwere joined the others, and after a bite they enjoyed themselves just as much, if not more, than any in the group. The wine was the finest any of them could remember, but a hole in the skin kept all limited to just a cup. Ash's cup was filled the least, but he begged the group to pay it no mind. At the fire in the desert, Isuair said he had food. They agreed, that if they didn't die, that they owed the wizard one.

"That's what this feast is all about," Ash blurted out, "owing Isuair one, down the road, he's bound to be there, waiting to collect." The others only stared at him and chewed.

After not dying the party made an attempt to rein in their gluttony; they split the remainder of the pile, dividing it among their packs.

"I'm sorry, Gwere," said Linder, "I'm the biggest idiot alive," she said, and she stuck her hand out. In it was a small, withered, yellow daisy. The big man smiled broadly, took it, and stuck it in his armor.

"That's against protocol," Erow said, pointing to the flower in the big man's hauberk. The Guard was picking his teeth with a twig as he walked. "Thanks for the feast, Stinker," Gwere said. Shouldering his pack, the captain straightened and flexed his giant arms. Mara winked at the others, and together they rose. They readied their packs and took the next steps of their journey the same way they began it, by putting one foot in front of the other.

There was no more beautiful or intimidating place in all the land than the Nong Hills Gorge. Orange sandstone, rising to great heights, wedged the traveler between towering, crumbling cliffs. Carved by centuries of desert floods, the chasms engulfed the visitor. Dwarfed by the walls, the traveler found no bearings in a canyon marked by a sameness that seemed endless. An explorer could not see his way once in—each curve, each bend, each twist teased the traveler with the hope of an end to the labyrinth—but few ever saw that hope realized; most found another canyon after the last. Skeletons occupied many of the Nong's dead-ends.

The Nong had no complete trails and few paths. Light filtered through the canopy of trees above, in small streaks, only at high noon. Most of the time the canyons lived in a thick gloom that tricked the eyes and confused the mind. Much of the Nong was deception; what appeared to be a small stream at its bottom was in fact many different streams, at times it disappeared altogether, and in other parts of the Nong became raging rivers. Some were bracken; where the Nong and the desert met, less than a mile from the group, lay a vast salt lake where white birds bred in abundance and piles of salt rose to the sky, as high as a man. Deep shifting sands at its floor tired the legs and wearied the feet.

The Nong was also indefensible, if an enemy stood within, in stealth, the bends and curves made any traveler open for attack, and if an enemy stood on the cliffs above, those below were easy prey.

Gwere stood before the cliffs and paused. He looked to Ash, who sat gazing at the sky. White birds floated above, hovering on invisible currents. All the party stood before the cliffs, awaiting a first step that seemed harder than any that came before. None felt anything short of awe, and some felt the bony hand of fear brush upon the thin hair on the back of their necks.

A loud pop, like a stone skipped on a rock, broke the silence. On cue, the company reacted. Weapons snapped to bear while shields were brought forth. But no attack came.

"Oops," Linder said. She had skipped a stone on a large rock before the Gorge. She smiled and waved. After an almost endless rebuke, the group re-sheathed their swords and resumed their vigilance at the canyon's entrance. The only person in the party that hadn't reacted to the pop, of course, was Ash.

"Ash," Gwere said, "one more time, we walk in, and we walk back out again, right?" Ash stared at the sky and nodded. The big man stood before the oblivion of the Gorge, his hand on his sword, and sighed. Together, with bellies fat, the group trudged forward, and as the walls of the canyons grew taller and taller, and the sides became narrower and narrower, they passed into the Nong's silent shadows.

On the side of the Harbor off-ramp Ash found a bare spot among the ice-plants in which to sit. Quickly he began to scrawl his sign. It was rush-hour, and he needed money. The day before he had spent much of the afternoon bumming rides to get home from Santa Barbara. The two-hour commute had taken a substantial part of the day. Evening came and Ash was dry and broke. He spent much of the night digging in the crates behind a local bar. The bar stored the night's empty bottles in stacks of booze boxes. Ash tried combining the remaining drops of each empty bottle, but it took time and yielded little. The bar manager spotted Ash and took pity on him, bringing him a drink before chasing him with a warning not to return. The little booze he had drunk was not enough to get him away, and Ash spent the night cold and shaking. This night his very survival would depend on the passing cars and on his banner. He needed a pass through to oblivion—two night's worth of the shakes would kill him. He would require a trip to the liquor store, and for that, he would need cash. Before dawn Ash made his way to the closest freeway and then began to scrounge the surrounding neighborhood for supplies. He needed something to sit on, something to write on, and something to write with. A felt pen he found in his bags. He found the rest while burrowing in a row of apartment dumpsters.

Now he sat, thinking about his sign. He eschewed the 'need money for beer' and 'help, homeless veteran' signs. Never mind whether they were truthful or not, they were old hat. Instead he had a catalogue of philosophical messages he preferred—they made money; 'I promise my God won't infringe upon your God. Does your religion nurture your spirit or just your ego? God has changed; he doesn't talk to us anymore. My gift to the world; I never had children.' He tried others; 'I don't ask the really big questions, I can't afford it'. And, 'My religion has three rules—TOLERANCE, LOVE and FORGIVENESS, everything else is BULLSHIT.' This last one gave him pause, and he began to write the first line, but stopped. Too long. Too true.

His eyes were glassy from the night's lack of sleep, and he was beginning to get the shakes hard. His sign had to be perfect. He thought about 'Inside us all lay a small part of the truth,' but decided against it—also too true. He timed the light, it was a long one, and so he thought about another long sign; 'I ASKED JESUS TO HELP. HE PASSED, HOW 'BOUT YOU?' Too much, too long. He thought of another; 'This is what happens when you don't fear God,' also too long. He tried; 'It's not suicide, it's death by despair,' and decided against that, too. Strangely enough, another sign netted him almost as much as the others, though he rarely used it. It was just two words, 'Fuck you.' He tried another; 'I LAMENT every drunk moment in abject joy and RELISH every sober moment in complete time-numbing boredom.' Again, too long and too true. Finally he made up his mind. Written in crude, shaky letters, with black marker on cardboard from a case of soup, with letters that wobbled through pressure rings, he wrote; 'I still love God.' It wasn't true, but it would make money. Later, he made a new sign. It read, 'Any money I collect I'll use to clean myself up and get a job.' It made six dollars in twenty minutes. The next sign he held was his own poem:

Wrought as an angel

Wrought by a day.

Wrought as an angel

Wrought by a change.

Wrought as an angel

Wrought by a moment.

Wrought as an angel

Wrought by eternity.

Wrought by an eternity lost.

After holding the poem, he tried two more signs; 'Nobody but the addict knows what a whore you become for the high' and 'Moments of ecstasy followed by hours of remorse.' He sat, holding his sign, accepting dollar-bills from commuters, and thought of a time when he, too, led a normal life and drove the same commute. But by age 42 he had given it all up, because when he drank, he wasn't just a nine-to-five drone, he was Ash in the land of magic, bearer of the sword, and being Ash the Magic-Sword-Wielder was everything. He sat on a plastic crate at the light exiting one of California's busiest freeways, the 405. He was properly dirty and disheveled; his beard and hair were appropriately wild. After an hour he had collected sixteen dollars. He checked his booty while no cars were around; it was bad for business to count cash while trolling for change.

It had been easy to move to the streets, one night he just wandered out of his nice cozy apartment after another 'conversation' about his 'problem' and just sat with a bottle and drank. 'Tell us the truth,' they would ask, 'how much are you really drinking?'

And 'you're such a good person, but you're ruining your life! If you could just control your drinking!' These talks had plagued his world until life on the street seemed the only answer.

Actually, it was drinking on the street that attracted him. Life had always seemed a miserable, endless torture. Perhaps drinking was his way of committing suicide, he wondered—he had always longed for an end to the mundane-ness of breathing. But he was guaranteed relief if he could drink. And since he did not have that guarantee sober, he left. He had tired of trying to be the good person he knew he was not. But the streets came at a price. He would always wake, cold and hung-over, desperate for the means to return as soon as possible to the oblivion and the magic. He would beg for money and for booze. Then he would roam the streets scavenging for supplies—for sleeping bags and blankets, for warm clothes and food, for a place to hibernate while on the other side.

He always wet himself when he drank too much; complete oblivion had no use for bladder control. But, in oblivion, Ash was ASH. He was handsome. He was skilled. He didn't care—about anything, he couldn't care if he lived or if he died, it just didn't matter. It couldn't matter, he was Ash. He was so much more than just a man. He was a cold stare, he was a first kiss, he was a house in the Hamptons, a Kennedy, a Rockefeller. He was the immovable object. He was Ash. He walked with power, grace, strength, glory, and with each step he took he did it cold, knowing—knowing he was forever immortal. Knowing that time never ticked for him. He carried two swords, on the left; a car antenna, on the right; a metal ruler. In time of need, or in the midst of oblivion, Ash would wield these talismans of power. Late in the evening he could be seen in the boulevards fighting these, his invisible foes. And, unlike in the gray, still world of concrete, he would be winning. Stashing dollar bills, Ash thought back to some of his earliest memories. He was obsessed with finding something in his past that would explain his now, his present. He remembered standing in front of a huge yellow building at the age of seven, in Germany, and feeling overwhelmed. The large concrete apartment block was to be his new home. In the late 60's the Army had sent his father to Nuremberg, Germany. In Nuremberg he lived on an army base; rows and rows of square apartment buildings provided housing for the men. As a career enlisted man in the United States Army, Ash's father moved the family every 3 years, up until Ash was ten. After Nuremberg the family finally settled in California.

He remembered the long plane ride from Nuremberg to California mostly because of how nice his mom was to him. Coloring books, candy, promises of new toys were the order of the day, at least until the plane landed. When relieved of the Damocles Sword of judgment of the fellow passengers, Ash could again be subject to curses and smacks when he acted out. Ash's mom was a caring, loving soul, but the pressures of raising four kids on an army salary, and the devilish nature of the kids themselves, didn't lend itself to a cuddling, nurturing environment.

Looking up this strange, far-off place, this—California, in a 1956 encyclopedia his parents had obtained for their educational development, Ash saw a land of movie stars and tall palms. He remembered making a pact with himself to climb a palm and obtain that great prize, that Gilligan's Island booty—a coconut. However, all was not as it seemed in the Golden State. The tall palms held no coconuts, and climbing one was an invitation to a ritual castration. There weren't many palms where the family moved, on a cul-de-sac in Fullerton, a smallish town in Orange County, and any to be found were strictly ornamental. In California, Ash soon realized, everything seemed strictly ornamental.

Three cars handed Ash money, the third stalling traffic until the driver could fit his arm out the window far enough to hand Ash the bill. After that, the light changed three times before he got another handout, and that was only change. Again Ash's thoughts returned to the past. Constantly moving as a kid had its advantages and disadvantages. On one hand he got a broader variety of images and associations as he developed. Later in life, when Ash and his wife went on a vacation to the East Coast, he often felt a sort of deja vu, a wash of vague but familiar memories would flood over him, at the beach, in front of certain homes, on a particular street. The down side of this nomadic existence was a disassociation with people. An early photo of him as a kid showed the distance Ash placed between himself and his contemporaries. He remembered he sat more than a foot away from the other kids in the picture. He would imagine that the lucky kids, who grew up in one place, would have the time to develop a group of friends, a kind of a kid support group. Ash always wondered if having a group of friends would have made a difference in his life. However, he did know that making new friends every three years was not an easy for him. His family would move in the middle of the year, and he would find himself lost at a school whose year was well under way. Nothing in the whole world had made Ash feel more alone. A young man, twenty-ish, Ash guessed, handed him a five-dollar bill. Young bucks tip the best, Ash thought. Ash considered what he was doing a service, and it deserved a tip. He was providing the public at large the chance to show compassion and pity. For the small fee of a single US greenback, a person could feel generous and gracious. That, to Ash, was a bargain.

In a new school Ash had two options; to suck it up, tighten his belt and go out and make new friends, or hide and pretend he was invisible. Usually for Ash, option No.1 was short lived, killed in its infancy by fear and ill-executed overtures. Option No.2 had its downside, namely, when his peers at large noticed him trying to be invisible. Ash found that being alone and visible made one subject to the crueler side of institutionalized education.

Much later in life Ash realized that driving each option was the same force—fear. And in that case, Ash thought, it seemed a terrible mistake to not have tried option No.1 more thoroughly. When Ash tried invisibility and it didn't work, he felt like the last antelope on the plains of the Serengeti, surrounded by hungry lions, cheetahs, and leopards. It seemed to him that school was an institution that fostered an environment where lions, cheetahs, and leopards surround the packs of Tommies, Topi, and Wildebeest. Ash felt he was the Bewilderbeest. Wildebeest are large, dull animals that keep their heads down until they wind up a lion's dinner. A Be-Wildebeest is the same animal, but stupider, and with bigger ears. 'Dear God,' Ash once prayed, 'if reincarnation is a part of the plan, please, regular size ears next time around.'

Another car, a Mercedes, paused before Ash. The driver would not look over at his sign. It was overcast and frigid, and the lady behind the wheel of the German automobile looked as cold and hard as the gray day before the manic. The lady seemed about the age of Ash's mom. Ash's mom was an American of German descent. When his family moved to the States from Nuremberg, in 1971, Ash was ten, going on eleven. They moved to New Jersey, where his dad's parents had lived, bought a trailer and put it behind their station wagon. Then the family spent three months touring the United States as part of a giant, parental camping field trip that ended in California. In June, the last month of the school year, Ash attended the last thirty days of the sixth grade at the Heathloch Elementary School. Ash's mom dressed him (and his brother) in their finest, to make a good impression. This was a thick maroon suit with a sash belt, complete with a jacket made of carpet-like material, ordered from a Sears catalogue, in Germany. In the catalogue, on the model-kid, the suit looked beautiful. On Ash, in June, at the Heathloch Elementary School, it was a disaster. Walking into class, 'wearing the suit,' destroyed, at least in Ash's mind, option number one. On a hot sunny day in 1970, in California, there was simply no place for a maroon suit with a sash belt. Standing in front of the class, the teacher, who had probably been through the introduction of a new student a thousand times, asked, "Who would like to show new Ash around the school?"

The intensity of the stares onto the surface of each desk, by each kid, mounted as the silence grew. Ash was willing to bet that the teacher hadn't been through THIS a thousand times. "Anybody? Anyone at all?" The class seemed entrenched in what DJ's call "dead air." After an almost endless pause, one kid raised his hand. Ash would be grateful to that kid his entire life. The raiser of the hand was a two-hundred-pound sixth grader. They became the best of friends, at least the best friends possible in the four weeks that remained in the school year. And, when the impossible happened, like Ash making a friend, it couldn't last. After graduation Ash and his new friend went to two different junior high schools, never to meet again.

Ash couldn't remember the kid's name; but he remembered that nobody messed with him. As a kid Ash hadn't yet developed the societal tendency to fear and loathe large people, he only appreciated the fact that he had a new friend. A new friend that was huge. It was like being Superman's best friend. And then, a new school and Superman was gone. Ash's heart stopped as a cruiser rolled along the embankment of the freeway exit. It turned out to be a private security vehicle, and not a cop, but the fear it inspired would hang over him the rest of his stay on the off-ramp. As he sat, Ash tried to remember his family life. Ash had two older sisters who left the flock as soon as they were eighteen, so most of his family life was with his parents and Mark, his brother two years his junior.

In Ash's eyes, Mark got all the love. Mark was a genuinely nice person, while Ash had an evil streak. Ash ignored the fact that as the older son, he could get away with much more rule bending, being the first to push the boundaries. Instead Ash focused on the fact that the younger son got a lot of attention. Ash resented his little brother for being so loved—Ash's response was a creative retinue of tortures and torments directed at his sibling—it would start simply enough, a look, a pinch, a jab, a punch, and it would end simply enough, with Ash's mom turning around in the blue vinyl bench-seat of the station wagon and smacking him. The latter was done while his brother looked on and grinned.

Finally the cruiser came. It was a California Highway Patrol Mustang with no light-bar, but the big gold star on the door was easy for Ash to spot. He began to gather his stuff and hobble off, acting more disabled than he really was. The cruiser rolled through the light and sped away. Though Ash had made plenty of money, enough to keep him in magic-land for most of the week, Ash returned to his spot. He had made more than forty dollars in less than two hours but was still engulfed in his trek down memory lane.

In high school pretty girls, popular kids, jocks, smokers, stoners, geeks, and the invisibles roamed the halls. That is where Ash met Danny, a dear soul, who loved kids but was too worried about being un-cool to ever ask a girl out. They became instant friends. Danny's parents could go through a half-gallon bottle of vodka a day; amazingly, they weren't alcoholics. That fact totally baffled Ash his whole life.

One afternoon, Ash and Danny discovered the vodka. On a lark, they tried some, and it changed their world. It was the missing piece, it was the rose colored glasses that made them love themselves, it was strength, truth, glory and the Holy God. It was love in a bottle and the beginning of an affair that would last their entire lives, both to the end. Danny died in a Save-a-Nation detox center. They loved the high. They started by stealing sips, then stole a little in a glass, then poured some into a jar and ran straight-away to the local school yard to get buzzed. While high they would fantasize about all the great things they would accomplish in their adult lives—Ash would fly jets for the Air Force, Danny would be a music producer—and everybody would love them.

Eventually, Danny's Mom began to notice the boys and the booze. After a period where Ash and Danny watered the bottle down and his mom began asking questions, the real bottle disappeared. An old bottle still reigned the cupboard, but it was one that was mostly water. Then, Ash and Danny found another bottle hidden in the laundry hamper.

It was simple; booze was the magic piece that was missing in the puzzle that was them. Pot, to a lesser extent, also filled that void, but not with the abandonment that booze could provide. Pot got you high, but booze could keep getting you more and more buzzed with every drink until one totally succumbed to the oblivion. Pot only got you so far.

Later, much later, Ash would find out about the marijuana maintenance policy. One of Ash's first memories of true rage was directed at his friend. After hanging around Danny's house for hours after school, they finally stole some vodka from the hidden bottle. Quickly stashing the bottle back into the hamper, they escaped out of the back door and ran all the way to a junior-high track-field. They settled on the deserted bleachers for the escape that the vodka always guaranteed, only to find that the container Danny had used to steal the booze was an old shampoo bottle. The result was a sudsy, poisonous solution, better suited to wash a dog than to drink, and all the risk and time had gone to waste, but more tragically, more importantly, Ash's guaranteed escape from his torrid world of the non-buzzed evaporated before his eyes in a nasty, bubbly, mess. Ash slapped Danny and walked home alone. The two would not talk again for months.

Ash began to feel antsy. He could feel the money in his pocket making a bulge. He also felt his luck wearing thin. While he could make up to 12 dollars a day panhandling the sidewalks, Ash could make as much as forty on the side of a freeway with a good sign.

He was sure he had made at least fifty this day. But there was a catch, or at least someone told Ash there was a catch—solicitation of money from within 500 feet of a roadway in California was illegal, they said. As Ash accepted another dollar from another window, he scanned the off-ramp for the man. He knew he risked arrest or fines, which, since he could not pay, would mean jail time. He had been in trouble before, drinking on the side of the road. The more humane CHP units would just shout through their loud speaker; "You are in violation of the law... blah... blah... blah... move along or we will cite you."

But it's the city cops that Ash hates. It's the city cops that Ash curses and rails against. They roust him, mostly to make him uncomfortable in their city, hoping that he just moves on. They run him for warrants and give him sobriety tests. The vagrancy laws in California are vague, so if Ash keeps moving and stays sober, the cops usually have to let him be. But if they smell booze, they can issue him a citation or arrest him. If he lets it go to warrant, Ash gets to be a guest of the county. Ash had been their guest before, and it wasn't fun. It was as far away from oblivion as he ever got. Ash had heard of court decisions that made it hard for cities to nail vagrants, but it didn't change the fact that camping in un-designated areas in California was illegal. So Ash had to move between his secret sleep spots, carrying all his possessions with him. If he kept moving, he kept legal. And keeping legal was the only way to get into the magic land of oblivion. After about three hours at the off-ramp Ash put his signs into the milk-crate, attached it to his bag-laden ten-speed, and began his trek to the liquor store.

A mile into the Gorge the canyon opened into a large expanse. The walls widened and faded away. Trees grew along the stream, spotting the landscape with leafy parasols of green. Flowers filled the grove as the Nong lowered its guard. Birds appeared and vanished like colors on the wind and songs on a current. It was this false Eden that trapped many a traveler in the Nong. Here the Gorge begged, inviting, seducing the unwary to drop their guard and enter the true labyrinth down the trail.

The air billowed in gusts as cloud-ships sailed in the sky above. Linder jumped from stone to stone, chasing the birds attracted to the stream's many insects. The brook, an ancestor of the once mighty rivers that had once carved the Gorge centuries ago, still struggled to continue their work. They ran clear and cool, if not fast. Small waterfalls, flowing over rocky riverbeds or through gnarled roots, appeared at every turn. The banks, lined with reeds and thin trees, created a home for a myriad of creatures. The company took a break along the shady banks of the stream, where a grove of Cottonwoods and sprawling Black Oaks grew in abundance. Gnats and flies danced in the air and bees pried into every cranny, but the company was oblivious to their presence. All were under the spell of the oasis. The company silently spread out.

A loud splash interrupted the bird songs and rustling leaves. Rehoak had plunged into a pond that gathered before the stream's many tiered falls. He stirred up the bottom, and began to splash about.

Ash followed the stream and found Mara in a small pool, immersed in the silvery threads of a clear waterfall. Water caressed the curves, muscles and bends of her form. He forced his eyes away and quickly moved on.

He settled into the tangled roots of an old oak and tried to clear his mind. When the sound of trickling water began to lull him to sleep, he didn't fight it. He felt a serenity within the canyon, one he would trade his life for—he let his guard down, cleared his mind of strategies and defenses, and began to relax. He tucked the blades deep inside the folds of his robe and let his eyes drift until they shut.

In his mind he could still see the walls rising high out of the mists, walls that created a hazy magic backdrop to the garden of the Nong. Idle moments were precious he knew— they fled on the very winds that swept the canyon floors. Soon someone would call them to order and the moment would pass.

Using his pack to prop up his back, he let the beauty of the spot cleanse him. What his closed eyes missed his mind painted with the inks of sound; birds, rustling leaves, bubbling water, humming insects—all gave color to his respite. He, too, had bathed and made an opportunity to rinse the dust and the desert from his self and his garb. Soon, tunics and underclothing swung above the manic on the branches; the feeling was good, the feeling was clean; the feeling was that today, this moment, Ash was free to be a prince.

A cry broke the spell and Linder leaped out of the brush, falling on all fours. Out of breath, she screamed. "Gwere... twisted... ankle," she said. "We rest here the afternoon and night!" she yelled and ran off.

"Bless you," Ash whispered. "Bless your Green Cows, Linder."

"It was Golden Cows, I think," said Erow, sitting onto the ground beside Ash. The guard was shirtless and his long hair still dripped from his own tryst with the stream.

"Is Gwere okay?" Ash asked. "Should we go and see?"

"No, me thinks the injury is not too serious—if you get my meaning. I have a certain feeling that by morrow all will be right again," said Erow with a wink. "But for now, for tonight, we own the hours before us, my friend."

"All I really want in life, Erow, is right here," Ash said. The clear water's endless sparkling gems of light reflected upon the leaves above, making white spots dance in small shields of green. The fish played a game of plant-darting in the pools when Gwere approached. Ash noticed the big man walked with an occasional limp. The captain slipped to the ground onto the other side of Ash. He, too, looked alarmingly clean. After a glance to the canyon walls, he gently pulled at Ash's robes until they fell away, revealing the blades. They were properly clipped.

"Everything's fine," Ash said. "I heard you sustained an injury."

"Aye, it throbs," said Gwere.

"We talking now of the pool back a spell?" asked Erow. Their grins ebbed as Gractah and Linder entered the dell. The woman warrior was stalking a small black and yellow-stripped bird that hopped among the reeds. Gractah followed. The two soon tired of their game and joined the others, completing a circle. Ash watched as dragonflies fought an aerial combat above the steam.

"Rumor has it Isuair shared some of his pipe smoke with Erow," Ash said in a low voice to Gwere.

"Ah, yes, I heard the same rumor," said Gwere. "If only the weed of a good pipe were around to help this joint subside," he said in an overly loud voice.

"This is the finest Southland Pipe I've seen so far, and Isuair's favorite," said Erow. "He shared some with me, because I'm special. I mean to share some with you, even though you are not. But don't try to wrest the pouch from me once this you taste, for mine sword is sharp." He packed the pipe and sent it to his left. Two icy hands clenched the manic's neck as the wood reached Ash. Mara, her breastplate slung over her shoulder, cantered above him and draped hair across his shoulders until he was speckled with water. In his attempt to fend off the rain he lost the pipe.

"I could smell that all the way across the wood..." Mara said, studying the bowl, "...and I won't forget you started without me." She joined the circle, sitting beside Ash. When the flame brand came to her, she drew deep from the pipe. Mara shined when she smiled—she too had found an escape from the trials of the day. Ash noticed the men, especially Gwere, had trouble un-fixing their gaze from the unarmored, almost bare, warrior. The party stayed the rest of the day and evening by the stream quietly talking. They gathered wood, built a fire, and spent the night star gazing. They devoured the last of Isuair's provisions. In those moments peace reigned within and without.

Moving was the key to survival. For oblivion to take place, Ash needed a private place in which to drink. He kept moving to escape the prying eyes of the 'good people' who inhabited the city. He had seven spots around the town in which to choose from. Each spot was hand-picked for its seclusion. The trick was to not outstay one's welcome. If a homeowner or shopkeeper happened by, and did anything more than just glance at him, he had to move. Eye contact, someone craning a neck or chin over a fence, or even the casual dog-walker with a determined enough stare could and could evict him from a spot. When someone noticed him it wasn't long before the authorities showed up; if they stared, he was gone.

Of the seven spots Ash liked best, his favorite by far was the concrete basin that formed what was once the Santa Ana River. The Flood Control Authorities had long ago mastered the river by constructing a deep concrete channel that ran the length of the waterway all the way to the Pacific. This barren canyon would not serve as much of a hideaway except for two things; runoff silt and a threatened bird.

Storms in the local mountains filled the basin with water that deposited silt from nearby hills; mixed with the silt were seeds. Eventually an eco-system sprang to life—plants provided a habitat for many creatures, including a bird, the California Gnatcatcher. California environmental laws forbade the destruction of any habitat of an endangered or threatened species, which prohibited the county from clearing the channel of the runoff deposits. Soon, a blooming community of plants found home in the concrete canyon, and the cover it provided suited both bird and man.

It was there, among the small creatures and the tall reeds that Ash found a home, at least for a time. His stay at the side of the freeway had been well worth the risk—he had made more than fifty dollars. A trip to the liquor store yielded not only booze but also a few badly needed personal items; soap, shampoo, toothpaste, and a toothbrush. He also grabbed foods; Vienna sausages and hash would be on the night's menu. He had a stack of dry ramen soups, and a bag of oranges. He was set for oblivion; all he needed was someplace to hide. Naturally he thought of his favorite spot.

Pushing his supplies on his plastic bag-laden ten-speed, he made his way to Adam's Street and the overpass that crossed the channel. He would have to leave his bike on the side of the road, where he would lock it with a kids tumbler-lock that he had repaired with wire. With two flats and no chain the bike was not likely to disappear.

Strapping his bags and packs around his shoulders, and flinging a bundle of clothes into the channel, Ash steadied himself on the chain-link fence. The fence gave and swayed as he rolled over the top of it and he fell awkwardly onto the other side. But soon he was on his way, creeping crab-like down the steep sides of the concrete channel.

He wound his way to the thickest section of growth and found his spot hidden among the reeds. The brush was tall enough to avoid all but the most prying eyes. His spot was matted down weeds in the midst of a thick bamboo patch. He laid cardboard for a floor and used plywood, propped with sticks, as a half roof. He had canned heat packs to cook with, and a small pantry of foods. In the lean-to he placed his prizes; two bottles of Polak vodka and a twelve-pack of beer. He laid out his sleeping bag and set up a fire-pit for cooking. A real fire would bring the authorities, but the cans burned invisibly and heated a tin of sausages or a can soup easily. Ash was set.

A stream ran the length of the channel, the last remnants of the old river making its way to the ocean. He washed clothes and hung them on the branches of a sapling around him; there was enough debris in the channel that his things would go unnoticed. As he made his way back to his lean-to, he stopped to watch a small black and yellow bird as it hopped around the stream, feeding on insects. It flittered joyfully through the reeds and joined him as he completed his new home; with everything set, he poured his first drink. It was chilly and he wrapped his sleeping bag around his shoulders as he took his first gulp.

Determined to start slow, Ash started with small sips, and washed the vodka down with a half-cold beer. With the first drink, God himself ripped through his being, changing each cell, each fiber, flushing out the bum and washing clean all the sins of the body, of the world, of the man.

His wish to start slow gave way to a bold plunge into the other world. He put the bottle to his lips and chugged the vodka, then finished the beer with several long gulps and crushed the can. Letting out a long boozy breath, Ash checked for his swords.

The beauty beside him was glowing; her wet half-shirt and newly scrubbed skin only added to her appeal. "You look absolutely stunning, Mara," Ash said.

"Ash, my dear, sweet, Ash," Mara said, stroking his face. There was a deep love in her eyes, a love that called for her to cherish his very being. "What are we going to do with you, My Sweet?" Mara said. Ash noticed Gwere fumbling around the fire and decided it would be a good idea to stretch his legs. In the dusk of the setting sun the big man was showing the unmistakable signs of a schoolboy crush on the dark beauty beside him. A stroll would do him good, and a bath would do him one better.

On the pathway above the channel sat a cyclist on his bike. He had stopped at the Adams Street overpass to have a drink from his squeeze-bottle. A random glance into the channel held his attention. A man, a vagrant, judging by his appearance, was wandering around in the channel runoff. He was carrying a bottle, he was splashing about, and he was completely naked.

The morning dawned cold and damp. The fire had died early and the ground they camped on had turned frigid. All the company felt chilled and many were loath to part with the warmth of their cloaks. There were grumbles, and Ash heard someone say, "Let's not go." But Gwere simply rose, donned his weaponry, and began to pack. "The prince and our king," was all the big captain said. The grumbling subsided, and Ash, surveying the group, saw only readiness and resolve on their faces. After a few moments Erow returned from his pre-scouting trip and the group was off.

"Most people think there are no trails in this Gorge," Ash said. "But in the western part of that canyon there is a trail, built long ago by some unknown folk, and parts of it still exist today. We can take that trail a long way into the canyon. After a time we will see a ridge line. We will follow that ridge for only a short while, for a canyon of Red Rock lies off to the west. It is this path that we must find, to make the journey into the heart of the Nong."

"I found the other two ways blocked and part of this trail leads the wrong way," said Erow. "You will need to guide us."

"Let's go," said Gwere, "but keep your eyes open, especially on the rim above. Also, watch for anything in here we can eat." Without delay the group headed into the canyon. Before long the walls began to rise and the path began to narrow. Soon the party was in the eerie solitude of the narrows of the Gorge, with the walls so close that at times that they were forced to walk in single file. When they spoke their voices had an imposing quality among the echoing, dark enclosures. The sky above was little more than a sliver of white or blue, sometimes filled with birds or tree limbs, sometimes completely darkened by foliage.

Much of the journey was little more than pacing the manic as he wound them through narrow after narrow. Many times they crossed streams and twice they left the water altogether, only to find it running again as a fall, as it leaped over limestone rocks to the canyon floor. None spoke, and the party walked in single file.

Much like in the desert, they walked until someone stopped. At night they lit no fire, casting themselves instead to the ground for sleep, while revolving the watch. At dawn they walked again. They found no game and the water had a brackish, almost salty taste that left the drinker still thirsting. Without Isuair's provisions they would have failed in the canyon.

Ash often backtracked, only to double-back again. Once, after watching the sky for some time, he had the entire party scale a steep cliff. Atop the canyon a dense, dry forest stretched; its bottom was thick with thorny brush that the party had to fight to gain ground. Then he brought them down an enormous slide, tumbling among the dusty slopes until all the party was peppered with the orange sands of the Nong. After their climb and descent Ash seemed happy again, and they passed many more miles walking in silence.

This way they traveled the Nong without incident for two days. Ash guided them with little trouble, but now and again then he would look up, and force the party to backtrack until he found a canyon he preferred. All the party saw that the manic's eyes, ever in the Nong, were always on the sky.

The Gorge was nicknamed the Red Rose Canyon, but the walls ran a spectrum of colors; gold, violet and magenta, streaked with cinnamon minerals and green iron pigments, swirled into cliff sand-murals. As Ash walked the canyon, advancing deeper and deeper into the Gorge, he noticed the sun, straining to shine through the trees far atop the bluffs above, flicker. One look to the others and Ash realized his wasn't the only alarm sounding. Gwere caught his attention, and nodded almost imperceptibly to the sky. The big captain pursed his lips; Mara was busy, as were the rest of the group, unseating their weapons. The strategic importance of canyon's rim weighed heavy on them all, for those on the ridge could stay hidden, track the company's every move, and attack from above at will and with great advantage.

Ash floated over to Gwere. "We need to get to that part of the canyon where the walls are not so steep—some part that can be climbed," Ash said, nodding without gesturing. "If we can get someone to the top we may do some damage. Erow has told me of a clearing ahead, where the canyon broadens and a stream forms a pool. We can rest there, and then come back," Ash said.

At the clearing the group appeared relaxed. Their hand to mouth movements carried only imaginary food; Gwere quietly went over the plan.

"Ash and I will stay; the rest of you will depart quickly—hopefully those above will give chase. Then Ash and I will take yonder hill to the top, and deal with those above. Hopefully, there's not a whole army up there," said the captain.

"If you find trouble, abort your plan and follow us," said Gractah. "People do not avoid the Nong for fear of getting lost alone."

And so it was decided. Ash and Gwere tried their best to dissolve into the canyon wall, while the rest of the party, on signal, sped off. The captain and Ash raced up the hill to a spot where a ridge line met the cliff wall. Scaling and climbing, they clawed their way to the top. Dashing here and there, they found only tracks; traveling on ahead they heard signs of a struggle in the canyon below.

"Below! Below!" shouted Gwere. Their stalkers had dropped into the Gorge and besieged the party in the canyon. Gwere and Ash hurled themselves into the soft sands of the wall. They fell, slowing their descent by clawing the stone. Leaping from the hill, they gained the bottom and rushed into the canyon, only to find the path littered with bodies.

Ash stepped over the corpse of a slain man; he rolled the body over with the toe of his boot as he passed. It wore no armor; instead it was adorned with coarse hides and bands of strung teeth. Ash saw they were human teeth. It was not an enemy they had faced thus far; these slain were savage and crude. There were no party members among the dead.

A host of tracks led onward, and into a canyon and beyond. Bolting after the tracks, Gwere and Ash came into an opening in the canyon walls, and entered a clearing with paths on all sides. Most of the tracks led south. "We had no dead," said Gwere, "so they have been taken. Do you see the tracks? They were swarmed by the hundreds. With us on the outside, they must have thought that to submit would save more lives. They wait for us."

"Or the enemy is toting corpses..."

"Ash!" shouted Gwere. "These tracks show the weight of the living," Gwere said, placing a hand near Mara's boot-print.

"They take them, live?" Ash asked. "Curious."

"Do you recognize this part of the Gorge? Have you come against this enemy before?" Ash thought back to his last canyon trek—a barefoot people had quietly shadowed him, but they did nothing to impede his way, and never showed themselves. However, he had been down into the canyon where the tracks led, and had no wish to repeat the journey.

"Yes and no..." said Ash.

"These are a crude people," said Gwere, "They wear skins and... teeth..."

"Gwere, I have been in this part of the canyon before, the opening there goes to an abandoned city," said Ash, pointing, "or more like... tombs. They are caves, carved out of the cliff itself, but no people live there."

"That may have changed," said Gwere, "and the enemy?"

"I have never come across any people in this canyon. But, I have seen my share of these tracks. Last time I was here someone paced me but kept their distance; in the city of the dead they hid from me."

As Gwere and Ash spoke they sprinted into the dark canyon, but the pair had run less than a mile when the blades popped. From above, savages dropped from alcoves hidden in the walls. It happened so fast that Gwere missed it. He turned and saw only Ash and bodies. The effect on Ash was strange, he stood, blades outstretched, trembling, standing among the dead, frozen. Gwere had to pull at the manic to get him moving.

"Use care," he said as they ran, and turning a corner, the two came upon a city, or the ruins of one; the sight stopped them in their tracks. Black stone filled the length of a large canyon. Melding into the cliff wall the black appeared to stain the red rock. The walls began before them, as tall as the cliff, and trailed off until the furthest tombs were only specks in the distance. Resembling a gigantic palace, the tombs, caves and open rooms were carved out of the living rock. Part of the walls were streaked with red, with orange-crimson fires burning deep within its windows. Adorned with rows and rows of Roman columns, the fortress lurked in the shadows, its grandeur long forgotten after a long decline. Huge and forbidding, it seemed a monument to decay. Bodies, skeletal remains, and skins hung from posts in long rows before the edifice. In the foreground, dotting the path, awaiting their approach, stood the enemy.

"This is such a stupid plan!" Mara said. "This is such a stupid plan!" she shouted. Mara's pacing had grown in momentum once the stone door of the cell closed.

"Will you stop? Relax," Erow whispered, hoping she would heed his advice. "Please, Mara, we would count some dead and the party split if we didn't do it this way. They do not want to kill us, at least not right away," Erow said. His suspicions of why they wanted them alive he kept to himself, but he did not miss the chains of teeth their captors wore. "They wait and we wait; but only to fight anew, Mara, that's all," Erow said. In a whisper he added, "We have friends." Erow, trying to sound convincing, knew Mara was right; they should have died before surrendering. He was at a complete loss as to how they came to surrender; but he did not see the white spell lines around them.

The enemy had come at them in great numbers and the surprise attack, along with the seizure of Linder, made for a snap decision—one that didn't sit well with them now. The enemy had charged down the canyon just as they had sent their own up. Now, trapped in an enemy prison of stone, they could only sit and wait. Seeking a weakness in their cell, Erow searched the walls and stone thoroughly.

The prison was what he'd expected from the look of the fortress; crumbling, damp, and thick with mold. It also had an ample supply of bold rats. He and Mara were put into cells at the back of a long corridor; Linder, Gractah and Rehoak were in a cell at the forefront, next to the stairs at the dungeon's entrance. Though the walls seemed old and decayed, they felt solid when pushed or pried. Erow's search for an escape gained him only palms covered in gritty, wet decay. They would need to overpower the guards or they would need help.

Quietly at first, then growing in volume, a commotion rumbled from above. Sounds of screams, shouts and blows drifted through the low echoing confines of the cells. Amplified by the halls, the commotion intensified as the moments passed. Cries and clashes reverberated within jail's corridors and echoed in the entrance stairwell. After a pause the dungeon's main door shook with great force. Then, for a long time, all was silent.

Minutes later came the sound of a door being cast open, and a primitive guard came down the steps. He flew down the stairs, crashed onto the block floor and began to strive for his feet. Then he ran. He flew past Linder, Gractah and Rehoak's cell and disappeared into the hall. After twenty yards he dropped before Erow and Mara's cell. There he lay, his back slit from neck to buttocks. Mara and Erow looked at each other, and then peered up the corridor. The quiet returned and a stillness came to the air that seemed to freeze time. In the block only breath and heartbeats reigned.

Gractah had seen the man, or animal man, run screaming along the hall, and wondered at the sight. "What's going on up there," Gractah asked, "that would make that guy so eager to abandon ship?" Linder said nothing, but moved to a corner of the cell and lowered herself enough to see the stairway. She could see fifteen steps. She saw movement— it was something with a high sheen on the stones. It was on the topmost steps and slowly moving down. It was a red liquid. Then, treading in the viscous puddles, a pair of boots slowly descended.

"Ashhh..." she whispered.

But it was Gwere's head that popped into the hall. He was covered in blood and held his weapon before him. He nodded when he saw Gractah, Rehoak and Linder. He cautiously approached their cell and scanned the halls, peering around the corners of the prison. The block was empty except for the one body.

"Mara and Erow?"

"Through there," answered Linder, pointing down the hall. Gwere motioned for them to stay quiet with a hand to his mouth, and moved on.

"Is that big oaf going off to rescue Mara first?" Linder whispered to Rehoak.

"Shhh," hissed Gractah, "shut up." Soon Gwere returned; he adeptly moved a series of stones from around their cell entrance. Using his great arms, he rolled the round granite door along a grove until Linder and her friends were free.

"This place has such a nasty cellar smell, it was really starting to get to me," said Linder. "It's in my hair."

"Hush!" said Gwere, and he nudged them into the hall. Moving down the corridor they came to a corner, and peering around it, saw Mara and Erow standing beside an open cell. Next to them laid the crew's weaponry and their packs.

"Nothing here," said Mara to the big captain, "and that way leads nowhere. I don't know where this guy thought he was going," Mara said. She used the heel of her boot to crack the wound that ran down the man's back; it opened into a wide gulf.

"He did rescue her first, Rehoak," Linder whispered. Rehoak shushed her and joined the others, rifling through the weapons until he found his. He handed Linder a sword with a dead flower on it and began refitting his own gear.

"Okay, out the way I came, up the stairs," said the big captain, "follow closely and keep quiet."

The group traveled up two long sets of stairs, and out into a large chamber.

"Through the pillars, across the ballroom and down the hall," said Gwere. "That's it, then we're out."

"You mean, through the pillars by the bodies, across the room full of bodies, and down past the mound of bodies, and out," said Linder.

"Where's what's-his-face?" Mara asked. The warrior looked at ease, panning the room with her hands on her hips. She had a smile on her face and appeared to be counting the mounds.

"He's out there. He's kind of," Gwere said, halting, as if searching for words. "After the, assault, he started, I don't know," Gwere said. As they walked the deserted halls he talked in a whisper. "I was held outside, fending off the guards. But Ash made into this, the tomb's grand hall, easily. Over there," Gwere said, pointing, "are pots... and... people; skinned people. Ash..." Gwere quieted. They walked and he looked about but resumed speaking only after they passed the large common hall. "It took only moments—they rushed him. He, slew with great skill, more than skill, nothing the like of which I have seen; he had a hunger. They opened something in him, they made a huge mistake, trapped in here with Ash. He..." Gwere began. In a whisper he added, "I swear some he did not even touch and they perished still. Then he chased the fleeing. They had only wooden spears and rough stone weapons," Gwere said. "After a while all was quiet."

"I joined him in this chamber," Gwere continued. "For a moment Ash just looked about. He just stood staring at, well, this. He seemed to loathe the sight. At first he tried hiding some of the bodies, which I thought was pure madness, then he noticed the blood, all over him, and—he's out there," said Gwere, pointing to a pinpoint of light in the doorway ahead of the party.

Together they walked over bodies and over the pieces of bodies. All the floor was red and it pulled at their boots. Strewn in all directions were the dead, in the rooms, in the halls, and some hanging on the pillars. Mara saw a stone column on its side. Some tool that she had never seen before had cut it. A clean slash had felled the granite. Under it were bodies. Everywhere she saw the marks, the slices, the clear cuts. It was the glen and the forest in a grand scale. Her smile broadened.

"Leave us get out of this place," Mara said. "This is now only a place for the dead."

Outside the Palace, on a piece of a ruined column, they found Ash. He was furiously rubbing his arms with sand. He was trembling, and his breathing was coming in great gasps. He seemed in a trance, unaware of what he was doing, rubbing his skin until it bled. He was rubbing at the blood. Linder and Mara ran to the manic and attempted to rouse him.

"Ash! Ash! Stop..." Linder called. Ash seemed to regain some of his wits as he saw the girls, but after a moment he went back to rubbing.

"Let's get out of here, the sooner the better... come on, Ash," said Mara, and pulling the manic by the arm, she moved Ash off his pillar. The group followed Gwere out of the palace grounds, back into the canyon and back onto their original route.

Linder had counted hundreds of bodies in the three rooms they passed. Ash had made the palace, including the cell steps, literally run with blood and now seemed to have lost himself.

And, he was also the only person who knew the way out of the labyrinth that was the Nong. They followed their own tracks until they traveled to the point where the primitive people attacked them and stopped only when the path split off in several directions.

Halting in the canyon, not knowing which route to take, the party paused among the sheer, imposing cliffs. Ash continued his rubbing. He had to be led or he wouldn't move. Linder turned in time to see Mara slap Ash hard across the face. The manic's head snapped back but otherwise he had no reaction.

"Snap out of it!" Massali shouted.

"She's hitting him?" Linder asked. Only Gractah was near and he just shrugged.

"She likes it not that he seems, well, he seems to have maybe changed his mind about how fun killing is," said Gractah with a tiny smile. Then it faded to a frown. "And... we... we're still in this wretched canyon."

"Why is our luck so black?" Rehoak asked. "At every turn there's armies, wolves, wild-men—everything."

"It's me," Ash said, suddenly coming to life, "It's me. It's me. All I ever wanted to do was die; is that too much? Is that too much to ask? Do I have to stay here and just eat and shit? Is that such a grand thing?"

"Ash, what the hell happened back there?" Gractah asked. "Did you and Gwere do all of that?"

"I more or less just watched," said Gwere. "They were a rough, untalented bunch, great in numbers but not in skill."

"Clearly not overly skilled at staying alive," said Mara with a laugh.

"They seemed skilled enough when they took us," said Rehoak.

"That was a plan, damn it!" Mara shouted to Rehoak.

"Ash—you killed all those guys? All of them?" Linder asked. She spoke softly, stretching out the words. "You killed all those people?" But before flower maiden could finish, Ash broke into a run.

"Good job, Sweetheart," Mara said, turning to Linder, "remind him later that his teeth are yellow and that his ears are like pie-paddles."

"Shut the hell up!" Linder screamed. The men jumped between the girls but Linder adeptly feigned one direction and turned quick to Mara. "Was I hitting him? What have you done? Complain, complain and comp..."

"He's going, going... gone!" shouted Gractah. Only tracks filled the canyon in the direction that Ash had run, and Gwere was already fading from view, chasing after the manic man. The rest of the party shrugged and followed.

They were accustomed to running and prided themselves on it. They were used to great distances and were all strong and fast. But they soon saw trouble ahead, for Ash was losing them; even in the straight canyon stretches he was beginning to disappear. They increased their speed and Mara made up her mind to tackle Ash, if only to keep him from stranding her in the canyon; but she never got the chance. The manic was soon gone.

"Careful," Gwere said when they lost him. "Tracks, tracks, tracks!" he shouted holding out his hands, preventing the others from walking among the loose, sandy imprints.

"He mentioned a cliff wall and a red rock canyon," said Erow. "Mayhap he needs to just burn this off, and still follows his path through the canyon. He knows we can track him. But Linder, shut up about who killed who and how many, would you please?" Erow asked.

"Yeah, maybe they all just cut themselves on some sharp glass," laughed Mara.

"Is this a joke to you? Is this a game?" Linder shouted, and in a moment she was on Mara. But Massali wasn't caught unaware. The Mara flipped Linder with one quick move. At the last moment Linder grabbed a fistful of Massali's hair and jerked the Mara to her knees. Both girls then tumbled with fists flying onto the ground.

The men dived into the fray fearing the girls would draw their weapons. When the commotion calmed, Gwere stood between the women—Gractah held Linder, who still clutched a thick handful of black hair, and Rehoak held Mara, who was seething and smiling, curiously both at the same time. One big happy family, thought Gwere, and then something caught his eye. Looking over his shoulder, he saw Ash, striding back to the party, wearing the blades, and only the blades.

Oh, God, oh, God, he's gone, he's gone right out of his mind, and he's got those knives, thought Gwere. Gwere placed himself between the group and the now naked Ash.

"Hi, Ash," he said; he used his softest voice. As he spoke he slowly unseated his own weapon. He moved the blade up an inch and kept the handle in his palm. "How you doing?" Ash stood face to face with the big captain, and a crooked smile came to his face.

"There are about a million of those caveman guys behind me," Ash said. As Gwere's eyes began to focus over Ash's shoulder, he saw the canyon behind them darken. There was indeed an army of primitives behind the manic. Thousands, maybe millions, began to fill the canyon as they spoke. Those in front wore Ash's cloak, and another wore his tunic, and one other wore his boots.

"They tore the pants all up," Ash said, as if reading Gwere's mind. Ash turned to see for himself the cave army, when he felt a coat fall onto his shoulders. Ash wrapped it tight and added a distracted word of thanks. The others gathered around until the group formed a tight knot amid a sea of cavemen. Rehoak, watching the enormous crowd fill the canyon, finally spoke. At first he only gurgled. But on the second attempt he found words.

"Okay. Now what?"

With Gwere's cloak clutched tightly around him, Ash turned to the cavemen. He pulled one of the blades from its sheath, drawing it from the top with enormous resistance, and took a step forward. The crowd of Cave People reacted quickly. Some fell over, some jumped back onto those bringing up the rear, and others scurried about. All the primitives retreated into the canyon in a mad scurry. After a look about Ash returned the blade to its holder, again, only with great effort.

After Ash re-sheathed his weapon, the whole caveman party parted like a sea. Seeing the wide path before them, Ash gave the others a quick look over his shoulder, raised his eyebrows and shrugged. The manic and the party stepped forward.

They walked through the caveman crowd, for what seemed like a mile, and on into the canyon. As they passed, the aisle of Cave People closed. After closing the gap, the primitives followed.

As the party walked, leading the host of Cave People, Ash explained what they had missed. He had indeed run out his madness, and recovering his senses, he turned back. He hadn't gone far when he ran into one caveman, then another, and then what seemed like an army. They mobbed him, but his weapons did not discharge.

"No snap, boing, pop, horn blowing or anything, just a sea of unkempt people," he said, as he and the others walked, "and I could only watch as my gear became theirs." After walking back for some time, the Cave People, as Ash decided to call them, came to a halt in the canyon. Ash continued on, he said, and soon after he turned a corner and found the group.

Except for two things, Ash told them, he would have been fine. First, that a million Cave People, whose intentions were unknown, were all around them, and second, that he had lost all, or almost all his possessions. The Cave People stripped him of everything; his magic bag and blanket, his travel sack, his food, his clothes and his bedroll. And they didn't look like folk, he told them, that would be concerned about taking care of things, not breaking things, or hygiene, or anything.

They found the ridge to the red rock canyon, and passed on into the rugged low cliffs of the outer, western part of the Gorge. They halted in one of the wider sections of the canyon and stood at a loss. The day was failing and the party was spent. Ash looked about and saw a dark line of cave-people trailing through the Gorge, and on until they faded out of view. Finally the party just camped. The Cave People gathered a few dozen feet away, forming their own camp, thousands deep.

The scrutiny was intense. The party tried their best to act as if there was nothing at all strange about the host around them, but the presence of the huge Cave People throng soon began to weigh on them all.

When they began to gather wood, they were hand-delivered loads of it. They built a large fire, and did the best they could to go about their business. When they began to prepare a meal, they were delivered food. They ate none, though some feigned bites, for none were sure of the meat or its source. They tried to rest. As the sun set, the rustling, grunting, shadowy host began to overwhelm them, and finally Erow spoke.

"Will somebody please go talk to them," he said, speaking directly to Ash. "Say anything... but find out what they want."

"If these folk are the same as the people from that Tomb Palace, they sure take dying lightly," said Mara.

"I think they think Ash is a deity," said Gwere, and again, more faces turned to Ash.

"What's a deity?" Linder asked.

"Or they saw his handiwork... and elected a new leader," said Rehoak. Ash, who during the talk had been trying to become invisible, rose and frowned at the party. Turning slowly, he surveyed the Cave People. Night had come and their faces were a mix gold firelight hues. The Cave People sat and stared at him. Each of the cavemen before him bore a striking resemblance to the next, however, closest to him was one who stood out; one who wore gold. Searching the host, Ash saw that no other caveman donned any metal of any kind. The gold wearer was old but hale and had gray in his beard. Other than the ornament, a necklace of small beings hand in hand, he was dressed in the animal skins of his folk. What Ash didn't see, though he searched thoroughly, were the teeth necklaces worn by those in the tombs.

Ash noticed the gold wearer's eyes were deep brown, spiked with yellow, and possessing of a gentle gaze. Holding his arms out, to signal 'here' Ash moved aside to create a person-sized space within the party's circle. The cave throng reacted with a low murmuring and gained their feet. The gold wearer rose last, bowed, slowly approached the group, and slid into the space with an impossible slowness. As he did, drums began to beat: boom, boom, boom.

Then, eye-to-eye, Ash and the Cave king sat. When they were all settled and seated, the crowd around them began to animate. The drum beats grew louder. They began thumping, grunting, growling, and chanting. Linder began to wheeze as she stifled a laugh. Everyone smiled at the reaction, and Rehoak nudged Ash.

"Now see if they'll go away," he said.

"Find out what they want," Gwere said. Ash turned to the Cave king and smiled.

"Hi, do you speak any language?" Ash asked. "Can you talk at all?" The manic felt that if he could get one to speak, even if it were only a few words, he could possibly pick up a dialect; he found the land languages amazingly easy to learn. But the Cave king only smiled and nodded. Ash found no discourse in their grunting; it seemed to be just that—grunts.

"HI MY NAME IS ASH," he said, enunciating each word. After another long, serene stare from the gold cave king, Ash stared around. The others still nudged and prodded him.

"Ash..." he said, pointing to himself; the crowd, which had somewhat quieted, now animated to a new high. Ash could only sigh and smile. The rest of the host carried on, but the Cave King just sat. Ash searched the host smiling and frowning at the same time. He spent some time abruptly speaking his name and awaiting the host's reaction, until Erow forced him to stop. After an hour of trying to communicate, Ash threw his hands up; the Cave King simply would not speak.

Gwere pitched in—he named several popular kings but got no response. Linder made a game of it by grunting like the Cave People, which indeed got a reaction from the host. For every grunt Linder uttered, the Cave People uttered three. Finally, the others forced her to stop, fearing the game would grow out of control. Then they gave up. They were well into the Gorge, and still breathing, and in no immediate danger. They bedded down and closed their eyes.

The morning dawned warm and bright on the party of seven and on their million cavemen host. The party talked among themselves and prepared what breakfast they could. The Cave King had returned to his people.

"Maybe when we leave the Gorge they'll just stop following us," said Rehoak. Mara laughed, and Gractah threw a branch at her. Mara threw the branch back with greater velocity, hitting Gwere on his broad back.

"This is no joke," said Gwere.

"No, Mara's right," said Erow. "This really is a big joke, the whole damn trip; we get attacked by everyone and everything." He held his arm out as a butterfly floated near. "I'm surprised that the plants haven't attacked us, or that we haven't been swarmed by these..." As he spoke, a black and gold butterfly settled onto his arm. It sat, slowly opening and closing its wings to reveal a stunning host of hues. One after another of the small creatures began to settle on the party. Soon the party was covered with hundreds of butterflies.

"See! See!" shouted Erow, stomping the ground. "SEE!" Linder danced and leaped about, but the rest of the group just shook their heads. The Cave People frolicked about and sang with the golden, flying flowers hovering all about; their tune was sweet and melodic, and they moved with outstretched arms among the insects. Their song spoke of laughter and joy.

"Good thing you didn't say tigers," Ash said while searching the cliffs.

"What are tigers?" asked a butterfly laden, jubilant Linder. She was hopping, smiling and laughing. "I think they're licking salt off me!" Mara stood, arms behind her back, and smiled.

"Just like magic..." Massali said. She now looked to Ash as if he were a well, deep with spring—a gift to crops she could grow.

As soon as they had come, the flying scarves were gone. The Cave People, who had rejoiced throughout the butterfly visit, again worked themselves into a lather; They calmed only at the insistence of the party. Even after they quieted, most held out their hands toward the group—like to warm them at a fire.

"Ash," said Gwere, "sit and tell us the story, about you, about the blades, about everything—from beginning to end, omitting nothing. Come, I will listen." As the big captain spoke, he stared hard at the rest of the group. "We will not judge what you say. I just need to hear this story for myself, and to perhaps make some sense of this... journey." Ash, silent for a moment, finally began.

"I used to live in this other place. There were engines and machines everywhere. There were things, things to carry you through the country, the air, the hills," Ash said. His audience was paying attention, hanging on every word. "I remember some of that life; it was horrible, yet wonderful at the same time. I loved the wonderful side—the ability to do almost anything—go almost anywhere; the art; the love and the laughter of our culture—the plays and the music—that I loved to my soul. Most of the labor, the work, was done by machines. But the horrible side... the people were trapped, they were slaves to the gold and the big machines—the companies that controlled the gold... they killed most of the animals and they turned the land to stone. Metal, black rock and gray granites replaced the cobblestone roads, the fields, the grounds and the trees. They sold the world and its creatures. They despoiled it, just for more gold..." Ash said.

"Also, I have dreams; nightmares really, where I am a man, wandering, begging, and that this, here, now, is only a dream caused by too much drink. But... I remember being a man in this other world, an unhappy man, whose job it was to work with print machines, machines that think..." he said, watching doubt grow on their faces. "Anyway, there was a change; I changed, or something changed. I am not sure what happened."

"The last thing I remember," Ash said, "was trying to end it all by diving into the sea and swimming until I could swim no more. Then, I'm in a strange place. This place, this place was a castle perched on a tall cliff with only one road down. 'The Castle of No Escape' I called it. One door only led out of the castle; this door had no hinges, handles, or anyway to open it. A guard stood before this door, and he had a set of magic blades at his side," Ash said. "And, and... a magic bag, and a magic blanket... well, he really didn't have them, I did..." Of all their eyes, only Mara's now still stared at him. They stared wide.

"I soon found that the guard was interested in two, and only two, things: one, guarding the door, the only way out, and two—killing me, while I was trapped in the castle, unarmed. He asked a question, each time before attacking me. He asked, 'Wherein lies your heart?'" At this Mara sat up. The group tried to question her, had she also heard of the castle and the guard? But she shrugged off the inquiries and asked Ash to finish his tale.

"He asked this one question a thousand times, and I answered him one thousand times. Never was the answer enough, or correct. He always attacked me with the magic blades after I answered."

"The guard wore those?" said Linder, pointing at Ash's thighs.

"Yes," Ash said, pulling Gwere's cloak from the blades.

"Where was this castle?" asked Gwere.

"It was here, somewhere in the Nong... in these canyons. That is why I know the Nong so well, I returned, once, to try and find this castle... to get back," Ash began to tear. "To no avail, I might add. I thought I might get back, back too... machines. But the castle's not here anymore," Ash said. His eyes welled, but he continued. "I was there for what seemed like a thousand years, but I think it was really only about ten," Ash said. "Every time I was questioned and attacked, and I could feel myself dying, and then feel myself all but die, and then I'd slowly come back, only to do it again. I had help in recovering—magic help; wounds healed, limbs renewed. But this slaying happened over and over. I tried everything I could think of, hiding. Avoiding. When that didn't work I tried attacking the guard. I sneak attacked; I dropped things on him from above. I tried tricks, schemes and hatched plots. When attacking him didn't work I began to despair. I had rages of anger. I walked up to him and tried to commit suicide. I ran. But he would only stand at the door, unmoving, unblinking, asking his question. 'Wherein lies your heart?""

"What was your answer?" asked Mara.

"Everything," wailed Ash. "I said everything I could think of! 'In my chest,' 'In goodness,' 'in the beat of life,' 'In here,' I said, pointing to my breast." Mara laughed, but Ash continued. "No answer that I could say worked, none let me pass, to be free."

"We never ate, never slept," Ash continued. "We weren't living. It was just despair of life and then like-death for me, and mechanical guarding and killing for him. I tried fighting, hiding, reasoning, pleading, crying, hoping, and finally... the solution, that which led to the conquering of my enemy and the taking of his weapons." Ash's voice changed. It became hard; but you can read words. "The thing that triumphed over him, I will keep to myself."

"The language of the blad..." began Mara. None heard, except, perhaps, for Ash.

"I painted the walls with his blood, I crushed his being with my hands, I squeezed his parts till they fled through mine own fingers. I took the knives, cut the door, grabbed the bag, the blanket, and walked out into the wilds of this forsaken canyon." Ash had his teeth bared and was shaking. When he finished, he looked up, to find a host of blank stares. Gractah forced a smile, but the others studied their hands.

"Well," said Erow rising and stretching, "we should get moving." There was a chorus of "Yes, let's," and in moments the party was packed.

But as they began, they found the Cave People had again blocked their path. As Ash advanced, they parted. They had put something in the path. In the trail, beside his travel pack, lay a rune bag and an unnaturally blue blanket.

Ash scooped up his things with a sigh of relief. As he turned the items over in his hands, he studied the faces before him. He realized that the Cave People did not share the same blank stares he found in the faces of his companions. The people before him seemed primitive and unkempt, but in their eyes Ash saw something that the party seemed to lack—understanding. And, Ash remembered, after he made his way down the long road from the 'Castle of No Escape' he found himself in the Nong, in a place not unlike the very spot where he now stood. He stopped and looked around, as if to see, far in the distance, a castle high on the cliffs above, but he saw none. He placed his blanket in his bag and slung it on his shoulders. He nodded to the primitives. As a group they grunted back. After a moment they opened a path for the company.

After gathering their things the group began down the path. Finally, after days of marching within the oppressive walls of the Gorge, the party turned a corner and before them they saw a green valley— for miles and miles it stretched—a beckoning wilderness free of cliffs and gold sand. Ash had brought them through the Nong.

They cleared the Gorge after midday, and entered the long slopes at the eastern side of Lake Valkera while the sun was still high. Ash, Mara, Gwere, Rehoak, Gractah, Linder, and Erow, along with thousands of cavemen, marched slowly along the sloping fields of Gellaean, and out into the Land of the King.

Chapter 4

Patrice stood above the battlefield and studied the charts; more came with every new Movement messenger. All the Movement people were haughty but efficient—perhaps too efficient; the stack of parchments was a foot deep. But their first objective, the Adlia Seaport, was taken with a military precision that would have made Chracuis beam with pride.

Under the cover of darkness the Boar Boats were readied. In the predawn hours Battalions One and Two had waited, undetected, among the low hills on either side of the port. As the rising sun turned the night to pale gray the port was attacked from the land and from the sea.

Again Freggcorm's designs bore the most sweet fruit. The barges worked like a marvel. They were no more than transport ships, but on the beaches, on the Comeratte king's own shores, the crafts were filled with sand, dry grass, and equipped with iron tipped rods. On cue, the boats were towed, each pulled by three fully-staffed oar-rakers until the crafts moved through the water with enough momentum to create a wake. Then it was just a matter of setting them afire and letting them go. The suicide steersmen piloted the crafts into the king's ships, which sat idle in the port, with deft precision. The speeding crafts tore the king's ships asunder, sinking craft, pier and storehouse. What didn't sink blazed with fire.

When the Alrican's tried to put out the flames and rescue their seamen from the rammed crafts, Division One attacked from the north. Division Two attacked, at the same instant, from the south. In six hours the port was secure, but more importantly, the Dral's army could now supply their men deep into the Comeratte king's territory using the two main rivers of the land, the Robien-Sinros and the René.

An army, led by the Comeratte king himself, came too late to defend the village. They fought both divisions down to only skeletal companies, but before the king's men could retake the city, two waves of transports landed on the beaches and the divisions were refitted with fresh troops. Two more armies arrived from the south, and soon the Comeratte king was on the run. When another company arrived after a secret trek from the east, the rout was on.

Again, this would have made His Majesty Chracuis proud. Why the Dral and the generals were the only witnesses to their stunning victories, Patrice could not say. Perhaps directing a battle from a thousand miles away had its advantages, Patrice thought, as he accepted another stack of reports. But somewhere in his heart, Patrice felt, knew, rather, that if the sides would have been switched, Isuair and Dealoraat, the Comeratte King, would be right here, in the port, overlooking every move, every man.

Patrice began combing through the reports. Their next objective, they stated, was the White Castle and the head of Comeratte King.

Once out of the canyon the land flowed green and lush. Ash found a trail leading to the foothills and into the heavily wooded banks of the lake. The path was clear, well traveled and forested on both sides. The afternoon sun shone bright, falling in great plots about the dense wood. The forest made their traveling easy—it shaded them from much of the sun and the cool earthy air made their burdens seem light. They would have been at peace had it not been for the host of grunting, snorting, thumping, chomping, cavemen host behind them. But after the solitude and confines of the Gorge, the open forest was especially welcome. The beauty of the lake and the surrounding area made for quick travel—time passed and the party moved deep into the lands of Valkera.

Between the trees glimpses of the lake soon appeared. A bank of ruddy ducks scurried into the water as the party passed. Shimmering through the wood, the lake's great expanse filled much of the horizon. The party moved quick now; they were only leagues from the meeting place described in the letter.

On a signal from Erow, the party came to a halt. They did not hide themselves, for the host behind them could be seen by all; but Erow's signal read—men ahead. At the edge of the lake they found what was left of a small detachment of the king's men. Three men, clinging to life, stood in a small camp with their weapons drawn. All appeared to be grievously wounded. Before the soldiers were the mounds of fresh graves. Alarmed by the group's approach, the men came forward with their weapons thrust before them. They were a pitiful group, and it saddened the party to see these men.

"Who comes forth?" shouted a soldier. His left eye wept blood, and his face was badly battered. The men stood, trembling, as Gwere, followed by his companions and the cavemen legion, entered the camp and encircled the men.

"My name is Gwere, son of Gwohan, son of Gwaine, Palace Captain of The Prince's Guard, Captain of the King's Elite Guard, and bearer of the King's Brand," he said. Many in the party had forgotten that Gwere held rank over all of the men in the king's army, and they stood now behind their captain with pride.

"I'm Ash..." whispered the manic into Mara's ear, "...just Ash." Mara smiled and frowned, and nudged Ash away from her with an elbow.

The soldier before Gwere began to weep. Gwere did not move or ask questions, he only stood grim-faced and waited. The man, after a moment, straightened, reported his rank and company to Gwere, and saluted. But he did not await further discourse, he and his companion took a third soldier into their arms. Erow and Linder pushed through the crowd and were working on the man before the soldier could fall to the ground.

The man with the injured eye introduced himself as Mika, and his companions as Bradur and Davue. Though much relived that the party was friendly, Mika appeared alarmed at the cavemen party that soon engulfed his camp. Erow and Linder practiced what skill they could, and tried to reassure the soldiers that the Cave People would cause them no harm. Erow called to Gwere and the party.

"One should make it, one shall surely perish, and the other will have only that one eye for the remainder of his days," said Erow. "We have done what we could for them, and they say they have a tale to tell." Ash, Gwere, and the rest of the party, encircled by the cavemen, gathered to listen to Mika's tale.

"Two days ago the wizard Isuair walked among us. He had orders for us to meet with you and to pass on a message. But first I must explain the king's plight, and our plight also, so that the message may have meaning," Mika said. "The battle at the Adlia Seaport went awry. The front lines were overrun, and the fight became one from within and without, costing us much of our company. We fought and fought, but the enemy had an endless supply of men; it became a rout. A second attack from they enemy crushed the back lines and reached the King's Guard. Reinforcements reached the king only just in time, and the vanguard pushed the enemy temporarily back. The king, the guards, and the remainder of the army began a hasty retreat. For two days we fought the retreat. Fresh forces from the enemy hit us at every turn. Many of the king's best fell, for the attack was endless, and we," Mika swallowed hard and continued, "were altogether spent. We lost his son, Captain Gwere." The man bowed his head and wept profusely. "We failed," Mika said. He wept but grimly continued. His face seemed to grow more dim with every word.

"The retreat became bloody and costly," continued Mika. "All forces were set upon. The king and his guard fought to the back lines and made a desperate dash to the castle. We received reports that they made it. Some, like us, were cut off, and used a flight to the wood to escape. Our party fled to the North Lake. We were pursued even there by what seemed like a battalion of the enemy. They still roam this wood—it is not safe here. How the enemy became so strong, so fast, I cannot say; for every enemy slain, two take his place. Finally our numbers were reduced to a dozen or so. We hid in the mountain trails on the northeast side of the Lake. We lost the enemy, and, as you can see," Mika said, with a wave of his arm to the graves, "also, most of us." As he spoke, Bradur approached; he whispered into Mika's ear. The soldiers shared a moment of silence, and Erow only shook his head in sadness. Mika continued.

"Of the group that made it thus far, only myself and Bradur are left. Davue, my mothers brother, who you met earlier, is no more." He placed his hands over his face and sobbed. The soldier before the party was very young. Taking a step back, the group let him be. But he called them together, determined to have his say and finish his tale.

"We rested here, hoping for more to join us from the rout. We were told a call was sent out to all the king's allies to come assist us. We waited, and during the darkest part of the evening, an old man appeared. In the firelight he seemed yet another nightmare come to visit us. But instead, it was our wizard. He said to await your approach, and left this message: 'Muster your army and make for the White Castle. Dispatch what men you find around the lake to the prince, warn him of the meeting place; do not go there. If you do not hear from me, come to the siege as quickly as possible. If fortune permits,' Isuair said, 'I will find you.' That was his message," said Mika,

"I fear the castle is besieged by thousands of the enemy," continued Mika. "We must break to there. Dispatch others to the prince; we will avenge our brothers. Bradur and I are fit for the journey, and know the way. Thank God you have come, and brought an... army. Are these skilled in battle?" Mika asked. "Will they hold ranks in a fray with overwhelming odds?"

"Their skill is beyond measure," Ash said. The manic had blurted it out, even he not knowing why. In the corner of his eye he saw Mara turn to him and frown. But he only looked ahead.

"Yes, they are trained assassins, and are more deadly than their look and bearing deem," said Erow. As he spoke he moved in front of Mara and took a quick step to the rear, pushing her back.

"Yes, you don't want to meet these guys in a fight," said Gractah.

"I thought they died with eas..." began Linder.

"Hush!" Gwere said. "All of you. We will heed Isuair's instructions, and make for the castle. He said to muster our army. Well..." Gwere said, motioning to the cave people, "this is our army."

"Then we must be off," said Mika with a glance to the Cave People, who sat, thumping the ground and smiling at all.

"Not you," said Gwere, "you also will abide by Isuair's orders. You have been charged with joining the prince and I would not change the wizard's plan. That is an order," Gwere said this last oath as a command. The soldiers were loath to leave the party, but dared not question Gwere, and after a quick meal and some provisioning Mika and Bradur said their good-byes and departed.

"Trained assassins?" Mara said with a laugh as the party prepared to move. "And the next person to bump me gets bloody-achy all over."

It was 1985. Slowly drifting through the layers of his unconscious, blurry images began to take shape as he woke. He was home after an unusually stiff bender. His mind mapped the next move he would make as he rose from his semi-sleep, in his room at his Mom's house. He would rise, and the routine would begin. It would be about eleven o'clock in the morning and everyone would be at work.

First, he would check for his wallet; then he would look for his keys. Then he would check to see if he had any money left. Four crumpled one-dollar bills occupied his wallet. That was what was left of his paycheck; he would have to borrow from Dad again. Dad always said, "Yes, but pay me back." Had he paid him back, last time? Ash couldn't remember. Then he would check to see if he had any weed left. A large portion of his Friday check usually went toward pot. He would need it to last out the week if he wanted the slow-burn of a weed high to take the edge off the endless concrete days and the occasional binge. He found his bag—it had the last crumblings, maybe four dollars worth, of a fifty-dollar buy. It was not even enough to roll a joint. He vaguely remembered shouting, "who wants to smoke the fattest joint in the world," at a party somewhere, but he shut the memory out.

Then he would creep out of his room and take a look in the mirror. He would check for injuries and abrasions; then he would check his body for bruises or bumps, especially large swollen kind that could indicate a broken bone. He would run his fingers through his hair and over his skull, feeling for aches. Then he would walk around the house, looking for messes, broken things, or perhaps a freshly painted wall; one never knew when inspiration would hit.

That was the problem with blackout drinking, it was always a drama, and it was best to do inventory as soon as possible after sobering up.

Next he checked the car. Was it parked on the lawn? Was one wheel on the curb? Was it even outside? He would walk around it a few times, looking for new dents or dings.

Someone once told him a story about a guy who woke up after a binge only to find a dead baby in his car's grill. The story ended with the guy spending the rest of his life in jail. But so far, no dead babies. Then he would call a few friends and see if they were still talking to him. If yes, could they tell him anything of the night before? He would have to place his inquiries in a way that didn't tip off his blackout. Often the response was "Dude! Man... you're INSANE..."

Then, last but not least, he would call his girlfriend. If all that went right, he would start to breathe. If all that went right, he would begin to plan his next drunk. It would start with calling around, checking for parties or friends that weren't busy, and then checking to see if Dad had any extra cash.

But he wasn't at his mom's house at all. There was no car to check, and there was no girlfriend to call and it was not 1985. He was in lockup; and he had pissed himself. His first thought was of the large stain at his crotch, and then of the hospital style pajamas he wore. Usually his oversized jacket hid most accidents, but it was nowhere to be found; nor were the rest of his clothes. The stain that covered his crotch darkened the blue one-piece pajama set from his waist to his thighs. Pulling his knees up to his chin, Ash began to search his brain for any memory of the recent past.

He had vague, shadowy memories of the last days. He remembered jonesing bad and being in some kind detox and then he remembered being in a courtroom. He remembered being asked a lot of questions that he didn't answer. He remembered tacky, fake wood paneling and dark, sunken, lined faces. He remembered a judge talking to him. He remembered the pain of the worst headache in his life. Rubbing his face as hard as he could, he could only think of one other thing, he could only think that he had to stop this insanity somehow; that, he knew, would take alcohol. His breath repulsed even his own nose, making him nauseous. A few feet from him was a stainless steel toilet, but he swallowed hard and tried to relax, hoping he could avoid sticking his head into its lidless hole. The night before, or a few nights before, he remembered being in the runoff channel of the Santa Ana River, with everything he would need for weeks in oblivion. And that was the key, he knew. He knew better than to stock up on booze. He knew better than to get into his possession more booze than he could drink in one night. He knew he drank it all, or tried to, and that IT made him Superman, and that as Superman he went out into the world. He didn't need any of the gory details.

His room had two bunks, but he was the only occupant, something for which he was truly grateful. He had only a thin blue blanket to accompany him. The walls of his cell had a heavy coat of washable yellow paint; his bunk was a metal shelf with an anchored pad.

The cell had no bars, only by a large metal door with a closed waist-high slot. The door had a little wire-reinforced window, through which only a part of a long yellow hall outside could be seen. Ash let out a long sigh, wrapped his thin blue blanket around him and laid his head down. He hoped that, wrapped as thus, a little more sleep would heal him.

As the company marched, Ash looked over his shoulder to check on their new and supposedly deadly army. He saw unkempt men toting wooden spears and sapling bows. The Cave People, with their Gold king in the lead, were always ten paces behind the party. For the first time in the journey the war seemed real to Ash; they were on their way to the front lines and only a few days back a rout had lead at least some of the king's men and reportedly a battalion of the enemy to the very spot where they now walked. It was likely that the party and their thousand caveman escort would come across their opponent soon; if the enemy were large enough they would in all probability slaughter the caveman throng. Ash thought that the seven of them could certainly out-smart, out-fight or out-run even the quickest, smartest or most deft enemy. But the cavemen would hardly be so skilled or lucky; their numbers were great but they would have no place to hide.

Suddenly, Ash felt their plight profoundly wrong. For whatever reasons the cavemen thought they were marching for, Ash suspected it wasn't to be slaughtered by a well-trained, well-equipped foe. As they moved through the forests of the northern lake and began the slow turn that would eventually lead them to the western shore, Ash grew cold. He felt that he must do something to awaken the Cave People of the danger, to give them a choice to go on or to turn back. He attempted to turn and wave his arms, to make one more try at communicating with the cave-army when the blades popped.

After a moment of complete confusion, Ash realized it was another ambush, with some of the enemy in the trees above them. Arrows rained on the party, and a large detachment of enemy soldiers charged into the company. Ash slew those closest to him, and looked for the others, but he could only see shapes. A noise had come to the trees and his vision had blurred.

Soon the manic felt the problem—in big pelts, it had begun to rain. It began to rain hard, harder than Ash ever remembered. Curtains of water isolated him; he searched and found Gwere, only by feel, while the big man stood among a pile of slain. Linder and Mara were close, but only as shadows. The drops from above stung his skin. Rehoak and Erow joined the manic, the captain and the shadows, and they shouted to the group.

"There's no more! There's no more enemy," Erow said, waving his arms around.

"It's true," Gractah shouted. "None of the enemy are around." Mara and Linder searched the forest near them but found only trees. But soon the forest began to darken with human shapes, and the group again readied their weapons; but it was only the Cave People. No enemy were to be found.

"How big of an enemy party was that?" Mara asked, as loudly as she could through the rain. The others were trying to protect themselves with their cloaks, holding them close to their heads. The Cave People ignored the rain and sat on the ground all around the party. They acted as if there was no danger.

"Much more than we saw," Gractah said. "the primitives flanked us on both sides and pulled many, maybe hundreds, of the enemy down—they have gone up the trail to pursue those who flee. These that follow us seem very different than the primitives that we saw at the red-rock place—that tomb palace."

"How many did you slay?" Erow asked, turning to Ash.

"No more than five, if that. The rain started and I couldn't see," said Ash. "You?"

"Same, which is strange; we were set upon by droves," said Erow.

"There were droves... they just vanished," shouted Gwere.

"Maybe they don't like the rain so much," said Linder.

Gwere got them moving, only to pause again. "They had help vanishing," Gwere shouted, pointing to a mound a dozen feet away. The party approached the heap, and found it to be dead enemy soldiers. There were more mounds in the graying distance. The mounds were six feet high and thrice that wide.

When the party moved the cavemen surrounding them separated; like a living creature, the group seemed always to be absorbed by the throng.

"They're like an amoebae. They give us space to move but they always contain us," Ash said.

"This is getting kind of creepy," shouted Mara. "What's a Meeba?"

"Hey, thanks cavemen guys!" Linder shouted to the masses around them. There was a low rumbling from the crowd, which soon subsided, leaving only the sound of the pelting rain. Ash walked around the Cave People parameter, until he saw, at the front of the trail, the Gold King. Ash placed himself in front of the Monarch and made a slow, deliberate, very low, bow. The cavemen host responded by chanting wildly. They jumped to their feet and danced, gyrating with great enthusiasm. The Cave King just smiled a big, confident grin. Ash turned to the others and raised his brow; they would indeed bring a deadly army to the king.

"Find shelter before we drown!" Gwere shouted. The party spread throughout the wood, searching for any dry spot. The Cave People followed. The group found a broad tree with dense leaves that provided some cover. It was impossible for Ash to see much of anything; the rain and forest hid everything around him. He could hear murmuring; thousands of the Cave People still surrounded them. It occurred to him again that he may be leading the Cave People to slaughter, and that the enemy party they had encountered had just been an inept group confused by the rain and their strange new army, but he no longer struggled with the thought; the cavemen would come and they would fight.

Then rain began in earnest. Huge drops thundered on the leaves of their shelter tree. In this roar, for no reason that Ash could say, he began to weep. He was grateful for the omnipresent water; it hid the slippery grasp he had on his strength and on his sanity. But doubts ate at the manic. He couldn't figure anything out—not the war, not the group, not the land, not the grinning, loving cavemen sitting around them—not his own part in the conflict. He could only stand and draw breaths in the forest-ocean about him. The party stood hugging the tree's trunk; all were cold, wet, and more than just a little confused.

The thunderous rain was still falling when the Gwere called them to move. The party and their escort made their way through the forest, passing many more mounds along the way. They had made the turn skirting the north end of the lake and were now moving down its western side. Thirty leagues south lay the castle; in between they could expect many more enemy encounters but also hoped to come upon some of the king's men. It would be at least two and a half days to the outer wall and the Owl Gate within it.

The Owl Gate was the entrance to the castle from the north; if the enemy were besieging the king's home they would likely gather there, having moved south from the seaports. The Owl Gate itself was a monstrous edifice, built to ward off attacks by the nomadic hoards that were common in the early days of the empire; the Gate entrance was built of stone in the shape of an owl's head and a traveler entered through the owl's mouth, via a slim bridge. Built into the owl's horns, high above the gate, were the watchtowers of the land; behind the eyes were built fires. All those that approached the gate felt the stony glare of the Owl's gaze, and the symbolism, the watching even in the dead of night, was obvious to all.

As they walked, the storm subsided and the skies cleared; only small pools reminded the party of the day's rain. The group had been following the Southern Rose trail which was wide and smooth, if not now muddy. The trees began to thin as the forest gave slowly way to long grasslands; each side of the trail was hedged with the tall growth. The party walked the path each at his own pace. Ash saw Mara had moved ahead of the others; he approached from the side and spoke as they walked.

"Why have you not yet fed us to the wolves?" asked Ash. His voice was low and soft. Mara stared at him, and then looked away. "You are in league with the Dral, you are in league with the Mara, and you are in league with us, 'the Eye-Sirs.' To whom will you be the most faithful, I wonder?"

"Thanks for the entertainment—incredibly realistic buffoon act. Now move along," said Massali.

"Don't you think when we reach your dark-power-evil-minion, buddies, they'll be a bit disappointed?" asked Ash, "I mean, we're here, right?"

"Okay, Merlin the Magician, what knowledge did your magic powers give to you today?" Mara asked. "I am the spy now, and I'm spying, on us, is that it?"

"Yup, is it you, Massali, or the whole of the Nation? Do we have to worry about every Mara? And why haven't you sabotaged us or led us to the enemy?" Ash asked. "You're running out of time, aren't you? Soon, you will betray one side or the other. You must decide where your allegiance lies," Ash said. Then he whispered, "Decide on us, Stinker." His voice betrayed him as it unexpectedly cracked. "We need you, Sweetie. We need you most." Ash paused as Linder gravitated within earshot; when it became obvious that Mara and Ash wouldn't continue while she was present, the princess moved away.

"We need to talk about this," Ash said, "see if maybe you can officially rejoin the group—forgive and forget—that kind of thing. You know, in case we run into more enemy men and they address you by name. That way nobody gets the wrong idea," Ash said.

"Ash," said Mara, laughing, "Stay out of my business. Tell the others whatever you want; I could care less about the spew that comes from your stink-hole. But anyone, anyone, mind you, that draws on me stops breathing. Now leave me be, Magic-Village-Idiot-Boy."

"Sir, we are thin along the coast," Patrice said, "and we have not heard from the men guarding the north lake in some time." The general he addressed was younger, less experienced and had never before seen battle. Patrice thought the man's decisions were made without deliberation and appeared impulsive; much of the time the general parroted party lines while facts, circumstances, data and logic were ignored as inconveniences. The general was typical of most Movement members—any opposing position, any alternative suggestions however valid—were met with bitter contempt, or worse, an outright attack on the messenger who, by offering a differing stance, became an instant adversary.

Patrice waited and waited. After a long moment, the general spoke. "Throw Two, Three and Seven at the castle. Have it in hand by morning." Without a word of dismissal or even the wave of the man's hand, the general returned to his papers; he was furiously writing tiny letters at the head of each sheet. Patrice noticed the general had small, child-like hands.

Patrice stood, waiting, until he guessed, until he assumed, that he had been dismissed. He didn't ask any questions. He didn't ask how Division Three was supposed to besiege the castle when it was a week away, far north, still engaged with the Duke.

But the man had one thing Patrice didn't; MPN 53. Movement Party Number Fifty-three. It was rumored that when the Movement began it was called 'The Movers.' and had only sixteen members; but then Galso came along. He changed the name; he changed the flag. He rallied the men into a brawling, bawdy party. He began a skilled campaign of propaganda, one that drew attention away from the real problems of the people and toward the idea of an instant paradise reclaimed; Alrica. He stirred the party with violent speeches calling on his followers to avenge their greatest humiliation—the lost of a war and the loss of their Eden. The fact that the event he railed against happened four-hundred years prior did not matter; his followers beat the drum until no other noise could be heard. All either followed or became the enemy. Naturally, all followed, including Patrice.

Even the king feared Galso and yielded to the 'indiscretions of power,' that the Movement's leader practiced on an almost regular basis. Most knew Galso ran the kingdom and most knew that after Alrica was reclaimed he would run that, too. It was also rumored that Galso, embarrassed at the group's humble beginnings, began the party numbers at fifty; fifty-three was a general. Patrice sighed as he walked to his mount outside the command tent; it was time to execute Objective-A, time to kill a king.

Ash was sure it was not a good thing to be a Magic-Village-Idiot-Boy so he wandered away from Mara, as he did Linder drew near him.

"How's it going, Stinkbutt?" she asked. Linder was a competent warrior but it seemed to Ash that she would be better served chasing birds or collecting flowers instead of engaging in combat. The rest of the troop would feel a lost during peacetime, Warrior-idleness, they would call it. They would play war games during those periods; to them the dulling of their battle skills would be considered a great loss, but for Linder those skills didn't seem of value. Ash just stared at her, while wondering at the nickname she had used.

"How's Mara?" Linder asked. "You guys getting along okay?"

"We're great, thanks, Linder," Ash said.

"Anything I should know about?" asked Linder. Ash sighed, took a deep breath, and said, "Yes, but not right now. There's some unfinished business we need to attend to, but right now, just right now, there seems to be something important lying in the balance, and we need to wait and see which way this wind blows." Ash wondered if he was being truthful enough, or if he was making any sense at all.

"There's a whole herd of Orange-Green Dew Cows on your side, Ash," Linder said, smiling broadly. Ash looked at her, and smiled back. He hoped she didn't see the thoughts running through his head, thoughts about how beautiful she was, how lovely a smile she had, and how lucky a man would be to have her. In that moment of distraction he tread heavily into a bush which pulled at his cloak and pricked at his legs. Jumping back awkwardly, the manic tried to free himself and lost his balance; while on the ground Ash caught sight of Massali watching them. The Mara immediately turned as Ash caught her eye. He pulled the branches out of his cape and brushed the road dust from his legs. Linder was laughing and had quickly picked two flowers, one which she placed behind his ear and one which she put in his lapel. Their eyes met; Ash felt a pang, deep within him, that he hadn't felt for a long time. He knew Linder, somehow.

"You tell those Gold Cows of yours," Ash said, "that I think all living things love them. I know, because I have a magic powers, and these magic powers tell me things."

"What kind of things?" Linder asked.

"Well, they tell me that you really don't belong here, they tell me that on a cool autumn evening like this you belong in a warm cottage lit throughout with candles, with a fire burning in the hearth. They tell me that instead of armor, you should be adorned in riding clothes, with a crown of flowers in your hair. They tell me your door should open to reveal a prince; he ends his search for a traveling friend as you come into his arms. Once found, you are with him, adventuring, loving, holding, and cherishing, for that moment and all of the next. Linder, they tell me, were you to give him half a chance, he would love the heavens out of you."

"You tell my prince I'm waiting... Do you hear me, Ash?" Linder said, "you tell him I'm waiting!" Ash watched as her eyes welled up, and it hit him again that his 'this is a game' rationale only held the promise of self delusion. He felt that if any harm befell these people he would go insane. This thought was almost more than he could bear; he stared at Linder until he couldn't stop himself. He grabbed the princess, clasped the nape of her neck, pulled her body close and sunk his kiss deep into her.

Ash and Linder, locked in an embrace among the tall pines, engaged in a deep evening interlude, stayed the group. For an endless moment, they all stood silent. The Cave People enclosed them in a circle and began to hum and beat drums, filling all the wood with a melodious vibration that echoed through the trees. Ash and Linder held each other while the rising moon turned the land about them to silver.

Evening had come at last, and after traveling the entire day the party was eager for rest. They gathered wood, lit a fire, and made what dinner they could. All eyes seemed to stray to Ash and Linder, but no words were spoken. After their brief meal the fire grew old and most threw themselves down to sleep. Before the sun rose, the blades popped, and Isuair walked into the group.

"Isuair!" shouted Linder, and she jumped to greet the wizard with an embrace. A great rumbling grew from within the Cave People that built into a roar. All the group rose, all the Cave People rose, joy filled the wood, and their hearts warmed. Their wizard was back.

"Do you know why you are here, Mr. Ash?" the doctor asked. She was older, almost grandmotherly, but she had the look a professional develops when they are around human discards too long; she portrayed an almost disregarded sadness.

"Because I drink," Ash said.

"No, because the police found you naked in a drainage channel," said the doctor. "You were hypothermic and delusional and therefore a danger to yourself. That's why you were brought here. We evaluate those who, in the opinion of the courts, are deemed a danger to themselves or others." The doctor did not look up. She did not look at him; she stated the facts as if she were reading from a manual. "So, this is an evaluation, do you understand that, Mr. Ash?" She introduced herself as Doctor Andrea Walters, a clinical psychologist employed by the county. "Can I ask..." but Ash interrupted before she could finish her question.

"Can I get some medication?" asked Ash. "I need something or I get the shakes."

"Fill out these forms, including this." She handed him a form with the words, "Medical History," across the top. "You'll be given a second medical exam. I'm sure you'll need detoxing, and we can help you with that—but only after we receive all this information, completed in full, will we prescribe any medication. Miss Hill will assist you if you have any questions." From the side of the room a young woman in a nurse's uniform smiled and nodded to Ash.

Sitting on a bus, shackled to a metal raining, Ash watched the land outside roll by. Most of it was gray buildings, light poles and street signs. The examination took only an hour. He answered all the doctor's questions; he was given food and medication. But when he told her the story of the wizard, she wanted him out. He wasn't sure if the medication was strong enough to ward off the shakes and could only hope that the bus ride would be short. He was wrong. The trip to San Bernardino Eisenhower Mental Hospital would take three hours.

Two seats up from Ash sat a decrepit, pathetic looking man with a long beard and shaggy, dirty hair. Ash wouldn't have given him a second thought, except that this man hummed. He hummed and murmured excessively. Hmmm, hmmm, hmmm. To keep his mind off the droning of his only other bus-mate, Ash tried to focus; he counted cars.

He counted how many blue cars he saw pass the bus as it rolled along the road. Then, at a stop sign before the freeway on-ramp, Ash saw her. Standing on the corner, waiting for the light to change, stood a woman. Tall and striking, lean and trim, the woman held a strong resemblance to his ex-wife. Ash hadn't seen his ex in years and he couldn't be sure that this woman was her, but the resemblance was uncanny. A chill, one Ash immediately attempted to drown, spread from his heart as thoughts of the past welled in his spirit. The might have beens. The could have beens. The choice. The wrong choice. Ash spent years with the woman before he picked alcohol. As the bus drove by, the woman looked up and Ash saw it was not his Linda.

When the bus entered the freeway Ash thought back to his married days. No two people can ever be completely compatible, Ash thought, but he had it as close as he could have imagined. She let him take over, directing their lives and their future while she planned their weekends and vacations. They lived within their means and even saved some money. They were compatible in bed, each looking after the other's needs with curiosity and inventiveness, with playfulness and genuine care. They looked after each other with love. Holding hands mattered. Sadness was their enemy and joy was their friend. Their interests varied; but they had enough in common to keep their life interesting. They made a conscious decision to be childless, because neither had any desire to recreate the family life they experienced when they were young. Their upbringing wasn't bad, they just had no desire to relive the growing pains of a developing child while living the life of a maturing parent. They enjoyed life. Truth was, they still wanted to be kids themselves. But after a while their lives became routine, and, at least for Ash, boredom became a problem. Of course, Ash found a nip here and there, helped.

When they were young, everything they did was fun. They went on adventures that filled their hearts and fed their souls. In their professional lives they grew and prospered, each staying with the same company for many years. But as they aged, Ash began to drink more and more. Booze drew him. Then came the fights, the long talks about his "problem" and finally his departure.

The streets were the only place where he could drink the way he wanted, with abandon, without restraint. For weeks he stayed in cheap motels, but soon his money ran out. After a few harsh nights out on the street, Ash made his way back to their old apartment, in Fullerton, but she was gone. A stranger occupied their place. From then on he was alone.

Excerpt from Dr. Boyd Isherwood and Patient Ash (No other name would he give), March 2003, taken from the notes of the Doctor's assistant, V. T. Owen. Eisenhower Medical Hospital, San Bernardino County, California.

(Included are the doctor's margin notes.)

"So the wizard came and took part of you to a magic land? You think that explains the troubles you have now?" (Doctor)

"You think I'm crazy..." (Patient)

"No, actually, our patients usually know his or her body and mind better than anyone. If you're suffering from some impairment or illness, and know about it, or know its cause, I want to know also. Tell me everything."

(Slowly the patient Ash began his story. It took more than two hours, and he said he skipped great parts of the tale. It rolled off his tongue easily, as if rehearsed. He had answers and rationales for every questionable point of logic. Often, when a contradictory part of the story was pointed out, the patient he would point a finger and say 'Ah... I wondered that too...' before continuing with an imaginative clarification.)

"How do you know all this? You know the whole thing, event by event, and not only those events that you personally experienced, but everything. How is it that you know it like a story or a movie, and not like a memory?" (Doctor)

"There is a magic link." (Patient response)

"Also, there are inconsistencies in the tale. How come Mara/Massali seems not to know anything about her past, and has no connection with Marla? Why are their names different, but Ash's is the same?" (Doctor)

"I think she might, but hides it. Besides, Marla doesn't drink. The Mara renamed her." (Patient)

"Why didn't she recognize Ash? She was in the 'Castle of No Escape' too, correct? Yet she remembered nothing about it when Ash brings it up. Were they in it together, did they, or couldn't they, have met? How come Ash has magic powers, and not Mara? How come she doesn't have a magic bag or blanket? Where are her magic blades, and how come she is a Mara? Also, if Ash came from the 'machine world' where magic was lost, where did he get his magic powers?"

"The stars pointed him out, he's different." (Patient)

"You are different, you mean?" (Patient shows little response to direct challenges of his story.)"Mr. Ash, do you ever think, or has it ever occurred to you, that it's okay for you to drink as much as you do because you are different? That you don't fit into this world because you are different? That you can break the rules, live on the streets, drink to excess, and have magic tales, because you are just different?"

"Obviously I am different. Do you see anyone else here with an invisible connection with another being, pulled from his very soul, living in a magic land that is at war..."

"No, Mr. Ash, I don't. By the way, thank you for answering my questions with such candor, you are being a tremendous help. But let me ask you this, do you think you have any addictions?"

"I drink," (Patient)

"Could that explain your troubles more than this tale can? What about the magic Ash, Does he have addictions?"

"Ash is addicted to blood..." (Patient)

"Which Ash?" (Doctor)

"Magic Ash."

"Are you addicted to blood?" (Dr. Isherwood)

"No." (Patient)

"Do you drink blood or use it in rituals?"

"No!" (The patient, shifting in his seat, responded to the blood questions with great agitation.)

"Magic Ash is addicted to killing, to slaying his enemies. It's an addiction to power, it's an addiction to the ultimate power over his enemies, the power to bring death." (Patient response)

"So he has the power to change the things that hurt him, to ultimately destroy the things or the people that disturb him. Do you feel disturbed by others Mr. Ash?" (Dr. Isherwood)

"No, I drink." (Patient)

"Do you wish for the ultimate power over those around you..."

"No!" (The patient rolled his eyes and slunk into his chair. He buried his face into his hands. After a moment he sat up and let out a deep breath. The patient was edgy, irritated and fidgety.) "Are you Okay to continue with the examination, Mr. Ash?"

"Sure," (Patient broke into a coughing fit. When he recovered from the fit, he asked to continue.)

"Do you understand that these crying fits and thoughts about suicide are symptoms of depression?"

"No. They are just sad. Ash and his friends are sad. They watch their friends get hurt and die. If you were sad you would cry or think about ending it all." (Patient)

"Have you ever sought, or thought about other explanations for the problems that you experience, Mr. Ash?" (Doctor)

"No. Can I have more medication tonight? Last night was bad." (Patient)

"I'll look into your dosage, Mr. Ash. Let me ask you this. What do you think about when you drink?" (Doctor)

"When I drink, the connection gets stronger, and I see the magic land." (Patient reply)

"What happens if you don't drink, do you still feel the connection?" (Doctor)

"Yes, if I daydream, I make the connection. I also get it strong when I sleep. I get the war in my dreams, in my nightmares." (Patient reply)

"Do you feel that your excessive alcohol use has damaged you, your friends, your family, or other relationships?" (After a momentary lack of response, patient began to weep.)"Do you need anything, Mr. Ash?" (Patient was handed and accepted a box oftissues.)

"Booze has ruined my life," (Patient reply)

"Do you build on the story when you drink?" (Doctor)

"I experience more of it," (Patient response)

"Specifically, is it possible that you are making this entire story up, bit by bit, to keep your mind occupied and off the problems that continued use of alcohol is causing you? That if you don't tell yourself these stories, you may begin to dwell on your life? And wouldn't that be painful, especially if you were drinking? Wouldn't thinking about drinking, and the problems caused by its continued use, especially while you consume more alcohol, be painful? Wouldn't that pain be intense?" (No response)"Is this all in your mind Mr. Ash?"(No response)"Is this an escape, Mr. Ash?"(No response) "Ash, are you not good enough? Will you eventually hurt the people you love and let them down? Will you betray them?"

(Patient begins to weep profusely)

"Ash, Did you kill Vel?"

(Weeping intensifies. A nurse provides the patient with immediate medication)

END OF INTERVIEW. 3/12/05—4:53 PM

Ash re-clipped the blades after scanning the area. He saw only an enormous throng of exuberant cavemen and a weeping, hugging Linder. It was some time before Isuair could get the woman from his arms. All the group greeted Isuair by a gentle clashing of their clenched fists. All, but Ash.

"Well met," said the wizard, and he turned to the cavemen and smiled. They thumped all the more passionately at his attention. All seemed elated to see the wizard. "How was your lunch at the Gorge? How are you all? Ash, have you been naughty or nice to my friends? Tell me or I will be cross!" said the wizard, leaning on his staff.

"So far I have kissed the girls and made everybody cry," Ash said. "And, we have made some friends, I think," Ash said, looking to the cave-crowd. "I'd truly be grateful if you could tell us what on earth they are doing here, and why they are following us. You don't perchance, Oh-Great-and-Mystical-One, happen to speak cavemen language?"

"I do, and now that you need me, look how nice you are!" said the wizard. He turned to the crowd around him, and summoned the Cave king. After a short exchange, in which the strange murmuring began to meld into words to Ash's ear— including one grunt which sounded like the word Seidir—Isuair turned to the party.

"I do not know what questions you could have," said the wizard. "They watched your skill at destroying the cannibals that were in alliance with the enemy at Drigchimthe, the old palace, and have joined the party to serve the king. And, of course, they had seen, a long time ago, you coming from the castle—what is the absurd name you call it, Ash? The castle of no return?"

"The Castle of No Escape," said Ash.

"Well, they seemed quite impressed that you had escaped," said the wizard, furrowing his brow.

"Tell me about that castle," Ash asked. His face flushed as he spoke. "What was it... how did I get there..." But the wizard interrupted him.

"Another time, perhaps, Mr. Ash," said the wizard.

"Wizard..." Ash began. But Ash stopped mid-sentence. He had forgotten what he wanted to ask the wizard, and, of course, he did not see the small spell lines in the air about him that vanished as quickly as they had come.

"But as far as the folk around you," Isuair continued, "you'll find them handy warriors. In fact, your leisurely strolls through these woods wouldn't have been possible without them. They have been moving in front of, and all around you, clearing out a multitude of the enemy. Be assured that your foes had been plentiful along this path. But come, tell an old wizard what adventures have befallen you since we met last."

Isuair sat among them, enjoying their fire, and listened as the party talked of their adventures. He seemed very interested in the party's latest encounter with the enemy in the wood. He talked with all the party, but his gaze began to fall more and more on Ash and Mara.

After telling their tale, the group listened as Isuair talked of the war. "The White Castle, with our king in it, lies a few days across the wastes. It is besieged and he is held captive," said the wizard. "In between, you will find many hosts of the enemy. But it's the castle we worry about. We have tallied at least two hundred thousand men at the castle's outer walls, and they have been using nasty magic to assail the stone," Isuair said. "I have the remnants of a few companies, gathered into a small battalion, waiting just north of here. The enemy knows of our existence, and has sent a division to assail us. But your friends here," Isuair said while gesturing to the cave people, "seem to have taken care of them. The enemy concentrate on the castle, but between here and there their forces are thin, especially between the lake and the hills," Isuair said.

"During my talk with Komana, the leader of the Isamari, or your 'Cave People' as you so eloquently named them," Isuair continued, "they number in the low sixty-thousands. I feel we have two choices before us. I feel you must pick one by dawn at the very latest. One, we march south along the lake's shore and try to meet up with the prince. Or two..."

"We take on those guys. We send word to the castle, and coordinate an attack. We come in from the north and when we get to the castle, the king and his army blast out from the gate and together we smash the enemy. We crush them with one final battle," Rehoak shouted. Normally the quietest in the group, the orange beard was on his feet, pacing before the fire.

"How many men are in the castle, Isuair?" Gwere asked.

"Thirty thousand maybe, but the Royal Guard and the king's men are the finest soldiers in all the land."

"Do you have word of the prince?" Gractah asked.

"He is seven days away," said the wizard "we could probably meet with him in five, if we moved fast."

"Seven? They must have made good time," Linder said.

"And you have dallied. But you are here now, and you bring an army," said Isuair.

"What about other companies?" asked Erow.

"Any that come will be sent onward. I have men watching the meeting place, but so have the enemy. We would need to meet the prince before that spot," said Isuair. "We can expect maybe another twenty-thousand from the surrounding fiefdoms friendly to the king. Which is well, for I have been getting disturbing reports from the scouts that the enemy still lands men, even today. If they land enough men to overwhelm us in numbers, we are lost. That is why the king went to fight at the coast, if they could have stopped the landings..." said the wizard, rubbing his beard. "... ah, but alas, that is past history."

"What happened to the king's army at the seaport?" asked Gwere.

"They were overwhelmed, they took thousands of enemy lives, but the enemy's strength never seemed to diminish," Isuair said. "Then the king's army made a nasty retreat to the castle."

"Isuair, we can't just charge the castle," said Ash.

"You have a plan then?" asked the wizard, "young man?"

Divisions One, Two and Seven had come so close to capturing the Comeratte king that it made Patrice's heart skip just thinking about it. He took a deep breath and tried to remember that this campaign was years in the making, and that patience, too, was a weapon. They would take the king soon enough. But they had been so close, God, they had been close. While the rout was on the king and his guard had became separated. Patrice's men, at an impossibly high cost, had pulled down many of the king's famous black-uniforms and had trapped them in the open wastes. Only a handful of the Elite remained and the king and his guard were floundering more than a mile from the castle. To take the king in the first campaign would have been an immortal feather in their cap, one that would have never faded. It almost made him shake to think how close they came. The death of son Number-One buoyed the troops to great heights as they paraded his head among the armies, but the taking of the king himself would have been nothing short of magic.

But then the damn wizard showed up. Again the Dral failed to live up to his words. The dark wizard had assured them that the Comeratte Wizard was an old has-been, toothless and void of power. But that's not how it appeared on the battlefield. Isuair-the-Snake struck with a host of black uniforms from the shores. They had come in boats. Patrice had told the general that they were thin along the coast. He had been ignored, and now, most likely, he would have to answer for this breach, this thing. It was more than just having the king escape, it was a blow to their surgical skill, to their flawless strategy, to their plan.

And to make matters worse, the wizard had used their own damn boats. Soon, Patrice would be summoned and the 'how did this happen?' talk would begin. 'Well sir, the Movement dotard's party number was higher than mine.' Patrice looked down. 1356781 stared back at him, albeit upside-down.

But the future still looked bright. Four full Divisions had the king surrounded in his own home, and Patrice's men had begun besieging the castle. He also had a full division at the north lake where the last of the king's men gathered. But more problems had surfaced. Freggcorm's catapults didn't work. On the test-field the had used a different rope. A Movement genius had decided to save weight and space by using the same rope from the boat riggings to wind the catapults. They broke. Without new rope the catapults were useless.

But the Dral had supplied them with a powder that made a magic boom and crushed rock. With this the southern wall was being hit with great force, and it showed signs of infirmity. They would feign an attack from the south with the magic powder and then take the Owl Gate from the north with all their strength. They had three more divisions on their way from Adlia, and when they arrived they would break the castle with brute force and kill the king, once and for all. Then it would be just the matter of dealing with the populace, which the Movement was more than adept to do, and the land would again be theirs. There were, however, a few disturbing reports in Patrice's big pile. One—that the prince, son Number-Two, had not, as the Dral promised, been eliminated. He still continued his pursuit to assist his father. He would arrive, according to the reports, in a week or less, and the reports stated that he had been gathering armies as he traveled. And two—that he still sided with the Comeratte's. Isuair's protégé was supposed to have switched sides. He had not. The Dral's spy had done nothing at all. Another tree of the Dral's that failed to bear fruit.

"How well do any of you know this area?" asked Ash. "I have been through here many times and know it like mine own hand. After we clear the forest, we enter the Waste Hills. The hills are exposed to the elements without tree or brush. Nothing grows in that valley. All you'll find is a great expanse of nothingness. Did you say, Isuair, that the enemy has detected the presence of your men?" Ash asked. The wizard nodded. "Well, you were probably left alone because you weren't an immediate threat."

"Maybe, but I also think the Isamari had a hand in our 'being left alone,'" said Isuair, "...but continue..."

"Well, the enemy knows where you are, and knows that the Waste Hills are between you and the castle," Ash said. "The enemy expects a direct assault on the castle. Think of the 'two-hundred thousand' men. They prepare for the same thing the king awaits, the prince's army, and whatever other forces the king can muster. They also may worry about armies from the north coast. Isuair, have you heard anything of the brother? The Duke of Herbaral? I know he is a great force in himself," said Ash.

"Alas, he fights up north, his coastal kingdom was one of the first hit. He has his hands full, and will not be able to spare any men, even if he frees his own shores," said Isuair. "We will not be able to look there for help."

"Were I the enemy, I would want to tie up the king's allies to isolate him. A great fear, for them, must be the possibility that one of the king's friends would break free and come to his rescue, while the prince still gathers forces and advances," Ash said. "That would strike fear into their hearts. And fear is the battle. We must make them afraid."

"What do you have in mind?" asked many together.

"The Duke of Herbaral, to the rescue," Ash said. "He and his army of thousands make an appearance at the northern edge of the Waste Hills; that would strike fear into the enemy, and more importantly, it would bring them away from the castle and out into the wastes." There was grumbling among the party, and Isuair confirmed that it would be impossible, for even were the Duke were free, which he was not, it would take him a week to make the southward journey to the castle.

"At the southern end of the Waste Hills lies the enemy army, besieging the castle. We are at the northern end of the lake, with the Wastes in-between. We stand with a cave army and the remnants of the king's army you have stashed away. If we could bring the enemy into the wastes, we could send most of your men and the Cave People half-way down the shores of the lake, make a right turn and hit the enemy on it's undefended flanks in the middle of the wastes—if, mind you, if we can draw them into that valley."

"It's an okay plan," said Rehoak. "Are the magic knives any good at summoning up whole armies out of thin air?"

"No, but we don't need them to. We don't need the Duke's army. We need only to make the enemy think the Duke has come," said Ash. "Isuair, you said a big part of the king's army fled to these northern shores. An army on the run like that would leave lots of junk behind, right?"

"Yes," Isuair said with a wide grin. "Of course."

"Well, we must gather all the trappings of a great army, especially wagons and machines," said Ash. "Especially banners."

"There are carts around the edge of the forest, at the tree-line, that were abandoned," said Isuair. "Some store-piles, where we may find everything from standards to parts for catapults."

"The land in hills of the wastes is very dry," Ash said. "We will need to gather all the carts, wagons, machines, bushes, trees... anything, and tear across that dry land, dragging it all behind. We need to kick up enough dust to make it appear that a giant army is screaming into the wastes to rescue the king. We will need to fashion banners, scores and scores of them, with the Dukes colors, to convince those that watch that it is indeed a threat that comes upon them from the north. We bet on fear. We bet on the fear they feel when they think the Duke's army is coming to the rescue. We bet that fear makes them do something rash, like charge into the wastes, and into our trap. We will need about two hundred strong men," Ash said, "and lots of junk to drag."

"I have what you need," said Isuair. "But, I caution you, this is a hard path. If we do succeed in drawing the enemy into the wastes, those two hundreds may find great peril... Or, if we do not draw the enemy into the plain, and they are alerted to our presence while moving down the lake, our army will be open for a slaughter on the shores of the Valkera. There will be nowhere for them to go..."

"All we have to do is convince the enemy scouts, and fear will do the rest," said Ash, hoping what he said was true.

As they walked the forest edge, making their way to the men Isuair had mustered, they still debated Ash's plan. Someone would need to lead the fake army to the first hills in the north waste. Someone would need to lead the real army down the shores of the Valkera for the flank attack, and someone would have to get the message of the plan, into the castle and to the king. The details proved harder to plan than the plan itself. As the party trudged through the dark forest's leafy bottom, they left the trail and made for the company Isuair had hidden away.

It was early autumn and the forest was in a state of change. Many of the trees had already shed their foliage, and the floor was thick with leaves. Other leaves, some the size of Ash's hand, floated through the air as they walked in the dim light. Much of the wood was still lush and green, refusing yet to yield to winter. The air was cool and dry, but a blustery wind made it a perfect time for a cup of hot tea or steaming pot of coffee.

The party had neither, and much less food than they would have liked. But the sun had begun to rise and would soon be providing warmth with its golden rays. The forest gnats swarmed in circles in the sunny patches of the new day. During their walk, Ash saw shadowy figures stalking the group. Sentries and watchers, no doubt protecting the men Isuair had gathered. Isuair brought them into a clearing, where they were met by a great group of very careworn men.

In the army's camp, the group assembled around a fire, jubilant at the appearance of coffee, food, and supplies that the king's men had gathered after the rout. Isuair called to the Captains of the Army and introduced them to Ash. Ash instructed them on what he thought they would need to equip the feint. He told them to scour the area for every cart, wheel, or axle that could be carried or dragged. He told them to find war machines and scaling ladders, and to gather brush that could be pulled to create dust. Also, he told them, they would need to construct banners. Ash was pleased to learn that the men had a dozen horses, and that they were fit for battle. They would be used to bear the Duke's standard.

This was to be no ordinary army attacking the northern front of the enemy; it was to be an assault by a strong member of the Royal House, the Duke. His banner, his standard, would need to be raised high in battle. Every member of the army was participating in the ruse. Ash laughed as he passed a great circle of men and women, dressed in battle gear, sewing the first of the banners and gossiping as if they were grandmothers. They talked as they sewed; each with needle and thread, each with bits of cloth. As Ash walked he saw Mara, Gwere, Gractah and Rehoak, but could not find Linder or Erow. Linder at least would have been suited for this task; he began searching for them when Isuair approached.

"The army awaits instructions," the wizard said.

"Get the them to the lake—move down its shore until you reach the Rift and the Trill valleys, and attack the enemy between those hills, by tomorrow dawn, at the latest. That will give us this day and the whole night to convince the enemy that the Duke indeed comes," Ash said. "Leave as soon as possible, and expect the enemy in the valley when you enter it. Take the party with you, and take care of them for me, Isuair, watch over them with all the care you can." Ash focused on the wizard. "Keep them in the rear. I'll need two hundred men with me to pose as the Duke's army," Ash said. "Hey, have you seen..."

"You will lead them then," said Isuair.

"Yeah—that okay?" asked Ash. He looked to the old man. But he saw nothing in the wizard's eyes.

"It feels right," said the wizard.

"I'll try to make a good show. But we need the men that go with me to be volunteers, Isuair," Ash paused as his eyes fell upon the men and women chatting in the sewing circle. He was having trouble completing this last thought. He stopped, and turned close to the wizard. He talked next with great earnest. "Eye, you're probably right about what you said earlier. After you break into the enemy, send the group to us; we may find ourselves in grave need," Ash said, watching the men. All were determined and resolved, all took to the task at hand with great attention. "If you find the whole enemy army in the valley, come for us," Ash said, eye-to-eye with the old wizard. He scanned the old man's face to see if the man understood.

"I understand, lad," said the wizard. "I understand."

"What's up, Eye?" Mara asked. She caught the wizard as he walked and pulled his sleeve until he stood with her.

"What do you mean, dear?" Isuair said with a small sigh. Mara stood silently for a minute and let his sleeve fall.

"Gee, good plan, Ash," she said. "Wow, nobody thought of that, Ash. Boy are you smart, Ash."

"That's enough," said Isuair, "let this play out."

"He's a buffoon," Mara said.

"Of our options, this one is as good as any. His plan is solid, borrowing a page from the machine world's, Rommel... something. It's so obvious that it might work," the wizard said with a laugh. "Plus, he's got other tools. As long as he goes with the men who make the cloud, I'm for it."

"Isn't this taking the 'he's our best buddy' thing a bit far?" asked Mara. "Letting him plan battles is just insanity," Mara said. "Let the king's advisors work with the army, wizard."

"You have all done a marvelous job at befriending him. We must thank the prince for his insight—he surely picked the right people," Isuair said. "And Ash is taken to you. But the game is still on. We must keep befriending him. Any signs of him turning must be... dealt with," Isuair said.

"That's another thing," said Mara. The warrior raised a finger. "That spell isn't going to do anything against him. He's much too dangerous, he's already begun to construct his own spells."

"I've seen his white, ah, white-ish lines," laughed Isuair.

"Interesting that you two share the same color," said Mara, "but you did notice the tiny black specks in his, that should make you pause. He's dang..."

"If he decides to fight for the other side, then, you will know danger. Then, you will see what true power is; he and the Dral would be literally unstoppable. So keep that spell handy and do your job."

"I did my job. He's here and he's staying."

"They will try to lure him!" Eye said, turning. There was an anger to his eyes that surprised Mara.

"He loves Linder and I," Mara said. She placed her hand under Eye's arm, making contact but not grabbing the wizard. "And is enthralled with the big-man-on-campus, head of our group, thingy." She stood before Isuair and attempted to calm their exchange. She did it by focusing on her subject and melting her voice. She did it with unemotional, controlled detachment. "All that is fine," she said, "I just don't want to follow this guy's rudimentary plans and watch thousands die."

"He loves you guys," said Isuair. "He's firmly committed to our side. If he comes up with a plan that has even a remote possibility of success, we'll try it. He's bent on fighting for our side, and as long as that's the case you'll be his best friend in the world. Set your mind straight—as far as you're concerned, he's the smartest, handsomest, wittiest guy in all the land."

"The phrase, 'thousands die' seems to have escaped you," Mara said, in turn, herself growing angry.

"Everything's working thus far—the letter switch, the Dral and you—Ash is in our camp, and that Moo-Cow spell will work if we need it to. This is just the beginning. We have so much more before us," said the wizard. Mara just stared at him, so he began again. "It's the simplest of plans. There is no conversation here, Massali, everything we do can be put up against that simple plan and judged. Does this further our cause or hinder it? That's it, Massali. That's it."

"You may, of course, step up to the plate yourself," Isuair began again, and his voice took on an edge. "How have you progressed? I know you have more of the touch, much more than you let on, but that you hide it, even from me. You have a color of your own, yes? And it's an awful dark color, Sweetie," Isuair said. The wizard's use of Ash's favorite sobriquet did not escape the standing warrior. "And you have designs within the Nation, do you not?" The wizard stared hard at Mara and continued. "A little girl Ash would suit you, no?" Isuair asked. But Mara stood silent, again focusing on her subject. Control was always elusive around the wizard, but this last thought surprised her. "How have you done with your copy of the White Book?" the wizard asked.

"I lost it."

"Then we're looking to him—period," Isuair said. "The choice has been made, so keep the peace!" When he finished speaking, Mara felt a force push against her, a force powerful enough to make her take a step back.

"Isuair, talk to me!" Mara said as the wizard turned away. With a marked effort Isuair again stopped.

"He could be the Seidir," Isuair said, "and though you may vie for the female version of that mantle and try and wrest that power from him, we still need to keep in mind that this little escapade may just be the first step down a road preordained by a power and a glory that sets all our destinies, and that we need to act accordingly," Isuair said. "And if that means saying 'yes Ash', and 'good plan Ash,' then so be it!"

"Are you serious?" Mara asked. "You think he has it? No way. So he has the blades and a magic bag and... blanket, or whatever. That, and a few tricks. So what? It's a big stretch from that to Seidir magic. He's just using Simon's tools," Mara said. After another step, Isuair paused and smiled. Mara and studied the wizard for a long time. "Oh, Eye, next you're going to tell that the blades have no magic. Oh, come on! Is that what you're saying? Eye, let me out of this, now!" Mara shouted.

"So now you don't want to play, and which is it?" Isuair asked. "Earlier you said he's too powerful for the kill spell..."

"Which, by the way—how am I supposed to hold his hand? He usually has something in them, you know—something bloody."

"...and now you say he's got no power at all," interrupted Isuair, "so, pick one, and then get back to me," Isuair said. "You turned us down, and changed our deal. You must walk through the light before you can walk through the dark, even the Dral knows that. But no, you pick your own path. You probably threw your book away," Isuair said. "...what magic bag and blanket?" Mara stood frozen, stunned or bound by some spell for a long moment.

"He said he got them with the blades from that, castle of escape, placey," Mara said. "The blanket heals him. Every time the guard slew him he used it to recover. Didn't you know?"

"No. Curious! If one did not answer the question with 'love and forgiveness,' the guard killed," Isuair said. "There was no healing blanket." After a pause, the wizard laughed. "Humm." Isuair laughed again and smiled. "Hummmmm. Most curious!"

"Eye, he hates you," Mara added as the wizard again began to turn. The wizard only half paused. "He thinks you have something to do with all this," Mara said. "So if you're right, you're going to have some problems of your own," Mara said. "And," Mara said, her voice ringing hard, "why didn't you tell me more of this, more about this guy, more about everything? I attacked him, you fuct!"

The king's men rounded up dozens of carts and constructed a few irregular catapults. Though the machines were not big enough to challenge any real castle walls, they looked realistic enough. They had given each man brush and small trees to drag. The army's sewing circle managed to assemble dozens of banners, all mounted on saplings or real banner lances. Using the black and gold colors of the Duke, the sewing circle fashioned a ten-pointed star on each of the banners to resemble the Royal House. Ash noticed the men had fewer cloaks, shorter pants, and many now had no shirts. The cloth had come at a high price.

The Army, under Isuair's direction, prepared to move, while Ash made his own final preparations with his fake Duke army. He donned star studded shoulder armor and star emblazoned breastplate. He fitted himself with leggings and high boots. He requisitioned a mount and dressed that, too, in the colors of the Duke. He was ready, but he had yet to find Erow or Linder and began wandering the camp, asking around.

"Linder and the Gray Guard, Erow..." Ash began, but the soldiers with whom he spoke looked away. Ash was taken aback at the discourtesy, and moved to the men. He moved close. He felt a sadness that he knew would soon burn to white anger, but the soldiers only looked toward Isuair and back again with pleading, sad eyes. Ash nodded and left the men. He made for the wizard.

"Eye, when I ask about Linder and Erow I get..." Ash began.

"I know it's a harsh idea, but it's our best hope," said Isuair. "Linder was raised in a village just outside the castle and knows the area. Plus, she knows many of the king's men. Also, they would not be dissuaded, lad."

"Just tell me where they are," said Ash, frowning and scanning the camp.

"Both armies will move out in moments," said the wizard, "and you must make it to the hills with your gear and banners with all speed, so there is no time to worry about those two."

"Eye, listen to me..." Ash said.

"...they left as soon as soon as they..."

"Isuair!" Ash shouted. A single tear betrayed him. "The message to the castle is a fucking suicide mission..."

"...made up their minds to go, about forty minutes ago. Both of them knew well that there would be objections to their going, so they left without telling any of the others, even you. They have gone, Ash."

"Eye, this is a betrayal," Ash screamed. He could feel his skin flush and his eyes begin to well. "There are a hundred men here that can go..."

"None better suited than they," Isuair said. "Ash, this is your show; I feel it in my heart. The invasion and your appearance, the weapons, and the timing of this whole business was no accident. If you want my advice, it is this; stay focused, and worry about life's finer pursuits after we can be assured that our lives will be ours, free, under our king, and not as slaves of the enemy. Do not get so close to the people around you that they cloud your judgment. You must be prepared to make sacrifices. Remember that, Ash, remember that we will all need to make sacrifices!" But Ash yanked at the wizard's robe as he turned to leave.

"If you sent my friends to their deaths..." Ash's voice rang shrill as he spoke these last words. He was prepared for the seemingly inevitable battle between him and the wizard, and only awaited the pop, but Isuair just shook his head and walked away.

Everything was gone, his stuff, his independence, his fix. All that was left were the gray walls of the hospital, endless hours of waiting, and questions, lots and lots of questions. The drugs they gave him soon lost their magic, and Ash was beginning to ache. His head ached, his body ached, and his heart ached as he spent more and more time away from his friends. He had to get out.

The key was to convince the doctors that he was not dangerous. They didn't really care if he was crazy, they didn't care if he had problems or was hurting. They cared only that he would hurt someone, and that they, as the last people to treat him, would be responsible. He had to convince them that they could sleep at night with him roaming the streets.

The gray walls of the hospital depressed him like an endlessly cloudy day. They dressed him in pajamas that only an insane person would wear. He looked the part of a crazy person, now he had to watch that he didn't act the part. He had to be careful of his answers.

Sitting on a bench outside the doctor's office, Ash waited to open his mind to the latest in a long line of government bureaucrats. They would want to delve deep into his brain, looking for the signs. Signs that Ash was a sociopath. Signs that Ash was schizophrenic. Signs that Ash couldn't take care of himself, and signs that Ash might hurt someone.

Ash had seen enough of the hospital to know that, drugs or not, he needed to leave as soon as possible. He had been separated from the general population since his arrival, but he had caught glimpses of the patients and the living conditions there. The hospital was little more than cold-storage for drooling time-bombs. So he developed a plan. He would tell the doctor that he was pretending to be crazy for a warm bed and a few free meals. But then he would tell the doctor he had seen the light. That he had been sober a few days and now wanted his life back. That he planned to return to his old neighborhood, stay at the Y, go to AA, get a job, and turn his life around. And the doctor would get the credit. No more talk about wizards, no more talk about connections to other worlds.

Hours later, Ash lay alone in his one-man cell, trying to figure out what happened. He was trying to figure out how he turned into a raging madman in the doctor's office. He had his plan. His mind had been clear on the matter. But the other world started coming through as he talked, and the old doctor began to look like the old wizard who took his friends away, and the rest was just too painful to think about.

Everything had been going fine, his speech sounded sincere. His logic had been impeccable. But then there was a battle. In his mind Ash could see a big army crush a tiny army. And Ash was in the small army. And the doctor, the vile, betraying doctor, just sat there, shielded by circumstances of his own making from the rivers of blood. Ash sat in the office with the images of the battle pressing through, and came to a moment of truth. The wizard, disguised as a doctor, was the enemy and had to die. The next thing he knew, orderlies were all over him and he was back in his cell, every limb restrained by thick straps.

Angry and despondent, Ash returned to his two-hundred men army and all their gear and fake banners. Studying the men, his emotions left him—he put them away when he saw the open eyes and open hearts of the soldiers before him. They, to a man, forced smiles. So would he.

Ash mounted his fake Royal Steed, and tried to steady the dancing, irritating beast while calling his army to order. All the men knew that this was a critical time for the plan. If the enemy were to get an accurate account of their force, the ruse would fail. Ash relied on the army and their scouts to deal with any enemy they encountered on the way to the first of the Waste Hills. There were allowed the best. The only enemy soldiers that they could let detect their presence were those that lay in front of them when they were blazing across the north hills with their giant dust cloud behind them. Everyone else had to die. The cloud was supposed to simulate the amount of dirt kicked up by about a two-hundred thousand men.

Again, in the midst of the operation, Ash began to feel doubt. It was one thing to shout grandiose plans while you had everyone's attention; it was quite another to execute that plan in the real light of day. Ash looked around and realized he was alone. All his friends were gone. Isuair had cryptically reminded him that it was a mistake to get too close to those around him, so naturally Ash turned to the men at his side.

"Hi, I'm Ash," he said. "I'm from Fuller-town and Serenas, and my dad was

the finest man I'd even known. I always thought it was because he had been in the army—another kingdom's army. He was an American. Where are you guys from?" He learned that the men were from all over, but that many lived around the castle itself. He learned they had farms and owned markets. He learned that they had kids, hidden away in remote areas. And he learned that they were all anxious to redeem themselves for what they thought was weakness that led to the rout. They all liked the plan, but nobody asked what they would do if they were successful at bringing the entire enemy army to their doorstep. Ash didn't ask either.

An hour separated Ash and his tiny army from the last set of hills that would be their staging area for the ruse. Barring any problems, they would get to the hills at noon. The enemy guarding the valley seemed overly confident to the point of recklessness. The scouts who Ash and his men came across on the way to the hills were caught so unaware that they died before they could draw their weapons. When Ash and his army had come upon a small group of enemy soldiers encamped just beneath the first hill, Ash's army crushed them without a fight.

Finally, at half-past noon, Ash's two hundred man army, with its siege engines, banners and carts, gained the plateau a half-mile before the last hills overlooking the Waste Valley.

"Now, Garth and Heldem, raise the dust! Raise dust that would cloud even the Gods eyes! Raise it! Make us proud!" Ash shouted to the commanders. "...for the king!...for our Khing!"

With every inch of their beings the little army dragged, pulled and tugged their debris onto dry hills at full runs. The men on horseback zigzagged across the wastes, while those on foot ran with abandon, trailing trees and bushes. Ash had two dead saplings tied to his mount and dragged a large bur-weed in one hand while cradling a standard in the other. They moved as a group, each spurring the other on. When they gained the summit of the last hill, and began their descent into the valley, Ash glanced back at their cloud. What he saw astounded him. It rose a thousand feet into the air.

The valley beneath them was a stark contrast to the forests that surrounded the castle and the lake. Dry grass, green for only a short time during the rainy season, lay in pockets between dusty hills that stretched almost to the castle. Ash wondered if the hills had been fertile once, if over-farming or some catastrophe made the hills the great waste, but no one could tell him of that tale. Not that it mattered. What did matter was that two miles into the valley lay an enemy detachment, and that they had just noticed the cloud.

The reports from Division-Eight were late in coming, observed Movement Commander Garothe. Their pursuit of the king's men around the north lake must have taken them further into the wood then expected. But the silence was eerie. There should have been something, the commander thought, some report, some message... something from the men, a division doesn't just disappear. Then he felt the ground shake. A rumbling, small but strange, stirred the shifting sands around his tent. As he approached the entrance, men came abruptly to the tent door. None spoke, but Garothe could see it was alarm that held their tongues. As he moved from his tent to the grilling sands of the wastes, he saw it. On the ground he could feel it. The concern they all had, had come to be. A secret fear was that the Comeratte king had been holding something back. And before him, Garothe, saw that fear come to life. He saw the banners, he saw the men, but it was the dust that caught his attention. Terrible and immense, it raged toward he and his men. He held his breath. There were monsters in the face of this flying cloud that rose a thousand feet before him.

"Send the runners!" shouted Garothe. " The Duke has come! FLY! Warn them! Go! Go! Go!" Sending his fastest men to the castle, to tell of a massive counter-invasion led by the Duke, was foremost in his mind. He made sure he sent the best and the swift. After dispatching his riders, the commander turned his army to face the onslaught. Holding his men on a ridge, they stood, readied. They would not turn, they would not run.

But before him, under the terrifying cloud, came not an invasion force, but a small spearhead of an army. Only, Garothe wondered, as he watched the last of his runners disappear over the hills, this spearhead had no spear behind it. It looked as if the army was only a few hundreds, at the most. Alarm again welled within him, as he searched the camp. The mounts, the horses—there were none. The last had just vanished into the wastes, heading toward the castle.

He noticed the Duke's army moved slowly. They kicked up an enormous amount of dust. Then Garothe saw the trees, brush and broken carts. But before he could react, the king's men were upon him. Arrows rained into his company, and an arrow hit its mark through Garothe's armor. Aiming a blow with skill and precision, he stuck down a mount carrying a banner bearing the mark of the Duke. Clutching the arrow in his side, the commander picked up the standard. It was a crude banner, sewn with wide, rough stitching and tied to a limbless sapling.

"It's a trick!" Garothe shouted. "It's a ..." But he paused mid-sentence. Before him stood a creature of a man. When his mount fell the man did not tumble or fall, he glided to is feet and stood, just inches from Garothe, with his arms at his side. The man's eyes were completely wrong, and he crept forward, stalking Garothe—in his hands the creature clutched blades, honed and shining, almost hidden from view within the billowing of his cloak.

The creature wore a shabby breastplate with a star hastily fastened with string. The man grinned a smile reminiscent of fangs. As the commander watched, the man cut three of his men with a single stroke. With another stoke, the man cut two more of Garothe's men, completely breaching them. He did it without looking. His weapons cut solid objects as if they were air. The man didn't look at his targets, his eyes were fixated only on the commander himself.

"Sweetness..." the man whispered.

"To the castle!" shouted Garothe, stumbling while taking a step back. "Take a mount! To..."

Ash watched as the enemy scurried about. The blades popped and he dropped the brush, but still cradled the standard between an arm and leg. Inside he summoned the rage, the fear and the monstrous violence that always seemed to lay just beneath the thin veneer of his being. He clutched the knives and began to fume. In his mind he brought monsters, terrifying beasts to bear, as he spurred his mount forward. Send the runners, he prayed, send, send, send... But the men only scampered about the camp. Finally he saw the riders and his heart swelled. This Sweet Prince, this man, this one that sent his runners, he would meet, himself. Ash began to shake and charged his mount to camp's center. It was a mistake that cost him his horse, but not his rage. Before him stood the man, what appeared to be the leader of the company. Ash cut down those around him and then approached the man.

"Sweetness..." Ash said, and with a sweep of the blades the man fell.

The king's men dove into the enemy, eager for redemption and revenge. They seized upon the opportunity and threw themselves into the fray with great violence. The king's men tore the enemy apart as the invaders scrambled and shouted for mounts that weren't there. When a small detachment of the enemy broke free and made a run to escape, a group of the king's riders chased them down, slaying every man.

When the enemy army was wholly destroyed, and Ash and his men stood, standing alone among the still and the dead, with only the sound of the wind about the empty wastes, they picked up their gear and continued on.

When Patrice was summoned to Pavilion-Nine, his heart sank. It was about the Comeratte king and the wizard coming to his rescue with their own damn boats. It was the escape of a few thousand of the king's men into the dense jungles around the Valkera, or the vanishing of Division-Eight at the north lake. It was the wrong word said to the wrong person. It was an army miles from its target or the wrong supplies delivered to the wrong division. It was something.

But he didn't expect utter pandemonium. Pavilion-Nine was alive, packed with men rushing in all directions. Messengers ran about, coming and going on exhausted mounts. Dodging men and horses, Patrice tried to get into the tent, and just as he forced an opening, he saw something strange. Two soldiers, one overly tall, one with strange features, stood, whispering just inside the tent. The strange thing was a cut in one of the soldier's uniforms. It appeared to be a sword wound, in the back, iced with blood, but the man stood as if no weapon had ever touched him. Next to them was a friend, and the only familiar face thus far—Marium. He vowed to ask the First Sergeant about the two whisperers as he pushed through a score of men crowding the entrance. Inside men ran amok in a sea of bodies, all scurrying and shouting at once. He couldn't find any other familiar faces, and none of his commanders were to be seen. At last Brady appeared from the din. His stout lieutenant was shaking in fear, and could only point a finger. At the end of the finger Patrice found, bent and sulking, Davallal. The Dral's aide saw him, and hooked a finger toward the captain, directing him to a crowded table surrounded by high-ranking Movement members. On the table were maps, and at the northern end of which, six red wooden blocks lay in a row.

"What's this?" Patrice asked. Davallal only nodded to a Movement general at the center of the table. Feadroi was his name, if Patrice remembered right. He, too, had a low number, 125, his patch said.

"We have a problem. The Duke has broken free from the northern armies and is screaming across the wastes. Division Three, which was supposed to tie up the Comeratte's brother, was instead placed at the southern side of the castle, besieging it," said the general. "Because of this grievous error we need to abandon, for the time being, Objective-A—the taking of the king, and deal with the Duke."

"There is no Duke army!" Patrice shouted. The room quieted. The men stopped. Patrice had all eyes on him. "Division Three, I assure you, is engaged with the Duke as we speak."

"I am from Division Three..." said a man at the end of the table. Again pandemonium reigned.

"We changed the numbers..." Patrice shouted in a voice that was all but lost among the din. The men were too busy improvising a solution to actually look at the problem. The general was pointing to the six red blocks at the northern part of the waste hills and screaming.

"We have accounted for at least two hundred thousand men," he said, pointing to the red blocks. "Maybe more. We need every division north... now."

"Hold!" Patrice shouted. He had less of an audience than his last address, but some paused. "The manuals were wrong, when we had complete divisions we assigned them new numbers. Some men may still think, their manuals may still show, that they belong to one division when in reality they belong to another," said Patrice. "The Duke, I assure you, is heavily engaged. Where are the reports? What do you know about this army from north?" None answered. Instead Patrice was led to a corner of the pavilion. Some of the tent's corner ties lay undone, and one of the command officers pulled back a large section of the canvas. All could see before them a vast cloud spreading from horizon to horizon. It looked as if a forest fire raged where there was no forest. Patrice stood, stunned at the sight. This, he thought, was something that should not be.

"I assure you a cloud that size could not be made by less than a hundred-thousand men," said Davallal. "We have reports from Division Eight, of the survivors, at least..."

"Maybe they are using magic," said Patrice, standing, staring at the cloud among the group, "maybe it's some trick, can we scout..."

"You have not been listening!" shouted General Feadroi into Patrice's face. "We need all armies on the move. We need everything, moving, now!" The general pulled out maps, battle plans, and cryptic notes that included the Duke coming down the Waste Hills Valley and joining the castle with an army of men. They were written on paper, not parchment, and on the corners were decorations, small drawings of flowers. Patrice only stood, open mouthed. There was a truth here somewhere, but it was lost, buried deep among the shouts and the fear.

Returning to the table, men pushed in with these new reports. Stacks of other parchments were spread before the generals. The word millions was bandied about. Patrice was pushed aside—they had finished with him. But he returned to the opening in the tent and stared. The brown cloud filled the entire sky. The northern end of the wastes were miles and miles away, yet the cloud seemed a monster that lay just before them. Even their army, using every man, couldn't raise a cloud that size, were they to drag all the forests of Alrica behind them. Patrice stopped, pausing among the turmoil, and shook his head. This cannot be, this cannot be, he thought. He had reports of the devil Isuair. Maybe the wizard had more magic left in him then they thought.

Another look at the cloud and he dismissed the thought. The cloud was too large to be fake. And in the tent he searched for a spot to talk, and saw that in the frenzy of activity there was no room for discussion. They were just shouting commands. He had been given orders and had been dismissed. But still he stood and stared at the cloud. Then a thought struck him. What was coming wasn't an army. What was coming, Patrice felt in his heart, was evil.

At first they met only scattered remnants of the invading army. But the enemy seemed better prepared the further into the wastes Ash and his warriors traveled. But the ruse worked. The enemy, seeing the Duke's army coming, with its relentless charge, its assault engines, ladders, and enormous dust cloud, fell back. Unwilling to defend the wastes until it was ready; the enemy retreated into the valley. Ash knew that they would not be retreating unless there were reinforcements coming, and he advanced his army with great trepidation. Though the men grew weary of pulling and dragging all the machines and brush, Ash spurred them on until they were well into the valley. They went on like this for the entire day, pressing the enemy back, until darkness fell.

Ash and his men then spent much of the night building scores and scores of watch-fires, and then struggled furiously trying to keep them all alight. Some were built almost a half-mile in the rear to create the illusion that an army spread far into the valley. They burned everything they had dragged, all the brush they could find, what was left of their uniforms, and all but one of the banners.

Dawn was no more than a sliver in the sky when Ash and his men gazed down into the valley below. In those first few moments of light, they could see the beast they had summoned. An army sprawled the valley, stretching as far as the eye could see.

"Jesus..." said Ash. Tens of thousands of men crawled about the wastes like ants on an anthill. As the sun dawned on the Waste Hills, Ash guessed that about a two hundred thousand enemy men prepared to do battle with his fake army. He could just make out the red hills that made up the Rift Valley far in the distance, and could see nothing to indicate a counterattack was under way. It was just two hundred of them, against two hundred thousand of the enemy.

"Jesus..."

Ash mounted one of the standard-bearer horses, grabbed the last remaining banner, and turned to his men while the sun began to fall onto the valley. "Go back. Get out. Get back to the forest!" Ash shouted while his mount bucked and stamped. Seeing the men stand steadfast, he calmed his voice and found their eyes, their faces. "This is more than we bargained for," Ash said. "We die... As all can see, we have spun a web and caught ourselves," he shouted. "The Rift is quiet, which is troubling to say the least. Any that leave now show sense and courage to fight another day. As for me, I will ride with this banner, and it will wave. I am tired of this and now say goodbye." Rising in the stirrups, Ash screamed his war cry until his lungs hurt. It meant that he was invincible and that his enemies were not.

"Mortals, mortals, mortals," he wailed, and spurred his charger down the slope that lay before him.

The army blew its battle horns, and together they followed Ash, all two hundred of them. After two of the horse's great strides, the blades popped. With weapons drawn, Ash and his men rode into battle.

On horseback, the knives had a strange effect. Encountering the blades firsthand was stunning, those that saw their power were completely taken aback by them. Standing next to the weapons naturally brought caution and fear. But on horseback the element of speed and surprise enabled Ash to sweep into an enemy that was barely moving and unaware of the danger. There was little time or reason to flee or try to create a harder target to hit. With a single rider advancing on them, the enemy reacted with an almost reckless sloth. That was to change as word spread of the nature of the rider and the death he wrought. But early in the battle, Ash could slay with abandon, or, more correctly, he could slay with any abandon he could coax from his mount as it tread on ground thick with carnage. Which, as the strangeness of the limb-debris-shower thickened, became more and more difficult. The horse especially seemed to detest the pieces that flew underfoot.

At first Ash hewed through the crowd in large swaths, carving up soldiers before they could detect him. But as he swept the ranks, his momentum began to slow, and he and his horse were eventually pulled to the ground.

Rolling amid the stamping feet and stabbing swords of the enemy, Ash began to flail wildly—he felt he were swimming in a sea of the wrong uniforms. But nearby he heard the men. His army had made a surge into the enemy in an attempted rescue, only to find that before they even reached Ash their foe had regrouped and encircled them all.

There, in the battlefield, Ash found himself caught in an endless single moment of time. All froze and silence reigned. Even the air rasping in and out of his lungs quieted. He looked around and found that he had piled up bodies. Blood was everywhere. The sight triggered a premonition of what this war was really going to be about—gore, plain gore. Slay and slay and slay and finally be slain. For a moment he thought he couldn't do it, that he couldn't go through with the blood. He thought about driving one of the blades into his own body, when time resumed with a vengeance. A crash popped the bubble. Ash saw it was his men, launching one more strike at the enemy, toward him. Jumping to his feet, he lashed out wildly, spraying bits of shields and swords in every direction. He swam to the men. But fatigue killed his momentum. Exhausted and wanting an obstacle between him and the host, Ash stumbled toward a dark outcropping to his side. Soon he had his back to a rock mound. Charging up the topmost boulder while dodging arrows and lances, Ash tried to appraise the battle. Then he saw it.

Before him a pocket of his men floundered. Completely surrounded on all sides, the company began to vanish as row after row disappeared under the enemy's feet. They were being crushed. They were being overcome by a tide of swords. Ash watched as a great wave of the enemy wiped out at least two thirds of Ash's army in a single stoke. Raging, Ash cut his way toward the men but made little progress. He was blocked, knocked and pushed down as he hewed at those all around him. Screaming and thrashing, he began to swing the blades with wild abandon, losing himself in rage. He fought and fought, until an enemy charge took him from his feet. He fell beside his ersatz Duke standard lying beside his dead mount. He rose, trying to swing it before the dawn while thrashing about with the blades. Before the sun had completely risen into the sky, all his men were gone. Only Ash and his standard remain. He blindly flailed at the enemy, who began to draw away from him, for he was but one man—and word had spread of a terrible magic within him that killed.

By the time Ash was able to see the counterattack at the enemy's flank by Isuair and the king's men, he was reduced to hacking at the arms and legs of a wall of bodies around the rock cropping. As time passed the enemy showed less enthusiasm in actually attacking him, choosing instead to keep him confined. He used his blades to ward off arrow and spear, and no weapon touched him. From his vantage point atop the stone mound, Ash could see the battle unfolding beneath him. The enemy was taken unaware at their heart. The Cave People had split the enemy army in two, and had begun to make its way toward Ash. The company, under Isuair's Comeratte banner, drove into the enemy in huge numbers. Ash stood among the grim circle of bodies he created—some living, some not, and waved his own banner. Thousands of the king's men from the banks of the Valkera had rejoined the army. Eventually the cave army and the king had the enemy on the run, and Ash was left, on the rocks, alone.

The ground itself was completely red. A hundred men lie in heaps all around him, all carrying the trademark of the knives. But Ash was unable to move. Without danger to trigger his adrenaline floodgates, his body yielded to a bottomless fatigue. He slunk to the ground, laid his face upon the red dirt, and together his conscious and soul fled the day.

Isuair and his army met no resistance traveling Lake Valkera's shores. They met no enemy or enemy scouts. They did meet thousands of angry, vengeful troops, faithful to the king and eager to redeem themselves. Hate blinded these men, and even Isuair couldn't tame them, but their trek to the Rift was a long, arduous journey. The rains had swollen the lake and made much of the route passable only by treading in waist-deep water. When the shores were open to travel, they had to stomp through muck up to their knees. But none complained. Their army grew as they trekked. A look back showed the army crawling in the mud of the lake for miles and miles. Thousands filled the shores, the forest, and every passable inch of the lake. Some walked in water for an entire day and night. In the evening Isuair had to gather the troops in the Rift. It was an almost impossible task, but they were a massive army in close quarters and he was able to get messages passed from man to man. 'Gather, stay quiet, light no fires,' he said. Their mounted riders worked the line, passing the orders, among them Rehoak and Gractah moved until their mounts stumbled with exhaustion.

"Fill the rift and charge when the sun comes," Gractah said. His black uniform made him a natural for the task of order-passer. When 'light no fires' turned into 'light fires,' he was there to correct the men. "At dawn kill everything that moves." He felt he had said that a thousand times to a thousand men.

As the sun stole the night away and the gray Rift cliffs began to turn a pale red, over one hundred thousand men burst out of the canyon and onto the plain, and into a stunned enemy army.

Gwere, Mara, Rehoak, Gractah and Isuair led the charge.

Waking from a deep, gray haze, Ash pleaded with the blurry figures around him. "Please let me go. I won't hurt anyone. I'll behave. Please let me go."

"Can you sit up Mr. Ash?" a voice asked from the blurry depths. Ash was loaded into a wheelchair and rolled into a bright white light. At first he thought he was going to be interrogated and tortured. But as his eyes adjusted, he saw it was only the midday sun.

They had wheeled him out into a patio overlooking a long lawn. Patients and visitors alike loitered about the lawn, enjoying the afternoon.

"Ash, Ash? You okay?" asked a voice. Ash wiped his eyes and tried to clear his head. His nasal passages seemed clogged, as if he was ill. Ash tried to say he was okay, but his voice came out thick and foreign.

"Where were you?" he finally said. "We needed you. Those men needed you. They didn't deserve it. They didn't do anything wrong." Tears began to run down his cheeks as he spoke. "They were routed, and felt guilty, but that wasn't their fault, they were overwhelmed in the earlier battles. They gave their lives because they felt they had failed their king. But they didn't. They were taken by surprise, like everyone else. Just like everyone else! They didn't deserve to die. Where were you?"

"Ash, Ash, it's Marianne, your sister. I've got Pattie with me. We came as soon as we heard. Ash... Ash..." the voice said, and Ash felt the warm touch of a hand on his face. In the background Ash heard a voice asking questions. "What the hell's wrong with him? We can't take him like this..." said the voice.

His wound needed dressing. His orders made no sense. Patrice stood with his men, now numbering only a few hundred, and let the reports fall from his hands. During the battle, the Duke's men disappeared and another army brutally attacked their flank. One, Two, Six, Seven, and three more divisions, according to the scouts, lay in ruins about the Wastes. His orders said to pull back his divisions. Okay, he thought, but some divisions had nothing left to pull back. He was gathering his men, but they had been decimated in the attack. The battle had dispersed his men over a wide area. Still, some were gathering and perhaps still more could be found.

His orders said to follow a trail that led behind the castle, far behind the southern and western walls. He had a map. He gathered his men and made for the Comeratte's house, picking up more men on the way.

Then, came the strange order. Patrice was told not to kill one man. That was it. That was the order. Which man, what man, why this man was not part of the order. Pick a man, any man, and don't kill him.

He had also heard that there was indeed a Division that called themselves Number Three, and that they, with the Dral, were trying to take the castle, and that they had come up with a plan and a trap themselves. His wound needed dressing.

Ash's first memory was of a blurry light, burning into his brain, even though it was dark. It was impossibly bright and hot. Ash thought he was going to be tortured and interrogated. He faced the light and gripped his blades with tendons that screamed for mercy. He prayed for his eyes to focus. Finally, they did. Before him was a torch.

"I was told by the mighty wizard to look for mounds of sliced enemy, like a butcher took to them. You I find, fit that account," the torchbearer said. "Proclaim your allegiance, state your family and your father's profession and what nation he claimed," the voice commanded.

"Marianne?" Ash asked.

"Your name, man, state your name," said the voice, louder and in a more serious tone.

Ash leaned up, shook himself all over like a wet cat, and tried to stand. He felt the ground rush to him, and the hard impact of the rock snapped him back to the battlefield and the world around him.

"What... is... your... name..." called the king's guard, a lieutenant by the name of Velorant. Ash felt his head throb from the impact of the rock. Pulling his hand back, the faint light revealed blood on his fingertips. Everything was back. The Wastes. The huge army. His small one. The wizard.

"...you have a... camp?" Ash rasped, trying again to rise. He made it only to his knees. He pried the blades from his hands and laid them before him. Blood flaked of in great scabs as he moved his fingers. The runes of the handles were so embedded into his flesh that the edges were crisp. He slid one after the other into the sheaths and re-clipped the clasps. He put one leg under him and paused. He couldn't fight the rocks, well, he thought, he could, but it was better, he mused to himself, to pick live targets, like the moron with the torch. With one leg under him, Ash steadied himself with a rune-filled hand. His hands felt frozen, half closed, into the handle hold position. He had to get the other leg under him and push. He did, and managed to stand, trembling. He tried a step. Stumbling awkwardly, on legs numb from abuse, Ash staggered under the strain of an overly fatigued body.

The guard pointed to a large fire burning bright in the plain below. It was at least a mile away. He immediately abandoned the idea of asking to be assisted, but thought the distance might as well be a hundred leagues. Ash found himself so stiff that his gate was that of a stick-man toy that was popular with the land's children. But as he walked he managed to collect himself, and Velorant, who now seemed more concerned than fearful, helped illuminate the way with his torch. The guard was staring at Ash the as he walked, shining the torch in his face.

"Your name..." again asked the torch bearer. Again he stuck the flame close to Ash's face. For a moment Ash had the impulse to take the man apart, but screaming muscles made the adventure seem unsound, at least for the present.

"What the blazes are you doing?" Ash asked, while pausing for breath.

"You don't look like the great Ash we've been hearing about by the fireside with Isuair."

"What... What? Isuair been...stop putting that torch in my face or I'll cut you up like a fucking sausage," Ash mumbled. He buried his face in his hands and thought if he were to cry one more time he would indeed fall on the blades. But first...

"Where's the wizard..." Ash asked. His legs were working but when he tried to move his arms and shoulders shudders again shook him. Aches, impossible in their intensity, tortured every cell. "Take me to the wizard."

"Very well," said Velorant, "but if you are an enemy plant, or try tricks—you die. But if you are the Great Ash, well then... well met..." And Vel bowed. Ash grabbed Velorant by the tunic, and shook him.

"Listen, just listen you mindless dotard..." Ash shouted. "Ash, the real Ash, doesn't exist. It's only me! Do you understand! Do you understand?" Ash was shaking the guard so hard that it drew forth other men from the shadows, who began to jab at Ash with their swords, shouting at him to release their colleague. Vel's inaudible no's faded into the night, unheard. Almost hysterical, Ash began to giggle. A halting laugh, almost hyperventilating, began to ripple through him. He dropped to one knee, trying to gather himself. This is the brink, Ash thought, of total insanity. The guards drew back, their eyes growing wide. Again, they stuck a torch in his face. Flailing his arms at the light, Ash buried his head into his hands—he felt close to the edge, impossibly close to gone, in mind and body. Then he remembered. He still had his small pack slung over his shoulders. He took it off, and got out his bag. He rubbed the runes and pulled his blue blanket from the bag and wrapped it tight around his shoulders. There he paused, breathing in the night. After a long moment, he regained his feet and began to walk.

"Isuair has some sort of plan where I'm going to be hyped-up," Ash said under his breath. "It's always some sort of plan," Ash said. He walked along, trying to shake off the numbness in his legs, in his arms, in his head. The wizard had so cryptically said, "It's your show," like he was supposed to make some kind of winning chess match out of this whole nightmare. But it didn't seem like a game anymore to Ash, and he started thinking that his participation in the war was a really bad idea. The only way any of them were going to get out of this mess, thought Ash, was to be as far away from the king and these monster battles as possible. Weapons or no, the battles were unbelievably, inconceivably, nasty.

As Ash walked in the black night, the cold wind biting him in unpleasant gusts, he kept thinking about the battle. There was no way, he decided, he was going to get himself in a mess like that ever again. He was not going out into a battle unless there were thousands of men around him, and even that seemed like a stupid idea. The more he thought about it the more he wanted to get as far away from everything and everyone in the Comeratte kingdom as possible.

Far before the fire, Ash paused and bared his teeth, stretching and flexing. His body responded. It was achy, but it was back under his command. He put the blanket back into his pack, his pack back onto his back.

As they approached the camp, Velorant tried to hold Ash at twenty paces from the blaze, but Ash responded by brutally pushing the guard to the ground.

"Sit there a minute," he shouted, his arms and legs fluid once more. Lit by the orange glow of the flames, Ash found the wizard standing by the blaze. He continued to the fire. He pushed away or skirted around the few guards that tried to slow his approach to Isuair. Soon he was standing with the fire between him and the old man. Firelight danced on the wizard's face, making the man seem all the more evil.

"Where were you?" Ash whispered. "WHERE WERE YOU?" Ash screamed. He screamed each word separately, and tears started to come. "Isuair, I gave those soldiers a chance to run, when they saw all was lost, and every man stayed," Ash said as he made his way around the fire. "THEY DESERVED A CHANCE!" he raged, tears coming. "Where were you?" he asked, but Isuair only stood, staring at him.

"Oh, thank the gods..." said a voice. Out of the corner of his eye Ash saw Mara threading through the men. She approached him with her arms open. She squeezed him tight, so tightly it felt as if she squeezed all the bent parts of him back into place.

"Mara... Massali," Ash whispered, "...anybody else? Gractah, Rehoak, Gwere?" He asked, "Linder, Erow? he asked, but without waiting for the answer he turned back to the wizard.

"Isuair those men deserved more," said Ash. He stepped through the flames— they licked all his legs, but now Ash stood face to face with the wizard. But the wizard's deep eyes didn't move. They did nothing; they just stared. Ash ran through a list of options, from killing to shoving to screaming more, then tired of the game. "Oh, for Pete's-Sake," Ash said, and he sat down on the rocks around the fire,

buried his face in his hands, and groaned.

"Ash... Ash..." said a male voice, "...quiet now." He felt a blanket drawn around him, and realized, for the first time, just how cold he was. He wanted to block out everything, everything. A hand gripped his shoulder; he turned to find Gwere kneeing beside him. Gwere cupped Ash's head in his big hands.

"How ya doing, Stinky?" he asked. They both nodded, and Gwere wiped Ash's face.

"We have all survived, and were worrying about you. You've been missing for two days," said the big captain.

"You should have seen it, there was an ocean of men..." said Ash.

"We did see it," Gwere said. "We saw you guys up there. And I'm glad you thought up that plan and not..." Gwere halted. "We watched the fight as we emerged from the Rift, and saw you and your banner. It helped; the enemy was overly concerned, and sent more and more men to you, to fight a fight that wasn't there. When they saw the Cave People, they laughed at us," Gwere said. His faced darkened and his teeth bared. "But they didn't laugh for long."

"I could see them from a rock hill I was on," Ash said.

"We owe the Cave People a great deal," said Gwere.

"Iramaki" said Ash.

"What?" asked Gwere.

"Iramaki. Isuair called them the Iramaki," said Ash. As he said the name, Komana, the golden-necklace king of the Cave People, came into the firelight. Ash embraced him, and wept. And wept and wept and wept.

"It's been a busy day, but I have you penciled in to see the doctor," said a voice. "You can discuss the details with him."

"We can't take him like this. He looks completely out of it."

"That's just the medication. He attacked the doctor during an examination. After noticing the concern on the girl's face, the nurse added," "but don't worry, the doctor didn't put all of it in his report." Then as an afterthought, she added, "We just thought it would be better this way," said the nurse.

"What do we do now?"

"You'll have a consultation with the doctor, and he'll map out your options. Usually, in a case like this, they try to get him out of here. They ask the relatives to accept guardianship if he consents. He would be placed in a program, in sort of a halfway house, but one he couldn't leave. We have one that specializes in schizophrenia, where the patients are released only after they finish the program. The relatives are asked to cover some of the costs, however."

"How much is something like that?" said a new voice.

"The doctor will go over all of that with you. Sometimes insurance or Medicare or Medicaid helps, but that's evaluated on a case-by-case basis. The doctor will go over all your options during the consultation." Ash sat in his wheelchair listening to the words while watching the birds flutter in the grass. It felt good to sit in the sun, and it felt good to have the people express concern for his welfare, even if they were talking like he wasn't even there.

"What happened to you, Ash?" said a face that leaned in close. "You were doing so well.

You had everything. Now I find you... in a hospital?" said the face.

"Didn't you have something like ten years of sobriety?" said another, "What happened?" Ash had no answer, and after a minute the women returned to talking as if he were not there.

"We don't actually release him to you," the nurse said. "The halfway house would come to pick him up, after we work out a few details."

"We just sign the papers today, correct?" said a voice.

"That's right," said the nurse, "that's all you do today."

With Ash sitting before the fire, Gwere talked of how well the plan drew the enemy army to the men Ash had gathered at the hilltop.

"Yeah, that part of the plan didn't become real obvious until it was right there in our face," Ash said. "Our face. Gwere, it was us, but now, it's only me. Not one of those guys made it. Nobody."

"We, too, could find none standing," said Gwere. "They were very gallant men, and they will be remembered." Ash turned to Isuair, who hadn't moved.

"By whom," he said, holding his palms upward and looking to the wizard. "Remembered by whom?"

"By me..." said a voice. Before them an old man came into the firelight, surrounded by huge, heavily armed men. As he entered, all those present bowed low. Ash sat for a minute, until it sunk in, and then he, too, rose, said, 'm'Lord' and bowed low. Behind the king stood Erow and Linder. Erow had black ink on his face, but Linder looked unhurt. She rushed around the king and embraced Ash. She was all smiles and kisses.

"You did it! You did it! You were sooo great! We watched you! You did it, Ash! You did it! They bought it!!" She hugged Ash and kissed him a dozen times. Linder was beaming. She jumped up and down, and hugged him over and over. Then after a pause, she wiped the tears from her face, and looked as if she noticed the others for the first time. She put an arm around Ash, and pulled him a step closer to the king. She placed her free hand on the king's arm, and rubbed it in a familiar way that Ash knew he would not have been able to do. The big men behind the king would have surely stopped him.

"This is Dealoraat Comeratte," she said quietly to Ash, "our sovereign Lord and King. Your Majesty... this is Ash." the king looked Ash up and down in a detached way, and then smiled. "Thank you for your service, Lord Ash," he said.

"I prefer just Ash, if at all possible, my liege," Ash said quietly. "'Lord Ash' has a nasty ring to it," he said, and again he bowed low. The king smiled a more natural smile, and nodded to Ash.

"Lord Ash does have a rather nasty ring to it," said the wizard, speaking for the first time. "And it's Isamari. We thank you for your plan, Ash, and we of course regret your losses. Or rather, we regret the king's losses, for they were his men, and his family," Isuair said.

"We made every attempt to reach you, son," the king said with a grim face. "It just... it just..."

Later when they were alone, the group gathered around a fire of their own and talked about their adventures. Everyone was more or less unscathed. Mara had a grazed arm, Linder had a gash on her leg, and both Rehoak and Gwere sported small head bandages. Gractah had joined the party late; he had been tending to the king himself. It appeared he had just been promoted. And though he was the only member of the party that was part of the king's inner circle, he nonetheless returned to the group.

Erow's condition was unknown, for he was covered with an inky substance that had yet to be explained. Both he and Linder were now dressed in the uniform of the king's house, and sported officer's colors. But Linder had taken off most of the ornamentation that usually went with the livery. Erow wore his new regimentals proudly, and made every effort to bring the others attention to his new uniform.

The night was cold and dark, but their fire burned brightly. The party could feel the king's army all around them, milling about just out of the light. Though the king and Isuair had moved to a tent guarded by the king's Elite, the party still felt as if all eyes were on them. The king's men built fires, and set watch, but kept their distance, though they did seem to go out of their way to be polite. They sent supplies, and asked the party if they were lacking anything. They even sent some healers to tend to their wounds. With all their needs met, at least for that evening, the party breathed a sigh of relief. The night sky stretched endlessly above them, and the air was clear except for their fire's smoke. The group sat by the flame, just the seven of them, and shared what food had been provided by the king's men. Ash's plan worked wonders. In a day they destroyed the enemy army that besieged the castle, and they did it without reinforcements or great causalities.

The king, in haste, had indeed sent a letter to the prince, but it was not the same letter the party saw. Somewhere it had been switched. The object had always been the reinforcement of the king's army, and the gathering of his forces, without delay. The king had word that the prince was making the turn at the southern part of the lake, and would start the trek north to the castle with all possible speed. The king also had more men join those who waited at the fake meeting place to insure that any arrivals would be sent on. The trick letter failed, reinforcements were on their way, and the besiegers were destroyed.

"Ash, do you want to leave here?" said a voice. "Do you want to go? We talked to a doctor and you could go to a nice place where they would help you get better, and if you got better you could go home. Do you want that?"

Another long bus ride later and Ash was at the Glendor House in Santa Ana, just next to his old haunting places. The staff and residents of the house were warm and friendly. He would have everything he would need to get better. They also had a long, long list of rules.

Both his sisters promised to visit him on the following Sunday. Ash waited by the window as the sisters waved and disappeared into a dark sedan. As they drove off, Ash surveyed the neighborhood. He was literally one mile from one of his old spots. He remembered he sat on the same road with a sign, one that read; "I'm a dog trapped in your dogma," and that he made almost twenty bucks that afternoon. He was asked to wait before a closed office. Sitting in a big worn lounge chair, he began to drift. Soon he slept.

They talked of the battle, and they talked about how they missed one another. "This pact we make, if it would please those here. We stay together, from this night on," said Gractah. "We never again stand to see one of us besieged alone," he said.

All agreed, and they clasped hands around the fire to seal their pact. Linder and Erow kept the attention of the group the longest, with their tale of the castle attempt. They immediately departed for the castle, with hopes that they could meet up with local people from the surrounding area. But they found that everyone around the castle, for miles and miles, had long ago fled or were killed. Huts, houses and farms lay in ruble or ruin. They hid for a while in the Monastery of the Selcogin Monks, but the fortress was empty and dark. Its walls groaned and creaked in the night and enemy guards roamed its grounds. But there they got a feel for the enemy siege. From its lofty perch they spied enemy battalions and command tents. It was there that they began to form a plan.

At first their progress was easy, for two can go swiftly and silently where a party would be detected. But it became obvious that they would not be able to conceal their trespass into enemy territory for long.

They decided on disguises, and the details of their plan. They had come upon two guards that provided adequate enough uniforms, slew them, and dressed in the fashion of the enemy. They had found victims easily enough, but were at a loss to find a way into the castle. Then Linder saw an opportunity. Earlier she saw a mound of bodies that lay by the road to the castle. The mound was of bodies of the king's men, who were tall and dark, unlike the enemy, which tended to be shorter and more fair. Retrieving their own clothes, they dressed two of the bodies in their own raiment, and dragged them down the open road. Linder had found a parchment satchel like those the king's men carried, and though empty, it gave her an idea. Linder carried paper and ink with her for moments of poetry inspiration, and she dug through her bag until she found what she needed. Then she and Erow sat and began to draw out maps, battle plans, and cryptic notes that included the Duke coming down the Waste Hills Valley and besieging the enemy with a million men. They dragged the bodies of the king's men, dressed in their own clothes, with the courier pouch tucked under one of the dead man's arm, into the road. Linder figured that the enemy would be interested in any strangely dressed men carrying papers.

They simply dragged their captured corpses to the nearest fire, and demanded to see the commander of the local unit. From the moment they dragged the bodies to the enemy outpost, Linder's heart began to pound. Adrenaline coursed in her veins as she stood and parlayed with the enemy. She was almost shaking, but still managed a smile when she talked. They had come across the enemy before, but only in battle. Now they stood face to face, only to find that the enemy spoke with a strange bearing, and used words that neither Linder nor Erow had ever heard before. And, they wanted a password.

Both Erow and Linder could pass for the enemy. It was this reason that sold Isuair on their plan. The wizard was loath to break up the group, but he knew as well as anyone that if the castle, with their king inside, fell to the enemy, all was lost. Erow was shorter than many of the king's men, with stature similar to the enemy. And his stolen enemy helmet covered any tales that his black hair could tell. To be sure, Linder had him remove his head armor, and retrieving some straw colored cloth from under her skirt, she insured that only the right color peeked from under her companion's hat.

Linder was overly tall, but blonde as honey. Except for the extra inches, she was a dead fit in the enemy camp. And she had another quality that they could use. Those who heard her speak found themselves compelled to do her bidding. Her countenance lacked evil, and a desire to draw her favor beckoned to all who heard her voice.

As they approached the fire, three enemy guards leaped into their path. With their weapons drawn and suspicion in their eyes, the guards demanded the password.

"The password is... Ash, of Fullerton! Take a step back!" shouted Linder. She spoke with such violence that even Erow drew back. She also had success at mimicking the talk of the invaders. The enemy spoke with a clipped speech, and the guards accepted her rough version of their dialect.

"Do not shout!" said the foremost guard. The enemy men drew back, began an animated discussion that Linder was sure included the word 'Ash,' more than a few times.

"What was the old password?" asked the guard, as he approached again, but this time with curiously wide eyes.

"And the password before that?" asked Linder. "Exlabular! Fool, do you not see this bounty we carry?" she pleaded. "These men are dressed in disguise, and this one carries a pouch."

"Filled with secret stuff, me thinks," added Erow.

Soon Linder and Erow found themselves outside a bustling enemy pavilion. They were greeted by a First Sergeant named Marium, who seemed confused as to how to proceed. Linder suggested that they deliver the pouch themselves to the company commanders. He agreed, and offered to escort them personally.

Their plan worked perfectly until they found themselves outside the commander's tent dodging a million questions. Luckily confusion reigned, and they weren't discovered. Marium actually vouched for them, as one of his own, probably looking to get the credit for the pouch. Linder convinced the commander to let them parlay with the castle guards, convincing him that no one could better drive fear and despair into the hearts of the besieged, as they lay bare the king's hopes and plans by brandishing the courier pouch. Before long Linder and Erow found themselves outside the Owl Gate, holding high the flag of parlay.

"Back, dotards of evil!" Erow shouted, overly loud, as the king's men issued from the Owl Gate. Officers of the enemy stood nearby.

"This is a parlay, act accordingly," said an officer of the king's guard. "We deal civil, for the time the flag flies. What do you want?" he asked. Linder was disappointed that the men were unfamiliar to her. She knew so many of the king's men she had counted on the fact that she would be parlaying with friends, but before her stood only grim-faced strangers.

"Is anyone else coming out?" Linder asked, looking over the guard's shoulder.

"What do you want?" the guard asked a second time.

"We've come to rescue you," whispered Linder. And there, between loud threats and demands, they whispered their tale, of a wizard, an army, and a plan.

They then spent an interesting but terrifying evening with the enemy. They watched with carefully veiled enthusiasm as their foe sent battalion after battalion out into the Waste Valley.

"I heard the Duke's army is huge and very skilled, should we send more?" Linder asked a commander. An alarmed Erow physically pulled her from the commander's fire and all but held her at a small area that he had staked out on the fringe of the camp.

Chapter 5

When the battle of the Waste Hills began the king's army issued from the Owl Gate en masse. As Linder and Erow waited for the armies to clash, their situation grew more perilous. Every side offered them death. On one hand, they faced the fury of the king's men while wearing the uniform of the enemy, and on the other, the enemy itself, hundreds deep, all around them.

They became increasing uncomfortable in their uniforms as the battle raged closer and the soldiers around them became more frenzied. To make matters worse, a couple of enemy men began to look as if they saw something amiss. When Linder and Erow had trouble hiding themselves among the men, they resorted to stretching and performing battle warm-ups. They sparred with each other, and tried to look busy.

Finally, the battle swept back to their position and Linder was identified from afar by more than a dozen of the king's men. The whole army had been on the lookout for the two warriors dressed as the enemy. Most all of the king's men knew one of them; one of the message bearers was the lost daughter of Princess Deloriate and she was said to be with Erow, of Espaoria, son of Erin. They shouted and blew their horns, and mounted a rescue. A dozen of the king's own guard detached itself from the His Majesty's entourage and attacked the enemy. They threw themselves into the fray as a solid group of riders, running down the foot soldiers in their path. Calling on a knight-in-distress rescue plan, the men pushed a wedge deep into the enemy line, and before their foes could react, snatched Linder and Erow out with a single sweep.

Once out, Linder and Erow frantically switched uniforms amid the arrows of the enemy. Properly attired, they led a group of knights into battle, against an enemy whose face and name was now familiar to them. Linder fought the battle with tears in her eyes.

After their tale the group rose and hugged both Linder and Erow with great force, brought out by a tremendous sense of pride. They laughed and they cried, and more than one person scolded them for the risks they took, and praised them for their bravery. The group spent the rest of the night huddled around their fire, rejoicing in each other's company and enjoying their luck at surviving their first big battle.

Soon Isuair joined the party around the fire. He appeared out of the darkness without a sound, which was his usual form.

"The king has taken his rest. The enemy is either destroyed or on the run. Tomorrow we head back to the castle," Isuair said. "Our Lord was mighty impressed with you bunch. Very good, very, very, good..."

"And you, my friend," Isuair said, turning to Ash. The others were busy trying to prepare a meal, and the wizard spoke in a lowered voice. "I would have a word with you. Until we get this mess sorted out, I suggest we address one another with the calm respect due a person of good name and good standing. I would hate to see one or both of us destroyed because of a bad temper."

"No deal, Greedgulf, if you betray me or my friends again, the next thing on your agenda better be my swift death, because your end will be on mine," Ash said. "That, as far as I'm concerned... is our understanding, fuckface," Ash said. He turned to the fire and poked at the burning wood, ignoring the wizard.

Only those close to them heard Isuair say, softly, "As you wish." After a fitful night's sleep, Ash stood by the fire, breathing the chill morning air and trying to work the kinks out of his body. Everything was sore. His arms and back hurt from fighting, and everything else hurt from his lying prostrate among the rocks.

He was no better off after a second night in the wilds. They had a fire for the night but it burned low and left him cold in the morning hours. Then Ash noticed he was covered in blood. The night before, in the firelight, it didn't seem obvious or important, but now he needed to bathe. Now his whole being began to focus on the dried blood. Unfortunately, the party was more than a day away from the castle, in the middle of a region known for its dry climate. The blood covering him was almost black. It chipped off the more elastic parts of his body, the knuckles, elbows, and laugh lines in his face. But thick clumps hung in his hair and covered his garb.

It was barely dawn, the sun had yet to rise above the hills in the east, and the western sky was still dark, when Ash set out to find a bath. He approached a fire surrounded by the king's men, and asked about water. The guards promised to scrounge drinking water, but said they had none to spare for bathing, as if they had read his mind. Ash asked them if they knew of any streams or pools nearby, and was told what he had expected, that if there were any, the whole army would be there. Walking back, he encountered Isuair.

"Here," Isuair said, and he handed Ash a towel that had been moistened with some sort of lotion. The wizard was always at the right spot, at the right time, with the right help. While he was able to get most of the blood off his face, his arms were hopeless without a lot of water; the blood just re-hydrated and swirled around. There was too much of it. While Ash worked on his face, he decided to speak his mind.

"Listen, I've yet come across anyone, or anything, in this land, that could pose a threat to me," Ash said. "At least, not while I carry these," he said, gesturing to the weapons which hung at his side. "And, I've never met anyone who could take them from me. Maybe you have some sort of great magic powers, but so far, all I have ever seen from you has been pretty run-of-the-mill stuff. I've seen you lead in battle, and strike down the enemy, but with no more skill than the next warrior. I do not know what webs you wish to spin, nor do I much care, frankly. But one thing—if you can kill me, just do it," Ash said. It was a whisper. He and the wizard came face to face as he spoke. "I'm not all that fond of eating, shitting and killing," Ash said, "but, leave me out of your stupid plans, wizard, or I'll ..." The wizard abruptly stepped into Ash, and Ash froze. He shook. He was shaking all over. Convulsions, like he was cold, racked his body. The wizard began to inch forward. Closer and closer he came, until Ash and he were nose to nose. With a wave of his hand, everything changed. Day turned to night. The pale blue sky of the new day turned into an orange fire burning across the horizon. Before Ash's eyes the wizard turned into some kind of creature with black skin, coal black eyes, and fangs. The wizard finally pushed all the way into Ash, bumping him in the chest and nose. As soon as they touched Ash felt as if a monstrous engine, running wildly out of control, was pressed against him. He felt the vibrations pulse through him. Ash was helpless. He couldn't move. He couldn't do anything except stare at the demon that stood before him. With his face touching Ash's, the wizard closed his eyes.

When the wizard reopened his eyes, his eyes were their normal green color, his face was flesh-tone and the sky was blue again. Ash stopped shaking, unfroze, the knives popped, and were out and in his hands before he could even blink. And, the Wizard was within arm's reach.

###

THE END of BOOK ONE

If this story was enjoyed, please read

Book Two, Ash makes war

Thank you for reading my book. If you enjoyed it, won't you please take a moment to leave me a review at your favorite retailer?

Thanks!

William Patrick

khingemail@yahoo.com

